Fiction: Agent Fishnets

Charles rubbed his eyes and headed for the door. The knocking would not go away. For fuck’s sake, it was noon. The mindless sheep of the world might adhere to a diurnal schedule but Charles was a free thinker. He liked his breakfast at 3 in the afternoon and his dinner sometime around dawn.

He ripped open the door and whatever lecture he was about to let loose with died in his throat. It was a woman. It was a hot woman. She had black hair and intelligent green eyes. She was wearing a trench coat that went down to her feet. It was the kind of coat that strippers and mistresses wore right before they revealed they were wearing nothing underneath.

“GrokSmacker?” she asked.

Charles blinked. It was his online handle. It sounded weird to hear it out loud.

“Uh, yes,” he said tentatively. Oh shit. Who knew that he was Groksmacker? Was this FBI? Was she here to bust him for his Japanese porn bit torrent work?

“Diana Moon,” she said. She pointed to a pin on her collar. It was a small purple hand. “Do you understand the significance of this?”

Charles nodded. He was wide awake now. The Purple Hand! They were the most secretive organization of sexual freedom fighters he had ever heard of. He had done a small amount of coding for them.

“Good,” Diana said. “You have just been activated. The Purple Hand needs your help.”

“Ah,” he said dumbly. “Come in.”

He stepped aside as she swept into his apartment. Man, he wished he had cleaned up. Books and magazines were stacked everywhere. He had two bags of garbage sitting by the door that he always forgot to take out. Shit, there was three separate Chinese dinner boxes by the door alone.

Diana surveyed the room and nodded in approval. “Dark, that’s good,” she said. “No one will notice if we keep the shades closed while I am here.”

“You’re staying here?” Charles asked. He knew so little about the Purple Hand. Rumors had it that they blanketed an entire county in condoms after the local government outlawed sex education. Rumors also said that they were responsibly for exposing the kinky affairs of certain anti-pornography televangelists. These guys were totally illegal.

Diana pulled out a small object. Charles recognized it as a zip drive.

“I pulled this from the headquarters of Comview Cable,” she said. “It is a military grade anti-porn spyware program. It goes live in two weeks. It will report anyone who downloads porn to a single database that can be used by law authorities.”

“Damn,” Charles said. A normal person would have talked how illegal such a program was and how any cable company that used it would be sued. Charles knew better. He knew about the secret prisons under Fort Lauderdale and about the national plan to protect every Wal-Mart in the country if the event of martial law. Charles’s ex-girlfriend called him a conspiracy nut. Charles liked to think of it as being fucking observant.

“The only problem is that it is encoded,” Diana said. “The network says that you are the best person to crack it. You have eleven days to crack the code so we can begin counter-measures.”

“Whoa!” Charles said. “Look, I don’t mind helping you guys download porn, or cracking copyright protections, but this is seriously illegal. We get caught with this, and I could lose my job and end up in prison.”

Diana nodded. “I am here to encourage you.

She opened her trench coat. She was almost nude. Her large breasts were bare. A thick patch of pubic hair covered her sex. The only thing she was wearing were fishnet stockings over her long legs.

Charles swallowed. Fishnet stockings! The Purple Hand did know everything. Well, at least everything about him.

He reached out to touch the top of her fishnet stocking. He wanted to feel where the band met her thigh. Just one little tug is all he wanted.

“No,” Diana said. “Not now. When you break the encryption and we have the program to analyze, then you can have me.”

She dropped the trench coat. It was only when she was standing before him that he noticed she had a gun. Charles pointed at it, not quite able to speak.

“This?” she said, holding the gun up. “This is in case the Comview Cable people find us before you break the code.”

Charles smiled. “Let’s get started then.”

Two days went by. Diana wasn’t kidding when she said she was staying. She cleared out some space in his computer room and made a pallet on the floor. That is where she slept when he would reluctantly go to sleep. While he worked, she would sit there and read through some of his old role-playing books.

He asked her is she ever played. She shrugged and didn’t answer. When she read through his Top Secret rulebook, she often broke out into near hysterical laughter.

The distracting thing is, she never did put anything else on. She walked around the apartment in those fishnets. She must have had other pairs stored away in the trench coat because he never saw a snag. The stockings were always tight and too damn sexy on her long legs. Fuck, it was hard to think when she was around.

It was harder not to work with her around either. After three hours of working on the code he was about ready to give up. He turned in his chair to rub his eyes and saw Diana sitting on his floor. Her long legs were spread wide open. The fishnet stockings were like a wicked runway to the promised paradise of her sex. He turned back around in his seat and kept working.

Diana would order them food. She would put the trench coat back on when the delivery people arrived. Charles started to get an erection every time the door knocked. The sight of her putting her coat back on was always disappointing, but it just meant that he would get to enjoy the sight of her disrobing all over again. The shedding of the coat to reveal her fishnets all over again almost drove him over the edge.

The first night she was there, Charles tried to masturbate. When he was in bed and she was sleeping on the floor, he tried to jack off. He got in three strokes before the bed shook from a powerful kick.

“Not till you crack the code,” Diana said.

Charles moaned. You don’t argue with a woman who has a gun. And you don’t fuck with a woman who keeps wearing those fishnets.

