Nonsensical Musings

I love to read and I love to write.  The sad part is, I don’t get time to do either one.  Just like when I am masturbating in the shower (I know you wanted to know that I choke-the-chicken when I am washing), writing takes me to another place in my mind.  I close all the doors, and just concentrate.

I’ve tried the journal books.  And even though I still use them once in a while, they aren’t exactly foolproof against the prying eyes of a nosy wife.  I’ve tried the writing/journaling apps on my phone, but they don’t allow for the same level of intimacy with my writing.  Granted, blogs are still part of the public domain and at times I still censor myself, there is that level anonymity that is unparalleled.

With a blog, we can divulge our biggest fears, hopes and dreams, we can write about our lives, a subject of our passions, or, we can write porn.

When I started the original Grave Yard, some of you may remember it, I contemplated on what to call myself.  Then, it struck me!  Like a meteor, red hot and falling from the sky, it hit me!  Working security, at times, was boring and most of the time was as silent as the grave.  Given the fact that I worked third shift, hence my name!

In a moment of rash panic, I deleted that blog.  I regret it now.  Even then, it felt as if a part if me had died.  So many introspective musings, so many rants and fuck stories.  I don’t know if I have it left in me to recreate it.

I work with mostly women and the elderly now.  Despite the fact that it is a noble vocation, I miss the solitude of the guard shack; of pouring a hot cup of coffee and setting to leave my personal imprint on the information age.

It’s sad to see the old grow weary.  They are in their nineties and wonder what more could God want with them.  Those who are in their eighties and seventies, don’t want to reach ninety-much less a hundred.  It almost seems like an injustice when a dementia or Alzheimer’s patient can’t recall the date, time, year or who is even visiting them.  They grow depressed and frustrated, wondering what in the hell is happening to me?!

And that’s the thing about them-they may lose their minds, but they don’t lose their intelligence.  They know something ain’t right!  And like me, I imagine they wonder what happened to the dreams they once had.

It is said that the workforce in nursing homes is sorely needed.  However, I ponder on how long that will last.  With the way politicians try to swindle the American people out of money, while funding every Tom, Dick, and Harry and seeking out boogeymen to destroy, I can envision a day in this country when the elderly will be on the short list of life.

I think about the people I met during the Grave Yard’s tenure.  I think of the bisexual guy out in Montana-I think it was-who had the wife that liked to put him down.  I think of Mark and Nikki of Sluts and Soulmates and how their love affair came to an abrupt end.  I think I could have used Mark’s advice last year.  I wonder how they are doing?  Have they moved on?  Stayed in their own respective marriages?  Are they blogging again?

Remember the Dark Room?  It was written by a woman that had her own real-life personal blog and she stumbled upon my Revenge series, which sadly, never saw completion.  Stephanie, I think was her name.  It wasn’t long before she was writing on my blog and started her own erotica site.  After a while, I saw that she wasn’t writing anymore on mine.  Soon, I found out that not only had she deleted her personal site, but her erotica site, and each and every fuck story she wrote on my blog was gone!

I can hardly fault her for it.  After her, there was another woman that wrote on my blog.  She was a nurse and she told me in an email that guys “butts look awesome in scrubs.” Which leads me to wonder if any of my female counterparts have checked out my ass?! 

Like I said, I deleted The Grave Yard in a rush of panic.  I should have given that lady notice, but I didn’t.  She later thanked me for the opportunity I gave her.  Should either of these two ladies read this post, I hope to hear from them.  At least, to know that they are okay.

I don’t know I would be open to adding another writer or not.

Ever feel like the things that God has allowed to enter your life to bring you strength and discipline are the very things that feel like they are tearing you down?  You keep searching for a reason behind it all, but none can be found.

That’s the way I feel today.  I miss the guard shack.  The solitude.  I miss taking a brief break from writing, grabbing my hot cup of coffee and stepping outside for a cigarette.  Cold air meets my face and I am refreshed.

