Micro Fiction Monday: Crumbs

After every fifth bite you take, I want you to find a way to drop some food on the floor. Anything will do, even a crumb or a single pea.

It seemed like such a small, simple, silly thing when you said it. Yes, we were in public, but I've been out to eat with a remote-controlled vibrating egg up my ass. I've been out with a full-on karada under my clothes, I'm no stranger to naughty little secrets. This? This is just nothing, right? I mean, it's like you said: just a bit of fun, reliving that that sneaky, misbehaving thrill you had feeding your dog what you didn't like off your plate when you were a kid.

Bite number four.

You're starting at me from across the table with that nakedly hungry look in your eyes. Do you know how much this is making me squirm? My cheeks are burning, they must be a brilliant red.

Bite number five.

I pick up my napkin to wipe the sweat from my palms. How am I going to pull this off? I wonder if you actually knew how hard this was going to be, if you knew how frustrating it would be to me to have to be a bad restaurant patron in order to be a very good boy. There's a grain of rice, there, on the very edge of my plate facing me. Maybe, if I brush against it just like that when reaching for my next bite...

Back to bite one again.

Having to count each bite isn't helping. Keeps me constantly aware of what you expect me to do. Counting each forkful, ticking off the seconds before I throw my food on the ground again like a child.

Two.

I'm already trying to figure out how I'm going to engineer “accidentally” dropping the next morsel, nudging some crumbs from my roll to the edge of the bread plate for easy access.

Three.

My shaking hands make the silverware patter against the plate when I cut my next bite of chicken. I manage a smile your way, and I think I see approval in your expression. I definitely see lust, enough to encourage me to keep going.

Four.

I make sure the errant breadcrumbs land on my napkin, so that...

Five.

...I can let them drop to the carpet when I put my napkin on my lap. Thank goodness for the double benefit of covering the evidence of how turned on I am.

My heart is racing, I take a few deep, long breaths to try and calm myself down enough to continue. How many more groups of five bites, do you think, until the meal is finished? I lose count, focusing only on the litany of one, two, three, four five, drop. Over and over.

I'm getting bolder. This time, I drop a nice, big slice of red pepper. The woman across from me sees me do it, and gives me a look like you'd give a bad puppy who'd just peed inside. You see it, too, though, and her sourpuss face can't compete with the look you get when you're about to burst into laughter out of pure joy. I'm okay, I can do this. If I don't spontaneously combust first. Why is it so hot in here?

Another couple of grains of rice.

A tiny sliver of chicken.

A little glob of butter. Crap. That one really was an accident.

And finally there it is: one last bite and my plate is clean. All that's left to drop is a tiny curl of onion, easily knocked off the fork when I bring it to my mouth. Done.

I offer to go pay, please please let me. I need to get home, now. To be at your mercy, to let you quench this insane fire you've kindled in me. At your nod, I go first up to the counter where they keep the debit machine. You stop to tie your shoe before you join me. I hope I'm the only one who notices that it wasn't actually untied to begin with. When you get back up, there's a swagger in your step that wasn't there before.

The cheque is paid.

Take me home now, Sir, please?

Microfiction Monday: For Skywatcher

Yeah, yeah. I'm buying into the commercialism and being sappy on February 14^th. I willingly accept all “cool-demotions.” This is for Skywatcher, my amazingly sexy, wonderfully patient and infinitely loving partner of many years. He was the first to post a suggestion to my contest page, and the only one who hasn't gotten his story yet. Yes, this microfiction is indeed about me and him, but no it has never actually happened. It could have, though!

*****

It started off as an absolutely perfect launch, and I was silly enough to say so and jinx it. The rocket's ascent was flawless, weather cocking just right into the incoming breeze so that it would have to travel back in the wind's direction once the chute opened. And open it did, also perfectly, which is when I decided to push my luck and comment on how nicely the flight was going for a certification high-power flight. Fate replied to my taunt by changing the wind's direction just as it caught the enormous parachute, sending it flying at a nice brisk speed directly away from us.

The LCO chuckled, and commented that it looked like I had a walk ahead of me as he passed me a two-way radio. You just grinned and said you were hoping for some exercise today anyway. Glad for a second set of eyes, I took off, squinting into the blinding afternoon sun as I tried to track the runaway rocket's trajectory. Suddenly that dorky wide-brimmed cowboy hat that I teased you so mercilessly for buying at the Irving on the way to the launch didn't seem quite so ridiculous after all. Even with a hand shielding my eyes, I wasn't having nearly as much success as you were keeping track of the errant missile.

It only took the rocket seven or eight minutes to land, but it was a good half hour of tromping through the brush before we reached it. Fortunately the company was pleasant. The rocket was hidden in scrub brush ahead of us, but I had cleverly covered the six-foot diameter parachute with glitter and it sparkled and shone in the bright sun like a beacon. I picked up speed and skipped over to make sure that the landing hadn't damaged my rocket, and I think I heard you snicker your amusement at my sudden excitement.

