• autobiographical,  Every Damn Day In June 2019,  Wicked Wednesday

    Survival is not the same as living

    Content warning: abuse, violence, violation I survived. I survived the way she drank, the way he screamed and broke things. I survived not knowing if we’d eat, waking to the glass of water by my bed frozen on the surface because the house had no furnace and we lived on the heat from a wood stove, which, if forgotten, grew cold, spreading that coldness through us like slow acting poison. I survived the drunken car crashes, the interrogation by social services. I survived her pissing the bed and not getting out of it for days. I survived loneliness and neglect. I survived his unholy rage and remorse. I survived the…

  • D/s,  Every Damn Day In June 2019,  Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Breakthrough – Every Damn Day In June – 5/30

    My fingers are in my mouth because he wants them there. Three of them, my pinky and thumb hugging my cheeks which are slick with drool, my palm pressed into my tongue, the trap door of my throat pulsing as he goads me on gently. He’s proud of me. His voice is heavy and stern but thick with love, both a hug and a slap. He knows I’m humiliated as he calmly tells me to speak. I pull my drenched fingers from my mouth to sputter the single word he wants to hear and I’m instantly admonished, caught on a technicality; he never said I could stop sucking. It’s like…

  • LDR,  Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Blueberry Pancakes

    It would be a beautiful afternoon, cloudless, bright and blue. I’d check into our hotel room around the time your plane arrived, knowing you’d have security to go through and the short cab ride before you’d swipe your card in the door and it would close behind and suddenly we’d be breathing the same air in the same room. I imagine the moment would be imperfect, your text from the lobby would be delayed or I’d have had a moment of anxiety, standing and sitting and pacing and sitting again, “acting casual” but rushing to the door at the last moment, both of us freezing in action as our eyes…

  • Thoughts,  Wicked Wednesday

    The Healing Power of Ritual

    I have always craved ritual, craved it in a deep and significant way, for as long as I can remember. My entirely secular upbringing, by unsentimental ex-catholics, meant that nothing felt sacred, nothing had any pomp or circumstance to it. The idea of imbuing an object or practice with significance or creating ritual was absurd to them, it was a trapping they had both wrenched free of as adolescents and they could not fathom, and would not indulge, my desire for the opposite. I craved the richness and anticipation of ritual and found tiny ways to privately ritualize everyday things. I romanticized simple chores and tasks and took time to…

  • Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun

    The fee was exorbitant but Raymond had to admit, the data base seemed impressive and the testimonials were encouraging. He entered his credit card information and registered, and within minutes he was logged in. The website was a discovery borne of insomnia and the hefty payout from his recent redundancy at work. He was bored and horny and climbing the walls, so when he saw a banner ad on his favourite porn sight for DoppleBanger.com he was intrigued. It was an elite website selling lifetime memberships dedicated to helping people find, and hopefully fuck, their doppleganger. Ever the narcissist, Raymond had stiffened at the thought of fucking a living double…

  • Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Show Me What You See

    “We should make some porn.” I say it casually, as I take a sip from my mug, waiting for his response. His eyes flash and his lip curls slightly. “Oh?” He’s intrigued and leans forward towards the webcam. His voice drops a quarter octave and he smirks. “Tell me more.” “Oh, I dunno. But wouldn’t it be hot? Between us we have all the gear and I’m sure we can find an opportunity. Or if not video, maybe you could just take some pictures of me.” He shifts in his seat and sips his water, thinking. “It’s an interesting suggestion from someone so camera shy.” That smirk is going absolutely…

  • autobiographical,  femmedom,  January Jump Start,  Thoughts,  Wicked Wednesday

    Exploring New Territory

    I love exploring with new partners. I certainly enjoy touch and ongoing exploration with The Evergreens* as well, but new lovers are so much fun to play and learn with. I feel no shame in saying that variety and new experiences are part of why non-monogamy has been my life and philosophy for over twenty years. When it comes to the exploration of a new partner, whether it’s casual, or more serious, a play session or purposefully bonding lovemaking, there is no exploration I enjoy more than learning the nuances, needs and desires of a submissive man.   Underneath your clothes There’s an endless story There’s the man I chose…

  • January Jump Start,  Wicked Wednesday

    Not to get too technical, but(t) …

    This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is about technical challenges with sex. That’s clearly being left open to interpretation, but the first thing I thought of was anal play. Due to the puritanical underpinnings of much of western society, anal is commonly lauded as an intermediate to advanced sex act; not for the general public, not for the faint of heart. Taboos aside, there is a very real moment in anal play that I call The Do or Die Moment. In short it is the moment when the human anus appears to become sentient in response to having something (safe) stuffed into it. It’s as if suddenly your asshole has a…

  • bondage,  femmedom,  Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Marking Time

    “Oh, Miss. You’re so …” He’s pulling at his bonds, wiggling his nakedness into the bed, struggling with delight. “I’m so what?” The tip of the riding crop punctuates my question as it taps against the gleaming steel cage that fails to conceal his arousal. He grins and strains, his wrists are getting red where the straps are rubbing. He tries to pull his knees up but all he’s doing is exhausting himself. He laughs and sputters. “You’re so … mean.” I laugh. Not just a giggle or a smirk, a full-on, from the belly, laugh. “Because I’m not letting you come? Owning your orgasms means owning the time between…

  • Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    The Last Eight Letters

    My Dearest Edward, I’m sorry, I cannot heed your warning, I cannot stop myself from this affliction of passion. Your last letter was so ominous, it filled me with dread, and still, I went again. I can’t seem to pull away from the darkness. I am like a moth to a flame, but the flame gives no light, only vast and thundering blackness when I close my eyes, when I feel those cold hands upon my flesh. Mortal flesh, you reminded me. Flesh that knows the secrets of lust and longing. Flesh that has known more daydreams than nightmares, yet I hope that I do not wake from this deep…

  • Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Marks

    “Purple seemed more appropriate than red … because, well, your name.” I took the roses from him and he shrugged off his coat without hesitation, stooped to untie his boots and tucked his gloves into them. The roses were too cold to be fragrant, the crisp cellophane collar around them fogged with condensation after being brought in from the winter night. “It’s really coming down out there. Feel – cold hands!” He chuckled and slipped his icy hands under the back of my sweater. I winced and he kissed me, part hello, part apology. I stepped back, feigning a smile and turning to take the flowers to the kitchen. He…

  • Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

    Americano

    My favorite coffee shop is always uncomfortably warm. In the summer they push open the old transom windows under the ceiling and slide open the massive front doors to the patio in an attempt to exchange the steam and heat from the machines with the gritty air of the street.