Talkin' dirty.

Lately, I've been thoroughly enjoying actually meeting some of you who read this blog. It's been a delicious, surreal treat.

Why delicious? Well, at least one of you makes these awesome breakfast treats out of your trendy bakery.

Why surreal? Well, it's an interesting experience to be shaking hands with someone, just meeting for the first time, and knowing that this other person's head may be swimming about everything you've written about, oh, you know, getting your cock sucked.

And the thought that maybe, just maybe, they got off on it as they relaxed at their computer. Or that it inspired something scandalous with their partner that same evening. Mmm.

But attending last evening's first gathering of the Toronto Erotica Writers/Readers Meetup broke new ground for me. In addition to schmoozing with accomplished local eroticists like Myna Wallin and D.C. McMillen, it felt like coming home again when I read some recent work before the microphone. In another life, I used to produce a radio broadcast and did some professional storytelling, so felt like all the planets were nicely aligned again.

Part of the purpose behind this blog was to keep my writing machine oiled. It's time to move forward and to expand into other modes of publishing and expression.

Thank you, Kara for pushing me toward Cleis last year. I owe you. Thank you, Ami, for just occasionally asking me 'how all the writing is going.' Thank you, Cupcakes, as a matter of fact, for, in a bizarre way, teaching me more about the difference between writing from the heart and simply "airing dirty laundry." And thank you, Rose Red and Kerdra and Maeva for becoming the supportive and intelligent new friends that you are.

Bedtime stories.

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Sweet.

Last year, I teased you-all with some naughty foreshadowing about some erotica I had submitted for print publication. I'm really pleased to share now that the resulting book, Sweet Confessions, edited by none other than Violet Blue through Cleis Press, is now available through Amazon, Cleis, and very probably your local erotica shoppe.





My piece, a short story entitled "Bad Influences," shares space with the work of other exquisite eroticists like Heidi Champa, Andrea Dale, K.D. Grace, the extraordinary Rachel Kramer Bussel and more.

I'd seriously enjoy receiving feedback from blog readers who have read this exquisite anthology, which is ideally suited for loving couples looking to enjoy some hot reads together.

The beach.

My chest widens, my shoulders broaden, my lungs are swelling as I drink deeply of the scent of you over that of the crashing surf. The faint whisper of patchouli salt from underneath your warm, sandy arms blends with the spray from the sea and I am left transfixed in a moment of pure, feral pleasure. My eyelids close and, unconsciously, I feel them roll back as my most animal nature tightens my face in complete and total bliss. Stars explode in my head.

The breeze cascades the long locks of my hair across your shoulders and face while I hold you close. I breathe deeply, continuing to take your essences in, and the palm of my hand tightens around your belly with my coiling arm. I hold you close. My toes slink deep into cooler layers of sand, and the grit is wonderful between them. I lower my face to your shoulder.

The sun elicits your sweat into a mingling with the coconut oil that glistens on your golden skin. I taste the nape of your neck, sand upon my tongue, your necklace and your bones meeting my tender lips. I harden. I feel my blood swelling into me, lengthening me, thickening me, my heart beating faster to push my life quickly and throbbing into me until I am sliding at the small of your back. I slide along coconut oil and nodules of sand as I hold you closer, tighter, ignoring the grit because to move away would be unthinkable.

I cup your breast in my palm. I rest my head on your shoulder. We watch the gulls and the motion of the waves.

Rogue finally submits.

I accomplished a longstanding goal recently.

I've enjoyed writing erotica for years, but it's been only recently that I've finally decided to take the action that I've been nagging myself to do and send a decent submission for publication. I've been published before, and usually on other topics, but for some reason I just haven't been pursuing my intentions to do more in the sex-positive realm.

A recent submission call by Cleis Press changed that, and I've issued a light femdom, male subbie, first-timer tale entitled "Bad Influences" for their upcoming Sweet Love project.

It was an amusing exercise to twist my brain into male subbie space. Maybe a dirty martini will fix that.

But, exclusively for youse Urban Roguery readers, here's a taste of my, uh, submission...

* *

I bobbed my outstretched palms and fingers on his flesh, feeling his bubble shape and patting him. His ass filled my hands nicely. I slowly drew a finger or two up and along the seam between his cheeks, enjoying how pert he really was. Daringly, I slowly probed a finger inside further, found his anus, and teased it with a fingertip. It was warm and soft and tight, and I gave a little pressure under the very outermost ring of his sphincter when it started to clutch the tip of my finger.

My arms still around him, I felt him tense up as he pulled back just slightly. The quizzical look on his face was precious.

“Um. What are you doing?”

Did I see the hint of a smile under those widened, glittering eyes?

“I’m enjoying my man,” I smirked, looking up. I pressed my forearms firmly against his strong legs and held him, my hands sending a clear message: stay just where you are, dude.

And now for something completely different.

Le Salon de Punition avec Alise et Vivienne: une fantaisie.

A slow and gentle snow whisked against the panes as I awaited you.

Beaumonde, long my family's manservant, had seen to it that the crystal was filled with one of the estate's finer vintages, that the fire was suitably roaring, the bedding properly turned, the glass oil lanterns suitably filled. I smiled as I stood at the window, observing the chestnut mares weave your carriage through the snowy and dormant garden. It had taken more than a little intrigue to arrange for this night.

"The evening's pets have arrived, Beaumonde," I purred over my shoulder. "Do straighten my waistcoat and then attend to them." He nodded, only the barest amount of powder from his wig sifting into the air as he did so. Having first refilled me, I savoured the wine on my lips as he departed with a quiet bow.

