Thursday, October 31, 2013

the handsome man's tale part 2

First of all gods, I am sorry its so quiet, had mic issues and also sorry my voice is so bloody rough and flat due to this Autumn cold and the low budget not allowing me licencing rights or hiring a singer.  The Handsome man telling his tale this one a tail of tragedy and pain. as Always I hope this tale finds you well on this all hallows eve. 

Confident that his audience of sceptics had been cowed by both his words and the eerie chill and the crackling flames he returned to his role of the showman the jester, the one man who thought mad can tell the truth in this blighted world. He leaped up onto the bar ands clapped his hands twice in a sharp staccato rhythm and began to weave his spell of otherworldly stories.

He slowly began to weave his tale as the audience watched spellbound by old magics, “I was in Ireland and walking across land long since empty lands filled with loss and pain and on this land I found a cross, a memorial from long past and so at midnight I returned and stood as I expected was a girl of twenty six summers dressed in skirt and blouse draped in a soldiers jacket to keep out the chill, she greeted me and we talked, she told a tale of her life and her death, she told it in song to me just as I am telling now. She was young when the war started, twas nineteen fourteen and the air was thick with patriotism and hope a war that would end all wars a war that would be fought against the hun and be over by Christmas, she had grown up the daughter of the publican and over the years caught the eye of a local boy, a young man a bookie who sold dreams and hope in a small dreary town, that brief moment on raceday where if the winds blew right copper could turn to gold. She turned to me and sang, sang of hope and love. My voice is not hers though the words are but the voice is something I can share.

The air grew thick with tenseness as the music started the music a mournful violin that though different from the original seemed to fit.

I'm a girl that's just come over,
Over from the country where they do things big;
And among the boys I've got a jolly sweetheart,
Since I got a sweetheart I don't care a fig.

For the boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me;
There he is, can't you see him waiving off his handkerchief,
As merry as the robin that sings in the tree?
For the boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me;
There he is, can't you see him waiving off his handkerchief,
As merry as the robin that sings in the tree?

He is not tall, but yet he's manly,
And I always see him in the same old place;
Curly head is bobbing, don't you see him nodding?
There he is! don't you see his smiling face?

For the boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me;
There he is, can't you see him waiving off his handkerchief,
As merry as the robin that sings in the tree?
For the boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me;
There he is, can't you see him waiving off his handkerchief,
As merry as the robin that sings in the tree?

“They fell in ,love and courted and were engaged to be married, that awkward period of unrequited affection and longing sighs, blushing smiles and nervous titters, waved neckerchiefs and notes turning to an engagement that filled the town with joy and laughter and the nervous energy of wedding bells approaching, but then as spring grew distant and the world turned, hope turned to fear as the men marched off to war, before he marched with his boyhood pals towards distant shores they wed out in the glades they had played in as children, just these two lovers promising before god that when he returned that they would truly be bound by priest and sacrament. 

He took a sip of wine and looked at his bride to be talking more to her than the spellbound audience, pouring the pain into his tale and his fears,  fears that if his words were not enough that he was damming her to a life alone unable to fill the aching burning regret and loss, the hole he would leave, maybe twas the worst of the curse, that his failure dams his mate to a life alone tortured with visions of what could have been, the one kiss they share the only love she will have if he is not enough to please the demons.

“he went to war marched off with boyhood friends, the scene could be anything from when they were young, broomsticks on shoulder playing at soldier now come true, pellet guns and shotguns now lee Enfield’s and webleys, he wrote letters home and she wept and prayed spending days in church on her knees begging for his safe return so she can spend her nights on her back or knees in pleasure not fear and prayer. The war wasn’t over by Christmas no, twas weeks longer then months then year after bloody year of dogeared letter and tale of shellscrape and machinegun nest till that fateful day, there was a knock and a letter, born by the local chaplain a old man of seventy, too old to fight left behind by the regiment to bring comfort and aid to the familys left behind. Rather than delivering it to home he took the notice to her, it was he that heard her wail of pain and loss as she knew what it was as he walked up the pathway,. That hateful black banded paper an arrow through her heart.”

