Category Archives: Microfictions

Halloween Microfiction: Touring Moreau by Cat Voleur

“Touring Moreau”
by Cat Voleur

“What are you doing?”  The question came from a surprised Delilah as she was ushered into one of the Moreau Manor’s spare bedrooms by her girlfriend, Genevieve. “We’re going to lose the tour group.”

Gen locked the door behind them and turned to her partner with that wicked grin of hers. “Forget about the group.”

“This tour was your idea. You wanted to hear firsthand what they were saying about the place. Besides, what if someone notices we’re gone?”

“Delilah,” Gen’s fingers deftly worked to undo the buttons of her blouse one by one as she stepped forward, slowly closing the gap between them. Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: Touring Moreau by Cat Voleur

Halloween Microfiction: Heaven Sent by Jordan Castillo Price

“Heaven Sent”
by Jordan Castillo Price

The Midwest is full of huge gaps where things once thrived, until the Interstate landed…somewhere else. Wild Bill and I found this house between cornfields in the middle of Iowa. “Watch out for busted needles, Mikey,” Bill had warned me. “This was a squatter’s paradise. Once.”

Only one bedroom had miraculously survived the warp and rot that took the rest of the house. It was before dusk when I woke there, squeezed in a little kid’s bed. I pried myself out from between Bill and the wall and scratched my stubble. I needed a shave, which wasn’t gonna happen. No electricity, no water. I fingered sleep and old eyeliner from the corner of my eye, pulled a strand of hair out of my mouth, and blinked. Cowboy sheets. What more could we want?

Wild Bill was still fast asleep. He tells me that what you see in the movies, about vampires being dead while the sun is high, is all a load of crap. He says he’s just a very deep sleeper.

I pressed my ear to his chest and listened to the slow, deep thrum of his heart. No, not dead. Just sleeping for all he was worth. Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: Heaven Sent by Jordan Castillo Price

Halloween Microfiction: And Then No More of Thee and Me by Vinnie Tesla

And Then No More of Thee and Me
by Vinnie Tesla

The door to his bedroom was ajar, but, maddeningly, not quite wide enough for her to pass through. Pushing herself through solid objects was still hard work, though she was getting better at it. The feeling of the heavy wood composite sliding inside her was intensely, indefinably uncomfortable, as if her entire body was one complaining funny bone. At one point she was seized with panic that she would be stuck there, unable to muster the strength to pull herself off in either direction.

Eventually, though, she made it inside the room. It looked just as she remembered. The pile of dirty clothes in one corner and the massive wooden dresser were vague, familiar shapes in the dark. A streetlight by the open window illuminated his nude, sleeping body. His torso looked pale; his cock lolled, a little swollen, against one bent thigh. Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: And Then No More of Thee and Me by Vinnie Tesla

Microfiction: Alive by Andrea Trask

The way stasis is supposed to work, as we had always been led to understand it, is that we are in something akin to sleep – suspended animation, a stillness of our bodies and probably of our minds as well, preserving us across the long maddening reaches of the dark until the ship’s nearly interminable journey, finally, terminated.

Somehow, it had not quite worked out that way. We could be kept asleep, certainly, the clever machines exercising our limbs with deft electrical impulses enlivening our muscles to prevent the otherwise inevitable atrophy. But while our minds built their own playgrounds, recombining books, movies, memories into imagined new worlds, our bodies continued to age. It became, eventually, quite clear that we were not the passengers who would arrive at our long-awaited destination. Yet someone had to get there; we couldn’t fill a new world from the contents of an intergalactic sarcophagus.

The clever machines discovered the aging of our cells, and woke us. We discussed the problem, long and hard, until the eventual solution was suggested, discussed, rehashed, and eventually accepted among us all. Most of us returned to sleep, while the programmers constructed new instructions for the machines, providing them the solution they had found.

Fairness, it was agreed, could be found only in letting some choices be made for us. The programmers returned to sleep, perchance to dream.

Our playgrounds became bordellos. Under the gentle attention of the clever machines, electronic impulses enlivened our muscles anew. The most delicious of our fantasies, and those careful, calculated touches, elicited heat in our skin, hormones in our bloodstreams. In pairs and in quads, the machines drew open our pods, relinquishing us into a sort of half-sleep, sliding us into each others’ arms.

In our minds there were silk sheets and candles, cold manacles and hot, sharp lashes. There were slow caresses in the salted afternoon sunlight of the beach, in the half-lit perfumed air of a basement bedroom, leaning up against the wall of an apartment building stairwell. A thousand different kisses pressed lips to lips, lips to cheek, lips to neck, lips to shoulder, lips to nipples, lips to the inner curve of the elbow, lips to cockhead, lips to clit, lips to the valley of the knee, lips to the hip, lips to the scar, lips tiptoeing up the spine.

Half-emerged from our pods, our lips pursed against the air, kissing the future splayed out before us.

In our minds, our lover came to us; linen pants cupped his balls, a knit sweater slipped from her shoulder, his skirt blew up playfully as he walked the fence like a tightrope, her leggings showed nothing and hinted at everything, he teasingly eased his briefs down over one hip, she ran one hand across her lace bra-cupped breast and the other down between stocking-clung legs. We licked his jaw, we drew her head to our bosom, his cock ground against our own through rapidly shedding clothing.

Still glistening with the nutrient-rich waters of stasis, our hips quivered, setting up little ripples that sloshed against the pod walls.

In our minds we fucked. In our minds we made love. In our minds we submitted, we dominated, we surged and fell between the bodies of both our lovers at once, our hands were busy at the crux of our thighs watching our lover climax. We cried out, and we came, and came, and came.

We came, and the clever machines directed semen toward eggs, one and two at a time, and slid us away into our pods. Stasis did not work as we expected; it was beyond our wildest dreams.

