I Can’t Wait All Day

A fat ripe plum, with a white sticker on it, sat on the table like an eight ball.

The girl with the curly hair was standing still, looking down at her warped reflection in her shiny black shoes. Her hands were behind her back.

The man with the expensive watch sat at the other end of the table, watching her. One elbow was on the table, his hand on his chin, his fingers tracing the bottom of his lip contemplatively.

The expensive watch was there, on his somewhat hairy wrist. Thick heavy silver and a broad face with nimble hands moving with imperceptive accuracy. Just before the watch, further along his arm, the line of his dress shirt’s crisp cuff, which sparkled with a small silver cufflink, lead to the line of his suit. The shirt was white with fine blue pinstripes. The suit was a dark charcoal gray.

The girl with the curly hair looked up at the man with the expensive watch. Her eyelashes caught the light, a dark auburn. Her face was an explosion of freckles, nearly so many that they overtook the tan of her skin. Equally, her hair was an explosion of dark brownish red curls.

She wore a simple white cotton summer dress, which set off the dark tan of her skin. Her freckled legs were muscular. She wore long white socks that came perfectly to her knees. The white of the dress matched the white of her socks and the black of her patent leather Mary Jane’s matched the short string of black Tahitian pearls around her neck.

In the distant hallway, the grandfather clock ticked away.

Preview: The Revenge of BatCatGirl

I’m super excited about this new short story I’ve been working on! It has the rather ridiculous title of “The Revenge of BatCatGirl.” The first draft is just about done, so it will be a little while until the final edited product is ready for public consumption, but I can’t help but post a tidbit.

It’s silly and pretty real and gets really fucking hot. So here is a bit of the first part. Let me know what you think.

Part 1: The Negotiation

Kay stood in front of the full length mirror and slowly slipped the Batgirl Underoos up her freshly shaven legs until they were half way up her thighs. She paused, looking at her reflection. She was naked except for the purple and gray fabric suspended between her open legs. Her fingers moved over her dark brown skin, pausing to touch at a tiny stretch mark on her hip.

What the fuck was she doing?

She pulled the comic book themed underpants the rest of the way up, watching the very naked looking triangle of her recently hairless pussy get replaced by a little yellow bat symbol on a swath of boy-cut whimsy.

The t-shirt went on next. It was purple and gray like the panties, with very short sleeves. It was far too tight over her bra-less chest and it didn’t quite cover her torso completely. A thin embarrassing line of belly shown between the shirt and the panties and she pulled at both to cover it. In the center of the shirt, right between her breasts, was another bat symbol, this one slightly stretched.

She felt like an idiot.

Was she really trying to be a little girl? She was thirty years old. She had five gray hairs and big tits and little wrinkles starting to form at the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t a little girl. She had thick hips and a big ass and a career. She was a full grown woman who was stuffing herself into silly little kid clothes and the most confusing part was that it was making her wetter than anything she could remember.

She picked up her phone for the hundredth time that morning and looked up his list again. How could a bullet list make her blush?

The worst part was that she had asked for all of it.

His

He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.

He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.

She is starting to learn that when she is in his bed she is his. Her reactions are his. Her orgasms and her tears are his.

The thought makes her knees weak and her thighs clench.

She finds herself playing his games even when she is alone, chiding herself when she goes back to her old ways of doing things. She sits up straight. She doesn’t curse. She meets people’s eyes when she speaks to them. She cleans up her messes.

She keeps herself smooth and waxed even though she hasn’t seen him in weeks. She keeps herself up at night wondering if it would be okay to text him to ask permission to come.

She fucks herself too hard, pretending her thin fingers are his thick ones. She wishes she could make herself sore the way he does.

She feels guilty when she breaks his rules. She gets red in the face when she imagines confessing.

Every buzz of her phone brings delight or disappointment. She saves his emails like the best part of dessert; a thing to savor last.

She is his. She is his. She wants to write it in notebooks in math class and on bathroom walls and across the sky.

End

Tips accepted here.

Excerpt from an Untitled Thing

"This isn’t exactly how I thought it would go," he said with a nervous laugh like a cough. 

With wickedness in her eyes, Kay smiled her toothy grin and tousled his hair. 

“Oh no? Do you want to stop?” she teased, moving her hand down to his throat. 

"N-no sir, I mean, ma’am, I mean what do I call-" he said, his cock now hard and bobbing against his stomach as he tried to squirm out of her choke hold. 

"Sir sounds pretty when you say it, why don’t you stick with that."

Emma kneeled next to them, her eyes huge as she watched. 

"Doesn’t it sound pretty when he says it?" Kay asked Emma, who nodded emphatically. 

Kay took Alec by the hair again. 

"Now are you going to suck my cock like a good boy?" she said through her clenched teeth. 

His whimper was like that of a hurt puppy. His cheeks were on fire and his face twisted with confusion. 

“Don’t be scared. How about just a kiss to start? That would’t be so bad would it?” Kay said, her hand moving to his face, nails digging into his cheek.

He swallowed and she forced his head around, his lips inches from the thick purple cock. 

He licked his lips, animal fear in his eyes. 

Emma moved closer and pressed herself against both her boyfriend and Kay. 

"Just kiss it, Alec," Emma whispered into his ear.

“Kiss it once for me,” she said and let her lips brush against his neck. 

He closed he eyes and his lips touched her cock. Kay felt an electric shock shoot from her crotch up her spine. 

He seemed to be trying to hold himself back, but once his lips touched it, the animal instinct was let loose. He opened his mouth and pushed himself forward, taking an inch of the cock, his tongue slipping under it.

The way his eyes closed and his mouth opened reminded Kay of a thirsty man taking a first sip of water. It took all of her will to pull him off her cock, but it was worth it to see the want and the disappointment.

“Say please.”