He sinked to his knees in horror weeping at the scene his heart torn open as he recounted her pain, “the scream of pain the roaring howl of dying love and hope, a noise that was depressingly common in the village, the women flocked to her to support her as she lay wrapped in the boys dress uniform jacket, his casket laid down in the pub she worked for the wake, her night spent weeping over his cold form. He was buried and she was catatonic” he looked at his wife to be and held her closely, the women watching seeing this young man as human now, they saw and felt the guilt at the price he was to pay hitting them like a hammer blow as they realised that in their fear of the curse that they had forgotten that he was a boy just like theirs, he had been a babe in cloth, a child but he had known since birth that he may not be granted chance to grow old.

The guilt striking them as if a hammer blow to the chest as he murmured into his partners ear, that if he failed this night that this song was a begging plea for to live on to find a life after him. The sorrow of his cousin long dead something to be left in story alone.

I am stretched on your grave
And will lie there forever
If your hands were in mine
I'd be sure we'd not sever
My apple tree my brightness
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather
When my family thinks
That I'm safe in my bed
From night until morning
I am stretched at your head
Calling out to the air
With tears hot and wild
My grief for the boy
That I loved as a child
Do you remember
The night we were lost
In the shade of the blackthorn
And the chill of the frost
you swore before our god
 we’d be married  this was not just this night
As you left here for france
called me your  pillar of light
The priests and the friars
Approach me in dread
Because I still love you
My love and you're dead
I still would be your shelter
Through rain and through storm
And with you in your cold grave
I cannot sleep warm
So I'm stretched on your grave
And will lie there forever
If you hands were in mine
I'd be sure we'd not sever
My apple tree my brightness
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather

He finished his song and quietly began to sob into the girls chest, for his cousin for the boy who died alone drowning in the mud under the weight of the dead, for the girl he left behind dying of heartbreak and finally for the first time for himself and his love as the weight of his path hit him.  She knew in that moment that though he was the figure of legend that he needed her to be strong to love him, to be the only one in this blighted place to fight for him. She took him, guided him upstairs and kissed him frantically, hard rough and passionate, the two lovers taking the moment in the fear that it would be their first and last.
 Shedding clothes and scratching caressing nipping licking, moaning and biting. Moving to the bed moaning the rocking of the headboard shaking the rafters and those present remembering years gone by, the songs of this young woman reminding them 0f the price and the fear their thundering climax muffled by the roar of the fire and the pealing thunder in the sky, as they slaked their thirst for each other together, spurred on by the curse’s need for a fresh victim, conceiving his child as he himself was conceived, in the fear that this was the last and whipped up by the fear, his terror and his uncertainty the same aphrodisiac that the march to war gave. 

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Playing the Game

We have a guest on our blog today, author Tom  Covenent. Tom has authored Wives Awakened, Model Wife, Model Wife Part 2, and Fallen (The Princess of the Fall)

Playing the Game
Tom Covenent  

The kitchen was in semi darkness, the blinds down but allowing some sunlight to filter in, enough to leave the lights off but not enough to lift the strange sleazy atmosphere reminiscent of a scene from a 'film noir'.

There were four people in the room. A fat guy in a suit a size too small, sweating, hairless, probably in his forties. He stood near the kitchen door, effectively blocking it with his huge bulk. A smooth expensive suited guy with slicked down greasy hair and sallow complexion sat on a chair which had been lazily swung the wrong way round between long thin legs.

A lightly built middle aged man was sitting leaning forward on another chair in the corner of the room, he was straining against the torn tea towels which had been used as ad hoc ties to bind him to the chair. He was gagged with a ball gag and wore nothing but a pair of unflattering grey underpants.

