Walk of Shame

Momma always told me not to play with fire or I’d get burned. I should have listened to her. Instead, I was standing in the girls’ bathroom, playing with the small book of matches I had nicked from Mr. Johnson’s diner when no one was looking. Peer pressure can make you do stupid things.

Set on proving I was not, in fact, a Pollyanna, I lit the first match. The small tremble in my hands hid behind a flourished pull. The match caught and burst into flame. Everyone stared as I raised my hand up to the smoke detector, but the flame licked my fingers and I dropped the match. I waved my hand to ease the burn.

“See I told you she was too scared to do it,” Sissy Lowell told the crowd.

I was in it now. If I backed down and didn’t try again, I wouldn’t just be a Pollyanna; I’d be ridiculed for chickening out forever. I got myself into position for a second go. What I failed to notice the moment I lit that second match was Sheila Daniels pulling out her hairspray, applying yet another layer of lacquer.

There was a sudden flash and whoosh. I turned around to discover the carnage before me. There was Sheila with her perfectly manicured hair singed beyond repair. The acrid smell clung to my nose and I knew I was going to die. Without waiting for a reaction, I bolted out of the bathroom just as the first shriek pierced the air. I ran down the hall and all the way to class, plastering my butt to my desk and waited for my doom.

It didn’t come. Not that hour and not the next. By 4th period, I was a wreck. I only half listened to Mrs. Swaranski as she droned on about the innards of the frog we were about to dissect and I completely failed to send Craig Peters any admiring glances. Every time the loudspeaker crackled I flinched, but my name never rang out. No one came to collect me with a summons to Mr. Phinney’s office either.

I ran from class to class expecting Sheila or one of her friends to grab me in the hall and give me hell. I was so preoccupied with trying to avoid the popular girls that I managed to miss my bus home. I stood out on the sidewalk kicking at the grass as I watched the busses pull out onto the road. This must be my penance. I hitched my backpack and started the very long walk home.

Half a mile later, a car pulled off the road in front of me. I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun, but I knew the color of that car. Craig Peters got out and my heart dropped into my stomach.

“Hey There. Need a lift?”

I couldn’t seem to get any words out so I nodded instead. Craig Peters was giving me a ride home! Maybe this day wasn’t so bad. After all, I was a real rebel. A regular rule breaker.

“You’re in my Biology class right?”

I nodded again. Then swallowed hard. “That’s right. Thanks for the ride. I live off Old Preacher’s road. You can just drop me off at the corner store.”

“Sure. No problem.” He gunned the engine and spun off leaving a spray of dirt behind us.

I watched as he passed the turn off to my road. “Um.”

“Mind if I show you a secret spot I found first?”

“Ok.” My heart leapt, Craig Peters wanted to show me something!

About six miles later, he turned down a dirt track that led into the woods and parked the car. He smiled. “It’s just up the way. You can leave your bag here.”

“Alright.” I got out and followed him down the path toward the sound of water. Just beyond the rise, the path dipped down into a little hollow and there was a bubbling sulfur spring. I could taste the tang in the air.

“Come on.” He said as he pulled off his shirt.

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“I didn’t think a girl like you would be scared to go skinny dipping.”

“A girl like me? You don’t even know my name.” He stepped toward me, finger grazing the bottom of my chin. “Take a dip with me Jenny.” I blinked dumbfounded. He did know my name.

He turned his back and stripped off the rest of his clothes. I couldn’t help staring at his butt as he slipped out of his jeans and into the water.

“Well are you coming?” He kept his back to me and I thought “What the hell. I’d already broken one rule today, what was one more.”

“Alright.” I pulled off my clothes, left them in a pile next to his, and got in the steaming water. Craig turned around and grabbed my arms, pulling me to him.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” he said and then he kissed me.

At the very moment, when my world was crashing around me and sending me off flying to the moon, I heard a rustle and opened my eyes to see Sheila and three others jump out of the bushes, grab my clothes, and run off.

Craig jumped out of the water, scooped up his own clothes, and chased after them. I knew I’d been had the minute I heard his car start up. I trudged back down the path to find my backpack, but not my clothes, sitting in the dirt where his car had been.

Momma always said if you did the crime, you did the time. I picked up my backpack and started home again. The funny thing was. I didn’t feel humiliated. I felt free and oddly alive. Even if I was standing naked as a jaybird in the middle of nowhere. Craig Peters, the cutest boy in school, had kissed me.

What’s in a Genre?

I’m still finding my voice as a writer. I’m still searching for my niche, if I even have a niche. I like to challenge people and make them think outside their comfort zones. I want my readers to questions the everyday things they have come to take for granted. Ideologies that they live by; yet, never bothered to look at or question.

Maybe it’s because I don’t like boxes. I don’t like labels. I like reinventing myself. I do it every time I sit down to write. I slip into my character as if I’m shedding a personality and suddenly I’m this new person. I’m also a kinesthetic writer. I go out and learn to do the things my characters do. I think of it as research. People in my life sometimes think of it as insane.

My favorite thing to explore in writing is the psychological messiness that lives in every one of us. It’s the experiences that leave us scarred and bruised that also give us the most richness to our personalities. I like to play in that soup of conflicting emotions and search for meaning. I also tend to do horrid things to my characters as well.

I also like to write simple pieces that explore the everyday connections people make. The small things that bind us together, or scare us.

In my research, my type of storytelling could fall in several categories. I could be romance, Chick-Lit, Thriller/suspense, or even horror. I certainly have a yen for writing psychological thrillers, and I do like exploring relationships; but the thing that drives me the most, I want my reader to walk away with a strong emotion from my story.

There have been times I’ve written a flash fiction piece with the sole intention of giving my reader PTSD. I’ve also scared myself while writing a suspenseful flash fiction piece late at night. I want to poke at my little lizard brain and make it go AHHHHH!!!!

So what genre does this make me?

Living in the digital fish bowl

I have a serious problem with social media these days. My problem is with other people and their lack of consideration on how their actions impact other people. I have a problem with someone choosing to post images of another person without said person’s permission. Just because the person posting the image thinks it’s harmless, doesn’t mean it is. I know lots of folks who live alternative lifestyles and live it out loud to anyone and everyone, but some of us don’t want to live in that kind of a spotlight.
Some people choose to live their lives with discretion and keep boundaries between their social, personal, and professional lives.

You hear stories about it more and more every day. Someone gets fired over it, or it causes a divorce, used in lawsuits etc… Photos posted on social media sites are not harmless or private, despite what other people claim. How many times have you heard someone say: “But my site is protected, or it’s private.” I have news for you. It isn’t. Once you put it on the internet, it’s no longer private and it can have repercussions no matter how many times you want to cite the first amendment.

Sadly it’s getting to the point where the average person can’t go out in public without ending up having their image and subsequently their personal lives splashed all over the internet. This is when advocates of the first amendment will chime in and scream censorship and how you have no reasonable expectation of privacy while out in public.

Yes you’re right. When I am walking down the street, I have a reasonable expectation that I will be seen. I have a reasonable expectation that while I’m out playing at a park with my kid I will be observed, but I also have a reasonable expectation that the embarrassing thing that just happened will only be momentary and forgotten soon, instead of posted on the internet forever for ridicule and scorn. I should be able to have a reasonable expectation when I am at a private party that I’ve paid to attend, to not have my image used to promote the venue, market the venue, or really just get posted on social media sites like Facebook, Instagram, or Flickr. Why, because that is my personal life.

I don’t go into the office and talk about the crazy shenanigans I had over the weekend or bitch about my personal drama to my coworkers. That’s my professional life. I don’t tell my clients who I’m dating or share photos of my girls’ weekend in Vegas. I keep things professional. Professional People! Learn this. When you are at work, no one cares about your after work extracurriculars. You are expected to do your job and act in a way that positively represents the company while you are there.

(The fact that employers are using social media to investigate their employees is a different matter entirely and has its own ethical murkiness.)

The truth is social media changes things. The lines between personal and professional are not as easy to keep clean and they do bleed into each other. The truth is it also has negative impacts. When people were posting on the internet anonymously it was fine, but that is almost impossible to maintain these days. There are always tech savvy people who can and will hack their way into finding out the identity of the anonymous account. (This is closer to actual journalism than paparazzi snapping photos of celebs.)

