Category Archives: Fiction

Writing Prompt – Anthony Boudain and the Naughty Chef de Partie

I put out the call for writing prompts. Ellie of Lumpesse fame asked me to write about our favorite chef and bon vivant, Anthony Bourdain. She wasn’t to be a naughty little cook. More prompts being worked on!
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Fiction – Mike

And now for something completely different. I wrote bits of this a while ago, but it’s been floating around in my head lately so I put the finishing touches on it. This weekend I will have ample writing time, but no internet connect save my iPhone. Hopefully I can get some serious smut down.
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Mister McIntyre’s Secret, Part Eight

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part 8

I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what I was wearing. I remember a flash of small white polka dots on a sea of black. Some little pill box hat. My face got flushed if I thought about Miss Peterson pulling up the stockings that clipped to the garters under the dress. Every thought in my head made me blush. Every memory of the past few hours and every expectation about what was to come in the future.

We were walking down the street and she hailed a taxi. It was something I was never able to do. People always seemed to walk in front of me and take mine. We were going to the train station. I sat, still wet under my dress and frilly underwear. I wanted to stop being wet desperately, but thoughts were attacking me like Miss Peterson’s fingers and having almost the same effect.

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Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Seven

It was a Wednesday when I finished my assignment. I put my diary on Mister McIntyre’s desk with all my dirty secrets open for him. My teenage fumblings and my embarrassing attempts at dating. All of my dirty dreams and forbidden fantasies. All the times I had to go into the bathroom and rub myself while covering my mouth because Mister McIntyre had leaned over me while I typed a letter or chided me for taking too long at lunch. Continue reading

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Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Six

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Six

April 19th, 1964

There is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.

Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders. Her lips are dark red and glimmering.

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Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Five

She didn’t say anything when she walked in. She just brushed me aside and sauntered in with that strut she had. She looked around as she pulled each finger of her glove and then took them off and slipped them into her purse.

“You don’t look sick.” she said looking me up and down as I closed and locked the door.

“I mean, you’re pale and your hair is dull and lifeless, but I’m guessing you always look like that.”

Why was she in my apartment? Obviously Mister McIntyre sent her. Why her?

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Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Four

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Four

There was a line and it had been crossed.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew how I looked, how I acted. I was his puppy dog, his whipping post, his girl Friday. I swooned around him, I knew I did that. For all my dedication and obedience I got a pat on the head, not even on the butt. I was sexless on his eyes, but at the same time he took advantage of my attraction to him. I was alright with that. In fact it made me work harder. I wasn’t doing it to win his heart or get a kiss. I served Mister McIntyre because I wanted to and it made me happy and he deserved it.

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Fiction – Slow Summer Heat

It was one of those hot sticky days, full of barbecues and running around town, and followed by one of those long summer nights where no one wants to go home and everyone just drink and drinks.

Jack brought Molly back to his apartment. It was a little after two in the morning and the both of them were exhausted. He watched her peel off her t-shirt and drop it on the floor, then unsnap her bra which had left delicious little red marks around her back and under her arms. For some reason Jack liked the marks. He liked to touch them and even run his tongue over them. Molly would have none of that in the heat though. She was sweaty and smelled like smoke and dirt and beer. She pulled off her shorts and underwear and slunk off to the bathroom.
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Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Three

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Three

April 19th, 1964

Half asleep, rolling around in my worn white sheets. The clock says I have a half an hour before I have to get up. My heart is already starting because of a half remembered dream.

In the dream there is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.

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Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Two

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Two

Deep breath.

It’s 11:45 and that means that Mister McIntyre is… he is in his meeting. He is in his hotel room right now. He is doing things, things that make me bite my lip just thinking about. How am I supposed to work? How am I supposed to act like nothing is going on. Right now at the Pierre Hotel he is fucking her. Right now he is doing it. Are they naked? Does he take off his socks? Does he make noise?

“Want to go to lunch with us Abigail?”

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Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part One

Sitting at my desk before he gets to the office I cross my legs and watch helplessly as they bounce nervously.

Every Monday it’s the same. I don’t know why. I get in early, sort the mail, clean things up, change my typewriter ribbon. When it hits 8:45 I start shaking a little. I have to concentrate on not biting my lower lip or I’ll mess up my lipstick.

I keep a little check list under my typewriter on a little board so I can slide it out and look at it. Make sure his glasses are clean, make sure his desk is organized. Garbage can empty. Check the bulbs in his lamps. Dust his globe and book shelf. I get the special coffee he likes and keep it in a thermos. If he isn’t in by 10 I go get some more so it will be hot and fresh for him. I have to guard the milk I keep in the refrigerator, Mister McIntyre doesn’t like cream. The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times on his desk. He reads the New York Times on the train.

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Fiction – The Strand


This is just silly, but it makes me feel sappy and warm inside. No sex, per se, but plenty of erotica. Meta-erotica?
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Barista

Jack was addicted. It was something he needed to admit to himself. It was something he needed help with. It was something that was part of him.

“Gimme a quad shot cappuccino, very dry, non-fat milk.”

He stood at the counter digging deep into the pockets of his jeans trying to get another fifty cents. It was a costly habit, four shots of espresso with a little steamed milk was five bucks.

Behind him a line of well dressed people tried to summon the psychic power needed to destroy him. He was holding up the line, therefor holding up their caffeine intake. This was a dangerous thing.

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Fiction – The Wrong Smith Girl

They broke up on the train.

Trains push his memories to the surface. All the trips into the country as a child. All the trees passing by, leaves changing to red and gold.

The city fades fast, faster then you can imagine. It is so small compared to the stretches of country to the Jersey Shore, to Upstate, to Boston and Maryland and DC.

Looking at Maggie, he could see her fighting her childhood memories. At least he wanted to think she was fighting them, hoping they were there to be fought. She had her nose in a notebook, making a list of things to do.

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Fiction – Backroom

When I pushed her against the bookshelf and kissed her neck and pressed myself hard against her, she didn’t seem surprised. When will I learn to read women better?
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