Category Archives: Fiction

The female blogger Silverdrop, shown from shoulders to waist, nude, with her long brown hair covering her breasts.

Holiday Travails (Fiction)

Gold, frankincense and myrrh.It started out bad and just got worse. Why do the holidays always bring so much stress with them? I’d really been hoping the baby would be born before we had to travel, but no such luck. Either junior was running a little late, or my fiancé wasn’t the father. You can just imagine how that would go over. He knew there’d been another guy around, but he didn’t know know. I’d sworn up and down that nothing had happened, that of course the baby was his, but the trip back home for the holidays was still tense. He wanted to believe me, but he didn’t. So there was that.

Then there was the bane of couples everywhere – which family do you spend the holidays with? If things hadn’t been so rocky between us, I probably would have just let him go by himself to see his family, but I had the feeling that doing that would be the last straw. And I really did love Joe, even though at the moment, I was having fond thoughts about strangling him.

And finally, the big one. Literally. I was a big fat whale. I wanted sex, but it was just too damn uncomfortable. He wanted sex, but he found me about as attractive as, well, a big fat whale. The idea that there was a baby right there, ready to pop at any moment, was a major turn-off. The fact that we couldn’t stop fighting kept us from trying to fix the sex problem. The fact that we were sexually frustrated kept us fighting. It was ugly.

Everything will be better once the baby is born, I told myself. He’ll see that it’s his son; we’ll have our own family. Next holiday season, we’ll have a little one to focus on. We just have to get through this without killing each other.

“I need a pee break.” I said.

“What, again? We just stopped!” he said.

“Yes, again. I’ll be quick.”

“You’re never quick.”

“It’s not my fault I don’t have the equipment to pee standing up,” I snapped.

“It’s not mine either! The traffic is terrible, and we’re going to get there after dark as it is.”

“I. Need. To. Pee.”

There really wasn’t an answer to that, and he knew it. It was either stop, or I’d wet myself. When you have a full-term baby sitting on your bladder, you have the capacity of a thimble. The reproachful look he gave me every time I took a sip of water didn’t help the tension between us.

When the first headlights started coming on, and I could see the lights of his hometown below, I felt the first pains starting.

“Hey Joe?” I asked. “How much farther to your mum’s?”

“We’re not staying at my mum’s.”

“What do you mean?”

Joe mumbled something about us living in sin, and how she wasn’t going to let us spend the night together under her roof until we were lawfully married. “But it’s okay. We’ll stay at a motel, and then go have dinner there tomorrow.”

This started another fight. My cousin Beth would have let us stay with her. We’d come all this way and –

There was another pain, cutting me off mid-tirade. “Hey Joe?” I said. “How far to the motel?”

Maybe he caught something in my voice, because he sounded apologetic instead of defensive this time. “I’m not sure. I couldn’t get a reservation.”

“I think we’d better find one soon,” I said. “Or maybe a hospital.”

There wasn’t time to get to the hospital. The first hotel we stopped at was full. The receptionist called around to other places, but couldn’t find anywhere nearby. I was obviously not going to make it much longer.

Even the conference rooms were booked with holiday parties, but they made up a bed for me in the laundry room, and I grunted and pushed to the sound of industrial washing machines. Jeanette, one of the house cleaners, lit a gold coloured scented candle and set it on a cart near me. She had just received it in a Secret Santa thing. She said it was myrrh and frankincense and would help me relax. At least it helped to cover up the scent of laundry detergent. They searched their guest records to see if there was a doctor or nurse staying with them, but all they could find was a veterinarian. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve delivered lots of sheep.”

This was not terribly reassuring, but at this point, I was willing to take any help I could get. Every time I looked up, it seemed that more people had gathered around us. Don’t ever give birth if you value your modesty, I’m telling you!

Then I heard his first cry. My son. Everyone was telling me how blessed we were and saying prayers of thanks. I looked up to see Joe holding the child, and he knelt next to me. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Mary. This is the best gift you ever could have given me.” He whispered in my ear.

“But that guy… Gabe…” I blubbered. I’d spent months denying it, but I was too emotional to keep up the lie.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s not here. I am. I’m his father.”

Jeanette helped me wash up and get into clean clothes, while the employees of the inn passed around the baby, looking at him with awe. “It’s a miracle,” I heard more than once.

And it was.

Succubus (Fiction) – An erotic tale for Halloween

An erotic tale for Halloween.