Andrea Trask socializes widely in the intertubes under the name Bliss Morgan and, as the Duchess of her digital demesne, the borders of Blisstopia are always open. A writer in a variety of genres, editor of both fiction and academic works, and burgeoning audio narrator, you’d think that she wouldn’t also have time for knitting, weaving, and other fiber arts. Then again, maybe your mind is as open to possibilities as hers. Find some of her work on Amazon at http://amzn.to/1So5VNe – her blog with occasional updates and perfume reviews at www.callmebliss.com – and the woman herself at https://plus.google.com/+BlissMorgan from whence all other social media attachments can be deduced.

Microfiction: Excerpt from “Becoming Alice” by Jean Roberta

The Knave opened up a portable throne and placed a cushion on the seat. “I must gird my loins,” said the Queen. She removed her skirt and stood in a pair of pantalettes, with a harness around her hips. Set into the harness was a slender godemiche or dildo made of bone but covered in white silk, embroidered with the royal monogram.

“Come here, maiden Alice,” commanded the queen.

“Yes, your Majesty?” asked Alice. She was not sure what was expected of her, but her self-consciousness had formed itself into a burning in her cunny, which now felt as moist as a mouth that expects to be fed.

“Would you like to sit facing me, or back-to-front?”

Alice was now standing quite close to the Queen, whose features were more handsome than delicate, and whose whole demeanor unnerved Alice, despite her desire to be deflowered and honored for it.

“Back-to-front, if it please Your Majesty,” she answered.

“You please me greatly, my dear,” said the Queen, smiling so broadly that she looked almost amiable. She wrapped her arms around Alice’s backside and pulled her forward until Alice was standing between the Queen’s knees. The Queen then held Alice’s left breast and lifted it while bending down to bestow a long, sucking kiss on its hard little nubbin. She then switched sides to give its twin the same treatment.

“I could spend the whole day kissing you, Alice,” she said, “but we have more serious business to attend to. You must sit on my lap and lower yourself onto my love-spear until you are fully seated like a general in the saddle. It will hurt you a little the first time, but once the deed is done, you will be glad for it.”

Alice climbed onto the Queen’s lap, and found that even the royal thighs were hard under their thin covering. Nervously, Alice reached back and positioned the godemiche so that it barely penetrated her lower lips. As the Queen held her arms to steady her, Alice began a slow backward descent.

“Go, Alice!” shouted one of the men in livery.

“Be brave, Alice!” urged the Knave.

“Open yourself for me, darling!” added the Mad Hatter.

“Courage, dear!” said Dinah the cat, the throbbing rhythm of a heartbeat faintly audible in her voice.

The group of onlookers began clapping in rhythm as Alice lowered herself, inch by inch, onto the very solid object that forged a path where none had gone before. “Oh!” she said, feeling a burning tear deep inside her. Luckily, the fluid she had produced earlier helped pave the way.

“Becoming Alice” appears in The Princess and the Outlaw: Tales from the Torrid Past (Lethe) and The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 13 (Running Press).

Jean Roberta teaches English and creative writing in a Canadian university, and writes in several genres. Her fantasy erotica includes “Taste” in Best Erotic Fantasy and Science Fiction, “Smoke” in Best Fantastic Erotica, and “The Way to a Man’s Heart” in Like a Sword, all from Circlet. Her bisexual pirate saga, The Flight of the Black Swan: A Bawdy Novella (Lethe) is available in several formats, including audiobook. She blogs here: www.ohgetagrip.blogspot.com and here: www.erotica-readers.blogspot.com.  More here: www.JeanRoberta.com

Microfiction: Hibernation by Jean Roberta

 

The moon is full tonight.  I can’t see it shining on the billows of snow outdoors, but I know they look like the curves of a voluptuous woman, sparkling like a queen’s jewels.   I want to remember all the words of that French song:  my country is winter.  Je suis une citoyenne de l’hiver.

I can’t sleep, even though my comforter is as warm and soft as the sympathy of an old friend.  Tara’s last words are like an annoying song in my head:  “You’re not really my type.  You can’t meet my needs.  Let’s face it.  I’m not putting you down, but you have to admit it.”  Her canned speech was meant to justify her escape, so she could rush into the arms of Bo the jock, heartthrob of the under-30 crowd.  I wonder how long the new couple will last.

If the three of us were stranded in the northern woods, I wonder who would survive.  My womanly body can withstand the cold, and I have good instincts.  Weightlifter’s muscles and cuteness don’t catch fish or muskrats or rabbits.  Political correctness and popularity don’t count in a life-or-death situation.  Some women have lived such trendy urban lives that they never get to meet their true selves.

A warm heart behind warm breasts always counts, or it should.  I would appreciate a woman with my qualities.  I would hold a woman like that with all my strength, and not let her go.  I could live in a cave with a woman like me, exploring her body like an old-time voyageur ranging over the True North.   Pressed against her in our bed, I would start with her breasts.

Tits like mine deserve hands like mine:  knowing hands that can support them, making them feel weightless but generous.  The homage of those hands would send tingles from the flash-points of my hard nipples through my warm flesh, over my ribs and all up and down the central power line of my spine.  My belly would flutter, and my clit would turn on like a lightbulb.

In the short days and long nights of winter, I could spend months in bed with a woman like me.  We would not give a damn about the world outside, and we wouldn’t lose interest in each other like bored children looking for new toys.

My old, favorite toys would give us endless pleasure.  I wouldn’t even mind getting out of bed to look through my sock drawer for my thick purple candle with the undulating shape that looks like a Coke bottle on speed.  A woman like me would love to be stroked with a thing like that, and she wouldn’t care what it was made for.  Women like me are household witches who can make magic out of anything that comes to hand.

Wax grows warmer and softer when you play with it, almost like human flesh. My candle is more responsive than some women.  More reliable too.  Rubbing it between my lower lips makes me feel as if I’m melting and changing shape inside.