I heard the door in the foyer open, and tried to decide whose giggle it was I heard. You both had been to my home before, but never before together, and while your own family estates were leagues apart from one another, I knew that our common interest would make for a most neighbourly, if scandalous, evening.

I listened to your approach up the stairs, my back to the door as Beaumonde opened it. I continued enjoying the sight of the soft snow, the smile on my face likely reflected on the glass. All of our eyes met through our reflections upon the glistening pane when my manservant opened the parlour. Our eyes laughed together, only your shoes creaking the wooden floor and the crackling fire filling our ears.

"The ladies madame Alise and mademoiselle Vivienne, sir."

I turned, my smile unflinching. "Thank you, Beaumonde. The wine, if you please, and then you may retire to the ballroom unless and until summoned for."

"Sir," he repeated, and served you wine from the silver platter that the king himself had bestowed upon my uncle so many years before. Bowing first to me and then, perhaps for a moment too long, before each of you, he closed the door behind him and finally, we were alone together. No more pretenses, no more deceits in Paris, no unchaste smiles reserved from public view by the flurring of a fan or lace kerchief. The three of us alone in the parlour, far from the capital. At last.

My bow felt deliciously tawdry, an elegant ritual that almost contrasted with the purpose of our fair salon. Your returning curtsies seemed equally naughty, like a flash of ankle under a virgin's pannier. The fire glistened upon the buckles of my shoes as I stepped forward, taking each of your hands for a tender kiss. Your faces were clearly flushed already.

"Candide, then?" I asked you, Alise. "You expressed such admiration for Voltaire, and I'm afraid even saucier works are difficult to come by in Marseilles. I suspect his adventures, and Miss Cunegund's torments, shall keep us aptly entertained... whilst the mademoiselle bares herself from her lovely petticoats."

From deep downstairs, the quiet echo of the harpsichord daintily filled the house as Beaumonde began playing a Spanish sonata. Soler, whose compositions were deemed plebian by the less than sensual, enriched my sense of bawdiness for the evening. Beaumonde played him rythmically.

Our affair unfolded charmingly, the two of you elegant ladies and me. With superb wine and cordial conversation, we discussed the affairs of the day, matters of art and state, religion and poetry, and all the while catching knowing and flirtacious glances to one another. Madame Alise, you looked resplendent in your silken corsetry of emerald hue, your luxurious golden locks cascading upon your bare shoulders like mythic fleece from a Mediterannean island. And you, naughty Vivienne, your dark curls tried vainly to hide your blushing face as your beating heart thundered under your peach chemise. Even Alise indulged in the occasional leer toward you, and I myself enjoyed watching the licking of her painted lips when she would discretely glance upon your heaving bosom, dear Vivienne.

And then the churchtower struck ten and all fell silent and ominous between us.

Beaumond's playing continued unabated, gentle and ethereal, elsewhere in the house, but the echoing chimes resounded through the icy trees and windswept fields outside. The agreed hour had come, and the three of us knew perfectly well what would follow, as arranged from the many secret notes we had shared over the weeks before. I stood, reached for the bookcase, and handed you, Alise, the volume bound in soft, red deerskin. Your smile was scandalous.

"But first, monsieur, the basket, oui?" you asked. I nodded with a grin. Poor Vivienne only sat still, her breath quickening. Her eyes blinked in anticipation.

You stood and located the wicker chest on the floor beside the fire. From inside, you withdrew the thick, burgundy Oriental ropes, soft and heavy velvet, tassled with small bells of ivory and silver, and stood with them before tender Vivienne. She raised herself, and you assisted her in the gentle removal of her bodices and skirts, revealing her intimate chemise. She blushed all the more, and knowing the game, you then bound her wrists with the ropes fashioned by hands from mysterious China. I sat on the chaise beside the window, where I have always sat for the torment of my pets.

You gently eased tender Vivienne across my lap. Her hands dangled to the floor, bound at the wrists. Once placed, you bound her ankles as well, assuring that her balance was so slightly off.

"Please read, darling Alise," I softly spoke to you, my hands resting on Vivienne's back. You smiled, sipped the wine, sat near the fire, eased the volume open, and began.

"The baron was one of the most powerful lords in Westphalia, for his castle had not only a gate, but even windows, and his great hall was hung with tapestry. He used to hunt with his mastiffs and spaniels instead of greyhounds, and his groom served him for huntsman..."

I pet your hair, sweet Vivienne, my attentions to you as you lay upon my legs. Your curls sifted across the rings on my fingers as my free hand gently caressed your exposed ankles. That hand soon began slowly drawing your hem upward, your milky calves revealed, the rear of your knees, those magnificently tender thighs graced to you by Our Lord God, and finally...

"My lady baroness was a person of no small consideration, and then she did the honors of the house with a dignity that commanded universal respect. Her daughter was about seventeen years of age, fresh colored, comely, plump, and desirable..."

"Oh, Vivienne," I softly whispered. "How blessed by heaven you are. Such a derriere deserves painful and yearning praise by cloisters of frustrated monks from all over fair France."

The winter wind whisked more ice and snow upon the leaded windowpanes as I raised my hand and administered the first strike of the evening. The seam of your saucily exposed round bottom was met with four firm fingers and a flattened palm, the sharp crispness of its smack only matched by the snapping wet logs in the fire. You shook, cried out, and were still. Alise paused, perhaps to look up from her vellum pages before returning to read aloud. I am certain that I witnessed a grin.

"The baron’s son seemed to be a youth in every respect worthy of the father he sprung from. Candide thought Miss Cunegund excessively handsome, though he never had the courage to tell her so..."

