Sunday, September 30, 2012

Smoke and Mirrors

Many thanks to oatmeal girl, of Submission and Metaphor. Without her invaluable help translating, this story wouldn't have been possible. Zander Vyne

She burned Gauloises cigarettes like incense because, she said, the scent reminded her of home.
Though Monique had come from Paris with her mother when she was only five, and was half Russian, she was as unmistakably French as the Eiffel Tower.  Maybe it was the way her mermaid's eyes tilted at the corners, or the proud set of her head atop her ballerina's neck, or the whimsical tilt of her luxuriant mouth.  Whatever it was, I was entranced from the moment we met.
Her tiny closet of an apartment on the Lower East Side was a testament to her loyalty to all things French and enough to tell me ridicule would have ended our friendship.
Her cushions were swathed in thrift-store toile, and screens painted with scenes of Montmartre and the Seine covered the reality of New York outside her haven.  Red wine, cheese, and bread were her preferred sustenance.  She nursed pots of lavender de Provence and fragrant thyme on the fire escape in the summer, and saw them through the winter with the love of a mother.
Monique listened to Piaf on an old turntable because, she explained, without the crackles and snaps of a record album being caressed by a needle, the music was not "right".  That long hot summer, making love in her iron, curlicued bed, I began to agree with her.
"Ah, mon chéri, tu es tant sexy!" she purred.
I didn't understand most of what she said in French, but it didn't matter.  Anything that came out of her mouth was titillating to me.
Piaf sang Sous le ciel de Paris, and I reclined like an emperor while Monique devoured me.
Usually, our lovemaking was a back and forth tussle for control.  At various times, she would give in, or I would, or we'd just melt together in a tangle of body parts.  We fucked like people with no modesty, no shame, and no boundaries.  Sometimes it was hard and fast, over in a flash.  Other times we lasted all day, occasionally spending entire weekends naked, fucking, eating, talking, and listening to music.
Our relationship was still new, but I had a feeling it would always be this way.  We just seemed to fit one another in every way, both physical and mental.  I know everyone in the throes of new love says things like that, but with us, it was true.  I knew no matter what happened my life would never be the same.
"Comme tu es joli, chéri.  Voyez, comme il dort maintenant.  Est-il fatigué, le pauvre petit?  Mais vois-tu!  Il se revéille!  Il lève la tête!  Ah, comme il est beau, ton petit soldat.  Mais non, il n'est pas petit, pas soldat, il est tout un général, ta queue!" she said, in between licks and sucks of my cock.  Her tongue was a snake in the Garden of Eden, tempting and seductive, winding its way down my shaft.
"What?"  I said, my voice taut with sexual tension.  I closed my eyes, and still was assaulted with daydream images of her.  She was like a drug I could not get enough of, could not stop thinking of and wanting.
She kept me on the edge, fingers and tongue working together.  The sound was obscene – wet slithers, sucking strokes and heavily accented English that drove me wild.
"It was silly, mon loup," she said, her lips forming a moue as she kissed the aubergine, mushroom-head of my cock.  Her lush bottom lip shone with a gloss of my pre-cum.
"Nothing you say is silly, minette.  Tell me."  I loved that nickname – sex kitten.  It fit her perfectly and made her purr every time I said it.
She sighed softly, her head coming to rest on my thigh, her fingers cradling my turgid prick, those cat-like green eyes turned up to meet mine.  "I was talking about your cock.  How pretty it is.  I said, look how he sleeps.  I asked if he was tired, the poor little thing.  But, then he woke and lifted his head and I said he was beautiful, your little soldier.  But, he isn't little, and not merely a soldier.  No.  He is a general, your cock!"  She blushed as she finished, laughing softly and kissing my balls.  Tiny hairs rose to meet her lips and my flesh quivered.  I was so close to coming that just her breath wafting over my penis was almost enough to set me off.  I had to grip the sheets, and think of the Yankees, to keep from spurting all over her pretty face.
Like any good general, I accepted my minion's worship and took control.  My fingers fisted in her hair – luxurious locks of red twisted around and around until she was poised where I wanted her, over my cock once more.  I urged her mouth downward, slowly, to tease us both.  "Open wide, minette.  Make me come."  My voice was gruff, commanding.  I was in charge and we both knew it.
I let her hair fall to my thighs, framing her face with its waves.  She moaned, swiveling her head and corkscrewing up and down my cock.  "Faster.  Deeper," I instructed her, lifting my hips to show her the way I wanted it, until she fell into the metronomic rhythm I imposed upon her.