The fourth person in the room was a middle aged woman. She was dressed in a smart medium length black skirt and a plain white blouse like any office worker, though an office worker who would not fail to attract your attention if she walked past your desk. She was standing in front of the smooth guy, glaring at him with dark eyes glittering angrily, bristling with obstinate disobedience.

'I said, take off your clothes,' drawled the smooth guy, his voice held the assertive confidence of a man who was used to being in obeyed.
‘Fuck off,’ she retorted, ‘let him go.’
The smooth guy shook his head slowly, ‘fat boy,’ he said, ‘the lady needs a little help.’

‘You bastard,’ she said, but nevertheless began to unbutton her blouse, her gaze remaining fixed on him as the blouse parted and her breasts swelled into view. The smooth guy sat back, a soft half smile playing on his lips, but his eyes were hard and hawk-like, watching her every move. Despite his anger and fear and probably fueled by his restraints, Andrew felt his cock stiffen involuntarily as he watched his wife take off her top in front of these unpleasant men. Her full breasts were barely restrained, thinly covered by clinging black satin - stiff and generous nipples swelled from dark dimpled texture aureola clearly visible through the sheer material. Like me, he realized with a jolt; it seemed she couldn’t control her arousal either.

With sweat beading on his upper lip, the fat one licked his lips and loosened his tie and stared as she twisted her body, using both hands to un-hook her skirt. The zip rasped and the garment slid gracefully down her nylon clad legs to pool around her ankles on the floor. Her panties were high thigh, black but sheer, matching her bra, her legs long and elegant. The incredible eroticism as she stepped out of her skirt, bending to retrieve it, could not have been lost on the other men - it was certainly not lost on her husband. She tossed the skirt onto a chair and turned back to stand facing the smooth guy, her feet well apart and her hands now on her hips. Although her chin jutted forward in defiance, her nipples continued to betray her sexual arousal and her sheer panties did little to hide the prominent cleft between her legs and her husband was sure he could see wetness there. Sure enough, the smooth guy had also noticed.

‘Getting wet for us babe,’ he drawled.

He reached toward her, his index finger extended. As the tip of his finger touched the satin, he looked up directly into her warm brown eyes and, holding her gaze, gradually and with increasing pressure, pushed the sheer slippery wet silk deeper into the cleft between her legs. The gasp which escaped her lips was of involuntary, undeniable and extreme sexual arousal. She looked up at the kitchen ceiling, quickly to avoid catching any of the men’s eyes, including, and especially, the accusing eyes of her husband. But she hadn’t pulled away, her thighs were thrusting forward and her buttocks were visibly clenched. She closed her eyes, her jaw clamped shut, gritting her teeth in an effort to prevent any further audible revelation of her intense pleasure. But her trembling thighs and the little jerks of her hips told the story clearly enough as her orgasm erupted and her moan, held in, now exploded as a scream. With her mouth hanging open, she panted breathlessly, thrusting against his finger. Deftly, with practiced expertise, he pushed his thumb against the panties, slipped the wet satin over her generous pussy lips and pushed four fingers deep inside her, right up to the palm of his hand.  
The fat one guffawed suddenly and everyone looked to where he was pointing, everyone except the sheepish looking Andrew. It was the prominent bulge in his underpants which was the cause of the fat ones amusement. ‘Hubby likes seeing his bitch finger fucked,’ he giggled, like a teenage girl.

The smooth guy pulled his fingers out of Andrew’s wife with a wet slurp. ‘Take everything off,’ he instructed her dismissively, ‘the fat boy will want to fuck you naked.’

Meekly, unhesitatingly, she slipped off her bra, allowing it to drop limply to the floor. Without its support, her breasts drooped slightly, but for a fifty three year old woman they were unusually firm for their size. She hooked her fingers into her panties, pushed them down, exposing a neat triangle of tight curls.
‘The collar matches the cuffs,’ laughed the smooth guy.

