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Excerpt from “Into the Dreaming City”, prequel to “Wetware Dreams”!

Into the Dreaming CityInto the Dreaming City should be done in the next couple of weeks!

This is dark erotica meant to go hand in hand with story– in this case, a post-apocalyptic wasteland populated by ragged survivors. Morals have gone the way of civilization; when young Dorothy’s family encounters a band of desperados, poor choices on both side lead to her being taken as a prize by the group. Afraid and overwhelmed by new experiences, exposed to events she’d never imagined, her survival hangs in the balance, dependent upon a decision made by the group’s leader– will she remain with them or will she be sold to the caretakers of The Dreaming City?

The excerpt should be considered NSFW, and contains elements of violence, bloodshed, strong language, non-consensual sexual contact. Viewer discretion is advised!

Part One:

Dorothy’s brother Edmund came over the ridge at a run.  He half-jumped, half-slid down the near side in a cloud of dust.  Dorothy had been feeding blightweed to the rabbits in their hutch in the front yard.  She stood and watched as Edmund pelted towards the house, between the dead trees, her family’s hunting rifle bouncing on his back.

The front door was open.  “Papa, you’d better come out,” Dorothy called.

Dorothy’s father came quickly, followed a moment later by her mother.  Edmund was doubled over in the yard, hands on his knees and breathing heavily.  His hair hung before his face like broken stalks of wheat.

“There’s a car.  On the road,” he wheezed.  “Coming this way.”

Dorothy’s father frowned.  A chill pooled around Dorothy’s heart, at once frightening and bracing.  Other people were coming!  Her father had told her stories of the time before the blight, when almost all of the houses had people living in them and you couldn’t just force open the door and look around for things you might need.  He called it trespassing.  Now the houses were empty; Dorothy’s family seldom crossed paths with others, and such occasions were always tense.  You couldn’t help thinking about what the other people had, and whether you could take it.  Or whether they might take yours.

“Edmund, you get upstairs to the window,” her father said.  “Dorothy, douse the cook fire.  We’ll cover the greenhouse and meet you back inside.”

Dorothy hurried indoors, through the small entry and into the common room that her father called a den.  She knelt and heaped ashes on the logs in the fireplace until they sputtered out; the last of the smoke curled up past the stainless steel pot that her mother had suspended from a makeshift crane.  Dorothy heard the clump of her brother mounting the stairs to the second floor.  Would the chimney smoke clear before the people in the car saw it?  She thought it unlikely, but they had to try.  It was better when travellers passed by without knowing her family was there.

Dorothy waited in shadow.  A breeze caught the corner of the window curtain; it fluttered up from the bright screen, then settled again.

In the silence that followed, Dorothy could just make out the grunt and chatter of a car’s engine.  The sound grew louder, then suddenly louder still, and she knew with a clutching feeling that the auto had turned up their drive.  Her parents came into the common room from the back of the house, silent and pale.  The engine made the boards tremble under Dorothy’s feet.

Then it cut out.  Doors opened and closed.

“Hello?” a male voice called from outside.  Dorothy’s father put his finger to his lips.

“Well,” the voice said, “I guess there’s nobody here.  We should probably drive away and never come back.”  There was laughter from other men.

Dorothy heard heavy feet crunching over the dirt outside.  “Hey, what’s this?” the first voice said.  “Fuck me, rabbits!  Now how did these get here?”

Dorothy started reflexively for the door, but her father glared a warning at her and she lurched to a halt.

“Hello in there,” the voice called again, closer now to the house.  Whoever he was, he sounded a little exasperated.  “Look, we saw your fire.  We’re not leaving, so why don’t you come out and talk.”

Dorothy’s father sighed without a sound.  His face was like stone.  He looked at Dorothy, then her mother, then left the room.  The front door opened.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Hello to you too!” the voice said.  “My name’s Kyle.  What’s your name?”

Dorothy’s father said nothing.  Holding her breath, Dorothy crept to the window where the curtain still floated up from the bottom corner.  She sank to her knees, amid the folds of her patterned dress, and leaned forward until she could peek out past the curtain’s edge.

There was a silver station wagon in the yard.  It had off-road tires, and the bottom half of it was one long, caked smudge of dirt.  The front bumper hung loose on one side.  Two men stood by the car, and a third faced the front door where Dorothy’s father was.  The third man wore a battered, broad-brimmed hat with a band of animal’s teeth.  Both of the others had rifles.

“Do you want food?  Is that what you want?”  Dorothy’s father sounded resigned.  “I don’t have a lot.  It’s just me here.”

“Now that’d be neighborly of you, nameless friend,” the one with the hat, Kyle, said.  “And we’d like to come in if you don’t mind.  We’ve been on the road for a while.”
Dorothy’s father said flatly, “I do mind.  This is my house and I don’t want  your company.  You try to get in here and it’ll be trouble.  So why don’t you wait outside, and I’ll get you some of what little I have to eat, and you can take it for the road. Nobody has to sweat and nobody has to get hurt.”

The one named Kyle opened his mouth in surprise, then grinned.  He had a nice smile, and a young, handsome face that was only a little stubbled and sweat-slick beneath the slash of shadow cast by his hat.  Dorothy thought she saw him surveying the front of their house.  His gaze flicked from window to window, upstairs and then down.  And then he looked right into Dorothy’s eyes, peering out at him from the window corner.

Dorothy lurched backward onto her bottom, heart in her throat.  Maybe he’d seen the flash of her hair in the light; it was the color of ripe wheat like her brother’s, but softer, falling in pools around her shoulders.  She was almost certain they’d locked eyes, only for a moment.  Had they locked eyes?

She could’ve imagined it.  The sun was shining down on the window screen.  The room was shadowed.

Dorothy held her breath.

“Are you sure you’re alone here, nameless old man?” Kyle said in apparent good humor.  “No… womenfolk about the place?  For example.”

