BLOG 2010

Feature Writer: God of Porn

Feature Title: Blog 2010

Published: Unlisted

Story Codes: Shemale

Blog 2010

I’d love to get your opinions, but…

I’ve got plenty of my own, so…

What else do I want to say?

Gas costs too much. Cigarettes should be free. Shopping carts should come with racing skinnies and a 400 small block … maybe then I’d feel like buying a fucking cabbage.

Anything else?

I guess that’s about it.


A moment of lucid rambling

Eventually, I hope all of my stories will be posted under this all encompassing pen name. I have a lot of them. But while I bide my time and prepare for the big move, I’m penning very quick, utterly meaningless porn stories and posting them.

Why? Just because.

I turned off scoring and all feedback and I honestly don’t need to know what I’m doing right or wrong here, at least not for the moment. A lot of authors say they write for themselves and one day I woke up and said, “Well … Fuck! I can prove it.” My satisfaction is coming solely from writing the stories. Posting them is kind of incidental, but I’ll admit to some joy there too.

This will, hopefully, be the last lucid post I make in this blog. In case of an emergency, I’ll probably have to get serious, but I’m not scheduling any emergencies until 2013 at the earliest. If you absolutely positively must contact me for some life and death reason, it just isn’t possible.

Uh … What else? Have a nice day! 🙂



God of Porn

It seems obligatory to blog about something. I like blogs. In fact, I named my first child Blog and she makes me very proud.

Some people come here wanting to read stories. What? They don’t have a public library where you live? Some people seem offended to find porn on a porn site. I’m offended to find J.D. Salinger in my local adult bookstore. He’s been cruising the arcade for the last thirty years, walking around with his hands in his pockets and bunny slippers sticking to the floor.


Going to a forum is even worse. A writing forum, I mean. As soon as you get more than one author in a room, porn suddenly becomes erotica for some reason. You want respectability? Get a fuckin’ job, join the PTA, and brag about your 401K every chance you get. Don’t write porn and pretend you’re going to win the Nobel Prize for Literature as soon as you figure out those tricky semicolons.

Bring back the porn, that’s my message. You married the first girl you ever fucked and she grew up fat and ornery? Join the club. That’s why man invented porn and women have been trying to un-invent it ever since. I see a lot of women around here. Porn is a man’s business. It’s the deliberate, systematic exploitation of 50% of the world’s population … even more if we throw in the fags.


There’s an entire industry devoted to porn. Business models and marketing strategies, a pragmatic approach to the fine art of masturbation being taught in the ivory institutions where our children acquire the tools for social success. Blog joined a sorority last week and I found a 30 second movie clip in my email. “Join now and get instant access!” the spam read. “Horny Coeds Gone Wild!”

I called her up, you know, being concerned and proactive, determined to be a positive factor in her life. I called her up and said, “Hey! What’s with the porn in my email? I spend 65 grand a year so you can fuck the goddamn football team?” It turns out that the website is part of Blog’s MBA program and it’s been so successful that she’s going to graduate summa cum laude next month. She’s got an interview with Exxon already lined up.

It’s hard to argue with that and I’ll admit, the $39.95 Platinum Membership did turn out to be a real bargain.


My little girl is offering the world porn, no more and no less. We could use a little more of that around here, I think. Take scoring for example, that “TPA” system. What the hell is that about? Scores for technical and plot in a porn story? Appeal? A red Ferrari appeals to me. A cold beer on a hot day appeals to me. Porn isn’t anymore appealing than breathing or taking a piss in the morning.

It should be illegal, this TPA business. What we need is “IHO” – Imaginative. Hot. Orgasmic. “Was the porn imaginative? Was the sex hot? Did it make you cum?” Leave the literary bullshit out of it. I look around at some of the stories and wonder why Dale Brown is trying to write pornography. Long winded stories filled with meaningless trivia and self-indulgent literary pretensions. If I didn’t know better I’d think it was a plot to turn the honest, hardworking porn enthusiast into a eunuch.

You’ve seen those stories. It’s like putting your balls on the block. “Go ahead,” the author smirks. “You won’t need them anyway by the time you get to chapter three.” It’s enough to make a grown man cry, some women too, I’d imagine, and they don’t even have balls. Bring back the porn! That should be the battle cry, but instead we’ve found ourselves weeping like little girls as our pornographic traditions are stifled by elitist authors and readers introducing their own twisted morality.

That’s right, readers too. I’ve a hunch most of them wouldn’t touch a porn story with a ten foot pole if it wasn’t for the internet. Easy access behind locked doors opened up a whole new world to persons who can only cast furtive glances at the magazines behind the counter when they buy their gas. They wouldn’t dare buy one. They’re the guys who slump in their seats and blush as they drive past the adult bookstore, wishing they could pull over and go inside for a quick fix. The need is there, but they’ve grown up raised by their mothers and spoon fed Oprah until it comes out their ears. Porn is bad … But! Erotica is good. That’s their rationale and so long as a story has a believable plot and real characters … Yeah. These were the same people who jerked off while reading “The Otherside of Midnight” as barely pubescent teens and now we’re stuck with them.


Fuck. Give me the bible thumpers; at least they’re honest about it. They stand outside the walls and burn crosses and hang pornographers in effigy. It’s easy to admire people like that, but this new bunch is a devious lot. They want their porn clean and smelling lemon fresh, bleached white like the page upon which it sits. You can’t see it that way. They’re terrorists disguised as consumers, demanding more substance from the art form. When did porn become art? That’s what I want to know. Masturbation? Sure, that’s art and we all love to paint, but porn is the rich soil in which the fertile seeds of imagination are planted. I don’t want authors, I want farmers getting their hands dirty and stinking of sweat; hunched over their keyboards, typing one handed while their ugly wives nag in their sleep.

Is that too much to ask for?


Is the God of Porn sexy too?

That’s a hot topic and here at God of Porn Heavy Industries we’re all about hot topics. So we asked the God of Porn… “Are you sexy?”

I had toast for breakfast this morning, but we were out of butter. I ended up using some margarine that smelled like Kerosene. It tasted okay, but I think my intestines are flammable now.

So there it is! Amazing!


Connections, with your host – God of Porn

Wow! The sun is hot today!

When I think of the sun, I think of great balls of fire! And when I think of that, I think of Jerry Lee Lewis! And when I think of him, I think about fucking my cousin! And when I think of that, I think of My Cousin Vinny! And that reminds me of Ralph Macchio and he makes me think of Karate Kid! That makes me think about “Wax On, Wax Off” and that makes me think about my legs and then I think about my tan and that makes me think of the sun again!



I wanna obsess too

Blah. I’m bored. I looked at the blogs on sol … amazingly boring. (this sentence removed) I’m trying to think of a reply to Bradley’s blog about Tom Land’s apparent obsession with Kate Winslet, but I don’t even know who she is and I’m too uninterested to find out. I don’t know who Tom Land is either, so … I’ll leave it alone. I need someone to obsess about.

I’m thinking about obsessing about The Black Knight, since he likes to obsess about me, but I think Bad Fred is cuter. TBK is kind of prickly, like if your grandfather was a porcupine. Bad Fred is kinda cuddly and I can easily imagine him in pajamas with feet and a zipper up the tummy and a hood with big floppy dog ears. I’d kinda like to sit in a chair and masturbate, chain smoking cigarettes and drinking tequila from the bottle, and just masturbating in my head without touching myself at all while Bad Fred sleeps on the bed in front of me. That’s my favorite fantasy, and has been for years, although the person on the bed often changes.

Lately it’s been Bad Fred in adolescent jammies.

So, I guess I have an obsession now. I feel better. 🙂


Art is a religion (and vice versa)

The Gallery

Copyright Sunday morning Rachael Ross all rights reserved. Synopsis: Rendered opinions on life, love, and the art of living. Codes: M/f, D/s themes, Jealousy, and God


Veronique liked to pout and she was very good at it. She’d turned pouting into an art form, I believe, and art is everything. Some people will say life imitates art, most will tell you that art imitates life. I have studied the subject since the beginning and I say that there is no difference; life is art. It’s the reason I could tolerate something as beautiful as Veronique’s pout.

“Why do you want that one?” she asked, pursing red lips beneath her verdant gaze.

“Champagne,” I said, taking a glass from the waiter’s tray and offering it to the girl.

Veronique accepted it, of course, with the idea of tossing the wine into my face. Her thoughts were so easy to read, like clouds moving across a summer sky; anyone who cared to look would see them. Her tantrums often pleased me, those brief moments of passion when Veronique’s piquant art demanded attention, but appreciation requires more than mere observation.

“Thank you.” She lowered her eyes and perhaps we were both disappointed. Veronique punished me that way, but her efforts were poisoned by the pleasure of her company.

“I want that one for you,” I answered her question. “I’ve given you too many useless things, Veronique. I wish to give you something else.”

“And what would that be?” she wondered, laughing lightly and drawing the admiring gaze of several nearby men.

“Appreciation,” I told her. “You’re a work of art, but you do not love art.”

“I love myself,” she replied. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“In the beginning,” I said, “but no longer.”

“Have I displeased you?” She blinked rapidly and her cheeks lost some of their natural color. “Forgive me.”

“Perhaps you’re too young for the Gallery,” I ventured. “I’ve been impatient; more than you deserve.”

“I’m almost seventeen,” Veronique reminded me with a hint of umbrage at my suggestion. “You expect too little of me, I think.”

“Only because I wish to be surprised,” I told her, smiling at the ease with which she could dispel my poor mood.

“I should take that as an insult,” she said, searching my face as she poured champagne over her upturned breasts.

“Veronique…” I sighed, watching the pale nectar flow across her flawless skin, down her taut belly to find the spring of her plump sex.

“Does this surprise you?” she asked. “I’m wet now; are you not surprised?”

I glanced at a nearby waiter and with a tilt of my head he retrieved Veronique’s empty glass from her fingers. The champagne had spilled down the insides of her thighs and she glistened. A precious drop clung to her exposed clitoris and then fell to the floor as I watched. That moment, like so many others, filled me with a great sense of joy and my determination to reward the girl was complete.

“This one,” I told the servant. “Inform your master.”

“I can’t change your mind, can I?” Veronique stroked her nipples with her fingertips; the rouge had melted into long, red stains. She brought them to stiff attention for me and I shook my head.

“No more than you can change yours,” I said. “Come. Take one last look at something you don’t possess.”

I gave her leash the smallest tug imaginable and she stepped forward. The silk collar matched her lustrous green eyes and Veronique turned them upward obediently. Her insolence had never taken physical form. She was too intelligent, too imaginative and subtle for that; the girl intuitively rejected vulgar defiance. Rebellion too is art by my definition and another reason I’d become so enamored of her.

“I don’t understand your attraction,” she said. “There’s nothing there.”

“The canvas is incomplete, that’s all. You don’t see the possibilities?”

“No,” Veronique decided, being petulant.

“Many great works of art were unfinished.”

“And many lesser works ended up in the fireplace, I’m sure.”

“Appreciation requires participation.”

“Does it?” she affected a bored tone, but her eyes gave her away.

“The empty canvas lends itself to the imagination,” I told her. “It makes artists of us all.”

“Is that what you want?” Veronique’s laughter teased me. “You wish me to be an artist now?”

“You’re unfinished,” I reminded her with a smile. “Incomplete. Is it so terrible?”

“And this … this … canvas, as you call it,” she sighed, “is how you intend to punish me?”

“Your jealousy is your punishment, Veronique.”

“Only because I love you,” she said, turning to face me. “I don’t want this. Please.”

“Sir…” An assistant steward had arrived, offering me a leather-bound folder with the necessary invoice. I took his pen and initialed the document quickly while Veronique watched with sullen detachment.

“Thank you,” I said, returning the folder and pen. “It’s done. Look upon your gift now; perhaps you’ll find some small appreciation.”

“Of course.” She closed her eyes. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

“May I enquire as to delivery, sir?” the servant prompted gently and I nodded.

“Tomorrow will be fine,” I said and looked to Veronique. “Her personal items?”

“Burn them,” she replied, opening her eyes and looking upon the girl I’d just purchased for her. “Everything. If she’s to be mine…”

“She is,” I assured her.

” … then she needs nothing else,” Veronique said and the assistant steward took that answer with a curt bow.

“I’ll have to build you a studio now,” I said lightly, enjoying the way she studied the child. Her reluctant acceptance wouldn’t be taken for surrender, I knew her too well for that.

