Friday, December 15, 2017

Naughty or Nice? - Part Two

Getting Into the Season – 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

Francis, curious, followed behind him, diving between the fir branches. He ducked under the string of flickering lights circling the tree, wondering what Basil had in mind. It really was magical, hidden in the pine needles, with the lights twinkling like stars in the fragrant shadows. He breathed it all in, letting it fill and fuel him.

Pointing to a branch above them, Basil tilted his head curiously. “Do you think this branch will hold you?”

Francis shrugged. “It did, when I was hanging lights.” He laughed and reached up to grab it.

“Uh-uh.” The sound was quick and scolding. “Not with your hands.”

Francis looked at the man quizzically. But, when the man just made a twirling motion with his finger, it dawned on Francis. He wanted him to hang from the branch by his feet? Francis frowned thoughtfully. Okay. He couldn’t really see why the man wanted that, but he also couldn’t see why not. So he flew up, grabbing the branch with his talons and letting himself hang down on the branch. He wiggled a bit, making room for himself against the rough tree trunk, bending the other prickly branches with his thick-skinned, dense body. He bent his knees before shaking the branch a bit, making the needles rustle and the lights clank. “Should hold.”

“Good.” Basil flew up to hover by his feet. “Then hold on.” He took the garland in his hand and wrapped it around the branch, then around Francis’s feet, and all the way down his legs.

Francis looked up skeptically, feeling a little like an anachronistic ornament from holidays past dangling on the decorated tree. “I really don’t think that’s going to help hold me up.”

Basil chuckled. “I doubt it will; this is more to remind you to keep a good grip.”

Francis shot him a daring look. “Think you can make me lose my grip?” Cocky cupid.

Waggling his eyebrows, Basil smirked. “Let’s see, shall we?” He reached for Francis’s belt. Francis never really liked clothes. Would rather go without. But Faere Trade was a safe haven for people and nudity tended to make some folks uncomfortable. So he put on the uniform every day and figured it a small price to pay in order to work somewhere he didn’t have to wear a glamour.

But, now, with the metallic clink of his belt and the soft slide of leather sounding loud in the empty café, he kinda got the appeal. Feeling like an odd gift, he felt Basil’s hands push fabric down, reaching into his trousers to pull out his semi-hard sex. Francis inhaled sharply, when Basil ran his finger over the craggy ridges in his curved cock. When he fluttered forward, the slight wind from his wings hitting Francis, and took his length into his mouth, Francis shivered and felt his toes almost flex. He caught himself, locking his knees and gripping the branch again harder. Basil chuckled against his dick, the sound reverberating over the sensitive skin. Cocky, indeed.

Well, two could play this game.


Feeling blood rush to both his cock and his head, he stared at Basil’s zipper. Clenching his talons, his tried to figure out how to undo the man’s pants without shredding them. Shaking his head, he growled. “Take off your pants or walk out of here without them.” Those were the only options.

Basil laughed, keeping Francis deep in his mouth, even as he reached down to let his pants slide off and tumble to the ground. Hallelujah. Francis stared at his rising, rosy sex and licked his lips.

But, on that slick slide, he touched the tip of his canines. Oh yeah. He’d never actually slept with anyone who wasn’t a gargoyle, whose skin couldn’t handle the scrape and bite of talons and teeth. But looking at the long, pink flesh, Francis knew Basil couldn’t.

So, he licked the silken skin over Basil’s hard shaft, the contradiction fascinating on his tongue. His taste, his scent, was different too, instead of earthy and rich, it was musky and smooth. He arched his neck, so he could run the full length of his tongue over the full length of Basil’s dick, swirling over the tip.

Basil, midair, faltered, pushing his cock against Francis’s mouth. “Careful.” Francis laid a hand against the man’s hip, to hold him from slipping too close to his teeth. But the touch just made him want to grab and squeeze. If Basil were a gargoyle, Francis would have dug his talons deep, scratched his stony skin, leaving grooves in his wake.

Instead, he tempered his touch, focusing his mind on the softness of the man’s flesh against his. He groaned and felt his palm sink into that give. It was so much like the sliding, yielding warmth of Basil’s mouth on his cock. Francis wanted to feel that slide here too.

But he didn’t know how. Not without hurting this man he only wanted to pleasure. But he wanted to try.

So he let his thumb and two fingers wrap around the man’s heavy, thick sex, making sure their pointed tips avoided the tender length. Tentatively, he moved them over that sleek skin. Hearing, feeling, Basil’s groan in response felt amazing, making him brave. He stroked him again, then again, harder and faster.

Again, the man’s wings flapped wildly, the sound of rustling feathers in the fir rewarding, making his dick thrust against Francis’s mouth. Francis licked his lips, craving that taste. Looking at his hand around Basil’s cock, he bit his lip. 

Feeling the threatening tip of his tooth against his lip, Francis thoughtfully bit down. Basil’s body couldn’t handle Francis’s bite. But Francis’s could.

He coughed, his throat feeling tense. “Tell me if this is okay.” Stretching and tucking his lips to cover all his teeth, Francis bent forward and took the tip of the man’s length into his mouth.

Basil groaned, arching into Francis, slipping further past his lips. “It’s amazing.”

Good. Relaxing, Francis let himself be overwhelmed by the feeling of Basil on him, in him. Inhaling, he felt surrounded by the scent and taste of him. He let the heat he felt flicker within fan into a flame. He felt consumed by it and welcomed it.

Wanting more, he thrust his hips and sucked harder, forcing them both deeper. He felt his teeth sink into his lips, pricking the skin, the small, sharp pain thrilling as it shivered through his senses. His feet clutched the branch holding him up as he struggled to keep his grip on Basil taut but teasing. He writhed against the scratchy garland twisted around his legs, against the sweet-smelling needles pricking him everywhere, and felt his climax barrel close.

He swallowed hard, his mouth loving Basil’s dick. With a grunting groan, Basil tensed, his hips pushing into lips, as he came, spilling himself down Francis’s throat. The bitter, slightly sweet taste filled Francis’s senses and, with his own echoing groan, he came into Basil’s waiting mouth too.

His talons slipped and scraped against the branch, making him falter and fall on a choked cry.

