Friday Free Read: La Galerie Bleu

Dania had waited months for La Galerie Bleu to re-open its doors. Months, while the elegant old maison underwent a long-awaited renovation. Yes, at the time, Dania had supported the closure, agreeing with the other patrons that the place could use a fresh coat of paint, a new polish. The building was a little old and sometimes even a bit drafty; the remnant of a grander, more decadent time. What she couldn't have known was how much she'd crave to go back once those doors were closed, how much she'd think about the familiar comfort and escape into its roomy shows. Her Friday nights turned empty and slow, and when she had a date she had to take them elsewhere, and it was always disappointing.

La Galerie's renovation ought to have been completed in fourteen weeks. Then there were complications. Then there were delays, and a smattering of protests by neighboring businesses over "appropriate use" of the property. Fourteen weeks eventually became six months, and Dania didn't realize she could start to crave the place like an addict craves a fix.

Friday Free Read: Friday Night

Every Friday night, I had a little routine.  It was a simple routine, very mundane… one might normally think nothing of it.  I sure didn’t, in the beginning.  I simply did it to relax, to unwind after a long week and prep myself for the fun of the upcoming weekend, refreshed and feeling good.

 

 

Every Friday night I made it a point to take a long, luxurious shower.  Not like the quick five-minute rinse-downs I took every morning before work to wash my hair and face, and maybe shave my legs if I had an extra minute.  No, my Friday night showers were for me.  They were warm, indulgent escapes—I lit candles and turned on music, and I took my time bathing, enjoying the warm spray of the water, feeling the smooth, pleasant texture of my favorite body wash as I rubbed it all over my skin.

Like I said, it seems like it would have been innocent enough.  And for a long, long time, it was. Then, the new neighbors moved in.

Friday Free Read - Share and Share Alike

It had always been a fantasy of Jack’s.  Since long before our wedding, he would sometimes whisper it in my ear when we were fucking.  Sometimes I’d blithely bring it up over coffee in the morning. I’d ask if he’d really meant it, and he’d answer with just a coy, unreadable smile.  He was like that… tempting and teasing, testing the boundaries, seeing how far I’d let him take it.  And that was how, after five years of happy marriage, I found myself celebrating my anniversary wearing Jack’s favorite, gauzy blue babydoll and white thigh-high nylons, standing in front of two strangers, blushing as they leered hungrily at my body.

Conditions of Anonymity (Pt 3)

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Conditions of Anonymity (Pt 2)

<Pt 1

There was a man stationed just inside the entryway to the ballroom where the guests were gathered.  He wore a mask, but it was a flat, uninteresting gray, and he was garbed in a red suit that seemed to indicate he was staff, not guest.  He greeted me with a nod and extended a hand for mine—I let him take it, and we glided into the room, he leading me through a warm crowd of party-goers.  They were all in masks all the same style and design, but in a myriad of colors.  I saw silver, green, royal blue, all glittering and sparkling in the dim golden light shed from the chandeliers overhead.  My mask was the only one with detail and accessory, and the same went for my outfit: all of the men wore simple, rich red fraternal robes, like monks.

Conditions of Anonymity (Pt 1)

The latest Hump Day Request story deals with more masquerade fun, hidden identities, and secrets revealed.  Enjoy this brand-new story, my lovelies!

The address on the little slip of paper in my hand belonged to an austere, officious sprawl of a manor on the Gold Coast, a big, dark building of cool stone and creeping ivy.  I took a long moment to appreciate it as I stepped out of the gleaming black limousine that had come out to my humble apartment to fetch me: perhaps I should have known, given the invitation I’d received to tonight’s event and the detailed instructions contained within.  This wasn’t going to be just any old party.

Of course, no party is any old part if I’m invited.

Join The Party (Pt 3)

I pulled the boy I was masturbating closer, to let him have his turn at my mouth.  He gave me the reigns, not grabbing my head to thrust but gently twining his fingers in my hair and letting me work my lips around him, taking my time sucking and savoring him.  I let him out of my mouth and inclined my head a little farther to lick at his testicles, laving them up and down with the tip of my tongue while he started jacking off again.  The new boy in my pussy pumped me hard, sliding smoothly in and out and slapping my ass as he thrust; I could feel the wetness of my own orgasms and the come from the first boy slick on my inner thighs, messy and oh, so good.  My cunt was still quivering and filled with a pleasant after-buzz of coming twice already, and every pump of my new partner was like little tingling shocks.  I wriggled my hips against him, playing a little hard-to-get and making him grab me harder, fucking deeper and with savage dominance.  I took the boy in front of me into my mouth and worked him in rhythm with the boy working my cunt, wanting to gobble down his come at the same time the boy behind me fucked me to another peak.  The one in my mouth came very quickly, shooting his load down my throat as I swallowed thirstily—he moved out of the way to admit the boy who had first fucked my pussy. 

