A Few Words…

A warm hello to all my faithful followers, and welcome to the newcomers. It’s great to return to find that things have been growing while I was away.

I was away, dealing with some personal stuff. We all know what that’s like! But I was also stewing. I thought I was blocked, to put it in simple creative terms, but it was more than that. It was that I had a story to tell, but couldn’t find the right way to tell it. And like any new thing, it was born in its own time. It took a year from start to finish, and about 8 months of that it felt like it was stagnating, or simply didn’t exist at all. Except that when I did sit down to write, it was the only thing there.

I’m talking about Perversions. This is a novella at almost 15,000 words. It’s the tale of how we, as humans, deal with the thoughts and feelings that society tells many of us are perverse. It turns out that is less the truth than that the human experience doesn’t follow rules and protocols. It’s a touch autobiographical, a touch erotic, and is driven to an unexpected end on human psychosis.

I won’t be publishing it here; I’ll be throwing my hat back into the Amazon ring. The book will hopefully be available in both e and print editions. I will post a few excerpts… but for the most part, I am letting my reputation and the book speak for themselves. I’m no salesman. But this book is near and dear to me, and I hope a few people might be interested enough to check it out.

If there are any wishing to review, I’m prepared to offer the book for free in exchange for a fair and honest review. Though I’ve been burned here before, so I’ll have to have seen you around for awhile in order to do so.  But for the most part, I like to think people are decent and honest. 🙂

Thank you for sticking around. And I’m hoping to be posting some new short fiction very soon. Cause as far as I’m concerned, the world needs a little more sex! 😉

An Art of Connection

This was one of my very first posts on this blog. Am reposting today because, well, it’s been almost two years, and these words ring as true for me now as they did then. I am happy to say I’ve made some wonderful connections. Here’s to many more, folks. 


I spend a lot of time thinking about how people relate to one another. While I write about sex, for me, sex is a metaphor for life. The closeness and intimacy that two or more people share, while in its context may be sexual, at the root of it is simply a need for connection. It’s a need the most aloof among us has.

It’s a difficult thing, that connection. It requires time. Trust. A willingness to give oneself over to another.

Blogging is like that, as well. We reach out in the dark to one another, and hope to spark a connection with a perfect stranger. I hope my words goad you into feeling. I hope that, whether you’re reading something sweet and romantic, or something dark and forbidden, you are feeling a connection with the character I’ve created. And I hope you can slip into their skin for a moment. Live what they live. Relate to your world in a slightly different, more open way.

I hope to get to know you all through this project. Please feel free to comment and converse, and even criticize, as I am here not only to connect with you, but to improve my craft.

 

A Note to my fellow WordPressers…

Let me start by saying we’ve gained a lot of new followers over the past week; it seems ‘Hope’ is a big hit. I’m so grateful to each of you for taking the time to read and follow, and I welcome you to my corner of the web.

I want to tell you all that I don’t do a ‘follow for a follow’ when it comes to choosing those blogs I read. That said, when I see I have a new follower I will follow back. The purpose of that is to put you in my reader so I am sure to not miss your content the next time I have a chance to catch up. If I’m engaged by your content, the follow stays; I will usually leave a like, explore a little more, though I rarely comment. Please don’t take that personally. It’s all a matter of time management with me. Though if something hits me really hard, I will most certainly leave a comment and let you know.

However, not everything appeals to everyone, so if I’m not moved by your content, I’ll remove my follow. Again, this is nothing personal. It doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate your presence, and the effort you put into your blog. I appreciate all my readers, and keep up as best I can. It’s tough though, with over 2300 followers and only one me!

Thanks to each of you for your continued support.

The Drive

He is a man of simple tastes. He likes white lace and black silk, but most of all, he wants my skin. My sighs. My ecstasy. He wants what I’ll give no other man.

Traffic was heavy. At a standstill. Her voice over the Bluetooth screwed into his ear sent fingers of pure sensation from his cortex to his cock, hitting every nerve ending in between. It wasn’t the filthy words she said that strummed the tautest chords; it was who she was, what she gave.

She gave everything. She left nothing on the table.

“Is your cock out?” she purred.

“I’m driving, baby girl.”