Caressing your tender skin, shameful Vivienne, brought such swelling under my breeches. How I adore the feel of the breach between your budding cheeks. Whilst my striking palm continued to rain tender torment upon you, I became doubtless that my pike could be felt stabbing upward to your covered navel. Was it the fire that brought droplets to my brow? Had I too much wine already? Between strikes, both fierce and fluttering, your warm and curvaceous bottom became my north star, guiding me toward pleasures deep withn my breast as I exposed and explored you in a fashion only known to the rudest of Versailles ladies.

"As Miss Cunegund had a great disposition for the sciences, she observed with the utmost attention to her experiments. Quite pensive and filled with the desire of knowledge, she imagined she might be a sufficing reason for young Candide, and he for her. When she happened to meet the young man, she blushed, and he blushed also. She wished him a good morning in a flattering tone..."

I smiled to beautiful Alise as she read on, and enjoyed the sparkle in her seductive eyes as she shared my visual pleasure in your lovely arse, Vivienne. I smirked as I listened to her alluring throat dry itself in the warmth of the room, and for witnessing our activities, and paused to taste my wine when she did the same to aid her voice. But you, raven-haired vixen, not so virtuous Vivienne, you hung unsteadily tense and firm across my knees as you awaited my next blow. When it came, fast and harsher than before, raining haughty evil upon your mother's baby's skin, you could not help yourself but raise your head high in your exquisite distress to look straight into Madame Alise's conspiratorial face as you screamed aloud. You continued to cry out as my hand became a savage blur, your head shaking from one side to another as I held you tightly. Your whimpering, sniffling screams, your pants and sudden gasps for merciful air, your tearful pleas resounded throughout my parlour to little avail. There was even the briefest pause from the far ballroom as Beaumonde likely heard you as well.

"The next day, as they were rising from dinner, Cunegund and Candide slipped behind the screen. The miss dropped her handkerchief, the young man picked it up. She innocently took hold of his hand, and he as innocently kissed hers with a warmth, a sensibility, a grace, and their lips met. Their eyes sparkled. Their knees trembled. Their hands strayed..."

I caught my breath as I paused. I wiped my brow with a kerchief. I slowly caressed your burning seam. Your flesh is aflame with loving punishment.

In an act of the utmost rudeness and manly daring, an act which would scandalize the lot of your entire family history were it to become known in the streets, I then teased your nethermost flower, obedient Vivienne, your petals, and from which withdrew a lustful fingertip of Venus' own nectar from your most secret of jewels. Lifting the offending finger to my gaze, I admired the gloss upon my flesh with lamplight. With a gentle moan from deep within me, I then committed the most profane act of indulgence to paint the very underside of your tender chin with this, your own elixir. Can you not feel how your torment entices you to sin? Can you not love the incubus who escorts you into your desired perdition? Your womanhood is as a moonlit field on a warm early May morning, though your dew is not the fruit of kisses or love notes or poems from unrequited farmboys, but from the firmness of my punishing hand feeling, striking, opening, taunting, probing, and using your ladyship's exquisite and beautiful derriere for my own pestilent pleasure.

With a soft caress, I eased the discomfort upon your fiery flesh, for by now your skin glowed like the smouldering coals beside Alise. I eased you to the floor as she lowered the book to her lap, and the three of us smiled to one another in a tender silence. You raised your wrists to me with a pleading look in your eyes, and I undid the magnificent Peking bonds. I permitted you to withdraw the ropes from your ankles by yourself, and you seemed to enjoy this moment of return to your more courtly, more respectable sense of presence. Offering you my hand, we stood together, and only then did we share a kiss.

Alise waited, enjoying the lovliness. I motioned my eyes toward her, and as I sipped the wine from the crystalware, you carried the ropes back to her. Even in your crumpled chemise, smarting with the sting of my love, you were as regal as any lady of His Majesty's court.

But you too knew the next step in our salon, in our game. As if on cue, your eyes met with Alise's just as the churchtower in the village began to strike the eleventh hour. With a smirk upon your face and a flutter of your dark eyes, you held the burgundy ropes before our panting reader of Voltaire.

"Madame Alise," you whispered as you reached for her wrist. "Monsieur believes it is now my turn to be reading aloud."



© 2009. All rights to text reserved. Portions quoted from Voltaire's Candide, public domain.

The dunes.

the morning mist rolls over the sea
onto the sand across our feet
a light rain wisps from the sky

the sun in a golden field
rises above the clouds
its reflection in your eye


grains of sand between our toes
the salty breeze in our hair
gathered from the passing night

beside one another on the dunes
i caress your face with a finger
you are such a sensuous sight

our tanned bodies aglow with the dawn
your hand moves across my chest
our breath but wistful cries


the gull soars proudly overhead
the surf laps on the shore
with rhythm rite and rhyme

my palm rests at your shoulder
and as our lips slowly meet
our hearts take joyous flight

our kiss is full of beauty
of passion need and desire
our touch is soft our bond is tight


you keep me close as i kiss you
gently between your breasts
down your stomach along your thigh

then i move my lips closer to you
so good i want you to feel
my pleasure rises as you sigh



I wrote this when I was sixteen or seventeen years old, and still a virgin. I rediscovered it last month among a stack of material, short stories and poetry, from my youth.

At the time, I remember finding an ad for a swinger's network in the back pages of the Village Voice. It was a voicemail service featuring audio listings from singles and couples throughout the New York region, and being the hard-cocked-but-smart teenager I was, I had a blast raking up my parents' phone bill as I listened to the entries. Eventually, I found the cajones to record my own listing, and to respond to others.

