Travelling the Horny Moon By Charles E.J. Moulton

Xavier’s fingers raced across the keyboard, his mind working faster than his hands could follow suit. The light of the full moon journeyed from outer space through the stratosphere, hitting that computer, the ticking clock on the wall remaining as much an object as the machine in front of him.

The clock, however, was, as ever, too slow for his taste. It was almost as if Xavier worked to fill the seconds with more words, as well as with more than words. And yet – and yet – the slow and solemn night, combined with Xavier’s quick inspiration, somehow changed his perception of time. Fast became slow and slow became fast, time transformed into merely organized digits and eternal timelessness arose from the depths into his spirit.  It reminded him of his grandfather’s successful promises kept, fabricating clock upon clock in his workshop back in Lyon.

He had created this clock for Xavier. It still hung there, ticking, constant, reliable. And yet Xavier’s mind worked faster at night. Like Xavier’s literary work, his grandfather’s craft thrived on detail. Every clock had been a masterpiece. Every one was an original. Like he had been one: him, the grandfather. Like his grandfather had claimed Xavier was unique or every person was unique – every man and every woman.

“Ah, oui,” his grandfather had said. “The women are fascinating! So elusive and mysterious, quite a riddle, but a lovely one!”

This clock, eternal although time-constricted, had a picture painted on its surface of landscape, a shore with a beach and trees lit up by a moon. It was spiritual and yet sensual. Xavier’s wife had fallen in love with that clock and hung it up at that very place where it hung now. It had hung there since their honeymoon, or the “horny moon”, as she lovingly had called it. That had become a code word for sex ever since. Travelling to the Maledives for their “horny moon” and literally fucking themselves through it, that was one thing. The fact, however, was that their lust seemed to increase every actual full moon, but maybe it was just the fact that the moon inspired love.

Anyway, horny moons or no, Xavier’s wife’s boobs resembled actual moons and Xavier’s dick a rocket, so the married couple pretended that Xavier’s rocket came flying up between the two biggest moon of Saturn, squirting out its fuel on its neighbour Venus. Sometimes, they just called it titfucking.

Through the years, Xavier had watched his grandfather work, his reliability a buffer of strength. He had come to realize how like him he was: studious, hardworking and, he hoped, eloquent. Xavier’s articles thus turned rather eloquent in the end, his proofread stories seemed like fresh editions, his corrected book good enough to be published and his submissions professional. His literary skills were like clockwork: his timing was impeccable.

Time was of the essence and within the essence there was eloquence.

Outside now, though, the Queen of the Night had thrown over her brilliant blanket across the world, waiting, hoping, meditating. The stars glittering, the full moon graced the heavens brightly enough to re-awaken Xavier’s inner werewolf with the hot erection.

Xavier wanted to copulate. Who was he kidding? Xavier wanted to fuck. Inside his glass, the red Rioja reflected the lit candle’s flickering flame. Fuego’s breath exhaled sex into the fibres of his erect arousal. Time was of the essence. Inside the glass, time stood still.

Xavier found himself again being the only night-owl. His workaholic mind couldn’t stop fluttering and flying into new spheres, mixing genres, erotic with sci-fi and comedy with horror, sending off new stories to new publishers and wondering what horizons would meet him at the end of the next rainbow.

The dainty snores of his family, though, proved to be too inviting to reject. He listened for his wife’s sweet snore, her sweet restful sleep hopefully strength-gathering enough to snooze until the morning.

“What are you doing, Mom? Dad?” his daughter had asked them yesterday, walking in to their bedroom unannounced, just as Xavier found his big cock entering his wife’s hot pussy again for the one-thousandth time.

“Extreme cuddling,” Xavier had mused shyly.

And boy, had his daughter ever told her girlfriends what her father had told her as he laid on Mom. Their natural way of raising his daughter felt right, teaching her that her parents made love because it felt good. Maybe she could find a respectful husband one day with whom she could raise a free thinking and spiritual child. Their openness was neither compulsive nor was it forbidding, neither was it preachy nor revolutionary.

Sex, Xavier felt, was neither a sin nor was it against God’s wishes. Sex, Xavier felt, was creation at work, a unity of bodies and souls.

At its faithful and respectful best, sex was love.

No more, no less.

Flop. His laptop made a clicking sound as he closed it, followed by a cocky knock-back of fermented Spanish grape-juice. The house welcomed him to rest as he journeyed with the glass to the kitchen, the light of the moon again hitting the empty cold memory of wine.

Fabric by fabric, Xavier stripped and tread into the shower. The trickling water of the shower then replaced the red wine, seducing his skin with evening rejuvination. It was under the water that Xavier let his soapy hands massage his cock, rubbing it up to a glorious six inches. As he stood there, letting the shower inspire his helmet, he thought of sleeping wife, her brilliantly cocktrained mouth spoiling his dick rotten with spectacular blowjobs.

In and out of her mouth his penis went, her dickpleasing techniques glorious to say the least. He recalled giving her nicknames like “Dickraiser” and “Penislover” and “Spectacular Fuck” and “Wonder-Wobbles” or simply “The Best Fucking Cumshot in History”.

Well, Thea loved hearing him tell her:

“Come on, baby, stick my cock in your mouth and suck more than a little!”

And how she did suck. His cock felt like singing, if it could sing at all.

“You suck so well!”

“You cockh tashtesh shooooah grreath,” she would always grunt, his dick plopping in and out of her bobbing horny head. And then he would fuck her, her tits wobbling to and fro, finally squirting his cum onto her tongue penishungry tongue.

The sweet cool water dripping off his horny manhood, Xavier inspected Thea’s bathroom wall-decorations: kissing fish, randy octopus hearts, titlike jellyfish and vagina-like sharks. It was with an eager smile that he brushed his teeth, still looking at the seahorse that reminded him of a tit with many nipples. And when the towel dried his one-eyed weasel off, Xavier swore himself to lick himself some serious wifey-tit.

Once in bed, however, his dick still as erect as a flagpole, he chose to give himself a short five-finger-mambo before performing a tender sleep assault on his S.A.F. – his Sausage-Addicted-Filly, his C.T.M.C. – Cock Teasing Masterpiece of a Cockpleaser.

Laying there in the darkness, he let his hands massage Mr. Happy. He remembered his wife’s nice girlfriend arriving earlier, sitting on the terrace, drinking coffee, putting in a cake onto her sexy tongue. Xavier imagined walking up to that girlfriend’s seat, plucking out his cock and asking her to give him a blowjob.

That fantasy elaborated itself almost independantly and let his dick throb.

In that next fantasy, his wife Thea and the girlfriend Maria sat on the edge of their bed taking turns sucking his cock until he squirted on both of their faces.
Now his sex fantasies really took off. Laying there in that darkness, rubbing his long dick, he felt a pride for his own cock surge. That pride, however, did not only entail a love for pussies and tits. The sight of a cock inside the mouth of a pretty lady remained one of the most breathtakingly beautiful sights in the world. So beautiful, in fact, that Xavier wondered how it was to suck cock for real.

Xavier was a hunky and masculine man in this life, no question.

He believed in reincarnation, though, and was sure that he had been a woman in his earlier life. At that moment, his own long cock raised, he recalled being a rich woman once, on her knees in front of three men, sucking their cocks one by one, letting them squirt on her face in turn.

Xavier felt his own tits swell, large and succulent ones ready for some male tongue. He felt his wide hips tingle and his pussy throb. Every cock tasted fantastic and with every squirt Xavier opened his mouth in this life, waiting for male cum to land on a willing female tongue. One of his fuckers in that previous life was the husband in that incarnation, Henry. It had literally been a fantastic orgy. Henry, his previous female self and the two other men met once every week in their large mansion, fucking like rabbits.

He lay there, remembering how feminine he had felt back then and how masculine he felt now. Then, the surprise. Henry, the husband of his previous incarnation, had been Thea in her last carnation as a man. Man, so they had switched places just to learn what it was like to be the other gender. Thank God!

Inspired by all of this, he moved his hand slowly toward his wife’s tits, reaching under her covers. Realizing that she already had raised her nightgown, Xavier began massaging her left boob slowly and elegantly and with a joyous grin on his face, Mr. Happy now larger than ever. The left nipple grew to the size of a strawberry as quickly as Thea’s moans manifested a fine and raunchy crescendo.

With his right hand Xavier wanked his large dick into greater lengths whilst giving his wife that jugjob of her life. Soft like a pillow, smooth as silk, her knocker inspired the helmet of his penis to become as blue as a blueberry and as red as tomato, all of his body’s blood pumping into that loving hotrod.

“Ooh, yeah,” his wife mused as Xavier bent over the second tit, letting his tongue flippy-flop it to randilicious glory. “That feels good, baby.”

Xavier laughed enthusiastically.

“I’ll give you a piece of something that feels better,” he answered, grabbing her blonde head and leading in down between his legs. “Suck on this, darling!”

The sight of his wife putting his Long John Silver onto her tongue flabbergasted him every time. What was better was the fact that she kept aiming to deep throat him deeper and deeper for every gag. That whole erect prick landed in her mouth, making him fly. She didn’t seem to get enough of cock. His hands kept on massaging her cupcakes as her saliva trickled into the cockeye of his shaft. What he loved more than anything was slapping her ass a little and patting her head a little more while she blew him off.

“A countess at the celebrity reception, a cocksucking whore in the bedroom.”

