Friday Flash: The Postcard

In an odd mood today, so here' an odd little short. Happy weekend!


The Postcard


Silver bleeds to salmon as night becomes dawn, and I sigh, watching soft petals fold away. How long until night falls again?

...goodbye, the breeze whispers. Good day.

Noon, glaring gold and faded green, wilted heat. Promise of thunder in the distance, but only a tease; bone-white clouds fray and fade away. Ducking into a market, I am served a brown drink like mud-flecked water. Delicious! Tamarind. Bought you this postcard and a shirt, pale gauze, voluminous. The cloth smells of the shop: bay rum and citrus. I wonder if it will glow in the moonlight, as the petals do?

(Imagine me rising from a blossom, clad only by the moon and wreathed in flower-scent. Does that thought make you smile, too?)

Late afternoon, the sunlight gold as honey, shining through drought-thinned leaves and melting over melted post-work pedestrians. Office workers swelter in their sweaters and jackets until they can shrug free, rushing for their air-conditioned cars. I nibble crisp jicama white as starshine, flavored with lime and chile, and smile as they pass wiltingly by. They are so very beautiful, a garden's worth of blossoms, similar and yet unique.

Once, you were such a face, chance-spied, limned by the rays of the setting sun. And I...

I, arrayed in silver-white, sit lotus in the garden and wait for the moon to rise. My eyes are closed, yet still I perceive Moonflowers’ slow unfolding, furry calyx yielding to the need of the luxuriant satin petals to be free. The urgent approach of nightbird, moth, bat, seeker after sweetness summoned by perfume. A slower drawing-near, footsteps light as goosedown but not at all hesitant.

Your smile, as you wait for me to turn.

The heat of you in the cool night, and the satin brush of petals over our skin...

See you soon!

pxj

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Friday Flash: Pick of the Season

Strange couple of weeks. Haven't had any issues with my memory in a while--the last symptom of my illness and by far the most disturbing. The doctors cleared me to get back to life, though with lots and lots of cautions. And the Universe...promptly gifted me with jury duty. A whole blessed week of jury duty.

This, I need?

Haven't yet converted that ordeal into fiction, sorry. But, hey, it's spring! Incredibly vibrant, cheering, blooming-and-blossoming-and-burgeoning all over SPRING. End of the loquat season, beginning of mulberry. Yummy spring, bright and warm, and it feels so wonderful that (gasp!) I had to reach for my keyboard and celebrate.

Hmm. Maybe I'm not quite back to normal, if that was the first impulse? -G- Can't complain too strenuously, though I'm not yet certain where this particular fruit-inspired story is going. But you'll see what I mean...


Pick of the Season

Ivan watched sidelong as, just outside his window, the nymph tipped back her head, exposing the long column of her sunbrowned throat, and sank small white teeth into the sunset-hued fruit she had just plucked from his tree.

His tree. Seed planted with his own two hands, in the rich soil of his land, planted to grrow where he could see. And still! Birds and wasps he expected--thiefs of nature who yet gave back as much as they stole--but this was no bird to pay in song for the fruit she ate.

Not...exactly.

Eyes flashing, he rose, headed for the door. But a mirror gave him back his appearance, reminding him he was not appropriately attired. Changing his guise took no effort, only a spark of will. A man of this age, this place and time. A man to charm this unwinged thief.

The mirror told him he now wore greying hair, shaggy if not unkempt; his reflection looked at him from earth-brown eyes. Neat pressed denim pants and a shirt of similar weight showed shoulders broader than his own form had, a lightly muscled chest, a stomach softened with age though not quite fat. Older than the nymph--the woman, he corrected himself. A father figure, perhaps.

Or perhaps she, too, was older than she looked. He paused in the doorway, neither indoors nor out, and stared. Bright sunlight picked out silver strands within the russet hair, and faint pale lines radiating outward from her eyes. When he spoke, she turned at the first sound of his voice, her lips shining with fruit juice, cheeks coral with emotion, spring-green eyes wide.

He met her gaze and he felt--

Something.

#

"Excuse me?"

Caught in the act, Sadie could only wince. It's not as if you don't know better, she reminded herself, and slowly turned to face the (presumed) owner of the tree she'd been robbing. Harvesting. Over-ripe fruits fermented at her feet, proof enough he had no use for the things. So was it really stealing?

The cops would say so, if asked. She could only hope the tree's owner would be satisfied with scolding her and sending her away.

"Excuse me, please?" the voice came again, and Sadie paused in her glacial motion, caught by the rich tones--and the accent. Like something out of an opera. Russian? Yummy as fresh-picked loquats, she giggled, and the smile stayed on her juice-sticky lips when, at last, she faced him.

Oh, yum-yum-yum! Loam-brown eyes in a sun-weathered face, brows raised quizzically. A thatch of greying hair flopping to the collar of a shirt that framed broad shoulders. A strong but not too strong chin. And those lips--
Sadie blushed as she realized what she was thinking. Blame it on the perfect day; spring always made her frisky. And there'd been the delightful feeling of naughtiness as she crossed the sidewalk, venturing near the house, the allure of those golden-sunset fruits hanging so temptingly, their taste...

