J.S. Wayne's Blog

So, once again, gentle reader, it has been a hot minute.

Between launching my new SEO and Internet content creation service, Wordz by Jericho (@WordzJ on Twitter), setting up a new pen name and 2020 as a whole, I’ve been busily toiling away behind the scenes. But I wanted to drop a couple of quick notes about what’s going on, what’s new and what’s coming next!

FIRST: Adeptus and Sybarite are now available on Amazon!

I’m aware readers who know me and my opinion of “The Zon” from way back are probably going, “You did what now?!?!”

All I can say is, your consternation is understandable.

Honestly, it comes down to the fact that I had to face the facts. Amazon is by far the largest online book retailer. If I want to access the largest virtual bookshelf on the planet and reach more readers, that means playing in their sandbox. So Jericho S. Wayne now has an Amazon Author Central page, and Adeptus and Sybarite are available for one-click purchase direct to your Kindle! Buy links are in the header above, and I hope you’ll check them out.

Second: Let’s talk about Outcast.

In my last post, I mentioned that between my relative mental health levels and all of 2020, I had been thoroughly derailed regarding my initial intended release date for Outcast, which is almost a month in the rearview mirror. One of the main stumbling blocks was the resolution of a character arc which will play a major role in the following books, which demanded that character be handled otherwise than I had previously planned.

If you waited five years for Peace Talks and Battle Ground, as I did, I hope you won’t begrudge me the extra time to get this one right. This character’s arc is going to heavily influence the events of the last two books in the series, so it has to be done just exactly so. That said, I think I’ve broken through the barrier and am tentatively looking at a January release, barring any other weirdness, brain gremlins or the utter dissolution of the USA post-November 3rd.

THIRD: VOTE!

Serious, y’all. This may be the most important Presidential election any of us have ever seen. If you follow my @iamlordunicron Twitter account, you’re probably already aware of my opinions concerning this one and which way I intend to cast my ballot. (My @jerichoswayne Twitter has NO political or sexually oriented anything on there, and I’m very keen to keep it that way.) I’m not telling you HOW to vote, and wouldn’t if I could; but I do implore you to VOTE. Our future and our nation may quite literally depend on it.

FOURTH: No, I’m not going to tell you the new pen name.

As with taking my books to Amazon, this one’s kind of a bittersweet pill for me. I had no intention, as recently as three months ago, of releasing work under any name but my own. However, once again, market forces prevailed. I will tell you at the outset that my intent is not to deceive or dupe readers, nor do I have any desire to start relationships or even initiate conversations under false pretenses. In fact, if this goes the way I hope, no one will ever know whose hand and mind created those stories.

But I want my erotic romance stories to be seen for what they are, divorced from my shadow looming over them. Regrettably, that meant a new pen name was necessary, one without the good AND bad of my current reputation bogging it down or gender considerations. I will not be speaking on, promoting or discussing those forthcoming works in any way here or on my social media. So, if you think you’ve discovered my new author identity, I ask you to please keep it to yourself and don’t ask me to confirm or deny. I won’t do it.

I just want to write good stories people want to read. Full stop.

FIFTH: Peace Talks/Battle Ground

As a dedicated Dresdenphile, I’m going to borrow the words of Chuck Wendig, because they totally apply here, and say

HOLY GOATFUCKER SHITBOMB!!!

As I write this, I’m awaiting the wrathful screams from a certain party when they reach a very specific point in Battle Ground. >.>

(If you’re a Harryhead like me and already know what I’m talking about, SHHHHHHH! This is a spoiler-free zone! Seriously, I am moderating and will delete any comments which talk about specific events in Battle Ground or Peace Talks, in deference to those who haven’t had the chance to read them for whatever reason.)

I was kinda sketch on Battle Ground after Peace Talks. Was wondering if my man Jim Butcher had run out of gas or give-a-damn.

NOPE. He didn’t. Got off to a slow start, but you really do need to read Peace Talks to understand Battle Ground. But Battle Ground starts like an IV of pure adrenaline and unadulterated crazy just whipping at the reader with almost no pauses for breath–and keeps it coming. An extended battle scene like that would test the mettle of any author, but Jim Butcher pulled it off with STYLE. It would seem like a slog, and some people thought it was, but I thought it felt really real, in the best/worst way. (Because seriously, who the hell is crazy enough to really want to live through a war?!) That you-are-there immediacy has been a hallmark of some of Harry Dresden’s strongest moments (Can we say “Sue,” bois and ghouls?) and Butcher shows his chops again in a way which makes the five-year wait since Skin Game absolutely worth it.

So, that’s the wrap-up for now. I’d love to promise I’ll check in again soon, but at this point history shows that would be a fool’s errand. But I promise as soon as I have something relevant to report about Jericho/J.S. Wayne’s world, I’ll be back!

Peace!

A Guide to Writing About Some of the Best Things on Earth for Clueless Guys in 10 Easy Steps!

Ladies, please be warned: I use a LOT of slang terms in this post for certain aspects of the female anatomy. I am doing this ONLY to assure the understanding of my mouthbreathing brethren. Please do not take any of these terms as indicative of any attitude other than utmost respect I hold for the vast majority of you.

Y’all. I am DONE.

I’m DONE with seeing limp, weak and outright idiotic prose written by alleged dudes revolving around women, and their breasts in particular. When I see these crimes against the English language, which happens WAY too often because y’all male authors try to act like you’re putting out “serious literatoooooooooooooor” until you start writing about tatas and suddenly revert to the undeveloped nitwits all us cishet guys were in 7th grade gym class, I cringe. Not only are you making an ass out of yourself, but you’re also making life harder for those of us who appreciate tits for what they are and can write them well, without believing the sun rises and sets between the contents of a given woman’s bra.

[image error]Torture heels and an underwire bra. She is probably NOT wearing this for her own personal pleasure!



(This clearly occurs in said woman’s panties, which you would know if you’d been paying an iota of attention from birth up to now! Prove me wrong if you can, cishet guys, but you can’t because science.)



[image error]Nothing further, Your Honor…

Because I’m sick to death of seeing these crimes against English, the written word and people of every gender acted out on a DAILY FUCKING BASIS on my social media feed, I decided I’m going to do y’all a solid. I’m picking on guys who write women specifically because you will NEVER see a woman who actually has or has ever possessed gazongas mind-barfing up the kind of foolish y’all do in any other way but ironically. (See #MenWriteWomen on Twitter if you want to understand WHY this is such a bad look.

We cool? Okay.

Let’s get this thing started!

1. Women are NOT life support systems for sweater puppies or vaginas.

Okay. Let’s start with the big one.

I know this is going to shock some of you, but you need to know this.

WOMEN ARE PEOPLE.

This means they have hopes, dreams, aspirations, fears, hatreds and ugly sides to their personalities that have nothing to do with their primary or secondary gender characteristics. They have off days. They have morning breath, stinky feet after a long day and sweat when they exercise just like guys, and sometimes they want to rage just as hard (if not harder) than any guy, and generally for better reasons than most guys can ever muster.

[image error]She’s NOT smiling because she’s happy. She’s contemplating bringing about your imminent and untimely demise in ways that would make Hannibal Lecter blanch.

If a woman chooses to define HERSELF in terms of her rack, that’s her business. If she wants to play up the “dumb bimbo fucktoy” male fantasy because it makes her hot and/or pleases her partner, that’s cool. BUT…if you’re going to make a female character an airheaded life support system for breasts or a vagina, you’d better make her smart as FUCK and using that shit to her benefit if you don’t want to turn off every woman who looks at your work slantwise.

2. Women’s bosoms are not mood rings!

You can learn a lot of things about a man from his penis. You can make educated guesses as to his overall physical, mental and emotional health based on the relative flaccidity or tumescence of the penis and the staying power of an erection. (These don’t always go together, as any penis-bearing person can attest, but as a broad generality, we’re going to roll with it.)

Too many men write women’s lady lumps as some sort of a thoracic equivalent to a penis which gives insight into their psyche. I can only guess they figure, “They’re clearly visible and get erect sometimes, so they must work kinda like a dick that way.”

NO! NONONONONONONO! NEIN, NE, NO, NADA, NON! FUCKING STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!

The ONLY thing you can reliably conclude from the presence of shirt pillows is…the presence of fatty tissue in a more or less relatively uniform location on the human body.

Many men and boys have gynecomastia, which is more commonly known as “man boobs” or “moobs,” INCLUDING THE AUTHOR OF THIS POST. It comes with the dad bod. Many female-presenting people do not have one or both zeppelins due to accidents, injuries or illness including breast cancer. Thus, using a woman’s chest as a visual mood ring is fairly stupid and 99,000% more likely to get your MMC slapped into next week as to get him laid…and it’s almost GUARANTEED to piss off every woman who reads it, too.

You MAY be able to tell ONE thing authoritatively from the state of a woman’s nipples: Whether she’s warm enough or not. End of.

3. A woman’s bust is not a reliable indicator of anything to do with her sexuality.

In keeping with the previous point, women’s whoppers do not always indicate sexual arousal. Again, they indicate the presence of fatty tissue in a specific location on the human thorax. NOTHING. MORE!