"Oui, oui, mon coeur," she said when she came up for breath, her voice husky from the ramming of my cock down her throat and her own building desire.
She wrapped her arms around my torso, nails scratching lightly over my belly.  I twisted and began to buck, until her mouth almost took in my entire cock.  I felt her nose buried in my public hair and her teeth graze my fuck-lusted skin.
"Fuck!"  I shouted, taking her head between my hands, and fucking her face like a street whore's.
I was rough.  So was she.  I felt her long legs spread on the bed, silken skin against mine, as she almost crawled in place, wanting, it seemed, to crawl right inside of me.
Crazed with lust, my body bowed, I spread my knees wide and gushed into her eager little mouth.  I kept going and going, until her mouth was full, leaking at the corners.  I groaned as she licked the droplets from her lips and smiled at me, coming up to lie atop my body, her curves fitting me perfectly.
"Je t'adore.  Je t'aime," she said, for the first time, her head atop my heart, which still beat frantically even as my orgasm died.
I knew enough French to understand that, and my battered heart sang.  "I love you too, Monique."
The images, smells, and memories are still so alive in me; sometimes it's as if I could reach through the ether of time and step back, to that walk-up flat filled with France and the only woman I've ever loved.
I was not her first lover, but unlike most couples giddy with new love, we didn't share our former experiences, successes and failures.  It was as if, when our eyes met, we knew everything truly important there was to know about each other, and the details of how we'd arrived there didn't matter.
Instead, we spent our time learning about one another through touch, taste, scent, and sex.  When my fingers slipped over the bumps of her fragile spine and my palms filled with the ripe peach of her ass, it was as if puzzle pieces clicked into place and I was given all the knowledge of her I needed.  Looking into her eyes, I saw myself mirrored and was home with another for the first time.  Nothing else mattered.
I'd climb her stairs, enter her recreated Paris, and the rest of the world would fade away.
We ate dinner in bed more often than not, and after feeding one another tidbits, licking the crumbs from our fingers, and drinking wine offered from the cups of our mouths, she'd light her Gauloises cigarettes and the room would fill with wisps of gossamer smoke.  The dark tobacco gave off a distinctive aroma, the scent rich and earthy.  Soon I began to associate its unique bouquet with Monique, fucking, and France.
Monique offered herself to me as the final course of our meals.  Spreading her long, dancer's legs, she drew me down to her and into a world of sensual pleasures.  Chevalier and Piaf sang accompaniment to the sex-symphony we created in her bed.
She had a childlike figure, surprisingly frail in one so crackling with energy.  Her skin was translucent, white.  I loved to make the blush rise in her face, and see her neck and chest pinken because of the scratch of my day's growth of beard, and the completeness of my attention to her pleasure.
There was no part of her I did not lick, or pinch, spank or fondle.  I inserted myself into her every orifice, and she into mine.  We had a mutual need to be as close as possible, and nothing was forbidden between us.
Slick with sweat, in the hottest days of summer, our bodies slid together in a way that seemed almost primal, primitive, as if in the act of fucking we became something else.  Reduced to our most base natures as humans, we elevated our individual selves to something beyond what I thought most people would ever know.  We fused.
Monique did not smoke, but liked to hold cigarettes for me while I inhaled and blew the vapors over her body in warm streams and billows that caressed the furrow between her thighs, making her shiver.  I learned that the nicotine prolonged my erection somehow and the head-rush I got from the tobacco added to my sense of drifting somewhere far away and exotically foreign.
It was seductive, the smoke.  Had I known where one could indulge in opium, lounging on plush sofas, nursing hookah pipes, I'd have saved every penny to go there with Monique.  I wanted to float with her in a smoke-filled dream where anything was possible and nothing else mattered.  Instead, I smoked Gauloises as we drank cheap, table wine, and was as close to heaven as I've ever come here on earth.
Her walls were a deep crimson and she did not like artificial lights, choosing instead to burn cheap wax candles that only added to my sense of being somewhere much more compelling than the world I'd known before.  Smoke wafted in tendrils of gray and white over red and toile backgrounds and the smell of burning wax mingled with other scents – sex, cigarettes, Monique's seductive perfume.