"Excuse me, please," it wasn't a question now, the voice firm though still melodic, "I asked you, what are you doing to my tree."

To the tree? That's nothing, tovarisch, she thought, swallowing laughter and nearly choking. Ask me what I want to do to you! Better he didn't; the way she was feeling, she might tell him. Which would open up a whole new can of...fruit.

"Loquats," she managed, holding out her hands, a cluster of ripe yellow-orange fruits balanced on one palm, the fruit she'd just bitten into when he caught her in the other. Her gaze followed his as he stared down, and seeing the clear juice welling from creamy flesh, she sighed. Licked her lips.

"They are...you find them good to eat?"

A good sign. The folks who asked that didn't usually call the cops. (And you know you need a new hobby, she scolded herself, when you've racked up enough past encounters to judge that! Right? Right.) The standard loquats-for-dummies lecture rose to her lips, but she didn't speak it. Instead, she plucked a perfectly ripe fruit from the cluster and held it out to him.

His brow furrowed: a forehead-centric frown. "Show me."

She looked at him, this homeowner who, so far, hadn't really objected to her trespassing. He stood barefoot on the slate steps, in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves folded back, and made no motion either toward her or away. Cell phone in his pocket, so if he'd wanted to dial 911...but instead he simply stood, waiting. Watching her as much as she watched him.

Okay. Her purse lay still where she'd dropped it, by the sidewalk, but she had a small pocketknife on her keychain, used that to slit the fruit in half. "You can't eat the seeds. Poisonous. Pretty, though." Two large tiger's-eye ovals flew as she flicked the knife. "And you'll probably want to pull the membrane. Some gourmets blanch and peel the fruits, at least for cooking, but fresh," the blossom-end cut away, she extended the fruit to the man, "well, here."

He took one half from her, delicately. "Show me."


#

Sadie watched his eyes as he bit into the creamy flesh, but saw nothing. No flash of surprise or of pleasure, no ecstatic slow closing, not even the suspicious narrowing of a man who thinks a trick's being played on him. He bit down, chewed, swallowed, but showed no reaction at all.

It worried her. But the sun's rays warmed the fruit-half still in her hand, releasing its unique bouquet, and she remembered his request. Demand. Show me, he'd said, and so she would. Feeling a trickle of juice making its sticky way toward the hollow of her palm, she decided to truly give him a show.

Step one: put the knife away. That was harder than it should have been, even after she wiped the blade clean; her hands were shaking, just slightly. What was it about this man? Something. One thing at a time. The blade snicked home at last, and she stifled a relieved sigh. Step two: Um, next? Oh, right; she needed both hands free. So all the fruit, except for that one still-leaking half, she laid by his feet.

Noting their oddly squared appearance in passing, and the old-ivory sheen of his toenails.

Rising, she took a sudden step back, out of his shadow. Shivering. She panted, tasting copper, wondering. Fear--like a storm--had swept over her, through her, but surely there was no reason to be afraid. There was only an attractive older man standing on his front stoop, asking, quite reasonably, why she was picking fruits from his tree.

An attractive older man willing to listen, to try, to learn. And he'd asked her to show him...

#

Ivan shifted his weight back on his heels, adjusted his newly broadened shoulders to let the sunlight pass unimpeded. She'd flinched from the touch of his shadow, sudden fear darkening those light green eyes. A moment he had not chosen, would have side-stepped had he been able to, but he hadn't expected her--yet--to kneel at his feet.

Laying his own fruits down in offering. Brazen, this woman!

And no sooner had he thought it than a new light was in her eyes, mischief dancing in green like the legends of his home that led wanderers a merry and dangerous way. Could she be more than she seemed? But, no, she was human, salt sweat and strong emotion and the rich red blood beneath the skin. Human, mortal, thief.

Her mouth would taste so sweet.

***

No, that's not all there is. That's not even all I've written today---but it's all I'm going to post right now. In part because I've already gone over wordcount, but also because there are three separate and distinct paths I can see for this story. And I'm feeling greedy enough that I want them all! Were I to post the next bit, that only works with one path, I'd feel obligated to keep traveling it.

But, hey, if you have any preferences...

The happy hermit,

pxj

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Flash Fiction Friday: Pixie

Hi, folks.

Yep, it's the hermit, posting. Asking for help, actually. (Hail from a clear sky; two blue moons in a single month; kind words from a mother-in-law...) The worst part about being sick for so long, for me, is that it gives me permission to do nothing. But I'm not all that sick anymore, really, and now--

I NEED SOMEONE TO KICK MY A*S!

More specifically, I need someone to remind me that I don't get to call myself a writer unless I write. That unfinished drafts are useless as unfletched arrows. That...

Blecch. Surely you get the point. It's a Flash Fiction Friday, so here's a tidbit. From (you guessed it!) a story I haven't finished. Nearly, almost, it's only missing a few little things...

Rev up those feet, won'tcha?

pxj




Anna blinked, absurdly conscious of the small breeze the motion stirred. The weight of her eyelids, their passage, tiny muscles in concert. The brief cessation of sight. Normally, of course, all of that would have gone unnoticed—but there was nothing normal about this.


