I need to put all of the kittens back in the box before the python comes back. I grab the ginger one and it squalls and fights me as I try to save it from certain disaster. The box is flimsy and hard to hold but I manage to snag the last baby cat and clutch it to my chest. I feel the snake looking at me. I hear it’s breathing and feel a shiver of dread crawl down my back. I turn and face the wide gaping maw of death and just as I succumb to darkness I hear a distant persistent bleat. It resonates over and over. It fills my head until the dreamworld vanishes.

Damn. It’s morning. I slide my gaze around the still dark room and see fuzzy shadows. I smack blindly at my phone until silence once again fills the room. Cold clings to my bare shoulders so I huddle down into my blankets. I stretch a toe outside of my comfortable nest to test the air again. Freezing. I steel myself for the inevitable. I must get to the shower. I breathe in and envision the deliciously warm water spilling over my body and do a silent count down to spring forth from my bed.

One. Mississippi Mississippi Mississippi

Two. I take a deep breath.

Three! I throw off the covers and instead of dashing to the bathroom my phone brings to chirp merrily. I fumble for it on my nightstand and hold it really close to my face so I can see the text. Squinting, I read:

You up?

I sigh and throw the phone as far as I can away from my bed. I bought an Otterbox for a reason.

Men. I lose my mojo to race to the shower and begin to think about my weekend forays with the opposite sex. Most men are exciting for fifteen minutes on average and then their dumbness or aloofness creeps back in leaving you bewildered by the initial attraction. Bunch of damn pythons.

I had several dates over the weekend, and they were nice. Not mind blowing. One wasn’t even really memorable, but in the moment, it felt nice. Mr. “You up?” was probably the best of all my dates. He at least knew his way around a clit and kissed with excellence. I hoped we will go out on another date soon. I did like him, mostly. He had a habit of tapping his fingers on the table which was distracting and he was obsessed with talking about his job. At one point, I wasn’t sure if he was interviewing me for a position or flirting with me.

He did have lovely hands and a gorgeous smile. I scowled. My damn pussy was betraying me. I felt the familiar gnaw of want begin to grow in my belly. I threw off the blankets to see if the cold would shock me back to reality but all it did was kiss my body into alertness and leave me with stiff nipples. I stroke the soft patch of hair between my thighs and finally give in.

I roll onto my belly and snag my trusty Doxy Die Cast 3 from the floor. It looks clean enough. This thing is the sex toy of champions. I place it in the sweet spot and let the engine purr. Ahhh. If only men could be this efficient. My mind wanders around memories of past cocks and lovers. Warm bliss begins to ebb and flow through my body as I rock in time to the alluring buzzing. My phone beeps just as I finally tip over into the delightful spasm of orgasm. A stupid smile on my face spreads across my face as I flip to my back.

I greedily slide fingers over my pussy and revel in the slick heat. My throbbing clit begs me for another round. I know this could go on all day and I must get to work even though my “office” is just in the next room. Invigorated but resigned I head for the shower. My glasses crunch under my foot. I set them on my face, pick up my phone and tap a reply.

Come over for lunch?



Prompt #434: Family Heirloom


The water crept over her toes as she adjusted the tap. Anna eased her body into the tub, and the warmth lapped soothingly at her skin.

“Finally,” she muttered to the empty room. The busy evening melted into the rising bubbles and she began to tap her toes on the contrastingly cool faucet.

Anna hummed under her breath as she rewound her performance in her mind. She nailed the tricky choreography and the audience roared in appreciation. A pile of cash waited for her to count on the bed; mostly fives, but she saw a few Andrew Jackson’s peering up at her when she dumped her purse out. Fairly lucrative for doing what she loved.

Anna’s hair was still drawn up tight in the bun; a style her mother taught her how to create. It made for easy wig changes now, but it was also the signature of a well schooled ballerina. She remembers squalling as her mother knotted her hair high atop her head for yet another dance lesson. Anna hated the monotony of barre work, and craved the freedom to bound like a gazelle across the floor. The repetition and exercise built her now lean and lithe body, but her heart wasn’t in the classical trappings of that style of dance.

