Thursday, May 25, 2017

Blueberry Brat #Dirty #Sploshing #Erotica

An excerpt from Blueberry Brat by Lexi Wood

The sign said OPEN, but the stand seemed closed. Then Karl spotted what he was looking for sunbathing on a lounger that must have been from the seventies. They didn’t make ‘em like that anymore.

But it wasn’t the chair he was interested in. It was the brat in the blue bikini, wearing sunglasses and chewing a licorice lace. He couldn’t believe the gall of this girl, lying out next to the road for every passerby to gawk at. Had she no shame?

No, of course she didn’t. That’s what brought him back to her.

Karl stood at the foot of the lounger, blocking her sun. She raised her glasses lazily, but she didn’t say a word. Just stared at him with those emerald eyes.

“Did your boyfriend buy that for you?” he asked, indicated the licorice lace.

She set her glasses back down and said, “Colin’s history. I bought this myself.”

“You sure get around.”

“I sure do.”

Karl watched the girl’s white stomach rise and fall with every breath. He wondered how she stayed so white when she worked in the sun, or at least lounged in the sun. He wondered why she wasn’t asking him what he wanted. Maybe it was obvious.

He hadn’t come back for the blueberries.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked. “Lying out here all alone, nearly naked?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of… anything, really.” Afraid of men, he meant, but he didn’t want her thinking she should be afraid of him in particular. She’d already called him a pervert once.

Once was enough.

He spent so long watching her breathe that his every inhale matched hers. She stopped chewing the lace and just sucked it. Her dark glasses reflected the brutal sun, so he couldn’t be sure whether she was looking at him or she had her eyes closed.

“You want more pie?” she asked.

He didn’t know how to answer that question.

Sighing, she slipped both feet over the side of her retro lounge chair and into a pink pair of flip-flops. She walked toward the whitewashed hut, swinging her narrow hips as she went. Flipping the latch on the door at the back, she turned to Karl and asked, “Your wife run off with another guy?”


“Is she climbing Mount Kilimanjaro?”


“Is she dead?”

That question stopped Karl in his tracks, or would have done if he’d been walking.

“She’s dead?”

The way the girl said that word, so casual and yet so final, made him wonder who’d failed to teach her proper manners. “Yes, my wife has passed.”

“So your kids are orphans?”

“They’re not orphans. They have me.”

“So half-orphans.” She opened the plywood door. With the end of a licorice lace hanging out of her mouth, she said, “I’m a full orphan. Both my parents are dead.”

Karl felt strangely numbed by this admission, but he said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
With a shrug, she said, “It’s better this way. Now it’s just me and my grandma—and my grandma doesn’t drink.”

Karl’s stomach knotted.

She stepped inside the blueberry hut.

When he didn’t follow, she stuck her head out and asked, “What are you waiting for?”

He was waiting to wake up from this strange dream.

They’d covered quite a lot of heavy territory, which weighed Karl down immensely. This girl seemed to hop over tragedy like a jump rope.

As he approached the white hut, he asked, “How can you be so cavalier about losing your parents?”

“It was a long time ago,” she said from inside.

“Even so…”

“If you had the kind of parents I had, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

When Karl arrived at the open door, his mind drew a blank. He forgot their entire conversation. All that remained was the image before him, of a naked eighteen-year-old surrounded by baked goods.

“Come in,” she said. “Close the door behind you.”

He did as he was told, though he knew no good would come of it. He crossed the threshold and stepped inside, all the while staring at the girl’s small white breasts with their soft pink peaks.

Her pussy was shaved bare, which he would have guessed after seeing her in a bikini, but she stood there like it was nothing. Like she hung out naked in the blueberry hut all the time and why was he making such a big deal about it?

She hadn’t taken off her flip-flops, and she hadn’t taken off her necklaces. The beads and feathers and strips of leather danced against her chest as she made space on one of the low shelves. Karl’s heart clenched as she jumped up on it, because he was sure it would collapse beneath her, but either the shelf was stupendously well-constructed or the girl weighed next to nothing, because she sat easily upon it, not a trace of worry on her face.

“You haven’t fucked anyone since she died.” The girl leaned against the wall, which was painted the same glossy white as the rest of the hut. Then she added, “Your wife,” as if he wouldn’t know who she was talking about.

