My First Erotica

An Gripping Emotion-Driven Emotional Journey with

realsmolalien (Smol Alien) and smolyellowbird

For optimal viewing pleasure, please access Google Drive version at

Chapter 1

The sky was gray and the horses were skittish on the day that he arrived in town. I had been churning butter 7 fortnights, my hands rough as sandstone (but not as delicious). He arrived at around 6:30 in the morning in a rusty old Ford pickup, which sported a happy face antenna ball. The neighbors said that he had stopped at the gas station. And filled up with some gas. Then he came straight to our farm with no explanation.

After he pulled up and parked his truck directly in the middle of the horse corral, he stepped out and the vision of him made my heart beat faster than it ever had before in my life, ever. He was 7'1" and had flowing golden locks that reached past his waist. He kept it tied back in a thick braid. His eyes were as blue as the sky on a hot summer afternoon when Mama is making apple pies and I’m sitting outside contemplating my future hypothetical wedding. He was SUPER buff and wore a white stained muscle tee with the sleeves torn off. His jeans were also stained. With grease obviously he was a mechanic of some sort. I hope he is a mechanic of airplanes. To top it all off, he had intricately designed faux leather cowboy boots with spurs and everything, and one gold hoop in the not-gay ear.

“Hi, my name is Cranston Craig-Cooper Creighton III, Esq. I am a mechanic of airplanes. I just came back from the Atlantic Ocean which i flew over, in the airplane that I mechaniced and which is now crashed on a beach somewhere in New Jersey. Obviously, I got out of there as fast as humanly possible. I stole a truck from an old junk yard. It really needed some fixin’ but unfortunately I couldn’t do a good for nothin’ for it because I’m an airplane mechanic. I had to take it to my buddy Clifton who knows a good mechanic and was able to get me a good deal. So then I drove and drove and finally I got here to this town which is called Claptown, CT. I ran out of gas so I bought some at ole Farmer Clay’s gas station down the road and now I’m here and I wonder if I could trouble you for the use of your shower? See, I got all covered in grease when I was chugging grease bombs with my buddy Clifton,” he said.

I was so dazzled by his good lucks and charm that I could barely respond but I finally managed to squeak, “Sorry, our shower’s broken. You’ll have to clean yourself off out back with the hose.”

“I’m ashamed to say that I’m a novitiate when it comes to the use of hoses, do you think you could give me a hand?” he pontificated.

A hearty blush crept up from my toes all the way to my navel but not an inch further. “Look, mister, I’m sorry, but I’m a good young Christian lady and I just don’t think that would be proper. I can ask my brother to help you out. Or perhaps one of the horses. Some of them can do this thing with their noses, kind of like an elephant,” I rebuttaled feverishly, batting my eyelashes coquettishly and giving my shiny silver hair a flip for good measure, just to be safe. You know, just in case. Just in case. (I’ve read a few Fabio books or two or seventy.) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

“I deeply regret your reluctance to bathe me with a hose, but I can accept that you are a young innocent naïve virgin, and I will not push you too quickly,” said his eyes.

Ha ha! Who is the naïve one, really? I thought mischievously, with a sideways grin on my face. He looked at me strangely as if to say, “Why are you grinning sideways? What’s wrong with your mouth? Do you need to go to a hospital?” But he knew better than to make fun of a lady’s facial deformities.

“OK, mister, you wait here and I’ll go get my brother,” I proclaimed indefinitely. I sprinted into the castle and upstairs to my brother’s room as fast as my four legs could take me, which is fast. I told my brother about the portentous arrival of Cranston Craig-Cooper Creighton III, esq. and about how he needed help bathing because he didn’t know how to use a hose. (Which is understandable, there are plenty of people in this day and age who don’t know necessarily how to use a hose. I myself learned before I started walking because my family prides itself on its ancestral hose knowledge.) My brother, Clarke Linguine, seeing the gravity of this dire situation, went downstairs, effective immediately. I went to my bedroom which was catty-corner to his (this castle has been passed down through the Linguine family since it was built in the 12th century; it’s really old so the architectural integrity is obtusely kitty-wompus, obtrusively so in fact).

