Author Archives: Jack Stratton
She came to the park every day with sad eyes and a notebook. Violet with the smooth chocolate hair held back with a pink barrette and the huge liquid eyes that were almost cartoonish in size. Violet who was barely five feet tall and, in her own opinion, was built far too much like a young boy to be found beautiful by anyone. Violet who longed to be a curvy starlet like Sophia Loren, but would never be more than a flat chested mouse of a girl, and desperately tried to hide herself under sweaters and long dresses.
Her lips were far too full for such a fragile bird-like girl. She had no right to have lips like that. It was, among other things, unfair.
There was an aesthetic there, in her dress, which was layers of diaphanous sepia silk and gauzy cotton. The way her hair was timeless, retro, modern, all at once. The softness around the edges of her pale and thin body. Like she was captured by an old camera.
If she were a picture I could keep her under my bed, in a secret box, to finger her edges when alone.
Instead I took her for drinks and nervously edged around her silence and her eyes. And longed for her lips. Her lips on a glass, her lips on a cigarette, her lips on a straw, her lips on everything but mine.
I’ll give him credit, he was damn respectful. I mean, we’d been there for a week and a half and we’d been pushed and pulled together over and over again and he never made a move. Every hour my body grew more hungry, though my days were full of songs and chants and raised signs.
I saw him go from a clean cut college kid in a cardigan and jeans into a scruffy looking anarchist, red faced from screaming and garbed in the mishmash of sweaters and coats we’d all gotten from donations.
The tart was just that. Let’s be frank, although far brighter than most riff raff, she was still a simple girl, smart enough to get paid a hefty price for her services, which was something in these days, but not much more. Still, there was a spark there and since meeting her during the investigation of the Burgdorf burglary we had become well acquainted and she’s found that my services were most satisfying after her nightly tending to the ruffian masses.
I supposed it had been months before that the idea had taken root in my head. My colleague Watson had made some offhanded remark about his upcoming nuptials and how I would most certainly not be needing a “plus one” on my invitation. He had often noted my lack of romantic partners during our friendship. For a brilliant man, the dear doctor could be quiet daft. Continue reading
As buildings went, this was certainly the best place Caitlin had ever lived. Just out of college and new to New York, she was still amazed every time she walked out of the subway and saw the brownstone that was now her home.
It was three stories of beautiful red brick, with large bay windows, and ornate wrought iron fences out front. She lived on the second floor, above a lovely older lesbian couple, with their two dogs and their fancy dinner parties. Upstairs there was a nice, if a bit mysterious, business man in his thirties named Henry.
I shook my head and smiled again.
She bit her bottom lip, but under the circumstances, her demeanor actually changed very little.
Ana was a tough nut to crack. We’d met through this or that, the ways people uptown meet. She was bright, book smart, art smart, fit, and fashionable. Pretty and self conscious; a puzzle of desire and nervousness. We’d fallen into both flirting and friendship at the same time and there had been a long lull as we tried to figure out which one to pursue. In the end we picked a little from “column A” and a little from “column B.” Luckily, I’d set up my life to facilitate that sort of answer to that sort of question.
I don’t remember the train ride home.
I don’t remember Penn Station or the cab or opening the door to my apartment. All I know is that I saw things on a Sunday in Autumn. I wrote them down in a little book and I gave them away and then I was lying in my dingy little bed.
I felt very still and very cool and very much a different person. At some point I stopped shaking. At some point I stopped crying. Now it was like I had woken up and there was dew on everything and everything was new. Continue reading
Title image by chikache. CC BY-NC 2.0
From a somewhat silly request on a forum comes a story I’m quite fond of.
The studio, his studio, that dirty gentleman’s studio, was bare. All the carefully collected furniture (he collected many things, all of them carefully) was pushed out of the way. The long main room was clear and the mats were on the hardwood floor and early morning light was shining in thick square beams from the old windows and showed the little particles of dust in the air.
The girls were sat on a blanket, back to back; naked, save their panties. The black blanket was laid neatly on the somewhat dusty hardwood floor. I knelt in front of Margot and Hector knelt in front of Betty. The rope was around both of their pretty necks. Looped and looped around and around. Their hands tied at their sides, their backs held straight out of either eagerness to please or suspense at what might happen next.
Downstairs, a bar that’s a half secret, a party that is supposed to be kept quiet. We were told when the door closed things would get interesting…
The painter is a chemical necessity in these situations. She is a catalyst in a way I am used to being. One of the million ways we are the same. The same hungers, the same taste, the same perceptions.
The redhead is on someone’s lap. She has been morsel I’d been coveting for a while now. Not seriously, not even particularly, but one of those shiny beautiful people your eyes linger on for a few second when you see them across the room. All cream skin and fire hair and cool attitude.
Why do I keep apologizing?
I haven’t said it out loud, but it keeps repeating in my head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
That’s why you get hit, right? You were bad. And even though I am really sorry for all that I did and all that I deserve I also know that this isn’t punishment. Punishment is too easy. She is hitting me because she wants to hurt me. She is hitting me because I want to be hit. This pain is not a consequence, it’s an act all of its own. That makes it scarier because punishments have definitions, limits, sentences. This is pain for pain’s sake.
The whine was a little girl noise: a pouting, stubborn groan of frustration. I heard it when I opened the door and let the light from the hall break the spell of darkness in her room.
On the pink bed, the girl was covered in blankets, pillows, comforters, even stuffed animals. She sniffled somewhere under there and in a voice that sounded much more adolescent than what a college student should sound like, she whined, “go away.”
I had to laugh. I left the door open a little, enough to see at least. I crept over to the bed, looking around at the bowl of half eaten soup and cups of tea.
There are parts of the city that die at night. The hustle and bustle of the day ends abruptly at about six or seven. Stragglers and work horses may stay until eight or nine. By eleven the streets of the Financial District are deserted.
As our cab pulled up to a seemingly random corner I paid and we wandered out cautiously. I checked my phone for the hundredth time and found the address. As I was told it was above a deli. The building looked just like everything else there; gray, empty, foreboding.
Senior year in high school. One day my best friend tells me about this girl he met who I “had to meet.” I was somewhat popular, at least with the large nerdy population of my school and I’d thought I’d met everyone, but apparently this girl Jill slipped past my radar. After he mentioned her I kept hearing about her though, this brash, blindingly intelligent poet, lesbian, activist. Frankly it was starting to get annoying. Who was this chick?
A month later I found myself cornered in my best friend’s kitchen. He presented us to each other, like some landmark meeting of the minds. I suppose we were both sort of big personalities so everyone wanted to know how we would react to each other.
I have a huge list of RSS feeds that get updated on my phone every morning for reading on the forty-five minute ride I make every day. I’ve noticed a certain eagerness lately for posts from a few webpages and I thought I’d share them with my lovely readers.
If you have any other erotica or sex blogs that you think fit my aesthetic, please share them with me.
Oh Miss Danger. Her stories are hot and dirty and sometimes more than a bit sad. They are scratched photos of scenes that are extraordinarily intense. I can’t recommend her enough.