Reflections On My Writing

Ever wonder what the author is thinking about when writing those steamy scenes? What's the difference between pornography and erotica? What distinctions do you make in your own mind? Ben shares a little from his heart on this matter.

Reflections On My Writing

by

Ben Hannigan

Sex is something that is always special. Sex holds a power regardless of time, of space, sex can be gentle, sex can be rough, it can hurt, it can heal. Sex is something that I write about often but I would like to think that the focus of my work isn’t sex. Sex to me is something that is both beautiful and terrifying. It opens you up as a person in ways that cannot be foreseen; opening up to a lover in a kiss bares your soul in ways that simply talking will never do. To me if a lover is to cheat, taking them back if they confessed to fucking another would be easy but sharing a slow loving passionate kiss would be far harder and I take these views about what is meaningful into my writing.

The passion, the love, the desire I believe must come from more than sex, more than the simple act of making love. My characters have in my mind an image and a personality before they have their sexuality. In the piece that I am currently writing for this blog, I tried to create not only a plausible relationship but also create characters that are real and more importantly, can draw on the emotions of a reader. The erotic for me as a writer is more about the build-up to the act than the act itself. While the act is exciting; the moments of frantic thrusting, kissing, tasting, biting and the ultimate explosion of release, the teasing passionate build-up of anticipation, the lingering longing kisses and the slow gentle stroking are the things that keep me coming back to a piece, to an author. The foreplay and the lust have to intertwine in a deeper story. Simple sex has nothing in my view, it has no substance, no draw and no interest. If we use an analogy of food, crude hypersexualised writing that is concerned with the reproductive act and nothing more is a fast food hamburger, whereas the full piece focusing on the hunt, the chase and the challenge of courtship as well as the highs and lows of two lives colliding.

Sex without a reason to me isn’t interesting so I try to create a world for my characters. I want them to feel like people. Erotica that doesn’t have that feel of realism for me is similar to porn on the screen, it doesn’t feel quite right, it feels hollow and doesn’t have the same depth to it. For some reason, it doesn’t grab my attention and hold it. For me starting at “he was inside her deep, fast, rough, the sweat dripping down his back as he moved, driving his lover down into the silk”doesn’t appeal in the same was as starting at say, “they sat opposite each other at the bar table, she rubbed her bare foot over the younger girls thigh as their hands touched gently as they moved, reaching for the bread”. That’s not to say that the sex isn’t interesting or something that I want to read about, but it I think requires building up to it.

The role of the author, I believe is to inspire and create a world that a reader can lose themselves in for as long as it takes them to read. To create a world that you can be lost in eagerly awaiting the next instalment. I draw my inspiration from conversations with other writers, friends, things I read or have seen. I start with an image and spend my time trying to put the ‘thousand words’ that image contains onto paper.

I want to thank my fellow writers on Storytime for their encouragement, patience, and guidance as I test my new wings. They provide inspiration and support that I didn't realize I needed until I had it. There are people I talk to about my life, my writing, my hope and dreams; they know who they are and they are an amazing help. Thanks to all!

 





Trouble In Paradise

Dear Diary,

Work had accepted the new change really quickly, just teasing us both and winding me up to the point where my pouncing on Laura became a semi-regular occurrence. Especially with Sophie and Lucy hugging me and repeating their comment from the day I came out to the team. They especially loved doing it when they found me undressing for photo shoots.  Yeah, did I forget that bit? Since I was small and cute the team had begun using me for photos in catalogues and advertisements for our products, so on a regular basis I was everything from a HSLD Operator modelling the latest in gucciness on the battlefield to a demure college student packing a concealed pistol in my jacket.  The team didn’t bat an eyelid at the demure genteel me popping into meetings, dragging Laura out of them midsentence only for her to wander back in fifteen to twenty later with a lazy self-satisfied cat like grin; the grin of a cat that’s just eaten the neighbours budgie.

I was already part of the family, but me beginning to date sealed the deal.  Though, I did have the terrifying conversation with the couple we all considered “mom and pop” of the organization. Ben, the guy who helped me get out of my home had taken to being the FFL and gunsmith of the joint like a duck to water.  He said “I took the job to keep an eye on you”, but everyone knew he was happy here and had been working for the company for a long time before he knew me as his partner’s friend. He and Sophie sat me down one day in the office after work and said . . .

