Something I read at a Salon recently...

He had that menacing glint in his eyes again. That flash of sheer predatory volition that spoke of determined, sadistic carnality. He approached the bed, looking down on her with ill veiled disdain and contempt. This would not be sweet. It would not be tender and gentle. This was sex at its most base. The unambiguous, unequivocally explicit, raw and unquestionable authority, control, and proprietorship of one being over another. And at that moment he wanted nothing more than the certain exquisite pleasure of driving into her body and obliterating her soul.

His tongue snaked out from behind a growing snarl, as if he were merely working on an ornery chore rather than staring at a bound and captive human.

"I've waited long enough for this. This is the end of your torment of me, girl."

With every word he drew closer still, like an errant child mesmerized by an open flame. And open she was. For him. He smoothed a hand up the back of her leg, squeezing painfully. He could feel her muscles tense beneath his pressure, but she didn't flinch or cry out. His hand continued it's baleful path, pinching and squeezing ruthlessly as it ascended, until he reached the cleft and swell of her ass. He could feel the heat seeping from inside her. Life heat, pulse, energy. And she would need it all tonight.

He leaned down so that his lips barely brushed her earlobe. He knew his breath was warm and crisp as he nosed strands of her hair from her face when she turned to him. She huffed once as she felt his fingers caress their way inside her, surely the only gentility she would receive from this monster. But she refused to react. He would not see her fear or her passion. She glared at him, hoping all the hate she felt radiated through that stare. He merely leered back before licking the shell of her ear, the act sending tiny but unfloutable fissures of pleasure through both of them.

He stiffened, realizing too late that his subconscious had betrayed him. Done with the preliminaries, he wrenched from her warm, moist openings, ripping the gusset of her panties along the way. He climbed onto the bed then, noticing the little tattoo of a hammer and anvil exploding matter on her left shoulder blade with a slight awe he had no desire to foster at the moment.

He leaned forward, propping himself by his arms on either side of her head and distributing his weight across her back, he squared his hips into her cupped and upturned hands, bound at the small of her back, enjoying the way they instinctively molded to the distended fly of his trousers.

"I knew from the moment I saw you you needed it, Whore. And I'm gonna give it to you. Now pull me out."

She could hear the cruel laughter in his voice as he made no effort to make her task easier. In fact, her movements only enflamed him further, her ass and thighs innocent of their otherwise sensuous undulation beneath him. Sweat broke out across her back as he huffed and tried to contain his reaction to her unknowing movements. To break the tension and torment her a bit more, he pressed down on her back, leaning in and licking a patch of the slick sheen gathered at the base of her neck. She froze, the first sign of a reaction, and he reveled in the way her hands involuntarily clenched, released, and clenched again. He smiled as his teeth scraped over the area he'd just licked; a small victory.

"The longer you take, slut, the longer this lasts."

Her hands scrambled and scraped around his belt buckle, finally unclasping the slightly ornate rounded square and pulling it free of itself. She fumbled with the button of his pants and as her fingers found purchase on the zipper, he lifted slightly off her, pulling away for a much needed respite from her touch. The little minx really had no idea her guileless movements were that of someone well versed in the pleasures of the flesh. She was just doing as she was told, whatever he wished to get this night over with. But in his mind at least, it would never be over for them...

Untitled

You are an illusion
a fallacy made up
in my mind
to offer freely
the comfort and certainty
no one else can
or will.

In the storm,
you cover me.
In the dark,
you guide me.
In the wind of defeat,
you brace me.

I am nothing
without you,
because I am
You.

Surrender the Chase

That plain gold ring
Is like a burden on your finger
But with a heart as black as night
How can you claim love her, too?

Apply a little pressure
Take time to realize
Where do we go from here
When you don't know my name?

Even now, as you whisper
Winsome words worth wonders
Can you say you know
you really love a woman?

You're all I need
If you would try and
See things my way
But that'd be asking for
The moon and the sky

I don't wanna be
Your soldier of love
In this vacancy of a
Silent house
Gimmie shelter or at least
Release therapy

You talk that talk
But can you walk the line
You know, the one between my heart
And... hers?

She me and he
We three agree,
But we lack harmony.