Basil caught him by the ankles before drifting slowly to lay him on the ground. Francis felt the rich soil and twist of roots beneath him as Basil, soft and warm, curled up next to him. He took a shaky breath and held the man close. Looking up at the towering, twinkling tree above them, he sighed. Maybe he wasn’t made for this season—or this season wasn’t made for him—but he really did love this time of year.

Please check out my story in Sexy Little Pages' anthology that explores the taboo juxtaposition of holy and sensual!
Please check out my story in Coming Together's charity anthology that lets your feel-good do some real good!

If it exists, someone’s kinky for it! Check out my story in Sexy Little Pages' anthology that takes a walk on the weird side: you won’t regret it.

See what happens after Kat & Peter's happy ending in my story from Deep Desire Press!

Find even more great reads and Put Your Money Where Your Orgasm Is!

Also, find out how you can support me and collaborate with me on my Patreon Page!

And For Even More (Non- or at lease Less-Smutty) Stories, 
Please Check Out My Own Little Story Limbo.

Naughty or Nice? - Part One

Getting Into the Season  -  
Part One

Francis Binot shook his wings. As a gargoyle, they were always the first sign that he was getting tired. He stretched them out with a groan, feeling fatigue being to harden them. He either needed another shot of the café’s espresso, that would hold the sun’s effects at bay, or head to the rooftop to sleep.

“Here.” Basil Dimas landed to sit on the high ceiling beam next to Francis, a small cup in one hand and a string of garland in the cupid’s other hand. Francis could hear and feel the flutter of the other man’s feathered wings even if he couldn’t see them through Basil’s glamour. “We only have a few more things to finish up, but I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”

Francis inhaled the strong scent of espresso wafting to him and making his wings flutter at the pick-me-up. He took the cup, feeling the sweet warmth against his taloned fingers with a grateful nod to Basil before settling on the beam as well. Feeling the stony stiffness in his joints soften, he sipped and looked down at all the hard work they’d put in.

Faere Trade was always beautiful. Magical places tended to be. Even the terrifying ones, full of dark magic and the suffering it inevitably left in its wake, were as awe-inspiring as they were horrific.

But Faere Trade was a place of healing and communion. Offering food and drink meant to help its clientele, from the limitations-blocking espresso in Francis’s hands to a variety of glamour-producing teas to a legendary macaron cookie that could supposedly alter your fate in ways no one but the boss knew how. The café grew most of its own ingredients, so the entire place was a lush garden, with trees and bushes and plants everywhere. The smell of life and growth was infused into the space, always making him feel centered and alive.

It was always beautiful, magical beyond words, but, this time of year, it seemed more so. And it really shouldn’t have. Looking at the silver and gold tinsel he and Basil had draped and the lights and decorations they’d hung up everywhere, it should have looked like tacky, chintzy glitz, but it didn’t. At least not to him. He wondered, as a just-under-three-foot being, if it all just looked more wondrous from this height.

Basil played with the garland in his hands. “I probably shouldn’t—I mean, it’s a Christian holiday—but I love this time of year.”

Francis snorted. “Aren’t cupids associated more with St. Valentine’s Day now than Greek mythology.”

Basil smacked him with the garland. “It’s not really mythology, considering that I’m sitting right here now, is it?” But he shrugged. “Though, truth is, we’re not really either Greek or Christian. Both cultures embraced us, at one time or another, but it’s not as if we belong to anyone.”

Francis nodded, rubbing his shoulder. “Kinda like us.” Gargoyles had an odd relationship to Christianity. Both portrayed as demons and protectors, both feared and revered. But, in reality, they were older than any faith. 

Yet, when most people looked at Francis, they tended to think he belonged in some Halloween decoration box with all the other spooks and ghouls and devils. But he always liked Christmas more, preferring the joyous season to jump scares. He’d take twinkle lights and carols over haunted houses and scary movies any day.

In fact, he nudged Basil with his wing. “Is that mistletoe in your hand or are you just happy to see me?”

Basil, around the same size as him, ran his hands over the garland and gave a small chuckle, truly looking like some cross between a Greek god and a small snow cherub. “It’s actually holly, but most people mistake it for mistletoe.”

Francis grinned toothily and set aside the now empty cup on the beam. “So then, by default, that must mean you’re happy to see me.”

Basil jumped off the beam and hovered in front of him, wagging the garland at him warningly. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re about to fall asleep in mid-air and we still have a bunch of work to do still.”

Francis winked at him flirtatiously. “Then give me something to get up for.”

Rolling his eyes at the bad double-entendre, Basil turned to fly away, but Francis caught his wrist. He glided off the beam, raising Basil’s arm over both their heads while his other wrapped around the cupid’s waist. He gave Basil a game look. “It is the season for giving.”

Basil let out a laugh and shook his head, but leaned into the embrace. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Francis puffed up his chest. “One of my better qualities.”

Raising his eyebrow, Basil tsked. “We’ll have to stay late.” 

The gargoyle just grinned. “The better to see the lights by.”

Francis could see—could feel—the moment Basil gave in, relaxing completely into his arms. “You are ridiculous.” The words were a whispered smile against his lips. 

And then Francis could taste him, warm and spiced like the tea Basil drank for his glamour. Mixing with the espresso already on Francis’s tongue, it ran through him like a rush. He held the angelic man close. Francis wanted to crush Basil to him but, not being a gargoyle too, the cupid felt fragile in his embrace. He flexed his tense fingers so they didn’t dig sharp talons into Basil’s soft flesh. When they kissed, he had to be careful with the man, so his pointed eye teeth didn’t bite. Even his body, dense and hard, more used to being stone than flesh, ached with restraint. And the longing sigh that escaped Basil’s mouth, a sweet sound breathed into Francis, didn’t help. Francis moaned.

“Tell me what you want.” The devilish spark in Basil’s eye and the decadent tone in his voice made Francis pant with want. Excitement and nerves were clear on Basil’s face. Francis understood that; they’d been flirting around sex for a while now, kissing and touching, but it’d never felt like the right time.

Looking around, Francis couldn’t imagine a better moment. Kissing him again, he sighed. “Your mouth.” The phrase came to him like a longing twist in the gut. “On me.” His voice dipped deeper. “And mine on you.”