Her cunt smelled of the ocean-fresh, salty tang mingled with musky water scent.  After a day of fucking, she would smell like me.  I liked her that way.  It was as if I branded her, not only with the marks I left on her pale skin, but also with my very essence.
As the summer wound to a close, life began to press upon me, intruding into the little world we'd formed together.  A new semester of school needed my planning, and my parents demanded a visit.  Friends whom I had not seen in months started leaving notes on my doorstep, worried when I failed to return any of their calls and never showed up at our regular haunts.  People summered on Long Island without me.
Lying on her floor, nose to nose, my hands wandered over the wondrous bounty of her skin and, inside my head, an imaginary camera recorded every detail.  There … a mole shaped like a lopsided heart.  Here, the silk of her hair slipping through my fingers.  Everywhere, lovely woman.  Sexy and sure of her charms.  A coquette with a mermaid's face and a siren's allure.
"Fais-moi disparaître," she whispered, her mouth moving over my lips, her fingers twisting in my hair.
"What?"  I asked, though I did not really care, not then, what she said.
"Fais-moi jouir."  She tangled her fingers in mine and dragged them down, over her belly, urging them between her legs, which she spread wide.
I understood.
I love to fuck.  I love to kiss and taste my lover, but there is something so tactile about using my fingers to pleasure her.  Though my cock is sensitive, it cannot compare to the way every nerve on the tips of my fingers feels her every furl, her every slick petal.  The moment when she swells with want, when her body oozes its juice onto my hand is one I cherish, knowing I am pleasuring her.  I hold her close, my mouth near enough to dip down, my teeth catching an up-tilted nipple and biting until she writhes against me, pressing her pubis into my flicking fingers.
My cock was so hard, leaking against her hip, but I concentrated on her, that camera inside my head recording every moment as if it might be the last.  I wanted to bury myself deep within her, impaling her and forcing her to stay with me always, but I waited.  It was as if I knew these moments might need to be stretched out to last a lifetime, and I wanted to savor each one.
"Oui!  Oui!  Maintenant!  Je jouis!" she cried.  I'm coming!
"Come with me, minette.  Come," I whispered into the curve of her shoulder, fingers bearing down harder now, knowing she could take whatever I gave in these final moments before she exploded.  When I slapped her quivering, wet pussy, she lifted from the floor and shouted, "Baise-moi!  Baise-moi!"  Fuck me!  Fuck me!
I did.  I fucked her, flipping her over onto her knees and pushing her face into the floor, my pussy-wet hand on the back of her neck.  I plowed into her like a man who has never fucked before and may never have the chance again.  I left marks on her hips that day, bruises from the force of my fingers digging into her flesh, pulling her to me and pushing her away, only to pull her back and bury myself within her once more.  I felt like screaming.  Like crying.  Like dying.
She accepted what I gave her, even when my cock left her warm cunt and buried itself in her tight bottom.
She screamed and moaned until my hand moved around to find her cunt again, fingers moving exactly the way I knew she needed them to.
"Oui, oui, comme ça!"
I made the pain go away, and we came together.  After, we collapsed, entwined upon the floor.
"I love you," I said, smoothing tendrils of hair from her sweat-soaked temples.
The red walls of her apartment sheltering us, satiated and exhausted, we slept as Piaf sang lullabies.
Now, many years later, my walls are the same shade of red.  My windows are covered with painted screens, and I burn candles and Gauloises.  Inside, I burn for what was and for what I lost when the inevitable came, and Monique left me for her first love – Paris.
Every evening, I climb my stairs and close the door on the rest of my world.  Late at night, I stand in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror, smoking, and spinning old, French records while I pleasure myself, needing the acrid smoke in my lungs, and the scent of it in my nostrils to accompany my hand's jerking of my cock.
Behind me, I see Notre Dame, Pigalle, and the Seine cutting through charming streets.  If I squint in the candlelight and smoke-filled room, just as I come, I see her.  I can believe the painted image of Monique hanging on the wall behind me, and reflected in the mirror, is her.  She urges me to one more orgasm and, in those moments, I find her again in the haze.  I am the young man she once loved.
I sing along to the music, translating as I go – give your heart and soul to me and life will always be la vie en rose – and sometimes I cry.

