On Hooking Up

I wonder if it might surprise my readers to know that I’ve never done a random ‘hook up.’

This was brought to mind by the TMI Tuesday prompt today, which I was intending to participate in. But given the subject matter, well, there’s nothing to tell.

I have often wondered if my lack of hooking up is simply a matter of poor logistics/opportunity. The majority of my characters, which in a sense are just extensions of my own buried psyche, would be all up in that shit, and often are! But I think what it comes down to is, without an emotional connection, there is no sex for me. I can’t use a man’s body without wondering about his mind, his heart, his past life, his future dreams. And I can’t give myself without those parts of me coming out. Because sex is mental. Yes, that goes there, or there, or there… but if I’m not connecting with you on another level, there won’t be any enjoyment. And likely a whole lot of regret.



This was an incredibly difficult call, because there was something in every piece written that spoke to me. Every glimpse made me want to pull the curtain back further and know a bit more about what was going on. But when it came right down to it, I chose She’s Lost in the Subway’s Sheets. She transported me so completely with crisp imagery, and an enviable brevity.

I urge you to check the comments on Join Me?, though, and read all the stories. And I hope you’ll join me again, for this week’s prompt and challenge.


Lost in the Subway

Challenge piece, a new scribing that I am enjoying, in this instance from the voluptuous Dark Night Chronicles . I’m new to writing challenges. It’s a bit daunting, but a whole lot of fun.

I started at the corner, because it had already lost its grip. The ridges and valleys spread out before me, arranged in waves shaped like David: long limbs, bent with the bliss of sleep. Just an hour before, he’d warmed the ridges and valleys, after he’d burned his touch onto my flesh.

And now, as I bent to pull away the sheet that still held his shape, I paused. At first, one knee, then another, my arms stretching toward the place where his head had rested, gathering and wringing the white cotton, losing myself in the chypre fog.

My body called to him, as I wrapped myself in the sheet, and closed my eyes. It would…

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Masturbation Monday – Memory


You got me going with your words, that picture. The image of your mouth kissing the soft flesh overflowing the cups of my bra. You started it.

You carried it on when you licked a nipple through lace. Then you sucked me in, bit down, and I was a throbbing, slick bundle of nerve endings.

When my hand slipped beneath my waistband, my fingers meeting curls, then that lovely, soft, freshly shaven flesh, I gave you a look that said back off. I turned away from you, on my knees on the neatly made bed, and I bared myself and you watched, you watched while I got lost in the sensation. As I came the first time, I felt your thumb slip into my ass. I exploded.

I fell forward and lay panting, moaning, still caressing my swollen self, and I felt you, your breath first. Then your tongue, your mouth, as you licked from my fingers, up across my wet opening, to my– I started to protest, but your hand on my buttock, squeezing hard, your fingers biting  into my soft flesh, and I in turn, bit down on the words. You did it again, a long, slow, lazy lick. You were drinking me, teasing me. And rather than subsiding, the throbbing ache built, and my fingers searched out my engorged clit and began again.

The second climax rolled like thunder when your tongue penetrated.
At the memory of her last sentence, his cock jerked in his hand and the breath and sound left his body. It was a momentary release from the sorrow, a momentary memory of the kind of person she’d been – fearless, generous, sometimes a brat and a bitch, but always the only woman he’d ever love completely.

He laid for a moment, then picked up the dog-eared paper from the bed at his side and pressed it to his lips. It was the only way sleep ever found him these days.

Inspired by this beautiful image. Thank you, Kayla!

Character Sketch – Domme

I dreamt of being accepted to the Spanish Riding School in Vienna when I was young. I dreamt of falling in love with an instructor who looked like that hunk from that cop show where the beaches were always white, the water blue and the girls nearly naked. I dreamt that he’d marry me, and on our wedding night, surrounded by misty white tulle, he’d ravish me sweetly and possess my hated virginity, and all would be right and perfect with the world.

I look at the boot, the shining black leather of the upper as I zip it up my thigh. It squeezes. Fuck, I hate my body.

But they don’t.

