Lying there, spread out like a butterfly, I watched her, watching you. Staring at her soft, pale curves, my mind swam from her femininity. I was rigid with arousal and this voyeuristic need that I never understood.

Her lips moved as she spoke to you, but her words did not reach my ears. Instead, the luscious, wet sound of her fingers between her thighs filled my head. Dipping and stroking in a rhythm that would commit itself to my memory. Along with the sighs and sweet, intoxicating moans that made me touch myself every time I heard them through the wall. Even in the early morning hours when she woke.

By daylight, she was so composed. Almost inhuman in her perfection. Sleek blond waves held back in beaded barrettes or enamelled chopsticks she bought on Etsy. Soft and flawless makeup. Jewelry and dresses reminiscent of another, more sophisticated time in history. And heels, all of those little, kitten heels.

But then, at night, when the heels came off, she became something very different.

When my father met her, she’d been a history teacher at my high school. My history teacher. And, as pretty as she was, no one liked her. She was so uptight and aloof, never getting personal with anyone. But he saw her. Right through her. Had her blushing and giggling ten minutes into that parent teacher conference. And they were married three months later.

He was tough on me. At fifteen, I never had time to think about girls because I was focused like a laser. I was writing cell-phone apps at ten, and had moved onto robotics by thirteen. The world was one giant opportunity to me. And, being my fathers son, I saw it all spread out before me like one great Monopoly game.

Natalie changed everything for both of us.

She cooked us roast chicken for dinner the night my father proposed. They had only been on six dates.

Watching tears slip down the cheeks of this emotionless mannequin of a woman was surreal. She’d told me just a week before that electronics where nothing if I didn’t know where they came from. She’d just given me a D on a World History exam, and I was arguing the necessity of such knowledge. But I sat at her desk feeling like I was arguing with one of my robots. She was unbudgeable.

As he slid the ring on her finger, she wiped her cheeks with her napkin, then looked at me, forehead drawn into a map I’d never once seen before. My heart hammered in my chest as she stood up and came over to me. Ingrained manners forced me to my feet as she rose, and I glanced toward my father who stood and watched her with an expression I’d only seen in movies and on television. For all of it sweetness, it was the most awkward moment of my life, granting permission to my father to be married.

My mother left when I was a baby, and had never attempted to have a relationship. But I did not want a mother. I had settled into an easy routine with my father, and he was all I needed. But I didn’t begrudge him his needs. My own had become impossible to ignore. 

My lips formed the questions that my brain didn’t. And the vision of her swam before me, looking like a young girl instead of the woman I thought I knew. My father looked younger too, having shaved off his graying beard and smiling constantly.

Monday morning, she’d been back to normal, except for sharp moments when she’d steal concerned glances my direction. As our worlds combined and the wedding was planned, those sharp moments turned into something very different for me. And probably wrong.

On their wedding day, she wore a beautiful vintage style dress. Layers of sheer white fabric with hundreds of white silk butterflies sewn all over it’s surface. I’d walked in on her fixing her stockings, after which she straightened my tie and kissed me on the cheek. It only took 30 seconds to solve the problem in my pants in the restroom before I had to walk her down the aisle. As she held onto my bicep through my jacket, and her fingers stroked tiny circles there, the problem tried to return. But thankfully, giving her away to the pending nuptials chased it away.

For six months, my life was something completely alien to me. She made hot breakfast and we rarely ate take out. She let go of my father’s housekeeper and took up all the cleaning, laundry and shopping duties herself. The massive, lush penthouse my father had bought when I was small suddenly seemed tiny. She was everywhere. Everywhere. On every surface and pillow, even in my own sheets.

She thought I hated her at first, because I didn’t want to be around her. But as she helped me with Calculus one evening, something my father had never been able to do, she glanced down at my lap and understood. I would’ve thought the multiple showers every day would have given it away.

She doted on us both, finding purpose in making a home, and as the summer months approached, my father told her to put in her notice at school. He wanted her home. Their whispered conversations in the kitchen where they thought I couldn’t hear or wasn’t paying attention replayed in my head every single night. His lust for her was clear and he’d have her wherever he wanted. I pretended to watch Big Bang Theory every morning as they stood together behind the island in the kitchen and his hands wandered over her body, giving her countless, silent orgasms.