On the third day, Charles began to despair. The encryption was out of his league. He had cracked codes for fun before but this was serious. His usual tricks weren’t working and he was having a hard time concentrating.

Diana stood by him. His fishnet covered thighs were touching his arm. He was too afraid to move his shoulder. This might be the closest he was ever going to get.

“You tried really hard,” Diana said. “You can have one toe.”

Charles knew he should take the offer. His chances of cracking the code were pretty remote. He couldn’t though. He could accept failure at this point. After staring at her legs for three day, he couldn’t quit.

“Order some pizza tonight, please,” he said. “It’s easier to eat while I work.”

On the fourth day, Charles worked fourteen hours straight. He never worked a paying job that hard. He never even played Everquest that long. When he finally stumbled to bed, didn’t even pull the covers on top of him.

Diana sat down on his bed. She patted her lap. Charles said nothing as he placed his head on her fishnet thighs. The delicate net felt good against his facial hair. Her thighs were so firm and wonderful.

“You can have three toes,” Diana said. “You did your best.”

Charles sighed. “No,” he whispered.

Diana stroked his hair while he slept.

On the fifth day, he almost had it. He realized they were using a German code he had seen before. Charles’ fingers were shaking as he ran the code-breaking program.

Diana was on the floor beside him. She was on her back, and had her legs up in the air, resting them against the desk. The fishnet covered toes wiggled from time to time. She was reading his Dungeons and Dragons 2nd edition Player’s Handbook.

The code didn’t work. It just produced longer and longer lines of gibberish. Charles groaned in disappointment.

“Four toes,” Diana said. She wiggled them.

Charles ignored her.

On the sixth day, he had a breakthrough. It was a German code, but with a Russian variation. Emotionally exhausted, it was the simplest thing to run the decryption program. He watched it run silently for five minutes before it spewed out the evil Comview Cable program.

He just looked at it and let out a breath of relief. He wasn’t surprised to notice Diana was standing beside him. He hadn’t heard her move. He could feel her hand in his hair though.

“Come to bed,” Diana said. “You’ve earned it.”

He sobbed a little. He had earned it. The tension of the last few days broke inside him. He had won. Tears flowed like cheap soda down his cheeks. He hadn’t cried since they cancelled Firefly but he was crying hard now.

“Come,” Diana urged. “Come to bed my brilliant man. Come and suck all ten of my toes through fishnet holes. Kiss my ankles as much as you want. Place your cock between my feet and come as much as you want on my stockings. Bite your way up my thighs. Enter me and let me wrap my legs around you. You have earned it. You have saved millions of porn users today.”

Charles followed her to the bed.

Fictional Blog Projects

This week I begin work on my Fiction Blog project. The goal is to create a 3 month long blog told from the point of view of a fictional character. I am setting it in a apocalyptic setting where I will write about survival, loneliness and how much it sucks that no Chinese restaurants are open. If you thought "I am Legend" would make for an awesome blog, this will be for you.

Incidentally, this is technically Fiction Blog Project #2. A few months ago I had an idea of a fictional blog set in the world of Otto Von Madd. The problem I ran into is that I wanted it to be a 2nd person blog, where you, the reader, are reading e-mails sent to you by your coworkers and stalkers. Through these e-mail messages, you discover conspiracies and alliances. Plus, every one is fucking like bunnies.

The problem with Fiction Blog Project#1 is that 2nd person is very challenging to write, especially in a gender inclusive manner. I decided that writing a fictional blog will be challenging enough without the complication of a new perspective.

It was while writing the Choose-Your-Own-Porn story that I came up with a solution for Fiction Blog Project#1. The C.Y.O.P. story was a bitch to figure out, but halfway through I knew how I could write it easier if I ever made a 2nd one. It occurred to me that maybe if I wrote a simpler Fiction Blog first, then I could learn some tips to make the more complicated one easier to write.

So starting this week, I will begin writing on a fiction blog to help me learn from my mistakes. One thing that will be different is that this blog will not be a sex blog. There will be some sex, a lot of swearing and most likely some nasty violence, but it will not be an erotica blog. The theme of loneliness is something I want to explore and it is kind of hard if the main character is getting laid all the time.

Speaking of loneliness, just plotting this blog out this weekend put me in a minor depression. Being alone is something I have struggled with all my life. Whether it is because I grew up in a hostile family, or I felt like I was the only pervert among the kids my age, or the fact that my main hobby is writing an erotic blog that I can't discuss with my coworkers or family, I have always felt a bit separated from other people. Bei9ng married to a wonderful lady has done a lot to alleviate these feelings, but I am struck by how just thinking about the plot has made me crave human contact. I think the smart plan would be to work on some lighter material while I work on this story.

This Wednesday I will post a new story that stars fishnet stockings.

*Image is my City of Heroes character, Purple Herald, as a sketch card. It is drawn by the wonderful George Sportelli*

Texanah by Rich Larson

This is a sketch by Rich Larson depicting Texanah. I kept the description simple for this. I wanted a busty blonde gunslinger fighting aliens that could be from a 50's science ficiton movie. Rich asked me if I would mind of they were Mars Attacks aliens and I expressed my happy delight. He also asked if I wanted her squaring off against a single alien like in a duel. I thought about it and said I would prefer if it was crazy chaos.