She bent to hook her panties off her feet, her breasts hanging like udders as she did so.
‘Jeez boss,’ said the fat boy, the bitch has great tits.’
The smooth guy nodded, ‘let’s have her on all fours, like a sow.’
Wincing at his crude disrespect, without being told, she knelt down and dropped onto her hands. She felt wetness trickle down her inner thigh from between her legs; his description of her as a sow must surely be an accurate one. All resistance had slipped away with her orgasm, now she wanted more, wanted to be used by these foul men, wanted to be treated like their whore. She realized that the fact that her husband was watching and would realize she was enjoying this debasement was adding to her pleasure. It was to protect him that she was doing this, at least that had been the case, now, she admitted, it was because she wanted it. 
‘OK fat boy,’ said the smooth guy, ‘she’s all yours.’
 ‘Here boss?’ questioned the fat boy.
‘Up to you,’ replied the smooth guy, ‘I have no particular desire to see your fat ass bouncing on the lady, but it’s up to you.’
‘Thanks boss, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to fuck the bitch in private.’
‘No,’ she protested, ‘no please.’ She crawled on all fours across to the fat one, sat back on her haunches began to fumble with his zipper. A sheepish grin spread across his pudgy features and made no protest as she unzipped him, pushed her hand inside and fished out a burgeoning heavily veined cock.
With one hand inside his pants, cupping his balls, she used the other to stroke his shaft to a full and impressive erection. Her ruby painted lips slipped wetly over the tip and he soon began to jerk his thighs in time to the bobbing of her head. It did not take long before the fat one climaxed. Andrew stared in horror as his wife made no attempt to escape as the fat one reached a noisy orgasm, her lips remaining tight around his shaft. The bulge in her husband’s underpants told its own story.  
When the smooth guy and the fat one had gone, Andrew and his wife went to bed, tired but satisfied, cuddling and kissing just like any other couple. It had been fun, playing the cuckold, thought Andrew, but maybe she would let them go the whole way with her next time.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Oral Dilemma: Smoked Velvet

 How do you pick yourself up from rock bottom when life isn't finished pushing you down? 

Storytime Trysts does not own copyrights to this image. 

 Oral Dilemma: Smoked Velvet 
Ellie Mack

Read Part 1 here
Read Part 2 here
Read Part 4 here
Read part 5 here.  
Read part 6 here.
Read part 7 here.  
Read part 8 here. 
Read part 9 here.
Read part 10 here.  
Read part 11 here.
Read part 12 here 
Read part 13 here
Read part 14 here