Perfect landing, the thing was unscathed, but there was still one more thing left to check. For high-power, this was at the very bottom end of the scale, but it was capable of much higher and faster flights so I'd set up a test payload in the electronics bay to make sure it was properly shielded. No way was I putting a hundred-dollar tracking device in a rocket that was just going to melt it first time it went up. I popped open the compartment, and pulled out the plastic Easter egg filled with M&M candies. Not even warm. I grinned up at you.

“See? Melts in your mouth, not in your rocket!”

I popped a handful into my mouth, and your amused grin turned into something more. You crouched down beside me, wrapped me in your arms, and our mouths met. I love that kind of kiss–when time just grinds to halt and nothing exists except the two of you...and the now two mouthfuls of melting candy. Seconds or forever later, you pulled away just a smidge, enough for us both to catch our breath.

“Hm, I guess you're right. You know... that was a pretty freak burst of wind back there, bringing us out here into the middle of nowhere. I bet the chance of another rocket heading out this way is pretty tiny.”

My shirt was already off before you finished the sentence. I went back to devouring your mouth while you fumbled with your buttons. The stupid hat was long gone so I could rub my hands through your super-short hair, loving the bristly feeling in my hands. I was in full on can't-wait-another-second-for-more contact arousal when the two-way crackled.

“Heads up, guys. Incoming in your direction.”

Damn. Jinxed it again.

Microfiction Monday: Excerpt from Wonderland

The short story that this is excerpted from is very, *very* short, and so is this teaser! The rest of the story is available now in Rachel Kramer Bussel's delicious anthology "Gotta Have It" which is available NOW from the link above! So exciting!

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

The drawback to assigning thirty-page term papers was that someone had to read and grade them all. Since the faculty thought a class size of twelve didn't merit a TA, that someone was me. I'll know better next semester, maybe a five-minute speech instead.

The grading wasn't going quickly, either. Over an hour in and I was only finished two, and not even halfway through the third. This was going to eat up my whole Saturday and maybe more besides. Thank god for Cara. Not only had she closed off the dining room, turning it into a study for me for the day, she'd been keeping interruptions at bay and even making sure I had a bottomless cup of tea on hand. Damn, I loved that woman.

Speaking of tea, I hadn't even touched the last cup she'd brought. I picked it up to take a sip, and noticed something on the table behind the cup—a blue and white clay poker chip with a pink heart in the middle. I shook my head. I didn't have time for funny little mysteries, so I went back to the paper I was grading. “Why Britney Spears should be included in the feminist movement.” Spare me, please.

The french doors always creaked a bit when they opened, and I looked up to see Cara come in, looking scandalously sexy in nothing but a Femmes Rebelles t-shirt and panties. I was a bit distracted by legs long enough to belong to a dancer's, so it took me a minute to realize that she came bearing gifts—a plate of still-steaming chocolate chip cookies. I shared my life with a goddess. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and headed back out to let me grade in peace.

“Let me know if you need anything, Baby.”

I grinned like an idiot, blew her a kiss, and went to reach for one of the cookies...Wait a minute. There was a second poker chip stacked on the first.

“Car...”

She stopped at the door, but she didn't turn around. I took a second to admire her lusciously rounded ass.

“I give. Whats with the secret poker chip deposits?”

She turned around then, and her sky-blue eyes danced with mischief and glee. Her smile looked fit to split her face in two.

“I can't tell you, but I can show you, up in the bedroom. But not until you finish the paper you're working on now.”

She shot me a wink and left for real this time, with a tease of a wiggle.

MFM: Excerpt from Weight of Duty

As mentioned in my last post, Uniform Behaviour is newly out, and we're all doing our best to promote it, so we can make piles of money for Help for Heroes! (and well maybe a little for us hard-working writer and editor types, too!) In an effort to entice you to do just that, I've posted a little tease from my story in the anothology, The Weight of Duty. Enjoy!

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Once we managed to find it, McNally's turned out to be a really nice place. It was only half full, which I had been led to believe would be impossible to find during Tattoo week, and they had a surf and turf on special for only fifteen bucks, which included an enormous whole lobster and quite possibly the most delicious steak I had ever tasted. We each got one, and a local beer called Keith's Pale Ale which turned out to be really good, too.

Lisa was really good company. In between her smart-assed comments—which, to be honest, were starting to give me one hell of a hard-on—she told me a little bit about what it was like to play in a pipe band, and how to pretend to be listening to someone when you've get heavy-duty earplugs in to preserve your sanity. In exchange, I told her a little bit about being on the gun running team, and explained that “Gunner” wasn't actually some amazing title you got for sniping enemies, but was really just the equivalent of a private in the artillery. To her credit, if she was disappointed to hear it, it didn't show.

She let me pay, which was a nice surprise, and once we made it out of the restaurant, she used the front of my shirt to pull herself up on her toes and me down low enough for her to suck me into a mind-blowing hold-nothing back devour every inch of me kiss that left me dizzy. She tasted like steak and beer, which was really fucking hot, and she smelled like lobster, which was, well...not. So did I, for that matter, and I suggested going back to my bunk to clean the fishy-smell off us. Thompson would be out getting shit-faced, as was his daily ritual, and wouldn't be back until at least 2 am, I promised.