Anyway, I went to my bedroom which is catty-corner to my brother, Clarke Linguine’s bedroom. My bedroom isn’t like most other bedrooms; namely, it has a 12-seat dining table. I like to host tea parties at it with my gal pals every Thursday afternoon at 3:27 p.m. on the dot, sharp. It’s actually not a bedroom but a suite with 4 separate rooms. The first one is the parlor, where I keep my 12-seat dining table. There’s also some lush velvet couches and a chaise lounge, a pool table, and my prized set of collector’s edition glass eyeballs displayed proudly in a glass case, visible for all to see. It’s literally the first thing you see when you walk in. It’s a foot and a half in front of the door. Everything in here is decorated with gold filigree and intricate brocade curtains. Directly across from the door, there’s an enormous baroque portrait of me, Clotilda Chlamydiana Clancy Linguine. It’s an oil painting on black velvet, in it i’m sitting triumphantly atop a rearing black horse with my professional silver bob haircut illuminated mysteriously by a lightning strike in the background. Behind me, the forest is burning and there are many peasants surrounding me, kneeling on the ground and trying desperately to be trampled under the strong white hooves of my esteemed, war-decorated horse, Killing Machine. I am naked.

The next room of my humble palace is the actual bedroom. I have a gigantic four poster bed with a red velvet canopy embroidered with many buzzing bumble bees to remind me that I am the Queen Bee and everyone else is my worker bee slave. Facing the bed is an Entertainment 720 system with Dolby 2.1 surround sound speakers and a 70" OLED television. I have a Bluray player and every video game system ever invented, ever, but I don’t play any of them because video games are for nerds. Directly on the left side of my bed, my life-size cardboard cutout of Fabio stands watch over me so that I will always be safe while I am slumbering. Adorning the walls are large posters of the covers of every single Fabio novel ever released. I also have a framed photograph of Fabio sitting on my bedside table, right next to a picture of myself wearing a crown and holding a scepter. This room is decorated just like the last one with plenty of curtains and throw pillows and canopies to showcase how fabulously wealthy I am.

There are of course two other rooms in the suite — the bathroom and the meat locker, but those aren’t really that important.

I head to my escritoire and take out my journal to make a brief recording of the important occurrences that have occurred on this, the day of my 37th birthday, September 12, 2015:

September 12, 2015 (My 37th Birthday)

Some ridiculously handsome guy named Croissant Clementine V, PHD or something showed up and asked me to bathe him. He was OBVIOUSLY flirting with me, like so hard. I played the demure Christian girl, OF COURSE. I suspect we will be married within a fortnight.

I put my diary away and went to the huge bay window overlooking the backyard. On the way to the other side of the room where the huge bay window is (a journey composing of about 7 minutes give or take, more or less, a tit for tat, etc) by happenstance, I accidentally and without any intention whatsoever, happened to accidentally glance myself in one of the 600 floor-to-ceiling length mirrors.

I’m 5 feet tall and incredibly shapely and attractive and chubby. Starting from the top I have, as previously mentioned, a professional bob haircut that comes down to my chin with sideswept bangs that go toward the left and my hair is naturally silver and shiny. I have striking purple cashew-shaped eyes with a strong and defined brow line. My nose is dainty and pointed. My teeth are perfectly straight and white, when I smile people usually have to shade their eyes to prevent becoming overly dazzled. I don’t wear any makeup typically because my face is already perfect but I do like to grace my luscious lips with Wet n wild Silk Finish Cherry Frost lipstick. I think that having red lips reminds people that I am ruthless and will not hesitate to suck your blood out. The bright shade also contrasts beautifully against my black skin.

That day I was wearing a lemon chiffon power suit with 12 inch shoulder pads and a diamond bumblebee broach. Underneath, I had on candy cane striped boxer briefs and no bra (I like to go au naturale). But the crown jewel of the outfit was the shoes — Armani ’15 black and yellow striped armadillo heels. They made me at least 9 inches taller.

Anyway, I arrived at the window and took a seat on the plush padded bench. The window overlooked the backyard and I had a perfect view of the designated hose usage arena. Best of all, I could hide myself behind one of the yellow chiffon curtains and there is no way anyone down there could see me even if they happened to glance up. Actually, even better than that, was the pair of binoculars that I had hidden underneath the bench for just such an occasion.