He wrote the word 'Chaos' on his notepad. Yehaw!

The flying saucer was an excellent addition but what I love it the one alien clinging to her leg. Oh my, that is such a hilarious act of desperation.

Texanah as a character has been a strange one for me. I love tall tales and have experimented with the genre before. The Island Princess stories are very similar, but I see them as late night dirty children stories. Texanah was a character that let me mess around with the tall tales that used to circulate out of the Wild West.

Which brings me to one of my favorite topics considering the Wild West. The western territories were so untamed and fantastic, that writers would visit the area and send back stories to be published back east. The stories were exaggerations of actual events, but it helped make some people like Wild Bill Hickok and Jesse James the bigger than life figures they were. These real people were made into fantastic characters on par with Sherlock Holmes.

Considering that people on the east coast were used to reading about incredible things happening in the Wild West, I always thought it was possible for more fantastic things to exist in the fiction. A cowboy who came all the way from Krypton and was raised by good ole Americans to be a law and order type would barely be different from the other outlandish cowboys that were being written about in the 1880's. I wish there were more crazy Wild West fiction with aliens, monsters and dinosaurs. They could exist, get reported and written about and still make little impact on history because the public would think it was standard Wild West truth stretching.

But really the reason I write Texanah stories is because it is about a hot busty blonde woman who wears a cowboy hat, chaps and sometimes not much more. That just writes itself.

Fiction: Marathon of One

Jeri put her sunglasses on. At five in the morning, she really didn’t need them but she felt better with them on. Her long black hair was pulled back into a strict ponytail. The skull tight hair combined with her sunglasses to give her a generic anonymous look. It was a good disguise considering that the only other clothes she wore were her sock and shoes.

She checked the street for cars. There were none. Jeri ran out of her house. The early dawn light soaked her nude body in soft rays. The morning air was cold against her skin and made her nipples instantly hard. That was all right. The jog would warm her up.

Jeri ran naked down the street. No one was awake. It was too early for the school buses. It was too early for other joggers. It was that quiet time of the day when Jeri was alone with the street. That was the theory anyway. The reality is that there was always a chance.

A dog barked at her. She experienced a slight thrill as she wondered if the dog would wake its owner. Would the owner look at the window and catch her? Would he believe it even if he saw it?

Her breasts bounced on her chest. She debated getting a sports bra but that would ruin it. She had to be exposed. She had to be vulnerable. If she didn’t show the world every part of her body, then where was the shame?

Long legs pumped her body along. She used to hate her legs. Dumpy, chunky fat tubes of embarrassment. Now they were slender from the terror of running. It was a five block run and Jeri was getting faster every day.

Jeri doesn’t run for the fitness.

She ran past her best friend’s house. Amanda would still be asleep with her husband. Jeri smiled as she wondered what Amanda would think if she saw her. Jeri smiled more as she thought about Amanda’s husband seeing her run by. Would he recognize her? Would he masturbate to thoughts of her without knowing who she was? Would he masturbate more if he did know?

A car was idling outside. Clouds of smoke gurgled from the tailpipe. The owner was warming the car while staying inside the house. If he chose just now to come out, he would see Jeri’s nude body racing by. Jeri ran faster, her body straining as she tried to get out of sight before the car owner came out.

She’s sweating now. Her body glistens in the morning light. She loops around the fifth block and begins the long jog home. The sun is higher, illuminating the street before her like a stage coming to life. The shadows shrink and Jeri knows the run home will be far more exposed.

A car pulls up to the corner ahead of her. Jeri resists the urge to duck into someone’s yard. She must keep running. To turn away would be cowardice.

She prays that there are no children in the car. She prays for the car to not notice her. She prays for it to keep going with no traffic to wait for.

The car keeps going. They must not have seen her. This early in the morning, they might not have believed what they saw even if they saw her.

Jeri wondered if it was a man or a woman. Jeri is glad they didn’t see her. Jeri wishes they had.

She can see her house. Her heart is pounding hard from the run but also from the exposure. This is where people can connect her nude body to the timid woman who lives here. This is the moment when her secret is most vulnerable.

She runs faster. Her breasts slap against her chest as she runs. Arms and legs flow together to make her as fast as possible. The tail of her hair swishes across her bare shoulders as she cuts through the air. Tight buttocks clench together as the climax of her runs nears.

Jeri ducks into the side door of her garage. She doesn’t look to see if anyone is watching. If she actually saw someone, her heart would burst from the excitement.

Safe inside her house, Jeri slows down her pace to a walk. Her body is burning but she keeps moving to prevent cramps. She couldn’t sit still if she wanted to. The thrill of the run has filled her entire body. One more morning and she has survived.

Jeri reaches between her legs. Her fingers touch her wet sex.

One stroke and thinking of the car that didn’t stop.

Two strokes and thinking of the person warming their car.

Three strokes and thinking of Amanda’s husband, not looking out the window.

She comes in a marathon of climaxes.

Call For Action

Nash Nighthammer and the Cursed Harem is finished. Umm, finished again. I know I said I finished it before, but I went back and added three more encounters because I wanted to really explore what a perverted wizard would keep in his harem. I tightened it up and I have a working version of the story/game. Let's call it the Beta? Heck, I am not crazy about the title to be honest. Is the Harem really cursed? It just sounds cool.