Dorothy’s father started to answer but was cut off by the crack of a gunshot.  Dorothy scrambled back to the window.  One of the men by the car had collapsed in a grotesque tangle of limbs; there was a red smear on the window and the door.

Then everything happened at once.

The other man dove into the dirt behind the station wagon, beside the crumpled body of the first.  Dorothy’s father staggered backward into the house, followed by Kyle; he tried to get the front door closed but the younger man threw his shoulder against it and both men tumbled inside. Dorothy and her mother ran for the small entry, and when they got there Edmund was coming down the stairs closing the bolt on the family rifle and in his haste his feet slipped and he slid down the last few stairs on his ass.  The gun went off; plaster dust glimmered down through sunlight from the open door.  Then Kyle was up and he had a hunting knife and he plunged the knife all the way to the hilt into Edmund’s stomach.

Dorothy’s mother screamed.  Then Edmund screamed.

Kyle backed towards the door, holding the bloody knife in front of him like a shield.  Dorothy’s father rolled onto his side and crawled the other way, to the back wall.  Edmund was doubled over at the foot of the stairs, whimpering.  Dorothy’s mother went and fell to her knees beside Edmund; her hands shook and fluttered over his head and shoulders, but she didn’t touch him.  Dorothy stood frozen in the passage to the den.

“Fuck!” Kyle shouted.  His eyes were wide and watery.  They swam from Edmund to his mother.  “Fuck!  Jesus Christ, why– James?”  Kyle stared at Dorothy’s father now, who looked back at him through narrowed eyes. “James!”  The younger man’s voice quivered a little.  There was no answer.

“Kyle?” called the man outside.  Terrified and trying not to show it.

“Ed, is James okay?” Kyle said, with forlorn hope.

“James is dead, man.”

Kyle swiveled the point of his knife from Edmund to Dorothy’s father, as if either one might suddenly lurch up and go for his throat.  His mouth hung open.

“Kyle?” said the man outside, uncertain.  “Kyle?  I said James–”

“I heard you, god damnit!”  Kyle’s handsome face contorted in sudden fury.  He looked down the knife’s blade at Edmund who lay shuddering in his mother’s shadow, then at Dorothy’s father.  Finally his gaze swung round and fixed on Dorothy herself.  Edmund’s blood dripped from the knife and pattered on the wood by Kyle’s boots.

Dorothy broke for the den, but Kyle’s arm was already lashing out, fingers fumbling for her. She felt them tangle in the wheat of her hair, and then her head jerked back and her scalp stung.  Dorothy gasped.  She was dragged from her feet and stumbled backward to keep from toppling, then fetched up against something hard and warm.  Kyle held her against his body; the knife was a cool, fine pressure on her milky throat.  A metallic tang hovered under Dorothy’s nose.  She tried not to think about it.

“It this why James is dead?  Huh?” Kyle growled, close to her ear.  “You thought we were going to do something to your little girl here?  So you’d just start shooting?”  Kyle’s chest rose and fell against Dorothy’s shoulders, and fear quickened her own breathing.

Her mother’s eyes went wide.  “Sir… please–”

“Shut up!” Kyle jerked Dorothy’s head back into the nook made by his chin and shoulder.  Her throat lifted under the knife.  She whimpered and shifted on her feet, trying to steady herself with back bent and chest thrust forward.  The blade prickled her skin and she went still, shivering.

“Shut up,” Kyle said again.  “I’m talking now.  Your husband is a big talker, isn’t he?  ‘There’s nobody in the house, just me.’  Just me and my faggot son with a rifle and my big-titted bitch daughter.”

As he snarled, Kyle shoved his free hand down the front of Dorothy’s dress.  Her breasts were large, so much so that he had to spread his palm wide to grope her through the pale satin of her bra.  Dorothy wanted to squirm but the knife at her throat kept her frozen; instead the fear and agitation filled her lungs until she was gasping for breath, making little frightened sounds.  Her chest heaved under Kyle’s rough fingers.

Her nipples hardened into tiny stones.

Dorothy’s father raised his hand, fingers spread in a gesture of calming or supplication.  “Kyle?” he said.  “Kyle.  I’m sorry.”

“I’ll bet you’re fucking sorry.”  Kyle tugged Dorothy’s breast up out of her bra; his fingers sank into her soft flesh.  “Now.  Now that we know you were lying.”  Stretched against his body as she was, Dorothy felt the man stiffen between the legs, against her bottom.  It sent a thrill through her, and not all of that thrill came from fear.  There was something else, something warming in her belly.

“Kyle–”

“Sorry don’t bring James back,” Kyle snapped.  “Fuck, was it worth killing a man so we wouldn’t see your girl here?  Was it?”

“No.”

“That’s right.”  For a moment Kyle said nothing else.  Dorothy knew that he was shuddering, wound taut; the knife’s blade whispered over her skin.  “That’s right,” he repeated, to himself.

Dorothy’s father was watching the other man’s eyes.  Dorothy saw his face fall, saw seams of dread darken his cheeks and the corners of his mouth.  His lips parted but he didn’t say anything.  Impressions struck Dorothy’s mind like hammer blows: Edmund’s coiled body, her father’s fear, the strength of Kyle’s hand slowly kneading her breast.  That masculine bulge pressed against her buttocks.  They left her dazed, warmed inside by dark intimations that she didn’t understand.

Kyle said, “Let’s see what’s so fucking special.”

“Don’t–”

Kyle shoved Dorothy forward and she fell on her hands and knees.  He grabbed the back of her head, bore down with a stiff arm until she was forced to turn her cheek against the floorboards.  Her breasts were crushed beneath her and her full bottom was raised. Dorothy’s father started forward but Kyle put the knife’s point against the back of Dorothy’s neck.

“I swear to fuck old man, if you twitch again I’m going to make a red mess in here.  Do you understand?”

