Rain

Something old I found where I least expected it. Quentin is really weird, and he really likes stormy weather.


Rain always makes me horny.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the boudoir atmosphere of a darkened daytime sky. Maybe it’s the sensual patter of the droplets on my skin, or the percussion on the roof and windows. Maybe there’s some deep-rooted psychological reason, but whatever it may be, whenever it rains I want to get fucked.

I don’t always like getting fucked. Usually I top. I like the power, I like the feeling of my shaft inside a hot, tight hole, and I even like the responsibility. Probably topping suits me because of my passive life, a psychologist would say. For just a little bit I'm in charge.

What I don’t like is getting so close to coming that I can taste it, only to have the guy inside me come first, go soft, and then I have to jack off to finish. That’s annoying. I can jack off by myself.

On rainy days, though, I want the cum fucked out of me.

“Hey, which floor, man?”

Both the tenor voice and the hand on my shoulder startle me. I got on the elevator because it’s glass and looks out on the city. I live on the third floor, so usually I just take the stairs, but it’s raining. I want to hear it against the elevator, to feel as though I'm trapped in a glass box in a hurricane. I want to get fucked.

The guy talking to me lives here, on one of the top floors with all the penthouses. I’ve seen him on the roofgarden before, and maybe once or twice in the gym. He has a short beard, and usually I don’t like beards, but it’s raining.

“Are you visiting someone?” he asks.

So he doesn’t recognize me. That’s okay. I’m nondescript. The doormen call me “Glasses Nerd Guy;” that’s what they said to each other in Polish when I locked myself out once. Awkwardness and glasses are my only defining attributes.

“Hello?”

He’s probably gay—his hand is still on my shoulder and it’s hot through my shirt. He has pretty green eyes and short black hair. The loose basketball shorts cling just enough to reveal a promising bulge, not too big, but likely the perfect size to top me. He looks like a Portuguese footballer with that beard. I'll bet he has some tattoos. He’s probably pretty hairy. I don’t like beards. I don’t like soccer. I don't like tattoos. I don’t like swarthy men. The rain, however, is pounding hard in my ears.

“On what floor do you live?” I ask. “Do you have a balcony?”

I caught him off guard. He drops his hand from my shoulder and takes a step back. “The sixty-second, and yeah, I do,” he answers with a tone that says he thinks it’s none of my business.

“May I see it?”

He gives me a quizzical look. “Sure, I guess, but it’s raining.”

“That’s why I want to see it.”

He doesn’t ask any more questions. Most likely he has figured it out, that I want him to take me upstairs with him for other reasons than to see the slab of concrete outside his patio doors. I’m not his type, I’m not really anyone’s type, but I look like the kind of guy who’ll do just about anything due to low self-esteem. It’s mostly true, I guess.

I just want to get fucked.

“I’m Dave, by the way,” he says as he lets me in.

“Hi, Dave.” I ignore his flat. Without looking I know it’s nice; he probably has good taste in art and his furniture is masculine and dark. There'll be a picture, just one, of Dave with his boyfriend in someplace like Belarus or Latvia. What captures my attention is the balcony that stretches all the way across the living room wall. There’s a lounge chair, just one, and plants everywhere. The rain patters on the green leaves, moving them so that they beckon me, come here, come here.

"What's your name?" he asks as I unlock the sliding glass doors.

"Quentin." The door slides open with a sibilant shh.

"Okay, Quentin, why do you want to see my balcony?" He'd rather sit on his leather couch while I blow him.

It should be obvious, though. Can't he hear it? Water hitting pavement, plants, each drop the miniaturized slap of sticky body against body. It's fuck music.

I step beyond the protection of the awning into the onslaught of rain.

"Rainy days don't make you restless?" I call in reply. I take off my sweater vest so that the rain can plaster my button-down shirt to my skin. Turning my face to the sky, I open my mouth to feel the fresh water run down my throat. I can't see Dave's expression through the precipitation streaming down my glasses. He's standing in the doorway, though.

"Damn, Quentin," he says appreciatively, "that's some body I did not expect."

He'll fuck me because he likes my body, not just because I'm here. I'm getting excited now. Dave steps out to join me on the balcony and shuts the door behind him.

"Damn," he says again, drawing close. Dave places a hand on my chest, right over my beating heart. "Look at that muscle."

Smiling, I guide his hand over my torso so he can feel the hard ridges, my nipples firm under the cotton shirt, the flooded hills and valleys of flesh and skin. My body is my favorite secret. It's a reward for the men desperate enough to be with me. It's a gift for some men's curiosity, like Dave, like now.

I kiss his collarbone. "Beat me gently," I whisper, dragging my wet lips up to his ear. "Hold me by the throat but don't take my breath. Fuck me and forget me tomorrow."