Her smile curved her words, making them more seductive. “You’re sitting in traffic.”

She made him want to take chances, to excite her further, to please himself. She made him want to fuck with a desperation he hadn’t felt since youth. He always wanted to fuck. But she made him want to fuck. Her.

“Take it out, Daddy. No one can see. Feel how hard it is, how much you want to see it disappearing into my mouth.”

He couldn’t believe he was doing it. The tail of his dark tie acting as a curtain, aware of the proximity of humanity on all sides, each in their own steel bubble. He let his fingers caress gently for a moment, the sensuality of his own flesh, rising blood, and her voice racing over and through him. “I need to see you, baby.”

The picture came through immediately, and made his heart hammer. You want to fuck me, Daddy? It was captioned.

“You are my little whore, aren’t you?” he said. He was concentrating on keeping his face neutral, eyes ahead. But he was stroking and squeezing now, more turned on by the precum leaking and getting on his tie, his trousers. He thought he should stop before he made a mess he wouldn’t be able to hide, but she was still talking. Not only that, she was touching, too, and he heard every sensation in the subtle catches of breath and pauses in speech.

“Yes, I am. Don’t make a mess, Daddy. No one can know.”

He stroked faster. A horn pierced his brain, and he inched forward without pausing.

“Do you have a hanky?”

“Yes.”
“Put it over your cock, cum into it. You will cum for me, won’t you?”

He couldn’t stop it if he wanted to. His balls were drawn up almost painfully while he listened to her pant, listened to the wet sounds and buzz of her vibrator. “I will.”

“Are you looking ahead, looking like you’re not feeling my wet pussy around your cock right now? Not hearing your hips smack against my ass, not feeling me drip over you? Daddy, I need you to fuck me, harder, faster, please please plea-” her words faded into jibberish and drawn out moans. He clenched his jaw and held the white handkerchief around his shaft, images of her tongue white with his seed, with it dripping out of her cunt, running over her tits all pushing their way through his mind and out the end of his throbbing cock.

“Fuck, baby girl,” he ground.

“Yes Daddy?” she whispered. Her voice had that slow, thick, luxurious sound it got when she was coming down.

“That turned my little whore on, didn’t it?”

She laughed, a throaty sound that if he dwelt on would have him hardening again. “Feel better?”

“You make Daddy feel so good, sweetie. So good.”

“Did anyone see?” she teased.

He laughed. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Only in theory. Now hurry home. I’m staying right here. Waiting for you.”

The line went dead, and he felt himself swelling again. He tucked himself back into his zipper before it got too difficult to do so, and thought of his homecoming.

Coming Soon – The Author

Prologue

She squirmed, tried to ignore the pain between her legs. She knew he was watching. Watching while this man, this stranger, paid for the right to hurt her. It wasn’t the first time.

But it was the first time she had the Thought.

When he was finished the stranger left her there. Left her to clean up, to wait for the next time. Maybe it wouldn’t be tonight. Maybe it wouldn’t be for weeks. It was the not knowing that killed. Mama wouldn’t approve. Mama would say this isn’t right behavior for a little girl. This is what grownups do. And Mama would hit her while daddy drank in the barn.

Thomas? Thomas, help me…

This is a sneak peek at a longer work that I’m trying to get edited and posted here, hopefully through this upcoming holiday weekend. I know I’ve been scarce, and probably been hinting around at it for quite sometime, but I feel like my work is pulling me in a different direction.

This work (I’m not sure how to categorize it; it is significantly longer and more detailed and story driven than most of what I’ve posted here) is a return to my roots. To my beginning. It was one of the first structured, plotted stories I wrote, with the date on the working draft 1997. I was 22.

It’s heavily influenced by the old gumshoe detective novels, with a touch of mystery, some romance, and my signature dip into the darker corners of the human psyche, something of a taste of what was to come for me. And I think also there is a sensuality running beneath it all, a hint of sex and lust and other forces that drive people to do the things they do.

It is rough, but I am posting it mostly as it was written back then. I feel it’s time to share it, and time for me to branch out. I would enjoy any feedback you have to offer.

Wishing all of you a safe and happy July fourth weekend.
Felicity

Bar-stool Confessions

He wanted to watch her.