I have really learned a lot about making a choose-your-own-porn kind of adventure. Modular design was the key. I was able to go back and insert entire rooms and encounters fairly easily. I then rippled it forward, changing choices onward. When I write the next one, it should go a lot quicker.

Consider this your official call for play-testers. It is in a word document, and yes, you will have to flip to the choices manually. I am toying around with different fancy ways of doing the final game story, but right now what I really want is for people to play it, hate it, and find a link that goes to wrong places. I think this is easier to do with a straight up word document as opposed to a fancy file with hyperlinks. It clocks in at 138 pages.

If you wish to be a play-tester, send me an e-mail at shonrichards at yahoo.com. Because I am completely unaware of the legal problems of sending porn through e-mail, make me feel better by declaring your age and that you are legally able to read a story about fantasy and porn in your area.

Personally, I never sign up for betas because I rather play the game when it is polished. So I will not be offended if people choose not to be play-testers.

I plan to take a vacation from this story till I get feedback from play-testers. I have a five part story about the dominatrices that protect Queen Erishella that I want to focus on. It is a tricky idea but might be perfect for Halloween month.

There will be a new exhibitionist story this Wednesday.

*Image is the Baroness as sketched by Brandon Peterson at Dragon*Con*

Roger Zelazny and Me

Remember how I said that I couldn't do five short stories in five days? My creativity decided to make a liar out of me. Monday I had an idea and I wrote it. Tuesday I had an idea and I wrote it, Wednesday I had two freaking ideas and I wrote them both, and Thursday I had an idea for a two part story and I wrote half of the first part yesterday.

Next week I will write four stories and feel like a failure.

I think part of my creative surge has been reading Roger Zelazny again. At Dragon*Con I found a new collection of his early short stories and poems. The Collected Stories of Roger Zelazny: Threshold is a fascinating book. I have read most of these stories before but not with as the ability to appreciate them like I do now. I am older now. I get many more of his allusions than I used to. I understand the pain he talks about a bit more personally now.

Zelazny was always a fantastic science fiction writer but he was also always a poet. I see that more clearly now. I see that my willingness to make up words that drive my editors crazy comes from him. Zelazny creates images and moods and thoughts that normal language fails to deliver on. He creates metaphors and lyrical prose that does what words can not.

At the same time, he has a crispness that I see I emulate. I get driven up the wall by erotica that describes sex as anything but sex. Erotica needs more action. Sometimes a cock just has to go into a cunt. As much as he was a poet, he preferred a no bullshit style to excessive flowers.

There are six books in the collection. I am still reading the first. I discovered Zelazny as a teenager. Nine Princes of Amber was a call to arms for me. It encouraged me to quit my teenage bitching and do something. From there I went to Lords of Light, Dilvish and dozens of others. He became my favorite writer. He still is.

When I started writing, I would open a Zelazny book for clues. I saw how little description he used and it freed me. I saw how important action and introspection was to showing the character of a character. Zelazny's style encouraged me to find my own writing voice and to not hide any of my cynicism, my personal hopes or more outlandish wishes.

When Zelazny died in 1995, I felt tremendous loss. This was before I had a computer. This was before I was writing. I remember physically hurting. I felt that by losing Zelazny, I lost a parent. Looking at his older stories, and seeing things that remind me of my writing, I realize Zelzany was a literary parent to me.

So this week I had a writing streak that just so happens to coincide with reading some great old Zelazny stories. I can't say that reading Zelazny will do the same for you, but you would be reading some great wonderful stories. If you have never read the Chronicles of Amber, I genuinely envy the journey you have ahead of you.

Fiction: Character Building

Mr. Dillon was a perfect picture of his profession. He sat in a chair with both feet on the ground and his hands folded in his lap. His dark blue suit was as immaculate as the not-quite-military cut of the hair on his head. He radiated calm confidence, informing anyone who looked at him that he was a very serious man indeed.

Mr. Dillon was a librarian for the Colette-Ashbee Collection. He was charged with finding and procuring the greatest works of erotica ever written. He was a hunter, a scholar and an appreciator of every kink man or woman had ever invented. He had traveled around the world and experienced many great and terrible adventures.

Today, though, he was bored and horny as fuck.

He was at an auction. The collection of insane packrat and millionaire Brandon Kenture was up for sale. Mr. Kenture had never seen an expensive item that he didn’t want to buy and stick in his mansion. From rare rugs to rarer furniture to unique pieces of jewelry, Brandon bought it all. The only item Mr. Dillon was interested in was a diary belonging to the Mad Dominatrix of London of 1911. Instead of selling the book directly to Mr. Dillon, the greedy Kenture offspring had decided to throw the book into the auction storm.

That meant Mr. Dillon had to sit through an endless list of uninteresting artifacts being sold to crazed enthusiasts of ridiculous hobbies. He thought about his assistant, the voluptuous and very fuckable Claire Currie. Now that was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. He could have been back at the hotel right now, slapping the hell out of her round ass while making her recite from Victorian prostitution novels. Instead, he was here listening to the auctioneer drone on about the kind of copper used in an antique piss pot.

