Categories
books erotica women writing

My Books

My hope is you’ve enjoyed the stories and poems here and you’re interested in more of my work.

If you’re looking for where you can read my books, here are the links. I value your support and in return you’ll get stories which will entertain and engage you as a reader. If you’re a reviewer, get in touch and I will be happy to offer a copy of these in exchange for a review across the internet.

My first book

As Dahlia Bliss

Categories
erotica love lust short fiction women

Animal And Spirit By Dahlia Bliss

Waiting for you, passing the time with a cup of coffee and a book. The words rise to meet me, but seeing you is tangible anticipation. We catch one another’s eye across the street and you grin with a naughtiness which makes me swell with want. 

You wear the chosen clothes. There were several lazy afternoons where you showed me the contents of your wardrobe and from those a soft, pink sweater which fell off your shoulders with your hair worn up at the back and a short skirt with tights. Your lips are the instructed shade of pink. Already, the idle daydream of how it will look smeared your cheek with the ball of my thumb. You’re wearing the red pumps with the half inch heel. My eyes wander upwards, teased by what your clothes suggest and hide, the full curves of you and the strength in your hips and thighs. 

My hands move to your hips as we step into one another’s space. 

My baby girl. 

‘Hello.’ 

We play with one another on many levels. In public, we use our given names where it’s appropriate, but often we are playing out our adventures. We pretend to be spies or thieves, child-like with our feverish imaginations. We look at one another and our eyes offer promises or costs we would account for later. 

Our lips brush over one another, feeling you soften in my hands as we release a drop of the vibe into the world. It is tender, making me shudder to not be crude with it. The control exercised is gentle,, but it is strong and violent. 

You smile at the book as we walk over and order coffee. We complement one another and we’re talking about the things we’ve been watching. 

‘So, I can’t believe how the interview went. I wanted to punch the screen.’ you said.

I grinned and shook my head as I ordered for us. Tea for you, and Americano for me. 

‘She didn’t do yourself any favours with it. It was funny, did you watch the video I sent?’ 

You always do, but I enjoy asking. Baby girl responded to little rewards. But your eyes were bright with mischief today, and I thought about when we would be alone and in private. 

We take our drinks back to the table and chat. There are no nerves between us but there is excitement and the control of it heightens every sensation. 

The rich, black coffee. The cigarettes we smoke on the way and the kisses we steal when we get into the car, a preview of the world we inhabit when we are together like this. It is not an effort for either of us, the exchange of gifts as warm as Christmas. 

My authority.

Your surrender. 

You talk about the stories you’re writing. There is a notebook to hand at all times, where you write ideas, often based on conversations we are having about the things going on around us. It reflects the mercurial grace of your intelligence in you writing, and we talk about the craft as much as anything else. I rest my hand on your left thigh as we drive and give an appreciative squeeze. My hands feel powerful, confident in their knowledge of you and what you respond to. 

We park and you unlock the front door. My heart is thumping in my chest as I look at your bum in the skirt and my mouth goes dry with want. You turn your head and grin at me as I smile and follow you inside. 

2. 

My fingers close around your jaw as I pull you close. We kiss, and there is hunger in it. A playful but intent desire to taste and feel one another. You nuzzle against me as I guide you to the wall and press myself against you. 

‘Oh Daddy Bear.’ 

Your voice is a heavy sigh before we kiss. I retreat and advance, taking your bottom lip between my teeth and biting down hard enough to make you sigh. I take my hand from your jaw and slide my fingers through the hair on the back of your head and make a fist. You groan and kiss me back hard. 

I pull back and look at you. My upper lip curls up and I growl at you to get upstairs. You ask permission to take your shoes off and I nod. 

‘My good girl.’ 

You smile and I stand back as you unbuckle them and takes them off. She walks up the stairs and I stand there, watching how your bum moves and the sight of you makes me throb as I walk up after you. 

I tell you to wait as I walk through to the bedroom and prepare for us both. 

