That Night

A 1,500-word short story recounting a forbidden encounter between two women. Contains explicit material; intended for mature audiences only.


She came to me when he was asleep. She loved him, and she would never intentionally hurt him.

But I was enamored of her. Her art; her words; her spirit and her kindness. They sated something in me like nothing had done in so long.

The rain was pouring as if God were angry. Perhaps He was. Perhaps He was angry with me. In any case, I opened the door for her and ushered her inside, relishing the way her coat dripped against my skin as she entered.

I closed the door softly. Lightning illuminated the window beside the door; then thunder shook the house. We stood there staring at each other, no more than two feet separating us.

“Thank you for coming,” I said quietly.

“I shouldn’t have,” she replied, her voice even softer than mine. “But I wanted to.”

“You did?” I inquired. In a way, I knew it was true, but at the same time I was surprised.

“You know I did,” she answered, scolding me a little with her tone.

“Can I – can I take your coat?” I asked, my voice breaking.


She shrugged out of the wet coat and handed it over to me. I carried it to one of the pegs by the door, trying to resist the urge to bring it to my nose and inhale its scent. I had never smelled her before. I wanted to smell her.

I walked back to her, fighting the temptation to reach out and twirl my finger through her damp red locks. Her pale throat was shining with rainwater. I wanted nothing more than to kiss it gently.

“What have you come for?” I asked, almost afraid to hear her reply.

“You know the answer to that, too.”

“Are you sure?”

My voice was barely audible.

“I’ve thought about it,” she added. “I’m sure.”

“Come into the living room,” I said, reaching out for her hand. I didn’t know if she would take it – but she put her fingers through mine without hesitation.

I’d had a recurring fantasy lately that involved having her while she was seated on my sofa. It she was down for it – and it seemed like she was – I was going to make that fantasy a reality. Right now.

I led her by the hand towards the sofa, stopping just in front of it and turning to face her. “Can I take off your clothes?” I inquired. The fear and anxiety were suddenly leaving me. A feeling of control was slowly seeping through my veins. I’d been cold before she arrived, but now my skin was flushed and hot.

“Yes,” she breathed.

She was wearing a sleeveless black dress that contrasted perfectly with her red hair and white skin. It halted halfway down her calves, exposing her shapely legs and her bright red stilettos.

I stepped up to her, circling my arms around her back. That simple motion felt so good, I breathed a sigh of relief against her mouth. I pulled her close, pressing our breasts together, searching for the zipper of her dress. I found it quickly, then brought it down, moving away from her a little to let the dress fall to the floor.

I immediately brought her back to me, reaching around for the fastening of her bra. I unhooked it, pulled it away from her breasts, and dropped it down on top of the dress.

I looked into her eyes for a long moment, working my fingers through the wet hair at the back of her neck, her warm breath against my lips. I leaned in to kiss her, feeling the slickness escaping from between my legs. I reached down with my right hand to cup her breast, smiling through the kiss as she moaned into my mouth.

She was still wearing her stilettos, but that didn’t matter. I guided her firmly to the sofa, lowering her down to sit against the cushions. I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of her panties, looking directly into her eyes. She gazed at me unblinkingly.

Without taking my eyes away from hers, I began to pull her panties down. I brought them to her knees, then let them fall on top of her bright red shoes.

She was completely exposed to me. It was time to live my fantasy.

I kissed her right knee, reveling in the tiny shivers caused by the pressure of my lips. Then I kissed my way slowly up the inside of her soft, pale thigh. I listened to the changes in her breathing. It was getting faster, sharper.

I laid my hands on her hips, pulling her towards my face. I licked her thigh, then bit it gently. Her fingers were twined in my hair.

I paused in front of her pussy lips, closing my eyes and inhaling her scent. I’d been longing for this moment. I touched the tip of my nose to her slit, breathing deep. Every woman smelled so different, and it was always impossible to describe. Always some subtle combination of sweetness and spice.

Her combination was perfect. I just knelt there in front of her for a few moments, her fingers massaging my head, my eyes shut tight. Then I leaned forward and kissed her moist lips.

The taste was even better than the smell.

I ran my tongue slowly along her slit, making her shudder as if with a bitter wind. I hadn’t even separated her lips yet, and her juices were already leaking into my mouth.

