Saturday, December 28, 2013

Kneel at Your Feet - A New Year's Short Story - Part Two

Support Service: 
A New Year's 
Short Story 
- Part Two
Read Part One Here

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Kneel At Your Feet - A New Year's Short Story - Part One

Support Service: 
A New Year's 
Short Story – 
Part One

“Sorry,” the big, broad, bald man laid out, leather-clad and face-down in a sprawling pose on the low bed beside her, yawned as Reena Lathan stripped his feet of their heavy, black, lace-up, work boots and thick, sweat-soaked socks, “they’re a little gross.” 

Reena just smiled as she took one foot in her hand and began to tenderly wipe every inch of his feet with rubbing alcohol. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “I’m used to it,” she said. Truth be told, she liked it. 

“You’ve been doing this all night?” he asked, his face half-crushed into the pillow at the other end of the bed. “What a way to ring in the New Year.”

“It’s my volunteer hours,” she said as she switched feet. Donovan’s annual “Spank in the New Year” celebration was coming to a close. Well past midnight, the numbers were in and people were saying it’d been one of the club’s busiest nights. And Reena believed it. “I’ve been here since ten, offering post-scene foot massages.” To Dommes with tired, over-arched feet in impossibly tall stiletto boots. To bottoms with sore heels and blistered balls from standing and struggling and teetering on bare, abused feet. To Doms whose feet sweltered beneath leather and steel toes. And it had been a long night.

Don’t get her wrong, Reena was a fan of feet—finding the ridges and planes, the bones and veins, the arch and heel and toes a fascinating study of where a person was, had been, and was going. But, after three hours of after care service—three hours of bathing and rubbing and massaging feet of every kind—even her appreciation was being tested.

Even so, she thought as she watched the last few dungeon scenes dwindle down from crescendo-ing strikes to soothing strokes. She had a job to do and she took her duties seriously. Donovan’s was a highly exclusive, highly elite club; one that, by all rights, someone like her—who was still paying off student loans and barely brushing off the bottom of the mail-sorting, coffee-fetching office ranks—should never have been able to belong to. Lord knew, she couldn’t afford her loans, her rent, food, and the club dues. But thankfully Donovan’s offered discounted rates to those who volunteered at the club.

All in all, it was a great deal. Three hours, three nights a month got had her monthly dues reduced by more than half and allowed her to attend events she’d never have been able to afford a ticket to. It was a great way to pay back a club and a community that gave her so much.

“Three hours of feet, huh?” the Dom whistled as he shook his head as much as his prone position would allow. “I couldn’t do it. Hat’s off to you, girl.”

Reena shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she said before she flexed her hands against a raging cramp that had settled in half an hour ago that now burned along the base of her left thumb. “I’m happy to do it,” she said as she started to rub his large feet with her homemade foot oil.

“You got a thing for feet?” the man asked, bending a bit at the waist so he could curl and curve around to look at her. 

A fetish. He meant did she have a fetish.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head, “I don’t have a thing.” She liked feet, sure, but it wasn’t, like, a fetish or anything. She just liked them. That’s all.

Reena closed her eyes and breathed deep, the scent of skin, sweat, and wear mixing with the oil’s sweet citrus and cool mint both calming and invigorating at the same time. She inhaled as she let the scent waft up to her as she worked it into the toughened flesh. She knew that most people hated the smell of feet, found the idea and the odor of overworked soles offensive. Knew that she ought to too. But there was something indescribably earthy about that scent that intrigued her. 

“Oh God,” the Dom groaned in relaxed relief as her fingers dug deep into the flesh of his foot. His feet flexed in her hand, the flesh arching deep, as the rest of his body followed suit, his back bowing and his head thrown back as he moaned almost ecstatically. “Thing or not, that is good.”

Reena smiled as she pressed her thumbs hard into the heart of his foot, eliciting more low growls of pleasure. She may not have a fetish, but she did have to admit that there was just something about feet that drew her. In the strong, sharp knuckles of his toes, the way those bones snaked like gnarled roots up the rise of his foot. In the coarse, dark hair spattering in patches—thin and sparse as ankle became arch or along each toe—that tickled her palms. In the variety of textures—smooth sole, callus-capped heels, fragile flesh that thinly covered yet securely held the bony bridge together.