“I’ll be your good girl, baby!”

That was Thea’s motto. So it often happened that Thea begged for Xavier to control her, call her a slut, ask her to be a good girl, lift her skirt and stick in his cock by surprise while she stood by the stove. If he did that well, she said, she could go back to her work as a major CEO with more joie de vivre and a feeling of more power. She had acted the part of the cocksucking whore. Her staff would know she meant business, profiling her position on the basis of skill alone. The slut in the bedroom belonged to Xavier.

Xavier? He admired Thea’s sense of organization, her intelligence, her vocabulary way more advanced than even his as a published author. So imagine the joy of getting the permission of treating his strong and respected wife like a whore in the bedroom.

With a happy smacking sound, Thea flopped his cock out of her mouth, creamy saliva trickling down her chin. No, not yet, Xavier thought to himself, straddling his wife’s face and pushing his testicles into her mouth. She sucked willingly, moaning and groaning like a sex-servant. And when Xavier pulled his balls out of her mouth and stuck in his dick, he reached back into her cunny and fingerfucked her.

The arousal exploded into a frenzy, forcing him to lick his way down past the titties and into her snatch. The salty taste of her vagina turned his oral sex into a wet dream.

“Come on, you macho clitlicker,” Thea groaned. “Stick it in!”

His wet face withdrew from Thea’s cunt with clitliquid dripping onto her bellybutton.

With a purple-blue helmet as a weapon, Xavier ignited his rocket, shooting his machine-gun aggressively into her snatch, riding her like a horny stallion rode his steed, her jugs bouncing like kiddy rubberballs on a Saturday afternoon, her tender ass feeling soft enough to slap a little and her face sexy enough to lick.

Their mutual splendor turned into a wildfire, the speed increasing.

“Thea, I have to squirt into your mouth,” Xavier exploded.

“Come on, stud,” she answered. “Give me some proteins.”

Just like Xavier had done in his reincarnated memories in the earlier dark, Thea stuck out her tongue willingly, hoping for some hot cum. He wanked harder and faster, his entire persona getting ready to fling some jizz on his wife’s sexy face. In cramp-like fits, his sperm shot out of his long and hard penis onto his wife’s cock-starving tonsils.

“Yummy sperm,” she oozed. “More where that came from, Eleven!”

On Xavier’s face a wide grin appeared, his cummy cock sliding in and out of his wife’s mouth. “Eleven. You haven’t called me that in years.”

“Well,” Thea mused, giving his willie a kiss and licking off the white stuff. “To me, you will always be my hot soccer rod with the 11 on your teamshirt. Besides,” she continued, sucking a little bit, “your cock is as thick as two other cocks, name any fucking cock. I’ve done a lot of cocksucking in my life and other guys have about half of your thickness. That’s why 11, that is two ones, is a perfect nickname for you. You fill me up like no other cock can.”

That made him happy. Mr. Happy? That, too.

Thea showered about three in the morning, cleaning the cum off her face. His daughter woke up, wondered what the matter was. Subsequently, his wife went into his daughter’s bedroom, sang her “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and told her a bedtime story about Bobby the Bear and then came to bed, only to be fucked haard and bad by her horny man again.

Xavier wondered if his daughter Lena had heard them fucking. Thea only answered that their daughter had asked her if the extreme cuddle was fun. Thea had answered that it certainly was. Thea, Xavier realized, was not only a celebrity countess and a nightly whore. She was also the best mother the world had ever come up with.

It was Thea’s turn to be dominant that next day. Xavier mowed the lawn, cut the hedge, did the taxes. Thea went to work, commanded her staff around. In the evening, he proofread a book of his that was going to be published, called a few literary agents, planned a few booktours and brought Lena to bed, singing her a song and telling her a sweet story, as well. Xavier couldn’t be happier. He was a successful professional, had a great wife, a fantastic daughter, a great house and wonderful colleagues.

In the evening, Xavier wanked and squirted on a picture of his wife, preparing to turn into a nocturnal werewolf again, his wife Thea’s eternally happy and powertool, King of the Greatest Cocksucker Queen of the Milky Way.

Man, his wife really knew how to suck good cock.

How’s that for travelling the moon?

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A Dream’s Reality By Charles E.J. Moulton

So it came to pass that Sophie Fernandez again lay in her Kensington art-studio loft, sleeping. She looked like a Goddess, maybe Aphrodite, maybe Artemis, maybe Hera. In any case, her custom of painting in the nude had resulted in a dormant oasis.

After finishing her work, she simply passed out, her jugs full and ripe, her unshaved pussy wet, the locks of her pubic hair curling and waiting for a long and hard cock, her fuckable body resembling mountain-hillsides of creamy canyons.

One empty bottle of Ribera del Duero 2004 stood on the table, a remnant of a solitary celebration. She had made sure to buy the best and favorite Rioja for the completion of a fine artistic reproduction. After all, a British lass of Spanish decent should always drink Rioja wine. So, Olé! Or as the case may have been: Voila! Her painting was finished. She was ready for sex. That was a sweet cause for celebration, indeed.

She looked just as much like a work of art as what she painted. Tall, brown eyed, nougat complexion, enticing hair, long fingernails, soft seductive eyelashes, pink cheeks, her aura peaceful, as peaceful as the softer passages in the Water Music by Händel that had been playing on a loop for God knows how long.

It soothed her subconscious as she slept on that old large couch with no back or ends. Alone, sleeping out an afternoon hangover, dreaming interesting dreams where a man she did not know visited her and told her that he had written a story about her.

Sophie’s one leg lay across the green cloth, emulating the position she lay in within her dream, the foot resting on the fabric, and the other plopped down upon the parquet floor, her pink nailpolish catching the light of the sunrays as her toes twitched. her right hand stretched back above her head and the other softly touching her sleeping cheek, her bare skin sprinkled by little specks of paint, her nipples now bearing a small coat of greens and reds, parts of her tits sprinkled in blues and yellows, wishing for that strange man to come and add some sperm to the color.

It was as if Sophie Fernandez was a part of the art she painted.

It seemed decadent, of course, painting in the nude, drinking wine, eating chocolate, but the kicked off blanket displayed a tanned body: two orbs of glorious mammaries, lickable, shagable, soft, round, bouncy, hot, cool, spermhungry, tit-job-willing, softly leaning to each side, her shaved genitals heaving and sinking along with her suntanned stomach. That slight snore, audible only if a person stood completely still next to her, transporting serenity, sexiness, fertility and, ultimately, love.

She didn’t know it, but someone was in there with her, flying in and out between her dreams and her reality. That spirit, the Goddess of love, Aphrodite, someone that knew more than she did about who she was: someone watched her intently as she slept. That spirit heard Georg Friedrich Händel’s Water Music blasting through the speakers, the tired body of that struggling artists strained, limbs aching, eyes numb from the endless concentration of gazing on a large canvas.

Meticulously, Sophie had spent the last three weeks perfecting a replica.

“The Arrival of Maria de Medici at Marseilles”, on display in Paris at the Louvres, was still her favorite of Rubens entire cycle of 24 paintings for the Queen and mother of Louis XIII, so it came as no surprise that she jumped at the chance to reproduce it. Her rich customer in Oxford, who had ordered the painting, would sure get his money’s worth.

Sophie Fernandez lay there like a drunken swan, the London breeze tickling her aching muscles, the reproduction on display in a room, empty of furniture, filled with paintings, wine and, yes, a stereo.

Sophie woke up, gasping for air, realizing that she had passed out after that last gulp of the delicious wine, the glass still on the table. She felt the breeze caressing her body, the chill feeling a bit like a tongue finger caressing her shoulder. Sophie ruffled her hair, uttered a well formed: “Oooh!” and closed her eyes, protecting her sensitive eyes, and leaned against her hands. Breathing into her palms, she sat there for longer than she could recall, and thought about the dream. Had it been a dream at all?

She looked up, realizing how loud she had set the CD-player and wondered that she had been able to sleep through all of that. She walked across the room and turned down the music, saw her white kimono hanging on the wall, put it on, but kept the recording running in its own loop.

Blinking into the open room, Sophie wondered. Two hours? Three? Four? What time was it? Sophie glanced over at the Dali clock, closing her robe, studying the clock, designed to look like it was melting, and saw that it was five in the afternoon. Sophie had fallen asleep, drunk, at one. Oh, my.

Mom only knew that Sophie was very successful, but living a free and bohemian lifestyle. Not that she emptied a bottle of Rioja and a box of chocolates every day, but only in order to celebrate the finishing touches of her painting. The gentleman paid £ 4500 for the replica, which gave Sophie something to celebrate. She would buy her mom something special. A computer or something. A good one. Or a tablet. Maybe she would ask her dad to come over alone and she would paint a portrait of him for mom. Maybe she would paint them both. Maybe she would create a sculpture for them. A sculpture of love.

Dazzled, tired, half-drunk, aching and a bit dizzy, the sunrays triggered those dark lucious eyes. Sophie stood there for a moment, basking in the sunshine, letting the silhouettes of the London houses seduce her. London seemed like a good way to celebrate a good month’s work, catapulting out into the familiar funloving life.

Then she remembered her dream. The man. The story. She felt like researching who this charming man had been who had visited her in her dream. It seemed so real and yet like a mystery waiting to be solved, especially since the man in her dream had told her that Sophie had him in the painting.

