Saturday, March 14, 2009

Licks and Promises by M. Christian

From "The Train They Call the City of New Orleans"

The rails were clicking and clacking out a message, Maggie was sure, but it was one she didn’t want deciphered or explained. She knew the nature of it, after all, if not the exact words: Come back.

A seductive message, an alluring bait, hidden in the sounds of the train, but she’d escaped; she’d made it to the station, boarded the 6:15 to Atlanta, and she wasn’t coming back.

The train rocked her gently over uneven rails, a slow side-to-side sway that reminded Maggie of being on a ship caught in low swells. Closing her eyes, she pictured herself sailing somewhere, the ocean patiently rolling around her, the warm wooden deck under her bare feet. It was a thin illusion. She’d never been on the ocean, but it was better than thinking of where she had been.

She tried to put herself on that ship, boat, whatever—anywhere but back in that hot city. The tiny, overhead air conditioning jet became a cool breeze coming off the waves.

Thin, perhaps, but Maggie suddenly had a surge of nausea. Smiling ironically at her suddenly too-successful illusion, she opened her eyes. A threadbare Amtrak coach; a scattering of tired travelers, the backs of their heads poking above their seats, a wide-ranging display of beehive hairdos and male pattern baldness; the gray distance blurring by the darkly tinted windows.

Turning, she watched the streaking view, her gaze catching on sudden details, barely registering before the train’s heavy momentum rushed it away: the green blur of close trees, the distant stroll of far ones, the scintillating snake of a side road, the sudden flash of crossings, the diagonal rush of a steel bridge. That last one, the bridge, brought a surge of fear — that maybe that bridge was the long one again, the one that had started her journey. Nevertheless, all the bridges remained short, and her anxiety flickered away. The Mississippi was behind her, as was the city on its shore, and its delta.

So much left behind: six months of paintings, some clothes, some cheap furniture, and a photo or two. Some of it she’d miss, but not for long, not after remembering why she’d escaped.

Evil city, a bad place. It had done things to her. The hot days; the hot nights; the slow, sensual lethargy; the undulating accent; the peppery meals — it had all seeped into her, mixed with her normally cool, reserved, immaculate body and will. There she’d steamed in the heat, had burned with a slow fire.

It had frightened her. She’d grown up in the high latitudes, the cold and rainy pine forests of Oregon’s Pacific Northwest. The days there had been thick with fog, the nights drowning in freeing rain. The only thing hot had been the bitter coffee.

Her early works had been local, her hometown flowing from her brushes onto the canvas: gray, black, white, and a deep, impenetrable green. She’d painted vistas and views, sky and landscapes. Like her works, Maggie had surrounded herself with the same colors, the same views. The world, while she was there, had been glacial and patient.

Light. It had been so totally missing in that overcast town that she had even been alien to the idea — then a chance visit to a museum. Brilliant, warm, burning, blinding; she’d stood before the reds and yellows for what felt like years, but what were probably just minutes. A month later, she packed her tired little Volvo and was on the road in search of the place where such shades lived, wild and free.

It had taken some time in the new city, but eventually the colors of New Orleans had started to work their way into her, seeping from the oil on her brushes and pallet, through her skin, and down deep. Subtle, for such brilliance—almost unnoticeable.

Someone bumped into her elbow, jogging her memory. With a sharp shock, she straightened.

“Sorry,” said a heavy voice from above. His smile was bright, beaming as he tossed it back at her from over his right shoulder. Her artist’s eyes picked him apart: the dull reds of his wool shirt, the aqua and white of his worn jeans, the terra cotta of his comfortable leather boots, the marbling of his black and white peppered curly hair and beard. The smile stayed a bit too long, a touch stretched out as he took a seat three rows ahead of her.

That damned place, that awful place. Iron balconies and brick, a turgid river moving with eternal purpose, shanty shacks and mansions, crawfish and red peppers, too-sweet drinks, and strong shots, an atmosphere of vomit and magnolia blossoms. She’d begun there as if it was just the same as the Pacific Northwest, just warmer, with more colors, but then it had started. Slowly, as said, insidious. Laying awake on a hot night, she fanned herself with a magazine, body bare for a simple cotton dress. Thoughts had emerged, and she’d found herself pacing — at first in her mind, then with her feet, like a trapped jungle cat.