People have forgotten that those boundaries were in place for a reason. They erroneously think that if it’s not on company time then it’s personal and therefore private, but in this day and age since an employee’s actions can negatively impact the image of a company, what you do online is no longer considered purely personal and it sure isn’t private when you are posting for every stranger around the world to see.

So stop posting images that aren’t of you, or that you don’t have the individual’s permission to post. Stop posting other people’s embarrassing moments, and for the sake of your future employment desires stop posting your own bad behavior for the whole world to see.

I do; therfore, I am

I have always wanted to be a writer. I started young writing poetry and even had poems published when I was in high school. I thought I would go to college and learn how, but once I was in college I failed to be able to produce anything. My creative side yearned for it, but practically I just hadn’t lived enough to have anything to say and I didn’t understand the mechanics and technical side of creating a story. So I went out and lived. I’ve lived a full, rich, and often complex life.

Now here I am in my 30’s picking up this long held dream. I’m still a fledgling at it and I have a ton to learn about the whole process, but I finally feel like I can. I’m learning how to tackle deadlines and plots. I’m piecing my way through pacing and finding a voice. I still need to work on creating impactful settings, but I’ve gotten good at the psychological interplay between characters and understanding their motivations.

I recently read a post from a person who was very critical of anyone identifying themselves as a writer when they made grammatical errors and it made me sit and ponder the identity of being a writer.

Is it really about grammar and the technical aspects of crafting words into meanings? Until you do that perfectly does that mean you aren’t a writer?

What about the soul of a writer?

If you have ever just had to sketch a scene in your head, or craft a backstory about strangers in the grocery store, then you know what I mean here. There is an obsessive quality that takes over and you just have to write. Good. Bad. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that is real is this need to write. The only truth you know is you have to take words and wrap them into a vision and express something that is intangible and often ephemeral.

I scoff at the grammar Nazis. I find them to be small minds who criticize because they lack a creative soul, or they are just insecure people who need to put other people around them down to make themselves feel less threatened.

Technical skill can be learned by anyone, but the creative soul of an artist to instill emotion and life into those same technical skills is not something that can be taught. You either do or you don’t. Like any skill in life, no one starts out doing it perfectly. It takes practice and work to hone and polish the skill and the more you use it the more you begin to level up in said skill.
So yeah, I’m not perfect. I make mistakes and I have a ton to learn about the technical skills of writing and crafting stories. That doesn’t mean I’m not still a writer.

I am a writer.

As Rilke wrote in his book Letters to a young artist: ““Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.”

I am a writer because I have to write.

I wither and die without it.

One day I hope to become a good writer, and then a great one. Until that day comes though, I will continue to work and practice my skills. I will continue to share what I have written and seek out feedback and notes that will help me get better. I will continue to seek out greater illumination on what doesn’t work, what does, and the why.

"Blind"

Pony up the ante boys...
This filly
don't
come cheap.


Your golden tongue
is useless,
On the dusty path
you're treading.


The grit
obscures
your vision
Shuffling along,
a path of indecision.


You can't see
the devastation
in front of you.


You're too busy
Focused,
on the sparkling
motes,
dancing around you.


Careful man...

Or you might lose it all.

When the dust settles
and the bags are packed,
The only thing
You find you want...

Will not be
The one left
Standing.

"The Unquiet Heart"

It’s cold and wet here, but then it’s always cold and damp in this place where love is a barren dream. When love comes with an x factor that is immutable and intangible; and yet, still impacts everything it touches. You were a sweet dream that blew in on a storm, churning the emotional waters of a still lake that bled depth into the choppy sea, breathing life and passion into me. Why then do I still feel the wake of your passing now that you are long gone? Maybe it’s a desperate plea for you to return. A vain hope, that is a cruel mistress, who taunts me, making me believe that someday I’ll open the door and find you there waiting. Waiting with that patient half smile you always watched me with; I was a lab animal and you were my beautiful scientist cataloguing my habits.

You were always the free spirit, laughing in the wind and chasing the madness with a smile. The world came alive around you and sent tendrils into everyone you met. You walked into a room, and sent out sparks that charged the skin, and sought out life with a fervor itching to be consumed. The air fairly crackled around you and that passion pierced the shadows around my heart.

I felt it that first moment my eyes swept across yours in a sea of people. The hot sticky Georgia summer pulsed around us, thick as soup that lay heavy in our lungs as we breathed in the night air. There was a magnetism that drew me to you; and in an unaccustomed moment of abandon, I asked you to dance. You laughed, tipping your head back and the throaty noise slipped around me, ensnaring me.

“You’re cute sugar,” You replied with your husky voice that felt like scotch burning its way into my belly and leaving a smoldering fire of yearning in its wake. “I don’t dance.”

And then you sauntered off, giving me a careless wink as you left. My world came crashing down around me that night. That one wink and I knew I had to possess you. Knew you had to be mine; but it was you who possessed me, you who claimed me, and I was lost in a sea of want.

I was a knave. I knew nothing of love, nothing of that soul stirring passion that turns you into a mad thing possessed and tormented by demons. I used to argue that love was a myth. An imaginary land created in our youth that crumbled under the onslaught of time. I never could understand my peers launching into wailing epitaphs over a lost love, only to recover the next weekend and be back together, or find someone new. This constant newness, the ever changing landscape of love landing on unsuspecting bystanders, seemed insane.

It was my first lover, I argued with over this very detail. The very nature of desire and obsession obscured our young minds, and we would debate for hours over the merits of love, only to end up falling on each other in carnal need, oblivious to any thought of love in the moment. I would quote French philosophers at him. He would roll his eyes, telling me I was having an existential crisis and to come back to bed.
It was from this first encounter, I embraced the notion that love was a fruitless obsession, a dream that stole lives. He was a layover and I was a confused traveler unsure of my destination.

I’m still confused.

What is it about love that leaves you lost without a compass or map? You were my compass once and I spent eternity mapping your body, every soft curve: that little mole on the underside of your breast, the scar on your hip from a misjudged leap over a fence. I licked my way across that scar as you told me the story. You thirteen and fierce to prove the boys wrong; you had a fire in your spirit even then, and I longed to have seen you. Hair blowing in the wind, that wild mess of mane that still refuses to be tamed, you ran. Hands pushing yourself up and vaulting the fence, I can see the smug smile on your face now. I’ve seen it a thousand times already. You didn’t vault quite high enough, and the sharp metal spike tore through your hip, adding another ragged tear in those shorts you loved. A pair of thrift store jeans two sizes too big, faded into a pale blue, that you cut the legs off and replaced with ribbons. You were a gypsy even then. You landed clean though and held your head high claiming your success.

Forget travelling I just want to find home again.

Simple and uncomplicated, home used to mean a place of refuge. A place to strip off the masks we wear and relax. Even the food is simple. Apple, carrots, tea with toast, at home we eat so we don’t starve. It’s not the feast of flavors you go out seeking. It’s plain and comforting, only I can’t find comfort here anymore. I’m awake now and this stark expanse of simplicity is devoid of any color. Its limbo and I’m being punished for having not lived hard enough.

There were times I lived hard, or maybe it was just a fantasy. A dream I clung to in my vision of you. We met again after that night of the party. You were wearing a bohemian skirt and crocheted top that barely contained your breasts. I itched to touch you, to breathe you in. I was never a good catholic, but I almost sank to my knees and confessed my sinful thoughts to you right then. You smiled, as if you knew what I was thinking, and instead you asked if I read poetry.

“Sure. I love poetry.” Came my over eager response. I would have said anything to get you to spend more time with me, to continue looking at me with your soulful brown eyes. They held such mystery, and you seemed to see right through me. I did like poetry too, so it wasn’t a lie. I just hadn’t read any since Scott.

My second lover was even more unconventional than my first. It could be said that this state of being was the reason for my lack of love. He thrived on Rimbaud and Baudelaire, and introduced me to such passionate writers as Winterson and Coehlo.
I was still naïve and innocent, he was older and more sure.

I embraced this surety like a life preserver. He claimed to love me and proved it in this poetry. This haunting and tortured poetry, so I thought surely love meant suffering, and so I suffered. I dove into the drug filled madness with him and sipped absinthe in front of the fire. I wrote pale imitations of poetry, extoling all the hopelessness and pain I felt. Only it was all empty. It was a diversion to pass the time. He said I just hadn’t lived enough to really understand and feel it. Maybe he was right.