Dave turns his head to meet my mouth. His breath is hot and his lips are smooth. Now he, too, is intoxicated by the rain's chilly caress. Button by button he works to bare my skin, to let the sky drop liquid licks on my shoulders and chest. He kisses me softly but without sweetness, and his whiskers brush my chin.

Under my fingertips Dave's hips are smooth. I pull his t-shirt over his head and bend to take his nipple in my mouth. It's aggressive of me, a dominance that the rain hasn't washed away. Neither has the rain had time to erase the taste of salt on Dave's skin. He must have gotten on the elevator at the basement after a visit to the gym. Dave's isn't as hirsute as I had thought. There's a neat diamond-shaped patch on his chest that narrows to an enticing trail down his abdomen. His back is smooth, though. A large tattoo blankets his right shoulder, some pattern that he likely picked up during his bohemian travel days. He’s covered in gooseflesh, but I can warm him up.

Dave strokes my hair when I push his athletic shorts and boxers to the ground. I love a man's hipbones. I bite one, then the other, sinking my teeth into the skin and muscle that surrounds the bone. Dave jumps at first, but he doesn’t seem to mind a little pain with his pleasure.

"Do you do this often?” he asks. He's amused, surprised at both himself for allowing me into his apartment, and at me for being such a sexual predator.

“Only when it rains,” I respond. My throat is thick, my voice husky. It’s pouring harder now, almost painfully. I push Dave back so that he sits on the lounge chair. I’m ravenous for his body. I press kisses to his shaft, to the covered glans, and to his wrinkled testicles. The rain dilutes everything but the smell of his skin now, clean and musky. His thighs are thick and corded with muscle; I’ll bet he really does play soccer frequently. I tug the hair on his pubic bone to hear him gasp.

“Go ahead, baby,” he says, barely loud enough to be heard over the pattering raindrops. “Take me in your mouth.”

I obey, but not before unbuckling my own wet khakis to touch myself. I touch Dave with trembling, excited fingers, and I touch myself. We feel completely different. His cock is average length and thick, mine is long and thin. I’m smooth, his cock is heavily veined and surrounded by a mat of black curly hair. Dave’s cockhead is bulbous and powerful, falling gracefully short of being too big. I taste the rain, I taste him when I run my tongue around the tip, just under the foreskin.

Dave sucks air through his teeth and leans back. I love feeling a cock swell up in my hand. Opening my mouth, I stick out my tongue and tap Dave's cock against it.

"Yeah, fucker," he says hotly, “slap yourself with my cock."

So Dave's a talker. I can handle that.

“Suck on the tip a little bit,” he instructs.

I do to the sound of Dave’s groan, running my tongue over the glans; so smooth, like ripe fruit in my mouth. He keeps coaching me with things like, “that’s it, yeah,” and “ungh, suck it, suck my cock.” I don’t need encouragement. I want to see it fully hard, I want to know what’s going to be pummeling me, punishing me. I can take him all the way into my throat, until my nose is pressed against his crisp hair, and shake my head like a dog worrying a bone. Instead of curving upwards Dave’s cock snakes in an outward bend, which is easier to fit into my mouth. He’s a good size for fucking without anything but natural lubrication—around six inches, and fat.

“Suck on my balls,” Dave commands. “Get at them, cocksucker.”

I have to push my glasses onto my forehead to get at his testicles properly. The left one hangs a little lower, which is kind of cute. I suck it into my mouth, running my tongue over the hairy sack. Then I switch to the other one, pulling just a little bit with my teeth, not enough to make it hurt.

Dave’s dark head falls back on the chaise, exposing his neck to the weather’s wet caress. “Shit. So good.”

“Will you fuck me here?” I ask. I almost have to yell.

Dave nods, smiling at me for the first time. His teeth are very white. “You bet your ass I will. Are you going to swallow my cum?”

“Only if you’re clean.”

He smacks my forehead with his fat cock. “You bet your tight pussy I am.”

“Then I’ll swallow, we’ll get you hard again, and then you’ll fuck me.” I want to ride him, to feel him pound my ass while the rain pounds my head and back. I want him to fuck me from below while the sky fucks me with tiny water pricks from above.

In response Dave shoves me down on his cock again, fucking my mouth, using my short hair to move my head up and down. Eyes closed, I tease his balls with my fingertips; he’s getting close, the wrinkled pouch is tightening up.

“Fuck, fuck, yeah, fuck,” he chants in time to my mouth. I’m sucking like a vacuum, slurping up precum and rain. “Fuck, shit, suck it.”

He needs to come. I want him to come, I want to feel that hot slippery ejaculate coating my tongue. I whipped my tongue over the veins and the head, inhaling hard. Come for me, you bastard. I tug his balls and take his cock into my throat.

“Aw, fuck,” Dave groans, dragging the word out as his balls contract in my hand, his shaft pulses to release slick cum into my hungry, waiting mouth. It’s a little sweet, mostly bitter. Dave’s fingers pull my hair painfully, yanking at my scalp as he convulses with each ejaculation; his powerful thighs crush my shoulders repeatedly, arrhythmically.