Discord in this chord
Broken beaten scarred
But I'll never give up on
My apocalypse
Dripping down your fingertips

All of my love could
Be that easy if you would just
Sayso
But in my dreams
I keep falling through
The space between to
Stay or leave

I know my world is not enough,
But let me give it to you,
Make it good.
You have my devotion
In these arms of mine
Even after tonight

But because that
Pretty little thing
Has your pretty little heart,
I tell myself I'm not in love

When the naked truth is
This is just artificial breathing
Meant to fuck with your head
While angels teach u a lesson

But come closer
I'll tell you a secret
This me, I'm not is
Somewhat damaged
And in need of a fixxxer

In your eyes I see the
Spectrum of how I let you down
By letting more than words linger
Like a star in the distance

I'm so dazed and confused
Do I shut her down or
Save me

I mean the hand that feeds
Leaves scars as you
Kiss me when I wake up,
And I do not want this

I'm broken between the lines
Of this love song
Abnormally attracted to sin
And bleeding me into
Azure autumn leaves

Wishing I was the
Chosen one
In your beautiful world
Making time stand still for
The both of us.

New, fanfic-y thing that is as yet untitled

Hello, hello again. Shaboom shaboom. So I'm back with a new... whatever this is I think I'm doing. A new, slow-starting piece that I'm pretty sure will be a cheesey piece of fanfic by the end of it. Meh. Such is life. So here goes hoping I don't offend, fuck shit up or make the true fangirls/fanboys mad...
~~~***~~~

Solange Lloyd sang into the broom handle, not caring who heard. She was home alone, anyway, and on a Saturday night at that. Her neighbors were probably all out. Being somewhat introverted, no matter how good she got at hiding it, had stunted her social life. So she stuck to singing as she swept up in her tiny coffehouse, just a few minutes after closing. The rest of her night would consist of getting in some time on the boards before she took a few hours to practice her instruments. That's what she had planned, at least.

Her voice faltered in the near dim light as she looked up to see a very tall figure at the storefront window. Her cheeks tingled crimson as her vision adjusted to the shadowed reflections on the inside and the night cloaked reality outside.

"Can I help you, sir?" Solé walked closer to the window, praying he hadn't seen or heard her personal concert. She thought she had an okay voice, but was certain she'd not be in the top 8 of American Idol in this lifetime, regardless what her close knit circle said.

"You have a lovely voice," the man purred. His voice sounded so close, deep and rich and clear, even given the thickness of the shatter-resistant glass, as if he were just beside her sharing the quiet of her little Chestnut Hill corner.

"Uh-hoh, you saw that...," she trailed off, her voice a nervous laugh.

"Yes, I did." He smiled at her then, and Solé felt her heart tumble into her stomach. He seemed aware of his effect on her, and mercifully continued. "I was hoping you could tell me where I could find South Broad Street, my driver seems a bit," he paused, his brow furrowing as if trying to find the right word, "...new."

It was at the mention of a driver that Solé thought to get a good look at something other than his face. He was, in her opinion at least, the best example of 'tall, dark, and handsome'. She couldn't venture a precise guess at his height, but he seemed to dwarf her 5'6" frame. His slightly long dark hair was slicked back and he was elegantly dressed, which made her wonder what was on Broad Street that he was going to. His cerulean gaze narrowed as she blatantly appraised him from the other side of the window before belatedly remembering herself.

"Sorry, so sorry. Didn't mean to stare," Solé blurted as she set her broom aside and unlocked the door to him.

He had the nerve to smile knowingly at her as she stepped aside to let him in, which made him more appealing, if that were possible. More appealing in a dangerous way. 'Dangerous to my battery stock,' she thought to herself. He made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a snort of derision, as if he'd heard her.

"If you've got a minute I can write down directions. Please, come in."

"Thank you. That would be very generous."

Solé shut the door behind him as he walked a few feet past her, leaving a thin veil of designer cologne in his wake. She turned to the bar and leaned forward to hop up and grab some paper and a pen. She settled her feet back on the floor, blowing at a few loose strands of her hair as she wrote out a list of directions. When she was done, she turned to find him looking at her oddly which made her realize how she must look: ratty Spider Man Chucks, black tights, an oversized green sweatshirt hanging from one shoulder and covered by a Holy Star Trinity (-Gate, Trek, Wars) apron and her hair in a complete shitshow of disarray. Figured she'd be looking like Cinderella's understudy when in the presence of another grown up of exceeding aesthetic proclivity. 'Dah well,' she thought to herself again. 'He's out of my league anyway'.

