My Latest Thrill: Vanillamom

I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to get round to giving Nilla a blow-job-in-a-post but here it is. She’s been prolific recently, with not one, not five, but eight – that’s EIGHT – story posts in the last week. Amazing. YYTMGK783W9C

It seems that the wee spanking she received is the cause. In which case, I say, go Nilla’s Boss!

What, you want the url? Okay, here it is:

http://vanillamom.wordpress.com/

My mother-in-law lent me her vibrator – a sexy piece of #5MinuteFiction

Maybe it’s because the clocks have changed. Maybe it’s because I’m not out at a glamorous soiree. Maybe it’s because I’m a shameless self-promoter (cf). Whatever the reason, I finally organised myself to take part in Leah Peterson‘s Twitter contest #5MinuteFiction. It was hosted today at the lovely web home of JM Frey and I writted some more about Christa and Miles who are rapidly turning into my favourite characters. Oh, and the challenge was to incorporate the writing prompt ‘Decade’.

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It was bad enough, Christa thought, that her mother-in-law had caught her ‘having a moment’ in the bath with a shampoo bottle. She cursed Miles for the tenth time since arriving at the hotel for inviting his mother on vacation. But this? This was something else.

Shameless self-promotion

I have a new collection of short stories called Payback, which is now available in various places.

Let me know if you like it.

Twitterotica – a #FuckMeFriday story: An angel’s #wake

This is for this week’s piece of Twitterotica to mark #FuckMeFriday (Ruby Kiddell and Aisling Weaver’s weekly writing challenge). The prompt is #wake and is justifiable. Barely.

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After a ten days on vacation with her husband and mother-in-law, Christa snapped.

“You’re taking the children and your mother on the glass-bottomed boat tour,” she told Miles. “I’m having a massage.” Wisely, he chose not to argue.

The masseuse was fully booked, so Christa decided to take a long, hot bath. She surveyed herself in the mirror as the water ran. Her hair was like straw, albeit with some fresh sun-bleached highlights, and the tan lines around her boobs were uneven. One shoulder seemed to have caught the sun more, probably while she was in the pool being piggy-in-the-middle for the boys. She ran a hand over her midriff and tutted at the bloat. The effect was emphasised by her foliage-free lady garden, the product of a different and unexpected interpretation of the words “Bikini Line” by the Scottish girl who had waxed her before the vacation. Evidently in Scotland all the women wore candy floss bikinis that required the full Brazilian. Two weeks later, it still felt unnaturally smooth. But at least the swelling had gone down.

As the water’s heat began to penetrate Christa’s bones, her mind turned back to Miles. He had been looking very fine as he left with the children. She had caught a glimpse of him in his shorts and tight-fitting surf splash top. The sunshine caught the blond hairs on his legs and arms in a halo, like the wake of an angel.

Christa sighed and leaned back in the water, the surface tickling her ears. Her hand drifted back to the smoothness of her crotch. He hadn’t changed much in the fifteen years since college, when his tall, wiry frame had first caught her attention on the tennis court. Their first time had been in the college boat club, under the tarpaulin of a rowing boat.

It was desperately uncomfortable, but somehow they had manoeuvred into a position where Miles could reach under her.

Twitterotica – a #FuckMeFriday story: Courtney caught out #court

Muse looked at me and laughed. Well, cats don’t really laugh of course, but I could tell he was laughing. I would have laughed at me too.

The risk hadn’t really occurred to me when I slipped into my favourite Coco de Mer outfit: a classic, black, plunge bra, matching knickers with built-in suspenders and fine, ten-denier stockings. It was simple really — my fifth anniversary present to Damian: his wife, gift-wrapped and waiting for him, just the way he likes me.

The apartment was clean. The living room was tidy, the dining room had places set, champagne bucket ready to be filled, and new candles firmly in place. Our meal had already been delivered by our favorite restaurant, and was sitting in the refridgerator, next to the champagne. The towel rail in the bathroom was on, heating the towels and our robes in case Damian wanted me as a soapy digestif in the jacuzzi as well as a saucy apperitif.

I have to admit, I felt pretty smug when I clicked the second cuff and lay back on the bed, my arms and legs spread wide, fastened tight to the bed’s four posters. Everything was planned. Everything was taken care of.

