In a quandry...

I have three stories currently in progress. You might say that I can't commit to any one of them long enough to get it finished, but sometimes I have to do something else for awhile until the muse returns and directs me back to finish the tale. But that's not the quandry. This is. I have a story currently published that contains two parts. There is room for a third part, a part which I have ideas for but have not started. As of late, I have received several requests for part 3, including some ongoing dialogue with a reader about the appropriate plot line. So of course now I'm noodling over what might happen in part 3, and if the characters have any ideas of their own. But then, if I start part 3, then I will have 4 - count 'em, FOUR - stories in the works. Is that really fair to the other 3 who would be left hanging?

On the other hand, I really enjoy the characters in this particular story, and I think part 3 could be a somewhat easy write. As I said, I have some ideas for the next encounter, along with some interesting suggestions from a particularly interested reader.

And thus, the quandry.

What would you do, dear friends, if we were to switch places and you could be Bedtime Storyteller for a day??

Submitting to the story

It's no secret - I'm submissive. But what I didn't expect was that I could find myself submitting to a story. Sometimes, when I'm writing a particularly compelling story, the strangest thing happens - the story controls me. It doesn't just tell itself through my pen, but even when I'm not writing, I find myself seeing the world through the story's eyes. I find myself responding to others as though I were the story. I dream the story at night. I'm just consumed by the story.

I'm certain I can't be the only writer who finds this happening....can I?

Sex is a beautiful thing

There are so many people who thing sex is dirty, nasty, or something to be ashamed of. Too many people. Sex is life. If it weren't for sex, there would be no life! Sex fluids have a purpose, people! They're something to be grateful for, something to be enjoyed, something to revel in. Sex fluids, like sex, connect us.

I cannot tell you how sweet it is to taste myself on the lips of my lover. Each person has their own distinct taste, a fingerprint of flavor that is meant to be savored. Salty, sweet, tangy, bitter...mmmm.... I can still recall the taste of one lover in particular, a taste so rich and so decadent that I think I will never forget him. If you were to line up a dozen men, and put my lover in that lineup, I could pick him out blindfolded.

Don't waste the taste, kids! Savor it, swirl it around on your tongue like fine wine, and swallow it gratefully. Cum is a gift. Give it, receive it, and remember it.

Going Back for Seconds

I offer you a story for your reading pleasure...

The slate sky was streaked with rose, butter, and lilac, and the still air was pregnant with moisture. A storm was building to the south. The river was quiet as it slid between the banks, shaded by willows and speckled with dragonflies. She sat beside him, feeling suddenly awkward as his shoulder pressed up against hers. Seeing him again was impulsive on her part, but necessary. Necessary? she asked herself. Yes, necessary. Their first meeting had left her wondering what could be. She had agreed to a second meeting because, well, quite simply, there was no other option. She felt compelled to see him again. Staying away was unthinkable.

She shyly met his eyes, her gaze dropping and lingering on his lips as he tilted his head toward hers. She met him halfway, her mouth drawn to his by some invisible force. His lips were soft, his kisses tender and teasing. She leaned into him, wanting his mouth on hers as he held his lips just out of reach. His breath was warm, and they breathed in tandem. His hand caressed hers, his fingers tracing a path along her palm before he laced his fingers with hers, pulling her hand to his as his mouth found hers again. He squeezed her hand before releasing it to wrap one arm around her back, holding her close to him. Her hand lifted to cup his cheek, then slowly slid around to the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his blond hair as he made love to her with his mouth.

She moaned against his lips, wanting something she couldn't quite put a name to, trusting that he would take her there when the time was right. It was so hard to think when he kissed her like that, alternating between light and teasing and hard and insistent. He kept her guessing, and with each kiss her desire grew. She needed to feel him...she needed to know if he was as turned on as she, if his need was as great as hers... Her hand moved to find him through his jeans, and he pulled away, telling her no. She could hardly believe what she was hearing; how could he not want her to touch him? He continued to kiss her, and she tried to keep her hands to herself, but they had a mind of their own and caressed his chest, his back, around his waist...

Kissing him was like sliding under a feather comforter and discovering satin sheets, comfortable and familiar yet sexy and sensual and surprising all at the same time. She let her mind float as her lips played with his of their own accord. She was beyond coherent thought now, time ceasing to exist as his tongue explored her mouth, laying claim to it as a prospector to a stream. His kisses were dreamlike, quiet and soft, then increasing in intensity, his mouth growing more insistent, pushing her desire to another level, then becoming light as a whisper, tasting, teasing, caressing. These kisses translated feelings without words, and she lost herself in the feel of his lips on hers, the taste of his tongue, the touch of his hands on her face, warm and firm, holding her captive to his kisses.