First Published by Erotiqué Press in 2009 as Smoke and Mirrors
Republished by Renaissance Press in 2011 in Zander Vyne's short story collection Kinky Tales

Saturday, September 29, 2012


Her beauty has informed artists over the decades. From the roof of his palace, King David sees her at her bath, and after that one glimpse, he wants her. I bet she was stunning; drop dead gorgeous. Her name is Bathsheba and she is a married woman. Her husband Uriah, is a soldier, fighting on the front line in the war against the Ammonites. This is no nameless husband, someone whom David has never heard of. The biblical text tells us of “Uriah the Hittite.” He is named as one of David's mighty men, known for his bravery and courage as a soldier. But Uriah’s wife is fit for a king. And this king intends to have her.Rembrandt paints Bathsheba in 1654 in a spirit of intimacy. Her face reflects the difficulty of the situation - forced to submit to the king's will, she feels the guilt of betraying her husband Uriah.


William Drost painted Bathsheba also in 1654, illustrating her moral dilemma. She receives the letter from King David. Leonard Cohen sings about her.“You saw her bathing on the roof,Her beauty and the moonlight and overthrew you.”

And another painting, by Cornelius Van Harleem. 1594

So the king is watching her, spying on her at her bath. Is Bathsheba an exhibitionist? Does she sense that she is being watched?


The bible is not exactly steeped in erotica. With the exception of “The Song of Solomon”, it is difficult to find anything connected with erotic love, or erotic desire. And what of Bathsheba herself? What  does she represent? What point were the writers of the bible trying to make?

Bathsheba at the well, a boy brings King David's letter, Peter Paul Rubens.

Other women in the bible, are well defined. Holy virgin, Mary, mother of Jesus, meek and obedient; the reformed whore, Mary Magdalene, whirling in incense and sulphur;  there is Jezebel steeped in depravity; and there is Ruth, with her wonderful quality of loyalty. Even Lot’s daughters and their horrible seduction of their father, (which makes me cringe whenever I read it) you can argue that their crime is justified.

HANS Von Aachen

So is beautiful Bathsheba there, just to demonstrate the lust and weakness of a powerful king? It would seem so.

Bathsheba and David Jan Massys

David, up until this episode, has always been presented as a loyal servant of the Lord. His name, David means “beloved”. David slew the mighty Philistine, Goliath. He was a hero and Samuel, the prophet declared him “chosen by the Lord”. David has had the love and protection of the Lord throughout his life.

Bathsheba at her Bath. Jacob Von Loo

Yet in introducing David as a letch, the bible writers show us that David is as capable of falling and failing, as anyone of us. Looking, seeing the forbidden, has an irresistible allure and David cannot drag his eyes away. He is a voyeur and the artists featured here place the viewer in the same position.

As for Bathsheba, I am still having difficult in framing her -- I’d appreciate any ideas that any of you may have. Is she just a cipher -- an example of how even great men can be tempted? Or is she something more?

A Shapely Tree

Hmm, think I'll get my hands on that
via Danish Principal

Tuesday, September 25, 2012


Does the color of latex make a difference in how you judge a person? Purple says dominatrix,  red seductress, while black says either undecided or open to possibilities to me. White, if it exists, would be a mind game waiting to happen.

Give me your money or I'll steal your things

Well the movers arrived, but not before jerking us around for more money. Amazing what you will grit your teeth to when someone has all your belongings locked up in a truck. Is this a D/s relationship based on possessions? Count me out, but I did pay up.

Getting It Right

In 1971, Duke University professors wrote a wank-friendly medical textbook

 In 1971, three medical professors at the Duke University School of Medicine collaborated on The Anatomical Basis of Medical Practice, an anatomy textbook that included cheeky prose, some macho dudes, and more nubile female nudes who'd fit right in pin-up magazines. 

They were quite liberal in their use of female nudes of the pin-up girl variety as you can see in the images above.  And the “easy-going, literary style,” often lent itself to cheeky comments about women.  In the discussion about the effects of UV light on skin, the authors state, “the contrast between exposed and unexposed parts of the epidermis is quite stark when the bathing suit is removed.”