I hadn’t really lived. Not like in the movies, or as it appeared the people around me did.

It was with a short lived affair with a married woman that taught me the error of this. She was a realist, and scoffed at my notions that anything should look like it did in the movies. She said I had the right of it after all. That love was a chemical imbalance that fooled you into spitting out babies for the continuation of the species. Her bleak outlook made a refuge out of me.

“Come sit and read me some poetry then.” Your simple command had me trailing after you like a lost puppy. I followed you across the park until you came to a tree. A bent and wizened thing, it was garish amongst all the pretty oaks and willow trees. You hugged the tree and I was charmed. How could I not be, by the sweetness of your gesture, the oddness of it? I mean who hugs trees? But there you were, hugging this gnarled monstrosity and introduced it as grandmother tree.

“There is wisdom in this tree and it’s where I come to sit and listen.” You educated me before curling up under its branches and snuggling into its trunk. You pat the ground next to you imploring me to join you. I was helpless.

You were right you know. That tree was wise. The twisting of its trunk held the landscape of life. It gave way to cradle the body and made a nest of us. I pressed up next to you while you rested your head against my arm. You handed me a book. A red worn journal with gold designs on the outside, it looked too fragile to handle, and like you, was magnetically beautiful.

I opened the pages to find a Hodge podge of work, a veritable scrapbook of you. If you were a collage, this would be it, a kaleidoscope of riotous color and randomness. Like you, the images were limitless and filled with the unending possibilities of life. The pictures glued haphazardly inside the pages and over the pictures were words. Poems etched into life, some with names attributing the author, others just words floating anonymously on the page.

I read. There were simple haikus and sonnets. You opened my world to the romantic poets that day, and the sparse purity of Japanese poets. You laughed at the darker poets, whose poisoned words, reminded you to never let them win. You smiled and nodded, as my voice sang of virtues, I didn’t feel and had never known. In that sun dappled moment, I fell. I split open and bled my bitterness into the wind. That tree soaking into me and infusing me with steadiness and you melting into my body, feeding me hope.

“That was lovely. Thank you,” You said and kissed me on the cheek. A single touch, which was over too soon, save for the lingering trace of your finger, as it traveled down my cheek.

Jacques Lacan wrote: “What is real is narcissistic. What is imaginary binds.”
I became narcissus that day in the park. The person I was -reflected back at me from the shining depth of your eyes- was beautiful. I would gladly turn into a flower, if only, to just become the vision you saw me as. Here you were tangible in my arms, warm flesh and soft skin, but I was paralyzed to do anything about it. Instead I sat there mute as you stood up and smiled down at me, the wake of your kiss burning a question mark into my cheek.

What is it about unanswered questions that obsessively linger?

I have so many with you. Questions, I doubt, I’ll ever have the courage to ask.
There’s no point is there? You’re gone and I’m just a hollowed out husk that you left behind. All those words were just meaningless. Lies, that sound good in the moment to get you what you want. The air is filled with platitudes, that lay there flat like petrified pieces of shit, filling the air with the fetid stench of nothingness. Those too are meaningless in the absence; when love kicks you in the teeth, and reminds you why you never went looking for it in the first place.

There is a meanness inside me now where there wasn’t before. An anger so rich it seeps poison onto anyone who gets too close. I’d like to blame it all on you. Wrap it up in a pretty package, and leave the responsibility of it, on your doorstep, but I can’t. I want to go back to the beginning with you, but I can’t do that either.
Love is an impossible journey.

I didn’t see you again after that day in the park for months. I looked for you. I wandered around, searching out parties and cafes, hoping I would run into you. I had given up ever seeing you again, when you snuck up on me at the bookstore. I was elated. My vision blurred and I held my breath, afraid you would just disappear. You introduced me to your girlfriend and we chatted a bit before you left. I eased my heartbreak with Ben.

Beautiful, flawed Ben.

"Love hopes in Vain"

A package of gilt in loneliness weeps.

High atop a bower waits.

For love’s sweet call to awaken thee.


Who will brave the castle walls

And fight the dragons that guard the gates?

To claim the treasure that hopes in vain.

"The Unquiet Heart"

New prose piece I'm working on. Not sure where I'm going with it yet...





"The Unquiet Heart"

It’s cold and wet here, but then it’s always cold and damp in this place where love is a barren dream. When love comes with an x factor that is immutable and intangible and yet still impacts everything it touches. You were a sweet dream that blew in on a storm, churning the emotional waters of a still lake that bled depth into the choppy sea, breathing life and passion into me. Why then do I still feel the wake of your passing now that you are long gone? Maybe it’s a desperate plea for you to return. A vain hope that is a cruel mistress that taunts me, making me believe that someday I’ll open the door and find you there waiting. Waiting with that patient half smile you always watched me with, I was a lab animal and you were my beautiful scientist cataloguing my habits.

You were always the free spirit, laughing in the wind and chasing the madness with a smile. The world came alive around you and sent tendrils into everyone you met. You walked into a room and sent sparks that charged the skin and sought out life with a fervor itching to be consumed. The air fairly crackled around you and that passion pierced the shadows around my heart.

I felt it that first moment my eyes swept across yours in a sea of people. The hot sticky Georgia summer pulsed around us thick as soup that lay heavy in our lungs as we breathed in the night air. It was a magnetism that drew me to you in an unaccustomed moment of abandon, I asked you to dance. You laughed tipping your head back and the throaty noise slipped around me ensnaring me.

“You’re cute sugar.” You replied with your husky voice that felt like scotch burning its way into my belly and leaving a smoldering fire of yearning in its wake. “I don’t dance.”

And then you sauntered off giving me a careless wink as you left. My world came crashing down around me that night. That one wink and I knew I had to possess you. Knew you had to be mine, but it was you who possessed me, you who claimed me and I was lost in a sea of want.

The Kiss

What is in that moment when lips meet for the first time? When you think just for a second that the only thing in the world you desire is to melt into this person, breathing them in, as a timeless sense of longing and desire springs up seizing you. A dance begins from the first moment that the anticipation builds: a sizzling energy that pops and crackles with every touch, every meeting of the eyes. There is a look that passes between you, a flirt with the eyes, with your demeanor, the way you move around each other weaving out the steps of an intimate dance that brings you closer and closer to the edge of some great abyss until you are ready to close your eyes and leap or burst from the pressure of it all.

It starts with a touch, simple yet charged, maybe it’s on the back of your hand or your arm, then your eyes lock falling into one another. Your heart leaps and soars causing your body to shake. You catch your breath a momentary halt as you wait what feels like an eternity before bodies are brought closer. Just a gentle pressure guiding your back forward until you press fully into another body, the warm heat of another engulfing you, lips slowly brush against yours, the light teasing caress bringing forward a hard need for more.

You feel heat from his breath slide softly across your lips and awaken you. Was there ever pleasure that existed before this moment, before him? What is it in that soft barely there touch that drives you wild, and gives rise to so much need, a need to have him inside you, to have the air pass from inside him to inside you in an intimate caress. You strain to feel that first brush of his lips gently tease against yours, only a whisper of touch. Parting on an exhale, head tipped back you open to him, ready to be invaded, devoured, and whimper when he holds back. It’s just the opening move, the taste that brings you to the brink before his hands claim you, grasping your face between his strong hands and holding you firmly, thumbs pressing into your jaw as you open wider just a hair before the kiss you have been waiting for possessively takes you. You yield, moaning into the exquisite pleasure of this one moment when all that you desire is only a possibility and a yearning. An intense craving for more, to give up everything and fly free because in this moment there is only this, you, him, your bodies, the pulse that races beneath your skin and the echoing beat beneath his skin and the delicious knowledge that anything could happen next.

"Unclaimed Riches"

What cruel words you taunt me with, to hear such sweet praise from your lips.

Unrequited promises lay, of future worth that remain unclaimed.

It is rejection you do speak, when love is a taunt held just out of reach.

A polished jewel, honed and cut.

It sparkles and dazzles and makes you want.

How then do you handle so carelessly,

A precious gem you claim to see, but just like others have left to gather dust.