Almost silent.

They never thought about the fact that I could see their reflection in the screen of my open, but powerless laptop. They turned me into a voyeur. Which was sick. But it was her. And I couldn’t get enough. So I didn’t care.

But then, one week before my seventeenth birthday, he died.

And she was stuck with me.

My mind turned into a black hole of guilt and excitement. I had her to myself. But only because of the loss of the man who’d made me into who I was. The darkness was deep, and locking myself inside it felt like the only option.

She tried so hard to break though. To be a mother. But I screamed at her repeatedly that she wasn’t. She didn’t understand. Neither did I. We should’ve grieved together. But I just kept shutting her out. Until I didn’t.

It was a wet day in late August. The schedule of my senior year had been planned out the previous spring. Splitting time between college courses, my remaining high school credits, chess club and working on the programming for my robot in my spare time. Nine days in, and it all felt utterly pointless.

She sat on my bed, coaxing me from beneath the duvet. She tried to say something, but as I sat up, her eyes which were already red rimmed swelled with tears. My arms came around her by instinct, and we held onto each other until she fell asleep.

My fingertips stroked her cheeks and lips as my body responded to her closeness. I left her to sleep in my bed feeling repulsive for my arousal. But the next morning, she woke me on the sofa with the softest kiss on my forehead and whispers that we’d get through it together.

She changed bedrooms, leaving the Master Bedroom for the ghost of my father’s memory, in lieu of the den next to my room. I’m sure she realized I could hear her every night. Crying herself to sleep.

Until the crying stopped, and something different started.

Jobless and alone, she had hours to fill every day. She took care of me. Amazing meals, clean clothes, lovely apartment, homework and trips all over Chicago whenever we wanted. But the laptop became an appendage after a while. I’d walk in to whispered goodbyes and hear her taking pictures in the bathroom. She started wearing her dresses again, instead of yoga pants and robes. She had color in her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with life.

And she giggled at my dumb jokes.

Once I figured out who you were, I understood why you hadn’t come around. And instead of calling her out on it, I watched. I realized she was sexier when she was in love. And my own personal porn catalog just got better and hotter. Dildos and vibes and sexy strappy nighties and butt plugs. Even the spanking you’d begged her to give herself. The situation was more uncomfortable than ever, but I was so addicted to her. And you, really. Because of what you made her into.

Now three days before my eighteenth birthday, I wondered if anything would change. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I watched my little forbidden fruit as she played with her perfect, pink pussy, plugged to the hilt and writhing beneath her own fingers. The laptop on the mattress between her thighs, and her eyes focused… On me?

I stroked myself slowly, standing naked in her open doorway.

Waiting for her to come.

So I could go.


Flame of Lust by cygon via

Pressed against you
Pale, supple softness against
Hot, dark, rigid heft
I am small, pliable, vulnerable
Stretched and shaped
For your pleasure
My want knows no limit
The fear that
Flickers behind my eyes as
Broad, rough hands
Delicate wrists
Binding me
Without bondage
Sniffing and growling
Like a beast with his prey
I search the eyes of a man
Burning with anticipation
As I find myself crushed
By an animal instead
I could plead for gentility
But I want the
Of your lust
I long to be burned
To pieces
Put back together
By desire so heady
It is almost insane
Rip me to shreds
Sweet beast
Toss me into the
Fire of your love
Wrapped in
And reverence
Then watch me
Step from your bed
Charred forever
Changed completely
Just promise
To leave
Any little part


Perched at the edge
Of reason and will
The sweet morning sun
Giving spotlight
To the curves
That beckon you
Find me
Beneath thin fabric
Seek out
Your trembling
Save yourself
And me
In me
Where your fingers
Pluck at sweet petals
Stretching them open
And sinking deep
For the gush
The rush
Of liquid ecstacy
The desert of my
Your ever present
For more
Push me
To surrender
Until you are
Wrist deep
And I’m begging
For release
Never granted
But taken in
A fountain
And bliss
Is given
Your oasis

An oasis in desire by borda via

Safe Harbor

I need a place
Firm floors and soft edges
A structure of steel
Draped in pillows and blankets
Warmed by the sun
Shimmering in the dark
With the promise
The one promise
That no one
Has ever made.

