Not all New Year’s resolutions pan out, but this one did–in December 2016, I resolved to send out at least one story submission every month. That meant lots of tracking new calls, lots of brainstorming and nurturing of plot bunnies, and of course, lots of writing! But I feel like the work paid off: this was an excellent year, and I’m honored to have been included in anthologies from Mofo Pubs, SynCyr, and Cleis Press. Not to mention flash fiction on several websites and in magazines. Many pieces are femdom f/m, of course, though publications this year also include f/f, m/m, and stories where gender and/or pairing aren’t categorized. Genre-wise, the majority of pieces are contemporary, literary, and about the “real world,” though there is also a ghost or two.
You can see a full list of my published fiction under my “Stories” tab.
Now she saw them in juxtaposition, as if the image from the mirror had carried over and overlaid what lay before her eyes. Not a single creature but two of them, very different in shape. He was made of curves—muscle and thickness, shoulders, ass, the thin but silken-soft layer of fat beneath the fine hair on his stomach, the roundness of his erection and balls. She was angular, from cheekbones to her small, sharp breasts.
Again she turned her head, looking in the mirror to confirm it. From this perspective, even her ears seemed to stick out in their usual way, points to break up the circle of her hair and head. She recognized herself. No startled moment of seeing a stranger, a ghost haunting the bed.
She squirms under me, moving until my mouth is over the curve of one breast, exactly where she wants it. But then I have to give chase in order to run my tongue around the aureole, to offer any focused attention. She’s not evading me—I know how much she likes to feel me lap and suck on her—it’s just hard for her to keep still. I find it flattering, the way the slightest brush of my lips or fingertips is enough to make her jump.
“My Body is a Haunted House” in the Hotel anthology
“Actually,” Cate said, “I wondered if we could ride together?”
Monica accepted with, she hoped, not too obvious eagerness. Or too obvious nerves. As they rode to the restaurant, Sara drowsed in the back seat, face turned to the distant clouds of smoke. Cate’s elegant hands curled over the leather-cushioned steering wheel. A faint pale stripe showed where the wedding ring had been.
Ryan might have made a mistake in telling her that his first awakening to bondage had come through some C-movie about an exorcism. Watching that lissome teenager writhe, strapped down on the table—just a kid himself, he’d known something was going on, something even beyond the desperate, weirdly poignant straining for salvation. Years later, he found out exactly what. And years after that, he confessed.
And now he was about to lose his immortal soul over it.
But God, Ann looked good in a Roman collar.
When I was nineteen, just as I consciously acknowledged that I desired women, I happened to visit an art museum. Women adorned every wall—larger than life, in intricate miniature, clothed in historical costumes, clothed in drapes of fabric, clothed in flowers, clothed in nothing… I explored my response to each, coaxing forth desire like a shy creature from the corners of my being, unsure if it was rabid, ready to bite.
Young martyrs collapsed on desolate moors, riverbanks, arena sands, the gray stones of a Roman street. I stopped before one, her dark hair spread around her like a pool of ink or blood, her nakedness covered only by some haphazard snow. God had sent it to protect her modesty; the painter was less motivated.
Suddenly in imagination…the snow became a cushion, a bed.
She released her mouth’s tension with a soft pop. “I think I’d mess up the statistics. The ones they quote on every side of the feminist debates. Or maybe lots of women feel the way I do but don’t know how to articulate it.”
“Yeah?” He responded to the thoughtful tone her voice took on. “How do you feel?”
She gently squeezed his neck, hinting that the question was impertinent. Or only unnecessary, since she wanted to tell him anyway.
She comes very near to telling him, I liked your present so much that I tried to eat it. Knowing he’d understand, he’d get the joke, and even the part of it that isn’t a joke. But she holds back.
…Her boyfriend’s given her a pair of handcuffs, but she’s afraid of coming on to him too strong.
Yet my arousal didn’t feel perverse or completely unexpected. Grief excuses a lot of things. Probably because it drives a lot of things. It’s love without means of communication, helpless caring without anything to hope or fear for. It’s passion, it’s pain, it’s wanting without a chance of ever being satisfied. Without an outlet.
“Binding Him Between” as a free flash fiction on this blog
Colin glanced around them, and a corner of his mouth pulled in an achingly familiar way. “Not the most romantic place for a reunion.”
“I know.” Lucas joined in his laughter, almost giddy. “But the, um…the magic is bound to your physical…remains.”
“I see.” He raised his hands—each caught in a loop of shadow-soft cord, tied in turn to Lucas’s right wrist. He smirked. “Bound?”
“I can keep you as long as we’re joined like this. Or until sunrise, whichever comes first.”
“Well…” He stepped closer. “I think we can make the best of it.”
“The Depths of You” in The Erotic Review magazine (free to read)
Performance anxiety? Sure, some. But I’m good at what I do to you. I know it. I know just the depth, rhythm, angle to take you apart. Then to pull you back together, so you burst again. All the while driving into you towards my own pleasure, my own ascent and plummet into something dark, full, and for each moment, enough.
Somewhere in that helpless satisfaction is the thing that scares me so fucking much.”
“Can I slap you?”
He was struck by how she asked the question. Clearly, but softly, revealing not shyness but a sort of respect for the request’s significance. It was the same way she had suggested their first kiss, resolving his private uncertainty over the nature of a conversation which had grown steadily warmer and more intimate. Then, in what seemed like a continuation of their exchange, the kisses went on, deepening until her lips turned red and his felt swollen and helpless but not numb, not exactly.
They’ve been going at it for almost an hour—just the two of them, one on one, but really, she’s got him outnumbered. The cuffs help.
He strains at them suddenly, so hard the bedposts groan. She chuckles. They’ll hold. He’d hold, too, even if in the moment he doesn’t realize it. She slows down, giving him more space to ask for anything he needs. If he isn’t too proud.
Silence. She goes back to what she’s doing, riding out his reaction. Under her he bucks, trembles, struggles. A body in tension and frantic release.