I remember actually talking to one single woman, likely significantly older than I, and reading this to her. I certainly didn't (and don't) think this could pass for Keats or Bly, but she seemed to like it enough that she refused to believe that I wrote it and promptly hung up on me. I smirk about that now.

Finding it again now, in the depth of winter, makes me think of beaches and warmer weather. I'm reminded of making out with my first girlfriend, Jackie, under the boardwalk of Coney Island. I remember skinnydipping with Tari, whom I recently re-discovered via Facebook, and totally enjoying her tiny dimpled butt as she ran into the Nantasket surf under moonlight. I'm reminded of sensual times on the beach with Diva: sexy photo poses along those Nantasket rocks in New England, or simply enjoying her sexy nude self at clothing-optional Gunnison Beach in New Jersey. I never did get to take Shayne to Honduras last summer, where I had every intention of fucking her senseless under a palm grove or in a diver's cave.

I have a vacation coming to me soon. I wonder if I can afford a night or two in Cuba. Havana Club, warm sand between the toes, and a hand on a sinewy, bronze hip would be ideal. Hrm.

"Under The Bare And Swinging Bulb"

She knew that I was upset.

It had been a long night, and the rain didn't do much to help the fact that dancing had made both of us tired and drenched with sweat. The summer heat had largely subsided by the time I heaved us both out of the club, my hand coiled around her wrist as she plodded behind me in those boots.

"Wait. C'mon, wait," she whimpered as we strode on, herself practically getting yanked, as I hustled her along the pavement. "Look, it's not my fault, ok?"

I remained silent. Turning the corner around the head shop where we first met, she spun as I tugged her arm.



I didn't know if she referred to being yanked, or was still just trying to get my attention. At that moment, I didn't really care. I knew her pain thresholds intimately, and I knew that a little wrist-tugging along the street wasn't something she couldn't handle. Besides, when she had returned to our table in the club earlier, I had seen her return my smirk just before I stood up to leave.

Quickly passing a pair of twinks, I could hear them cluck their over-opinionated tongues as burly white boy dragged wayward grrl past them. If they only knew.

I turned into the alley. She stopped short this time, her boots splashing in the mud beside a broken newspaper box. The rain was starting to fall harder. I turned, still gripping her wrist and holding her behind me at arm's length. She stool still, mouth slightly open in comprehension, blinking her eyes. She swallowed when my eyes met hers. She knew this alley too.

"Hey..."

"You'd rather stay in the rain?" I said, finally. She hesitated, swiping her wet hair back against her head as she looked at me. "Let's go."

She wasn't tugging away as firmly as she had been now. She understood. We made our way past the dumpster, past the pile of broken beer bottles, past the stack of junk lumber, until we reached the concrete steps of the Warren.

That's what she called it, as if it could ever hope to be a cozy home for bunnies. Hardly, unless they were bunnies sporting mohawks and hash pipes. I let go of her wrist. She stood still near the steps, patient as I reached into my pocket, demure, maybe hoping that I didn't have the key anymore. She bit her lower lip when she saw that I had. I winked over my shoulder as I opened the Master lock (I've long enjoyed that irony), and with a loud shove against the metal frame with my shoulder, thundered the door open. The rain was starting to come in sheets.

"Get in."

Maybe it was the rain, but she bolted past me.

The small room echoed as the door slammed behind me, and I could hear her boots grinding against the damp concrete inside. She was against the wall near the storage crates. In the dark, I strode to the center of the room and reached for where I knew the string would be dangling from the ceiling. Finding it, I tugged and the bleak, small space flooded with light from the single, bare bulb above my head.

The chair had toppled over. The rain hissed outside, and droplets tapped onto the concrete floor from a small leak in a corner. She pressed her hands against the wall she leaned upon, looking at me.

"You know this has to be done. You do understand that, right?"

She paused, and then nodded slowly.

"You remember this room, don't you?"

She nodded, readjusting her legs as she leaned. For a moment, her eye flinched toward the stack of crates near her. She saw my smile as I noticed it. I reached for the chair and stood it upright, directly under the swinging bulb. Shadows in the room danced to and fro. I sat down, motioning toward the crates with my hand.

"Hard to forget, huh?" I smiled. "The time you were bent over that crate. You got a rash along your forearms from holding on to the wood, remember?"

She nodded. "It hurt. My knees too."

"Yeah," I sneered, smiling. "Yeah, you got a rash on your forearms because you were bent over like the slut you are, being banged by the two of us. We took turns at you, remember? Remember how you cried out for more?"

There was a long pause before she looked to the floor and nodded, shifting her legs again.

"And then you pull this shit at the club tonight." My tone dropped an octave or two.

Startled, she pushed herself away from the wall toward me. "No, no... that was different... c'mon..."

"No, I don't think so," I said, shaking my head. "No, I don't think so, because you forgot the rules. You forgot the rules, and so, well, now you know what has to happen. So get over here. Now."

She swallowed again and slowly came forward. The bulb above me was steadying itself, but her shadow was still cast on the wall in waves, beckoning and withdrawing. But the time she stood next to me, the bulb had stopped.

She whimpered as she felt my hand caress up her leg, gripping the muscles in her thigh. She was cold, and I could smell stale beer, rain, and clove cigarettes on her jeans. I looked up, and for a fleeting moment, enjoyed the sight of her face blotting out the light, enshrouded in darkness, yet surrounded with a tungsten halo in that dark, dank place.

“Undo them,” I said firmly, looking into her face.

She took a breath and bit her lip again as her hands tugged at the button-fly, then the zipper. Next to my ear, the metal teeth were musical as she brought the zipper down. My cock started to swell. She paused, but when she saw the look on my face change, she started into my eyes and then began to slide the denim over her hips, wiggling as she did so. Her thumbs shimmied the jeans to her knees, leaving her black cotton boybriefs in place.