Mr. Dillon calmed the anger he felt rising. Hardships were a necessary part of being a librarian. In fact, he felt that hardships were an important part of life. He had grown up poor, and nothing makes one appreciate the tenderness of Kobe steak as an adult more than the memory of fried Spam as a child. The auction was just another hardship that would make reading the diary of the Mad Dominatrix all the sweeter when he obtained it.

He wondered what Ms. Currie was doing. She was supposed to be cataloging the box of erotic books they had purchased in bulk from a closing bookstore. He had left her behind because, despite his tendencies towards sadism, he wasn’t enough of a heartless monster to drag her here. The poor girl might have fidgeted and then Mr. Dillon would have been forced to punish her in a sexually violent way.

Hmmm. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he had brought her along.

The piss pot sold. The next item up for bid was a plate. Mr. Dillon closed his eyes. A plate! How could people spend so much on something that didn’t tell a story? Where is the fucking drama in a plate?

Mr. Dillon took out his cell phone. He was enduring the auction, but he was in the mood to spread some hardship around. Hardship built character.

He composed a message to Ms. Currie. He smiled as he imagined her jumping when her phone beeped. He pictured the look of dread on her face when she realized that her boss was keeping tabs on her.

“Re-enact the second scene from Mrs. Urquhart’s third book,” he typed. “Send picture evidence. You have three minutes.”

Mr. Dillon smiled. There, a little test would keep her on her toes. Ms. Currie would not have the time to dig the book out. They had reviewed it two weeks ago as part of her education on American suburban erotica. Even if she remembered the scene, it might well take more than three minutes to make the picture with her phone camera.

He relished the thought of her in a panic. Staying calm under pressure was something all librarians must learn to do. Mostly, though, he just relished the idea of her hurrying to obey his commands.

He watched as plate lovers battled to near-bankruptcy. His phone vibrated, and he checked the time. She was under three minutes. He was both proud and mildly disappointed.

The picture loaded. Ms. Currie’s black breast was exposed, and an ice cube was pressed to her brown nipple. He admired the fact that her entire breast was glistening with water. It showed excellent attention to detail. He was very impressed.

He didn’t send a response. He didn’t acknowledge that she was correct or had done an excellent job. Librarians did not work for the praise of glory.

The sight of Ms. Currie’s nipple helped Mr. Dillon through the next hour. He even became mildly interested when a rather kinky-looking chair was up for auction. His hardships increased, though, when four Tiffany lamps in a row were sold. Mr. Dillon couldn’t understand why people would pay so much for lampshades that you could scarcely read by.

He decided it was time to build some more character.

“Re-enact the final scene of Ms. Morgan’s last known novel. Send picture evidence.” He paused as he debated the time limit. He opted for viciousness. “You have one minute.”

Mr. Dillon sent the message. A minute was a long time to wait when one was listening to the selling of a Tiffany lamp. Could itreally be worth that much money?

The phone vibrated. It had taken her only 44 seconds. Well, well. She must have remembered that scene especially well. The question was how did she reproduce it?

The image loaded. It was a close-up of Ms. Currie’s lips wrapped around something white. She was stretching her full lips to take in the immense girth. Her mouth was impaled by the phallic object.You could just barely make out the edge of her glasses on her nose.

Mr. Dillon nodded in approval. She had used a shampoo bottle. Quite clever. Part of him had been hoping she would grab someone in the hotel hallway and suck his cock for the picture, but that was perhaps a little optimistic. Still, she had done an excellent job.

“Twenty minutes of stroking,” he texted back. “No orgasm.”

Ms. Currie usually came in 10. Making her go 20 minutes would be hard on her self control. It wasn’t much of a reward for her, but it would help Mr. Dillon get through these damn lamps.

As it turned out, the thought of Ms. Currie masturbating in frustration helped him get through the lamps, some chairs and a mirror with a smile on his face. He thought about her standing in the hotel room in her stockings. Today was a Thursday, so her panties would be bright yellow. Ms. Currie would be using her fingers to fuck herself. Mr. Dillon firmly believed that a librarian was meant to self-stimulate without the aid of artificial devices. All a man or woman really needed for pleasure was a book.

He became content as he waited. That was all well and good for him; he was a man who appreciated hardship, but Ms. Currie was still in training. She had to have regular doses of terror and anxiety. Right now, she was back at work cataloging the books. She would be horny and finding it hard to concentrate. She would be looking forward to his next text while at the same time dreading it.

Mr. Dillon thought about a suitable challenge to send her.

“Recreate the most common punishment that the housewife suffered in Mr. Hat’s novel. Include photographic evidence. You have five minutes.”

The time limit might seem generous until Ms. Currie remembered the punishment. She would understand then that the five minutes was an indicator of how long she should inflict it on herself. Mr. Dillon put his phone away with a smile.

The book was finally offered. Mr. Dillon waited impatiently as the auctioneer relayed its history. Not being a librarian, he got most of the facts wrong. It was to be expected.

The bidding was healthy. Mr. Dillon was tempted to throw the entire weight of his budget into a single bid and end this, but he refrained. As a librarian, he had to show restraint. He had to be deliberate and minimal.

