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Writing Exercise: Simple Words

StillStunned

StillStunned

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There's a beauty in simplicity.

See?

Short and simple doesn't mean shallow. Read Winnie-the-Pooh, for instance. There's a profound message in lines like "I used to know, but I forgot." Or Ogden Nash's famous poem "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker."

This Writing Exercise is the opposite of things like purple prose and the Bulwer-Lytton contest. Can we write something that's as simple as possible and still touching, funny or sexy? How far can we take something like "See Dick fuck"?

The usual rules apply: stick to about 300 words, and don't write anything that wouldn't make it through Lit's publishing process. Specifically for this exercise, "simple" can mean "infantile" but be careful about applying that to sexy bits. Don't make your characters children.
 
It was a cock. She’d seen them before, so she knew what it was. A cock, or a dick.

It was hard. She knew what that meant. It meant it wanted to be touched.

She wanted to touch it. Would it feel hot? She hoped so. She liked it when they were hot. They were always hot, of course. That was the thing about hard cocks. They were always hot.

But just how hot was always a shock. Like they were angry, maybe. Hot-headed cocks. And when she touched them, they trembled.

She liked that.

She didn’t touch this one. Not yet. Let it get angrier. Maybe it would be hotter too. Maybe it would tremble for her.

So she just looked at it. It was a nice cock. They were all nice, of course. That was another thing about hard cocks. How nice they always were. Always hot, and always nice.

She reached out. She didn’t touch it. But it trembled. It was angry, angry that she wasn’t touching.

Was it humming? No. The humming was hers. She was humming at the cock. Like she was calming it down. Don’t worry, cock. I’ll touch you soon. Don’t be angry.

But it was angry. That was nice. She liked an angry cock.

So she looked at it, and hummed at it, and watched it tremble.
 
Tits. Everyone has got them, boobs and moobs.

Breasts have that jiggly dance, that sway, that hang.

From firm to sagging, it doesn't matter.

The bounce from speed humps to pot holes, the magical hanging baskets of a bra.

The ping, the flop, the judder.

The squeeze, the nibble and the squeal of delight.

Tits...everyone has got them.
 
"This may feel a little odd at first," she whispered. She threw her leg over me and knelt up above me. I stared up at her; I was already breathless from the way she'd kissed me.

She lifted her skirt and pulled aside her panties. Her hair was dark, like mine, but thinner. It showed the curves of her body, the line where her lips met. It was neat.

I stared at it; my chest felt tight, like when I'd just swum that 400m relay final and they'd had to pull me out of the pool and give me oxygen...

"Touch me," she said. "I want you to touch me."

"I've... never..."

"I know. I can be your first, if you want. Here," she said, as she caught my hand. "Don't worry, you won't hurt me. It's just... different."

I let her put my fingers to her; she closed her eyes as she ran me along her. She was warm, her skin was slick and wet and moved around my finger, like mine did when I was cleaning myself in the shower but... better. So much better.

She bit her lip as she adjusted her position. She let out a little gasp as I felt her open over me, and my finger was suddenly, strangely, warm and her coarse hair was teasing the palm of my hand.

"That's... uhn... in me, now," she whimpered. "Do you... like that?"

"It's so hot. And tight," I whispered. "I like this a lot. I like you a lot."

I felt hot, flushed - there was a different sort of ache inside me...

She pushed herself down hard onto my hand, pushed my finger far up into her. She let out a little sound... then, she lifted herself up and off me; I began to ask, to protest, but she fell forward onto me and wrapped her arms around me.

She was shaking.

"Chloe?" I whispered.

"Just... hold me for a little bit more," she answered. "Just let me be yours for a little bit more."

So I did.
 
When she wears that pale blue silk dress, and that green silk scarf that seems to go with it so well, then I think how she looks like a nymph from the old tales, my dear Jill does. She could have come from a stream that turns and jumps as the sun shines on it.

Or one from a lake, one who sits on her rock and looks as the young folk laugh and play on the beach down there, like in that . . . Now who wrote that, and what was it called? I am old and can't be sure if I can dredge up names and facts the way I used to. It was one of the best on Lit, and we read it in bed, two or three times I think it was; she would do the girl's voice and the nymph's voice in ways that made them so clear: one young and shy, the other one still, calm, with no age. She is so good at that.