 I still remember exactly what they said to this day, Diary.

 “Look, be honest with us.  Is Laura you finding yourself, or rebelling, or are you wanting this properly? We have known Laura a long time and Ben has worked for HDI for a long time. We stuck our necks on the line for you in both getting you this job and hoping Laura would listen and see if you were willing. She really likes you and we don’t want her hurt.”

For such soft people they were fucking scary diary! 

Little did I know until later than night talking to Laura on Skype from the lavender bubble bath I was ensconced in, while she lounged in bed waiting for me to arrive, that they had sat her down and done exactly the same thing.  Same phrasing, same threats, right down to the ‘if you hurt her we will flay you’ speech.

Even though we spent most of our time together, for convenience and quite frankly because we were too happy having our own spaces to chill and relax in, we kept separate houses. Though generally we could be found entwined in one or the other’s home. I had barely thought about my old life in the time I have been with Laura, mainly because I was happy, work was good fun, and I was kept busy.

That all changed one day in the autumn. I had just returned from my first solo negotiation and it had gone really well so I was on a high.  I had managed to get our concealed magazine notebook into a prominent television crime show and was bouncing with excitement. The team had gone mental when they found out who would be carrying out product. I was hugged and plied with booze at the congratulations party.

I returned to my second home in a cab, Laura was with me and we were both giggly drunk. We had settled into a comfortable routine I paid for the cab as she unsteadily unlocked the door, agreeing with the cabbie that my love had a fantastic arse. I walked to the door and found her asleep on the sofa snoring the snore of the very drunk. Laughing to myself but also pouting because I was very frustrated, I curled up with her under a blanket.

It was early morning when I heard a banging sound on the front door.  I groaned, it was four thirty in the morning. I ignored it as best I could, rolling over intending to go back to bed. Well, I was going to but my lover was awake and hungry so she had other ideas. I would have argued, but she was doing that thing with her tongue that I loved so much.

 I was laid naked on my sofa, begging and panting as she flicked her tongue across my arsehole and still the banging continued. I was shaking, gasping, and whimpering her name as I exploding from an orgasm and mewled to her “Now that’s a fantastic fucking way to start the day!” Kissing her hard before diving between her legs. Where Laura preferred to start my day with an explosive orgasm, I was more patient. I wanted her to want me, needed her to need me, I wanted her craving more and hyped for the day to come. My attacks at work were pounding rough and explosive in their intensity because I found the limits of time, space, and practical to carry tools a huge turn on. But the first of the day . . . Ah, that was special, gentle loving and always all me.

I started slowly, my tongue on her left ankle, swirling over her protruding bone. Looping my tongue around her before kissing my way up her calves and nibbling behind her knee. I moved up her body to her nipples and suckled her gently and passionately. Still the banging continued. I licked across and around her breasts slowly, then faster, kissing my way down her tummy towards her centre; my tongue sucking, diving into her deep, but doing it agonizingly slowly.

 I am patient and gentle, my movements like the cat tattooed on my thigh, stalking my prey as her arousal peaks and her clit stiffens. My prey is revealed and I pounce, taking it deep into my mouth sucking it hard until my lover howled my name, orgasming. Still, the pounding continued.

Holding her as we both come down, we are naked, sweaty, but sated. The banging is beginning to register. It was too precise to be nature diary, so we thought we should take a look. We dressed in pjs and walked together to the door, me with the sig sauer that I had borrowed from my lover on the first day, her with the UMP45 that she shot so well. Both wearing suppresser’s, she covered me as I opened the door.

There were four people there that I had never expected to see again: my father, my mother, the man they planned to be my husband, and my father’s friend, the Chicago police officer who handled people being taken for psychiatric analysis. I froze and dropped the pistol. Laura stepped up to the door unafraid, with the weapon slung behind her back.

 

My father spoke first. “Move bitch! I am taking my daughter back to Chicago.” He then turned to me and said, “Get your things, you are coming home and getting married. If you fight, my friend is here to take you by force.  You cannot fight this. You will do as I desire.”

I just sat, tremors shooting through me in fear of going back with that animal. He took a step forward as if to drag my through the door. Laura calmly stood blocking him and swung the smg up and trained it at the man who was frightening me.

“Leave my property! I do not want you here, and I really do not like being threatened. You have been recorded and I will be reporting this to the police.”

