No Update This Weekend

So sorry, my lovelies, but there will be no update to Foreplay and Fangs this weekend.  Unfortunately my computer has decided to give me problems and I have to have it fixed.  It's a relatively minor repair so I don't foresee any long-term troubles, but it just happens to affect my ability to type and transcribe, so the story I was GOING to post this week (a sexy masquerade party courtesy of my latest Hump Day requester) has to be put off until I can reliably transcribe it to Word.  Hopefully this will be taken care off before next weekend.

On another note, it's my wedding anniversary this weekend, so frankly I'd rather be getting it on with my one and only, anyway.

See you next week!

Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 3)

         <Pt 2

          “What are you?” she asked.  “Why are you doing this?”

          “Just the natural order of things, sweetness,” said the dark-haired girl.  “We had to make sure Genesis hadn’t killed you, or we’d have had to punish her, but now that we know you’re alright, we can get on with the party.”

          “Party?”  She was still groggy, her mind still slowly coming awake.  “I don’t… want a party…”

          The girl laughed—it was like ice and glass, hatefully biting.

          “Sure you do.  Colt’s been waiting ages for you to come along and play, haven’t you, Colt?”

          “Sure have,” the male agreed.  “But it’s all right, Cleo… let her catch her breath.”

          He smoothed back her hair; her shoulders relaxed a little.  Devilish as he looked, he seemed gentle.

          “There now.  You are pretty… no wonder our little puppy likes you so much.”

Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 2)

 <Pt 1

 

           She went to the window and poked her head out.  They were there, just as she’d imagined them: Darry in the same shirt and jeans—they were even dirtier now—and Genesis, standing behind him, her hands clasped demurely behind her back and her face upturned with a knowing, winking smile.

           Thankfully, though, no fangs.  And she wasn’t wearing that red kimono… just jeans, Doc Marten boots and a violet, laced-up-the-front corset top.  Her hair was pale blonde, but it wasn’t white.

           Maybe, Winnie thought to herself.  Maybe I am overreacting.

           Maybe I am a little jealous.

Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 1)

Darry had missed classes for over a week; she’d left him message after message on his cell phone and hadn’t gotten so much as a text in return.  Winnie was just about to contact the police to make a missing person’s report—something she knew she should have done from the beginning—when, amazingly… he returned.

She caught sight of him from across the student union—he was sitting in the teal nylon sofa chair he always sat in, waiting for her as if he’d never left.  A rush of sudden excitement filled her and she picked up her pace to join him, practically dropping her tray of food as she did; as she got closer, though, she realized how strange… how incredibly different… he looked.

Scarves (Pt 3)

<Pt 2

She groaned, tilting her head towards his voice, arching her back to press herself closer into his hands.  His heat radiated against her, making her quiver.  She wanted him, oh, God how she wanted him; she would offer him anything, let him do anything he liked—she was desperate for him.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he muttered, and she uttered a sad sound as he carefully drew away from her.  She’d betrayed her want too early; now he was going to deny her.

She strained for him, following the sounds of his movements, desperate for him.  He circled her again, paused; circled the other way, paused.  He was just out of reach—not that she had any hands to reach with—teasing her with his nearness, his unrelenting distance.

Scarves (Pt 2)

<Pt 1 

It was as she had suspected: she was forced to stand on her toes, grasping the scarves to steady herself, or else strain both shoulders with her full weight.  She gasped a little and her highlander pulled her arms even higher, stretching her reach further, leaving her even more precariously balanced.

“Sadira,” he murmured lowly, running a rough, callused hand across her bare breasts, vulnerable little teacups spread almost flat by the stretch of her arms, the arc of her spine.  He circled her, touching her, trailing his hands idly over her nudity, tickling her and making her tremble as she danced from toe to toe.

Scarves (Pt 1)

Orange torchlight; the rock and sway of percussive song, the embrace of flute, dulcimer, cymbal, drum.  The men watched, enraptured by the winding twist of her hips, the sinuous motion of naked sensuality, following the shimmering gold firelight over bared breasts and long, slender legs.  Sadira’s tawny mane fell wild to her shoulders, held back from her face by a headdress of beaten bronze and adorned with great feathers of exotic birds; thin braids, wound with ribbons and small red jewels, fell at different lengths behind her ears.  As she slowly spun in place, weaving her arms in seductive rhythm over her head, the light of the fires lighting up her savage curves, the dark lines of the tattoos marking her hips and shoulders—markings of her former allegiance to a fallen clan and fallen master—wound with her, a map of her ignoble heritage, a testament to her alien origins.

The men around her cared little for the marks, however.  The foreign beauty, famed as a lover and a soldier to their greatest enemy, now danced for them, enchanting them and pleasing them, impressing them with the sultry talents they might never have expected from one who had been raised in the way of swords and combat.  One who knew the woman’s story might have recognized the distant aloofness on her face even as she arched her body, displaying herself for her enemies, the clan of rugged highlanders that had captured her and kept her prisoner so far from her homeland.  One who had heard the tales of her might expect the beautiful slave yet harbored a searing fury and distrust in her heart, a plan of rebellion in her mind—that observer might even believe he caught a glimpse of something like the subtlest hint of a sneer  across her lips, the defiance of a legend brought low.

Masquerade, Pt 5

“Do you always make friends this fast, Senator?” I murmured as our lips parted.  The champagne—or maybe it wasn’t the champagne at all—was making me a little bit dizzy.

“Usually not,” he replied, still holding me close.  “I’d say this is somewhat of a unique circumstance.”

Masquerade, Pt 4

<<<Pt 1  <<Pt 2  <Pt 3

I had made an impression, that was clear to see.  Andrew and his audience had all fallen silent—they were a sea of approving grins as they took in my sparkle and satin.  If the charming senator ever suspected the pretty creature in front of him was the same practical, efficient, no-nonsense woman who held down the desk outside his door, he gave no indication of it.  Instead, he gave his usual campaign-winning grin—God, it was even sexier behind the striking tuxedo pattern of his mask—and tipped his glass to me.

“Well, I’ve been told my dancing skills are mostly up to par,” he chuckled modestly.  “Of course, I’ve never had the opportunity to measure them up against a Cirque du Soliel star before.”

Masquerade, Pt 3

<<Pt 1  <Pt 2 | Pt 4>

On the night of the charity gala, I called Andrew and told him there had been an unexpected delay, and that I would have to meet him at the party later.  As usual he was kindheartedly understanding—my heart even fluttered a teeny bit at the warm, welcoming sound of his voice over the phone as he told me not to worry and to take my time. 

As I hung up the phone, I caught a glance of myself in the mirror.

Masquerade, Pt 2

<Pt 1 | Pt 3> Pt 4>>

A friend of mine involved in the local community theater suggested PolkaDotz Costumes and Party Favors to me, when I mentioned my little plan for the charity event.  I had been planning to drop by the nearest Party City for some cheap and easy supply and frankly, that’s what I expected of the store she sent me to, as well.  To my surprise, PolkaDotz wasn’t nearly the corner party store I expected.

The storefront was reminiscent of an antique’s shop: heavy, weathered wooden furniture dominated the display windows, occupied by opulently dressed mannequins in distant, nonchalant poses.  An odd curtain of fabric and hanging theater paraphernalia—black rubber Halloween bats, lacy strips of dusty white fabric, even various brands of old toy model airplanes—draped down over the rear of the displays, giving only a small glimpse of the dimly lit, crowded floor within.  Huddled clothing racks featuring all manner of costumes stood beyond, waiting patiently, quietly.