• on writing,  Smut Marathon 2018,  Thoughts

    Smut Marathon Recap

    Well, folks. It’s over. Smut Marathon 2018 has come to a close. I wept and prayed and wrote and deleted. I cursed and celebrated and almost gave up many times. But did I enjoy it? Absolutely. What I loved The prompts: they were creative and became increasingly challenging as the race went on The pace: if you’re nervous about how much or how often you have to write, don’t be, it’s very manageable The support: people retweeting and encouraging votes even after they were eliminated, the unfailing solicitation of votes, the fact that so many people took the time to read and vote. The support was awesome and quite moving.…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Pillow Slip

    Bill had left for the war in the autumn but Betty’s nightmares had started while he was still at home. Before he’d left, when the dreams first began, he would wake her and soothe her, his body against her the only thing that brought her out of that terrifying fog. Her mind was haunted with ragged limbs and smoke, horrible screams and constant, distant gunfire. She was always running to him in those dreams, but every torn and bloody face she saw, every broken body she tripped over, was someone else’s son or brother, someone else’s husband. In the weeks before he shipped out, they made love more than they…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    The Stranger

    The wind howled around the corners of the cabin and the storm raged on. They arrived after nightfall, greeted by torrential rain falling through the heavy cedar forest. The cabin was rustic and remote, a perfect getaway for an uninhibited weekend. The drive though, had been a long tease. Luke’s hand on Paige’s thigh had started it all as they’d talked about the fun that was to come. “I’m sort of glad the weather is gloomy,” Luke had said with a sly grin. “All the more reason to stay inside and fuck you senseless.” To this Paige had laughed and pulled his hand up her thigh to the heat between…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    No Regrets

    “I’m sorry, Sir, it may be an hour at least before the elevator is moving again. If you could please be patient, we …” “I’m out of patience. Surely there’s something you can do.” “I assure you, everything is happening as fast as it can.” “Fine. Thank you.” David ended the call with the operator and stood there leaning into the elevator wall, red faced and exasperated. Kathryn eyed David from the opposite corner, fury boiling just beneath the surface. After an hour of reviewing the terms of their divorce with a fine toothed comb Kathryn was well stocked with rage. She even hated the tie he was wearing. Spiteful…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    The Red File

    Detective Benson pulled over and put the car in park. He looked across the field to the circus of milling cops and crime scene techs and sighed. When he’d gotten the call, Susan from dispatch had simply said “That old tree in Jim Wellington’s field on route 8” and he could already imagine it; he’d driven that road just two days before on the way to another call. He knew what to expect, it was another murder in the case he simply referred to as The Red File. He hopped the ditch and crossed the field in long strides, joining the huddled group of cops. As expected, the victim was…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Two Cherries

    Hanoi, Vietnam, 1969. Jack had often thought about that first night, the last night that he could claim any innocence about the world. He had been 18, away from home for the first time and like his peers, had cried silently every night of basic training when they were still stateside. Vietnam was a hazy dream, a world away from everything he knew. It was the last night before they began active duty and like a pride of lions, he and his fellow Privates roamed the city in search of only two things: American Whisky and pussy. As luck would have it, they saw the pink and blue neon sign…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Better Than The Consommé

    For some, the opening of the velvet lined box they are kept in elicits fear, for others, pride or excitement. Will it be the polishing cloth or will they be set out for service? Who will handle them? Whose hands and mouths will they meet? For Soup Spoon, there is a thrill in being used, and today, having been laid beside Dinner Knife she recognizes the soft steps and quiet humming of Lucy, her favourite of the maids. To be touched by Lucy is to be appreciated, her fingers are so warm and delicate. As Lucy gazes into Soup Spoon’s mirrored curves, she is dreamy and pensive, and lets out…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Clear Blue Sky

    He had fucked her, quickly, bent over the pile of his belongings. Those boxes and that hasty fuck was the last of their life together, the last of her submission to him. She locked the door and turned to look at the sunlit apartment: it was hers again, no longer ruled by him, no longer the cage it had become. He hadn’t let her come, and now, in the wake of his slapdash orgasm, she was hungry for her own. She rummaged in a drawer for a dildo, curved blue glass, sparkling in the afternoon brightness. She pulled an armchair across the bedroom, stepped out of her dress and sat…

  • Short Fiction,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Weak Flesh

    “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three days since my last confession.” Father Robson sits in the confessional, his soft, pale hands folded in his lap. “Yes, my child, what is your sin?” “I struck my son, Father. He tried my patience and I struck him.” The priest’s hands slide beneath his robe as the penitent’s whispers curl through the latticed screen between them. He shifts his tremendous bulk in the hard seat closing his dark eyes, heavy lashes fluttering as she explains. He begins to stroke himself, hardly listening, thinking only of how the nuns beat him as a boy; the pleasure and the searing pain…

  • Poems,  Smut Marathon 2018

    Nectar

    The honey bee knows the sweetest nectar is from the ripest figs, fulsome and sticky, bleeding milk from their stems, their dusky skins nearly splitting in the summer heat. The ripest figs lure the most bees.The riper the fig, the more doting the bee