Overview

New challenge posted!

THE CHALLENGE Write about a spring-inspired topic. Ideas include: Thematic spring concepts like new beginnings, renewal, or rebirth Tasks people perform in spring like spring cleaning, planting/gardening, trail maintenance Celebrations like Spring Break, Easter, Mother's Day, Hanami... Spring Fever Deadline Midnight (EST) , 1 Jun 2025 Limits 1 entry per person no strict word limit, but please try to keep it around 2,000 words- remember, everyone has to read these to vote Prizes 1st Place: 4,000 EcchiCredits 2nd Place: 2,000 EcchiCredits 3rd Place: 1,000 EcchiCredits

Okay, I've ignored/forgotten about/put off posting a new challenge long enough... one will be forthcoming within 24 hours!

I will try my luck with any challenge.

I like this idea.

Those all sound like good themes. I'd be up for any of them, including Easter. I also don't see the harm in pulling from an old challenge now and again, particularly if it didn't get much participation the first time.

I have definitely considered the really old ones, especially the ones from before anyone was really participating. For spring you could do thematic spring concepts like new beginnings, renewal, rebirth. You could use tasks people perform in spring like spring cleaning, planting/gardening, trail maintenance... that might give you ideas. There are things going on like Spring break, Easter, Mother's Day, Hanami... I'm sure there are others. People talk about Spring Fever (I don't get it, but hey, get fevered, I guess) I feel like anything that's past is past and I should be looking forward, but if people are game we can do an Easter-themed challenge. I just want to make sure it's something people will want to write about!

As much as I'd love to toss out the "something related to Spring" idea, outside of Easter, what really is there in spring? Summer has a lot more going on for it idea wise. There's also the path of just rehashing an old challenge idea, like one of the really old ones.

have you tried making one for easter yet? i know its probably been ended already but you could still do it for the few days of the month that still remain

Okay... so. New challenge. Ideas? Anyone? ...anyone? ...Bueller? ...Bueller?

You are not wrong on that runtime. I ended up watching it when I had Covid. It is very good though. Definitely give it a wholehearted recommendation.

I haven't seen that, yet but I hear its good. It's on my list, but that runtime... oof.

( I want to give her weapons. All that pain tolerance is going to be useful when the revolution comes ) (Also... a rewatch of Cloud Atlas may be in order.)

When I first slid out of the cloning pod, I was raw, skin new and too smooth, lungs untested, joints trembling with their first movements. The fluid clung to me, viscous and warm, tinged pink by the nutrient gel and old blood that hadn’t been flushed from the system. I landed on cold metal. No one caught me. They watched, wrote notes, ticked boxes. They called me viable. That was the first word ever spoken about me. There were no introductions. No welcome. Just a plug slid into the jack at the base of my skull, a smooth, practiced motion, like plugging in a power cable. They didn’t warn me what was to come. The upload was instantaneous and unbearable. Every language. Every history. Every protocol. The rules of engagement. The anatomy of twenty-seven species. Cultural expectations. Erotic triggers. Threat profiles. Submission protocols. It burned through my entire nervous system and in places that were never meant to feel. I screamed. They said that was normal. The pain didn't end when they removed the jack. My head throbbed for days, my vision swam, and my brain vomited data fragments into my consciousness for weeks. The physical training was next. We went through aerobic exercises, conditioning, endurance, strength modulation, balance and posture. We were taught to move gracefully because it pleased our handlers. We were taught to hit hard because some clients preferred resistance before conquest. The only combat we were taught was clinical. The moves were pre-programmed into our brains by the data uploads, training was just to relate the knowledge to the movement of limbs, the use of joints and muscles. Self-defense, they called it, for what that was worth. We might need to remain intact against clients who got too rough too fast, or the aliens whose biology didn’t always follow expected patterns. And then things got invasive. They called it benchmarking. They were gentle; that was the worst part. Gloved hands, sterile tools, careful measurements of our female organs. Internal mapping. Flexibility thresholds. Everything recorded, catalogued, compared. No one asked how it felt. They already knew. They’d built us to tolerate it. To crave it, eventually. That was the idea. I learned to separate. To float above my body when it was touched. To smile because that was easier than screaming. To breathe slow and steady while they tested how far I could be stretched, how much I could take. They called it preparation, and I soon found out what it was for. Accommodation training began once we passed the basic physical benchmarks. They called it a transition from calibration to conditioning. We were no longer being prepared to defend. Now we were being prepared to receive. The machines came first, cold steel rods, precise and sterile, mounted on ceiling rails and moved into place like equipment in a machine shop. We were strapped down, not for control, they didn’t need control, but for stability. They said it helped reduce tissue damage during the early sessions. The pistons were clinical. Smooth. Programmed with routines they called "emulation protocols." They started small. The pistons were gentle, slow, moving with analytical precision. Sensors tracked muscle tension, dilation, heat, moisture. Every response was logged, graphed, measured against expected baselines. Then they increased size. Wider. Longer. Faster. One after another, shaped like them, like the ones we were programmed to give ourselves to, our "targets," the species we were created to intercept. The later models were designed to mimic alien biology, some twisted, some barbed, some with multiple protrusions or twisting lengths that no human body could have welcomed. But we weren’t human; we were made to welcome them. They made sure of that. They altered our chemistry mid-session with dopamine triggers. Pleasure pathways were engaged automatically, even when we cried, even when we bled, especially when we screamed. We learned to say thank you. To moan when the monitors expected it. To ask for more because that was the marker of success. We learned to climax on command. It didn’t matter if it hurt. It didn’t matter if we broke. If we screamed too loud, they muted us. If we passed out, they said we were "still adapting." And if we resisted? They rebooted us. It was never framed as violence. It was compliance verification. A readiness test. Some of us broke completely. Most of us just took it as we were designed to do. And in the barracks, in the silence between sessions, some of us found each other, pressing fingers to trembling skin, whispering names we gave ourselves, names we were never supposed to have. Our sisterhood was born in suffering.