I won rock, paper, scissors and got the first shower. The cheap motel bathroom was kind of dingy, but the water was hot and clean and fresh and felt amazing pelting my naked skin. I knew enough to bring my own body wash with me instead of hoping that the dives the put us up in provide tiny little bars of crap soap, and the rich lather on my cock and balls was almost one stimulation too many after an evening out with Lisa.

I was still debating whether a quick jerk-off was a wise move considering how close I was to coming already when she decided to join me. Clothed, Lisa was pretty fucking hot. Naked, she was like a miniature goddess or something. Every inch of her skin was the same creamy peach, there wasn't a tan line in sight. Hard pink little nipples pointed straight up from tits that were just the right size to fit in a hand each with nothing left over, which I didn't waste a minute doing, getting her as lathered and wet as I was. She didn't shave her pubes, which was a relief to me since I always felt like a creepy old dude whenever I fucked someone who was clean-shaven down there. They were blond, which explained the blue eyes, and she purred like a kitten when I soaped them up.

She pulled in close to me under the pelting water, and took my cock in her one hand, grinning up at me when she produced an unwrapped condom in the other. I leaned down to kiss her, then, guiding her arms up around my neck so I could roll it on. As nice as her hand had felt, I needed more than that right then, and I reached around to cup her ass in my hands—oh my fuck she had the most perfectly grabbable ass there ever was—and lifted her onto my cock. We kissed again, and she wrapped her legs around my waist and writhed against me like crazy but at these angles, this was just a tease. Don't get me wrong—having her moulded to me like that felt really fucking good, but there was no changing the fact that the lower half of my cock was pinned between our bodies instead of buried in hers, which is what we were both starving for.