My mind is mired in the pit of depravity and despair.

-Graveyard Night



There was a time
When I could go days
Without thinking of you
To me, you were almost like
A distant memory
A shadowy figure in my mind
Seeing you the other day
Your big blue eyes
Your easy smile and brown, curly hair
There is no way I can escape you
The sound of your voice
And the way that you laugh

I still recall
The sound of your moans in my ear
Your nails digging into my skin
As my fingers played between your legs
The sight of you bent over before me
Feeling your soft, warm skin against me
Sliding into you
Hearing obscenities and profanity
And then, just like that
It was over

You stole a piece of me
A piece I will never get back
I can hear you in the darkness
Your laugh, your voice
Even the way you said my name
They haunt me
Your lips from across a great chasm
Beckon me

I hear footsteps and dwindling laughter
And like the memory of my father
You leave me all alone
I hear nothing but silence
When I was with you
I felt like the carefree person
I had never been

Tell me, Erin
When will I get that feeling again

-Graveyard Night

Let Her Have It

“You know,” my wife, Shayna, said as we were tossing beer cans and burnt joints into the trashcan, “when we were playing strip poker, I couldn’t help but notice the bulge in Brandon’s boxers.”

I chuckled as I tied the bag shut.  Looking out the sliding glass window, I could see that Brandon was nearly finished with his cigarette.
“You and everyone else noticed, I think.”

“Does it make you jealous?” she asked, poking me in the ribs.  For years, Shayna had tried, but in vain, to make me jealous.  She would wear the tightest of clothing to the gym or the skimpiest of bathing suits.

Now, I have had my fair share of jealous girlfriends in the past, and all it did was leave me feeling hollow.  People say that the jealous partner is at least showing that they care.  But if they truely cared, why set out to make the other feel guilty for having a simple conversation with the opposite sex?

I then set my mind to believing that jealousy was my enemy, and I would endeavor to never make Shayna feel that way.

“No.  Why?  Do you want to see what his big black cock looks like?” I asked.  I am sure that my grin looked mishcevious.  After ten years of marriage and two kids, Shayna knows me better than anyone else.  It’s scary.

Her lips spread into a wide grin and her cheeks turned to a bright pink.  “No.”

“Uh huh.  Maybe we can get you naked again and stick these back on your nipples,” I said, picking up a couple of old playing cards I had licked and stuck to her nipples when she lost her bra.

Shayna snatched them out of my hands and crumpled them before discarding them into the trashcan.  Her face had taken on a more serious countenance, but the pink hue was still deep on her face.

“You had better not tell him,” she scolded me.  Turning away, she busied herself at the sink.  I knew that I was treading lightly.  Everyone had had enough beer and pot in their systems to make Cheech and Chong proud.  But when you’re in that inebriated state, the gates to inhibitions and common sense disappear.  I knew that had Shayna been of sober mind, she never would have been one of the first volunteers to strip poker.

“Why not?” I said, walking up behind her and sliding my hands up under her shirt.  Grasping her breasts in each hand, I began to squeeze and knead them like a ball of dough.  Just feeling her pert nipples on the palms of my hands made me hard.  “Brandon got to see your tits.  I think it’s only fair that you get to see his cock.”

Shayna’s hands were white knuckling the edge of the countertop.  She was breathing heavily, arching her back and pressing her ass against my hardness.  Despite the fact that a friend of mine had travelled over five-hundred miles and was going to be spending the weekend with us, I wanted to be inside of her.  I wanted to have an all night fuck fest.  But more than that, I knew how big Brandon was and couldn’t help but imagine the look of surprise on Shayna’s face when he freed his monster.

Shayna was breathing heavier now and was moaning softly.  She had spread her legs and arched her back so that my bulge was on her moist slit.  Her tits had become firmer and swollen; her nipples were more rigud.  I was kissing and licking her neck and shoulders as our dry-humping quickened.  I was close to cumming.