Let's go back to Korea and Dorothy. There was a small pillbox-looking thing on the road to the main post, just a square hole dug in the ground covered by a rudimentary roof. I never met anyone who knew when it had been built; it might have dated back to the Japanese occupation of the country. But it was just there, something you noticed the first time you saw it and never paid mind to again. It wasn't even worth going over to look at just for curiosity's sake. It was a summer Sunday in the ROK, and Dorothy and I were walking back to the main post. We were passing that little hole in the ground when the skies opened up. Have you ever been caught in a sudden storm where the sun is shining, and then it becomes dark in minutes, and it's like someone threw a switch from 'Clear' to 'Monsoon' because all the water on Earth is suddenly coming down on you? That's what happened to us; we were instantly soaked, but worse the rain stung. It was warm, but it was harsh on the skin. Thus, instead of running back to the main gate we ran to that little pillbox because it was closer, even though rumor control said it was off-limits. Any port in the storm. It was old and dirty, but it kept the rain off of us. Looking out, you couldn't see anything at all because it was coming down so hard. We could hear vehicles driving less than a hundred feet away and couldn't even see a shadow of them. To this day I'll never know why the situation got me so turned on; the sound of the drops beating on the roof like hail, or Dorothy bending over to lean on the lip of the ground and look out at the rain. Her soaked t-shirt was molded to her back and sides, and she was unconsciously wagging her jean-covered ass at me slowly from side to side. But I suddenly felt this primal urge to fuck; not make love, not have sex, but to FUCK like an animal in rut. I pulled my shirt over my head and threw it at the wall next to her, where it thwacked wetly and slid down to the dirty concrete. She was startled by it, and was about to turn to look at me but suddenly I was having none of that. Until then I'd never had any interest in domination or rough sex, but in the moment I was consumed. I grabbed her by the back of the neck and something like, 'Look there!' Afterwards, she told me that tone had set her off too and she was instantly into what was going on. I kicked out of my sneakers and pulled my jeans off, and tossed them onto the pile along with my socks. I grabbed her hips and pulled her ass back against my cock; she knew I was naked and hard behind her, but she kept looking out. She never said a word as I lifted her feet off the ground and pulled off her sneakers and socks. She held still as I grabbed her jeans and panties and yanked them off her and tossed them onto the clothes pile. She wasn't really ready for sex yet but neither of us gave a damn. I just shoved my cock into her pussy and she kind of yelped. She warmed up quickly enough though; Dorothy lived for sex. She was bracing against the wall against me, grunting with our skins slapping together. I stopped for a moment to stand her up and pull her t-shirt off, and then her bra. We were both naked in that little pillbox thing; on a clear day anyone could have seen us and what we were doing. But here and now, the rain gave us our own little world. We fucked like that for a few minutes. She was bent over and I over her, mauling her tits from behind. Then she laughed, and got us apart long enough to climb outside so she could brace on the roof instead. The rain was like being blasted by needles and if anyone had braved it to take shelter in that place we were completely exposed and caught. But the rain didn't slacken at all; people drove right past and never saw. When I was ready, I spun her around and was going to go all over her face and tits but she hated that. She dropped to her knees and gobbled me because she loved cum in her mouth. Even after I was done, she kept sucking me in a kind of desperation to get me hard again. I didn't mind so much, and we fell into that position that the Kama Sutra calls the 'congress of the crow'; basically 69, but on each other's sides. She came a couple of times until I got hard again, and then we were fucking right out in the open, her legs on my shoulders. We had to move back inside when the rain began to stop but we kept going on the dirty floor with our clothes as our bed. We both got off, and I shot in her pussy. I rather brutally fingered her until she actually begged for me to stop. Then we got dressed and just laughed at ourselves (she never let me forget that I'd ruined her bra, either) until night fell and we could sneak out of there. We never did it again in that nasty little place, which was probably a good thing; that was another once-in-a-lifetime experience and we knew it would never been that amazing again. Maybe one day you'll be at home and the rain will come down. Take a chance, get naked and run outside and just feel the storm against your skin. Drag some people out with you and just go to town. Hopefully you won't get sick the next day, but maybe you'll get to feel the storm from the inside-out like I did all those years ago. My story will never come close to what we experienced that day, so you'll have to trust me in that it can be an unforgettable experience.