“So that I can finish her?” she asked, musing aloud. “Not in the cellars; the gardens, I believe. Sunlight and rain. She needs a lot of work.”

“It will take you a lifetime,” I agreed, stroking Veronique’s warm flesh along the curve of her spine.

“Hers?” Veronica pursed her lips. “Or mine, do you think?”

“Who can know such things?” I replied with a shrug.

“The original artist…” She looked at me. “What did you call him?”


“Hmmm…” The girl shook her head.

“You don’t think much of him?”

“He leaves too much undone,” Veronique decided.

“As you say,” I said, “but how better to appreciate His art than to continue it?”

“Not finish it?”

“Only at the very end,” I whispered. “All of us are finished eventually.”

“One way or another?” She pursed her lips in annoyance. “You really are the Prince of Lies.”

“I’m only an artist, my dear.”

“And fortunate enough to be appreciated in your own time?” Veronique teased and I did love her entirely, but that’s the point.



True Confessions (Part 1)

Overheard in a Confessional

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been ten years since my first confession.”

“The first?”

“The only one, Father.”

“Go on then.”

“Are you okay? You sound … old.”

“I’m well enough.”

“I didn’t expect that.”


“You to be so old. It’s funny.”

“Do you want to confess?”

“More than anything, Father.”


“I lied once, but it was a long time ago. I barely remember it.”

“Was it a terrible lie?”

“Terrible, Father? That’s a strange word. At the time…”


” … I thought so.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Do you remember the story of the Greek who went to Jerusalem?”


“Yeah, that one.”

“He made a pilgrimage to hear the teachings of Jesus.”

“And when he got there, Jesus was already dead. He found only empty crosses on the hill and he asked people, ‘Is this the cross where Jesus died?’ and they told him no. So he went to the next cross and again he asked, ‘Is the cross where Jesus died?’ and they said no. He went to the last cross and this time he didn’t ask, he got on his knees and kissed it.”


“And he got a splinter in his tongue, right? And after that, the Greek could only speak the truth and if he lied, his mouth would bleed.”

“That’s the story.”

“When I lied, I thought I could taste blood.”

“You were very young.”

“Tell me, Father, since you’re old now … What do you taste?”

“Are you smoking?”

“Do you want one?”


“They don’t have smoke detectors in these things do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“No hidden cameras? No microphones? You guys don’t sit around on Friday nights, watching catholic porn?”

“There’s only us.”

“And God.”


“Don’t forget God, Father.”

“He’s here.”

“I’m killing myself with these things. Will I go to hell for smoking?”

“Do you want them to kill you?”


“Then you should quit and ask forgiveness.”

“I just said I want to die.”

“You might change your mind later.”

“When it happens, huh? I’ve heard that one before.”

“Then you should be listening.”

“You’re full of good advice. I can’t believe I missed out on it all these years.”

“You’re angry.”

“Aren’t you? No. Of course you’re not. Priests aren’t allowed to get mad, are they?”

“Everyone gets mad sometimes.”

“So get mad at me, Father.”

“Have you been to mass?”


“I’m only asking.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“There’s only one subject here.”



“I had an abortion. Two of them, actually.”


“Not for any good reason, Father. Just … birth control.”

“I see.”

“That’s a sin right?”


“What’s a bigger sin, Father? I always wondered, abortion or eating meat on Fridays?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“What? How does it work?”

“All sins are bad. None are better or worse than any others.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Do you believe getting an abortion was wrong?”


“And the rest of the time?”

“If God made everything so black and white, why are sunsets so fucking pretty?”


True Confessions (Part 2)

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a day since my last confession.”

“The Lord is listening. Confess your sins faithfully.”

“Faithfully. Is that a pun?”



“Go ahead.”

“I’m thinking. Don’t rush me. Um … I went out last night. I got a little drunk.”


“Drinking’s not a sin though, right? I mean, you guys drink all the time, so…”

“Drinking can be good or bad, but getting drunk is a sin.”

“It is?”

“Anything to excess.”

“Anything? That sucks.”

“It’s one of the definitions of sin.”

“I do everything to excess.”


“I live to excess, I think. Is that a sin?”

“Living to excess?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you ever feel too alive?”

“I’m not sure if I know what you mean.”

“Me neither. Never mind. Who cares anyway?”

“I care.”


“God cares as well.”

“I feel like a soap opera.”


“Tune in tomorrow. People don’t really care.”

“What happened?”

“I let this guy pick me up. It just … I don’t know.”

“You sound unhappy about it.”

“Of course I’m unhappy. God! You think I’d be here if I was happy?”

“Some people are.”

“Are what?”

“Some people are happy and they still come to confession.”


“They still go to mass. They pay their bills and take care of their responsibilities.”

“You don’t even know me, Father.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“So you think you know me?”

“I think you’ve been hurt.”

“You’re pretty talkative today, huh?”

“I like to talk.”

“Downright chatty, Father.”

“I worry about you.”

“Me? Save it. You know what the first miracle Jesus performed was?”

“Changing water into wine.”

“The last one?”

“Raising Lazarus from the dead.”

“How many apostles were there?”

“Are you testing me now?”

“Answer the question, Father.”


“You’re good. Okay, here’s a hard one. Why did Jesus curse the date tree?”

“The date tree?”

“Yeah. You know. He was walking in the desert and it was hot and he was hungry and he found a date tree, right?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“But it was out of season and had no fruit. Remember that part? So Jesus cursed the tree and it withered and died.”



“I’m not sure.”

“You’re a priest. Come on! It has to mean something.”

“Perhaps it teaches us that serving no greater purpose, being useless to the Lord…”

“He had to know it was the wrong time of year though.”

” … is the equivalent of death. The soul is cursed and withers when it bears no fruit.”

“It wasn’t the tree’s fault.”

“It’s an allegory.”

“Not a miracle?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

“Sounds pretty hokey to me, Father.”

“You asked.”

“You’re a funny guy. That wasn’t you in the bar last night, was it?”


“That would be embarrassing. Let a priest take me home, fuck me, then I confess to him later without even knowing it.”

“He wasn’t me.”

“I’ll be worried about it all day now.”

“Me too.”

“Haha … That’s what he would have said.”

“Is it?”

“Now I know it was you.”


True Confessions (Part 3)

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, um … five days since my last confession.”

“Confess your sins, child.”

“Yeah. I got mad at my neighbor the other day.”


“She’s like eighty years old and she’s got Alzheimer’s or something.”

“Why were you angry?”

“I help her sometimes. Like I take her to the grocery store, since she can’t drive and she takes forever to get ready…”

“I see.”

” … And I ask her if she’s got everything before we leave, but halfway there she always remembers something. Last time it was her glasses and she can’t read the labels without her glasses.”

“It sounds like she’s your friend.”

“She reads every label too! She takes five minutes to read a can of corn, Father.”

“Well, old people can be…”

“She buys the same corn every time and she always has to read the stupid label. I hate her.”

“No. You don’t.”

“I want to.”

“How long have you been helping her?”

“Since I moved in. At first I just wanted to do her a favor, you know? Like a one time deal.”


“But then it was suddenly like I’m doing it for her every week. When a favor becomes an obligation … What is that, Father?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is it still a good deed? Or is it just a job?”

“Helping someone is always a good thing.”

“But am I really helping her or am I just enabling her dependence?”

“Enabling her dependence?”

“I read a lot of self-help books. Sorry.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I got mad and I told her I wasn’t going to do it anymore.”

“Uh-huh. And how did your friend react?”

“She cried.”

“And how do you feel about it now?”

“How do you think? I feel like shit. People go to hell for that, right?”

“For hurting her?”

“Yeah, that and … Just for getting mad at her. That’s bad all by itself, isn’t it?”

“Anger isn’t a sin, it’s what you did with your anger…”

“But didn’t Thomas Aquinas say that the sin was in the thought and not in the deed? I wanted to kill her, Father. I mean, I wanted her to have like a stroke or something, you know?”

“Sin is in the heart, that’s what Aquinas was saying. Did you want to hurt her in your heart?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”


“Because you’re here. You’re telling me about it and you feel bad for what you did.”

“But what if I don’t really care about her, Father?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what if I just don’t wanna go to hell? So I feel bad, but not about her, just about me. That’s a sin too, right?”

“Do you believe that’s why you’re here?”

“I know it is.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s got Alzheimer’s, remember? She doesn’t remember any of it. Like it never happened.”

“And so…”

“I don’t even have to apologize to her.”

“You mean you can’t apologize?”

“Exactly. Like, what use would it be, you know?”

“It would help you, I think.”

“To forgive myself?”



“I’ll pray with you.”

“Hey, Father…”


” … You ever wonder if God has Alzheimer’s?”



Have you hugged your television today?

Family Time

We always watched the television while we ate our dinner, usually the CBS evening news. That’s how we knew when it was time to eat. During the commercials we’d talk about what we’d seen in the previous eight minutes. I guess we were like any other family that way.

” … and in medical news, the FDA announced it will approve the prescription sale of Xycol-Z, the so called anti-gay drug…”

“Have to make Steph a doctor’s appointment,” Dad said a minute later and Mom smiled at me.

“Did you hear that, Steph?” she asked. “There’s a cure.”

“I didn’t know I was sick.” I shrugged, stabbing a meatball and watching the Ford commercial out of the corner of my eye.

“Well, you’re not sick,” Dad told me. “You’re just a bit queer, that’s all.”

“A lot queer.” Suzy giggled, sounding more like a little sister than a big one.

“I’ll call the clinic tomorrow,” Mom decided, reaching over to pat my hand. “You won’t be any kind of queer much longer, dear.”

“I kinda like being queer though,” I told her.

“That’s the third symptom,” my younger brother, Todd, informed us seriously.

“What’s the first two?” Dad wondered.

“How would you know?” Mom narrowed her eyes.

“Todd’s queer!” Suzy laughed and clapped her hands like a trained seal.

“We were drinking from the same glass last week,” I said, sort of joking, but they weren’t paying attention.

“I am not!” Todd rolled his eyes at Suzy and turned to Dad. “Denial is the first symptom.”

“Oh,” Dad nodded with a glance at Mom.

“Don’t deny it, Todd!” Suzy rolled her eyes right back at him.

“What’s the second symptom?” Mom asked.

“Bad breath?” I guessed.

“What?” Todd gave me a look. “Acceptance is the second symptom.”

“Sounds familiar,” Dad agreed. “Isn’t bargaining in there someplace?”

“Oh yeah.” I nodded. “Lots of bargaining, Dad.”

“Not that kind of bargaining,” Suzy said. “He means like with God or whatever.”

“God’s queer?” I teased her, trying to look serious.

“I don’t understand any of this.” Mom shook her head. “Oh! The commercials are done.”

We didn’t say anything else for another eight minutes and by then the television had changed the subject to the Chinese panda bears visiting San Diego Zoo.

“Aren’t those bears cute?” Mom asked us with a smile and we all agreed that Chinese panda bears are very cute.



My donkey loves my ass

MSA copyright Wednesday by Rachael Ross all rights reserved. (being a rant)

The day before Rupert Rupert left, he presented me with a letter of acceptance that had come through his office.

“My student visa is approved?” I blinked my bright brown eyes and Professor Rupert nodded.

“Yes indeed, my dear!”

“But…” I tossed my long golden hair with a shake of my head. “I never applied for a student visa.”

“Of course you didn’t!” He chuckled happily. “Who would?”

“Ummmm … There’s a plane ticket and everything.” I pursed my bee stung lips.

“I know!”

“I want to go to the Sorbonne though.” I drew a deep sigh, lifting my swollen breasts, and blushed when I caught the man’s eyes on my body.

“Uh-huh!” Rupert Rupert agreed with a gasp.

“Do you think I should go?” I asked him, since he was my professor for another forty minutes or so.

“Absolutely, my darling!” he decided.

I was the only girl on the jumbo 747 and I’ll admit that I felt nervous, especially as many of the other passengers gave me their undivided attention. Staring, I mean, and smiling too. I smiled back, but mostly I looked out the window. Leaving the plane and following the signs, I came to Immigration. There were doors marked “Citizens” and “Males” and “others” and I guessed I was an other.

“Passport,” a man in uniform behind a short counter demanded. I swallowed hard as he snatched it from my fingers.

“I’m on a student…”

“Next!” he shouted, tossing my passport into a cardboard box on the floor and I blinked at him.

“Uh … My passport?” I reminded the man.

“Welcome to the Misogynist State of America!” He smiled and punched me in the mouth. “Next!”