In that Rubens painting? She had added a face of her own, to be sure.
Mischievous, to be sure. Mischievous to paint an extra face on a painting that was supposed to be an exact replica. But people expected it by now. Ever since grade school, even then she had tried to copy other work, adding something of her own in it. Now it had become her trademark. Even in her replicas of Mona Lisa, her fans tried to find out what element was new in her replica. A tree that wasn’t there in the original? A mountain that had another color? A river that meandered east instead of west? Her fans had become almost like Hitchcocks fans, who waited for his appearance in his own movies. What has Sophie Fernandez planned now?

That’s what they were saying.

Now, in that Maria de Medici painting, Sophie had painted an extra face: the face of a sea-man, a merman if you will, not a mermaid, splashing around next to King Neptune and his chubby sea nymphs. This face had been totally her own invention. She hadn’t even chosen a friend or an associate to pose for the painting. The sea creature had a sympathetic, intellectual face, one that would be her own signature, her own trademark for this special replica.

The new owner of the replica, the rich man from Oxford who paid her £ 4500 for the artwork, had in fact kept saying how eager he was to find out where the new element would lie hidden.

Now, this man in her dream claimed that this face was the face of the dream man named Charles E.J. Moulton. Thoughtfully, Sophie Fernandez walked up to her canvas, reaching for the Mozart-Kugeln, looking thoughtfully at the face, how it smiled at her. Those chocolate covered candy sweets, that lay so a sensually on the table next to the canvas, seemed to be screaming: “Eat me!” at the top of their lungs, as if they had any. They were as candescent as the dream, as rich as the wine, as lucious and her own breasts, as mysteriously candescent as sin.

That face, could it be the face of that person the woman had spoken about? Charles E.J. Moulton? Did a person like that exist? Was this the face of Charles E.J. Moulton? Hmm. Sophie let the chocolate melt in her mouth slowly, picking up the wine and looking at the bottle. Some of her friends claimed that only French wines were real wines and that anything else was a fermented grape juice. Be that as it may, to Sophie Rioja was a work of art. A dangerous work of art, it seemed. After all, one bottle of alcoholic fermented grape juice could produce quite a few strange hallucinations. The effects of wine, however, were just as mysterious as the effects that dreams had on the soul. The names were real memories from dormant dreams though, and Sophie kept remembering those names.

A dream man had just fucked her in her sleep.

Who was he?

As Sophie stepped into the shower that day, rubbing off the paint off her naked body, she wondered. Sophie slipped into her Victorias Secret lingerie, floated into that black Gucci skirt and let that white Versace blouse produce the crowning glory of her looks. Like a perfect recipe for a successful apple pie, Sophie, with that Water Music by Händel still blasting through the speakers, put on her L’Oreal eyshadow and her Revlon lipstick and her Jade rouge and sprinkled herself with some Chopard perfume, turning herself into a work of art, just as much a mystery as a dreamy wine.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she glanced one last time on her reproduction and smiled. She did not have the answers as to what the dream meant, but she maybe the answers would come to her. Maybe she would take some time tomorrow and research who these people were and if they existed at all.

“£4500, she whispered to herself. There’s a good reason to fuck.”

Turning off the stereo and letting that German dude from Halle take the royal break of his sexy afternoon and let King George be a stranger, she strode royally, like the sexy Queen she could be, toward her penthouse door, ready to leave her art loft, ready to experience amorous salvation.

The small “bleede-leep” of her laptop indicated that someone waited for her. Sophie wanted to ignore that someone and just leave, go where ever the wind took her, take her Porsche and just forget about the strenuous detail-obsessed paintbrush-picking and the endless chit-chat of her neurotic voices. After all, London waited for her to rediscover her.

London, the mistress, the casanova, the blowjob.

Sophie glanced over a well formed shoulder, looking over at her Samsung PC, how it blinked and winked at her, telling her that perhaps a new customer was knocking at her virtual door, hoping that she would say yes to an offer.

That familiarly uneasy feeling of being drawn between profession and leisure kept her doing a small fandango of sorts in her doorway, back towards possible work and forth towards a possible one-night-stand. Sophie looked at the decending sun, inspecting it for a moment, making believe that it spoke to her:

“Come to me and I will lead you to my friend: the night, the sun said. Come and dance, wine and dine, sing and laugh. You’ve earned it.”

This time, though, Sophie Fernandez really knew in her heart that this mail couldn’t wait. She quickly walked up to the PC, her heels seductively clicking on the parquet floor.
Impatiently clicking on the keys of the keyboard, Sophie finally and proverbially arrived in her mail programme in an art forum she had joined a month ago. Commercials for a seminar. Her mail site had gone bing just to show her how great a companion this art forum could be. Spam? Nothing but spam?

Sophie pursed her lips, both pairs: facial-lips and pussy-lips, shaking her head in anger, and was just about to close the computer when she saw a strangely familiar name flashing across the screen. It was familiar to her, at least familiar within her dreams. It was an anglo-saxon name, but she was not really sure if the person bearing that name actually was Anglo-Saxon. This man could be British or Australian. International.

Charles E.J. Moulton.

If he existed, was he worth a fuck?

At first the name seemed distant, as if she hadn’t dreamt about that man at all.
Slowly and ever so carefully, Sophie sat down and read the excerpt that was flashing across the screen. The New Members section of the info mail from the art forum now had a new budding trainee: a man in the prime of his life who displayed his paintings in a British art forum. At first, it scared Sophie. She could feel her heart flutter. How come then that this man now appeared on the flashing computer screen in her penthouse? Thoughts of hallucination and conspiracy came to mind. Scary thoughts of possession and obsession meandered through her brainstem and hit her fluttering heart.

Her hands began to shake, her forehead produced light sweat drops that now trickled down her elegantly made up face, ruining her make-up. Sophie felt herself stiffen like a corpse. She felt like laying down, curing the hangover that she again felt. Had she heard that name prior to the dream? No, she had never heard that name. Then why was this name now here on the screen? She didn’t know why, but this scared her.

Carefully, her painted fingernails shaking so hard that they clicked repeatedly against the keys of the computer keyboard, she clicked on the painting that came with the name: a Bob Rossian kind of painting with the red and yellow colors mingled together and black silhouettes of elephants and palm trees gracing the front. The screen waited, bleeped and searched for its source and soon the artist bio presented itself.

The text ran on for quite a bit and she saw that the man was a Renaissance Man of sorts. Sophie felt herself gasping for air, leaned back in her chair and slapped her right hand against her mouth. Uncontrollably, she began laughing. It was a high chuckle, one that helped the initial fear actually transform itself into joy.

Someone was here with her. Aphrodite. How could one otherwise explain the fact that two such unique names presented themselves to her in her sleep and then showed themselves in black and white on the screen.

It didn’t take long to find out that Charles had written a short story named “A Venus Born in London” about a succulent British-Hispanic reproductive artist named Sophie Fernandez. What was this? Demonic possession? Angelic magic? A sign from above?
Had this man been prying in on her life? On the other hand, with the web as prominent as it was, it was not difficult to guess that he had found something about her and decided to write a story about her. But … Sophie winced, looked out toward the London dusk and tried to figure this one out. How could that be?

Sophie completely forgot about time. She walked in to her kitchen and brought out another bottle of wine, a French Bordeaux one this time, a 2006 Chateau Latour. Taking her first sip with her right hand, she clicked on Charles Facebook-site with the other.
She clicked on Charles name, requested for him to be a friend, not really knowing what was happening to her and why she was so afraid. She actually wanted to run out into the open street and leave in her expensive car and forget that this was happening.

She nearly jumped out of her seat, jumping almost as high as her art studio ceiling, when she saw that Charles not only answered her request, but also that he was online.
Sophie laughed again, this time even more uncontrollably.

And suddenly, the urge to eject into the London party scene vanished with the afternoon breeze and was replaced by solving a mystery.

“Hello, my name is Sophie Fernandez,” she wrote. “I would like to be your friend.”
“Hello back,” Charles responded, “that sounds nice. Do I know you?”

“I am not sure,” Sophie answered.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Charles added.

“I live in London,” Sophie wrote, “this is all very confusing, Charles. Who are you?”

“I am an actor, an author, a singer, a painter. I’ll ask you again: do I know you?”

“I would think so. I mean, you wrote a story about me,” Sophie laughed.

“What? How so?”

“Your story ‘A Venus Born in London’ is about a British-Hispanic artist living in London. She paints replicas of famous paintings. That is what I do. That is who I am. You must’ve done a lot of research about me.”

Charles crooned: “Hold on, Sophie. I made those characters up. That all came from my own imagination. I even made sure that the website that I made up in that story didnt exist. I checked and double-checked it. You’re telling me you exist?”

Sophie shook her head and spat: “This is spooky. You mean, you have never really heard of me? That can’t be. You’re putting me on.”

“No.”

“Look, I dreamt about you, Charles. In my dream, I heard your name and a spirit told me I had painted your face into my replica of the Rubens painting.”

The long wait in the online conversation had Sophie thinking that Charles had left for good. Then, the shock. The amazing coincidence. Aphrodite’s prediction. The dream man.

“Sophie,” Charles wrote.

“Yes?”

“I’m in London right now,” he said. “If you tell me where you live I could come over. I mean, if I wrote a story about you and you painted my face into the painting, we should meet. I mean, I would love to meet you.”