    I’d lost an entire month. Day and night meant nothing to me during that time, it was all one big blur. Nothing could stop the pain. Nothing could fill the hole. I wasn’t suicidal, yet I had no reason to go on. I simply existed. In many ways the time lost was inconsequential to the vacuum left by my mom and Luke.
How had Tara managed? I realize Luke didn’t mean the same to her, but still. I’d have to talk to her, figure out how she managed. Lord knows I was no help to her. It took every ounce of my energy to make myself go forward.
I’d lost a month of classes, there was no way to recover from that and after talking to my professors I withdrew from school. In so doing I forfeited my scholarship. Really there was no help for it because if I’d not withdrawn I’d have received failing grades. Another devastating blow that on it’s own would have been enough to send me into a self pity spiral for weeks.
I went to the gym to get back into my training. I felt tired and weak. My strength was gone, I couldn’t even finish a fifteen minute cardio workout. My stamina just wasn’t there. It was a slap in my face, the current reigning division MMA champion, and I couldn’t even finish fifteen minutes. As I was leaving my rep stopped me.
“Hey Derek.” I said weakly.
“Where the hell you and Luke been?” He was beyond pissed. I should have recognized the body posture. IF I’d been in a right frame of mind I would have.
“Derek, Luke was killed in a plane crash.” My eyes burned. I kept telling myself ‘keep it together’ as I blinked back the tears that threated to spill forth.
“What?” He stated it bluntly like I was making it up.
I nodded. “ I’ll uh, bring you a death certificate.”
He pulled me into his office and closed the door. “Rox, I had no idea.” He raked his hands in his hair. “Man I had no idea.” He sat, shaking his head. “Last I saw you, you were heading home to see your mom. How is she?”
My head dropped a little lower. “She died Derek. Then Luke’s crash was the day of her funeral.”
“Oh my God! Rox, are you ok? Damn! No wonder I haven’t seen you. I had no idea.” He shook his head biting his lower lip for a few seconds looking off out the window before turning back to me. “ Maybe we can still pull this out. YOu missed two matches, as did Luke. You were both let go but I can smooth things over for Luke’s case - get me that death certificate and we’ll get his fully funded contract. For you, if you can do the match tomorrow, you’ll be reinstated. I’m certain that when I present the case - explain why you missed, they’ll be lenient in the extenuating circumstances.” He looked down going through the file he had pulled from his drawer.
“I can’t.” There was no way I could physically or emotionally do a match, I couldn’t even do fifteen minutes of cardio. “ I”m not in shape.”
“ You don’t have to win, just show up.” He never looked up.
I leaned forward,elbows on my knees, head in my hand. “ I can’t. She’ll kill me. I need at least a month to get back in shape.” Plus there was Tara. What good would it do her for me to go to a match knowing that it would just be a beat-down?
He crossed his arms in that forceful ‘I know better, you will do this’ look he gets. I think it was the first time he got a good look at me. I was a mess. Thin, frail looking. My skin was ashy. I knew I looked bad - hell I felt one step from death, that death would be welcomed. Except for Tara, she kept me going. As pathetic as it was, I was all she had left. I had to pull myself up from this. I saw it in his eyes, the moment he realized just how much weight and muscle I’d lost. I was not the champion sitting there, but rather a sad broken girl with broken dreams.
“I’m sorry then. Really sorry Roxy. I wish there was something I could do. I mean, you can train and get back to champ, but I don’t see the fire in your eyes anymore. And they won’t offer you a new contract since you’ve defaulted on this one. I’ll see waht I can do to get this months pay at least.”
We talked for another half an hour. He eve tried to convince me to take the beating, knowing that I would heal but even he could see that my fire, my passion was gone. There was still that part of me, my pride that wouldn’t just allow me to step in the ring as a punching bag though. I left there defeated in more ways than losing a match, or my title. I was beaten, life just wouldn’t give Roxanne Winters a break except to break my back.
I stopped in at subway to some lunch using my free pass, one of the perks of my former title. They had already revoked it. DAMN! I walked out frustrated yet again. I wandered down the street aimlessly. I came to a lounge, Smoked Velvet. It was a popular hang out for the art and music students. It didn’t draw the crowds that the club across town that hosted the rock bands did, but it was a great place for a date. Luke and I had gone there on a date when one of his buddies performed. My heart sank - Luke. I found myself pushing in the door and seated before I realized what I’d done.
I ordered a Manhattan and a sandwich. I dug out the little bit of cash I had. The waitress seated me in the same booth where we’d had our date. I nursed my drink while I picked at the sandwich, lost. I had nothing, and I thought I’d hit rock bottom before. Tears silently flowed down my cheeks, leaving a stinging trail behind as I stared off into nothing. A middle aged stocky man walked up to the booth.
“What’s your story?” He sat down uninvited.
“ Pardon me?” I asked a little put out.
“ Your story. You know, why a pretty girl is sitting in my club crying alone.” He motioned to the waitress to bring his drink. He motioned to the waitress to bring his drink, apparently he planned to stay.
“Your club? Do . . . Do you want me to leave?”
“NO. Not at all.” He flipped a business card to me. “ MIke O’Neal. I own this joint. I ain’t asking you to leave doll, I wanna know your story.” He accepted his drink and waited for me to begin.
I thought about it as I chewed a bite of my sandwich. My chin quivering a bit in uncertainty then I said “What the hell?” I told him everything. It didn’t matter, I didn’t know him he didn’t know me. I’d probably never see him again so if he judged me I didn’t care. I didn’t leave out details: the cancer, mom’s death, the fight with dad, Luke’s death, losing my scholarship, the sponsorship, failing my sister - all of it. Finally, when I had emptied it all out he took my hand in his. It wasn’t weird like a creeper, but like a father, a father I had always wanted that wasn’t there.
“Doll, you’ve had a rough deal. I had a daughter, about your age. She was killed in a car wreck four years ago. You need a friend and if you want to talk, my door is open. Now, if you want a job I could really use the help.
“Really?” I swiped at my tears.
He grinned. “Can you start tomorrow?”
“Yes sir I can!”
“No sir doll, it’s Mike. Just Mike. If you piss me off it’s Mr. O’Neal. Your uniform is black pants and a club tee.”
When I walked out there was a single ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. It broke through the clouds that was my life as well.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Dear Jon - Chapter # 13

