Flash: Pairs

Image courtesy of vvadyab at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

“Hey, the girls are back,” yelled my jackass boyfriend over the noise at the club to his equally ignorant wingman. Mateo and Eric were hitting on some clubsluts at another table, just to dance since they shared Cynthia. Our introverted housemate opted out of the clubhopping night, instead taking advantage of the quiet back home for her idea of a perfect Friday, curled up in a bunch of pillows reading.

I guess wingman isn’t the correct term for Swami anymore since Viola walked up to him at a convention last week and claimed him. Now that was a scene. Swami looking slightly out of place as always in the predominately white sci-fi gathering and up comes this Hispanic-African American woman dressed as Storm, pulling it off way better than Hallie Berry. People turned to stare at her as she passed, her sheer presence godlike. She grabbed Swami by his pointed Tuvok ears, growled “Mine”, lifted him on his tip-toes, and kissed him until his eyes crossed.

Honestly, the woman should not be left alone. Very, very direct – six foot three, not counting the leather boots she had been wearing, and intimidating as hell. The rest of the pack closed rank and pulled over to the side of the hall – my boyfriend, Ethan, scanned the crowd for her crew. No one followed.

Viola was a lone wolf. She still hasn’t told us her story, but unless Swami is holding her, the crazy gleam lives in her ice-blue eyes.

I slapped Ethan on the bicep while Viola circled the table to lean into Swami’s back, her head, thanks to the six-inch spikes, resting on top of his. “Not a girl,” I snarled.

“Okay,” he laughed, raising his hands then nodding at the table. “Got you a drink, not-a-girl.”

Honestly if Ethan wasn’t so damn cute I would dump him.

That and he knows my drink preferences. A pink hurricane sat on the sticky surface. I nicked it and took a long sip out of the straw. Shifting my shoulders, I prepared to forgive him when he opened up his mouth again.

“You and Viola have a good time?” He yelled. “Really, why do you girls need to go in pairs anyway?”

I shouldn’t. Pack leader, alpha male. Nope. Just nope. Annnnd lost the argument with myself.

I returned the glass to the table, tilted my head so my black hair slid like a waterfall over my shoulder, put out my left hand, and crocked a finger on my right hand to invite him to come with me. My flirty smile sealed the deal. The club being too crowded for him to smell me.

The idiot put his hand in mind. I dragged him through the crowd to a side door opening onto a much less noisy balcony. Dragged being a relative term – he and Viola shared a height class and he had about half again on her for muscle mass. I have my mom’s slight Asian build with just enough height from my pop to reach Ethan’s shoulders if I wore spikes, which I don’t, and Ethan didn’t wear motorcycle boots, which he does.

Finding a dark corner on the balcony was easy, finding one unoccupied took a little more work. Once successful Ethan lifted me onto the wrought iron table, placed his hands either side of me and leaned in – to find my hand in the middle of his chest pushing back. “I thought you wanted to know why ‘girls’ go to the bathroom in pairs.” My tone chilled the area enough to frost his beer goggles.

“Um, yeah, I guess.” He stood up and scratched the back of his head.

“So we don’t get assaulted.”

His cocky perpetual half-smile shifting into a frown. “What?”

I stared at him hard. My black eyes unblinking. And waited for the brain to override his party hormones. Eventually, his blond eyebrows drew together until a little crinkle indicating he was actually thinking appeared between them. His stern thinking expression made my heart skip and my lips plump out until I bit them.

His eyes dropped to my lips. We have the damnest time completing arguments because him thinking turns me on, and unlike most werewolves, let alone human males, he thinks when angry instead of blowing up. Unlike me. Now in our third year together he is able to push past it, making him that much hotter to my very screwed up emotional wiring. His nostrils flared as he smelled me getting wet.


I nodded, trying to renew my anger from the club. I am not a girl. I am twenty-two. I am not a girl. “Yes, assaulted.”

His half-smile made a weak return. “Not so you can have a conversation while standing in line?”

“No, you mutt.” I jammed a finger into his chest.

His face twitched, falling into his thinking expression. “You always said that.”

“Yeah. That is one of the lines we women have agreed to tell men about the bathroom thing.”