Dorothy’s father nodded.  Slowly, Kyle drew Dorothy’s skirt up her legs and pushed the bunched cloth onto her back.  The young woman’s thighs were soft, full and shapely; they shone in the sunlight.  White panties clung to her buttocks.  The seam between them was just visible through the satin.  Kyle touched the back of her thigh and the muscle jumped under his fingers, sending a quiver through her skin.  His fingers moved higher.

Dorothy couldn’t slow her breathing.  A strange and terrible heat pooled between her legs, as if something had stung her there.  She’d felt an ache there before and she knew that it felt good to press and rub where the lips of flesh came together, but she’d never experienced anything like this fierce, frightening sensation.  Her mother had warned her about the men they’d run across, told her to keep her distance from them.  That they would want to do things to her body that she would regret.  Her nipples throbbed against the wood.

“Please,” Dorothy said breathlessly, not knowing quite what she was begging for.  She thought of the look in her father’s eyes.  Then she said, “Please, not here.”  Whatever this was, it couldn’t be in front of her brother, her parents.

Kyle hesitated, then raised his voice and called, “Ed!  Get in here.”

The other man came in with his rifle.  Kyle said tightly, “Watch these people. I’m going in the other room.”

“Kyle… what are you–”

“I’m going in the other room!”

Dorothy’s mother started to sob, but before Dorothy could raise her head to look, Kyle had her by the hair again.  He dragged her behind him, on hands and knees, into the shadowed den.  The sound of her mother’s crying shifted, softened, and then she heard the rasp of her own breath, Kyle’s boots on the wood, the scuffle of her knees and the tops of her bare feet. Kyle pushed her head down again and knelt behind her.  “Don’t move,” he said thickly.  It was a threat, but the way his voice broke hinted at a plea.

Dorothy didn’t move.

The man pushed up her skirt again.  She felt him peeling the crotch of her panties aside, revealing the trim, even seam of her young pussy.  Suddenly something warm and wet squirmed against her skin. Dorothy gasped.

Kyle was kissing and licking her sex.

Good news and Bad news

Guess whose computer decided to stop working? That’s right! We are pretty sure that it’s an issue with the fan, so I’ll be taking it in at some point this week to get a replacement. I am not completely without gadgets due to this, and thank goodness for that, I say, but it does mean that publication of my next story will have to wait until I have access to Office and my cover art files again.

Now, before anyone goes wailing into the street to mourn this turn of events, I am going to see if I can figure out how to copy and paste an excerpt (written in the cloud). If I can pull this off, this entry will get a whole lot longer! Hold onto your hats, friends!

Here is an unedited excerpt from my next novella, Discipline. Enjoy!

***

At the appointed hour, Caroline knelt at the front door of her home. The air was rich with the smell of the steaks she had marinated and then pan-fried– crisped fat and seared rosemary against the deep tone of red wine. It was cool in the hallway and she felt chilled, with goosebumps running along her arms, tightening her nipples, but she
didn’t hug herself for warmth. Her eyes were fixed on the door’s window. Through the thin white cotton curtains, she watched for signs of Joshua’s arrival.
Just as Max’s favorite grandfather clock rang the hour, she saw the pale blur of a car pulling up to the curb. A man emerged and she knew it for him. On her knees, she stepped forward to turn the knob and open the door for him.
She dreaded the thought of a neighbor glancing towards her house and seeing her this way.
She cherished the thought of being seen this way.
Joshua walked briskly up the path, his briefcase in hand and his suit jacket buttoned neatly. His smile was small and perfect.
Caroline shuffled backwards to give him room to enter, grateful for the colorful rug that protected her knees from the hardwood floor.
He closed the door himself. Neither of them had said a word yet; with his arrival, her instinct led her to keep her chin down and her eyes lowered. She could see his polished shoes, turning back in her direction, see the briefcase as he set it beside the door, hear the whisper of his jacket as he unbuttoned it and slipped it from his shoulders. After he had draped it over the briefcase, he rested his hand on her hair like a holy man bestowing a blessing.
“Dinner smells wonderful.”
Caroline shivered with pleasure. “I hope it tastes the same. May I stand, Sir?”
He hooked two fingers under his tie and loosened it.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said, glancing down the hall. “I think you should give me a tour on hands and knees. I like seeing you this way.”
There was nothing for her to do but obey. Even age and experience couldn’t keep Caroline from blushing at the thought of his eyes on her rump as she crawled down the hall. She could picture the view he was enjoying– the plump swell of her cheeks, the small and tender lips peeping out from between her thighs, veiled in crinkly curls. It mortified and thrilled her, both at the same time.
Joshua followed slowly, nodding as she named each room they entered but seeming to prefer looking at her. Each room was given only a cursory glance– living room, office, craft room. kitchen. It wasn’t until she led him into the dining room that he spoke again.
By then, Caroline had forgotten the coolness in the air. It felt as if her hot blush had crawled from her face to warm and color her entire body.
“This won’t do, Caroline,” Joshua told her.
She looked around with alarm. What had she forgotten? The table was set, his at the head and hers to his right. Dinner sat steaming on the table runner, ready to be served. She’d opened a bottle of Shiraz and placed it before his setting, to breathe. All seemed to be in order.
“You may stand up and take your plate and cutlery back to the kitchen. You won’t be needing them.”
A quick glance up at the young man showed that he was smiling patiently down at her. Content to wait but clearly expecting her obedience.
Caroline moved shakily to her feet, thoughts swirling, and moved to do as she had been bid. Either he didn’t intend for her to eat, or…
Damn, he’s a natural.

Progress! Also another excerpt.

Guess what’s finished? That’s right! Flash is done! Mostly done, at least. I need to do some formatting work on it to figure out how I can add a table of contents without slapping on “Chapter One”, “Chapter Two”, etc., in front of each mini-story’s title. And then I’ll need to sneak that by the meatgrinder at Smashwords.