“Ow!” I rubbed my jaw and blinked back tears, licking my lips and feeling them bruised.

“This way,” another man took me by the arm, jerking me off balance.

“Quarantine?” I wondered, having barely enough time to read the sign before finding myself in an examination room.

“Have you had your shots? Take off your clothes. Are you carrying any vegetation today? Do you like cucumbers? When was your last menses? Have you ever been pregnant? How many fingers am I holding up? How old are you? Do you have any younger sisters?”

By the end of it I was standing naked and confused, blinking at the man, an older fellow with a bald pate and leering grin as he looked me up and down. He had a tray with two needles and a large pill on it.

“I’ll have to give you three injections and a pill,” he told me, seeming quite happy about it. “Are you a virgin?”

“Of course!” I swallowed hard. “Uh … Why?”

“Just wondering,” he chuckled. “Let me have your left arm.”

“Ouch!” I frowned at the needle. “What’s that for?”

“Inoculation against bird flu,” he told me.

“Oh.” I shrugged.

“And all known forms of sexually transmitted diseases.”

“Oh!” I stared at him.

“Now this one…”

“Ouchie!!” That one really hurt!

“Immunization,” he answered my unasked question.

“Against what?” I wondered.



“Parasitic Fetal Infestation,” he said. “To be precise.”

“Ummm…” I narrowed my eyes. “You mean … Pregnancy?”

“Now for your pill,” he ignored my question. “Turn around, yes yes, and bend over … Oh! Very nice!”

“What? Ummm! Ow! Not there … Hey! Ugh! Oh!”

I felt a wave of humiliation engulf me. Medical professional or not, I didn’t expect or want the man to shove that horse pill inside my butt!

“No! No! Stay just like that!” he said and I heard a zzzzzip!

“W-What are you doing?” I asked, afraid to look over my shoulder and see for myself.

“Giving you your third injection!” he said with a laugh, taking my hips in his none-to-gentle and quite cold hands.

“I don’t understaggh!!” I jerked forward, trying to bounce like a bunny away from the immediate discomfort of having a man’s swollen cock shoved six or eight inches inside my virgin butt!

“We must … Ugh! … make sure the … Ugh! … suppository is … Ugh! … properly placed in the … Ugh! … proper … Ugh! … place! Ugh!”

“Oooh! Nooo! Owwwie! Stop! Ummm … Ouch! It hurts!”

“No stopping! Ugh! It’s … sperm … activated! Uhhhhhh!” And with that bit of happy news, the good doctor unloaded his greasy load of copious semen deep, deep inside my once pristine bowels!

“Ohhh God!” I shuddered with a sudden orgasm that came out of nowhere. I mean, I wasn’t into being raped, in my ass or anywhere else, and it had hurt! My butt was sore! And I hadn’t enjoyed it at all, believe me, but all of a sudden…

“Ahhh … The suppository is working I see!” The man smiled as he pulled his shrinking member from my bruised rectum. “Clean this up now. I have other other patients.”

“Yes sir!” I said eagerly and I blinked at that because I’d intended to tell the good doctor to fuck off and die. Just before I kicked him in the balls, I might add.

But instead I dropped to my knees and opened my mouth for his ass stained cock, slimy with the residue of his orgasm. I wrapped my lips around the shaft, drawing the smooth glans into my mouth and immediately another wave of physical ecstasy engulfed me. I was cumming again! I had to squeeze my tits because they ached with painful arousal. I had to reach for my virgin cunt and find my clit, rubbing my cum button like a mad woman as the best climax of my young life stole every ounce of self-respect I possessed, much to the delight of the man who’d just raped me.

Emotionally, I was filled with anger, fear, anxiety, and finally with a the agony of despair as I worked my tongue around the man’s cock. I nursed him hard once again and let his prick slide wetly across my face and into my silken hair as I washed his balls. I pulled his scrotum into my mouth and sucked gently on his sperm filled orbs one at a time before he’d had quite enough of…

” … your amateur skills,” he said with a frown and I felt as if I’d been slapped. My eyes filled with tears and my lower lip trembled, and my reaction seemed to be exactly what the doctor expected.

“Fuck me!” I begged him, falling onto my back with my legs spread wide and my ass slapping the floor. “Please! Give me your cock!”

“Hmmm … Clinical Nymphomania.” He rubbed his cheek pensively as he regarded my obscene offering and I pulled my labia apart in the hopes that he would see my hymen and do something about it.

“Cure me!” I found myself giggling, arching my back and rolling my hips. “Give me another injection!”

“Ohhhh … No cure for that, I’m afraid,” he sighed theatrically. “You’ll just have to learn to like it.”

“I love it!” I gasped as another orgasm slammed into my brain.

“Of course you do,” he told me. “You’re a woman!”

“I’m a fuck-slut sex-slave for Master Cock!” I corrected him. “Hear me roar!”

“Well, I think you’re safe for society now,” the man said, zipping himself up and ignoring my feverish plight. “Don’t bother getting dressed. You can leave now. Shoo … Shoo … Off with you.”

He watched with satisfaction as I crawled out of the room and into the ever-loving arms of the Misogynist State of America.


I’m just here for the donut holes

Chapter Six – Harry by rache

“You don’t know what kinda hell I’ve been through.”


“No…” Harry held up his hand. “No need to be polite about it. I know what was going through your mind when you saw my name on the list. It’s okay. I’m just saying I’ve had it rough my whole life. I’ve been all the way down, see? So when you ask me if I’m sure I wanna do this, you ain’t gotta worry. A suicide mission? I’ve been on a suicide mission since I was old enough to spell my name. You say it’s a one way trip to hell? That’s fine with me. I wanna look some people up when I get there. So you can stop looking, that’s all I’m saying, cause I’m here now.”

“Well, uh…” the Colonel cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. “I still have to ask, Lieutenant. Are you sure about this?”

“Heh!” Harry nodded slowly. “I gotta tell you something though. Something personal.”

“What’s that?”

“If this mission ain’t as dangerous as you say it is?” He leaned forward, looking the older man in the eyes. “If I survive this shitstorm of yours…”


“I’m gonna cut your fuckin’ heart out when I get back.”

The Colonel swallowed hard and watched as the young lieutenant excused himself without bothering to salute.

“I like him,” the General said.

“Me too,” Porky agreed and he worked for the CIA. “We found our boy,” he said into his scrambled celphone.

“What’s his name?” the President asked.

“Sir, it’s better if you don’t know the details,” Porky said and the General nodded.

“Plausible Deniability, Mr. President,” the General said loudly as Porky held the phone out.

“I understand,” the President said from the Oval Office. “Good job.”

“Thank you, sir.” Porky turned off his phone.

“What is the guy’s name anyway?” the General asked and then he rapped on the two way mirror to get the Colonel’s attention.

“What’s the guy’s name?” Porky asked the Colonel a minute later when he came through the door.

“The lieutenant?” the Colonel asked and the other two men nodded. “Uh, Ballsucker. Lieutenant Harry D. Ballsucker.”

“Ballsucker?” Porky grinned and then laughed, spraying a little spittle on the General’s medals.

“No wonder he’s pissed.” The General laughed too. “Harry Ballsucker, eh? We definitely found our boy!”

“What’s the D stand for?” Porky wondered and the Colonel shrugged.

“Your phone’s ringing,” the Colonel said and Porky looked at his hand.

“No it isn’t,” the man said. “It must be yours, General.”

“Not mine,” the General said.

“Mmmmm … It’s mine,” Harry said, slapping his alarm clock and blinking at the morning light. “Fuck.”


Pussy comes before penis in my dictionary

The Day Clint Eastwood Killed My Boyfriend by rache

The day Clint Eastwood killed my boyfriend we were cruising Studio City. I sat scrunched between my boyfriend and Jimmy, his best friend, in the front seat. Johnny chilled in the back with a big cooler of beer. We needed some ice though and Jimmy wanted some smokes, so we stopped at a Seven-Eleven to get some and there he was.

“Holy shit!” my boyfriend said with a grin. “You’re Clint Eastwood.”

“Yeah.” Clint was coming out with a little plastic bag. I guess he wanted some Ding-Dongs or something.

“Goddamn!” All three of the boys were crowded around the door and Clint looked like he just wanted to get past them.

“Hey, say something cool!” my boyfriend said.

“You’re so bad ass, dude!” Johnny said.

“The man with no name. Fuck!” Jimmy jumped up and down because he’s short and couldn’t see over his friends, even though Clint looked way bigger than life.

“Excuse me,” Clint said, being patient.

“What?” My boyfriend stared at him. “That wasn’t cool! Come on, say something like…”

“I just want to go home, thanks.” Clint made like he could slip between them.

“Oh, no!” Johnny groaned.

“Yeah, you can’t go dude!” my boyfriend said. “See my girlfriend? She’s like your biggest fan, you gotta meet her.”

That was true, I seriously thought Clint Eastwood was the coolest person on the planet.

“I appreciate that, kid, but I need to…”

“Kid?” My boyfriend shook his head. “Why you gotta be all that, man? Come on, just hang for a minute.”

“Say some Dirty Harry shit, dude!” Johnny said.

“My girlfriend says you’re the fastest gun ever … Hey, wanna draw against me?” my boyfriend asked. “I’m pretty fast myself.”

“I’m an actor, you asshole.” Clint sounded a little pissed, having three punks in his face like that.

“What? You talking to me? You old has been fuck!” My boyfriend had a temper. “I oughta kick your wrinkled ass!”

“Yeah.” Clint gave him a look, like a real Clint look. It kinda made my nipples pop.

“He’s laughing at you!” Jimmy grinned.

“Kick his ass!” Johnny laughed.

“How about it, no name dick wad motherfucker! Wanna do something…” My boyfriend was sticking out his tongue and shoving Clint in the chest.

“I’m seventy goddamn years old, shithead,” Clint growled.

“So what, you don’t get it up no more?” My boyfriend poked him again.

“No. I just don’t have time for assholes like you,” Clint told him, and that made a lot of sense actually.

“Well you got time for Mr. Colt?” My boyfriend pulled his Python .357 out of his waistband and pointed it up at Clint’s face.

“Pop him!” Johnny giggled like his little sister.

“Oh shit! You got the drop on Josey Wales!” Jimmy scratched his head and looked around like the world should stop and look, but there wasn’t nobody else around really.

“Give him a gun,” my boyfriend said and his two friends looked at him like he was crazy.

“What do you mean?” Jimmy asked.

“You can’t give William Munny a gun! Fuck! He’s killed women and kids!” Johnny exclaimed and his favorite movie was Unforgiven, so he’d know.

“I said give the bastard a gun! I wanna show Christy who’s fastest.” My boyfriend grinned at me and I realized I had to speak up.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Eastwood,” I said, feeling really bad and kinda embarrassed. “I love your movies.”

“Thanks.” He gave me a little smile, but maybe that’s because Jimmy was handing him a revolver of his own, an old Ruger Blackhawk .44 magnum. Clint hefted it with a nod, like he was weighing it against the Ding-Dongs in his other hand.

Everybody kind of moved to the parking lot then, real slowly and spreading out. Jimmy had another gun, his black 9mm Glock, and Johnny had pulled out his pearl handled Colt .45 too.

“Okay, everybody just guns down … down … by our sides…” My boyfriend grinned. “Time we gave Blondie here a little lesson in real gun fighting, eh?”

“You boys oughta clear out,” Clint told them and his voice had gone soft and cutting and gritty like the desert wind.

“Oh no! Ain’t nobody going anywhere. Christy, you turn on that radio … Make it loud,” my boyfriend told me with a wink. “When the music stops … We draw.”

I turned on the CD player and the Gorillaz were playing “Dare” which is a way cool song and when it ended I only heard one shot, and then I heard the soft plastic smack of those Ding-Dongs hitting the pavement.

Clint had fanned that Blackhawk so fast all three of those boys were dead before the sound went away. They kinda looked at Clint for a second, then at each other, and then they fell down too. It was pretty amazing.

“That was amazing, Mr. Eastwood!” I clapped my hands and he picked up his Ding-Dongs. “You must be the best gunfighter in the world.”

“Yeah.” Clint drew a breath and looked around like one of them might only be winged, but they weren’t.

“Hey, um … Can I get a ride?” I asked, cause he was getting into his BMW, a nice red convertible.

“Where are you going?” he asked me.

“Anywhere.” I shrugged and smiled, brushed a lock of blonde hair out of my eyes. “I could, um … I’ll give you a blowjob, if you want.”

