Winners Submissions FAQ The Fish Tank Contact Us

Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 Typewriter Contest
Honorable Mention

The Bird-Like Pleasures Of Unploughed Maine

Ever since I’ve been typing nude, the bird has been watching me. He sits upon an upper middle bough of the small pine outside the window and stares in. O.K. I may be wrong about this. He’s sitting there, all right, but I don’t know that he’s a he. Hopkins, when he returns next week, if he comes, can probably tell me. Hopkins knows birds. Whether Hopkins knows sex or not, manly fellow that he is, remains up in the air, but this is Hopkins’s property, Hopkins’s turf, so he, ever precise and always fastidious, should be familiar with the flora and fauna of these parts. Me, silly city girl that I am, barely knows crow from camel. My bird, Waldo as I’ve come to think of him, is earnest as all get out, but he’s also pretty and petite with a gruff perkiness to him. I like the pale red ruff of feathers beneath his small round head, the soft curve of throat to breast, and the efficient thrust of shape stillness gives his supple body. If I stop typing long enough to truly watch him, he flicks his sleek black tail, opens his stubby beak, and speaks. Pep, pep, pep, he goes. Pep, pep, pep, pep as if to mimic the sounds of my Corona Four, as if to spur me into action. Pep, pep, pep, and sometimes p’Wing. I may be wrong about him being male, and I may be wrong about him watching me simply because I’m naked, but I know I’d better get busy or I’ll never finish this in time, and Hopkins will be most angry, and then ... well, we won’t go into that.

Pinica mocks my curiosity, my attention, but I pay her no mind. The blue-black creature is like nothing I’ve ever seen: smoothly weighty, ruggedly precise, solidly implacable, as opposite of us as anything anywhere, and yet, now that the keeper tickles her belly, having fed white feed through her strange slim mouth, she speaks to me, spits of perfect sound, mysterious yet familiar, measured, syncopated and exciting. I must know her. I must know what she is saying. She’s calling to me. I know it.

Pinica says, “Let’s fuck. Come on, it will only take a second. Fly into me and seed me with frenzy, frenzy me with seed.” Her body flits and twitches as she squawks and twitters, but I ignore her. She shows the tinge of pink beneath her wings, then whirls and flies away. She’ll be back, but for the moment I can concentrate.

I listen and listen and listen until at last I know I’m on the verge of knowing.

It’s so hot up here. The pines shade the cabin, but still it’s hot. Imagine how hot it must be in the city with Hopkins churning his deals, rounding up his backers, making his money hand over fist. Naturally I took my clothes off. It’s not as if there’s anyone to see me. Anyone but the bird, that is. We’re miles from anywhere. Nothing but pine trees and acre after acre of beautiful, wildflower filled fields ... and it’s not as if I’m bad to look at, myself, but in truth before I made myself bare, shucking the linen skirt and gauzy blouse, skinning the silky chemise, the silkier scanties, I wasn’t paying a bit of attention to the bird. The stuffy Emerson poems Hopkins left me put aside, I stripped and sat and started typing. The bird may have been watching me all along. Who is to say? Pep, pep, pep, Waldo goes. Pep, pep. Pep, pep, pep. His light little noise knocks against my nakedness and makes me shiver.

“Do me!” Pinica chirps, flashing her underfeathers, quivering her fletch. “Do me, do me, do me.” She hasn’t an inkling what this is all about. I perch statue still, and below me Pinica shuffles pine needles down to dust, writhes in plumes of powder, cheeps piteously as if, in fact, she’s being fucked. Poor thing. I’m tempted to swoop down and take her, but something has changed: the keeper is staring my way; my beauty is quiet; something is about to happen, and I dare not miss a moment.

“Your procreative duties,” Pinica admonishes me. “Hurry up, husband, and husband me; make babies in my belly.” Pinica is cute when she’s cross. She frowns, her rump butting the air above my branch. These waves of lust make me waver, the bough bounds up and down, and momentarily I lose my grip. Next thing I know I’m upside down, facing away from the cabin window. Pinica laughs at my silly swivel. Slowly I right myself, dignity not quite intact. I scowl. “See what you’ve done!” I shout at Pinica. She laughs her fluttery laugh and flitters to a lower branch, and I’m about to follow her, follow her and catch her and fuck her, and not just fuck her but fuck her furiously and mercilessly, stuffing scads of baby stuff into her belly, fucking her into merciful insensibility. Procreative duties indeed!

