Competence

If I do it right

You won’t need to beg to cum.  You will cum when I decide you will, not before

If I do it right

Your safe word will disappear along with every word you ever learned

If I do it right

The inner animal you hide from others will respond to my touch.

If I do it right

You will scream and laugh and cry as though your body wasn’t slamming against the hard wood of the table, or the cross.

If I do it right

You will dwell in the gray

If I do it right

I’ll bring you back slowly

If I do it right

I will touch your soul

If I do it right

You will wake in my arms

If I do it right

 

NOOK-Y

I have a crisp, clean twenty dollar bill.  It’s been given to me by a friend of mine for a special occasion and has one and only one string on it.  I can only spend it on books.

Not a problem.  Bibliophile I am, I run to the only book store that takes the twenty dollar bill, because hey, they made it, and I see the book I want to start on.  It’s $2.00.

Smell it.  The smell of fresh ink and paper, the feel of a new book I have never read in my hands and I walk to the cash register with my new best friend and the 20.00 store made bill and proudly set both on the counter.

“Yes sir,” the automaton behind the counter chirrups, “May I have a credit card number please?”

“I’m paying cash,” I say and point to the 20.00.  Yes, it’s printed out in the store but my friend paid 20 for it.  Real money.  “Here it is,”  I hand it to her and she smiles.

“Yes sir, I see that, and we will use it, first, please give me a credit card.”

“Why?”

“In case you buy something else.”

Trust me, I am not about to buy anything more.  Would you give up a credit card number when paying for cash at a restaurant?  At Walmart?  ANYWHERE?

Yet, this is what happened to me today.  I have a 20.00 card from Barns and Noble I can’t use.  20.00 thrown out because I can’t pay cash unless they have a credit card on file.

I asked why.

First I was told that it was a way to assure publishers I wouldn’t make copies of their books.  This is ridiculous and there is no way to enforce such a thing, credit card numbers have NOTHING to do with publishers, there is software in place to do that and the man either lied to me or was too incompetent to answer my question.

So, I tweeted.  I mentioned my joy at their impending demise, I mentioned that B&N has irrevocably lost my business (as a writer too).  Soon I was answered, NOW the story is that a credit card number is “something only the customer would know”.  huh, ok…. and anyone that found a lost card.  Anyone that stole said card.  Anyone working for a company that DEMANDS I hand card numbers over when paying cash.

By the way, there is a “secret question” when creating the account.  I would love to talk about that, but it’s a secret.  I saw a lot of “Where were you born”, “What school did your mother’s gynecologist attend”, “What’s the name of your pet fish Eric”? but NOWHERE in there was there a question about “WHAT IS YOUR CREDIT CARD NUMBER?”  The secret question is supposed to fulfill that function, NOT THE CARD NUMBER.

Yes, I cannot help myself.  I hope they fall.

AMUSE

I think my muse is a junkie.  My usual pain meds are.. well let’s just say that they aren’t working today, so I am doubling up on the “break through” meds.  The problem with that, aside from the fuzz that is currently wrapped my brain like bubble wrap, is that when I get really really stoned, I want to write.

Need to write.

When I am at work, I have an obligation to do the work for which I was hired.  I can do it stoned, it’s not that challenging, to be honest.  But I want… need to write.

So I spend the morning thinking, “Just the morning, afternoon I will catch up on the real work, the thing I’m paid to do.  In the morning I can write, but after lunch, buckle down.”

But the fuzz is still there and when I sit in front of the computer, all I can think of is the story, the tale I have to tell.  My muse comes and sits at my feet and whispers secrets I try to capture and enshrine on the pixel page.

It sounds good when I am on drugs, not forced, flowing freely and smooth as though I was only taking dictation.

She comes when I am sober, but there is so much to be done, work, moving, friends, relatives, freelance edits (more work) and the list goes on.  There are fights to be fought, rails against the forces of stupidity and codified incompetence.  Corporations managed by ivory tower dwellers handing down engraved stones for minimum wage flunkies to worship and try to convert me to their world view.

The battles never end, the obligations, the work, the pressure of living push the muse away and she leaves, bored and ignored.

But when the fuzz wraps my brain, there is time, and the world matters less and less.  When I take the medication, the muse is there again and we play and I remember what a hole she fills in me.  I take her, use her, play with her and she laughs and screams and it’s all caught in the text.

It would be so easy to become addicted, to use the drugs to push aside the reality enforced on me by virtue of birth and replace it with one of my own.  It’s tempting, not for the high, not for the buzz, but for the touch of my muse and for the rejection of what keeps us apart.

