Jane Davitt's Blog, page 5
December 22, 2016
Day Twenty-Two of Advent
Part Five
We go back to the cabin. After a kiss like that, I want more. It was over too soon, despite my full cooperation, John tearing his mouth away at the first touch of my tongue on his, staring at me with huge, shocked eyes. But when I’d taken a second kiss, then a third, he’d gotten with the program.
I try stepping on the patch of ground that’d taken me back to my time, but with no result. So we walk back through the snowy woods, in silence for the most part, lost in thoughts we’re ready to share.
John breaks the silence when we’re within sight of the cabin. “I must believe my eyes and that means I must accept your story. But I’ll not hide from you how little I wish it to be true. This changes everything.”
I nod. I’ve never met someone from the future, and I know I’d be skeptical as hell, but the concept’s one I’m familiar with. For John, not so much. Back to the Future won’t be filmed for two centuries and Mark Twain won’t write about Yankees in King Arthur’s court for a while either.
“Just don’t ask me what’s going to happen. For one thing, I’m hazy on the details.”
“Your world…your time…it’s different?”
“Oh God, so different.” I want to tell him stuff. Give him hope for the future, amaze him. No. I want to show off, brag about indoor plumbing and men on the moon, show him my useless cell phone and make him grasp what it can do. “We’ve screwed—we’ve made mistakes. Huge ones. But we’ve done incredible things too. And I’ll tell you one thing. That kiss we shared? You could’ve done that to me in the middle of a busy town and no one would’ve batted an eye. Men can marry men and women can marry women in Canada, the States, hell, most of Europe.”
He shakes his head. “That I can’t accept, but it explains your boldness.”
“Hey, you’re the one who kissed me,” I remind him. “First time for you?”
He hunches his shoulder and looks away, which is as clear a ‘yes’ as it gets.
“Well, you’re a natural,” I tell him. “And if you want to do more than kiss, I’m good with that.”
He doesn’t pretend not to know what I mean which is a relief. A thought occurs to me. “They’ve dried up in my time, but there used to be hot springs around here somewhere. I read about them. Do you know where they are?”
“Aye, they lie a short walk away, but why do you want to go there?”
I sacrifice tact for honesty. “Because we stink.”
The springs would barely merit a mention in a guidebook, but they bubble up, steaming in the frigid air, creating a pool some twenty feet wide, fringed by snowbanks. I test the water and all but moan with ecstasy. Hot, muddy at the bottom, yeah, but deep enough not to matter. “I’m going in. If I get frostbite afterward, it’s worth it.”
I strip, with his gaze never leaving me, draping my clothes over an outcrop of rock. The snow burns cold against my soles, but I ignore it, plunging into the pool with a yell that echoes off the trees.
It’s heaven. I’m warm for the first time in what feels like weeks, I float on my back and gesture to John. “Come on in. Or can’t you swim?”
“I can swim,” he tells me. “But I’ve no wish to catch a cold.”
“Colds are caused by germs, not getting cold,” I say. “And germs love dirty skin. Come on. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He bites his lip, then shrugs and strips before sliding into the water beside me. I catch his arms and wrap myself around him, exuberant and turned on. There’s a way home out there and a hot naked guy skinny-dipping with me. It’s something to smile about.
It’s not long before we’re kissing again, but with no clothing in the way, his reaction’s impossible to miss. I reach down and caress his cock, coaxing a gasp out of him. He’s bigger than me and I work my jaw in anticipation, wondering how he’ll taste, how wide he’ll stretch my lips.
Not my ass. I top, never bottom, and God knows what historical STDs are around. I’d put money on John being clean, but better safe than sorry.
There’s a ledge of rock running along one side of the pool. I tow him over to it. “Sit on that.”
“I’ll freeze,” he objects.
“It won’t be for long.” His first blowjob? He’s in for a treat, but I’ll be lucky if I get more than a few sucks before he spills.
When I take my first lick he shudders, struggles to back away, but I grab his thighs and click my tongue reprovingly. “Relax, big guy. This is going to feel incredible, trust me.”
“Trust you?” He laughs at that. “Have I done anything else since I found you?”
“I don’t know, but talk later, whimper my name now.”
And he does.
We go back to the cabin. After a kiss like that, I want more. It was over too soon, despite my full cooperation, John tearing his mouth away at the first touch of my tongue on his, staring at me with huge, shocked eyes. But when I’d taken a second kiss, then a third, he’d gotten with the program.
I try stepping on the patch of ground that’d taken me back to my time, but with no result. So we walk back through the snowy woods, in silence for the most part, lost in thoughts we’re ready to share.
John breaks the silence when we’re within sight of the cabin. “I must believe my eyes and that means I must accept your story. But I’ll not hide from you how little I wish it to be true. This changes everything.”
I nod. I’ve never met someone from the future, and I know I’d be skeptical as hell, but the concept’s one I’m familiar with. For John, not so much. Back to the Future won’t be filmed for two centuries and Mark Twain won’t write about Yankees in King Arthur’s court for a while either.
“Just don’t ask me what’s going to happen. For one thing, I’m hazy on the details.”
“Your world…your time…it’s different?”
“Oh God, so different.” I want to tell him stuff. Give him hope for the future, amaze him. No. I want to show off, brag about indoor plumbing and men on the moon, show him my useless cell phone and make him grasp what it can do. “We’ve screwed—we’ve made mistakes. Huge ones. But we’ve done incredible things too. And I’ll tell you one thing. That kiss we shared? You could’ve done that to me in the middle of a busy town and no one would’ve batted an eye. Men can marry men and women can marry women in Canada, the States, hell, most of Europe.”
He shakes his head. “That I can’t accept, but it explains your boldness.”
“Hey, you’re the one who kissed me,” I remind him. “First time for you?”
He hunches his shoulder and looks away, which is as clear a ‘yes’ as it gets.
“Well, you’re a natural,” I tell him. “And if you want to do more than kiss, I’m good with that.”