How could something so wrong feel so unbelievably right? Five and a half years younger than she, and one of them was promised to another. Yet here she was, sitting on the floor of a gazebo overlooking the river, mosquitoes competing for her flesh, not only kissing this man she had only seen twice, but kissing him with a passion she hadn't felt in at least ten years. "I'm going to hell," she thought, as her hands spanned his back. She moaned her surrender as his lips found that sweetly sensitive spot on the curve of her neck just below her ear. "I've got a one-way ticket and my bags are packed."

She could clearly remember the last time she had felt drunk on kissing, that heady rush of desire and breathless anticipation, but even that was nothing compared to this. He held his mouth centimeters away from hers, their lips parted on the brink of touching. She could feel his breath, their breath, mingling, making her crave him even more. She wanted him, needed him, to kiss her again. "Please," she whimpered, the plea coming out of the very depths of her soul. In a heartbeat, his mouth was on hers, hard, crushing her lips beneath his, taking her breath away. When she felt like she would surely spiral away into nothingness, he ended the kiss, his eyes locked with hers, his gaze so intimate and deep she felt as though he could see right through her.

He pulled himself up on his knees, raising himself above her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his mouth, leaving her neck exposed to his gentle touch. At first, she was concerned that he was going to get up and walk away, but when she asked him where he was going, he replied "Nowhere" and continued kissing her. The position enabled him to kiss with even more force, trapping her lips with his, her head back against the slatted side of the gazebo. She belonged to him for as long as he wanted her. Kissing him was pure torture. A pure, unadulterated, blissful torture she hoped would never end.

When she opened her eyes again, it was dark, and the only light came from an occasional car on the road and the streetlight over the access road to the gazebo. She glanced at her phone and realized they had been kissing for over an hour. How on earth could an hour have passed so quickly? But it had, and she needed to get home. They stood up together, and she stepped down off the platform they had been on. He touched her shoulder and she turned around, right into his arms, and she rested her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She tilted her head up to him, and again he kissed her, forcing her to stand on her tiptoes and rely on him to steady her when her knees grew weak. Some time later, they came up for air and walked unsteadily to her car, their arms wrapped around each other, stealing kisses with every other step.

They reached the car, a white island in the dark night, and the importance of that milestone sank in. She was taking him back to his car, and the evening was drawing to a close. As she moved to open the passenger door for him, he moved in to her, backing her up against the car and holding her hands, his fingers laced with hers, as he kissed her with a ferocious passion that forced her head back to the roof of the car, arching her breasts into his chest. As she walked back around to her side of the car, her mind was blank. A hotel. The thought came out of nowhere. We could just go get a room, she realized. But no. She was expected at home, and he had an hour's drive back to his house once she returned him to his car at the mall. Consummating their relationship was not possible tonight. And besides, if this was the state his kisses left her in, she couldn't even begin to think about what making love with him might do to her.

She poured herself into the driver's seat and paused after shutting the door. She couldn't remember what to do next, and stared at the dash like it was the cockpit of a jumbo jet. Her head dropped back against the headrest and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. It was all she could do not to reach over and kiss him again, but kissing him again would be her undoing. She felt his hand on hers, his thumb sliding over hers, grounding her again. She could do this. She could start the car and drive – on autopilot for sure – back to the mall and drop him off and go home, home to her husband and kids. But there was no doubt in her mind that she would see him again. There was no other choice to make.

The drive back to the mall was quiet, and he held her hand the whole way, keeping her focused and continuing the slow seduction which had begun 2 hours earlier. At one point, she pulled his hand over and kissed it, sucking his index finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it as she slid her mouth down the length of it. She heard him inhale sharply, and she slowly, gently slid it back out, nipping at the tip with her teeth before kissing his fingertip and returning his hand to his lap. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his head was back, his eyes were closed. She wanted him to know how badly she wanted him, how much she wanted to please him, that the seduction was mutual.

When they finally pulled up beside his car and she slid the gearshift into park, they turned to each other and kissed again, a soft, gentle, open-mouthed kiss that spoke of promises and possibilities and next times. As he turned to slide out of the car, she leaned over and kissed the back of his neck along his hairline, and he moaned. "I've got to go," he whispered. She kept kissing. "I'm going...I'm..."

"Go," she whispered in his ear as her tongue traced the curves of his earlobe. He leaned back into her and turned his head, his mouth seeking hers again. Her head reeled with the sensation of his lips on her, just as magical as the first time. She pulled back. "Go. I don't want you to, but you've got to while I can still let you go."

He kissed her again, quickly this time, and got out of the car, looking at her with a longing she had never seen before. "Goodbye," he whispered. "I'll talk to you later," and he shut the door.

She didn't stay to watch him drive away, preferring to get out of the parking lot while she still could, resisting the urge to follow him to his house and finish what he started. Her lips were swollen and rosy from kissing him, and she had a glow she couldn't hide. He was amazing, and she would see him again.