I know there has to be a way to do this sober, I know that anything I can do stoned, I can do straight, but I miss her terribly and the worst part is that I don’t even realize how much I miss my little muse until the pills kick in and she comes to me, sitting at my feet and leaning on my leg.

Reality makes me a poor Master to her, she deserves my full and constant attention.  Still, here I am today, rejecting work and getting paid, writing a story set in a fantasy land about fictional characters who are creating their own tales.  I get to watch as the words leap on to the screen and the story reveals its self like a bride on her wedding night.

This fantasy world is mine; it is gifted to me from my muse.   In exchange, tomorrow when the medication is stable again, I will spend the day typing code and organizing schedules and calling meetings.  In return for the world I am given, I reject it and plow through the one I have to be in.  Again, she will go away and wait for me until I can let her back in, until she is more important once more than the bills that must be paid, and the world that pays them.

For today, however, for this ONE day, I have my muse with me and we’re playing.  I’ll tell you all about it eventually.  Once I finish the book.

Prologe

A few years ago, I was going to write a pure sex/bdsm/romance story.  I had decent plot I’d almost forgotten.  I came across the opening of this story – and …. well, it was a few years ago; the writing could be better.

I edited it a bit, but here it is for your amusement.   Please leave a message at the sound of the orgasm:

 

Her breath came in quiet little sobs as she arched her neck.  Smothered in thick dark hair, she felt the smoothness of the fabric of the pillow cover caress her cheek.

She tried to pull herself free of the sheet that draped her body and pinned her to the bed, but it had twisted around her, caught in the sheen of sweat of her legs and tight belly.  Her hand continued its incessant probing, the restriction of the sheet making agitated motions tighter against her flesh .

Her frantic grasp split the wetness of her lower lips and reached inside her, two fingers under her folds.  Her hand ran through her moist lips again and again, her sex throbbed with the attention, her tender clitoris caught between her fingers.

She began to writhe under the cloth, passion held in check by the restraints the twisted sheet imposed upon her imprisoned body.  She reached her neck back further, straining the muscles in her back, pulling with the only part of her free enough to reach through the tangled shroud and ache for the release her body promised.

Her throat began to burn from the deep animalistic growls that came with the sharp release of the air scorching her lungs as passion demanded more and more from her body.  Her toes began to pull up and then curl, the cursed sheet trying to deny her even that.

Searing bright spots exploded behind her eyelids as she clamped them shut.  The rising orgasm caused the blood to pound in her ears.  Every nerve in her body seemed fixated on the single tender spot of her flesh.

As the crest took her, she stifled a scream, burying her face into her pillow.  Her body bucked and thrashed on the bed, her orgasm tore through her like an electric charge.

She lay on the bed in the warm afterglow, legs twitching, trying to catch her breath.  Lifting her head from the pillow, her eyes began to refocus, though her hand was still firmly clasped against her mound.

She turned her head toward the malevolent red numbers on the bedside stand and swore.

She was late for work – again.

 

pain

Let me share with you

All that I am

All that I have

Gifted to me many times over

Blood bright wrapping

Grotesquely beautiful bow

The gift consumes you

Fills you

Becomes all you are, all you have

Orgasms burn and shatter tender flesh

Life glistens wetly on the edge of a blade

Take my hand

Lose yourself in me

Only the pain is real

Agony-gasm

Light coalesces to a pinpoint
Life shrinks to an endpoint
Body arches in writhing pain
Torn throat pleading “do it again”
Orgasms that tear and burn
Emotions, sensations bubble and churn
Physical creation of emotional pain
Share with me, all one and the same
A gift I can give, one with release
Sharing anguish without grief
Connection, reflection, reaching accord
Building, releasing: a two edged sword
I grant you my pain, but from
Love I grant  you your freedom
It’s here in my arms

Deal (from Some Like It Rough)

I was lucky enough to get into an anthology with some very good people headed up by  Delilah Fawkes (@DelilahFawkes).  This story I called DEAL was later renamed THE DEAL  by the editor, breaking my irrational choice of single word titles.

The anthology is called SOME LIKE IT ROUGH and is available on Smashwords (http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91522), since the whole thing is FREE,  I am putting my contribution here. 

I suggest you get the rest, there’s some good stuff in it.