He doesn’t pretend not to know what I mean which is a relief. A thought occurs to me. “They’ve dried up in my time, but there used to be hot springs around here somewhere. I read about them. Do you know where they are?”
“Aye, they lie a short walk away, but why do you want to go there?”
I sacrifice tact for honesty. “Because we stink.”
The springs would barely merit a mention in a guidebook, but they bubble up, steaming in the frigid air, creating a pool some twenty feet wide, fringed by snowbanks. I test the water and all but moan with ecstasy. Hot, muddy at the bottom, yeah, but deep enough not to matter. “I’m going in. If I get frostbite afterward, it’s worth it.”
I strip, with his gaze never leaving me, draping my clothes over an outcrop of rock. The snow burns cold against my soles, but I ignore it, plunging into the pool with a yell that echoes off the trees.
It’s heaven. I’m warm for the first time in what feels like weeks, I float on my back and gesture to John. “Come on in. Or can’t you swim?”
“I can swim,” he tells me. “But I’ve no wish to catch a cold.”
“Colds are caused by germs, not getting cold,” I say. “And germs love dirty skin. Come on. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He bites his lip, then shrugs and strips before sliding into the water beside me. I catch his arms and wrap myself around him, exuberant and turned on. There’s a way home out there and a hot naked guy skinny-dipping with me. It’s something to smile about.
It’s not long before we’re kissing again, but with no clothing in the way, his reaction’s impossible to miss. I reach down and caress his cock, coaxing a gasp out of him. He’s bigger than me and I work my jaw in anticipation, wondering how he’ll taste, how wide he’ll stretch my lips.
Not my ass. I top, never bottom, and God knows what historical STDs are around. I’d put money on John being clean, but better safe than sorry.
There’s a ledge of rock running along one side of the pool. I tow him over to it. “Sit on that.”
“I’ll freeze,” he objects.
“It won’t be for long.” His first blowjob? He’s in for a treat, but I’ll be lucky if I get more than a few sucks before he spills.
When I take my first lick he shudders, struggles to back away, but I grab his thighs and click my tongue reprovingly. “Relax, big guy. This is going to feel incredible, trust me.”
“Trust you?” He laughs at that. “Have I done anything else since I found you?”
“I don’t know, but talk later, whimper my name now.”
And he does.
December 21, 2016
Day Twenty-One of Advent
Since it's solstice, here's a related one. Plus, I've been out all day and now we're heading out to eat :-)
Solstice. Jim knows all about its significance and rituals -- Blair's made sure of that -- but what Jim hasn't shared with Blair is that he already knows what matters about this night.
Longest night. The night when winter's grip begins to slacken and the spinning earth tips towards a far distant spring.
In theory, anyway. Jim knows (can feel it in his bones) that there's a cold snap on its way; that maybe they'll have a rare white Christmas; that frost and bone-deep chill will linger long past tonight.
It doesn't matter. Spring's no better than winter, not really. They're both necessary states; the earth sleeping and waking.
Jim just likes to feel the balance shift, and he always can. Impossible to describe to Blair; it would rob the feeling of its magic and Jim's selfish enough to want to keep that deeply satisfying certainty of change to himself.
When he feels it, this time when the blood-red sun splashes the sky scarlet as it sinks beneath the horizon, he walks over to Blair and gathers him up in a hug, holding him tight, breathing in Blair's scent with every breath he takes.
Blair stirs in his arms and gives him a bemused smile. "What was that for?"
Jim shakes his head and lets Blair kiss his pensive mood away; sweet, slow kisses, loving kisses, kisses that leave Jim helplessly murmuring endearments as he undresses Blair in the flickering light of the fire, baring warm skin to be touched and adored.
It's dark outside now, but Jim doesn't care how long the night is. Sunrise will come in time, but he's holding the promise of renewal and hope in his arms.
Solstice. Jim knows all about its significance and rituals -- Blair's made sure of that -- but what Jim hasn't shared with Blair is that he already knows what matters about this night.
Longest night. The night when winter's grip begins to slacken and the spinning earth tips towards a far distant spring.
In theory, anyway. Jim knows (can feel it in his bones) that there's a cold snap on its way; that maybe they'll have a rare white Christmas; that frost and bone-deep chill will linger long past tonight.
It doesn't matter. Spring's no better than winter, not really. They're both necessary states; the earth sleeping and waking.
Jim just likes to feel the balance shift, and he always can. Impossible to describe to Blair; it would rob the feeling of its magic and Jim's selfish enough to want to keep that deeply satisfying certainty of change to himself.
When he feels it, this time when the blood-red sun splashes the sky scarlet as it sinks beneath the horizon, he walks over to Blair and gathers him up in a hug, holding him tight, breathing in Blair's scent with every breath he takes.
Blair stirs in his arms and gives him a bemused smile. "What was that for?"
Jim shakes his head and lets Blair kiss his pensive mood away; sweet, slow kisses, loving kisses, kisses that leave Jim helplessly murmuring endearments as he undresses Blair in the flickering light of the fire, baring warm skin to be touched and adored.
It's dark outside now, but Jim doesn't care how long the night is. Sunrise will come in time, but he's holding the promise of renewal and hope in his arms.
December 20, 2016
Day Twenty of Advent
Part Four
“That’s not Borden.” I say it with conviction, staring at the cluster of buildings in the distance.
There’s a milestone at my feet telling me it is, but it’s not. It can’t be. And yet… The land’s the same, the hills rolling up to the sky, the river over to my right. The hills are covered with trees, not houses, but they’re familiar in shape.
I sink onto the stone, desperately searching for a way to make this work that doesn’t leave me stranded in the past, so far away from my life, my world, that a full-blown panic attack is the only response I can come up with.
John crouches beside me, concern softening the chill in his eyes that’s been there since I over-shared. “What ails you?”
“What year is it?” I grab at his arms and shake him. “If you don’t want me to run in circles screaming, tell me the truth. What year is this?”
“1753. How can you not know that?”