Impossible not to tremble, but her hands were steady, holding onto her camera with just enough pressure, not tight enough to stress the plastic, but with no risk she’d drop the thing. It was her favorite digital, the one she called Pixie, the one she carried with her everywhere. A camera that ate batteries with voracious appetite, but that never failed her in the clutch, that never fogged or blurred, that fit all her old lenses and scopes and held thousands of images in its capacious expanded memory. The camera that never faltered nor falsified, never lied.


Pixie hadn’t lied to her this time, either; she’d only thought it had. Thought the image it had shown her too preposterous to be real.


But it was. He was. Not the least bit credible, but real just the same. Sitting at a café table just like any normal man, in a small Louisiana town no one beyond the county line had ever heard of, a mystery in human shape. With eyes that held her easily.


“Please,” his voice was cultured, soft and deep with only a hint of a drawl, “sit down.”


She sat. She didn’t think she could have stood much longer anyway, her legs shaking as badly as the rest of her. Except her hands.


“Will you have tea?”


Tea. She’d never understood how people could drink hot beverages once the temperature got above ninety, but just then, she felt chilled. Tea might help. Only, she’d have to let go of Pixie for that. And she might drop the cup, shaky as she was.


He hadn’t waited for a reply, pouring with an almost laughably serious expression, completely focused on the small task, setting the saucer properly before her. “Please.” Oh, that voice! It had a texture, that voice, like wet sand, soft and sharp all at once.


Fit match for the man.


Anna drew in a quivering breath, the scent of him—earth and oak, something sharply green, moisture and a hint of chalk—overwhelming in the close, still air. Louisiana humidity. Which writer was it that had likened it to an animal humping your leg? But he’d forgotten to mention the decadent perversion that rich air carried on its fetid breath, that made a woman want to turn and draw it up her body, see what fun she could have rolling around with it.


Darlin’, that feeling’s not from the air. Take another look at the man-rock sitting there.


The Primal Stone. That’s what she’d seen through her camera, a free-standing bone of the earth, dark as obsidian, strong as granite, rooted deep in the land and unwilling to be quarried free. Small sparks like sun on mica danced over an unremitting darkness shaped vaguely like a man. To her eyes, he wasn’t quite so daunting.


But so much sexier.


It wasn’t his looks, though she supposed he was handsome enough—black hair worn a little long, the way she liked it; dark eyes; strong features, bone structure clear beneath just enough flesh to keep him from looking raw; broad shoulders. She couldn’t see much else, with him sitting at a café table, but he had wonderful square hands, and his nails were clean.


It wasn’t his looks that stole her breath, but the sheer solid strength of him. She could feel it, sitting across the table, knew others could feel it as well. The way the waitress kept one eye on him, no matter where she was; the way no one came near enough to jostle him, though there was a crowd.


“What—who are you?”


“One of your picturesque natives.” Flash of white teeth: a smile. “Drink your tea.”


Heat washed across her cheeks as she obeyed.


No secrets in a small town. That was the maxim, long-ago learned and yet still a surprise. Anna hadn’t been back to this particular small town since a summer visit when she’d been twelve or so. Even then, it had felt stifling, her mother fluttering, a pair of spinsterly great-aunts forever telling her to mind her manners, a flock of cousins teasing, locals whose dialects and motives she hadn’t understood, and no real consciousness of time in the whole place. So unlike city life. She’d told her mother after that visit that she was never coming back, and she hadn’t, either, until now. This trip was an obligation, for the family; they’d just buried one of the great aunts, and she’d come for the funeral.


Though that wasn’t her only reason. Being a freelance photojournalist wasn’t the glamorous, financially secure life the movie-makers portrayed; she’d hustled a few assignments to pay her way, including one for the Chamber of Commerce. Small wonder people knew what she was doing, wandering with her cameras. And, usually, Anna wouldn’t have cared if it bothered them, if they thought she was playing safari in their home. Anyplace else, yes, but not here; this place had never been kind to her, so what matter if they thought she was cruel? It wasn’t like a few pictures would hurt anything; hell, some would even help! And she’d take them and be gone. She wasn’t interested in leaving good memories behind; all she wanted was to leave.


Or, all she had wanted. Now, there was a big solid chunk of mystery calmly sipping tea, watching her as she watched him.


She opened her mouth, and words fell out. “Picturesque. You are, you know. Uniquely picturesque.” Before she was through speaking, she worried she might have said too much. Flickering monster-movie images rose before her mind’s eye, vampires and werewolves coldly disposing of the mortals who had stumbled upon them. The sun shone down, almost too bright, but her skin bore a renewed chill. What was he, this man who looked like a monolith to her camera’s sight?


Whatever he was, he knew, she was sure of it. Coal-black eyes stilled as he looked at the camera, and sound faded from her world as she watched him look. He knew she’d seen. She thought again of his impossible image in her camera sight, wondered if he’d destroy the camera before or after he took her life. Horrible thought, that what might have been the best photos she’d ever taken wouldn’t be shared with the world.