Hello all! My name is V.L. Locey.  I am a self-published and traditionally published author that lives in the mountains of Pennsylvania with my husband of over twenty-two years, my daughter who is seventeen, a herd of dairy goats, chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys, two dogs, two cats, and a partridge in a pear tree. For more info and links about me and my work, check out the Bio tab up above.

Enough about me, let`s get to the romance!

Dear Jon

Chapter Thirteen


V.L. Locey


             I hoped to meet Ross at his shop after I spent an hour with Attorney Blueberry. Today he was Attorney Blackberry. I signed where I needed to sign to start the paperwork to be Andrew`s legal guardian. A sandy-blond head rested on my shoulder. Andy`s thumb was in his mouth, something I had never seen before. I didn`t know how me and the kid were going to make it, but somehow we would. Papers shifted. The lawyer cleared his throat several times.

            “I`m glad to see that you read the letter Betty left you,” Mr. Bartlett said as he handed the neatly signed papers to his secretary for filing.

            “I didn`t read it yet.” His eyes came from his pudgy fingers resting atop a stack of files to me. “I meant to,” I quickly said, “I just – things have been rather hectic. Can you tell me . . .” I had to cough the thick knot of shame out of my throat. “Can you tell what it was that took her?”

            “Cancer of – well, cancer of female parts,” the portly man in the tight black suit coughed. Andrew snuggled closer, his thumb still in his mouth. I nodded. So, the same thing that had taken my mother had claimed Betty. Fucking cancer. Maybe in my lifetime they`d beat that miserable shit.

            “Thank you,” I whispered, standing, suddenly desperate to be outside. The man behind the desk glanced at me as I hoisted Andy to my left hip. I sat back down.

            “As you know, your signature on that paper makes us all quite happy.”

            I nodded. I wasn`t sure who the ‘all’ he mentioned were, but I was glad they were happy.

            “Family should step up when times are hard. After a small investigation into you and your past the court will decide if you`re suitable to be Andrew`s legal-”

            “Investigation?”  I sounded like a terrified brown mouse. Sweet Jesus and all the saints.

            Bartlett leaned back in his seat. The chair screamed and he grimaced at the pained sound his seat had made.

            “It`s to ensure the welfare of the child. The laws have changed dramatically in regard to adoption, foster parenting, and all aspects of child welfare. I`m sure you`ve got nothing to worry about.” His smile, meant to be reassuring, looked hollow. “After all, a brother taking in his sister`s orphan is an upstanding Christian thing to do. Pity you don`t have a wife yet, but perhaps one of the pretty women of your hometown will catch your eye.”

I forced my face into what hopefully looked like a smile. I offered Bartlett my hand and he took it, but it was begrudgingly. I wouldn`t hold that against him. I was a first-class louse. I admit it. Bartlett seemed happy to see me edging to the door. Probably he was just relieved to be getting close to a resolution of this whole damned mess.