I can do this. I think.

Once I have that done, I can return to working on Sweet’s Dove, which is turning out to be less about dear Lucy meeting the laconic Sweet and falling in love, and more about Lucy’s own evolution, from the time she enters Judge Taylor’s household, to her joining the Boston bordello, The Graces. And then, hopefully, she will move out West to fall in love with Sweet, because stop hijacking my stories, brain. I had this one plotted out! Now you’re changing it!

On the bright side, it looks like this will mean a longer story and it also means I get to dip into some of my favorite erotic subjects, such as forced sex, attempts at forced orgasm, and dubious- and non-consent. Right now I’m in the middle of a scene where Judge Taylor has gotten his sweaty hands on some French tintypes to demonstrate to Lucy the proper oral technique.

Things are going to get steamy.

Seriously, check it out:

He held in his hands what looked like a large deck of cards. “I have brought you a present, Lucy.”

The Judge had only ever given me torment; I could only view any gift he might offer with wariness. So I remained silent and waited for him to fall on me. Instead, he sat beside me on the bed and spread the stiff cards so I could see their faces.

They were not cards after all but tintypes, wrapped in paper mats. The soft brown images were not the stiff portraits I was accustomed to seeing, but rather showed women in assorted poses, with varying degrees of nakedness. As Judge Taylor sifted through the pile, I was subjected to the sight of fleshy breasts, rounded bellies, gracefully curved and raised arms, with thick thatches of hair in the creases of each body.

I caught my breath and shut my eyes but he would not have it– I had not seen everything he wished me to see. His hand closed on my shoulder and pinched hard until I was forced to look again.

There, directly before my nose, was a different portrait. A man was standing naked below the waist, his shoulders and head cropped from the image. He possessed the same instrument my master had wielded on me, but his was inserted partially into the mouth of the girl who knelt before him, her hair unbound below her hips. Her eyes were closed, as I wished mine were, and there were words inscribed in the corner, fancy and flowing words. I, who could hardly read English, knew them to be in a foreign language. French, I supposed. It was known that the French were the most degenerate of the races.

“Do you see, Lucy?” The Judge shifted his hand from my shoulder to my chin, as if to help me direct my eyes. There was to be no glancing away; my entire field of vision was filled with that obscene coupling.

I thought I could detect, even in dull shades of sepia, the glimmer of moisture that her mouth must have left on that organ. I had never seen one so clearly and was grateful for the blurriness of the image– or I tried to be grateful. Beneath the thin cotton of my chemise, I could feel a heat gathering, the prickle of sweat or worse where my thighs pressed together. Traitorous body, to react to this. I could only hope that the Judge took my stiffness for disapproval.

“Do you see?” he repeated, and released my chin to seek the hands I had folded nervously in my lap. Seizing one, he pressed it to the buttons of his trousers. Before I could close my fingers against him, he had shaped my palm to the thickness that grew beneath. “Take me out.”

I knew better than to protest. Fumbling one-handed, I undid the buttons that kept the thin wool fastened and parted the layers of his underclothing to expose his flesh to the open air. And, because I also knew he expected it of me, I let my fingers curl loosely around his shaft. I tried to ignore the delicate weave of veins against my skin but every time he twitched with excitement, they printed themselves against my palm and fingers.

His hand returned to my shoulder and through pressure, made it clear he expected me to kneel as the girl in the tintype was doing. Oh God, I thought, save me from this indignity. Save me from this, and don’t punish me for the water filling my mouth. I cannot help it, please.

(See? I told you so. Look for Flash: A Collection of Erotic Shorts very, very soon!)

“In the Back Seat” – A Piece from Flash: The Collection!

Flash: A Collection of Erotic ShortsI’ve been talking about this one for weeks and weeks– a collection of erotic flash fiction for your reading pleasure, with subjects ranging from voyeurism and exhibitionism to S&M to sexual awakenings, everything from sweet to sharp. Flash: A Collection of Erotic Shorts will be ready for publication next week but I thought it was high time I posted a little something to whet the appetite!

So do please enjoy this full sample of  one of the pieces in the collection, “In the Back Seat”. It’s still in the revision process so some of the details may change in the final version, but have fun taking a peek behind the curtain!

In the Back Seat

Her name was Amy Lin, and she was out of Evan’s league. The fringe of her black hair was dyed pink and she had a little silver piercing in her nose. Evan was lanky and soft from too many hours in the basement in front of his Xbox. It was plain to see that they shouldn’t be out together.

But Evan’s friend Steve was in a band, and had a girlfriend, and she wanted someone to talk to on their date. So she’d brought her friend Amy along, and Evan’s friend had brought Evan, and now Amy Lin was sleeping against his shoulder in the back seat of Steve’s hand-me-down Impala.

Steve and his girlfriend were in the 7-11, trying to buy more wine coolers. By the light from the store windows, Evan could see down Amy’s Riot Girl tank top; her breasts rose and fell beneath a black satin bra. She wore cut-off jeans that showed most of her thighs, ripe and prickled with sweat from the summer heat. Evan thought of the peaches under the misters in the grocery store.

Her breath cooled and tickled his neck each time she exhaled. She smelled of cinnamon.

Evan tried to sit calmly, as he thought he should. He forced himself to look straight ahead, through the windshield at the shoppers in the store. But there was still her scent, her warmth, the soft sound of her breathing. He could think of nothing else.

With a murmur, Amy shifted in her sleep. She turned her hips and put her leg over his thigh. Evan’s erection rose until it strained the crotch of his jeans.

Her knee was right there. He had to calm himself.

“Are we home?” Amy mumbled.

Evan held his breath, then said, “We’re at the 7-11. Steve and Mandy are inside.” He swallowed. “They’ll be back soon.”