Basil chuckled low before tapping his chin. “I think we can make that work.” He looked around, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully, before he took off toward the towering, decorated evergreen planted in the back corner of the café

Read Part Two Here

Saturday, December 9, 2017

December Proto-Newsletter

So, I want to find better ways to connect with my readers. To let you know what I've done, what I'm up to, and what's coming up next. And one of these ideas is a newsletter with exclusive content, like write-ups on my inspiration behind some of my stories, video readings of excerpts, and the latest news about upcoming books and anthologies my work will be appearing in.

But I don't know how many people would be interested in something like that yet. If that's something that sounds interesting to you, send me an email with NEWSLETTER in the subject line saying you'd like to sign up to and, when I have enough names to make a good go of it, I'll start sending one out every month.

Until then, I'll try a few of these proto-newsletter blog posts, so people can get a feel for what they'd be signing up for.

As for this month, I thought I'd do a bit of a throw back theme. As some of you know, last July, I created a bunch of promo videos for a Beach Party with Deep Desires about my story "Give to You." Since the anniversary of this story is just around the corner, I thought I'd post those videos again, for those who couldn't make it to the party. 

I had a ton of fun making these videos and they got a good response from party attendees; it seems a shame if they never saw the light of day again. So, here comes the light!

In this first video, get to know more about me and my views on sex and kink and my deep love of everything nerdy!

In the next one, join me in exploring my Donovan's Door series. It was always my intention to write self-contained stories that could stand on their own, but were also connected within the same world. Donovan's Door, and now my latest series Faere Trade, allows me to do that, diving deep into complex worlds filled with a diverse cast of characters with infinite stories to tell.

This video introduces you to the couple who started my whole crazy career. While I can't say definitively that they are my favorite pair (that's like asking a fur parent to choose her favorite pet!), they are a couple who I keep coming back to again and again. They are adorable and accessible in a way that many of my other pairings may not be, telling relatable stories with, hopefully, an interesting twist.

So, within my Donovan's Door series, I have a character who hosts her own advice blog and podcast called The Deviant Nerd. And, for a while, I was taking questions from friends and online to create this fictional advice. This one was definitely taken from the dozens of emails I would get from people who'd stumbled across my work, who were sick and tired of the whole BDSM craze and wanted me to write vanilla stories. While I haven't done a Deviant Nerd segment in a long time, if you have any questions for Pip, email her at and we'll give you answers.

And, of course, here is my video reading excerpt of "Give to You," featuring a steamy, sexy scene by the outdoor hot tub. I have a friend who used to throw these huge play parties at his house that had an outdoor hot tub. And, during the summer, everyone would be in them--you had to get there pretty early, if you wanted a soak. But, during winter, it took a pretty brave soul to be out there. But, if memory serves, it was always well worth the effort.

Finally, this was the last see-what's-coming-up-next-for-me video that I made for that party, so the information is definitely old. All the stories mentioned here are now available for sale, so please check those out, as well as all my other works for sale. Also, for anyone interested, here is the story I live-wrote on Facebook for that party, featuring my characters Max Wells and Vera Hernandez: Smoke & Fire

So here's basically what a newsletter from me would look like (probably not with THIS many videos), but with some behind-the-scenes information, a featured excerpt, and an update on what's going on. And, remember, if you'd like to be a part of a monthly newsletter like this, email me at with NEWSLETTER in the subject header. 

At the time, these videos felt very Christmas in July to me, given the story and the timing; hope you enjoyed having a little bit of summer heat in the middle of this chilly winter!

And remember to check out my story "Give to You," now available:
At Amazon
At iBooks
At Barnes & Noble
At Smashwords 

Thursday, December 7, 2017

So You've Been Accused of Sexual Misconduct...

I've been thinking a lot about this lately, just like everyone else in this country and around the world. And, while I am 100% behind the MeToo Movement--we need to listen to women and take their stories seriously--I don't like the way the movement is moving.

I don't like zero-tolerance positions. I never have. Because, by erasing nuance and context, they too often end up causing more problems than they solve and end up dismantling and unraveling any good they hoped to achieve. 

Look at zero-tolerance policies on guns or bullying in schools. With guns, sure, you banned toy guns at school, which is great because we often can't tell the difference between a toy and a weapon and shouldn't have to make that distinction at a school, putting kids' lives at risk with that decision. But then we started banning finger guns under zero-tolerance policies and began becoming our own parody. It's hard to maintain the moral high ground when your shaky argument sounds irrational because it doesn't stand on sound logic. 

And, with bullying, we banned it from our schools, which is great, only to push it online, where it happens out of our view and out of our control. We solved one symptom of a problem (bad behavior at schools) only to exacerbate the condition (bad behavior in general). We didn't solve anything, didn't fix anything, we just moved it around, like a kid who doesn't want to eat their vegetables.

What we need to do is address the issue. Head-on. Don't manage the symptoms, treat the disease.

Like I said on Twitter, I don't know if Al Franken should resign. He's going to, but I don't know if that actually solves anything or if it just moves a player off the board.

Instead of Franken being the first strike at zero-tolerance, I'd rather see him used as a path to reform. While I don't condone what he did--non-consensual touching of any kind is unacceptable--I don't know if I want him to disappear from the landscape. I don't know if his fading into obscurity, while convenient and psychically satisfying, really serves a greater purpose.

Personally, I think I'd rather see him publicly confront what he's done. I want to see him truly apologize. I want the focus to be on the women he violated while he does. I want him to see him listen to his accusers without making excuses or discussing what this means for him. I want to hear him say that he's sorry. Period. That he behaved badly and wants to do better. That he wants to hear how he can do that from us--particularly the women of Minnesota who he served and let down and especially from the women who he disrespected and violated.

And then I want to hear us provide him with a path to doing better.

Because, if the only solution we can provide to people who have behaved badly is for them to disappear, we are going to create a larger problem than the one we are trying to solve.

Look at race in this country. We thought we were moving forward on racism, that we were past that. We thought we'd scared and shamed the racism out of people. Yet here we are. Turns out, scaring and shaming people isn't a great way to change people's minds. Turns out, it's a fantastic way to silence and isolate people, all while allowing those feelings to fester and grow outside of our knowledge and control. Until the day someone says out loud "what we all were thinking" and we all end up here.

