She waited for him, nude, sat comfortably with her back to the door, her face to the fire he’d laid for her to light before he left that morning. The sulfur smell from the match still stung the inside of her nostrils.

She waited until her legs fell asleep and her feet tingled. She rose, moved slowly around the small room. She stoked the fire and returned to her post.

Her cell rang. “How are you?” he asked.

“I’m okay.” Her heart sped up; a pine log in the fireplace popped and sparks sprayed and showered across the hearth.

“Just okay? Did you light the fire? Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, sir. I did, and I’m warm enough.”

“I’m running a little behind. Dress if you’re chilled. Did you eat?”

“Yes. The chicken was delicious.”

“Good girl. Are you wet?”

She paused, ran her fingers against her sex. “No.”


There was a spark of defiance in her voice. “No.”

“Okay. I have to go, but we’ll speak shortly. Stay warm, baby girl.”

I love you. She could never get the words out. The call ended, and she went and pulled the soft robe from the back of the door. She felt like crying. She’d let him down because she wasn’t wet. She climbed onto the bed and pulled her knees into her chest. She kept the phone close, but considered not answering it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him.

It wasn’t talk she needed. It was him, his arms wrapping her from behind, pinning and trapping her. Holding her tight and letting her feel and sink into his strength and presence. It was the only place she felt safe, the only time none of the bad stuff could reach her. He kept it away.

The cell phone rang, waking her. She reached for it, read the display. It wasn’t him, and she bit back anger. He had no right to be upset. She wasn’t a machine. It was his responsibility to keep her wet, and he hadn’t been here enough. Always working.

She drifted again as the clock ticked and the phone lay silent. She usually enjoyed their video chats when he had to be out of town. But tonight it wasn’t enough. She needed his embrace. To feel his ties holding her, to feel his tongue against her skin, against her…

She climbed from the depths of sleep and slowly realized she couldn’t move her arms. A flush of panic woke her the rest of the way.

“Shhh. It’s just me, Princess.”

She relaxed almost reflexively. It was his arms holding her in place, his thigh crossed over hers, the weight of him so very comforting. “You came.”

“Of course I did.”


“Nothing is more important than you, Adelaine.”

“I wasn’t wet.”

He squeezed harder. “What about now?”


She felt his whiskers on her neck, his strong hands holding her wrists crossed across her body. Then his tongue. “You’re not a machine, little one.”

“You didn’t come back to punish me?”

“No!” he sounded surprised. “I came back to hold you. You needed me to hold you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re my job, you’re the only place I belong. You’re mine.”

Her heart quieted and her body melted into his. She hoped they would never find her, never find him, hoped he would keep her safe here forever. Safe and hidden and locked away.


F4TF – Limits

I hope I’m not too late here. While I always read these posts, I’ve not yet been social enough to contribute. But, you gotta start somewhere, right?

Limits interest me. I think they do so because they are so fluid for me. And they aren’t something I thought much about before I got hardcore into writing and publishing erotica. That has opened a whole new world to me, along with numerous in-depth conversations with the friends and peers I’ve made in the genre. What a great bunch. I love it because it’s a community where it’s okay to ask anything. State anything. For the most part people are open and accepting of… well… just about anything.

For me personally, my idea of what is and isn’t acceptable and what I will and won’t do has changed dramatically throughout my life. With one or two exceptions (which I won’t say here because, well, a girl’s gotta have one or two secrets she can pull out and wave around in a dire emergency) anything I labeled as a ‘hard‘ limit was so because of fear. It was unknown. As I’ve gotten older, and (maybe) a little wiser, I’m more in the camp of, barring physical injury, I will try anything twice. And then we’ll decide which category to stick it in. (I am loving my own word play today!)

There are things I’ve tried and hated. But then I tried from a different head space and loved them. I can see those things changing with my partner as well. If there were something he really wanted to try that I initially turned my nose up at, I would follow that rule; try it. You don’t know till you do. But I know my partner, too, and if I really just didn’t like or didn’t get off on it, it won’t be enjoyable for him, either.

