Excerpt from “… and we”
“Concordant Vibrancy: Unity, An All Authors Anthology”
The bittersweet sizzle of my tongue against her scorching hot nipple was like a droplet of water on a searing hot piece of coal. It sent a tiny shock wave of electric revelry coursing through me; from the tip of my tongue to the edge of my indulgence, which at that very moment was battling to come free
of its confinements. By this point, I could feel that it was red with throbbing need to feel the slick warmth of her inner cove.
She hummed deep in her throat as the delightful sensation tickled her erect pink nub. She liked it—I licked it—it was fantastic.
Gripping it between my teeth, I grazed it, running it through them. She moaned again. “Mmmm.” She was a vixen for pain, this one.
From behind, I felt his hands caress my back from bottom to top, and top to bottom. He puffed his satisfaction. He enjoyed watching—he was fond of participating even more. “That’s right Papa, take her!” He commanded in a sensual, sing-song voice. It was a combination of horniness and ravishment—a male siren.
Lifting my other hand to her awaiting breast—one unoccupied by either mouth or hand—I fondled it too, pinching that nipple between my fingers, knowing that she enjoyed the olio of indulgence and pang. She was a rarity, the sort that happily mixed business with pleasure, and pleasure with pain. A sexual phoenix.
He was wanton. Libidinous was his desire.
All of this was the foreground of a masterpiece night. The three of us, a room full of passion, pheromones and testosterone—a banquet for coition. The recipe for magnetism which would produce a night full of carnal merriment. Three covetous souls with each other. A cocktail of absolute perfection.
And perfect it was…
Excerpt of “Mystical Nights”
“Crackles of the Heart: Divergent Ink Book One”
She only came to me at night. Like an abysmal dark silhouette against a moderately dark pavement which glistened with the scarce light of the moon. Her presence was undeniable. I liked it that way. It kept the mystery, and in turn, my interest.
A gust of wind caused the white, sheer curtain on the only window in my room to dance. The light from the new moon permeated the room causing blue-gray rays to cross its expanse. Yet, there she was. A phantom. A phantasm of desire and wantonness. Real and surreal. A combination, though inexplicable, also intoxicating. The way she swayed her hips. The way she used her hands to lift the thick tresses of her hair just enough to allow her figure to come into focus. Black against pale gray. The rhythm of her movement seemed natural yet mystical. A temptress, a jezebel.
Oh, how I longed to feel her against me!
Only at night. The light of day had not blessed me with the sight of her. The sun, had yet to shine its splendor on her enchantment. Even still, I remained captivated by the incarceration that just she could furnish. I was a fool, yes. A grand nitwit for allowing her to seduce me this way. Nevertheless, I gave in happily—delighted with her snare. I wanted to be her pet. I wanted her to be my master.
A few scant things were barely visible in the sparse lighting. The bows of a bikini top and bottom at the bridges of her shoulders, as well as the curves of her hips. The heavy waves of her hair that fell like streams down her sides and back. That was it. Yet, it was always enough.
“Michael,” she whispered. Her voice like a mellow breeze on a fine spring night. “Touch me.”
Her wish was my command. Getting to my feet, I walked slowly to her wafting shadow and wrapped my hands around her waist, content to dance to the beat of her silent drum.
“More…!” she demanded. “Touch me here.” Then she took my hands, tracing her shape slowly, she placed them on her breasts. The firm and tender mounds melded to the imprints of my fingers as I massaged them.
“Yes…” she moaned.
“Why haven’t you told me your name yet?” I asked, just as I had hundreds of times before.
She never rose her voice more than a whisper, and I was certain that this was a mind game, a murmuring of lust traced with sensual innuendo. Still, I basked in its indulgence. “My name isn’t important. But … this is.” With those two final words she grabbed my manhood and stroked it with command.
“… and she: The Short Story of Constance McBride”
He shared me, my Ronin. Yes, he did. That much is true.
I ask that you allow me a moment to share my story. I am Constance McBride.