A wooden carving of a succubus set in the roof angle of a half-timbred outside wall
Source: Wikipedia

It was an old, 16th century inn, and the sculpture in the rafters of the nude succubus was a sign that it had also been a brothel. That’s what the little tourist brochure said. Timothy didn’t know how accurate that was, but of course a titillating story like that sold better than “Someone carved a naked woman here and we don’t know why.” If it was true, he wondered if the customers of the brothel remembered that the succubus was known for stealing the seed from her victims, then shifting into an incubus and implanting the seed into a female. Or that both succubus and incubus were known for stealing the breath from their victims. These were only stories invented to make sense of wet dreams, illicit pregnancies, or unexplained deaths, of course. But the myth of the succubus, who forced herself on a sleeping man, had prevailed for centuries, and probably always would.

The best view of the entire sculpture could be had from below, but from the window in Timothy’s room, he could see her left breast close up. Timothy admired its frank eroticism, and that it had survived so long, and then he looked down onto the street.

He saw quite a few people in fancy dress – more adults than children seemed to be celebrating Halloween. There were sexy pirate wenches, sexy vampires, sexy nurses, sexy harem girls – and many men in costumes more comical than attractive. It seemed costume designers hadn’t quite figured out how to sexualize the male body. All of the costumed people were headed to pubs or parties. Timothy had read somewhere that Halloween had become a sort of “Straight Pride” event – a chance for heterosexuals to dress up and behave like sluts.

It wouldn’t be hard for Timothy to join in on the events. He didn’t have much in his suitcase, but he could probably improvise something, if he stopped somewhere to get some makeup. He imagined himself as a zombie, finding a single girl dressed as a sexy necromancer, buying her drinks, bringing her back here. They’d giggle over the succubus carving. He’d run his hands over her body through her satin costume while she ripped off the rest of his torn t-shirt. He’d drop to his knees to go up under her skirt and start eating her out, tasting pussy for the first time.

I don’t have any condoms. I’ll have to remember to get some when I get the cosmetics, he thought.

He didn’t go out. He sat propped up in bed, using his laptop, looking at porn and jerking off. It was easier than thinking about how to approach a real woman.

It was long after he’d put the laptop away, near midnight, when the succubus came through his window. He heard the creak of the window opening, felt the chilled breeze, smelled something that reminded him of the strip club he often frequented, the smell of female. The only light was the crescent moon, which gave him a silhouette of her curves.

Then she was on him.

Timothy had never been with a woman he hadn’t paid for – had never had anything close to this experience. She seemed to have more hands than was possible, touching him everywhere, kissing him everywhere. Her body was ripe and luscious, and when she crouched over him in a manner that was not an offer, but a demand, he didn’t hesitate. This was ambrosia, the god’s nectar, served on Olympus. This was the elixir of immortality. He was already close to the summit, and when she put her mouth on him, he groaned his pleasure into her cunt while she drained his cock dry.

“Did you feel the earth move?” was said the next day, usually with giggles, by the formerly costumed partygoers who had found a companion for the night. A minor earthquake had occurred. A few chimneys had fallen. Some masonry was damaged. The electricity was out parts of the town. The owner of the inn knocked on doors one by one, making sure no one was harmed, assuring them he’d called the power company, and so on. When number 8 didn’t answer, he knocked again, harder, called out. Finally, he got his master key and entered.

Timothy Brazier was in his bed, nude, his eyes open and staring at nothing, his body coated with plaster that had been knocked loose from the ceiling, his mouth wide open and full of the same dust.

Soon the inn was crawling with people. Paramedics, police, the coroner, the insurance adjuster. The owner took a moment when no one was bombarding him with questions to walk around the inn, and make sure the historical carvings hadn’t been damaged by the tremor, and ticked them off mentally, one by one: the gryphon, the lion, the dragon, the unicorn, the incubus. He looked up at the incubus, with its lewd, oversized genitals, and had a sense that something was wrong. No. It was just nerves. It was only the knowledge that a man had suffocated to death in the room next to the incubus. He moved on.

Originally published September 23, 2011

Something for the weekend

#Wicked Wednesday – Freshly Scrubbed (Fiction)

Write from the point of view of a freshly scrubbed floor.
As usual on Wicked Wednesday, I asked SilverHubby for his thoughts, and this is what he said:

I am feeling freshly scrubbed and am trying not to mind the fact that I smell of cleaning products. It’s been an interesting evening.

He was working from home today, she was out somewhere. Sometime after dark he started doing things that weren’t part of the normal routine. When one of them is out of the house without the other, they always leave a light on in the hallway. At various times I have heard one of them say: “There’s a light burning for you, to help you find your way home.” This evening he turned the hallway light off, plunging me into near darkness apart from the small amount of light from the street lamps that shone through the glass panels along the top of the door. He stood in the shadows, clad only in a tee shirt, apparently waiting for something more to happen.