I have blanket fort construction down to a fine art. I suspended the rectangular frame from the ceiling by chains and threw over the sheets we kept as materials. The frame has fairy lights wound around it. I throw pillows onto the bed and take off my shoes before I open the door and tell you you can come inside. 

You squeal and put your arms out as I take you into my arms. My hand strokes up and down your back, palming and squeezing your bum through the skirt. I rub my bearded cheek against you, like I’m marking you as mine.

You are. 

You moan and open your thighs as you ask permission to touch me. 

I nod and grunt as your fingers unbutton my shirt. You pull it free of my jeans and press yourself against my bare chest. Your mouth goes to my ear as I nuzzle your neck and grab your bum hard. The strength in my hands serves us both. There is the honeyed silk of your skin beneath you clothes, and I ache to touch and taste it. I pull your hair and you run your fingers over my chest, stroking my nipples to make me groan with want. 

I bring my hand around from your bum and slide my fingers inside the waistband of your skirt, through your tights and over your panties. I stare into your eyes and revel in your expression. Your eyes are black with arousal and you face is flushed as you look back at me, lost to your feelings. 

‘Whose pussy is this?’ 

I massage you through your panties for emphasis. 

You smile as you lean back. My fingers slip under the material as my fingertips graze over the ripe swell of my pussy. 

‘Yours, Daddy. It’s your pussy.’ 

I kiss you as I draw my index finger down an inch and you shudder as I brush in a small circle and you reach out to rest your hand on my forearm to draw me closer.

Deeper. 

Harder. 

I part you with my fingers and slide my hand down, letting the warm sweet oil of your arousal anoint me as you arch your back and I stroke around your clit with the care it takes to pick a lock. Such gentle actions explode within you, and it is the gulf between attention and want which I leap across each time I touch you. 

I let go of your hair and close my fingers on the arteries either side of your neck and I squeeze for a second as you moan and close your eyes. My hold lasts a second before I ease off and kiss you again as I dip my finger inside you. You soften and I circle my finger slow inside you, savouring the warm, wet tension of you. I kiss you as I close my eyes and surrender to my instincts. 

My fingers recite a poem to you, each line and verse builds upon the last, and I feel your responses, increasing or decreasing the pressure and speed in line with what you need. The understanding is unspoken in this moment we share. 

You buck against me and draw back from the kiss as you look deep into my eyes. 

‘Daddy, that feels so fucking good.’ 

I give a slight smile and stroke your clit, which makes your eyelids grow heavy as you moan with pleasure. I continue the rhythm, keeping my face still as I watch your expressions as the sensations build and you gain urgency and agency from the tumult of touches I cast into you. 

You grip my arms and stares into my eyes with raw want. 

‘Please, can I come, Daddy?’ 

I shake my head and you whimper, closing your eyes and bracing yourself against the slow wave of sensation building within you. We give off waves of heat in our embrace, and we move with one another, without losing the rhythm of the moment. 

You ask me again, breathless, and I shake my head. You whimper and lower your head, but I tell you to look at me and you do as another spasm of release dances through you. Your heat drenches my palm and fingers, and the friction makes you lean forwards and cry out as you stare into my eyes. 

‘Please, Daddy, let me come. Please?’ 

I look at you and shake my head. The denial does not stop my hand from where it strokes my pussy into the start of a prohibited activity. I am forcing you to accept my authority and you clutch at me as you cry out you will come. 

You buck against me as your fingers bite into my arms and I squeeze your neck to enhance the experience,  your eyes shine with tears as you shudder through an orgasm hard as a cramp before you sag against me. 

I do not stop stroking you and you whimper, whispering in my ear. 

‘Oh Daddy, I‘m going to come again. Can I come?’ 

I tell you you can, and you are there, crying out as you ride the sensation down and collapse against me. My arms throb with the action but I feel immune to everything but my authority over you as you come all over my hand before you straighten up, surprised by the riot of you nerves as you tell me you want to come again. I don’t refuse you and you curl over me, grinding against my fingers as you pulse and undulate into a tight knot of tension which you undo with a loud cry and your arms coming around me. 

