Guest Post

I have a wonderful guest post today, from Lacy Grayson writer of the LUX stories and more.  She’s offered to grace my blog with this gem, Enjoy:

Running from my own wedding was something I thought I’d never do.
Especially not my wedding to Julian. I’d worked to long and to hard to get
to that point with him. But, somehow when Trevor said ‘let’s go.’ I
couldn’t run fast enough.
We slowly walked out of the church, everyone thought we were grabbing a
quick smoke. After all, wedding jitters.
We ran across the lawns the back lawns where my family wouldn’t be looking.
He hailed a taxi after we’d been unnoticed after two blocks. My heart beat
like a caged animal in my chest.
Once inside the cab, Trevor told the cabbie to take us to JFK airport. As
the cab picked up speed I felt Trevor’s teeth in my neck. Desire overtook
me I moaned sliding onto his lap.
“My whore.” He whispered in my ear. I could tell the cabbie heard by the
arch of his eyebrow. I didn’t care I was Trevor’s whore.
I demonstrated this by spreading my legs as his hand rubbed my excited
cunt through my thong. I wiggled my ass eagerly loving his growing hard
My lips found his in a very wet sloppy kiss, we were giggling like
children as my hands moved like a well oiled cock hungry machine
unfastening his fly. Freeing his beautifully thick and diamond hard cock.
Deftly I lifted my long bridal gown’s skirt. Moving on top of it rubbing
against him feeling his fuck stick through my satin thong. To me this is
the most arousing thing in my sexual play book at this time.
Trevor cut my fun short pulling the cloth aside, sinking his cock deep
inside my warm slick pussy. My loud moans filled the cab. By now Trevor
was just displaying me and his control over me to the cabbie. Trevor
lifted my skirt’s back so my round plump ass was exposed
“Shake it baby, shake it for Daddy.” Trevor growled in my ear. I moved my
ass side to side and back and forth over and over. Riding his cock like
the fucking Kentucky Derby.
A screaming orgasm ripped through me sending off Trevor’s cock on the
floor. Trevor’s cum squirted on the hem of my dress. His laughter boomed.
Needless to say the cabbie didn’t make us pay.


<Begin Rant>

I love writing. I must.
The soothing scritch-scratch of the pen nib across smooth paper or the martial beating of the keys on the computer are soothing and if I am not careful, I will lose myself in their siren call.
Words stand in audition, nervously waiting for me to choose the right one here, place one there. I love to see an entire chapter change by the use or exclusion of a single word or changing the emphasis on a sentence.
When I am done, I’ve entered a zone that is very zen-like, something akin to the null space a masochist will feel when the sensations are done right and the trust she feels with her Master can overtake the natural fear she has of being so helpless.
Writing is freeing. Having writ means nothing.
It’s as appealing as a used condom. There is something I wrote in passion and in tenderness or rage or humor, my emotions are expunged and laid waste on pixelated paper. So be it.
Others tell me that my writing is “good” or some similar words, so I post them, collect them, sell them, give them away. I write within what I believe: safe, sane, consensual unless it’s a total barbaric fantasy, even then I tone it down because BDSM should be about the relationship, not the toys.
And the crickets deafen the landscape with their unafraid chatter.
A boi who claims to be a man, a child in Master’s clothing posts an article where he’s abused a girl uinder his control while she was tied and blindfolded by betraying her trust, and the entire community flocks to that site to roundly (and rightly) condemn and assure each other that we’re not like that. During the battle cry of the misunderstood, someone will raise a voice and cry into the night “WHY ISNT THERE ANYONE WRITING HEALTHY STORIES?”
I cant DRAG anyone to my blog. I post a link and people start bitching about spam. I reply to the whining cries with “I AM!” and then it becomes unwanted advertising for my product. I don’t even monetize the blog.
The kink community has joined the conservative Christian community in a single effort: making sure that the movie Fifty Shades of Gray is advertised over and over again to as many people as they can reach. Why? Because it shows the bad side of BDSM, the controlling, misogynistic use and discard of a person.
Why is there no one writing healthy, grammatically correct stories of BDSM? Because no one reads that.
When a “friend” from a social media site looks me in the proverbial eye and asks “why is there no good fiction or advice from a Dom?” I throw my hands up in the air and walk away.
I have five views on my blog. My big article was about FSoG. I had 32 people visit because I talked about someone else’s bad writing.
Why are there no good stories? Every Wednesday, #WickedWednesday comes out with DOZENS of intelligent well-written stories, articles and even pictures from people who DO understand what it means to live in the shadows of loud ignorant people who espouse the same titles as we do. FSoG and this idiot boi who blogs like a 12year old failing English and posts his pict like a twilight angst model for acne medication are the kink community version of Westboro Baptist Church: an insane fringe of media sluts that make us all look like idiots.
Why are there no good stories my dear friend? Because you have no interest in them. Because they don’t make you mad. Because you forget you’re lamenting in the face of one of MANY who TRY to maintain some dignity and respect for the same life style you’re trying to keep out of the mud.
I love writing. I must.
I certainly don’t do it for the money.
I certainly don’t do it for the recognition or the fame.
I could easily write something that goes against all I believe in and write it like a highschool dropout. Imagine not having to go back and edit. What a time saver.
But if five people in the world are going to read what I write, then I am writing for me. I don’t want to read FSoG, or blogs by Billy the Dom. I have little enough time fighting insurance companies, Comcast, and other organized stupidity. I’ll write for me, and you’re welcome to read along.
But if you ask once more why there are no good stories, you’re no one I want to know.
</end rant>

