She always slept naked with the duvet pulled up to her shoulders. It was uncomfortably warm but she was unwilling to part with the weight against her skin. Insubstantial though it was, the pressure was reminiscent of a hug. She liked being held from every angle simultaneously. Like a gift, thoughtful and enigmatic. Like a moment, finite and eternally precious. It was early, a little before six o’clock and she was alone in bed. She slept in the middle of the mattress, at a diagonal. The early morning light had managed to push its way through the cracks in the blinds. It reminded her of the weedy gardens that sprang up intermittently on public sidewalks. She kept her eyes closed tightly but she could not totally filter out the extraneous light. Light which in the early morning seemed to her both hot and cold. She slipped in and out of consciousness with a rapidity that left her incapable of distinguishing her daydreams from her actual dreams.


She rolled over onto her right side and found herself pressed up against something unexpectedly solid. Something human warm. She placed her hand on top of the object cautiously, without peeking. She wanted to see if she could guess the object’s identity from touch alone. There was a pulse. Pillows didn’t have heartbeats or skin. Mattresses didn’t have bones or blood-heat. There was a scent in the air that was not her own. A scent that was deliciously human. Sucking her lower lip she continued to run her hand experimentally along the plains of the visitor’s chest and stomach. She heard him, for the figure was assuredly male, murmur. He woke by degrees. She continued to touch him with her eyes closed. Afraid that if she opened them that the foreign body of warmth would vanish. Once awake he climbed on top of her. His weight, resting partially on her pelvis. He touched her face gingerly. He touched her mouth with his fingertips. She took hold of his wrist, not wanting him to pull away from consideration. She did not want him to be overly considerate. She wanted his vulgar curiosity, the justifications and liberties that such a curiosity would afford her in turn. Had he truly been a stranger then she would have felt fear, shame at her own growing arousal, but he was not a stranger. Though none but the two of them could possibly hope to understand the ways in which they were connected. She kissed, licked, and nibbled at the pads of his fingers playfully. When he did not pull away she took his index finger partially into her mouth, sucking it, sliding up and down its length suggestively. He had done the same to her in a dream. She could feel his uneven breath, cool against her burning skin. She felt his energy above her, his gravity tugging at her from all sides. She opened her eyes and found that another pair regarded her. Half-lidded. A familiar shade of green. She released his hand and he lowered it to her cheek. The tips of his fingers were cool and damp with her saliva. He kissed her on the mouth. Smiled against her lips slightly and then kissed her again with more passion on finding her substantial and receptive. 


Had this been a dream the edges would have softened at intervals. For a few seconds she would have been able to taste his mouth, distinct from her own. For a few seconds she would have felt his mouth filling in the seams of her lips. She would have felt his lips working against hers and their tongues sliding together like a Stradivarius and a bow. She would retain the knowledge of what they did, the potency of arousal, but her sense of corporeality never held for very long. The act of kissing would yield to insinuation. His weight would compress and decompress according to her lucidity, which was intermittent at best. She clung to his shoulders expecting him to retreat into the ether. The mattress now cradling their combined weights remained compressed. He did not relent. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him in, corset-close. “Don’t you dare wake up…” Her tone was teasing, a reprimand without the requisite bite.  She would never detain him against his will. Her lips brushed his lips when she spoke. He smiled against her. “I’m not asleep and neither are you.” He answered her. He spoke the words into her mouth, she felt them vibrate against her lips.

Didn’t plan to double post.



Round 2

(this chapter is mostly fighting but there is some sexual content so be advised)

“Watch carefully dear Naida.” Damien whispered to his date. “One of these men will possess you before the night is over.” He squeezed his partner’s thigh affectionately. 

Both men had their charms but Naida had already chosen a favorite. “You’ve outdone yourself lover.” The elf responded by taking up Damien’s hand and kissing it.

“I had to pull some strings to get them in the ring together. I imagine this little stunt of mine pissed a lot of people off but in the end it will be worth it. Should either of them win I will not mind their hands upon you quite so much. Not all are worthy of you. Few indeed.” Damien was not a jealous man for he did not believe that Naida would leave him. He was handsome. He had status and wealth. He was a generous lover both financially and sexually. He kissed Naida’s hand in kind. The young man flanking him pouted. For all his recommendations Damien was a fickle man. He had lovers in the plural, never in the singular. His relationship with Naida was an open one.

“Do you have a favorite?” Damien turned his full attention to Naida now. The elf smiled enigmatically but said nothing. 


The referee called “fight” and the couple’s eyes returned to the stage in unison. 