I need a place
A safe harbor

Where I can fall apart
No one else’s needs to meet
No demands
Of time or wit or ability
No decisions to make
No bedtimes, screen-times, mealtimes
No downtime
Never any requirements
Of my mind
Of my eyes
Of my voice
Only my flesh

I need a place
A safe harbor

My blanket fort
Your sofa
A mattress
Or futon
Or backseat
It isn’t the location
It’s the mindset
It’s your attitude
It’s a command
Bend over, feel, break, cry…
Come, baby girl, again

I need a place
A safe harbor

Where I can beg to be
Until all that is left
Is the calm eye of the hurricane
The center of the
That is my life
All that is left
Is me

I need a place
A safe harbor

Where pain isn’t frightening
But comforting
Where the tangled
Unruly web
Of this world
Looks like silly string
Dirt is just fairy dust
Piles of laundry are pillows, or even clouds
The disarray is simply magic

I need a place
A safe harbor
Where the sobs
That escape my chest
Aren’t fruitless cries to an empty shower
Never meaningless
But instead
They are music
A sonnet leading to a symphony
Of laughter and bliss
A concert
For one

I need a place
I need to fall apart
I need to be taken apart
I need that impossible promise


I need
Safe harbor.


Burning Puzzle by CwieChanti via

A random occurrence
Not planned
But not an accident
Two edges
Fitting together
And peacefully
To create a new
A new world
Not with simple
Beveled lines
That rub against
Each other just
In order
To blend
But instead
The perfect
Mountain meets valley
Soft finds rigid
Smooth and supple
Hirsute brawn
Locking together
To form an
That is painted in
Frothy white layers
Over soft
Peach curves
A beauty
Only to fortune
Or fate
That dark
Torrid want
All of these
Burns quietly
And brightly
The boundaries
Fall away
To bliss


Image named Burning Puzzle by CwieChanti via

Red, revised – Snippet from Broken Hips, #WIP


This is one of those posts… The kind I never expected I’d write. I’m about to write about writing. Because, after posting my snippet yesterday, I read it. And, it felt off.

Sometimes, when you are in a predicament like I am, trying to squeeze in the writing wherever it will fit, often having to dig it free with my fingernails because, let’s face it, a life full of work, dirty diapers, first grade bullies, homemade baby food, spelling homework and drudging through my emotional issues isn’t exactly inspirational. I’m trying to force myself to do it, because I want to. Because I want to write. That is genuinely all of it. But writing is not the same as writing well.

After posting Red yesterday, I knew something was wrong, so I asked for some writing advice from a friend who is mentoring me through this process. I tend to overexpose. I tend not to trust the reader. I tend to tell the story instead of letting the story tell itself. I want you to see the scene exactly as I see it in my head… but that is just silly, because we are going to interpret things differently, and isn’t it better to let you have your own experience with it?

And, as he pointed out, Leigh sounded an awful lot like Meredith, yesterday, instead of Leigh.

I’m in the beginning stages of a second draft of Good Girl, so Mer has been fresh in my mind lately. And truthfully, Leigh is a stretch for me (which is great, because stepping out of your comfort zone is often when the really good stuff happens).

Leigh is a real hardass. She is not soft and fluffy. She’s not a babygirl, like Mer. And she wouldn’t say half of the things I made her say yesterday. So, I revised the scene. And I’m posting it to see what you think. You can read the opening scene here. There is much in between that I’m not sharing on blog, mainly because I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with this story yet. But I wrote a little more this morning. I should put it away so I can concentrate on my first project.

What can I say. I have ADHD!

Let me know what you think!


I look at him, beneath a sheet of red hair, with a grin that only nips at my cheeks and never makes it to my eyes.

“Those eyes give you away, Leigh.”

As he steps closer, I narrow them, and I feel the corners of my mouth pull in.

“Come on. Let go. You can just… be, when you’re with me, you know?”

His fingers slide my hair away from my face as he touches my cheek. His voice falls.

“Look at me this time. And don’t run away.”