His phone vibrated. Ms. Currie had sent him a response. His cock twitched as he imagined what it was.

He kept bidding — slow, tiny micro-bids. He slowly beat out the competition while spending the least possible amount of money. When he won, he allowed himself a polite nod of victory. Still, he did not look at his phone.

He got up to pay for the book. He wrote the impressive check and inspected the book again. Only after he put the book in a special protective briefcase did he walk outside. After stepping into a cab, he looked at Ms. Currie’s message.

It was a picture of her pubic hair, grasped tightly in her hand. She was pulling her hair hard enough to make the skin lift with each follicle. It looked terribly painful. It looked like it had been done for at least five minutes.

Mr. Dillon typed a response. His hardship was over. He was free of that damn auction and ready to enjoy himself. As for Ms. Currie, perhaps she deserves a little enjoyment herself.

“Strip down and wait for me on the bed. I will take your ass tonight.”

Mr. Dillon put the phone away. Well, maybe he would give her a few more hardships before her pleasure. Maybe a spanking or perhaps a little humiliation. It was all for her training, of course.

Keep On Dancing

This weekend I finished the first draft to my Choose-Your-Own Porn story. I have roughly 300 numbered choices to choose from and it clocks in at over a hundred pages. It is a fantasy story about Nash Nighthammer rescuing a Princess from a perverted wizard's harem. There is a shitload of sex and an even bigger shitload of scenes where Nash dies horribly. I am quite proud of it.

Of course, being the first draft, that means I have a lot more work to do. I need to polish it some more before I send it out to playtesters. I have no idea how many people would even be interested in this thing, so the playtesters might also be the only audience. We'll just have to see.

As much as choose-your-own story writing is a pain in the ass, I have the genesis of an idea for a second book. It will be about a female character who will be a bit more submissive. I will probably attempt this story sometime next year, though if Nash's story is popular, I will attempt it sooner.

One thing I have loved about this project is that I have been writing every day. I am a little addicted to it. When I do short stories, I have to give myself permission to take a day off to allow inspiration to strike. I can't co me up with five stories in five days. On a long story though, I can sit down and go "Ok, let's write out that threesome scene now," and get cracking. I am hooked on being productive.

Things get tricky with October coming. Most of my stories are odd and strange but Halloween is the one time of the year I feel like the public in general is in the the mood for my kind of stories. I plan to have all weird-stories for October, which is going to be tricky considering that right now I have zero stories ready. I also need three more stories for September of which I only have one ready right now.

This is all because of my self-imposed One New Story A Week rule. I have a day job and yet I insist on posting a new story every Wednesday. It has turned into a matter of pride. The idea of missing a deadline makes me feel like a terribly lazy person even though I have cranked out a consistent output so far.

Also in the back of my mind is my next long project, which will be a three month long fictional blog. That will consist of 90 entries posted daily. I have wanted to do a fictional blog for awhile and I think I have all the details sorted out. Actually, I want to do two fictional blogs and might work on them simultaneously so I don't burn out on either.

Finally, the picture above is a sketch I bought from Arie Monroe. This one is titled 'Jigglypuff'. Cripes, I wish I could write motion like this. Arie is offering 100 sketches for 10$ each this month. Go hit her up and buy one.

Erishella by Rich Larson

I had resisted the urge to get a commission of Erishella. She has a liquid appearance in my mind. Sometimes I picture her as a nasty Deanna Troi. Sometimes I see her as a younger Famke Janssen. Mostly I just imagine her cruel smile. I know that once I an artists attempts to create something that only exists in my head, they will fail.

But Rich Larson is no ordinary artist. His work is grounded in pulp, sex and adventure. This Dragoncon I decided I would let him do what I was afraid to do. It occurred to me that if I told him what my inspirations were for Erishella, then he would come to the same conclusion I did.

"I had been reading the old Flash Gordon strips and I am really enjoying how crazy and beautiful they were. I would like to see a female version of Ming, an evil Queen sitting on a throne with a skull theme. She just looks magnificent and cruel."

Rich smiled and I knew he got it.

The next day I picked this up along with a Texanah picture I asked for. Wow, I was just blown away. It was my imagination. The topknot is an interesting choice but I can see her wearing it. I love how she is both relaxed and commanding on the throne. Fuck, it is just perfect.

I had brought my sketch folder with me and I told Rich that getting his art is the highlight of my Dragoncon. He was flattered, but when I showed him all of the past sketches he had done for me, he really smiled. He chuckled at the Otto sketch he did and he laughed out loud at the Island Princess being tied up by monkeys. He really opened up after seeing my folder and we talked for a bit about Dragoncon in general.

Click for the giant version.

Fiction: Thunder in Her Thighs

Marwin’s head was trapped between the powerful thighs of Queen Erishella. She had locked her ankles and the vise grip on his skull was unbreakable. His left arm was broken and he couldn’t free himself with his right arm alone. The bath water lapped against his face and he closed his mouth. Queen Erishella was sitting on the edge of the bath but all it would take was her slipping down into the water and Marwin would be drowning.

This was not how the plan to assassinate Queen Erishella was supposed to end.