Dread moved as if untethered by gravity with a fluidity and rhythm that proved difficult to track. Sammael lept boldly into the air, bridging the gap between them in an instant. For someone so large he was remarkably quick and agile. The direction of his blade changed at the last minute. The new trajectory brought the blade level with his opponent’s jugular. Dread deflected the shaft with his forearm. Had the hit landed it would have been fatal. Sammael didn’t care about the rules, only about winning the match. Before Sammael could fully regain his footing Dread roundhouse kicked him. The gladiator (for so he appeared) took a shin to his forearm. There was a sickening crack but this was missed by the noisy crowd. The fighters jumped apart. Sammael rotated the arm, it was fractured, but with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins he didn’t feel any pain. The referee issued a warning.


Damien loved only himself but he was particular about his possessions. Naida belonged to him and as such he had a vested interest in the outcome of the battle. He stole furtive glances at his date. He was certain of only one thing. Naida had a preference but which of the two combatants? Sammael was handsome, powerful and masculine, beautiful like a character from a Greek myth. The quality of his weapon suggested that he was the wealthier of the two. His interactions with the crowd suggested extroversion and charisma.  Dread carried no weapon. His clothing and manners were unrefined. He was clearly not a man of means. His possessions were likely meager and dictated solely by necessity. Damien shuddered to think of Naida being ravaged in a hovel or worse still in an alley. Yet for all his concerns he could admit that the demon possessed a certain sex appeal. His proportions were good. His muscles were clearly defined, forged as they were in utility. His hips, in particular, had caught the young aristocrat’s eyes. His attention drifted downward. Was Naida drawn to the prospect of a huge cock? Sammael’s garment proved more concealing.


At the conclusion of each round Damien examined the fighters. Dread showed no signs of fatigue. His face was without expression. His posture suggested neither effort nor encumbrance. He fought to win and yet seemed somehow indifferent to the outcome of the battle.  Sammael’s athleticism and endurance were no match for his opponents. His breathing became labored. Sweat watered down the blood of his various wounds. His will to fight increased with each round exponentially. The ferocity of his blows increased. He landed several attacks against his opponent and received just as many. Neither male buckled under the force. The crowd was wild, even Damien found himself unable to tear his eyes away. The young man at his side was beginning to explore his lap. Damien liked the other’s clumsy enthusiasm and made no move to impede his progress. 


Midway through the fight the demon was consistently predicting and thwarting his opponent’s attacks (attacks which appeared to the young aristocrat as wholly spontaneous). As the fight wore on Naida’s choice became increasingly apparent. Damien had more than once followed the trajectory of his lover’s gaze to the demon. Despite his prettiness Damien preferred a dominant position. Suffice to say neither Dread nor Sammael appealed to his personal aesthetic but they did appeal to Naida. The thought of his partner being taken by such a powerful and dangerous lover aroused him. The fight had already exceeded the expected duration. The crowd was growing anxious for a conclusion. Damien was beginning to lose patience.

Round 1

Cage-fighting wasn’t a publicly sanctioned event; a fact which increased its popularity among certain demographics. As with all human enterprises there were rules. Fighters couldn’t leave the ring until the fight had reached a satisfactory conclusion. The referee’s ruling was absolute. Death matches were prohibited. Death was messy. Death meant corpses and corpses were bad for publicity. Corpses brought in law enforcement. The arena would have to relocate and that was expensive.

This particular establishment, which will remain nameless for reasons of security, was located somewhere in the warehouse district. There was nothing to distinguish it from the other buildings in the district. The upper level was filled with rubbish, broken glass, dated machinery, and homelessness. The lower level was an arena with an official capacity of 2,000 spectators. Headliners drew in significantly larger crowds. The floor had been stripped of concrete and filled with packed dirt. A wire cage 22 feet by 22 feet surrounded the combat area. Two bulky and nearly indistinguishable guards stood watch by the doors. They were equipped with armor and stun gun batons. Blood stained the ringside seats.

Damien sat in the first row. His thigh pressed against Naida’s smoothly shaven one and the trousered leg of an unknown male in his early 20s. In the beginning he’d been good to point out things to his uninitiated date but after the first fight he’d ceased commentary. His moods shifted notably from one moment to the next. At times he seemed disinterested in the whole affair. At times his brows knitted together with vexation. At times his attention was captivated by his dates’ shapely thighs. At times his attention drifted to the stranger crushed up against him. His date noted the manner in which he regarded the young man, the “accidental caresses”, the secretive smiles but he said nothing.