I saw my father raise his hand as if to push the gun away and I snapped. I don’t know why Diary, but I saw red. I swept the pistol up from the floor and stepped forward, pointing it at him.

“Leave father, and never return. I am not a toy for you to bargain with, and if you come back here again, I WILL defend myself. Bringing a friend to drag me back, claiming I’m insane . . . that’s cute, but won’t fly, especially now that we know your intent.”

He ranted and raved Diary, telling me he knew I was insane. He called me a whore, and attacked me for threatening him, and for cavorting with a slut. He said how he knew I was insane because I was disobeying him. The others nodded their agreement that he was right. He stepped forward saying “You will get in the car and come home and do as you are told!”

When he reached to grab my hair, I fired. I aimed low and hit him in the arm, the nine millimetre round piercing his bicep and he slumped in pain. “Get my father away from here and never come here! Never darken my life again.” Whilst I stood in almost shock, watching him half carried, half dragged by my family, my lover phoned the police.

The rest of the day was a blur of statements and evidence taken with the recording equipment used over and over to replay the event.  Copies were made, and finally I stood, shaking, still in my pajama’s and a hoody of Laura’s in front of a judge, who granted a restraining order.  He told me “You did well and have nothing to worry about.”

The officers were lovely, making me cups of tea, generally being supportive, and taking my mind off the event by asking for signed copies of catalogues and taking guns and tack gear with me. While waiting for the court to free so I could get the order, I sketched a few designs. Several of the cops had asked me for in an effort to distract me, promising to see about production.

Laura had phoned work whilst I was filling in the forms with the clerk and by the time I had returned to her, the house was full. The front room was filled with duvets, sleeping bags and pillows. The whole crew had come down, everyone from Lucy to Lori. All were here to, in their words, ‘keep me calm and protected.’ They knew that my safe space had been violated and understood I needed the support. Those who had family on the force were keeping watch on my relatives and until they left the area, I was told, the guys would be staying with me. Laura’s house was huge thankfully; big enough for the whole crew, their families, and assorted hangers on.

We were piled into her main room.  Me surrounded by this love, watching “Blue Harvest” of all things. The only thing that was abnormal for this being a sleepover, was the amount of weapons on display and within reach.

We had men with ar15’s, women with shotguns, the children, most of who had grown to either teen or on the cusp since I had met them, with a mix of whatever they preferred to shoot. Adorably, the youngest members of the HDI clan, Izzy and Bella decked out in the outfits I had made for them for Halloween the week before. A 4 year old and a 3 year old in uniform with HDI patches carrying NERF pistols in holsters. Between them and “Rabbit” Manning were weilding NERF beltfeds.

 And I lay in the arms of the woman I love Diary, and fretted. I appreciated what they were trying to do and I knew I was safe, but still . . .

 I was rattled and scared, but eventually I drifted off as they slept in shifts and kept watch.

XSiamX

 

Replacements

Welcome to my newest story.  This is going to be something of an experiment for me, as I'm going to write this as it needs to be written every week, and not work it as I would my other projects.  It'll be interesting, if nothing else.

That said, this is always a first draft, and if I missed something in editing, don't beat me up too bad.  Remember:  you get what you pay for.

Replacements

Part Six

The weeks became a month, then two.  Martha and I remained living apart, but we saw each other often--far more often than I imagined her relationship with Olivia had permitted before my intervention.

There remained the dynamic of the mistress and the submissive, but it was changing, every so slightly.  Martha still loved serving and pleasing me, but she seemed to be growing more accustomed to my doing the same to her.  Even if I had, from time to time, order her to enjoy her own pleasure.

My biggest surprises were how readily I fell into the dual roles of mistress and lover.  For something that, at first, seemed so alien to me, I not only accepted them, but flourished at both duties.  Even better--I enjoyed loving Martha, as well as dominating her.

One night, after we returned from a quite dinner together--something that Martha had never done with the old Olivia, so she was both surprised and delirious with joy--I decided to try something.  I headed to the sofa and sat while Martha was closing the door.  I looked at her as I crossed my legs.  "Love," I said in a soft, calm tone, "come over here and polish my boots with your cunt."  I don't know why I did this, or why I said what I said.  Was I looking for a reaction from Martha?  Or . . . did I wonder how I'd react to this demand?