At first I was his and his alone, then I wasn’t enough. His appetite—that thirst for coition—unabated, so I relented. I gave in to his desire, consequently becoming the center of their longing.
Ronin knows nothing of love, not at all.
I do. I also know this … I love him. It is for love that complied with his wish.
Why had I become content and accustomed to living off of the meager emotional scraps that Ronin tossed me? I don’t know. Perhaps it was the passivity of his ways; that mellow luster that is his personality, the ease with which I can delight in his presence.
No muss, no fuss, just us.
I’ve never had to worry about Ronin being jealous or possessive. I’ve never once had to concern myself with any insecurities that he might have. Never … not ever. It’s always been simple to love him. Uncomplicated and in some obscure way, rewarding. Ronin has always been there when I’ve needed him. He’s never wavered when I’ve wanted him. His heart may have never been mine—it may very well never be—but he, I was certain, would always be by my side.
Then came Charles. He was so much like Ronin—easy to connect with and gorgeous to boot. Ronin was darker than Charles. They seemed to balance each other out. Suddenly I’d gotten the best of both worlds; tall, dark and handsome and a blue eyed, blond babe. Both of them with a certain je ne sais quoi that kept me affixed like a puppy on a leash.
While some people may wonder why I put myself in this position, what they don’t understand is the arrangement between us. We, are a whole.
At the first prospect of being the only female in this relationship, I cringed. As a matter of fact, I could’ve spat in their faces. Yet, I was also lying to myself. I knew that I would do whatever Ronin asked of me. My pride was hurt and once I got over that all was fine with the world.
The day I met Charles was as undemanding and carefree as the first time I’d met Ronin. I was staggered at how simple it was, natural even, to share myself between them … with them. Perhaps it was out of need, or curiosity. Whatever the case, all of the sudden, I was their communal endeavor and they were mine to be had at a moment’s notice. My shared adventure. My other halves.
“Constance, we’re waiting,”
“I’ll be right there, my loves. Just one moment.” Yes, I know. What can I say? Even the sound of Charles’ voice makes me slip off my robe and turn my back to this conversation. I have to go now because here we are … he and he and she.
Excerpt from “Barbershop: A Story of Home”
“Concordant Vibrancy: Vitality”
The space smelled of sandalwood incense. The soft hum of the air conditioning ran in the background and muffled voices chattered above it. The buzz of the hairclippers resounded as they ran across the soft skin of someone’s head.
Friendly voices murmured, the ambiance peaceful and homey. It was hard to find barbershops that made one feel at home. Needless to say, here I felt tranquil and was content to sit, people watch and listen.
Human observation was my favorite pass time—what moved them, what lingered in their minds, the things people did—all of it, was to my personal enjoyment. Nothing fascinated me more.
The walls were a dated. A worn color of off-white and covered with ages worth of memorabilia. Posters, pictures, ticket and what have you. Each piece provided a unique look to the already lovely environment.
There was a quintessential rhythm and flow that contributed all the more to my enchantment with this place.
Boys treated like little men, and older men imparting their lifelong wisdom to anyone who would lend a listening ear.
Moments like this reminded me of my childhood.
A “mom and pop” spot that my father used to take me to. Mostly, because of the environment rather than their incomparable ability to cut hair, as any barbershop would do for that. My father would sit back and chat with his lifelong buddies about sports, the lottery and countless amounts of nameless jargon.
Mo, would sit on the barbershop chair next to my father and swivel around in it then abruptly stop just to make what he found to be a valid point about the night prior’s baseball game. My dad nodded his agreement, and I, as I always did, watched.
“What do you think Little Fella?” Old Mr. Gray would ask, to which I replied with a shrug of the shoulders and a, “I like the hot dogs.”
“Hot dogs!” My father would chime in, as if my remarks were ingenious, “Now, that right there is some good conversation! They’ve recently switched to Nathan’s. I like those. Nice bite when you sink your teeth into ’em.”
I nodded, the other men smiled. It was great.