I sit back, letting the rain wash away all traces of saliva and cum from our bodies. It hasn’t poured like this in a long time. I have to squint to see anything. Dave’s looking at me, rubbing his chest, breathing hard.

“Swallow my cum, Quentin,” he orders.

I do, knowing that he can see my Adam’s apple bob, and that it will turn him on. Dave beckons me forward, so I kick off my pants and boxers and crawl onto him. His hands immediately go to my ass, squeezing and kneading my flesh. He kisses me. His tongue is hot and slippery on mine, finding traces of his semen on the roof of my mouth and the backs of my teeth. There’s a river of fire in my body, originating in a million pricks of hard rain on my skin, Dave’s tongue, his whiskers rough on my face, his grip on my buttocks. It all becomes tributaries to the great roar in my chest, pressing against my throat, pounding in my loins.

I’m fucking Dave’s stomach, his chest, fighting the downpour running through the valley of his pecs and abs, pushing my cockhead upstream into the short curls. Maybe I do like a little hair on a man.. It tickles me a little, just enough. Dave teases my asshole, massaging me, tapping the sensitive ring of muscle so that it opens to him like a blossoming bud.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard," he tells me as he slips a finger inside.

I have to shut my eyes, overwhelmed; every nerve ending in my body is being stimulated, titillated, seduced. "I need it," I respond, clutching Dave's firm shoulders.

Thunder sounds in the distance, a timpani in our symphony of heavy breaths and sighs, and the rain patters even harder on our hot bodies. Dave's going so slowly, in and out, while he runs his other hand over my front side, sluicing water from my chest and trailing his fingertips over my tumescent shaft. I thrust my ass back at him impatiently.

"More," I order. "Make a space for yourself inside me."

Dave presses another finger against my sphincter, and then works it gently inside when I relax for him. He thrusts his fingers inside me with purpose, slowly, licking against my prostate. My ears fill with the incessant tik tik of rain against the glass doors. Water runs in rivulets down my neck, chest and back, drips from my nose to the wet pelt on Dave's muscular chest, and mixes with with the clear pre-ejaculate dribbling from my cock. His long-lashed eyes squint against the sky's onslaught, and close completely when I bend my head to suck the fresh rain from one nipple, then the other.

"Oh, that's it," he groans. I take the hard nubbin in my teeth, flicking my tongue against the puckered tip. Brushing the other with my fingertips produces another throaty moan, vibrating in his ribs. I'll drive him crazy, I'll drive us both crazy; we'll be washed away with the rain, only our lust remaining pungent in the fibers of this chaise lounge, imbedded forever along with the scent of wet foliage.

Dave withdraws his fingers. He's ready. I reach back to point his cock at my hole; it's a homing missile and I am a willing target. Dave holds my slippery hips as I back down on him. There's a delicious anticipatory pressure, and then the glans pop wetly inside of me to the tune of masculine moans. It's perfect. I sink down slowly, wanting to savor how the big head stretches me, touches the dark recesses of my secret interior. I take a moment to settle my knees on the lounge, straddling Dave's hips so I can lever my self up again.

Up. I throw my head back, drinking in the fresh cold rain. Dave's hand comes to rest on my straining cock, his rough fingers firm as he encircles the shaft. Up until only the plum glans remains inside me.

Down. Dave pulls, sending liquid fire through my body, weakening me. Thunder claps in the distance, closer than the first time. I'm full again, completed by Dave's manhood.

Up. Dave's grasping fingers travel down so that I'm fucking his hand. He pinches my left nipple with his free hand, drawing my down to bite at my lips, to snake his hot tongue into my mouth.

Up. My ass is singing with the rain. I breathe into Dave, he breathes into me.

Suddenly Dave interrupts with a thrust. Poised as I am, the head of his cock hits my prostate squarely, jogging my breath.

"Oh!" I gasp, shuddering.

Dave grips my hips squarely to thrust again, harder. I grip his wet shoulder, locking my elbow in a desperate attempt to stay upright.

"You like that?" he growls, building a steady rhythm.

I nod frantically. "Yes, yes, I like your cock," I reply, gripping my own in a tight fist. Yes, fuck me like that. Punish me from within, whip me to ecstasy.

Dave increases to battle speed. "You like it inside you? You like it fucking you?" His hips fling me skyward. Liquid drops fly from my hair as I rise like a bird, then fall as a stone onto the sharp pain-pleasure of his shaft. I'm nothing against the battering ram of his cock, a flimsy ship in a sea of shared hedonist delights.

"Fuck yes. Fuck me harder." I swallow, tasting sweat, tasting rain. "Fuck me."