We need a better path than that. Because, I don't know about you, but I am not happy about the one that we're on.

And, sure, I'll be honest, I don't know what path would work. I don't think that problems this complex or pervasive can be solved easily, cleanly, or quickly. That's why both the complacency in either throwing your hands up in the air and saying nothing can be done about this unsolvable problem in human nature or in the contextless crackdown of zero-tolerance is so attractive. It requires little from us, minimal effort and likely even less thought.

I think real culture shifts require more. 

Personally, I would like to see men like Franken, who claim to want to do and be better, be brought into the conversation about consent rather than pushed out. I'd like them listen to what we have to say and figure out where they fit in that. I'd like to know where our past teachings on sex and consent have failed and what could be done better in the future. I want to know, from them, what would have made them think before they acted. I want to know what they would like to tell other people like them to make them think before they act. 

Then I would like to see them work with women-led, sex-educated groups to change how our culture views sex and consent. I'd like to see them advocate for better training for cops, politicians, teachers, faith leaders, doctors, etc. on how to handle and talk about sex and consent. I'd like to see them advocate for better, more practical, more sex-positive, more evidence-based education on sex and consent in schools as well as in communities and work environments. I'd like to see them advocate for better portrayals of sex and consent in media and culture. I'd like to see them advocate for better accessibility to sexual health information and services for everyone. I want to see these people put their actions where their apologies are.

I'd like to see these people, if they are truly committed to change, actually aim for positive societal reform, rather than rot in isolated resentment. I'd like to find ways for them to be part of the solution, rather than write them off as perpetual problems. I think that would help them actually see how they victimized people, rather than view themselves as victims. I would rather have them, if they prove to truly be interested in making the world better, helping us, becoming part of us, rather than ousting and ostracizing them.

Because Franken was the first.

He will not be the last.

And we will HAVE to figure out how we deal with all of them, how they fit within the better world we want to create, or risk them grouping together in their resentful isolation and becoming another outright, alt-right problem.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Your Poly Happy Ending - Part Two

Open Season  
Living the Dream:   
Part Two
Read Part One Here
She’s almost sure you’ll say yes.

She’s certainly worried you’re going to say no.

And, as for you, well, you have no idea what to say. “You want to have sex with her and you’re asking me what exactly?”

She shrugs. “If you’re okay with it.”

Your brows furrow. “I guess.” You shrug too. She’s your girlfriend’s partner. This is her apartment. “I don’t get why you’re asking me.” Does she want you to hold off on making dinner? Does she want you to leave? Does she want you to join?

Your frown deepens. Do you want to?

“It’s just that you’ve never been here when we’re…” She waves her hands a bit nervously. “You know.”

You know. “Should I go?”

She straightens. “No!” She bites her lip. “Not if you don’t want to.”

You shake your head, wondering if she knows what she wants. “So you want me to stay?”

She nods. “Yes.” She nods again, more decidedly. “It’d be nice to have dinner together.” Then she wrinkles her nose, the uncertainty back. “But, as long as you’re here, making dinner…”

She wants to be out there making love.

You try not to feel hurt. Turn back to your sauce. Fill your senses with the savory spices, even though you can still smell her, can—will always—feel her inside you.

She lays a hand on your back. “You can say no, if you want.” She rubs your back. “We’ll understand.”

You shake your head, trying to clear it. You don’t know what you want. Shake your head again. “It’s just…” Sigh. “It sounds dumb.”

She kisses your back. “If it bothers you, if you need to talk about it, it won’t to me.”

You let out a small laugh at her repeating your own words. Okay, let’s talk about this. You pick up a large spoon to stir the sauce, while you collect your thoughts.

She hadn’t wanted you before. You know that. You could see it in her eyes.

But she wants her partner now. That’s just as clear.

It’s not that you don’t get why. It’s less complicated with her partner than it is with you. Today, being with her doesn’t remind your girlfriend of all the things she’d rather forget, like it does with you.

And she needs this. Who wouldn’t need some affection and love after a day like today? So how could you say no? What kind of person would you be to deny her that?

But where does that leave you? You feel like you’re on the outside looking in, watching your partner be there for your girlfriend the way you want to be. “I want to be the one to hold you, to be there for you, to love you.” You frown. “But I can’t. And I hate that.”

It sounds so selfish, saying it out loud. So dumb. You hate that, hate yourself, even more.

She makes a sympathetic sound and kisses your back again before wrapping her arms around you. “You are there for me all the time. In a million different ways. Just like I am for you.” She squeezes you and you want to sink into her touch. “But no one can be everything for anyone. That’s too much to ask for any one person.” She turns you around to face her. “I need you every day; I want to build a life with you.” The look she gives you is so sure and secure, it soothes you. “And wanting her, needing her, does not and will not change that.”

You know that, but you feel better hearing it. Close your eyes and feel the connection and love between you. Let it fill you too, helping to give you perspective in the fog.

She’s having a bad day. She’s hurting right now, vulnerable and insecure. She needs someone to make her feel safe and cared for, who understands her and can be what she needs. And you have a partner who can do that. Love your girlfriend enough to let her have this moment. To share it with someone you both trust and love. Trust that she loves you enough to want this, want her, and still want you too. Your love is more than her cycle, more than this moment, and this doesn’t have to change that. Not if you don’t want it to.

So think. Think about her. About you. About your partner. About the world. Decide what really matters and what you really want.

You nod. Taking a deep, decisive breath, you turn the stove to a slow simmer. “Enjoy yourself. Take your time.”

“You’re sure?” She looks hopeful, but doubtful. “We don’t have to. Not if you’re not really okay with it.”

You know. And you are. With a surprisingly confident smile, you realize that you honestly are. Just because she needs her partner right now doesn’t mean she doesn’t need you too. You’re her boyfriend, of course, she needs you. She just needs something different in this moment. If anything, your acceptance and understanding for all that she is and all that you are together is part of why she wants you, why she chose you. Why, for all the awkwardness and struggles you face together, she still chooses you. It’s part of what makes you so different, so special, from everyone else in her life. And, thinking of it like that, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, with hands clasped behind your back, lean in and press your lips to her forehead, before backing off again. “I’ll let you know when dinner’s done.”