Read Part Two Here

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

On My Knees - A Short Story - Part Two

A Short Story 
- Part Two
Read Part One Here
* Warning: This story depicts a Catholic fetish scene and I mean absolutely no disrespect by it, but rather seek to celebrate it.

Read the rest of "Genuflect" in this new anthology that explores eroticism and religion.

Ten stories of temptation, romance, and blasphemy featuring Sonni de Soto, Piper Denna, Torrance Sené, Charlotte French, Bronwyn Green, Leandra Vane, Mira Stanley, Jordan Monroe, H K Carlton, and Jillian Boyd.

Not even men of the cloth are exempt from God’s greatest gift: Love. In Sacred and Profane: Priest Erotic Romance, you’ll find stories of clergymen stepping outside their vows, pastors weaving divinity into their seductions, nuns and parishioners confessing to their body’s every earthly desire, and more.

Are you aroused by the blasphemous dance of sex and religion? The dangerous edge of eroticism contained within submission to something beyond oneself? The taboo juxtaposition of holy and sensual? Then Sacred and Profane welcomes you.

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If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in Sexy Little Pages' anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

On My Knees - A Short Story - Part One

A Short Story – 
Part One
* Warning: This story depicts a Catholic fetish scene and I mean absolutely no disrespect by it, but rather seek to celebrate it.

Nicholas Bailey shoved his hands in his leather jacket and walked down the beachside sidewalk, passing workers on their way home. Harried families fought foot traffic with lovestruck couples presently too enthralled with each other to hear the tired cries and frustrated sighs of their futures. The din of one-sided cell phone conversations clashed against the call of street vendors, each raising its volume as they struggled to be heard over the other.

Shutting his eyes, wishing it were that easy to shut it all out, Nicholas turned the corner and stared at his destination.

For a person who knew where to look, Donovan’s was built like a veritable magic box, with trap doors and hidden hatches everywhere. There were an obscene amount of ways to secret into and out of this den of decadence disguised as just another trendy downtown club. 

There was always the front; the shined steel and tinted glass face at the foot of the deceptively large brick building, that hinted at the writhing, undulating bodies barely veiled behind it as pulsating rhythms poured seductive out into the night like a siren’s song. 

Then there was the exclusive back way, reserved for the highly exclusive and highly elite—those who held those keys were the ones with the most to hide and the most to lose. They were the ones whose business-suited exteriors hid more exciting centers, slowly revealed as they mazed their way through the labyrinthine offices that shared their homes and hallways with the increasingly infamous club. Clandestine comfort through corporate covers.

But still too were all the side entrances, doors that were often hidden, marked only by a lone smoker standing sentry or a lounging barfly leaning against black brick, allowing only the authorized and approved attendance.

Those were the doors that, for three years now, Nicholas had preferred. The shadowed passageways in darkened alleys where few deigned to notice and fewer dared to frequent. It offered cover and comfort of a different sort. In his usual costume of dark jeans and dark jacket, it lent Nicholas an invisible anonymity he appreciated. Especially in the past few months, since word about the club and the eccentric clientèle it catered to had spread across the local media waves just in time for splashy seasonal sweeps.

Last night, Nicholas had seen yet another report about protest groups of the devoutly faithful who had posted themselves at Donovan’s front and rear entrances to vehemently preach against not only the club’s members, but the businesses that allowed this hedonistic haven to flourish. An abomination, a blond woman in a snow white sweater with pretty, serious eyes, had said into the reporter’s microphone, to allow such an affront to goodness and decency to stand.

Nicholas knew he had to be careful. Had to avoid the cameras and reporters and protesters flanking the main ways. Hand hovering over the stiff, crisp white of his collar, hidden beneath the flipped up, ludicrously popped lapels of his leather jacket, Father Nicholas Bailey knew no one would—no one could—ever understand.

Nicholas wasn’t at all that sure he understood.