Oh what the hell. He thinks I’m nuts anyway. “Yesterday, until I got lost in the woods, it was 2016. Don’t ask me how, but I’ve traveled back in time. How many years are we talking about? Every book or movie, it’s usually a nice, neat number, dammit. I can’t do the math.”
“Two hundred and sixty-three,” he says immediately.
“Great. Wonderful. Okay, I have to be careful not to change anything.” I stand, weirdly energized. “Talk to as few people as possible. Not get killed. Don’t tell you what’s going to happen, which is easy because I sucked at history. Canadians don’t have as much of it as other people, if you ask me.”
“Lies blacken the soul.”
“Yeah, yeah. But I’m not.” I pluck at my jacket. “You’ve been avoiding the obvious. For a man who identified a bird flying a mile overhead, you’re blind close up. Look at the material. Ever see anything like it? And the stitching? And here, behind the buttons, look, this is a zipper. They don’t have those around these parts. “
The human capacity to blank out the unwanted amazes me. My dad convinced himself every boy I took upstairs to fuck was a friend, nothing more. John’s a close second. He shrugs, gaze shifting to the side. “You are a foreigner. I knew that already.”
“Foreigner?” I stab his chest with a finger. “Hey, Brit-boy, I was born here, so don’t give me that line of bullshit. Born and bred in Borden.” Overwhelmed by my accidental alliteration, I giggle, close to hysteria, then sobered. “Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’m so far away.”
For a moment, I genuinely think the ground has given way beneath me. Nothing seems real. The world shifts, insubstantial as a soap bubble and yeah, there, a car, a fucking car! I gasp and look around me, wild with elation. It’s early in the morning and the snowy roads haven’t been plowed, but this is my city.
I step forward and I’m back in the past.
“No!” I howl it, kicking at the stone with more emotion than sense. “What the hell is happening? What screwed-up fucking sadist is in charge of this?”
Then I notice John’s expression.
“You vanished,” he said hoarsely. “Where did you go? How did you do that?”
“I flashed back to my time,” I snap, too angry to care if he believes me or not. “Don’t know how, don’t know why it didn’t stick. Was I gone long? It felt like about three, four seconds for me.”
He nods slowly. “It was that long for me.” He swallows, then reaches out and touches my face. Warm fingers. “Are you real? Or some imagining of mine the solitude has created?”
“So if you were dreaming someone up, they’d look like me?”
I expect him to scoff, but he gives me the sweetest bemused smile. “Maybe. Though your mouth would be less inclined to spit out curses.”
“It can do more than that if you let it,” I tell him. Okay, yes, it’s flirting with a guy who made it plain he wasn’t interested, but did he? Or was he scared of admitting what team he played for? There’s no one around for miles. What the hell, I step in close and tilt back my head. “Want to find out for yourself?”
I expect him to hit me or walk away. I don’t expect his mouth to come down on mine with a savage, desperate hunger.
“That’s not Borden.” I say it with conviction, staring at the cluster of buildings in the distance.
There’s a milestone at my feet telling me it is, but it’s not. It can’t be. And yet… The land’s the same, the hills rolling up to the sky, the river over to my right. The hills are covered with trees, not houses, but they’re familiar in shape.
I sink onto the stone, desperately searching for a way to make this work that doesn’t leave me stranded in the past, so far away from my life, my world, that a full-blown panic attack is the only response I can come up with.
John crouches beside me, concern softening the chill in his eyes that’s been there since I over-shared. “What ails you?”
“What year is it?” I grab at his arms and shake him. “If you don’t want me to run in circles screaming, tell me the truth. What year is this?”
“1753. How can you not know that?”
Oh what the hell. He thinks I’m nuts anyway. “Yesterday, until I got lost in the woods, it was 2016. Don’t ask me how, but I’ve traveled back in time. How many years are we talking about? Every book or movie, it’s usually a nice, neat number, dammit. I can’t do the math.”
“Two hundred and sixty-three,” he says immediately.
“Great. Wonderful. Okay, I have to be careful not to change anything.” I stand, weirdly energized. “Talk to as few people as possible. Not get killed. Don’t tell you what’s going to happen, which is easy because I sucked at history. Canadians don’t have as much of it as other people, if you ask me.”
“Lies blacken the soul.”
“Yeah, yeah. But I’m not.” I pluck at my jacket. “You’ve been avoiding the obvious. For a man who identified a bird flying a mile overhead, you’re blind close up. Look at the material. Ever see anything like it? And the stitching? And here, behind the buttons, look, this is a zipper. They don’t have those around these parts. “
The human capacity to blank out the unwanted amazes me. My dad convinced himself every boy I took upstairs to fuck was a friend, nothing more. John’s a close second. He shrugs, gaze shifting to the side. “You are a foreigner. I knew that already.”
“Foreigner?” I stab his chest with a finger. “Hey, Brit-boy, I was born here, so don’t give me that line of bullshit. Born and bred in Borden.” Overwhelmed by my accidental alliteration, I giggle, close to hysteria, then sobered. “Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’m so far away.”
For a moment, I genuinely think the ground has given way beneath me. Nothing seems real. The world shifts, insubstantial as a soap bubble and yeah, there, a car, a fucking car! I gasp and look around me, wild with elation. It’s early in the morning and the snowy roads haven’t been plowed, but this is my city.
I step forward and I’m back in the past.
“No!” I howl it, kicking at the stone with more emotion than sense. “What the hell is happening? What screwed-up fucking sadist is in charge of this?”
Then I notice John’s expression.
“You vanished,” he said hoarsely. “Where did you go? How did you do that?”
“I flashed back to my time,” I snap, too angry to care if he believes me or not. “Don’t know how, don’t know why it didn’t stick. Was I gone long? It felt like about three, four seconds for me.”
He nods slowly. “It was that long for me.” He swallows, then reaches out and touches my face. Warm fingers. “Are you real? Or some imagining of mine the solitude has created?”
“So if you were dreaming someone up, they’d look like me?”
I expect him to scoff, but he gives me the sweetest bemused smile. “Maybe. Though your mouth would be less inclined to spit out curses.”