            I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Andy held onto my hat for me. We were parked across the street. I turned left and walked, my mind a jumbled-up mess until I heard the shop bells tinkling overhead and drew in a good snort of sawdust. Ross stepped from the backroom while tying his smock tightly around his waist. His brow furrowed and he hurried over to take Andrew from my arms. The boy went without a fuss. I rushed past the man, hit the backroom, and then slid down to the floor, my ass bumping over the knots in the pine-board wall.

            Ross and Andy were chatting quietly on the other side of the door while I had a breakdown. I wept uncontrollably in a violent short burst. When the curtain of despair lifted my nose was plugged solid and my legs were knotted from sitting on them. Oddly enough, or perhaps not odd at all, Ross was there with a handkerchief and a hand up. He embraced me. Andy pattered over to join in on the hug, his arms encircling our legs.

            “They`re going to investigate me before I can keep Andrew,” I whispered beside his ear. He hugged me a little tighter and then stepped briskly backwards. “They`ll find out, Ross.”

            “How about you and the boy come over to my place tonight?” he asked, his grey eyes calm and serene. This was far too intimate and we both knew it. I lifted Andrew from the floor. We had to leave. Now. Before someone came in and saw what I was sure was plainly written all over my face. “I`ll cook and we can talk, maybe have a beer. I have a pond to fish in.”

            “Can we go fish at the pond, Uncle Jon?”

            My head rolled to the side to rest against hair an exact match for mine. I couldn`t speak right off. How had I ever thought of handing him to strangers?

            “We`ll need directions,” I said. Ross escorted me to the showroom. I left with a neatly drawn map and a very excited young man. I looked at nobody as we walked. Folks didn`t stop me to pass along condolences. They just let me and Andy walk on by. Those disparaging looks and cold glances suited me fine. Andy and me – we didn`t need one damn thing from those holier-than-thou judgmental prigs, we were Porter men. All we needed was each other . . . and maybe a forty cent an hour minimum wage job.

            Pausing on the sidewalk at the end of the block, Andy`s hand in mine, I looked back at the humble woodworker`s shop.

            Okay. Maybe we needed one more thing.



Friday, October 25, 2013

The Good Girl - Chapter Eight

If this happens again, I'm going to spank you. 

How could one simply uttered ultimatum throw my world into absolute chaos?

Read Chapter One - Here
Read Chapter Two - Here
Read Chapter Three- Here
Read Chapter Four - Here

Read Chapter Five - Here
Read Chapter Six - Here

Read Chapter Seven - Here

The Good Girl
By Fiona Summerville

Chapter Eight

Enveloped within Thomas’ arms, we sat naked on the living room floor, silently watching the flames lick and dance their way around the logs in the fireplace. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity I felt whole and at peace. Never in a million years would I have believed the kiss of a leather belt on my bare bottom would be the source of such tranquility. But here I was, relaxed and happier than I'd ever been.

Reaching for the stemless wine glass on the corner of the coffee table, I winced slightly as the dull burn on my still tender ass cheek brought memories of the last few hours flooding back. An exquisite rush of heat raced over my body and settled in my core. I smiled and moaned softly as I tucked myself back against Thomas’ chest. Sense memory recall at its best.

“Everything ok?”

“Never better.”

“Still sore?”

“A bit, but nothing I can’t handle. You’re very good with a belt, Thomas.”

A chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he snugged me closer.

“I’m very good at a lot of things, baby." 

" doubt. I can't wait to experience all of those things personally."

Thomas nipped at my shoulder blade as he reached for the bottle of wine. He refilled our glasses and sat back against the sofa.

 "So, tell me. Where’s this Maxi been for the last few weeks?”

“Lost,” I whispered, as I brought the wine glass to my lips. “She’s been lost for a long time.”

“Well, I’m glad she found her way home,” he murmured against my ear. “I’ve been waiting to get to know her.”

I shot him an incredulous look. He sounded as if he knew I’d been play acting all along. But how could he? We’d met when he attended a deposition at my office, which happened to be Perfect Maxi’s realm. He’d never seen the real me until tonight.