Nodding to Gabe, the tall, beefy doorman on duty, Nicholas flashed his membership pass—a simple strip of laminated cardboard with nothing but a bar code that Gabe scanned before letting him inside the unassuming north side door the doorman had been leaning up against while he smoked. “Ho ho ho,” the terse man greeted with an acknowledging nod and a puff of his ever-present cigarette. Nicholas nodded back and entered. 

Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke? Nicholas thought, the passage hanging in the air before him, swirling as it wafted, woven within the cloud Gabe’s cigarette and breath had left. Draw me, Donovan’s—its soft swaying music and shadows—beckoned, we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee.

In the dimly lit hallways, Nicholas could hear the music throbbing from the dance floor in the club proper through the strangely plain walls. He touched the stone-gray walls and imagined that he could feel the pounding beat against his fingers, could feel the heated twist of gyrating bodies against his hand.

Moving down the cave-like hallways, he headed further back, driven and drawn as if called by name. Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest. He let the curves and turns in the walls lead him as he made the familiar pilgrimage back. As he walked, the sounds of the music muted, replaced by a strangely soothing cacophony of muffled murmurs, soft sighs, and sharp gasps. 

He closed his eyes, sightlessly sure of his way. Instead, he concentrated on the sounds surrounding him. In one hallway, people recited poetry, their voices low and breathy as their words stroked over the senses. He couldn’t hear well enough to distinguish the words, but the cadence and tone were enough to carry him on his way. Another was nothing but guttural grunts and groans, the sound of flesh pounding against flesh in a struggle that sounded at least as lusty and primal as it was fierce. Yet another was completely silent except for the slightest shuffle and a stifled sigh. 

With a sigh of his own, Nicholas turned his final corner and stopped in front of a door. A rather ordinary looking one. Not really different from the others around it, if it weren’t for the air of formal serenity and faint organ music that seemed to drift around it. 

Opening the door, the scent of incense—the pungent, piney scent of frankincense—assaulted him. The dim, candlelit room was small, about the size of a classroom, with old, creaking pews lined in a vee around a tall table draped like an altar set atop a small, elevated stage at the head of the room. Poinsettias and pine wreaths hung everywhere as classical hymns and carols played reverently over the speakers at the front of the room.

For a moment, Father Nicholas stood still at the mouth of the mock chapel. He shouldn’t like this room. Should hate it and the offense its gaudy, fetishized face made of his faith.

He was a priest, for goodness sake!

But, as he made his way down the aisle of pews, his fingers brushing the mistletoe’s pointed prickle, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

Read Part Two Here

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Pervertable - Part Two

Pervertable - 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

Check out my story “Pervertable” in this gleefully, greedily gluttonous anthology from Sexy Little Pages.

Nothing succeeds like excess, and too much is never enough…

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Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

Pervertable - Part One

Pervertable - 
Part One
So NaNoWriMo is done and I am 52,229 words richer than I was October 31st. In celebration, I thought I'd share the story I wrote in 2010 that inspired my 2013 NaNo novel Brought to You By. As always, please enjoy!

* Warning: While there are shades of kink in this story, it is at its heart a lyrically erotic, rather mainstream story told from a vanilla perspective.

God, the last half of her shift was going by at a painfully slow pace!

Thirty minutes more, Dana Wainsfield told herself as she glared at the clock on the cash register screen. Just half an hour more. In half an hour, she could take off her name tag—“Welcome to Catered Cook; My Name is Dana”—and her smock—“Catering to Your Home Cooking Needs!”—and go home.

Dana, like the vast amount of low-wage workers, didn’t much like her job. She had bigger dreams than retail.

Unlike the vast amount of fake bakers and culinary hobbyists that trolled her store, Dana was a chef. 

Well, aspiring, really.

She’d done the classes. Had aced school. But, the problem was, no one was hiring right now. Not out-of-work, inexperienced gastronomical snobs anyway.

Which was fine, she supposed. What she really wanted to do was write. Cookbooks, that is. She was the next Julia Powell, she knew it. 