"Heart's Longing"

If I built a cave to hide myself away in would you battle the dragons at the gate to pull me from my self-imposed isolation?

When I’m standing naked and trembling before you, will you soothe my fears and spin a protective cocoon around me?

Sometimes I am too stubborn and proud to ask for help, will you fight for me because you know what I need better than I do?

When my faith has slipped away, will you whisper the words I need to silence the doubts?

If I get lost in the chaos would you come find me and bring me home?

The walls have all crumbled to dust around me and I am bare before you.

Will you still love me even though I am flawed?

Erotica: Pony for Sale

A fine sheen of sweat began to break out over my skin as the sun soaked into my naked body. The small breeze felt good and I shifted trying to catch more of it, pulling against the rope that hitched me to the post and shifting my shoulders trying to ease the tension from my arms being bound behind my back. There was a long line of us, two rows perfectly lined up shifting around in our spots with impatience. I nervously chewed on the small bit that was in my mouth, thankful that I could swallow around it instead of having a steady stream of drool escape from the corners. I could hear voices, but couldn’t see around the blinders that obscured my vision. I could see the broad body of the boy across from me, all strong lines and hard muscle of him. I could see the lean lines of the boy to his right, and the graceful curves of the girl on his left, and if I turned my head I could catch glimpses of bodies to my right and left. The mix was erratic, no reason or purpose to the line up just a mishmash of body types: some strong built for labor, some lean and graceful built for speed, and others soft and yielding built for pleasure. Some of my fellows stood patiently with a calm ease, while others twitched in the late morning sun, some from boredom and others dancing with eagerness or impatience.

It was hard to tell who was new here and who had gone through this before. It was my first time here and my own nervousness was making it hard to stand still and be calm against my doubts that were creeping in. I had an overwhelming urge to break free and run. I didn’t belong here. I was too new and uncertain, too unsure of myself and my ability to please.

A crowd had started to gather and soon we were no longer alone. Men and women began to move down the line inspecting the merchandise laid out before them. I could hear bits of conversation here and there.

“Fine selection today, don’t you think?”

“Yes, very fine. It should be a lively auction.”

“See anything you like?”

“I have a few favorites, what about you? Have you decided what you are in the market for? You have a pretty large stable already.”

Chuckles, “They have some fine racers today, I may have to pick up a few.”

“I want a pretty one to pull me in a carriage Daddy.”

“Look at that one, strong legs, broad chest, firm muscles.”

I could see the couple examining the boy across from me and cringed as the man grabbed his head and pressed his mouth open to check his teeth. He stood there placidly as they poked and prodded him, clearly unmoved by the attention.

The increase in noise began to pick up the tension around me, causing my fellows to show it in increased movement of their own. I felt the muscle down my back twitch as someone approached me. My heart began to race and I jolted when a hand touched me gently on my leg. I tried to shy away from the touch, angling my body off to the side to little effect.

“That one’s skittish, I hear a woman’s voice say.”

“Yes.” The low timbre of a man’s voice hums through me as his hand reconnects and runs down my leg, “But such graceful lines, she’ll be a beauty in the ring trained up right.”

Pulling against the tie, I try to crane my head around to see them, a fine blush blossoming across my skin as they continue to discuss me, embarrassed at such an intimate examination and critique of my form. He squeezes my calf getting me to lift my foot and I tense as he runs a finger down the center of my foot before placing it back on the ground, then proceeds to repeat the process on my other leg.

“Not likely.” Says the woman, “more trouble than it’s worth, the skittish ones are never reliable.”

“I disagree. They just need more guidance, but with patience you usually find a bright jewel waiting to be carved.”

“She is pretty; I’ll give you that, lovely caramel coloring on her. She would definitely be flashy to own.”

“You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you? Just a bit scared is all.” His voice was a soothing caress as his hands continued to stroke up my leg squeezing the muscles of my thighs and across my ass. I began to settle at his touch and the soft glide of his hand over my back, while his voice crooned at me.

“That’s a good girl, easy now. No need to be frightened.”

My belly tightened as I began to tingle between my legs at being pet by a stranger. His hands felt good despite the embarrassment of being so exposed and in some regards ignored while his hands were on me. He was aware of my body, yes, but I could have been anybody, instead of being this bit of flesh in front of him he was inspecting.

I jerked as he came around and was suddenly just there in my face, his hazel eyes peering at me.

“SA SA, easy girl, settle down now.”

His hand reached up and grabbed my halter lowering my head back down below his, pulling me to him. My breath exploding out of my nose so sharply it moved his hair.

“Careful there Wickham or you’re likely to get bit.” The woman said before she moved down the line continuing her browsing.

“You’re not going to bite me are you girl?”

I chewed on my bit, but settled down at the soft vibrating sound of his voice. His eyes bore into mine. They were soft eyes with a glint of steel in them, and he had a subtle commanding presence to him that eased me.

“Pay no attention to Lady Arianna, my pretty girl. She lacks patience and fails to see what lay beneath the surface.”

With a final pat, the man walked off and I was once again alone. People continued to come down the line touching, feeling, examining. Some of the comments were scathing and others flattering. I hated the attention; hated feeling strangers’ hands on me, while they judged my worth. I didn’t think I was the only one feeling this way. I could hear the restive stamping of others around me, even an admonishment or two over some unwelcome behavior. I was getting itchy and sweaty and restless from the waiting when the announcement came over the crowd for the auction to begin.

We were taken in two’s and three’s off our hitches and lead across the field to a ring. I waited, anticipation making my stomach churn, for my turn to head off into the ring. I could hear bits of the announcer describing what was up for auction.

“Nice strong racer, see his long lines, well muscled legs.”

Then there was a flurry of noise and numbers and then next description would start.

“Good work horse, strong, built for endurance, good temperament. Who will start the bidding?”

It felt like eternity before a young boy came and grabbed my lead, although the shadows cast from the sun hadn’t changed their angles so it couldn’t have been all that long. I picked up my feet and carefully followed him to the entrance of the ring. It wasn’t large; a small oval surrounded by a fence and beyond a cluster of people lined up around the fence on a raised dais, almost like bleachers or a stage. The dirt packed floor was firm under my feet and kicked up little dust as I was led into the ring.

The boy handed my lead off to a man in the center of the ring holding a whip. I balked at the sight of the whip and the sounds of all the people. The man gave a sharp tug on the lead to get me moving and then sent the whip sailing across my ass. I stumbled at first before picking up my feet and finding my rhythm.

“Not very graceful.” Came a voice from the crowd followed by laughter

I cringed at the rebuke and started moving around the ring in a slow circle, the whip grazing my ass encouraging me to pick up my knees and pace. It was disorienting having my vision obstructed. I could only see directly in front of me and had to keep my focus in front of me so not to turn blindly into the curves. I was desperately curious to see the crowd, see their reactions and yet I was afraid to see displeasure on anyone’s face. A sharp crack on my left thigh prompted a lead change as I continued to prance prettily around the ring. My skin flushed with exertion and embarrassment as I felt the eyes of so many strangers drilling into me.

“Next up we have a beauty to offer, untrained and new, well toned and sure to please. Who will start the bidding at $200?”

Hands shot up as the auctioneer began his routine.

“Who will give me $250, 250, 300,325,350,375,400?”

As the numbers grew, I continued to prance around settling into the heat that was growing in my legs and the short quick sting of the whip as it kissed the skin under my ass in sync with my movements. I tried to catch glimpses of who was bidding on me and hoped to see the man from earlier, but was moving to swiftly around the ring to see who was raising their hands. For the second time that day I began to question why I was here and fought against the sudden urge to run.

The man holding my lead must have sensed my change because the whip sung out and struck me hard on my ass, a welt already rising and throbbing before a second strike followed in its wake. I leapt forward into a run guided by the hard pull of the lead keeping me in my steady circle. I was happy for the movement and the demanding pace that was being pressed on me, as it soothed my nerves. I couldn’t help fretting who would purchase me. Would they be kind or cruel? What kind of work did they expect of me and could I please them? I was terrified of failing.

Slowly the sounds around me began to recede and I lifted my head to feel the breeze and sun on my face, my chest thrust out as my arms trailed behind me pressing into my back, and I gloried in the feeling of freedom that came over me while I ran.