Your breath, soft and ragged, makes the hairs on my neck stand up as I press my palm against my pussy and tell you you’re safe. You collapse against me and rub your cheek against mine as I slip my fingers from between your thighs. 

I bring my fingers up and smear them across your lips. You grin and kisses me before my arms come around you and pull you close. We hold the embrace until you suggest we have a cigarette and I agree with a smile. 

You take off your tights and we dive into the blanket fort together. We roll cigarettes and light them, and we lay there, smoking and kissing, talking in soft whispers because my voice carries through to the neighbours. 

When we’ve finished, we stare into one another’s eyes and move towards one another. 

I unbuckle my belt with one hand as I grab your hair and push you down into the bed as I straddle you. You reach inside my jeans and stroke my cock through my underwear. There is a red insistent pressure behind my eyes, the blazing libido honed into a point of perfect focus as I lift off and you reach out to push my jeans and underwear down my thighs. You reach out and stroke down the length of my cock as you look up at me. 

‘Can I kiss it Daddy?’ 

I nod, my throat too tight with arousal to speak as you tilt your head to one side and give a smile which makes me clench as you close your lips to the underside of my cock before you lick me with a giggle in the back of your throat. I sigh and close my eyes, reaching for your hair as you stroke me with both hands as you guide me into you mouth. When I open my eyes, you are looking up at me, electrified with desire as your lips close over me and you suckle me with a slow pressure which goes to my head. 

I feel every nuance, breathing with the pleasure of your lips as I pull you hair and tell you how good it fucking feels. I accept it and you murmur with pleasure as my cock stiffens in your mouth. 

Between your hands and mouth, I am clenching in slow, deep spasms of impending release. We speak a language of our own, seamless and silent as breath. I break it by telling you I will come and you continue as I take a tight grip on you hair and let go. 

It is flight without leaving the ground, a sensation which comes from everywhere and channelled into the music two people can make if they play in the same key. I feel the rush of everything as I spasm onto your tongue and you gulp me down as I shiver with power. 

I pull you up and kiss you, tasting the salt of my come as you wrap yourself around me. I push you onto the bed and you turn your head to one side. 

‘Traffic light?’

You smile at me and whisper.

‘Green.’ 

I reach down and touch your face, but you turn your head and scowl. I turn your face back towards me, keeping my fingers tight on your jaw. You try to pull away but I hold you down firm as I shake my head and grin.

‘You can’t get away, baby girl. I take what I want from you.’ 

My cock stirs against my thigh as I grab your wrist with one hand and push it down onto the bed. You kick against me, but I laugh and grab your other hand as I press my chest against you and kick your legs apart with my feet. She breaks character and grin before you put on your grimace again and I smile, with a bellyful of lust fuelling my strength. 

You lift your hips up as I bring my mouth to your ear.

‘I don’t know why you’re fighting, baby girl. I’m stronger than you.’ 

You grunt and try to push me off but I hold on and the head of my cock rubbed between the lips of my pussy. You bend your leg at the knee as you bite your bottom lip. 

‘Are you going to fight Daddy anymore?’ 

I make my voice hard and you lift your hips to draw me in but I pull back and shake my head. 

‘Oh Daddy.’ 

I shake my head. 

‘Are you going to fight Daddy more?’ 

You sigh and shake your head. 

‘Are you going to take this like a good girl?’ 

You ask me to kiss you. I lean over you, with your wrists still in my hands, dominating you as my tongue steals between your lips and you relax in my grip as I ease my hips forward as I let the head of my cock move back and forth as you gasp and lift your legs higher to take me in. 

‘Please fuck me Daddy.’ 

I tease you with it, slow rocking motions where the head of my cock gleams with your come and I feel the muscles in your stomach tighten as you express your need for depth and intention. I thrust into you with one deep stroke and you gasp. I lean forward and inhale you, the musk of sex, the wild honey and coconut oil you use. Touching you is a contemplation on beauty, but right now I am reduced and elevated to a wild animal of need. 

Her bear. 