Ah, those were the days... I knew I should of been a medical student, there were some foxy nurses in those days. Could of learned something too, or else I'd have the book to guide me along, hehehe ;)

via Gawker
via Street Anatomy


Friday, September 21, 2012

Bruce Timm



As I (ahem) keep mentioning I'll soon be winging my way to the Big Apple (for classes and - hopefully - tons of fun) so my blogging and such will be a bit spotty for the next week or so.  

But definitely keep an eye on my Flickr feed for shots of my New York wanderings...


La Madone-au-Coeur-bless 1991 “It’s hard to think of contemporary culture without the influence of Pierre et Gilles, from advertising to fashion photography, music video, and film. This is truly global art.” Jeff Koons.
Saint Sebastian 1987 “Pierre Commoy, the photographer, was born in 1950 in La Roche-sur-Yon.[1] Gilles Blanchard, the painter, was born in 1953 in Le Havre.[1] In the early 1970s, Blanchard took a degree at the École des Beaux-Arts in Le Havre, while Commoy studied photography in Geneva.” WIKI
Saint Sebastian of the Sea 1994 “In 1974, Blanchard moved to Paris to paint and make illustrations for magazines and advertisements. Commoy started working as a photographer for the magazines Rock & Folk,Dépèche Mode and Interview.” WIKI
The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, 1996 “In autumn 1976, Commoy and Blanchard met at the inauguration of a Kenzo boutique in Paris, and they started living together in an apartment in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux that they also use as a studio. The next year they started working together; Blanchard painted the images, Commoy took the photos. Their public breakthrough came with their images for the magazine Façade, with portraits of Andy Warhol, Mick Jagger and Iggy Pop.” WIKI
Legend-Madonna-1990 The cosmos of the worldwide renowned French artist duo is a vivid, colourful world poised between baroque sumptuousness and earthly limbo. Pierre et Gilles create unique hand-painted photographic portraits of film icons, sailors and princes, saints and sinners, of mythological figures and unknowns alike. Pierre et Gilles pursue their own, stunningly unique vision of an enchanted world spanning fairytale paradises and abyssal depths, quoting from popular visual languages and history of art. Again and again, they re-envision their personal dream of reality anew in consummate aesthetic perfection.
Le Grand Amour-Marilyn Manson and Dita Von Teese Pierre et Gilles are among the most influential artists of our time. In their complex, multilayered images, they quote from art history, transgress traditional moral codes, and experiment adeptly with social clichés.
Saint Rose de Lima 1989 Their painterly photographic masterpieces exert an intense visual power that leaves the viewer spellbound.
Mercure 2001 Over the last thirty years, Pierre et Gilles have created photographic portraits of numerous celebrities including Marc Almond, Mirelle Mathieu, Catherine Deneuve, Serge Gainsbourg, Iggy Pop, Jean-Paul Gaultier, Nina Hagen, Madonna, and Paloma Picasso.
Neptune 1988 They work almost exclusively in an opulently furnished studio, where their subjects are costumed lavishly and placed before three-dimensional backgrounds. Pierre photographs the model, and Gilles retouches and hand-colours the print. The reproducible portrait is rendered unique through painting, which highlights each detail with carefully selected materials and accessories. I have not been able to find any sources concerning how the two have influenced other artists, but it seems to me that Jean-Paul Gaultier, has borrowed ideas from them for his sensual perfume advertising campaigns. This post was suggested by my friend Stephen and put together using sources from the Web.

Good Tip

via Gals And Gurls I Wish I Was


via The Future Waits 4 Me

Thursday, September 20, 2012


(via apaxicana)

Nieves, modelo de Diego Rivera, 1943 Cuernavaca. Foto:Fritz Henle (1909–1993).

Hula Cam at Burning Man

Oh Get A Grip - Not Really Other

(From M. Christian's Queer Imaginings)

This is an extra-special treat: the great folks at Oh Get A Grip (Lisabet SaraiC. Sanchez-GarciaCharlotte SteinKathleen BradeanKristina Wright and Jean Roberta) gave me the fantastic opportunity to write, a bit, about what it's like to write queer fiction ... especially since I'm a straight guy.

Here's a tease, for the rest just click here.