"Maxi, Kendall introduced us at a party last year. You were there with a date, but I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Your hair was a wild, tousled mess and you were wearing a green velvet dress that made your eyes sparkle like emeralds. I wanted so badly to touch you. To run my fingers through that wild mane. But short of knocking your date over the head and dragging you out of the party I knew my desire was destined to be unrequited.”

He planted a kiss on my bare shoulder before nestling his chin on the spot his lips had been only moments before.

“A few weeks later I saw you again at Café Om...with Eric.”

Café Om? My stomach fluttered. Café Om was my sanctuary. I shifted so I could look back at him, startled.

"Yeah, I hang out at Café Om, almost every Saturday morning. And yes, I've seen you. The real you. Not the perfect girl who tiptoes around in those high heels like she’s walking on egg shells, but the beautiful, kick-ass girl who doesn't give a fuck what she looks like. She’s’re gorgeous, Maxi.”

My eyes burned as they welled up with tears. Taking a hasty sip of wine, I turned to stare into the fire. He’d known all along and patiently waited for a truth that had never come. How could I have been so stupid?

“I couldn’t believe my luck when I walked into your office for that deposition and saw you setting up the conference room. Remember when I ended up at your desk with some lames-ass excuse of looking for the restroom? I waited for you to realize we’d met before, but when you didn’t, I still took a chance and asked you out. Since then, I’ve waited for you to introduce me to the Maxi from the party and the coffee shop, but you never seemed able to. I just couldn’t figure out why. I even thought that sharing my dark side with you, might prompt you to reveal yourself. Instead I thought I’d frightened you off.”

“I frightened myself off, Thomas. You did everything right. You were straight forward and open about what you wanted. I was the one who wasn’t comfortable enough in my own skin to admit I wanted the same thing.”

“Do you want me, Maxi? I mean, really? I come with quite a bit of baggage.”

          “And, from what I saw in your bedroom, quite an extensive toy chest.”

His soft chuckle filled the room. “Naughty girl,” he whispered, pushing my hair away he planted a warm, moist kiss just below my ear.

"What do you get out of it, Maxi?"

"What do you mean?"

"The facade. The two personas. What do you get out of hiding?"

I shrugged.

"I guess I was just tired of being burned. If I was someone else, I couldn’t get hurt."

"You don't like being hurt?" Thomas snorted.

Given the events of the last few hours, the absurdity of my comment was not lost on me. I mirrored his snort and I rested my head back against his shoulder.

“I know how stupid that sounds, but it’s the truth. Besides, there is a difference between physical and emotional pain. And, I never again want to experience the pain I felt with -"

"David," Thomas interjected softly as he kneaded the tension from my shoulders.

How did he know about David? I'd never spoken about David to anyone except Kendall. Kendall. She and Thomas are friends. She must have mentioned something to him about my ill-fated relationship with David.

"I don't think I can handle another rejection like that."

"That's never going to happen, Maxi." He pulled me up onto his lap and spun me so I was straddling him. "Just be yourself. Let me in. All the way and I’ll never leave. I promise."

I believed him. Deep down, with every fiber of my being, I trusted his words. He’d seen the real me as well as the guise and had stuck around. And to think I’d almost lost my chance at a life with him because I was too afraid to be me. Stupid girl.

“I’m sorry for the deceptions and the indecisiveness, Thomas.”

"Shhhh…what's done is done. We only move forward from here. Deal?”


"You know, you still haven’t given me your safeword."

“Oh! It’s “harbor”…as in “safe harbor.”

A look of confusion crossed his handsome face. “I never pegged you as a Nicholas Sparks fan, Maxi.”

“Oh no...not that Safe Harbor. It’s more about how I feel when I’m with you. Safe. Secure. No longer adrift. Blindfolds, handcuffs and all, you’re my safe harbor, Thomas.”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling a brilliant blue as wrapped me in his arms and pulled me tight against his chest. "You’ll always be safe with me. Just be yourself. I love you just the way you are. You're perfect, Maxi."

The End