Enjoy

************************************

Arrogant Fucking Bitch.  I marshaled my expression to the business professional poker face that had sustained me for more than three decades.  I stared at the woman in the straight black skirt and the white business shirt, pretending I didn’t notice the shapely legs and the large breasts.

This was business and I was fighting for the life of my company.  I was losing.  She had a right to her arrogance, her backing and proposal was appealing to my shareholders and she’d positioned herself as the voice of reason, trying to save an impoverished and failing business.  Mine.

She’d the backing of some very influential people, movers and shakers who bought business to tear them apart and sell off the pieces.  She also had the backing of half of my stockholders, a coup she made by publicly announcing the planned purchase before even warning me that an offer was being made.

She stood, hands on her rounded hips, thighs pressing their outlines against the simple skirt, buttons straining to contain the cleavage she couldn’t hide if she wanted to.  She didn’t want to.  I had an extensive file on Ms. Chalmers, a very revealing glimpse of how a woman in her early thirties rose to such prominence so quickly.  She didn’t sleep her way to the top, but certainly bypassed a lot of steps along the way.

And here she was in my office telling me about my own damn company.  I could have strangled her.

“Twenty nine dollars per share is very generous, Bill. The company isn’t worth that much, not on paper and you know it. Your shareholders are chomping at the bit for this deal.”

“Thoughtful of you to announce it to them, Linda.”  I put as much emphasis on her first name as I could without breaking the pose.  I probably overdid it, because she looked at me like I was having a tantrum.  I suppose I was.

Twenty nine was a fair price, not a great one by any means, but fair.  After twenty years of building something from nothing, I was frankly ready to walk away and spend my days squandering the money I’d made, but I wasn’t about to knuckle under this… bitch.

“You’re going to come out of this a wealthy man, Bill.”  The voice of reason was back.

I stood from behind the oak desk and walked around to where she was standing.  Even in heels, the top of her head came to my chin.  I am tall and spend hours at the gym specifically to be intimidating to business rivals.  I loomed over her, stretching my shoulders and raising my back just a little.  It’s a cheap trick but effective.  To most people.  She stood her ground.

“I am a wealthy man, Linda.  You want my company?  Fine.  Buy it.  Thirty eight.”

“That is unreasonable, Bill.  Twenty nine is more than fair, I suggest you take it.”

I fought down a laugh.  Of course it was unreasonable.  That’s why I chose that number.  It was insane and if she’d gone for it, her investors would have mutinied and strung her up by her heels.  I would have paid to see that,

It was time to use my information.

“Tony Williams.” I said as ominously as I could.  “What did you ‘suggest’ to him?  What promises did you offer William Frasier, or Gary Hollinsworth?  I know all about your professional history, Linda, you’ve made more trips around the board room than a dessert cart.  And every one of the men you FUCKED to get where you are have crumbled at your feet like so many slavering puppies.”

“I resent that!”  Her face grew red and a vein in her neck became more pronounced.  I had made a dent in the black and white professional armor and I went in for the kill.

“Tough.  I don’t really give a rat’s ass what you resent, the history stands on its own.”

“This is business Bill,” she seethed at me, like a miniature devil trapped in her lair.

“No, Linda, this is war and you are out of your league.  My business is down, yes.  My company is vulnerable to hostile takeover.  Obviously.  But you are still in way over your head and you will get your ASS beat down.”

The flush in her cheeks seemed to take on a different hue, as though under the rage there was something else pumping the blood to her cheeks.  Embarassment?  No, it was something more primal, more visceral, when I told her I was going to “beat her ass”.  The flush covered her neck and her eyes flashed and fumed, but didn’t ever seem to quite meet mine.

“Don’t threaten me in my own office.  You may have dangled a carrot in front of some of the shareholders but there are thousands of investors and not even you can fuck that many people.”

I suppose I should have seen the slap coming.  I didn’t.  For a petite woman she hits hard.  My left cheek felt like it was on fire.  On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly expecting me to hit her back either.  She spun my head, I spun her off balance.

It was an instinctive move on my part, bizarre considering I am the one that put her off balance in the first place, but I reached out to steady her, taking that crisp white blouse in a fist.  She spun and grabbed my shirt and we stood there, a frozen tableau for a heartbeat.

The world turns on such moments.  History is won and lost in the fraction of a second when the mind can’t keep up.  Both our shirts exploded in a rain of buttons like broadsides from enemy ships.  Little pieces of plastic flew through the air between us as both shirts shredded under the assault.