She was enjoying this as much as I was.

I ran my tongue in two more lines: top to bottom, then bottom to top. I opened her lips with my thumbs, taking one long lick, tasting everything at once. It almost sent me into sensory overload. I gripped her hips and pulled her against my face, shoving my tongue inside her, desperate to please her. She pulled my hair and I grinned.

I slid my tongue in and out, drinking her nectar, making her shake. Then I lapped at her, slowly, quickly, slowly again, ending at her clit with each lick, pressing it firmly with the tip of my tongue.

She was dripping down onto the sofa, oozing onto my face, grinding violently against my mouth. She was losing herself to me in this saturated, empty moment.

I fastened my lips around her hot, swollen bud, sucking it fiercely, sliding three fingers inside her and pumping with vigor. She pressed her back against the cushions, pushing herself down on my face, flowing quickly into my mouth. The muscles of her thighs were beginning to clench and spasm. I sucked harder, pumped faster.

Then – she came. So hard. It was like a tidal wave. It was like the thunder that was still shaking the house. She clutched my head with her thighs, locking it in place, making sure I couldn’t get away. Not that I would have wanted to.

I withdrew my fingers from her opening, but I kept licking her while she rode the steep waves of her orgasm, up and down, until she finally crested the last swell and ended up at the bottom. Her thighs released my head, and I unearthed my face from her hot, soaking pussy, laying my cheek wearily against her soft thigh.

When she recovered a little, she rubbed my back, then massaged my head. “Let’s go to your bed,” she said.

“Do you have time?” I asked quietly, not really wanting to move away from the pillow of her smooth leg.

“I do,” she replied. “And, since this will be the only time – I want to make sure you get what you need.”

She took my hands in hers, pulling me off the floor. I crawled up her body and sat on her lap, laying my head against her chest. I could feel her heartbeat.

She rocked me for a few minutes, running her fingers through my hair. Then she tilted my face to kiss my wet lips, sliding her warm tongue into my mouth. She breathed into me, and my heart expanded.

“Bring me to your bed,” she whispered, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose.

I nodded silently, then climbed off her lap. I reached down for her hand, pulled her up beside me, then led her back towards the dark corridors which enveloped the small bedroom where I would spend the remaining hours of our last – and only – night together.

Lightning flashed; thunder cracked.

I wondered what God was saying.




Thanks for reading . . .



Don’t Do It.

It’s been a bit of a day. If graphic/disturbing material doesn’t agree with you, please don’t read this.

Last night I had terrible nightmares. When I woke up, I thought that cutting in the night had been part of the dreams. But it wasn’t. I touched my leg and felt the Kleenex, saturated with dried blood, adhered to my skin. I rolled over on the mattress and saw the prodigious amount of blood staining my sheets.

I managed all right until I got in the shower. At that point, I had to remove the Kleenex. When I pulled it off (very slowly) strips of flesh from inside the wounds were peeled away, too. Two of the three cuts didn’t bleed, but one was out of control. I got in the shower, hoping washing it would stanch the bleed, as sometimes happens. But the longer I ran the water over it, the worse the bleed got. Finally I gave up and shut off the shower, trying to figure it out. I should keep something on hand for incidents like these.

I tried to dry the area and mop up the blood, but it was running down my leg and getting all over everything. I had one non-stick pad left, and I stuck it on with band-aids, but I couldn’t get the skin dry enough and it eventually fell back off.

I felt so sick while I was doing all this, I wasn’t sure I could get it done, but I refused to call for help. Something like that, when someone sees you like that – it never goes away. I’d lost so much blood in the shower, I felt very faint. I thought I might pass out, but fortunately I didn’t.

I’ve been changing tissues/paper towels on the bleeding wound all day. Early in the afternoon, it began to bleed badly again, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get it to stop. I suspected it might need a few stitches, and I’m still not certain. I wouldn’t have had any qualms about going to the ER (I’m not proud), but that would have meant informing the person I live with that I’d done it again. And that was the last resort.

I just stopped for a moment with the paper towel pressed to the wound, looking up at the ceiling and begging God to make it stop bleeding. “Please, Jesus,” I said. “Please help me.”

