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.

Wicked Wednesday Prompt Alice

Just yesterday I announced here that my next book Alice had been delivered to my publisher. Now, @RebelsNotes issued a writing challenge (something I cannot resist) with the starter “Alice tried to remember who had given her the key…” which was a natural tie in to the upcoming book, so here is my … prequel to the new book. The book is just called Alice and will be available when ever the publisher thinks it should be.


Wicked Wednesday


Alice tried to remember who had given her the key, but the dull iron in her palm remained an enigma she couldn’t unwrap. It had simply been there when she’d awoke and the presence of the ancient twisted metal was a counterpoint to the nerves that still sang through her from her tender sex to the flush of her cheeks.

The dream had been so vivid, so wild, Alice was sure she was hell-bound for imagining such a dire thing, but the look of that throbbing, turgid cock in front of her was so real she could even remember the dusky, manly smell of it.

He’d simply stood by her bed as though he’d always been there and always would. A large dark shadow among so many, but the muscles on his chest shone back the light of the embers that lay snuggled under the ash of the fireplace. Thick strong legs, heavy arms and a most impressive shaft that stuck on his waist like a master sculptor’s afterthought. He seemed to move with a cat-like grace even when standing still.

His hand reached for her throat and wrapped around her neck. She expected fear, but his grip was loose. He held her as though he owned her, as though his grip was a collar, his arm the leash. Alice breathed in the dream, the fear never came. His grasp, as visceral as it was, seemed oddly comforting.

Alice lifted her hips as he slid the small nightgown upward against her cooling skin. He revealed her as completely as he was revealed, all the while holding her throat as tenderly as if she were a kitten or a new born foal.

The shadow moved again, releasing her neck and taking her hips. Somehow, in the dream, she couldn’t remember, somehow he spun her on the mattress so her legs hung off the side of the bed and took her ankles in his strong grasp. He lifted her legs and lowered himself to one knee beneath her so he could lay his head onto her bare slit.

Alice jumped and squirmed when she felt his tongue touch her, squealing in the sweetness of a dream, writhing in the night’s embrace as the shadow figure drove his wet mouth over her sex and nibbled at the flaps of her moistening sex.

Shadows rose and Alice felt small and fragile under their gaze. The bed held her in down fingers and her little struggles only fueled the fire growing in her belly and hardened the silk shaft before her.

In her dream, the quiet strength of the shadow man lifted her legs and rolled her wet aching sex up to meet his hardness. She felt him part her lips, the ache and need doubling in her, making her scared and excited and wonton in ways no other wet dream had done before.

The dark shaft was hot; she’d not been expecting that. Shadows are cold, heat stealing things, but this was warm and stiff and covered with small veins. Her sex was struck by the hardness of his tip and parted. Her legs bent over her suddenly tender breasts and the sense of exposure and helplessness rose. She knew it all for a dream and counted herself clever for having made that connection.

When he thrust into her, she knew nothing more at all.

Alice fell into the bedding; her sex stretched and filled, the hot shaft sliding past her lips and invading her belly. He took her as a man takes a woman, as a conqueror takes a prize and her upward thrust to meet his only fired them both as he drove into her sex again and again.

She latched on to him as best she could, but her legs were prisoners in his grasp and the bed held her in powerful arms only a dream can explain. She lay back, helpless, vulnerable and feeling more and more aroused by her helpless state until the moment began to build in her.

It came suddenly, unexpectedly. It wasn’t a slow growth to a warm orgasm as was so often the case by her own hand, this was sudden, explosive, a violent attack of pleasure and pain in her body that shattered her thoughts and Alice felt as though for a pure moment of agonizing bliss that she was flung from her body and cast adrift in indescribable sensations and only the rapid slamming of her heart against her chest still remained to lead her back to the battered and used body that still lay twitching on the mattress.

The shattered thought lead to scattered dreams and Alice awoke with the pale reasoning sunlight scrubbing away the last of the shadows. Her nightgown was drenched and torn, her wetness had flooded the sheets and the lassitude of her exertions felt like a heavy weight on her naked skin.

Of the dream, a single moan and an old iron key were all that were left.
Alice weighed the iron in her palm and at once thought of the door in the back of her uncle’s wine cellar, the one she’d never been allowed to go into.

Tonight. She would go tonight.


The past few years have seen me in a coma, promoted, demoted, undervalued and oversold. Through all the headache, heartache and hemorrhoids, one dependable vein never stopped it’s constant thrum: “I really need to finish that book”.

Eventually, I did just that. Alice is finally complete for your one-handed reading pleasure. I gave it to My Publisher in the early brisk December and it is now in capable fevered fingers awaiting a grand release into the wild.

I wrote the concept for Alice back in the bad old days of internet censorship, a re-occurring demon that will rise inevitably again and again. And though the tide of repression ebbed and gave way to entitlement theft of intellectual property, I have no doubt that the specter of indecency will once more rise during an election year.

A vast benefit of being an unknown and invisible writer is that works often pass under the radar as being too small a fish to fry; though if someone would like to use me as an example of evil in the way of 50 Shades or Harry Potter or any of the eternally condemned best sellers, I would be honored to be your best-selling scapegoat.

I will loudly and with great flatulence announce the birth of my second child Alice, as soon as the midwife publisher has her cleaned and swaddled.