Dave hammers into me. "Like that?" he demands, squeezing my buttocks brutally. "You want me to fuck you like that?" Our bodies are so hot, unaffected by the cold downpour of rain. My vision blurs with lust. My chest is full of it. I'm going to burst. I'm going to crack, to shiver into little pieces and scatter across the balcony to be blown away in the wind. The dick inside me is a rampaging warrior, subduing every cell of my body, flogging me to race after orgasm with clutching fingers.

"That's it. Fuck my hole" I hump feverishly back against him, aching to come. My sack slaps against Dave's furry abdomen; the thwack is swallowed by the sound of raindrops on my burning skin.

"Work that hungry ass," he commands huskily. He slaps me, and the rain intensifies the sting. "Get that cum."

I want it. I grip Dave's shoulder tightly; my fist flies back and forth over my cock, I tighten my muscles, tensing in preparation for the ultimate release. "Fuck!" I cry desperately. "Oh, fuck, I'm coming!"

"Come on, baby," Dave encourages me roughly. His fingers are bruising, his cock is a mighty jackhammer inside me, forcing the spunk from my balls, up my shaft, flying from the slit of my cockhead. The first rope hits Dave in the chin, and I gasp and then hold my breath—another bolt of electric pleasure as another shot, and another, and then Dave's coming too, filling me up, both of us convulsing in the throes of nigh unbearable rhapsody.

And then I collapse, shuddering, limp and weak on Dave's chest. For a brief moment we are lovers, bathed in the purifying deluge, my hand on Dave's fast-beating heart and his arms wrapped around me. Our chests heave in unison, exhausted by the force of our passion. It can't last, though. As our skin cools so must our heads. I push myself up and wipe at the traces of my cum in Dave's dark whiskers. I do like his beard after all.

“Oh, shit, that was good,” he says, lifting my ass so that he slips out of me.

“Forget me,” I tell him. “You’ll like me more if you know me less.” Make me more handsome in your memory and only fuck me in your dreams.

Dave watches me collect my soaked clothes from the ground. “Er, all right, then. Well, Quentin, until it rains again.”

I go down the elevator in a puddle of my own making. My sweater vest will probably shrink, but it was worth it. Maybe, Dave. When it rains again.

The Worst Days 3.2

I got distracted by my job, a dog, and a little Watching Him Back spinoff. To read part 3.1 click here, or start from the beginning. Again, thanks to Luz for sending me a copy of this lost tome.

I woke the next morning to hear Mrs. Cupps pounding on my door. "Wake up, Tamlin, honey," she called. "The seamstress will be here in half an hour!"

"Ugh," I moaned to no one. The fancy duds were on their way. I did want breakfast, however, so I levered myself out of bed and trudged downstairs for some eggs and breakfast porridge. I was even sorer today now that the bruises had their chance to settle in, and on one wrist it looked as if someone had bitten me. Maybe someone had, and I had been too high on adrenaline to notice. I hoped I didn't have rabies.

The Worst Days Ch. 3.1

Some more train wreck for you patient souls. To read the part 2.4 click here, or start from the beginning. Again, thanks to Luz for sending me a copy of this lost tome.

When I roused myself from my nap it was dusk and my stomach was growling. I hopped in the shower to loosen my sore muscles and sluice off the dried sweat. After pulling on a shirt and jeans I wandered downstairs to hear Fen talking with the woman I had heard the night before, the one who had suggested they treat me gently. I wondered if she knew what had happened in the park. Or what we had been doing afterward. I could smell something delicious cooking, so I wandered towards the kitchen.

It was a tad awkward when I shuffled into the room and found Fen and a matronly figure there, interrupting their conversation. Fen was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, and when he saw me he got a languid, smug look on his face that made me want to hit him, especially when the hum in my head turned sybaritic. I wondered how he could communicate facial expression without moving his mouth. I was going to have to learn that trick. The Nitkani woman, who looked older than my mother but spry nonetheless, stared at me with her mouth open.

"Er, hello, ma'am," I offered in Nitkan, shoving my hands in my pockets. I felt five years old under her scrutiny.

WIP

I'm working on some shit. Things will show up here soon enough.

New Ebook: The Windshield Incident Pt. 2

It is now on Smashwords here. More shit happens to Grant, because he's the kind of guy to whom shit happens. Moreover, since the nature of Grant's weird relationship with the resident bad boy is sexual, shit that happens is fucking. Guaranteed.

FYI, all Smashwords prices are set according to word count. It tells you how hard I worked, and for every dollar Smashword receives I earn fifty cents. Someday I'll be able buy myself a cup of fancy coffee.

Yes, Sir pt. 1

I know an update is long overdue, but I have been swamped like Prince Humperdinck. Nothing in real life is letting up, so blogging is on the back burner. Strange Bedfellows wallows in the mire of edits, the Windshield Incident Pt. 2 needs to be formatted and the cover made, and in the meantime I wrote a nasty little short that I will post in pieces. Now you've been updated. Bye.