“C’mon, baby,” I said softly in her ear.  “You want to see his cock, don’t you?” Her pelvis hit the counter and glasses rattled.  The crotch of my pants were damp and I hadn’t even blown my load.  I abandoned the subtleties and pounded her like I was actually fucking her.  “You want to see his cock, don’t you, baby?!  Touch it, suck it-hell, even fuck it!  Don’t you?!” I growled in her ear as I grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her head back.  Shayna let out a startled cry.

“Ugh…fuck yes!”

“C’mon, baby!  We’ve been living a clean, conservative life for far too long!  ‘Fuck yes’ to what?!  Say the magic words, baby!”

“Oh, god!  I want to see his cock!”  As soon as she said that, my cock erupted in my pants and my knees nearly buckled.  I leaned over her for support as our bodies swayed and rocked in unison.

“I don’t know about the two of you,” came Brandon’s voice behind us, “but this has me rock hard!”

To be continued 

A Hundred Foot Hole in My Heart

My wife and I have never had what you would call a “nourishing or fulfilling” relationship.  It has been contentious and volatile.

In my previous post, I wrote about a woman at work that had a crush on me.  I went into it headlong and with my guard down.  What started out as flirtatious conversations, went to sex talk, to nude pics, then kissing, and then sex.  I will write about that night earlier this week at a later date.

It wasn’t long into our talking that she tried to prompt me to leave my wife and kids.  After many times of trying to explain to her that it isn’t as easy as one can make it sound, I soon became exhausted of it.  At times, I thought that I was free of her-could withstand her advances-but now I see how easily one can get sucked into an adulterous affair.

Today, she told me that she was cutting me loose; that she realizes that I am not going to leave my wife and kids.  No more kissing, hugs, pics or sex.  Probably for the better, but it feels like I have a hundred foot sink-hole in the middle of my heart.

The depression has returned, and with it, the nagging questions of what is the point of living?  Tonight, I went to the store, and was so tempted to leave the car and walk.

Where is Mark and Nikki of Sluts and Soulmates when you need them?

-Graveyard Night

I’ve shared a book from Google Play Books

I came across this story on Literotica a couple of years ago, and instantly liked it.  Reading the comments, I soon learned that whoever posted it had plagarized.  I found it on Google Playbooks some time later, and found it, yet again, under a different author.

From wherever you read it, it truly is a tantilizing story.

Blackmailed: Interracial Cuckold Forced Seduction and Submission, Claire White.

Fucked by the Husband’s Boss

I wrote this story for a Tumblr blog of mine (which is still active)  over a year ago.  After some thought, I posted it to my old blog and received mostly positive reviews.  Whatever I write, I always try to put an element of how I feel in the story.  I hope readers new and old enjoy it.

For the longest of time, I have felt numb; dead inside.  Here lately, I have done shit that makes my skin crawl.  I have been holding onto shit for far too long.

The last line of this story is: She wanted to cry, needed to cry.  But no tears would come.

And that’s where I am right now.

-Graveyard Night

“I’m sorry, Randall,” Ben said, laying his wife out on the bed. “I haven’t seen her this drunk in a long time.”

“Ah,” Ben’s boss said, waving away the apology. “No apologies needed, Ben. Happens to the best of us. The thing I’m concerned about is her hangover.”

“Oh, she’ll have a nasty one, I can assure you. When that happens, she rarely ever remembers anything,” Ben said, sitting beside his wife. She laid on her right side, her back to the men.

“Really?” Randall asked, gluttonous eyes staring at the pink thong that disappeared into the crack of Kristy’s heart shaped ass.

Outside, the sun had begun to fade as the sound of people cheering reached the guest room on the second floor.

“Ben, why don’t you go finish your volleyball game? Your team needs you. I’ll look after Kristy.”

Ben was grateful for having such an easy going boss; so relaxed. Behind that shrewd business man exterior, it seemed like nothing phased the man. He had found Randall at a coffee shop, of all places, after the economic collapse of 2009. He had looked for a year for a job, and after one conversation with Randall, he was given a low entry level position in his real estate firm. In nearly five years, Ben had worked his way to the top.