“Is that right?” He put his key in the ignition and turned the motor over.

“Uh-Huh.” I licked my lips. “Can I get in?”

“Go ahead.” Clint gave me a crooked smile, a thin one too, the way I liked it. “Make my day.”

I came in my panties when he said that.


If I could be serious for a moment…

… I’d do this:

STS-101 by rache

“STS One Oh One, standby for insertion, we’re waiting on a greenboard two…”

“Roger Houston,” a disembodied voice cackled over the loudspeaker and Vern Somerset nodded as the shuttle mission was going nice and smooth. Just the way the NASA Flight Director liked it.

Ring … Ring … Ring…

Vern blinked and looked down at the phone on his big display console. It was one of many phones, but none of the others were red and that could only mean one thing.

“Crisis line?” Jim Harmon, the Crew Chief narrowed his eyes. “What the hell is that about?”

Somerset gave the man a puzzled look as he reached for the handset and dozens of other people in the crowded Mission Control Center were scratching their heads. That phone was only used during an emergency and a mere four people in the entire world had the number. The President, his National Security Adviser, the Director of NASA, and…


“Lisa?” Vern lowered his voice, turning away from the confused looks of his staff. “What are you doing? You can’t call me here, we’re in the middle of…”

“Houston, we have a problem,” one of the contractors from Rockwell whispered to a friend from JPL and that got them both an icy stare from the Flight Director.

“I need your help, Daddy,” his only daughter told him. “It’s super important!”

“Lisa…” he sighed, but Vern knew it was pointless to argue. “What is it?”

“Ummm … Me and Richard, you remember Big Dick, right? Well me and him are going to have sex, Daddy. Like real serious sex, you know? But see, the problem is um, well, we forgot to buy condoms and it’s kinda like the middle of the night here, and so all the stores are closed. I mean, even if they weren’t, well, we’re on a beach, you know? Like in the middle of nowhere and it’s soooo romantic, Daddy!”

“What?” Vern closed his eyes.

“We’re going to do it, Daddy!” Lisa sounded exasperated. “But we don’t have any protection.”

“Don’t … I don’t want to know, Lisa…”

“I’m twenty-one, Daddy, it’s okay!”

“I know that, I just…”

“Spring Break is so much fun, you gotta come down here sometime with Mom! She’d love it. Oh, yeah. Dick says we really need to hurry, Daddy, he’s so … Big!” she giggled breathlessly. “I mean, really!”

“I see,” Vern said, but he didn’t see at all. “Just, uh … wait until morning and…”

“Daddy! It’s a full moon!”

“Okay,” he thought about it for a second. “Maybe he could … Pull out?”

“Pull out, Vern? We’re on step fifty-one here,” one of the engineers said.

“Not you!” Somerset frowned at the man and cupped the phone closer to his mouth.

“Pull out?” Vern could hear his daughter’s frown. “That’s … No, I couldn’t ask Dick to do that, Daddy!”

“Uh … Are you sure that, um … you’re…”

“I’m definitely ovulating, Daddy,” Lisa sighed. “He’s so big and strong too! I’ll probably have like triplets or something!”

“Oh, jeeze. All right, shoot. What, uh … What are your assets?”

“I’m sitting on a blanket, Daddy!” Lisa giggled.

“No, no. Your assets. What do you have there? With you?” Vern mopped his brow. “Slow down, let me get a pen…”

Vern spent several minutes writing furiously on a pad of paper, shaking his head and frowning as his friends and colleagues looked at each other with confused shrugs. Even the seven astronauts high up in orbit seemed to pause in their hazardous work until Vern finally hung up the red phone.

“Alright, I want the A-Team in Conference Room B ten minutes ago! Wake ’em up, people! We don’t have a lot of time on this one!” He clapped his hands and instantly people were on the move. When Vern got that steely glint of determination in his eyes, people didn’t ask a whole lot of questions.

It was an emergency!

“Okay, listen up!” Vern had set a large cardboard box on the conference table and he looked around at the twelve smartest men on the planet.

“We have a problem. We need to make this…” Vern held up a twelve inch life-like dildo. “Fit into this…” he gestured at his assistant, a young man named Dave, who was holding a blow-up sex doll. “Using nothing but this…”

He pointed at the small awkward pile on the table, consisting of a carrot, a folding chair, a Playboy magazine, an eraser, and an airline boarding pass. It was everything Lisa had listed.

“Uh, Vern…” Klaus Nibelweicht, generally regarded as the most intelligent man on Earth, spoke up after several seconds of silence. “I think that will fit in there.”

Several heads around the table nodded in agreement and Vern set his jaw and shook his head slowly.

“No, you don’t understand,” he told the NASA scientists. “Impregnation is not an option, gentlemen!”


I got spoinked…

by 11 Good Men and 1 Fucked-up Bitch

01 “Okay, let’s get this started, huh? Maybe we should introduce ourselves just so we know. My name is Gene and I guess they made me the jury foreman. I’m a retired school teacher and, uh … Let’s just go around the table here.”

02 “I’m Jim, I, uh, I work for the post office.”

03 “Hi, my name is Henry and I’m a plumber.”

04 “My name is Seth and I sell cars, down at Thompson Lincoln-Ford-Mercury-Hyundai-Rolls-VW-Audi-Plymouth-Chrysler-Ferrari-Bmw-Jag-Honda-Kia-Saturn. If you guys need a car, you know, just come by and I can really get you a sweet deal, like we got this red…”

05 “Yeah yeah … I’m Fred and I’m a florist.”

06 “Hi there, I’m Joe and I own Boeing.”

07 “Really?”

06 “No, I’m uh, a pathological liar. But I stayed at a Holiday Inn last night.”

07 “Oh. Well, I’m Jerry and I’m a trash collector.”

08 “Hello. I’m Robert and I’m an alcoholic.”

01 “This isn’t AA…”

08 “Oh, right, I didn’t see any donuts. I’m a minister. Sorry.”

09 “Hi everyone, I’m Stanley and I’m an unemployed social satirist. But, uh, I brought copies of my resume if anyone’s interested, or knows anyone who might be…”

10 “Okay, my name is Wayne and I’m a horse breeder.”

11 “My name is…”

10 “I mean, I don’t breed with horses.”

11 “My, uh … name is…”

10 “Personally.”

11 “Okay! I’m Bill and I manage a McDonalds.”

12 “I’m Rachael and I’m a pornographer.”

01 “Uhhh-huh. Well then, um, now that we know everybody, kind of, maybe we should take a quick vote just to see where we stand, huh? Everybody have paper and a pen? Good. Just write guilty or not guilty and pass it down.”


01 “Okay, uh let’s see … Not Guilty, Not Guilty, etc … etc … Okay, that’s 11 not guilty and … the last one… ‘Guilty as fuck.’ Uhhh-huh. Okay, hold it down, hold it down. Does the, um, person who cast the ‘Guilty as, uh, fuck’ vote want to identify himself and maybe, er … maybe shed some light on the reason?”

12 “Why do you assume it was a himself?”

01 “What?”

12 “You said it was a himself, why not a herself? Are you sexist?”

01 “Er, no, of course not. I just assumed…”

03 “When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.”

11 “That’s clever.”

12 “You assumed that a female would never find a raping murderer guilty?”

01 “No, of course not, I mean…”

09 “What? You mean of course she never would?”

01 “No, I meant I wouldn’t assume anything!”

06 “But you just said you assumed a moment ago.”

01 “I know, but … I’m not on trial here!”

02 “Maybe you should be.”

10 “I wanna change my vote now.”

04 “You can’t do that!”

05 “What do you mean he can’t?”

08 “This is still a democracy, nimrod!”

03 “I think he’s guilty too now!”

12 “Let’s vote again.”

01 “No! Wait a minute this isn’t right!”

05 “What do you mean? We can vote again.”

07 “Something’s fishy here. He’s guilty.”

09 “Yeah, let’s vote again.”

01 “Alright, alright … Let’s vote again. Everybody just, um … write your vote and, uh, pass it up.”


01 “Okay uh, Guilty as Hell, Not Guilty, Guilty, Not Guilty, Not Guilty, Guilty as Kuck … oh, that’s an F … Guilty as Fuck … um Guilty, Not Guilty, Not Guilty, Guilty as a Girl, uh … Hmmm … ok … Guilty, Guilty, and um, Not Guilty. Let’s see that’s 6 Guilty and 6 Not Guilty.”

12 “Who the hell wrote Guilty as A Girl?”

03 “It wasn’t me.”

12 “Who did it? Come on chicken shit, what are you trying to say? It was you, wasn’t it?”

08 “Me? No! Not me. Why … Why would you think it was me?”

12 “Cause you’re a minister.”

04 “So?”

07 “So? Original sin? Eve? The Garden of Eden? Duh!”

11 “You’re blaming girls now? For what that prick did?”

08 “No, I’m not! I didn’t even…”

02 “So you think it was the girl’s fault she was raped and strangled?”

08 “No, I didn’t say that! Look, it’s all a misunderstanding. It’s her fault that…”

12 “Oh! You’re blaming me now? Hmmm … Let me check … Nope! No cock in here. Gosh! I must have left it at the scene of the crime!”

01 “Why do you think she did it?”

03 “I think he did it!”

07 “You know why fish smell the way they do?”

10 “What’s the matter, no choir boys to castrate that day?”

06 “He was in on it, that’s for sure. Look at him, guilty as hell.”

05 “So how was it, raping a mother of two on her way back from a PTA meeting? Pretty tight?”

08 “What?”

09 “I wanna change my vote now.”

11 “How come this didn’t come out in the trial?”

12 “It was the lawyer.”

01 “Well, there ain’t no lawyer in here to cloud the issue. I’m changing my vote too.”

04 “Let’s vote!”


01 “Okay … Guilty, Guilty, Guilty, Guilty … etc etc … Not Guilty. That’s 11 for Guilty and, um, 1 for Not Guilty. So, who’s the guy who still thinks he’s innocent?”

12 “What makes you think it’s a guy, you sexist bastard?”


I’m on today, but…

… I seriously doubt I’ll be around much in the foreseeable future. That’s a pun! Foreseeable! Get it? hahahah I crack myself up sometimes, usually when I’m drunk like now. Anyway, this isn’t something I’d normally share with you guys, but … What the heck? How many opportunities are there to say “cheese!” 🙂

It’s the new Mission Statement for my website.


Eating Cereal

I looked in the cupboard and couldn’t find my favorite bowl. The yellow one with the blue flowers around it seemed to be missing. A small panic gripped me, threatening to spoil everything until I looked inside the dishwasher. I took a deep breath and smiled at my silliness. Sometimes I like to forget things, such as putting away the dishes once they’re clean and dry.

Upon the table I placed my bowl and went to the cupboard again, this time for my cereal. I found the box right where it was supposed to be. My many silver spoons were all in their drawer and I selected one at random. I’ve never had a favorite spoon or anything. I retrieved fresh milk from the refrigerator and sat down on a wooden chair near the window.

There’s a comfort to preparing cereal. It’s a friendly chore, simple and not complicated, and with a little practice even a small child can do it easily. I’ve done it many times and most often while thinking of other things. After filling my bowl with cereal and pouring the cold milk, I sprinkled sugar over the top. The crunchy sound made me smile as I eagerly pushed my spoon into the flakes.

At the time, I thought it the best bowl of cereal I’d ever had, but they’re all about the same.


Of Boys and Angels

by rache

Copyrighted the other day by Rachael Ross all rights reserved

Synopsis: None provided Codes: m/f, romance, no sex, flash Can’t decide if I like this or not, it didn’t come out quite as well as the idea seemed to be in my head. Sorry.


Of Boys and Angels

She was my angel dressed in white and fading the way dreams and angels must, and memories. Like her golden hair fallen to the floor and bright blue eyes once filled with the effort of living completely. She’d been too long for this world and not nearly long enough.

“Don’t stay too long,” her mother whispered, taking my arm in her scrawny hand and squeezing me. “She’s tired today.”

I nodded with my eyes down. I’d never learned to look her in the face and I had no recollection of the woman as anything but suffering. She frightened me for that reason and so I avoided her gaze and nodded my head until she let me go. She frightened me the way her daughter didn’t and I smiled at the bed and the little girl upon it.

“Hey.” She returned my smile and wanted to sit up, but didn’t have the strength for that.

“Hi,” I said, holding up the odd shaped carton. “I brought you a new hat.”

“Hmmm…” She pursed her pale lips, mocking a pout. “I missed you yesterday.”