God, you needed this! You roll over your partner, still kissing her, tasting her, warm and wet, against your tongue. Her hands are on your hips, rubbing the ugly fabric against your skin. Close your eyes, leave everything else behind and focus on the feel of soft cloth, heated friction, and her.

Kiss her. You smell your arousal around you, getting stronger with each touch and stroke. It’s so strange to think that you’re more affected by it than she is. That fact changes the whole context and experience of it somehow. Robs it of its bite and wipes away its taint. Now, when you inhale, all you smell is heat. You let it fuel you, making your body hum with excitement as her hands coast up your waist, under your shirt, to cup your breasts over your bra.

She caresses them and looks up at you, while you arch into her touch. “You sure you don’t want to go to the bedroom?” She strokes you teasingly. “We have toys there…”

You do. But, as tempting as that sounds, you don’t want to leave. You want to be here, like this, with your partner, but don’t want any doors between you and your boyfriend either. He may not be here with you but, with the scent of dinner mixing in the air, you like the idea of him still being present.

You lean in and kiss her, pushing her further into the couch cushions. “We have toys right here.” You reach for your belt, pulling it from the loops of your long, loose pants. So over-sized, they’d never stay up without the belt.

Which is just fine by you.

You let the fabric slide down your hips and thighs before kicking it off to pool on the floor, leaving you in just your shirt dress, a bra, and panties. Your partner’s eyes widen as she takes you in. You grab the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head. You peel her sports bra from her too, revealing her breasts, her nipples already tight. You want to taste them, to tease them with your tongue. But first. With your hands on your hips, you look down at her. “Hands behind your head.”

She raises her eyebrows and lets out a game giggle. “Yes, ma’am.”

Usually, you both enjoy letting her take the lead. She’s naturally more assertive and dominant than you are. And, without the dynamics of the cycle between you, you’re more than happy to let her take control.

But, sometimes, it’s fun to flip the script. To remind her—and yourself—that you’re not as submissive as you appear to be.

You straddle her lap and reach behind her head to wrap the belt around her wrists, trapping her with the soft, worn leather. You tug on the still long length trailing down from her arms.

“What are you going to do now?” Her voice is amused, a little cocky. You pause. There are no bedposts here. No nearby shelving units or furniture pieces to anchor to. Think.

You spot her belt and grin. You take it off, pulling it free from her pants, only to cinch it around her bared waist again. You give it a tug, arching her back to thrust her breasts close. Seal your mouth over one tip. Listen to her moan.

Then tug the length behind her back.

You chuckle at the squeak that cuts her pleasured sound short while you secure the belts together, holding her in place, those pretty breasts pushed forward. With her gaze lowered, she struggles a bit against the makeshift harness, not trying to get free so much as to test her new bonds. You watch her breasts jiggle as her arms jerk this way and that. Perfect.

When she looks at you impressed, you preen. Topping might not come naturally to you, but you know how to work it when you want to. She shoots you an expectant look. “So what happens now?”

You meet her gaze with promise. “Whatever I want.”

A low, approving noise rumbles through her throat, making you shiver. “Yes, ma’am.”

With a giggle, you move over her body, trailing your lips and tongue and teeth over her neck, her collarbone, her chest. You linger over the undersides of her arms, now exposed by her position. It shouldn’t be sexy, but you think about how few people have touched her there. You press your face close, moving your mouth over her where the violet sheen in her skin pales a bit to a pretty blue hue. It’s subtle; you’ve been dating and loving her for six months now and you’ve never really taken the time to notice. Take the time now. You kiss, nip and lick, over the skin, making her squirm.

She lets out a laughingly pleading sound while she writhes her still pants-covered hips invitingly, encouragingly. You can practically hear the hint in her sway. You tsk. Topping from the bottom. Naughty, needy girl.

For a moment, you think about giving her what she wants. You could reach down and take off her pants, while you love and lave her breasts. You could touch her heat, feel her sex, hot and wet, against your fingers. You could tease her, play with her hungry clit, until she screams, arching against her bonds. You could.

Instead, you stand on the couch in front of her, one foot on either side of her thighs. You loom over her, large and demanding. She looks up at you, awe and arousal in her gaze. Lifting your shirt dress, you lean in over her lips. Gasp when she licks your labia through the cotton crotch of your panties. The tip of her tongue tries to tease through the cloth to get to your clit. You laugh when she tilts her head this way, then that way, trying to get to you. You feel her hot breath as she huffs between your thighs, her short strands tickling your skin. With her hands bound behind her head, she sucks the cotton into her mouth, tugging it aside with her teeth. You giggle and gasp as her teeth nip and nudge your pussy as much as your panties.

You appreciate her efforts a little longer before laughingly reaching between your legs to pull back your panties that are wet with both you and her. Her groan sounds hungry and, when her mouth meets you, it purrs gratifyingly against the slick, sensitive skin.

Grip the wall with your other hand, steadying yourself before you fall, while your knees wobble. You throw your head back as your breath becomes ragged and your hips press into her. Her tongue’s quick caress over your clit feels so good, you want more. You spread your fingers, pulling your labia tighter, tauter, so the touch of her tongue against your needy clit feels like a lick of fire, consuming you in a riotous blaze of pleasure.

When you come against her face, you cup the back of her head, digging your hands in her hair. Your cry is strained, such a muted sound, too small for the sensation drowning you. You bite your lip and stand, still and silent, just that sound and a slight shudder moving through you. You hate the idea of sharing it, even as a sound. Selfishly, you want to take this and keep it just for yourself, just a moment longer. For this moment, you want the world to make way, to step back and allow this overwhelming feeling to fill you. To become your entire world.

When your knees buckle, tumble into her lap. Kiss her, tasting you, sticky and thick, on her lips. Eat at her mouth, devour her, the slick mix of you both tantalizing on your tongue.

When she shifts her head to look over your shoulder, you want to drag her face back to you.

But the curious expression on her face makes you look over your shoulder.

See your boyfriend standing there, a stricken pallor making his teak skin look ashen. You turn, panicked, sitting between your partner’s legs. He stares at you wide-eyed and you wonder what he sees.

Is he disgusted? Hurt? Will he be able to look at you the same after seeing this side of you, having it thrust in his face?

His breathing seems rough, his chest rising and falling in controlled shifts. His nostrils flare wildly but, other than that, his body seems frozen as he clutches a dishrag tightly in his hands.