I have four appointments today. None of them will look like the television cop. But all of them will look at me like I am their queen. All of them will do as I say, or will risk discipline. And all of them will make my heart ache with the desire that just one of them might look past these trappings of leather and lace, and see a little girl with dreams.

I turn to look at him, kneeling on the carpet, and my mask holds my face.


This is the continuation of John and Carolina’s story. You can get their backstory by following the links below.

The Carousel


It was accidental, the first time they slept together. He thought that was a silly thing to call it, since there was no sleeping and it was the middle of the day.

He’d seen her van pull past him in the parking lot- he didn’t think she’d seen him though. People were keeping their cash and their bags to themselves on this particular afternoon, and it had been nearly five days since he’d last seen or heard form her. He left his post and followed her up the aisle.

She didn’t get out. As he walked, dodging people and shopping carts and cars jockeying for spaces, he began to worry. Worry was one of the few things he did well.

He tapped on the passenger window. “Carolina?”

The door locks popped. He pulled the handle and got in beside her. She wore those oversize sunglasses that were in again, so many years after Jackie O.

“You okay?” he ventured.

“You want to go somewhere?” She didn’t await an answer. “Let’s go somewhere.”

As she turned the key he glanced in back for the boys. It was empty. He sensed it better not to ask, and instead fastened his seatbelt.

“Are you hungry?”

He was always hungry these days, or so it seemed. “I’m okay.”

She smiled. Her black hair was pulled back in one of those loopy half-pony-tails. She wore a pretty, loudly colored blouse that fit loosely but still managed to accent her curvy figure, the neckline plunging low to reveal the milky soft flesh above her breasts. He could see a bit of black lace peeking out, and he looked away quickly. He wasn’t into pushing in on other men’s wives. Even when those men were undeserving.

“Burger?” They were pulling into a fast-food drive-thru.

She parked the van at the very back of the lot after getting their food, under a naked myrtle tree. She cracked the windows before killing the engine.

The smell of French fries filled the car. He ate everything she gave him; partly because people had been stingy lately, and partly to fill the space between them.

When they finished, she still hadn’t removed her glasses, or even looked his way. But she finally said, “Where do you live, John?”

He felt embarrassment. “I rent a room. On Merck’s Ave.”

She nodded. “Do you like it?”

“I hate it,” he smiled. “But it beats the alternative.”

“Sleeping rough.”


“Have you had to do that before?”


She was quiet. Then, “I’m sorry.”

He wanted to take her hand, or at least see her eyes. “Don’t be.”

“Life sucks, John. A lot.” She removed the glasses, and he saw the fresh pulsating purple bruise almost swelling her eye shut. He tried not to react. It proved impossible. “Jesus. Honey. What the fuck?” he whispered.

“I didn’t come out to shop today.”

He gathered his nerve and reached for her hand. She didn’t refuse.

She finally met his gaze head-on. “I wanted to see you.”

He processed that for a moment. Her words made his heart lurch and his palms sweat. They made his penis stir. She did that often, though.

“I like seeing you and the boys too, Carolina.”

She looked away. “I think you misunderstand.”

There are those moments in a man’s life that stand out as pivotal. Firsts. First kiss, first love, first base, first fuck. Bad ones too, like the first time he realizes he’s not invincible. First rejection, first heartbreak, the first time he sees all that talk about dreams and following your passion is bullshit.

This was one of those moments. Perhaps it even over-shadowed the ones that came before. And before he knew it, he was leaning in for their first kiss.

Her hands came up, cradled the back of his head, and her mouth was hot and wet and tasted like fries and Coke. It was more than a stirring he felt; in spite of medication and age and being out of shape, he wanted her, was ready for her like he hadn’t been in years.

This moment was pivotal.

She pulled back, and mascara ran with the tears over her cheeks. He thumbed them away and only created a bigger mess, but it just made her more beautiful. He put his lips on her black eye, kissed it tenderly, wishing his touch could take away the pain.

She smiled gently. “That feels nice.”

Then she was pulling him into the back, pulling that pretty blouse over her head, and opening a world he never expected he’d be granted again. Not with her. Not with Carolina.