A few seconds later, I removed the paper towel and fixed a tissue over the cut. The bleed had stopped.

The same tissue is still attached, but I think I’ll run into the same issue. It’s embedded in the wound again, and there’s no way to remove it without resuming the bleed. I’ll try to cut it down and tape it, then shower with it in the morning and pray it washes away clean.

I mainly wrote this as a deterrent to people who may want to hurt themselves tonight. Please – it’s not worth it. Don’t do it. Have an extra drink if you need to, watch another episode of your favorite cartoon. Don’t pick up that blade.

Red Lipstick

So, I’ve got this strange habit of writing blog posts and then deleting them. I feel like I say too much and then I cancel them. I talk way too much online, but in real life I say next to nothing. I sit next to my 86-year-old neighbor for half an hour in the car while I’m driving her to her doctor’s appointment, and I just say “Right,” and “Yep,” in response to all of her numerous inanities. Sometim es I say nothing at all, and she just goes right on yapping.

My brain is tired. How does your brain feel? Ah, whatevs. Not snorting any sugar tonight, just drinking the usual vodka. Maybe a little more wine if I get past ten mixed, though I know I’ll be numb in the morning.

So I thought of this lady I met in my mind at the bus stop (though I own a car and don’t take the bus) . . .

IT WAS A BRISK AFTERNOON IN LATE AUTUMN. I walked towards the Plexiglas cubicle that shielded those who waited for the bus from the rain, tugging my hood around my head and wishing I owned an umbrella. Fuck being poor. Fuck it all to hell.

I saw the middle-aged woman just sitting there, smoothing on lipstick in a handheld mirror. Her hair was short and curly, her pale face was firm and pert. Her red lipstick looked perfect under her dark eyes.

“May I sit next to you, ma’am?” I inquired, gesturing to the bench.

“It’s a free country,” she replied. A sly smile before she added, “Or so they say.”

I sat down next to her. She was an incredibly striking woman. She was tall, you could tell she was, even while she was sitting. Her clothes were impeccable and her makeup was perfect. I loved her red lipstick most of all. It looked very kissable.

But then, without warning, she drew a small silver flask from the pocket of her grey twill pants. She twisted off the top, then took a long swig.

“You can’t imagine how many times I have to refill this over the course of the day,” she said, smacking her lips and looking up at the grey, pouring sky.

“How many?” I inquired wonderingly.

“Six or seven,” she replied nonchalantly. “Maybe more.”

“What do you do during the day?” I asked.

“I’m a bookkeeper,” she answered. “For a charity. But let me tell you, young lady – charity is a very loose expression. It’s more of a business than anything else.”

I looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You can’t mean that,” I said quietly.

“Ah,” she said, looking at me with her deep, dark eyes. “Poor young girl. Do you still believe in innocence?”

I thought about it for a long moment, but finally realized that I didn’t know. So I didn’t answer.

A bus was coming – and it seemed like it was her bus.

“Wait,” I yelped as she rose to leave.

She looked back patiently.

“What are you doing later on?” I asked politely.

She gazed at me with an equal measure of politeness. “I’m too old and jaded for you, my dear,” she replied.

The bus pulled up alongside her and swung open its doors. She went up the steps with shapely legs shod in sensible black flats. I watched her as she went, marking her movements as she took a seat four rows back.

Much to my surprise, though, she looked back down at me. She blew me a kiss, then mouthed the words “Maybe later.”

At least – I think that’s what she said.

OctoberFlashFic: M

My name is Emma, and I’m sitting here in my plush red chair, feeling completely alone.

I realize I’m more fortunate than many, but as I sip at my drink and tap at my keyboard, I feel like a ghost cut off from the entire human population.

There are so many memories – so many reminders of failures. But there’s also that last remaining spark, that thing that whispers in my ear, trying to let me know it’s not over yet. “Bank account doesn’t have to be fat,” it reminds me. “Keep working, it’ll be all right.”

And then there’s the fact that she’s still with me. If I were her, I would have taken off running months ago. But she’s still here. My pretty girl.

I sip at my drink, and I tap at my keyboard. The world is a vista of endless possibilities.

OctoberFlashFic: Unsure

I loved her, and she loved me.

Did she love me? I was never sure.