You swallow hard, an apology and her taste thick on your tongue, before you see it. You blink at the erection, rising behind the zipper of his pants.

Curious, you look up at his face again, the paleness waning as a new heat flushes his skin.



God, you shouldn’t have come.

You should have just waited in the kitchen. Waited for them to come to you.

But, even after having slowed the simmer time and taken your time before boiling the pasta, dinner is done.

Know that shouldn’t matter. You should have stayed put. But, god help you, you couldn’t. Not with the scent of your girlfriend’s pleasure filling the apartment. Not with it calling you, whittling away at your willpower until you were suddenly standing here, staring.

God, you should go. You’re invading their moment. Intruding on their privacy. Perverting their pleasure. Leave.

But you can’t. Held helpless as your girlfriend studies you, you bunch the dishcloth in front of your lap, suddenly embarrassingly aware of how hard you are. Of course, you are. Feel your face flush with equal amounts of arousal and shame.

Your girlfriend turns to share a glance with her partner. Don’t even try to read it; you can’t trust anything your cycle-soaked brain believes it sees. Close your eyes, take a breath, and turn yourself around.

Pause when you feel her hand grab yours.

Don’t read too much into this.

Look over your shoulder at her. “I’m sorry.”

She smiles at you. You wonder, marvel, at how she can smile at a moment like this. “Don’t be.” She takes your hand in both of hers, pulling you close. She kisses you. Moan when you taste her slick heat on her lips. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Want? What do you want?

Look up past her, at your partner, who sits half-naked and belt-bound on the couch. She shrugs and gives you a small, game grin.

This is not how you thought today would go.

Be grateful.

“Are you sure?” God, be sure. Look from one woman to the other. Please.

When they both eagerly agree, feel your control snap. Kiss your girlfriend. Pull her close and breathe her in. She grabs the hem of her dress and pulls it over her head. You tug at her panties, helping her step out of them. You drink from her lips like you’re dying from thirst. You can’t get close enough, can’t touch enough of her.

You’re so consumed with trying to get your fill, you don’t notice that she’s taken the dishcloth from your hands until she already has it wrapped around your wrists. You straighten, confused, when she pulls the towel tight. You wriggle your now tied wrists, your brow wrinkling questioningly.

Your partner snickers. “Dude, are you really going to complain?” She pulls at the belts holding her hands behind her head before shrugging. “It’s what she wants.”

Your girlfriend smirks smugly at you. “It’s what I want.”

So go with her as she leads you over the carpet and to the couch. At her direction, sit on the coffee table in front of the couch, spreading your legs when she settles on her knees between you and your partner. You think you know what she has in mind. You don’t know if it’ll work. But, damn, you definitely want to try.

She kisses your partner and touches her breasts, cupping them and teasing her nipples with her thumbs. You watch while her kisses head south, sprinkling over her neck and shoulders, over her breasts before sucking their tight peaks. While her lips and teeth pluck at the tender flesh, you hear your partner moan, her head falling back onto the couch’s cushions as her eyes close. Her hips shift when your girlfriend takes her pants off, slipping them over her hips and down her legs.

From where you are on the short table, you can’t see your girlfriend love the other woman, but you smell their heat mix in the air. With your legs spread wide, your own heady musk mingles too. You stroke your girlfriend’s rounded ass, touching as much of the soft skin as your bound hands can. Her hips twitch, pushing into your caress.

You reach between her thighs, just below that beautiful behind, and find her wet and ready. Sliding your fingers inside her, you love the low murmur she makes against your partner. She parts her legs further, making room for you as your other hand reaches for her clit, stroking her. She writhes against you, even as your partner arches into her.

Enjoying the hell out of this, she makes it better by thrusting back, bumping her butt against your hard-on insistently. Grin and groan. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “Condoms.” She pants almost incoherently. “In my purse.”

God bless a woman who comes prepared.


Your mouth goes slack a moment when you feel your boyfriend enter you. Every time you think you’ve experienced the greatest pleasure possible, you find something new. The feeling of him filling you while you feast on your partner is almost too much. You feel greedy with it, like it shouldn’t be allowed. But you want more.

You thrust your hips, pressing yourself onto him, then into her, the sight, the scent, the taste, the feel of it all unbelievable. Yet you still need more.

With one hand playing with her pussy while your mouth sucks her clit, you let your other hand dip between your legs. You brush against his hard cock inside you and it thrills you. Stroking your clit in small, swift circles, you feel your climax speed and your pussy clench.

As if spurred, his palms grip you just above your ass, his bound hands spanning as much of you as he can while he struggles for leverage. Beneath you, you feel your partner’s body tense and twist. There’s so much pleasure surrounding you, like a current it flows in and through you, connecting all three of you in an electric tangle of limbs. You ride it, letting it take you, feeling your climax threaten to break. You redouble your efforts, squeezing him and thrusting into her.

It feels like a war of wills as you all cling to each other while you head for the edge together.

You feel it the second he falls first. His grip on you tightens and his grunting breaths become frantic. Hips thrusting forward, he throws his head back before his weight falls with a groan onto the coffee table.

His shudder inside you, with your touch on your body and your partner’s taste in your mouth, triggers your own orgasm. You moan over her mound, your mouth sealing the sound to her sex. Sensation makes your motions wild, making your fingers thrust harder, faster, deeper.

When she comes, you want to cry out too. But you can’t. Exhausted and thoroughly spent, you can barely breathe. You give her lush flesh one last lick before collapsing against the couch at her feet.

With a heaving breath, your boyfriend, who’s rid himself of both the condom and his terry-cloth ties, slips off the coffee table, shoving it back a bit to make room for himself on the floor. Still mostly clothed, he wraps you in his embrace. Kissing you on the lips sweetly, he grins up at your partner.

Still hazy with pleasure, she looks down at him and you, smiling.

You yawn and settle on the floor into your boyfriend’s arms, while your partner lazily strokes your hair. This is the moment you wanted. The thing you need.

You don’t know about the world outside this home—with its vote and uncertain future, with its division and disappointments—but, looking at your part of it, at the world you’ve carved out and created for yourself, you hug your boyfriend closer, laying your head on your partner’s thigh, and can’t think of anywhere else, in all the planets in all the galaxies in all the universe, you’d rather be.