“Okay,” Ben said, laying a kiss on Kristy’s hip. “Thanks, Randall.”

“Not a problem,” he said, keeping his eyes on Kristy. Randall smiled when he heard the door latch behind him.

Setting his beer down, Randall went and locked the door and pulled his swim shorts down before sitting beside the wife of his most competent agent. Pulling her black hair behind her left ear, and running his finger tips down the nape of her neck, his cock began to lift off his thigh as he reached the strings that tied in the back.

Randall removed his hand from her back a few inches as she moved and moaned lightly. He knew what needed to be done and that at some point she would wake up and realize it wasn’t her husband fucking her, but right now was too early for that.

Cheers and applause signaled Ben’s return to the game; Randall had plenty of time. Taking one of the pink strings below her shoulder blades, he pulled until the knot came loose. Seeing that she was undisturbed, he pulled a string at her neck.

Kristy breathed deeply as he ran his coarse hand down her side, where he gripped the string at her hip, pulling as his hand traveled down her leg. His black mast stood at full attention as he admired the curvaceous woman laying mostly naked before him.

Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, “scoot over and lay on your back.” To his astonishment, she did. Relieving her body of the bikini top and discarding it on the floor, Randall groaned as he coveted the D-cup breasts that had nursed two children already. Untying the string on her right hip, he pulled gently; Kristy’s hips rose subconsciously.

Such a beautiful woman, he thought. To be left alone with a predator like me. Randall was a predator of marriages. Times too numerous to count throughout the years, he had been responsible for at least a dozen divorces. His affection for his most loyal and trusted employee notwithstanding, he began to grope Kristy’s succulent, firm breasts.

She moaned louder this time as he toyed with her nipples, working them until they stood out like erasers. Her hands gripped his, holding him to her; her hips started a slight coital rocking, her legs pressed together.

Freeing his hands from hers, Randall climbed further onto the bed, kneeling at her feet. There was little resistance as he pried her legs apart at her knees. Taking the index and middle fingers of his left hand, Randall pulled back the folds to reveal the moist, pink flesh of her cunt. Kristy’s back arched and she whimpered as he inserted a large finger in her orifice.

Sliding the index finger of his right hand in and out of her, Randall manipulated her clit with the thumb of his left; alternating patterns between circular, side-to-side to up down.

Darkness had fallen outside, but the sounds of laughter, loud music and the pop of a volleyball could be heard. Things always seemed to work in his favor whenever he decided to defile a marriage. Kristy moaned louder as she grasped the rails of the headboard, her pussy had begun to spasm on his fingers. Suddenly, her head prpressed back hard into the pillow and her back arched, bending like a bow as Kristy let out a cry and fluid shot out of her.

Randall buried his face between her thighs, swallowing the residual squirts that followed. “Let me know when you’re gonna do that again,” he said in a low tone, barely above a whisper. Kristy had yet to lift her head to see who her lover was.

“Okay,” she gasped as another orgasm was building.

Randall’s fingers squelched inside her sopping wet snatch. He could tell she was close to squirting again; Kristy felt swollen. Her pussy clamped down on his digits, almost forcing him out of her, when she slapped his arm. Hovering only an inch from her, Randall let the ejaculate cover his face, neck and shoulders. He gulped down the acidic fluid, his thirst to taste her quenched.

Kneeling at her sex, he positioned the bulbous head of his phallus at her entrance, and pressed forward. Even as wet as what she was, Kristy was tighter than a virgin on Sunday. Even in her inebriated state, the pressure from Randall’s immense cock brought her out of her stupor, and Kristy’s eyes flew open.

Kristy stared up at her husband’s boss in stunned horror as he continued to press deeper. Her grip on the hand rails tightened as pressure built inside her cunt. Randall’s large hands held her in place at the waist, his back straight, looking into her eyes as he slowly entered her.

