Wordoodle: The Clock Struck Midnight

It’s the middle of the night!

My cock, stiff, like a monster, urgent, alert, upright, the stretch skin waking me up!

I try to sleep!

Thick, sticky, slippery. I toss. I turn. Throw off my sheets. It is that time of year again? The air is hot then cold, chilled, sticky, creamy with rot and decay, sap oozes!

I stretch.

Then I listen. A door opening, and then softly closing! I hear bare feet. Yours. Light steps. I stop. I detect the bathroom door. The toilet seat! I sit up. Do I? Shall I?

I listen to you pissing. I can almost smell your sex, waxed pussy, hairless mons, and thighs spread, available, fuckable, fillable, and fertile. I can almost see you, squatting. I’ve been watching you, waiting, alerted: your smell, sound, and your woman’s body awakening my cock!

My door opens!

Bedroom door? Does it matter if I’ve left my bed sheets on the floor? Or, if I haven’t! The wind blows through the pine trees. The moonlit limbs rattle. Clothes fall from the hangers, and the hangers click and clack like Chinese chopsticks!

The hallway is pitch black!

I move in the dark like the colour of ink. I see you’re washing your hands. Anticipation slips from my cock and drips to the floor as I scan your bare arse. For an instant, I let you hear me, see me, comprehend me!

Horror, you’re trapped!

You scramble to the door, but you’re easy to catch, like a little moth, arms and legs flailing. I have you, behind you, covering your mouth, lifting your teeny silk camisole, and then it’s off over your head! Floating to the floor like a tiny moth’s wings. Naked, nude, I’m lifting you until your toes swing in the air. I press a tentacle into your mouth; stifle that little cry, making you suck and swallow, tasting me! If only you could scream, rouse your roommates, parents, and neighbours! They’re in the room next door.

Or would you? You try to kick.

Did I say ‘tentacle’?

Nipples, jutting, as if they’d burst. But what kind of a monster do you think I am? This little squeeze, the tentacle’s loving light squeeze, so dark, so taboo, so forbidden, squeezing you into that secret place only we two understand. Your thighs tremble. Your pussy opens, then opens wider like a flower as its petals unfurl, as the sun and its heat stimulates, exposing the soft, fleshy, pollen, laden, moist inner sanctum! Your inner leg runs with your juice. It drips from the toes of your left foot!

I have nine if you count my cock. I have a tentacle around your waist. My tentacles are already pulling your ankles apart. I have a tentacle around your throat and tangling in your delicious hair. I’m circling your arms though you try to free them. Little by little you’re kicking; your twisting, your bucking slows. My tentacle around your throat tightens, your eyelids grow heavy, your tongue protrudes, and legs widen and twitch!

Your eyes turn upward when I penetrate you, so slowly, so firmly, just the tip, then a little more, then, the deeper I go, the thicker and broader I am until there’s not even room for your little clit. Out it pops. A small hard pearl extended from its hood. And out comes more of your juice, a rivulet that runs down your thigh, spattering onto the floor!

I’ve got you, little one! Captured! Mine to fornicate! Contaminate!

A little description: I hold your ankles wide. Your wrists are at the small of your back. I pull them back and force; no thrust your bursting nipples upward!

They begin to run!

Their discharge dribbles down, dripping off your breasts down onto your bony hip. Two rivulets of secretion guided by pelvic bone, converge inwards towards your groin, dripping from your swollen pussy lips onto the inside of your leg, conjoining with your female lube! That continues to go pita-pat as it puddles on the floor!

A tentacle has that effect on a woman’s nipples!

They burst like little fruits. Call it fright. A submissive gesture. Don’t hurt me! They cry. I submit! I’m yours, you’ve taken me, pleasure me, don’t hurt me!

But of course. I accept their offer. I will fill your slender body with my thick tentacle!

A bit more description: The windows curtain swings back and forth. A chilly gust worries and blows leave’s over the roof. Up they go, one side, and down the other. A hissing wave. You wouldn’t know, but they look like fragmentary blackbirds flitting past the windowpanes. Horrid things. Blackbirds. But you know what’s even more horrid?

That scarecrow. Have you ever been kissed by a scarecrow?

Terrible, horrible monsters!

To be kissed by a scarecrow is to be cursed, a dark, terrible, unquenchable thirst. Once he kisses you, the sheets of your bed will gather around your wrists and ankles like a rope. Your arms will spread like the scarecrow’s, though your legs will be tied like a woman’s, open!