Why, just today, on a solo flight, I tried something I never thought I would. And I LOVED it. And no, I’m still not telling. But it is never too late to experiment, test your own boundaries, stretch yourself a little… wink wink…

Check out Food For Thought Friday and tell everyone what you think!

Inner Dialogue

“You want too much.”

How is that possible, to want too much? I want what I want, I can’t help it or control it.

“You need to lower your expectations. Understand there is no one capable of fulfilling those needs. It isn’t their fault. It isn’t your fault. It is just one of those universal ‘is’ things.”

Bullshit. Bull. Shit.

“Or you can keep expecting, and be prepared to be battered. Live your life like a heart patient on the table, chest cracked, organ exposed where everyone can watch it beat and bleed.”

These can’t be my only choices. I could just be normal.

“That is normal. It’s how humanity survives, by lowering expectation.”


“Can you do it?”

No. Yes. I don’t know. What choice do I have?

“Are you afraid of feeling?”

Yes. It never feels good. It’s always raw. Deep. It always twists.

“You could always check out.”

But I might miss something better.

“Yes. But it’s quiet over there.”

I’d only fuck it up. End up a vegetable.

“You live in fear.”

I know.

“Take things at face value. Learn to live on the surface. Appreciate those on the surface with you, and understand they’re doing the best they can. Just like you. It’s all anyone can do. And if you must go spelunking, find someone you can tie in to, someone who will wait at the top and pull you back up when you tug the rope.”

Yes. Okay.

“I’m here for you.”

Am I schizophrenic?

“No. Self-aware. You’ll be okay. Lower expectations and you’ll be fine.”

Yeah. I’ll be fine.


Such strength and grace, and you can’t help but imagine them on your skin as you watch him touch himself. He knows what feels good. Tactility, variance of pressure, of contact, fingers stroking, pulling, rubbing, caressing… the flat of his palm against his groin, reaching lower to cup and squeeze, and he asks, do you like what you see, baby girl?

His words and voice in tandem with the administrations of his long fingers is a powerful combination. The glint of gold, a road map of life experience across their backs. You want to follow them, those roads. The desire drips out of him as he pleasures, pulls, squeezes. He asks, where do you want it? On your lips, after I kiss you? Sliding between those magnificent breasts? Where? Slapping your clit? and he demonstrates, sending droplets flying, shining – Sliding into your delicious cunt? Say it for me, lover. Let me hear you say it.

Does he see as much in your hands, in your fingers as they slip over and into that cunt? Is his desire genuine or simply of the moment? You wonder if the cum he’s now milking with that same gentle unrelenting touch is because of you and what he’s thinking of doing to, with… for you right now.

His voice fades into a background murmur, and when you close your eyes and slide beneath the surf you can, for an instant, taste his bitter salt, feel him stretch you, hear the music of his voice in your ear; in this moment, you know he sees everything.


Fill me with words of lust and care, of tenderness and need; of raking touches and tongues, of praying and fucking. Worship my body, let me worship yours. Running fingertips over your skin, over your scars, touching your flaws with reverence and wonder. Everything and nothing inside this moment against your vibrating body, and the sensations sing like tenors. Taste your sweat, your blood, your tears and fears and all those years of nothing. We’re found falling into this embrace and perhaps we’ll never let go, never wash it off, never be free of the mark. Eyes like tar, a smile like hunger. Surrounded by stars and satin, push me into the goosedown with the hardness of your body, trap me here, eyes blind and limbs bound and make me yours as you are mine.

Cherish me and I will honor you. Fuck me and I will follow you. Make me forget and I will hold you here with my lust, my cunt, my lips. Stolen moments hidden from lives of normalcy. Do not let me down. Do not allow my fear. I will shelter in your breast, a secret you hold, and we’ll find it; our acceptance.

Defining Success

It is a year, almost to the day, since Erotic Passages went live. I’m not really much for sentiment… good lord, nearly forgot my wedding anniversary this past year! Holidays and occasions slip up and pass by, and with every year it seems they get closer together. I just bah humbug them and move on, for the most part.