Let's Make a Deal

Hello again, my lovelies...


We are about to engage once again in a sexy adventure through the world of the arcane and supernatural, starting with a new werewolf themed story, Make Me Howl, in just one hour... but before we delve into a new, naughty romp, I have a proposition to make you all.


I love posting to Foreplay and Fangs, and I love watching my views climb as more and more people enjoy the sexy stories I have to share.  But what I would love even more is to see bigger numbers, more readers dropping by to be part of the fun.


So I'd like to see how many readers we can wrap up in our little web, shall we?

Here's how to play:


Tonight I will post Part 1 of Make Me Howl, a werewolf short story in 3 parts.  Tomorrow, at this same time, I'll post Part 2.  These two piece of the puzzle will already be sexy and steamy all by themselves and I promise you will get some good down-and-dirty entertainment from them.


But Part 3... that's the part you'll have to work for.  I'll just keep that sexy bit all to myself for now, and if you want it, you're going to have to show me.

If Foreplay and Fangs can get over 100 views from the moment Part 1 of Make Me Howl becomes available until one day after Part 2 goes up (That'll be the day after tomorrow, my lovelies), you can have Part 3 of the werewolf adventure.  And I promise it will be good.  But you have to help me get more than a hundred views if you want me to share.


The views don't have to go to any particular story... share them all.  The more +1s, shares, retweets and reblogs I get, the better. 


The choice is yours, darlings.  And I hope you enjoy the werewolves... in all their delicious glory.

The Gothic Doll (Pt 3)

The sidewalks were silent, mostly abandoned, as he followed his little gothic doll back to her home.  It was just the two of them, walking quietly, and—to his strange surprise—saying nothing.  She led, he chased; she glanced up from under her dark lashes and flashed him a smile, like a lady leading a puppy, and he trotted obediently at her heels.  It was a clear night, but there was no moon, leaving only the streetlamps to cast their pools of light along the path.

Her hair was so fine and pale; he thought it must be soft, like long strands of spider’s silk.  Without realizing he was doing it, he reached out to catch a few strands drifting in the breeze—and Genesis ducked away, spinning to face him.

At first he thought she must be angry, but she was smiling again, a sweet little smile, like dusted sugar.  They had stopped between the streetlamps; in the slanted darkness he thought she looked very, very pale, almost white.

“Darry,” she said quietly.  “Do you want to touch me so badly?”

The Gothic Doll (Pt 2)

He’d brought his own portfolio along to the coffee shop, like he did every night there was a poetry reading, and he’d hoped his mystery girl would be there to hear some of his original work.  When she wasn’t, his heart fell, and he almost turned down his chance to read altogether.  There had been members of his literature classes there, though, who urged him on, and Winnie, too—taking to heart what he’d said about being best friends, obviously, as she gently nudged him up towards the stage.

“Fine,” he muttered at her, shoving his portfolio into her hands and picking up his anthology of British Literature instead.  He’d read William Blake: the Romantic writer was the current subject of study in his English course and the poems he was analyzing for that were short and sweet.

Of course, the moment he read the title of the first piece he meant to read, she entered the room.  He caught sight of her just as she slipped in the door, not even tinkling the little bell above it, and he fumbled over the title.  Her pretty eyes flickered up to him—shy and plaintive, just as they were in the dreams he’d been having of her—and she slipped unnoticed into the corner, quietly taking a seat to listen.

The Gothic Doll (Pt 1)

It all started innocently enough: she appeared in the campus coffee shop, a quiet, fair-haired girl, a little gothic doll.  She wore lipstick the color of a red rose’s deepest petals, her gray eyes framed by dark lashes and silver, smoky eyeshadow.  She held back her hair with a black headband decorated by the skull-and-crossbones symbol of poison, and her off-the-shoulder black blouse showed the tattoo of a Chinese dragon winding around her right shoulder.  She sat in the corner, sinking quietly into the cushions of one of the sofas to watch the readers with silent interest.

Darren first noticed her during one of his poems, her head tilted slightly to the side as she listened, fingering the heavy pewter pendant around her throat.  She was instantly captivating: dark and elegant, beautiful in a way he might never have expected.  He wrote poetry, studied it; she was poetry, a lonesome and mournful verse like something out of Dickinson.  Why had he never seen such a fascinating creature as this before?