“That’s right,” he said. “I haven’t. Haven’t even thought about it, to be honest.”

She opened her legs. “Until now.”

He nodded. “Until now.”

Her pussy lips were the most perfect shade of pink. Though the closed hut had no windows, enough light came in through gaps in the loose slats to make her juices glitter like diamonds. He’d never seen anything so alluring.

“Lick it,” she said, kicking off her flip-flops.

When he didn’t move, she walked her bare feet up his chest and pressed down on his shoulders with her heels. He let her move him down to the ground, which was the same glossy white as everything else. Felt nice and cool against his knees.

She slid her feet down his back and said, “I hope you’re good at this. There’s nothing worse than a grown man who can’t eat a pussy.”

Karl wondered if she was speaking from experience, and how much experience, but put the question out of his mind. He inhaled deeply between her legs. All he could smell was blueberries and pastry. Probably because there was an open pie sitting beside the girl and she was idly picking away at the top crust, eating it while she waited for him to begin.

“How do you stay so slim when you eat sweets all day long?”

She flatly said, “I’m eighteen. That’s how.”

At least she knew it wouldn’t last. Most girls her age didn’t realize there was a best by date on their effortless figures.

Karl extended his tongue and lovingly fed on the sweetness of this stranger’s pussy. An eighteen-year-old pussy was like nothing else in this world—not that Karl had any recent experience with young women. He was around them all the time. Taught them. Evaluated them. But he didn’t see them as potential sex partners. He was too shaken up after his loss to see anything. And, prior to that, he’d been so happily married he forgot other women existed.

Sounds impossible, but that’s how much he loved his wife. While she was alive, there was only her. His whole world was her.

And now his face was buried between the legs of an eighteen-year-old blueberry vendor. He really ought to have some feeling about that, but he didn’t. All he felt was arousal.

Wicked arousal.

Wild arousal.

He still had all his clothes on, but he was already so hard it hurt.

“What, are you hourly?” asked the brat.


“Lick my fucking cunt,” she said, over-enunciating every syllable. “I’m trying to get off, here. This isn’t charity work.”

“Sorry,” he said, and licked her clit with focused intensity.

“Better,” she said in a tone that sounded undecided. “But still not great. Try sucking it.”

Karl wrapped his lips around her perfect pink clit and sucked, but the slippery thing kept escaping from his mouth.

“Were you ever any good at this?”

He pressed his face between her legs so his cheeks touched her inner thighs. Wrapping his mouth around her bare pussy lips, he slobbered and sucked. She wiggled around on the counter, like she was looking for a better position, which meant he wasn’t pleasing her.
Picking at her pie, she said, “Oh, this is going nowhere.”

Every jeer was a challenge. He worked harder, slurping her pussy lips, sucking her clit with ever more force. He’d wanted to start slow and build up steam, but this girl was obviously looking for a cold, hard fuck.

Or, more precisely, a hot, hard mouth-fuck.

He stuck his tongue in her pussy and reamed her in and out.

“That’s just pathetic,” she said. “Get up. Get off me.”

He didn’t, and she kicked him with both feet to drive the point home.

As he gazed up at her from the floor, she slid down from the counter. She moved the pie she’d been picking at to the spot on the counter that was wet with saliva and pussy juice. Then she jumped up and sat in it.

Karl watched in awe as this sulky teen with the perfect pink pussy wiggled her butt in a blueberry pie. He didn’t know what to do or what to say or what this was all about. “Would you like me to leave?” he asked.

She gave him a stunned look, then hopped down from the counter. “If you left, who would lick all this blueberry pie from my ass?”

When she peeled the pan away, the bottom crust went with it. All that remained on her perfect porcelain skin was a slick helping of pie filling.

She leaned against the counter with her butt facing him and said, “You might want to take off your clothes. This could get messy.”
You can read the rest of this story in ebook form but I highly recommend buying my latest release Younger Women, Older Men: Scandalous Erotica, in which Blueberry Brat appears. 

This anthology, which includes erotic fiction from me and Lexi, is so new it's not even technically available yet.  You can purchase the paperback now (and you should!) but you'll have to wait until Friday for the digital version.

Purchase Younger Woman, Older Men in print from Amazon! 

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Reflections of a Dirty Old Man, Recently Showered

I keep struggling with this topic, because I keep asking myself – what is a dirty story?