She gasped when my arm suddenly coiled around her waist as I pulled her off her feet and across me. The tips of her boots scraped against the floor. She cried out.

“Waitwaitwait… all I did was kiss him… I swear I swear…”

Tightening my other arm around her waist, I settled her against me firmly. She squirmed, and started to kick.

“Knock it off,” I demanded. She didn’t stop. “Hey,” I roared, my voice echoing sharply in the storage room, “do you want the fucking cane?”

She froze, my right arm still coiled around her. I barely heard her sniffle. My cock had already started throbbing by now, and I could feel it poking at my own jeans and into her ribs. I’m sure she felt it too.

The harsh light blazed downward on her ass, framed perfectly between my arm and the crumpled mass of denim around her knees. Now that she was finally behaving herself, I took my time to appreciate the way her cheeks filled the briefs, how the rubber waistband tightened around her and left small reddened lines in her soft, but still cold, skin. I gave her a few playful pats, smacking each cheek together, and wiggled a finger or two between them, pressing the cotton between. She started to relax more and became quiet.

Sliding my fingertips downward, I filled her hollow with the cotton until each asscheek was easily defined. When my fingers delved between her thighs, I instantly felt the sodden material there, how her excitement was already soaking into the briefs. In sharp contrast to her shivering skin, her core was far more than warm. My little slut was in heat.

She was breathing steadily, resting her weight on me now. Thunder clapped outside and a fresh assault of rainwater could be heard coming in sheets in the alley, battering upon the aluminum door. I reached a finger under one leg hole of the boy briefs she wore, and gently scratched her skin along the top of her thigh. She squirmed.

Slowly, swaying her hips gently side to side, I pulled the briefs down, gradually revealing her bottom to me. Her skin responded in faint waves, her delightful ass firm and broad. The briefs formed a small canopy over her skin until they were completely tugged down and off, joining the jeans around her knees.

She was fully revealed now, and beads of sweat began to form on her power back, droplets clinging to the tiniest peachfuzz hairs that grew there sexily. She groaned quietly, resigned to her fate. I took one last moment of sublime appreciation of her form, her shape, before it was my turn to take a deep breath. In that moment, it seemed the rain had stopped for a respite as well.

The first strike was firm, but not at all vicious, but it didn’t prevent her from raising her head in momentary shock. The second and the third kept pace with the first, and as I slowly increased pressure and speed, I felt her tense slightly. Her hands pressed to the damp concrete as she tried to keep balance. She started to whimper at each strike.

I stopped briefly to enjoy the first shades of pink on her skin. I caressed her flesh lovingly now, squeezing her ass between strokes. Her squirming changed rhythm, and her thighs parted more. I didn’t give her much opportunity to enjoy the breather for long.

In tandem with another clap of thunder, I began raining my hand on her ass now, the harsher smacks echoing in the room like clapping hands. Her head jolted up, and I sensed more than saw that her eyes had widened open, staring at the crates and chemical drums in front of her, as she felt a proper assault on her behind. As I continued, my arm coiled tighter around her waist, holding her firmly, my smacking hand cupping slightly as I brought it heavily across both of her cheeks, then one, back to both, then the other. I didn’t bother counting the blows, but I smirked to myself the naked bulb revealed the growing, angry shades of red on her skin.

She was crying out loudly now, and I was pleased to remember that at this hour of the morning, with the local clubs nearby still hammering out loud music, no one could possibly hear her cries. She yelped with each blow, and while I still could have struck much harder, I secretly enjoyed the whimpering pleas that she responded with.

“Stop, stop, please…”

This wasn’t her word.

“No, no, seriously… stop, please, I’ll suck your cock if you stop…”

I laughed to myself. “You’ll suck it anyway, just because it gives me such entitled pleasure. Shuttup.” Playfully aggravated, I responded with a series of rapid, heavier blows concentrated on her right cheek, savaging her as she arched her back and screamed through a half-dozen smacks. Then I stopped suddenly.

She was shaking. She fought to catch her breath. Her ass was brazenly red.

I reached my hand into the air behind my shoulder, where droplets of water were casually falling from the ceiling to the floor. Dampened, I brought my hand to her bottom and caressed her slowly, cooling her down. She sighed gratefully. I pulled my other arm from around her, and leaned back in the chair as she stayed across my lap.

Holding her ass in my hands, I parted her, feeling the stinging heat of her skin, and my hand warmed from the assault. I sighed appreciatively as her tight rosebud revealed itself, the soft and crinkled skin clenching as she slowly gyrated involuntarily.

Too tempting, I decided. But that would wait. I tugged her briefs back up and unceremoniously slid her to her haunches on the cold floor. I stood up.

She looked into my eyes, and then to my crotch as I adjusted myself. I’m sure she was asking herself if I was about to unzip and pull her face toward my throbbing cock. I’d done that to her before.

I smiled, my hands pausing at my waist. “Get up,” I finally said. “And do your pants.”

Like a shamed playtoy whose use was momentarily unrequired, her shoulders sunk as she redid her button-fly before struggling to stand.

I could see the dawn just starting to creep under the door. We looked at each other, sharing a smile. The energy shifted. She sat down on the chair without being instructed to, or asking for permission. I knew the play had ended then, despite the change in what was usual for our little ritual. I chalked it up to a long night of drinking, dancing, this little tryst, her being tired. I inwardly shrugged to myself. There was a pause.

“Rain’s stopped,” I said. “You tired? I’ll get the car.”