4. Not every woman experiences titty hard-ons (nipple erection), and very rarely simply by SEEING someone they’re attracted to.

Yes, I’m hammering on this point because too many men think women’s nipples immediately get hard in the mere presence of whoever turns her on. Not so! (This does happen. I’ve SEEN it. But I promise you it’s a whole lot rarer than 99.9999% of guys wish it was.) In fact, there are many women who dislike having their loblollies touched at all, or who only like them touched in very specific ways, or who like them touched but for whatever reason their nipples don’t react tangibly to the partner’s perception, even though it feels great to the woman. (Kissing, licking, etc.)

So when you write, “He walked in the room and her nipples instantly stood to attention in honor of his rampant maleness,” women roll their eyes (even if they CAN produce nipple erections at will or on command) and I want to strangle you with about half a mile of your own entrails. STOP THIS SHIT! STOP IT AT ONCE! If you want a credible reason for her nipples to get hard, try investing in some extended foreplay. And no, I do NOT mean pinch them twice, bite them once and she’ll be soaking wet and ready. Yes, there are SOME women for whom this holds true all the time, and SOME more for whom this is true SOME of the time, but in general, allow me to reiterate:

NO! NONONONONONONO! NEIN, NE, NO, NADA, NON! FUCKING STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!



5. Yes, womens’ bazooms DO move…but not the way you think!

Fun fact: The human body is about 70% water. Adipose deposits (that’s “fat” to those of you reading this who can’t handle multisyllabic words) consist of somewhere between 6-36% water. However, because of fat’s generally disorganized nature at the cellular level, it’s actually lighter than water. This means areas with high adipose content, like knobs, often move quite a bit. For example, look up a video of a woman with a large posterior being spanked. Play it in slow motion to get the full effect.

Generally, when they’re at rest, globes form a vaguely teardrop-shaped profile. When a women is sitting or standing, this means the “tip” of the teardrop will be at the top, near the shoulder, and the rest will taper downward gradually to form a drop shape. When they’re lying down, they will incline more toward the sides and the drop shape will not be quite as obvious. This is almost always true, except in women with exceptionally small or non-present orbs.

[image error]This was totally carved by a guy who sculpted like too many dudes write women.

When women jump, run, turn abruptly or make rapid up-and-down motions (as with riding cowgirl), so do the cans. The same applies if women make dramatic arm movements such as throwing their hands up in exasperation because, oh, for example, their man said something fucking stupid. In this circumstance, if you’re paying attention to her bubbies…MAYBE, JUST MAYBE this is diagnostic of a portion of the REASON she’s pissed off in the first place because you’re focused on the WRONG FUCKING THING, SKIPPY! Think about it.

6. No, women’s chesticles do not actually move when they make facial expressions UNLESS they move something else, like their arm, at the same time.

In no circumstances, ever…

EVER…

EVER!!!!

Do ladies’ charms move with her eyes or mouth.

EVER. EVER. EVEREVEREVEREVERFUCKINGEVER!

I do not CARE how much plastic surgery she’s had. Even if her clitoris could now be confused for an Adam’s apple in bad lighting from all the tightening she’s undergone. Even if she’s had so many facelifts even Joan Rivers would go, “Seriously, sweetie, just let it go.” Even if the bags under her eyes ARE ACTUALLY HER TITS at this point.

If a woman rolls her eyes, smiles or frowns…that’s ALL that happens. UNLESS it is accompanied by a sudden turn or an abrupt gesture. Then, and ONLY THEN, does anything happen below the neckline. If these two things happen at the same time, it’s called a “coincidence.” This means two things which are completely unrelated but happen at the same time in a way which makes these things appear to be related.

TL;DR: THIS. DOES. NOT. HAPPEN.

Okay? Okay.

7. No, women do NOT spend more than a few seconds checking out and adjusting the girls at any given time.

Guys, I’m a BIG fan of the tetas. (That’s Spanish. You’re welcome.) Even the tetons. (That’s French. Yes, Montana was explored and exploited by horny Europeans with too much time and testosterone, and FAR too little imagination, on their hands.) I love ’em. I love all of them. Big, small, perky, flat, floppy. If I’m close enough to get to see them, I’m happy to have been invited. (See below.)

That said: Women are nowhere NEAR as obsessed with their own tiggo bitties as cishet guys are. Most of the time, they check their business the way guys check their hair. Everything’s in place. Good. Not showing any unsightly scalp or a fleck of aureola. Good. On to the show.

THAT said: A cishet woman KNOWS her man’s going to be looking. She expects it. If you’ve been on more than three dates, chances are you’ve seen them and she knows you like what you’re looking at. So they will totally weaponize that shit. (Love you, ladies, but tell me I’m wrong.) When they want to feel extra sexy, or want extra attention, or want to KNOW their man is still into them, they may spend a little extra time getting everything JUST. SO. But they’re not doing that for them. They’re doing that for YOU. For the attention you’re going to give her. And hopefully for the good, good lovin’ she wants from you later in the night. (There’s a darker side to this too. Anyone who’s ever had a woman dress to the nines to give you one last look at what’s walking out the door as she says “Sayonara” knows exactly what I’m talking about.)

8. Women want their knockers free of that bra which gives the cleavage effect you’re so damn hot and bothered over at the earliest possible opportunity.

Let me preface this by saying I love the female form. Watching the female form divest herself of a bra is sexy as hell, basically regardless of circumstances, because cishet male.

For women, I promise you this: 99% of the time, they are NOT thinking about you or your viewing pleasure when they get that fucking bra off. They just want to be free. Like when you get home from being in slacks all day and the first thing you do is change into those raggedy-ass basketball shorts with no underwear you’ve been rocking every since tenth grade because they’re comfy as hell and your boys can breathe. Guess what? See #1, regarding the idea that WOMEN ARE PEOPLE.

Bras are uncomfortable. If they make the funbags look good, I promise you they’re probably a torture device for the woman, what with underwires and straps that fit weird. This is for normal-sized, proportionate big ‘uns. Now imagine the woman who has outsized honkers.

Not only do they have all the fun I already listed; they may not even be able to BUY a bra at a regular store. Even worse, they can get backaches, neck aches, headaches and all sorts of other postural and spinal problems over time. Does that make YOU want to have sexy fun time? Because, this is going to come as a shock, but after lugging around wobbly bits all day, sexy fun time is probably NOT the priority for them. They want a lie-down, some chocolate, a drink and for their guy to shut his fucking stupid mouth for ten minutes. Take a poll; I bet you my last year’s book sales the results will bear me out on this one.

9. Functional mammary glands are not as comfortable for their bearers as you might think they are.

See above. They can be fun if stimulated properly, but in most cases, they’re a tedious, irritating annoyance which just gets in the way. And, if she’s had a baby in the last year or three, unless she’s got an adult nursing fetish (look it up; you got here, you can use Google to figure out that ANR is a real thing which people actually do), she probably wants anyone who didn’t start life entirely from their own body to leave anything above the equator the whole entire fuck ALONE.

[image error]“No boobs for YOU!”



10. Yes, even with cosmetic/plastic surgery, jugs still have to obey the laws of physics and human anatomy.

They move when they’re moved. They move when the woman who possesses them moves in such a way that they have to follow what she’s doing. Otherwise, they don’t move independently. They don’t stay put while the woman turns, even with the HARDEST of hard-core cosmetic surgery.

Get it? Got it?

Good.

Now, a couple of bonus tips you can use both IRL and in your writing.



Keep to these things and you’ll probably enjoy your life a whole lot more, while getting slapped across the mouth or hit with restraining orders a lot less. Something to think about.

Bonus tip #1: Unless you and she have had a LONG talk about what words you should or should not apply to her chest or any other anatomy, either DO NOT COMMENT or stick with “breasts.” (Please, FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK, DO NOT COMMENT ON ANY WOMAN’S BREASTS EVER UNLESS INVITED!) None of the terms in bold print used in this blog OTHER than “breasts” should be used without her consent, or really at all EVER. When you’re writing about women, you can get away with using euphemisms IF AND ONLY IF you can have her explain in character why she prefers/uses another term. (“Please fuck my tits and make me your cock-stupid slut, Master,” is a valid use of this term for some very specific subgenres of erotica.)

Bonus tip #2: If you’re in a position to HAVE an opinion on a given woman’s headlights, SHUT UP, be glad you were invited to the party and simply say “Thank you. They’re lovely.” This is also a good rule to follow for any characters who might interact with a given female character, especially if they’re actually going to get to see her hooters. (The ONLY exception to this rule is if another character notices a lump, discolored area or other potential indicator of breast cancer. Then they should deal with it with the same compassion you’d want if you were maybe showing signs of cancer. But maybe don’t do this without a really good plot-based reason. Otherwise you’re really just kind of being a dick and trolling for woke points you don’t deserve.)

Dear Reader,

I think we can all agree 2020 has already been one hell of a year, and all signs point to things getting worse before they improve.

