I’ve been writing more on my tumblr. If you don’t follow me there, here is what you have missed.
It was a thunder crack when he smacked her, then a still moment as the world went silent, then lightning behind her eyes. Everything vibrating and swimming. Blood rushing in her ears, her face heating and turning red, her vision blurring, and then finally his face coming back into focus.
He was right in front of her, filling her line of sight, his hand closing back around her neck.
I Can’t Wait All Day
A fat ripe plum, with a white sticker on it, sat on the table like an eight ball.
The girl with the curly hair was standing still, looking down at her warped reflection in her shiny black shoes. Her hands were behind her back.
The man with the expensive watch sat at the other end of the table, watching her. One elbow was on the table, his hand on his chin, his fingers tracing the bottom of his lip contemplatively.
I originally wanted to write a rebuttal of Guy New York’s post on polyamory. After re-reading it though, I don’t know how to use his piece as a jumping off point. He made a beautiful mess and there is a rawness that I can’t touch. I see his points and they all make sense, for him. There is also no reason to rebut what he wrote.
Preview: The Revenge of BatCatGirl
I’m super excited about this new short story I’ve been working on! It has the rather ridiculous title of “The Revenge of BatCatGirl.” The first draft is just about done, so it will be a little while until the final edited product is ready for public consumption, but I can’t help but post a tidbit.
It’s silly and pretty real and gets really fucking hot. So here is a bit of the first part. Let me know what you think.
He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.
He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.
The Orgy on 8th Ave
They come in one at a time.
They are well dressed, usually larger gentlemen, portly, all black. Their suits are colorful, Sunday best, just come from church. Vivid purples and blues, sherbet orange, pastel green. Matching hats, everything perfectly pressed.
They have the stance of addicts, milling about with clenched fists and occasional ticks.