I heard the ripping of cloth but I didn’t know if it was my shirt or hers, and I frankly didn’t care.  She wore a white lace bra under that top and my right hand reached into her cleavage and grasped the garment from the front.  There was no way I was going to fumble with the clasps, I simply pulled it straight up around her neck and watched as her breasts bounced free.

She was young enough and fit enough that she had no sag at all, and her breasts were somewhat large and magnificently formed.  Wide areola framed tight nipples that began to harden in the air.  I wanted to grab them squeeze them, suckle them but in the moment, I reached out and slapped the right breast hard.  Much harder than I’d struck her cheek.

She replied by reaching for my crotch.  Her hand grabbed my hardening cock in a death grip, sharp manicured fingernails cutting through the cloth and gouging into my balls.  I reached behind her and pulled her shirt down in back.  She let go as the sleeves trapped her arms behind her, and I ripped the shirt off her body and threw it to the floor.

I have no idea if it was my shirt or her bra that landed next, it became a flurry of ripped clothing and grasping, clawing hands.  I spun her around and slammed her hard onto my desk, pulling that thin skirt up over her hips and belatedly noticed that my pants had pooled around my ankles.  I didn’t remember her eager assault on my belt, but a small and unimportant part of my brain noted that the zipper was split open and those pants would never be worn again.

I grabbed the little black panties with both hands and tore them from her body, raising her off the floor before the cloth gave way.   She was wet, god was she wet.  She raised her hips to me and began cussing my name, calling me “bastard”, “asshole”, “fucker” and begging me to take her “like the brute” I am.

Even in the passion of the moment, that magnificent, perfectly formed ass made me pause.  They were beautiful twin globes with the most perfect little patch of swelling pink skin poking through like a voyeur hiding between her thighs.  Her legs were sculpted and muscular, evidence of hours spent at the local gym, another health nut like me.

I may be pushing fifty, but my chest was still as hard as when I was a youth and the muscles in my arms were corded and thick.  I worked very hard on my body and keep myself as fit as I and a personal trainer can make me.

I reached over, running my fingers through her hair, trapping her blond locks in my fist.  I forced her head to the desk, sweeping the contents on to the floor with my free hand.

My hand came down on her like the blade of a shovel.  The CRACK of my flesh meeting hers echoed in the office like a report from a rifle.  She cried out and jumped and called me a son-of-a- bitch and held her ass out for more.  The next strike made her scream.  By now the whole office had to have heard us and neither she nor I cared.  We were in this too far and nothing was going to stop it.

The two strikes to her ass made her wetter and the sexual juice was dripping out of her in long tendrils that reached to her knees.  Her swearing and cursing faltered into primal grunts and she writhed under my grasp, nipples tearing into the wood of the desk, ass raising and lowering, looking for me to take her.

My cock was ridged, painful.  I pulled my underwear down as best I could without letting her free and positioned myself behind her.  I pressed her head against the desk, leaning on it, trapping her by her hair and holding her forehead steady against the solid desk.

I slammed into her in a single motion, tearing into the wet hot pussy.  I’m not long, but I damn sure am thick.  The head split her open and I was balls deep into her before she could cry out.  She was hot, burning hot; I could feel it as her walls pulled my shaft into her.  Whatever she may have done to get promoted, or how often, she was tight, and her sex sucked me in like a greedy vacuum.

I stayed in her, relishing the feel of it, the tightness and heat, the wetness slurping at my cock that started to throb in her.  Leaning over to hold her in place I pulled out again, hearing the wet slurp as I slipped completely free of her.    She moved down the desk to follow my motion, her cunt was hungry and she needed me in her.

I obliged.

Slamming her hard enough to friction burn her nipples on the unforgiving wood, I took her again, rough, fast, hard.  Pulling back this time to the barbed head of the cock and thrusting back.  I slapped her ass again as I pummeled her pussy and pulled her hair to slide her in counterpoint to my thrusts.

The sensation of her moist walls grasping my throbbing shaft was incredible and I needed it.  It had been too long since I had fucked and I decided I was going to take her the way I wanted.  She was going to learn not to provoke the bear.

I rose up a bit to drive down her gaping sex.  The bottom of my cock dragged across her front walls, tearing through the mottled skin of the g-spot and she tensed for a moment and then gave herself to the attack

The solid oak desk began to protest under our combined efforts and the desk lamp I hadn’t swept off toppled and exploded in a rain of glittering glass.  The desk moved an inch and then again and still my cock tore into her wet velvet opening as I grunted and growled and she gasped and groaned and raised her ass higher demanding more and more from me.