My year started off with moving to a new place, a new job and the dissolution of the relationship which had been my bedrock. Add to these tectonic shifts:

Personal illness Government abuse of power on a level never before seen in American history COVID-19, with its attendant cohort of quarantines, social distancing, COVIDiots, maskholes and the explosion of a whole new class of Karens, to say nothing of theFinancial havoc wrought across the socioeconomic spectrum Police committing summary executions in the streets with every expectation they would not have to answer for their unlawful and unjustified actionsBlack Lives Matter protests against police brutality and racially based policing spreading across the face of the planet from New Jersey to New Zealand and from San Francisco, CA to San Francisco, SpainPeaceful protests igniting into riots, in large part due to law enforcement actions



In short, 2020 has been devastating on just about every level.

I watch in horror as the next new atrocity flares up, only to fade into mundanity an hour later as the next tragic absurdity (or absurd tragedy, as you please) of the pre-apocalypse cotillion announces itself. There’s no respite. No break.

No escape.

I’ve tried to work around the depression, anxiety and uncertainty precipitated by having no idea what’s coming next. I’ve shifted gears and started a complete rewrite of Outcast, as far as I had managed to complete it, to tighten things up and craft a better read for you.

[image error]Cover Art by author for Outcast (c)2019 by Jericho S. Wayne. All rights reserved.

However, I have some concerns about the direction the series was going in light of everything 2020 has thrown at us so far. I want my writing to be an escape for my readers, not a “ripped from the headlines” punctuation mark for what’s going on in the world. So, until I can find a more fitting trajectory along which to continue the arcs I’ve already begun in “Ring-a-ding Demon,” Adeptus and Sybarite, and polish up the arcs I’ve initiated in Outcast, I see no way forward but to pause the series for a little while. I hate that this is necessary, but I want to produce the best and most enjoyable stories possible for my readers and right now, I simply don’t have the capacity to do so.

Therefore, Outcast will not be released in September as originally planned, and the preorder information for it will be updated accordingly within the next several days.

This obviously means Chieftain and Sage will be pushed back as well, maybe as far as into 2022. If that is what it takes to craft the best possible work for you, then that is what I will do. I hope in the end, the results will justify the delay, as evaluated by my readers.

As a reminder, “Ring-a-ding Demon” is a FREE novella, and until further notice I have reduced the prices on Adeptus and Outcast from the original $4.99 to $1.49, to make them as affordable as possible to the maximum number of readers during the COVID-19 crisis. When it abates, I will reevaluate my pricing on these works based on the prevailing circumstances at the time.

So ends Jericho S. Wayne’s portion of this post.

I’ve also been nibbling around the edges of a BDSM-based erotic romance trilogy. One of the reasons I’ve hesitated on this is the fact I was considering launching a female nom de plume under which to produce these works. The recent emergence of the truth behind the online identity of an author with whom I was lately on friendly terms and his behind-the-scenes behavior has thoroughly kiboshed any plans I might have had to proceed with the new name, broken them to matchsticks, soaked them in kerosene and dumped burning napalm on the shards. If I’m going to write it, I’m going to put it out as J.S. Wayne. It might not sell as well, thanks to people like this author, but I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing I’m not duping my readers and that they’re getting to see me as the author for who and what I am, not something or someone I’m not.

So, for my erotic romance readers, be sure to stay tuned for breaking news about The Knight Sisters Trilogy.

If you like your kink hot and believable, with an emphasis on enthusiastic consent, you’ll probably enjoy what I’m bringing to the table!

That’s all I have for now. I hope you’re all staying safe as much as possible, unplugging when you need to and doing what you must to stay sane in an insane time. If you’ve read any of my erotic romance or urban fantasy works, I’d be hugely grateful if you could spare a few minutes to review. Your thoughts mean the world to me, and your feedback helps me produce stories which you’re more likely to enjoy!

Whatever you do, please take care of yourself first. The world needs all the light it can muster right now. Don’t let your flame go out by burning your candle too hard. Do whatever it takes to keep the fire in your heart bright for all to see.

[image error]“Adios, Motherfucker!…No, seriously, that’s what the drink is called. It tastes like ‘WHAT problems?!?!'”

Slainte,

Jericho

(Apologies to my Gaelic-speaking friends for the lack of the accent mark over that “e.” Not sure how to do that in WordPress.)

Intro

To skip over my waffle on the backstory and get straight to the hot stuff, please scroll down to the next header, labeled “Going Deep.”

Thanks. – J.S.

Recently, I encountered a comment thread from erotica author and model Ema Burner (@BurnerEma) on Twitter, in which she was discussing cervical orgasms with someone whose behavior has prompted both the end of their Twitter account and their redaction from this post and my site generally. Ema pointed out she quite enjoyed both having and writing about them. Meanwhile, the other author argued the perfectly valid point that writing about cervical orgasms tends to be largely limited to the province of male erotica authors... (Little did we know…)

…with the generally unfortunate results and associated quality* one might cringily and rightly expect of that particular cohort as a group.

This conversation, to which I was a mere spectator, inspired me to consider the possibility of writing an erotic microfiction culminating in a cervical orgasm. Unlike many male erotica authors I know, I had never done a scene like that before, and the challenge of writing such a scene in a way which would be enjoyable to women appealed to me. I decided to try my hand at crafting one which met the following criteria:

It had to be HOT for any gender or identity interested in such things. It had to at least attempt to center the female experience of cervical orgasm rather than the male reaction, inasmuch as possible when such lived experience is something I can only attempt to faithfully replicate at second hand. Above all, as is always my goal regardless of what I’m writing, it had to be QUALITY WRITING, something which I’m sorry to say far too many of my penis-enhanced compatriots tend to fall down badly on when it comes to matters concerning women’s sexuality.

The story you are about to read is the result. I make no claims as to its quality, preferring to leave such judgments to you, gentle reader, as I feel this is your proper province and not mine. So, with thanks to Ema Burner, I hope you enjoy.

And do please check out Ema’s links!

Going Deep

The growl of the engine faded to a hum. Piper shifted in her seat, enjoying the suppleness of the sun-warmed leather under her bare ass. A hot breeze wafted through the open window, carrying with it the scents of water, dust and green, growing things, underlain with a light whiff of salt.

For a moment, she was tempted to scratch her nose in search of a feigned itch, giving her an excuse to lift the blindfold and peek at their surroundings. She quickly decided not to as Will’s large, calloused hand settled on her hip, just below the hem of her shortest, flirtiest yellow sundress, and squeezed reassuringly.

“Almost there, babe,” he said, the baritone of his voice fading into the engine noise and the rush of the wind as he navigated over a series of bumps. Each one jostled her, bouncing her lightly up and down again, leaving her very aware of the friction between the supple upholstery and her exposed pussy lips. Each one made her just a little wetter, and she bit her lip against the pleasant torture, wondering idly what Will would think if she got out of the car only to leave a damp patch on the pristine tan leather.

“Okay,” she said, the syllables juddering a little as the ’73 Stingray threaded its way along the bumpy road. Could it even be called a road? This felt more like a cowpath, or at best a bike trail, and every new bump shuddered tiny sparks of pleasure along her skin, centered between her thighs.

The Corvette jounced a couple of times and came to a smooth stop. Will’s hand squeezed harder on her thigh, an unmistakable I’m in charge grip which shivered a tiny amount of pain and a huge thrill of pleasure through her. She pressed her legs together, feeling a trickle of fresh lust squeeze between her pulsing lips.

“Wait here,” he commanded, pressing his fingers down harder still, lending the directive an unsubtle punctuation mark, before relinquishing his hold. His door opened, the car rocked, the door slammed.

She pricked her ears, listening intently, but caught only the lazy whisper of the breeze through leaves, the cries of birds and a quiet, repetitive shushing she couldn’t quite place. Then she heard the faint crunch of heavy footfalls on gravel, followed by the sound of the hood latch popping open. The sports car shimmied slightly and fell still as the footsteps sounded again, making their way toward her side. They passed her and an odd, soft dragging sounded from the front of the car. After a moment, the footsteps started again, heading her way.

The feel of the sun on her skin faded just enough to give her warning, and she scooted away from the door just as it popped open. “Pop your seatbelt,” Will said, his voice coarse and dark in a way which sought out and coiled around the most primal part of her brain, sending tendrils to every nerve ending on her body. She complied with shaking fingers. The latch button fought her on the first two attempts, finally popping free on the third as she punched two stiff fingers into the mechanism. Fighting her way free of the belt, she stepped out of the car, placing one sandal-clad foot on the ground and verifying stability, then the other.

His arms enfolded her in strength and security as he lifted her up. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging for dear life as he moved, her chin slotting into the hollow between his shoulder and neck perfectly. The cool, masculine scents of his body wash and deodorant meshed with the faint musky, wild smell of his natural essence, making her mouth water. The bulge in his pants rubbed against the top of her pubis through the thin fabric of her sundress, barely missing her clit in a way which both pleased and maddened her.

He leaned forward, and she tensed reflexively before allowing herself to fall back. Her sundress rode up her hips, exposing her ass to scratchy softness over a hot, unyielding surface. The thrill of the contact and the brush of his groin against hers as he settled her into place made her whimper out a low-pitched keen of need.