She hadn’t moved away. Her breath still curled against his neck, more quickly now that she was waking.

“Mm.” For a moment Amy said nothing, then, “Have you and Steve been friends long?”

“Since middle school.”

“That’s funny. He’s so into music.” And Evan wasn’t. He wondered if he should be offended, but Amy Lin was stretching her back, and her knee brushed the head of his cock through the denim.

“Well he wasn’t always.”

Amy moved her leg over his, absently, nudging his cock again.

“What did you use to do together?”

The touch of Amy’s knee was electric. Evan struggled not to move his hips. Without thinking, he said, “Dungeons and Dragons.”

“The nerd game?” Amusement.

“Yeah. The nerd game.”

“I should tell Mandy.”

Evan sighed. “It doesn’t matter anyway. People are different when they grow up. In a couple of weeks we’ll all go off to college and we can close the book on high school.”

“Mm… it doesn’t sound like you’ve had a lot of fun,” she murmured, close to his ear. He found her amusement hard to define now. Amy’s smooth, bare thigh rubbed back and forth over his, just slowly enough to be unconscious, but Evan was almost certain that she was rolling his erection under her knee.

He drew an unsteady breath. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “Dungeons and Dragons is a great game.”

Amy Lin giggled. “That’s not what I meant,” she whispered. And then she licked Evan’s earlobe into her mouth.

Evan’s hips would have come up out of the seat, but she held him down with her leg wrapped over his. While she chewed on his ear, Amy opened Evan’s jeans, pushed her hand inside and jerked the shaft of his cock until he was panting, eyes tightly closed. Her fingers were surprisingly strong. His organ trembled but he fought the fierce rush of excitement. He’d never been with a girl before; he didn’t want his first time to be coming on Amy Lin’s hand.

Then she took his wrist and guided his hand to her waist. He found her jean shorts unbuttoned, the teeth of her zipper open halfway down. Trembling with excitement, Evan put his hand between Amy’s legs; he felt the taut satin of her panties, then her stiff, black pubic hair, and finally the convolutions of her sex like some humid and alien flower.

Amy bit Evan’s earlobe so hard it hurt, then eagerly mouthed his neck. He tried rubbing her pussy and marveled inwardly at the way she made his fingers wet, the way her perfect hips jumped every time he stroked her close to her curls. She began to breathe quickly and finally whispered between kisses, “Oh… oh fuck…”

Suddenly she pushed Evan back and wrenched down his underwear until it made a snug band beneath his balls. His cock sprang up, swollen and beaded with pre-come that glistened like dew in the fluorescent light from the convenience store. He had no time to be embarrassed before Amy’s mouth fell on him.

It was exquisite. Her lips sank down his shaft and then she dragged them back, touching every inch of him, leaving him slick. Amy’s pink hair shone every time her head bobbed up between the front seats.

Evan saw her hand in her panties, squirming under the satin. The wet sound of her sucking was broken by feminine moans that quivered around his prick.

It was too much.

Evan’s body arched. His face contorted. One hand clawed the air wildly over Amy’s head, never quite grasping her hair. He shoved his hips against her face. Evan gave a deep groan; his cock bucked and spewed hot into Amy’s mouth.

When the spasms eased, Amy Lin sucked him clean.

Then she sat up and flashed him a wicked little grin, fastening her jean shorts. After a moment, with fumbling fingers, Evan did the same.

Neither of them spoke.

At last Evan said, “So. Where are you going to college?”

“Columbia.”

“In New York?”

“No, the other Columbia.”

“Oh.”

Steven and Mandy came back without wine coolers. Amy Lin never talked about what had happened, but on the ride home– in the summer dark– she held Evan’s hand.

He never forgot that.

 

 

Chapter 1 of “Nephilim”, for your reading pleasure.

I came awake in a white room. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, all painted the same matte shade. The sheet tucked over my body was white. Even the bed’s headboard had been lacquered with white. The only break in the color scheme came from my skin. A moment later, I realized that the the gun-metal grey handcuffs broke the scheme as well. One was snapped around each of my wrists. My arms were spread wide, my hands pinned to the bars; I was naked under the bedclothes. There were no windows and only one door.

I had maybe fifteen minutes to myself, time spent panicking, kicking off the sheet and chafing my wrists, before the man stepped into the room. My kicking had left me exposed, which I immediately regretted.

He was carrying a tray and smiling at me in the way men do when they have a line of bullshit to feed you. Bullshit and oatmeal, apparently. The steam curling from the bowl on the tray smelled strongly of artificial peaches and cream. The cheap stuff that came in paper packets, its weight half flavor powder and half oats.

I tracked his progress to the bed. He sat on the edge, the tray across his thighs, and looked back at me. Bright as sunshine, as if I weren’t twisted awkwardly onto my side with one shoulder straining and my knees clamped together.

Good morning, pet. You slept well?”

Being naked in front of a stranger that increased my sense of vulnerability; I could only imagine that he’d planned just that. Even if I weren’t handcuffed and in a strange room with no memory of how I came to be there, I think I would have still wanted to remain curled up and motionless, protecting myself as best I could. He was dressed well; dark slacks, a buttoned up shirt with the sleeves rolled up onto well-muscled forearms. The contrast between us, naked and frightened versus dressed and comfortable, was chilling.

Where am I?” I squeezed the question through a throat gone tight.

He chuckled. “You’re where you need to be.”

That wasn’t good enough but before I could throw more questions at him, he reached for the spoon on the tray and scooped up a bite of oatmeal. It was presented to me. The too-sweet smell of it turned my stomach.

I set my lips against the offering and the man raised his eyebrows at me. Then he flicked the spoon and steaming hot oatmeal spattered against my hip, my thigh, my waist.