“I wanted to come, but…”

“Mom told you not to, huh?” She sighed as I sat on the edge of her bed.

“Yeah,” I agreed and looked at her beautiful face, tilting my head and frowning. “What happened?”

“Oh…” She closed her eyes. “I got a nose bleed last night.”

“After the chemo?”

“It wouldn’t stop,” she said, lifting one small hand just enough to let her fingers flutter. “It looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“Let me see,” I said gently, touching her chin and turning her face towards me. “Just a little bruised, that’s all.”

“I’m bruised all over now.” She looked down at the blanket covering her thin body and tried to smile. “I’m glad you can’t see my legs.”

“I like your legs.”

“Every time they touch me it hurts.”

“You’re still beautiful.”

“If you kiss me, my lips will bruise too.”

“Will they?” I laughed lightly, enjoying the corners of her mouth when she smiled. “I don’t know; I can kiss pretty soft.”

We looked at each other as I leaned carefully over her, not touching the girl at all, but wanting to so badly it hurt inside. She bit her lip and I clucked my tongue.

“Stop it,” she said with a bare giggle rising from her tummy like a flame too small for the darkness around it. “Where’s my hat?”

“Here,” I said, remembering the box on my knees and I turned so she could watch me open it for her.

“Oh,” she sighed with the tiniest nod. “It’s nice.”

“You like it?”


“You can try it on…”

“No.” She closed her eyes. “Later. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed, playing my thumb across the velvet, lavender with white lace trim and yellow flowers.

I replaced the hat and the lid of the carton, and set it on the empty chair beside her bed. We were quiet and I did touch her, resting my hand atop hers and curling my fingers beneath so she could hold them. She felt cold and lonely there and it was all I could do not to take her in my arms and away from that place.

I’d bring her someplace else where dying wasn’t allowed. Someplace warm and lovely, with cool grass and tall trees, flowers growing wild and unexpected. Blue skies and white clouds, the sun and the rain and nothing to come between us…

“That’s a nice dream,” she said, surprising me as I hadn’t realized I’d been speaking aloud.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“I know,” she whispered just before my lips touched hers.

Her mouth opened and I touched her tongue with mine and for just that moment everything was alright again.

“I think about you,” she said a few minutes later.

“I think about you too,” I said with a roll of my eyes.

“No.” She smiled, licking her bruised lips. “I mean, before. I wish we, you know … did it.”

“Did it?” I gave her a blank look.

“You’re teasing me,” she pouted. “You should have tried harder.”

“I tried pretty hard.”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have said no.”

“Well…” I shrugged. “Not fifteen times anyway.”

“It wasn’t fifteen times. Only like … seven maybe.”

“More than that.”

“Too many.”

“One too many,” I sighed. “That’s all.”

“I thought you’d try harder.”

“That’s love though.”

“You said you could wait,” she reminded me.

“I can.”

“Now you’ll be waiting forever.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m worse now,” she said. “I’m going to die a virgin.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No?” She smiled at me. “Are you gonna try again?”

“You’re going to get better.”

“There’s no cure. I don’t want one anymore anyway.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s alright. I’m not scared or anything. I just want it to be over.”

“I love you,” I whispered and kissed her lightly. I didn’t know how else to make her quiet.

“The doctors said if I start bleeding again, I probably won’t stop.”


“Make love to me.”

“What? No! We can’t.”

“I want you to.”

“We’re in a hospital.”

“I don’t want to make you wait.”

“Your mom’s gonna come back any minute and…”

“What’s she going to do? Ground me?”

“Shut-up!” I laughed at her. “I don’t even have a rubber or anything.”

“God,” she breathed. “Like that matters? You can’t say no.”

“Yes, I can.”

“I’m dying. Nobody says no to me…”

“I’m sorry.”

” … they just apologize a lot.”

“I love you.”

“Prove it.”

“I am proving it.”

“If we do it,” she sighed, “I could just bleed forever.”

“No you couldn’t.” I shook my head. “Angels don’t do that.”

“Maybe that’s all they do.”

We didn’t say anything else for awhile, but only looked at each other until even that small effort proved too much for her. She needed to rest and I could wait forever if I had to.


The World Beneath

Prologue – Sylvia’s Story

I was born in Massachusetts in 1652, one of four daughters born to a Dutch immigrant and his wife. I grew as any young woman of the day, learning sewing and cooking from my mother, working the soil to raise food for our family, and vegetables to sell and trade on market days.

My father often lamented the fact that he had no son, our only brother dying in childbirth. We were taught that it had not been God’s will, but that of Satan to end his infant life. All goodness came from God, everything else was the work of the devil. We attended church faithfully and I was considered to have the fairest voice among my sisters. I enjoyed singing then.

I was destined to be beautiful, a fact that made my mother proud and she would spend the evenings brushing my hair. My father was proud of me also, I think, but he was a practical man and he would most often gaze at me from his chair and estimate my dowry. In those times a young woman would have a dowry in disproportion to her beauty, for that was a currency in itself for the young men of the New World. My dowry, I should be pleased to say, would be very small.

I was also destined to be intelligent, and that was a quality not regarded highly for a simple girl like myself. Schools were forbidden to girls, even if I might have spared the time for it, and so I learned the barest of skills in reading and writing at church, and only then so I could sing songs of praise and read scripture to my sisters. I learned Latin, of course, and English as well, and quite secretly I came into possession of several books. One of them was Spenser’s The Faerie Queene, which was quite recent in America then, and much discussed by the more learned members of our small town. I would merely listen however, as a young woman should, keeping my own thoughts and opinions closely guarded.

By the time I was 16 there had been many suitors for my hand in marriage. I’d been old enough for several years already and I was on the verge of becoming an old maid, which would have decreased my worth considerably. I had no choice in my husband. That decision would be left to my father. I couldn’t even meet the man I might marry, except by the wax window through which my sisters and I would peer.

The local farmers, whom I considered dullards at best, my father constantly refused, much to my relief. I knew there would come a day however when my father would accept a man and I both longed for and dreaded its arrival. He turned out to be a fellow Dutchman, from Connecticut, which seemed a very long distance. He was older, much the same age as my father, and plump like a great pink pumpkin, my sisters teased. But he was a landowner of good repute, and wealthy and a girl could have much worse for a husband and master.

Arrangements were made for the following spring, some five months away, for my wedding. My dowry needed to be fixed, and the man had business to attend to in Boston. I was engaged and there was no hurry now. I merely had to wait patiently and prepare myself for his bed, as my mother assured me that was what most interested the man. She’d seen his eyes follow me and there was no offence in it, he had acted the gentleman and followed the protocol of the day.

Smallpox came to Massachusetts late that winter. One person in three became sick with it, and most of those would die from the disease eventually. There was little to be done as large areas were slowly quarantined in an attempt to stifle its rapid spread, but the measures were ineffective. It was a cold grey spring, followed by a long hot summer in 1668.

I was lying on an old straw tick in the corner of our cabin. The air was still and stifling, as if the world was a furnace and there was no relief from it. Across the room, on the dirty floor, my youngest sister lay dead. Upstairs in the bed we once shared, another sister, Emily, had closed her eyes as well. My oldest sister still lived and I knew this only because I could hear her ranting madly as she paced back and forth. I was sick, chills racked my body and my head burned with fever. I buried our parents three days before, and then I’d wept because I hadn’t the strength to bury my two sisters.

The voice upstairs had finally stopped. It had been two days I thought, perhaps three, since I’d dragged my sister’s body outside. It was all I could have done and I slept fitfully, waking to the sound of dogs fighting over her remains at one point. I had dreams of my mother, horrible dreams, and I was mad for long periods of time. But sanity was worse, the brief moments of lucid clarity when I would become of aware of the pain in my body. I was dying and that might have seemed a mercy if it would only happen soon.

I was perhaps mad once more, crazed with pain and sorrow, when I woke to the full moon seeping through the open windows. My body was flushed and tortured, so thin that my bones seemed to lance my flesh. It was pain like none you can imagine and in my despair of dying I called out for someone, anyone to help me. To ease my suffering. I prayed to God, to his Angels and all the Saints. I prayed to Lucifer as well, when God didn’t answer, but there was still no reply. I was truly alone.

Except for the bird, a crow which alighted on the open window sill. It was black and heavy, as if it had been gorging itself on carrion. It frightened me for some reason and I tried to lift myself, to wave it away, but I was weak and I fell coughing, unable to do anything more than curse the animal under my breath.

I had not expected to see morning. I awoke however, slowly and without any movement. My eyes remained closed, but I could feel the sunlight on my skin, sense the brightness beneath my eyelids. And there was a breeze, a cool breeze and it seemed the first in many months. It seemed to bathe me and I may have sighed then, or just imagined it.

And a touch, soft and light, and then another, heavier now. The small sensation of pins in my breasts and I opened my eyes slowly, blinking against the light and found that same bird above me, standing on my naked form. I’d long since ripped away my clothing, both out of madness and in desperation to find comfort In the suffocating heat, and they hung from me like rags. The bird’s claws were in my flesh and its eyes were black and shiny, staring into mine.

It was there with me and waiting for an answer. I knew that, although I had not the wit nor reason to understand why or how. The bird was offering me life, a respite from the pain, if only I agreed to keep my promises. If only I’d meant what I’d said the night before. I was too tired then, too sick to deny what I knew to be wrong. What may very well have been my last breath on this earth was a whispered “Yes” and with that I closed my eyes and dreamt no more.

I didn’t feel the raven as its sharp beak tore into my flesh, into my wrist just here, where the vein lies close. It broke the skin and opened my weak vessel, sharing my blood. It was the compact, you see, the binding of our agreement and while I slept the bird cleaned himself, never leaving me. It watched and waited and that night my fever broke. The pustules faded from my body, leaving no trace of my illness, and my mind cleared completely.

My strength returned quickly and within a few days I was able to lay my family to rest, praying for each of them in their turn. I rebuilt our small farm, recovered much of our livestock and replanted a small portion of our fields. My husband-to-be never returned from Boston and I did not know if he was dead, or merely too frightened to make the journey. It mattered very little to me then and I felt no remorse.

The following winter was very difficult as I was alone and wholly dependent on myself. I’d avoided the town and the people I’d known, keeping my own company and the truth was there were very few people left. Many had died, most of the rest moved on to escape the epidemic. It was a hard winter and I’d nearly forgotten the bird, but one morning I awoke to find it sitting on my bed.

How it had arrived I had no idea, nor where the book had come from. It was a large, thick tome written in Latin and evidently very old, the binding hand sewn and the print hand lettered in fading inks of red, black, and green. The bird was sitting on it, both of them on my bed, and the raven held an amulet in its beak as well. A silver medallion hanging by a chain. It was formed to resemble woven thorns around a blood red stone affixed in the center. I found no writing, no inscription of any kind, and I puzzled over the strange talisman while the raven regarded me silently.

I was frightened, yes, and much amazed and eventually I overcame my fear. I read the book slowly, struggling to grasp the contents and finding that it required a certain mindset, if you will, a specific arrangement of thoughts and patterns of thoughts. And as I discovered those secrets, I discovered other, deeper secrets and such things as I’d never dared imagine.

It was magic, yes, but I was relieved to find, or at least believe, that it was of a type we called White Magic in those days. I learned astrology and numerology, and examined lengthy descriptions of herbs and their uses, formulae for potions and medicines beneficial to the person who used them. There were elixirs for pain, and the ease of sorrow, and both to inspire and repel love, for the relief of afflictions great and small. And spells, there were incantations and recipes, and I studied them all, practicing this art for the remainder of winter and well into spring, neglecting my work and heedless of my chores.

I was happy then, for the first time since the plague had come, and I felt at peace. There was no corruption in me and I wore the amulet without fear and shared my meals with the bird, sparing him seed and crumbs and amusing myself by watching him. He seemed most intelligent for a bird and for a time he was my only friend. For a full year it was thus, a year and two months, until the spring of my 18th year, although I’d seemed to age not at all.

And then the Indians, who were displaced Huron living in the mountains to the northwest, they came to me bringing an injured boy. Their own medicine man was ill and he’d asked the spirits for help, or so they related to me in their broken English. The spirits had told them to find me and I would not say I believed or disbelieved them, but I was frightened, being alone as I was.