“I’m going to take off the blindfold now. Close your eyes,” he said into her ear in a strangled whisper.

At least I’m not the only one suffering, she thought as she did as he directed. The cloth pulled up and away, the elastic strap catching and tugging at her hair, the pitch blackness giving way to a dark red as light fell upon her eyes. Her inner muscles tightened as the wetness intensified.

She opened them slowly, dazzled by the brilliance—and gasped.

Will had parked about ten yards back from the edge of a cliff. Beneath them, the ocean spread out to the horizon, sparkling and shining in hues of storm gray, jade green and teal blue as the sunlight struck the gentle waves below. Far out at sea, near the horizon, she could just make out the red and white flash of a sailboat. Gulls and cormorants eddied, soared and dove on the updrafts from the shore, seeking food and frolicking in the air. A few old, gnarled pines and a smattering of deciduous trees loomed in fantastical shapes, screening the access to the cliff from casual view.   

 “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, looking up at Will, who stood looking toward the sea. “How did you find this place?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said huskily.

He turned to her, the planes and curves of his face set in a hungry mask. Then his lips were on hers, his body pushing her back and down onto the scratchy blanket as he kissed her urgently. She moaned against him, reveling in his roughness. Usually she appreciated the technical skill and devotion he demonstrated in pleasuring her. Now his primal hunger fed her own, and she arched her back, pressing her pelvis into him, desperate for just a little more closeness, a little more friction on her most sensitive places.

As he pulled back, she nipped saucily on his lower lip, giving him a “you can’t make me” smirk. His eyes flamed and he knelt between her spread thighs, pressing his mouth to her core, drinking avidly from her. She gasped and opened wider for him, one hand pressing on the back of his head, urging his prickly face into her vulva and thighs as he stroked, caressed, swooped and dipped over her tender center with his voracious mouth. The pressure of her hand and crotch against him only inflamed him further, and she cried out with the beginnings of an orgasm as his tongue found and explored her opening, teasing at the very edge of her G-spot.

Delicious as the sensations his skilled lips and tongue ignited between her legs, she needed more.

“Oh, God, Will—fuck me. Please,” she sighed. “Please shove that cock up my tight little pussy and fuck me deep and hard. Make it hurt. Make me your whore. Show me who my body really belongs to.”

He looked up from his devotions, eyes glinting dangerously, lightly stubbled face smeared and gleaming with the evidence of her arousal and his enjoyment of her taste. “Are you sure? Last time you said it didn’t feel good—”

She growled a little. “I wasn’t as turned on then, baby. I need that fat cock pushed into me as far as it’ll go. Use me like the cocksleeve I am, please. Punish my pussy for your pleasure.” He tilted his head just an inch to one side, enough to convey his skepticism, and she added, “If it’s too much, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

Shadows drifted over his face, transforming his visage into a wolfish mask she’d probably run screaming from in a dark alley. Here, now, in the bright sun, with the wind massaging her skin with a thousand butterfly fingers and the rush of the waves lulling her ears, she spread herself as wide as she could, offering her body as a willing sacrifice to his hunger. He unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped the fly and revealed his lust-swollen cock, the head angry red with a trembling bead of clear moisture at the end which made her mouth water.

Before she could offer to take him in his mouth, wanting to taste the hard evidence of his need, he pushed himself into her slowly, groaning as her body opened joyously to his invasion, welcoming him in. His cock slid home in her wetness, probing her, pushing all resistance aside, until the crown nudged against her cervix.

He gave a tiny thrust, prodding at the furthest reaches of her vagina. Stars swam in her vision as the slight pain of the impact gave way to delight.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Just like that, baby.”

He repeated the motion, but otherwise held himself perfectly still.

“Oh, God, Will.” She sucked in a breath as he did it again. And again. Each fractional thrust just a little more forceful, building in painfully slow increments. “You do that so good, baby. I love feeling that hard dick against my womb. Now fuck me, please!”

He withdrew slowly, deliberately, and thrust home again, gasping as he bottomed out inside her. “Are you sure I’m not hurting you?” he grated, jaw clenched as he fought for control.

“No, honey, it feels incredible. Please, fuck the hell out of me, Will. Wreck me. Ruin me. Let me feel all of you as deep as you can go.” She reached down with one hand and massaged her clit and the place where their bodies joined and became one, sighing with unabashed pleasure at the feeling of her slickness covering his cock and the electric thrills of caressing her center. “I’m not made of glass, baby. I can take every inch of you, and I need it.” She wriggled a little, pushing forward so his cockhead prodded her cervix again. “Give it to me, baby, please!”

He growled deep in his throat and thrust again, fast and hard, then pulled back. Then slammed home again. And again.

Each new impact shivered fresh heat through her body, and she thrilled as the delight washed the slight discomfort away, muting it to an unimportant undertone overwhelmed by the luscious sensation as he fucked her slow and hard, timing his thrusts to the rhythmic sighing of the waves below.

Soon, his greed for her took over. Slow, deliberate strokes gave way to fast, hard plunges, pummeling her deepest places with magnificent disregard for her comfort, and she reveled in the primal loss of control, pumping her hips to give him all of her, to offer him just a little more depth, more reach, more claim over her body and control of her sex.

Pulling his face down to hers, she kissed him hungrily, feeding him her ardor, wailing into his mouth as a ripple of heated ecstasy surged through her. Her pussy walls quivered and tightened, holding on to the gorgeous battering ram between her thighs desperately as it struck home again and again, plundering and laying waste to her in the most luscious way possible.

She panted into the kiss, trying to hold back, but one more furious push at the opening of her womb brought her to life, screaming in exultation as her body convulsed in a full-body shudder and the orgasm which had been politely knocking at the door kicked its way in, swamping her consciousness, fracturing her senses into a supernova of ardent rapture. Dimly, she felt him tense and jerk inside her, her shrieks of euphoria met by his own cry as his arms engulfed her and his cock pulsed, spilling his hot spunk to wash against the deepest recesses of her pussy, filling her body with the delectable liquid warmth he saved for her and her alone.

When she descended to herself again, she found herself cocooned in Will’s arms, his soft cock still inside her. He kissed her face gently all over, whispering tender endearments as he waited for her to recover. She let him, her eyelids too heavy to open, limbs leaden and languid with the aftermath of her release.

Finally, she opened her eyes and smiled at him.

“Did you have fun?”

He smiled and kissed her again. “I did. Did you? How are you feeling?”

She frowned a little and took inventory. “A little sore, but so good. It was worth it.”

“I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?”

“No,” she assured him, snuggling close. “You hurt me just right.”

He chuckled a little, running a hand through her hair.

“Are you hungry?”

Her stomach rumbled right on cue. She met his gaze and they both dissolved into carefree gales of laughter as Will stood up and pulled her off the blanket covering the hood of the car.

“I brought a picnic basket,” he said as he trotted to the back of the car.

She grinned at his thoughtfulness and the pleasant ache inside her. “What do we have for dessert?”

He peered around the open trunk and waggled his eyebrows. “I was thinking an encore.”

“I think that can be arranged,” she replied around a giggle, stretching luxuriously. Perhaps she’d suck his cock after dinner, tasting the remnants of their passion, before she climbed on top of him and battered her pussy against her lover’s cock as she fucked them both stupid. Her heart fluttered and she felt a little dew trickle down her thigh from the commingling of their lust and her naughty thoughts.

She was going to be so sore in the morning.

But it was going to be so worth it.

*Click this link at your own risk. Author regrets to inform readers he cannot accept responsibility nor liability for damages or expenses arising from clicking this link, including but not limited to: mental, emotional or physical trauma; therapy bills; eye bleach expenditures; or diminished faith in the human condition.

Feature image sourced from Pixabay.com.

CWs/TWs: This story contains depictions of consensual and consensual/non-consent-driven BDSM, bondage and references to current events including the COVID-19 pandemic, the heavily militarized police presence and overblown response to peaceful demonstrations in America’s cities.

The reader is strongly advised to exercise discernment and discretion as to whether some, any or all of these potential triggers might negatively impact them. If so, the author strongly encourages the reader to choose a puppy/cat video such as the one at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmcpwN6JKxU instead.

You’ve been warned.

For the rest of you, I hope you enjoy!

Kelsey turned from the TV at the sound of the door, reflexively grabbing the remote and muting the disturbing images from the protests. She just caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders disappearing into the bathroom. The shushing rush of water from the faucet and the first few bars of a nonsensical song he’d made up to help him time twenty seconds of handwashing were the only sounds. Silence fell a moment later, followed by the gentle rasp of a towel on skin, and he appeared again, sagging against the wall.

He looked like he’d just witnessed a murder.

Under the harsh red of an incipient sunburn, his ashen complexion and dark eyes lent him the shell-shocked appearance of a soldier returning from war. His hands trembled where he pressed them to his face. Usually he stood erect as a Marine on guard duty, shoulders back and chest out, swaggering through the world as if daring all comers to test his resolve. Now he slouched as if his knees were too weak to bear his weight, shoulders slumped against an invisible burden.