“I-if you’re going to kill me, I’d really like to know why you look...like you look. First.”


He threw back his head and laughed, the sound like a friendly landslide.

...

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Friday Flash: Regional Were

Well, the first version of this post was on Friday! (Ah, the holidays—when one can spend so much time running around like the proverbial decapitated fowl that one completely forgets the celebratory aspects of the season.) After the jump, one wholly unedited excerpt of a story that just bloomed beneath my fingers yesterday. As yet unfinished, sigh. Did I need this? Apparently part of me thinks so.

Drinks are properly someone else’s territory, but I try never to ignore the breath of the muse. Hand that chica a breath mint and be prepared for long silence! Besides, drinks and raccoons are a natural match; that dipping behavior, don’t ya know.


“Ah. Wondered where you’d got to.” The bartender’s smile said more than his words, full of mischief again with a hint of—what? Sorrow?—something she couldn’t name. “Friend of mine wants to buy you a drink.” He pushed a martini glass across the bar.

Whatever that drink was, it was certainly no martini. Red and white, cocoa or something around the rim, with a tiny dried pepper floating on the top... Lacey blinked, looked again. Still there. “What in the name of Santa’s smallest reindeer is that?”

“Seasonal.”

“The drink or the curse?”

He only shrugged, but the tilt of his head suggested she look toward a certain table. For whomever had suggested that perversion of decent alcohol, no doubt. She didn’t, too appalled to move so much as her head. “Do I want to meet someone who would buy one of those?”

“Yes. Well, you want to meet this guy, at least. I think.”

She wasn’t so sure, but he’d turned away to serve someone else anyway. Sighing, she reached for the glass, holding it near the base of the stem lest it contaminate her. The smell of spice and chocolate rose as she moved.

The bar’s lighting could have won awards, a marvel of shadow and illumination, grace and mystery. Lacey stepped through pools of gold and silver, grey and night-black, feeling rather like she’d walked all inadvertent into a movie. Something definitely cross-genre, she mused, noir-ish atmosphere welded onto a Western setting and a perfect horror of a concoction in her hand.

As she neared the table the bartender had indicated, she added grunge to her list. There were two men at the table, both scruffy. The one seemed huddled within his oversized top and sloppy pants, and his hair hadn’t seen a barber’s shears in far too long.

The other, though, the one with his back to her...he wore his battered clothing like high style, his jeans torn beneath leather fetish straps, his shirt pure silk. The set of his narrow shoulders told her he knew she was coming. She had to laugh; was he so sure she wouldn’t dump the drink over his head? Not that he’d done anything to deserve it except have execrable taste, but that might be enough. Chocolate liqueur and hot peppers? And whipped cream?

He turned, and she trembled, caught.

No. No, no, no. Eyes so rimmed in kohl he looked like he was wearing a mask. Absolutely not.

...except...

Spirits of the season! He was so completely wrong it might actually be right. Fun, that was what she’d been looking for, right? Not a date for the company Christmas party, just...fun. This so-confident man might well be that, with his sharp-toothed grin and his self-assurance like a cloak. He hadn’t pushed, had waited for her. That said something, surely.

His table-mate rose and departed, murmuring something Lacey didn’t bother to hear. She looked, really looked at the man, trying to see beneath the leather and eye-liner. A small dun man who could have been almost any age, any race. Dark eyes rimmed in black like a Goth, but without that self-consciously dire attitude. Black-outlined lips curved in a welcoming grin, and his sharp nose twitched with humor. A diamond stud earring twinkled in the shadow of his thick hair, that wasn’t no-color, Lacey saw now, but rather several shades, black and brown and tan and grey. His eyes were dark, brown or black or simply accommodating the bar’s dim light. His skin was a creamy brown thanks either to his parentage or the sun’s kiss, hands and rope-muscled forearms darker than his face.

What shade might it be in those places the sun never touched? If there were any.

Lacey choked on a laugh. Hadn’t so much as said hello to the man, and here she was undressing him in her mind. Did it matter that she was clothing him again? Well, yes: she’d skipped over the fun part! He would be fun, she was as sure of that as she’d ever been of anything. Any man who could grin like that!

She was staring, she realized. As was he, but he, at least, was smiling; she was just standing there, mouth open like some drunken idiot. “I’m sorry,” she managed, “the bartender didn’t tell me your name?”

“Call me Rocky.”

His widening smile made the words a dare, and she spoke exactly what was in her mind. “Not while I live. And that’s two.”

“The drink being the first? Hardly fair, you haven’t tried it. You pass, by the way.”

“I wasn’t worried.” She admired his quick grace as he rose, held out a chair for her. When he resettled himself across from her, a clattering caught her attention. His nails were long, slightly curved, and painted black. Oh, boy. Sudden flash of them against her skin, teasing; sudden image of him, just as he was, at some business function as her date. She couldn’t decide whether to sigh or sob or giggle.

“Try the drink.” His musical tenor wove between, among, her thoughts, suggestion, not command, and she was so torn between reactions she actually did it, lifted the glass to her lips, felt the soft thick burn or spirits seeping slowly as she sipped.