Microfiction Monday: Trussed

Okay, I know. It's Thursday, but um... Thursday is the new Monday, right?  RIGHT? I finally have my computer back in my happy little hands, and I shall celebrate by giving you some smut. Voila!

~~~~~

Trussed

      I know your type. You clean up nice, and you turn the charm up to 11 for everyone in the room in a skirt and heels, used to having them eat out of your hand. And why not? You're gorgeous, and smooth, and generous both with compliments and drinks. It's just your bad luck that I decided to wear the heels tonight instead of my shit-kicking stompers. Well, I say bad luck, but if we're being perfectly honest, you're looking a bit flush. I wonder— if I plucked your packer out of your jeans right now, how slick would I find the base? 

       Damn. I love it when you growl like that. Nothing like it. I could sit back and watch you struggle and fight all day, as long as I left myself a few breaks to get myself off. You look just beautiful all trussed up like that. Especially when you shoot me that look, yes that one: lust and fury and pain, all at once. Even more than I like that angry hiss when my belt hits again across the lovely curve of the back of your shoulder. I know my way around a knot, you know, you're just going to tire yourself out.

      If I let you know how delighted I am with you right now with a chuckle, will I get another growl from you? I hope so. And yet, you're still so far way from the words that will make it all stop. Machismo. I love that about you, too, my boy. Not to worry, I'm in no rush—I'm sure you'll express your regret at calling me a “little lady” sooner or later. If you want to know...I'm cheering for later.

Micro Fiction Monday : Yeah, I'm a coffee-porn addict

You heard right. Another bite-sized bit of smut devoted to coffee. 

Double-double was published last night at Every Night Erotica, which means that it's the featured story until a new one comes on tonight!

Here's a little teaser:

Anyone who’s lived in a small town in the Maritimes will tell you that in order to get all of the most recent dirt on the local residents, you need look no further than the nearest Tim Horton’s. Since Eric had lived in most of them, he knew the score. Today’s topic of discussion—and the reason that he was here—was Melissa Thornton.
He was careful to prop a free trader rag in front of him while he nursed his double-double and honey cruller, hoping that to anyone casually looking his way, he appeared to be minding his own business. instead of actively eavesdropping on any bit of gossip the locals were willing to provide on the woman. While they proposed the scenarios, his imagination was free to fill in the much-wanted details.
“All’s I’m saying is that there’s a reason she never comes to the church breakfasts and bake sales. She’s too busy getting sugar from her flavour of the week!”
Forced chuckles recognized the weak pun.
“You guys remember last March, when she was having her living room redone? The painter’s van parked right there at the bottom of her driveway—didn’t even try to hide that he was there three days, and never went home at night. I think the reason she gets all her work brought in from the city is that she hires them from an escort service!”
“Do escorts do housework? I think I want one, too!”
Eric thought of naked, paint covered bodies rolling around together on the tarp-covered floor of Melissa’s living room and the chatter around him faded to unintelligible noise.
read the rest of the story here

MicroFiction Monday: exceprt from a WIP

Hey guys. So I have been writing like a maniac this week. Unfortunately, none of it is a microfic. I don't want to deprive you of the secksy, though, so here's a snippet from one of my WIPs. (WIPes? WsIP?)

Anyway, here it is, enjoy!

Kris leaped back to the couch, and knelt on the cushions, straddling Anne’s lap. She reached forward, and cupped the smaller woman’s face with both hands, murmuring against her lips between soft, loving kisses.

“I don’t care. I haven’t seen you in three weeks and I missed you. So I want my baby, and I want her now.”

Anne moaned and arched up as high as Kris would allow her, sinking her hands into her lover’s short hair, and managing to say, somewhere in between desperate, hungry kisses:

“Mmm... say that again.” She pulled herself up so that her own much larger tits were crushed up against Kris’ perfectly hand-sized firmer ones. She moaned and sighed into the kisses, each time her nipples rubbed against her lover’s chest sent ripples of electric pleasure right to her cunt. She suddenly wished that all those layers of clothes weren’t in between them, but she was too horny to pull away from Kris’ kisses and fondlings to get undressed yet.

Kris slid her hands in between their close packed bodies to cup her lover’s breasts with her hands, tracing teasingly light circles on her nipples with her thumbs. Pulling away from Anne’s mouth, she ran her tongue along her jawline to her earlobe, tugging it in between her teeth, nibbling and sucking on it, breathing out the words in between nibbles.

“I.” She trapped her lover’s nipples between thumb and forefinger, rolling them, and rubbing them against the rough fabric of her blouse. Anne arched her back and moaned in appreciation.

“Want.” She thrust her hips, pinning Anne’s ass to the very back of the couch, grinding her crotch against her lover’s, humping her fully clothed. Anne’s grip tightened in Kris’ hair, moaning and sighing in between shuddering gasps for breath.

“You.” She bit down hard on Anne’s earlobe, in just the way that always drove her wild, picking up the pace of her thrusting and grinding against the redhead’s hips. Anne cried out loudly as teeth dug sharply into the soft flesh of her ear, stifling the loud noise halfway through with a gasp and a shudder. She’d have to be more careful: they were still in an open building on a school night. It was getting to be very hard, though, if she had to wait much longer to be properly fucked, she’d wind up coming anyway.

“Now.” She let go of one of Anne’s nipples, and used the free hand against the couch back to propel herself backward, landing on the floor, on her knees before her lover. Her free hand ran up Anne’s thigh, under her skirt, until her thumb ran along her crotch, sliding slickly along the thin strip of her very, very wet panties.

MicroFiction Monday: Special Coming Out Day Edition!

Today's MicroFiction Monday is double-dedicated!

Once in honour of Coming Out Day and once to the FABULOUS swties, who entered my contest not once, but TWICE! This is the result of her second entry. Just a reminder that the contest has been extended indefinitely, so if you have a list of three things that you'd just LOVE to see in an erotic microfiction, post them here and one Monday soon, you will!

And so, without further ado: 

A Spoon, a Knife and a Fork