“Ah, so you are breaking the woman secrecy barrier.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I thought it was time.” Part of me wanted to laugh, but the rest of me realized the conversation was one of the most serious we ever had. Because I really was breaking secret barriers. Women just don’t talk about this stuff. We say we go in pairs because of the long lines. And the long lines are because it takes longer to move all the stuff around – pantyhose takes ten times longer to get back into place than whipping it out and stuffing it back in after shaking. So we are telling the truth, but not the real truth. Not the truth we avoid telling ourselves most days. “I am walking through a club with a bunch of slightly drunk males and going to go down a darkened hallway. I am not stupid enough to do that alone.”

Ethan shuddered a moment. His eyes flashed left to right as he processed the danger. The innate danger every woman faces in a simple trip to a public bathroom. Pulling me forward on the table he kissed the top of my head and rested his forehead on mine. “Thank you.”

I snuggled into him. I guess I will keep the jackass a little longer.


We fell into bed that night exhausted, Mateo finally pulling us away from the noise, scents, and dancing to get home to his woman. Alcoholism runs on the American Indian side of his family, so he never drinks and is our designated driver making clubbing only somewhat fun for him. Being the babysitter for a werewolf pack out for a good time during new moon week has severe downsides. Better than the weeks closer to full moon; at least the boys didn’t punch anyone this time.

Viola hasn’t been around long enough, but I bet she is a puncher too.

Cynthia, Mateo, and Eric woke us around dawn. We really need to soundproof their room. A thump shook some dust off the ceiling.

And pad it. Their room needed padding.

Ethan and I were wrapped around each other, and he petted my back and waist-length hair while we tried to ignore our exuberant packmates.

“I was wondering.” His bass voice rumbled through his deep chest tickling my ear.

“ummm” I responded, debating whether to move and start petting him back, a bit lower than acceptable in polite company. The moving was the biggest impediment, though Mr. Happy was working on becoming bigger.

“Why would you fear being assaulted?” Ethan kissed the top of my head.

I rolled to the side a little to rest mostly on the bed so I could look him in the eye, leg drawing across a very happy Mr. Happy. Well, good morning to you too. My leg and womanly bits decided not to join the rest of me on the bed.

Sorry, woman bits, serious conversation first. Annnd, woman bits get even more moist as my eyes focus on his stern thinking expression.

I bite my lip, swallow, and then force words out before morning sex or coffee. “Habit, I guess.”

I then shook my head, thinking harder. Yes it hurts without my caffeine fix. Let this be a lesson to women everywhere, do not hook up with guys who do not need caffeine. Morning people and night people do not mix. Or all day people. Ethan never turns off. Part of why he is the alpha of our group. He was alpha even before the attack.

I reminded myself not to lie to him or to me and started again. “And reality as well.”

“What? You are a werewolf for crying out loud!” The whisper shout could have been heard by werewolf ears outside the house, but not by anyone else. As an extra precaution, the house we bought last year was on five acres. We are a noisy lot and neighbors did not need to know about the adjustment to our human DNA we had experienced.

“How much do you press?” I stroked my hand across his muscular chest, making Mr. Happy twitch and jump against my leg.

“Now? Oh, I guess about 600 pounds, more during a full moon.” He shrugged. “I haven’t really bothered since … well, since. I was doing about 200 in school before.”

“So three times stronger than before” I looked up into his green-gray eyes.

“About,” he agreed.

“Well, I lifted too.”

He laughed, shaking the bed. “Because the high school required it as part of gym class.”

I poked his check with a finger, and his laughter stopped instantly. Oh god, don’t look at my breasts. Don’t look.

His serious eyes dropped to where my small breasts provided just enough lift from my body to make the erect nipples really stand out. I prevented my hand from moving into a caress, reminding it and other body parts, we are still having a serious discussion here.

I inhaled deeply. “I pressed about fifty pounds. And unlike you I’ve tested it at a gym since just for giggles. Also three times stronger, one hundred fifty pounds, more than I weigh.”

“Umm, congratulations?”

“I still can’t lift you.” I pointed out. “I still can’t bench press what a healthy high school male can unless it is the full moon.”

The crinkle appeared between his eyes.

“So, yeah, a human male your size can still assault me even though I am three times stronger than he expects.”


“Yeah.” My turn to shrug, and my eyes may sprung a small leak. “The Old Man said we continue to get stronger slowly, so maybe someday. But I don’t think I am ever going to stop being cautious.”