They were frightened as well and it was several days that I tended to the boy in my house while his fellows camped in the woods nearby. I used my knowledge gained from the book and soon the boy was well enough to sit up and eat warm food. I was called the White Witch after that and named Friend in the language of the Huron and their neighbors. For some time after that I was never truly alone as they would watch over me, secretly at times, and more openly at others. I would find a freshly killed rabbit in the mornings, or a straw basket filled with fruits and wild vegetables on my doorstep. In my turn I made their mark upon my door, a sign that they were welcome, that my home was theirs.

Other times they would bring me a request, for a certain broth or brew which their shaman required. It was a decent and respectful relationship, and an honest one, and I was sorry to see them leave when the settlers from Boston and Philadelphia and elsewhere began to reappear. Even many years later, though I did not see them, I still found the occasional gift and I never lived in fear of Indian attack as so many other settlers did during the violent years that were soon to follow.

The town was rebuilt finally, in the spring and summer of 1673 when I should have been 21, but I had all the youth and vigor of my 16 year old self. People aged differently then, when an old woman was thirty and a person might very well die of old age at 40 or 45 years. My appearance was not quite yet suspicious, but I was beginning to wonder about myself.

I watched from a distance as the town was rebuilt, and the church along with it, of course. A new preacher arrived soon after and I’d seen his coming in the stars, but like a fool I’d ignored it. I’d grown too comfortable by myself, with my Indian friends, and I believed myself beyond the town and its preacher. I was the talk of the community, however little I was aware of it. A 21 year old spinster of unearthly beauty is always more than just idle rumor and such whispers are sure to find trouble. Any unmarried woman over 16 or 17 was a suspect, and to be beautiful in an age where lust was a tool of the devil … The stars had warned me, as I’ve said.

It didn’t help that I’d refused the advances of several local men, calloused farmers who sought to increase their holding as much as anything else. I’d been polite, but firm and sent them away one by one. It wasn’t natural of course, a woman living alone in the wilderness. It wasn’t right and that talk soon had the ears of the preacher.

I’d gone to church, of course, every Sunday since its new commissioning, and that was how I’d been availed for marriage in the first place. I sang as I’d been taught, and enjoyed once more that one particular part of the commonwealth, but it wasn’t enough to allay suspicion. The preacher watched me closely, although he tried to hide it at first. As time passed however, he became more bold, his familiarity fathering confidence. He would stare at me from the pulpit and I felt myself naked beneath his gaze. So much so that within a few months I’d begun to dread attending church and if there had been any excuse I might have made, I would have taken it.

But in that time and place there were no plausible reasons to escape our earthly obligation to worship God.

I would come slowly into town each Sunday, arriving late so I could sit in the back of the congregation. I blamed my tardiness on my chores, but that did little good. He would still watch me, and after the services were through, the preacher would exit first, waiting at the doors to greet his flock. He’d reach for my hand and take it as if cradling an injured bird, holding me just a little too long, a little too tightly as to prevent my escape. He would stare into my eyes, this man of God, and lick his teeth like an old grey wolf.

On the winter solstice of that year I cast a spell which I knew I would later regret. Surely working witchcraft on a man of God was a terrible sin, I thought, but what choice did I have? It wouldn’t hurt him, the effect was to put that part of him which yearned for me to sleep. I’d seen the stars and read them thrice, hoping I was wrong, but knowing I wasn’t. Very soon he would try and take me. This was my answer, or so I hoped.

It worked for a little while, all through that winter and into the new year the preacher was less threatening, less obsessive in his attentions toward me. But if I have learned anything, it is that fate will not be denied.

On a foggy morning, early that spring, the preacher held me after church, easing me aside and I had little choice in front of the congregation. He asked me then if I would be able to help him with certain preparations for the coming week. He was polite and respectful and proper in all ways, and there was nothing I could do but agree.

The following day, Monday, I made my way reluctantly into the town, each step a burden to my heart. I entered the church, calling for the preacher in a soft voice. It was dark inside, the windows closed and shuttered and I was surprised when I felt his hands upon me, pulling me roughly inside as he kicked the door shut. He’d tossed me to the floor and my head cracked upon one of the heavy pews. I rubbed my temple, blinking at the red stain on my fingers.

He latched the door, locking it, and he appeared to me not as a man, but as a demon. His eyes seemed to glow dull and red, and his teeth were bared. He was crazed with lust, consumed by it as the spell I’d cast had finally been broken and that desire which had been pent up for so long came flooding out all at once.

I pushed myself backward on my hands and heels, screaming only briefly as the man was soon upon me, his hand covering my mouth while the other tore at my dress. I could feel his body smothering me. He was forcing himself between my kicking legs even as I tried to close them. When I reached for his face, gouging at him with my fingernails, he voiced his outrage and I felt his fist on the side of my head.

The world was black, with brilliant flashes of colors. He’d knocked me very nearly unconscious, so that all I could do was lay there for the moment. It was all he needed and I screamed into his mouth as he kissed me, drinking my protests as his stiff and swollen prick ripped through my hymen painfully. I wept then, defeated and lost, and I am ashamed to say that I fought him no more after that. I just lay there, my body jerking as he thrust himself into me over and over.

It seemed a long time, an eternity that his manhood spent within my womb, but perhaps it was over quickly. It didn’t matter, he finished inside me, his hot seed spreading like a stain through my violated womb. He kissed me repeatedly, heedless of the blood which covered my forehead, running into my eyes to mix with my tears.

He left me and I didn’t move from that place, from that house of God. I just lay there, curled up on the cold hard floor. I felt his sperm leaking from between my legs, and I knew there was blood there as well. I wept and finally slept, waiting for nightfall to make my escape.

When I did not come to church the following Sunday, the preacher came to me. I had it in my mind to fight him once more, but he subdued me in my own home, bending my shaking body over my own table. I screamed long and loud and he laughed, tearing at my dress and exposing my sex once more. He took me like that, from behind, jabbing his prick deep inside me while he pulled my hair and called me whore, and Jezebel and wicked Lilith of Hell.

When he’d finished, once more loosing his sperm into my body, he turned my face towards him, his cock still inside me, and spit in my face.

The following Sunday I was in church at the proper time, and there were whispers and laughs and all around me the town was talking. They knew, I realized. This town, the people in it, they had heard my screams echoing through the church. They’d heard the man rutting himself into my body like a wild pig and doubtless they understood the purpose of his visit the previous week. I came to understand all of that as I sat there in that church, staring at the cross and cursing God under my breath.

I had moved, that same day I’d understood the truth, I’d left my home and sought refuge in the forest itself. I was the White Witch, I told myself, and I would have my revenge. I went deep into the white Mountains of New Hampshire, finding a camp only recently abandoned by a hunting party of Mohicans. They were ranging farther north now as New York became more heavily settled and they too regarded me in friendly fashion.

As soon as I was able, I began my spells, of which there would be many in the following months. I’d been injured and hurt and for the first time in my life I knew hatred. The spells I used came from the oldest portions of my tome, written in a language so dense that I often found myself lost and confused, having to translate odd symbols and glyphs into words and thoughts which were alien to me.

It was exhausting and I fed only on what I could catch or pick or dig in the mornings before dawn. I grew dirty and thin, my eyes turned yellow and my skin sallow and wax-like. And my belly grew round as the time passed. The preacher had done his work well and planted me with his child. I did not love it.

There were one hundred and seventeen souls living in that town and surrounding area. Men, women and children. That summer their crops died, their water turned to poison in the wells, and streams ran dry. Their dogs turned rabid and their livestock perished from starvation and sickness. Smallpox broke out, and then cholera and plague. Some of them tried to leave, but I’d prepared my magic well and they carried disease wherever they went.

Madness swept the survivors and they spent their days lusting after one another violently, killing themselves and their families in the name of love. The town burned, all of it except the church. The preacher was safe as well, so long as he remained inside, and so he did. I could see him in a piece of quartz, his reflection carried over space and time. I watched all of it, rocking on my heels, chanting as I called upon the forces of hell to do my bidding.

Only at the end, at the very end, did I emerge from my wilderness retreat. I walked slowly, down paths long hidden from mortal eyes. I had changed and then I knew I was corrupt and evil and a breeding ground for hate. My belly was swollen ripe, it was all hallows eve and I was seven months pregnant. I could feel the bastard in my belly kicking impatiently as I walked through the dust and ashes of what had once been a thriving community.

There were the skeletal remains of those who had ignored my desperate cries for help, trapped beneath half-burned timbers in their homes. Or buried in the dirty street and I stepped on them without pity, my eyes on that church, white and pristine and standing like a monument over the graveyard the village had become.

I pushed open the doors, though they were boarded shut with stout wood and iron nails. They opened with a crash, a splintering of wood, and I walked inside, feeling all the powers of hell coursing through my veins. He was there, that man who had raped me and put his child in my womb, hiding on his knees like a beggar, pleading for mercy. He’d gone mad and he was little more now than a ragged scarecrow, a parody of humanity.

I took the preacher with my knife, pushing him back easily to the foot of the alter, with the holy cross above us. I opened his scrawny flesh, dragging the blade through muscle and bone, and using it to pry his chest open so that I could reach inside and pull free his beating heart. He was conscious as I bit into it, feeling that weak muscle split as an over-ripe tomato, spilling blood down my chin and neck to the tops of my breasts.

There was one thing left and I waited for it, living in the snow and ice of the mountains. Soon after sunset in the new year, as the full moon rose above me, I gave birth to the child I’d carried for nine months. It was painful and bloody and I did it alone, screaming into the night. It was a boy, and as I sat up to see him there, between my spread legs he opened his mouth, gasping and trying to breathe for the first time.

I took the umbilical in my hands, knowing what I had to do, and I wrapped it around his neck and pulled tight. I strangled that child, that part of me which I did not want and for many hours I sat there with it, looking at the tiny body until I felt strong enough to walk away and leave him there in the bloody snow.

I made my west after that, alone and unwanted and wishing only to see the end of the world and to know this grand mistake was finished. I was a servant of Satan, or so I judged myself. Certainly he had come to my aid when God had not. He had saved me, he had given me strength and knowledge, and I’d used it finally to an evil, and vengeful purpose.

I suffered a desolation of the soul and I was weary of life itself when I was found by David, who was calling himself Joshua then. I’d been foretold of the meeting, reading my own fortune by casting stones in a pond and reading the ripples. But still, I was unprepared for it and I must admit I rebelled at first. I resisted his interest and friendship, but I was unwell and I required such attentions. He nursed me back to health slowly and we talked much of the world and our place within it.

This was very nearly 1707, near what is now Detroit, I suppose, although it had a different name then. Just a fort built by the French and operated by traders of fur and whiskey. I was 55 years old then, and I looked very much the same as I had forty years before. David was already old then, much older than I, and it was a chore to seduce him, but a welcome one nonetheless. He was my first lover and though I’ve had many since, he is always my darling. My savior.

Soon thereafter we made our passage to Europe and Paris. It was then that I was initiated into the Society as their Seer, and into the Circle of Darkness as a Witch of the Old Covenant. Edward had settled us into a grand chateau in Burgundy, with a remarkable vineyard renowned for its vigor and quality. It was there that I was first able to see our influence on human events as we worked to bring about the French Revolution in 1789.

That experience of not only seeing the possibilities, but being able to choose from them, that was the great catalyst which brought me to understand my place in the universe. Before those years I had truly been a child, and I had seen things only as a child does, afterward I was able to declare my true purpose and loose the chains that had bound me to Satan’s service. I serve neither heaven nor hell, nor even mankind. I serve myself and all those who would be free of tyranny.


“But of course,” Sylvia said, finishing her story with an ironic smile, “we who would do such a thing are all tyrants in our hearts.”

“Are we?” I looked at the woman, sitting there some 350 years old and looking all of 20 perhaps. She was so beautiful with her dark auburn hair and pale skin. “I don’t understand.”

“You kill, do you not, Jennifer?” she looked at me and then around at all of us, the Dark Circled gathered. “We have all murdered and taken great delight in it. It is the tyranny of the strong over the weak.”

“And has little enough to do with our purpose,” Valentine countered, as he had to being Valentine. “We are tyrants only by nature.”

“Oh, well put!” Julia laughed softly, reaching for the bottle beside her and pouring more wine into her glass. “Our purpose is pure, even if we ourselves are not.”

“I feel so much better now,” Christine smiled. “You frightened me for a moment, Sylvia,” she reached out to stroke Sylvia’s knee.

“I for one am glad to be a tyrant,” Wendy told us with a smile. “How boring should it be if we were not?” She drank the remainder of her wine and licked her lips. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I know of a young man just down the street who is waiting eagerly for my kiss…”

“Bad girl,” Valentine laughed.