I screamed and bucked against the mattress, twisting my body to try to rub those burning spots against the sheets. It stuck to me like napalm and before I could scrape it all off with my contortions, he was on top of me. His hand closed over my throat and squeezed. With his thumb over my carotid, it took only seconds before my vision began to dance, touched by sparkling points of light. Panic set in; my struggles briefly grew more violent. It was only when I began to black out and stop my thrashing that he let up on the pressure against my neck. I gasped for air.

I could still distantly feel his body pressed against mine. His clothes were expensive; they whispered against my skin without scratching; they shared the warmth of his body. He smelled like aftershave, like upscale cologne; his breath still had a hint of mint on it from his toothpaste. As I sucked in larger breaths, he dipped his head to nuzzle at the angle of my jaw and I picked up the scent then.

When I give you food, little girl,” he murmured, “you eat it. When I give you something to drink, you swallow it.” Teeth scraped at my throat and I heard myself moaning, my voice made hoarse by his treatment of me. “You take what I give you and you do what I say. Do you understand?”

When I didn’t answer him immediately, his hand began to close on my throat again. My back spasmed and I arched up against him. “Yes!” I croaked. “Yes! I understand!”

Good.” He sounded pleased but made no move to get off of me. Instead he began to tease my hair back from my face and returned to nuzzle my neck, my ear. I could feel his erection against my thigh. It was hot and heavy; he felt huge even through the barrier of his pants. I wanted to squirm away from it but didn’t dare, even when he tensed his buttocks and ground against me to tease himself.

You have so many questions, I know. But I’ll answer them all in good time. My time. You’re mine, you always have been, you just didn’t know it.”

His finger pushed at my lips. I resisted it at first, gritting my teeth. But my throat still ached and my head was pounding. The discomfort reminded me of how helpless I was and I relaxed my jaw. The first knuckle of that digit slipped into my mouth, nudged at my tongue. With the pad of his finger moistened, he ran it over my lips to gloss them with my own spit.

I couldn’t help myself; I began to shake.

Shhh,” he murmured, “shh. It’s going to be all right. You’re where you belong, little girl. You’re finally home. Haven’t you always known you were different? You’re so special. So needed.”

He punctuated each sentence with another thrust of his hips. Unlike the choking, that rhythmic pressure was almost gentle. His cock was trapped against the inside of my left thigh and each push reminded me of how close he was to my naked sex. I could feel heat prickling over my skin, washing over my entire body in a wave. Not all of it came from being blanketed by a larger body; I knew I was beginning to react in other ways. Ways I couldn’t help.

Another whimper escaped me.

His mouth found my ear again and his tongue curled around the lobe, as hot and wet as I knew I’d soon be. It was my weak spot, always has been. You can kiss my breasts, my belly, my thighs, even go down on me but I’ll always react strongest to having my neck and ear teased by a mouth. It took everything I had not to squirm but I knew he could feel my trembling anyway. As I tensed my arms and tried to stiffen up to hide it, the handcuffs dug into my wrists and clinked against the bars.

Between kisses, while he dipped the tip of his tongue into the recesses of my ear, the man continued to whisper to me.

I’m going to tell you a story. It’s a very old story. A lot of people think they know it but they always get it wrong. They weren’t there, they don’t know. But I was. I was there when it all started and in a way, dearest, so were you.”

His teeth caught at my earlobe and I was surprised into gasping. As he chuckled again, I squeezed my eyes shut. There was no shutting him out though. Not his voice, not his smell and certainly not his weight on me.

Please,” I whispered.

It wasn’t a request but he seemed to take it as one. His hips lifted and pushed against my legs, forcing them wider so he could fit himself between them. Positioned that way, he could line up the trapped arc of his cock against my slit. The hand he’d used to shut off my air slid down my chest and his palm curled over my breast. He was so hot, unnaturally hot. I could feel his palm burning against my nipple; it felt like sunbathing at high noon, except all of that heat and light was focused on a tiny patch of my skin. A sensitive patch.

A long time ago, I was a servant,” he told me as he kneaded the softness of my breast in his palm. “You could say I was made for it. Born for it. There were so many of us. But the one who made us wasn’t satisfied and so he made others.”

The man paused there and pushed his hips forward again. If he’d been naked, the pressure and friction would have been softer against tender bits. Instead I felt his zipper grinding against my pussy lips. It wasn’t my imagination; they’d begun to swell and grow softer. In that state, they offered no protection and eased apart when he rocked against me. This opened up my inner lips to his friction. Worse, it exposed my clit. Its hood provided some cover but as the fabric of his pants caught at me, I could feel it being tugged up. Pushed back, exposing that little nub.

I could feel myself getting wet.

Apparently, so could he. “That’s it, pet. You like this, don’t you? Not being able to move, while I move against you. Ahh…just like that. Yes.”

There was nothing I could do but suffer it. Suffer it, and not answer him as best I could. Not that he seemed to notice. Or maybe he thought all of the answer he needed was to be found in my body’s responses to him. He continued.

Those of us who served first had never seen anything like those he made afterward. They were beautiful. So soft, so tender. Looking at them, it was all you could do not to want to touch them. We resisted for so long but finally we gave into that need. Some of us went to them.”

His hand shifted against my breast. Before I could draw a breath, he’d caught my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. I knew what was coming but even braced against it, the pain when he pinched down hard was electrifying. I gasped and bucked against him, trying to escape it, but he bore down harder and harder. Hard enough that my gasp became a whine and then a scream. Such a small thing, to hurt so much. It sizzled through me, through all of my nerves until I couldn’t breathe.

Even when he let go, the ache lingered.

We’d never experienced anything like it. They felt everything so strongly,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “So we went back, again and again. We weren’t as careful as we should have been, but by the time our creator realized what was happening, it was too late. We were no longer innocent. None of us were. And when the children came, we were not inclined to service.”

The story made as little sense to me as my presence there. I didn’t understand it.

Please,” I begged him. I’d started crying at some point; I wasn’t sure when. “Please don’t do this.”