“I just showered,” Sophie mused. “I could get naked for you. I mean, I was sort of looking for someone to fuck.”

“Okay.”

“Kensington High Street 45. Fernandez.”

“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

Sophie trembled like a crazy cat in a snowstorm for that remaining half hour. This had to be real, though. She looked at the pictures of Charles in the net and realized she had painted his face into the painting without knowing it. Then he must’ve invented the story about her without knowing that she was real. Aphrodite had been here.

Sophie stripped naked and waited, combing her pubic hair and massaging her tits a bit, ruffling her hair. When the doorbell rang, Sophie jumped, feeling like a schoolgirl meeting the man of her dreams for the first time, his voice mellow, his face grinning. Crazy thing to strip naked for a strange man, but Aphrodite had brought her someone she could fuck.

The mystery man.

He arrived, that mystery man, saw her naked and smiled. They kissed, he touched her breasts, two strangers who had met before. Sophie showed Charles her painting and his face gracing the corner. Then and there, they realized it was time to fuck.

Fate had brought them together.

Sophie looked down upon the growing bulge in Charles’ jeans.

“What’s that?”

Charles shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Is it Christmas?”

She wrinkled her nose a bit, making her cheeks dimple, her tongue licking her lips.

Slowly, she took a few steps up toward Charles, her high heels clicking against the floor. As she dwindled down upon her knees, her ass swayed in a way that reminded Charles of a flowers swaying in the wind. Using her long nails as tools to unzip his pants, she made him feel like a lamb on the way to the slaughter. If that hadn’t been enough, she now pulled down the trousers all the way to the ground using only her mouth.

Red elegant fingernails grasping glory, she opened her eyes wide, making a very indicative “Ooh!”-movement with her lips upon seeing what was waiting for her. Her one index finger grabbed the buckle of his belt and seductively felt how hard it was.

With a very spiritual and candescent looking grin, a six inch gender literally catapulted out of his pants into her face.

“It’s huge.”

“20 centimetres.”

Sophie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around his shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process. That fabulous sensation made her see stars. She licked his cock, gave him deep throat, sucked on his balls, ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that she knew she could be.

With enthusiastic lips and swirling tongue, Sophie boobing her head back and forth like a regular slut, she gave Charles the blowjob of his life, tasting that salty sausage and feeling its length tickling her tonsils.

The sun was setting as he inserted his tongue into Sophie’s snatch for the first time, giving her the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second, probing her like an oil-drill. So deep, in fact, that Sophie soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of her pubic hair. The sound he was made was quite similar to the sound a man made while drinking beer. The slurping and licking made her think that there were gallons of clitty-juice in there – and there probably was.

She laughed to herself, aroused by this amazing sensation.

Soon enough, Charles turned Sophie around and stuck in his cock from behind. Sophie knew that her ass-cheeks wobbled as he fucked her. Well, Charles fucked her through and through right then and there and she bet he really enjoyed seeing how wobbly her butt could be while he pounded her. No tightness there. Just a nice wobbly butt that loved being fucked like the cocklover’s ass it was.

It didn’t take very long for Charles to change holes, so to speak.

For every thrust Sophie’s horny lust grew more insatiable and Charles’ dick harder, Sophie’s back entrance tight and lovely. They were getting into a steady rhythm now, sort of a marching beat: thrust in, slide out, thrust in, slide out. For every time he thrust in, her boobs bounced to and fro, causing her to look only to moan and yelp and their almost choreographical dancing beat giving her a second orgasm. Charles bent over to lick her back as he fucked her ass. It turned into an amazing ballet of cock and butt, tongues and tits.

With a fantastic smacking sound, Charles slid out his cock out of her asshole, jerking off quicker and faster than Sophie had ever had seen anyone jerk off before. His manhood grew so big that she literally felt like watching a tower erupt out of the ground.

“Come on, mystery man,” she gasped, “squirt on my face!”

Shockwaves of bloodshots came racing down from his chest, the sperm factory now preparing for a spectalar lift-off.

“With pleasure, fictional fuck!”

One gigantic load pinpointed her open tongue, sliding down into her throat. The second shot spread onto her happy laughing cheek. The third came flying across her forehead, landing on a lock of her hair.

It was then that Sophie woke up, realizing that she had been dreaming.

That evening, she turned on the computer and found Charles’ name in the web.

The rest is history.

Runaway Slave By Claudette Harlow

Jo turtled into the peacoat collar’s thick warmth as the wind gusted off the snowy canal below. Passing the few open coffeehouses, the aroma of marijuana and hot coffee almost distracted her. She shook her shoulders to signal the path ahead. If a cockring would keep Pau’s dick harder, then she was going to find him one. Today. Now.

She was mentally repeating those instructions when she bumped into the tall muscular back of a man on the sidewalk. As he spun to face her, her foot slipped and she felt herself stumble to her knees. Reaching up to stop falling, her hand had scraped down his crotch and over his generously proportioned cock and balls. Jo drew her fingers back as if they were on fire.

Jo swallowed hard and pretended to fumble again, lightly spreading her fingers to measure the length of his cock. She couldn’t stretch them wide enough. She half snorted a gasp as her thumb pressed against his plump cockhead.

He calmly grasped her outstretched fingers and started to pull her up as a gust of wind caught under her unbuttoned coat. The first thing he noticed was her collar. Then her eyes. He puffed out a chilled breath when he saw the rest of her.

Above her fur-trimmed boots, beneath her black peacoat, Jo wore the high fetish fashion that only the wealthiest Masters and Mistresses buy for their toys and slaves. It revealed and concealed the body in sensual surprises as she shifted from leg to leg and finally stood. All the while, her eyes locked into his.

His eyes were milky brown and made her think of morning coffee and fucking at dawn. The mental image of her lips around that cockhead her thumb had grazed was burning in her mind. It was a stranger’s cock and it frightened her what she was feeling, what she was wanting. She wanted it.

She swayed and weaved until he touched her shoulder, dipping his head to look closer into her now half-lidded eyes.

“Are you stoned?” he asked in a raspy voice.

Her only response was to slowly lick the oval of her mouth.

He laughed lightly. She pulled her coat closed and took a hesitant step closer. The scent of her perfume and the brush of her hair made him alert as she whispered hotly at his ear.

“Take me somewhere and fuck me. Please.”

Jo was shocked to hear herself. It wasn’t just that this stranger’s cock was bigger and thicker. That was a bonus. It was that she wanted a stranger’s cock to suck and worship and to fuck her until she lost herself again to the feeling. That dangerous, who-knows-what-will-happen fucking and pleasuring.

“Please,” she repeated in a softer voice.

His fingers traced along her jaw then his thumb grazed across her collar, suddenly slipping his thumb through the ring at the center. He pulled her tight against his body. She could feel his cock hardening against her thigh.

“Again,” he commanded.

“Please fuck me.” Jo closed her eyes and draped her body along his, her hand between them caressing up and down his cock.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he rapsed into her hair. He pulled away and smiled brightly. “But I need to buy a new leash for this first,” he tapped the thick collar ring with a finger. “Then I will take you home and fuck you until you weep.”

Jo remained silent as he linked their arms and guided her along the sidewalk. The wind kept gusting into her eyes and making her shiver. As they walked, she tried to sneak glances at his cock, still hard and straining at his pants.

She wanted to stop him. To fall to her knees in front of him and unbuckle his belt. She wanted to slowly and carefully unzip his pants and engulf his cock in her mouth. She wanted to feel her throat resist until she swallowed and relaxed, feeling his thick cockhead slide down her throat. She could think of nothing but fucking his cock with her mouth and tongue, worshipping it, exulting in it, and with it.

She followed his lead, slowly building a mental scene in her mind. His hand snapping the clip of the leash on the ring of her collar. His fingers gripping the fresh leather strap, pulling her like a half-tamed animal to his erect cock and taking her – raw and hard and – Jo felt her knees weaken and she stiffened, leaning closer against him.

His upper arm, biceps well developed, skimmed against her breast as they walked. Jo felt it like edging. So close, such squeezing pressure but she wanted him to…do things to her nipples. Lick them, kiss them, bite them, suck them, pinch them, tease them…while she was unable to stop him. Tied up or restrained, open to his desires.

“Make me cum,” she pleaded silently with each footsep.

He pulled her through a doorway and stood looking around at the shelves. “Stay here,” he said, moving toward the back.

Jo tried to slow down her heartbeat and take deep breaths. She gazed uninterested around the shelves of the store until she saw a glass case displaying cockrings. She stepped closer and drew her forefinger slowly across the glass top. Like a double exposure or a ghost image, she envisioned Pau’s cock multiplied within each of the various rings and cock jewelry.

I’m wearing this one right now,” grumbled a voice in front of her. She looked aside and saw a man with his pants down and his cock and balls standing straight out at her. She saw a series of black leather straps encasing various parts of the man’s ball sac and cock shaft. The man swatted his cockhead and the shaft swung back and forth like a pendulum. “Hard as a rock. He grinned and pulled up his pants. “You want a cockring?”

Jo’s lips squenched. She wanted the stranger – she didn’t even know his name – she wanted him to come back now and put his leash on her collar. Her voice was so soft. “Please.”

“Well,” said the man stepping behind the counter and leaning closer as he played finger games with himself. “Tell me about this cock worthy of adornment.”

Jo felt a surge of lassitude rise up from her feet to the collar around her neck. She felt drained and sleepy. Her voice droned in her ears.