(by the way, I didn’t edit this. This is a rough draft. Maybe that’s what I needed?)

p.s. a little editing here and there. I couldn’t stop myself.


Somewhere in the near distance a lone saxophone moaned a sensual melody.

Her heals tapped the wooden floor in a measured step, mis-step and step.

The concussion of her heart, syncopating with the blood throbbing in her ears, heated her face and the warmth of the blush prickled her skin under the blindfold and chilled her naked flesh.

She held to the steps, the left, the right, the slide, the spin under his firm lead. She dove into the music, into her Master, putting from her mind the blindfold she wore, the clothing she didn’t.

Heals click, slide. Hands on his suit, move under his touch. Sway in the caress of the music, hold on to him. Breathe his scent, touch him, feel his lead.

The world faded in the slow cry of the sax, the blindfold taking away prying eyes. Only the next step, the one that matches, compliments his, the next breath, nothing more. Turn, face away from him, his arm under her breasts pressing close as each sway and movement rises above the real and into his sphere.

Lean in to his strength, free of self, free in his control, in his lead. His arms become her gown, his lead her will. Slipping away from empty crowds, bringing to the dance her sex, soul and essence, displayed for him, for her, for none. Slowly she adds to the dance, bringing in risks and challenges as she feels him smile, the approval in his arms and in the warm chuckle as she lets herself flaunt and shine in the sudden turn, the raised leg, the smile that shines from under the mask.

Naked becomes nude, vulnerable becomes ascetic, and the music protects her and binds her to him and him to her. No fears, no shame. He holds her, loves her and for the dance, in his arms, she sees what he does, she sees her beauty, her passion and the sensuality of her limbs as she writhes, supple and assured.

He thinks she’s beautiful.

She believes him.

In the blindfold.

In his arms.

Wicked Wednesday


Now that Alice is done, I have started on another tale. This one is post-apocalypse inspired buy the 70s classic novel A Boy and His Dog. There is a character who shows up for half a page, the leader of a Mad Max style of renegade survivors and then disapears from the story completely.
In the vein of leadership (See Wicked Wednesday below), I took that minor character and fleshed him out just a little to get an idea of what his life and leadership were like.
Here is a character study from my next tale.

The torches stank. Wood was scarce, everything was scarce. Old oil was all there was left to burn. Even that was beginning to fail. Soon their stockpile of food would begin to dwindle and they would have to move on, but there was nowhere to go. Sancha brooded on that again. His dark thoughts seemed to move in endless circles.

There were hundreds of men and their women who looked to him for leadership. Hungry, dirty, desperate men that found an anchor: something – someone – on which to pin their fears and hates and desperations. Him.