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Friday Flash: Home for Christmas

Early for Christmas, but appropriate for the date--this excerpt is from one of my very few military pieces. "Home for Christmas" is an erotic short with para elements, about 3,000 words all told. It first appeared in my "not-a-newsletter" infrequent mailing, with a contest: the story contains lyrics from several Christmas carols, and I gave a gift certificate to the first person who correctly identified them all.

And, yes, I will be sending another Message from the e-Garret this Solstice or thereabouts. In case you were wondering. -g-

pxj



Midnight, and quiet all through the house.

Jaci tiptoed into the living room, intending to dispose of Santa's snack, and to slip a few last surprises into the stockings. But what to her wondering eyes should appear—

Jill's playing tricks. Charlie's stocking had joined the others, displacing the angel. Jaci frowned. She'd chosen not to hang it, deciding it would just remind her that her love had to be away at Christmastime. Not that she could forget. But there it was, with a suspiciously shaped bulge in the foot that made her hope the kids wouldn't look too closely. The milk they'd poured so solemnly had been replaced with eggnog, complete with a dusting of spice, and there were fewer cookies than there had been on the plate. One even had a bite out of it, as though someone had heard her coming and just this instant slipped away.

She sniffled. The scene wasn't her sister's style. It was Charlie's. But he couldn't be with her this year. Damn it, I promised myself I wasn't going to cry. She ate a cookie instead. And then another, washing it down with a swig from the glass. The eggnog was well and truly spiked.

A little tipsy on sugar and sentiment and southern mash, Jaci toasted the star on top of the tree, and spoke. "Dear Santa, what I want this year..."

She inhaled to speak her wish, and choked. For the past few days, the house had smelled like evergreen and candlewax and cooking, with a little hint of dog.

Charlie'd been gone long enough that there was no hint of his scent anymore. Except there was. Her imagination, or just suggestion.

And then the touch of fur on her cheek. "Have you been good this year?"

"No. I've been very, very bad." Jaci opened her eyes to see Charlie in a Santa suit. Only Santa had never looked this good. No bowl full of jelly here! Ermine-trimmed red velvet did not hide the hard swell of biceps, nor the even ridges of muscle on his abdomen. The tunic ended mid-thigh, but there were leggings beneath, descending into black boots; the double layer of fabric did a slightly better job of concealing than only one, but not by much.

"You like?" Charlie smiled and struck a pose, and Jaci came out of her chair in a leap to hug him. Laughing, he pulled her to the doorway, tilted her chin up so she could see the mistletoe, and then bent to claim her lips in a kiss as tender as their very first, as long and passionate as any they had ever shared.

"Check the stocking," he husked when the need for air had grown too great. "I'll wait." He turned her and pushed her gently toward the mantel. She reached for her stocking, but, "No. Look in mine," he said, and, looking at the shape she was sure she recognized, she did.

He stole her laughter, and her breath, with another heated kiss, and pulled her down to lie before the tree.

"Unwrap me?" she whispered.

He took his time, using his teeth to undo the belt of her robe. Her unromantic flannel pajamas might have been precious silk, from the care he took, might have been tissue by the way she felt, his hands strong and hot through the material.

As he bared each inch of skin, he covered it in kisses.

"Charlie..."

"Aren't you going to model my gift?"

She had a bit of trouble finding it at first, the floor covered in discarded clothing as it was. But then her hand closed around a cool resilient column, and she smiled. Not looking away from Charlie, who had found his Santa hat and placed it—she giggled. "Damn, love, you're not that big!"

Charlie looked down, frowned, and scrunched the fur-trimmed hat up a bit, until it was obvious that he, did, in fact, reach the end. "I checked. Twice." He flexed his hips, and the bobble on the end of the hat bounced and jiggled. "You wouldn't believe how much trouble I had trying to find one that fit in all dimensions. Not something you can tell the elves you're looking for, you know."

She could almost imagine the conversation, and laughed until she spluttered, nearly choking before she gave up on trying to speak. He struck one pose after another, each funnier than the last, and though he made no sound, laughter shook his abdomen.

Her humor ran its course at last, and she sat up, reaching for him as he bent to her, the last few giggles still echoing as her lips claimed his.

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Friday (News) Flash: It’s World Condom Day

Okay, so technically that’s tomorrow, and it’s Friday, so this post is supposed to be all about the Flash. I’ll get there, really. But I just have to say this: December 1 is World Condom Day.

Actually, it’s World AIDS Day—but, really, what better day to celebrate the rubber? Go make interesting water balloons! See if you really can fit one over a watermelon. Protect your local obelisk.

Buy a sampler pack or a condom you haven’t tried before and do some consumer testing! (The French company King of the Condom is offering a lifetime discount for customers who make condom purchases on 1 Dec. I’m sure other condom companies are observing the day, too.) Give condoms to people who may not be buying them for themselves. Decorate a Safe Solstice Tree.

Buy an e-book that includes safe sex. (Ahem. Reach Out and Touch Someone, happily, includes safe hot sex. )

Share your positive condom memories. And if you don’t have any, go make some, then come back and share!