Caleb walked in when I was reading the newspaper. I heard him say goodbye to Archer, but I had reckoned they were both going out the front door. Otherwise I might have put on a pair of shorts and a shirt, rather than sit there on the couch with my dick half-hanging out of my boxers. Then again, since Caleb’s footsteps stopped a full minute before I peered over the paper at him, I might not have.

“Hey, Caleb.”

He seemed to remember himself then, lifting his gaze quickly and giving me a nervous smile. “Hey, Mr. Kelly. I was just putting my glass in the kitchen.”

“All right.” I crossed my leg and turned a page. Caleb knew where everything was. The kid had practically grown up in this house, though as a long-haul driver I didn’t see much of him. My wife, Brittany, said he was a good kid. Quiet, a good friend to our rowdy son.

Caleb hadn’t moved.

Without lowering the paper I asked, “Do you need something, Caleb?”

“Uh, yes sir. I mean, no, sir.”

I really looked at him then. He was probably close to nineteen now, with a typical teenager’s lean build. Average height, with light brown hair that he parted on the side, straight nose and slightly ruddy cheeks, Caleb was the fresh-faced boy scout type who probably kept fit by mowing old ladies’ lawns. He was cute because he managed to be free of acne at his age, and had big, soulful eyes that I was just noticing because they seemed fascinated by my crotch. And just think: until two minutes ago I would have described Caleb as boring.

Watching Him Back 4.4

The first part of chapter 4 is here and 4.3 is here.

“Hey, Mom,” I say casually as I’m unloading the dishwasher, “I think Crispin’s gonna come over after prom to hang out.”

Mom looks up from the recipe book she has out on the kitchen island. "Aaron, honey, I really think you should spend more time with your friends." She speaks slowly, like she’s trying to find the right words.

"Crispin is my friend, Mom."

"I know, sweetheart, but I haven't seen Carter or LeAndre or Jay around in a long time, and with some of the trouble you’ve had at school," she replies, "the mother in me can't help but be worried."

The Windshield Incident 2 Sneak Peek

If I had free moments they would be dedicated to Strange Bedfellows, which is this close to being finished. Free moments are naught to be found this month, so instead here's some more shit that happens to Grant. If you don't know who Grant is, click here.

Screw Ryder Vance. Never in my eighteen years had anyone ever messed with my head like that. My brain had that day at the park on loop, playing in high definition clarity during quiet moments. Ryder’s voice became a dubstep beat: “Get on your knees and give me a fucking blowjob.” “Have you ever been fucked?” “Come on my cock.” Once I found myself rapping it aloud on the bus. “Give me a, give me a, give give give give gimme a fuc-king blowjob.” Good god.

The Worst Days Ch. 2.4

More of this hot mess, because I'm definitely stalling. To read the part 2.3 click here, or start from the beginning. Again, thanks to Luz for sending me a copy of this lost tome.

Fen's mouth turned up a bit more. "If I didn't know better, I would have thought you'd done that before," he sighed. Had he been feline, he would have purred. 

I snorted. "I do not consider that a compliment."

"Mm, you should," he murmured. "I can't move."

"So now would be a good time to make a run for it?" I said sarcastically.

Fen opened a grey eye at me. "You want to run around this place with a stiff dick after what you saw today? Be my guest."

The Worst Days Ch. 2.3

At risk of biasing you against reading what I'm putting on this blog (for reading), let's just say that while you read I will be offering sacrifices to the gods of Grammar, Spelling, and Turns of Phrase, for I have sinned gravely. To read the part 2.2 click here, or start from the beginning. Again, thanks to Luz for sending me a copy of this lost tome.

By the time we reached the estate I was in real pain. Adrenaline blocks out the effects of most blows while it overtakes one's brain, but when it's gone it leaves the body in a world of hurt. Fen noticed I was slow getting out of the hoverlimo.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked me.

I grimaced. "I don't think anything's broken, and I'm pretty sure I was never hit in the kidneys, but that crowd sure didn't pull its punches. I blame you for all of this."

The Worst Days 2.2

Luz emailed me a complete copy of my Worst Days series. It was my first foray into erotica, so now I look back on some parts think, That absolutely sucked. Ergo I'm rewriting it. In the meantime, here's more of the original. The first chapter is here and the 2.1 is here.

My scalp prickled, but I didn't look at him. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Lomagnians aren't the only ones who follow space hockey," he murmured, his fingers stroking the inside of my arm. "I saw the news when you disappeared, and I stalked the auctions until I found where you were being sold." His fingers tightened and dug into the space between muscles. "I don't know how White got to you before I did. I didn't even know he was into boys."

I shrugged and concentrated on reading the menu of the food stand. I've dealt with obsessed fans before, there was even a teenage girl who stole my dirty underclothes from the locker room and sent them back to me after masturbating with them (which was just plain grungy), but it's a little bit different when the fan wants to turn you into a sex slave. Creepy was only the tip of the adjective iceberg.