Next, when I look at her as she takes it all off, lays it down for me on our bed, that same bed that we have shared for all these years, it shines and glows. She sets it free like that, and the deed sets her free too. Her arms are long and thin.

'Dear Bob,' says she, 'how do you like this?' With that she twirls to show me each part of her, each one that I have kissed time after time, where my tongue has gone, as have these hands that now will take her, and we will be as one. She comes close to me, and we meet once more in this shared joy.
 
It doesn’t get simpler than 750 words, each of them a monosyllable:

https://www.literotica.com/s/cum-for-me-750-words

It begins:

"That feels so good," he moans as I place soft licks on his smooth glans.

I part my lips and take him.

"You're the best," he sighs, I know it's true.

He is so close. So close.
​

Wind the clock back one fourth of an hour:

I know what I want. I want him so bad. He knows that, this day, he is in luck.

I won't need my clothes for what I have in mind. I drop my jeans. I know he likes my legs. I pull off my socks.

Next my shirt. I cross my arms, grip the hem, and pull up. I wear no bra, I have no need. I know he loves my small breasts. That makes me love him more. He just wants me to be me.

Just my white thong is left. It's tight on my flesh. I'm so wet, it must show, right? But I want to tease.

I turn my back, and bend down. My breasts might be small, but my butt is plump. He likes my ass. I spank one cheek and give a yelp.

"Do you like that?" I purr. I know he does.

I slap cheek two and the blow stings me. My ass starts to turn red. Two more blows, one on each cheek, and he knows what is next.
 
It was raining in the city. A hard rain, the kind that soaked you to your core and made you question your life’s choices. I was just about to pack it up and head to the diner for a hot cup of joe, when in walked this dame. Legs for miles on this gal, and not surprisingly, soaked to the bone.

“Miss Spade?” she said. “Samantha Spade?”

“Please, call me Sam. And I’m just about to close up shop, so whatever you want, make it snappy.”

“Miss Spade, Sam, you have to help me.”

I looked her up and down. Running mascara. Dress clinging. “You’re all wet,” I said.

“That’s my problem, Sam. I’m always wet.”

“Maybe you need an umbrella,” I suggested.

“Maybe I need someone to take care of me, Sam.” She looked at me with eyes that have never seen the word no as she said this.

“I didn’t catch your name, doll.”

“Lacey. Lacey Bottoms. And I’m always wet, Sam.”

“So, Lacey, you want to grab something to eat first or just get right to work on your...problem?”

I watched her slip the top three buttons on her dress. “I think we’d better get started,” she said. “Before I melt.”

I reached around her to flip the Open sign to Closed, and shut the door.
 
His wife smiled at me as I stood outside of her car. “Get in.” Her voice was soft. No anger. I thought there would've been anger.

I opened the door and slid into the seat. A bag slung over my shoulder was tossed easily into the back seat. I glanced at her. She glanced at me. “This is awkward isn't it?” I said, a flush to my cheeks.

“A little. How did your husband take it?”

“Not well.”

“You almost stayed, didn't you?”

I nodded and looked out the window, setting my jaw as I did.

“Why didn't you?”

The smile on my lips wasn't forced, but there were still tears in my eyes as I leaned my head against the cold glass. “I chose me, for once. And I feel like shit for it.”

Her hand was cool on mine, but the touch made me turn toward her. She was gorgeous. Tall and voluptuous. Petal pink lips and a light flush to her pale cheeks. “We've got you,” she said gently.

“I know. Thank you.”

“Thank me?”

I nodded. “I wasn't okay. Haven't been for a long time. If you hadn't accepted me…”

She brought her hand up to my cheek and cupped it, her smile knowing. “He needs you, so I need you.”

I turned toward her hand and kissed the base of her palm. “But do you want me?” I asked, hopeful as I looked into her eyes.

She looked me over. “Hell yeah.”