EP is no longer for sale, but it is available for your free reading pleasure on pressbooks. Find and follow the links I’ll add to the end of this post. One day, I’ll get the site organized and put them in the sidebar. One days become some days become yeah rights…

I think about all I put into its release. I would say creation, but all I put into that is still there for anyone to enjoy. I had a lot of fun with it, with interviews, a radio spot, twitter campaigns and making new friends. I can’t view it as anything but a success in that regard. Without it, I wouldn’t have met Kat, who has turned out to be one of the most important and pivotal people in my life. For that alone it is a raging success!

Looking back, I wonder if that was its main purpose. Before we met, I was floundering. I make acquaintances easily, but I don’t make friends easily. Although something I’ve learned of myself in the past year or so is that, if a person will meet me halfway, I will be 100% present for them. Kat doesn’t do anything halfway. She’s picked me up and dusted me off this year more times than I can count. She’s been there to listen to my sorrow, my rants and raves, watched me fall, helped me struggle. She’s got a wisdom that goes beyond her years, and a bravery I envy and admire. And she fucking kicks my ass at Scrabble! I figure she’s just trying to keep me humble.

I am redefining success. Success is not in how much I netted in annual sales. Success is being surrounded by people who love you. It is being open to new experiences. It’s allowing people in, whether or not it ends well, because sometimes the most painful experiences teach us the most about ourselves.

I am fortunate to have people who put themselves on the line for me. And just as fortunate that they allow me to return the favor.

I love you guys; and each of you know who you are.

Illicit Thoughts – Check out Kat’s corner of the blogosphere.

Erotic Passages

Echoes on the Stairs

The Gentleman

His voice made me think of black velvet and aged whiskey, deep and thick and from a different era.

I saw him on the bus again. I felt like I was stalking him, but it was purely coincidence. He always sat on the aisle; if someone came for the seat next to him he stood and let them slide in then sat back on the aisle. He appeared both relaxed and poised and slightly preoccupied. If he wasn’t watching his phone he was looking forward through the front windows.

The first day I stepped on I thought he saw me. But his eyes glanced away when I caught him. I hurried by, focused on an empty seat at the back, He pulled his knee in as I passed him, and I let my eyes skim his white hair, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, and the resting elegance of his long-fingered hands.

On the third day the only free seat was on the other side of him. My heart fluttered unexpectedly. I wondered if there was something to that pheromone thing. I knew I flushed bright, but also knew it could be attributed to the cold. I hesitated just a moment and he sensed it; before I could say anything he was standing aside. I slid all the way to the window, but when he sat back down the seat seemed very narrow. Warmth emanated through his well-cut charcoal trench coat. The blue scarf set off his skin… not that I was looking. Not that sitting so close to him and smelling his aftershave was having a strange effect on parts of my body I didn’t usually notice.

On the fifth morning it was as though he were saving that seat for me. He saw me step in and stood. The first time he smiled I thought my panties would melt. He said, “Good morning,” then sat back down and returned to his phone. But the seat was smaller. His shoulder and hip pressed mine, and I found myself leaning into him slightly. He didn’t budge, didn’t give, didn’t push back. Simply stayed.

On the seventh morning and following a weekend of actually missing this horrendous commute, he stood and smiled and in that whiskey and velvet voice asked how my weekend was. I said fine, thank you, with a little stutter and what felt like a hand around my throat. He slid in next to me, no, against me, and turned slightly. He offered his hand. “I’m Sam. And I’ve been wanting to know your name for a week.”

There was no apology. He spoke softly and slowly, but there was no hint of hesitancy.

“Emily,” I said.

“Very nice to meet you, Emily.” His phone must have buzzed because he excused himself and turned away. I put my earbuds in, not wanting to encroach on his conversation.