My Flash today is, appropriately, a condom scene. It won’t appear in precisely this form in the Valentine’s Day piece (AMP, para romance, details later, I’m racing the clock for NaNo!), but I had fun writing this bit, so someone should get a chance to read it, right? As usual, after the jump. And this one gets an adult content warning, I think.



Sam strained to reach the bedside table, unwilling to leave Val’s embrace even for so short a time. Damn, but the man knew what to do with his hands! His mouth, too. But she wanted more of him than that, which meant—

“Hmm?” His lips buzzed around her nipple with the sound, scattering her thoughts; she could not have answered if he’d held his gun to her head. But after a moment, he figured it out on his own, snapping his fingers to semaphore oh-I-forgot like some post-modern mime.

She mimed a pout in her turn and propped herself up on her elbows to watch his retreat. The soft sounds of rummaging reached her ears, and she called out, “Bring it in.”

He stuck his head through the doorway, hands so deep in his pant pockets he looked like he was trying to wear them for a shirt. “Say that again?”

“I want to put the condom on you. If that’s all right.”

His face went all circles: eyes, mouth, even nostrils wide. His cock bumped his belly, the soft slapping sound loud in the stillness. Was he even breathing? Damn, but the man could focus! After a long moment’s staring, he nodded and ducked out of view again, returning with his hands full of bright foil rectangles that he scattered over her body like rose petals. A dozen of them, at least.

“Ambitious much?”

Val shrugged. “Prepared. Once a Boy Scout and all that...what are you smiling at?”

“Just imagining you in one of those cute Scout uniforms.” She giggled as he looked down at his own naked form. “Don’t worry, Boy Scout, I like you this way, too. In fact,” reaching out, she wrapped her hand around his shaft and tugged, gently, until he stepped forward, “why don’t we see if I can earn a badge?”

“Yes, please.” He arranged himself at her direction, head on the pillow, hands beneath his head, legs wide enough for her to kneel between.

She simply looked awhile, anticipating.

Cool packaging soothed Sam’s fingertips as she ran the squares through her hands, sorting, shuffling, finally choosing one. It had red lettering she couldn’t be bothered to read and a deep tear-here notch at one corner. The condom, when she freed it, gleamed pearl-white in its coil.

It reminded her of her dream. “I love the smell of latex in the morning,” she muttered.

“Really?” Val purred. “That’s good to know.”

Sam bit her tongue. Surely she hadn’t always spoken every single thought out loud?!

“I like it.”

Which meant that last thought had been audible, too. Oh, well. “Maybe if I don’t think?”

“Darlin’, you just do...whatever you want to do.”

Sam wasn’t going to ask him how far that offer went. She wasn’t going to think about it, even. Not now, at least. No, now she was going to do what she’d been wishing to do since she’d seen him. She leaned forward to taste him, just a quick lick. Just like her dream, that sound, the taste, the feel. And the way he jumped when she blew her breath across his glistening skin... He arched up toward her caress, offering himself, and she took full advantage of his position to place the condom properly. Stretching the latex circle, she eased the circle into place.

The reservoir tip pointed upward, a cap; the condom’s ring rested just below the flare of Val’s cock, cloud-white top on a red-gold shaft. She licked a long, slow line down from the latex to the man, then wrapped her hand around him at the base.

His breath hissed out in a shaky sigh, and she could feel his pulse hammering. “Mine,” she said again. He didn’t argue this time. Slowly—so slowly—she moved her hand up the length of his cock to the latex, then down again, rolling the condom down about an inch with the downward stroke. And again, and again, until he was fully sheathed.

No excess material to rest in a thick roll, no uncovered skin. A perfect fit! And, oh, how he gleamed. What had been white was now a translucent glow, like some Hollywood special effect.

“And I’ll bet it is.”

“What it is—” he moved almost too quickly to be seen, flipped her onto the bed so fast her head spun, “is my turn.”

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Friday Flash: Graham's Coffin

Day after Thanksgiving, I figured I had to have a holiday-themed piece. So I checked, and...I do, but then again, I don’t. Here’s a thousand or so words from a piece I daren’t submit—it’s borderline horror, and I have strange luck when it comes to horror fic. While it sells, it never, never, NEVER appears in digital or print. Editors leave before contracts can be signed, venues fold, sites go dark...

It’s enough to make a sea lily superstitious!

Still, submitting isn’t the whole of writing, and I thought the 10,000 calorie dinner deserved to have some horror written about it. You’re probably full, so here’s just a taste of “Graham’s Coffin”

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Pierre’s mind wandered, though his hands were busy freeing pomegranate jewels from their botanical wrapping. He thought as he worked of his love: of her slow soft smile, the curves she hid so often beneath fabric like a shroud, tender flesh in hues only Nature herself could paint. Ruby gleamed beneath his gaze, revealed only after his long effort. One perfect jewel he slipped between his teeth, firm careful bite releasing a sharp burst of pleasure so different from the everyday.

Fitting, for this was not just any day.