I was asking too much of her, too soon, I knew. Honestly, I shouldn't have brought it up at all, but it seemed like she was at a crucial fork in the road of her life. I worried that if I didn't show her that I was willing to go with her down whichever path she chose, she might make a choice out of fear of losing me, instead of what was best for her. I wanted her to be able to say no, and have me right here to hold her and love her and tell her that was alright. That's exactly what happened, too.

My one. My love. She looked so perfect sitting there on her knees at my feet, wearing nothing but the double-linked sterling silver chain that I had put on her. The padlock that could keep it locked there forever had been open on my palm until she made her decision and wrapped her hands around mine, closing it away again, for now. I could feel a tremble in her hands when she released mine and moved to undo the clasp of the chain at the back of her neck.

“Not yet,” I whispered. “We still have an hour together before we both have to get ready to go to work, wear it for me until then.”

She looked surprised, and then relieved as it sunk in. This wasn't an all-or-nothing ultimatum, how could it be? I'd rather lose an arm than lose being able to be close to this part of her. This was an offer, and nothing more. I pulled her up onto the bed with me, and wrapped her up in my arms, spooning her. Holding her like this, skin against skin, with my bare breasts crushed soothingly against the creamy smoothness of her naked back, everything felt right with the world. If we weren't both so keyed up, we might have dozed off and wound up being very, very late for work. As it was, the hour passed by far too quickly. When I nudged her to show her the time, she sighed with the regret that I felt.

“I don't want to take it off,” she murmured into the pillow. She had interlaced the fingers of her left hand with mine and held them far enough away from us so that she could better admire the matching white gold of our wedding bands. I was struck yet again at how lucky I was that someone as amazing as she was would agree to marry me in the first place.

“Yes, you do.” I regretted saying it, but it was true.

“Okay, I do, or at least I need to. But I also don't.”

“I know, love. It's okay, I understand. There's coming out and then there's coming out. Being gay almost makes us social celebrities in the circles we travel. Being leather and gay might just make us pariahs. I won't push you, I just needed you to know that I will be here, and waiting, with the offer still standing when you're ready to take that step. I have something for you.”

I nudged her until she let me up, and pulled open the bedside drawer where I'd hidden the pendant I'd made her. It was shaped as a lower-case lambda.

“It's the blade from the first cutting I ever did on you. I melted it down while it still had a drop of your blood on it. This, you can wear when you can't wear the chain, as a reminder that the lock will always stay with me, and belong to you, until you choose to have it locked on your throat. I love you Sarah. I love the beauty of your submission to me, and I will never, ever ask you not to give it to me, for as long as you choose to.”

She cried, and I joined her. We kissed, and I was walking on clouds. I was the luckiest woman in the world. We came out as a couple on this day two years ago. Last year, on the same day, we were married. Maybe, a year from now, we will come out as something even more, but not today. Today, we will just celebrate our luck, and our joy.

Bumping Up the Contest!

For the sake of some fantastic new readers (thank you thank you thank you for reading!) I am bumping my microfiction contest, and calling for more submissions. On those Mondays when I don't have a new microfiction being posted on an affiliate site (like Trollop with a Laptop and Circlet) I will be combing the below comments for ideas that strike my fancy, and then dedicating a MFM piece to you, my amazing, fantastic, and delightful readers! If you haven't entered yet, and would like to, the details are below. If you have, and I haven't written yours yet, not to worry, I will eventually! And if you *have* entered and had your story written and dedicated to you, there is no reason that you couldn't submit another idea, if the fancy strikes you!  I can't wait to see what you all come up with!

Hugs and virtual love to you all,

-Mad




I was lurking around Circlet Press' lovely Livejournal today, because it's always a fun place to waste some time. They host the occasional author chat with their published authors. This week's featured author is Kal Cobalt who I hadn't previously heard of, but appears to be full of much awesomeness.

During the author chat, Kal's set up a contest, and asked for readers to submit a list of 3 things that they'd like to see in a story. The winner gets a story written with those things in it, cool eh?

This is a game that I LOVE to play as a writer, so I thought I'd see what happened if I posted the same type of offer. (apologies, and many thanks, Kal!)

So here it is: anyone who posts a comment here with three things (as specific or arbitrary as you like) that they would like to see in a story has a chance to see those ideas put to fiction in an upcoming Microfiction Monday!

Microfiction Monday : For Fulani

In April, I posted a contest that promised the winner(s) a MFM entry based on their list of three things they'd like to see me put into a short story. Now that MFMs are back after such a long break (shame, shame, Mad!) I am finally going to make good on my promise.

Winner number one is the marvelous Fulani who, despite the unfortunate use of a Whartenburg wheel and a feather for an avatar (two of the most despicable things to ever have stumbled upon creation) is a kinky smutter of no small talent for Excite and Pink Flamingo. Really, you should check it out!

This entry actually inspired a 7000-word paranormal D/s story that I just finished. The MFM story below is purely fictional wishful thinking on my part about its first beta reading.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Raw Onion, A Book, and a Green and Purple Dream

Kel got the spanish onion from the freezer. On top of being a fantastic practice dummy for all my rope bondage inventions, she was a font of such wisdoms as “freeze an onion for thirty minutes and it won't make you cry.” I, on the other hand, stick to only one wisdom—surrounding myself with friends who can make me look smart so I don't actually have to be.

Sure enough, the onion was sliced tearlessly. I was supposed to be re-braiding Kel's waist piece, but mostly I was watching her dance around the kitchen as she prepared our lunch. She was wearing the black leotard she always wore to my “brainstorming over her body” sessions, and shiny white nylon rope was still coiled around her wrists and ankles, and crisscrossed over her black spandex-shrouded torso. Gift wrapped. The problem with working with such a delicious-looking practice partner was that I always wanted to unwrap and play with her before we were done.