Once again, before I start in on the subject at hand I want to give a well-deserved tip-of-the-hat to the fantastic folks here at The Grip for allowing me this little space to write about ... well, we'll get to that in a second.

A bit of background should probably be in order before I begin: I'm a writer. I write a lot of things, from science fiction to horror to mysteries to non-fiction to – let’s not dance around it – smut. Quite a bit of smut, actually.

But what's rather unique about my life in pornography ("erotica" if I'm talking to people of a 'delicate sensibility') is that I've written – and even sold – more a few stories, and even several novels, that are not in my own, sexual, 'familiar territory.'

Or, to put it another way, I've written (and still write) a lot of gay and lesbian fiction ... but I'm straight.

This (ahem) has naturally raised more than few eyebrows – straight ones as well as queer ones: how, they ask, can a heterosexual fellow write – somewhat successfully as well -- to such an orientation not his own?


Glug, Glug, Glug...

Experience the feeling from being underwater, just make sure you don't lose your mouth piece.
via Danish Principal

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Excerpt From Full Moon Rising: Tales Of The Werewolf Clan By Sabrina Luna

Here's a very special treat: a pair of excepts from Sabrina Luna's brilliant new book, Full Moon Rising: Tales Of The Werewolf Clan - out now from Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions!

A ferociously hot werewolf romance like no other - packed with sex ... and fur and teeth! Romance can be complicated - but thrilling - when you are a member of a lyanthrope clan. Full Moon Rising is the first installment of an enthralling new series that chronicles turning points in the lives and loves of two of the McShaw's of Heather Grove. Megan McShaw falls for another lycanthrope, Derek Lee. Soon the two are hiding in a cabin in the woods from a rogue werewolf who is out to get Derek after a bar fight reveals he is a lycanthrope but not from the local pack. Meanwhile, woman reporter, Jac Hamilton, comes to Heather Grove to investigate a 'werewolf' story. She meets Ray McShaw and can sense the energy between them. She doesn't dream he is a werewolf, and as the local pack leader is responsible for concealing the truth from her. But Ray winds up trying to protect Jac when a female pack member goes rogue and attacks her. Ray realizes that he has feelings for her - and that even though Jac is human she is also his mate.
Excerpt of "Full Moon Fever"
From Full Moon Rising

Within the warm cab, Ray switched off the radio and glanced to the diner door. Any minute Jac would be heading out to the truck. He drew a breath, attempting to calm his nerves.

He’d felt foolish reaching out and taking her hand. But the heat of their touch and the silkiness of her hand in his had struck a chord deep within him. A chord that resonated through his entire being. He wanted her…bad. The moon fever was escalating, too. The heightened lunar energy would only complicate things. And, also, it was only one night away from full zenith. “I’ll just have to keep my distance,” he vowed.

Jac would never understand. Not only was she a stranger, but she was also human.

Ray cringed. Usually the sithech and full-blooded humans didn’t mix. “It’d be like oil and vinegar,” he muttered under his breath. “It just won’t work. I got a bad feeling about this.” He sighed.

She also wrote for a magazine. That could spell trouble for him in a different way. Ray’s wolf sensibilities were on alert. Damn. I’d better watch what I say around her. He couldn’t win for losing.

With a loud squeak, the passenger door swung open. Jac climbed up into the truck cab. Just looking at her made his resistance weaken. She looked like an angel in blue jeans. The heady scent of vanilla and musk filled his senses as she grinned over at him. Her lips were simply luscious beneath her dark sparkling eyes.

“I’m ready.” She gently placed her bag into the floor board and rubbed her hands together. “Let’s go.”

“Where’s your coat?” he frowned. She was only dressed in an oversized sweater and jeans. “You’re bound to catch a cold running around like that.”

Jac shrugged. “I was too preoccupied this morning. I forgot.”

“That’s no excuse.” He shook his head and reached behind the seat. Finding his wool-lined, denim jacket, he offered it to her with a smile. “Here. The temperature’s going to dip and you’ll be a bit warmer.”

She took the jacket and slid it on. “Well, it’s way too big,” she observed, pushing the sleeves up. “But it’s warm. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He nodded.

“Are you always this nice to strangers?” She angled her head, gazing over at him perplexed.

“I’m always nice to strangers,” he replied softly. “As long as they’re not too strange.”

Jac gave an amused chuckle.