Ahh.” The pad of his thumb brushed over my cheek and then over my lips again, wetting them with the salt of my own tears. “It’s all right. You’ll understand soon,” he said as if he knew my thoughts.

His lips found my throat and the tip of his tongue probed my skin. “When we were discovered, we were punished, of course. Cast out. Some of us decided to protest that, to try to return. Some of us fought to protect our families. He wanted to destroy them because those first children were dangerous. Too big, too wild, too unpredictable…those bloodlines were never meant to be mixed. They threatened everything else that had been made. So I didn’t fight. I took my wives and my children and I found a place to hide. Where we could live in peace together. Or try to.”

The man had begun to rock against me again. To my horror, though my breast still tingled and ached, though my throat was still sore from his treatment of me, I found myself moving with him. Instead of remaining tense, my hips shifted and my thighs softened.

I began to cry again.

They were dangerous. My sons, my daughters. I had to destroy some of them myself. But there were others I could contain and so I did. We lived for a time like that. A family. Then, as my wives grew older and died, I realized that soon I would be left alone, but for these mad, broken offspring. And that’s when it came to me.”

I could feel his smile pressed against my skin, his lips curved, the threat of teeth just behind them.

They were mad and broken because the blood was too strong. My blood. But if they had too much of their mothers in them, they were…less. Weak, bland as unsalted bread. They needed to be refined. A little of their mothers, a little of me. Never both at the same time but with careful breeding…they call it line breeding, these days. It’s a little like forging the strongest steel over generations. And I had the time for that. The patience.”

Mad. Broken. If he was describing anything, it was himself. Anyone who’d steal another person off of the street– or had he taken me from my home? God, I couldn’t remember, why couldn’t I remember?– was going to be insane. But it only hit me then just how insane my captor was. I was being held by a madman who thought he was…what? An angel? I’d never been a regular at church but what little I knew about religion, about old stories, seemed to confirm that hypothesis.

It was not reassuring, to have a hypothesis.

His hand trailed down my neck, my chest, my stomach. I stiffened, thinking he was going to touch me between my legs and gloat over how wet I’d become. He didn’t. Instead, he thumbed free the button of his pants and drew down his zipper.

That was worse than a touch, or gloating. As he freed his cock, I could feel its heat. Its size. It sprang free and drooped against my mound, heavy and unyielding. I imagined I could feel the veins running along it, the way the velvet skin that sheathed its length shifted as he rubbed its underside through my thatch of curls. I’d always loved that feeling, before.

I could feel a part of me still enjoying it on a visceral level. Its texture, its weight.

A madman was going to fuck me and I didn’t dare struggle. Even if I did, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He was too heavy and strong, the handcuffs were too tight.

He drew his hips back and the knob that crowned the shaft bumped against the tendon of my inner thigh, leaving a smear of wetness behind it. It nudged my thigh and painted the skin there in pre-cum. Another nudge pushed him against the hollow between my thigh and my swollen outer lip. He paused there, no doubt happy to let me feel the threat. To feel how close he was to my entrance, which felt tight and engorged and absolutely drenched. My clit was throbbing, a tiny but powerful pulse inside of it echoing my own racing heartbeat.

Over the years, I watched over my brood,” he whispered as he leaned onto his elbow and reached down to take himself in hand. He repositioned himself again and began to drag the head of his organ through my slit. From bottom to top and then down again, every time that broad, thick surface caught my clit, I felt myself jump.

The handcuffs chimed again as I twisted my hands and gripped the bars, myself. I didn’t need that restraint anymore; I clung for myself.

I kept them safe. I let them breed with others for one generation, maybe two, and then I would appear and sweep one of my girls off of her feet. You love so easily, all of you. That’s part of your charm.”

He caught my clit again. And again. I couldn’t stop the way my hips were rocking now, to chase that friction. The pain he’d given me was rapidly fading, replaced with pleasure. With wanting. I whimpered to realize it but he had me now. He had me wanting him. Wanting this.

Worse, he had me listening and wanting to hear what he would say next.

My captor didn’t disappoint.

Even as the head parted the fragile tissues of my sex, as he eased himself so carefully into my body, he whispered, “At first, I only thought to make something worthy of myself. A true partner. But as the years went by, so many years, I realized what I was truly doing. I was creating. He had created us but I was creating something new. A perfect being that was more than either of his servant races. Something new, and better than all of us. I could see it, flashes of that brilliance through the years. But it was never quite right. My blood was too diluted, or too strong. I kept at it though…ahhh.”

He paused as he sheathed himself fully within me. I could feel the crinkle of his pubic hair tangling with mine, could feel the silky weight of his ball sack resting against my perineum. When he inhaled, I could feel his cock twitch inside of me and I felt my cunt spasm in answer, clenching around him.

We fit perfectly together. He was large but not too large, thicker than he was long. He filled me completely.

And then he began to move. Now when he spoke, his low calm tones were broken with exertion and arousal.

Haven’t you always known you were different?” he asked me, his voice guttural. It was true, I had. I had always had the sense that I was separate and apart from the people around me. Not for any reason I could put my finger on. It was something that had kept me separate in my life. I was a loner and an introvert, and happy to be that way. But I didn’t answer him. Why encourage his delusions? Everyone thinks they’re different. Special.

Besides, it was growing more difficult to think. I was not a woman who’d ever been able to climax from vaginal penetration alone but as he stroked his full length in and out of my cunt, I began to feel the same tingling tightness that came from having my clit played with. I could feel pleasure gathering between my legs like a knot made by twisting a cord between your fingers.

When I opened my eyes, his were right there, blazing at me. Looking into me. I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t escape him. I began to pant, to make soft mewling sounds deep in my throat. It was too much.