I heard the sound of a key in the lock. It was she. She called out his name, a slightly worried tone to her voice, wondering why the house was in darkness. She took a step onto me and he pounced, grabbing her by the hair and one wrist, pushing the door shut with his body. She squealed in surprise and the hand in her hair moved across her mouth as he pulled her against him. His other hand started tearing at her blouse and skirt, pulling them aside, not off.

He pushed her to the floor, but taking care to break her fall. Her breasts, half out of her bra, were squashed against me, as was her belly. I saw him use his knee to force her legs apart as he pulled her panties down, but not off.

She was struggling, but not very hard. A few drips of something wet fell from between her legs and onto me. A stickier liquid dripped from between his legs and mixed with it. I saw him enter her body roughly, but with little resistance. He grunted, she squealed. One of his hands moved to her throat, squeezing gently. Her body was being pushed rhythmically against me as he thrust into her.

More sticky, musky liquid fell on me as he pulled out of her and entered a different, tighter, orifice. She squealed again, but was lifting off me to push back against him. The dripping from her other hole increased, as did his grunting. He no longer needed to hold her down, as she was reaching back as best she could to pull him deeper into her body.

I couldn’t tell you whether he or she made the most noise at the end. I can tell you that a great deal of sticky white stuff fell out of her and onto me as he left her body. I can also report that she collapsed against me with a whimper as he said: “Welcome home, slut.”

A little later, she came to me on her knees, a squirty bottle and cloth in her hand. She did a very good job of making me feel freshly scrubbed.

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Something for the weekend

Sexy Saturday: I Should Have Known Better (Fiction)

I should have known better.

Leah sat in front of the mirror, brushing her long, beautiful hair. I was envious of it, but not enough to go grow out my own hair. I always succumbed to the newest style, the latest fad. Right now, I wore my hair in an asymmetrical bob, black with blue streaks in it. Hers fell to her waist in gentle, auburn waves. “Should I wear it up, or down?” she asked.

“Up, with some curls hanging down,” I suggested.

“I’m not going to use a curling iron!” That was one reason Leah’s hair was so beautiful. No curling iron, no hair dryer, no harsh chemicals. She was always so gentle with her hair, despite being harsh with the rest of her body.

“You won’t have to. I’ll show you how to do pin curls,” I said.

I helped her put her hair up into a loose chignon, and then took the loose bits and wrapped them around my finger as I tried to remember how I did it during my vintage phase. My fingers brushed against her cheek as I worked, and I shivered.

I should have known better. She was my best friend, after all.

We were going to the opera together that night. Neither of us knew much about music, but we wanted an excuse to dress up. Leah had come over to my place early. She always came to my place to dress up, just as she had done since we were children together. It had been years since she’d stopped hiding who she was, but the habit remained.

“You look beautiful,” I told her.

“I don’t! I’m ugly! My boobs are too small.”

“Your boobs are perfect.” I said, and it was true. They were tiny, gorgeous little mouthfuls. I could just imagine running my thumb over them until they were hard.

“I just wish they’d go up to an A cup,” Leah sighed. “Or a small B. That would be perfect. That’s all I ask.”

“It’ll happen,” I assured her.

“I’ll have to get implants.”

“No you won’t. Besides, you haven’t tried the dress on yet.”

I should have known better. I knew her better than anyone.

No one would guess, looking at her in her underwear, that she hadn’t had surgery yet. It was expensive, and she was still saving up money, but she knew how to tuck and tape. I zipped up the dress for her and watched her face in the mirror.

“Oh, Sharon…” she breathed as she admired herself. It was exactly the reaction I had hoped for when I did the alterations. It was subtle. Just a little bit of fabric taken in here and let out there, to enhance some features and downplay others, and to give her some of the curves that nature had denied her. Surgeons weren’t the only ones who could nip and tuck to make a woman look beautiful.

I’d been there since the beginning, when the little boy next door would come over to play dress-up with me in secret. We’d cried together as puberty had turned both of us into self-loathing messes, had come out to each other first, had somehow reached adulthood intact.

“I wish…” she touched her larynx.

Sometimes she talked about facial feminization surgery too. So much cutting to make her body what it should have been all along. I kept hoping, for her sake, that once the genital reconstruction was performed, the hormonal changes would convince her that she was beautiful.

I should have known better.

“Tsk, tsk. Have more faith in your seamstress,” I said. I pulled out a silk scarf and tied it around her throat in a loose, fluffy bow. I had taken the dress to four different shops before I’d found the right scarf, that matched it perfectly.