But what if he finds you wandering when the moon is orange, and the black cat is capricious? Then you won’t escape him. A scarecrow is like the wind itself, light as the chaffed wheat’s needles. He will find you, though you run, and he will press your back to the rough bark of an oak tree, and he will kiss the kiss of a lover, and you will exhale the breath of a thousand lost summer days.

Then he will tear the sleeve of his shirt and leave it at your feet!

The ghost of the last man to wear the shirt will find you out. He comes not as himself, but as a ghost of himself, ghostly lips, and a ghostly cock that would never fit a woman if it were flesh and muscle!

And though you run, every root will tangle your feet, every thorn in your hair, and every vine will circle your wrists. The more you try, the more they entangle you until they’ve lifted you from the forest floor, arms extended and legs open, like a scarecrow lifted between the bony limbs of trees!

Then scream!

Scream for all the good it will do you. You can’t escape the scarecrow’s curse. The ghost will find you, gossamer clothes floating in the humid air, and his cock will terrify you!

No! Let me go! But then, as if riding midnight’s flood of leaves, he will impale you, quickly, sharply, to the root! It will be as if the cocks of all your lovers were remembered at once, and all the pleasure of every orgasm and climax you ever had hits you in one! Your vagina will fill with every pulse, every jet, spurt, and squirt of semen you ever had from your myriad of lovers!

Bloating your belly! Oozing from your impaled slit!

The moon will gleam wildly in your eyes. There will be no escape. Your mouth will be open but makes no noise, so firmly, so shockingly, so profoundly will he impale you.

How much wider will your legs stretch apart?

Feel him in your womb, the head of his ghostly cock deep in your body. His vapour in your lungs, his ghostly thrusts tickling the length of your spine, penetrating your mind. And when he orgasms, and when you orgasm, exhale an icy frost from your mouth, nipples, and cunt.

You will drop to the forest floor as though all had been a dream. But your lips will be cold always, and your wrists and ankles will always itch for the rope, for the binding, for the vine around your throat. Such a woman has been kissed by the scarecrow!

And then there are the werewolves, in shape like men and with an appetite like wolves. They smell the dark turmoil of your wanting cunt. When they give chase, so I’m told, they so terrify a woman that rather than be torn to flesh and bone, she will fall, put down her head, lift her arse, expose her pussy between open knees, and so be mounted! She feels his rough fur coat on the back of her legs covering her butt cheeks as his animal cock partakes the offering!

The werewolves giant paw will press her cheek to the earth; his other will thrust into the small of her back, so she receives the full measure of his monstrous spillage!

She will overflow with his orgasm. Her thighs will run with him. She will groan overfull, over hot, now addicted to his wolfish potion. Such women walk unevenly home, a hand between their legs covering their sticky, beasteated pussy!

Such women are, themselves, made wolfish: forever hungry, desirous, prowling under the mighty moon.

Every woman hides a monster!

You, my dear, have chosen me. My fucking begins in earnest. You make little noises, little puffs, airy groans with each thrust. When I withdraw my tentacle from your mouth, your tongue follows, catching the drops from the tip!

I give your throat little squeezes. Not a sound escapes. But such a wet, dripping, squishy racket your cunt makes, so noisy, so obscene, so eager for my wetness inside its wetness!

Your cunt will wake the household!

You’re trembling. Your thighs shake. You struggle once more to free yourself. Your toes spread. Your fingers open and close. The muscles of your abdomen glisten with sweat. Do you want to tell me something? But you’re impaled, your orgasm begins. You gaze wide-eyed at the ceiling. Your pussy urges me, squeezes me, urgently invites me, defying the taut arch of your body. I concede.

I come! I flood you, I hear your receptive grunts!


I put my little moth down.

I see you slide to the floor, cheek, and hands to the shower wall, thighs soaked, pussy dripping. My tentacles lovingly release you, one by one, gliding wetly over your naked skin your camisole lays haphazardly at your feet wet with our secretions!

I go back to my bedroom, my closet, my dark little recess, hiding place, corner. Do you hear a clothes hanger rattle? Will anyone wonder why a coat has fallen off its hook? Do you notice the gusts that rattle the eaves?

The cat is at the door!

A garage door slaps on rusty hinges. Pumpkins are everywhere, frowning, laughing, and expanding!

Well, Happy Halloween.

That will teach you to wander hallways without a light, semi-naked and feeling horny!

You never know what is waiting in the middle of the night!

Or do you?


Copyright © 2017 Mark Darcy All rights reserved

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