I fuck you in slow strokes. My need makes me urgent and propulsive, and you breathe in rapid spurts as you close your eyes and moan beneath the delicious expression of my desire. I raise up and put my fingers on your throat as I squeeze. Your eyelids flutter and you buck against me as my pussy floods with arousal and you ask me for permission to come. 

I squeeze your neck again and fuck you with a lust akin to brutality, tender and terrifying in its openness before I let go and you ask me if you can come. 

Your eyes are damp, and your skin is flushed and glowing. There is a delicacy to you which makes dominating you feel such a rare pleasure and the valid proposition of it pools in my crotch as I tell you to wait for me. I lean forward and kiss you, tell you to let me know when you‘re going to come. 

Animal and spirit, a primal polarity which creates a cosmic, theatrical tension where we play with deadly seriousness in safety. 

You ask me to fuck you harder. Your voice is tight and you’re close, as I feel another throbbing rush of arousal flood my pussy and we lock into a perfect cycle of want as you tell me you‘re going to come. 

I speed up, releasing the control I’ve held onto as I pound into you, looking into your eyes as my head swims with the rush of impending release. You clench around me and I let go, the ache transforming into a sweet, unstoppable wave of liberation. We find one another in the beatific blindness of the moment, kissing to gain wisdom of our primal selves. 

You pull me close and I wrap you in my arms, tight so you can feel what is within me, too important to hide but at a point where my words would be too fragile to contain it. You sigh and we lay there, seeing one another before you draw me down into another kiss and we work ourselves into another puzzle of intimacy. Another game. 

Categories
lust poetry sex women

Correcting Grammar

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I write poems
On your skin
Sonnets against the
Soft skin of your
Thighs
Composing upwards
To what is mine
Tongue haiku
But I forget how many
Syllables
Until you reach and take my
Head in your hands
Correcting my grammar
And you ask
Permission to reply
And on sheets
Dripping sweet
Your voice
Grows louder
Than mine

Categories
lust poetry sex women

A Car Is Waiting

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My hand on your thigh
Then moving further
Open mouthed kisses
Your stomach fluttering
As my fingers
Find you
Playing until we are
Slick with want
Biting tasting testing
My hand at your throat
Holding your gaze
As I drive into you
I would fuck away
Your sadness
Make you a dirty
Princess here with me
A beast snarling
Pinning taking testing
You will fail
Before my authority
Over and over
A sweet moment’s dying
Before life comes
Hard as a car crash
And you scream your pleasure
Into the night sky
An intensity
That appears loveless
To the weak
But you know different
Come to me
For me
Play with the warm darkness
Of my passions
Fuck like
A car
Is
Waiting

Categories
grief love short fiction women

Baby, It’s You

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Tomorrow would have been a day of splendid heraldry.

Five years to the day.

We had picked out every detail, lost in the tremendous, anxious excitement of a day celebrating our love.

The start of everything.

That last evening was full of mundane details in which tragedy lent a mythic resonance

I had undercooked the spaghetti.

You complained for forty minutes about your job, then started work on a spreadsheet.

The headache was down to stress; you said. We kissed, your eyes were dull with fatigue but you whispered for me to wake you in an hour and cupped my crotch.

I still feel the squeeze of your fingers against me.

You did not wake up and the world ended. If the devil had come and asked me to trade places, I would have in a heartbeat.

The flat became unbearable. Selling it was like chewing a limb off to escape a trap, and it hurt as much.

I could recite the memories, large and small, but I need to say this without crying.

Let me have my stoicism. Just once.

A smaller apartment. Your family became feral in their grief, but I asserted my primal, mourning authority and was the first to take the share of the treasures your passing made of simple things.

They are in the spare room. Boxed up with the lids unsealed so I can torture myself and mourn in one visit.

Lying there last night, I had left a light on. Which I don’t do, do I?

It used to irritate you how I would turn off the lights when we were not in the room. My way of showing you I had your security in mind. I figured you knew, but it got lost in translation.