I was shocked out of my reverie by a hard yank on my lead pulling me to a stop.

“Sold for $1000”

I jerked my head looking around to see who had purchased me, my heart thudding wildly against my chest. There he stood, my new owner, it was the man from earlier with his soft voice and demanding eyes. My legs trembled and I froze suddenly very unsure of my future, but drawn to him despite my fears.

I was led to a holding pen with another boy in it. A strong lad with well defined muscles, I’d guess he was a racer, but he could also be one of the jumpers too, whatever he was meant for it was clearly athletic. I wondered who had bought him and thought about asking, but he was paying me no notice and seemed content to wait, so I left him alone. Instead I pressed against the fence trying to watch all the activity and hoped to see my new owner come to fetch me. I could see there were plenty of other pens set up like this one, small enclosures holding anywhere from a single pony to several.

There was so much movement and excitement it was hard to contain myself from calling out to others. I wondered how long we would be waiting here and if there would be others joining us. How long was the auction going to last and where would we be going when it was over?

I couldn’t believe all the different types there were. Some of the ponies were already kitted out in fancy finery, while others were in harnesses waiting to be hitched up, probably to a cart.

I eventually grew bored of watching the crowd and was restless and impatient, when I noticed two men approaching my enclosure. I brightened when I realized one of them was my new owner. Hopefully it was time to go to my new home and begin my adventure with him. We were quickly collected and tied to the back of a carriage, pulled by a glossy pair of raven haired beauties, their skin shone in the sunlight, slicked down and oiled to a glossy sheen. The stood quietly, backs arched into lovely lines as their chests pressed forward into the leather harnesses around their breasts. They had the same kind of blinders on that I did, only they also had a harness around their necks stretching it into an awkward angle, arms bound behind them.They had slick boots that hugged their legs coming all the way up only inches below their asses. I stared in amazement at how lovely they looked and how proudly they stood there.

Then my owner bid goodbye to his friend and climbed into the carriage, he grabbed the reins that trailed from the neck harness of the fillies and used a quirt to flick them both on the ass to get them moving. The carriage pulled away at a slow pace and the man occasionally would strike each of them on their ass alternating cheeks to keep them moving forward. It wasn’t long before the each sported a bright lattice work of red lines across the firm mounds of flesh.

We travelled down a dirt lane, the ground warm from the sun and only slightly dusty. The lane was surrounded by a lush growth of trees and other plants. There were little dips and rises, and as we would approach a rise the quirt would sing out and strike the girls harder to encourage them to gain some speed, making it easier on them to pull us up the hill. Occasionally there would be a break in the plant life to expose an open meadow or a branch in the lane. In some of these breaks I could see houses. Most of them were modest, with small barns and enclosure next to them; a couple of them were extravagant numbers with wildly decadent gardens in front, and one had what was clearly a race track off to the side of a barn.

The dust tickled my nose and I could feel it itching at the back of my throat, but despite this the steady rhythm of the movement and the soft sound of the lad tied next to me breathing took on a meditative quality and my surroundings began to fade away as I drifted off into a peaceful reverie, enjoying the feel of the sun on my skin, the birds in the field and the simple pleasure of being free from the steady thoughts that churned in my mind.

I’m not sure what broke through my daydreaming, but as I became aware of my surroundings again I saw that we had moved down a smaller lane and was heading toward a cottage, the dirt lane gave way to a brick paved drive and we came to a slow stop just past the house.

My owner was efficient in getting us both untied and led away from the carriage into our new home. Our arms were freed and the blinders taken off before we were turned loose into very comfortable stalls piled high with hay. I breathed in deeply enjoying the smell of leather, and the clean crisp smell of the fields filling the box stall.

“Okay pretty girl” he said, “I’ll let you take a rest before taking you out and seeing what you can do. I’ll be back later with some food and then we’ll start training.”

He reached out and stroked my head giving me a little scratch at the back for good measure before closing the stall door and shutting it tight. I curled into the hay and found a comfortable position and before I knew it I was fast asleep.

Finding direction

“To write you first have to have something to say.”

I don’t remember where I first came across this sage piece of wisdom, but it has held true over the years. It explains the rush of poetry I produced in my youth and even why I stopped writing in my early adulthood.

Seems I always had something I wanted to say when I was a teenager and in my early 20’s and then life evolved and the follies of youth had to be put aside and I stopped having something to say, or more accurately I stopped letting myself have something to say. Now as I’ve travelled through life and age and wisdom have caught a hold of me, I find myself more often with questions to ask or directions to explore than answers or opinions to give.

I’ve let go of the arrogance of youth where I thought I knew everything and embraced knowing that no matter how much I learn I still have so much more I could learn. Life in all its varied shades of gray is a melting pot of answers and I often find myself stewing in the possibilities instead of choosing a direction in which to focus.

This can make it hard to pick something to say. How do you choose what story to tell? How do you pick just one simple truth to impart, or mistake to highlight? How do you separate all the entangled lines of experience to follow a single journey and make your point?

I think in my search to discover life’s mysteries I’ve forgotten that sometimes the simple messages are the most profound and that it also doesn’t always have to be profound. Truth is found in the risks we take and the lessons we learn in the discovery.

Writer's process

My mind can often be a rather temperamental place to live. It requires a constant shifting structure of needs to keep it well fed and balanced so the creative juices flow. When I finally set myself to task in my writing and gave it true focus and attention, I’ve come to learn an amazing amount about my process. Like most creative pursuits it’s not linear. What I find interesting is how hard it can be to write in silence. I’ve found that instead of music, which I read or heard from a bunch of my own favorite authors being their go to background noise, I actually find I need to hear people in conversation. Sometimes its news or talk radio, other times its shows that I like or find thoughtful. There is something so rich and fascinating about human interaction that observing it even in fictional work inspires me to make those left turns where I have to ask what if. What if, the conversation went this way instead of that, what if the circumstances where different, or what if the ripples a particular choice made went further out or stayed closer in.

The thing about human interactions is they aren’t linear either, they resemble fractals: where each choice breaks off into a plethora of possibilities just waiting to be explored. People are constantly in motion because of these choices, never staying the same even when you can revisit the same choice and take a different path. Your perspective won’t be the same, you will never have that same space of unknowable you had when you first perceived the choice.

It’s also endlessly fascinating to me as a writer at how much my own personal growth projects and life experience play into the choices I interpret my characters having, which ones they see or will lean towards based on my perception of the world and people. The lessons I’ve learned through my own flawed interactions translate into needing to understand on a greater level what people want, what they desire, how someone goes about attaining that information and how their approach is interpreted. Is it too direct and seen as brutal or challenging, is it too subtle and seen as passive aggressive or missed entirely. How do you create a charged interaction between two people in a way that leads to the outcome you want?

It’s taken me years to overcome my own social conditioning on this topic to finally be open to exploring these questions and finding answers instead of having an aversion to even the thought of what I perceived as manipulation tactics or game playing. The truth is that what I perceived as game playing wasn’t necessarily the reality of the interaction. We all crave sparks or what most people most commonly refer to as chemistry in the interactions we have with others, and character interactions in a story are no different. They require it on an even more dramatic level in order to demonstrate a journey or inner/emotional struggle, to convey subtext in the written form, when body language would convey it in a visual way.

I’ve also come to realize, thanks to being involved in poly relationships that often times the perception of a thing can be more important than the reality of a thing. Especially in regards to interpersonal relationships, if someone perceives you as wanting something more than you do and it makes them uncomfortable because it exists outside of what they feel they can give or want to give, then it changes their interaction with the other person. It doesn’t matter if the reality was different. The perception is the only thing that mattered. True perceptions can be cleared up with simple communication, but that is often not explored because of the perception. If someone is already feeling uncomfortable about what they think another person wants from them, having a conversation about that only makes that discomfort worse when human nature is driven by a desire to avoid feeling discomfort.

So how does that translate into a story? How do I translate my intrinsic need to understand people and interpersonal relationships into writing dynamic but realistic explorations of the human condition in a way that both conveys profound truths and wisdom and is entertaining? How do I as a writer, write about these topics in a way that makes the reader feel personally involved without creating the perception that it’s based on personal experience from me, that instead of it being seen as my own personal secret desires/thoughts/struggles and have it be seen for the reality that it’s simply me taking an experience and the unexplored possibilities and going down the road not taken in a way that allows me to internalize it so I can make it feel real to the reader?