Her boyfriend—an odd acquisition she’d found working at the bookstore on the first level while scoffing at the “15-minute dinner” books—thought so too. With a metabolism that kept him lanky no matter what he ate, he gobbled up her dishes with a gusto that she found incredibly attractive. He had an abundance of good taste and a good appetite, two qualities she sought the way other girls did muscles or money.

The problem wasn’t her cooking. She had books full of recipes, all tested and perfected by her refined taste.

Publishing, that was her problem.

It seemed publishers weren’t looking for no-name, out-of-work culinary snobs either. Dana sighed as she slumped over to lean against the counter’s glass case. Which was why she was here waiting for thirty more miserable minutes to pass.

Twiddling her fingers against the glass to whatever muzak was playing over the store’s speakers, Dana looked up when she heard giggling in the front corner of the store.

Used to high school shoplifters who pathologically thought it was cool to stuff peelers and paring knives and potholders shaped like kittens into their pockets, Dana was surprised to see a couple—somewhere in their early thirties—fighting a fit of laughter over bakeware.

She peered as the man, a slicked-back studious sort in a sweater vest and jeans, picked up a classic scraper with a long, cherry red handle and a gleaming white rubber head. He waved it oddly—as if testing the weight, the minuscule heft, of it. He shrugged before handing it over to her.

Dana’s brow shot up as the woman—an ethnic mod model type wrapped in quirky vintage classics—gripped the handle hard before thwacking it hard in her hand, the rubber making a solid thud against her palm. She giggled. He giggled.

Dana shook her head, confused.

And then the woman did something odd and unusual, something Dana had never seen anyone ever do in the year and a half she’d been working at Catered Cook.

The woman twirled her long, perfectly manicured finger as an impish grin spread across her face.

The man rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Dana felt an unease as the woman pressed her hands together—still clutching the scraper—to beg. “Please,” she heard the woman’s deep, timbric voice plead. “Pretty please with a ripe, unpopped cherry on top.”

The man sighed and quickly checked around. Dana quickly squeezed herself against the wall, hoping she was well hidden by the shelved aisles between them, her heart in her throat, pounding a staccato cadence that she couldn’t quite keep up with.

“Fine,” she heard the man acquiesce, pointing a warning finger at the grinning, dark-skinned woman. “Once.”

“Thank you!” she piped as she jumped and gave an excited, little yip. “Now...” She made the twirling motion again.

The man heaved another heavy sigh and turned, leaning against one of the shelves heavily laden with mixing bowls and rolling pins. Bent slightly forward with his back to her, he crossed his arms in front of him, looking very put out.

Still gleeful, despite her companion’s dour acceptance, the woman did the same weird waving he had. Then with a graceful dance step, she swung her hand back like a tennis player and smacked him with it.

On the butt.

The blow made just a tiny, muted thunk—really just a sound too small for all that effort—but it resonated impossibly loud in Dana’s head.

Dana just blinked—balked—not believing that she was seeing this. People were going to touch food with those, for God’s sake!

She ought to have stopped them. Asked them to leave or called security to escort them out. Instead, she watched as the man and the woman both shrugged, chuckled, and set the shiny, red scraper back in the bucket with all the others.

The woman, with wide, wondrous eyes, studied the store’s wares like a child would a candy store. Squealing, she lifted a jumbo slotted spatula—meant for turning delicate dishes like pancakes or fish. Fingering the three open lines running down the thin, wide head reverently, her smile turned thoughtful with just a pinch of malice. Hiding the tool behind her back, she snuck up on the man, her calf-skin boots silent on the store’s floor. As her companion sorted through the assorted serving spoons, forks, and ladles, the woman stealthily bent back the turner’s head—the thin metal neck tense as it stretched—before she let it snap like a shot against his shoulder.

The man yelped as he rubbed his shoulder, turning to glare accusingly at her. With a vicious smirk of his own, he snatched up two large bamboo serving spoons—lightweight but durable, resistant against staining, warping, and cracking. With one in each hand, he wielded them like weapons, twirling in graceful arcs like some kind of Williams-Sonoma ninja.

They sparred for a bit, laughingly smacking whatever bit of each other they could reach, but then the man stopped, his hands and weapons dropping, suddenly slack.

Read Part Two Here