I soon found out.  Martha said nothing as she began disrobing.  Her clothes, her stockings, her undergarments--all of it removed, folded, and placed with care on a nearby chair.  Then, still without a word, she came to me and knelt.  She positioned herself perfectly as she took my booted foot and placed it between her legs--

Our eyes never left each other as she rubbed herself against the soft leather.  She brought herself pleasure in obeying me, in doing something that pleased me greatly--which it did.  As for me . . . something burned inside, something I'd never felt before that moment.  She's going it, I thought, feeling both pride and love at the same time as I watched Martha move her hips slowly as she pushed herself into my boot.

It was that special moment in time, as we both orgasmed within seconds of each other, that our bond became permanence   I knew, no matter what happened from then on, Martha would always be in my life, and I in hers.

Such was my total attraction to Martha that I forgot why I'd become Olivia--right until the very moment he stepped into my office . . .

After becoming Olivia I'd seen little of Craig.  My understanding had been that he'd gone to one of our other locations to oversee something; I wasn't very certain, mainly because I was far too busy with getting my own life straight to worry about someone else.  But the moment he entered my office, everything I'd felt about him, everything that had led me to take another woman's life, came flooding back.

"How are you doing, Olivia?" he asked.  He shut the office door and leaned against the frame.

I was lost in my thoughts, so I wasn't registering anything beyond us in my office together.  I leaned back in my chair and smiled.  "I've been doing well, Craig.  I understand you were away at another location."

His smile was subdued, almost sublime.  "Yeah, there was a mess that needed some cleaning up."  He stepped away from the frame, moving slowly towards my desk.  "I thought you were going to call me while I was on the road."

Another oops in a short lists of issues with becoming Olivia.  It's not like she had it on her calendar, I thought.  "Sorry."  I softened my tone, trying to sound sympathetic.  "I've had a lot going on of late."

Craig smirked.  "You didn't even have a couple of free hours to call and talk dirty?"  He slowly shook his head. "You've been a bad girl, Liv."

There was something in his voice when he spoke those last words--something I didn't care for in the least.  Living the last two months as Martha's mistress and lover had given me some insight into the dom/sub dichotomy, and I caught the vibe Craig was giving:  he was showing dominance over me.

Was this the basis of their relationship?  Olivia played mistress to Martha at home, and submissive to Craig at work?  Jesus, how was I to do that?  While I had wanted to be with Craig--oh, how I'd wanted that--the way he spoke, his body language . . . the way he was walking around to my side of my desk . . . he was intent on stepping into my space, and I'd been of a dominating sort of mind for a while . . .

I stood--almost sprung--from my chair and established my boundaries.  "In case you haven't heard," I said coldly, "I've had to deal with one of my staff trying to kill herself."  I set my hands upon my hips.  "I've not had an easy time around here."

It was as if Craig wasn't listening to the tone of my voice, or picking up on my body language.  He moved to within a few inches of me, then stopped when we were literally nose-to-nose.  Though he was tall, in my heels I was just as tall, so his opportunity to intimidate me with his height was out of the question.

"That silly bitch tried to off herself a couple of months ago," he growled softly.  "What else is keeping you so busy you can't help me jack off over the phone?"  His eyes narrowed slightly.  "Playing dominatrix again, are we?"

Now it was my time to smirk.  "Who said anything about playing?"

"You were never good at it."

"How would you know, Craig?"  I crossed my arms.  "You ever give it a try?"

Perhaps it was the way I phrased the question, or the tone of my voice, or . . . who knows?  I don't.  But a light that had been in Craig's eyes up to that point--something that said, "I'm being playful with you, Olivia"--it vanished.  In its place was something else:  something cold, something . . . dangerous?  If he's a dom, and he feels you're trying to dom him, I thought, then he's not going to be happy.

But I wasn't seeing "Not happy" in his eyes.  No, I was seeing something along the lines of, "I'm going to smack you, bitch".  I was seeing, "I should knock the shit out of you."

Craig stepped into me, his body hard against me.  He was trying to push me into my chair, to knock me back and down, to exert his control over me.  I wasn't having it:  I staggered one step backwards, but remained on my feet.

There was cold flame in his eyes.  "You're pissing me off, Liv."

I knew my own eyes were shining like black ice.  "You only have yourself to blame."

"Get on your fucking knees."