“It can do more than that if you let it,” I tell him. Okay, yes, it’s flirting with a guy who made it plain he wasn’t interested, but did he? Or was he scared of admitting what team he played for? There’s no one around for miles. What the hell, I step in close and tilt back my head. “Want to find out for yourself?”
I expect him to hit me or walk away. I don’t expect his mouth to come down on mine with a savage, desperate hunger.
December 19, 2016
Day Nineteen of Advent
Part Three
It’s ridiculously early to go to bed, but I’m no sooner burrowed under blankets and furs , fully clothed and tense, than my eyes slide closed. I force them open and they do it again. I’m losing time here, jerking awake and not sure of how many minutes have passed. John’s moving around, getting himself some food, taking a piss in the pot, adding wood to the fire; acting as if I’m not there for the most part.
I try not to breathe deeply. This place stinks. I suppose I’d get used to it in time, but each inhalation brings it home to me that, well, that I’m not home. I live fifteen minutes’ drive from this place and it might as well be a fifteen-hour flight.
John intrigues me. Clearly committed to his role, but why? What’s he doing out here? My reality show theory is falling apart now I think about it. I read the local paper, the online version, anyway, and there was nothing in there about it. Is he squatting? Is this cabin legal? It’s definitely city land, but he could be a researcher or something. Why wouldn’t he tell me, though? Speculation’s exhausting.
John undresses and I’m wide awake in an instant. If he feels the cold, he doesn’t show it. He strips naked and I’m drooling. The guy’s huge, muscular in all the right places, skin dusted with freckles here and there, and an uncut cock that’s frankly intimidating. He pulls on a nightshirt and I stifle a chuckle. It’s full, billowing, and it does nothing for him, in my opinion.
Then he gets in beside me and any urge to laugh leaves me. I’m not used to sharing a bed with a stranger. It’s awkward. I can’t pretend to be asleep. He knows I’m not.
“Good night.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, thanks. Uh, do you have enough room?”
“It will suffice, unless you’re a restless sleeper.”
“I don’t think I am.” I hesitate. He seems more approachable lying beside me. His body heat radiates through me, making me want to snuggle in close. “So, you’ve been here since the summer? No visitors? Family? Wife?”
“My family is in England and I have little to offer a woman.”
I blame the wine for what I said next. “I’ve seen you naked. That’s not true.”
He turns his head. “You’re bold.”
“Yeah, well, take it as a compliment, but don’t take offence. I’m gay, but it’s not catching.”
“I wish it were. I’m lonely from time to time, I’ll admit it. Even the company of a man whose mind and tongue wander strangely is better than my own.”
Huh? Oh right. If he’s playing the game of being in the eighteenth century, of course he’ll use the original definition of gay. I need to tailor what I say to fit in with his rules since he’s clearly not going to drop the act. Safe enough to clarify what I mean; he didn’t flinch or edge away so he’s obviously not a raging homophobe.
“I meant that I prefer to, um, share my bed with a man.”
He flinches then. “I do not take your meaning.”
This is all a bit much. I lose patience. It’s not as if he’ll throw me out. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll sleep by the fire. “Yeah, you do, but I’ll spell it out if you insist.”
“No.” The finality in his voice shuts me down. “Say nothing more. Sleep and tomorrow I will take you to town, but for now… Sleep.”
I roll my eyes, disappointed in him, and turn over, giving him my back to stare at. “Yeah, whatever. Sleep tight.”
If the bed bugs bit, I don’t notice. Sleep sucks me under like quicksand.
It’s ridiculously early to go to bed, but I’m no sooner burrowed under blankets and furs , fully clothed and tense, than my eyes slide closed. I force them open and they do it again. I’m losing time here, jerking awake and not sure of how many minutes have passed. John’s moving around, getting himself some food, taking a piss in the pot, adding wood to the fire; acting as if I’m not there for the most part.
I try not to breathe deeply. This place stinks. I suppose I’d get used to it in time, but each inhalation brings it home to me that, well, that I’m not home. I live fifteen minutes’ drive from this place and it might as well be a fifteen-hour flight.
John intrigues me. Clearly committed to his role, but why? What’s he doing out here? My reality show theory is falling apart now I think about it. I read the local paper, the online version, anyway, and there was nothing in there about it. Is he squatting? Is this cabin legal? It’s definitely city land, but he could be a researcher or something. Why wouldn’t he tell me, though? Speculation’s exhausting.
John undresses and I’m wide awake in an instant. If he feels the cold, he doesn’t show it. He strips naked and I’m drooling. The guy’s huge, muscular in all the right places, skin dusted with freckles here and there, and an uncut cock that’s frankly intimidating. He pulls on a nightshirt and I stifle a chuckle. It’s full, billowing, and it does nothing for him, in my opinion.
Then he gets in beside me and any urge to laugh leaves me. I’m not used to sharing a bed with a stranger. It’s awkward. I can’t pretend to be asleep. He knows I’m not.
“Good night.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, thanks. Uh, do you have enough room?”
“It will suffice, unless you’re a restless sleeper.”
“I don’t think I am.” I hesitate. He seems more approachable lying beside me. His body heat radiates through me, making me want to snuggle in close. “So, you’ve been here since the summer? No visitors? Family? Wife?”
“My family is in England and I have little to offer a woman.”
I blame the wine for what I said next. “I’ve seen you naked. That’s not true.”
He turns his head. “You’re bold.”
“Yeah, well, take it as a compliment, but don’t take offence. I’m gay, but it’s not catching.”
“I wish it were. I’m lonely from time to time, I’ll admit it. Even the company of a man whose mind and tongue wander strangely is better than my own.”
Huh? Oh right. If he’s playing the game of being in the eighteenth century, of course he’ll use the original definition of gay. I need to tailor what I say to fit in with his rules since he’s clearly not going to drop the act. Safe enough to clarify what I mean; he didn’t flinch or edge away so he’s obviously not a raging homophobe.
“I meant that I prefer to, um, share my bed with a man.”