“Watch me what?” A soft smile curved her lips. She enjoyed teasing him, seeing just how far he’d let her go before his face darkened and his lips formed a tight line. She would push just a little further than that, because she liked making it up to him, liked when his gruffness turned back to tenderness; usually after she was bound to the four-poster with his cock softening in her ass.

He didn’t play along this time. “In the shower.”

“Okay.” He had watched her in the shower before. She wasn’t sure why the sudden interest.

His fingers toyed absently with the base of his glass. It was sweating on the scarred and polished walnut.

“Anything specific you’re hoping to see?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I want to watch you pee. See how you enjoy it.”

She wished she’d chosen the high-collar over the scoop. It might have concealed the hot flush. “Daddy-”

“You don’t want to show me? Tell me why not.”

He was a handsome man. An intelligent man. He always wanted to know why. She’d often thought over all else that was what attracted her to him. He was in all things insatiable.

She played with her drinking straw. She had no good reason, other than it was a private thing. “It’s a private thing.”

He smiled then. “There’s to be nothing private between you and me.” He motioned the bartender and touched the rim of his glass.

“No.”

“It makes you uncomfortable. It shouldn’t. Why do you think it does?”

She squirmed. But the arousal awakening in the pit of her stomach was undeniable. “Because it’s new?”

He shook his head and sipped from his glass.

“It’s… dirty.”

He smiled his approval. “Do you think I think it’s dirty?”

She kept her eyes down. The crystal bubbles in her vodka and soda chased and raced one another to the surface.

He reached across the space and tilted her face up. “Well, baby girl?”

“No. You don’t.”

He let his thumb pass over her lips before he took his hand away, and his pupils dilated at the sharp intake of her breath. “No, I don’t.”

“Is it…”

He waited. Then, “Go on. Ask me.”

“Would it excite you? Sexually?”

His face relaxed and his eyes crinkled. “Yes, baby. Anything you find exciting excites me.”

The internal flush spread, encompassing her limbs and cheeks. She felt it manifest as a tingle into her toes and fingertips. He could have her, right here, right now. They both knew it. “It’s not just the peeing that is exciting.”

He propped his chin on his hand, as though settling in. “Tell me.”

“I mean… it feels good, right? It’s nice. A relief, and the warmth.”

“Yes. But there’s more.”

She drank from her glass, and he motioned the bartender again. The heat in her cheeks felt unbearably obvious. She kept her eyes down. “Yeah. It’s about what I see, when I do it.”

He made a humming, growling sound that was one decibel above inaudible in the noisy bar. “Tell me what you see, baby.”

She smiled at her glass, allowing those thoughts in. “I see you.”

“Always just me?”

He was so territorial. “Now, yes. Not always.”

“Hm. So you see your lover.”

“Yes.” She glanced at him. He was unreadable, intent but hooded.

“What am I doing?”

It took her a moment. It required getting lost in the fantasy, required drawing on her arousal in that moment to make voicing it okay. “You’re standing close, naked and wet, and watching.”

He leaned closer, began stroking her forearm with his fingertips. For all his severity, his touch was light, soft. The fine hairs stood up in anticipation of the next one. “Am I touching you?”

She nodded. Her fingers on her right hand played and twisted the tendrils behind her ear.

“Tell me how I’m touching you. Where.” This he whispered directly into her ear.

He leaned his own ear close to her mouth and waited.

“You start by touching my shoulders, playing in the suds.” She could smell his hair, his shaving cream, and let her lips barely brush against the rim of his ear as she spoke. “Your hands run down my sides, avoiding my breasts, and one caresses the low part of my stomach, above my mound, and the other traces the small of my back, just above my ass.”

He murmured an unintelligible sound of approval.

“Your touch is light, almost a tickle.”

“Because that makes you have to go.”

“Yes.”

“Mm. Go on, little girl. Then what?”

“You’re saying things to me, but it’s not the words I hear. It’s your tone. Encouraging and relaxing and assuring.”

He rested his hand on the nape of her neck, his fingers brushing hers. The contact added to her overall feeling of being heated. Or in heat. They were indistinguishable.

“You feel the shiver when I start to let go. It peaks my nipples. Then…” A pause.

“Don’t stop. Tell me. What does Daddy do then?”