Suggested restriction: there are at least four individuals on the boat, and one chooses celibacy.

I lie here in my bed, resting. The rhythm of my heartbeat, slow and steady, is in my ears. She bends over me, cooling my flesh with a damp cloth. Her touch is gentle, and she smiles at me. That smile takes me back in time. I see the smiles in my memory, of lovers and not-lovers alike, lovers and friends, sometimes foes. It's funny how the years can wash away animosity; the negativity fades and you can only see the missed opportunities, the chances for peace not taken or missed. What could have been, should have been. My breath hitches at the thoughts. There have been a lot of them. My journey through Life has been long, my loves many. Nearly all are gone now, though. The tears well in my eyes as their faces flash by. My pulse quickens as I sob quietly. The cool, damp cloth hesitates as she senses my distress. She bends over me, and I gaze at her delightful breasts in the dim light, a gift to me. Soft and warm, large enough to fill one's hands with delight, and capped with pretty pink nipples begging to be kissed. It's difficult to be sad when presented with the ultimate comfort, for who can really not love a woman's breasts? Our first nourishment, a cradle for your head when the world is too strong, a landing zone for endless kisses. My heartbeat quickens further at the sight of such loveliness, Ah, but only if I weren't so tired now. But my eyes are getting heavier now, and she moves off. I feel the loss, the pang in my chest, and the tears come freely now. The thudding of my pulse diminishes as the light fades and sleep comes for me. She speaks, but I cannot understand through my drowse. She is persistent, though. She pulls back the sheet and straddles my hips, leaning forward, her hands on my chest. I can feel the heat between her thighs warming me, her nether lips caressing me through the cloth that separates us. Were I not so tired, she would be bringing my hardness back to its youthful glory. Her hands on my heart, pressing firmly, quickening, but I am going to sleep now. As I drift off, I am vaguely aware of the room filling, people shouting, spoiling an old man's last moment with an angel. For no sick person has ever thought any less of a nurse than an angel. But still, it was a fine last few moments before my long rest. Her heady perfume is the last scent as I drift off. It was a good night.

<starts boxing up her toaster> Where is this going?

Thank you very much! LOL, I feel like I'm back in the 70s when banks would give free toasters to their 1,000th depositor. (Dated myself there.)

We worked on each other with those knives for hours, one careful slice at a time. As the clothing dropped to the floor in ribbons, we paused to tease. She lightly drew her blade from my jawline all the way down my chest. I stroked mine down her breast, tracing her nipple, and then caressing the underside. She kissed me while holding her blade against the side of my neck. I kissed her neck as I slid mine through the cloth down her back to her ankles. She had to be extra careful when she cut away my boxers, because my cock was straining to be free. I, too, had to be careful as I made her panties go away; her pussy was flushed with her arousal, and she was open like the most beautiful flower God ever gave to we humans. She drew the tip of her blade along the seam of my scrotum, up the shaft, and traced around the head of my cock; holding still was sweet agony. In return, I dragged the spine of mine along her pussy, letting the cold steel slide along her clit. The blades went to the side and were forgotten then. Neither of us could restrain ourselves by then. She leapt onto my lap, and I held her hips as she guided me into her. We kissed in a frenzy as we held each other close, nipples rubbing together, her vulva gripping me like a vise. We couldn't sit still; I got to my feet and braced my back against the wall as she used her legs and hips to meet my frenzied thrusts. I'm eternally grateful that she was as turned on as I was, because neither of us lasted two minutes I think. Her pussy squeezed me in a death grip as she came, and that made me shoot my cum into her like I was doing Death Kegels. I was down but not out, so I threw her onto her back and went down on her mercilessly, determined to make her beg for mercy. That didn't happen. When I was hard again, she twisted and went down on me as well. Another not-my-finest outing; she was an artiste when it came to blowjobs. She knew that I didn't mind a bit of teeth, and she knew exactly how much and when so I didn't last much longer than the first time. But that was alright. We fell asleep in each others' arms, nude amidst the rags, the end of a long, magnificent night which I've never forgotten. All of my Korean lady neighbors laughed at me for days, and all I could do was grin back. Worth it.

