The Harvest

“You must hurry or we won’t make it to the shelter before harvest time,” she panted, half dragging her younger brother through the ripe wheat stalks.

No one looked forward to sunsets anymore. They were a time of terror, of hiding, of waiting for the danger to pass, because they came at sunset—the harvesters. Behind the fleeing ones a growling, metallic whirl and bright lights warned of the impending destruction so they raced at breakneck speed for the shelter, which was finally in sight. Long ears tucked against soft fur as sister and brother dove into the burrow with the other cotton-tailed leporids that huddled—quivering—as the harvester roared overhead.

This little bit of writing was inspired by the Five Sentence Fiction prompt at
Lillie McFerrin’s blog

I’m Turning Down Sex Left and Right

“Chirp!” went my phone.

Ben @ 1:24: Hey you! Would you like to meet for drinks tonight?
Me @ 1:32: Let me see how my day plays out.
Ben @ 1:33: I really want to see you.
Me @ 1:49: :) That’s sweet.

I met Ben last week when I was unwinding at a bar. He walked away with my number
and nothing more. He needs to thank the vodka for the number, because normally
I don’t share.


Neil @ 1:52: Hi love! How are you?
Me @ 2:02: Good! You? Continue reading

just love me fully for just that little lifetime

The man might disregard capitalization… but he can damn sure write a
quiver-inducing post.


all i want is all of you; give it to me for a year, a month, a day, an hour, it doesn’t matter; i’ll remember it for all times and i will have you, you’ll be mine, you can do with me and mine what you wish; rip it from me, take it wherever you go, hold it while others venture inside you, drop it as they cover you, just keep it close and bring it whence you find me; take me for granted, despise me, tolerate me, miss me, love me, want me, need me, regret me, just give me all of you, blanket me, smother me in your vicious viscous oil, cleanse me in your pearl waters; let me taste your wants, tell me all the things, coax and crowbar all that i can’t help you with; teach me and learn of me, wrap your flesh a thousand times about my being…

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Clearance-sale Affection

I might ask. Once. At the most twice. But I refuse to beg or demand. Either you give me your attention because showering me with thoughtfulness brings you pleasure, or it doesn’t. So you don’t. I will not clamor and wave my hands to be seen. You’ll not catch me creating an uproar for a word from you. I choose to not cheapen myself that way. Why? Because affection that has to be wrestled from the giver is clearance-sale affection—devalued, cold and stale. And in many ways that makes it worse than nothing at all.


Whisper your words. Whisper them in my ear. Feed my soul with your lines, your prose, your tangled, twisting mind. Whisper them in that space one inch, no—one centimeter—above my body.

But don’t touch me.

Instead let me feel your hot breath warm my flesh as you speak oh so softly. Whispering. Soothe me with your magic potion of vowels, consonants and punctuation. Coat me with them. Pour them over me like one applying organic honey on a burn. Paint pre-Raphaelite pictures of us bathing in crystal lily ponds in the center of an enchanted wood.

But don’t touch me.

Just keep whispering. Tell me what you want to do to me and watch as I begin doing those things to myself. Feel yourself harden as I run my hands over my erect nipples teasing them into even sharper points. Control your throbbing when I reach between my moist folds and touch where you so want to be. Fight to keep whispering, right in my ear as my legs fall open to reveal my most secret of places. Take your aching spear in hand and bring yourself to the very brink as my screams begin to drown you out. Grit your teeth as you spill your seed on my pale, waiting belly. Breathe.

Now. Now you may touch me.


Return to me over the sea. Slice the salty demons with your solid prow. Channel your way up and over the waves, facing each whitecap with the fearless spirit of heroes of old. Overcome the growing darkness with the light of my affection. For I am your haven, I am your safe place. I am home.

If You Could Read My Mind

If you could read my mind love
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Just like an old time movie
‘Bout a ghost from a wishin’ well
In a castle dark or a fortress strong
With chains upon my feet
You know that ghost is me
And I will never be set free
As long as I’m a ghost that you can’t see Continue reading

Rock, Paper, Scissors, Death

Rock me to sleep. Listen to my cries. Stroke my forehead until they ease into soft whimpers and then quiet slumber. Set me in the basinet and then wonder, who will she be? When will she talk? Walk? Dance? Thrive?

Hand me paper. Teach me to write. Watch my thoughts appear in black and white and then question, from where did that come? What else resides under those blonde ringlets concealed behind gray-green eyes?

Hide the scissors. Put them up high. Protect me from myself, my clumsiness, my tendency to dwell in my head. Give me shelter, comfort, warmth and then worry, how will she survive in a rough and tumble world? Who will keep our dreamer out of the clouds and guard her from harm?