He flinches then. “I do not take your meaning.”
This is all a bit much. I lose patience. It’s not as if he’ll throw me out. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll sleep by the fire. “Yeah, you do, but I’ll spell it out if you insist.”
“No.” The finality in his voice shuts me down. “Say nothing more. Sleep and tomorrow I will take you to town, but for now… Sleep.”
I roll my eyes, disappointed in him, and turn over, giving him my back to stare at. “Yeah, whatever. Sleep tight.”
If the bed bugs bit, I don’t notice. Sleep sucks me under like quicksand.
December 18, 2016
Day Eighteen of Advent
Part Two of the story. Remember, totally making this up as I go ::g::
Dead, the wolf is a pathetic scrap of fur and bones, its blood staining the snow. When I’ve thrown up and crammed snow into my mouth to take away the taste, leaving my teeth aching, I look at it with pity and guilt.
My rescuer studies it more dispassionately before deciding skinning it isn’t worth the time it would take with the storm robbing the air of light. He retrieves his axe, cleans it, then stares at me, frowning. “You can take shelter with me if you’re truly lost. I can see you’d not last long were I to leave you here.”
Truer words. I follow after him, struggling to keep up, exhaustion and stress robbing me of the ability to process what the fuck is happening here. Wolves. Axes. A man from another time. Then I get it. He’s a reenactor, or on some reality show. There’s probably a village they’ve built nearby with a camera crew watching every move they make. Will they edit me out? Who cares? There’ll be coffee. Warmth. I’ll be safe.
It doesn’t explain the wolf, but I push that thought aside. Some of these reality shows get pretty dark.
He lives in a shack. That’s a kind word for it. It’s a log cabin made by someone who never grasped the concept of Lincoln Logs, and why the wind hasn’t turned it to kindling, I don’t know. Once inside, though, it’s surprisingly cozy. The gaps between the tree trunks are stuffed with moss and mud and there’s a banked fire against one wall, venting up through a chimney made of smooth stones set in more homemade mortar. Table, stool, bed in one corner, uneven shelves holding food supplies and such, and a covered pot giving off a stench that tells me its purpose.
Sweet Lord, he’s taking this seriously.
I realize I’m standing in a puddle of my own making and shift from one foot to another awkwardly. True, I’m dripping onto rough planks, a splinter in every step, but that’s no excuse.
He glances over and gestures at the fire, then gets busy lighting candles. “Warm yourself and tell me your story, stranger.”
I shrug out of my coat and hang it on a lump of wood protruding from the wall, adding my gloves to the coat pocket. Good enough hook. I’m too considerate a guest to steal the only stool, but there’s a section of tree trunk by the fire, maybe two feet tall, wide enough for my ass, and I turn it upright and sit on it. Wobbly, but it’ll do. Then I let the warmth of the fire soak into my chilled body and thaw my stunned, frozen mind.
“Here.” A wooden cup, polished smooth by use is thrust at me. I accept it, then extend my other hand. Wow. Out of his top layer and with the candlelight softening everything, he’s quite a guy. Reddish hair to his shoulders, a beard, and piercing blue eyes. Not my type, but I feel a tug of attraction. I wonder if he feels the same way, but I’m too cold to go there. Probably straight anyway. “Hi. I didn’t introduce myself. Gerry Stanton. I really appreciate you rescuing me, though I guess we’ll need to report the wolf to someone. Don’t worry; I’m a witness it was dangerous and if there’s a fine, I’ll pay it.”
He grips my hand midway through my babbling and damn near squeezes all feeling out of it. Strong. “I am John Smithson, but you talk in a way that makes me wonder if you have a fever. From where did you come? Where are your supplies? Were you separated from your party?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him and take a sip from the cup. It’s wine of some description, fruity, hellaciously strong, rough and peppery. It claws at my throat and it’s fucking wonderful. I take another swig. “No party. Just me. I was trying to rack up some steps on my Fitbit and I’ve driven past these woods so often without stopping that I thought it was time I explored. Then the snow came down and I got hopelessly lost. You know the rest.”
“I understand but one word in ten,” he says flatly, and he’s scowling now. “Talk sense, man.”
“So what’s your deal?” I wave around me with my free hand. “Back to nature? TV show? Book?”
I’ve never seen such frustration. “Will you cease babbling nonsense? I live here. I bought the land in the summer and when spring comes, I shall build a house and dig a deeper well. Books? I have none, though do not think me unlettered. I can read, aye, and cipher.”
“You’re really, really good at staying in character,” I tell him. “But can you drop it for long enough to tell me how far we are from the parking lot?”
“What is a parking lot?” He growls it at me. “Why do you persist in teasing me like a naughty child determined to earn a thrashing?”
“What? Hey! No. Not my kink, man. And I swear I’m not trying to piss you off. I’m just—“ My voice breaks. “I’m lost.”
“When the storm ends, I will take you to the village,” he says with finality. “Borden is an hour’s walk away.”
“Borden’s a city, not a village, and unless you’re going to the center, it’s only fifteen, twenty minutes away even for someone as out of shape as me.”
“A city?” He laughs. “And I thought I was the bumpkin here. If you call a dozen houses, a tavern, a store, and a smithy a city, then yes, Borden is a city, its streets paved with gold.”
“Now I’m getting annoyed. Look, unless there are hidden cameras, it’s just you and me. Lose the act and talk sense.”
I stretch out my hand to the fire and he sees my watch. “What is that?”
“A watch. It’s a watch, okay?” I take it off and throw it at him. “A nineteenth century man like you won’t have seen one before. Not one this small. Don’t you want to say ‘’ooh” or tell me I’m a witch or something?”
“Nineteenth…” John shakes his head in exasperation. “This is the year 1753. Eighteenth century, dolt. And I do not believe in witches.“ He turns my watch over in his hand. “A neat device, to be sure. But I owned a pocket watch myself before I sold it to fund my passage to the New World. “
I give up. I’m trapped in a cabin with a delusional giant who hasn’t brushed his teeth or hair in way too long. With a grimace masquerading as a smile I finish the wine. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll turn in for the night. No, I’m not hungry, thanks. Tomorrow I’ll be on my way and we can only hope we never meet again.”
“The bed’s over there. If you snore, I’ll kick you, but don’t take it amiss. I’ve lived alone too long to be patient of another’s bad habits.”
We’ll be sharing a bed? And what’s lurking under the blankets? Fleas, bedbugs, lice? I bite back a moan and make a promise to myself. Gyms. Always gyms. No more of the healthy outdoors, ever.
Dead, the wolf is a pathetic scrap of fur and bones, its blood staining the snow. When I’ve thrown up and crammed snow into my mouth to take away the taste, leaving my teeth aching, I look at it with pity and guilt.
My rescuer studies it more dispassionately before deciding skinning it isn’t worth the time it would take with the storm robbing the air of light. He retrieves his axe, cleans it, then stares at me, frowning. “You can take shelter with me if you’re truly lost. I can see you’d not last long were I to leave you here.”
Truer words. I follow after him, struggling to keep up, exhaustion and stress robbing me of the ability to process what the fuck is happening here. Wolves. Axes. A man from another time. Then I get it. He’s a reenactor, or on some reality show. There’s probably a village they’ve built nearby with a camera crew watching every move they make. Will they edit me out? Who cares? There’ll be coffee. Warmth. I’ll be safe.
It doesn’t explain the wolf, but I push that thought aside. Some of these reality shows get pretty dark.
He lives in a shack. That’s a kind word for it. It’s a log cabin made by someone who never grasped the concept of Lincoln Logs, and why the wind hasn’t turned it to kindling, I don’t know. Once inside, though, it’s surprisingly cozy. The gaps between the tree trunks are stuffed with moss and mud and there’s a banked fire against one wall, venting up through a chimney made of smooth stones set in more homemade mortar. Table, stool, bed in one corner, uneven shelves holding food supplies and such, and a covered pot giving off a stench that tells me its purpose.
Sweet Lord, he’s taking this seriously.
I realize I’m standing in a puddle of my own making and shift from one foot to another awkwardly. True, I’m dripping onto rough planks, a splinter in every step, but that’s no excuse.
He glances over and gestures at the fire, then gets busy lighting candles. “Warm yourself and tell me your story, stranger.”
I shrug out of my coat and hang it on a lump of wood protruding from the wall, adding my gloves to the coat pocket. Good enough hook. I’m too considerate a guest to steal the only stool, but there’s a section of tree trunk by the fire, maybe two feet tall, wide enough for my ass, and I turn it upright and sit on it. Wobbly, but it’ll do. Then I let the warmth of the fire soak into my chilled body and thaw my stunned, frozen mind.
“Here.” A wooden cup, polished smooth by use is thrust at me. I accept it, then extend my other hand. Wow. Out of his top layer and with the candlelight softening everything, he’s quite a guy. Reddish hair to his shoulders, a beard, and piercing blue eyes. Not my type, but I feel a tug of attraction. I wonder if he feels the same way, but I’m too cold to go there. Probably straight anyway. “Hi. I didn’t introduce myself. Gerry Stanton. I really appreciate you rescuing me, though I guess we’ll need to report the wolf to someone. Don’t worry; I’m a witness it was dangerous and if there’s a fine, I’ll pay it.”
He grips my hand midway through my babbling and damn near squeezes all feeling out of it. Strong. “I am John Smithson, but you talk in a way that makes me wonder if you have a fever. From where did you come? Where are your supplies? Were you separated from your party?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him and take a sip from the cup. It’s wine of some description, fruity, hellaciously strong, rough and peppery. It claws at my throat and it’s fucking wonderful. I take another swig. “No party. Just me. I was trying to rack up some steps on my Fitbit and I’ve driven past these woods so often without stopping that I thought it was time I explored. Then the snow came down and I got hopelessly lost. You know the rest.”
“I understand but one word in ten,” he says flatly, and he’s scowling now. “Talk sense, man.”
“So what’s your deal?” I wave around me with my free hand. “Back to nature? TV show? Book?”
I’ve never seen such frustration. “Will you cease babbling nonsense? I live here. I bought the land in the summer and when spring comes, I shall build a house and dig a deeper well. Books? I have none, though do not think me unlettered. I can read, aye, and cipher.”
“You’re really, really good at staying in character,” I tell him. “But can you drop it for long enough to tell me how far we are from the parking lot?”
“What is a parking lot?” He growls it at me. “Why do you persist in teasing me like a naughty child determined to earn a thrashing?”
“What? Hey! No. Not my kink, man. And I swear I’m not trying to piss you off. I’m just—“ My voice breaks. “I’m lost.”
“When the storm ends, I will take you to the village,” he says with finality. “Borden is an hour’s walk away.”
“Borden’s a city, not a village, and unless you’re going to the center, it’s only fifteen, twenty minutes away even for someone as out of shape as me.”
“A city?” He laughs. “And I thought I was the bumpkin here. If you call a dozen houses, a tavern, a store, and a smithy a city, then yes, Borden is a city, its streets paved with gold.”
“Now I’m getting annoyed. Look, unless there are hidden cameras, it’s just you and me. Lose the act and talk sense.”
I stretch out my hand to the fire and he sees my watch. “What is that?”
“A watch. It’s a watch, okay?” I take it off and throw it at him. “A nineteenth century man like you won’t have seen one before. Not one this small. Don’t you want to say ‘’ooh” or tell me I’m a witch or something?”
“Nineteenth…” John shakes his head in exasperation. “This is the year 1753. Eighteenth century, dolt. And I do not believe in witches.“ He turns my watch over in his hand. “A neat device, to be sure. But I owned a pocket watch myself before I sold it to fund my passage to the New World. “
I give up. I’m trapped in a cabin with a delusional giant who hasn’t brushed his teeth or hair in way too long. With a grimace masquerading as a smile I finish the wine. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll turn in for the night. No, I’m not hungry, thanks. Tomorrow I’ll be on my way and we can only hope we never meet again.”
“The bed’s over there. If you snore, I’ll kick you, but don’t take it amiss. I’ve lived alone too long to be patient of another’s bad habits.”
We’ll be sharing a bed? And what’s lurking under the blankets? Fleas, bedbugs, lice? I bite back a moan and make a promise to myself. Gyms. Always gyms. No more of the healthy outdoors, ever.
December 17, 2016
Day Seventeen
In the spirit of Dickens, this is part one of a serial I am making up as I go along.
A Winter Walk
Part One
I’m lost. Snowflakes fall around me, each one a barrier to the view ahead, behind, to the side…hell, every point of the compass. It’s a wood. There are trees, paths, and somewhere there’s a parking lot with my car, but right now, there’s nothing but frozen earth underfoot and the whirling, spinning, flakes around me.
I’m going to die. I can’t feel my hands and I wish I couldn’t feel my feet. Inside soaked running shoes, they’re throbbing in a weird hot/cold way. I don’t have a hat. I don’t have gloves. My coat’s fashionable but might as well be made of paper for all the good it is.
I’m here to get healthy. Oh the irony. Christmas is almost here and in a preemptive strike against the over-indulgences to come, I decided to take a hike through the woods.
Should’ve checked the weather forecast. And the battery level in my now useless phone. Told someone where I was going.
No. Not gone in the first place.
I scream out a defiant rejection of my fate, in no way resigned to it, and there’s an answering holler a moment later. An echo? No. I’d yelled “Fuck!” and the answer had been “Hi!”
Through the snow, I see a man lumber toward me, a giant bear, snow thick on his shoulders and crusting his knee-high boots. Very retro look. Homespun even. Jesus, he’s holding an axe. Doesn’t he know it’s illegal to chop your own Christmas tree?
I stagger toward him and croak out a greeting. “Hi. Lost. Help. Please. Where’s the parking lot? My phone’s dead so I can’t use GPS.
He frowns and shakes his head. “You’re drunk or crazy and you’re on my land.”
“Beecher’s Brook is owned by the city and I pay my taxes.” This is a surreal conversation. “Look, point me at a trail heading, uh, north, I guess, and I’ll follow it to my car.”
“To your car?” He seems to taste the word, then his eyes widen and he raises the axe. “Behind me!”
I turn instead and see a wolf on the edge of the clearing, scrawny, hungry. From the way it’s staring at me, I look tasty and it doesn’t care how many online petitions I’ve signed to save more endangered species than it has teeth.
“Down, fool!” the giant roars, and I drop like a stone falling through water, a slow-motion descent that takes forever as the axe hurtles through the space where my head was.
A Winter Walk
Part One
I’m lost. Snowflakes fall around me, each one a barrier to the view ahead, behind, to the side…hell, every point of the compass. It’s a wood. There are trees, paths, and somewhere there’s a parking lot with my car, but right now, there’s nothing but frozen earth underfoot and the whirling, spinning, flakes around me.
I’m going to die. I can’t feel my hands and I wish I couldn’t feel my feet. Inside soaked running shoes, they’re throbbing in a weird hot/cold way. I don’t have a hat. I don’t have gloves. My coat’s fashionable but might as well be made of paper for all the good it is.
I’m here to get healthy. Oh the irony. Christmas is almost here and in a preemptive strike against the over-indulgences to come, I decided to take a hike through the woods.
Should’ve checked the weather forecast. And the battery level in my now useless phone. Told someone where I was going.
No. Not gone in the first place.
I scream out a defiant rejection of my fate, in no way resigned to it, and there’s an answering holler a moment later. An echo? No. I’d yelled “Fuck!” and the answer had been “Hi!”
Through the snow, I see a man lumber toward me, a giant bear, snow thick on his shoulders and crusting his knee-high boots. Very retro look. Homespun even. Jesus, he’s holding an axe. Doesn’t he know it’s illegal to chop your own Christmas tree?
I stagger toward him and croak out a greeting. “Hi. Lost. Help. Please. Where’s the parking lot? My phone’s dead so I can’t use GPS.
He frowns and shakes his head. “You’re drunk or crazy and you’re on my land.”
“Beecher’s Brook is owned by the city and I pay my taxes.” This is a surreal conversation. “Look, point me at a trail heading, uh, north, I guess, and I’ll follow it to my car.”
“To your car?” He seems to taste the word, then his eyes widen and he raises the axe. “Behind me!”
I turn instead and see a wolf on the edge of the clearing, scrawny, hungry. From the way it’s staring at me, I look tasty and it doesn’t care how many online petitions I’ve signed to save more endangered species than it has teeth.
“Down, fool!” the giant roars, and I drop like a stone falling through water, a slow-motion descent that takes forever as the axe hurtles through the space where my head was.
December 16, 2016
The Ultra Cage/A Lick and a Promise
The two stories I wrote for the Kink in Ink event at the BDSM group can now be posted for all to read.
The Ultra Cage
A Lick and a Promise
Follow the links on the GR page and you'll be taken to AO3 where the stories can be read or downloaded in different formats.
Many thanks to Alexa for beta reading them, the organizers of the events, and the people who provided the wonderful prompts.
The Ultra Cage
A Lick and a Promise
Follow the links on the GR page and you'll be taken to AO3 where the stories can be read or downloaded in different formats.
Many thanks to Alexa for beta reading them, the organizers of the events, and the people who provided the wonderful prompts.
Day Sixteen of Advent
Two more new characters today.
Sticky Sweet
The Christmas candy is off limits until tomorrow. He knows it. But there’s a telltale stickiness about the mouth I’m kissing, and his breath is peppermint scented.
Toothpaste? Seriously? I shake my head. I’ve seen him attempt to wriggle out of trouble before, but unless they’re making sugary toothpaste, he’s getting nowhere with that defense.
I ponder his punishment. It should suit the crime, but I’m a little lost here. Even I can’t be too mean to him the night before Christmas. There’s discipline and strict adherence to rules and there’s being a total asshole. I’d hate to fall into the latter category.