Bunny Ch. 22

If you haven't read part 21, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 Independence Day is a three-day-weekend, but Brandon doesn't go home. I'd like to say that he stays with me, since I volunteered to earn holiday pay at the coffee shop on Monday. It's late at night and there is a commercial for the movie Secretary. A woman crawls down a hallway with a letter in her mouth. I snort.

"It's not a bad movie," Brandon mumbles, eyes on the television. I'm sitting close to him because I let him sit down first. Our knees are touching.

I glance at him. "You've seen it?"

"It's not bad," he repeats, a little defensively. "It's more of a romance, but in kind of an artsy way. Not bad."

I am silent for a moment, contemplating every remotely sexual interaction that I've had with him. I realize that I'm the one who initiates. I kissed him first. I kissed him second. I was the one who first took his hand when we watched television together, who fell asleep on him when it got late, and who hugged him when he said something sweet. He had touched me, kissed me in return, but only after I had done so first. Any contact he initiated was in a teasing, playful way, as though daring me to go further.

I open a door. "So it's the art people telling you to free your mind and spank your partner."

Another eBook Cover: Another Filler Post

Still just a'working away. Imagine, if I hadn't had a backlog of Bunny ready for the posting, just how empty this blog would be. Or don't and play the Guess Which Story! ebook cover guessing game instead. Your hint: this story is no longer available anywhere on the web.

Strange Bedfellows is steps away from being published. So to up the stakes, and since this isn't an easy cover to match, the prize for a correct guess will be a code for one-hundred-fucking-percent off the upcoming Strange Bedfellows ebook. It would be like just giving you five bucks, except you could only buy one very specific book with that money.

The Worst Days 2.1

Luz emailed me a complete copy of my Worst Days series. It was my first foray into erotica, so now I look back on some parts like this and think, That absolutely sucked. Ergo I'm rewriting it. In the meantime, here's more of the original. The first part is here.

The next day. The morning after. Ah, how can I describe it? I woke up feeling refreshed, I yawned and stretched and scratched my chest, then remembered why I was still naked and had a raw throat and giant eye buggers. I groaned.

Fan Art?

I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure this is a fake cover for one of my stories, given that one of my old handles is smack dab in the middle of the page.  My best guess: language=Russian; story=Bunny.

Not bad, mystery artist. I did not realize people did this with my characters. 

The Windshield Incident Pt. 1

Sometimes procrastination is the mother of productivity. Tucker Jones was born when I was in the middle of The Worst Days. The vitriolic pair in the My Neighbor series moved in between Bunny chapters 1 and 2. Most recently, as I struggle[d] to a) write the last part of the Strange Bedfellows collection that the aforementioned neighbor series became, and b) connect the plot points for Watching Him Back Ch. Billion I had a stroke of inspiration.

Watching Him Back 4.3

Brought to you by Saturday's winner, Luz.

For the second time in one day I have Crispin's hard cock in my hand. Crispin's breath mingles with mine, blowing hot over my neck. His hand is wrapped tightly around my dick, moving in time with my hand on his.

An eBook Cover: A Filler Post

I'll give you three guesses as to which story fits with which this [potential] ebook cover. Your hint is: It belongs to a finished story and is a complete softball, due to hair.

For funzies, the first person to guess correctly gets to chose what story gets posted/updated next. Let the filler games begin while I try to write something.

The Roommate Is Now an eBook

I had forgotten how close I was to finishing this short story until I was procrastinating on Strange Bedfellows. Now it's available as an ebook on Smashwords. There's a coupon at the end of it for anyone who doesn't have MMM already in their library.

If you've ever wondered, the hardest parts to write are the sex scenes. There are only so many ways I can describe two men fucking without it getting ridiculous. Strange Bedfellows will be out…in the middle of this month, as promised. Watching Him back will be finished…later. Sandalwood will show up…later.

By the way, for anyone who already downloaded MMM, there's now a coupon at the end [of the updated version] for forty percent off Lance Oliver Jordan, just to say thanks for reading. Despite my curmudgeonly ways, I really do appreciate you.

Strange Bedfellows in Progress

This is a preview of the new fourth section in Strange Bedfellows. The sections get longer as the relationship between the characters develops, but the early appeal of the first two chapters was in their "quick wank" nature—it was sex with a little bit of plot and character around the edges. Later sections were full of exposition and yammering and trying to avoid giving the hot neighbor a name. If I wrote this chapter right, this is a happy medium between the sexy sexy and the talkie talkie.

Guess What I Found

This is all I have.
I don't exaggerate or withhold—the old USB from whence this came contained this, and only this, chapter among college essays and drafts of résumés. Maybe some old timer on the Lit forums has a copy of the rest, but I don't. I'm just letting you know, is all, that there is no more after this. 