"Okay, here ya go, directions to South Broad. Not sure if you'll need to park, but there's plenty of lots and street space if you do."

He smiled again and took the paper from her, their fingers grazing just slightly with a tinge of static electricity. He read through the directions before he spoke again.

"'Solé's Little Coffee Shop'. Cute. So you must be Solé?"

Solange nodded and blushed, so transfixed by his elegance that she didn't realize until she looked away from him and down at her feet that she was backpedaling as he advanced, slowly crowding her into the bar. There must have been fear in her eyes when their gazes met again, as he stopped, a sheepish grin on his face that allayed suspicion. He gave a slight bow, something that seemed an out of place action for him, stepped back and reached for her right hand.

"Good lady, thank you for your assistance, it is much appreciated."

His fingertips were cool where they rested beneath her palm. He lifted her hand to his lips, tilting down slightly and placing a delicate kiss to her knuckles. Solange don't know how she stayed upright or kept her hands to herself. His lips were so soft and warm, and all she wanted to do was shove her fingers through his hair to see and hear him moan as her fingertips caressed his scalp. His hair looked like warm espresso, and she now had an urgent need to know if the strands would pour as easily over her fingers.

He straightened, returning her arm and hand, with that odd look again that she was starting to find not so troubling. His smile took its time appearing, and Solé knew she'd have no trouble finding inspiration tonight.

He took a step back and she realized she knew nothing about this seemingly refined and sophisticated stranger she had let into her bar so late. Not even a name. She found herself trying to guess at one as she smiled graciously herself and accepted his thanks. Judging by his accent, cadence and vocabulary, he probably didn't have a name that smoothly followed 'oh, god, fuck me', like Trent or Mark.

He seemed to be reading her thoughts again, and she had to wonder if she had said any of that last bit out loud. His voice, now slightly more upbeat than necessary, broke her from her thoughts.

"Well, I should get going if we wish to arrive on time. Thank you again, Solange."

He stepped back and let her pass to open the door. As he crossed the threshold, he turned back and gave a slight nod, with the hint of a knowing glance and telling smile, before pulling the door closed and telling her to lock up against the dangers of nighttime in Philadelphia. Then he strolled over to the open car door and got in. Solé watched and sighed as the taillights disappeared down the street. A few awkward and bittersweet moments and back to being a pumpkin.

"Story of my life," she shrugged as she took broom in hand again and began singing the Leeann Womack tune. "Insanely hot dude stops for directions and of course, he's probably got some trophy waiting for him in the car. Asi es la vida, Mama."

She took no notice of the fact that he used her full name without her having mentioned it, or the faint cerulean-green orbs seemingly watching her from just beyond the farthest window...

See, the thing is...

And the reason I don't attend parties: because I only know one person there, and I'm socially awkward in a most pervasive way. Introverts usually don't do small talk with strangers. That and I always feel like even the wait staff are "better than" me. Frowntown.

Also, since my mom passed, I've realized that on my own I'm not as fantastic and charismatic as she was. People don't gravitate towards me much unless we're kindred spirits. So I'm even more of a tumbleweed. But I'm a fierce and fabulous tumbleweed, dammit!

Just had to get that out.

*A bit of something I wrote a few years ago in the dark ages...*

'Do you know what they do to you in foster homes?'

My mother would ask me this those times I had pushed her to

her limit.

When my antics were too much.

When I

couldn't seem to

straighten up and fly right.

I would stare back through brown-black gaze

Defiant

Because I knew

she

loved

me

too

much.

But you...

In my heart,

In my heart I wanted to SCREAM

'DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DO TO ME IN THIS HOUSE?!?'

Not out of anger or blame

but desperation.

Because I knew she would make it right.

I know she would have whooped yo' ass and

damn near strangled the life out of you

Not out of anger or blame, but because...

just because.

I'm her baby girl.

I never told,

So at least on this side,

your secret was safe.

But you...

You who had a hand in my spirit's demise

My subjugation,

an

emotional, mental, physical repeated rape

of innocence.

"Like robbin' a liquor store."

Or how you kept the fact that

you'd already negated whispered promises

secret for so long.

You sly dog.