Anna was drawn to fast and sexy choreography, which she highlighted with her ability to whirl around a bar in next to nothing. She could also grab a dollar bill with her booty cheeks, a skill the ballet prudes never taught in dance school. She felt powerful when she was in the spotlight and commanded a room like no other woman on the stage. Men fell all over themselves to get her attention. She liked the control.

A muffled thump from the bedroom made her eyes snap open and broke her reverie.

“Someone is impatient tonight,” she sang out loud enough to be heard in the other room. The thumps ceased and she chuckled. He can wait, and he will be punished for shortening her tub time. She fiddled the tub drain open with her toes and rose out of the now lukewarm water. She wrapped herself in a huge fluffy towel and peered into the partially steamed mirror. Her lipstick needed touching up but she was otherwise refreshed by a quick swipe of powder. She tucked the dainty aged bobby-pin that ended in a jeweled star back into her bun.

“Momma’s little super star,” she laughed at the mirror. Her mother always said that the pin would bring her luck on the stage. Her mother had worn it during her years as a principal dancer. It was now Anna’s turn to live her dream and reach for her own kind of fame. The thrill of being the center of attention was no less even with an adoring audience of one. She slipped out of the towel and slid on a long black satin robe and cherry red stilettos. She considered his punishment. She chose a slender cane from her wall of tools and strode into the bedroom. Her grin lit up the room. Showtime.

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FOWC with Fandango — Deviate

FOWC with Fandango — Deviate

9/22/2020 Deviate

The styrofoam container of mashed potatoes slump out of the bag as I extract tonight’s dinner from my cluttered arms. I holler up the stairs at my teens and husband who have all been working from home all day. I survey the damage as I deposit milk in the fridge and my briefcase next to the couch. The sink is full. The counter is cluttered with remnants of brownie baking, colored pencils, and what looks like science notecards. The cats are unfed and squalling around my ankles. Upstairs remains silent. They probably all have on headphones. I walk to get the cat food from under the counter and feel the crunch of a thousand Cheerios underfoot. It’s not really a thousand but there’s enough to be noticeable by the naked eye. I glare at the highly visible broom.

“And miles to go before I sleep,” I mutter under my breath as I deftly begin the simple chores. I tackle the dishes and clutter with gusto. I’ve almost returned our square of paradise back to the default setting, when my family thunders downstairs. Plates fly to the table and the world is filled with delightful chatter. The drive through meal is consumed in a flash and soon, dishes are back in the sink and the tornado returns to the upper realms of the house.

I wipe the table and sigh as I move towards the newly dirtied dishes. My reflection startles me in the window, haggard and weary. Sunlight dances across my backyard and the trees beckon me with their leafy arms. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. Literally. They are lovely. I open the back door and leave the monotony of my everyday drudgery. I kick off my shoes and tuck my socks inside. The grass welcomes my toes and I find a plush spot in the middle of the yard.

The world slows and stills as I’m lulled to sleep by the birds and breeze.

“Seriously, Mom?!

I open my eyes to see my children peering down at me. I have promises to keep.

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#FantasySmutFridays: A Matter of Taste

#FantasySmutFridays: A Matter of Taste

I nibbled the end of my pen and gazed out the open window. A haze clung to the dewy grass. The world beyond my yard seemed out of focus. The crisp air coaxed goosebumps to rise on my bare thighs and I picked up my coffee cup, welcoming the warmth.

I doodled on the yellow legal pad as I sipped my morning muse trying to stitch together words and images to find a story. Something other people would like, something that might make them smile. I enjoyed the thought of readers peeking inside my brain and seeing the dirty nonsense that rolls through my head like ticker tape and recognizing a tawdry part of themselves. But nothing really excited me this morning.

My pen began to sputter ink and I scribbled it one last time in the hopes of revival but the well used tool had eked out its last line. I flipped it toward the trash can and heard it miss the mark and clatter to the floor. My feline army immediately went to investigate. They determined that there wasn’t a threat and then began their morning request for treats and food. I filled their bowls and gave both of them a scritch on the head before taking on a quest for a new pen.

I opened the first junk drawer and had to jiggle it a bit to settle the contents. I shoved through packs of crayons, Sharpies, spools of thread, a flashlight, batteries, junk mail, and the bits of life that don’t really fit anywhere but in this drawer. Finally, smooshed in the back of the drawer was another ink pen, but laying innocently next to it, was one of my leather collars. I pulled both things out of the drawer.

