Erotica Harem

MY COMMENTS WILL BE ** RED:
MY SUGGESTIONS WILL BE BLUE
REPEATING WORDS WILL BE underlined and bolded

Title: "Invalid Item"  (The Collector)

Author: latebloomer

Scene: There was scenery? Just kidding. I wasn’t lost and I didn’t find the scenes you took me in very important to the overall content of the story. What you gave me, I was satisfied witrh. This was a “confessional” of sorts (hey, what the heck is up with us and confessionals)?

Character Development: I found this very poetic in the way you described both characters. I really have nothing to add here, LB

Grammar: Please see below. I know that some other experienced erotica writers might mention this, but be careful of using “flowery” words like nectar, bud---(?). As this story is more poetic, these words do it justice. so don't change a thing (okay, maybe that "bud---" word). In the mainstream of erotica, the research I've done, and by reading the other authors' works here (which is a great learning tool too, because they're experienced erotica writers), there's seems to be more...to the point words used.

Just My Personal Opinion: A beautiful piece from start to finish. Personally, I knew a Marty, and yes, the bastard talked me into it too. I still carry the scar even today. With this story, I found it more of a warm memory, an understanding. Well done, LB

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Please remember that these are only my opinions.
Please use whatever you feel is right for you.
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The Collector
He was two days shy of his eighteenth birthday when we met. His name was Martin, but far too soon, I would call him The Collector.

Perhaps he was unaware of what he did. My instincts tell me differently. His skills, as unpretentious as they were, defied mere chance. Of that, I had no doubt. He worked at perfecting them, referencing each experience against the last, ensuring the desired outcome. He did it for himself; he did it for the women.

Early on, his mother recognized his unusual qualities. His exceptional good looks and rebellious nature caused her to treat him differently from her other children. She loved him more, much more, because of it. He gave her a lifetime of heartache.

I paid her a visit when I learned the news, a little more than two weeks after the accident. We shared raspberry tea and our memories.

"Such a beautiful child, my Marty, but I could never let him out of my sight," she had reminisced, her eyes filled with her own demons.

I nodded. Marty was always in some kind of trouble. A mother knows when life will be difficult for her child, and Marty's mom was no different. I suspected she would have given anything to change it. (period) If only she could. Something restless stirred inside him, and he listened to it. She felt sad, believing he never found peace. I had my own theories, but kept my secrets to myself. When the end came, she felt only numbness.

"Thank God it's over, was all I could think when the hospital told me Marty succumbed in that crash," she had confessed, her voice stoical as she tried to explain a mother's lack of tears at her own son's funeral.

Marty had been but twenty-six.

"No more worrying myself sick about him. No more fighting, drinking, reckless stunts. No more womanizing. He courted danger," she told me, shaking her head and stirring her tea for a long time. "Some said he had a death wish. Drag racing, playing chicken with any takers, never being the one to veer from his path until the day he went up against his alter ego, both of them going out in a fiery blaze of glory."

She never questioned that it would end badly. There was always a constable, a bookie, an irate husband, or a drug dealer at their door. If Marty hadn't gone and gotten himself killed first, I supposed someone would have eventually murdered him. She felt the worst for the women. Perhaps make this paragraph part of her dialogue? The last line she says is that “he courted danger, and I think it would give more understanding as to why she adds this.

"My how they loved him," she had insisted.

I think it did Marty's mom good to talk about him, or (?) speak aloud the intimate details of his life. None came as a surprise to me, nor were they inconsistent with what I personally knew about him.

He was abnormally sexual as a child. Neighborhood mothers complained he played "doctor" with their six-year-old daughters when he was but six himself. Years later, one such mother would be confronted with her own burning desire for him, as he once again came calling on her grown daughter. He accommodated them both in turn.

At nine years of age, his mother caught him masturbating. When he was thirteen-years-old, she discovered him doing it within plain view of his well-endowed, female cousin. His mother flung a book at his head as he got-off in the living room, Annie sitting in the connecting room doing her college assignment. He offered no apology. He needed to share the thing pent up inside of him, and he could see no fault in that. If Annie had noticed, he told his mother, he was quite sure she had she would have (?) enjoyed it.