The light came from the spare room. I had spent the evening reading the blizzard of post-it notes you left around the place. An oversight, but I got out of bed and check.

I opened the door, expecting to turn off the light, see all I had left of you and go back to bed, wounded and feverish.

Lights strung along the ceiling. Bunches of willow branches dusted with glitter hung on the walls. Throw pillows piled in the corner.

It brought me to my knees and I laid there, fetal and sobbing until my pills kicked in.

In the grey light of morning, it had all gone. Wiping my eyes did not make it any better.

The lights still coiled into a wreath. Pillows mummified into a vacuum-sealed bag. Branches resting in a pool of glitter.

Madness would be a relief. I could discount it as my imagination. The gesture, though, baby, it’s you.

I am seeing the doctor later. I wanted to run it by you first before I say anything.

Are there rules over there? Are you twiddling the dials on a celestial radio, looking for a song you need to hear?

Sitting here talking to a lump of Italian marble with your name carved into it makes as much sense as anything else these days. It all boils down to a binary decision.

Pills or poltergeist?

I will leave the things where they are tonight.

I hope it’s you rather than me.

OK, got to go. I love you.

I will look for you, baby.

Categories
fiction man short fiction women

Chickens

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‘If we lived in a world where women were murdering men en masse and men genuinely had reason to fear they might be murdered in their beds by a gang of marauding feminists, I would agree with your concern,’
Clementine Ford.
We found it hiding underneath the bleachers. 

Anita had gotten a righteous shot in with the crossbow, punched through the right thigh before it broke off into a loping, awkward run into the corridors of the high school. It left a trail of blood which we followed, shaking with fear and excitement as its cries echoed off the walls.
Karen cradled her baseball bat close to her chest as she glanced at us, grinning with anticipation.
‘This is the last one, girls, then we’re clear.’ she said.
I looked outside, saw the younger girls dragging bodies onto the smouldering bonfire as their songs and cheers of victory reached us.
The element of surprise had guaranteed us a head start. They were stronger than us, faster and adapted for violence at a genetic level.
We moved into the gym, heard it pleading from the corner as the four of us spread out to cover the exits. Karen turned the bat over in her hands and tightened her grip as she walked towards the bleachers.
‘Come out and we’ll make it quick.’ she said.
One thing I admired about the harder ones, they never gave up. Wounded or mutilated, they fought to their last breath and some of them would look you in the eye as you came for them. They had been in our homes, our schools and places of work forever, but still they fought hard to live.
After the first one, it got easier for me to do it. I made it quick with the machete, aiming for the head or the neck wherever possible. Anita liked the crossbow because it lent a sense of theatre to proceedings, she said, but I knew she enjoyed the pursuit, heightened until the last blow landed. One night, she confided in me how it made her wet when she killed one. I said nothing, but ever since; I looked at her with detachment and questioned her motives.
I did not do this in public. Apostates got demoted to support our infrastructure. Repeated infractions were a ticket to Central Processing, which no one spoke of aloud.
Karen and Anita moved to either side of the bleachers. I guarded the entrance, gun in my hand as I flipped off the safety and waited for the signal.
The sharp twang of the crossbow followed by a guttural scream was my cue to move in.
It clutched at the bolt in its stomach, eyes streaming tears as it gasped and pleaded for life. Blood pooled and soaked through the ragged, stained t-shirt as its hands grew slick. Karen walked forwards and smacked the bat down into its face. She swung the bat down twice before she stepped back and reviewed her work with a grim nod of satisfaction. They both looked at me with an unspoken question in her eyes. I tucked the gun into the back of my jeans and I pulled it out, cocked the hammer and levelled it at it.
They had always been a threat, hadn’t they?, something happened. I remembered Tommy floating in the pool whilst Mom waded out of the water. Dad had been in the study, with his throat opened in a thick, red line. It was us or them, and yet as I looked at Karen and Anita, I wondered who we were.
The gun was heavy in my hand as I aimed down the front sight. At least, I told myself; I was offering mercy as I pulled the trigger. It looked me in the eyes and held my gaze until the shot snapped its head back and it slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Karen and Anita dragged it to the bonfire. I noticed the class ring had come off its finger, caught on the edge of the door frame, and I pocketed it before either of them saw it.
The cries of women rose in the air as I slipped the ring into my pocket and followed them outside, grateful they were not looking at my face.
It had asked me out last summer.