I loved this collar and remembered how it ended up downstairs. Sir had brought me downstairs for a saucer of milk. My leash was wound taut in his fist as he allowed me to raise and lower my head to lap up the drink. I spilled the creamy goodness on the floor and remembered the faint taste of floor polish as he made me clean my mess. That was a very good session and we ended up sweaty and tangled on the couch. Afterwards, he put up the leash and in my post-orgasmic stupor, I shoved the collar in the drawer before scampering up the stairs to plead my case for a round two.

I was alone this morning. I stuck my pen in my mouth as I fastened the collar around my throat. The bell merrily jingled as I shimmied my shoulders. I admired my reflection in the microwave door and decided that since the cats had morning treats then the Kitten needed a treat as well. I spat my pen towards my legal pad and pulled my saucer from the cupboard. It made my stomach twist in anticipation. I am a Kitten. I am a Kitten. I asked Alexa to play my theme song by Momus and began to wiggle dance to the loud music as I prepared my treat. I didn’t want the actual felines to put their noses in my drink so I set up on the kitchen island. I dragged over a chair so I could hop up on the counter.

I began to lap up the milk. Each flick of my tongue made a gush of delightful comfort trickle down my throat. My nipples grew pert beneath my thin white tank top and I lowered my shoulders to drink so that my tits would brush to cool granite. The carnal satisfaction of lapping and licking made warmth spread all over my body. I closed my eyes as I lapped to the rhythm of the happy music. This was way better than writing. My butt was bobbing. I am a Kitten. I am a Kitten. The familiar roaring ache of sexual need began to consume me. My tongue ravaged the innocent saucer until it was dry. The music abruptly stopped.

I startled and scrambled around. His deep voice rumbled across the room.

“Hi Kitten.”

Eye of the Beholder

Eye of the Beholder

His hand rests on the curve of my hip as we shuffle our way around the makeshift dance floor.  Couples cling to each other in the dim light, swaying to the swell of soft music. Muffled whispers of love flame passions and promises.  My companion’s face is inches from mine. However, I can tell he is detached from our connection. His eyes scan the room behind me looking for his next dancing partner.

I can’t blame him. I knew he didn’t fancy me when he asked me to dance.  I was conveniently standing by him when the music started, and I think he took pity on me.  I’m sure I look a fright. My wild nest of auburn curls doesn’t reflect the modern sleek style, and I’m sure my lipstick has faded.  A loose curl escapes from the pins, and I blow it out of my eyes. Our bodies move together, but he winces slightly as I step on his toe…again.  I’ve never been a graceful gazelle. I liken more to a giraffe really, but I do love to dance despite my awkwardness. The music ends, and my partner tips his hat and slips into the sea of olive drab.  

A crush of people head to the barkeep before the band strikes up the next song.  I fight for a beer and retreat to the edge of the bar. My time between the munitions factory and fire service duty leaves me few nights to dance and drink.  I watch the happy dancers for a moment and smile at the beginnings of possibilities. The beer feels good going down my throat, and my body relaxes as I toss back the rest.  


A rumbly voice makes me turn around, and a tiny flame briefly illuminates a handsome face.  The faint ember of his cigarette casts a welcoming glow.

“Hello, miss. Care to join me?”  

A man in an American uniform stands and pulls out a chair.  I notice he is just a touch taller than I am. A woman my height can be intimidating, but his sparkling blue eyes hint at admiration.  He has a disarmingly charming grin, and I decide to throw caution to the wind.

“Thank you, but only for a moment.”

“Doll, you ’ve just made me the happiest man in the room.  My name is John. Captain John Byrd… P-47 pilot in the 358th fighter group, at your service, Miss ah…?”

I chuckle at his waggling eyebrows, and he looks boyishly naughty as he tips his hat.

“A pleasure, Captain Byrd.  I’m Betty Jones. I haven’t seen you in the pub prior.  Are you passing through?”

“Lovely to meet you Miss Jones.  Thank you for keeping me company.  I’m stationed here until tomorrow and then I’m off to Southampton for maneuvers and after… well… the sky’s the limit.”