It took only a minute or two for my brother, Clarke Linguine, and Croissant to go around to the back of the castle and enter my field of vision. They were talking and talking and of course I could not hear anything they said, but I assume they were talking about the weather. Oh, the weather! Such a cloudy day it was, that day. Croissant started to strip off his shirt and it was as though everything went in slow motion. I licked my lips as the sweaty cloth peeled off of his ripped abs, which I could practically hear solidifying, inside of mine own ears. Next came the pants, which he ripped straight off and threw over his shoulder without a care in the world. He was finally standing in nothing but his tighty-whiteys. My brother, Clarke Linguine, had been staring at him intently the whole time. I assume this is because he, my brother, Clarke Linguine, was taking mental notes about proper clothing-removal techniques.

My brother, Clarke Linguine, retrieved the hose from its storage wheel, deep within the uranium mine. He unfurled it promptly and pointed the hose at Croissant. The water arced sensuously through the air, producing a rainbow almost immediately, and dazzled off his chest, as though the water droplets did not feel worthy of touching him. Croissant, using a soap-on-a-rope (see Figure 1 in the Appendix) that he had with him because clearly everyone should carry one at all times for any showering emergency that may emerge, scrubbed his chest violently, causing speckles of grease and skin flakes to fly in every direction. This way, that way, every which way. This went on for several minutes, while my brother, Clarke Linguine, and he chatted vigorously about subjects hitherto unknown to I.

Suddenly, Croissant dashed forward dashingly, and grabbed the hose from my brother, Clarke Linguine. He turned the hose on its original wielder, my brother, Clarke Linguine. My brother, Clarke Linguine, was immediately soaked. He, my brother, Clarke Linguine, ran away, and the two began to have a water fight. Croissant chased my brother, Clarke Linguine, in circles around the yard 17 times, but then my brother, Clarke Linguine, suddenly turned around and tackled Croissant without warning. The two toppled to the ground. Croissant’s perfectly-chiselled, steely body was lying face-up on the ground, and my brother, Clarke Linguine, was kneeling over top of him. My brother, Clarke Linguine, grabbed the hose and tried to wrestle it from Croissant’s immeasurably strong, steely grip, but to no avail. Croissant was clearly the strongest man alive. He pushed back like a steel beam supporting a building during high tide, and my brother, Clarke Linguine, went flying, doing several pirouettes through the air until he landed on his back 30 feet away. Croissant was up like a shot and sprinted over to his victim, my brother, Clarke Linguine. In the final few feet, he went for a dive and slid directly on top of him, their abs clinking together but not too loudly because of the water that lubricated their chests. It sounded more like windchimes. He was going in for the kill.

The two of them wrestled around on the ground mannishly for at least 45 minutes. I enjoyed every minute detail through my high-powered HDMI bird-watching binoculars. I pride myself on the fact that I never blinked once. It was important that I not miss a single second, so that in the future I would be able to tell the tale of how we met, ole Croissant and I, to our 7 children, Cathy, Chrysanthemum, Cooper, Thomas, Calliope, Claudius, and Clarke Linguine Jr. (named after my brother, Clarke Linguine, after he died tragically in World War III). But the festivities could not last forever, and unfortunately they were starting to exhaust themselves. Croissant, of course, was the triumphant winner of that steamy wrestling match, and he was straddled over my brother, Clarke Linguine, who was lying facedown on the ground.

Croissant’s large hands traced down my brother, Clarke Linguine’s exposed spinal cord. This truly was the perfect angle to sever his lifeforce. My brother, Clarke Linguine, flippity flopped — much like a distraught trout, freshly beached and awaiting a kind stranger to come and help her back into her watery home — so now he was facing upwards. He, my brother, Clarke Linguine, reached his arms, strong from years of hose mastery, up to place his thumb on Croissant’s cleft chin tipping his head down closer to his.

Obviously spotting some kind of germ on my brother, Clarke Linguine’s face, Croissant bent forward and did what I can only assume was a quick visual assessment of the stain. I could not see what happened between them because my vision was obscured by the angle, but what followed for the next several minutes was a variety of wiggling motions and side to side swaying of their heads. Clearly, this was a tough stain. If only they had had some OxiClean….