 Anita said it was disgusting and I was too ready out with the likes of something so base and toxic. It took the hint and left me alone but would exchange hopeful glances with me in the corridors until Principal James ordered them to avoid direct eye contact in the halls under the micro-aggression policies.

Today had been the first time we’d seen one another.


It looked up at me as the others dragged it through, but I couldn’t hold the gaze. The smell of burning meat wafted over and my mouth watered as the bell rang for lunch. It was easier to pretend this was all fine, so I did.

Did it used to have a purpose? Talking about it gets you wrote up, and when I think about it, my head hurts and I go away for a little while.
I walked away from the bonfire and walked inside, found the drinking fountain which used to look tall to me, but now I have to squat in front of it and strain my neck to reach the spout. The water doesn’t taste as good, although we’re told it’s safe.
It is safe now, isn’t it? 

Categories
fiction love women

CONFERENCE IN THE TREEHOUSE

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Her voice, small and trembling, woke me like an alarm clock. A single word had me tumbling from the womb of warm sheets.
The drive is quiet, my teeth ground together by the tension, knowing that at any moment, I might arrive to some horror scene, blood and rage. Frightened by what I might do if she’s not alone.
I call when I am outside. Parked a block away, she sobs as she tells me she’s alone.
 Treehouse games and stories we only ever told to one another, and when the inch of space between door and frame shows me a livid bruise around her left eye, I want to give it a violent, violent ending. Inside, I’m all business.
‘What have you packed?’
She looks down, auburn hair hung in her eyes and lean arms wrapped around herself. A runner’s build, but this is one trail she’s been gearing up for, for a long fucking time. Grey vest and faded track bottoms, translucent at the knees.
‘Becky. Get something together. Where is she?’
She shakes her head without looking up. I remember reading an interview with Sean Connery once; he said that there were worse things done to a woman than hit her.  Becky argued death penalty cases, wrote papers that went to Supreme Court Justices and here she was, unable to tell me if she had packed a bag or not.
I sigh and she flinches, which makes a small series of knots, made of of guilt and anguish from palate to bowel, slip itself tighter together. Pressing my palms together as I take a small step forward.
‘Becky, we have to go now. You called me, and I want you to come home with me, but you need to get some things together.’
She nodded and cantered into the bedroom. The hallway was heavy with framed pictures. Even in an age of Instagram and Snapchat, Becky appreciated representations of her history. Lots from her gap-toothed childhood, earnest eyes that looked too old for an apple-cheeked face and fine, windblown hair with my arm around her. Self conscious enough to make sure I sneered in every photo. Little brother, that I was. First boy in the family.  Honour roll, certificates, qualifications, college with the haircut, shaved at the sides and long on top that nearly got her kicked off. 
Jennifer. Five feet tall, ninety pounds. Not insubstantial or weak. Compact. A dwarf meteorite. Beautiful compression, her existence lived like a tape on fast forward. Words all pressed together and an intense line of patter that made you wonder how she drew breath.
Becky didn’t stand a chance against being loved like that.
I’d gone into the academy.
 When they announced that they were moving up to SF. 
Jennifer had landed a great gig working the diversity angle with tech companies eager to avoid being crucified online, Becky, in a resigned voice, said that she could practice anywhere. Thanksgiving was with her family and then Becky shut down her facebook without telling me. A couple one came up instead, Jennifer’s idea.
On the phone, talking like a bad audition for an awful movie. 
Into my career, blue flames shooting out of my ass, looking at making detective and living like a monk. 
Maintenance communications with my family and not even noticing how Becky doesn’t really talk to anyone anymore.
A call from a payphone, sobbing with the pain of it all.
No details, but fuck that was enough. If you had looked at Jennifer and Becky together, you’d have guessed wrong about who did what to whom and the nature of it. No one wants to be a victim, inventing reasons that justify a course of action because that’s easier to saying that life is, to quote Hamlet, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
She came out with a suitcase. Looking around, my forehead furrowed as the silence bothered me. She had everything swamped beneath a sweatshirt that hung past her.  Taking the case, she bit her bottom lip and lowered her eyes. I told her I would use the bathroom and she swallowed heavily. She limped out to the car and I swallowed another slick burst of rage.
I walked down the hall. My apartment was smaller than their bathroom, one of those showers that had multiple heads at angles, black marble and chrome. Their toilet looked like performance art.
I took a quick piss and flushed. The door to their bedroom was open and as I shut the bathroom door behind me, there was the scent of something dark and heavy. My heart was heavy in my chest and I reached for my hip, embarrassed that my instinct outstripped my actual reality.
A lump beneath the duvet, goose feathers hung in the air and the smear of black hair against the pillow. Illuminated by the light from the hallway. The reason she had called me. We had both worked within institutions that served and protected people. Knew that the law was like sausages, that you might enjoy them, but if you saw them made, you’d never eat one again.
The implications, the armchair quarterbacks who would look at her and wonder why she didn’t ask for help, would haunt her. Remembering a bit from a Doug Stanhope show.
‘I don’t like when minorities tell me I can’t understand racism because I’m white. I go: “No, you can’t understand racism ‘cause you’re not white; I hear the shit they say about you when you leave the room! They don’t hold back on my account.”
Same applied to sexism. That, and we both knew how cops and lawyers fared in prison. This was not Peter Harris with his broken arm, but the principle was the same. Love is not a statement that you can rely on in court, My handkerchief came out and wiped everywhere that I had touched.
She sat in my front seat, chin tucked to her chest and hands folded in her lap.
The knife was in the suitcase, wrapped in a hand towel and a plastic bag.  I put my hand on her arm, told her we would figure it out on the way.
Her first smile, cold but familiar to me. We always covered for one another.
The front seat of my car.
The treehouse in the backyard.
Just one more body, that was all.