The Worst Days Ch. 01

Not every bad day starts out with a sign. What turned out to be the ruination of life as I knew it started beautifully. I was getting married. Unlike other grooms who are about to take the leap into married life, I had no second thoughts about the woman with whom I shared a soul. I could feel her heart beating when I breathed, and she anticipated my every thought. Our love was a blessed one, and no one doubted it. Juniper was the loveliest woman I had ever known, and had a wit that could cut a man to ribbons if she chose (which she never did), and was smarter than I'll ever be. She was also sweet, and though she liked to pretend she was just another violent, angry soldier, her natural kindness gave her away. She was good for me, and she knew it. Juniper gave me the freedom to feel.

She and I had decided to get married before she was sent to war; I think we were both so eager to finally taste the marital pleasures we'd been teased about since we started dating that we simply couldn't wait. Who wants to abstain until the war is won? Nobody. Juniper teased me constantly that as an athlete I had to have picked up some sort of disease from my groupies even if I was still a virgin in every sense of the word. Hah. Groupies can't compare to Juniper. And when this day was over I would be a virgin no longer. Finally. The wait was worth it, but by His Majesty's back hair it was hard.

We had decided on an outdoor wedding, to enjoy the last of our sweet green turf before it turned brown with autumn. It was also a subtle thumbing of our noses to the Nitkani forces who happened to be in the process of invading our country. Juniper's idea, of course. Who cares if you could annihilate our city within minutes, Nitkistan? We're gonna get married in style.

The day was perfect for our wedding. My whole raucous family was there, even those from the East Coast, and Juniper's clan (she called them her tribe. There were a lot of them) had managed to match all their clothing to the red and violet flowers Juniper had picked out to decorate the benches and altar. The sky was bluer than a jay and the clouds were far away and white. To my love-drunk mind even the forest that surrounded the clearing of my back yard looked benevolent in its green finery. Juniper was resplendent, radiant, beautiful beyond my capability to describe. Her mahogany hair fell loose around her face, her deep brown eyes sparkled at me, telling me how excited her was to see me on the way up to the alter. Her smile, pearlescent in the bright daylight, was turned up slightly higher on one side, teasing me; I think she knew I almost teared up at the site of her. My bride. My wife.

My foot was on the step onto the wedding platform when the first of the gunfire was heard. We all hit the ground, and I pulled Juniper underneath me with little regard for the silk dress that clung so gracefully to her. The sound of helicopters was a low drone in the distance, growing ever louder.

Bunny Ch. 21

If you haven't read part 20, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

What helps is the knowledge that there is someone else who will be affected by my moroseness is myself. Not since before Mr. Hale has anything I've felt had impact on those around me. It brings a great sense of responsibility that spurs me to, as Brandon puts it, "get out of the funk." The first week away from Mr. Hale is retrospectively humiliating. I shudder to remember how I moped and lay around, wondering what on earth had made me think I was capable of autonomy.

"The dumbbells are working," Brandon announces as he walks through the door.

Bunny Ch. 20

If you haven't read part 19, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

It's Sunday. The library is closed. I'm clearing tables at the coffee shop when then hair on the back of my neck rises. My hands pause before I think—the lunch rush demands that I collect dishes and wipe tables in haste—and I look out the window. I tell myself that not every black limousine in the city belongs to Mr. Hale. Despite this, my fingers fumble the cups and saucers and my heart rate increases.

It might not be him. It isn't him.It can't be him.

I push my cart full of dirty dishes to the kitchen and start loading the dishwasher. My hands are shaking so badly that I drop three plates in a row. The third shatters on the floor, pieces skittering across the tile. It's quite metaphoric, I think.

Carrie's concerned face appears in my peripheral vision. I turn my head.

"Y'alright?" she asks.

"Fine, sorry," I say, swallowing the bile that rises with the word. "I'll clean it up."

I volunteer for dishwasher duty during lunch rush. I'm considered an odd bird for wanting to be up to my elbows in dirty dishes, but no one complains.

Upcoming eBook, Current Free eBook

I'm working on editing and formatting the My Neighbor series as an ebook entitled Strange Bedfellows. Included will be the four chapters (currently available on sites that you can't reach from behind a firewall), updated and edited, plus two stories that fell by the wayside back when that damn Bunny character started hogging my writing time. The first new part is set between the third and fourth chapters, when Andrew makes his first major blunder in the relationship. He's not the type to apologize with any semblance of sincerity, so that's going to be fun to write. In the second new installment Andrew is finally bullied into introducing his neighbor to his parents, which may prove to be the final straw for them both. There’s also fucking because that’s what you like.

The finished product will be somewhere around novella length, and will be available sometime in April. In the meantime, I put MMM: Man, Man, Motherfucker up on Smashwords just to test how the whole thing works. While I’m no artist, I do have a DIY spirit and so tried my hand at a couple of book covers.

Iron Rice Fox Ch. 1 d

If you forgot what happened in the last part, click here. Or click here to start from the beginning.