By the time he was fifteen, he had grown dashingly handsome, (comma) and as strong as any man twice his age. His face had classically beautiful lines with flawless skin and gleaming white teeth. His intense eyes bore such an unusual shade of pale blue; (perhaps try a semicolon here?) one had to look twice in order to fully comprehend their hue. He wore his sandy brown hair feathered neatly back and splaying at his collar. His constant smile lit up whatever room he entered, and his reckless, charismatic personality kept him the center of attention for the rest of the time. His body was hard--broad at shoulders with biceps and thighs that rippled beneath his taunt skin. He always dressed stylishly, preferring Oxford button-down shirts, sweaters, khakis, and coats of fine leather to the more popular jeans, tennis shoes and tee shirts with sport logos printed on the front. Or was it just that he made everything he wore look so damn good? His sex drive was as apparent and as uncontainable as a steam locomotive, his maleness total. Adverb Alert!

We met at a party the summer after my high school graduation. That someone like Marty paid me any attention at all seemed incomprehensible; no one ever had in the past. I was never sure why the others boys ignored me, but I somehow failed to make the cut. I didn't have the radiant skin, silky hair, or gleaming white smile some girls seemed naturally blessed with. My body never developed compared to most. Combined with everything else, my plainness severely affected my self-esteem. Still, Marty thought me cute in my own way, pixie-like, blond ponytail, shy but inquisitive. He told me so as he drove me home that night. From that moment on, other than the time allotted to working and sleeping, we spent every single day together.

He chose me because of my innocence, and because he could see how badly I needed male attention. Many desired him, but they were not untouched as I. He could derive no pleasure from seducing them. A shy, chaste young woman required a gentle hand, patience, and passion, allowing him to exercise all of his talents, his gifts, and in the end, he would take them both to an elusive place few could ever reach. He was sure of collecting something from an insecure, little virgin. When he was twenty-three, he changed his modus operandi. Maidens of undisputed reputation were hard to come by; (semicolon?) neglected, middle-aged housewives became the forbidden taboo upon which he bestowed his undivided favor.

His quest demanded total possession, and he would settle for no less than unconditional surrender of heart, mind and body. He took ownership of my heart within moments of our meeting; domination of my mind and body would take longer.

He had impeccable instincts concerning women, including inexperienced, young girls like me. He knew I fretted about most everything having to do with sex because of religious convictions, pregnancy, and social retributions. He would not rush the process. He would guide me though each step, allowing an adequate comfort zone to buffer my fears. There was a basic technique to his slow, methodical seduction.

He started by having me touch him, but the steps would be the same for every contested effort he encountered, whether it be removing some article of my clothing or allowing him to touch some private part of my body. The process was always the same.

When he first held my hand to his manhood, I instantly recoiled. The very thought of touching him there was revolting. He made a point of releasing my hand in an exaggerated manner. He wanted me to know that it was not I who won the struggle for my freedom, but he who allowed it to be so. He understood that trust would be an important issue between us.

After days of unsuccessfully encouraging me to stroke him, he quite unexpectedly one day refused to free my hand as he forced it up and down over his erect penis. It startled me, but because I had faith that he would not ask for more, I didn’t struggle or call out in fear. After a few moments, I adjusted to my predicament, realizing fondling him was a rather pleasurable experience. It certainly wouldn't get me pregnant, and I found something fascinating about the surging potency beneath my hand--a force I controlled. He understood how it empowered me.

As soon as he released his grip on me, however, I withdrew—more because of my concept of how a good girl should respond than any other reason. Just as quickly, (comma) he placed my hand back where he wanted it and held it there. He continued in this manner until I understood that it would be his way. From that point on, (comma?) resistance was futile. Conveniently, it absolved me of all blame for my naughty behavior.

Very early in our relationship, he backed me against the trunk of a large elm tree. It may have been the single lustful act during our romance done purely for his own need, but he found a way to make it mutual. He nudged my legs apart with his hand. "You don't want to get pregnant, do you?" he asked. I shook my head indicating that I did not, the wide-eyed helplessness of a doe upon my face. "Then this is what we must do." He stepped between my thighs and pushed his pants to his knees. Afraid of what I might see, I didn't look at the organ he grinded up and down over my pelvis, and (?) through my clothing, but I felt as if a stallion moved between my legs. His release surged, splattering onto my jeans and the top of his suede shoes. Afterward, he coddled his waning erection, collecting the last few drops of fluid onto his fingertips. He held them to my lips. "This binds us," he said, his offering meant more as a blood bond than a sexual act. Wary at first, I touched only the tip of my tongue to his extended hand, sampling its salty flavor and finding it not unappealing. I closed my eyes and took both of his fingers into my mouth, internalizing his essence. I felt closer to him after that day.