Ethan lifted a hand, his thumb caressing my cheek and lips. “Anita.” He kissed me gently.

I had dated Eric, back before, and then Mateo immediately following the attack before the first full moon and shift when the mating heat reshuffled our allegiances and linked the beta crowd as a single unit. Some days I wished Ethan and I could experience the mating heat, I’ve been thinking about it more since Swami found Viola.

On the other hand, good old-fashion love, respect, and understanding is pretty awesome too.

So is wild monkey sex. When we start padding the bedrooms, ours will need to be on the list.

(words 1,892; first published 10/29/2017)

Flash: Bound


Bound, hand and foot and wing tip. Eyes covered.

Angels soared.

Untouchable. Holy. Above all others.


His own fault.

Temptation wasn’t restricted to the fallen.

The only senses left to him were hearing and scent. And he could smell her. Her soft breath in the room. Her woman place moistening with heavenly debauchery.

His core clenched. He had given up so much to be right here right now. The blindfold imposed a darkness on him, frightening and arousing. The silk bindings tied him to earth like heavy chains and velvet kisses. Terrified, everything was sharpened to perfection.

A hand drifted across his chest. Playing with one nipple, dancing across his stomach. He had no belly button for the fingers to sink into, so they touched each indent of muscles and sinew.

Two hands came to his shoulders and pressed downward.

“Kneel, kneel to me my angelic love.”  The woman’s voice, forgiving sin, harshly pleading.

Willingly he went to his knees. He leaned forward to kiss a belly, delving for the human indent. Finding the center of her creation, the angel’s tongue licked around the edge before darting it in and out. Carefully, so the bones within the tongue did not press.

The woman’s hands curled into his blond tresses, one hand holding his head in place, the other encouraging his head further down. Begging and ordering.

He bowed his head further until hairs tickled his face. Moving forward, he sought out her secrets, holy and hellish, using only his mouth. He sucked her clit and laved her, separating her inner lips until he could taste her manna, her juices.

Leaning as he did, the top of his wings touched her breasts. The nipples hardened as the feathers danced back and forth. He directed the torsion axes to push the mounds together. Warm feathers caressed the womanly structures, directed individually with nerves created to control flight, each tingling as it registered contact and her reactions.

The woman’s knees buckled and she slid to join him in the exotic dirt. He crawled like a worm between her legs, small bits of dust rising like clouds about them. Rolling his tongue, he interlocked the bird-like bones together similar to a human locking an elbow. Sturdy and thick, the tongue, muscle and bone, dived into her road to hell, her channel to heaven.  Again and again, bringing her flavor into his blind darkness.

His wings, bound only in the tips, pushed her legs apart as she shook and bucked. He set the feathers dancing along the knees and inner thighs.

“Oh, God. Oh God.” She screamed prayerfully, ending in a climax chorus. Musical song shouted.

A song he had to hear again. He gathered her cream like a hummingbird sucks nectar, cleansing her nether realm. Her legs twisted against his wings as her lust rebuilt.

He locked his tongue again, but at a slight curve. Inside her being, he sought her bliss. Giving her everything she asked. Touching her soul, so he could follow her into heaven’s punishment.

God made humans in his image, how could he not worship her?

(words 518 – originally appearing at Breathless Press 10/6/2013 for the 4/22/12 Sunday Fun –  – The original photo was of unknown copyright so did not put on my site – published on old blog 10/6/2013; republished in new blog format on 10/8/2017)

Flash: Cannot Be Unseen

Photo by Jiří Wagner on Unsplash

Kai stumbled after Aubrey into the Ferry house out of the January weather. The difference between outdoors and indoors felt nearly physical; the old man had upped the protections on his home since his wife gave birth. Even a welcomed friend like himself needed to beware entering uninvited. Kai shuttered to think what would happen if he violated guest rights.  The old man was a first rate wizard.

Today continued the lessons on friction. For third weekend in a row, Kai spent Saturday in the empty ice rink. Kai was certain avoidance spells were possible, though he had only been a student since Thanksgiving when Aubrey had taken him on. But Kai did not think the spell was used to empty the place; after all, who would spend time in an ice rink in January?