“What happened?” she blurted. Hurrying over, she took a knee and put her arms around him, leaning in close. To her alarm, he melted into her arms like a little boy seeking comfort from the newfound harsh reality of just how big and scary the world can be.

“Downtown looks like a battleground,” he whispered, so low that even right up against her ear she had to strain to hear him. “Police in riot gear. Armored cars. Troop carriers. Half the windows are boarded up. They’re hassling anyone they see on the streets.”

Isaac shuddered and blew out a breath, then spoke again, his voice gaining strength and volume like a spiderweb taking shape, one silken strand at a time. “They stopped the train at Washington Park. Six cops got on, all in body armor. Said it was a ‘routine’ ID check, but I forgot mine at home and they ignored me. Took five people off the train. Four were black men. The other was a young Asian girl, maybe sixteen or so.”

Kelsey pressed closer, offering and taking comfort from the proximity. The sharp, astringent scent of alcohol overlain with a perfume that spoke of ocean mist wafted off his skin, the legacy of the hand sanitizer he’d no doubt doused himself with the moment he got off the train. A misshapen lump against the outer curve of her hip bore silent witness to the presence of his mask, which he’d taken to wearing religiously anytime he had to be in close quarters with anyone but her. What a crazy fucking world we live in, she thought bleakly, kissing him on his temple.

“What did you do?”

He sighed. “I took video and live-streamed it online as they took everyone off. That was all I could do. I got dirty looks, but none of the officers said anything.”

She swallowed hard against a tsunami of commingled emotions inspired by the guilt and impotent anger in his tone swept over her. On one hand, she understood and ached over his desire to act, to put himself between the police and the people they were harassing. On the other, having him safe at home while the others weren’t weighed down her conscience. She knew it was an incredibly privileged point of view to have, and one she was fortunate to be able to indulge, but she ached for those the police had taken and their families.

“You did what you could,” she said fiercely. “And I’m so grateful you did. Maybe that video will help.”

He wrapped his arms around her and rested his cheek against hers, chin on her shoulder. “I should have done more.”

“Like what?” she demanded. “Get yourself arrested too? Start a fight with the police you couldn’t possibly win on a train? We both know you’d have just been painting a target on your own back.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He sounded ineffably weary, and it hurt to hear.

“What can I do to help you feel better?”

He only shrugged and burrowed a little deeper into her embrace.

“Would you like to tie me up?”

He pulled away and regarded her narrowly.

“I—don’t know that I’m in a safe headspace for that right now.”

Her heart skittered in her chest. “I trust you,” she said. “You won’t do more than I can take. Let me do this for you.”

A complex thunderstorm of emotions marched across his face. The ashen, haunted look eased and his brow wrinkled.

“Are you sure?”

“You hate when I ask y—” The arch complaint fractured into a shrill squeak as he wrapped his hand in her hair, gripped and pulled her into him. Her squeak faded to a moan as he crushed his lips against hers and she opened to him, thrilled as much by the fact he was there to treat her so roughly as by the domineering treatment itself.  

Her head spun and the world whirled around her when he pulled her to her feet.

“Move,” he ordered, hand still tangled in her hair. She did, feeling heat gather between her thighs, and he kept precise step and pace with her as she led/followed him up the stairs, made the turn at the top and into the bedroom.

Everything spun. She had a brief, dizzy impression of his lower leg wrapping around hers, tripping her, and she was falling with his weight bearing her downward, landing face-up on the bed with him just beside her. He kissed her again with feral hunger, and she accepted him eagerly, her senses fracturing into a mélange of color, scent, taste, texture and sound, all part of the whole but individuated into prismatic, glowing motes of sensation which melted into each other seamlessly.

When he pulled away and stroked his fingers slowly down her body, she opened her eyes, stunned to find herself devoid of a stitch of clothing. Her light blue, well-worn Daisy Dukes and black jogging tank were gone, as were the soft pink satin panties she’d put on earlier to entice him. Nothing shielded her skin from his burning, hooded gaze or the gentleness of his touch, and the dichotomy between the barely-contained ferocity in his eyes and the lightness with which he caressed her.

He stood up, and her soul screamed at the pain of separating from him. Walking to the closet, he reached toward the woven wicker basket on the top shelf and rummaged around, plucking items from it and cradling them in his free hand. She couldn’t see what he was doing, and the suspense shivered another languid bolt of longing to her core. Slithers and clinks and tinkles and swishes offered the only clues, and she frowned as she tried to match each sound to the range of accoutrements which might have produced it.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered, his voice gentle but unyielding. Without hesitation or thought she complied, determined to show with her every action her acquiescence to and acceptance of whatever he might choose to do to her body.

But, that little treasonous voice in the back of her head which motivated her brat behavior noted, he didn’t say anything about your ears.

She listened intently as he made his way back to the bed. A modest series of quick thumps and the ripple of the mattress beneath the impact told her he’d deposited his load. A moment later, she heard the faint but unmistakable rasp of a hank of rope being uncoiled, followed by a shushing sound she knew all too well. He was doubling the rope and locating the center point, the bight, which would serve as the start and anchor to her bindings. Another bead of hot moisture trickled from her, slipping down the curve of her ass to the comforter beneath her.

The mattress rippled and the bed frame creaked as he sat down. His broad fingers closed around her ankle, and she stifled a gasp as he gently pulled until he had her leg aligned the way he wanted it.

“Keep still, babygirl,” he murmured, his lips right next to her ear. She nodded and was rewarded with another gentle, blistering kiss. He took his time pulling away, letting the light stubble on his cheek scrape against her skin. The sexy, sadistic sonofabitch. He knew exactly how to tease her.

He raised up and pressed his lips to her ankle, the unexpected contact sparking fresh sizzles of heat, wringing more wetness from her. If he keeps this up, I’m going to cum before he even finishes tying me!

 “Oh!” He sat up abruptly, snapping his fingers. “Almost forgot. Open your eyes.” Burrowing into the pile, he withdrew her favorite black satin sleep mask, the one he’d bought her for their anniversary. Dangling the mask by one finger from the strap, he held it in front of her face. “I’m going to put this on you now.”

“Yes, Sir,” she gasped, surprised by the high, breathy pitch at which her whispered response came from her throat.

He carefully secured the mask around her head, taking care not to pull her hair, then adjusted the satin so it pressed against her eyelids, plunging the sunset-flamed room into darkness before her gaze. His lips found hers again and she breathed in his kiss, meeting him with equal passion. This time, when he pulled away she wanted to scream, rip off the mask and his clothes, clamber on top of him and bury him inside her, not letting go until he filled her with his essence. Calling on every reserve of strength she could muster, she forced herself to remain still and passive as the heat of his body faded.

He pressed the bight of the rope to the outside of her ankle. God, she was so wet! The trickle had become a steady rivulet of heat, and her clitoris was so hard and angry it ached for wanting attention. Apparently heedless to her hunger, he looped the trailing end through the bight and pulled it tight against her skin, checking and adjusting the tension before pulling her other ankle next to it.

Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check. Over, through, under, check…The press of the soft coconut-fiber rope against her skin, the gentle rushing sound it made and the sensation as it cinched against lulled her, almost as hypnotic as the easy rhythm with which he bent to his task. Even behind her eyelids, she could see him easily, his face blank and placid as a Zen master contemplating a stone garden or trimming a bonsai tree, focusing his entire being on the art of restraining her for his pleasure.

The pattern broke with a quick series of tugs as he looped the remaining rope over the ties he’d created, cinching them down before tying off the last bit. She tested the bonds reflexively, noting they ended just beneath her calf. They held firm, and she sensed his nod of approval before he turned to retrieve the next length, which he quickly joined to the trailing end of the first rope.

Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check…

This rope was longer, and he made his way up and down her legs this time in a diamond pattern, leaving a runner at the top to serve as an anchor point. The bed beneath her ass was soaked now from her arousal weeping from her pussy.

No. Her cunt. Or more precisely, his cunt. Usually she hated that word, hated the mouthfeel, the sharp syllable like a stapler against her eardrums, the dismissive inhumanity it conferred on the woman to whom it was applied. But now, in her excited state, her entire body was nothing more than his plaything, a warm receptacle for his cock and a willing disposal site for his semen. In this moment, she was more than merely okay with calling her vagina a cunt. She was his cunt, nothing more or less than a vulgar, dripping, slutty hole to be used as he wished.

Now he was at the lower reach of her thighs with another length of rope, lashing it to the loop just below the pout of her trimmed nether lips, his hands playing over her skin with delicate touches as he manipulated the rope, arranging it just so. Kelsey wanted to squirm, to “accidentally” rub her softness against her hand, make him feel her wetness and how he was driving her crazy—

But no. No, she wouldn’t do that, as much as she wanted to rebel against his fastidious care.

Her task, nerve-wracking and torturous as it was, was to hold still until he’d finished. From there, he’d do what he wished, and she simply had to resign herself to the fact that right now he wished for her to marinate in a puddle of her own hot cream while he touched her with such maddening care as to fuse her entire body into one giant nerve ending with her clit at the terminus.

