Then You Say Please

“Sir,

If I told you I wrote you a story
Of everything I wanted us to do,
Would you read it?

Asking for a friend.

Pet”



From the intimacy and trust of “Quicksand,” to a sprint through the trees “In the Woods,” to video game practice in “Mario Kart,” follow the depraved, wicked, amorous adventures of Sir & Pet. Tease your imagination, and come to where pleasure, emotion, and experience collide.


Contains BDSM themes.

New book under the Zoe Dean handle!!

Short stories intertwined with Prelude, Interlude, and When He Calls Your Name.

Hope you guys enjoy ❤ ❤

Prelude

Third and final preview from the new Zoe Dean short story collection, Then You Say Please.

He asks you,
“What does it feel like?”

A reasonable question;
But how do you answer?

It’s a constant, pressing need
A pilot light waiting to grow
Ignite to an inferno

How could you express that desire in words
Explain the claiming, aching hunger
That will devour you if not satiated

You pull him to you
With patience you do not have
And slowly describe
How the fire feels under your skin

Do you bite?
Do you beg?
Plead,

Or attack?

Because language is sighs and grunts,
Moans and screams
Tangles of limbs and sweat,
Fingers in hair,
Squeezing around skin,
Pinning the claws against his back.

Jaws snapping,
Thighs squeezing.
A roar that could be yours or his,
Or never have happened at all

Yet in the after,
In the quiet stillness
Where time could be measured in seconds,
minutes,
or hours,
And still all feel the same
He still wants to know.

So, you suppose,
You will have to show him
All over again

Until he finally extinguishes the flame

Interlude

Another sneak preview from the upcoming short story collection, Then You Say Please

He says,
“I don’t like how the word feels in my mouth.”
He tells you,
“I don’t like the shape of the words.
I could call you so many things, my dear,
But they don’t sound right coming from my lips.”

You look at him, confused, as his fingers trail to your chin,
Tilting your head up, oh so gently

“I want to ask the question.
I want to hear the sounds that you emit.
The words stuck in your throat,
As I drive sense from your brain.

I want to feel you around me
As I make you say you’re mine.

More than your agreement,
I want your affirmation.
I want to taste the air as you call yourself
My whore
My slut
My toy.

It sounds so much better in your voice
To hear you say, or try to say,
In every way you want me.”

When He Calls Your Name

Sneak preview from a new book of short sexy stories coming from the Zoe Dean handle, but had to give this side of my writing a bit of love too

The voice on the line
The knock at the door 
Your stomach flips over 
And you choose:
Open it, or don’t 
Slam it in his face 
Or he comes across the threshold
And you see his eyes, the corner of his mouth.
It twitches into the smile he saves for you
And you alone.

The fog clouding your brain:
Is it a hand or a claw that reaches out? 
Drawing him to you, pulling him so closely,
To press the air from his lungs or because the space is intolerable.
Anger, gone.
Hurt, gone.
Resentment, annoyance, humiliation, gone.
Because there is truth in the way his mouth forms around yours,
In his hands that can’t touch everywhere at once,
But will try their damnedest anyway.

When he calls your name
And makes you helpless to your hunger,
Do you feel the heat in your blood
Pulsing through your veins?
Does the fire make you burn brighter
Or turn you to ashes at his feet?

When he calls your name
And you scream his into the night
There is sincerity in the touch 
That tries to erase things
You will remember in a moment’s time 

When he calls your name 
And makes you wish for nothing more
Than the sweet surrender of submission,
The bitter taste of honesty, 
Whether it is love, or starvation
It does not matter.
You taste the words on his lips
And make them yours,
Owning them as completely 
As he might have once owned you.

On Fire

I wrote this about 6 months ago, and had a friend post this writing elsewhere. It was before I started this blog. Now, I have a place to vent these feels, and the emotions then and now are more or less the same.
_____________________________________________________
They ask me, ‘What does it feel like?’
I don’t know how to answer this question. I know how I want to answer the question, but it’s not an answer I can say aloud.

It feels like fire.
Normally no larger than a candle flicker, it grows, unwanted, unwarranted, always at the worst possible times. It feels like flames clawing their way through my skin, through my brain, and the only way to get rid of it is to bite, scratch – attack. To revert to the lizard brain and pounce on the next thing I see. It feels like a lethal combination of lust and raw power.

They rephrase the question.

‘What do you need?’

This is not rhetorical- it’s a question that needs an answer, and I’m in conflict.
Bite.
Beg.
Grab.
Plead.

The lion would pounce, bird would fly, fox would bite.
We’re past the point where human language has any meaning, where the only words understood are grunts, or moans – sighs or gasps.

And I pull them to me, with patience I do not have, and kiss them. I slowly show my hunger.

We fall into a tangle of limbs and sweat and I feel their hands everywhere, fingers in my hair, squeezing around my skin, trying to pin my hands that have become claws against their back, jaws snapping, thighs squeezing like pincers around their hips, and there is a roar that might have come from either of us or never have happened at all.

We breathe deeply, out of rhythm. It is not a moment for tender touches or sweet words as we take stock of the markings of the fire. I pick up my things and head to the door. The cursory goodbye, and I’m gone.

The cool air hits my face as the lizard brain retreats – humanity restored.
Control is back.
The flame simmers once again.

On Words

(Special thank you to the friend mentioned in On Dirty Minds for helping in the editing of this.) 

The alphabet will affect me far more than kisses and bites and fingers ever will.

Or is it the tongue that wraps around the letters, that forms sentences that travel through me, making my mind turn to mush, melting me into a puddle that no longer wishes to move, to think, to feel anything but that person wrapped around me.

Or is it the timing, things said as I’m already floating up in space, words that send me higher, which feel like a jolt of electricity down my spine, sending shivers straight through to my toes.

Or is it the person themselves, that have read each reaction so carefully, that have cracked through exterior walls, that understand which things will have more of an effect than their body ever could, or make me more than willing to accept what their body could offer.

There are times I crave the silence. Because some people need to stay silent so I can fly above the atmosphere, so I can be somewhere else in that moment, or get through the moment, and then come back to be present with the person beside me.

Sometimes silence is our language, growls and sighs whispered in ears, and it’s more than enough. It can be positive, negative, or neutral. In whatever case, human language is unnecessary.

But there are those that have understood the power of words, in the most intricate of manners.

That can ruin with a sentence.
Melt with a whisper.
Destroy sanity with syllables.

And I can only reply with a yes, no, or sigh. I will paint landscapes with a mouth that never utters a sound, but I will come undone under the power of words.

But only for those who know how to properly wield this power.