The most influential book on dirty story writing  craft  that I’ve read has been a book by exactly that title “How to Write a Dirty Story” by Suzie bright.  In this book she goes from the point of view, which time has proven to me,  that what makes a dirty story or an erotic story is as personal as our erotic nature itself.

I wrote here in the past the most erotic story I’ve ever read was by a nameless amateur and would only be erotic to me.  It was in a chat room during the earliest days of the internet, when a purportedly young man, say around high school, turned up emotionally shaken because he had just lost his virginity an hour ago.  But how he lost it!

His mother, a single mother, had a best friend he had known and grown up with like a kind of elderly aunt and trusted  old friend.  About one night a week they'd get together to watch TV ever since he was a little kid.  

So,  on this night the TV shows offered are pretty boring, she doesn’t have cable, and sitting side by side on the sofa, himself in a T shirt and jeans, her, in a loose house coat, get on the subject of birth marks.  Like Hooper and shark hunter Quint in “Jaws” showing off their scars, they begin showing each other their birth marks.  The easyones first.  My arm.  Here’s my arm.  I have one on my knee.  I have one over here.  And then the less accessible ones,  in those sweaty places you have to dig down a little to get to.  Soon she is half undressed.  Soon his jeans are pulled down a bit.  Soon she is saying those weak words “I think we need to stop.”  Which a testosterone addled young kid with a visible erection poking over the top of his underwear will say with a lamb like bleat “Why?’ 

It means nothing that she’s old.  It means nothing she’s his mother's friend.  It means nothing they’ve known each other for years.  His jeans are down, her house coat is open to reveal the final birthmark where a young man might hope to find it.  And she says, reluctantly, probably feeling irresistibly, terribly, gloriously dirty “Unless you want to go into the other room.”  The room down the hall.  That room.  He doesn’t know what to say.  She gets up and goes to that room and closes the door.

What happens in the next ten minutes will mark his life.  In his last moments in this world, hopefully many wonderful years from now, if his mind is clear at all, his last affectionate vision before going into that good night will not be of his wife or his kids or of Jesus.  It will be that woman, her clothes heaped hastily on the bedroom floor, the sheet pulled chastely up to her chin, the peaks of erect nipples tenting the thin fabric and those frightened, hungry eyes.  He will stand eternally in the doorway, right up to the instant he decides what he will do with that concealing sheet she is clutching.  And that is the power of woman.

Is that a dirty story?  Or a sweet story?  I don’t think it turns anyone on but me, but it reveals me.  It reveals what I might have wished, what would have turned me on, and how many times I’ve envied that young man, not for what followed next, but for that moment in the doorway when it’s all in front of him and there is a woman in the room waiting for him to choose.  A woman he thought he knew, and realizes now he doesn’t know shit.  His inexperience on these things falls on him with a humiliating thrill just as the rediscovery of her own thrilling vulnerability falls on her.  What will they do?

What is erotic is not the consummation of the act.  It is the offering.  The presence of untested desire, unproven manhood.  The possibility of physical failure or rejection, which would be experienced so differently by the boy and the woman.  The eroticism is what is hidden until it becomes revealed and then becomes sex and maybe sordid and disappointing or gorgeous and transformative.  Someday he’ll be married and it’ll become routine, something he does after brushing his teeth.  It will never be as terrifying and raw and primitive as it is in that first earthquake of his core.   Maybe she will have to show him how to take up the masculine posture between her knees.  Her hand on his back will lower him carefully onto her as though taming a wild animal with gentleness then her other hand will guide the tip of his shivering phallus in like a ship to a dock.  He'll get off a few thrusts before he grunts and shivers, feels something leave him and marvels over the strange hot slickness all around his cock and the sheer weirdness of inhabiting the body of another human being and ask himself is this really what people do.  He'll be too proud and jazzed to ask this woman, who looks like she should be his grandmother, if he did everything right.

 That is the power of woman also.    The eroticism is not the satisfaction of the penis stroking  for the first time.  The eroticism is all that leads to that moment that has pinned him wriggling to the wall like a bug in a glass frame, pinned between her thighs, the mystery of approaching her bed, standing next to her and looking down into her eyes and seeing the offer there, and the realization, which must always be a shock the first time, that a woman has called his bluff.  That she is standing wide open, radically and insanely nude, behind the door which she requires him to open by himself and step through.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

My "dirty" is pretty tame...