” … And I’m starving!” the succubus giggled, flashing her razor teeth.

“I’m hungry too,” I sighed, looking up into Valentine’s eyes and finding agreement there.

“Goodnight, my dears. I think I’ll take Jenna home now, the poor girl hasn’t had a bite all evening!” He grinned at his little joke and I rolled my eyes, giving Julia and the others soft kisses before we left.

“Do you miss it?” I asked Sylvia, my voice soft as I hugged her tightly. “Your baby?”

“No,” Sylvia said, and then took a deep breath as we held each other for a long heartbeat. “Sometimes.”

Read the whole story:


Real Voodoo

We have no life. I stare into her eyes and wonder if mine are as empty; lifeless. We are empty now, something is missing and it depresses us, makes us sleepless and angry. When I scream it’s her voice we hear and when she weeps it’s my tongue that tastes the salt of our tears. We are lonely and empty.

I went to New Orleans, in my head, starting this story in the mirror and letting her finish it. I went to New Orleans looking for a woman who’d come from Little Haiti in Miami. We found a recess in the dark quarters of the old city. She was black, like the sun had burnt her to a crisp, and when she smiled her lips creased and folded and turned upward as if savoring a sweet crackling piece of fat. I smelled the juice dripping down her chin, glistening oily and making me turn away. When I looked again it was gone. She only sat there reading Paris Match and smoking a cigarette.

The bell on the door tinkled like they always do and I walked around slowly, just looking. Another tourist lost on her way to Bourbon Street. Looking for a bathroom, looking for a picture postcard; or a t-shirt that says “all I got in New Orleans was pregnant” or a voodoo doll. Do they have those? I want one and not a fake one. Not one to show my friends back home and then leave on the shelf until one Thursday I chuck it with my JD Salinger book into the trash. No. I want one that I can keep in the dark, afraid to tell anyone about, afraid to look at, afraid to touch. I want to get it for her.

The taxi driver knew a man on the corner who knew a woman. It was an expensive ride and when I stood there I knew it was worth it. She had snake eyes and wrinkled skin hanging off her thin bones like black crepe. That smile. Real voodoo, I told her. I whispered it while she blew dead blue smoke in the air and flipped the pages of her magazine.

“Real voodoo.”

I couldn’t understand what she said, those old words from sometime else and far away. She said something louder and a man came out, dusting his clothes, black and white and red all over. I smelled him, rich with sweat and fresh blood. Killing a pig, he said. It was late for it and not a good thing. Bad for everyone, especially the pig. The old woman knows voodoo, she can make me what I want. It’s easy but dangerous too. It’s not for people like me. They look at me and I shuffle my feet. A ploy to get the price up, I think. Staring at her. I told her it’s exactly for people like me. I want it.

She wants something personal, needs to put something inside to make it strong, make it work. A thing is a thing; hair is good, blood is better. I start taking off my ring. My mother’s ring, it’s the most important thing to me. The woman shakes her head and says in the old man’s voice, no. From the victim.

“Victim,” he says like he’s spitting. But the old woman smiles. I tell her it is from the victim, and more. I ask where the bathroom is and he shows me.

I give the old woman my mother’s ring, fitted around a ripped off piece of my menstrual pad. I ripped the cotton from the middle, wet and soggy bloody, and rolled it up and pushed it through the ring like a short pulpy finger. Dripping like a sponge. Like a bit of baby’s lung foaming crimson. I pulled a dozen or more long dark hairs from my head and wrapped them around, looping twisting, the ring and my bloody napkin, tying it into one personal intimate thing. I come out and put it on the counter. My mother’s golden ring, blood from the center of my being, and bound with hair ripped from my skull. The woman clucks and the man leaves while I press my hands together, feeling the blood drying sticky on my palms. Smelling it in the air around me.

A straw doll, old and dry like paper, wrapped in sack cloth. Button eyes, black and dull and staring. Arms and legs too, and she rips the belly open, using her old yellow thumbnail. The old woman holds it open, speaking in tongues and looking at me, then at the ring and hair and blood. She won’t touch it so I pick it up, my eyebrow raised and she nods, gesturing with the doll until I push myself inside it, tucking those parts of me away, inside and out of sight. She sews it back up, quick and neat like she’s done it a thousand million times.

I’m in there now, in that ugly straw doll like a baby waiting to be born. She gives it to me, thrusting it into my arms and crosses herself. Three times up and down. Left and right. The woman doesn’t want money, she doesn’t want to see me again. She picks up her magazine and sets her old body back, rocking soft and leaving me to leave.


One Night in Paris

{taken from my “VBE Directory page}

One Night in Paris

Copyright 2010 Rachael Ross all rights reserved. Intended for adults only. Synopsis: When a bunch of supermodels get together for a party, Paris Hilton becomes the center of attention … She just won’t remember any of it. Codes: M+/F, TG/F, Drunk Celebrities, Passed Out Sex, Non-Consensual? Gangbang


The following is a (mostly) true story…

“What?” I grinned at Ellis as she fixed one of her ‘special’ gin and tonics for me. Don’t ask me what the secret was, it tasted just like any other gin and tonic I’d ever had.

“Yeah! I swear! She’s up there right now,” the girl said.

Ellis was the auburn haired model throwing the party in celebration of her first Vogue cover. She’d escaped from Idaho or someplace boring and looked totally hot, but like all newcomers to fame she could get kind of crazy sometimes.

“She’s been up there all night,” Jaan nodded, a totally fuckable hottie himself, being a professional surfer from South Africa. I was kinda digging on him, actually.

“What’s that?” Ana Barros asked, plopping her brown Brazilian ass down on the loveseat next to me. Her arms went around my waist and then her head and body as well, circling me like a caramel python. She ended up lying down with her tummy against my back and her arms around my right thigh.

“Paris Hilton is passed out upstairs,” I said, reaching for the girl’s leg. I pulled Ana’s left knee onto my lap so I could play with her.

“Oh yeah!” she giggled. “I slipped her a couple sleeping pills after lunch.”

“You did?” Ellis laughed. “I put a couple in her margarita.”

“How many?” I wondered.

“I gave her like four,” Fernanda said, coming in from the pool now that Ana was with us. They had a thing. “She wanted some coke, so I just opened a bunch of capsules and poured them out.

“What?” Jaan laughed at her.

“I’m not going to waste coke on her!” Fernanda made a face. “Besides, she couldn’t tell. It looked the same.”

“Three … I think,” Ellis answered my question and then shrugged. “I didn’t invite her anyway.”

“You think she’s still alive?” I asked no one in particular.

“What?” Ana looked up at me and we all looked at each other.

“She better not pull a Marilyn at my house!” Ellis frowned, obviously not wanting her first big party ruined forever.

“Nah.” Jaan shook his head. “Somebody woulda noticed probably.”

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“Just somebody woulda noticed if she wasn’t breathing, right?” He grinned at me. “Everybody’s been fucking her all afternoon.”

“Oh!” I gasped and then laughed at the guy, but he seemed to be totally serious too. Paris must have been getting a seriously long train pulled on her ass because this wasn’t a small party. There had to be fifty guys there, easy, maybe a hundred with everybody coming and going like they did.

We were sitting in the pool house, just to get away from all the craziness. Out near the pool and inside the house, it had gotten all kinds of whacky. The music was going with a full bar and two bartenders working. Someone had brought a limo full of strippers and they were dancing and doing who knows what behind the bushes. There’d been at least one good fight that I’d seen, a couple celebrity DJ’s going at it, if you can believe that. A lot of kicking and hair pulling until they got pulled apart and tossed in the pool.

Ana was begging for a fuck too, kissing my leg and licking my thigh while her hand massaged my cock through the silver bikini I wore. Fernanda had sat down with Jaan on a big bean bag chair and she had her hand under his t-shirt, playing with his nipples just to tease me. If I had Ana, she was going to play with my favorite toy.

Ellis had been hitting on all of us and she looked older, but was just 15 and the girl didn’t know what she wanted. I knew she wasn’t a virgin, but she’d already confessed that she’d never been with another girl. She was curious, but I wasn’t going to fuck with her. At least not until I got a lot more drunk than I was just then. When she moved over to sit on the floor next to me and Ana, wanting to get in the middle, I decided it would be a good time to take a walk.

“I’m gonna go check on Paris,” I decided. My cock had grown hard as a rock and watching Fernanda sucking Jaan’s tongue wasn’t making me real happy. I’d brought him, but ‘Nana was gonna make him cum and we both knew it. The bitch gave me a little wave without taking her mouth off his. Slut.

“What? Don’t go!” Ellis whined softly, reaching for my hand as I stood up.

“Stay here,” Ana said in her Portuguese accent. “We lock the door, nobody fucking see what we do to her.”

She was talking about Ellis, of course, and Ana had the hots for her. They didn’t need me, so I just smiled and slipped away.


“Shit!” I laughed when I saw Paris sprawled naked on the bed. She was snoring, so that was good. At least she wasn’t dead.

There were maybe a dozen condom wrappers on the nightstand, plus the empty boxes they’d arrived in, and about two dozen used rubbers stuck to the floor. A couple were plastered to the woman’s stomach and tits. Another dirty rubber hung out of her mouth, with the open end between her swollen lips, of course. It looked kind of empty. Her freshly shaved cunt looked raw and pink and I nodded my head when I noticed her fat, greasy labia lewdly splayed to prove that she’d been fucked numerous times. Not everyone had bothered with protection either. A goopy trail of semen trickled out of her pussy and a large puddle of fuck juice stained the sheets beneath her ass. Someone had cum on her face too, a couple someone’s probably, I thought as I climbed on top of her. Hilton’s eyes were pasted shut with half-dried sperm and her hair was stiff with it.

I looked for a rubber, but only half-heartedly and didn’t find any fresh ones. I’d gotten to this little party a little too late, but that’s okay. I hated fucking with a condom on my dick anyway. I pulled my bikini bottoms aside and slid into Paris without a murmur of dreaming protest. I took a good, strong grip on her shoulders and fucked my cock inside her easily, hardly feeling a thing and that girl had been seriously stretched out! It would be awhile before I’d get off in that loose, sloppy fuckhole. All I seemed to be doing was churning up the cum inside her, squishing it out with sploshy fart sounds and that was no good. It kinda turned me off.

Paris rolled over easily enough and I put the blonde on her side, adjusting her legs and smiling to myself as I saw her asshole still looking tight. Apparently nobody had bothered with that hole yet, as unbelievable as that sounds. I thanked my lucky stars as I leaned into the bitch, grunting with the effort of splitting Hilton’s pink puckered asshole with my shemale cock. Christ! Paris felt nice and snug too. Not terribly tight, mind you, and it was obvious she wasn’t a stranger to anal sex, but I seemed to be the first one punch fucking her rectum on this particular day, so that was cool.

I fucked into the girl hard, as hard and fast as I could while I held her shoulders and pulled the slut against me. She felt it. Paris started moaning sleepily, not waking up or anything, but probably just dreaming about getting ass fucked by her daddy or something. Sick cunt. I did love fucking her in the butt though. She felt amazingly hot in there, nice and dry too, the friction was awesome as her ass would clench itself around my cock and suck on it like a baby’s mouth. I swear, her ass felt better than a lot of pussy I’d fucked, but maybe that’s just because it was Paris. Her sister had felt much the same way.

Holding myself back wasn’t easy, but I rode her for a good five minutes before my toes curled with the effort of keeping the sperm in my balls. I slammed my aching cock as deep as I could get it, feeling my balls jerk upward with that familiar sensation of spewing a hot load of fresh cum into someone special. I was grinding that bitch, rolling my ass and hips, gyrating lewdly while I played with my tits. I wanted to make it last as long as I could. I wanted to fill Paris with so much juice that she’d be shitting sperm for a week. I pinched and pulled my stiff nipples just to keep those spasms coming.

But of course it was all over much too soon and I finally pulled my softening cock free of Hilton’s asshole with a soft, wet plop. I wiped my penis off on her face and then used her hair to finish the job. I made sure her legs stayed the way I wanted, the right leg straight beneath her and the left pulled up high and bent at the knee. The next guy who came along would see the dirty sperm oozing from her asshole and he’d know what to do.

I really hoped he had a monster cock.


That time of year

The Long Wait For Tomorrow by Rachael Ross

Story Codes: M/F, Romance

“You look so lovely,” Mom sighed and her anxious fingers wouldn’t stop plucking at my wedding gown.