Over the next few hours, we talk about important things and of nonsense.  Our world shrinks to this tiny bar table, and I find myself falling for his charms save one peculiar habit.  He keeps a satchel at his feet and glances at it when I brush a stray curl off my forehead. I keep testing my theory, and the connection is intriguing.  

My attention isn’t on the bag for long. I feel his thigh press deliciously against mine under the table. Each time we shift, he moves closer.  The Captain’s thumb brushes the back of my hand when he reaches for another cigarette, and I bite my lip to suppress a sigh. He begins to tell me tales of his flying adventures, but the words in his story start to lose meaning as the shape of his mouth muddles my thoughts.  Those generous lips encourage dirty daydreams, and his close proximity makes me want to pop off every button on his uniform until my hands can caress his naked chest.

I glance at my watch and shake myself out of wanton reverie.  

“I hate to leave good company, but I must bid you good evening, Captain Byrd.”

As I slip on my gloves, John gathers his things in a hurry and slings the satchel over his shoulder.

“Call me John.  Say… let me walk you home?  Please, doll? I could use some fresh air and we were just getting to know each other.“

“Well, I suppose, John.  If you can behave yourself.”  I’m desperate to maintain the illusion of composure, but I don’t really care if there is talk about me leaving the pub with a Yank.  My heart leaps at his suggestion. I want more time with him.

The cool night air feels nice against my cheeks as we walk towards my place.  I scrape together enough to rent a little flat above the bakery. It’s not much but the heavenly scent of bread every morning makes it feel like home.  We can hear the faint sounds of a skirmish in the distance. John’s presence makes me feel safer.

“This war has me always scanning the horizon for trouble. To be ready for anything.  But you! Sweet Miss Betty. You make me remember life here in this moment. We are alive!  The night is beautiful! You are beautiful!” John grabs me by the waist and hugs me tightly.

I laugh at his boisterousness and give him a playful push. He tips to the side and his bloody bag bumps into my leg. I have a horrible thought. What if I’m inviting a spy or a strangler to my flat for the evening?

“John?  Pardon me asking, but what’s in the satchel?”

“This? It carries my pencils and sketchbook.  I like to play artist when I’m not being chased through the skies.  Say. Will you sit for me? My fingers have been itching to capture you in my sketchbook all night.  The light in the pub was rubbish otherwise my book would be full of your face.”

I blush and touch my hair.  My curls must look like a lion’s mane from the damp night air, but his words are lovely.  

“Please, allow me the privilege of drawing you, Miss Betty.”

“Me?”  I squeaked, “I hardly think… I don’t know.  I must be a bit squiffy. Alright, why the hell not? We

only have tonight. Mine is just there. Won’t you come up?”

“Sounds like a date, doll!”

We arrive at my flat, and I’m acutely aware of John’s eyes boring into my backside as I walk up the stairs in front of him.  I put a little extra swish into my step and suppress a smile for my brashness. I’ve only entertained gentleman callers at my place a few times and never anyone from the pub.  As I unlock the door, my mother’s warnings about not losing my head over a Yank rings in my ears. She would be mortified if I ended up like Ena Ryan. It’s a sorrowful shame, that Ena.  She was sent off to a home for wayward girls, and I may never see her again. I catch the scent of starch and spice as John leans over to open the door for me. His warmth surrounds me, and I could see how even a proper lady could forget her upbringing.

I take off my coat and tell him to make himself at home while I freshen up.  I hurry to my powder room and touch up my red lipstick and try to tame my wild hair.  There’s no hope for it. I sigh and rush back to John. When I return, he is sitting at my tiny kitchen table with his hat on his knee.  He’s bent over fiddling with some colored pencils from his bag but turns when he hears me enter.

“Hello, gorgeous.  Come a little closer; I promise I don’t bite.”  I laugh and wave him off while I busy myself preparing refreshments.

 “I’m putting the kettle on.  Would you prefer coffee? I think I might have coffee somewhere.”  I clang around the kitchen and stand on my tiptoes to look on my top pantry shelf.  

“Freeze, Betty.  Stay right like that.  Please. Don’t move. It’s perfect.”  