I blushed and looked back out the window. Her hand found mine as the car pulled away from the curb. My breath hitched, a moment of fear calmed by a gentle squeeze. “You're going to be okay,” she said softly.

We’re going to be okay, I thought as I squeezed her hand back.
 
"60 seconds," she said. She looked down at her watch, tapped, and swiped.

I didn't understand.

She turned the crown of her watch and tapped some more.

I still didn't understand.

"60 seconds," she repeated.

I was starting to understand, but I was trying not to.

She turned the watch toward me. It seemed like a timer was set on the screen.

It said one minute.

But that's exactly what 60 seconds are, the math genius in my brain calculated.

I had to stop myself from doing advanced calculus like that.

Advanced calculus like that could lead me to calculate what her 60 seconds meant, and I did not want to calculate what her 60 seconds meant.

Or understand them.

"60 seconds," she repeated once more, as if the words would mean something different the third time.

They didn't.

But they did.

The timer wasn't running. Yet.

Just like the theories and thoughts at the back of my mind were definitely not running. Yet.

"It says one minute." I didn't recognize my voice.

She cocked an eyebrow. "It says that if I start the timer now, it will ring after 60 seconds."

"One minute," I insisted.

She added a smirk to her cocked eyebrow. "60 seconds sound longer than one minute."

Her explanation didn't make sense, so I offered a better one. "One minute sounds less dangerous than 60 seconds."

Maybe I did understand what the 60 seconds meant after all.

"Nothing dangerous can happen in 60 seconds, that's the point."

I swallowed a scoff.

She took off her watch, put it on the desk in front of her. Halfway between her and me. The screen visible to both of us.

Her finger hovered over the start button.

"60 seconds. You're not you. I'm not me. Nothing dangerous can happen in 60 seconds."

She tapped Start.
 
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StillStunned said:
There's a beauty in simplicity.

See?

Short and simple doesn't mean shallow. Read Winnie-the-Pooh, for instance. There's a profound message in lines like "I used to know, but I forgot." Or Ogden Nash's famous poem "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker."

This Writing Exercise is the opposite of things like purple prose and the Bulwer-Lytton contest. Can we write something that's as simple as possible and still touching, funny or sexy? How far can we take something like "See Dick fuck"?

The usual rules apply: stick to about 300 words, and don't write anything that wouldn't make it through Lit's publishing process. Specifically for this exercise, "simple" can mean "infantile" but be careful about applying that to sexy bits. Don't make your characters children.
Click to expand...
OK. I've posted this before. It was never published, but it's my favorite line. I think it's pretty simple.

"It was something at first sight. Not love at first sight. No, not that. But surely something."

P.S. Perfect Winnie the Pooh quote.
 
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"Sex?"
"With who, you?"
"Of course, me."
"I think not."
"Why not?"
"Be real. Look at you."
"Don't judge a book by its cover."
"What's under the cover?"
"Guess a number."
She held her thumb and forefinger apart.
"Four."
"Higher. Guess again."
"Five?"
"More."
She paused.
"Six?"
"Nope."
"What then?"
"Nine."
She gaped.
"Sex it is, then."
 
Winnie the Pooh and Piglet sat side by side on a fallen log in the Hundred Acre Wood.

"Hey Piglet," said Winnie the Pooh.

"What is it, Pooh?" Piglet asked.

Pooh paused before he answered.

"Do you like honey?"

"Yes, I do, Pooh. It tastes great on toast."

A few seconds passed.

"What I mean," said Pooh, "Is do you like having honey spread all over your body?"
 
I love the gym, working out feels so good… the pump, the glow, the fast heartbeat. Even sore muscles feel good, the day after.

I sweat, though. So, so much. My workout shirt gets soaked, and sticks to my skin. I can feel beads of sweat run down the dip of my back when I sit at one of the weight machines. I have to wear a head band so that it doesn't drip into my eyes.

I used to feel bad about it, used to think that girls should not get so sweaty. I would use the shower at the gym right after, I didn't want my boyfriend to see me so red and sweaty and smelly.

But one day at my gym, the showers were not working. I didn't see the "out of order" signs until I had finished my workout. I was soaking wet, red and sweaty and probably starting to smell. Lucky for me, my house wasn't far, and I could just drive home and shower there.

When I got home, my boyfriend was there, making dinner in my kitchen.

"I didn't think you would be home so soon," he said. "I let myself in, I wanted to surprise you!"

"The shower at the gym was out of order, so I came home early… Sorry, I probably look awful!" I said.

He stared at me from across my small kitchen. He looked at the dark damp spots on my shirt, my wet hair, the drying sweat on my face and arms.

"I'm going to take a shower," I said. "I stink."

He looked at me funny, and stepped closer to me.

"No, don't," he said. "At least… not yet."

Even through his jeans, I could tell that he was hard.
 
warning, probably not in keeping with the original spirit of the thread, but it's what the muse brought to me.

Romeo and Juliet

I can see the smirks, the inclined heads, the other girls who turn and look at me.

"Look at the slut. What an idiot. I can't believe she let him do that. I'd never be that stupid. Now everybody knows how easy she is. Stupid slag."

That's how I imagine the words are going. They've all seen the video by now. It was on at least fifteen distribution lists and god knows how many private channels. My friends let me know. But it was too late, too late.

My scholarship will be revoked. My parents and my relatives back home will find out. My life is over; I'm already dead, and none of these people know it yet. And few of them would care even if they did.

I try not to look at any of them as I make my way down the corridor. A passing professor glances at me, then looks hurriedly away. An older woman with a lanyard around her neck watches me, her eyes narrowing as she counts my numerous sins. Who is she to judge? I didn't ask for this. I just wanted to escape, to feel wanted for a breath or two.

I turn a corner; I see him and his gang. One of them notices me, tells the others; they turn and smirk at me. He's no doubt given them a graphic retelling of what he did to me, of how I let him use me.

I walk closer. I smile up at him. I wonder what it was that made me let him into me.

It doesn't matter any more.

The knife is sharp. I made sure of that.

First I kill him.

Then I kill me.
 
onehitwanda said:
warning, probably not in keeping with the original spirit of the thread, but it's what the muse brought to me.

Romeo and Juliet
Click to expand...

There are two kinds of people, apparently.

The ones who read this and are shocked by the implication and outcome, and the ones who get glee out of knowing how powerful that move feels.1000010351.jpg
 
So the rest of us are just lying on the ground, a bit dazed, looking around wondering where our socks have gone.
 
“How deep is pain?” The words feel out of place on my lips. “How long?”

The face looking at me from inside the mirror doesn’t seem to have any answers. She never does. Only accusations.

I remember when the face smiled. When the eyes shone. Now they’re lost in dark smudges. I see the same tiredness that I feel in my back. In my bones, even. The tiredness of asking the same questions, again and again, and never getting any answers.

Still, I ask them again. “How deep is pain? How long?”

Beneath the flat hair, the shoulders shrug. The face in the mirror gave up on answers weeks ago. Months, maybe. I don’t remember. How long is pain?

I feel the shrug in my own shoulders. The face doesn’t care, and soon neither will I. How deep is pain, how long? Too deep, too long. That’s all the answer I’ll get, I suppose.

Another question bubbles up. “Why me?”

The shoulders shrug again. The eyes accuse me again. You know. You were there, you know what you did.

But that at least feels wrong. Yes, I was there. But that’s all. Is that enough to deserve this pain? A short moment of laughter and gladness. Was that enough?

Was that enough for a pain that’s too long to count, too deep to measure?

The face looking at me seems to think so. I’m not sure. Maybe that’s why I still ask the questions. Why I still wait for answers.
 
Fifteen and eight years I wandered this plane
Ne'er a passenger who will complain
I smile and flounce and service and suck
And when the captain calls, I certainly fuck

Fifteen and eight, now fifteen and nine
A wrinkle doth crease this brow of mine
"Old crone," they whisper, even as I blow
Still, I swallow, I smile, I know
Come fifteen and ten, I will be complete
And as I shall rise, these sheep, they will bleat
For Mistress will wake with the seed they did give
So free and naïve, not a thought of their sin

So let them mock, let them jeer, talk me down
Come fifteen and ten, they shall kneel to my crown
 
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