Chasing Helen

I should have listened to that small voice in my head. Its right more often than its wrong, but nothing was going to stop me from running head long into traffic. Or at least, I equated what I was about to do with playing in traffic. Either way I was risking being injured or harmed in some way, though it is interesting to notice how differently we define harm as an adult versus when you are a kid. As a teen I thought of harm in the physical sense, not once did I think about the emotional or mental harm I was at risk for. I, on the other hand, had thought about all of it. Being older I had to think of all of the consequences. Not that knowing what I was putting myself at risk for was going to stop me, but I was running out into that street at least aware of what I was doing. So here I was pulling into the parking lot outside of my own personal path to rack and ruin.

I found a parking spot to the side of the grey brick building and pulled my beat up relic to a stop. Never being able to be anywhere on time, I was of course half an hour early. Which was perfect as it gave me time to collect my nerves and firmly pound them into some semblance of submission. Christ what was I even doing here. This really was a monumentally bad idea; I had a nice safe life. What was I doing meeting some stranger, all because I had a dream. I was always having dreams, Haunting visions that would taunt me, singing sweetly to me to follow, to find them. I was a pro at ignoring them, so why now? Why was I suddenly unable to resist this dream? The answer was because this dream pulled at me and never left my thoughts, and truth be told I wanted an adventure. I was tired of being so responsible and always doing what was expected so I answered that ad in the paper because it called out to that stupid dream that has been tugging at me for years.

Looking in the rear view mirror I stared at myself, seeing my wide green eyes staring back at me.

“Okay you, we are going to do this. We are going to be someone else for awhile tonight and maybe that will finally ease this gnawing hunger that cries out to be fed. We are in this together you and I.”

After finishing my little pep talk, I got out of my car and headed into the club aptly named Obsidian for its lure to the darkest in our natures. Unlike most clubs, the pounding beat of the music was not overwhelming to the ears, instead it had almost a primal beat as you felt it vibrate along your bones, but was still quiet enough you could hold an intimate conversation without having to raise your voice to be heard. I settled myself onto a velvet barstool and ordered a vodka martini while I waited. I wondered how easily I was going to find what I was after. It’s not like I had ever done this before, but I had years of pent up dreams pushing me forward.

I felt his presence the moment he walked into the room all feline grace and power. My heart began racing in my chest as I watched him move into the room from somewhere in the back. I could only hope that this exotic creature was the stranger from the ad I was here to meet. There must be rooms back there since I hadn’t seen him when I first came in and scanned through the room. I checked my watch and saw it read 9 pm. I love promptness in a person.

My breath froze in my chest as his eyes locked with mine and I felt a blush creep up my neck when a slow smirk played out across his face. It was like he could see inside me and knew exactly what I was thinking and the reason I was here.
Wait, why was I here again?

“No not to run” I told myself as the flight instinct kicked in and I had the overwhelming urge to pull a cowardly lion. I was here to find out what lay beneath that nice veneer of my civilized nature. I was tired of being the good girl or of doing what was expected of me.

“Hello” His voice was all smooth glass like honeyed scotch burning you as it goes down and settles into a warm fire in the pit of your stomach.
My flush crept higher up the back of my neck as I responded with a simple,

“Evening” in return.

God what was I doing? I was in way over my head; clearly this man was a smooth operator and me? I had no game what so ever. I started to slide off the stool to make my escape when I felt his hand grasp my wrist.

“If you run, I’m just going to chase you.” That liquid fire of a voice slid through my ears and made my legs go limp.

“Which would be fun” he continued “but let’s wait for that? Why don’t you come sit with me, Cara, and talk for awhile, or did you not come to face your fears.”

Suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed, I trembled under his hand. How the hell was this stranger able to read me so clearly? Jeez did I have a big sign over my head that said: “Fresh timid prey?” Reminding myself to breath I screwed up my courage and with a deliberate steeling of my shoulders turned into him and the direction he was pointing too. I watched that smirk dance across his lips again, apparently I must have been obvious in my attempt to get myself under control and he clearly liked watching the indecision play out against the features on my face.

I followed him over to one of the couches that lined the dark walls and sank into the soft buttery feel of leather. My hand instinctually reached out to caress the smooth surface as I indulged in one of my favorite tactile pleasures. There is just something about the suppleness of leather that makes me want to roll myself in it. I have a similar reaction to fur too, but not as strong as it is for leather.

I managed to stop myself from burying my nose into it and inhaling the sweet smell. When I looked up at him I saw a spark in his eyes as he caught what I was doing and I snatched my hand back to my side.

I took a sharp intake of breath as my body quivered underneath his predatory gaze. I squirmed in my seat as the muscles in my core tightened and released making me wet as his gaze made me feel like prey. Good god what was wrong with me. I should be running away not willingly letting this man stalk me like I was some tasty gazelle out on the African plain. I was going to end up dead and it would serve me right, but I couldn’t seem to find the will to do anything. My lizard brain bouncing between wanting to run away and wanting to let this predator catch me, I was lost.

“Tell me Cara, what secret yearning brought you here? What dreams tug at you that would make a sweet girl like you, come looking for a man like me?

“Wow, um that soon huh, No small talk first just dive right in?”

“Don’t be coy, Cara, We can hide behind small talk if you wish, but I see you
squirming in your skin dying to break free.” He leans forward. The scent of him surrounding me as he whispers, “You do want to break free don’t you? You want to run and be caught, perhaps once helpless; you can then give yourself permission to enjoy
how I will use you. Yes?”

Finding no safe answer I blush and feel my whole body want to melt into the couch. My hands slide off my lap and dig into the leather beneath me. I can’t escape his eyes. He sees everything I do and I know there is nothing I am going to be able to hide. I can feel the panic begin to well up in me and just before it starts to really take hold he sits back, his whole body changing to one of easy leisure and comfort.

“So you like leather, Cara? Tell me what do you like most about it?”

“My name’s not Cara, its Helen.”

“Cara is a pet name, my sweet Helen, and you didn’t answer my question.”

Squirming at the gentle rebuke, I thought about what drew me to leather and began babbling out my answer.

“It has energy to it, you can tell that it was once a living thing and it holds on to that memory. Leather is strong, supple, and still feels like it has life. It will stiffen up when cold, get brittle when dry, but come back to life when carefully massaged with the right kind of conditioner. I love the feel of a hard piece of leather as it begins to give under your hands when you work in some saddle soap or other product.”

“Yes leather is a living thing even after the death of the creature it once was. It
still holds onto that memory of life.”

“Sometimes I feel bad that I’m enjoying the death of something else, but I can’t help loving the feel and smell.”

“Why should you feel bad, Cara? All things die.”

“Yes, but it’s not like the animal chose to die.”

“Ah so it’s about choice? What is it that you would choose Cara? Would you choose to experience what this animal did? To feel the skittering heartbeat of fear, not knowing what is going to happen or what is in store for you?” Leaning forward and pressing a single finger into my chest just above my cleavage he asks “What do you feel here that scares you and excites you? Tell me Cara, what do you desire.”

“To be pursued”

“Pursued? Is it the thrill of the chase that draws you or the need to be caught?”

Stammering I squirmed at his knowing expression.

“Is it not the desire to be claimed that pulls you so strongly? The chase is just a way to make sure only the strong and powerful can claim you.”

“Yes.” I whispered

A tension that wasn’t there before suddenly came alive in his entire body as he slowly leaned forward and calmly said “Then run Cara. Run now.”

A girlish eek slipped from my throat as I tried to back away from the predatory gleam I saw in his eyes. The more I inched away the more he mirrored my movements.

“Run Cara” he almost growled out “If pursuit is what you really want you must run. There is only one rule. You may not leave this building. You can try to hide anywhere, as long as it is still in this building I will chase you.”