I've recently come to realize that, in the grand scheme of the erotica genre, I don't really write dirty stories.

In terms of erotica put out by traditional publishers, I think I'm on par with the level of dirtiness and sexy filth. Anytime I pick up a Cleis anthology or other erotica book from a physical bookstore, the stories contained in the pages are more or less on par with mine.

But in the Wild West of self-published erotica? Compared to all that's out there, my stuff is pretty tame.

My stories tend to have some story set-up, the sex scene, and some story wind-down. In the case of longer pieces, sex might be a regular highlight of the book, but the story comes first. (And the sex tends to be people just having sex.)

I don't do dub-con, mpreg, aliens, shifters, various bodily functions, hypnosis, non-con, vore, tentacle, or anything else like that. I barely even do BDSM. If I were to compare my fiction to the gay porn industry, my stories are like videos from Helix Studios. They feature clean-cut and attractive men -- often twinks -- who have sex. A large chunk of self-published erotica is like the gay porn studio Treasure Island Media -- macho, hairy men who are aggressive and dominant with each other and demean one another in the act of very kinky sex.

Both have their place and both have their fans. I admit to sometimes watching and reading the more aggressive type of porn/erotica.

There were two recent events that helped make it clear to me that I write fairly vanilla erotica.

The first is a review I received. The reviewer asked for some dirty stories and I sent along something I was proud of and thought he'd like... only to receive a review that rated my stories as average, typical erotica. That review truthfully didn't hurt (I've long since learned to not let reviews affect me), but it did set my mind to questioning/wondering about my place in the erotica genre.

The second is from analyzing my sales stats. My bestselling book, by far, is Seduced By My Best Friend's Dad (which I co-wrote with Sandra Claire). It was my standard erotica formula -- sort of like a Helix Studios video turned into written format -- except I had the "father-like figure" as the romantic partner. Sandra and I had decided to venture slightly into taboo, but still stay clear of it. (I like to refer to this story as pseudo-pseudo-incest -- it's not biological incest and it's not step-incest. There's actually no legal or biological connection, but the twink has always looked up to his best friend's dad as a father figure.)

I highly suspect that it's the "search engine optimized" title that's leading to high sales -- and thankfully the reviews have been overwhelmingly positive, so I've fulfilled the promise in the title.

These two instances helped clarify for me that I do not, in fact, write dirty stories in the eyes of those who read them regularly. I do, though, write dirty stories in the eyes of those who do not regularly read the genre. Perhaps it's because those who don't read the genre don't realize how kinky it can get, or perhaps they just haven't gotten bored with general erotica yet (which, I think, is why the super kinky stuff does well -- readers get their fill of the more vanilla erotica and then go in search of dirtier stuff).

The flash fiction I wrote here four weeks ago is honestly the dirtiest thing I've written as Cameron D James. I know my colleague, Master Dominic, makes a killing on sales of very dirty stories, despite only having a handful of titles and with none of them on Amazon.

However, I have always said and believed that one shouldn't write to market, just to chase the dollar. A writer should write the story they want to tell and then worry about market placement later. For that reason alone, I plan to keep writing fairly-vanilla and fairly-clean erotica. I admire those who can write the type of story that readers crave (but that readers often refuse to admit they desire it so much). Those writers are keeping readers satisfied and are also filling a niche that needs to be filled... just as I do with my Helix Studios style erotica.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press. With his erotica writers' group, he is a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit

Monday, May 22, 2017

Absolute Filth (#purgatory #dirtystory #flashfiction)

Hell and demon

By Lisabet Sarai

Better shovel faster, Sister. Lucifer’s stallions will return any minute.”

Sister Mary Alexander surveyed the manure still clogging the stables. Minions had removed twenty wheelbarrows, without making a dent in the horseshit surrounding her.

A lock of hair escaped from her wimple. She couldn’t do anything. They allowed her neither gloves nor boots. Filth smeared her hands. Stinking brown excrement stained her white habit. Muck saturated her hem. The horrid stuff leaked into her sensible shoes.

Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she’d scold, examining students’ grimy fingernails before applying her ruler to their palms with righteous glee. How many mouths had she washed out with soap?