I heard it then.  I knew we'd gone beyond playing dominate and submissive.  Craig was pissed, and he wanted to take it out on someone--and he wanted to take it out on me in a particular way that I was never going to allow.  "Fuck you."

"What did you say?"  His tone wasn't so much angry now as it was menacing.

My stomach was beginning to flip-flop as I understood where this could lead.  "I said fuck you, Craig."  My right eyebrow shot up.  "Do you need to me explain?"

"You never speak to me that way!"

"I'll speak to you however I like.  And whatever dom act you're trying to lay on me . . ."  I smiled bravely.  "It's not working; it never did."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear.  My eyesight was working at preternatural levels now, and I noticed the slight movement of his body, of his arms--of his hands.  "Fucking bi--"

"You touch me," I said in a whisper, "and they're going to hear my scream in the neighboring state."

"They'll just think you're enjoying it."

"You willing to risk that?"

It gave him a momentary pause, wondering if I would scream were he to lay his hand upon me.  "You remember that time you leaned over you desk," he whispered back, his head turning towards my right ear, "and let me fuck you up the ass?"  He chuckled.  "You were moaning so much I had to stuff your panties in your mouth."  His lips inched towards my face.  "Don't you remember how you so enjoyed being my slut?"

I took a long, slow breath, then let it out as an exasperated sigh.  "Can't say I do," I said, my lips curling in disgust.  "And with that, get the fuck out of my office."

For a moment I thought he was going to grab me, and I was ready to take action:  to scream, to bite, to do anything to fend him off.  "I'll leave when I'm ready."

"You better reassess your position."  I cast my eyes downward for only a second before I returned my gaze to his.  "Leave, or you're going to find your balls in the back of your throat in thirty seconds."

"You won't."

I picked up my mobile and held it next to my face.  "You want me to call the EMTs?  Or would you like to make the call?"

When he realized I wasn't backing down Craig stepped back a few feet, then made his way towards the door, sidestepping the whole way, while keeping his eyes locked upon me.  "You win this round, Liv--"

"It's O-liv-i-a," I said slowly, enunciating each syllable.  "Don't ever come in here again, you douchebag, unless it had to do with business."  I nodded towards the door.  "And any time we're in a close room alone, I'll scream, just to fuck you."  I stepped from behind the desk.  "You understand?"

Craig said nothing until his hand rested upon the doorknob.  "You're giving orders now," he said softly, that hint of menace still in his voice.  "But I can wait.  And when the time comes . . ."  He shook his head.  "You're going to wish you'd gotten on your knees."

I'd had enough.  "Get out."

"You won't see it coming," he whispered, the opened the door and slipped out, closing it behind him.

It wasn't until I was once more sitting that the shakes hit me.  I couldn't stop; I felt all the fear I'd held within trying to escape, and I couldn't hold it inside.  Tears began running down my face as I realized just how--crazy Craig had been.  How much he wanted to harm me, to violate me--

How much he wanted to debase and destroy me.

I did nothing for the rest of the day.  I couldn't forget his last words, and my mind conjured images of him watching me, stalking me, taking me, raping and beating me.  I tried to push them away, but like my fear, they wouldn't stay contained.  They kept at me, over and over and over . . .

By the time I readied myself to go home, I knew I had to do something.  I had to remove Craig from my life.

I knew what I had to do.

And I knew how it should be done.

Read Part Seven Here

Read Part Five Again



Things sounds serious.  Well, with two weeks to go, what did you expect?
Got something to say?  Leave a comment and I'll get back to you.
Later!

Swingers: The Red Queen

 Who's the king of the swingers? Judge for yourself. We know the Grande Dame...She is The Red Queen.

 

The Red Queen

 

 

by Abyrne Mostyn

 

 

They called her the Red Queen...the Grand Mistress. Friends called her Margaret, but most who got close to her called her Master. A dominatrix, she was the master of all that happened around her at all times. Her chambers were a playground for the things that weren’t talked about in proper circles, but perhaps in hushed whispers. Men and women alike who wanted the exquisite, disparate ecstasy-torture of riding the edge to submission came to her in droves hoping she would dominate them. She took them to that place that you couldn’t define. A place that one could only recreate in the sweet dream fantasy land that existed between asleep and awake. Spent and craving another time with a consummate Dom, she was that kind of master. Consuming, total surrender or nothing at all.