I was fat, and she wasn’t, but she never seemed to mind. She went down on me as if I were a supermodel. She clutched my back rolls like they were holy sacraments, burying her face between my thighs to make me believe she really loved the way I tasted.

“You don’t have to,” I told her. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

Then she smiled mischievously at me. “What the hell else would I do on a Tuesday afternoon?” she inquired.

That was why I loved her. I think she loved me, too – but I was never sure.

Smoke on the Water

Chilling in between the sun and the shadows

Relatively free of weight

A light synth beat in my head

Broken angel wings strewn across the bed

Shining with dew and fairy dust.

Open curtains at the windows

Letting in late summer light

Autumn on the horizon with its scent of death

Carried on ghostly fingers like a lover’s breath

Trembling with the fragility of time.

Complex Ticking

“The state of one’s heart,” Gala countered,

“Is not so simple as that.”

And take heed – this is true.

There are moments of weakness

(Much more common, I find)

And there are moments of strength

(Hard to locate, but not nonexistent).

Depression can make you want to

Alter your physical appearance

While happiness can make you feel beautiful.

But the exterior is just a mold

Ever-changing, hardly more than putty

In a petulant child’s fist.

Why prize it so highly?

You may be pleased with your countenance

But while your heart is in shards

It does you little good.

Better to let the putty melt a bit

Better to let the child deform it a little

If a healthy heart is the end result.

The Vampire Elf Queen

Her name is Queen Ivory, and I love her because she is different from the one I knew before.

She is the elf queen of the Emerald Palace. She has long golden locks, bright blue eyes, and skin white as milk.

She tells me she loves me. “Human women,” she says, “they are so fickle. One moment they express interest, the next moment they have flitted away – pssh – after some colorful butterfly.”

“Ah, yes,” I say groggily, having become drunk on her darkenberry wine.

“They cannot sate you the way I can,” she goes on to say, locking my eyes with her ice-blue gaze.

“Perhaps not,” I whisper, the world swimming before my eyes. “But still – I loved her.”

“Did you?” she inquires. “You humans cannot even comprehend the meaning of love. ‘I love you, I love you,’ you are always blathering the words – but what the fuck do you think they mean?”

I shake my head, spilling my wine over the front of my shirt. Tears are pouring down my face.

“I suppose I don’t know,” I murmur lifelessly.

She comes forward to take my glass, then dashes it down against the stones. Broken glass skitters everywhere.

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

“Yes,” I whisper, looking dumbly into her ice-blue eyes.

She kisses me, sucking with her lungs, drawing the entirety of my soul from my body. Then she lowers her mouth to my neck, more vampire than elf, and drains the blood from my veins.

“You silly humans,” she whispers, patting my cheek with her warm hand. “You do not know what love is.”

My last sight is of her bright white dress, slithering away from me, as I fall down to the cold, bloody stones.

The Queen Stole the Bandages

My heart is ticking.

There’s a clock on the dashboard

Right next to the odometer

Telling me how much time I have left.

It’s ticking down pretty low

But there’s no one round to wind me.

Yeah, I’m like a wind-up clock

Waiting for Cinderella to turn my gears.

She hasn’t come yet.

She might not come at all.

Do you have an extra beer?

The Story of Ann Hicks

Ann Hicks was a little old woman who sold gingerbread and apples in Hyde Park in 19th-century London. She was apparently a very convincing writer, because a letter to a certain government official secured her permission to set up a little store-house for her goods.


So she set up a house — but not just a storage shed. An actual house, which she immediately thereafter commenced to inhabit.

“Before anyone had quite realized what was taking place, Ann Hicks was living in Hyde Park in a comfortable brick-built house with a decent-sized private garden surrounded by stout fencing” (Arthur Bush, Portrait of London).


But Ann Hicks’s house presented a problem for the builders of Queen Victoria’s Crystal Palace. You know, the iconic structure of iron and glass which was afterwards relocated to South London?

Ann held them off for a while, and it wasn’t until the intervention of Parliament and the Duke of Wellington that she was finally removed. She was, however, compensated with a small allowance.


I think I’m going to build a hut in the park up the street, get them to kick me out, and then see if I can get a “small allowance” out of it. Nice going, Ann.