The sounds of the night began as Yuki’s body cooled. He ached to sit down or stretch his legs.

A low-pitched noise sounded at the edge of the forest. Yuki held his breath and wished he could see. The fox circled him.

“Do they think I am so stupid that I cannot differentiate between male and female?” the Fox growled.

“No, Master.” Yuki’s heart threatened to jump from his chest.

The Fox breathed loudly in Yuki’s ear, ruffling his hair and warming the cloth wrapped around his face. “You lie.”

Yuki said nothing but willed his breathing to remain even. When would he die?

“You smell like my son,” the Fox commented.

“Yes, Master.” Yukie supposed that was true enough, given the time Koh had spent with him.

The great beast resumed his pacing. “He told I’d kill you, then.”

Watching Him Back 4.2

The first part of the fourth installment is here.

“Crispin.” There’s a tiny person to my right, tugging on him. “Let’s go.” The boy gives the last word two syllables.

Crispin and I untangle ourselves swiftly and I wipe my face.

“Sorry, this is my little brother. Quentin,” he crouches to look the boy in the eye, “say hello to my friend Aaron.”

Quentin and I shake hands. “Were you crying?” he asks suspiciously.

Bunny Ch. 19

If you haven't read part 18, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

I had expected to feel lighter as I walked away, unburdened, carefree, but instead it is as though the sun had dimmed. My heart hurts, my chest hurts, my head hurts, and my eyes are stinging.

Iron Rice Fox Ch. 1 c

If you forgot what happened in the last part, click here. Or click here to start from the beginning.

Within a week the argument had turned from Yuki's health and safety to his attire. He shivered in the center of the bedroom with his arms spread while Auntie adjusted an old kimono around his shoulders. Mother clung to a bright white silk gown.

“Dear Father,” she argued gently, “what will Yumi wear for her wedding?”

Bunny Ch. 18

If you haven't read part 17, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

My fantasies usually involved a huge confrontation with Mr. Hale. I would yell, he would bluster and flush in shame of the searing truths I would hurl at him, and I would slam the door so forcefully that the frame would crack. Sometimes the fantasies involved him attacking me in indignant rage, and the subsequent use of combat skills that in reality I did not possess. The household staff would watch and be ashamed that they had never thought to help me, and would resign posthaste. The fantasies never went any further—I never had any clues as to what I could possibly be doing without Mr. Hale.

On Friday I tell my boss that I will not be in the following Tuesday, because I will be moving. She sighs, attempts to make me feel guilty, and then admits that they'll survive without me. On Tuesday, instead of going to the library, I go through the whole house, finding every item that I can claim as mine alone (it is unsurprisingly little, mostly mementos of my parents) and stuff it into a backpack. I grab the suitcase that was given to me for my high school "graduation" (from one of Mr. Hale's business associates) and stuff clothes into it. I resist the urge to feel guilty for taking that which I did not buy. I may not have paid using legal tender, but I earned them nonetheless.

I wait, because I will not be a coward.

Bunny Ch. 17

If you haven't read part 16, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 It is Brandon, whether wittingly or unwittingly, who pushes my life from strained static and dooms me to climax and release. We have been spending my work hour together for months now; I am sure that the only reason that the head librarian resists interrupting is because she pities me. With Brandon I have a cheerful enough disposition to be grateful for my obvious social awkwardness.

I am laughing under my breath and shushing Brandon as he follows me around the library, reading aloud passages from an abhorrently bad romance novel. It's the kind whose covers feature bared chests, spilling cleavage, and embossed titles such as, "The Noble Bandit," or "His Secret Baby." He's supposed to be reading from the book Mr. Hale picked out, L'Étranger, but was distracted by the paperbacks I re-shelved earlier. Brandon is torturing me with a poorly written paragraph about itchy palms, perky breasts, and instant erections. To shut him up I hiss, "I am convinced that you like this stuff."

Bunny Ch. 16

If you haven't read part 15, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

Climax: the tension that pulls and pulls until one feels so stretched that a dénouement must be over the horizon, one begs for release from traction with every breath and thought—is it any wonder that we apply the word to the moment of sexual release? The terrible difference between the climax of my private life and the one to which Mr. Hale approaches as he twists and pummels and thrusts, is that the sexual climax is one towards which we strive. It is a goal to reach that ultimate dizzying height; we may prolong and tease and create tension, but never do we intend altogether to deny ourselves orgasm's consuming ecstasy.

Bunny Ch. 15

If you haven't read part 14, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.

 Rebuilding a relationship after a stumbling block like the one placed in Brandon's and my path (my mind rejects everything but cryptic phrases such as "what happened," or "the incident") is, I find, a slow process. I want to go back to our old camaraderie immediately, to be able to laugh without caution or the need for a quick glance to ensure Brandon's shared mirth.

Going home to Mr. Hale helps nothing.