The announcer called out two names “Dread and Sammael”. The uproar was immediate. This was to be the evening’s main event. Dread was a crowd favorite. 40 to 0. Dread was indifferent to the audience, to the guards, to the blood-soaked arena. He saw only his opponent. The crowd fell silent during Sammael’s introduction. An unknown fighter against the reigning champion? It was unprecedented. Sammael was built for war. A Greek statue manifested. Sammael was dressed in pteruges and high Roman sandals. He was a figure worthy of mythos. His thick, dark hair was free. His beard was held together by two bronze rings. His manner was confident, oppositional, vaguely animalistic. At 6’5 he tipped the scales at around 240 lbs, all muscle. His appearance suggested human, his presence hinted at something else. He wielded his 7ft long scythe with grotesque ease. The crowd twittered with speculation.


Dread was long, angular, and viciously defined. His torso was a skein of scars. He was dressed in a simple, animal skin loincloth. Much of his body was exposed from his hips to his flanks to the swelling of his genitalia. Unlike his opponent he wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense the one exception being his eyes which were the color of amethysts. His features were too narrow, too haunted, the scars scattered over his scarecrow-like body too deep. His black hair was wild.  Unlike Sammael who bore the natural arrogance of a proud fighter, Dread suffered neither insecurity nor inflation of ego, only an unnerving and unrelenting pureness of intent.  He carried no visible weapons.  Both fighters assumed a defensive stance several feet between them.  “May the best man win…”  Dread offered his voice was rich and deep but carried only so far as was required for his opponent’s benefit.  “And so he shall…”  Sammael answered smiling broadly. 

I believe I posted this before but not the original and not all that I had written. I will share it with you as it was first intended. There will be sex later between men. I am a little hesitant to share one of the sex scenes as it is very strange and very graphic haha

Wordle #188

Wordle 188

She watched him cross the street. Her eyes shimmered behind a veil of precipitation. Soi-disant jewels clung to the tips of her eyelashes. She didn’t bother to blink them away, afraid that if she closed her eyes he would disappear. He was beautiful in stillness but in motion he was the perfect combination of grace and carnality. The city emptied itself and then ceased altogether to imprint upon her senses. His presence was all that her mind could hold. The sunlight came down in streaks more silver than gold.

She had never managed to carry a thought to completion. Thoughts, she found, were tremendous breeders. A single thought could spawn a hundred more. She measured herself, not in moments, but in generations. She housed infinities. Her mind was full of soap, of delicate bubbles skidding and erupting endlessly. She was a muse, disguised as a poet. He was love without reservation. She stood before him stripped of all but instinct. He was the sort to pursue a dream with the full weight of his being.

He stopped in front of her, smiling. She felt his fingers wrap around her wrist gently. He pulled her close, his breath hovering against her ear. She saw that he stooped when he spoke and for a moment their faces were more or less the same height. His voice was deep and warm. It started her heart pumping again. Only now instead of one heart she seemed to have two on either side of her head and instead of an angel and a devil, she had two bumblebees muttering incoherently. She inhaled. Audibly. Shakily. The sound was both delicate and obscene. It was the sound of lace being torn away in a fit of passion. When it was clear that she would follow him, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and cradled her against his chest. She did not inquire about their destination. Wherever he went she would follow. She traced the lines of his palm absently with her thumb as they walked. He smiled at her from time to time out of the corner of his eye. He needed only to know that she was there.

Wordle #454 18+

Wordle 454

She’d never held a real gun before. Cradled against her palm she marveled at the weapon’s heat. If she’d not known better she would have thought the gun had been recently fired. It was a heat which spoke of defiance.The air was cool and moist. They’d been exploring the woods behind his house for hours and had only just come across a clearing. The sun had just set and the overcast sky was the color of oyster shells. The clouds had gathered to form a mass. A throbbing, ash-colored mob that would descend upon their heads with or without provocation. She could see that it rained in the distance. The air smelled of pheromones and petrichor. She suggested that they take shelter. He laughed and sealed her fingers more firmly around the barrel. He wanted her to touch it. She did as he insisted. She could feel his pulse against her hand, like a song heard from faraway. He was all bass and bravado. She knelt down, careful not to catch the hem of her dress beneath her knees. The ground was soft and forgiving. There were flowers as far as the eye could see. Delicate, quivering, blue flowers in imitation of a Spring sky. It was as if the world had been turned upside down. Blue and vibrant below and grey and lifeless above. She pressed her cheek against him and listened quietly and without breathing to the sound of the blood filling his shaft. 