But before taking flight, before losing myself in Pinica’s coital churn, I happen to glance at the cabin window. Naught but glare! The object of my affection—gone!

“Where are you going?” Pinica shouts. “Come back! You’ll crash! Don’t you see?”

It’s too late; I must see. If I fly fast enough I’ll pierce the glass like light. Love is all, you see. And if not—silence is sweet; darkness nothing.

I’m outside now, surrounded by gardens of softest grass. I’ve taken the Corona out, too, and set it upon the rickety little lawn table, but so far not much progress. Sunlight streams through trees, and the breeze nuzzles wild corymbs and flaps the flimsy paper. I almost expect these few words I’ve typed to fly off, to alight upon flowers like little butterflies. Flights of fancy. Maybe that’s what I should call this. My bird, by the way, is no longer on his perch, no longer watching me, no longer cocking his head from time to time, flicking his black tail. Where’s Waldo? I miss him.

Also, I’m a little worried about this chair. The slats, rough, weathered planks of raw pine, could lead to a splinter in my bottom. Ha, maybe my friend the bird could use his stubby beak to pry out any sliver of stray wood which might work its way into my flesh. Would you do that for me, Mister Bird? Or is your beak shaped all wrong? I’m sure it’s good for cracking seeds and crunching juicy bugs, but what about extracting pieces of bark from a poor girl’s bottom? But that’s right — my bird is gone. Best, probably, if I don’t move too much; if I just sit here and type quietly. Innocently. Pep, pep, pep.

Darn! A mosquito bit me. Just now. Ow! But typing it doesn’t make the hurt go ‘way. On my left breast, a thumb’s width from the nipple, the swelling begins. At least I swatted the sucking creature, and now to show for it: a blood red stain and small strings of oozy bug remains. And the rising bump. Darn, darn, darn! I hate mosquito bites. I hate the way they itch, and I hate that I’m helpless not to scratch and rub. Type, type, type, that’s the cure. But it isn’t. I’m too itchy to type. I must rub it, rub the bump. Hm, two nipples on one breast. My rubbing has even made a second halo almost as round and puffy as the real one, but more red than pink. If Hopkins were here, perhaps he could do something. If only Hopkins could be as clever and kind in his reality as in his — never mind. Suffice it to say, if his spit didn’t soothe me, maybe his sucking would.

One time in the city, Hopkins pressed his penis against my nipple. The little slit was too small to suck, but it leaked slipperiness, and Hopkins smeared it ‘round and ‘round. When he pulled back, a strand of balm stretched out, fragile, a trifle sad, gleamingly silver, only to snap in utter silence. I looked up at Hopkins and could see what he wanted. I sucked him slowly, quietly, keeping the corona of his cock benignly in my mouth whilst tonguing the ruffle of flesh beneath. To the side I could see us in the long glass of my dressing mirror, my lips lipping his corona, my tongue tonguing his ridge, my hand stroking the costate shaft of his cock. Watching the motion excited me, made me slurp. His girth grew and soon eggy spew filled my mouth. Wanting more, wanting it in my womb, I let him loose, thinking about swallowing but willing him to kiss me, willing his lovely tongue to taste the swirl of spit and seed and milky juice, and when he didn’t, I let the stuff flow out over my lips, onto my chin, my breasts, my belly and bush — and momentarily perfect pearls bejeweled my russet nest before seeping into oblivion. Hopkins, turning away, didn’t see the simple splendor. Instead he sang cheerily, “So sweet your virgin song shall be – sprung free!” What’s a gal got to do to get fucked?

So here I am abandoned again. No Hopkins. No bird. Just soft grass and acres of woods and, like furrows in a sterile field, line after line of useless words. And I itch so much. This was a mistake. I’m going in. Nature is not meant for me. Bare as a baby, I’m still at heart an indoor girl.