Leaning in a bit closer, Ray let her essence fill his senses. He wanted to kiss her…right then, right there. Jac didn’t back away. She smiled up at him. She was studying him with an intense gaze, then darted her tongue over her lips. The gesture was so tempting, so inviting. His cock thickened automatically in response.

Before he could blink, Jac placed a tender kiss on his cheek. Ray’s breath caught in his throat.

A horn blasted outside the cab, shattering the magical moment. As if the kiss had never happened, Jac turned her attention back to her seat belt. His heart sank a notch. Sharply, he glanced out the windshield and silently cursed the thoughtless driver, then cleared his throat.

“Well, we’d better be getting you to the garage.” He straightened in the seat, snapping his seatbelt into place. Putting the truck into gear, he pulled out of the diner parking lot.

Silence lingered between them as the truck headed down the road. Despite the briefness of the kiss, his cheek tingled from the warmth of her lips. It was a sensation that spread from his cheek straight to his groin. Attempting to banish the wayward thoughts from his mind, Ray switched on the radio.

“Me and Bobby McGee” filled the confines of the cab. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked over at Jac, who was quietly swaying to the music in the passenger seat. Ray exhaled a soft sigh and hoped the bluesy wailing of Janis Joplin would bring him back to his senses. The last thing in the world he wanted was to fall head-over-heels for her. She was not a sithech, she was human. And he would end up with a broken heart.

Jac didn’t know what had come over her. One second she’d been gazing into Ray’s indigo-blue eyes, the next second she’d kiss his cheek. It must be pheromones, she rationalized. She’d read recently online about the effect of male pheromones on the female species. It was nothing more than a simple, natural reaction. That has to be it.

Ray’s scent permeated the borrowed jacket. Heady musk and warm spice. The scent was making her libido go wild. No wonder she’d impulsively kissed his cheek. If it hadn’t been for the interruption, there was no telling what else might have happened. She winced at the thought. Business before pleasure, she reprimanded herself. However, the wayward kiss brought a smile to her lips.

Jac’s stomach tightened again as the garage appeared over the dashboard. It was going to be one of those days.


Excerpt of "A Bad Moon Rising" 
From Full Moon Rising

A rustle in the bushes near the car caught Derek’s attention. He stilled, holding his breath. His heart lurched into his throat as he made out a pair of eyes staring at him from the darkened hedge.

The creature leapt out from its hiding place. A large, reddish-hued wolf with green eyes. It was Megan in her sithech form. Derek had never seen another of his kind until now. His heart softened, deep-seated emotions bubbling inside him. Joy and happiness mingled with awe and a dash of fear. “Megan, is that you?” he asked softly, holding his still, uncertain stance. “I was worried about you.”

The wolf let out a low whimper, slowly padding toward him on four paws. Within a few feet of him, she stopped and sniffed the air. Derek knew she sensed his fear. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve never seen you like uh, this before.” He managed a thin smile. “But you’re beautiful. Really, really beautiful.”

He didn’t know how much of what he said she’d comprehend. In his own experience, he recalled that sometimes he felt human inside, other times not.

“Remember what I said earlier, Derek. Within us, there is a delicate balance between our human side and our sithech.” Derek heard her voice in his head as if she were speaking directly to him. The wolf blinked her big, green eyes, then slowly nodded. “Of course I can understand you.”

“Oh, good!” Derek exhaled a sigh of relief. “For a moment there, I thought I was the lunatic.”

Megan trotted over to the porch and laid a paw on a pile of clothing…her clothing, folded neatly on a wooden plank. She glanced back at him, a glimmer of moonlight in her eyes. “Wait here a moment,” she conveyed, then disappeared around the side of the house. Within a few minutes, a bare arm appeared around the edge of the cabin.

“My clothes, please?” she asked with a wave of her hand. “Sorry I took off like that, but I was feeling a bit edgy. I desperately needed a run in the woods.”

Derek grinned, scooping up the pile and handed them to her. “It’s okay. I understand. I just can’t get over seeing you like that, Meg. You’re a beautiful creature.”

“Gee, thanks!” Megan, now in her human form, rounded the corner, returning his grin. “Maybe I should pose for the cover of National Geographic, huh?” She winked.