“Perfect. It is a perfect cock. Steady. Pulsing.” Jo’s knees buckled again and she steadied herself against the case, her hand uncontrollably rubbing over her pussy. “Master’s cock…” She groaned and pressed her thighs tightly together.

The man behind the counter followed her lead and started rubbing his cock through his pants. “Ohhh,” he moaned. “Yeah, yeah.”

“This one, I think,” said the stranger, clipping a hook to Jo’s collar ring and pulling the leash tight.

Her hand immediately stopped and Jo slumped. Her eyes were wet as she looked shyly up at him. She dipped her head in a slight bow and smiled gently. She sighed loudly. “Please fuck me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please.”

The man behind the counter didn’t pause in his stroking. “You fuck her here. Now. No charge for the leash. It’s a freebie.”

The stranger leaned close to Jo and bored into her eyes. His gaze was as hard as his cock and Jo went glassy-eyed.

“Lock the door,” he said.

The man behind the counter nodded eagerly and flipped the deadbolt. Putting up the closed sign, he spun around and slid his hand down his pants. “Fuck her,” he groaned.

Jo peeled off her clothes in an awkward slow dance until she stood behind the cockring counter. Like a snake, her hand and arm moved inside the case, lightly touching this ring and that. She flicked her eyes up at the store man.

He nodded. “Any one you want,” he gasped, stroking his pants harder. A darker wet stain spreading beneath his fingers.

Jo brushed her fingers across the rings again and again. Some were gold; some shining silver and chrome. The leather ones yielded beneath her touch. She finally chose a black leather strap with a buckle.

Jo swiveled her neck and shrugged her shoulders, settling easily to her knees. She held the cockring in one hand and with the other beckoned the stranger.

Jo breathed warmly on his cock as she looped the strap around his ballsac and the root of his shaft and tightened it. She pulled it snug then a notch tighter before slipping the buckle closed.

She kissed the taut curves of his balls and glanced up at him.

“I want your cum. Every last drop.”

The store owner slid down to the floor watching and listening, his hand pumping inside his pants.

The stranger’s cock looked huge now, the skin taut and flushed. He was mostly shaved with a trim narrow path just above the shaft root.

The pink and purple skin tones, the throbbing blue veins were contrasts to the starker black leather strap and the silvery buckle.

Jo’s pursed lips lowered, widened slightly, and engulfed the wide head of his cock in her mouth. Her tongue flicked across his cockhole and she sucked gently, then harder. At the first taste of him, she felt herself drifting into subspace.         She loved gliding her tight wet lips slowly over the head, catching them in a pause at the rim, licking the circle of the rim quickly, and then plunging his mouth all the way to the root of his cock. She slowly dragged her lips back up the shaft and stroked the head in a rhythm with just her tight lips. Long slow sucking down his shaft then quick sucks on the head. Her tongue swirled around the head and when her mouth was filled with his cock, she stretched her tongue out to lick at his tight balls.

When Jo’s tongue brushed over and wetted the leather cocking, the store owner groaned loudly. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m cumming!”

He pulled his cock from his pants and jerked it a few times before shooting thick spurts of cum down his pant leg and on the floor.

The stranger pulled his cock roughly from Jo’s mouth and pulled her leash until she was on her hands and knees. He pulled and guided her over to the store owner’s slumped body.

The stranger pushed Jo’s head down until her nose was an inch from a puddle of cum. She closed her eyes and slowly slid out her tongue. Before the tip touched the cum, he yanked her head backward by the leash.

The store owner’s eyes blinked. He waved a limp hand toward the door.

The stranger kept a tight grip on Jo’s leash as they walked to his home.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he told her several times on the short walk.

“Please,” she answered.

The Colonel’s Daughter By Chanel Blake

The constant clicking of keyboards drilled a migraine into my skull. My eyes scanned the large office, desks of employees stretched through the large room, each working away at their stations. Some with clients, others doing file work. I chewed on my lower lip as I looked back at the screen. My eyes blurred. I had been working on this report for my boss for nearly three days and was getting tired of the dull work. Where was the fun in compiling database stats?

Sighing, I glanced at the booklet I was working from and typed next name into the military database.

I had worked for the Military Tracking Unit since my father left for the war with the red planet. The MTU served as a way of keeping track of current and ex soldiers, deceased or discharged. Clients came to us looking for their friends and family, and we did our best to find them.

I didn’t care much for the two human worlds fighting nor did I wish to show any support for it, but my father was the only family I had left, and even though we hadn’t spoken in months, working for the MTU made it easy to keep tabs on him. At least I still knew he was alive.

The war had been waged for nearly five years now, starting when I was only nineteen. The red planet was tired of its treatment from the Earthen leaders, and they rebelled. The whole idea was beyond me, as far as I knew the people of Mars were never mistreated. Though, we had been taught of their selfish nature. Many Earthens’ struggled to believe that the humans on Mars were descended from the same ancestors as ours simply from their entitled attitude. But even they couldn’t deny our resemblance to one another.

The bell over the office door chimed and I glanced up from the screen. Our receptionist, a high school intern named Rosie, stood and greeted the arrival, another client no doubt.

But this one was different, making my stomach do flip-flops. He acknowledged Rosie, then pointed in my direction before heading towards me.

This man was a perfect 6’2, broad shoulders with a uniform that hugged his toned muscles just right. My lips parted and my mouth went dry. Shaking my head to clear the dirty thoughts rushing in, I stood from my chair, clamped my mouth shut and straightened my skirt. Still, my heart pounded against my chest; it wouldn’t be silenced.

When he stood before me, he held his cocoa skinned hand out and grinned. “Major Brody Campbell.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and grasped his hand, unable to look away from his dark green eyes. “Aspen Reid.”

“I know.” He released my hand and took the chair in front of my desk. “Colonel Jeffrey Reid told me to find you.”

I frowned, lowering myself to my own chair. “I haven’t heard from my father in months.” I flipped my blonde hair over my shoulder before looking back at the screen on my desk.

Brody leaned back in his chair. “I know.”

I raised my eyebrow at him, acting more confident than he made me feel. Still, heat crept up my neck.

God it’s hot in here. I resisted the urge to fan myself.

“Then what would you like?”

A quick glance around the office told me every woman in the room was listening to our conversation. Come lunch, they would all know the name of this fine specimen and each would research all they could on him and his service.

His dark eyebrows knit together. “He said you would help me out.”

I blinked several times, wanting to shake myself. It had been a long time since I found a man this attractive and this one was very distracting.  Focus on your job.

I looked back at my computer. “Who do you need to find?”

He leaned forward and glanced around nervously. His dark hair fell into his sight line and a pang of lust swept through me. I shook my head to be rid of it.

“It’s fine,” I said, motioning to the desks surrounding us. “People like you come in here all the time looking for missing family or friends. War sends us to the opposite ends of the world, or in this case, worlds. But if whoever you’re looking for is on Earth, then I can find them.” Major Campbell wasn’t the first of my dad’s friends I’d helped, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Brody cleared his throat, but never said the name. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, sliding it across my desk.

Again, I raised an eyebrow and took the paper from him. It wasn’t a name, only a six digit number, which was fine. It actually made my job easier. I typed in the number and his information scrolled down the screen in front of me. Marcus Donovan-Roy was his name, though all I cared about was his status and the coordinates attached to him. In bolded letters at the top of his profile it said WOUNDED IN BATTLE and the coordinates were right beside it. 44.908°N, 74.283°W. I quickly screen captured the page with the name, status and coordinates and printed it out for Brody.

“It’s not far from here.” I offered a half smile as he took the paper. “Don’t say I never helped you with anything.”

He frowned. “Why would I?”

I looked away, letting my hair fall back into my sight line and shield my red face. “Never mind,” I mumbled. “An old joke.” God I could be awkward.

Brody stood before me for a few more moments before speaking again. “Well, thanks, it was nice to meet you.”

I watched him disappear out the door.

When he was gone, I returned to my computer screen, opening the database once more. I typed in his name “Brody Campbell” and hit search. It took only a minute to come back empty.

I raised my eyebrow. This man was a major but had no record in the system?

I tried searching my father’s unit, knowing he had a major working with him. This search turned up positive, except for the name. My father’s major was Brent Donovan, and he was recorded as recently deceased.

# # #

Three more days past before I saw Brody again. It was after ten on Friday night, I’d gone for dinner and drinks with some of the ladies after work ended, but I didn’t want to stay late. So few people were around these days, even fewer looking for a good time. Besides, my roommate was visiting her parents who lived two towns over, so I had the house to myself, a welcome change. But when I turned onto my street, I noticed a light on in my front window.

I frowned. Odd. Maybe Janet had decided to stay home.

This, however, proved false when I slipped through the door attached to the garage and saw her car was gone.

Did she leave on a light?

Janet was usually very anal about the environment and saving electricity, so that was unlikely.

Reaching into my purse, I wrapped my hand around the handle of my .25-caliber pistol and held it ready. Then I slipped through garage entrance. Immediately I could see where the was coming from: my sitting room. I drew several slow breaths then crept around the corner and saw Brody sitting on the couch.

“Major Campbell,” I gasped, holding my gun on him and looking around in case he wasn’t alone. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes looked down at the gun, then he held his hands up. “Nice way to greet someone.”