John’s voice startles me but I comply, acutely aware that my garters are peeking out from beneath my skirt.  My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I glance over my shoulder to see him with his sketchbook spread open on the table.  His eyes move hungrily over my body as his hand skitters across the page. The sound of graphite on paper cuts the silence in the room.  

He wets his lips and furrows his brow as he studies my body.  His gaze skates over the curve of my round bottom, and I blush.  He takes in my stockinged legs and a dreamy smile dances across his lips.  I hope my seams are straight. He crosses and uncrosses his legs as he concentrates. His pencil moves feverishly across the page.   Finally, our eyes meet. I become acutely aware of the damp heat radiating from my cunt as I feel his hunger.

My nose itches and I instinctively move to scratch it.  The alarm that flashes over my face makes him chuckle.

“You can move now, doll.  I’ve got you.”

I let out the breath that I didn’t know I was holding and nervously glance at him again before busying myself with the drinks.

“I’m out of coffee so you will just have to muddle through.”Absorbed in his drawing, he doesn’t answer.  The cups rattle as I place them on the table with trembling hands. I hurry to fetch the kettle, hoping he doesn’t notice his effect on me.

“John? Sugar or milk?”

“Hmm?  Oh yes.  Thank you, doll. Golly, you are a knockout.”

“May I see?”

He flips his sketch pad around with a flourish, and it’s me.  It’s very definitely me, but I look different. My lips seem fuller. My legs longer.  The drawing is alluring in a way that I would never associate with myself.

“I’m no Gainsborough, but I know beauty when I see it.  Miss Betty, I could draw you every day for the rest of my life.”

I am flummoxed. John puts his sketchbook down and slides his hand under my chin. Our lips meet in silent agreement. His kiss erases the world, and I no longer care about Ena Ryan or idle gossip.  This man, this moment, is what I need more than anything right now. He eases out of his coat and loosens his tie. I decide to be bold. My hands flutter to the buttons on my blouse and I stand in front of him, undoing them one by one.  His hands twitch toward his drawing supplies.

I know what he wants, and I hold still while he captures me again.  

He finishes and flips the page.  Afraid my bravery will leave me, I lean for a kiss and return to undressing.

“Are you sure?” John asks in a whisper.  “I’ve never drawn like this. I’ve never felt like this.  You are a dream come true. Be my girl, Betty? Please? I can’t imagine a world where I don’t have you under my arm.”

I let my blouse fall down from my shoulders and I ease out of my skirt. Pages fill and spill all over my floor as we give in to the magic of the muse.  Our kisses become longer between sketches and soon we are tangled up on the small mattress in the corner of my room. Scant clothing separates us as we push the boundaries of decency.

His hands move to my garters.  He looks to me for approval, and I lift my leg to assist his endeavor.  He unfastens each clasp and begins to roll down my stocking. His lips followed his hands down my thighs to my toes.  He lingers at my ankle and nibbles playfully. I wiggle my toes to tease at his scratchy chin, and he snags one in his mouth and sucks until we both start laughing.

Slowly and gently, he removes my underthings while his eyes search mine for anything amiss. He cradles my breasts in his hands and coaxes a moan from deep within me as his tongue traces each nipple.  My hips buck against him and he nudges a thigh between mine to give relief. He shifts and settles his weight on top of me. A gentle hand brushes my hair from my face as I smile. His eyes widen when he realizes my inexperience.  I erase his hesitation with an eager kiss and soon the pleasure of our union tips us both into ecstasy.

The sun peeks through my curtains, and the scent of baking fills my flat. I know the war will soon creep back into our lives, and John will leave.  But for this moment, I’m in my flyboy’s arms, and all is well.


“He’s been at for hours, Sir.  I’ve never seen a man so possessed.”

Sweat glistens on Captain Byrd’s brow as he puts the finishing touches on his masterpiece.  He saved her lips for last. Each kiss of his brush on the hull of the plane feels like a love letter to his sweetheart.  His heart swells with longing as he brings her to life with a final stroke of crimson. His Betty looks like an angel standing on tiptoe reaching towards his cockpit.  The moment he fell in love was now emblazoned on his plane for all to see. Her smile radiates protection and reminds him of the reason he needs to come home safely.