I want to be filled to bursting by someone like me.  I can smell my own heat, and it warms the space between my sheets like some essential oil.  My candle absorbs more of me each time.  Someday it will smell more like me than I do, and then I can share it with a woman who will appreciate it whenever I can’t be with her.

I am the butch and the femme, the doer and the done-to.  The right woman would value my versatility.  I am persistent.  I’m almost there.  Just a little more — oh!  Yes!  I am so good for me.

How I wish I could hibernate in my cozy suite until spring.  I’m not sure the rest of the world is ready for me yet.

“Hibernation” appears in the charity anthology, Coming Together: By Hand (www.eroticanthology.com)

Jean Roberta teaches English and creative writing in a Canadian university, and writes in several genres. Her fantasy erotica includes “Taste” in Best Erotic Fantasy and Science Fiction, “Smoke” in Best Fantastic Erotica, and “The Way to a Man’s Heart” in Like a Sword, all from Circlet. Her bisexual pirate saga, The Flight of the Black Swan: A Bawdy Novella (Lethe) is available in several formats, including audiobook. She blogs here: www.ohgetagrip.blogspot.com and here: www.erotica-readers.blogspot.com.  More here: www.JeanRoberta.com

 

Microfiction: Tryst by Ainslie Lloyd

Tara had never been fond of cooking. Actually she loathed it but hesitated to confess.

Fortunately this didn’t disturb Greg, who quite enjoyed messing around in the kitchen, tasting soups and stirring sauces, braising and baking.

But it was only decent that she prepare the occasional meal.

Late one afternoon Tara found herself in the kitchen of necessity. Greg was working very hard these days and was usually late. Uninspired, she slopped olive oil into the frying pan.

It spilled into the shape of a human hand. Diaphanous fingers curled, flexed, reached toward her, glistening in the stovelight.

Startled, she slapped a hamburger patty into the frying pan.

The hand tossed it back.

Fleeing to the front door, she gulped in lungfuls of January air. She’d eat out.

The meat couldn’t stay on the countertop, though. Teeth chattering, she went back.

The hand beckoned from the frying pan.

“You’re losing it, woman,” she muttered. “You’re really, truly, losing it.”

Because it was inevitable, she offered her own hand.

And was clasped in a satin-cool touch. Ethereal fingers glided, slowly warming as they intertwined with hers. Stroking with a delicate fervor, they caressed the back of her hand.

Her fear slid away. A minute passed. Two. Five. Sudden heat tingled in her groin.

She jerked free. Dumped the oil down the drain.

Translucent fingers flickered in the sink.

Laughing hysterically, she drove to A&W. Fries nibbled one by one. Two extra cups of coffee. It was dark when she got home.

Lingering in her frigid car, she considered knocking on a neighbor’s door. She could say she’d lost her keys. Or seen a prowler. A dark stranger.

The front door opened. A shimmering hand beckoned in the porchlight.

Knowing it was fate, she obeyed.

On the couch, her lips parted, her breath quivered, as warm strokes moistened her neck, then glided ever lower to cup her breasts. Her nipples hardened in aching eagerness.

In the bedroom she shed her blouse and bra, and gasped as sensuous fingers slithered beneath the waistband of her panties. Arching on the bed, she shoved away that final barrier.

Licking fingers circled, tantalizing her clit, then flooded her inner recesses. Ohmigod, this is way better than Greg! she thought as she succumbed. Blazing heat shot her to a soaring climax, then yet another screaming release.

Afterwards, she languorously prepared a very late dinner for Greg and herself. She even sang as she opened the Cabernet they’d been saving. She’d serve shrimp cocktail and a crisp salad, followed by steak grilled to perfection with sautéed mushrooms. For dessert, she’d bring out crème brulee …

Lurking among the branches of the potted Norfolk pine, a translucent hand throbbed with bright rainbow filaments, each shot through with light.

Then it seemed to sigh.

Soon, after a rest, it would writhe and convulsively stretch, straining against itself until a perfect living replica glistened by its side.

Ainslie Lloyd normally writes under another name. She has published 26 books, as well as many short stories, poems and articles on the craft of writing. Ainslie lives in the Canadian prairies.

Microfiction: Holy Trinity by Jade Sylvan

I don’t know if I should write this, but I don’t think Mother Superior or Mother Esther would pry even if they had the password. Might delete later, but this happened early Sunday morning.

When it started I was in my cell. Everything was as it always is. Dark wood crucifix on the wall. Pale prayer desk. No lights on at all. The white ceiling was the color of ash. I couldn’t sleep. Normal. I was uncomfortable on my back. I rolled over. The metal bed frame creaked and moaned.

I lay facedown. Felt more comfortable for about thirty seconds, then decided to flip onto my back again.

I turned back over. On the end of my bed was a man.

I should have frozen, but I relaxed. Somehow I knew he wasn’t a threat. He was here for me. For my pleasure. I pulled him close and inhaled, expecting to smell sweat. Musk. He kind of smelled like nothing, though. I felt his hand grip my thigh.

“I can’t,” I said.

He pulled away. I could still feel the weight of his body on the bed. My breathing shallow. An electric current ran between us.

Then someone else was there, behind me. Back propped up against the wall. My head in her lap.

She rested one hand on my collarbone. The other reached out for the man’s hand. They clasped hands over me. Static from her fingers near my neck. They were painfully still.

I reached up for the wrist near my chin. I pulled it down so it brushed against my face. Skin soft as silk. Her fingers gliding along my highest ribs, close to my breast.

My breath became urgent. The woman’s hand was almost touching my breast. The man’s other hand was inches from my thigh. I wanted them to touch me. Either of them. Both.

Aching stillness covered us. I realized I was holding my breath, waiting for some change. The air was charged, almost vibrating. Then the two silhouettes on either side of me moved, barely. More of a shift in weight than a deliberate action, but the break in the stillness was too much for me. Breath poured into my lungs and moaned back out. The animal of my body reached for them, two hands to two wrists, and pulled them into me. Her hand cupped my breast. Stopped for a moment, as if to make sure of its placement, then started to caress. His hand slid under my nightgown, around my underwear. This hand wasted no time. Dove in.