'Trust me', 'Don't tell', 'I'm (not) your father', 'I'd kill for my baby sister'

Funny.

By kill you must have been referring to

my hope,

Because you have yet to keep

the one promise I hold you to.

The clock is ticking...

tick... tick... tick...

And as every year comes and goes,

so my disappointment grows.

Make it a deed of spite

if that makes it easy.

But you...

You showed up that night

Snake smile slick

eyes pissing crocodile tears

Breath reeking of your new woman.

Did you think after so much time I'd

forget?

Like mother, like daughter?

No, that's your other women dearheart.

I told my story once,

and was asked,

"How come you grew up so... normal?"

Hmm... define normal.

Bottom line?

I spent a lifetime seeking supplication

from a withered stream

A surname with a long line of...

fidelity issues.

'Oooh, girl! Dis is A, and B, and C...'

Four fathers

Two husbands?

Ready to break your body over his,

But not your soul?

Wait. I get it now

It ain't trickin' if you can get it

Don't really matter how.

But how could we be so close when we're so...

different

Night and day, day and night

'I love you, I'm here for you, Mom told me to look out for you'

Shame about that last one.

So many bright sunny days

eluded the porchswing of my soul to

I hope

give someone worse off than me

a moment of joy.

(Mama said no suffering is in vain.)

But I needed you

Needed you to

Fight for me
Kill for me

Have my back

like I had yours

when and after my world collapsed.

My bad. Guess I asked too much.

Integrity and loyalty are

out this year, and

I know how you're always

'On to the next one,

On to the next one...'

Please believe me,

I would be too

if your

iron spiked fists

of words and actions

lies and neglect

silence and sustained solitude
hadn't left shards

of your

broken glass soul
in my heart.

But you...

I still love you

Even though you've none for me.

So I'll just shuffle along.

Off to my little corner,

just someone you used too...

Another bastard stepchild orphan.

The 8:27 - Chapter 1

*So I started working on this piece a few months ago. It is indeed inspired by some... slightly indulged true events, as most of my stories are. This is part/chapter/installment or whatever one. There will be more, as the muse visits me. But for now, enjoy!*

I catch the last rush hour train in to work every day.  It’s become sort of a ritual.  Not that I’m always late, or a certified procrastinator, not at all.  It’s just that in the mornings, parting from my bed has become quite frankly loathsome.  I have this queen sized slice of heaven that is my only luxury in this life so far.  Sumptuous linens, gorgeous merlot finished cherry wood and a high profile box spring.  My own brother said Saturday mornings were like trying to pry a junkie from their dealer.  Until he himself tried it, then all bets were off.  I had to threaten him with bodily harm and embarrassment before he got up.

But that’s not all there is to my morning commute.  By the time I’m showered, appropriately dressed, have come to some tenuous truce with my hair and run back into the house at least twice for some forgotten necessity, the crowded 8:27 ‘Last Hope Express’ is literally just that if I want to keep my reputation for punctuality in check.  I’m as meticulous as I can be with my appearance out of sheer habit.  Being a geeky nerdgirl most of my life I’ve developed a pattern that has over the years been adapted to maintain the same result.  No one ever tells you growing up is shit.

But there is one silver lining to my mornings in purgatory.  On a few fortuitous occasions, I have had the pleasure of being sardine-packed flush up against the loveliest piece of man-candy on the face of the earth, at least in my opinion.  We’ve never spoken, but he’s always been kind enough to look sheepish when our eyes met after the final herd of corporate drones pressed us together, his occasionally blatant morning wood crushed into my middle.  The first time it happened, he seemed slightly embarrassed, and the second time, nearly relieved it was me.  Kind of like ‘thank god you’re fat’. 

Now, about that; I’ve been described with varyingly unique terms in regards to my proportions; soft, plump, voluptuous, billowy, curvaceous, Rubenesque, fluffy, and nearly Zaftig, because there are men out there like my Uncle Charlie who prefer women with some “good grippin’ for the rippin’”.  Nice.

Actually, getting back to my story, it is kind of nice.  The opportunity for the anonymity of being pressed up against this gorgeous man first thing in the morning, like sort of a karmic gimmie for getting out of bed.  That first contact is always startling; kind of warm and surreal.  In the winter, with the blustery cold of the outdoors and the train tunnel it’s so welcome I have often had to tamp down the intent to shuck off my heavy parka and just press up against him, skin to suit.  And he wears the nicest suits.  Gorgeous colors that compliment his lightly toasted almond tan and fluctuatingly green eyes.  Which leads me to believe he has a girlfriend.  No one that naturally attractive can be that styled.  Laws of nature.  I told you, I’m a nerdgirl. 