Find out how Kat & Peter met in my novel The Taming School from Sizzler Editions that explores discovering kink!

Please check out what happens next with Kat & Peter in my story in The New Smut Project's anthology!
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Your Poly Happy Ending - Part One

Open Season Novella  
Living the Dream: 
Part One
Companion Story to
Unidentified Fetish Object

“Hey, where are you?”

You didn’t even get a chance to say hello. Your brows wrinkle at the urgency in your partner’s voice. “At home.” Taking groceries out of your trunk for dinner, you shrug. “Why?”

She pauses. “Can you come to my place?”

Uh. “Why?”

Then you hear it. Your girlfriend crying in the background.


Pick up the bags of food you just took out and shove them back in your trunk. “I’m on my way.”

Grip the wheel tightly but drive cautiously. You won’t get there faster, if you get pulled over for being reckless. Hate that it takes forever to get from your house to Little Pixis.

Pull into her apartment parking lot in front of her first-floor apartment. See the neighbors. Politely wave. Don’t feel bad when they don’t wave back. They know you. Doesn’t mean they like you.

Don’t bother with the building’s main door. Head straight through the fenced-off patio in front of your partner’s unit. Knock on the glass door.

Your partner peeks out into the patio before sliding open the door and welcoming you in. “Hey.”

You push past the curtain of her blinds and walk into the living room. “What happened?”

You partner just shakes her head. “Bad day.” She shrugs. “She just couldn’t be…” She gestures behind you toward the now sun-shielded door. “Out there, you know.”

You do.

It infuriates you that there are days your home doesn’t feel safe for your girlfriend. That someone or something can take her home away from her. Feel your fists clench, your knuckles cracking and your nails digging deep into your palm.

Shake them out.

She doesn’t need your anger. Be better than that. Be what she needs.

You see her on the couch, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Feel your heart break. You choke on the feel of it. Swallowing, you shake your head. You go to sit by her, but smell that damned, intoxicating scent taunting, tormenting, you. Before it overtakes you, sit on the floor at her feet. Grab a throw pillow and lay it over your lap; you don’t need your dick distracting either of you from her need with your own.

Be both jealous and relieved when your partner who, while attracted to your girlfriend isn’t affected by her cycle, casually comes back into the room to sit and settle behind your girlfriend, wrapping herself fully around the fragile woman. You’re so glad that you both have someone in your lives who can do that in this moment, but you hate that it can’t be you. From the floor, look up at them. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your girlfriend pauses. Looks at her partner, who just shrugs at her. There’s an entire coded conversation in that look. One that clearly says they don’t think you’ll understand. You wish you could disagree. But there’s this entire set of experiences that, because of who they are and the world they live in, they share that you, because of who you are and the world you live in that too often looks completely different, can’t. And no amount of listening or trying to empathize can change that.

Frown. “What can I do?” Your furrow deepens. That didn’t sound right. It doesn’t seem fair to leave this up to her. To make her come up with the seemingly impossible solution to her own problems. But you don’t know what else to do. So sigh and look up at her. “What do you need?”

She bites her lip and blinks down at you. When she reaches a hand down to you, reach up. Twine your fingers with hers. Squeeze tight.

She shakes her head. “It sounds so stupid.”

Rub the back of her hand with your thumb. “If it bothers you, if you need to talk about it, it won’t to me.” She never cries over nothing. You may not understand. You may not make sense of it. But you know, whatever it is, it’s not stupid.

So listen when she talks. Keep your face set in soft, concerned lines while she tells you about her day. Pay attention. When your thoughts drift to how your partner holds and strokes your girlfriend in her arms, focus back on her words. When anger builds and balls your fists at her story, concentrate on her. This isn’t about you. Make yourself remember this is all about her.

She sighs shakily. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe there isn’t a place for us here. Maybe instead of trying to fit in here, we should be working harder to find a way home.”

You want to ask what about you. About the home you’ve built together. If she and her partner and her people left, what would happen to you?

But, instead, you wordlessly frown and hold her hand, feeling like a failure. “I’m sorry.” That you couldn’t be there. That you can’t fix things. That you can’t change people. That you can’t make your home safe. “I’m so sorry.” That you can’t be enough. Your head hangs low and you feel the weight of the world on your back.

But then she’s there on the floor with you. Kneeling beside you, she touches your face and kisses you. You breathe her in, taste her on your lips, and your world rights itself again.

You want to bury yourself in that feeling, in her embrace. But something stops you.

Kiss her one more time before you push her back. You look into her eyes. You really study her endless gaze. See love there in her usually unreadable eyes. Feel her need to comfort you, to make you feel better, in her every touch. Love her for that. And for so much more.

But stand up. Step away. You smile at her confusion. Your fingers slide through her hair, wishing you could pull her close. Instead, turn to your partner. “Mind if I use your kitchen. I can have dinner ready in half an hour.” And, just like your grandmother promised, have faith that everyone will feel better after a good meal.

You turn around and walk away, even though your feet feel stuck to the floor with each step. Part of you frantically screams, trying to stop you. But you keep going, out the glass doors and through the patio, not stopping until you’re in the parking lot, staring into the trunk of your car. Comfort yourself with the fact that your partner is there with her, there for her, when you can’t be. When it’s better for you both, if you’re not. Because, for all the love you saw there, you know you didn’t see that sensual slide of silver in her eyes.


From the floor, you watch your boyfriend walk away. What happened? What did you do?

You feel dirty, feel every encounter and incident stick to your skin. You smell your scent and perfume and tears hang like a cloud over you. Wishing you could shed your own skin, be made new, you wonder if that’s why he left.

You feel your partner’s hand on your back. “He loves you, you know.”

Scoff. Sure, that’s why he pushed you away.

“You’ve never actually felt it—the effects of the cycle, I mean—from that side, so you wouldn’t know.” You feel her shrug. “But walking away from you right now, that’s love.”

You turn to look at her, knowing that, while she’s not affected by your cycle, she’s been affected by others’ in the past. Curious, you lean in. “How so?”

She touches your face. “I’m not scent-blind by you, so I can read you clearly. The way you touched him was inviting, but you didn’t want him. Not really.”