He’d plotted this so carefully. A myriad of foods lay waiting, soft blushing apricots approved and readied; walnuts all shelled, nutmeats holding their promises deep within their wrinkles; gold-skinned shallots, their shape oddly evocative of his love’s breasts, ready to be denuded by quick flicks of his blade.

Washing crimson from his hands, he checked the time.

A cup of tea, then; give the body time to lose its chill. He made tea properly; loose leaves, scalded-out pot, the works. Memories of her: “Wait! You just boiled that water, and you’re throwing it out?” But she’d changed her tune when she tasted the brew. Her first time, that. And theirs.

Pierre’s hands were steady as he sipped his tea, but he felt that they should shake. No man should be so happy and still calm. Shaking should be the least of it! Better, though, that his hands not quiver; his knives were sharp, and there was much yet to do.

The goose had been blanched and buttered two days before, resting since. He’d thought of her as he’d bathed the bird and trimmed it, slipped his hands beneath its skin. Would he ever be so close to her as this? And now it was time, time to see if he could free its promise—if it would become all it could be, in his hands.

He rinsed the cup, turned to the bird. To his tools and ingredients, his accomplices in this.

Ribs firm and distinct to his fingers? Yes: the celery was fresh and crisp. He chopped it, machine-gun sound an echo of his speeding heart. Brilliant green apples wept easily as he cut out their hearts with a twist, then made artistic shapes of what was left. Blood oranges lived up to their sanguine name when he quartered them, sweet-tart scented blood staining the air. The shallots yielded last, their flimsy wrappers falling away to reveal creamy flesh.

He bathed them all in Madiera, tossed them gently, let them slip through his fingers once—twice, again—all languorous, lingering. Tenderly, then, he spooned the filling into its destined home; no pie-coffin this, but a richer bed by far. A bouquet of lemon verbena and thyme and flat-leafed parsley became a brush with which he painted shallot-butter over the body.

(Brief flash of him using such a bouquet to stroke the skin in the fold of her elbow, the crook of her knee, the nape of her neck. “Am I to be cooked, then?” she’d asked him. “No, just eaten,” he’d replied.)

The goose lay cushioned on a bed of herbs, a sacrifice waiting for the fire. Gently, he slid the pan home, glorying in the untender embrace of the oven’s heat. So his love’s body could sometimes be, hot as a furnace beneath the satin skin. Hot enough to cook on, and he’d gladly lie atop her until he was well done.

A nice line—he’d need to share it. Over their meal.

Recalled to the moment, he surveyed the wreck his kitchen had become. There were sides yet to prepare, but he needed room to work. He swept the counter clear of vegetable detritus, thinking all the while of the last time she’d been seated there. “Why aren’t you a chef? You’re good enough to be.”

“I don’t like to cook for strangers. My passion is in my dishes, you see.”

She’d looked him up and down and laughed, low, satisfied. “I do indeed. A man of taste.” It was the first time she’d opened herself to him. Tart and sweet and salty, a perfect taste. He’d nibbled as much as he’d licked, as had she. On the foods he offered, and on him. Late that night, on the two at once.

He scrubbed his hands clean of every speck of dirt, then gently washed tiny potatoes with their baby-pink skins—and, laughing, indulged himself in whimsy, and cut them into stars and crosses, imagining her giggles as he worked. Would she shed her layers for him, let him see her as she was?

Would she, could she, see him beneath his? Back to the cleaning. Counters. Vegetables. Himself. (Don’t forget behind the ears! She liked to nuzzle there. And other places, too...)

Tender baby spinach, washed and patted dry. He wondered if it was, perhaps, too much. But his love was a woman with no fear of calories, and he wanted to give her the full experience. And she had, once, said something about iron. So a few handfuls of spinach went toward the salad, a few more to sauté.

He made biscuits, to while away the time while the goose cooked, dividing his dough in two and setting one half aside. The other he mixed with fine-chopped herbs, the same ones he’d used in the goose, lemon verbena and thyme and flat-leafed parsley. Some of the remaining shallot butter, too, he stirred in. The goose was far enough along to have begun to shed its fat; he drew some off and rendered it, using that to grease his biscuit tin, and smiling at her prophesied reaction.

They do say that the smell of fresh-baked bread is an aphrodisiac. And never more so than to her!

Minutes before she was due to arrive, he put the finishing touches on his dishes, draining those things set to crisp, mixing his gravy, dressing the salad with which they’d begin. Opening a bottle of wine. His breath was shallow, nerves, excitement. His ears pricked for the sound of the door.

She came in, all smiles, eyes bright and eager. Moved into his arms with flattering haste. “You smell delicious,” she whispered, and kissed him.

Her mouth tasted of wheat and wine. At first.

...

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Friday Flash: House of Cries

Friday Flash Fiction time. Not sure this needs any explanation, but in case you were wondering, The House of Pies (Houston, TX) used to be a notorious late-night pick-up joint for men seeking men. Still might be, for all I know; I haven't been there in years. And, yes, the pies were pretty good.

Story after the jump.

"House of Cries"

I am not gay. Let's just get that straight. Have a girlfriend and everything. Sure, the House of Pies caters to a swishy late-night crowd, but I go there for the food. Fact I'm there in the middle of the night with all the cruisers is just 'cause that's when I get cravings for sweets.