He needed to worry about food, about protecting his people from the outside and from themselves. He needed to plan, to organize, to survive, but the girl wouldn’t leave him alone. She stayed in his head and refused to leave him in peace.

Standing in the infernal obelisk, naked, afraid, trembling, she’d looked at him like a trapped animal. But in the fear, in the uncertainty, something wanted to trust him. Something in that matted and bedraggled, beautiful girl needed him.

Raul knew. Of all his chieftains, Raul knew him best, Raul stood by him. Raul was a friend, a confidant. Raul would have to be killed someday. Sancha knew it, Raul knew it. No one stands that close to the throne.

“You know she has to be shared.” Raul said without preamble. No need to ask who “she” was, Sancha had been silently brooding on that image in the obelisk for days. “It’s the law.”

“It’s the law.” Sancha echoed hollowly. “But she’s down there now. There is food there, food and gas and oil and light and all we ever need. She will show us how to get there and how to take what we need from them.”

“Why are you so sure she’ll be back?” Raul hissed.

Sancha looked at his younger brother. Was today the day he died for his familiarity?

“Because I don’t want to imagine her not coming back” Sancha growled.

Raul nodded, turned and said no more.

Today he would live.


Last #wickedwednesday I was late, so this week I’m early to make up for it. The prompt this week was “leadership” and there were a few ideas that came to me, but this one is based on something I wrote a long long time ago.
For this week’s assignment, I wanted to describe a leader by defining the follower.
I’ve been playing with the idea of a succubus, something dark and dangerous.
I chose my succubus because, quite frankly, the girl won’t leave me alone. :-)

The greatest Masters have the strongest slaves.

Soft footfalls curse the earth
Smoke rising from each step
Leathern wings frame naked flesh
Raven hair shrouds frozen eyes
Promise whispered in hot flesh,
Betrayal in blood-tinged smile.
Wrapped in sister night
Long legs smite the soil
Seduction smites the soul
Naked to the night, invulnerable in her power
Strength flows through her unbowed back
And pride drives her steps.
She strides in her right before me
Gathered storms in her wake
Lightning curls and thunder growls
As she kneels
And calls me

Wicked Wednesday


Whispering shadows watch
As naked on a sepulcher
Strapped and tied
Spread and opened
She lay shaking among them
Displayed, vulnerable
Within reach of the shapeless
Figures in the dark
At the mercy of shadows.
Telltale pearls of wetness
Moisten the swelling mound
Fear and arousal mix, mingle
As the whispers come to her
From the depths of the gloom
Shadows hushed
The sound of footless shuffling
Then the first touch
Of many

Wicked Wednesday

endings (Horror)

Nothing sexual here today. Today is a touch of horror.

So many things she hadn’t expected: the actual slicing wasn’t as painful as she’d thought, but the lukewarm water that sluiced in her open veins and brought her blood into the tub was a constant ache as though it ebbed and flowed with her awareness.

Her mind was sharp and aware as her life flowed out into the water, but her body had already chilled and shut down. She’d long passed any change of heart, her body was gone, her eyes glazed, but her mind still clung tenuously to the life she’d rejected.

The single bare bulb dimmed and her vision floated on the top of the red water. Amazingly, she could still see, could still think, but her body was gone, hollowed and drained of life. She began to wonder how long she would have to wait, how long would she be trapped in a rotting husk laying in thinned blood in a cheap bathtub.

A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. She fought down a surge of frustration, whoever it was was too late anyway.

It moved again, but not in a way that would indicate someone coming, more like the shadow… grew. It rose and formed and a shape pulled itself from the heart of the blackness. As her dying eyes focused on the image that formed before her, she screamed and thrashed and ran, but her body was already gone and she couldn’t move, couldn’t run, couldn’t scream.

When it reached for her naked flesh, the malicious grin splitting its face and the bile dropping from its jagged teeth, her soul shrank from it, but she was trapped in her flesh and the great claw pulled her irrevocably to itself.

The greatest, most futile fight of her tortured life ended in silence.