“Excuse me?” I was shocked. “You’re in my house, unexplained. You claim to be military but I have no record of your existence in my company database.  Further, my father’s major is dead, so I know you aren’t him. You should consider yourself lucky I didn’t fire a few rounds off on site.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He stood, and I stepped back two paces, keeping the barrel aimed at him. His eyes looked wild, as if something had happened in the past three days.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. Despite being as intruder in my home, and a possible liar, he was sexy. I could easily let my mind wander to fantasies of why he came.

“Right.” He released a long breath between closed teeth. “Honestly, I didn’t know where else to go and Colonel Reid said if I was stuck to find you.” His hand slipped into his pocket, and fear rose on the back of my neck for a moment, but he only withdrew a folded piece of paper, a note.

I eyed the letter, interested, but unsure I wanted to be vulnerable to this unknown man. He seemed to sense my wariness, because he placed the letter on the table next to the couch and backed several steps away from me.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Aspen. I have no intention of doing so,” he said. Then he motioned to the letter. “I had nowhere else to go.”

What the hell? Why not home?

I stepped forward, and grabbed the note, managing to unfold it with one hand and scan over the words. It was quite clearly written in my father’s hand, his shorthand, actually. Something I had picked up on many years ago. We often exchanged letters like these.

I read the note three times before looking back at Brody, making sure I had my father’s words right. He didn’t tell me anything reliable, only that I could trust him. Had it not been in his shorthand, I wouldn’t have listened.

I shifted from foot to foot several times before lowering the gun, and flicking the safety before placing it back into my purse.

“Okay,” I said, motioning back at the couch. “You sit there and explain yourself.”

I lowered myself to the armchair across from him. He sat, but looked away, shifting back and forth as if trying to get comfortable.

“Well?”

“Can I trust you?” he asked when he stopped moving.

I scoffed. “I’m certain I’m the one that is struggling with my trust for you at the moment. I’m going on my father’s judgement alone; perhaps you should do the same. He obviously sent you to me for a reason.”

He stared down at his hands and spoke quietly. “Okay, but you can’t freak out.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”

“The reason I have nowhere to go, and why you can’t find my record, is because I’m not from here,” he said.

From here? That makes no sense.

“Yet you’re a major for our army?” My eyes traced down the army outfit he still wore, navy blue, with the Earthen crest on the left breast pocket and three silver lines – two thick, one thin – to indicate his rank. it seemed he hadn’t changed since he walked into my office three days before. He’d definitely showered, however, as his spicy musk was all too distracting even at this distance.

He tilted his head from side to side. “Sort of.”

This guy was so cryptic.

“Can you just say it?” I asked.

“I was born on Mars.”

My gaze shot to him, eyes wide and mouth agape. Then I glanced around quickly, instinct I guess, though no one was around. If anyone found out, they’d kill him, maybe even me for keeping him secret. What was my father’s intention? Further, why was a Marsian on our side? My father had failed to mention this bit of information in his letter. He was always vague with details.

“Does anyone… know?” I asked when my eyes settled back on him.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then why are you here and dressed like a major?”

“On your father’s insistence. I was caught in a battle waged around Phobos; some even say Earthen ships destroyed much of the small moon,” he said, “Very few Marsian ships survived and much of the debris fell on to the city of Aether.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Is the war over?” Aether was the planet’s capital. If it had fallen, would the rest of Mars be quick to follow?

“I don’t know.” He looked away. His gaze was filled with pain and sorrow  and glistened in the low light. “Aether fell, that much is true. I can’t be sure, but it is likely that Mars will surrender with their capital in ruins.”

“And you’re here because?”

“Your dad offered me a choice.”

A part of me doubted that, remembering the things we’d been taught about Mars. The red planet bred liars, despite this man’s insistence; perhaps he was one and the same. Still, I wanted to know more.

“What choice?”

“Death, or help him.”

“And you helped him?”

Brody looked at me, his green eyes making me melt and momentarily forget where he was from. “Would you have picked differently?”

I shook my head.

“Your dad’s major, Brent was his name, was killed in a ship malfunction during the battle. Colonel Jeffrey requested that I take his place and watch his back. My squadron had been killed in a ship raid. I didn’t have another choice. Figured I’d die anyway.”

He paused, seeming to choke on his emotion. Was this only an act? Could I trust his emotions?

Brody didn’t seem to notice my internal struggle and continued. “I saved your dad’s life shortly after joining him. Because I did that, he no longer wished to hold me in Major Donovan’s position where I would be forced to fight against my people. So with his major’s uniform and forged passport, he had me on a ship here, discharged as a wounded Brent Donovan. Your address, that note and number in hand.”

I shook my head. I still didn’t get it. “Who was the number?” Did I even want to know?

He smiled. “You Earthlings have a strange way of doing things.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You number your citizens, yet the numbers are nothing but data. Is that how your people are seen?”

“It may be a flawed system, but it’s how things have been done since before your colony even existed. Many of your ancestors would have been numbered people.”

We sat silent for a moment before he spoke again. “The number was a relative of Major Donovan’s. Your father wished that I return his belongings to his family after I landed and reported his death.” He shook his head. “I don’t enjoy bringing people sad news.”

I couldn’t disagree.

“So then, what now?” I asked.

“Well…” his intense gaze was on me again, “Your dad was sure that the war was ending, and, I guess once things are settled on Mars I can go home…”

“But until then you want to stay here?” I asked, actually wanting him to stay.

His eyes lit up. “Oh really? Would you mind?”

I sighed, but grinned just the same. “Janet’s probably going to freak, but I’ve always liked to keep her guessing, so let me make the up guest room.”

“Thanks Aspen, you really are as great as your dad says.”

I rolled my eyes as I ascended the stairs.

# # #

Breakfast was on the table by the time Brody finally came downstairs. His dark hair was a mess, sticking in every direction, and he released a long yawn when he sat at my kitchen table. God, even as a half asleep mess he looked like a sex god. I shook my head to clear the thought.

“How did you sleep?” I asked, sitting down across from him and grabbing the slice of toast from my plate.

“Good, thanks.” He smiled at me, but that smile soon faded when he looked down at his plate. He picked up the fork and poked at the fried egg I’d cooked for him, piercing the yolk and sending the yellow liquid spilling over the rest of it.

His eyebrows furrowed together. “What is this?”

I stifled a giggle. “An egg?”

He looked up at me, poking the egg again. “What’s that?”

Now I forced my eyebrows together. We’d learned about the Marsian colony back in high school, but since the war began we had been offered little knowledge of the place. I guess the climate and food there were much different than Earth. To be honest, I hadn’t really considered it. Glancing back at the food on his plate I run my tongue across my teeth. How exactly did one explain an egg?

I shrugged. “It’s food, from a chicken’s butt.”

He made a face. “Sounds gross.”

I grabbed my fork and scooped a big bite into my mouth, finishing with a smile and a soft ‘mmm’. Then I went to do the same thing. All the while, he watched me, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

When I finished my egg, I placed my fork down and smirked. “Are all Marsians this picky?” I crossed my arms. “Who knew a little egg would scare a big alien like you.”

He picked up his fork. “Do I look alien to you?”

My smirk broadened. He didn’t. “No, but what’s more surprising is that you sound Earthen.”

“We are from your planet, despite peoples’ disagreements. Besides, I’ve had practice. I was an Earthen Major, however brief.” He scooped a forkful of egg into his mouth and swallowed it without chewing. Only three more bites like this and he’d finished it. Picking up a napkin, he gently dabbed his perfect lips.

“I’ve had better things on Mars.”

My cheeks burned. What a rude thing to say when I had just cooked him breakfast, even if I was giving him a hard time. This was my house.

Pursing my lips, I said, “Then perhaps you should look to Mars for your next meal.”

I pushed my chair back from the table with a loud screech. His expression was shocked, as if he hadn’t expected my reaction. Perhaps Marsian girls enjoyed when men insulted their cooking.

I turned to leave, but his hand shot out and caught my wrist, pulling me back. I resisted, pulling my arm from his grasp and storming up the stairs to my bedroom. Brody was quick on my trail, bounding up the stairs, and sliding through my door before I could get it shut.

“What?” My ears turned pink, embarrassed by his insults.

Brody reached out and caught my hand. “Aspen, I’m sorry, I was only joking. I thought we were having a good time, you and I. Just friendly banter.”

I pursed my lips again, trying to think of a clever retort, but finding the closeness of our bodies suddenly distracting. His spicy musk made my head swim, and his zip up sweater did little to hide his chiselled chest. My throat went dry and my breathing erratic. I couldn’t stop the thoughts that invaded my mind, the need to touch him. To devour him.

As if reading my mind, his grip on my arm loosened and I closed my eyes, whispering a silently thank you, knowing I wouldn’t be able to resist my urges any longer if he didn’t back away soon.

But my thanks was too quick, as while my eyes were closed, he brought his perfect lips down onto mine.

I froze at the first touch, my eyes shooting open and I started pulling away. But his hand on my neck held me in place and the kiss continued, deepened, growing in passion. His tongue dipped inside my mouth, tangling with mine and asking for more. A feeling stirred in my lower abdomen and I couldn’t resist him any longer. I wanted him, now.

My fingers laced through his dark hair, pulling him closer to me, devouring his lips in the kiss. Such soft lips.

He gripped the hair at the base of my head, pulling me back from the kiss and gasping for air. I stared into his green eyes, now nearly black with hunger. I swallowed, nervous from the want in his gaze.