The feeling of both of them touching me, watching me as I writhed under them, was enough to make me climax immediately. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to stifle any screams I might release when I lost control. For a moment, I thought it wouldn’t happen. That I’d settle back down and lie there awkwardly between these two strangers before thanking them for trying and sneaking them out.

Then blankness. Neutral light. Pure electricity and love.

I couldn’t help it. I cried out. I was far beyond worrying if anyone heard. I sang one long note of pleasure as the last currents of electricity jolted through me. This was what God wanted. These beings were sent here for me. For this.

I opened my eyes and saw the same two silhouettes for an instant. In another instant, they melted into the normal outline of my cell. Something fundamental was different. I realized that thing was a shift in my state of consciousness. I was awake now. Before, I’d been dreaming.

I was panting and washed in sweat. My right hand was on my breast, my left between my thighs. I was sopping wet. I inhaled deeply, smelling my own musk and a another, floral scent. Dried roses? My hips and calves were tight. Sore. I looked down at my spent lower half and almost choked. Someone was sitting on the end of my bed. Another dream?

No.

A woman.

My hands shot away from my body. The left one was damp and pungent. I shoved it under the covers, wiping it off on the sheets, flushed with embarrassment. The woman sat there unfazed. She radiated calm nonjudgment.

This serenity seemed to emanate, washing over me. I relaxed into it. She was stunning. Strong and slender with medium-dark skin and a powerful mouth. Deep amber-brown eyes. Simple white sleeveless dress. A cross between Beyoncé and photos of my mother when she was young. It was still night, but I could see her clearly. She didn’t glow the way the angel had. More like she was made of light.

“You didn’t trust my Son,” she said. “Thought you might trust me.” None of these guys wasted time.

“It’s not that I didn’t–”

“Lent is only forty days. Then you can go right back to your vow of chastity.”

“How can I possibly give up my vow for that long and still call myself a nun?”

“You have a blessing from your Mother Superior. What else you need? High-five from the Pope?”

“No. I mean, that’d be cool–”

“What are you worried about?” She somehow managed to look stern without furrowing her brow or making much of any expression at all.

“I don’t know. I just never…. There were rules and I didn’t think they could change.”

“Did you enter the Sisterhood to be comfortable?”

“Of course not.”

She shifted so she was farther up the bed. Her face didn’t soften, but her voice did. Just a touch.

“You wanted anticipated discomfort. Poverty. Obedience. Chastity. The script.”

“Doesn’t everyone wish suffering had a script?”

She actually laughed. Smiled.

“Fair enough,” she said.

She scooted up closer so her hip was near my shoulder. I could smell her. The dried rose smell from before plus wood shavings and old wool. My musty fingers were still under the blankets. I draped the other ones across my stomach. Tried to relax it. She reached out with one hand, hovering it inches from my head.

“May I?” she said.

I nodded. She stroked my head gently. The feeling was unbelievably soothing. I could feel my brain relax and rest into the back of my skull. Outside I heard the whistle of freezing wind.

“Is it snowing again?”

“Yes. This should be the last big storm.”

She ran the tips of her fingers lightly across my scalp. It’s been a while since I’ve shaved my head, so there was about a quarter-inch of baby-curls for her to drag her nails through.

“Did you send me that dream just now?”

“No.”

“Did He?”

“We believe straightforward communication works best.”

The muscles around my eyes released, two jelly bulbs sinking back into their sockets. I may have, just slightly, started to purr.

“I don’t understand why you’d ask me to do this.”

“I can’t tell you what you’re supposed to learn from a lesson.”

She shifted so she was lying beside me. Her left arm beneath me, cradling me like a parent as she kept stroking my head. I was getting sleepy.

“Not even a hint?”

She laughed. My eyes were closed but I imagined she was smiling. “Go to sleep, Woodline.”

Her touch became a warm breeze. I drifted off.

Jade Sylvan is the author of Kissing Oscar Wilde and the apocalyptic lesbian sci-fi horror burlesque musical of the century, Spider Cult the Musical (coming summer 2016). http://jadesylvan/com

Microfiction: Cat Call by Elizabeth Coldwell

“And look out for the cat,” the Morgans say. It’s the last item on their list, after telling me to help myself to snacks and that if Emmy wakes before they return, on no account to let her watch TV on the couch with me.

“I didn’t know you had a cat.” I try to hurry them into their waiting taxi. Having to babysit on Halloween is grim enough, without the couple treating me like I’m nine, not nineteen.

“We don’t.” Shari Morgan adjusts the cape of her Supergirl costume. “He lives next door but he treats this place like his own… If you see him, don’t let him into the house.”

“I won’t, I promise. Now go.” At last I’m able to close the door behind them. Wandering through to the kitchen, I think about firing off a text to Deb or Mindy, telling them how lame this all is, but they’ll be at the party now, just like I should be.

I pour myself a glass of milk. Through the screen door, I think I see a sinuous black shape weaving its way up the path. Remembering the Morgans’ warning, I prepare to shoo the cat away. A noise over the baby monitor distracts me for a moment. When I turn back, if I didn’t know better I’d swear I could see the shape on the doorstep changing, growing larger… But that’s crazy. It’s nothing but a trick of the light. Even so, I’m startled when the knock at the door comes.

It’ll be trick or treaters, I tell myself, trying to recall where Shari Morgan said she’d left a bowl of candy for just such an occurrence.

“Happy Halloween. May I come in?”

The visitor is tall, with long black hair tied in a ponytail and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. He might be gorgeous, but caution guides me to ask, “Who are you?”

“Theo. I’m a neighbor. And you are…?”

“Brie. Emergency babysitter. Did you see a cat out there?”