She was accomplished at all the forms of domination. A BDSM master, she was in demand by those who lived the lifestyle, though few knew who she was behind her guise. An hourglass in red leather, she never revealed her identity and that seemed to heighten the fantasy. A flame red wig to hide the blonde showed underneath the matching red leather full head mask that hid all but ruby lips and emerald green contact disguised eyes. She could play tic-tac-toe on her subs arse from twenty paces with a flick of the wrist and her long tail whip, making them sing for her to win her game. A showgirl gone deep into the life, she traded in her pink feather boa, diamond tiara, and vaudeville act for the business end of a cat-o-nine tails and needle point stilettos. Blood red nail polish on fingers and toes to complete the ensemble, no one who saw her had a doubt about her ability to play a person to the edge and take them over or keep them from their release as she chose.

To her friends, she was just another person in their circle of friends. To those swingers who entered her party house every three months, she was the sweet hostess, the emcee of the evening. None seemed to recognize her, or if they did, they were wise enough to keep her identity to themselves. She would bet on the former, as she had gone to great lengths to keep her anonymity as the Red Queen to herself, and few who were her subs were invited here. What none in or out of her circles knew was that she, like so many strong Dominants required the powerful practiced hand of another to gain her release. True submission to a proficient, talented master, the skillful application of a riding crop, or to dance at the end of someone else’s whip. The dichotomy of hot wax and ice cubes, the pleasurable pain that would take her higher than many of this world knew they could rise. To float above herself in sweet ecstasy and weep her surrender or release when it was earned, but not a minute before.

When Aaron and Sharilynne had inquired about taking a party, they had no way of knowing the gift they were giving her. Sure, others had hosted at different times through the years, but seldom had any taken the whole night over, or done so with such complete and thorough attention that she was deemed redundant and unnecessary. Tonight, she would get to join the fun and taste the favors. Find and follow through with another of the guests and hope that what she believed was true, instead of being left to vicariously enjoy through the one way glass. Years ago, a safety measure that was insisted upon and agreed to in the early days of the swingers parties to see than none were victimized.

It is one thing to say you want the open rules of anything goes; and another thing entirely to experience it as she had learned long ago. She knew first hand that safe words could be ignored. To reinforce the party rules, one way glass mirrors were installed in each of the rooms with surveillance so that although those inside could have their privacy, or at least the semblance of such, there was someone who could watch at any time and step in. She would often stop by and review the monitors, and would accompany anytime there was a need to escort someone out. In the last decade it had happened maybe twice, but twice was enough to continue the practice. Everyone who came to the party knew that they could be watched and removed; it had been enough for most.

From her post as hostess and later in the evenings as watcher, she knew without a doubt who she wanted to entertain this night as she slipped on her accoutrements for the evening. Aaron and Sharilynne having decked the party goers out with little more than just enough, she hoped that things would go in her favor. She knew what she wanted, and she knew who she wanted to deliver it. Colb Mitras was definitely her first choice. Perhaps six foot tall he had the build of someone who paid attention without the vulgar notion of needing to be bulked out and ridiculous. He was solid without being too much. Sandy brown, disheveled hair and dark coffee eyes, he was tasty to look at. Watching him over the past few years, she knew he could deliver what she craved. He was one to try it all and then go for a little more. She wanted his sense of adventure and freedom, but as his submissive she wanted him to take it. Control it. Make it elusive and force her to reach for it.

Holden Henner with his brooding looks and wicked smile would do, but she hoped for Colb. Knowing the details of the differently themed rooms, she knew she was going into Mardi gras. If both of the men she wanted were odd numbers and sent to Carnival she would settle for finding a soft female to waste the night with, but she was hopeful to get one or the other, or perhaps both to the west room and the North American festival. Time would tell her fortune. Slipping on a feathered G-string, so reminiscent of where she had come from, strings of beads that weren’t enough to cover a woman with far less cleavage, and her mask she slipped the elastic band with the key around her wrist and entered Bourbon Street. Humming to the jazz trumpet wailing, looking for Mr. Mitras she made her way to the table and grabbed a hurricane. Sipping her drink thinking to herself wryly, one to drink now, and maybe another one to rage later and take away her choices. ‘Come on New Orleans, give me a storm.’



Part IV: Another Swing

Part III: Tangyr

Part II: Swingers

Part I:  Swingers