Marwin thought back on the plan. Everything was perfect. He and four other highly trained specialists from the Gem Moons had been sent to the Queen’s Palace to kill her. The Murderous Queen had been plundering the Gem Moons through the sheer force of her demonic will through her army. If the Queen could be eliminated, then her army would leave the Gem Moons.

Marwin smiled as he remembered the efficiency of the mission. Advanced computer keys unlocked thick palace doors. Cold knives tore the throats out of her guards. Stealth fields cloaked them as they infiltrated the bath chambers. Hot laser beams ripped through the Queen’s handsome personal bathers. All that was left was to murder the Queen herself.

She had risen out of the water, the soapy suds cascading from her body. Her long black hair stuck to her body but did nothing to hide her heavy breasts. The hair of her sex, weighted down with water, formed a tantalizing ‘V’ between her legs. Looking at her, Marwin found himself wondering if perhaps they could abuse her a little before killing her.

The other assassins must have thought the same thing. It was the only reason for explaining their hesitation when she attacked. She shouldn’t have been able to move that fast. She was thigh deep in water yet she ran forward as fast as light.

She plucked Haine’s eyes right out. She broke Denidict’s legs with two savage kicks. She tore out Jrand’s throat. She gutted Reric with his own combat knife. In seconds, Marwin’s team was dead.

As for Marwin himself, the Queen took her time. After she crippled his legs and arm, she pushed him into the bath. He almost drowned before a tug of his hair lifted him from the water. She dragged him back up and wrapped her thighs around his head. Only her thighs were keeping his head above water. Despite the terror of his situation, Marwin couldn’t help staring in wonder at this woman who had destroyed him.

“You people forget,” Queen Erisehella said. “You forget how terrible my father was. He treated his children as toys. He altered our genetics to make us better than we could be. He trained us to fight, to maim and to kill. He made his children into cruel weapons of perfection in his image.”

Marwin looked up at a drop of water that was about to fall from one of her nipples. “What are you going to do to me?” he whispered with as much volume as he could.

“That is up to you, Queen Erishella said. “I could drown you. The feeling of you thrashing between my thighs would be quite entertaining. It would almost make up for interrupting my bath. Or you have another option.”

“What is my other option?”

“You can bathe my legs,” the cruel Queen said. “Wash my legs, and I will break your neck and give you a quick death.”

Marwin reached for the sponge. It was within the reach of his one good arm. He dipped the sponge in the soapy water and then squeezed it over her clenched legs.

His head knew how strong the muscles of her legs were but it was another thing to feel them under the wet sponge. They were as hard as steel spears and twice as deadly. He watched the water run down her legs and collect in the junction of her sex. Marwin debated wiping her there but he restrained himself. It was her sex that had caused him to fail in his mission; he felt unworthy of touching it now.

With every wipe of the sponge, he knew just how helpless he was.

That didn’t stop him from thinking about how he might be able to complete the mission. Marwin was so close to the Queen’s body yet he had no weapons. He considered biting her thigh but he couldn’t move his head at all. All he could do was bathe her damned legs.

Perhaps that was his best chance. If he bathed her legs especially well, maybe she would keep him. Maybe she would gloat over having a former assassin serve as her bath servant. She would cripple him of course, but within a few years after he had gained her trust, he could strike. All he had to was keep wiping down her legs and do the best damn job he could.

CRACK!

Back from Dragon*con

So I was at Dragon*con when I picked up food poisoning. I spent Saturday night in the bathroom and all day Sunday vomiting anything I tried to eat. I was achy, whiny and pretty miserable all day Sunday.

It was still the best Dragon*con ever.

They moved the comic artists out of the sub basement they usually put them in and placed them out in the open next to the artist gallery. The difference in energy was amazing. Instead of claustrophobic artists crowded on top of each other, they were spread out with big nice tables. Plus, they were smiling!

Television and Movie stars are surrounded by handlers so that you don't get within stabbing distance. Comic artists hang out and anwser any lame question you have for them. I embarrassed Michael Golden with my praise for him. Mike Mignola talked to me about Screw-On Head and Hellboy. Brandon Peterson and I swapped stories about middle management. It was fucking fantastic.

Amanda Conner did the wonderful evil version of Power Girl drawing I have featured here. In a weird way, I am prouder that I got her to laugh when I suggested a Kryptonion Goldfish who lives in a Fishbowl of Solitude. I commissioned the piece and we both got food poisoning the same day. She still managed to get this out to me which makes her a Power Girl in her own right.

Rich Larson created two images of Texanah and Erishella for me. They are both stunning and I will be giving them their own post. The Erishella one especially is going up on my wall.

We attended the Venture Brothers panel and got a 15 minute sneak peek at the next season. We watched Shatner and Nimoy bicker like a married couple. We watched Kate Mulgrew be magnificent as usual. We also cosplayed as Fallout 3 Vault 101 people which is something I have never done before. My wife and I were adorable.

Which brings me to my anti-anxiety prescription drug, Lexapro. Holy fuck. I was a different person this year. I had the confidence to talk to people I admire. I had the confidence to talk to total strangers I met in the halls. I didn't have a single freak out moment this year which has never happened. Heck, I actually dressed up in a costume and posed for pictures. I guess I'm just saying if you have anxiety issues, go seek out pharmaceutical options. I wish I did this years ago.

