Trapped By An Edge

I waited behind black satin.  Somewhere he watched, spider pondering prey, his gaze palpable as a touch.

Sight returned my eyes devoured him.  I licked my lips; he grinned.  With a knifepoint he tipped my chin, dragging my gaze from his erection.  ”It won’t be that easy,” he teased, flipping the other stiletto in his palm; pressing the handle to my lips. “Show me,” he growled, ” how much you regret evading me.”

Do make sure you stop by Alison Tyler’s Smutathon to continue voting in the ongoing competition and to enjoy some truly fine work!

I had a question or two about one aspect of the premise, but that’s nearly insignificant in the face of beautiful emotion, palpable suspense and an almost magical quality that draws you in and holds you tight from first page to last. The sex scenes were lovely in their sadness, in the face of the women’s circumstances, but the author gives them the ending you desperately want them to have. I didn’t want the story to end.

Which of course just made my morning!  I really love this story and it makes me smile to see other people enjoy it!

Missive

Stop. Don’t touch another thing. Are you listening, my pet? I’ve a challenge for you, a secret task. Are you up for it? Nod if you’re willing.

Good. I knew you would be. Pick up your purse, keep your phone in your hand and go to the end of the hall. Go now.

Don’t hesitate.

You blush so deliciously when you’re flustered. Go into the conference room. Yes. That one.

Shut the door. Ah, ah, I didn’t say to lock the door.

Did you do as I said this morning?

Show me.

Perfect. The red garter belt is a nice touch.

Oh yes, you are loving this, aren’t you my sweet slut? Drop your skirt to the floor.

Now your shirt.

No, leave the bra. Go open the blinds. It’s a beautiful day. Perfectly overcast so there’s no reflection on the windows.

Can you see all those offices across the street? Can you see people in them?

Oh yes, my dear, absolutely perfect.

Pull a chair over and present yourself to them just as you would to me.

Yes. Just like that.

Prop your feet on the glass.

Now touch yourself.

Shh. No sounds now…remember? This little interlude is a secret.

~fin~

Ok…not all of them…but we’ll at least tell you who wrote what!

P.S. Yes…I know I’ve been quiet…I’m hunting rabbits you know!  oh..alright, I’m not, you got me.  Bear with me though, okay?

But, in case you missed the first round here’s my entry…

The Painter

She watches my hands, always.  Whenever I work I know I’ll find her near, peeking through the sweep of her hair, eyes tracking my movements.  Lindsay was one of the first visitors to my studio; now the most frequent.The painting is near complete.  I can feel her gaze on me as I add the smallest of final touches with small twists of my paintbrush.  Never before has she stayed so long.  I wonder if she realizes it’s her portrait.  ”It’s beautiful,” she whispers; she’s so close my heart lurches.  When our gazes meet my stomach takes a lazy tumble.  I realize for the first time she’s gold flecks in her ultramarine irises and there’s a splash of raw sienna freckles across the bridge of her nose.  A scent, crisp and bright as cadmium yellow twists through the sharp bite of turpentine.  Lips find lips; hands discover the shape of waist and hip.  The hollow of her throat tastes of sweet sweat, her nipples tightening into peaks of Persian Red.  Inch by inch I paint her body with my tongue just as I painted her image, filling my other senses with her.  Her lust I taste and label as the rage of Scheveningen reds, my tongue delving, drinking, stroking.  And when she twists her fingers into my hair, urgent, voice calling, I lose all thought of color, lost in the taste, the feel, the sound of her.  My senses opened and caught, imagination ensnared.

Of course, she’ll tell you I slid in under the wire for yesterday’s due date…I promise, AT, I’ll try not to do that again!

So please take yourself over and vote for your favorite piece!  This is something like an American Idol contest(or so I’m told, I’ve not watched it) where the receiver of the most votes gets immunity and the bottom two are eliminated.  The lineup is amazing, so be sure to take a look!

Life has taken a bit of a spin for me.  I’m not sure what exactly the future holds, but it’s definitely holding something new.  So.  Writing, blogging, and tweeting, for that matter, I do believe will be on sabbatical for a bit.  Bear with me, okay?

And just in case you need direction to where to get these lovely anthologies, some linkage!

For all things Dirtyville, including links, inside stories and merchandise visit the official Dirtyville Blog

_________________________

The week passed far too quickly for Victor’s comfort.  Before he was prepared Friday was upon him and he was forced to enter his studio and prepare for Alexandra’s arrival.  He had to finish her piece; finish it and get her the hell out of his life.  The screen with her artwork taunted him, the form suddenly looking unfinished.  He snarled and turned his back on it, thankful the line work was complete.  He knew, far too intimately, what happened when arousal began to interfere with his vision.

Victor refused to turn when the distinct, cursedly familiar cadence of Alexandra’s footsteps sounded down the hall, pausing for a brief moment in the door way.  He forced his muscles to obey, to resist tensing under her gaze, and swallowed a sigh of relief when she resumed her progress.  The vinyl of the table creaked and he found himself far too aware of her quiet exhale as she laid down.  His stomach tightened, full of lead winged butterflies, as he thought of the work necessary.  The piece was complete up to her kneecap; tonight he would work on her thigh.  His cock twitched and he closed his eyes against the surge of memory.  He could still remember the hot taste of her mouth, the easy way she fit against him.

The artist steeled himself, preparing for the sight of her, pulling his table into position before turning around.  His breath would have escaped in a gasp if his chest hadn’t locked up in bands of constricting muscles.  Alexandra lay waiting, fingers laced across her stomach, eyes closed, face devoid of expression.  Her skirt lay in a disarray pulled up to her hips revealing the lengths of her legs, long and tan; his fingers twitched.  Get it together, Victor, he snarled at himself and forced his body into motion.

Alexandra’s skin jumped like a fly-bitten horse’s when his hands arranged her leg with careful touches.  Her silken flesh stirred his blood again and he swallowed hard.  He could do this.  He could finish the piece and erase this woman from his life.

Unlike the last one who got under his skin, who still haunted him.

It started as flowers.  A simple chain of jasmine that tumbled from Sasha’s left shoulder to her right hip, crossing the graceful curve of her spine.  Victor had nearly finished it when she turned and kissed him, her tongue hot and promising in his mouth.  When he woke the next morning, watched the rising sun stretch across her back he knew something else was needed.

A sinuous cherry branch joined the jasmine, delicate pink blossoms supported by dark twigs, etched into her skin over the course of two months, much longer than it should have taken.  He simply couldn’t keep his hands off her, couldn’t focus on the work.

When he began inking the prickling vine of Eglantine rose he knew he had to finish the tattoo and end the affair.  Every day she twisted him into a painful knot, sharp barbs of her words drawing blood, leaving invisible wounds that never seemed to heal.  And still her body lay claim to his, her teeth marked his skin, nails dug furrows in his flesh.  It had taken finding her with someone else, seeing Sasha twined around another man, whispering in his ear, hand cupped over his groin, to catalyze Victor’s determination.  He finished the tattoo in one night, resisting her attempts at seduction, driving the ink into her skin as he detailed each painful thorn.

When she left, casting a last volley of razor edged words to slice his heart, he swore he’d never let it happen again, never let another woman get under his skin.

Victor’s hands trembled briefly as he set his sausau in place, taking a deep breath, refusing to let his eyes linger on the shadowy junction of her thigh.  He could do this.  He had to.

~*~

Come back next week for the continuation…