What’s really fascinating is that in the summer, with his jacket over his arm or hanging from his briefcase, his skin is actually quite cool.  I found this out first hand one day, when he had to make a grab for me as the train reeled to a sudden stop due to signal troubles. 

The feel of that massive hand splayed over my arm was what I can only imagine cold fusion to be like.  His grip wasn’t forceful, but he held me trapped to him nonetheless.  Pressed intimately flush against him all the way down; head to shoulder, back to chest…  I could feel his body shift as he looked down at me.  I quickly caught hold of the grab pole in front of me to get my balance and keep my weight off him.  Who wants to start their day with the chubby chick pressed sweaty up against what could only be described as fabric on sin?  I felt him chuckle behind me, a weird little thing that reminded me how much I wasn’t the benchmark of idealism.  At that point, I didn’t really care.  I was late to work.  And I couldn’t call in on account of being underground.  Fuck.

The train p.a. system warbled on and transit personnel informed us that we would be back underway in literally a few moments.  I breathed a sigh of relief as I switched hands on the pole to glance at my watch. 

“Nearly ten to. You’ll make it,” I heard him say behind me. 

You’d think people would be a bit more considerate than to just melt a girl’s panties on a delayed rush hour express train.  With his hand still on my arm and the rest of him still nearly touching the rest of me, I could only nod.  I knew if I looked back at him I would definitely lose my balance, and it looked unlikely that I could rely on the train lurching back to life as a cover. 

“Thanks,” I mumbled over my shoulder. 

In the next instant, the train did lurch back to life, barreling forward with more than its usual speed.  The motion slung me forward, collapsing my arms between my body and the pole and pulling Mr. Sin-in-Silver along with me.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to acknowledge the grunt I heard from him as we made contact, but if I did, I was fairly certain it was one of discomfort.  Minimal discomfort, as I’m sure I’m much nicer to be propelled into than a spun steel rod, but discomfort nonetheless.

When the train finally slowed, he pulled away from me, leaving me with a not so unusual tingle.  I was barely aware of someone shouting something over the din of bodies trying to make an exit as I straightened away from the grab pole.  His hand, to my alarm, slid under my short blouse sleeve and over my shoulder, squeezing gently and pressing against ‘that’ spot just above my shoulder blade. 

“Fun riding. Gotta go. Nice tat. Good morning.”  His breath was still in my ear moments after he’d gone, a mixture of the cool menthol and eucalyptus I recognized as a cough drop and the warmth I knew was body heat. 

Who the hell says good morning when they’re leaving, I wondered.  Then, ever so slowly, confusion set in.  Somewhere in those eight words was a coherent message. I stood there, in the midst of the express train, trying to figure it out.  Fun riding?  That had to be a joke.  Sort of a ‘no hard feelings’ type of thing.  The whole good morning deal pressed its way to the forefront of my mind again, and I tried unsuccessfully to shake it off.  It wasn’t until my cube mate Tara caught me puzzling that I even realized what it was. 

“Jeez, Seffie!  What the hell are you doing?  We’re gonna be late!  And I hope you have a jacket to cover the back of that shirt.”

SHIT! 

“Nice tattoo!  FUCK ME!” 

I could have sworn that was all shouted riotously in my head, but the smattering of cat calls that flew our way told me otherwise.  There was even a shout of ‘It’s gon’ be a good day, Tater!’  Some were even close enough to catch a vague glimpse of said tattoo; a hand, flexed over my left shoulder, four fingers on my collar, thumb behind, pressing into ‘that’ spot on my shoulder.  The intent was to represent someone reaching out, having my back, so to speak.  But what it more than often got confused for was someone restraining me into a rather lurid position.  And the only reason my train fantasy had seen it this morning, after nearly a year of riding the same train to nearly the same destination, was because my brain chose comfort over conformity this ridiculously warm morning and went with the tastefully fashionable, yet still not work appropriate sheer back camisole shirt set, but I forgot my blazer on the arm of the sofa. 

Shitty fuck shit.  Well, at least my day started off well.  Really well, if I’m honest.  I’d have to ask Tara if she had anything to remedy sodden undergarments when we got to the office.  Stepping off the train and into the early morning swelter, my shirt began to cling to my skin as we ran up the stairs to the street level.  And I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched…