Duct Tape and a Rotary Phone

Grover watched the woman getting off the bus.

Her red trench coat almost caught in the door as it automatically shut behind her.

He looked down at the card in his hand.  Something in her eyes had sent shivers through him like he had never felt.  Grover always thought of himself as a tough guy.  A guy who could throw his weight around just as easily to intimidate as to seduce a woman.  His seduction techniques, however, usually required a lot of alcohol, but whatever got him laid was good enough for him…until those eyes.

The simple white card read:

Mistress Betty

416-555-2727

bettythemistress@tmail.ca

Just three lines in a plane courier font.  Nothing else on the card save Grover’s smudged oily fingerprint.

His leather studded jacket crinkled as he put the card in the inside pocket.  He felt the oddest sensation, when his eyes lowered to look at his bare knee poking through his ripped jeans.  He somehow felt unworthy.

“You’re not gonna call her, are ya hun?” Wanda with the pierced tongue asked and slipped her arm under his.

He glanced into her blue eyes, briefly shifting his gaze to the gold stud in her nose, before his mind settled on an answer. “No, of course not. Fucking whore, she is.”

Wanda smiled and kissed his cheek. “I’ll kiss and make it all better when we get back to your place.”

The couple stayed on the bus for five more stops before it was time to rise. Grover pulled the stop request wire and directed Wanda to the back door with his hand at the small of her back. He was more than a full head taller then the petite blonde-ish woman.

They steeped off the bus into the sunshine of early evening.  Sun was something both normally shied away from, but not tonight. They had originally planned to go to the usual vampire club on Shuter Street, an illegal joint that Grover would likely fall asleep at before they returned to his place with just enough time for a quickie before back to work in the morning.

With how much time he spent drunk at the club, Grover wondered why he bothered keeping an apartment and paying rent.  “Wanda, let’s go back to my place.”

“But the club?” Her eyes widened and a smile quickly followed with the realization she would have him to herself all night. “Yes, sir.”

Leather arm in leather arm, they walked up the steps in front of the disheveled building he lived in.

Wanda’s long black skirt swayed at her ankles in the light breeze.

Grover snapped his key in the lock and entered pulling Wanda inside.  The gray walls surrounded him and suddenly felt foreign.

They walked the three flights up to his apartment with boot heels clicking on the bare floors.

The room was black.  White walls were shadowed by heavy black-out blinds covering the windows at the end of the bachelor pad.  A kitchen with beige appliances was shrouded in the darkness.  A small love seat was on one wall across from the tiny television and ghetto blaster, which shared a coffee table.  A double mattress covered in a few rumpled blankets sat on the floor in front of the dark blinds.  A small oak vanity-desk with a cheap swivel chair resided beside the kitchen counter that held a less than  hygenic black microwave.  A green corded phone was planted on top of that.  The laptop computer on the vanity-desk blinked as it slept in front of the mirror.

Grover glanced around the darkness and went to flip his boots off, before realizing the state of the floor and thinking better of it.  He stepped through the garbage scattered on the floor and right on to the mattress.

Wanda followed and gave a hopeful look at the mattress.

Grover pulled the blinds back and the sunlight coming in over Lake Ontario blasted into the room. After a moment for eyes to adjust, he walked off the bed past Wanda and gave her ass a quick squeeze as he passed. He continued back to the desk and pulled the card from his pocket.

Wanda, from behind him, laughed. “Thought you said you weren’t gonna call her. Don’t fuckin’ call her, Grover.”

One more look at it, and he laid it on the desk top.  ”No fucking way,” he whispered.

He stripped his leather coat off and was about to throw it on the love seat but, again, thought better and walked to the closet to hang it up. “Coat?” He held his arm out to Wanda and took it from her once she slipped it off. He hung her coat and pointed to the love seat. “Have a seat.”

Wanda did as instructed. Her bare shoulders white paper against her black tank top.

“Beer?”

She slipped onto the corner of the love seat and folded one leg beneath her. “Yeah, please.”

He opened the fridge and pulled two beer bottles from the fridge.

Other than the case of beer, the only other residents inside the fridge was a couple of cans of Diet Coke and a half eaten steak covered in stretch wrap on a plate.

A quick twist and hisses proved the bottles open before he tossed the metal caps into the open trash bin.

Returning to the desk, he handed one beer to Wanda and sat with the swivel chair squeaking in protest.  Flipping the laptop open, he started his music off with his usual dose of Metallica.  He glanced at the card again, then stared into his own eyes in the dusty mirror.  His brown hair was spiked up a good six inches giving the illusion of spokes.  His blue eyes and extremely pale skin made him the perfect goth.  Even now it was not what he wanted, but always felt like a good fit.

A car honked out on the street below and the sun began to vanish past the lake’s horizon through the large windows.

Grover turned and looked out.  He could not recall the last time he had intentionally watched a sunset.

“Come sit with me.” Wanda sipped her beer and then patted the seat beside her.

Grover grinned. “Yeah.” Standing he moved over and accepted her invitation.

Wanda put her own bottle on the desk and turned to face him. Her hands immediately began working at his belt buckle and zipper.

The beer bottle met his lips for a sip. Leaning back, he awaited for the inevitable.

Wanda did not disappoint. Her hand slipped inside his fly and quickly moved past his briefs to his erection. With little effort, she pulled it free. “Oh my, you’re perfect.” Slipping onto her knees she tugged his pants and briefs down, leaving him bare to the ankles.

“I’m not that big,” he chuckled and sipped again. “But thanks.”

Wanda leaned forward and studied her prize. “I didn’t say you were huge, I said perfect. Huge is not always better as too big is another problem.” Her pierced tongue flicked at his balls, allowing the metal stud to circle each one. “Oh yum.”

Grover smiled, but was not completely paying attention. He barely noticed the tongue and stud as it ran up his shaft. He did notice, however, when the warmth of her hooker red lips took him in…that he could not ignore.

A new tune started, an odd one for his random selections. It was a recording of Sting performing at his Tuscany castle on 9-11 called “All This Time”…and the song Fragile slowly came up.  The music always dragged Grover up from the darkness he felt so comfortable in.

He leaned back in his love seat and allowed Wanda to continue devouring him.  He reached up, as he watched Wanda, and plucked the wig of spiked hair off of his head, laying it aside on the floor.  His balding head always shamed him as he felt he looked too much like his father.

Too much like the man who beat him for years.  The man who told him that a man is not a man unless he gets his hands dirty and oily.  The man who taught him how women deserve to be treated.  The man who taught him that to want a stage career was the first step to being gay, and “no son of mine will fucking be gay…now let’s go work on the car.”

As the sun dipped below view, just leaving an orange vapor, Grover grasped and handful of Wanda’s hair and pulled her down on him to the point where she made a gagging noise. Wanda gagged a few times, but was on a relentless hunt for cum. Only allowing his cock to escape for a single breath and some licks to remind him of the metal stud in her tongue.

Two hours later, Grover awake beside a lightly snoring Wanda with his cum still dropping from between her legs.

Her hands were still bound together with rope, and her ankles with duct tape.

He slipped out from under the covers and went to the fridge. Surprising himself, he pulled a Diet Coke can out rather than his usual beer. He drained half of the can immediately.

Returning to the desk chair, he turned on the small desk light and looked in the mirror again.  He finished the soda.  ”I’m not my father,” he whispered.  ”I’m not my father,” a little louder.  ”I’m not my fucking father!” He threw the can  at the mirror without damage save a few splashes of soda.  His mirror image, however, now had tears rolling down.

Wanda stirred and shifted, but the ruckus did not seem to wake her.

The card sat in front of him on the desk with a drop of spilled cola on one corner.

He picked up the green phone.  After a moment of fighting to get enough cord, he tapped the phone number into the hand set and then held it to his left ear.

A female voice answered.  ”Hello?”

“Hi, I am looking for someone,” Grover said and blushed at how juvenile he sounded.

“This is Mistress Betty.”

Grover felt all his blood drain from his face…and just her voice had a new erection forming in his pants.

Wanda’s voice drifted in, “Grover?  Who are you talking to?”

The Prophet Bob (Illumination, Part 1)

“Martha, get your butt in here and look at this shit, would’ya?”

Martha dried her hands on her ripped white apron that was worn over her bright pink halter top. She walked with the swish of blue jeans into the living room. “Bob, I’m not done the dinner dishes.” Her blonde hair fell behind her like an open flame and her blue eyes were ready to drill holes in her husband.

Bob scratched at the speckled gray in his brown beard. Unlike the hair on his head, which had an unnatural black colour, he never thought to dye his beard. “Shut the fuck up and sit down, woman.”

Martha did as instructed and immediately picked up her knitting from the plastic shopping bag beside the musty green fabric couch they sat on.

The walls of the trailer were adorned in oak panels.

“Is that snow? That don’t look like Houston, Bob. I thought you were watchin’ the Texans.”

“I was,” he answered in a whisper. “They cut in for somethin’.”

“For wha? And where is that.”

Bob brushed popcorn crumbs off his bare beer belly. His jeans were faded and ripped. He took a slow drag on his cigarette before answering more. “Canada, they said they had a world-wide press conference in Canada.”

“Did they turn off the oil again?”

His brown eyes rolled. “Shut the fuck up and watch.” He turned the volume to just above reasonable in the hopes Martha would keep quiet.

The man on the screen was Duncan Phillips, one of the most trusted faces in US journalism. His silver hair and concerned glare kept all the viewers in anticipation of what they would show next. Unlike Jerry Springer, no one threw chairs at Duncan. He was currently interviewing a small blonde man named Jack Lamb.

“Mr. Lamb, what do you anticipate the Prime Minister will say.”

Lamb looked confused at the question. “I really can’t say,” his answer was in a deep voice that would have impressed Darth Vader. “Normally we get some leak or inkling as to what is happening, but this time nothing.”

Phillips nodded. “Could Prime Minister Franks threaten to shut off American oil, again? After the latest beef cattle and soft lumber import tariff increases into the United States…”

Lamb shrugged. “Today’s press conference was completely unexpected. I really am afraid to guess.”

Martha looked up from her knitting. “Dunc looks nervous.”

“How can you tell?” Bob asked with a laugh.

“He’s shivering.”

“It’s Canada. He’s fuckin’ cold.”

“Nah, it’s more than that. He looks angry, probably ’cause he thinks he should already know what will happen and doesn’t. But he also looks scared. Maybe he does know.”

Duncan cut her off from the television. “Prime Minister Franks is approaching the podium. Quickly, a reminder, you are watching a live press conference from Calgary, Alberta on ATV.”

The camera followed a slim tall gray haired man in a dark trench coat as he walked out of the city hall to where a podium filled with microphones awaited him.

In the picture, the blue sky showed in the reflection from the building’s windows, but the snow continued its resistance on the ground.

“Thank you for coming,” Prime Minister Franks spoke with cold white air escaping his lips.

Bob whispered. “Fuckin’ cold there, all right.”

Martha giggled.

“At six fourteen AM mountain standard time, a small craft crashed into the foothills just west of here. There were no casualties, luckily, just a few injuries.”

The press galleries fired off a barrage of questions about geography and local population.

“What the fuck,” Bob gasped.

“What?”

“There’s an elephant in the room, and no one’s askin’.”

“A big pink elephant,” Martha giggled. “Like my wool.”

Bob joined her laugh. “Why is the Prime Minister interrupting my football game for this?”

Finally, the question Bob wanted to ask came from someone in the press gallery. A young woman with a distinctly French accent asked, “Why is the Prime Minister telling us this? Why is Transport Canada not involved.”

The gallery went silent and awaited an answer.

Franks stared at them for a moment. His blue eyes searching his prompters for the right words. A deep breath and the first answer came. “The craft that crashed was not ours.”

Bob laughed. “It was Rusky!”

A howl of questions from the gallery flew asking whether it was a Russian attack, or if the Chinese had infiltrated Canadian air space this far in.

Franks held up his to quiet them. “The craft was neither Russian, nor Chinese, nor Indian nor even American. By ours, I mean the craft was not from Earth.”

That moment was a JFK moment where, from Seattle to Athens, most of the non-sleeping world went silent in contemplation of what Prime Minister Franks had just said.

“The small craft that crashed had seventy-four survivors. Their pilots did an excellent job of bringing it down without causing anyone on board any serious injuries. The survivors, however, are not human.”

No questions, still, from the gallery. Just gasps.

Martha dropped her knitting and took Bob’s hand.

Bob took a long drag on his smoke and then a long sip from the red Budweiser can on the TV tray beside him.

“We do not know much about them, yet. We do know that they have all claimed refugee status.”

Finally a question from the gallery. “We can communicate with them?”

Franks grinned. “Apparently they have been watching our broadcasts for sometime during their approach. A few on board were able to learn English.”

More questions began filtering through.
“Football doesn’t seem so important right now,” Bob said, squeezing her hand.

Little did he know that even the football games had now stopped, and each of the day’s early games were silent and watching the same conference on stadium jumbo-trons.

Prime Minister Franks smiled. “We are not quite ready, but we will introduce our visitors.”

A question from the French reporter. “Why aren’t you ready.”

“I said there were no casualties. There were, however, some injuries we would like to have them heal before throwing them in the spotlight.

“Martha,” Bob whispered. “The aliens have landed.”

“I know.” Her mouth was wide.

“I’m gettin’ my rifle. Think I should get dressed first, though.” Bob stood and walked to the bedroom where he changed into black slacks and blazer with a white button collared shirt. He then went to the garage where he kept his rifle locked up. A quick ammo check and, without further words, they both got into their gold pick-up truck.

They drove in silence, scared of what was to come. What this all meant.

Perhaps more importantly, neither realized, however, that the rifle with them would be the weapon to start the next world war.

A Night At The Theatre

Movie Theater by  Rob DiCaterinoThe screen went to black, as it always did just after the adverts and before the opening credits began.

Leo looked around the near empty theatre. Other than he and his date there was only one other couple who sat about in the middle.

The music began to rise and the screen filled with the names of famous actors and directors.

As the first face appeared on the screen, a man in a ten gallon hat, Leo wondered if in some alternate universe those on the screen would be watching the crowd. He wondered if they would notice that his date, the brunette goddess Stacy, had tugged his fly down in search of her snack.

Many times Stacy had told Leo that semen was much healthier than popcorn. Leo knew better than to argue and also felt her idea was much more enjoyable for him.

The couple had seen many bad or late run films this way. Usually with characters shooting each other on the screen as Stacy licked Leo’s balls and cock.

As always, Stacy had his erection out easily and with out scratching from the zipper. She gave the other couple a quick glance to confirm privacy before running the tip of her tongue around the crown of his erection. She pushed her tongue tip into the little hole on top, gave the tip a hard wet kiss and then allowed her lips to slide down around it.

Leo reached behind the petite woman and lifted her skirt. She was short enough that his hand could play with her clit and pussy while his thumb easily pushed into her ass. Soon, all his fingers found their goal.

Stacy, with a giggle and sigh at his hand, continued her work. Due to the angle, she could not take him as deep as she normally would have liked, but she worked the rest with her fists.

For twenty minutes the couple continued, only giving passing glances to the screen, but all the while keeping a close eye on the other couple who seemed to be in a close snuggle and watching the film intently.

Stacy stopped and lifted herself to kiss Leo’s neck before whispering in his ear, “I can’t do this.”

“Oh?” Leo glanced at her with concern.

Stacy’s devious grin relaxed him. “I just need you to fuck me.” She stood and quickly reverse straddled him. Pulling her skirt up just enough as she lowered onto him, grasping his cock in one hand to aim.

Leo stifled his own moans. His hands slid beneath her sweater and each found a breast to squeeze and caress.

Stacy raised as the movie music raised, and lowered as the music lowered, slow at first, but pace quickening while keeping her silence as best as she could. Her own breathing was sigh after sigh until her orgasm shuddered through her. She kept going, even after her own climax, until she milked the cum from Leo’s cock as well.

Leo’s cum dripped to the floor from between her legs after she released him.

Folding the now flaccid erection back into his pants, Leo tugged his zipper back up.

Stacy grasped his arm and snuggled into his shoulder. “So what did we miss?”

Life, University, and Everything

“We’ll be quick about it,” Kelvin whispered in her ear.

Stacy turned and glared with an amused smile.  “Why quick?  Quiet I understand.  It’s a library, not a fucking race track.”

Kelvin was eye-to-eye with Stacy…with her four-inch boot heels, at least.  His gray fringed hair and creased face gave him double glances as people thought that Captain Picard was around as he passed.  His black suit, black tie and white shirt were all neatly pressed to the point of absurdity and his black leather shoes were mirror like in their shine.

Stacy’s straight black hair fell to just below her shoulders.  It swayed as she shook her head and folded her arms across her chest covered in a navy knit sweater and turtleneck.  Her long jean skirt fell to just above her ankles where the stiletto black boots poked out.

Kelvin’s blue eyes rolled.  “Okay, we’ll be quiet about it.”

A curt nod.  “That’s better.  However…” One hand shot up and pointed a long finger square in the middle of his muscled chest.  “Quiet may be good, but it is better if I have to fight to stay quiet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, what are you going to do?”  She backed away between stacks of books.  The light coming in from the large windows behind her cast her shadow at his feet.

Kelvin followed between the stacks until they were half way.  A copy of Douglas Adams’ “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” caught his eye.  “You should read that.”

Stacy’s eyes squinted.  “What?”

“That.”  Kelvin’s eyes directed her to the book.

Following his gaze, Stacy knew which book and turned to pull it from the shelf.  “Ah yes, the story of Arthur, Ford Prefect, Trillium or Tisha and the Great Zaphod Beeblebrox.”

Kelvin stepped behind her and quickly pulled his belt open.  “Don’t forget Marvin.”  His hand tugged his zipper down.

Stacy bent slightly forward and leaned on the shelf.  “Yes, the moody robot with the ‘Genuine People Personality’.  How could I forget?”

His hands quickly raised the jean skirt to just above her bare, commando ass.  The black boots rose to the tops of her thighs with only the lacy tops of her stockings showing above.

Kelvin growled as he slipped his underwear waistband down.

Stacy glanced back as she felt the first nuzzling of his erection pushing between her legs.  “What, no foreplay?”

“Oh, sorry.”  Kelvin immediately pulled his underwear back up and then dropped to his knees.  “Don’t forget the improbability drive.’

Stacy’s next words were more pleasurable groan than language.  “Oohhhhh yes, the Starship Heart of Gold, I know it well.  There’s a good boy.”

Kelvin’s slurps were light and playful and quickly felt Stacy’s pussy being shoved further and further onto his face.

“Just no Vogon poetry, please…no fucking Vogon poetry.”

His fingers pushed inside her as his tongue explored and his ears perked up at her half moaned words.

“You know, in the movie I thought casting Mos Def as Prefect was inspired.  He played it so understated…stand up hun, I want the cock now.”

Kelvin did not argue and stood behind her again slipping his cock back out.

Nearby voices passed between other stacks as they quietly searched for books.

“Good boy,” Stacy whispered as she felt Kelvin’s hardness push into her this time.

Kelvin stood at an awkward angle, bending at his knees just enough to aim for her pussy as he began thrusting into her.

Stacy smiled as she fondled the book on the shelf.  “And one can never forget the Bugblatter Beast of Traal.  Oh fuck yeah, harder, darlin’.”

Kelvin increased his speed and force to the point where his inbound thrusts created a light smack.

The nearby female voices broke into a giggle.

Stacy followed the noise and saw two of the young university women watching from the end of the stack.

A quick grin from Stacy and the two younger women came closer as though she had called them.  Both wore tee-shirts and jeans.  The athletic blonde in the tight pink tee was taller than Stacy.  The other, another brunette, was shorter and had some curves.

“What’s your names?”  Stacy held the book for balance still.

“I’m Marta,” said the blonde.  “This is Vicky.”

Stacy allowed her left hand to release the book and pulled Marta close to exchange a deep kiss with dancing tongues.  “Mmmm, Marta, you’re delicious.  I’m Stacy.”  Her head gestured back at the man currently fucking her.  “My friend here is Kelvin.”

Marta giggled and backed away a few steps.

Vicky, however, immediately stepped forward for an even deeper kiss from Stacy.  “You’re not so bad, yourself,” she whispered with little breath left.

Stacy smiled.  “Who wants a turn?”

Both young women quickly had their jeans down revealing already wet pussies.

Kelvin backed away to let Marta around past.

All three women leaned on the shelf and exchanged light kisses between them.

Kelvin, now faced with three options, started with Marta and pushed into her tightness with a gasp.

Stacy watched over her shoulder with a sly grin.  “So, have either of you read this?”  She held the book again.

Both younger women shook their heads negative…Marta with eyes closed enjoying the pounding Kelvin was now quietly giving her.

Stacy reached around behind Vicky and slipped her fingers in to squeeze her clit.

Vicky gasped and almost slammed her head on the shelf.

“You should,” Stacy whispered.  “It is a story of the meaning of life.”

Kelvin pulled out of Marta and moved to Vicky.

Marta asked as she caught her breath, “The meaning of life?”

Stacy switched hands and slipped her fingers into Marta this time.  “Yes, the meaning of life, the universe and everything.  Forty-two.”

The smaller Vicky pushed back against Kelvin more forcefully.  “Damn, he’s bigger than my boyfriend.”

“Hush now, we’re discussing the book.”

Kelvin groaned and was unable to stop from ejaculating deep into Vicky.

Stacy stood up and smiled as her jean skirt fell back to her ankles.  “Nice.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Vicky moaned.

Stacy kissed Vicky deeply again.  “I hope you know where your towel is.”

Erection Time Again

No, not a typoh. Apparently my southern neighbors are back into election mode and this note is about a much more important question.

I have asked this twice on Twitter this week and have yet to get a proper answer. The question is:

If the erection lasts more than four hours and no Viagra was involved…then what happens?

Do 72 virgins come out to play?
Is a guy left with his own best hand?
Is there a support group?

Much fun as a four hour erection might be, even a goddess would tire of playing with it…suggesting group sex or a poly-network may be the solution for such difficult and trying times.

Okay, the 72 virgins was exaggeration but imagine Al Michael’s doing the *ahem* blow-by-blow coverage.

“…and now Emma, the brunette with the snake tattoo is on him and sheeeee…TAKES him in!”

One final note on the virgins…I have always been a fan of more experienced…dare I say I am now a huge fan of “The Ethical Slut” and have little use for one virgin, never mind 72.

More seriously, what single female would want to deal with an erection for four hours…unless she had some scientific goal in mind, perhaps wanting to prove Robin Williams hypothesis that male blood can only fuel one head at one time. Then again, four hours of thinking with the little head is not unusual for a guy…erect or not.

Considering how the erection is, generally deemed as unacceptable still…when is the last time an erect penis was shown in a Hollywood blockbuster? …even covered, not often.

An erect penis is meant to be played with. It cries out for women to grab hold, stroke, ride and hang on…is it not? Or for other guys if one so swings that way.

A woman (or, again, so inclined men) should be proud of every she rides as that erection was created for her.

Every man should be thankful for anyone who plays with his erection…thankful that they could give him such pleasure whether by hand or lips or whatever.

And let us be honest…any man claiming to have never tasted his own cum is lying. All have tried. Most more than once. Quite a number would love to have some shared with them after ejaculating into the lover’s mouth.

Seems this note has gone completely off the initial track and…in truest Monty Python-esque style, it ends here as it won’t get any better…

Little Death in the Snow

“So Mike? Who do we have here?”

Mike stopped and put his tech case down. “Something odd about this one, Dawn.”

Dawn’s shoulder length red hair flitted about and the bottom of her long black parka whipped at her legs as snow fell sideways. In a sense, she felt it lucky this one happened close to home and she did not have to drive far down Acadia Drive to the park. However, a murder victim was the last the RCMP officer wanted to be dealing with at any time, never mind at three in the morning during a blizzard. “What, the other five haven’t been weird enough?”

“Well, yeah, but…” he was nearly yelling over the wind which whistled as it went past. His eyes shuttering open and closed as the snow flakes tried to invade his body.

“Let me guess.” Dawn glanced over at the scrawny body dangling naked from the tree. “She’s forty something, has great kids and a husband…”

“Four kids, yeah.”

“Teacher, librarian or church secretary?”

Mike attempted a grin with the snow continuing to flog his lips. “Librarian, but she was an atheist.”

“And now she is dangling from a tree after being fucked to death by the biggest cock mankind has ever seen. What’s weird about that, Mike?” Dawn’s mind shot back to Joseph in her bed when she got the call this morning. Dawn had been riding mid-orgasm herself and somehow, just from the ring, she already knew what the ring was about. She felt horrible leaving the big man in that state, but he was such a nice guy and understood about duty not only calling, but getting in the middle of a good fuck. She would have to call him later this morning and see if they could finish her orgasm.

“Well, the time is weird.”

“Time? ‘Splain yourself, nerd.”

Mike chuckled. “Time of death puts us at thirteen hours.”

“Right.”

“The storm didn’t start until ten last night. Thirteen hours ago it was sunny and clear.”

Dawn glanced around, much easier with her glasses playing defense against the attacking snow. “Too close to the road for this to have not been seen. Our time must be off.”

Mike shrugged.

“Or was she placed here? Dammit, man, you got me out of bed for this?”

“Georgina Devonshire, 53, mother of four and allegedly devoted wife that just celebrated her twenty-eighth anniversary with husband, Walter. Works at the library over at Southcentre and has been a model employee pretty much since they built it back in the late 70s.” Mike put his large beefy arm around her shoulders and pulled her close for some warmth as they walked towards his vehicle. “Can we talk in the van? Too fucking cold out here.”

Dawn agreed and slipped her arm around the large techie to help warm him. She got in the passenger side as Mike walked around the black vehicle and got in. “So, thoughts?”

“Who was he?”

Dawn blinked twice and smiled. “Who was who?”

Mike cocked his head, ever the father. “Please, woman, I have two teen girls at home. I can tell when I have interrupted them.”

“Joseph.”

Mike smiled. “Oh, good, you’re liking him, aren’t you.”

Rolling her eyes, she changed the subject, “Can we talk about the case?”

He sighed and the white breath filtered from his lips. “One other weird thing.”

“Okay?”

“Her knees are dirty.”

Dawn shrugged. “Blow jobs aren’t as kinky as they once were, Mike.”

He laughed. “No, but none of the other victims had any traces of semen in their mouths. We’ll check her mouth when we get her to the lab and she may be the first to have blown the guy.”


Across Acadia Drive…

He watched the police as they wandered about the park like rats in a maze. A maze he had created but, little did they know, there was no cheese to be found. His chair was just far enough back from the window so that no one could get a glimpse of his pale skin.

He had not tried this so close to home before. Mostly he had left his prey in warehouses over near the airport, but this time he had craved a little more excitement.

He remembered Georgina’s squeal of excitement as he began tearing at her clothes. Due to the snow it seemed unlikely that the police had found her shredded clothes.

She had dropped to her knees, naked in front of him, and taken his erection in her mouth. It was the first time he had experienced such and, from his enjoyment, it would not be the last. He was not certain what would happen had she finished him with her mouth, but could not take that chance.
Instead, he had tied her wrists and dangled her from the tree. Both her wrists snapped like twigs, but considering both she and he knew where this was leading a few broken bones were not going to stop them.

He ran his brush through his long blonde hair as he continued to watch the police searching the park. A quick check of his shoulder brought a chuckle at seeing the red teeth marks.

Most screamed their pleasure of his erection entering their bodies. Skinny Georgina, however, had bitten his shoulder as she wrapped her legs around him, linking them at the ankles. Unlike previous times, his orgasm was quick…he blamed the blow job for warming him up too much. He still, however, devoured her energy as she got to an orgasm herself as well and then, as all did, willingly gave him what he needed in the snow.

They always gave it to him happily. The women all understood what he was doing and why he needed them. Plus, in return, they felt the greatest pleasure they would ever feel. It was funny that the police had only found six so far this time.

He sat bolt upright in his chair as his eyes caught the one he searched for. “There you are,” his deep voice whispered. “Officer Dawn McCoy.”

A large man, a forensics tech he guessed, had his arm around the petite redhead and was leading her to a van.
He smiled and ran his brush through his hair more. If only she knew what she was. If only these humans had not convinced her she was one of them.

She would, however, soon be with him.

His hand fell to a newly formed erection as he watched her get in the van as his mind wandered to thoughts of how it would feel to fuck her…to mate with one of the only woman on the planet he knew of that he would not kill.

The Book of Lilly

“So give me the goddamn thing.”

Potsy eyed the man before speaking.  “I don’t think so.”

“Well if you don’t know what the fuck it is, why should it matter to you?”

Sir Charles, or so he claimed was his name, was a very tall mammoth of an African Canadian.  Potsy felt he even looked like “Sir” Charles Barkley, the basketball player…however, his tattered clothing suggested that this Sir Charles did not quite make the same amount of coin as Barkley did.  The two currently stood, eye to chest, in the GO Bus terminal just across from Union Station.

The GO Buses, the provincially run intercity buses, would normally hustle downtown commuters out to the sleeping suburbs like Mississauga, Newmarket, Burlington or Guelph each day.  At four o’clock on a Sunday morning, however, it was deserted…other than Potsy, the massive Sir Charles and a three of Sir Charles’ closest friends.

This was the last place Potsy had expected to find himself after Flying Carl, the dead homeless guy that he and his friends had found earlier.  At Tammy’s urging, Potsy had hidden the crystal ring and chain that Flying Carl had given him with his dying words and did not mention it during the police interviews.  Flying Carl was a name that Bill had given the dead man as they drove home an hour later.

They had arrived back at Bill and Potsy’s shared condo and, as a group, made love.  Potsy and Bill had regularly discussed sex, and even watched each other, but this was the first time they had shared partners.  At one point, both Tammy and Mary were riding Potsy’s erection and referred to him as a god.  Potsy, however, was simply laying on the living room floor while they did all the work.

A bit later Mary was straddling his face and he was fingering Tammy who was also up on her knees beside him.  The fact that a mouth engulfed his dick was not the most shocking part.  Even Bill, after sucking on him for a while, then saying “You’re like a god, man.” did not shock him.  The fact that Potsy found this entire activity rather dull and these three useless, however, did.

Two hours ago he had stood in the bay window of Bill’s bedroom with his naked body looking out over the naked city from 27 floors up.  The three all slept in the bed behind him, both women with their heads close to Bill’s lap at the ready to spring into action should a random erection occur.  Potsy reached into his jacket and found the crystal ring.  He held it up and looked at its glow from the city lights and how it twisted refracting different colours that seemed to change with every passing second.

He had to know what it was.

He made his way quietly back to his own bedroom.  Dressed and found his long black leather coat.  He was what Neo would have looked like with light brown hair and no sunglasses as he made his way out of the building and back to the scene.

Phil Copeland, one of the police officers that had interviewed him saw him.  “Can’t sleep?  Too much shock.”

Potsy nodded and smiled.  “Yeah, something like that.  Did you guys talk to any of the other homeless who saw it happen?  There were some watching from over there.” He pointed to the southwest corner of Front and Yonge.

Officer Copeland had a similar shape to Flying Carl in that they both resembled pears.  His black uniform and fluorescent yellow jacket did nothing to help him.  “You mentioned that, but we never found anyone who said they saw it.”  He shrugged.  “I can tell you they found no drugs or alcohol in the victim’s body, so it was simply a misadventure.  Suicide or psychotic episode, we will probably never know, but the man was in fantastic health.”

Potsy thanked him and walked around the taped off area and down towards where he had seen the group.  Walking down along the street and into the empty GO Terminal where he met one Sir Charles and his posse.

Now, still eye to chest with Sir Charles, he found himself looking at the dirty white tee-shirt under the heavy felt coat.  “Sir Charles, just tell me what it is.”

Charles brown eyes burned down at him.  “Or else what?”

Potsy shrugged.  “Or else I’ll take it to the local pawn shop and see what happens.”

Charles and his posse all broke into laughter.

“You have no fucking idea, do you?”

Potsy shrugged again, feeling the tension releasing with their laughter.

Sir Charles arose back up to intimidation status, however, and stated, “If you would be kind enough to give it to me, I will be kind enough not to mash your skull into the pavement.”

Potsy wanted to shrink, as he normally would have, but something in him stopped it.  “You can’t do that,” he hissed at Charles.

“CHARLES!” a woman’s voice called from a shadowed bus shelter.  “You know better.”

Charles’ shoulders slumped like a guilty school boy.  He glanced over at the shadow that now approached and nodded.

The shadow was tiny, no more than five foot and a very trim female form.  She had curly brunette hair that was unevenly cut at her shoulders.  “Please forgive my friend here, but…” Her clothes were like a dusty homeless cat suit, mostly black, that showed off gorgeous curves on her petite frame.

Potsy shook his head.  “This is like a bad scene out of a movie here.”

She offered her hand.  “I’m Book.”

“Book?”  Potsy shook his head again.  “Isn’t that the character name that Neil Gaiman uses in Neverwhere?”

She laughed and covered her mouth with her wrist.  “You’ve read it?”

Potsy nodded.  “Saw the mini series even.”

“Okay, I’m Lilly then.  I like the name Book as it has such a mysterious feel to it.  Oh well.”

He shook her hand this time. “Potsy.”

“Potsy?” She mocked. “Isn’t that the character name from Happy Days?”

“Yeah, but it’s my real name.”

Lilly shrugged. “So you have the crystal, do you?”

Potsy carefully eyed Sir Charles before nodding.

“Notice anything different?”

“Like what?”

She laughed. “Lack of interest. Doing something extraordinarily well that, perhaps you were average at before.”

Potsy pretended not to understand.

“Try wearing it,” Lilly suggested.

“What is it?”

“Just fucking try it.”

“Lilly?” Sir Charles stepped in sheepishly. “Perhaps Carl made a bad choice.”

“Charles, take it from him. Inside left pocket of his trench coat,” Lilly ordered.

Two of Charles’ friends stepped up and each grabbed one of Potsy’s arms.

In an even deeper timbre than normal, Charles said, “This won’t hurt a bit.”

Potsy struggled to no avail and was surprised by their strength. “Wait…”

Charles reached in and, as Lilly had predicted found the large crystal hoop on the chain. He smiled broadly and pulled back. “I have it.”

Lilly smiled at it as well. She gave another order, “Put it on him.”

The smile on Charles’ face vanished. “But…”

A glare from Lilly silenced the question.

As ordered, Charles unlatched the chain. Walking behind Potsy, Charles slipped it around Potsy’s neck and clasped it again at the back.

Potsy felt warmth course through before everything went black.

Sleeping Alone…

…sux!

Those random erections are a real bitch. Yes, a guy can deal with them on his own, but one does tire of this. There are only so many tissues in the world and someone to swallow saves trees.

That’s one theory, anyway.

Truth is, this is Canada and it is getting cold. In most countries spring brings about thoughts of romance and growing young love…in Canada, once the dining room table has been chopped up for kindling, the mind turns to the fact that one has no one to snuggle with tonight.

There is the old cliche joke: “You really thought all I wanted to do was snuggle?” In this country, however, once one has survived nights at forty below (and at that temp, it makes no difference when talking Imperial or Metric), snuggling is an option. The fact that while snuggling an erection may accidentally slip inside for added warmth…well…

The northern states south of Canada’s borders understand…or north if speaking of Cheeseheads of Wisconsin or the silly people that choose to live in Alaska.

Really, the Americans should trade Canada…Alaska for Toronto would be a fair deal, no? Canada gets more oil and seal blubber in exchange for the Americans getting a population of two million that the rest of Canada resents.

Now, there is something Canadians are experts at…the threesome. And this particular writer has been too long since his last experience in such. This, of course, is where one is much too cold and drinks three large beer steins very fast in the hopes of feeling warm and passing out. The orgy, of course, is rare as there simply are not enough domesticated polar bears to go around.

Threesomes are, all joking aside (as if), are something most do not know how to take. Regardless of gender, the single one is usually fine with it. Those saying that they can only focus on one man/woman…this actually translates to “I’ve never been offered a threesome and rather than admit disappointment, I’ll just say I don’t like it.” The two of a threesome that share a gender have other issues.

Most guys seeing two women make out think it is hot…until he realizes that they are lesbian and he has been completely left out of the threesome as they are too into each other to bother with him.

Two men, in a threesome, have the issue of “gay” dangling over them in case something happens that crosses “that” line. Serious, unless one male is sodomizing the other, nothing “gay” is happening. Even if sodomizing does happen, one homosexual act does not make a guy gay…being attracted to other men and doing such acts often does.

It is something of a funny line when bisexual women are hot and bisexual men are questioned…generally. Bible thumpers will question either and then go off with their mistress, pastor and three small sheep for that orgy in the back room…but they will question anyone on being bisexual as being sinful.

Those doing the questioning are the ones that should be judged, regardless. Odds are that they are only watching what happens in the neighbor’s bedrooms because nothing is happening in their own.

Then again, those in a kink lifestyle will never be questioned as they do not limit themselves to sex in the bedroom…much harder to find when one has sex in random places such as public lavatories, back seat of cars, street corners, or church pews.

So long as all are on the same page, all are consenting adults, and all enjoy themselves…the Bible thumpers should mind their own fucking business and look into why they need an imaginary friend in the sky in the first place.

This writer, however, will have a threesome again…imagine the warmth that will bring.