He pulled her left arm in tight to her side. His fingers trailed fire down the tender inner surface of her arm, and she wriggled slightly under the assault, moaning unabashedly, as he secured another length of rope around her forearm, taking care to avoid the nerves, and secured it in place.

Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check…

Then the right arm.

Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check…

Then the chest harness, over her shoulders, behind her back and under her breasts, weaving her into immobility with the diligent care of a determined spider.

Loop, over, through, under, check tension. Over, through, under, check…

Somehow, he managed to avoid any of her most sensitive spots, although the moment he looped the rope around her and passed it along the tender underside of her breasts, she very nearly climaxed. It took a lot of willpower and thinking about the nightmare images on the twenty-four-hour news cycle to distract her just enough to prevent her orgasm. Her body was no longer her own, by her own word and will, and that included her sexual responses. Controlling her weeping pussy may not have been possible, but she could and would do everything necessary to stave off cumming until he was damned good and ready for her to do so.

When he tied off the final trailing end, he inspected his work again, starting from her feet and working his way up. He peppered each area of bare skin between the bonds with gentle pecks and almost imperceptible laps of his tongue.

“Squirm,” he said, as he left her ankles behind.

Kelsey was only too happy to comply. Isaac had done his work well, and she could only roll a bit to each side, smearing the puddle of cunt juice over her ass cheeks. She could smell it now, light and salty as the scent of ocean fog on a warm night, and imagined Isaac’s nostrils flaring as he scented and responded to her perfume. The image nearly undid all her determined mental preparation, and she recited multiplication tables in her head until she regained control as he kissed his way up her body, leaving not a single inch of her untouched.

When he reached her knees, she was tense. When he reached her thighs, she went rigid. When he got to her breasts and kissed them without touching her nipples, she wanted to scream for him to put her out of her misery. And then he found her throat, her cheek, her forehead, her lips, and the world blurred into white noise as he kissed her once more with that restrained passion which warned when the storm finally broke, it would rage against and within her body until there was nothing left.

Which suited Kelsey just fine. She kissed him as avidly, but wanted to beg him to lick her nipples, touch her clit, drink from her—anything to ease the impossibly erotic, unsustainable ache between her legs.

With the same maddening slowness, he worked his way back down, this time lingering over the areolas of her nipples but always just missing the tight, puckered peaks themselves. The tease drew a soft sob from her, but she knew better than to try to force the issue. He would give her what he chose, when he chose.

Her resolve lasted as long as it took for him to find the neatly groomed fur on her mound. His lips set her groin alight, and she knew all the good intentions in the world wouldn’t be worth a damn thing if he touched her core right now. She would explode, permission be damned, and accept any discipline he chose to give her. But for all her internal bravery, her hips wiggled as she tried to get him just a little closer to her center…

She nearly screamed as he stood up, leaving her smoldering on the bed, burning for the next touch that would bring her release. Silence reigned, filled only by the throb of her own heartbeat.

Snipt.

Pause.

Snipt. Snipt.

Pause.

Snipt.

Pause.

Sniptsniptsnipt.

Pause.

A light flick met her seam, parting her pussy ever so gently, only just grazing the furious tip of her clit. She squealed as her will broke, unleashing a flood of pleading.

“Oh, God, Sir, I’m your dirty filthy little fucking slut cunt and I’ll do anything you want me to, just please, please let me cum!”

He chuckled, the sound low and dark as an invisible demon hiding under the bed in a midnight room on a full moon. She tried to gather her fractured thoughts to find the perfect epithet to hurl at him for his apparent ignorance of her plight—

Hot lips wrapped around the stiffened peak of her clit and sucked hard, punctuated by a rough, broad flick of his tongue.

Inside the enforced darkness of the mask, a haze of red flutters over her vision as somewhere, someone is wailing out a long, ululating shriek and her body ignites, dissolving into electricity and light and thunder and it can’t go on, but it does, spiraling on and on and on and on until her throat protests and she realizes the scream is coming from her and gasps for air but can’t get it because the next wave hits under the joyous assault of Isaac’s tongue and it’s everything and she’s everything and she’s sure if he keeps visiting this impossible glory upon her body she will see God on his throne but it’s all worth it to perish under this incredible, punishing ecstasy doled out upon his cunt with such loving ruthlessness by the man she adores and the only one who can claim and keep her submission and oh God here comes another peak and she shatters again, exploding into bursts of flame hot enough to sear the night into noon, weeping hot tears which stream down her cheeks for sheer joy as pleasure spins into pain into pleasure into pain until it’s all one glorious sensation which blurs and merges into yet another rapturous crest, this one the highest yet, and her senses dissolve into minute grains of sand, each one a cosmos unto itself, floating in a universe of pure sensation soft as cotton candy from which she never wants to return…

When she opened her eyes, the mask was gone, as were the ropes. She was sobbing, deep, woeful bellows, her face pressed into something warm and yielding, cradled in strong arms. Isaac’s voice gradually impinged upon her consciousness.

“—s okay, little one. Daddy’s got you. You were such a good, brave girl and you held so still for me. Shh. I’m here. You’re safe, sweetheart. I love you so much…” And on and on he went, stroking her back lightly, holding her close in the stern security of his arms and his presence as he spoke to her like a frightened bird he was trying to soothe. She snuggled deeper against him, letting out all her fear and pain for him. He let her, not trying to rush or move her along, and she knew if she allowed it, he’d hold her this way forever without a second thought.

All too soon, a niggling thought encroached upon her own personal Garden of Eden. Kelsey tried to ignore the mental serpent, but it persisted, nudging her with its snout until she could finally stand it no more. Sniffling, wiping her eyes against Isaac’s shirt, she asked, “What about your release?”

She looked up, afraid of what she might see in his face. To her astonishment, she saw only a gentle love.

“I’ll get mine later, little one.” He cradled her close and tight, kissed her on top of her head and breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of her strawberry melon shampoo and her own natural aroma. “I just wanted—needed—to lose myself in you.”

She nodded hesitantly. “You’ll tell me when you want me, right?”

He laughed, the sound low and musical like the tones of an oboe.

“Sweetheart, I’ll never not want you.” He sobered a bit. “All I needed right then was to lose myself in you. And I got that. You anchor me, little one.”

She smiled. “I like that idea, Daddy.”

Curling into his arms again, she let herself be held.

“Can I see the pictures you took?” she murmured against his chest.

He rewarded her with another kiss on the head.

“Of course, little one.” He paused. “After we’re done here.”

Outside, the world continued to try to rip itself apart, but that was of no account to Kelsey, here in Isaac’s arms. He would take her later, love her tonight, and the sun would rise in the morning. The fight would go on, but in this moment, in this place, they were safe in their little refuge built from and for only the two of them, where the outside world and its terrors couldn’t touch them.

In all its horror and beauty, the world would still be there tomorrow.

This story is dedicated, first and foremost, to the organizers, planners, protesters, “keyboard warriors,” voters and people working tirelessly to create the better world we and our posterity deserve to live in.



#BlackLivesMatter



 To the lovers and dreamers everywhere.



To those fighting the good fight against the scourge of COVID-19, both on the front lines and in quiet battles in their own homes.

And finally, but by no means last in my thoughts or heart, to the woman I love with all my soul.

With hope,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

[image error]



Reach

Sleep comes slow and I let go,

Tumbling drifting into sugar-coated candy floss.

I’m with you with me with 

US

In a world where logic applies and gravity still functions as it should

With you

Making a new meal or trying a new wine or sharing shower coffee

Touching you

On the beach, leaving impermanent footprints and indelible memories

Holding you

In the graveyard of night when the fears and stresses overwhelm your delicate heart

Within you

As all the doubt and madness and pain and fear fall away in damp heat and connection and love

Loving you

With everything I am and everything I will or can ever be

Feeling you

In my arms as moonlit air sings over my chilled skin, offset by slumbering lilac-salt warmth and the swelling of my intact heart

And I awake

And turn to you to tell you where we’ve been while I slept

To brand gratitude and joy and love for you on the air in glyphs of flame

And I reach…

And reach…

Across time

I reach…

And reach

Across space, across distance, across words I left silent and words which should have died stillborn before they touched 

My tongue

My lips

The air

Your ears

I reach with a phantom limb I no longer possess

And the nightmare begins

Because I reach with

Because I reach for

What is no longer there

I cannot see you

I cannot touch you

I cannot hear you

And yet I keep reaching

Beyond the nightmare of your absence

Through the ghost of your lingering imprint on my soul

I keep reaching

And the tentacles of an infernal world

Reach for me

Entangle me in manacles of my own forging

Rip me below the placid cotton candy surface to that tortuous realm

Where you are NOT

And I reach

And I keep reaching

Because reaching,

Fighting my way back to the surface

Is my only surety that I still live.