“We shouldn’t,” I whispered, looking away. Though I didn’t know why I said it. I wanted to more than anything.

Brody chuckled. “What else are we going to do?”

The question was ridiculous and I could think of a hundred answers. Wait, could I? Maybe I didn’t want to. I was swimming in ecstasy, wanting nothing more than his body pressed against mine, needing nothing more than his perfect mouth kissing every inch of me.

When nothing else could come to my clouded mind I managed, “Only this.”

He reached for the nightgown I wore, not having bothered to change, and pulled it over my head. I was immediately exposed, being commando underneath. I didn’t mind though, his eyes devoured my body and the wanting grew.

He wore only his plaid bottoms and sweater, both easily removed and revealing the perfect specimen beneath. As I had imagined, hoped, prayed, his chest was flawless. Muscles carved into the finest of flesh, a creamy cocoa masterpiece. And below the belt was even better.

Kneeling before him, I grasped his member with both hands. A moan escaped his lips as I began moving slowly up and down his shaft. I watched the pleasure grow on his face.

I parted my lips, slipping my tongue between and flicking the end of his hard cock. Another moan. I glanced up at his face, pleasure, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off me. Watching him, I flicked his cock with my tongue again. His eyes closed and his erection grew. My hands grasped his ass and I took his cock into my mouth, pushing as deep as I could. I slid my tongue along his smooth shaft savouring each stroke.

“Fuck,” Brody moaned, pushing into my movement.

A salty taste came on my tongue and I drew back, not wishing to ruin all the fun. He released a breath as I stood. Reaching into the top drawer of my bedside table, I withdrew a condom and placed it on top before crawling on to my bed and beckoning him to join.

“I’ve always wanted a Major in my bed,” I purred as he climbed on top of me. He caught me in a rough kiss, biting on my lower lip. I moaned into his lips, pushing my hips against his hard cock.

Brody broke contact and trailed kisses down my neck and shoulders. My skin heated under his soft touch. He caressed my breasts and teased each nipple unmercifully with his warm tongue before gently nipping and sending a wave of pleasure through my body. My nipples responded, growing more rigid with each stroke. Trailing his tongue down my flat stomach, he dipped into my belly button and proceeded down my pussy. He pulled his mouth away and plunged two fingers inside me, and I gasped, tilting my head back and biting on my swollen lip.

He moved his fingers against me, replacing two with three, then four. The tension built inside and as I begged for release, Brody withdrew his fingers and used his tongue instead. The warm sucking and swirling around my clit sent chills through me. I quivered as another moan drew me closer to release. If he kept this up I’d come before I had a chance to try his cock. I reached down and grabbed a handful of his dark hair, pulling his mouth from my clit, but he resisted and continued his assault on my clit.

Pleasure shot through me and I let my hand fall, letting him finish. Brody was determined to get me to climax. I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped my lips as Brody’s tongue delved deeper. Unable to hold it any longer, my body went rigid as I released. Brody raised his head and grinned at me.

“I’ll take that as good,” he said.

I smirked, though breathless and said. “So you can eat like a champ, but what about fucking? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

His grinned faltered, but only for a moment, and he crawled further up the bed, capturing my lips in a deep kiss and letting me try my own sweet taste. I licked it from his lips before he pulled away.

“How do you like it, dirty girl? Can I fuck you from behind?” he asked.

Placing my hands on his chest, I pushed him off of me and turned onto my hands and knees to answer his question. I loved a vulgar man in bed.

“You’re gonna fuck me hard?” I asked, watching him over my shoulder.

Brody knelt behind me, and ran his hand down my spine, pushing my shoulders down.

He slapped my ass. “Yeah, that’s how I like you, face down, ass up.”

“Then fuck me,” I said.

He didn’t need the encouragement. The rip of the foil was followed by his thick cock sliding inside me. I pushed back against him, moaning with pleasure as his shaft filled me. Brody teased me at first, taking his entrance slow. His hands knead my ass as he moved in an agonizing motion against me. It was torture. I just wanted him to fuck me hard.

I propped myself onto my elbows but Brody was quick to push me back down.

“Naughty girl.” He drew out only to drive his cock back into me with alarming force.

I gasped and he continued to slam into me, pushing his cock deeper, fucking me faster. I gripped the sheets of the bed, feeling the pleasure building as he rode me like a wild animal. He took it further, plunging a finger in my tight ass. A new wave of pleasure shot through me, a sensation I’d never felt. I bit on the sheets, and came around his cock.

Pulling out, he flipped me onto my back and spread my legs. He thrust his cock deep inside my pussy again. Again he moved slowly within my swollen folds. The movement was even more of a tease after coming so hard and soon I was begging him to resume his pace.

“Fuck me harder, Brody!”

Grabbing hold of my ankles and holding them over my head, he resumed pounding with even more want than before.

I closed my eyes, trembling as I came again. Brody cried out in pleasure. Releasing my ankles and leaning forward, he gently bit on my shoulder.

Then he collapsed onto the bed beside me, his breathing matching my own. I rolled my head to the side and gazed at him through my tangled hair. His eyes had lightened again and stared back at me, grinning. Leaning in, he planted a light kiss on my swollen lips.

“Major Campbell reporting for duty, ma’am,” he whispered.

I smiled. “Duty successfully served, major.”

We didn’t speak again, and eventually he stood and went to my bathroom. I heard the shower flick on. Apparently Mr. Major had no problem getting comfortable.

I pushed myself from the bed and followed him in.

Drawing back the curtain gave me another pleasant view. Mr. Major, cocoa skin slick, and damp dark hair sticking to his forehead.

He grinned. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I responded.

“What’s wrong?” His dark brow furrowed as he stepped aside and let me beneath the spray of water.

“You never told me your plan, now that you’re here,” I said, staring up at him. “It’s one thing to stay, it’s another to sit around the house all day.”

His grin faded and he looked away. “I didn’t have one.”

“Well come Monday, you’ll need one.”

His hand shot out and caught my wrist. “But we have until then?”

I raised my eyebrow at him.

His lips twitched into a smirk and his hands lowered to my hips, wrapping around and grasping my ass. His cock immediately hardened, aroused and ready. My eyes grazed over his perfect member, parting my lips slightly. I quickly jumped from the shower, returning with condom in hand and a small smile playing on my lips.

“You’re lucky I have nothing else to do this weekend.”

He grinned and lifted me from the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he slid his smooth cock back inside of me.

My nails dug into his shoulders and I couldn’t help but think about my luck. Maybe the war would end soon and he would return to Mars, or maybe not. Either way, I’d have Brody’s cock until then.

Kamalia By Kara Leigh Miller

Kamalia’s high school guidance counselor once told her to find something she was good at—something she loved—and then find a way to make money doing it. It was a no-brainer for her. Prostitution hadn’t been her first choice. She’d tried to be a legitimate adult film star, but all of the lights and cameras gave her performance anxiety. It all worked out though. In fact, she preferred to be her own boss.

Kamalia wasn’t your average two bit-hooker that stood on the street corner in fake leather boots and imitation snake skin mini-skirts hollering, “Hey baby! You looking for a good time?” Her boots were real and she preferred silk to snake skin. She was a full service, professional hooker—the kind that dealt with a very elite clientele. Threesomes, gang bangs, fetishes, bondage, sadomasochism, role playing, erotic asphyxiation…whatever your pleasure, Kamalia was more than willing to accommodate. She drew the line at rim jobs and getting tea-bagged though. A girl’s gotta have standards.

Of course all of that was back in her glory days; back before she became the devil’s concubine. Kamalia smiled at the reference. Her protégé was always chastising her about referring to her herself as a concubine and her husband as the devil. But until she found a more suitable description, Ian Daniels would be known as The Devil.

# # #

“I hear you deal in risqué matters of the flesh,” he said.

Kamalia remained seated at the table as he spoke. She looked him over. He was tall with short black spiked hair and eyes such a deep shade of purple they looked like the midnight sky. The stranger was attractive enough, except for the beer gut that flopped over the waistband of his khakis.

She nodded for him to sit. He did. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Ian.”

“Tell me, Ian, why have you come to see me?”

# # #

Kamalia hummed the theme to I Dream of Jeanie as she sprinkled a generous amount of seasoned salt on top of her perfectly shaped meatloaf before covering it with ketchup. Ian loved ketchup. He ate it on everything from scrambled eggs to bologna sandwiches. He even dipped his potato chips in it. No wonder he was so fat, she thought. She put the pan in the oven and wiped her hands on her stained yellow apron. Her life had gone to hell.

# # #

“So, what’s your pleasure, darlin’?”

Ian dropped a small red duffel bag on the bed of the cheap motel room he’d rented for the evening. He slowly unzipped it and pulled out two pairs of metal handcuffs.

“Bondage, huh?” Kamalia smiled. “You or me?”

“You,” he stated. “Would you mind putting this on first though?” Ian handed her a strap-on dildo. It came equipped with an engorged head, faux veins, and balls.

“Impressive,” she said, slipping it on.

“Lie down on your back,” Ian instructed.

Obediently, Kamalia lay down on the bed and assumed the spread eagle position. Ian cuffed her wrists and ankles to the bed. She watched as he meticulously took off his clothes, folded them and set them on the dresser.