He shakes his head. “No one here but me.” He smiles, slow and lazy, and something in me comes unglued. “Wanna hang out?”

“Sure.” None of the Morgans’ many rules said anything about not spending time with a very cute neighbor. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

I expect him to ask for a beer. Instead, he says, “That milk looks good.” He gulps it straight from the carton, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Want to dance?”

“Why not? When the cat’s away, right?”

Somehow, I find myself in the living room, pulled tight to Theo’s broad chest. Theo’s acting like he has the run of the place but I’m sure the Morgans won’t mind. They obviously know him, after all.

For a big man, he’s so light on his feet. He twirls me around till I’m dizzy and breathless. When he puts his lips to mine for the first time, I taste milk and something that’s uniquely him. His kisses are sweet, intoxicating, and I don’t object as he eases the straps of my dress from my shoulders. In the movies, bad things happen to babysitters on Halloween, but I feel safe in Theo’s arms. Safe, and a little bit naughty.

His cock rubs against me, hard in his jeans, and I reach down to unzip him. When I wrap my fingers around that thick, pulsing length, he purrs with delight. “Hey, slow down…”

“I can’t.” I stroke him up and down, relishing the feel of him in my hand.

Theo pulls my dress down further so he can knead my bare breasts. I don’t normally let a guy move so fast, but tonight I’m wild, wanton, my blood roused by the witchy magic of Halloween. He sucks my nipple, and desire zings down to my pussy.

We shed our clothes, and Theo urges me down onto all fours. I hear foil tearing, and I don’t look need to look over my shoulder to know he’s fitting a condom. He pushes home, stretching me with his big dick. This is how animals fuck, I catch myself thinking as his balls slap against my ass cheeks, and it feels so right. Heat rises between us, and we move in an ever-quickening rhythm.

In the moment before he comes he bites the nape of my neck, like he’s claiming me. It sets off my orgasm, and I dissolve around him.

He gathers me to him, and I rest my head on his dark mat of chest fur, sated and oh so pleased with myself. I don’t intend to sleep, but I begin to drift, and when I open my eyes again, Theo’s gone, leaving only a faint ache between my legs to remind me he was ever here.

 

* * *

 

The Morgans arrive home half an hour later.

“I hope you weren’t too bored,” Shari says, and I shake my head, though I’ve no intention of telling her how I passed the time. Her voice takes on an exasperated tone. “Oh, Theo, what are you doing here?”

I glance round, wondering if the tall, dark and friendly neighborhood hunk has come back to apologize for running out on me, and freeze. Standing on the mat, blinking his green eyes and licking his lips, is a sleek black cat.

Elizabeth Coldwell is the author of numerous short stories and two full-length novels, ‘Calendar Girl’ and ‘Playing The Field’. Her stories have appeared in the best-selling ‘Best Women’s Erotica’ series and Black Lace’s popular ‘Wicked Words’ collections. Formerly the editor of the UK edition of Forum magazine, she now contributes a spicy monthly column, ‘The Cougar Chronicles’, to its pages. When she is not busy writing, she is an avid supporter of Rotherham United Football Club and can be regularly found on the terraces at weekends, cheering her boys to victory (hopefully!).

Not-so-Microfiction: Layover by Elizabeth Schechter

“I’m sorry, sir. There are no other flights tonight, what with the storm.” As if to punctuate the young ramp agent’s sentence, there was a deep rumble of thunder that rattled the windows behind her. Her name tag said her name was Samantha, and she frowned slightly at her computer. “The soonest I can put you and your companion on a flight will be tomorrow morning at nine, with a connecting flight through BWI. Will that be sufficient?” She looked up, pleasant and hopeful despite the fact that people had to have been yelling at her all night for the flight delays and  cancellations.

Daniel sighed, reaching up and rubbing the collar he wore beneath his shirt. She must not have noticed the diplomatic codes on the reservation, or she probably wouldn’t be so eager to please. “It’ll have to do. What are the odds of getting a hotel, do you think?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I’m afraid the airline doesn’t put people up because of canceled flights. Not anymore.” She looked past him, then met his eyes and lowered her voice. “Is your master going to be all right with the delay?”

“You did notice the codes?” Daniel asked, amazed. “Which means you’ve also noticed how long we’ve been in transit. I have to say, you’re remarkably calm for someone–”

“Who knows she has a vampire who will no doubt need to drink living blood within the next few hours?” She smiled. “I know a bit more about vampires than most laymen. My sister is a bond-slave. And she has the same fidget.” Samantha raised her hand to her collar, mimicking Daniel’s gesture. “She’s been a bond-slave five years now, and I know her Master well.  And… honestly, there can’t be that many albino Japanese vampires. Even if I hadn’t seen his name on the reservations, I’d know that your master was Justiciar Hiro Itami. How soon will he need living blood?”

“Soon.” Daniel lowered his voice. “Any suggestions?”

“For casual travelers, any of the restaurants would be able to provide poured blood. You can even get it at the coffeeshop right where you came off the escalator. But for the privacy you’d need–” Samantha gnawed her lip for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Yes. I have an idea. Give me a minute, will you?” She picked up her phone and dialed. “Hi, Chris? It’s Sam. Please tell me you have an opening?”

Daniel stepped away from the desk to give her a chance to do whatever she was doing, walking over to the Japanese man sitting nearby. He looked like a wealthy businessman, impeccably groomed in an expensive suit, his eyes hidden behind dark, designer sunglasses. But there was nothing that could hide either his striking white hair, or his otherworldly air.

“So?” he asked, his deep, accented voice enough to melt Daniel’s bones. He lived for this man, breathed for him, would do anything for him.

“There are no flights leaving tonight, Itami-sama,” Daniel answered, bowing slightly, then going to his knees. “The agent is seeing what she can do, but the soonest we can be on our way home is tomorrow morning.”