And I struggle through the nightmare

With my one remaining arm

Fight my way to the moment 

When I fall grateful into my empty bed and

Sleep comes slow and I let go

Tumbling drifting into sugar-coated candy floss

I’m with you with me with

US

Still reaching

Because beyond Morpheus’s portal I am whole

And reaching makes a difference

Because you’re with me with you with

US

And the lost parts of me can touch

What is no longer there

And I reach…

And reach…

And reach…

Image sourced from https://pixabay.com/photos/guy-man-male-people-hands-reach-2609240/

Today’s the day, ladies and gentlemen! Starting at 6pm US Eastern Time/3pm US Pacific Time (UTC -7 for those of you in the rest of the world who may be unsure), I’ll be giving a LIVE reading from Adeptus: Book One of The Soulforger Chronicles. I’ll also be giving away copies of The Soulforger Chronicles books, as well as doing an interactive #AskMeAnything. Tune in on Twitter or YouTube and be sure to like, subscribe, follow and hit me up with YOUR burning questions about urban fantasy, writing or life in general! I’ll be streaming the video here, as you can see from the embedded viewer below.

See you there!

Since I’ve been conspicuous by my absence lately, and with the release of Sybarite right around the corner, I thought it would be fun to ease the pandemic boredom and reconnect with my peeps by doing a live stream!

It’s going on Saturday, April 25th, starting at 6pm Eastern/3pm Pacific and running until I’m either too drunk to form a coherent sentence or y’all get sick of me and log off. I’ll be talking a little about Sybarite, reading the first chapter of Adeptus (and doing horrible accents! You CAN’T pass up me doing horrible accents!) and hosting a live Q&A during which you can ask me…well…ANYTHING! Plus, I’ll have some surprises, including a flash “win before you can buy” giveaway of both The Soulforger Chronicles books, plus the free short story, “Ring-a-ding Demon.”

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Be sure to check out @jerichoswayne on Twitter and my new YouTube channel, and definitely tune in on Saturday. Going to be some great stuff going down, and I’m excited to see y’all there. Stay safe, stay inside, STAY HEALTHY and try to keep your head up!

Best,

J.S. Wayne

At the bus stop on Stark, I check the Trimet app. Seven minutes before my bus. I was going to wait until I got to the first step on my itinerary, but fifteen minutes is going to be too long to wait for caffeine today. After migrating from position to position on the bed to floor to bed to new position to couch to bed in a sort of narcoleptic Brownian motion, unable to get comfortable or really rest for any length of time, I’ve got enough to do that I want to be alert and aware.

It’s not like riding the bus is a particularly taxing experience in itself, unless you count dealing with some of the assorted bozos, yahoos and miscellaneous miscreants who ride the bus, present company very much included, but still.

I dip into the convenience store about a hundred feet east. The proprietor, an Asian gentleman with a smile behind his surgical mask, waves with one gloved hand and calls out a heavily accented but friendly, “How are you?” I return the wave, offer my ritual “Howdy” and beeline for the sodas. (I cut out energy drinks last week, which seemed like a much better idea then than it does now.) Since I can’t find Mountain Dew readily, I snag a Coke and take it up to the register. Inflation’s a bitch, folks: $2.19 for 20 ounces of soda, but I can get a 2-liter at Safeway for $1.50.

Sometimes I think I’ll never understand capitalism. Or math. Or capitalist math.

I swipe my card, twitching as I imagine the ghost of George Carlin standing behind me grumbling in disapproval at using plastic for a two-dollar purchase. Of course, cash has fallen out of favor since COVID, so people prefer to get their filthy lucre through cards. Kind of like a condom for your wallet, I guess. Keying in my PIN, I grimace trying not to think about how many other hands have touched it. I left my hand sanitizer at home, and my stockpile of gloves is long since depleted, so I make a note to scrub extra hard when I get home. I’m all for exposure and building up a healthy immune system, but even I’m turning into a germaphobe.

The guy thanks me and I’m already opening the bottle as I hit the door. That first cold blast of high-fructose corn syrup and delicious things that make you fat and murder you slowly hits my system, and the caffeine bitch-slaps my somnolent brain to attention.

Back at the bus stop, four minutes to go. A yellow Volkswagen Beetle passes by, and I feel a tiny tug somewhere below and behind my sternum.

Ah, trusty Beetle: promoting benevolent domesticated violence since 1938.



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(Punch buggy, anyone?) I note the pang and wall it off, determined to keep my mind on my tasks for the day.

As if to mock my willpower and emotional equilibrium, three more pass me in the next two minutes: red, blue and silver. I grit my teeth against memories, take another long swig of my Coke and focus on looking out for the bus. There it is, off in the distance around 111th. I shove my soda into the left sleeve of my coat so my hands are free, mute Antoine Baril’s masterful thrash-metal medley orchestration of the Transformers soundtrack, and pull out my fare card.

(1986, not Bayverse; I’m not a fucking barbarian, thank you very much.)

The bus pulls up. The driver’s wearing a mask, and once again I realize just how surprised I am that I don’t recall hearing about a single bank robbery or convenience store holdup lately. I tap my fare card, the machine beeps and my two and a half hour window starts. There are only five people on the bus, a rainbow of colors, genders and ages…and me, whose pasty face hasn’t seen a razor in a month. I’m starting to look like a Wookie with space mange and the white in my goatee is more prominent than ever.

I choose a seat near the back door and the bus takes off. There aren’t many options, because 9 out of 10 seats on Trimet buses are walled off with passive-aggressive warnings not to sit here and practice social distancing, blah blah blah.

For the record, I think seven to eight inches is a very social distance…

If I know and like you like that. Otherwise, yeah, totally on board with six feet. Or sixty. 5,280 is a nice round number too…or, let’s get serious about our social distancing. How about an AU?

Thirteen blocks later, I get off the bus. My mistake hits me two blocks later. I’ve forgotten the cross street for the 7-11 I’m heading to.

The punishment for not ensuring you know where you’re going on public transit is using your feet, and so I do.

Sanitation workers are pumping out a storm sewer, and the worker nearest me, a portly man maybe ten years older than me, directs me around the side of the truck closest to the traffic. I thank him and do as directed, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up as I thread my way between the cones and the truck, hoping I don’t taken out by some jackoff in a Prius. There are more ignominious ends I can think of…but not many.

My first destination is in sight, and I walk in, immediately struck by how closely everyone’s packed together, ignoring the lines on the floor which give a visual indicator of what six feet actually means with such titanic disdain it can only be a put-on.

I’m uncomfortably aware of the fact I’m now standing, for the second time today already, in a petri dish.



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The good news is, the aisle leading to the ATM is clear. I run my card, complete the transaction and run another. Stupid withdrawal limits. Ridiculous to have to run your card twice just to make the rent payment, but at least the ATM is fee-free, so I don’t have to deal with that insult. Business concluded, I thread my way through the store, staying as far away from everyone else as I can and not even attempting to be subtle about it. I hit the fresh air and take a long breath, realizing as I do that my palms are sweating. Apparently a month of house arrest has also given me a touch of agoraphobia. Wonderful…bring on the happy medication!

I cross at the light, cross again, and commit the intersection to memory so I don’t do something moronic like, oh, GET OFF THE BUS TWO STOPS TOO SOON again. At the bus stop, I take a puff off my vape. Portland PD has somebody jacked up in the parking lot: a motorcycle unit and one of the standard SUVs. I can see the rose emblem, and part of me ruminates on how intimidating a rose as symbol for law enforcement really is while another part is occupied with Baril.

I check my phone. The bus is 15 minutes out, so I scope out the sights there are to be seen, the fine hairs on the back of my neck raising a little. It’s not that the city is dead; there’s plenty of traffic. But it moves listlessly, unless you count the guy in the Volvo station wagon who makes a snap judgment that he’s in the wrong lane and jumps sharply over, missing the curb by far less margin than I’m comfortable with and barely avoiding clipping the rear bumper of the truck in front of him. Good thing, too; the truck’s rear end looks to be held together by bumper stickers promoting various state and national parks or pleading for environmental justice. One good tap and that thing would probably come apart like a crispy egg. A black car pulls up, more or less into the space previously occupied by the Volvo. The passenger window rolls down and a dark hand with blunt, spatulate fingers flicks out a chicken bone right onto the street.

I roll my eyes. Stay classy, bro.

I look down the street for the bus, just in time to see a guy on a bicycle riding full-tilt boogie down the sidewalk, which annoys the hell out of me. Portland is really big on bicyclists, even giving them dedicated lanes on the street. But no, we can’t keep wheels where wheels go and away from where feet go. I step back as far as I dare, the heel of my right sneaker hanging precariously off the curb. The bicyclist blows right past me as if it’s his God-given right to be a sidewalk hog, even giving me a broad smile and nod of his head, ignoring the death-ray glower I level at him.

Finally, the bus lurches into sight. I get on and check the directions for my next destination: the post office. Luckily, the bus’s routing means it has a stop more or less right in front, which makes this pretty easy. I get off the bus, head into the post office and am slightly disoriented at the number of people, the overwhelming majority of whom are wearing masks and a couple sporting pale blue examination gloves.

I need envelopes, so I find a couple of the bubble-insulated sort which will fill the bill and look around, scoping for pens. There are none, which for some reason sets off a cognitive dissonance frisson in my brain until I remember It’s a pandemic, dumbass. Ain’t nobody leaving pens around for any and everyone to use! Even knowing damned well I don’t have a pen, I check my pockets anyway, as if by happy happenstance one might have just magically fallen into my pocket. Surprising absolutely no one, my pockets are bereft of any ink delivery devices.