He expected that his mentor would be teaching combustion in the middle of July. The old man was quirky that way … or mean, depending on how one interpreted his actions. Today Kai was leaning toward downright malicious. He was sore from the heavy skates on his feet, sore on his butt from falling, sore in his head from trying to grasp the lessons on how to increase and decrease friction, and frozen throughout.

It didn’t help Aubrey was none the worse for wear after nearly twelve hours of torturing him. Yes, Aubrey looked Kai’s age, with stark black hair and solid muscles like he worked side-by-side with Kai landscaping instead of whatever he did as his day job. But Kai knew that Aubrey had to have pushed himself in the rink today, if only to control Kai’s mistakes. Why couldn’t the old man be a little tired?

Struggling to lift his arms to get out of his jacket, Kai watched as Aubrey raced into the living room where his wife was nursing and someone he had never seen before was standing.

“When did you get in child?” Aubrey asked joyfully as he scooped up a stunning redhead and spun her around. “How did you get away?”  A concerned look crossed his mentor’s face as he slid the girl down his body onto the carpet. “And who did you leave in charge?”

The young woman laughed at his exuberance and replied in an Irish lilt.  “I’ve only been here a few minutes. Mom was just introducing me to the young one. And don’t worry, I’ve left the Trio temporarily in charge. They should be able to keep the peace … among themselves … for a few days.”

Kai watched his mentor look the girl up and down … his daughter? Same strawberry hair and clear white skin, enhanced by a spattering of freckles, as Aubrey’s wife Colleen.  The girl was only a couple inches shorter than Aubrey’s five ten. The girl appeared to be a college freshman, an angelic freshman. Her wispy hair desperately escaping a crown braid creating a halo effect backlit from the kitchen. Her off-the-shoulder white dress had lace insets in all the right places. Less bosom-heavy than the earthy Irish beauty of Colleen, Kai was able to see the girl had inherited Colleen’s coloring and Aubrey’s strong lean frame.

He couldn’t not Look. But Kai did try to talk himself out of it. What is Seen cannot be Unseen. That was the first lesson. Aubrey had found Kai in the middle of his first Seeing; a horrific experience brought on by stupidly trying to fit in at work and joining the guys on a marijuana break. The next month was spent bringing his natural gift under control; the following month has been spent learning friction.

As he hung up his jacket, the nineteen year old closed his eyes and opened his inner one. Turning back to where the conversation was continuing between the old man, his wife and his daughter, Kai slowly opened his eyes and tried to focus only on the girl. He didn’t need to see Aubrey stripped of all the natural assumptions people make so is life more palatable EVER again; that scary shit was firmly cemented into Kai brain for the rest of his life. Kai also had no interest in finding out what could hold its own in marriage to the millennium old magician. He tried to use his recent lessons on focus to look only at the newcomer.

The girl’s hair loosed from its braid to cascade down her back in a riot of curls, a far-deeper red than Colleen’s strawberry. Like staring into the heart of a furnace with blue-white flames dancing out of red-black coals. He could feel the heat sear into his eyes. The crown braid formed into a silver diadem, elegantly wrought like a small ivy branch freshly plucked and turned into ice.

The woman spun as he continued to stare. Her blue eyes were like the blue of volcano lakes, promising the same ice and heat, the same serenity and danger of those isolated paradises. She said something as she stalked towards him, but Kai was focused on Seeing, not hearing. Her fingers stretched into inhuman lengths as they curled around his throat. Her skin was the color of winter ice and summer clouds, the dress falling away into illusion.

Her red lips plumped from unkind hope, curled with merciful despair and he could not resist even has her claws drew blood from his neck. Keeping his green eyes on hers he leaned forward to kiss his life and death. Her eyes spoke her name to his soul, both use and true, as his lips touched hers. Closing his eyes to keep the vision with him for the rest of his meager life he deepened the kiss. He felt her breath escape in surprise and the choking grip lessen.

Unthinking, he turned off his gift that usually took him hours to put back in the box and grabbed the curtain of fire with both hands pulling her naked body against his starving one. His tongue warred for dominance with hers.