How could he do this to her? To Ben? But what he was doing earlier with his fingers felt so good. She hadn’t cum like that in a long time. Those were his fingers, weren’t they?

The alcohol induced haze began to lift as she tried to form words in a sentence: “Randall….what…oh, fuck!” she whined, feeling the biggest cock she had ever taken now deep inside her, crowding her cervix.

Pulling back, leaving only the head submerged, Randall buried himself to the hilt. Picking up speed with every swing of his hips, he could see her horrified expression erode away; replaced by that of erotic submission. Leaning over her, he positioned himself on his fists; their eyes locking. She had relinquished her hold of the of headboard and was now digging her nails into his flexing biceps. Kristy brought her legs up, hoping to relieve the pressure brought on by Randall’s invasion; resting her feet just above his ass, nearly locking at the ankles.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Kristy was a conundrum of emotions. As she looked into Randall’s dark eyes, his hips rising and falling in her peripheral vision, images and thoughts of Ben would flood her minds eye. The volleyball games had stopped. What if he came up here? What if he walked in? Seeing Kristy on her back in the middle of the bed, gripping Randall’s biceps, her legs nearly locked at his waist, the blue comforter stained with her ejaculate, would hardly look like a case of non consensual sex, would it?

Kristy whimpered and moaned as her body sprayed Randall with hot fluid again.

“Oh, god…shit!” Kristy cried as she ejaculated again. Throwing herself back, she covered her face to muffle the scream that would surely alert others to what she was doing. Her cunt felt swollen and hot. Every stroke of his great phallus sent waves of (un)wanted pleasure coursing through her body. The sickly, slushy sound of their bodies slapping together reverberated off the walls. When was he going to be done?

Almost as if reading her mind, Randall pulled out.

“Did you cum?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Are you close?”

“I’m tryin, baby. I’m tryin,” he said, lifting her up and laying her on her belly across the width of the bed.

Kristy faced the wall where the door was, but more than that, she stared into a full-length mirror in disbelief as Randall mounted her. How could she do this to Ben? How could she cheat on him? She could’ve screamed, should’ve cried. Someone surely would have-

Moaning loudly as Randall reentered her, all thoughts of her husband were washed away in a tsunami of erotic pleasure. Gripping the edge of the bed, she watched as her head bobbed in accordance with the contact of their bodies. The light from the only lamp in the room gleamed off of Randall’s shaved head; sweat dripped from his nose and puddled on her back. Music still blared from outside. How long had he been up here? Had anyone (Ben) noticed Randall’s absence?

“Gonna squirt anymore?” he asked, his mouth only inches from her ear.

“I don’t think I have anymore left,” she said. But she was proven wrong. She could feel another orgasm building as he fucked her with a heightened sense of earnestness. He was going to cum. Let him last until I do, she pleaded in her mind.

“Ah, Ah, Ah!” she cried. “Fuuuck, yesss!” Hot fluid, though a smaller amount this time, stained the comforter in a different spot. Randall forced himself deeper inside her than he had before, shooting a torrent of spunk inside her womb.

“Damn, girl!” he panted, collapsing on top of her. “I’m gonna have to fuck you more often.”

Kristy’s head hung over the edge. She didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see another man laying on her, his phallus still sliding in and out of her, albeit a little slower. Tears came to her eyes as a feeling of melancholy came over her. Randall rolled off of her and climbed off the bed.

Pulling up his shorts, he said, “Kristy, look at me.” She lifted her head, doing her best to hide her remorse. “Don’t feel guilty about this, okay? This was good, clean sex. I think Monday, your husband is going to get a fat bonus for all his hard work.” Sweat glistened in large beads on his muscular body. “There is one thing I didn’t get from you,” he said, stooping down. Pressing his lips to hers, his tongue sought out hers; Kristy returned the kiss, even placing her right hand on the side of his face to try and convey that it was all consensual.

“You can shower in there,” he said before leaving the room, pointing to the door on the adjacent wall.