I look at the line, look at the envelopes and think, There’s a convenience store over there. Convenience stores sell pens. I’ll go buy a pen and come right back. But as I push the door open, I look down at the unpaid-for envelopes in my hand and two words drift across my consciousness:

FEDERAL OFFENSE!!!!!*



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Abandoning that plan, I go get in line like the good citizen sheep I’m pretending to be. Of all the reasons I can think of for ending up with a federal beef, two dollars’ worth of envelopes has got to be the dumbest. Besides, I need postage anyway. Two birds, one stone.

This far back, the jazzy black and yellow stripes the post office has laid out for social distancing are absent, and so I count tiles and guesstimate six feet as best I can. Again that feeling of being closed in a sealed petri dish closes over me. Claustrophobia too? Hey, let’s just have a big old fucking phobia picnic in my brain! Step right up, hurry hurry HURRRRRRAAAAAYYYYY! Lots of seating, no line, no waiting! Can we get some clowns too, so I can see if somehow I’ve acquired coulrophobia, or ooohhh, some puppies to test for cynophobia?

The line is moving slowly. Even through her mask, at this distance, I can see the clerk looks like she’s on the last thread of her patience with repeating the same spiels over and over. “No, you just fill out the card and put it in your mailbox to change your address.” “No, sir, these are the $26 super-express envelopes.” “No, ma’am, it will be three to five days with regular postage…yes, ma’am, to get it there in two days that’ll be [insert amount just a half-step shy of outright usery]…no, ma’am, that’s the fee.”

As I listen with half an ear, I rifle my pockets for the items I need to send: two keys and a thumb drive, in two separate envelopes. When I get to the counter, I explain I want to purchase the envelopes and postage.

“What are you putting in them?”

“Keys and a flash drive.”

“Where are you sending them?”

“Portland.” (Technically accurate enough; still in the metro area, and I’m in no mood to fence.)

“That’ll be $8.68.”

I pay and she begins doling out stamps at a pace which makes snails look like Red Bull fiends on a meth bender. Arnold Palmer and pears. I bite back a grimace. I’ve got nothing against Arnold Palmer per se; by all accounts he was a really nice guy. But I cannot fathom the appeal of golf and wish I’d had the foresight to just buy a book of my own damn stamps, purely for aesthetic reasons.

“Put those on the envelopes and be sure to address them,” she says, her voice gray and lifeless. Stable benefits or not, being essential personnel during a pandemic and having to deal with the ambulatory brain-dead day in and day out has got to be soul crushing. I give her the best smile I can muster and get out of the way so she can deal with someone who actually needs an explanation of the finer points of mailing small items in the modern age.

At an out of the way counter, I peel off the stamps and apply them one by one. The end result is sloppy, but it’s not like I’m worried about staying inside the lines.

I seal the one with the flash drive and bite back a sudden burst of anxiety as I realize the contents of this package have the potential to alter the trajectory of my life in such a profound way that only the divorce papers I filled out two years ago even come close.

The thought makes me feel a little woozy, but I don’t dare grab the counter for support. Mustn’t start a panic.

Now I still need a pen, so I cross the street and make my way over to the convenience store. It’s a much bigger intersection, just off I-5, and I’m struck again by the wary lifelessness in the way the drivers drive and the pedestrians exchange strained smiles. I can’t imagine my own looks any better. It’s lunchtime on a Tuesday, and the juxtaposition between the oddity of my own presence on a city street at this time of day (Friday I was in my bedroom, working remotely from 8-4 like a good minion) and the odd, shambling pace of the too-infrequent traffic, coupled with the relative desertion of the parking lots I pass, touches off something in my brain which isn’t quite a distress signal, but close.

I get to the convenience store, enter and find the pens conveniently located right at the door. Four bucks for good pens is a little spendy, but it beats using one of those Bic stick pens which always seem to stop working after two or three good uses.

One of the most important lessons I learned in college was the importance of not cheaping out on writing utensils.

Seeing the register is occupied, I post up at a socially responsible, CDC-approved distance.

“Oh! And can I get a pizza?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you bake it for me?”

“Yes, ma’am, but you’ll have to pay for it first.”

“Okay….Oh! And can I get a carton of Camel 99s?”

“Let me look…no, ma’am, we don’t have any of those.”

“Do you have Marlboro black?”

“Yes, ma’am, we do have those.”

“Oh! And on the pizza, can you have them turn it down a few degrees just before it comes out so it’s chewy and not crispy?”

FOR FUCK’S SAKE, LADY! IT’S 7-11, NOT FUCKING BURGER KING!



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“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk says. I get the impression at this point he’d submit to receiving the sexual attentions of an angry male tiger if only this woman would get out of his hair. He sees me and waves me over to the next, vacant register while the woman fumbles for her ID and debit card. Since EMV chips became a thing in the US, most merchants don’t ask for it unless you spend over a certain threshold in-store. I put down my pens. He scans them. I run my card. A-OK. Now I have pens.

I step out of the store into a light, misting drizzle. I’m not surprised; part of me wonders what took so long. I fill out the envelope with the flash drive carefully, printing using my best penmanship, which admittedly looks like I dipped a hawk’s talons in ink and just hoped for the best. Then I tuck it under my coat, to protect it from the rain. The other one I don’t care about; it can get punched, spindled, mutilated or rained on from here to Christmas for all it matters to me. Business attended to, I start back to the post office so I can complete this seemingly simple transaction and move on with my day.

A woman’s standing at the bus stop, and she blows out an obnoxious cloud of smoke as I walk past. Even in my most belligerent pro-smokers’-rights days, I was never deliberately that kind of a jerk. I give her a nod as I walk past, holding my breath until I’m well upwind, and keep going, offering to her under my breath the benediction revealed unto the faithful by St. Ice of T, one of the pioneers of West Coast rap and masters of the Twitter game:

Why don’t you eat a hot bowl of dicks?

I cross into the post office parking lot and set out for the mailboxes, keeping my head on a swivel. With fewer cars on the road, people seem way more willing to do dumb shit, and I’m not interested in getting creamed doing a simple errand. I enter through the lane opposite the way the traffic’s going…and a BMW SUV piloted by a blonde woman of, shall we say, a certain age, turns into the entry lane.

Which I am currently occupying.

Which forces me to jump out of the way.

This self-indulgent, bleach-blonde idiot with too much bloody money, meanwhile, keeps right on going as if she didn’t miss clipping me by less than six feet thanks solely to my own good reflexes. I stifle the urge to throw her a Jersey salute, mutter some choice and dark imprecations about cliches and deposit the envelope, then scurry to the sidewalk as quickly as I can manage and start trudging to my bus stop.

Thankfully, the bus doesn’t take long to arrive. When it does, I again choose a seat as close to the back door as I can manage. This time, it proves to be a mistake.

The guy across the aisle is a walking Tinder cliche, wearing red basketball shorts and sprawled out like he’s at home on his couch, which means if I cared to I could probably learn very quickly what color his underwear is. (Spoiler: NOPE.) This would be annoying enough, but he’s also carrying on a conversation with someone I presume to be his baby mama.

On speakerphone. (Seriously? Have you never heard of holding the phone to your ear?)

At maximum volume. (Dude, nobody wants to hear about your domestic arrangements. Least of all not on the bus. Even less when I’m playing my music at full volume and can STILL hear you running your trap.)

While talking like he’s a card-carrying member of the original Death Row Records lineup.

(You’re not even Kanye, hoss. Maybe somewhere around Bieber.)

“Well, look, I can file for full custody of your kid and you can see her every day!…I got a job, I got benefits, I’ll have my own place next year…No, your kid can call me Daddy…she can call me Daddy the Muthafuckin’ Boss!”

I roll my eyes, grit my teeth and try very hard to ignore the little devil on my shoulder, which is lobbying at full force for me to suffer a “slip” and conveniently end up with my fist in this socially oblivious sack of ass’s testicles. Just about the time the dwindling fuse on my patience is about to expire, I pull the cord for my stop. The bus shimmies to a halt, I press on the door and call, “Thank you!” to the driver. I hit the bricks and head for home, where my first step is to scrub my hands.

For about two minutes.

Then I sink onto my bed, my wonderful, comfy, amazing bed, and I think to myself:

When are they going to open the bars again?

Thanks for playing along, y’all. More goodies coming tomorrow, including some big news about The Soulforger Chronicles, so stay tuned!

*In memory of Terry Pratchett, who famously wrote, “Multiple exclamation marks,’ he went on, shaking his head, ‘are a sure sign of a diseased mind.” To be fair, he wasn’t wrong…

It’s half-past midnight and I should be in bed. Instead, I’m listening to the new cat Mouse acquired chasing a toy which involves a ping-pong ball on a plastic track in the bathroom and considering my next moves.

[image error]Current fuzzball (Kodiak, aka Senor Shitweasel Stabmittens von Murderfloofen) is not pleased with the new addition to the household. Tough rocks, cat…you can’t open your own food cans!