She nodded silently. I blew her a kiss. She smiled. I paused another moment before heading out the door and through the alley. The car was a few blocks away. I thought about how I loved her, and how much fun she is.







She reached in her pocket, withdrew the pack, and lit a cigarette. Taking a deep drag, she thought to herself pensively, waiting. Moments later, the aluminum door reopened.

“Wow,” he said. “I thought that guy’d never leave.”

Her eyes beamed when he entered. “It’ll be ok. His car is blocks away. I knew he’d want to talk here… he’s so predictable. But did you forget to say something?”

The blond boy blinked, and stammered. “Um… I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I mean, I thought he’d never leave… ma’am.”

“Good boy. Did you bring everything I told you to?”

“Yes, ma’am… your bag’s in my truck, ma’am.”

She stomped the cigarette out with her boot. “Good boy. We’ll hit the bank before the interstate, then. Now let’s go.”

He stammered again, then reached for the door and held it open for her. She was so lovely, so enchanting, so very much in control. Ever since he met her, he knew how she saw directly into his soul, into his need to be possessed. He idolized her. His training was still new, but he knew what to say next as they prepared to leave the room. He remembered.

“How else might this boy be of service to you?”

She chuckled as looked around, confirming nothing was being left behind. “Just get going, or I might pull you over my knee and spank your little ass, boy. I’d do that just because it gives me such entitled pleasure.”

A gust of morning wind forced the lone bulb to sway again as the door slammed shut.



copyright 2007. For Shayne.

The Waterfall, pt 2: Alanna's Half

In our exchange, this was the portion that Alanna, or TheGyrl4u, wrote back in July 1997. There's nothing more to this story, as she wanted me to send another reply, but if I ever did, I don't remember what it was. Upon re-reading this, I suppose this ending is a little anticlimactic, but I do enjoy the memory of having done this exchange with her.



Her eyes were locked on his lean fingers as they slowly moved down the length of his shaft. By the time his fingers circled the head, she was holding her breath. She didn't even realize it until he suddenly turned and ducked back into the waterway, and she remembered the breathe again.

In one smooth motion, he then re-emerged and dove into the water, disappearing from view, swimming back into her direction. As he swam under the water's surface, she climbed on the large rock and tried to spot him. A cool breeze swept through while the hot stone warmed the bottom of her thighs.

She started to become restless, sitting there waiting for his return. A mosquito bit her calf, and she began to scratch before she found her own hand slipping under her knee to caress her skin underneath. Still, it wasn't her own fingers that she desired on her body.

She slowly arched her back, leaning backward like a large cat. Her breasts thrust forward as she rest on her elbows, waiting. And waiting.

There!

She sat up and witnessed his head finally lift out of the water as he swam. With each stroke she watched him come closer, and her heart began to beat faster as she anticipated his arrival to the shore. She sat herself up, cross-legged, spreading her legs as she did so. She hovered a hand over her brow to shade her eyes and enjoy a better view.

Once in shallow water, his body was slowly revealed. The water ran down his chest and arms, and his hands smoothed back his hair. He closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun, pausing a moment to enjoy the warmth. Then, as he walked out of the pond, his body was slowly completely exposed to her. He looked in her direction and smiled again.

She knew that she looked relaxed to him, but he knew better. He watched her hand fidgeting, and the way she licked her suddenly dry lips. He looked away to hide a smile. Coming closer, he thought of how her skin would feel on his tongue, how she would taste, how the scent of her would fill his chest, her sweat, everything in the glade mingling into one gloriously tantalizing perfume that he would enjoy as he nuzzled her.

The prospect of running his tongue over her pulse at her neck was finally his undoing... Although he kept an eye on her face, he could feel his cock start to come alive, twitching first, then hardening more with desire. He could see her eyes as they moved downward to become locked on his hard cock, now popping with each step he took.

The Waterfall: My Half

In 1997, I was attending university and dealing with my first major breakup. Now, as I clean out things in my home after my latest major breakup, I find this.

It's a portion of an email exchange I was doing with a woman named Alanna, online as Thegyrl4u, and someone I had never actually met. I can't remember how we connected... probably via IRC... but somehow we started exchanging erotic emails in a round-robin manner. It was fun, and something I could see myself doing again should I find someone interested.

We created this together.



The warm sun slowly dried his skin as he walked closer to the beach, feeling droplets of water trickling in gentle sheets down the length of his hair, across and through the soft skin between his rear cheeks. The roar of the falls was constant, but not loud enough that he could not hear her rapid breathing as he inched closer, his toes squishing sensually in the mud. Feeling his muscles tighten, his cock began a slow swaying motion as it extended proudly from its bed of dark fur, droplets clinging to him there and sparkling in the sun.

His cock was getting big, full and harder as he anticipated the scene about to unfold before him. He smiled as he watched her remove her hiking boots and toss them into the air behind her, landing where they may in the green grass amid the trees. Her socks followed, and soon she sat crosslegged and barefoot on the warm stone, slowly removing her shirt as her eyes stayed fixed on his emerging root. Her lips parted slightly, and she licked them again.

The water splattered about his thighs as he drew closer, the white foam tickling the firm and full sack that swayed so very gently under his growing penis. His chest began to heave when the sun graced her bare skin, her lovely, pendulous breasts finally freed from their confines.

He smiled. "Hi," he said. She winked.

Strutting closer to the rock, the thickening shaft gradually vanished from her view as he rested his elbows on the stone. Resting his head on his hands, his chest grazing the rock as he stood below her, he admired her feral beauty without restraint.

They stayed like this for a short time, hearing the crashing falls and the ospreys overhead, feeling the warm summer sun on their skin, smiling to one another, building the tension. Soon, he stepped toward the rock, climbing upward until he was waist-high to her. he took her hand in his, and gazed into her eyes as he brought her palm to his mouth.