The water was hot and rejuvenating as she let it run over her body. She wanted to cry, needed to cry. A man whom she had grown to respect and admire had taken advantage of her in a delicate state. But she enjoyed it, didn’t she? Kristy tried to force the tears, but none would come. Yes, she had enjoyed it. But at what cost?

Before he left, Randall reminded her that Ben was her husband, and that he would be getting a “fat bonus” for all his hard work. Is that what it had come to? Fucking so her husband could get bonuses? Keep his job? What about when she told Randall no more? Would he blackmail her in exchange for sex?

She flexed her muscles, trying to force out the cum that he had put so deep inside her. Large white globs fell from her cunt, washing down the drain. How would she explain it to Ben when her belly started to grow? How can you tell your husband that he may not be the father?

She tried to cry, needed to cry. But no tears would come.

The bed had been remade with a softer shade of blue comforter. Gone was her bikini, replaced by a long t-shirt. She put it on. On the nightstand was a pitcher of iced water, a plastic cup, three ibuprofen and a small pill.

She got the message. Randall didn’t want her downstairs where she would see her husband. He wasn’t joking about fucking her in the future. He wanted her up here, away from everyone else. Pouring a glass of water, she took the pills. Turning out the light, she slid under the covers and drifted off to sleep.

She wanted to cry, needed to cry. But no tears would come.

Porno Pics for Wallpaper

Yesterday, I went to my sister’s house for a workout.  While I was there, my nephew showed me a large box of sports cards he had bought at a yard sale this past weekend.  They ranged from football to baseball, basketball and hockey.

Now, the woman he bought them off of told my sister that there were some cards of Hooters girls.  It didn’t take me long before I was rummaging through them, and what I found wasn’t Hooters girls, but flat out naked women.  My nephew kept his head turned and his eyes averted while I cherry picked the bad ones.

Here is an example of one:

In case you’re wondering-yes, I did take pics of some of the cards for the express purpose of using them as wallpaper on my phone.  Unfortunately, most of them did not turn out well.  On the way home, I threw the cards away.

I say that to say this.  When I was workinf third shift, I use to download pictures of naked women and use them as home screen wallpaper on my phone.  By the time I got home in the morning, I would have it changed back to my regular theme.

By far, two-well, three-of my favorite types of pics to search and save, were retro porn pics of women (you know, the ones where the woman’s pussy hair looks like it hadn’t been trimmed in a month), black women pics, and interracial sex pics; particularly, a black man fucking a white woman.
Since I left third shift, I hadn’t had a problem with this.  Until now.  Here recently I started it back up, and even though I am working around a lot more people, I still set a nude pic as my wallpaper.  What happens if I get caught?

So, last night and today, I have been searching pictures of 90’s era women, and have downloaded about ten.  Here’s an example.

Courtesy of Playboy

Why do I do this?  I know that I am not going to use all these pics as my wallpaper, so why do it?  I am a conundrum, even to myself.

Graveyard Night

Impulsive Kisser

Have you ever met someone that, for whatever reason, you were drawn to them?  You were drawn to them sexually, romantically (if sexually and romantically are not the same things), and-I guess-there was still another component that drew you to them.  That last one is difficult to put a finger on.

When fate decides to grace you with her presence, there’s a certain pep in your step, your heart flutters, and God forbid you bust an erection in front of her.

The woman I am talking about is eighteen to my thirty-two.  She’s about my height, dark skinned, and has one of the most sweetest, kindest smiles I have ever seen.  Around strangers, or at least those who don’t know me well, I am pretty good at hiding my depression and what-not.  But I wonder if I am very crafty at hiding the raging emotions I experience everytime she is around?

I think she likes.  Well, she at least says she likes working with me; which isn’t all that often.  But when she does, I get lost in her dark, nearly black eyes.  She walks close to me whenever we walk side-by-side, and I have to fight with everything I have to not pull her close to me and see where my actions take us.

But this is all fantasy.  Or, is it…

Graveyard Night