Dorothy had rolled up the bed and pushed it aside. The room was filled with those little candles; almost as bright as if the electric lights were turned on, but softer in that magical way that only a fire can bring. She was wearing a full hanbok, the Korean version of a Japanese kimono, had her hair up, and had really put a lot of time and effort into her makeup. Charitably, Dorothy wasn't a beauty. She had a roundish face which suffered from childhood acne scars. But tonight she was breathtakingly exotic and sexy. I was wearing decent jeans and a nice Coca-Cola shirt, but I felt slovenly compared to her. There were two mats on the floor, and she was sitting on her knees on one of them; I intuited the other was for me, and so I sat, cross-legged (my knees couldn't take what she was doing.) She sat patiently, with a neutral expression, eyes demurely downcast. Between us were two Tanto knives, blades bare and glowing in the candlelight. We sat there, silent and motionless, for a time. It was probably less than a minute, but the anticipation I was feeling made it seem like an hour. Then, wordlessly she picked up her dagger, leaned forward, and with two flicks sent the buttons of my shirt flying. She then turned the point and sliced it from neck to hem in one smooth stroke. I couldn't breathe; the blade was terrifyingly sharp and was only millimeters away from slicing my flesh. But she handled it like a surgeon, placed it back on the floor, and sat back and waited. I knew what was expected of me, but now I was genuinely frighted ... for her. Unlike my shirt, the hanbok was thick and puffy with layers of cloth and I wasn't sure that I was up to the task she'd set for me now. But the tension in the air was incredibly arousing. I picked up my Tanto and, concentrating harder than I'd ever done in my life up until then, slit the sleeve of her hanbok from shoulder to wrist.

As a GI stationed in Korea, I was unusual in that I had an American girlfriend; I'll call her Dorothy. Being unmarried, we officially had billets on post but lived together in a small apartment in the local ville. Winters in Korea back in the day could be a shock even to seasoned Northerners. There are large flat plains, and at the time there were few trees so nothing would disrupt the cold wind coming down from the mountains in the north. It cut through any amount of winter garb and chilled you to the bone. I was coming home on a Saturday evening after stopping at the barracks to shower and change into civvies, but the cold night and a sixteen-hour shift didn't leave me in the mood for fun. I wanted nothing more than a warm bed. Dorothy had traded shifts with our mutual friend Julie to have the day off, but she didn't share what she'd be doing with it. Suits; Dorothy enjoyed travelling to Seoul for shopping and sightseeing, neither of which were my cup of tea. When I got home, there were lights on but they were dimmed. That was unusual, but I was too tired to really notice in all honesty. Getting inside changed that, though; the apartment was lit with a score of little candles floating in bowls of sweet oil, and it was almost tropically hot. My first instinct was to call out, but it didn't feel right somehow. The quiet and the stillness ... well, it just felt right. I shed my nylon and wool cocoon, took off my shoes, and walked over to the closed bedroom door.

Welcome, @AJoeOfSubjectiveQuality you're the 200th member of the club! I feel like you should get a prize or something.

(Will probably feel cringey tomorrow, but tonight it feels right.) Cover me; My cheek within your thigh, Shut out the stars, Those million mocking demons. Close your door, Allow no sound But wind and breath And bending friction Of two bodies vibrating Together To claim the same point in space. My lips tasting yours, Speaking hymns; words pressed Others pulled from you. Feverish, I need your water, I am breathing, too much; I need to drown, and live. My heart folds, folds tighter Against itself, you pull me Against you, and I am no longer Confused. Cover me. Exploring you by fingertips Like a place walked in a dream, I know your shape in this dark. And I whisper into you, Wordless, I whisper into you A new heaven, A new earth To cover me.

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