His kiss was tender, the soft beard wettening her hand as his lips explored her fingers, wrist, and forearm with grace. A soft bite on her mound of Venus, that raised muscle at the butt of her hand, and she giggled. Caressing down the length of her arm, he encouraged her to sit closer to him.

Her hand found itself on his belly as she wiggled herself over a little with a smile. Her breasts swayed slightly as she moved, her thighs sticking to the sun-kissed rock, pebbles clinging to her flesh. She reached and felt his abdomen, felt the gentle lines of hair there and the coolness of the trickled water, teasing his navel with a fingertip, and wrapped her palm around his ribcage as she leaned forward for his kiss.

His hands found the back of her head, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair as they embraced. He bent his upper chest downward slightly like a bear descending in for a prized morsel of salmon, and her head reached upward for his lips. Her skin glowed in th sun as yellow brightness shone upon her closed eyes. Teasingly, his mouth explored hers gently, his tongue only barely tracing the outline of her lips, grazing against her cheek before pulled her closer.

Pulling her closer, his kisses became more intense. She started to gasp for breath as his mouth moved from hers to explore her cheeks, her jaw, and gradually down her neck. He brought a knee to the rock to steady himself.

She could feel it casting a shadow on the stone as it hovered beside his thigh while his knee rested there. Still, she kept her eyes closed, kissing, one hand at his chest, the other at his hip, as she felt his mouth begin to nibble and lean to bite her neck.

He moaned, tasting her sweat. She cooed, tasting his freshly washed, cool skin. He groaned to himself as he smelled the earthy, healthy musk from under her arms, clean perspiration from her miles of hiking. It spice overcame him in waves of lust, and her tugged at her hair. He grew even more insistent, more passionate, as he drew her head backward, exposing more of her tender neck and raising her breasts upward.

He moved forward and set her on her back. She sighed as she felt the warmth of the suncast stone under her, smooth, strong, hot, rigid... like the penis that was clearly in her view now.

With one knee on the stone, he leaned forward more, his kisses leaving her neck and exploring the length of her body. His mouth sauntered from under her spicy arms to muscles at the underside of her breast, gently chewing the flesh as he watched her nipple grow toward the sky and harden in the sparkling light. She slowly caressed his muscular back, his ribs, his upper thigh as his mouth took the nipple in. He back arched, she gasped, and somewhere in the distance th wind shook the leaves of the trees with a rustle, a flurry of birds soaring toward the sun.

Her nipple in his soft mouth, he started to caress her belly, his fingers playing with her sexily slight paunch. Fingers began to tease the snap of her khaki hiking shorts. He knew that she would be warm there, wet, slick. After a long hike and setting up her camp, her texture there would be ripe and her scent rich and spicy too. He made a promise to himself to discover this for certain before she let herself swim with him. He wanted to taste her core.

Slowly feasting on her breast, running nails gently across her belly, he breathed slowly, relaxing and enjoying the open and wanton pleasure of hovering over of this gorgeous partner. He half-knelt on the rock beside her, a leg still in the bubbling pond, and gazed at her longingly. He was having fun, and from her smile, so was she.

He felt the warm summer air surround his genitals with the passing breeze, his cock growing thicker and harder at the sensation, blood pulsing into its silken crown and jutting high from its nest, pulsing. He brought his leg upward from the water and knelt beside her for true. His legs spread as he did so, feeling his sack stretch pleasurably, the wind against his ass, cool on his openly exposed anus as he bent to kiss her. Her hand began to slowly circle his thigh, gripping his muscles.

She sighed, feeling his hand caress her belly more and gradually tease her loins. Nails began to thrum and scratch the khaki in tandem to his bites and licks, like a cat impatient to get through the door. For a moment, he cupped her mound in his palm and she felt him grip her center.

Even through the shorts, his hand felt the moistness, the musky tension, building inside her as he feasted on her breasts in the sun. His dark locks brushed and cascaded down her chest and belly, ringlets of wet, rich hair leaving small spirals of water on her bare, perspiring skin. She shivered. His mouth was full with her breast now, his face nuzzling into her. His hand moved from her center to steady himself as he kissed and feasted.

A trout popped its head from the water with a splash. The mosquito it was after flew into the trees. The trout swam back under the fallen logs at the bank.

"Badlands"

As usual, it was goddamned hot. If he were in Canada, where he heard that people still lived in igloos, they would have said it was forty degrees. He'd give anything for it to be forty degrees. Eighty, even.

As usual, it was also quiet. No one had been around for days, save for the snakes and the armadillos. The sun beat down silently on the currogated aluminum roof, where he and his grandfather had knelt together in old clothes, sharing cans of bright red paint so long ago. The roof was dusty, battered, and a shade of pale pink now, faded like most of his other childhood memories. Sitting in the shade under the awning, he reached for the crushed box rolled up in his sleeve. He lit another Marlboro and rested his boots on the stack of tires. He dozed. A gentle breeze blew by.

Only the snakes and armadillos noticed the growing cloud of dust in the distance, and at least the snakes were wise enough to seek shelter. He didn't notice a thing until the faint grumble coaxed him away from the pair of soft arms and hard kisses he had been enjoying in his slumber. His cigarette had joined the pile of broken butts in the sand, smoldering.

Bikers, he realized. Probably the Angels, or if trouble was coming, from the Outlaws or Bandidos out to scope something out. They'll want beer, he knew.

"Fuck," he thought to himself. He only had four left, and planned on enjoying those out back when it got dark and he could roast his dinner over the fire. Looks like he'd have to drive all the way into town after all. Bikers.