I glance up into his eyes, willing myself still.

For a moment, I think about scaring him off, like I had that first night. Or when I’d dyed my hair. Or when Nicole told him he was too good for me.

But that would make him fight me again. Even though he said he never would.

“You’re shaking. …Say something.”

My thoughts crash into each other, none of them letting any of the others get any leverage. I want to just fucking leave. But something is keeping me locked here. And it isn’t just his fucking hands on me.

“I get it, babe. You want to fight instead? Kick the crap out of me so you can feel enough pity to let me kiss you again?”

I hear the laugh gurgle up from my chest. But, as I watch him, I stop it. Staring into his soft, brown eyes, I do want him. Fuck. I do want him.

“I don’t really want that… But I want you, Leigh.”

I shake my head, looking at the lips of this nerdy, little prick that just confessed… He wants me.

He moves closer, his voice so low.

“You’re not running. And you’re not swinging.”

His breath falls across my lips and my lungs ache from holding my own air too long.

When his lips touch me, I feel the rush. I reach up to hold onto him, the same way he holds onto me. Both of us working to keep me here. I sigh when he pulls back, and looks straight through me again.

“I need you to tell me. Tell me what you want.”

I swallow and slide my fingers back into his thick hair, trying to make my feet move closer to him, or pull him closer to me.

“No, Leigh. Tell me. Open that big, beautiful mouth of yours and talk to me. Any other moment, you’d have a whole mouthful of words for me.”

I roll my eyes, and he groans, pulling further back and letting his hands fall. I let mine drop as well.

“Please… Doc.”
“She speaks!”
“Don’t be a fucking asshole.”
“No, let’s turn that around, shall we?”

I frown at him, and look down at his hands at his sides. He raises them, crossing his arms in front of his chest and I turn away for a moment. I want to leave. But I don’t.

As I face him again, the corner of his mouth is tugging upward and he lifts his fingers to my face again. I sigh with relief at the contact, leaning into it but hoping he doesn’t notice.

“You want more, Leigh?”

I force myself to close the gap between us while my cheeks burn.

“Kiss me.”

The words hang in my mind, but I’m not quite sure I actually said them.

“Kiss me the way you did that first night.”

His eyes bore through me.

“Please, Doc…”
“No, Leigh. Tell me.”
“I’m here! Isn’t that enough?”
“No. Because you need to admit to yourself, as much as I need to hear it. It may have been fun, but I don’t want to have to fight you to fuck you.”

I smirk. But for barely a moment. Because his expression is not that of a man who just wants to fuck.

I swallow and press against him, pulling at the words in my head, trying to force them out. Until his face begins to harden.

I inhale deeply and close my eyes.

“I want you, Doc. I want you to kiss me. I want you to make love to me…”

Every muscle in my body is tense, and when I open my eyes, they dart between his and his lips for what seems like an eternity. I can taste blood from where I’ve bitten the inside of my lip to keep still. My feet tingle. My head aches.

Until his eyes spark with something unfamiliar, and his lips soften into a tiny smile before crushing mine.

His tongue parts my lips and his hands slide into my hair, pulling me up to meet him further before gliding down my body, under my ass, and lifting me to wrap my legs around him.

My body seems possessed, giving and taking what it wants. My hips grind against him, while my fingers slide into the collar of his polo so I can feel his skin. I bite his lip, fisting my hands in his hair. Then he strokes my tongue with his own, sending electricity through both of us until we finally need breath more than that kiss.

He sits me on the table and tugs the buttons of my blouse apart. When it opens, I pull it off as he steps back to look at me.

I know I am still scraped and bruised, and glance down at my plain red bra. I tense, seeing all those fucking marks. But as his finger crooks under my chin, tugging my face back to his, I feel every muscle in my body relax.

His voice sounds so fucking right. And his words pool deep inside me.

“I know you did it to piss me off. But I really fucking love the red, baby. On you. It’s perfect.”

Red – A snippet from Broken Hips, #WIP


I smiled at him, beneath a waterfall of red, but that grin only nipped at my cheeks and never made it to my eyes.

“I can see right through you, Leigh. Those eyes have given you away from the start.”