She’d had lovers before, of course, but they’d been intellectual, artistic interludes, executed with caution. They had either faded way, leaving nothing but memories, or had broken apart with only a few tears. But after she’d started renting that little place, the high-ceilinged loft near the river, she’d begun to crave, to hunger, in a way that was unfamiliar. Maggie had eaten before, but now she wanted to hunt and feast.

On the train, leaving that hot and humid city, she looked at the back of his head, recapturing for herself, the breath of his shoulders, the tightness of his stride, the strength of his legs, the firm muscles of his back and ass. It was too easy to picture him, standing on the rough boards of her studio floor, clothes piled into a far corner, standing firm and large before her. She saw her hands holding a bit of charcoal, capturing the flow of him, the planes and curves of his broad, firm body on a sketchpad.

It had been that place. It had hexed her, seeped into her open pores, working its way into her. All that light, heat, spices, had done something to her. It had started burning her, making her smoke and steam.

She started masturbating; casually at first, but then with a passion for herself that no lover had ever shown. It became an act of love, a thought-out and anticipated event. She’d spend the sweltering days thinking of a fantasy, constructing in her vivid imagination the location, feel, the color of his eyes, the sound of his voice, the words he’d speak, and the feelings that would come to her. She’d sketch him, capturing him on a few scraps of paper: his face, his chest, his arms, his legs, his penis — both hard and soft. Then, prepared and burning even hotter as the sun set on the filigreed rooftops, she’d stretch out on her cheap little bed, pull up her simple cotton dress, and tangle her fingers, at first, in the curls of her pubic hairs, and then, with a few deft strokes, part her lips and relish in the humid excitement of her cunt. Her other hand would be reserved for her tight nipples, the right when she wanted the familiarity of her favorite breast, the left for when she imagined his mouth or hand, there. It would go on for hours and even longer as the reds and yellows of her pallet, of the city, had started to really penetrate her skin.

On the train, leaving at last, she felt the heat again — the heavy, hot glow starting in her lap then spreading up her chest, forming twin flares of warmth at the tips of her breasts. Looking at the back of his head, she conjured him more fully; the curls of his peppered beard, the wrinkles around his nose, and the fullness of his lips. She closed her eyes briefly and sketched in her mind the charcoal outlines of his strong legs, the flat muscles of his chest and belly, the unashamed determination of his hard cock. Focusing, feeling the reds and yellows of that far-off city, she even conjured from her imagination the pearly tip of early excitement swelling at the tip and the silken embrace of her lips, descending and tasting its sharp saltiness.

She was too hot. In the cool cabin of the 6:15 to Atlanta, she was molten. It was familiar, as typical as any day she’d spent in New Orleans, as if the now-distant city had somehow stoked up the embers she’d thought she’d cooled by stepping onto the train.

Looking out the window again, Maggie tried to bring back the cool patience that’d insulated her — before the heat, before the reds and yellows, before the sweltering summers, before the warm winters, before New Orleans — but it was as if trying to speak a language long out of practice.

The blurring trees didn’t bring it back and neither did the quick flashes of power and phone poles. Instead, she thought about Louis. Tall, thin Louis with eyes like ball bearings. Young Louis — maybe just in college. They didn’t talk about such things together. In fact, they rarely spoke at all. Louis had come into her life one very hot summer day, a burnished-ebony young man who had helped deliver a crate of paints and books she’d had shipped from Seattle. He’d stayed, fascinated by the images captured on her canvases, then he stayed even longer after Maggie had allowed her hands to play along the strength of his back and shoulders.

She’d had lovers, yes, but none who burned like Louis, who smoldered and smoked like that young man. She hadn’t done it out of curiosity, or as a way of getting to closer to something she’d wanted. No, Louis had been what she wanted. He was a blistering conflagration.