Witness the slow death of childhood. Feel the bittersweet tears run down your cheeks when you think I’m not looking. Marvel at the lightning fast turning of the clock and ask, why didn’t anyone tell us the final curtain would fall so soon? Understand that the innocent time must end. Bury it carefully in a time capsule filled to the brim with golden memories she visits again and again as she rocks herself to sleep.

This post was inspired by the Inspiration Monday prompt over at Be Kind Rewrite.  

The Setting

Sun beats down lingering lazily above, slowly waltzing across the blue abyss before hovering along the horizon, suspended, then easing down—lower—leaving misty pink light in its wake. Land breathes, exhaling the steamy breath of the day. Darkness cloaks, punctured by Lyra, Hercules, Sagittarius and Scorpius. Lovers entwine in a sweaty tempest of passion cooled only by night’s zephyrs.

THE MEN On Having Their Cocks Stroked

I love the feel of a penis. Whether it’s soft, slightly bulging or rock hard, I adore the sensation of it in my hand. The silky texture… the way it grows… it’s ever-present potential! Thanks to the men who responded to the question I posed ages ago, I now know it might be even better for them that it is me! If that’s not a symbiotic relationship, then I don’t know what is. Below are their answers, edited slightly and in no particular order.

Her hand or rather fingers settling around your hard cock is the strongest, most direct affirmation that she wants you. Anything else, before that, you know she might go coy or shy or freak completely, but when she’s wrapping those fingers around the hard shaft, you know she’s wanting to make love with YOU. If she’s a gentle stroker, you might feel that shiver run up your spine or a tingle on the back of your neck or a slight sag at your knees. Because, whether she’s experienced or not, it feels like you’re the first one she’s touched like this. She’s testing, exploring, maybe memorizing the feel with long, slow, gentle strokes—not just grabbing the saddle-horn and saying “Let’s ride, cowboy!” That’s a whole other feeling. Gentle is sweet and intoxicating and it makes you want to either go gentle with her in response or the other extreme and just pick her up in your arms and toss her on the bed for a wild, hard, passionate fuck.

 When you’re getting stroked, or getting deep throated, it feels like getting quickly drunk, like doing a shot of yaeger. But you get that brain sensation without the shudder that hits you when the booze is too strong.

 On having your cock slowly stroked? I think the lead up to it is the most exciting. When my cock is hard, it throbs. It just wants to be touched. It’s almost as if all of my nerve endings are centered in my cock. That initial touch sends electricity shooting through my body. With each stoke I can feel my sexual pleasuring growing with no limit. Each stroke makes me want more. It’s a horribly vicious cycle. The more jerks I get the more I crave them. It envelops my thoughts too. I go from being able to form a sentence and having a rational thought, to only really being able to think about more strokes and really only able to say, “More.” Each stroke makes my cock the epicenter of my sexual pleasure, but it also sends jolts through the rest of my body. Once my cock starts to get stroked my whole body starts to melt down. A touch anywhere else with send a twinge of sexual delight to the rest of me, ultimately giving my cock an extra throb of pleasure.

The feeling of soft fingers around my erect cock is about the most beautiful of sensations—not even full masturbation—just a gentle caress is enough to drive me wild. I hate to admit this because I like to think I have good sexual stamina, but the right touch can have me coming in seconds.

To feel a woman’s hands on me is actually electric. Using one’s own hand is not even close to being the same. It’s different to being tickled. It’s the same intensity, but in aaaaaall the right ways. Literally, the hair on the back of my neck can stand on end. With a hand gently stroking my cock, the skin over my entire body tingles. When your hand is on my shaft, the electricity along to my balls is just amazing…

A soft female hand stroking my cock… Where do I begin? I could be led about like a dog on a leash with the right touch. A butterfly feeling is concentrated in the pit of my being and all attention is on the super soft hand, so unlike my own rough hand. Like a rabbit-fur lined glove, soft, warm and inviting.

Skinny Dipping

Early last summer on a random Wednesday evening, I ran into a guy at my local bar who I’d chatted with before but had never let it progress beyond friendly small talk. However, this particular Wednesday I was in a mood. Yes, one of my wanton moods where I morph into hot mess of sexual need. He was the only thing around even somewhat interesting, so I let him bait me into following him home.

I followed the lights on his big gray truck and pulled into his driveway around 11:30. We walked through the house and into the back yard where I spied a glittering blue swimming pool. Now, I love to swim. As I kid I would imagine I was shipwrecked and would tread water for ages, letting the buoyant liquid support me.

That night we sat on the patio, each sipping a beer, while I deflected his personal questions without him taking notice. I slipped off my sandals and looked up at the stars, not caring about the time or work the next day. After a while he asked if I wanted to go for a swim.

“Is the water warm?”

We checked—him with his hand, me with a toe. It was pleasant, not bathwater warm but not icy.

“I don’t have a swimming suit,” I said with a wicked grin. Continue reading