Shake your head. That’s not true. “I’ll always want him.”

She shrugs you off. “Sure, sure, in the overall, big-picture sense, of course. But, in the heat of the moment kind…” She levies a meaningful look at you. “You want to make him feel better.”

You huff and pull your knees into your chest, wrapping your arms around them tightly. With a mulish jut of your jaw, you pout. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He was trying so hard to make her feel better; how could she not want to do the same?

She sighs and sits cross-legged in front of you. “It’s not.” She touches your crossed wrists. “That’s love too. And I’m sure he appreciates it but, right now, in this moment, after everything you’ve been through, you using sex as a sacrifice to soothe him…” She shrugs. “He wants you, sure, of course. But not like that. He wants you to want him too.” She grimaces. “I get why he walked away.” She looks off at the door. “And how hard that must have been to do so.”

You look at your partner questioningly. She just purses her lips thoughtfully. “Even under the best circumstances, it’s hard not to buy into something telling you exactly what you want to believe. That’s not an excuse for bad behavior; that’s just truth. We want to believe we deserve to have, that we have an intrinsic right to, the things we want, even—especially—when we don’t.” She gazes at you like you’re remarkable, though not entirely in a good way. “For him to be able to critically look past that, under the worst conditions, and see you—really see you and put your desires above his own...” She shrugs. “That’s not easy and isn’t something most people are willing to do.”

You know that. You do. You just hate that it’s so hard, like some unpassable, unending test, with him sometimes.

But not with her. Cycle or not, you never feel pulled to her. Not like that. She is attractive. Her hair is a darker, metallic gray than yours and cut stylishly short in a defiantly mocking pixie cut. She’s taller than you, even if she’s still much shorter than a human, and broader and stronger. Her skin is more monochrome, almost a silvered violet, with only a few splashes of color along her shoulders and thighs. Sure, on both your home world and this planet, she might not be considered a classic beauty. But she’s steady and practical and more capable than a person should have to be. Every moment you share with her is a choice. You choose her.

You actively choose her in a way that, sometimes, you wonder if your boyfriend does with you. Or if, with the cycle, you’ve been bound by genetics. You wonder if, on days like today, this feels like less of a choice for him, and more of a trap. Some days, you wonder if you ought to let him go. Not because you want to, but because it would be better for him.

Better for him to find some other woman—some human woman—without all your complications. Who doesn’t come pre-packaged with cultural, political, and genetic baggage. Who’s simpler. Easier. Less trouble. You wonder, at what point, will you have to be the better person and set him free?

But, with your partner, you know. There’s nothing strange or other or beyond your control compelling you. It’s just you and her. Look at her and wonder other things. “Why are you with me?” It’s such a selfish, needy question, sounding pathetic even to you, but you need to hear the answer. You need to know that there’s more to you than just genetic makeup and a mating scam.

She gazes at you sympathetically, understanding in her eyes. “I love you.” Her eyes narrow on your lips. “I love your smiles. All of them. Every single one. From the beaming, teeth-out ones that can’t seem to contain your joy to the wobbly ones that try to hold back tears to the tense, hard ones that tell me you’re sick of my shit.” You both laugh at that. “And I love your laugh, the fact that you can. That you look at this world, flaws and all, and still laugh.” She looks at you, her black eyes taking you all in. “I love your passion and your drive, the fact that you know exactly what you want and will do what you have to to get it.” She scoots forward. “I love your bravery, the way no one else’s rules or standards matter if they don’t feel right to you. That kind of fight isn’t common, especially in a small community like ours, and it’s amazing and inspiring.”

Her words heal the hurt in your heart, making the scars on your soul ease. You look at her, needing more. Wordlessly, you wait, wanting her words.

She touches you, just on the wrist, but the feel of her skin against yours hits you strong. “And I love that you love him.” She nods to the kitchen, where you can both hear your boyfriend rummaging through shelves and drawers. “And that you love me. And the fact that, just because one of those statements is true, you would never let it lessen the truth of the other. I love that you’re the only person I’ve ever known who makes love not feel like some impossible either/or choice. I love your capacity for love.”

Almost embarrassed by her praise, your eyes flutter shut. You hear her move even closer. Your lids moving slowly, you meet her admiringly seductive gaze.

She reaches out and touches your feet, stroking the bones there, tracing the vines of color snaking in streaks over the hard ridges. “I love everything about you, from your head to your toes. Everything about you makes me wonder where you’ve been, where you’re going, and if I can come too.” Her touch trails up your ankle, following the straight line of your shin through your pants. “I love your legs, lean and quick and stronger than they should be.” She leans up on her knees to touch your thigh before inching closer to touch your hip. “And I love your hips—petite even for a Pixiso—but, with your legs spread, it’s like they open like a flower for me.”

You open them for her now as she moves between them. Watch her inhale and know that all she smells is the scent of your honest arousal. She bends to kiss your belly before looking up at you heatedly. “Want to head to the bedroom?”

You bite your lip. Do you? You listen to your boyfriend hum a song as the scent of spaghetti begins to fill the room, fragrant with herbs and garlic. It doesn’t really matter where you go; your partner’s place isn’t large enough for it to make a difference.

And what difference would you want it to make?

It’s true, while you’d never hide your relationship or intimacy from either of them, you try to do your best not to flaunt it in front of them either. You’re in a relationship with both of them but, outside of you, they don’t have much of a relationship to each other. Coworkers, ever since he recommended her for a position at his company. They’re friends, you suppose. But definitely not intimate. You’ve never had sex with one of them while the other was in the home. It’d always felt out-of-bounds.

But is it?

Push back a bit, biting your lip.

Your partner tilts her head. “What’s wrong?”

Your brow furrows. “Is it rude,” or worse, cruel, “to do this? Here? Now? With him…” You look down the short hallway separating the living room from the kitchen.

She sits back on her haunches. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

Oh, you want to. But… “Can I talk to him about it first?”

Her eyes widen and she nods. “Of course. You should.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t mind?”

She shrugs. “Why would I? He’s your boyfriend, I’m your partner; we’re in this together. I don’t want to do anything either of you don’t want.”

God, she is so beautiful. Feeling bright excitement shift today’s shadows, kiss her. “Be right back.”

Read Part Two Here