The view didn’t cool the fire and certainly recalling the passion of young Louis didn’t. The fire roared now — a steaming kind of blaze that made her body a hothouse, a sauna. Her nipples ached from the heat and from the absence of lips and hands on them. Her legs throbbed and quivered, as if she’d been sitting for too long.

Finally, just a second before she thought she’d start to smoke, she got up — the action of her breasts changing position sending a quiver through her — and worked her way forward along the cabin. As she passed the man, the salt-and-peppered man, she actually tilted herself to one side to brush a strong hip against his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” Maggie said in a harsh whisper, stretching the words like a curled finger toward him. Feeling herself smile at him — a lingering, hungry smile — she almost rushed, almost ran to the bathroom.


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Melting Point: Breaking the Mould by Nicole Gestalt

The wax ran in slow rivulets down Ruby’s stomach. She moaned, unable to restrain herself, the movement causing more of the wax to run down. Although her eyes were closed, she could sense Dalton. As he moved closer she waited, desperate to feel the hot wax poured on her again.

Her eyes opened to slits as the colourful wax splashed onto her belly. Droplets splattered her breasts, the wax cooling rapidly, pulling at the skin it covered. Another moan escaped Ruby’s lips. Dalton smiled at her.

“You like that, my love?”

Ruby nodded, but she didn’t need to. She knew he’d know the answer. They had been playing with wax together ever since he introduced it to her five years ago, and during that time she had enjoyed every single session. Each session was different, some times more intense than others. Tonight’s session was to practice for an upcoming demonstration.

Ruby found the demonstrations to be an exciting mix of nerves and arousal. Knowing people were looking at you whilst you got to the peak of orgasm was a very liberating feeling, although it wasn’t something she liked doing often. No matter how much Dalton told her she looked sexy, she still had body image issues. She knew she wasn’t a stick thin figure, she had lumps and bumps in places she’d have preferred not to, but that was who she was and, as Dalton kept telling her, she looked as she did the night he first met her.

Dalton’s smiling face came into view.

“I believe I will move further down with the wax now, my love, are you ready?” he asked, showing the same concern he always had. She nodded, looking forward to feeling the wax run down between her legs. He was using a slightly pigmented wax tonight, so it was warmer than the clear wax, but she was used to the increase in temperature. Ever since she met him, things had always followed the same mantra; Safe, sane and consensual. Nothing happened to her without her agreeing to it, and vice versa.

Laying, waiting for the new wax to be poured over her, she thought back to the first night they met.

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Restraint by Teresa Noelle Roberts

“My name is Evan and I hear,” the younger man said to Luke, just loud enough to be heard over the club’s pulsing industrial music, “that you’re into blood sports.” It was said in much the same tone you’d use to say, “I hear you’re a huge football fan” or “I hear you do web design,” and it froze Luke to the spot, unable to breathe through the rush of arousal.

Luke was accustomed to men approaching him—he was big, handsome, cultivated a dangerous velvet-and-leather look that appealed to both Goths and the BDSM crowd—but this one surprised him. Evan, young, clean-cut, and pretty as an Abercrombie and Fitch model, was not the type who usually frequented this club, let alone expressed an interest in his more extreme kinks. He was torn between lust fierce enough to harden him on the spot and fear that Evan was either toying with him or didn’t really know what he was talking about.

Only one way to find out. “It depends on what you mean. I don’t like the fights better than the hockey game. And I don’t hunt…deer.” He smiled slowly, letting the desire and the blood-lust show in his expression.

Then he took a deep breath and settled into the almost innocent pleasure of observing his potential prey process this answer.

Delicious. Evan had the kind of skin that Luke liked best: the kind so pale that you could see the blue tracery of veins, as if you could see the spirit living within. The kind that marked so easily and showed cuts so vividly. Red on white in the most primal fashion. It didn’t hurt that he was model-handsome, but his skin was what really got to Luke. It just cried out to be marked lovingly and viciously. Evan had the air of toughness that Luke also required. He was slight, perhaps five-seven, but broad-shouldered for his size. Even from across the room, before he’d approached, Luke had noticed he moved like a martial artist. Based on years of experience, Luke judged he’d know how to ride an endorphin rush, how to open up to pain and transmute it to pleasure, how to surrender to the knife. He’d be able to take a lot before he cracked open and begged for mercy.