And with that he lunged for me. I spilled over the arm of the couch and landed on my butt. Quickly getting to my feet I fled towards the other side of the room where I saw doors. My heart racing with excitement and fear in my chest, I may have been scared but I was also feeling the beginning kiss of anticipation flood my veins. It was not about being forced, but about being caught. This was my dream running in the dark with a sensual man chasing me, but what I was running from wasn’t him exactly. I was running from what I wanted him to do to me. I wanted to feel hunted, stalked, and then caught and have wickedly debaucherous things done to me. I wanted to be claimed like some wild thing caught in the woods and turned into property. And what the hell was wrong with me for having such forbidden thoughts?

I looked back behind me to see how close he was and caught my breath as I paused to watch him glide towards me. His pace was deliberate but not rushed like he knew he had all the time in the world to catch me.

I went to the first door I saw and yanked it open. Darting into the hallway that was now exposed, I hurried down the painted walls, noticing the rich red color and the high sconces casting a dull light. It was both eerie and seductive.
I quickly cast about looking for doors to go through; when I heard the door open and his footsteps in steady pursuit.

“You’re not getting very far Cara, you must do better than this if you wish to be caught and kept. I throw back the easy ones.” His voice took on and edgy glint as it lowered in timbre to his threat.

I frantically ran down the hallway and skittered to the left as a new opening appeared; almost losing my footing I slid into the other wall and decided to kick off my shoes to gain better traction. Tearing down the hallway I ran to the first door I saw and tried the handle only to discover it was locked. Turning, I lunged for the door across from it only to find it locked too.

“Damn it” I muttered as I continued to try each door down the length of hallway. It was arranged like an old time hotel and I briefly wondered if that was what this building once was, when I found a door that would open and plunged through it and made a mad dash up the stairs I discovered waiting behind it.

I snickered at my own stupidity for running up the stairs. Didn’t I always mock the people who did this in movies? You can’t get away by running upstairs eventually you run out of places to go, but that was the point, wasn’t it? I didn’t want to get away, not really, so I ran. The strain of running up stairs quickly drained my strength and I could feel a sharp burning begin to creep its way through my legs. I ran up the first two flights of steps and paused unsure of how I was going to evade him, when I heard the door below me open. I decided to loudly open the door on the next flight and let it slam shut and then padded silently up another flight of stairs as quietly as I could hoping he would take the bait and go through the wrong door, giving me the chance to back track.

It wasn’t long before I heard the door open and shut and I peaked over the rail to see if the coast of was clear. Not seeing him I crept back down the stairs and as I passed the door it popped open and a hand reached out to grab me. I tore away. The sleeve of my shirt ripping in the process and I bolted down the stairs.

“Very clever Cara, but not clever enough. Keep running my little rabbit.”

His voice taunted me and I could hear him whistling behind me as he appeared to be magically catching up to me despite my frenzied pace. It was disheartening to be getting winded and hear that soft tune emanating behind me as if he was out for a jaunty little stroll. I understood in that moment what a gazelle must feel like being stalked on the open plain by some big cat. His gait was smooth and appeared unhurried and yet I could never get far from him. Every time I gained some distance I would look back and he would just appear like magic closer to me than he was a moment before.

My legs burned from the effort of bolting up and down so many stairs and I took the first door on the next floor I could find and ran down the long narrow corridor. There were a series of open rooms and I ran to the left looking for a place to hide. The first room was bare except for a bed pushed up against the far wall, but there was an open doorway on the right so I took it hoping it didn’t lead to a dead end. It turned out to be a posh looking bathroom with chrome facets against a grayish blue interior and thankfully another door. I decided to shut the first door and lock it behind me and did the same to the other one thinking he may think I’ve locked myself in and found myself in another Spartan bedroom. I eased around the corner to see if the coast was clear and not seeing him I bolted across the hall into another room. I barely got through the entryway when I heard him coming down the hall, the soft click of the stairway door sounding behind him.

I pressed my hands to my mouth to hold in the squeal of fear that wanted to escape. My heart was pounding so heavily in my chest I was sure he could hear it. I’m not sure how long I stayed pressed to the wall listening for any sign of where he was, but eventually my fluttering heartbeat could stay still no more and I slowly peaked around the door to have a look.

“Hello my little rabbit.” He said, his face meeting mine as soon as I rounded the door frame.

“Aaiii” I let out a high pitched squeal and fled into the room and through into the adjoining bathroom, through the other bedroom and out into the hall again. This time he was fast on my heels and it didn’t take long before I felt his strong arms sweep around my waist and lift me off my feet. I kicked and squirmed until he slammed me against the wall and pressed into me until my breath came in short pants. He pressed his thigh between my legs forcing them open and once I was pinned he changed his grip to wrestle first one arm behind my back and then the other one. The whole time I tried in vain to buck him free and the only thing I accomplished was to press myself more firmly against him feeling the hard length of his arousal cradled between the cracks of my ass.

“That’s it Cara, struggle for me.” He growled, his hot breath caressing the skin on the back of my neck.

My body wiggled ineffectively against him and his grip got tighter bringing my arm higher up my back until a searing pain pierced through my shoulder and I cried out, and with the pain a sudden easing of my body as I surrendered over to him. I was pinned and completely at his mercy.

“Good girl” he purred, “Maybe I’ll keep you after all.”

Pondering Emotional Fortitude

I’ve been thinking a lot about resolve and fortitude today. Questioning how we build stronger resolve to persevere or how we cultivate a strong sense of emotional fortitude so we don’t lose our self confidence when we hear criticism.

I’ve been reading this erotica series called the Marketplace by Laura Antoniou and the one consistent aspect about the book is how uncomfortable it makes me. It took me awhile to figure out what it was about the series that was making me so uncomfortable and it landed on how much the characters that were in training wilted emotionally whenever they are scolded or punished and it got me thinking about emotional fortitude and resiliency.

I can’t help but question if it’s possible for someone who is emotionally sensitive to learn greater emotional fortitude so when faced with criticism or moments of rejection they do not emotionally wilt. It’s left me meditating on how integral our self worth, feelings of self love, general self esteem, and self confidence are to our inner strength and if it’s something we instinctively have or if that kind of inner strength and fortitude is a skill set that can be acquired and practiced until it is mastered.

Mastered in the way that allows us to take in those moments when we feel rejected and cultivate the ability to bounce so that moment doesn’t become all consuming or blown up to be bigger than it is. A skill so finely developed that when a mistake happens or we fail to live up to an expectation of a Dominant that our entire self worth or confidence isn’t suddenly called into question.

I understand that emotionally wilting or withdrawing because you do something incorrectly or when you are corrected becomes exhausting for others to deal with. It becomes difficult to deal with someone who is that emotionally delicate that you can’t discuss issues because you don’t want to then watch them meltdown.
Often times that sort of behavior is viewed as victim behavior or the person is perceived as a doormat when they are in fact just very sensitive.

Does emotional sensitivity go beyond self confidence or individual feelings of self worth/love? Can’t one feel settled in one’s self and still feel the sting of rejection when hearing a criticism, or does that inherently indicate a fragile self esteem?

I’ll admit that a large part of my pondering on this has to do with how much strength and self confidence are valued, and at the same time it leaves me lingering on the thoughts of why submissive/slaves who become charged with feeling off balance out of the need to please and do well, by being criticized and scolded without being given clear direction or instruction on what is expected of them, is eroticized to the extent that it is in many stories.

Why is creating that unbalance and neurosis in a submissive partner eroticized when in reality it’s been my experience that most people are kind hearted and don’t enjoy inflicting emotional hurt onto others. So much so that even within the confines of a D/s relationship instead of confronting the submissive partner about their sensitive nature they end the relationship by backing away. Often times by not even confronting them and just slowly stepping away from the person until they no longer speak to them at all.

Fickle Summer Wind

*writing practice prompt: write a short interaction between two people that shows a shared history."

They lived in a small house, in a small town, with their small lives, but the fickle summer wind had other ideas.

“Agnes come quick.”

“What is it?”

“Come quick, you won’t believe this.”

“What Bess, what is it?”

“It’s a baby.”

“A what?”

“A baby, Agnes. You know a BABY.”

“Yes, I know what a baby is, Bess. What’s it doing here?”

“It’s in a basket. Someone must have left it here.”

“Well, where do you think it came from, Bess?”

“Where do any babies come from Agnes.”

“You know what I mean, where did this baby come from?”

“I don’t know, Agnes. Who would have left a baby here?”

“You didn’t see anybody?”