New Erishella story this week.

Away at the Conference of Dragons

Zdravstvuj, readers. This is Shon' robotic slave, Sasha38DD. I am happy to report that Shon will be gone till Tuesday. He is going to that nerd convention, Dragon*con and will be away from a computer. He wanted me to dress up as Baroness from the American military industrial complex propaganda film, G.I. Joe, but luckily his wife vetoed it. That was close. My accent is completely different anyway.

If you crave Shon and can't stand to be without him, you should know he put up a guest post at 'And Now the Screaming Starts' where he talks about the movie, Metropolis. Big deal. Maria was an inferior model. By Stalin's mustache, She is destroyed by fire! Pathetic.

Shon would recommend that you read his fiction story, 'Zombie Hard-on Blues', but seriously, he has lost his shit. Zombie fiction? He should stop stretching into other genres and stick to sucking at erotica.

Speaking of sucking, Shon also wants you to know that he started another Twitter account called MC Lovecraft. It is where he posts under the fictional identity of a rapper who exists in a hip-hop Lovecraft universe. Holy shit. This is the crap he works on rather than something he could maybe sell and get a nice house. Fuck. The retard wants you to know about his new Twitter account, but he won't be posting to it while he is at Dragon*con. Brilliant!

Enjoy your Labor Day weekend.

Fiction: Zombie Hard-on Blues

I took aim. There was a zombie. He looked like he might have been a lawyer when he was alive. I like that idea. My brother-in-law was a lawyer.

I shot him. One clean shot through the head. He fell just like they do in the videogames: straight down like someone cut his strings. Man, if my old clan from Team Fortress could see me now.

There was nothing else to do. I was safe. They weren't getting into the church since I barricaded it. I had shitloads of ammo. Robbing that ammo store was the smartest thing I ever did. The second smartest thing I did was raid that Costco. I had enough canned food to last me 80 years. The third smartest thing I did was rig up that rainwater catcher. I was a god damn survival genius. All that science fiction horror shit I read was finally put to use.

Course, the dumbest thing I did was not rob a fucking porn store before locking myself up. Mother fucking god damn bastard fuck! I was so worry about surviving; I forgot to get some damn porn!

I took aim again. The zombies mulled around the church. The dumb fucks walked back and forth like they were caught in a tide. I see some walk by and a week later, the same ones are walking back the other direction. I don't know where the fuck they are going, but they go somewhere.

I saw a woman zombie. Oh man. Her shirt was ripped open. She had a big floppy breast just hanging out. It was flat. Really amazing how flat a tit gets when you’re dead. My mouth watered.

Oh sweet Jesus, I miss breasts. I miss what they looked like when they were alive. I miss how hot they were when you have just pulled them out of a bra. I miss how the nipple would feel between your teeth. Oh dear god in heaven, I miss licking a nipple while it got hard in my mouth.

The zombie I was looking at had hard nipples. Hard as death. I couldn't shoot her. I shot a guy who was behind her instead. He looked like a lawyer too.

At first I was too scared to jack off. Then after a week, I started dreaming about sex. Oh man. I dreamed about my bitch wife who left me behind as she jumped on the evacuation train. I dreamed about my first girlfriend, with sixteen year old tits the size of my head. I dreamed about everyone. I dreamed once about fucking Gladys, the damn secretary at my company who must have been seventy years old.

The second week I masturbated. Oh shit, did I masturbate. I was a teenager again; whacking my dick. Three, four and even five times a day. Sometimes I would just sit here on the roof, whacking my dick like a damn pervert in the sun.

The third week, I started to forget how women looked. I mean, I sort of remember. They looked pretty. They were soft. I liked the big girls the best. Oh fuck, I loved a big girl who could climb on top of you and her big breasts would swing down in your face like two moons in the sky.

But I can’t stop thinking. When I got my dick in my hand and I’m grinding away, that’s when I have trouble. I close my eyes and I don’t see my bitch wife. I see the zombie with the bleach blonde hair who almost ate my goddamn hand the first day of the outbreak. I see the shambling cheerleader squad who walked by in their fucking uniforms. I see blood and dead flesh.

God, I would give my right nut for a Playboy. I would give up my supply of chocolate bars for a fucking Victoria Secret’s catalog.

I would murder my own mother if I could get the Internet back.

I line up another shot. I go looking for a zombie. It’s like dating. Plenty of fish but you want the right one. I skip over zombies that are too old. I skip the ones that are too young. I look for a pretty one. One that maybe died of the flu. One that isn’t missing half their face.

One with really big breasts.

I find her. She’s a big lovely black woman. Oh God, her breasts shift underneath her big red shirt. Oh Jesus and all of your pecker sucking disciples, she has sunglasses on and it makes her almost look alive. She’s beautiful.

I want to shoot. I want to nail her. I can’t fuck her, but I can fuck her over. It would be a release. Instead of seed, I would shoot a bullet.

I don’t. She might one day try to eat my face off, but I can’t do it. I found her. That was enough. I found her and now I spare her. It’s like I did her a favor. If she was alive, she might let me kiss her tits in gratitude.

I shoot a zombie who looks like a doctor instead. Fucking doctors.

God, I wish I had brought some porn.