Even in stillness his sex seemed to move, to pulsate, to struggle mutely. He gathered her hair into his hands, his fingers digging into the scalp. Her scalp tightened. She could feel him flowing into her like a current. Her thoughts dissipated. Her lips parted with a shaky inhale. His chest tightened, his rib cage suddenly too small for enormity. Her mouth watered. He swallowed. The hand not holding onto him disappeared underneath her dress. She touched herself through her panties. She was wet, a wetness which should have rendered the delicate fabric nearly transparent. Why had she chosen to wear something so simple, so childish? Plain, white cotton panties, bikini cut. She wanted to show him her pussy. To press his face against her. The muscles in her thighs clenched so hard that she visibly trembled.

The crown of his cock glistened, like moonlight reflected through water. She stroked him. First slow, then faster, working up a rhythm but not letting him cum. He pressed himself into her fist. He became impatient with her and her grip tightened a fraction. He moaned. She worked his foreskin over the glans. He bit his lip and she choked up on the head. He squirmed and she blew across the crown. Clear droplets gathered at the slit, she collected them on her needy tongue. Held onto them for a moment, like stars suspended in dew. She ran her tongue along the underside of his shaft, along the demarcations where the head met the shaft, and along the cleft in the center of the crown. She liked the silky texture of his cockhead best so she focused her efforts there for a time. Tasting, drawing shapes against him with her tongue, stroking him off, kissing him. She couldn’t see his balls but she knew they were tight and heavy. 

When the rain came and it did. It came hard pinning her dress against her body and her hair to her shoulders and back. There he stood in the middle of an open field like some sort of spastic scarecrow, hair matted to his face, goading and praising her underneath his breath. His voice was hardly human at all, it was more of a growl. She felt it in her cunt. She kept him warm by swallowing him. First just the crown. His hips shook. His fingers gripped harder. Goosebumps rose up on her skin. He held onto her but he didn’t start to fuck her until he had his cock half way inside of her. He started out slow and easy, nudging her, giving her time to adjust. When he got impatient she’d pull away. A gentle nibble. A playful flick. The tip of her tongue ghosting under his foreskin. The warm caress of her breath. Rain dripped down her face. He tasted like rain. He tasted like heaven. She drank him by the centimeter. Deeper and deeper until he was in her throat filling her up. She let him fuck her face. She felt like she was drowning and suffocating all at once. She filled his cock up with her moans. She accelerated her pace. She surrendered to his selfishness, to his impatience. She played with her clit clumsily through her panties. She couldn’t really concentrate on herself but she didn’t need to. She could feel his pleasure, his pleasure was her pleasure. She kept his spasming shaft trapped inside of her soft, wet, accommodating mouth. Permission to cum inside. Some of his orgasm slid down the back of her throat without her tasting it. Vicious white jets like compressed moonlight and she felt in that moment as if his whole being was spilling into him. She pulled back and let him empty himself onto her tongue.

Wordle #452

Wordle 452

She stood alone in front of the bathroom mirror. Her large, voyeuristic eyes were like keyholes. Intervals of darkness beyond which two separate, untenanted universes lurked. The sunlight spilled shyly across the wet floor and she thought rather abstractly that it looked like torn satin. She reached her fingers into the light and wiggled them around for a moment. That something so gentle, so ethereal should have the power to burn her only enhanced her sense of mourning. How many times had she had her own heart broken? Love, she thought, is rather like sunlight. She felt as if she could never love again. Not in the same way, not to the same degree. Yet, deep down she knew that she loved him still. That she would always love him, not just as she did now, but more with each passing day. He probably loved her too. Someday, she hoped, that he would end her suffering with a confession.

She could feel herself shrinking into her pink bathrobe. She was shocked by the weight of her bones, by their implacability, by the way they held her in place before her own volatile portrait. That I should carry a cage inside of my very own body! She thought laughing out loud. Sometimes she forced laughter when she was by herself. She bit the end of her thumb with a shudder but reality did not release her.

She unlocked the door. Each room in her house had a story, a fragment of truth that under scrutiny caused some aspect of her persona to unravel. She was not naturally a tidy person, at least, inwardly she knew herself to be a mess. She was not particularly fond of white walls. She had no use for tiny tea lights or candles of any sort. If she ever lit them she’d forget them and the whole building would go up in flames. It was for this reason that she never bothered lighting the fireplace.

When she passed by her roommate’s bedroom she did not lift her eyes but continued on to the kitchen in search of breakfast. In an hour or so her roommate would leave and she’d have the house all to herself. She had the whole day planned. Cry. Exercise. Cum. Sleep. Repeat. She would think of him when she came. She would call his name with all the fierceness of a prayer. She thought his name delicious but she’d never told him so. The waves of orgasm would inundate/erode her senses. Her silt-heavy head would empty itself of all extraneous stimuli. For a few precious moments it would be just the two of them.

(don’t write so many short stories)