There was a twirl, a wiggle, a flourish and a mandatory moment of me cheering and applauding as her lunch creation was revealed. Despite the fact that the accolades were for her performance and not the food, lunch was pretty fabulous. She'd taken ground turkey, feta cheese, kalmata olives and spices and turned them into burger art. Served on a ciabatta bun with thick onion slices, spinach leaves and—because I'm only capable of straying so far from familiarity—ketchup, they were beyond a doubt the tastiest burgers I'd ever tasted.

Kel snatched the file folder from the table in between our place settings with an excited “ooooh, is this it?”

I answered with a glare and pointed at my mouth which was full of burgery goodness. She took the hint and started to read the first few pages of the story to herself.

Yet another of Kel's sundry talents was that she was a phenomenal beta reader—she had a perfectionist's eye for typos and grammatical errors, and always knew how to couch the more...constructive...criticisms with encouraging praise. When she volunteered to help me copyedit my short stories, I promised her that the tenth one she read would have a protagonist based on her. This was story number ten, and all she knew about it was that “her” character's name was Colleen, and that she was somehow supernatural.

She was on page four by the time I'd finished lunch.

“Okay, I have to know: this cool superpower I have in the dream sequence, the one that lets me sense people's emotions as colours and, you know, taste them and stuff—do I get to keep that when I wake up?”

I grinned. “Forever and ever, bay-bee.”

“Neat. So, this guy here, he's all purple. What does that mean?”

“Purple's spite. Tastes like slightly fermented plums.”

“Ah. And green is envy, I suppose?”

“Please. Give me credit for not being that cliché. I didn't actually use green, but in my mind it's not envy, it's hope. Probably tastes like pesto or something.”

“You and your worlds you create. I bet you've got a whole mental rainbow catalogue of colour and flavour combinations that don't appear anywhere in your story.”

I held up my hands in self-defense. “I plead the whatever-it-is we have instead of a fifth amendment.” Stupid Law and Order ensuring that the entire Canadian population know more about American law than our own.

“Alright, fine. If you won't answer that one at least tell me what my character is, for crying out loud! I'm on page five and you still haven't revealed it. Is she a psionic, a robot, a witch, a vampire, what?”

“Nope, none of those.”

I stretched out the pause with a grin. “She's a were-coyote.”

“A were-coyote?”

Kel paused to give that adequate consideration, then she nodded.

“Sexy. I like it!”

I fucking love my friends.

Microfiction Monday (oh yeah, baby, it's back!): Stiletto

Fear.

Logically, I know that this has nothing to do with her hurting me, and everything to do with fear. Logically, I'm perfectly safe here.

When you're kneeling bound and blindfolded in the middle of the floor, though, logic can just go fuck itself. My body, not my logical mind, rules my emotions right now, and my body is afraid.

I'm sweating and shivering at the same time—big, convulsive tremors that seem to shake the whole room. A noise behind me, the soft metallic click that I know so well, tells me that she's just drawn the stiletto that she keeps in the sheath on her wrist. A wave of terror—and an equally powerful rush of arousal—courses through me, so unopposable that I'm shocked into absolute stillness. Heart in my throat, I strain for any sound that will tell me where she is.

I bask in the agony of not knowing when I'll feel her next touch, or the cool menace of the blade in her hand. Will she press the flat of that magnificent blade to my lips to kiss? Cut my bonds with it? My clothes? Or will this be the one time, the first time, that its razor-sharp edge parts flesh instead of fabric?

Entirely at her mercy, I wonder how long she can keep me from knowing where she is, or what she intends to do.

Forever, I hope. This is my favourite part.

Microfiction Mondays: Stay Tuned!

Starting next Monday, stay tuned for the stories inspired by the delicious suggestions in my contest post! I'm excited, are you excited?

Microfiction Monday: Femme Fatale

This week's Microfiction Monday is presented to you by the delicious Circlet Press, who posted my teeny tiny microfic story, "Femme Fatale" this past Friday.

Find it Here!

Microfiction Mondays: Coffee, anyone?

Today's Microfiction is not here, but a lovely new site that combines two of my favourite things: massive amounts of caffeine and lots and lots of smut. Who could go wrong? They recently held a flash fictions contest about both those things, and I found myself unable to resist. (Yes I know, I'm easy!)

Here's a quick sneak peek at my entry:

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She was my coffee goddess. We didn't have any sort of a regular “thing,” but any time we wound up at the same club together we'd eventually meet on the dance floor, and inevitably stumble back to her place in a panic of frantic gropes and kisses.

I know—you hear “goddess” and think “yeah, just another guy thinking his girl is the hottest thing ever.” Yeah, she was smokin', but I say it because sex with her was like...a religious ceremony. A coffee religion.

read more on site, and if you like it, consider voting for it!

Microfiction Mon... erm Wednesday! Water, fall

Note from Mad:  Sorry this one is so very very late, guys!  I deserve to be punished!  (hee hee, please!)  But um.. better late than never?

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Her lips were blue. Kind of ironic if you think about it, since it was the hottest day of the year by at least a good five degrees.

April was stretched out the full length of the dirty old futon in a tiny white tank top and thong and nothing else. Her long sun-bronzed legs shimmered with tiny beads of sweat. I'd been banished to sitting on the floor beside her, with her free hand dangling in my lap—the most physical contact we could stand in this heat.

She had filled an ice tray with fruit drink earlier and was now letting one of the cubes—an odd space alien blue—slowly melt against her lips. When she noticed me watching her, she palmed the ice and took her time licking the sticky punch off her thumb and forefinger with long, slow strokes of her blue-streaked tongue.

The rest of the juice was rapidly becoming unfrozen but no longer aimed at her mouth—a huge drop skipped its way down her throat to nestle in that little indentation where the neck meets the breastbone, and that for some unknown reason I've elected the sexiest part of the female body. She gasped in surprise and arched her back, sending the liquid rolling down an eerie blue trail along the line of her shoulder-blade.