He let out more puppy whimpers.

“P-please,” he said straining against her hand in his hair.

Emma was nearly jumping out of her skin as she watched, her thighs squeezing together rhythmically and she bounced on her knees.

“No, Alec, you have to say sir. You have to say ‘please, sir can I suck your cock,’” she explained with a tattle tale girlishness in her voice.

Kay held the boy’s hair tighter.

“Why don’t you show him, Em,” Kay said sweetly.

Emma smiled wide, licking her red lips. She took Kay’s cock into her mouth expertly, with the pride of a birthday girl who had gotten the most cake.

She is known as “the Catalyst.”

In the moments before 2am, when the party is made up of nothing but whiskey fumes and nervous energy, she wiggles out of her little black dress, tight as a snake’s skin, and with a bright smile and bubbly laughter invites the party to follow suit.

You can see the invitation ripple through the crowd. Ties loosen, blouses open, breasts spill out of the dangerously precarious grasp of bras they had been fighting all night. Then the hysterical image of boxers and blazers. Half dressed playboys are pulled onto couches to make out with strangers and old friends. Greedy hands closing around bodies red from corseted bondage.

The shy debate, making eyes with those they hoped might convince them. Those on the fence throw their knickers to the four winds with resolve. The ones who have been waiting all nights for a sign, strip naked and hurl themselves into the fray with abandon.

The Catalyst does not gloat over her effect. She is in the thick of it, bent over a table, possessed by the woman behind her who is pulling her hair and her strings beautifully.

And the party has only just begun.

The Callipygian Sublimation

A friend recently reminded me of one of the first things I ever read in public. It was at the Bowery Poetry Club, though it certainly wasn’t poetry. There were a few readings and some burlesque that night.

Little did I know that while waiting backstage to go on, all of the burlesque performers would get completely nude and casually chat with me, which was very distracting for novice Jack!

My reading went somewhat horribly, though I’m amused at the fabulously bombastic title of what I read. It’s also interesting how different my style was four years ago. I was more lyrical, but far more clumsy, which can have a charm of its own. Also, I am pretty sure I didn’t pronounce callipygian correctly.

The Callipygian Sublimation

She is a candy stranger. Perfect in the way someone you don’t know at all can be perfect. Her small breasts and her large hips and soft swell of an ass that seems nearly impossible on her tiny frame. Her thin waist and her wild hair. That exoticness that is so difficult for people to get right.

She is new to this, but she’ll do just fine. In fact, it’s hard to find regulars with an attitude so perfect for these games. Right for me, that is. Everyone wants something different from places like this. The Venn Diagrams of our emotional, physical and sexual wants. Cross-indexed by our needs.

She is smart, very smart, enthusiastic, very aware of her own desires. She isn’t in this to see, she is in this to get what she has needed for a while but didn’t have a name for. She wants to play, but not for keeps. Those words would be what a doctor would write on my prescription, if there were doctors for such things.

Read the rest on writingdirty.com

That Sort of Thing - Published

I’m excited to announce my new novella That Sort of Thing, the story of a woman named Valentine who meets a charming writer of risqué stories. As she is seduced by his words she is also confronted by the guilt of playing his taboo games. Will reality live up to the dirty fantasies?

This novella can be purchased as an ebook or an audiobook (recorded by me!) exclusively at writingdirty.com, though it will eventually be up on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Photo by Jack Stratton - blog.writingdirty.com

Thus this photo shoot comes to an end. I’m looking for new models in the NYC area. It has been an interesting journey both learning and remembering the technical side of photography, as well as finding my eye again. I enjoy it and it certainly informs and inspires my writing.

If you are interested in sitting for me, email or ask.

Photo by Jack Stratton - blog.writingdirty.com

Thus this photo shoot comes to an end. I’m looking for new models in the NYC area. It has been an interesting journey both learning and remembering the technical side of photography, as well as finding my eye again. I enjoy it and it certainly informs and inspires my writing.

If you are interested in sitting for me, email or ask.

Photo by Jack Stratton - blog.writingdirty.com

We agreed that there was a difference between me hitting her on the ass and a real spanking.

"What does it mean? I can’t fight back if it’s a real spanking?"

I laughed.

"You can fight back, certainly, I guess it is more about intention. When I just hit you my intent is to hurt you, control you, to wake up your body, maybe to push you to action."

She considered that.

"Well what is a spanking then?"

I stood up and walked over to her, eying her carefully.

"Spanking can be a lot of things, but the intent is more than just physical or sadistic. Spanking is a symbol of emotional closeness tied to power distance. I am spanking you because I know better than you or at least we are pretending that is true. You may be being punished or taught a lesson or cared for or just played with, but I have been given the power to do all of those things."

She turned and leaned against the closet door, arching her back and sticking her ass out.

"Right, so when you spank me you have the power. I’m not a little girl who can make you do anything I want, including spank me."

Damn.

Photo by Jack Stratton - blog.writingdirty.com

We agreed that there was a difference between me hitting her on the ass and a real spanking.

"What does it mean? I can’t fight back if it’s a real spanking?"

I laughed.

"You can fight back, certainly, I guess it is more about intention. When I just hit you my intent is to hurt you, control you, to wake up your body, maybe to push you to action."

She considered that.

"Well what is a spanking then?"

I stood up and walked over to her, eying her carefully.

"Spanking can be a lot of things, but the intent is more than just physical or sadistic. Spanking is a symbol of emotional closeness tied to power distance. I am spanking you because I know better than you or at least we are pretending that is true. You may be being punished or taught a lesson or cared for or just played with, but I have been given the power to do all of those things."

She turned and leaned against the closet door, arching her back and sticking her ass out.

"Right, so when you spank me you have the power. I’m not a little girl who can make you do anything I want, including spank me."

Damn.