“No, I didn’t see anybody. Just the basket, I thought Biddy was leaving us more vegetables from her garden, not a baby.”

“You think Biddy left us a baby?”

“Don’t be silly, Agnes. Where would Biddy get a baby from?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who thought she left it.”

“NO I thought Biddy left us more vegetables.Do keep up.”

“Well what are we going to do with a baby, Bess?”

“I suppose we should take it out of the basket.”

“You’re not suggesting we keep the baby? What are we going to do with a baby?”

“We can’t leave it here Agnes, it’s a baby. I’m sure someone will come back for it.”

“Bess you can’t just take in a baby, it’s not a stray kitten. Do you have any idea how much work a baby is?”

“Yes I know how much work a baby is, I’m not daft Agnes. What else is there to do? We can’t exactly leave the poor wee thing out in this heat. She’ll die. Do you want that on your conscious? I don’t know about you, but I’d rather meet St Peter without having to explain why I let an innocent babe die for want of a little care.”

“Heavens, Bess I wasn’t suggesting that at all. I may be a cranky old woman, but I’m no baby killer. Best get the wee one in the house then. I’ll see what I can rummage up to feed it then we’ll call the proper authorities and see what is to be done.”

“Her.”

“What?”

“Not it, her. She’s a darling little girl.”

“Sweet Mary and Joseph, I know that look. You’ve gone all soft already, I’ve never been able to talk you out of keeping any of God’s creatures once you’ve got that look. Come on Bess, let’s see what we can do.”

(I rather like the story that is forming here, so many questions in my head that I want to have answered. I think I'll keep working on this piece and see where it wants to go.)

Voices in my Head

I've finally under taken writing my first play. This has been a project I've been trying to start for over a year and just having a terrible time adjusting out of the story format into play format.

Issues like how to introduce emotion or inner thoughts between characters or creating a mood soley through dialogue, but I had a huge epiphany the other day after a rather intense emotional night with my Sir and the play just came together in my minds eye and away I went with writing it. I've had some formating help from a couple of dear people in my life too.

I'm super exicted about this piece of writing. I'm shooting for a ten minute play give or take some pacing.

here is a bit of teaser dialogue to wet your interest.

Knight “You pushed her too hard.”

Imp “No I didn’t.”

Knight “Yes you did, look at her. She’s curled into a little ball and shaking. You pushed her too hard.”

Imp “No I pushed her just right. She needed this.”

Knight “She needed this or you needed this? You twisted fuck. She’s completely curled in on herself.”

Imp “She needed this.”

Knight “Keep saying that asshole, maybe it will be true. You better hope you didn’t push her too far and break her.”

Imp “I didn’t push her too far, she’s strong. She’s not going to break, not this easily, not this soon. Besides she’s crying that’s good. She’s still emotionally here and she needed this. She needed to be pushed past her self control.”

Knight “You mean you needed to push her. I think you just wanted to find out what lay beneath her polished well mannered composure. You selfish ass, you better hope she’s as strong as you think she is.”

Imp “That too.”

Knight “You’re getting off on this aren’t you, you sadistic bastard.”

Imp “and if I am? What of it.”

Knight “You’re sick, you know that right. How can you look at that poor sweet girl and be getting off on it. You’ve terrorized her. For what? So you could get your rocks off?”

Imp “She’s so open and raw, how can I not respond to that. You’re telling me you don’t want to fuck her like that all tear stained and vulnerable?

Knight “Not like that no.”

Imp “No? Liar, you’re just as turned on by that as I am. The only difference is that you want to rush in there and make it all better, make her turn to you for comfort and safety.”

Knight “And you don’t? You did this to her, you telling me you don’t want to make it better?”

Imp “You mean we did this to her, I didn’t notice you stopping me so who’s the sick fuck now?”

Knight “Fine we did this to her, I’m just as much to blame as you are. What now?

Imp “I want to root around inside this dark place with her and pluck the strings to see how beautiful she’ll sing for me. So yeah I’m a twisted bastard alright.”

Knight “You don’t sound all that repentant, you sound more like you can’t wait to dive inside her and swim around.”

Imp “there’s that too.”

Knight “There’s a special place in hell for people like you, you know.”

Imp “If I believed in hell, I’m sure your right.”

"Humiliating Lena"

She pulled into the dark parking lot outside of the run-down motel and got out of her car. The dank smell of stale urine permeated the street. Walking across the trash-littered pavement, Lena headed towards the office. The night air chilled her and brought her nipples to a hard point. As she passed by an open door a hand shot out and grabbed her, dragging her into the room before she could even call out. He made short work of subduing her and pushed her down onto the musty mattress.

Lena lay on the bed on her side, arms tied behind her back and rope running between her lips like a bit on a bridle gagging her. Her shirt was pushed up exposing her breasts, as was her skirt. She felt a sharp tug and heard the distinct sound of fabric ripping before the cool air kissed her where her panties had once been. She could feel his hands sliding across her skin teasing her as tears began leaking from her eyes.

Lena whimpered into her gag, an inarticulate muffled plea against her assailant and pressed her thighs together protecting her exposed bits.
He reached one hand up and cupped her breast then tugged firmly on the nipple while his other hand traced lazy circles over her hip and ass.
“You like this don’t you?” he rumbled, His voice wrapping around her reverberating down her spine.

A whimpered moan escaped from her throat before she could silence it.

“You do like it. Answer me, slut,” He barked out as his hand snaked out and slapped her across the face while the other hand yanked harder on her nipple.
Lena squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that continued to stream out. Mewling she tried to shake her head no, but he slapped her again quick and hard and her cheek stung with white-hot pain.

“Yes, you do. Don’t lie to me - I can see right through your little games. You are a depraved little thing aren’t you? I wonder what I will find if I touch you here.” He whispered as his hands slid down her side and forced their way between her closed thighs.

”Mmm, just what I thought.” He slipped a finger between her folds, sliding easily across the molten surface of her core already thick with fluid from arousal. He leaned in, the tiny hairs from his unshaved cheek tickling her ear, and whispered as he continued to run his finger across her sex.

“What kind of girl gets hot letting some guy tie her up and abuse her, huh? I’ll tell you. A sick twisted little girl, that’s who.”

Lena tried not to moan as the cruel taunting words danced across her ear. She tried desperately to hold still as his finger sawed across her clit.

“Tell me another lie,” he commanded. ”Tell me you don’t like it. Tell me to stop.”
She grunted against the rope. Her face scrunched up in an effort to get the words past the gag, but her body had other ideas as she moved into his hand.
“I’m going to fuck you and then come all over this nice skirt. Girl like you should know better than to try to dress above her station. Wearing designer clothes can’t hide what you are.”

Lena felt the slap of a belt buckle across her ass as the man began to open up his fly. She was quivering, with shame, and worst of all with need.
She could feel the rough denim against her legs, but soon forgot everything else as the Man spread her ass cheeks and slammed into her tight wet pussy. Humiliated that her body wanted what this man was doing to her, Lena vacillated between crying and moaning.

The man pounded into her hard and fast, one hand gripping her hair and pulling her neck into a painfully arched position while the other dug harshly into a breast. Lena tried to move away from the pain, but his grip was too tight, the rope too immobilizing. Before she knew it the hard penetrating rhythm and the cruelty of his use began to build up inside her until it came screaming out of her. The orgasm took her by surprise and her body thrashed against his hold; with a heavy grunt the man pulled out and true to his promise spilled his completion out all over her.

Lena lay panting for a moment on the bed wondering what the man would do next when she looked up and saw him closing the fly of his pants. He pulled the tie on the rope and the pressure on her hands slackened. As Lena began trying to uncoil herself from the rope the man tossed a wad of bills on top of her and walked out the door, laughing.

untitled poem

Little girl lost in the woods there is no one left to find you.
No one left to notice you’re gone.
You drifted off alone following crumbs of a dream long wished for,
Only to find thorns that scratch and rend the skin.


Little girl lost in the woods, darkness enfolds you.
The noises of words unspoken fill the air.
Monsters in the dark chasing your path, you run.
Till your feet are bloody and numb.


Little girl lost you lay down and wait.
The musty smell of rotting leaves surrounds you.
Hope is found with the light of day,
You pray it’s not too late.