Categories
film short fiction women writing

The Olivias

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The wig made his scalp itch like an addiction, and the lipstick tasted of something extracted from a marine life form, but Heath looked up at the gold statuette with its mother-goddess curves and blank face and bit back a shudder of vulgar joy. He would get away with this, he thought, as he followed the media people down into the auditorium.

He had practiced with heels, but they had delivered their punishment by instalments. Walking the length of the laboratory had been one thing, but hours spent waiting to get in whilst the nominees and celebrities stood for photos and interviews with the press. He wouldn’t risk talking to one of them, although it would be quite something to ask Melissa McCarthy about playing Winifred Churchill in Her Darkest Hour or Mercedes Carrera as Connie The Barbarian.

Heath loved the cinema of this world the way God loves: from afar.

Security ushered them to their seats. Heath sat down in a way which appeared feminine but he felt awkward, already sweating under his arms and at the small of his back. There are whoops and cries from the audience, a hubbub of chatter which swells like an orchestra before the lights fall down and the presenter comes out. Something pinched the back of his ankle and he cursed the shoes he had chosen, but he wanted to fit in with the beautiful people.

It was controversial this year because a man was hosting, which made Heath chortle when he read about it, but as Michael Gyllenhaal walked towards the microphone, Heath felt a foreboding bubble in the pit of his stomach.

They were the only men in the building. He wished there weren’t restrictions on sharing his work. They enforced the department guidelines on contact and interaction with a rigour which verged on the pathological. A Latin woman, in a black suit walked down the aisle, shot Heath a look which raised gooseflesh before she moved down the aisle. Michael made a few jokes about men, and the audience cackled with a fierce glee. He was playing to the crowd, Heath thought, and good on him. Men had it tough in this parallel universe, but the politics didn’t interest him because he was here for the culture, which was always upriver of politics, anyway. His throat was dry and he rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth to generate saliva.