He heard the engine roar behind him as he stood up and opened the glass door on the old Coke machine. No Coke salesman had been around for months, which was just as well, since the cans would never fit in this thing anyway. Reaching inside, his fingers grasped around two ice-cold bottles as he listened behind him. He popped the caps.

No V-twin engine there, he realized, and knew immediately that he shouldn't have opened the bottles. That's a riceburner, and only one. Not an Angel, that's for sure. He could have kept his beers after all. Closing the cooler, he looked over his shoulder. Yup. One fucking guy on a Honda. No colors. Dammit. Too late.

No point in being inhospitable though.

"Hey," he said, walking toward the bike. The guy was removing his helmet, his short blonde hair getting tugged by the foam. A dripping bottle in each hand, he strolled behind the rider and stepped over the kickstand as he past the guy.

"Dos Equii?" he asked, extending the bottle forward. "Too damn hot, huh? Bad day to be out."

He blinked.


"Bad day to be drinking this while riding too," she replied as she raised the bottle to her lips. Another long pull and the bottle was half drained. "But I'll manage. Thanks."

He had barely swallowed his own small mouthful when he realized that he was standing there with his jaw open. She noticed, and grinned.

"Fill it, willya?" She jabbed the cap with her key and unscrewed it open. "I'll be back."

"Uh, yeah, sure," he stammered. He forced himself to focus as she lifted her leg away from the saddle, obviously straining to stand for a moment before walking inside.

Swallowing down another sip, he rested the bottle in the sand as he reached for the gas nozzle, watching her walk. He couldn't help but notice how well she fit into her chaps, and how the dusty black leather harnessed her strong behind. The denim was faded there, accentuating each line and countour of muscle. Looking upward, he saw the patches of sweat on her back and under her arms, where the faint darkness he could see through the material revealed that this was no woman prone to worrying about what her underarms looked like. In the shadow beside her as she walked away, her breasts swayed freely with a gentle firmness. He needed another sip.

He slipped the nozzle into the canister and squeezed. As the gas poured, echoing in the near-empty tank, he watched her stroll around in the store. She still held the bottle in her hand as she peeked along the magazine rack, and he realized that she was watching him too. Was that a smile?

Capping the tank, he forget all about his bottle in the sand as he walked toward the store, toward her. She leaned against the door jamb with a welcoming grin, and motioned her head toward his arm, requesting.

He smiled and unrolled the pack from his shoulder. Lighting a cigarette, he handed it to her. Her eyes met his as she leaned foward a little and took it in her fingers.

Her persperation smelled sweet and heady, mixed with some exotic oil that made his pulse quicken. Her breasts bounced very slightly as she leaned and returned her shoulder to the door jamb. He tried not to stare. She sized him up through the haze of smoke. He thought she was looking at his boots, but if she was, her grin seemed misplaced.

"That'll be, uh..."

"Got a sink here? I wanna splash my face."

He swallowed. "Uh, sure, over there, near the car stuff." He gestured.

Following his gaze, she made her way down an aisle toward a large utility sink. And old hose lay coiled on the stained wooden floor, and their boots clacked and echoed in the small store. At one point, she stopped suddenly to reach for a can of something on the shelf, resulting in having him stumble slightly. He had bumped into her, making contact with her waist. He thought he head her giggle as she moved on.

He felt himself begin to get thicker, knowing that she had just pressed herself against him. He stopped mid-aisle, awestruck. He knew for absolute certain that there wasn't another soul, save for snakes and armadillos, for miles, but that didn't stop him from looking around.

She had bent herself into the large porcelain sink and was pouring water over her head. She cupped handfuls and pressed them onto her face and along her arms. She sighed and cooed, and hissed as the coldness slithered along her neckline and down her back. He saw the faint outline of a tattoo. She turned around.

Soaked now, shivering slightly in the contrasting temperature, he could easily and plainly see how exquisite she was. Her nipples extended beautifully from her Tshirt, and he could clearly each nuance of her build. She short hair was slicked back now, revealing a marvelously sculpted face with piercing blue eyes and a seditious smile. She leaned against the edge of the sink, resting her thumbs into the belt on her chaps, a boot kicked back. She tilted her head in invitation.

He swallowed, approached her, and slowly snaked an arm around her waist. His kiss was tentative, unsure, amazed, but her passionate response gave him all the confidence he needed and uncertainty found itself cast aside. He pressed her against his chest and held her waist firmly. She reached for his shirt and stripped it off him, soon leaving him standing before her clad in jeans and boots. A palm found itself pressed against his crotch, shamelessly exploring him, gripping him, fingers coiling around the girth and length of him, sizing him up yet again. He twitched under her touch, and her kisses pressed all the harder. A second had caressed his chest, slithered across his ribs, and clutched his ass firmly, gripping, pulling him closer.

She began to pull him downward, setting him to his knees. He looked up and saw her smile as she began to unbuckle the belt of her chaps, then the buttons on her jeans. Still dressed, she turned around and bent over the sink. He held her thighs is disbelief, only to find his hands being reached for as placed to the hems of both chaps and denim, as if he were being told to finish the job of pulling them downward. He obeyed.

She began to fill her hands with water again, splashing her face as she felt herself become exposed to his touch, his kisses, his mouth. She cooled herself casually, parting her legs as far as bundled leather and denim around her boots would allow, and thrust herself backwards to give him easier access. She felt the faint stubble on his cheek against her own, and soon the soft, hungry, darting, probing warmth to follow.

Outside, only the snakes and armadillos outside caught notice of her cries that afternoon.


© 2005