(words 1,000 – – originally appearing at Sunday Fun on Breathless Press 1/13/2013 – The original photo was from  Sarah Ann Loreth who retains copyright on her photos, with written permission to reuse. I did not asked for said permission. Published on the first blog on 1/13/2013; republished new blog format 7/9/2017)

Editing Rant: Different Dance Moves

Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net


Two aspects areas of storytelling take choreography to the extreme: fighting and sex. Normally, stating where a person is standing in a conversation has little impact on the situation other than providing an anchor of time and place. During sex and fighting where the two (or more) characters are located, where they are located in relation to each other, and how they interact with each other and the scenery (beds and cars) and props (guns and bedsheets) are all important.

And like any choreography, the moves need to vary to keep interest. If writing fighting, each battle needs to be different – not a one-punch and done. To Beat the Devil  by M.K. Gibson does an amazing job of changing up the dance from single couple to large scale ballroom/battlefield, from no props (fist only) to canes and top-hats (magic and guns). No altercation repeats aspects of previous fights. If writing sex, similar rules apply.

Recent books deserving rants:

BOOK 1: All sex scenes followed the same pattern: oral/manual simulation followed by vanilla intercourse. All emotional levels are the same (no crying, hurt, joy, happy, anger). All sex happened in the same room, on the bed. This would be like all the fights in an urban fantasy happening in a boxing ring.

BOOK 2: A five-way relationship (one female to four males). Two complete rounds of intercourse follow the same exact order of the males doing the same exact actions; the only variation is the location, once in the living room and once in the bedroom. No emotional level variation. Even the dialogue did not vary. 

For choreography to work, variation in location, emotions, number of characters, order of activities, and the props is required, whether fighting or sex. When done right each major choreographic encounter should advance the plot. In a romance, each encounter advances the romance. In an action-thriller, each encounter teaches the main character a new skill or reveals a new portion of the plot.

Each dance results in movement, emotional sweeps to plotting quicksteps.

Limiting the dance of fighting or romance to a single step or pattern of steps is like watching the tango with no dips or spins.

WRITING EXERCISE: Create a fight or romantic scene of 1,000 words or less between two characters. Change one of the following and only one of the following and rewrite the scene: (1) location or (2) emotional driving force behind the scene.

READING EXERCISE: For your most recent read, write down every “dance” within the book – include location, emotional level, number of characters, prop/powers used, and activities. Did the variation help keep the “dances” fresh?

Flash: Lips

The mesmerizing lips drew back redder than when they approached. Julia compelled her eyes open with difficulty; her last orgasm was still rifting through her body. She barely felt the ropes tying her wrists and ankles that kept her body attached to the chair even when her spine had bent in half from pleasure.

Kade’s tongue flicked out to gather the salty red moisture before it dripped. Julia’s eyes watched the motion and her nipples tightened. As he continued to back up, she tried to focus on those behind him. Every time she looked at him all she wanted to do was beg for more. Oh God, so much more.

He only had a taste. A quick bite. The movement of his finger tracing his lips as he considered her with black alien orbs brought her eyes back to the most wonderful, pleasurable, frightening thing in her world. Her breath was drawn from her. His teeth so perfect.

Breaking contact, Kade’s black eyes became engrossed by the single drop of blood left on his index finger.

Julia heard the scraps and movements of others in the room. She searched inward for terror. The kidnapping, the ride, the punches, and being tied up. She had wanted to scream and scream and could not. She tried to struggle and could not.

Now satisfaction provided calm and languish to her mind and muscles. She could scream now but didn’t want to. Too much effort. The logical part of her mind tried to prod the emotional side to panic with no avail. Eventually it gave up.

Trying to puzzle out the black and the beings inhabiting it would take energy Julia no longer had. She felt so good. The easiest thing to focus on was Kade’s lips.

“My dear little angel,” the lips formed words. “You are a tasty treat like few others.”

The head and body turned denying her view of the lips for a precious few seconds. “I wish I had known,” Kade projected to the four corners as he spun. “I wouldn’t have a called for a joint feast but kept this morsel for myself.”

Kade knelt in front of her and whispered; the sound still carried. “But I did and I will not renounce my invitation to share.”

She watched as the lips approached, hoping. She moaned as they drew back when he stood from paradise lost.

“Harris, Pascal, Eugene. Please, my friends, partake a sip. Remember to leave enough for the others to savor.”

 (words 415 –  originally appearing at Sunday Fun on Breathless Press 1/20/2013 -The original photo was of unknown copyright so did not put on my site – published on old blog 1/20/2013; republished in new blog format on 4/9/2017)