He drops to his knees and peeks up at me, a glimmer of naughtiness showing in his eyes as if he sees my dilemma.
Inspiration strikes. He’s been greedy, impatient, and disobedient.
So he spends Christmas Day waiting. Waiting for me to stop teasing his cock with touch after touch and let him come. Waiting for permission to swallow the chocolate melting in his mouth. Waiting for me to forgive him.
Don’t feel too sorry for him. That happened around nine in the morning.
I love seeing him suffer, but I love seeing him smile even more.
Sticky Sweet
The Christmas candy is off limits until tomorrow. He knows it. But there’s a telltale stickiness about the mouth I’m kissing, and his breath is peppermint scented.
Toothpaste? Seriously? I shake my head. I’ve seen him attempt to wriggle out of trouble before, but unless they’re making sugary toothpaste, he’s getting nowhere with that defense.
I ponder his punishment. It should suit the crime, but I’m a little lost here. Even I can’t be too mean to him the night before Christmas. There’s discipline and strict adherence to rules and there’s being a total asshole. I’d hate to fall into the latter category.
He drops to his knees and peeks up at me, a glimmer of naughtiness showing in his eyes as if he sees my dilemma.
Inspiration strikes. He’s been greedy, impatient, and disobedient.
So he spends Christmas Day waiting. Waiting for me to stop teasing his cock with touch after touch and let him come. Waiting for permission to swallow the chocolate melting in his mouth. Waiting for me to forgive him.
Don’t feel too sorry for him. That happened around nine in the morning.
I love seeing him suffer, but I love seeing him smile even more.
December 15, 2016
Day Fifteen of Advent
A Psych drabble
Indulgence
Christmas means red. Holly berries; the red stripe in a candy cane. Poinsettia leaves, dark and velvety. A winter sunrise, the sky blazing scarlet.
And the cheerful red of Santa's outfit.
Carlton stares down at Shawn's well-spanked ass and frowns. It's a festive shade, but it's nowhere near the same red as his pants. He adjusts his beard (damn thing tickles, but Shawn had insisted) and raises his hand.
"What do you want for Christmas, Shawn?"
Shawn pushes his ass up pleadingly.
"Have you been a good boy?" Carlton knows Shawn hasn't. He spanks him anyway.
After all, he has.
Indulgence
Christmas means red. Holly berries; the red stripe in a candy cane. Poinsettia leaves, dark and velvety. A winter sunrise, the sky blazing scarlet.
And the cheerful red of Santa's outfit.
Carlton stares down at Shawn's well-spanked ass and frowns. It's a festive shade, but it's nowhere near the same red as his pants. He adjusts his beard (damn thing tickles, but Shawn had insisted) and raises his hand.
"What do you want for Christmas, Shawn?"
Shawn pushes his ass up pleadingly.
"Have you been a good boy?" Carlton knows Shawn hasn't. He spanks him anyway.
After all, he has.
December 14, 2016
Day Fourteen of Advent
How about a visit to The Square Peg?
I’m not wearing the sodding Santa hat. I’m not. Look a right bloody plonker, wouldn’t I? Not saying I’ve got a reputation to keep up, because Benedict’s made it crystal clear I’m not to go thumping the punters even when they’re rowdy, but people know not to mess with me.
One look at me in what Patrick’s holding and they’d still be laughing by New Year. It’s red with white trim, standard enough, but the bobble on the top lights up and spins. Not only that, but it plays Christmas music as it does it.
I mean, I ask you!
Patrick's wearing one in green. Says he’s an elf and Benedict and I are both Santa. One of us takes care of the nice list, one the naughty. I don’t ask which job he has me down for. Me and Benedict, we’re discreet about the way we play, but Patrick’s got a look in his eyes that tells me he knows I like it hard and painful when it’s my Benedict dishing it out.
So to shut him up, I wear the damn thing. Walk out into the Peg’s bar, daring anyone to comment, and flick the switch that starts it spinning and singing. The room cracks up, everyone snickering, even the man who’s supposed to love me more than life, and I grit my teeth and smile.
Santa’s elf is doing a double shift tomorrow. Count on it.
Then I catch his eye and soften. He’s beaming at me, the bobble on his hat twirling, and by some miracle the songs our hats are playing are perfectly in time.
I transfer my gaze to Benedict and mouth the words of the song, knowing he’ll hear me even over the racket in the bar, knowing our wedding in the spring will change everything and nothing at the same time.
Look to the future now, it’s only just begun…
I’m not wearing the sodding Santa hat. I’m not. Look a right bloody plonker, wouldn’t I? Not saying I’ve got a reputation to keep up, because Benedict’s made it crystal clear I’m not to go thumping the punters even when they’re rowdy, but people know not to mess with me.
One look at me in what Patrick’s holding and they’d still be laughing by New Year. It’s red with white trim, standard enough, but the bobble on the top lights up and spins. Not only that, but it plays Christmas music as it does it.
I mean, I ask you!
Patrick's wearing one in green. Says he’s an elf and Benedict and I are both Santa. One of us takes care of the nice list, one the naughty. I don’t ask which job he has me down for. Me and Benedict, we’re discreet about the way we play, but Patrick’s got a look in his eyes that tells me he knows I like it hard and painful when it’s my Benedict dishing it out.
So to shut him up, I wear the damn thing. Walk out into the Peg’s bar, daring anyone to comment, and flick the switch that starts it spinning and singing. The room cracks up, everyone snickering, even the man who’s supposed to love me more than life, and I grit my teeth and smile.
Santa’s elf is doing a double shift tomorrow. Count on it.
Then I catch his eye and soften. He’s beaming at me, the bobble on his hat twirling, and by some miracle the songs our hats are playing are perfectly in time.
I transfer my gaze to Benedict and mouth the words of the song, knowing he’ll hear me even over the racket in the bar, knowing our wedding in the spring will change everything and nothing at the same time.
Look to the future now, it’s only just begun…
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