He took it as a signal to quicken his pace and he began to fuck me in earnest, his pelvis slapping against mine. His hand slid from my hip to my throat and I could feel his fingers pressing in. Just a little, just enough to make my vision sparkle again. The threat of losing my air caused me to lift my chin up as I tried to take a deeper breath; he met that movement with a probing kiss.

When the kiss broke, he kept his lips against mine and continued his story. “Fifty years ago, I fucked my daughter, thirty-five years ago I fucked her daughter. Nngh…and now…ah, little girl. You’re going to be so beautiful. So perfect. My perfect little girl.”

His hand closed hard on my neck, closing off my air. I thrashed but couldn’t shake him off. A black fog began to creep into the edges of my vision even as the tension in my belly rose and rose.

Come for me, daughter,” the man whispered.

Unable to breathe, with my body and mind screaming for oxygen, I came in a shuddering splendor for him, squeezing around him with terrifying strength.

Daughter?

At the gripping liquid peak of my orgasm, I blacked out.

 

“Syrinx Debauched” now live! 100% free erotica!

Because I love flash fiction and because my readers are the best readers and because it’s been such a terrific year for me, I’ve published another free story as a thank you! Click on the image to be taken to Smashwords where Syrinx Debauched is now available, and look for it on Amazon.com soon as well! This one is explicit and touches a toe right against the line of what is accepted and what is strongly taboo, so proceed with caution!

Description:

London, during the last years of the seventeenth century. When lovely actress Arabella is commissioned to perform a scene composed by a mysterious gentleman, she looks forward to his patronage and steels herself for his advances. But nothing can prepare her for what will transpire in the empty theater, involving a lustful madman and a chase of Pan and Syrinx that becomes all too real.

“Syrinx Debauched” is erotic flash fiction of more than 1000 words and contains themes of dubious consent, public sex, and feral rutting. In addition to this, you also receive four steamy excerpts from some of the finest erotic stories written and published by Corinna Parr!

 

 

 

Excerpt from my next story, the sequel to “The Zodiac Club”!

The Zodiac Club Part 2

Ian lowered his head. He slicked back the bronze bowl of his hair, then glanced sideways. After a moment, he poked his chin at the dance floor.

Two girls were dancing together, close to our table. One had her hair up in a ponytail. She wore a sheer black blouse that showed her satin bra beneath it, and one of those delightful and absurd micro-skirts that reveal the top of the thigh and shadowed hints of more. The other, loose-haired, was more modestly dressed: a dress shirt unbuttoned to suggest the nook between her breasts, an A-line skirt to the knees, sandals rather than the first girl’s heels.

It took me a moment to realize that they had the same auburn hair and pale skin, the same fullness of lip. Even their figures matched, firm and athletic but blossoming into the curves of young adulthood.

The chaos of neon and shadow played over their bodies, their hair and faces; I couldn’t make out the color of their eyes, but they were dark.

“Twins?” I called.

Ian smiled.

The one with the ponytail was watching him. When their eyes met, she quirked a wicked little grin. She slipped behind her sister and turned her so that they were both sideways to us. Her forearms draped the other girl’s waist and her curled fingers brushed the front of her skirt. In time to the pounding music, she let her hips sway from side to side against her sister’s bottom.

I leaned towards Ian and said, “What have you told them?” The Zodiac Club might not be one of Chicago’s best-kept secrets, but we value our privacy. When people assume that your sexual escapades are an urban legend, there are fewer prying eyes.

“Relax, Gemini.” Ian’s face was a mask, but his icy blue eyes followed the weave of the girl’s bodies. “I told them that I know people who throw parties for adults. Expensive parties. With restraint and pain.”

The one with loose hair danced with her head down, her eyes closed. Dark and glossy colors bobbed about her cheeks. Her arms uncoiled above her head, and that movement passed like a wave along the contour of her body, down to her ankles. She seemed scarcely aware of the club, even of her sibling pressed to her back.

“Tell me you didn’t meet them here.”

Ian adjusted the cuff of his shirt so that its violet cloth just crested the black pinstripe of his jacket’s sleeve. “We were introduced at a party.”

I had a vision of Ian, immaculately bare-chested, his paddle a blur, swatting the naked asses of those girls to the strains of Baroque violin. Vivaldi’s Spring, perhaps. My lips turned down at the corners.

“How much have they played?”

Ian turned his bland expression on me and said nothing. In my head, I said a little prayer for patience.

“Never,” he called at last. “But they’re curious.” His pale eyes sparkled.

“Never.”

“Never.”

I was reminded then why Ian enjoyed a position of prestige in our house second only to mine. He had his moments. As often as we disagreed, he had his moments.

“Are they of age?” I asked. Consent can be a complex idea in our games. To avoid recriminations, the club has a firm rule that only those twenty-one and older can play.

“Twenty-two.”

“Alright. You have my attention,” I said. “Invite them over.”

Ian gestured and the two women stopped dancing. Ponytail brushed his thigh with her knee as she came up to the table. The other slipped into the seat beside me and crossed her legs; the first remained standing.

“Gemini,” Ian said, “I give you April and Miranda Greene.”

“And it isn’t even my birthday.”

Ponytail smirked at me. Her sister blushed behind a polite smile. Their eyes were a remarkable dark green, the color of malachite.

“Ian, you puckish bastard,” I said. He raised his eyebrows, feigning besmusement. I settled back in my seat, crossed a leg over my thigh and studied his finds. “April and Miranda.” Something about the names intrigued me; I glanced from one to the other. “Which is which?”

“I’m April,” the standing girl declared. She stared into my eyes as she spoke, grinning. “That’s Miranda.”

“Is it,” I called over the crash and rumble of the music. “Aren’t you a little old to play the name game?”

She bent over and put her hands on the table, bringing her face closer to mine. Her posture gave me an excellent– and not accidental– view of her breasts above the satin bra and the sweet little vale between them. “Do you know of another game we could play?” she asked.