Her heart did a somersault and her breath caught. The neurons were rapid-firing like an automatic, and electricity coursed over her skin. She wondered if he felt it. “You put your fingers in it.”

“In the urine?”

She nodded. He growled again. His lips brushed her jaw in front of her ear when he whispered, “I’m so hard right now. Hard for my girl.”

Something exploded in her brain. Something small that crumbled the wall standing between right and wrong, acceptable and not. Adrenal fluid flooded her bloodstream. Her juices flowed.

“Is that all?”

“No. You find my clit, while I’m still peeing, and you start to rub. You rub hard. I stop and start, but it isn’t intentional, just happens.”

“When you’re done, do you come?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Do I put my fingers inside your hot little cunt?”

“Yes!” It came out as a hiss.

“What if I did that first? When you first started, so you filled my palm? So that rubbing your g-spot made it feel so good to release?”

Her words left her. She was going to come on the bar stool, in front of everyone. Her hand was in his now, and she gripped. Hard.

He pulled her head against his mouth. “Breathe through it, sweetie.”

He shielded her there for a few moments, until her breath leveled and her shoulders relaxed. He pushed the vodka tonic closer and she took a sip. Then another. He did the same. He watched her face intently. She smiled a wistful, almost apologetic smile.

“Stop that.”

“What?” she covered her cheeks with her hands for a moment.

“You were about to apologize.”

She couldn’t argue.

“Never apologize to me. This is what we do.”

“Who we are.”

“Yes.”

She smiled a real smile.

“Is that all you see when you’re there, in the shower?”

She met his gaze with a boldness so rare it caught him off guard. “Nope.”

“You’re going to make me come right here,” he teased lightly. But there was an unplumbed depth beneath his words.

“I see a lot. Imagine a lot. And have a feeling I’ll imagine much more now.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because it’s okay.”

He smiled and leaned in and kissed her. “It is. It’s more than okay.”

Fantasy

As the overpass loomed ahead, larger and larger, she smiled and wondered if people were built with an off-switch. Mama had said that, a long time ago. Somewhere in a past life almost buried in Jim Beam and uppers and meaningless sex. She said, we all have a switch, something, a word or a thought that pulls you out of the moment you’re in. It’s like a reset, child. God give it to you for when you get into trouble.

She was wrong though. No switch here. Just the growl of all these horses under the floorboard and the acrid smell of gasoline. Her eyes drifted to the abutment. A few more seconds, and at this speed there would be no question, no feeling, nothing left to come back from-

“Come for me,” he hissed. He was crushing her breasts with her thighs, driving painfully deep.

Part of her longed to be in that car inside her mind. It was a fantasy that cut her loose as she faked the first screams of yet another orgasm that didn’t exist.

Nothing to come back from. Nothing at all.

Within

His absence screamed. Screeched, yelled, clamored, clawed. It raked its teeth against metal bars and drew blood from the air. It was never still. It throbbed with a life that was nothing. Invisible.

You are Lucifer, she whispered. It was her own face staring back. Eyes faded to gray with worry, hair flown about a paler face in a gnarl of mats and frizz. She’d been pretty once. He’d said she was pretty, and she believed him. He made her a fool. She hated him more for that than for his desertion.

In his absence she heard his reply. Not because he was present, but because she knew him. She had crawled inside his thoughts and turned the pages she found, and learned to read him. “I never promised you anything more. There are no angels here. No fairies. No pretty things. You are the only pretty thing I have.”

How many nights had they lain, wrapped in blankets smelling of age and dust but knowing only the skin of the other, and confided the secrets of their truths? In that lost attic apartment, the gilt winking back candlelight from the lines of worn leather spines. Colors deep and dark, browns tending to wines, fading to shadow. Burlap and water-stained oak dulled by time. The bedsprings screeching as he flipped her, and mounted her, and gave her what was left of himself; his cock.

She begged for it. Without fear or shame. His eyes always blackened right before he came, and the muscle in his jaw knotted. Sometimes he yelled. Sometimes he smiled. When he smiled, she came hardest.

You are Lucifer, she said again. But her lips curled around the name this time, and it heated her loins.

“Yes. And you will always bleed for me.”

I know.