As he stepped closer, my breath caught in the base of my throat. I didn’t want him to touch me, but I didn’t want him to NOT touch me, either.

“Let go. You can breath with me.”

His fingers rose and slid the stream of my hair away from my face until they slipped down my cheek and jaw. His voice fell to a whisper as he lifted his other hand so that he held me there.

“Look at me this time. And don’t run away.”

I lifted my eyes to to his, trying to keep myself still, but trembling with the instinct to go. It wasn’t fucking instinct, really. I’d programmed myself this way. I didn’t deserve anyone to be tender and graceful with me.

For a moment, I thought about trying to toughen up again. Scare him off, like I had when I first dyed my hair. He’d told me he loved it before, and I didn’t want to let him love any part of me. Or make him fight me again. Even though he said he never would.

“You’re shaking.”

I tried to bring thoughts to my lips, but there were none. No words for this moment. None from me, at least.

“I get it, babe. You want to fight instead? Kick the crap out of me so you can feel pity enough to kiss me again?”

I heard the laugh bubble up from my chest before I felt it. But I stared into his soft, brown eyes, willing him to step closer. I did want it. I did want him.

“You know I don’t want that.”

I nodded, or tried to. While forcing my entire body to remain motionless. I did want him.

“You’re not running.”

His breath fell across my lips. He moved so achingly slow, like he was sure I was a frightened doe, and would bolt at any moment.

When his lips touched me, I felt that rush of emotion that had scared me so much the first time. I reached up to hold onto him, the same way he held onto me. Both of us working to keep me there. I sighed as he pulled back, and he looked straight through me again.

“I need you to tell me, baby. Tell me what you want.”

I swallowed and slid my fingers back into his thick, wavy hair, trying to make my feet move closer to him, or maybe pull him closer to me.

“No, Leigh. Tell me. Open that big, beautiful mouth of yours and talk to me. You know at any other moment, you’d have a mouthful of words for me.”

He rolled his eyes, pulling further back and letting his hands fall to my shoulders. My heart sank.

“Please… Doc. Please put them back.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward as he lifted his fingers to my face again. I sighed with relief at the contact. God, I really did want this.


I forced myself to close the gap between us while my cheeks burned with that stupid, fucking internal arguement.

“Kiss me.”

The words hung in my mind, but I wasn’t sure I’d said them.

“Kiss me the way you wanted to that first night.”

His eyes bore through mine with their silent demands.

“Please, Doc…”
“No, Leigh. Tell me.”
“I’m here! Isn’t that enough?”
“No. Because you need to admit to yourself, as much as I need to hear it. It may have been fun, but I don’t want to have to fight you to fuck you.”

I smirked. But only for a moment. Because his expression was not that of a man who just wanted to fuck.

I swallowed again and pressed against him, pulling at the words in my head, trying to force them from my lips, but failing. Until his face began to harden with disappointment. And rejection.

Then they poured out of me like he’d turned on a faucet.

“I want you, Doc. I want you to kiss me. I want you to make love to me. I want you to love me…”

Every muscle in my body tensed as my eyes darted between his eyes and his lips. I wanted to run so badly that I could taste blood from where I’d bitten the inside of my lip to keep still. His eyes sparked with something unfamiliar, but his lips softened into a tiny smile before he crushed me with his kiss.

His tongue parted my lips and his hands slid into my hair, pulling me up to meet him before gliding down my body and under my ass, lifting me to wrap my legs around him.

My body was possessed, giving in and taking what it wanted. My hips ground against him, while my fingers slid into the collar of his polo to feel his skin. My lips caressed his while our tongues danced, sending shots of electricity through both of us until we needed breath more than the kiss.

He sat me on the table and tugged the buttons of my blouse apart. Hurried, but not frantic, when it finally opened completely, I pulled it off as he stepped back to look at me. I knew I was still scraped and bruised, and glanced down at my plain red bra, feeling so much more exposed than I ever had with any other man. But as his finger crooked under my chin, lifting my face back to his, I felt every muscle in my body relax, his words pooling into something that felt so, fucking right, deep inside of me.

“I know you did it to piss me off. But I really fucking love the red, baby. All of it. On you. It’s perfect.”