Author: Donjim

A dream of lions

The Jeep is pulled up under the shade of a monkey-puzzle, fifty yards from the watering hole. You and the other tourists wait, breath held, as the crickets sing in the dusk. The lioness and her cub, who was drinking from the water for the last few minutes, looks up towards you. You freeze, caught for a second in the power of her stare, hypnotized by the green flash of her eyes. Then she stretches and is gone into the darkening savannah.

The horizon is a band of red gold, giving way to peach and oceanic blue and a spatter of stars.

‘Ok,’ says the guide, ‘let’s go.’

There is a cab in the Jeep where the other tourists ride, but you stay out on the tail. You close your eyes, bathe in the warm air and the fragrance of the land. You are overcome by a sense of peace, of silence.

Then the wheel hits a rut and you are thrown into the night. You fall quickly, awkwardly. There is a pain like thunder in your leg. You pass out. Read more »

The Play Within the Play [MF][Dom][Iambic Pentameter]

Vish Athwal got filthy rich selling diamonds and opium. He made enough to get to America and build the the Jaipur Royal. An Indian palace transplanted wholesale to the edge of the mangroves. Two square miles of walled garden, a jungle arboretum. A palace at the head of it all: marble and bright tiles and fountain squares. He died in 1925, happy and fat in the land of the free. With the endowment he left, the Jaipur Royal became a centre of the arts.

**The Juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid**

**Will make or man or woman madly dote…**

You hold the ticket in your hand in the line outside the gate, under a high wall, stuccoed red, flaking. Voices hum low, expectant. The air is as hot as the subcontinent. Moths dance about the round lamps. A bat flits past and picks off one of the bugs. *A Dream of Midsummer*, that’s what the event is called. One night only. Read more »

The price for watching Miss Polly [FF][Exhibitionism/Voyeurism][Dom/Sub]

This story follows on in a general sense from [Isobel’s Pink Panties](https://www.reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/4l49dq/isobels_pink_panties/) – but works by itself too.

All comments and feedback gratefully received. If you have a fantasy you’d like to become a story, PM me and we can chat.

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Ben and Isobel have a place by the ocean. You plan to go there together, the three of you. But something comes up. They’re going to be delayed a couple of days.

‘Watch out for Polly,’ says Isobel as she waves you off, ruffles your hair in that way of hers. ‘She’s trouble, that girl.’ You wonder what she means. You will find out soon enough.

**1. Observation.** (In which Polly opens her legs).

You reach the bridge to Fig Island as evening draws in. Ahead, the silhouette of land, dark and rugged with trees. To either side the horizon is a stripe of peach, deepening to blue and black, specked with stars. The narrow road curves along the coast, past grand weatherworn mansions. Some look old enough to be colonial. Lights come on: click, click, click, a welcoming orange against the night. Read more »

Isobel’s pink panties

**Three days**

You lie on white sheets, dozing in the blue light of dusk, trying to recall the sensation of Ben’s cock, of Isobel’s tongue and fingers. They are still with you, distantly, those feelings. The memory is wrapped in cotton wool, lit with golden glow. Her dark head is on your shoulder, his leg across your middle. The warm sweet smell of sex lingers as does the stickyness on your bare, lithe, body.

**The first day**

It was a coffee that started it. Across from the Jefferson Arboretum was an alley to a little courtyard and a glass-fronted shop. It was raining, big drops spattering from a lead sky.

You go in to get out of the weather. The tables are old crates from Cameroon and Honduras. The seats are stuffed jute sacks. The walls are decorated with photographs of cloud forests and burros lugging baskets of red berries and a guy with a square jaw and a big smile and swept back dark hair hanging out with farmers. There is only one customer, a woman, a little younger than you. She is sitting in the corner, her drink resting beside her on the window ledge. She looks European in a way you can’t place. Maybe its the razor-sharp bob of her hair. Maybe the battered red hardback book. Maybe the double espresso. Read more »

Tomasin Spitfire: Cyberpunk Gonzo

It’s riot season. Somewhere downtown a chopper opens fire. There’s a ripple of rubber rounds and the fat-mouthed thunk of gas bouncers. I was hit by one of those fuckers once, dislocated my shoulder. Hurt like hell. Bruised up like a rotten fruit. Once the defamation suit against me clears I plan to sue the corporation. From up where I am the chopper’s muzzle flare is distorted by the heat from the engines, sparks of light crackling above the dark and orange of the streets. I think of Halloween. It’s always Halloween here and you’d better watch out for ghouls.

I’m trying to see the place where I’m heading to, the place where I think I can get a lead on the Bitches. Yes, that’s fucking right, the Bitches. I got a tip from a cop I know. He said there’s this place called the Cunt and Razor where I might be able to find the intel I want. I took the cop’s cock out of my mouth long enough to tell him he could fuck right off, but he insisted it was legit. He even gave me a natty passcard to get in. Who was I to disagree with the strong – ahem – of the law. Read more »