And then I realised I’d forgotten to put the damn cat in the pantry. Muse strolled into the bedroom and skipped up onto the bed. I tried to shoo him off, but he just looked at me, tied up as I was, and nuzzled against my head, then stalked up and down before he eventually found a nice spot next to my shoulder.

Still, I settled back to my smugness. I’d thought of almost everything.

Everything — until the phone rang. Seven rings, then the machine picked up.

“Hey baby, are you home? Pick up, why don’t you?” It was Damian. “Hey, I guess you’re in the shower or something. Well babycheeks, I’ve got a huge surprise for you. Let’s just say, I’ve got a big ticket event for you tonight. Two big tickets. Be ready at six. I’m sending a limousine to pick you up.”

And then another message, ten minutes later:

“Hey babe, what’s up? Call me back.”

And finally:

“Courtney? Court? Why aren’t you answering? What’s wrong, baby, did I do something wrong? Please call me. Also, I left my keys at home, so can you bring them?”

The noise of the intercom buzzer going, and my cellphone, and the telephone finally woke up Muse. And he strolled along the edge of the bed, chuckling, and then he jumped down, tail high, and left me.

Busy

It’s true, I’ve been busy. Not posting but busy nonetheless.

Here’s the proof:

 

It’s a short story that I decided to put on Amazon for 99cents. And as the blurb says:

Daniel can never equal his girlfriend Suzie’s wit in an argument. She always gets what she wants, including hot sex, just the way she likes it.

But not this time.

 

 

There we are. Naked commercialism. Well, the girl’s naked anyway. I think he probably is too.

I must put more naked men on my covers.

Twitterotica – A #wankwednesday story: The importance of fuck-me shoes

They are the highest heels I’ve ever bought. In the mirror, I could see my feet point down, almost vertically, so it’s impossible to tell where my calf ends and my foot begins. My toes are squashed into the end. They are hideously uncomfortable.

And yet, they make me feel as if I’m floating, as though mere contact with the ground is no longer a problem I need to deal with. I am an angel, a heavenly figure in black — no fallen angel, either. There will be no falling today. My sheer dress clings to me in the right places. My make-up is better than I’ve ever managed it before. My nails are smudge-free and my hair remains unfrizzed. All that is down to the shoes.

Story of the month: let me know which stories you liked

It’s a poll! I love polls. I may even dance if this one gets big enough. You can pick more than one story.

Story: The Maharani of Carriage O

After five months in India, you start to understand some of the rhythms of the railways–slow and incessant, and more enjoyable than you expect. Rather like tantric sex, or so Marc says, anyway. He likes to take the slow route. I’m more of a Ferrari girl. If you don’t get there quickly, you might never arrive.

This particular train was the overnight sleeper from Mumbai to Goa. After five months of temples, bazaars and trekking, I needed a change of pace: some relaxing beach time, a few massages, sunbathing, maybe a little bit of shopping in the market. Marc wanted to go to a full moon party, stay up all night, take something illegal, and then meditate his way down.

The trains have only one pace. Getting on one is not as easy as you’d think. First, you need to find the right platform, but the signs are in Hindi. There are always porters to tell you, but honestly, why would I lug a backpack for two miles along a main road only to hand it to some guy in a red shirt who will just try to get two hundred rupees off me for carrying it upside down over a bridge? Okay, so it’s heavy. It’s lined with chicken wire, in case someone tries to slash it and get my stuff, and I’ve got my Mac makeup and a travel hair-dryer just in case I end up at some ambassador’s party or something, eating Ferrero Rocher and champagne, and flirting with the MI6 guy. There would always be one. Hopefully a Daniel Craig lookalike.

Teach me a lesson

I’ve been away for a week, meditating, considering, plotting, characterising, relaxing, travelling, steaming, chilling and various other ings.

Didn’t I tell you I was going away? How very naughty of me. I’m sure you’ll spank me. What would you like to use?

A hand? Slap. Sting. Burn.

A ruler? Thwack. Clap. Smart.

A cane? Swish. Thock. Yelp.

A whip? Fizz. Bang. Hiss.

From Coco-de-mer

So ponder, ponder and while you do, I’ll dream up something sordid.