He talked to me. He encouraged me to tell him how it felt whenever he made an intimate breakthrough. He wanted to know if I liked what he was doing or if I realized I would, (comma) once I got used to it. Oddly, those were my only two choices. He wanted to know my sexual fantasies, and he shared his. I could think only that I would find it pleasurable to massage his back and shoulders with scented oil. I didn’t have any sexual fantasies at eighteen, but he helped me to imagine some. He hoped one day I would share his fantasy, allowing an artist to paint us in the act of making love, unremorseful for my naked body or the desire that coursed through me.

He seduced me with his eyes. Sometimes he would sit across from me for long periods of time, leisurely smoking his cigarette, staring at me through those two seductive slits, eyes warning: You're in trouble little girl. Impatiently I waited, crossing and uncrossing my ankles as he blew smoke into the air. All the while, he intently focused on me, silently contemplating what should come next. When he finished the smoke, he stood and threw the butt on the ground, sliding his foot slowly back and forth over it. He was careful not to break eye contact as he reached for me.

It wasn't long before he decided I should bare my breasts. It was early fall. We stood in my parents' backyard behind the above-ground swimming pool as he smoked. Its height offered us privacy for the most part, although neighbors would be able to see from their second story windows if they should happen to peer out. With no warning or explanation, he began unbuttoning my blouse. I tried to shoo his hand away, but he caught both of my wrists in one hand, holding them firmly below my waist. "No. I want to look at you," he said. I struggled a bit, but I already knew Marty had his mind made up and objection would be fruitless. He held me and finished unfastening the buttons. "Take them off," he said, releasing my hands and indicting to my upper garments with his chin. Obediently, I slid the shirt and plain white bra from my body. They fluttered to the bed of autumn leaves beneath our feet. I shielded myself with my hands and arms. The chill in the air puckered my nipples, and I shivered.

"Put your hands at your sides," he spoke, softly but firmly, pushing my loose hair back from my shoulders to give him an unobstructed view. "I want to see you," he repeated.

My face burned with the embarrassment. "My breasts aren't so big," I whispered the confession, hanging my head and slowly lowering my arms.

As I trembled and stared at the ground, Marty took his slow time surveying me. He lit another cigarette and let me stand there, neither of us speaking. He knew the passage of time would bring its own comfort. Then he cupped my chin in his hand and tipped my face up, giving me an extraordinary look of conviction. "I think there never was such perfection."

In the watery reflecting pools of his eyes, (comma) I saw myself, the beautiful, flawless object of his affection, and my heart soared with the redemption.

He asked to touch me. Caught in his hypnotic gaze, I whispered, "Yes," still swooning from his potent words. He stroked his hand gently over my bare skin and then pushed me by the shoulders into a sitting position on the ground. He knelt and stretched out, his head in my lap. Lovingly, he kissed my delicate, pink nipples, passing his lips in turn over each tiny, erect mound.

I cradled him to my small, girlish breasts, rocking him, wishing I could provide nourishment as he suckled. I allowed my long, blond hair to flow over him, imagining it a substitute for the tears of joy I withheld, lest he misunderstood my emotion. I wanted to be both his mother and his lover, and my heart cried for my dilemma.

He used his mouth. At first, (comma) he gave me tender, sweet kisses, his lips softly brushing over mine as he playfully rubbed noses with me. Then, without warning, his kisses grew urgent, almost intentionally painful as he pressed his mouth to mine. During the most intimate moments, when (?) he kissed me with such passion my mind grew wholly incapable of knowing how to respond. He lay on top of me, pinning me down with the full weight of his body, forcing open my mouth with his tongue, deeply probing, choking off my breath. I gasped beneath him, relying solely on his whims for the very air I breathed. My suffering brought him pleasure, and it was intoxicating.

In time, he moved his attention to other parts of my body, softly kissing, unbearably lingering, paying attention to each and every erogenous zone. He wanted me to explore him with my mouth in like a similar (?) manner. I unzipped his pants, his organ tumbling out to greet me. I held it between my palms and kissed it, timidly at first with my eyes closed. Marty gave the top of my head a gentle nudge, and I parted my lips, letting his penis slid into my mouth. I could engulf no more than the head, but he seemed to understand. He allowed me to bring him pleasure in other ways, softly running my tongue along his shaft and teasing at the bulges that hung below. When he came, I cleaned him with the hem of my blouse and my tongue, and melted in his approving smile.

He seduced me with his hands. They were large, commanding, ambiguous hands; they held me with the firmness of a vice and caressed me with the gentleness of a summer's breeze. He ran them through my hair, across my cheek, over my breasts and hips, and between my legs. Every part of my body delighted in his touch. I lusted for his hands.

Then came the day he said, "I want to feel you from the inside." We were in the back seat of his car, and I allowed him to remove my jeans and panties, lifting my hips to make it easier. I didn't know what to expect, but I knew the time for this, too, had come. He moistened a finger with his mouth and slipped the tip into me.

"Ouch," I moaned.

"Your fighting me," he said. "Uncross your ankles and bend your knees."

I tried to relax and bent my legs just a little. "Ouch," I yelped again.

He stopped to study me. "I'm not trying to hurt you, but you have to help. Open your legs. Spread them as wide as you can and think something nice. Hold on to it."

I pictured his smile, the way it reminded me of sunshine as I watched him strolling up the street to my house. Eventually Marty had two thick fingers wiggling inside me.

"How does that feel?" he asked, his eyes soft with concern.

"It feels nice, Marty," I replied, aware of a new sensation, a hot wetness seeping between my legs.

He smiled, noticing it too. "I think sleeping beauty has awaken." Withdrawing the fingers, he licked my juices from them, just as I had done for him. Again, (comma) he dipped them into my nectar. "You should know the sweetness of your taste." I let him move the fingers slowly in and out of my mouth. In time, I learned to writhe under his touch. And sometimes he asked me to use my own hand as he watched. His eyes focused unabashedly on my womanhood as I titillated myself. They They? His eyes? burned at my loins in a way I never knew possible, delicious and exciting in its wantonness.

Finally, after delivering every possible pleasure in deliberate, slow, seductive stages, he took me the way a man takes a woman. There was never any question I would be his in the end, and ultimately, I abandoned nine months of unyielding fears to give him that which he desired most.

The urge seizing us, we slipped away to the woods as so (?) not to lose the moment. The look on his face as I told him "I want you--nothing else matters," (comma) is something I shall never forget. I've not seen such love in anyone's eyes--or such voracity. He spread his shirt over the ground for our blanket. We had never been completely naked in such a vulnerable setting, but he insisted that on this very special occasion we must risk it. Tenderly, he kissed me under a warm evening sky, as he removed removing (?) first my clothing and then his own.

My young eyes had never beheld another adult male, but even though I had nothing to reference against, I had known all along that he was glorious.

"Are you bigger than other boys?" I nervously inquired as I knelt on the ground before him. I could ask him things like that, things I would never discuss with any other living soul. In all matters of sexuality, he was my teacher.

"Don't you know?" He laughed aloud as he stood naked over me, full of pride and unashamed.

I smiled uneasily, acknowledging that I did know.

He lay me back and parted my knees, moving his large body cat-like over top of me. He kissed me passionately (no commas) on the mouth, (comma) and used his hand to excite me below. Then he positioned his throbbing organ at the entrance of my waiting femininity.

The physics of our two bodies prevented our union, my tiny frame unable accommodate his girth. Oh, (comma) how I wanted him, but penetration was impossible.

"Please hurry, Marty. It hurts, really hurts." I wept.

He held me tightly and offered encouragement as he thrust. "I love you, sweetheart. It won't take much longer. I promise. You can do this." His words came in short panting breaths.

"No, I can't," I sobbed, knowing full well I would never be the one to call an end to our futile endeavor.

"Yes you can. Be brave, little one."

He paused to wipe the tears from my young eyes and run his imposing hands through my hair, damp with the sweat of our ordeal. Then he returned to his task, trying his very best to make our sin easier for me, as he relentlessly battered with steel against a vagina that would not yield.

Ultimately, he surrendered the effort to save me from the pain I refused to spare myself. Next time he would make things better he vowed.

I cried myself to sleep. On that night, I should have been his woman, and I was but still a child. I was afraid he would not want me again, and I knew I couldn't live if he didn’t. He, alone, was my destiny.

I needn't have worried. The next day, Marty brought me flowers, a beautiful bouquet of red roses. As I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and hugged him for the gift, his groin pushed against my hip, assuring me his desire remained as urgent as ever.

The second time, he came prepared with the lubricant that would make our union possible. He took me to his bedroom while his parent’s were out of the house. As we crossed its threshold, he scooped me up and carried me to our misbegotten bed.

He removed his clothing and stripped me naked. As we both knelt on the bed facing each other, he kissed me and made love to each part of my body. His tongue teased my ear, and he nibbled at my earlobe. His mouth slid down my neck to my inflamed nipples and caressed each one until they stood proud and erect. He dipped his tongue into my bellybutton, his face buried against my flat tummy, his arms wrapped snuggly around my waist. "Do you know how much I love you?" he spoke, his mouth moving against the wall of my abdomen as if whispering to a child in the womb. He licked the insides of my thighs, compelling me to open like a flower unfolding. With his head between my legs as I knelt, his mouth kissed the soft petals of my lips, and his tongue explored the crimson fleshiness inside me. His fingers massaged my pulsating budlet (?) until I begged for him to take me. He lay me down and knelt on the bed, spreading the a sweet salve of salvation over himself and along my warm slit. Then he moved on top of me as I parted my legs to receive him--him, my most beloved of lovers.

Our first act of intimacy had left him with the impression that taking my innocence was, in itself, an act of violence. He abandoned all attempts at gentleness the second time. Pinning both of my arms securely above my head, he kissed me and prepared me for what was to come.

"I'll be quick." he whispered softly in my ear, as he rose up.

I called out his name in anguish as he brutally split me. His savagery, merciful in its swiftness, soon gave way to the gentlest of pleasures as we melded into one. Skin against skin, our moist, hot flesh burned with desire, a synergy greater than that of our individual bodies. It primed us for urgent release. The slow, sensual gyration of our lovemaking grew to an undulating, thrusting frenzy. Delving deeply into me, he surged and stiffened, supported on rigid arms with bulging purple veins. I screamed as his orgasm coursed through me, my legs clamped about his waist and holding my pelvis tightly to his as I convulsed, the shudders working their way out through tears in my eyes. Locked in the rigor-mortis of finality, we declared our love to each other. Then, and only then, did we allow ourselves to be swept away in the rapture that washed over us. He lowered his body into in my waiting arms, and l held him to my chest as our flaccidly joined loins absorbed shock after shock.

We didn't speak or move for a very long time, almost unable to comprehend what had happened. We knew we had experienced a euphoria of a different sort, a kind that seldom gets discussed or written about, something beyond the mere physical exhilaration of our bodies: an orgasm of our minds and hearts.

He looked down at me with that beautiful, broad smile, which seemed more sincere and radiant than I had ever seen it. “Now you belong to me,” he softly proclaimed. We both knew it was true.

He cradled me, kissed my eyelids and lips, and told me how brave I had been. I could feel the warm blood that washed away my innocence flowing reassuringly between my legs. He pulled me close to him, enfolding me in his strong arms like an infant daughter in the protective embrace of a father. "Promise me you will never forget this moment, what you did here--that it is you who saves me."

I swore the oath to him with the all the conviction I could dredge from the depths of my heart. Later, I would come to understand the full meaning of his words and how it was we saved each other.

Marty stuck it out a while longer, allowing me time to bask in my new, womanly glow. In another few months, he was gone. I guess I took it better than most imagined I would. Like those who would yet walk in my footsteps, I understood why he had to go. I didn't try to stop him, nor did they. Marty? He never stayed too long in one place.

He left me with eleven months of unforgettable memories and the unwavering knowledge that despite any shortcomings I may have perceived, I was, and always would be, a beautiful, desirable, sexual woman. Through his eyes, I saw myself as close to perfection as I would ever come.

In return, he took something--some intangible part of me, something I yearned to reconnect with, but never did. Sometimes I think it was a piece of my soul Marty took. But, whatever he had collected during our too brief time together, I knew it would remain forever his.

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