# # #

Ian would be upset if she wasn’t dressed in red leather and black heels. That was her meatloaf attire. It was better than the white corset, lace thong, and running shoes that he required when she cooked chicken parmesan. Which reminded her, she had to run out to the store and pick up some lemon-lime Gatorade for him. That was his drink of choice with meatloaf. God knows she wasn’t in the mood for the rubber tickler he’d use to punish her if a tall ice cold glass of his favorite drink wasn’t served with his dinner.

Kamalia chuckled as she slipped on her trench coat. God knows. That’d send Ian into a fury if he ever heard her speak His name. It’d serve him right though. Fucking narcissist.

# # #

“Just lay still,” Ian said. He had his cock in his hand, slowly stroking it as he approached the bed.

She rattled the handcuffs and smiled. “It’s not like I can do much anyway.”

Ian leaned over Kamalia’s naked body. He closed his mouth around her nipple and sucked on it for a few moments before moving to the other one. His mouth was hot and her nipples always were super-sensitive to touch. Kamalia arched her body to him.

“I said lay still.” He left her nipples and kissed his way down her stomach. Ian continued to stroke his cock as he sat on his knees between her legs. He bent over and took the dildo into his mouth—all six and a half inches of it.

Kamalia had seen a lot of things in her line of work. She’d watched two guys have oral sex and anal sex. But never had she seen what she was seeing right now. A small smile formed as Ian’s head bobbed up and down. She could hear his moans vibrating against the fleshy dildo.

# # #

“Kami!”

Only one person called her Kami. She looked up to see her neighbor, Mrs. Roter waving to her from the opposite end of the juice aisle. Kamalia smiled and walked towards her. “Hello, Becky.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” Becky smiled.

“Not really,” Kamalia said. “It’s the curse of living in the suburbs. Only one grocery store.”

Becky laughed. “You’re always so funny.”

“I used to be a comedian in a former life,” Kamalia said dryly.

Becky’s high-pitched giggle pierced the quiet of the aisle. “I’m making roast duck for Charles tonight. You and Ian should join us.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a meatloaf in the oven. Well, I really need to get going.” Kamalia tapped her watch before walking away. She hated her neighbors. Every last one of them. They were nosy, annoying, and boring. She was willing to bet money that “Perky Little Becky” had never had a toe-curling orgasm. Grabbing an eight-pack of lemon lime Gatorade, Kamalia rushed out of the aisle. The happy homemaker, “vanilla” scene was getting to be too much.

# # #

Kamalia continued to watch as Ian gave the dildo a blow job. She had to admit, she was impressed. He knew how to give head. Maybe she could get him to teach her a few tricks.

“You like that, big boy?” she asked, thrusting her hips up, shoving the dildo deeper into his mouth.

Ian took the dildo out of his mouth. “I told you to lie still,” he said, pinning her hips to the bed with his hands.

“Just trying to help you out,” Kamalia said, a hint of humor in her voice.

“I don’t need any help.” Ian straddled Kamalia’s waist, his back towards her. He grabbed the base of the dildo and held it still as he slid down on it. His deep, throaty groan of pleasure filled the tiny room.

Kamalia lay perfectly still as Ian fucked the dildo hard and fast. His left hand grasped the blankets, anchoring him to the bed while his right hand feverishly stroked his cock. The faster he moved on the dildo, the harder he’d jerk off. The harder he jerked off, the louder his moans became.

There had been a few rare occasions in her professional life when she’d been bored, but this was a new low. She slowly thrust her hips up, meeting Ian as he slid down on the dildo. He didn’t yell at her to lay still. She moved a little faster.

“Talk dirty to me,” he said breathlessly.

“You like the feel of that big, hard dildo stretching your ass open, huh? It makes you want to come doesn’t it, Ian?”

“Call it a cock,” Ian demanded. “It’s a cock, dammit. Call it a cock.”

Kamalia sighed in frustration. Why hadn’t he just hired a male prostitute? she wondered.

# # #

Kamalia arrived at home just in time to save her meatloaf from burning. Ian refused to eat anything burnt which was rather ironic considering he lived for anything that flamed. Especially men.

She set the pan on top of the stove and busied herself with preparing the vegetables to put in the steamer. Ian would be home in less than half an hour.

# # #

“That cock feels good doesn’t it? You like feeling it slide in and out of you?”

“Deeper,” Ian said while stroking his cock harder.

Kamalia thrust her hips and the dildo deeper into Ian’s ass.

“Your voice,” he breathed. “Make it deeper.”

She fought the urge to laugh. Deepening her voice she said, “Ride that cock, Ian. Fuck it hard.”

“Deeper!” Ian shouted.

He was joking, right?

Ian stopped riding the dildo and bent over. He bit Kamalia on her leg, just above her ankle.

Nope. He wasn’t joking. Kamalia deepened her voice until it physically hurt and said, “Make yourself cum, Ian. Stroke that cock. Fuck that cock harder. Deeper.”

Ian let out one final howl. Seconds later, Kamalia felt the warm gooeyness of his cum on her leg.

# # #

Kamalia scraped the vegetables off the cutting board and into the steamer. It was time to make the final dish—potatoes. Ian demanded to have hot mashed potatoes with three tablespoons of butter on top. She always saved their preparation for last so that they’d be at a temperature of his liking and because she absolutely despised peeling potatoes.

It was a small wonder he hadn’t died of a heart attack yet with the way he eats. She’d never get that lucky. That particular night though, the night he’d made his offer, she’d thought she was the luckiest prostitute in the world.

# # #

Sexually frustrated and prostitute don’t typically fall into the same category but there was no other way to explain her encounter with Ian. It was one of the strangest nights of her working life. Up until that point, turning tricks had always been exciting for Kamalia. Her clients always left satisfied and so did she.

“Why do you do this?” Ian asked, interrupting her thoughts. He drew a long puff of his cheap menthol cigarette.

“Do what?” Kamalia asked.

“Engage in depraved sexual acts for money?”

Kamalia raised an eyebrow and smiled at him over her shoulder. “They can’t be too depraved. You enjoyed them.”

Ian crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside stand. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and reached for his khakis. “Don’t you want more out of life?”

“You paid me for sex. Not pillow talk,” she told him coolly while slipping her feet into her silver studded green stilettos.  “So it’s all about the money?”

“And the sex.” Kamalia smiled.

“What if I could offer you the money and the sex without the danger?”

# # #

Ian made Richard Simmons look straight. She should’ve known. It was right in front of her the entire time. But, she had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And look where it’d gotten her? Married to a man who was in serious denial about his homosexuality. Kamalia was nothing more than his trophy wife—a cover for his true identity.

She’d tried to get out of the business a couple of times, to no avail. The moment a potential suitor learned of her previous entrepreneurial skills, he’d drop her like rotten garbage and run for the hills. She had to face the fact: At thirty-seven, Kamalia’s body wasn’t what it used to be. She knew it was time to find another way to support herself. Ian was her answer. So, she had allowed him to marry her. And they had tried to consummate the marriage.

# # #

“Why are we here?” Kamalia asked.

“I thought it’d be romantic to spend our honeymoon at the same place we first made love,” Ian said with a smile.

Kamalia looked at him with disbelief. Made love? She must’ve missed the part of that night where she’d gotten any pleasure from him. The La Fiesta Motel was the cheapest motel in town and one she frequented with her clients. It was the last place she wanted to spend her honeymoon.

“Come on. I got the same exact room,” Ian said.

Kamalia faked a smile and followed him to the room. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the only thing she had to fake that night.

It didn’t take long for both of them to strip naked. Kamalia lay down on the bed and waited for Ian. He wanted to do it missionary style because he felt it was the appropriate way for a husband and wife to have sex. Kamalia thought it was boring but marriage was about compromise and it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

Ian approached her and positioned himself between her spread legs. He pressed the engorged head of his cock into the hot, wet opening of her pussy. Kamalia sucked in her breath at the feel of him. It was the first time she was going to feel him inside of her and her anticipation was high.

Unfortunately, her pleasure was short lived. After two shallow strokes, Ian went flaccid inside of her. He pulled out, closed his eyes, and stroked himself hard. He entered her again. And once again, he went flaccid.

“Maybe we should try a different position,” Ian said.

Thank God, she thought. “Sure, darlin’. How do you want me?”

“On your knees, head on the pillow and ass in the air.”

Kamalia obeyed. Doggy-style was one of her favorite positions.

Ian continued to stroke his cock until it was hard, a small bead of pre-cum glistened on the head. He stuck it in Kamalia’s ass with a single, hard, forceful thrust. And as long as Kamalia didn’t speak or moan or scream or look at Ian, his dick stayed hard.

# # #

The sound of Ian’s powder blue Prius pulling into the garage snapped her back to reality. Kamalia put his plate of food on the table along with his glass of Gatorade. She did a quick inspection of the kitchen. Ian hated messes.

“Better put that away,” she mumbled, screwing the top onto the jug of antifreeze and tucking it away under the sink.

Kamalia met him at the front door. “Hi, honey. How was work?” she asked just like she did every night of the week.

“Good,” he replied in an effeminate voice. “I see we’re having meatloaf.”

“Your favorite,” Kamalia said, following him into the kitchen. He sat in front of his prepared plate and picked up the glass of Gatorade. Ian took a long slow drink then puckered his lips, smacking them together. “Mmm, tangy,” he said.

Kamalia leaned up against the counter and fought back a smile. Soon, she thought. Soon her nightmare would be over and she could go back to doing what she loved.