The eighth morning was a holiday. But there he was. I wondered at the happy feeling that flooded me. The bus was practically empty, but he stood and smiled. I slid in and when he sat, he moved even closer. Then I felt his breath hot on my ear.

“Do you mind?” he said softly. It wasn’t a whisper. But no one else could have heard it; it was meant only for me. I felt the familiar warm swell between my thighs. I wondered at the image I had of turning and kissing his mouth, wondered how his white goatee would feel on my skin. Wondered how he would taste. Like velvet and whiskey and-

I shook my head. His big hand slid over my thigh to my knee and back halfway; he let it rest there. I didn’t want him to hear the ragged edge suddenly in my breath. But his touch was affecting me.

He was still speaking in a low and intimate tone. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said.

I looked up. Our faces were close and I couldn’t look away from his coffee-colored eyes. “Thanks.” So fucking lame.

But he smiled. “You’re welcome.”

I felt his fingers moving, rubbing little circles into the pinwale corduroy of my skirt. I flushed again at the thought of them slipping beneath the hem, up the inside of my thigh… I wondered if he was feeling the textured lace at the top of my stocking.

“May I kiss you?”

I swallowed hard. I wished he’d just do it, but he wouldn’t, not without my permission.

His eyes smiled, then darkened. “Just nod.”

I did, and felt his hand come up, felt him take my chin lightly but firmly in his fingers. My eyes closed.

It all stopped: the murmur of the other passengers, the roar of the diesel engine, the rocking. All I felt was the possessive grip of his fingers and the proximity of his body, all I heard was my heartbeat, all I tasted was him; first his lips teasing me so gently, the wet heat of his tongue sweeping across my bottom lip. He took me fully into his mouth, a soft suck and pull, and he opened his mouth on mine and I had to taste him.

The air brake hissed. He was gone and I was swaying, trying to catch my breath, my balance. “My stop,” he was saying softly.

I must have looked crestfallen because he leaned down, brushed my lips again and said, “Tomorrow, Emily. I’m not done with you, sweet girl.” With a smile that shone into the center of me he was gone.

I thought about that kiss constantly. An intense sadness washed over me when he wasn’t on the bus the following day, and again when I ended up having to take the two following as personal days.The memory and what it may have meant was fading. I began to wonder if I’d imagined the promise in it, or if I’d dreamed up the whole thing. Such things didn’t happen to Emily Anne Carter.

Monday found me walking to the busstop, head bent against a biting north wind. I slipped into the shelter and stiffened when arms encircled me. It was his voice in my ear. “Hey, sexy girl.”

I turned and looked at him. I knew I was beaming. I knew I shouldn’t let him know how excited I was to see him. But when he pulled me against his body his excitement was evident. He smiled and kissed me. It was almost chaste.

“I missed you,” I whispered.

“You have no idea. I want to take you somewhere.”

His arms weren’t letting me go.

“I have to be-”

“I know. Can you call in?”

I shouldn’t. They might fire me.

“Give me two hours.” His hands had found their way inside my coat, his warmth burned through my knit top. There was so much promise in those words. And he knew I was thinking about it.

Thought ceased when I felt his hand against the bare flesh of my stomach. When he pressed his hips against me and I felt his cock my instinct was to find him with my hand. The shelter was empty, for now. He slid behind me, pressing against my back. Pulled me into his body, one hand on my breast and the other sliding insistently lower. His fingers were firm, gentle, and unyielding, and I finally reached back and cupped him. His soft groan was my undoing. I kneaded and stroked him while arching into his palm, my other hand over his on top of my clothes and urging him lower. When he found my soaked lips it was my turn to moan.

“Fuck, girl. I need you. I want you to come for me, right here,” he ground against my ear.

He penetrated me with two fingers; I knew it wouldn’t take long. I wondered at my wanton reactions. The more he thrust his hips into my hand the harder he grew. The more ragged his breath became against my ear and neck, and the faster and harder he ground the meaty part of his thumb back and forth over my swollen clit, the higher I flew. I found my gaze pulled upward for a moment to see a woman and child approaching. I let go of his cock and clasped the back of his neck, my fingers digging in and the urgency causing me to gasp. He’d also seen them.