Something made me stop. Something made me stretch out on the soft garden grass. I lay there, face down, pinned by sunbeams, warmed by breeze; it caressed my back, this breeze, my back and neck and bottom, while grass tickled my belly, my breasts, my whole burrowing body. Nestled low I lay there ‘til at last the little bird landed. Light as light upon the apex of my spine he stood, waiting almost weightless, taking me all in, and then, then: seconds, minutes, hours later, slowly, step by flirty step, he marched toward the quivering seat of my excitement. My cunt opened, empty and aching, but the bird stopped short, his stubby beak pressing the snug button of my bottom, pressing and prying and slipping inside, whilst my wet cunt clenched emptily, and the bold bird pushed me wide, opened me, shoved himself inside, and like a jungle cat stalking helpless prey, silkily strove ever inward, flying now, roaring through to the sweet-swollen center of my swoon.

Inside, I lighted lanterns, and the warm glow illuminated Emerson, but the words made little sense, less than a dance of ants upon the page. I sighed and yawned and stretched, and a blue-black feather fell from my hair. It landed in the book’s crease, and I stared at it and studied it, transfixed by the color, the curve, the quiet harmony, and after a while I picked it up, held it by the point, twirled it slowly back and forth between my fingers, and wondered. I knew my pillows and quilts and comforters were down-stuffed, but this was not the same, this was not domestic fluff, this was real and wild and wonderful, or would be, if only I knew how to work it.

Idly I flicked the feather tip over my mosquito bite. The bruise had receded, but when the barbules of feather-skin brushed the nearby bump of real nipple, my pink nub fattened fast. Slowly I feathered myself to firm ripe fullness, first one nipple then the next, then the first again, balancing the excitement, bringing myself slowly to the burst. My legs spread. My little lips winged lightly open. I quilled the wetness of my cunt against my clit and came.

Coming came easy after that. All night I twisted and turned, suffusing myself in an abundance of orgasm. I worked and worked, while in the sinfully sleepless city, far off Hopkins dreamt steel dreams and snored. I’m going to get him. I’m going to show him. He’s going to be so pleased! So proud of me!


“So, girl, show me what you got. Show me what couldn’t wait another minute.”

“It’s right here, honey. You’re going to be so proud of me. You’re going to …”

“What’s this? A feather? Where’s my typewriter?”

“Don’t worry, darling. It should be right here. I left it …”

“Look! Out on the lawn. Oh, fuck! You left it out on the fucking lawn! I bet it’s ruined. I can’t believe you! I give you the simplest task, and you fuck it up. I can’t believe you could be so fucking careless.”

“Maybe it’s okay.”

“Hardly! A heavy dew is enough to rust it to hell and back. These are precision instruments—not muffin tins. And with last night’s rain … Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“I didn’t leave it out, honey. I swear I didn’t. But don’t you want—”

The man shook his head and strode briskly across the lawn, grumbling and growling. Then he stopped.

“What is it, honey?”

“It’s worse than I thought. Come here. Look!” The man pointed.

The carriage contained a small nest neatly fashioned of fresh Maine mud and fallen fir needles, pinecone scraps and finely shredded typing paper.

“Oh, dear.”

“Oh, dear is right,” the man snorted, thumbing the space bar to no effect. “Well, I’ll get rid of these little fuckers.”

“You most certainly will not!”

“Oh? So what are you—their mother?” The man stood hands on hips, glaring at the woman. “And where the fuck’s the father?”

A moment of silence, then silently the man drifted off, a dark little cloud swiftly dissipating in the bland distance. Sunshine rained down.

“It’s okay, babies,” the woman said. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. You’ll see. Everything will be fine.”

Their little beaks wide, their throats throbbing wordlessly, the three baby birds wailed for food and love and all the bird-like pleasures of unploughed Maine.

Pep, pep, pep. P’Wing.

Mat Twassel penned his first erotica (something about a formula that would make him invisible) in a stenographer’s notebook during high school chemistry. With college came a first and lasting love and a second-hand Royal upon which Mat typed his first published sex stories. Mat’s cyber era fiction appears in such emags as Journal of Desire, Ruthie’s Club, Clean Sheets, and Passion Village. Mat has never been in Maine.

If you enjoyed the story, why not let the author know? Type your message below and we’ll send the author email. Leave the from box empty to be anonymous, but include your email address if you want a reply.

To: Mat Twassel <>

Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 Typewriter Contest
Honorable Mention