He reached out, encircling his arm around her waist and drew her to him. “You’re a beautiful sithech and woman, too.”

In the glow of the moonlight, he saw her cheeks darken with color. She looked so lovely, so tempting—even if she had twigs stuck in her hair.

“Derek, you shouldn’t say such things.” There was a quiver in her voice as she attempted to pull from his grasp.

“Now, hold on, Meg,” he coaxed. “What’s wrong with me finding you attractive?”

“It’s just the moon having its effect on you. You’re not thinking clearly,” she protested.

“Well, I must confess, Ms. McShaw, I found you attractive even before the moon was near full. Does that make you feel any better?” Derek chuckled and leaned closer, catching a whiff of her dark musky scent.

Megan gazed up at him, speechless. He brought a hand up and tenderly brushed away a smug of dirt on her warm cheek with the pad of his thumb. A shiver went through his body like a ghost passing through a wall.

She drew a ragged breath. “Derek, now is not—”

Before she could finish her protest, he kissed her. Her lips were like warm honey, sweet and yielding against his hungry mouth. A low moan escaped from deep in her throat, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, drawing their bodies together.

Every muscle in his body tightened, burning with an inner fire. His cock, buried in the crotch of the borrowed sweatpants, also responded, humming to life.

Involuntarily, his hips pushed forward, rubbing against her, seeking out her heat between the layers of clothing. His tongue darted over the warm seam of her lips, parting them gently and capturing her in a fuller, deeper kiss.

The sounds of the forest around them melted away. All of his senses were focused on Megan—sweet, delicious Megan. Sliding a hand beneath the hem of her shirt, he glided a hand over her hot, sweaty skin. Gliding upward, his hands grazed the cups of her bra, feeling the firm imprints of her nipples against the satiny material.

Oh, sweet Jesus! He loved the way she was responding to his touch, confirming that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. His heart thundered in his chest, his hips pressing against her body.

He peeled his lips from hers, planting soft kisses down her neck. The warm, musky scent was spurring him on, making him desperate, hungry and—

“No!” Megan’s voice broke the spell. “No, Derek, we can’t!” She pulled away from his grasp.

Dazed with desire, he blinked, confused. But he held his stance under the heavy gravity of her stare.

“Megan, don’t do this,” he softly pled. “I want you. Honestly, I do.”

“Now’s not the right time,” she protested. “Let’s wait until after the Samhain moon passes, then we’ll see if whatever we’re feeling is the real deal.”

“B-but, Meg, I’m real horny!” he stammered in frustration.

“I can tell.” She flashed him a smirk, her gaze dropping to the tented crotch of his sweatpants.

Derek felt his face warm with embarrassment as she turned, heading back to the cabin.

“I suggest you take another shower…a cold one,” she called over her shoulder.

Bruce Timm



Armpit takes all kinds
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Ah, America

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Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Bite Club

After many hours of drinking my own blood by biting my lip constantly in steadfast intensity during writing, it is out for all the lovely biters out there.

Bite Club- Be careful who you drink. Lust and infatuation are STDs. One bite is all it takes at the Bite Club.

When a lone vampire gets his first whiff of a human female in heat, it is all he can do to remind himself she is food, not a beating heart that can stir his own back to life.


I was looking around on Facebook by searching for group infinities. I queried fetish, kinky, bdsm, erotica, etc. You know all the hot, sexy, fun, squishy areas of the human psyche that I have the most fun playing with, especially at the end of a flogger. :-) I kept running into the same results. All the groups with the largest membership are non-English. I know there are a lot of countries and the globe is huge and that English is not the only language. But you still have to wonder. The USA is gigantic and highly technological. So what is our hold up? It's time we jump on the kink bandwagon and start screaming bloody murder for a good reason.


Sorry for the abrupt disappearance. No the world is not flat, but it is big. I had an unexpected move from NYC to the sunny wilds of South Florida for my wife's new job. Having done all the driving, I can say that cars are a definite torture device. My arms, neck, back, and legs still have not forgiven me. I wonder if Torquemada is a vampire and still around designing cars. Also, I hope movers don't recognize what a flogger looks like or the FL police might be knocking on our door.

Big Boobs

 Anita Ekberg--One of my first loves, though she was scary, I was sure she was going to bite my dick off
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Aw, Sparkling

A gem stone
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