Itami grimaced, and Daniel caught the glint of his fangs as his lips parted. He swallowed, desire and fear mingled as they always did. They had been late to the airport this morning in Denver, so Itami had settled for poured blood before the flight, foregoing the lengthy rituals that revolved around the taking of living blood. If all had gone well, they’d have been home in New York by now. But the storm that had settled over Atlanta had delayed their connecting flight, then grounded it. Now–

“I suppose there is always the men’s room,” Itami said, his distaste clear in his voice. “There can be no proper preparations, but it is better than–”

“Sirs?” Samantha called, her soft footsteps coming closer. “I’ve made arrangements for you, complements of the airline.”

Daniel glanced at Itami, who nodded. He rose, dusting off his knees. “I thought you said the airlines didn’t do that anymore?” he asked.

“I pulled strings, and cleared them with my manager. It was the diplomatic codes that did the trick.” She smiled. “Terminal B, by Gate 19. It’s called the Nap Attack. They’re waiting for you.”

“What is this Nap Attack?” Itami asked, standing up. He didn’t bother with his bags — Daniel collected the attache and the shoulder bag, along with his own messenger bag.

“It’s a sort of micro-hotel, for people who have long layovers,” Samantha answered. “A private place to rest or work. Sometimes we — I mean, the airport employees — take advantage of it on nights like this. They have comfortable couches, and showers. And the suites are sound-proofed.”  She smiled,  bowed slightly to Itami, and added, “Drink deep and well, Justiciar.”

Itami’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “Thank you. You have a familiar scent to you. I think… is it Claire, bound to Grigori, to whom you are related?”

Samantha dimpled. “Clara, sir. And yes. She’s my sister.”

“I will pass on my compliments to Grigori, then,” Itami said. “His bond comes from a fine family. Daniel, make a note. Also, a note of commendation to the airline for this fine young lady.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel said. He smiled to the now-blushing Samantha as he followed Itami away from the gate.

*

Nap Attack looked like an odd storefront, one that perhaps sold toiletries and closet doors. Daniel went up to the counter, which bore a bold “No Vacancies” sign. The young man behind the desk smiled.

“Daniel Remington? We’ve been expecting you.” He picked up a clipboard and handed it to Daniel. “Just sign here for yourself and your Master. I’ve put extra linens in already. No one should bother you.”

Daniel smiled and scrawled his name across the bottom, skimming the rental agreement as he did so. “How long do we have the room?”

“Until tomorrow morning, eight o’clock,” the young man answered. He handed Daniel a key-card. “Suite five, all the way back, on the left. Our last one. Sammy’s timing was perfect. Right after she called, we had three attempts to rent it within five minutes.”

“I appreciate it,” Daniel said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If you need anything, just ring the desk.” He looked past Daniel and nodded. “Drink deep, sir.”

“My thanks,” Itami said. “Daniel.”

Daniel nodded and led the way to the last door on the left. He opened the door, stepped back and let Itami enter first, then followed his master. A low, wide couch, with blankets and pillows stacked neatly on one end and a trundle underneath. A tiny desk, and a comfortable-looking armchair. An internal door that led into a bathroom, with a small pocket of a closet between the rooms. He set the bags down on the floor and turned to lock the door. It closed solidly, thumping into place with more gravitas than he’d have expected; instantly, the incessant hum of noise from the airport was cut off, leaving only the slight burr of the air conditioner. Daniel nodded. Sound-proofed, indeed. He turned to face the room, and saw Itami coming out of the bathroom, carrying a towel. He’d laid his sunglasses aside, revealing his pale violet eyes.

“Are the lights too bright?” Daniel asked. He checked over his shoulder — yes, there was a dimmer switch. “I can turn them down–”

“I am fine,” Itami answered. ” He laid the towel on the back of the chair, and smiled. His fangs were fully extended, and his voice slurred when he spoke.

“Your suit. Remove it. Unless you wish it ruined.” Daniel swallowed and reached for his tie. As he untied and unbuttoned, he saw Itami take up his shoulder bag and unzip it.

“On our next trip, we must plan more thoroughly. Our ritual will be abbreviated,” Itami said as Daniel went to the closet to hang his suit. When he returned, he was wearing only his collar and the specially-made resin chastity cage to which Itami held the only keys. He moved to Itami’s side.

“May I take your coat, Tono?” he asked, fixing his eyes on the large screened television on the wall. He knew what was in the bag — he’d packed it — but he wouldn’t look at what awaited him until Itami gave him leave.

“We are alone, koibito,” Itami murmured. Daniel turned slightly and saw his master smiling at him.

“I know,” Daniel answered. “I like taking care of you, Hiro. And I will never get tired of calling you my master. So, may I take your coat?”

“You may,” Itami answered, letting Daniel take the suit jacket from him. Daniel walked back into the closet, trying to fight the urge to bury his face in the jacket and just breathe in Itami’s scent. People wanted to believe that bond-slaves were unwilling victims, coerced into serving  the vampiric elite and held captive through means either nefarious or demonic. He knew better. He hung the coat neatly on a hanger and returned to Itami’s side.

The chair had been moved to the middle of the small room, and Itami had spread the towel over it. He stopped in the middle of rolling up his shirt sleeves, and gestured without saying a word; his meaning was clear. Daniel sat down, resting his hands on his knees. Waiting. Itami walked slowly around him, stroking his chin. Deliberating. Then he nodded and returned to the desk, picking up a bundle of what Daniel knew was several long lengths of silk cording, very light and extremely strong. Itami said nothing, tucking the bundle into his pocket before moving behind Daniel and running his hands down Daniel’s arms to his wrists, closing around  them and drawing Daniel’s arms behind him. Daniel tipped his head back, his eyes closing as the silk cord tightened around his wrists, binding them together. He wasn’t sure what Itami was planning — he never knew until it was over. But he never cared, either.

“Open, koibito,” Itami murmured. “I want to see your eyes.”