Leah loved it. She hugged me tightly, and I hugged her back. That’s when I knew my mistake, and barely stopped myself before making another. I didn’t kiss her, no matter how badly I wanted to.

“I’d better get dressed too,” I said, and turned around to get my own dress. Turned around before she suspected anything was wrong. I’d been there for every step of Leah’s journey, and I intended to be there for all the rest. That meant I couldn’t act on the feelings I’d just discovered. I knew her better than anyone, and I knew why it wouldn’t work. If only I’d known me a little better.

I should have been more on my guard as she transitioned. I should have realized what was likely to happen as she became more and more feminine.

I should have known better than to fall in love with a straight girl.

Something for the weekend
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Sex Talk Saturday: The Mistress and the Fool (Fiction)

A tarot playing card showing the fool, a brightly dressed young man with a pack over one shoulder and a flower in the other hand. He approaches a precipice with sea waves below, with a white dog happily leaping at his feet.

She introduced herself as Calahan, and no one knew her first name. Her most striking feature was a no nonsense buzz-cut. She had dark skin, maybe part Indian, and was tall, with a muscular build. She wasn’t trying to disguise her gender in any way, but her clothing, haircut, and general presentation was completely masculine. She was an officer in the army, and when she needed some time off base to unwind, she went to his pub to play pool. At least, he thought of it as his pub. He didn’t own it, or even work there. It was just two buildings down from his flat, so he was there most nights.

After a lost bet that had him washing her car with his own shirt, he started calling her Mistress, and she didn’t seem to mind. She even barked orders at him occasionally, as casually as if he were one of her new recruits.

When someone at the office sold him a couple of tickets to a charity ball, he turned up at the pub that night, and took her hand with a bow and a flourish. “Mistress, I beg you will do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to the Memorial Hospital Masquerade Ball.”

She smirked at him. “Beg harder.”

So he did – falling to his knees and hamming it up until she couldn’t stop laughing.

When he saw her that night, he was stunned. He’d never seen her in a dress before, but she’d gone all out – a gold floor-length number that was strapless, backless, clingy, and with a slit up to oh-god-yes. He could even see a hint of a garter strap. She wore a matching half mask, with a few feathers attached.

Gus ogled her openly, and she twirled to show off. “You like it?” she asked, in the tone of a lady who already knew the answer.

“Holy shit, Woman. You look like gold-plated sex.” Gus answered. He was dressed as a Tarot Fool, and he certainly felt the fool next to her.

“Oh? What happened to ‘Mistress’?” she asked.

“I humbly beg forgiveness, Mistress. May your Fool escort you to your carriage?”


The dance passed in a blur. Calahan seemed to know everyone, so Gus wasn’t able to keep her to himself. But whenever he was favoured with a dance, she gave him her complete attention. When the dance style permitted, he indulged in a bit of grinding. He wanted her to know exactly how much she turned him on, even if she slapped him for it. Instead, she leaned close, bit his ear, and whispered, “Not here.”

When the dancing ended, and the Master of Ceremonies went to the mike to start announcing the winners of the various silent auctions, Calahan took his hand. “Let’s get some fresh air,” she said.

Gus wasn’t about to disagree. The pair went outside, doing their best to dodge the inevitable group of smokers near the door, and walked along the quiet downtown streets.

Without warning, Calahan took him in her arms, dipped him low, and gave him the most unforgettable kiss of his life. Was it embarrassing to be so completely dominated by a woman in a public place? Maybe. Was it worth it? Oh hell, yes! Gus clung to her, and kissed her back with every bit of passion he could muster. She finally pulled him up to his feet again, and squeezed his ass. “A promise for later,” she said with a smirk.

Gus pushed her up against the wall. “Fuck ‘later’,” he growled, and this time, he was in control of the kiss, and she was the one in the role of the submissive. If he’d been able to think at all, he might have been surprised that she responded so eagerly, but the closest thing in his mind to a conscious thought was that he had to have her, here and now.

He reached down to pull aside her dress, its scandalous slit giving him easy access, and discovered that she wasn’t wearing panties. He slid a pair of fingers inside, making a come here motion against her G-spot, while his thumb pressed down hard on her clit. She screamed into his mouth, and he kept it up, forcing her to come, again and again, until he finally had mercy on her, taking his fingers out of her pussy and pushing them into her mouth. She sucked on them hungrily and looked into his eyes with a dazed expression.

“Fuck me, please Gus,” she pleaded, when she was finally able to speak. “Stop teasing me.”

He ran a finger down her cheek, and then used it to trace her swollen lips. With a grin on his face, he couldn’t resist answering, “Beg harder.”