I pumped harder, throwing my hips against hers, driving through her folds, pulling them out as I retreated, slamming them inside her as I took her sex.  She reached out, raking her fingernails over the veneer, leaving deep gouges in the wood and as I slammed home once again, I felt her convulse around my cock and she buried her head in her arm and screamed.

I hadn’t come yet.  It was a minor victory, but I was still pleased that I had out lasted her.  My shaft was so slick, so oiled that a new thought occurred to me.  While she was sprawled helpless on the desk, I grabbed her hips with both hands and pulled out to a moist PLOP.

I then placed the head of my aching cock at her ass.

She gasped, whimpered and growled all at once.  She reached out blindly over the desk, looking for something to brace upon but came up empty.  I took that to mean she was ready for me.

I went a bit slower this time, not the assault I used on that wet pussy, but parted the round little hole with the tip of the shaft.  Her sexual wetness let the tip slide in before I felt resistance, but her sphincter closed in over the end of the tip like a clamp.  She began to buck under me, arms flapping against the desk, ass trying to dislodge me and take me in all at once.

I couldn’t pull back out of her, my cock was trapped, caught in a soft trap.  I pressed in further, burning past her resistance, taking her ass with my cock whether she would or no.  the middle of my shaft is the widest and when I got that far she began to jump on her feet and with a wordless cry, she planted her fists on my desk and shot herself over me, taking my width in a single motion.

She sat there for a long, long moment, perhaps surprised at what she’d done, perhaps hoping to adjust to my attack.  Skewered on my throbbing aching cock, her ass gripped me like she was hanging on for dear life. Bracing herself, she began to ride me, foreword and back, impaling herself on me.

Faster, gasping, groaning, I reached over her and took her throat, forcing her to arch up in front of me and took a breast in a fist.  I held her neck, alternately choking her and letting her breathe.  The breast mashed in my fist and I slipped my arms under hers so she was little more than a rag doll in my arms.

The anger I held for her arrogance for her being right about me, about my business slammed up into her, fucking her like an act of revenge.

The tightness of her ass started to play on me, the initial moisture from her pussy was gone and the dry friction of fucking her made my eyes blur and the light began to fade.  The room grew dim, and everything I knew became the sensation of my cock in her ass.

My back arched, I brought her up with me and dropped her back to the desk as the shaft twitched and the rise of my release became inevitable.  The tip buried in her bowels, the beautiful orbs of her ass clenched as if she instinctively knew what was coming.

The light exploded behind my eyes and my cock fired into her deeply.  The hot ropy cum coated the burning friction of our union and added a little salt to seep into the raw flesh.   I stayed in her ass as the cock spasmed and twitched, releasing into her bowels and belly.

I dropped her.  She lay, spent, draped over my desk, lewdly displayed.  Her sex still dripped and as I watched, a stream of white began to slip from her ass.    The rivulet of my cum trickled over her folds and dripped onto the carpet between her feet.

I fell heavily into a chair and spent untold millennia watching her ass twitch and shiver and my cum finding its way out of her ass.  When my heart calmed down I realized my advantage and walked over to the wet bar to clean my softening cock.

She hadn’t moved by the time I returned and I checked on her, just to be sure.  Her eyes were glazed and unresponsive, but her body responded very nicely indeed.   I reached over for my destroyed slacks and fumbled the belt free from its loops.  Folded over I brought the leather down on her ass.

CRACK!  The pain brought her around in short order, but before she could react I brought it down again.  An angry red line rose up where the belt had struck and then another in perfect symmetry beside it.  “Nooooo,” she began to groan but I already had the third swing in motion and a new welt formed on the other cheek.

On the fourth strike, she came again.  The fifth kept the wave going hard enough she slipped off the desk and landed on the floor in a puddle of her own juices and my orgasm.

There was something about her laying there, naked, soaked in sex, disheveled and raw that made my cock start to rise again.  I am pushing fifty and going twice that fast used to be common twenty years ago, but a rarity now.  When she looked up me standing over her prone body and whispered “Master”, my cock shot straight up.

I knelt by her head and pulled her to my cock, placing the tip on her lips.  “Suck it clean, slave.”  I don’t even know why I said it, but she reached for me and opened her lips.  At the last moment she looked at me with the most cat eating a canary expression and whispered.  “Master?”

“What?”

“Thirty two fifty per share.  And a slave girl.”

The smile that broke across my face preceded a much needed laugh.

“Deal”

She swallowed me whole