If he really wanted to take it. It still seemed too good to be true.

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How to Ruin Easter for a Werewolf by Dahlia Rose and Crymsyn Hart

Demona walked over to her mate and put her arms around him. She rubbed her face against his hard chest before nuzzling his neck. His scent was always so intoxicating, she could feel the surface of her panties getting wet just from his smell.

“Big bad daddy, let’s not worry about that now. We’ll talk later. I promise,” she crooned. “For now let’s go find that rabbit. Mommy’s hungry.”

“Fine,” Sebastian growled. He took her hand. She felt his warm kiss on her lips. “Later we talk.”

Demona nodded eagerly and pulled him down the alley to the vacant warehouse. Through the heavy metal door they could hear the thumping of bass speakers. Sebastian pulled open the door. Demona stepped through in front of him. Gone was the metal old rusty look that was on the outside. Inside it seemed as though they really had slid down the rabbit hole. Purple swatches of silky fabric hung from the ceiling, stuffed animals decorated the walls, and at the bar was a girl dressed in a leopard outfit serving drinks. The most amazing thing was the amount of costumed people lounging around on plush red sofas and cushions. Demona’s eyes widened. She covered her mouth to stifle her giggles when she spied a squirrel giving a pussy cat a blow job. On the other side of the room, there was a pink teddy bear bent over a table with her flap open while a lion fucked her.

“What the hell is this place?” Sebastian’s voice sounded appalled.

“Oh my God. It’s a scritching club!” Demona replied with laughter in her voice.

“Scritching? How do you know about this stuff? Don’t tell me you were into this kinda stuff before we got together.”

“Internet, dear Sebastian. The thing you hate to use is called a computer.” Demona turned to him with a wide grin. “Scritching is a kind of fetish humans have. They enjoy dressing up like animals and having sex.”

“Seriously! You have got to be kidding me!”

“Nope, this is the real deal. They do it in secret places because it’s technically illegal.” She twirled around excitedly. “This is so freaking awesome. Let’s find the rabbit!”

“I think we should leave baby, um—that panda bear over there is giving me the eye.” Sebastian looked uncomfortable. She tugged at his coat.

“Oh, honey. We’re at the top of the food chain. Plus, you never know. The panda might taste good when you get past the fur and stuffing.”

“Demona, I don’t want to stay here,” Sebastian growled warningly.

“Please, baby, I need to eat that rabbit,” Demona began to whine, knowing that it would drive him crazy. “I’m craving him, Pookie. Pretty please?”

“All right,” Sebastian rolled his eyes, “but if that panda comes near me my claws come out.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” She hopped up and down before closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. “I can smell him. Come on!”

She grabbed his hand, pulled him away from the door, and headed towards the bar.

On the way, a little redhead wearing a porn star Care Bear outfit put her hand on Sebastian’s crotch. “Hey, big guy, do you want to play?”

“Back off, bitch, before I put you in the animal hospital,” Demona snarled. Her instincts kicked in.

“Now now, baby, we all share in here,” the little yellow bear said with a purr.

Demona’s canine teeth lengthened ready to rip apart flesh. “Okay, if we’re sharing I get a thigh.” She smiled so the red head could see her teeth.

The girl visibly gulped and backed off, quickly throwing a scared look behind her. She moved down to the other end of the bar.

“Now back to finding my rabbit!” Demona said brightly. Her mood changed in an instant. “Come on, daddy.”

“I wish you would stop calling me daddy,” he called to her over the music. “And your mood swings are kinda creepy.”

She turned to him and kissed him, letting him taste her tongue. Sebastian’s arms instantly went around her waist before reaching down and cupping her ass.

“You love when I call you daddy when I’m under you naked and panting…” She caught sight of a white cottony tail going past a stone pillar. “Oh look, the rabbit is right over there!”

The dirty thoughts in her head were totally forgotten when she raced behind her bunny dinner.

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