The first guest hosts were the stars of Bitch, Where’s My Car?, stunning despite the goofy smiles and snapback hats, heavy bracelets and midriffs carved from wood, scarred with tattoos which made Heath stir in his seat. He had taped everything back and had to take a deep breath to control his reaction. When they announced the winner as a supporting actress in Thora Gump, Heath tutted and shook his head. An elderly woman shot him a look, and when Heath uncrossed his legs, she scowled with a cautious suspicion before she returned her attention to the show. His mouth was like the skin of a baked potato and he had a headache building at his temples.

Thora Gump was awful. Heath suspected Zemeckis knew enough story structure to adapt the best parts of the book, and Hanks was subtle enough to avoid parody, which he’d been saying long before Tropic Thunder came out, but here Jodie Foster had suffered under Nora Ephron’s affectations to create a saccharine clown show which felt like a cheap satire of the original.

Heath loved the cinema of this world. For every Thora Gump, there was a Saving Private Rachel. Joan Allen was amazing as the determined school teacher and Greta Gerwig as Rachel provided an intense, but brief introduction in the last act. Their failures and successes held the same allure for Heath, but here he was indulging his appetite for novelty and risking his life to do it.

His money was on The Running Woman, Karyn Kusama had done an amazing job on the direction and Saoirse Ronan had proven a ballistic and credible lead. He rated Frances McDormand’s role as Killian the equal of Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight, but he couldn’t share it with them. He shook with pain as his mouth cracked and bled with thirst.

The speeches. The tearful calls for action to the faithful. He needed the bathroom but his legs had gone numb and his calves were hot coals grafted to his bones as he struggled to his feet. The old woman scowled at him and he avoided her piercing gaze as he staggered from his seat. The Latin woman looked at him with frank interest as she walked towards him.

His leg shook and he remembered the pinch on his ankle. A subtle display of tradecraft as good as anyone in the department. Culture was upriver of politics, but as he pitched forward onto his knees and watched the Latin security guard walk towards him, he marvelled how his story had turned out.

Small but capable hands lifted him to his feet.

He knew where he was going. A room outside any jurisdiction. He hadn’t come to watch The Olivias as his work, but his passion. As he focused on the blank, beautiful faces, his knees bumped against the step as they loaded him into the van and shut the door. He wanted to tell him how much he loved this world, its achievements and tragedies, how terrible and beautiful a world of women was, but they lowered the hood over his face and someone thrust a fist into his trachea before throwing him to the floor of the van as it sped away from the auditorium.

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My Books

If you’re looking for where you can read my books, here are the links. I value your support and in return you’ll get stories which will entertain and engage you as a reader. If you’re a reviewer, get in touch and I will be happy to offer a copy of these in exchange for a review across the internet.

My first book

As Dahlia Bliss

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love nature poetry wildness women

No place, but here,

Stood savage yet gentle,

Rooted, yet there is motion

Come forward,

Remove yourself from the mind

The ceaseless quest of knowledge,

Building defences against the unseen and insane,

Within

Without

All the same,

Place your palm

Against the rough bark of

My trunk

Listen

Shelter is here

For you and your world of thought

My leaves drink in sunlight

Bright and pure as your kisses

Close your eyes

Test my solid position,

My strength,

In the silence,

Rest awhile

The burden is yours to give

Mine to take,

Knowing my needs are not blind, grasping things

But the simple physical fact

Of you, at rest, at play against the solid length of me,

Rough, soft, kind and wild,

Here, a single tree

With dreams of a forest kingdom

For every wildness to make itself known

The gentle truth of love without sentiment

Growing, ever growing

Upwards to the canopy of sky above

Invested in the loam and dark of older selves,

But long since let go,

They rotted away

To become fuel

For this becoming.

If you sleep, if you seek solitude

Then do so,

Here, about the work of my growth,

Equal to yours yet,

Different and how we intertwine,

Kiss the chlorophyll from my leaves

Feeding from but remaining,

No place, but here,

No

Time

But

Now

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B007Y536PA