Daniel blinked, watching as Itami appeared in front of the chair, going to his knees as he bound Daniel’s ankles to the legs of the chair. Then he reached down and tugged, and Daniel felt pressure on his wrists. Itami’s smile was feral as he drew the end of the cord up between Daniel’s legs and attached it to the cage. Then he rose, taking a step back.

“It is far more simple than we are used to, but needs must. Still, it is enough.” Itami studied his handiwork for a moment, then growled deep in his throat. “Struggle,” he said, his voice thick. “Fight it.”

Daniel tugged on the bindings, feeling the movements of his arms pulling on his cock, knowing that he was going nowhere, and knowing that Itami needed him to fight. Needed the illusion of taking down his prey. Even though Itami knew that Daniel would bare his throat for him willingly if he so much as crooked a finger. Daniel tugged harder, and moaned as his growing erection fought against the warm prison of the chastity cage. He heard Itami laugh, a deep chuckle. Then he heard a soft jingle. His head shot up, and he saw Itami drawing a chain out from beneath his shirt and slipping it over his head.

“Hiro?” he gasped, straightening, pulling on the cords. Itami just laughed, using the key dangling from the chain to unlock the chastity cage. He slowly slipped it off, until Daniel’s erection was freed. Daniel whimpered, then yelped as Itami wound the now loosened end of the cord around his cock and balls and pulled it tight.

“I will feast,” Itami slurred. “But perhaps an aperitif first?” He knelt in front of Daniel, slid his hands underneath Daniel’s ass, and swallowed Daniel’s cock. Daniel gasped, his body going rigid as he felt the head of his cock entering Itami’s throat. Long fingers slid over his ass, teasing light strokes that made Daniel squirm and thrust between the probing hands and the warmth of Itami’s mouth.  Daniel felt the brush of Itami’s fangs against the sides of his cock, then Itami’s hands locked, holding Daniel in place, growling around his cock as Daniel came, thrashing mindlessly against the cords and his master’s hands.

When he finally went limp, and Itami let him go, he heard that wonderful, deep laugh. “How long, koibito, since I last allowed you to spend?”

Daniel gasped, whimpering and trying to remember how to talk. Or add. Or think. Right now, breathing was taking up all his conscious control. Finally, he managed to stammer, “Ah… two… two weeks. I think.”

Fingers trailed over his cheek, and Daniel opened his eyes to see Itami smiling down at him. “I shall have to remember to allow it more often. You came far too quickly. But it was a lovely appetizer, nonetheless.” The chair shifted, and the cord tugged painfully on Daniel’s cock as Itami rested one knee between his legs. He placed his hands on Daniel’s shoulders and bared his fangs. Daniel sighed, leaning his head back as far as he could, and turning his face toward the door to better offer his throat to his beloved master.

The ignorant believed that vampires were savages, that they would half-murder their bond-slaves with their brutality. Nothing could be further from the truth. When Itami drank living blood from Daniel, he did it elegantly. Almost delicately, and this time was no exception. He leaned his body against Daniel’s, pinning him in place. He lowered his head and buried his nose into Daniel’s hair, his breath soft against Daniel’s neck. He licked, once, the ticklish spot just beneath Daniel’s ear, then trailed his tongue down until his lips brushed against the pulse hammering in Daniel’s throat. Then he paused. He always did, waiting until Daniel whimpered in need and lust, bending his head even further back in silent offering.

“Hiro!” he whimpered, pushing up against the body pushing him down. “Please, Hiro, please!”

There was a moment, the barest breath where Daniel was certain that time stopped entirely. It was the only explanation for that eternity where all that he could feel over his entire body was the heat of Itami’s lips, the warmth of his breath, the feel of his body against Daniel’s. Until that stillness was shattered by the needle-prick of fangs as sharp as needles, as Itami began to feed. The pain was replaced almost immediately by heat, as whatever alchemy was found in the body chemistry of a vampire sent every pleasure center of Daniel’s body into overdrive. He groaned, straining against the cords, his cock starting to stir once more as he was overwhelmed with a desperate need for satiation, one that would only be filled when Itami finished with him. Itami shifted, his bite deepening, his low, guttural moan hitting Daniel like a physical blow, like the stroke of a flogger.

Unexpectedly, Itami reached between them, grasping Daniel’s cock in his hand as he shifted once more, sipping more leisurely now, caressing the skin of Daniel’s throat with his tongue. Daniel’s pleas were swallowed in his choking, gasping moans of pleasure, caught between the ecstasy of being the feast, and the feel of Itami’s hand stroking him back to aching hardness.

He felt Itami’s laughter against his skin, felt the ache and loss as the fangs slid from his veins, followed by the gentle swipe of the flat of Itami’s tongue. That same alchemy that produced the overwhelming pleasure as the vampire fed also healed the wounds completely, leaving not even a trace of a scar. When and if a bond-slave returned to civilian life, there would be no signs left behind of their time serving in a vampire’s collar.

Daniel closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath as Itami moved away. He usually came when Itami fed, but this time, it was too soon; vampiric chemistry couldn’t combat the human refractory period. It was too much, too much stimulation. Now his skin felt as if it was on fire, and he was hard enough that the air against the head of his cock felt like sandpaper. He shifted, feeling the pull of the cords against his ankles and wrists, but no answering pull from his cock. The cord must have come free. He whimpered, then moaned as gentle fingers trailed down his throat, over his collarbone, and down the length of the ugly scar on his chest.

“Daniel?” Itami murmured. “You did not spend.”

“You expected me to? Twice in under ten minutes?” Daniel gasped. “I’m sorry, Hiro. I don’t think that’s possible. Not for me.” He blinked rapidly, trying to force himself to more coherent thought, then caught his breath as fingers brushed the inside of his ankle. The cords fell loose on his left ankle, then on his right, and Itami pulled him out of the chair and onto his feet, holding him close. Daniel rested his cheek against Itami’s shoulder, breathing in his scent, feeling the rough raw silk of Itami’s shirt under his cheek. “I wasn’t expecting you to go down on me,” he murmured. “But it’s a good thing you did. If I’d come when you were feeding, I’d have shot all over your suit.”