“I know,” I said, trying to smile. She was trying to reassure me and I’d been pretty okay all morning, but now the reality was catching up with me. I was getting married today.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” mom was saying, as much for herself as me.

“Yeah,” I swallowed hard.

“I’m going to go check on your father,” she decided. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?”

“Yeah, Mom,” I said, taking a deep breath as I sat in front of my vanity.

“I’ll tell Cindy and Carol to come up and keep you company,” she said, meaning my younger sisters. They were more nervous than I was.

“No, um…” I shook my head at that idea. “They’ll just make it worse.”

“Are you sure?” Mom asked, fussing over my veil, which was pulled back and out of the way.

“Yeah,” I said. “I just … I want to be alone for a little bit.”

“Well, okay,” she agreed reluctantly. “It’s only another half an hour, so…”

“I know,” I said, taking a deep breath and letting her brush my cheek with her lips.

She left my bedroom and closed the door softly behind her. There were a dozen people in the hallway, aunts and uncles and cousins, all guarding my door. Mom would tell them to leave me alone, or so I hoped. I really didn’t need anyone else to be nervous with me; I was doing that just fine all by myself.

I’d been engaged for four months and waiting until I graduated high school for the big day. Steve, my fiancé, was a nice enough guy. Older, just out of college, but sweet and he loved me. My parents liked him, well enough that they could accept me getting married at barely eighteen. I just didn’t know why I’d said yes. I loved him, but … I’d just graduated high school two weeks before. Wasn’t there supposed to be something in between?

That’s what bothered me. I was afraid I was missing something important. Some part of life that was slipping by, not because I was getting married specifically, but because … What? I didn’t know, or maybe I did and didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t know. I was getting married to a nice man who loved me and could provide for me, and give me children, and … God! What was I doing?

I’d felt so good about this for so long. Steve had gotten on his knee and proposed, and I’d said yes, and I’d been so happy. I’d been the envy of my friends, engaged and walking around high school in my cheerleader uniform, showing off my real diamond ring. I’d been walking on air and teasing the boys who liked me, the ones I’d dated, the ones I’d dreamt of dating. I was marrying a real man. A college man. I was set for life, my future fixed and right in front of me.

Now it was here and I was scared out of my mind, like every other girl on her wedding day. Probably. I tried to take some comfort in that, but it was hard. I just felt … Lonely. With a hundred people at my parents’ house, friends and relatives of Steve’s family and mine. All of them ready to spoil me with attention on the biggest day of my life and all I could think of was…

“Trent?” I stared at his reflection in the mirror, standing behind me like a ghost.

“Hi Molly,” he smiled, lifting his hands slightly with a careless shrug.

“What are you doing here?” I turned around so quickly that I nearly lost my veil and my long black hair, so carefully pinned and coifed, was threatening to spill over my face.

“I heard you were getting hitched, so…” His smile grew into a proper grin.

“But … How did you get in?” I asked and my blue eyes followed his as he glanced at my open bay windows and the small balcony beyond. “You climbed up the honeysuckle?”

“Is that what’s growing out there?” he chuckled. “You look really great, Molly.”

“You can’t be in here!” I protested and then frowned at my bedroom door, lowering my voice. “If someone sees you…”

“Yeah, no tux,” he said, looking down at his t-shirt and jeans. “Sorry about that.”

“What do you want?” I asked him.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, walking around my bedroom slowly. “Just to say hi, you know. Wish you well. I don’t know your pattern so … I wanted to get you a spoon.”

“Oh God!” I blinked, as if suddenly realizing that he was really there and I rose quickly, going to my bedroom door and locking it.

“Shy?” he asked with an amused smile playing across his lips.

“You’re not supposed to be here!” I whispered. “I’m getting married!

“I’m not the groom,” he said. “Your luck’s still good.”

“Stop it,” I frowned. “You left remember? You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Well, I didn’t know when I’d be back,” he said, picking up my Cinderella snow globe and shaking it.

“What was I supposed to think?” I asked him. “God! I hate you!”

“Molly,” he sighed, putting the globe back on my night stand with the snow swirling madly inside it. “I didn’t mean to leave you, okay?”

“But you did,” I closed my eyes, not wanting to cry. “I’m the only one you left!”

“I had to get away,” Trent was moving towards me and I shook my head.

“No!” I said. “Don’t … Stay over there … Stay … Away from me.”

“I was leaving this place, that’s all. Not you,” he told me, standing still now, just ten feet from me. “I knew I couldn’t take you with me.”

“Yeah, you could have,” I said. “If you loved me like…”

“I do love you, Molly.”

” … you said you did,” I continued. “You’d have taken me with you, Trent.”

“I’ve always loved you,” his soft blue eyes stared into mine. “I never stopped.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Eight hundred and twenty one days.”


“I’ve counted every single one of them,” he told me. “I couldn’t go another, not when I heard…”

“I stopped counting after one day,” I swallowed hard.

” … you were getting married.”

“I died that day.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“And I cried,” I shook my head. “I cried until I was empty inside.”

“I wanted to protect you.”

“And now you’re back?” I wrapped my arms around him, wondering how we’d gotten so close. “I hate you!”

“Molly,” he was there, taking me in his arms.

“Why did you leave me?” I whispered.

“You were only fifteen,” he kissed my hair through my wedding veil and his hands were on my hips, sliding around to the small of my back.

“So?” I swallowed hard and forced myself to look up and see his face. “I’d have gone with you.”

“That’s why I couldn’t say goodbye,” he smiled. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“Do I look like a bride?” I asked him. “Am I blushing?”

“Yeah,” he whispered and his hands moved down to find my ass, squeezing me and pulling me against his hidden erection.

“I have to get married,” I said, biting my lip and not caring what happened to my makeup. “I promised.”

“Is he a nice guy?”

“He’s nice,” I agreed.

“Does he love you?”

“Yeah,” I swallowed hard. “He loves me.”

“I wish it was me,” he looked away, towards the windows and I shook my head.

“It’s too late for that,” I had my arms around his neck and I pulled him down to my lips. “I’m not fifteen anymore.”

“I should…” he nodded slowly and his lips brushed mine when he spoke. I could feel his breath on my face.

“I wish it was you,” I sighed and he kissed me finally, pressing his mouth to mine and my lips parted so easily, without a whimper of protest.

He kissed me and I brought my hands up while he pulled me towards him. Trent’s mouth was on mine, bruising my red painted lips, his tongue forcing its way past my forgotten reluctance. I might have hit his chest with my weak fists and shook my body against his grasp, but I didn’t. I moaned and felt his tongue filling my mouth. His body pressed between my thighs, pushing my gown higher, and I fought the man with every bit of strength I had, which is to say that I fought him not at all.

My tongue found his and I licked him, teasing and caressing him the way I had so many times before. I tasted his saliva mixing with my own and my hands found his sides and then his back. I was pulling him closer, crushing my breasts to his chest. My heart was beating wildly, the blood rushing through my veins. I was hot all over and the world was ending.

Trent pulled me down to the floor and the satin whispered as I moved. He’d let go of my arms and now held me completely, turning me while our tongues moved back and forth. From my mouth to his and back again. We breathed each other’s air and kept our eyes open, watching each other, loving each other across the endless tomorrows as they melted away. I was forgetting everything but the way he smelled and tasted and felt upon my body. I was on my back with Trent above me, my legs spread wide around him with the layers of my gown strewn about my waist like tissue from a gift too eagerly opened.

“Fill me,” I breathed into his ear, biting him there, licking and kissing him through his unkempt hair. “I’ve been so empty since you left.”

“Leave with me,” Trent whispered, turning his face and kissing the tops of my breasts where my skin was exposed. “We’ll go away … Far away…”

“Noooo…” I sighed, holding his head with my fingers in his hair.

“Please,” he licked and kissed at the soft hollow of my throat and his hand was between us, working to free his cock.

“I’m getting married,” I smiled and giggled weakly, pulling his lips to mine for another kiss. “It’s too late.”

I was reaching down with my hand too, digging through my dress, getting beneath it to find my panties, the lacy white thong I’d bought just for this. I was pushing it down, sucking Trent’s tongue with abandon and lifting my hips. We were confused and urgent, fumbling as if this were the first time in our lives. I felt my nipples swollen and burning, and the fire in my sex was a living thing. I was being consumed with my desire and I pulled my panty aside even as I felt the swollen head of Trent’s cock searching for the entrance to my womb.

“I love you,” Trent breathed into my mouth and his stiff manhood found me wet and willing. He split the greasy lips of my sex with a wonderfully hard, swift thrust that stole the air from my lungs. I was tight and unprepared, my body forgetting what it was like to be taken with the desperate passion of a man in love.

“Ahhh!” I arched my back against his penetration, feeling the walls of my vagina forced open for the first time since he’d left me.

It hurt. Like the first time we’d made love, when I’d given Trent my virginity, this was a sharp, pleasurable pain that I welcomed. He was in me once more, filling me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist to keep him there. My soft cries filled his lungs and he gave them back to me. I had my fingers in his back, my long red nails tearing through his shirt and into his flesh. He thrust again and I knew he was fully inside me then. His cock reached into the center of my being, with a deep caress that I remembered only as a dream and the moment was electric, sending me tumbling headlong into the orgasm I needed.

I was cumming wildly, fucking myself on Trent’s thick cock with abandon. I kissed the man wherever my lips found him. His rough cheeks and jaw, his nose and eyes. I made love to him with every part of me, begging him to take me and fuck me there on my bedroom floor. He was panting and working his prick in and out of me quickly, driving himself deep with every thrust. The pain was gone, buried beneath an avalanche of pleasure and another orgasm followed hard upon the first. I was lost and feverish, begging Trent to fill me.

“I’m going to cum…” he was whispering and it was too soon for me.

“No … Not yet…” I breathed, pulling his mouth to mine so I could fill him with my tongue once again and silence his pending release.

“Mmmm…” he moaned and pushed my legs up high, over his shoulders so that my gown spilled around my breasts and shoulders. Trent bent me double, pinning me to the carpet with my knees above my aching tits and my legs spread wide around him. He was fucking me hard now, sliding his thickness in and out of my clasping sex with soft wet noises to fill our ears. My cum was leaking from around our union, running down my back and hips, staining my dress and the air with the ripe scent of our passion.

“I can’t…” Trent winced and arched his back, trying to hold off and failing. “Molly! I’m cumming … Fuck!”

I felt his cock jerk inside me, seeming to swell even larger as it drew the cum from his balls and then ejaculated his sperm violently into the depths of my trembling body. I felt his cockhead lodged against the soft walls of my cervix, the bottleneck leading to my fertile womb and I didn’t care. Trent was taking me, stealing the moment that my fiancé had been waiting for so impatiently. I knew I was ready, there was no doubt in my mind, and this was what I wanted. I was cumming again, joining Trent as he filled me with his seed.

“If I can’t have you…” I breathed, kissing his face and smiling happily, ” … I’ll have your baby.”

“Molly,” he smiled and rolled his eyes, all red faced and breathless. His cock was still there, still leaking sperm inside me.

“I’ll bring you to the alter,” I giggled with orgasmic bliss. “The only way I can…”


“Inside me,” I breathed.

“I love you so much,” he kissed me deeply, his tongue working inside my mouth while I sucked it gently.

rap rap rap

“Molly? Dear? It’s almost time…” mom’s voice sounded through the door and Trent’s wide eyes mirrored mine. “Molly? Why is the door locked?”

“Uh … H-Hold on … Wait … Don’t come in!” I said loudly and we were trying hard not to giggle in our efforts to get untangled. Nervous fear added to our already excited state and I think we were both giddy with the realization of what we’d just done.

“Come with me,” Trent whispered, pushing his semi-hard and very wet cock into his pants.

“This is no time for games, Molly,” mom said and the rattle of a key inside the lock filled the room.

“I can’t!” I whispered back, pulling my thong up my wet thighs and into place over my sperm filled pussy. “I’m getting married!”

“Why?” Trent asked, zipping up his pants and making a little face that made me grin.

“Because I can’t marry you,” I kissed his mouth quickly. “And I’m too old to run away.”

“Molly … Are you ready? What on earth is going on…” Mom was opening the door and I was trying to smooth my dress when she saw us.

“Ummm…” I swallowed hard and I knew exactly what it looked like. My face burned and I was smiling the way I hadn’t since I was fifteen and in love. I couldn’t stop myself.

She blinked rapidly and the color drained from her cheeks. “Trent?”

“Hi Mom,” Trent smiled sheepishly and gave her a shrug. “Surprise.”


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