I'm not gay. Just hungry. And happy as a lark now, mouth full of berries. But then there's this commotion from over in one of the booths. A bunch of gays, all prettified and whatnot. Regulars; I see them here a lot. There's this one guy, dark hair and incredible blue eyes, really attractive--I mean, I guess women would like his looks, and fags. He's kind of on display, everyone else leaned in around him as he talks. Can't hear every word from here, but I catch enough. Blue Eyes is talking about what he did last night. Seems he got spanked.

Man, I knew they were sick!

But he can talk. "The bear pulled me over his leg and went to town. Slapped so fast the echoes crashed together, but I felt each and every one. I shouted and cursed and even cried a little, but he didn't react at all, just bam-bam-bam until he was done. Didn't matter how I struggled or kicked, he was a rock. When he finished..." His voice goes soft and I lean over my plate trying to hear. "--when he was done, he rolled me off his leg. And the second my hot ass hit the cold floor, I spurted. All over everything."

"What was it like? What did it feel like?" I don't know if that's one voice or more. Hell, it almost might have been me, because I really do want to ask. Not that I'm excited by the idea, but... No need to go down that road; I'm just listening to a story.

Blue Eyes is thinking, his eyes and his mouth all soft, post-orgasmic. "It was incredible. You know how it is when you're taking a really firm top, and he's slamming into you, and you feel all those muscles pressing down on your own, molding you..." His sigh calls echoes from his crew. "It was like that, sort of, only more. His body held me in place, all hot and solid like a lover, and when he spanked me...my whole body shook. Hell, you know there aren't any words! Describe cumming to a virgin."

Laughter and chatter meld into noise, clattering utensils and calls for the waiter obscuring what else might be said. But I've heard enough to wonder. Spanking. That's even weirder than two guys.

I order another piece of pie. Try not to think about what I've heard, wonder what that cute (to women, I mean) guy got out of it, being spanked. And questions spool in my head: were they naked? Was his cock rubbing between his stomach and the big man's thigh? It must have been Blue Eyes' first time, the way he talked. So how did he find this spanker? Was it for fun, had money changed hands, how do people go about setting up such a thing?

"Are you going back?"

"Three days," Blue Eyes sighs. "It's their rules."

"What?" "I don't get it." "Why?" "Spill!" I almost choke on my coffee myself, so I understand why his crew's gotten so loud. "Pax," he says, "let me get a refill and then I. Will. Tell. All." He could be an actor with that face, that voice. Girls would go mad over him.

Not just girls.

My plate's empty, but I'm not going anywhere. When the waiter comes by, I accept a refill I don't want, just so I can sit here. Wait. Listen.

"It's a very...disciplined...set-up," he says, and there's something in his voice in that one word that makes my skin crawl. "Lots of ritual. Once you step through that door, you're committed. And once you've left, you don't get in again until they say. The door-keeper told me the rules, and one of them is that you don't so much as knock until the appointed time. And if you forfeit your invitation, you're out. No second chances."

"Invitation?" the chorus comes.

That intimate low laugh again. "Invitation," he confirms, "and, oh!, very mysterious it was. A card with an address and the offer. I almost didn't go--it's a dangerous world, you know--but there are details to be had if you know who to ask. And how."

"On your knees?"

"With your mouth full!"

My head's spinning. Think I ate too much, my stomach's in knots. And my bladder's shouting to be emptied. Time to get out of here; my girlfriend's probably wondering where I am. Or worse, she knows I'm here at "The House of Guys." I don't have the strength for another round of that argument. She knows I'm not gay!

They're leaving, Blue Eyes and his fans. I hear a high, squeaky voice: "What are we going to do tonight?" He answers, "Same thing we do every night." Everyone chuckles, even the waiter standing there. Together, they recite what's obviously some sort of slogan: "Try to take the world."

Flaming much? Disgusting!

But at least the story's done, so now I can go. I flag the waiter, mime signing an invisible check. He winks at me. Just what this night needed to be perfect--not. The bathroom's in back, but I can't brave it, not tonight; there's usually some perv waiting to proposition any man who goes for a piss. Sometimes I think that's funny, but not right now.

The waiter slides the check into place and sashays away. God, why do I come here at night? If only my girlfriend could bake. My head's killing me, shooting pains behind my eyes. I can hardly see. The pie's about to make a reappearance. Fumbling some cash out of my wallet, I push back my chair.

"Your receipt," the waiter coos, pressing it into my hand. It feels thick. Another "Call Me" card, no doubt. I can't deal with it now, can't do anything but run. Outside, it's cooler, dark, and the migraine fades. I duck back into the alley to pee. That and a burp makes me feel better. Enough that I realize I've still got that stupid paper in my hand.

Why do I look at it? Why the Hell don't I just drop it to the ground? Because...because I'm curious. It's a card, all right, but it doesn't say "Call Me." It says "Come to the House of Cries." And there's a time written on it.

An hour from now.

I really should go home. My girlfriend's waiting for me...

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