“Suits can be cleaned,” Itami’s voice was a comfortable rumble against Daniel’s ear. “I have left you in discomfort. This is unacceptable.” He stepped back, holding Daniel at arm’s length.  Then he pulled him close once more, and kissed him. Daniel moaned, tugging against the silken cords that still bound his hands behind him, and Itami drew back, just far enough that his lips tickled against Daniel’s when he spoke. “What do you want, my Daniel?”

“You,” Daniel answered immediately. “Only you. Always you.”

Itami smiled, kissing Daniel once more, then stepped back and helped Daniel to his knees. He took the towel from the chair, and draped it over the edge of the couch. “Then you know what to do, my Daniel.”

Daniel bowed his head and shifted on his knees until he was able to bend over the couch. He could hear Itami behind him, the rustle and slide of silk and wool. When he tried to look, something came flying at him, settling over his head and shoulders — Itami’s shirt.

“Need I gag and blindfold you?” Itami chided. He ran his nails down the length of Daniel’s spine. Then his body covered Daniel’s as he knelt behind him; Daniel felt Itami’s cock against his ass, heard the snap of the tube of lube opening, and moaned. There was no preparation, no gradual teasing — Daniel couldn’t have stood the extra stimulation, and Itami knew it. No, there was only Itami’s hard cock, slick with the gel lubricant, pressing against Daniel’s ass. Daniel yowled, louder than he was used to, fighting to stay still as Itami entered him.

“I think that we will test the sound-proofing of this room,” Itami murmured. “Unless…”

Something soft and warm thumped down over Daniel’s head. He had a moment to realize that it was a pillow before Itami pressed down on it, muffling Daniel’s voice and cutting off his air. Daniel bucked, but Itami’s body over his, and his strong hands on the pillow, kept him from moving. He felt Itami’s knee, pushing his apart, opening him wider. Then Itami was moving against him, fast and hard, his breath hot on Daniel’s back. Daniel strained against the cords, gasping for air, his entire world narrowing to the single point that was Itami’s cock. He could feel his orgasm building, feel the darkness creeping around the edges of his consciousness. How long could he stay like this, before he passed out?

He tried to breathe, feeling the pillow ticking filling his mouth and nose, and rational thought dissolved; he started to fight in earnest, pushing up against Itami, shifting from side to side, trying to get away from the suffocating pillow. All his struggling accomplished was to make Itami bear down on him more, thrust harder, and to rub his own cock against the towel enough that he howled his orgasm into the gathering darkness. As he slipped away, he felt sharp needle-pricks in the back of his shoulder.

He woke on the floor, his head pillowed on Itami’s thigh, Itami’s fingers combing through his hair. He’d been out long enough for Itami to untie him, then rebind his hands in front of him. He took a long, shuddering breath, then another.

“Are you awake, koibito?” Itami asked.

Daniel nodded, his cheek scratching against Itami’s skin. “Yes.”

“Good. You are well? I did not harm you?”

Daniel tried to shift, discovered his ankles were bound together as well. So he rolled, twisting until he was looking up at Itami. “I’m fine, Hiro. How long was I out?”

“Not very long. A few minutes.”

Daniel nodded. “And did I imagine it, or did you bite me again?”

Itami laughed, his fingers curling into Daniel’s hair, then running down his neck. “Yes. It pleased me to do so, and pleased you as well. You are a magnificent feast, my Daniel.”

Daniel smiled. “Three course meal. Appetizer, entree and dessert.” He looked down at himself, the cords that bound his wrists and his ankles. Then he looked up at Itami and grinned. “And leftovers?”

Itami laughed. “No, koibito. I am sated, and I think I will be until we get home. You will rest now.” He shifted, leaving Daniel lying on the floor as he rose. Daniel sat up, and noticed that the couch had been cleared off, and the blankets and pillows arranged to make a bed. Itami bent, lifting Daniel easily and setting him on the couch. As he drew the blankets up, Daniel held his hands up.

“You’re not resting?”

“I thought I would work while you slept.”

“Hiro, you have to rest, too,” Daniel protested. “I know you just fed, but you still need rest. There’s enough room.”

Itami sat down on the edge of the wide couch and smiled, looking down at Daniel. “I bind you so that you will not overexert yourself, and you still insist on caring for me.”

“That’s my job, Hiro,” Daniel said gently. “Also my privilege and my pleasure. Now come lie down.”

Itami nodded. “Until you sleep, then.” He rose, walked over to dim the lights, then came back and joined Daniel underneath the blankets, prodding Daniel so that he rolled onto his side, then drawing him into his arms, his back resting against Itami’s chest.

Daniel sighed, closing his eyes. “Thank you, Hiro.”

“You are welcome, Daniel.” Itami’s breath on his neck was soft. “Kimi wa totemo taisetsu ni yo.

Daniel felt his breath catch. “I love you, too,” he murmured.

“I know, koibito. I know.”

Elizabeth Schechter has been called  one of the top erotica and alternative sexuality writers in the world. Her writing credits include the award-winning steampunk erotic romance House of Sable Locks, the science fiction BDSM duology Tales from the Arena, and the Celtic fantasy Princes of AirHer shorter work has appeared in anthologies edited by D.L King (Carnal Machines), Laura Antoniou (No Safewords), and Cecilia Tan (Jingle Balls; Like a Prince).

Elizabeth Schechter was born in New York at some point in the past. She is officially old enough to know better, but refuses to grow up. She lives in Central Florida with her husband and son, and a most accepting circle of friends who are both very amused and very proud of the pervy, fetish writer in their midst.

Elizabeth can be found online at http://elizabethschechterwrites.com, or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Elizabeth.A.Schechter.