RonRyan85

This will be a short erotic story that is continued
by various persons who choose to do so. I will
start it off and some other person who likes to
write erotica can continue the story with the next
reply.......

DOCTOR BARLOW'S MYSTERY MANSION
=====================================

Mona Darrington woke with a splitting headache. She only knew
she was in a strange cold ,dark place and she was naked. The last
thing she remembered was having a tom collins with the handsome
Doctor Barlow who had asked her out for dinner. She had gone to
his office at the suggestion of a girlfriend Jane ,who recommended
the General practice doctor to her. With her eye's getting acustomed
to the darkness; Mona could make out that she was in a basement-
like room.....there was one tiny overhead light and she was inside
of some sort of black steel CAGE ! Mona was an attractive woman
of 25 years, with raven black hair that hung below her shoulders and
she had a great body with large ,round ,firm breasts. She just wished
she had told the Doctor "NO" when he had asked her out.

Just as Mona was beginning to feel sorry for herself and wonder if
anyone might be wondering where she was, the door to the basement
slowly opened and a man's dark outline appeared in the doorway. "Ahhh
Miss Darrington ! I see you have woke up!"

roachboy

Mona Darrington woke with a splitting headache.
She was naked.
The last thing she remembered was a strange cold, dark tom collins.

Her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Mona could make out that she was in a basement-like room. There was one tiny overhead light.


Mona sighed.


"Shit. I've landed in a Sartre play again."

Mona was an attractive woman of 25 years, with raven black hair that hung below her shoulders and she had a great body with large, round, firm breasts.

"Fat lot of good that's going to do me in a Sartre play" she said to herself.

This was the fifth or sixth play that she had landed in after drinking strange cold tom collinses. The last three plays had been Sartre plays. The only change in the originals was that each of the plays she landed in included new stage directions, each of which ended with a reference to her breasts.

She wondered why that was.

She closed her eyes and wondered if she could start over again.

Mona Darrington woke with a splitting headache.
She was naked.
The last thing she remembered was closing her eyes and trying to get out of a Sartre play.

She looks around.
There are bars maybe.
The light is strange.
A basement?
She wonders when the reference to her breasts will happen. She feels disoriented that she is not reading it already, like she has been abandoned, the script she was tired of having been abandoned.


Nothing happens.



Just as Mona was beginning to feel sorry for herself and wonder if anyone might be wondering where she was, the door to the basement
slowly opened. A man's dark outline appeared in the doorway.

"Ahhh Miss Darrington ! I see you are awake..."

__________________
a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear

it make you sick.

-kamau brathwaite

ring

"I am?" she spat, "Whoah daddy,
that spins a whole new spectrum."

She reached for something to drape around her exposure.

RonRyan85

hummmm..just as I suspected: Not a lot of writers here.

roachboy

Mona Darrington stared mutely for some time at the ronryan character who had burst into the room to announce that there were not alot of writers here.
She wondered who he was talking to.
Maybe there are writers behind that wall over there.
But what are they writing?
Am I in a story?
But I am real...I can see my something draped around my exposure and my feet beneath it.
I can't be a fictional character in a story..
I can't be.
I'm much too real for that.

Mona Darrington was silent for a while.
She stared at the wall opposite and wondered how she might get closer to it, maybe look through it to see the writers writing the story of her getting closer to the wall to maybe look through it and see the writers writing the story of her getting closer to the wall and maybe looking through it.

Maybe one of the writers is cute, she heard herself thinking, almost independently of her will.

__________________
a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear

it make you sick.

-kamau brathwaite

mixedmedia

‘Did I just think that? Or did I say it?’

Mona strained against the miasma of disorientation, fear and narcotic sluggishness that had polluted her senses. She had not used the word ‘cute’ to describe a person in years, particularly a man.

Still wondering on this dully, she attempted to stand but the puzzlement at her unusual choice of words was quickly overtaken by the realization that she wasn’t completely naked. Looking down at her feet she saw that they were clad in a pair of white roller skates with pale-colored pom-poms the likes of which she hadn’t seen since a brief, but frenzied succession of Friday nights during junior high school. Seeing them on her feet now only heightened the sense of irreality that was permeating her mind and involuntarily she flashed on bad pizza and Michael Jackson and making out with half-known boys in dark corners. Then her feet, unfamiliar with their newfound mobility, flew out from under her and she found herself sprawled immodestly on the cold, hard floor of the darkened room looking up at the shadow towering over her at the top of the stairs.

He began to chuckle dryly. ‘Don’t despair, my girl,’ he said, stepping out of the light and slowly shutting the heavy door, ‘you’ll get the hang of it.’

__________________
Most people go through life dreading they'll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They've already passed their test in life. They're aristocrats. - Diane Arbus
PESSIMISM, n. A philosophy forced upon the convictions of the observer by the disheartening prevalence of the optimist with his scarecrow hope and his unsightly smile. - Ambrose Bierce

roachboy

Mona Darrington sat on the floor looking past her rollerskates and their pompoms at the what she thought was either the man who has just shut the door or was maybe the image of the man. Gradually, it dawned on her that she has seen the man and heard the door shut, but could not determine whether he had entered or had left.

Indecisive, her mind wandered: she wondered if he was:
a. the ronryan
b. one of the writers
c. someone else.

But mostly, Mona Darrington's gaze kept returning to the roller skates.
They were new, they were bright and she could see them clearly: the lightbulb far overhead was positioned such that it was difficult to see all the way up the stairs.

Nothing seemed to happen up there.


"Roller skates?" she said.


Silence rained down the stairs.



She realized that the floor was cold.
Her ass was cold.
She was immodestly arrayed on the cold floor.
It was becoming uncomfortable.
"I need to stand up" she muttered to herself.


Was anyone else in the room?


She decided to call out. "Hello?"




No answer.





So she began trying to stand up on her roller skates.

__________________
a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear

it make you sick.

-kamau brathwaite

ring

The pompoms lay close enough for her to grasp.

"Friction! yes friction..no wait, do I mean purchase?"

She placed the pompoms so as to not slide back down,
as she tried to slide up vertical.

Her hands sweating in anticipation,

became streaked with the purple and gold dye.

"School colors!" she shrieked.

Two more times she hysterically repeated her shrieking.

"School colors!"

"School colors!"

The third utterance was,

"Cool scholars."