I watched in silent fascination while the droplet continued its path along her bicep to come to rest again in the crook of her elbow. Strange that I should notice it was only about half the size it was before it started its exploratory journey of my lover's body. April was so still that I could see the tiny hemisphere of liquid bounce in time with her pulse.

One...two...her third heartbeat set the liquid rolling again on a path toward her open palm.

I wondered if it had enough substance left to make it to the end while I watched it mimic another delicate spidery vein down her wrist, and weave its way through the maze of lines that creased her hand. What would a palm reader make of that cerulean map?

The juice chose her pinky finger to follow, and it didn't need to stop when it reached the tip—it had faded completely into a tiny pinprick stain of vivid aqua. I lifted her hand to my face and she slid her finger into my mouth. It tasted like raspberry candy, but there was nothing cold about that tiny trace I'd tasted. I slowly started to lick up the blue line on her palm. I wasn't worried, I knew that If I followed the lines, I'd run into something cool and refreshing eventually. It was a lazy summer day—I had all the time in the world.

Microfiction Monday: Forever

Is it Monday again already? Phew!

Yes, I'm overly sentimental, and also a big math nerd. Now you know!

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Forever


She was so beautiful she took my breath away. The way her hair lay all dishevelled around her head, her cheeks flushed and her eyes, bright but staring off somewhere beyond me— it all entranced me. I traced a line of salty kisses down her chin to that wonderful little depression between her shoulder and her neck. I was so hard it hurt. When I tried to pull her toward me, though, she hesitated, and the spell of her arousal faded.

“They say I won't want to do this as much, you know, after the operation. Maybe even half as much even with drug therapy.” She seemed close to tears, which made me feel as if my heart was going to burst.

I propped myself up on my elbow and grinned at her, trying to lighten the mood.

“You know what the coolest part of math theory is?”

She actually giggled, thank goodness. “From hot, sweaty sex to math? You really are a nerd!”

“Well, maybe, but the fact remains that there are some very cool things about math. Like infinity. Did you know that if you take something that happens regularly, and make it happen half as frequently, but continue forever, it'll still happen an infinite amount of times?”

I rolled onto my back and gently pulled her to me, and onto my now very eager cock.

“You're my forever, love... and when you're offered infinity, who'd be stupid enough to ask for more?”

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originally posted as a response to Alison Tyler's blog contest, here.

Microfiction Monday: Mr. February

My short story, Mr February, is set to be released early this summer in Rachel Kramer Bussel's anthology Please, Ma`am by Cleis press. Today's Microfiction Monday is an excerpt:

When you've been married to someone for 20 years, they know every inch of your body. Ellie had seen him naked so many times that Mark was sure she could draw him perfectly from memory if she needed to. Still, standing there in the hallway, facing the open door of the bathroom where his wife was waiting with her arms crossed and an expectant look on her face, Mark was suddenly very, very embarrassed, and only partly because he though that he and the rest of the male gender looked decidedly silly from the waist down.

“What, here, now?” His question met chilly silence.

Blushing furiously, Mark unzipped his jeans and stepped out of them.

“Those, too.” Ellie pointed impatiently at the red boxers that were conspicuously tented by an erection that was heroically resisting Mark's humiliation. I can't believe it, he though as he slip down the boxers and kicked them into the open bedroom door with the jeans, that's my wife in there, leering at me like I was an appetizer at the cannibal buffet!

“Yummy! Okay, you can go now!” With a slam, Mark was standing naked and beet red, staring at the closed bathroom door behind which his wife was, presumably, getting equally naked without his participation. He thought he heard giggling coming from behind the door, and made the decision to believe that he was just imagining it, and rescue what little dignity he had left. His stubbornly erect cock betrayed him by bouncing happily with each step he took down to the kitchen.

Microfiction Monday: Pin-up

I was reading over Allison Tyler's blog the other day and saw a silly contest (and who doesn't love a silly contest?) The premise was to base a story around a vintage typewrite key that GwenDelicious had tunred into lovely jewelry. Cute, eh? I didn't win, and to be honest the story would have worked better at twice the length, but here it is, anyway:

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Pin-Up (or, for the love of proper punctuation)

April was squirming beautifully on the X-shaped cross in the middle of the room, with four palm-shaped circles drawn in red marker on her naked skin. The little tail on a bottom one curled right above her right hip.

“This isn't fair!” She was cute when she whined.

It was true, it wasn't fair but I didn't say that. Instead, I started clipping tiny clothespins to the outline around her left breast.

“Colons are used before a list or a quote. Did you put a colon in the email you sent me to ask if I would play with you tonight?”

I moved on to tracing the bottom left circle with the clothespins. She made the most delicious pained whimpers every time I added one.

“Yes.”

“And was it before a list or a quote?”

“Well, no.”

The circle on her right came very close to her nipple. She squeaked when I put a clothespin there.

“Semicolons separate two independent clauses. Was that what you should have used?”

She was up on her toes to escape the pinching. Apparently the tail was in a sensitive spot.

“Yes!”

“So, tell me again why this isn't fair?”

“Because you're not mad at me for that, you're annoyed at all the grammar butchery you had to read today at work!”

This was true, too. Smart cookie. I could have told her that but instead I told her to save her voice.

“For what?”

“For screaming.”

And she did, in a delicious crescendo, when I yanked the string connecting the pins to pop them off all at once. I think she came right there, I know I nearly did. My jeans were soaked through.

It wasn't fair at all, I thought, when I let her down to collapse all quivery into my arms, but I sure did feel better.