“Focus, Emily,” he said softly, urgently. “Chase it. Catch it, Beautiful, come for me.” His tongue ringed the cup of my ear and he kept flooding my aural sense until it crashed over me. I almost screamed, but found his hand, wet and smelling of sex, clasped firmly over my mouth. I exhaled and melted into him, into his solid body, his strong embrace, the scent and warmth and security of him.

As the woman and child joined us he turned me into his body, hiding my rumpled clothes and flushed face, and kissed me. I felt his cock throbbing as he drove his hips into mine. I had the urge to suck him till he came, a deep craving to feel and taste his release even as his tongue danced and played against mine.

I gazed through the dirty glass of the bus window, and watched the dirty city slip by. It had been weeks since that encounter. The cherry blossoms would be exploding soon. I wondered at my naivety, allowing myself such feeling for a man who never told me his last name.

Scouting for Interest from kittykat

For some reason, the traditional reblog snaffued on me, and so I’m resorting to the old-fashioned method of sharing. This is such a great idea to bring the blogging community together.

From Illicit Thoughts:

Scouting For Interest…
by kittykatsbitsandbobsFebruary 9, 2016

So… I have had an idea. (Yes, it happens every now and then!)

I thought perhaps it might be cool to have a feature here where I interview fellow bloggers I like.

I like the idea for a couple of reasons:

I think you all know how much I love to share great writing when I find it and I am very much in favour of us all helping each other out in terms of helping to promote each other’s work. This could be a neat way to help introduce new readers to other writers, yeah?

…Please click the above link to read the rest of Kat’s post, and throw your hat in the ring. Are you man/woman enough? 😉

This Moment

I can’t leave this darkness
or extinguish this light
I never laughed with the sinners
nor mourned you at night

I can’t beg forgiveness
for demons that lie
in wait of a soul
to mark and defile

I can’t leave your arms
or look away from your eyes
I can’t share with you truth
of a fear that won’t die

But I can kiss your mouth
and crave every touch
I can return tenfold
your raging lust

Because of all the things
I cannot do
I can rest in the breast
of this moment with you.

Dead Thing

When I met him I was in that place. That place where you realize what you hold in your hands is already lifeless, you let it die, it’s too late. But still you hold it, cradle it gently as though you might break it. Break what is already broken.

“Put it down, Anna.”

I could only shake my head and attempt to hide tears that shamed me.

“You have to.”

“But I can’t.”

“There’s nothing there.”

“It feels like there is. I still feel it.”

“It is a phantom pain, my dear.”

Like when you lose a limb. A part of you that’s always been a part of you, and even though you know it’s gone you will always feel it aching or itching.

Then there is the question of what to do with your hands. Your hands have held this thing for so long, they don’t remember how to do anything else. Now they’re empty and awkward, and oddly useless.

“You fill them with something else,” he said.

“What? What do I fill them with? What they held only comes once in a lifetime. I’ll never hold it again.”

“It doesn’t have to be the same thing. It shouldn’t be the same thing.”

“Just anything?”


“Will you give me something to fill them with?”


He leaned in and his eyes were black. His tongue traced my lips before he engulfed me fully and I surrendered. I was ready to surrender.

I still saw Aaron’s face. The dejection, the heartbreak… it would haunt me forever. I couldn’t be with him and couldn’t remember how to be without him. All I knew was I couldn’t be the reason he ended his marriage. I wouldn’t be a homewrecker. I closed my eyes at night, and a grief not my own filled my ears. I would get up and drink. The honeyed whiskey burned all the way down, but it dulled the wailing.

I pulled back. “Will you stay?”

“Of course.” He wrapped me in his arms and I wished he would never leave. He would. By morning he would be gone, leaving me with the memories of caresses that only lit deeper fires, kisses that fanned them, and the brand of his mouth on my skin.

Leaving me alone with this dead thing in my hands.