Microfiction Monday: The Kiss

     Jennifer was in the study working, as she had all day, on her seemingly interminable thesis. She rubbed her neck; it had been a long day already, but a sense of duty if not the promise of any more productiveness tonight kept her going long after supper time. If she were paying more attention to her surroundings she'd have heard the door open a bit more than an hour earlier, and the sounds of Nat coming and putting her things away, but if the sound registered at all, it was only in the back of her mind as peripheral to the task at hand. She definitely didn't hear the soft barefooted steps that brought her lover to her sanctuary, or even the meticulously slow 'click' that meant the door was being closed and locked behind her.

     Jen was leaning back to read over her most recent paragraph when a hand caught her throat, and pressed her and her expensive ergonomic chair backward a good half foot before something stopped it rolling back. She managed a quick gasp for air before her breathing was cut off completely. Her lover kept a firm controlling hand wrapped tight around Jen's throat as she slid her way up her lap until she was straddling her, their crotches so close that they could feel each other's heat. Nat's free hand reached into her partner's shirt, and caught the surgical steel ring that Nat had lovingly threaded through her nipple last year for their second anniversary. Nat let go of Jen's throat just as she pinched and twisted the piercing, and Jen gasped for air, a shiver rocking her whole body.

     Nat smiled, and landed a far more tender kiss on her lover's lips, then slipped out of her lap, and headed for the door, pausing to look over her shoulder and wink. She was wearing Jen's favourite lingerie, a black spaghetti-strapped silk nightgown that barely made it past her hips. Jen groaned in appreciation as her lover left the room and closed the door behind her. Eventually, she shook the stars from her vision, and sighed, turning back to her monitor. What she saw made her smile and moan in anticipation at the same time. Nat had placed their electronic timer on top of her keyboard, set for an hour, and ticking away.

     Sometimes, there are better ways to express your desires than words.

Microfiction Monday: Angela

This morning, I promised myself that for every day this year, my erotica portfolio would be somehow bigger or better than it was the day before. There were no other conditions to my resolution than that, whether I edit something short, write something new or add to a work in progress, I simply have to do something, anything at all, each day. Not so tough right? Somehow, right now, it seems to be.

I am a rational, free-thinking human being, so of course I don't believe that I have a little angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other constantly bickering over who gets to give me advice on all the choices I have to make in a day.  Come on, I'm not Bugs Bunny!  What I do believe in, however, is her.  If the Jungians got hold of me, they would probably say that she is the personification of those portions of my psyche that are clamouring to be heard at any given point.  If I were schizophrenic, she would be what the doctors called the voices in my head.  Since I'm neither of these things, I gave her a different name:  Angela.

This is a deceptively innocent sounding name, and I chose it on purpose, because Angela herself is often quite deceptive.  She is cunning, tempting, and often very, very wicked.  She's a chimera of all my desires, weaknesses, drives, motivations (or lack thereof) and rationales.  She's a shape-shifter, picking up whatever avatar best suits her purpose of the moment, and hoping that she can trick me, if even for a moment, into believing that she's someone else:  someone more... credible.  She's my own personal devil's advocate, bringing each and every one of my decisions into question.  And today, oh my goddesses.  Today she was in fine form.

Today she was all alabaster skin in flimsy amounts of flowing crimson silk with matching fuck-me lipstick.  She chose to wear ass-length ebony curls, and her plentiful figure was deliciously smooth and rounded, with curves all in the right places.  Right down to her calf-hugging impeccably polished black leather boots, her entire being today was meant to bewitch, delight, tempt and seduce me.  
Many times I've sat down at my desk today, with the intention of doing something, anything at all creative. Each time, she's crept up behind me, her breath hot on my ear, leaving the tiniest smudge of her ruby red lipstick as she whispered to me huskily "You know, you haven't checked you email recently."  Her nails have scratched down my arms as she's moved to lay her hands atop mine, and guide them to see who's been updating their Fetlife accounts instead of to the word processor.  She's moaned in orgasmic delight as her tongue traced the contours of my ear, seducing me into having just one more game of Sudoku.   When she thought she might just lose me, she bit down hard on the lobe of my ear, making my masochistic side crazy enough with lust to check out which of my regularly visited pornographer blogs had been updated in the last two hours instead of my initial intent to re-tool the hated chapter 6 of my ever-unfinished novel. 

Angela, demon temptress that she is, has learned well from having been born inside my head.  She knows all my weaknesses, and how to exploit all temptations to the fullest.  She is very good at what she does.  As a being of my mind, she also knows one very important thing:  that if I am not able to take this first step, and fulfil my promise to myself for today, then there is no hope at all of my ever making it to the end.  This, of course, is her lofty goal, and knowing just how easy it would be to foil a whole year's plans in a single day, she got excited, she tried too hard.  Instead of letting me look at how awful my 6th chapter was, how hard it might be to fix, and then slowly trying to coax me into doing "just one more thing" that could be instantly gratifying, she leaped into my lap instead. 

"Look at me!  Not the screen!"  She whined,  "Don't you remember that House is on tonight?  And you have that new bag of kettle corn!"

She tried too hard, which made me finally see what was going on, and I did just that.  I looked at her.  That's when my sultry, mysterious, subtle temptress became my pushy girlfriend instead.  I know just what to do with those.

Angela has spent the last hour  tied up and gagged in the corner, whimpering in frustration.  I spent it writing this, and my sadistic side likes that just fine. Now I have a silly bit of short fiction, not my most glorious erotica, to be sure, but it fulfils the quota of something new or better for today. Tomorrow, I can go on to bigger and better things. Maybe Angela has met her match.