Her back ached, though they’d returned the lithe body of her youth. She paused to rest. So futile!

You know how to make it stop.” Aside from the horns and tail, the demon reminded her of that cheeky senior Mick O’Riley. Always undressing her with his pale eyes.

I won’t break my vows.”

You’re in hell already, sweetcakes.” He cocked a pointed ear. “Hoof beats!”

Oh, no!” Tears gathered. “Again!”

On your hands and knees, Sister.” Flipping her habit, he spread her butt cheeks.

Not—there! Please...”

Has to be really dirty for you, baby!”

Friday, May 19, 2017

Life After Life

In the mid-late 70s, my parents got into some parts of the alternative lifestyle which the hippy movement celebrated. At one point we moved to a 3.5 acre property, where we built a mud brick house and adopted some of the teachings of Permaculture. We had dozens of chickens, several veggie gardens and at one point, a goat.
Prior to that, and all through the same period, they were also into spiritual pursuits. I remember my mother meditating under a pyramid frame which my father made. We had all kinds of books, the titles of which have escaped me but which were heavily into self-betterment through external beliefs. At one point my mother even had my sister and me convinced that if we were to sit on our beds and concentrate—REALLY concentrate—then we might achieve levitation.
Of course, that last one turned out to be simply a way for her to get us out of her hair for a while, but the rest of it seemed to be a lifestyle they truly believed in.
Some of this possibly came down to the spiritual beliefs of my maternal grandparents. Though staid and ordinary in many ways, theirs was a form of Christian belief which memory tells me now was pretty non-standard.
One time when I was around ten years old, I recall lying on a bed (or it could even have been a massage table) while my grandfather conducted a spiritual healing on my feet. This was because my parents believed I was pigeon-toed. As it turns out, I'm just hypermobile—I have longer-than-average ligaments and soft muscle tone, which means I'm much more naturally flexible than most people. But my grandfather went for it, with my parents' permission, and they all seemed to get something out of the experience.
But probably the most lasting memory of this period (because I still have the written "proof" of it) is when my grandfather's fellow church-goer gave him a few pieces of paper on which she'd written out all my previous lives back to the birth of Christ. There were hand drawn pictures as well.
I never met the woman. I was told she puts herself into a trance-like state and channels the information. Indeed, the written page was signed off with "I remain, yours in Christ the Master, Alaxander of the Galaxy".
The haunting thing for me, at that time, was how strongly (desperately?) I wanted to believe all kinds of psychic stuff. I believe I was around twelve years old, and trying to come to terms with how damn much there was to learn about life. So who was I to question any of this stuff, especially when it was so fascinating?
It was also well done, in that she never claimed I was anyone particularly big or famous. Occasionally I was an official type person (a Bishop of York in the 13th century), or my life skimmed across people of note (I was one of Florence Nightingale's first young ladies). I was more often female than male, and I lost a hell of a lot of menfolk to war and conflict.
One of the other notable parts of the whole document is how inconsistent it is as a piece of narrative. I don't pretend to understand the language or the overall concept anywhere near completely. My first life listed was, apparently, when I was a young girl working at "the INN" (at the time of the birth of Christ, natch). Yet my second life listed is apparently that same life, at the point of "death into birth".
My lives occurred two centuries apart almost all the way through. 1st century, 3rd, 5th, 7th, etc. And then, in the 17th century came this:

It is the 17th century. You are a traveller from a planet far away. In this your first earth life you choose to become a Gipsey. You have a wonderful time. You marry a dark eyed beauty and have 10 children.

As I say, there is great inconsistency throughout the document, if the words are taken literally. That was the tenth life listed, yet it speaks of it being my first earth life. I'm not sure if that means all the other lives occurred on other planets, or other planes, or whether there's some creative used of a Delorean involved.
Now, I'm closer to 50 than 40, and I've seen some shit. I've been through a few things, and I've learned a ton of stuff. And every time I step into a new area of knowledge, it really is a whole lot like opening a door. You step through and suddenly realise the world, and all the things in it, are so much more complex and overwhelming and impossible than you ever believed. So again, I find myself saying "who am I to question any of this stuff?"
I've always loved stories of psychics and people with extra mind powers. "The Chrysalids" by John Wyndham, for example. "The Gift" (the movie with Cate Blanchett) as well. The Grave books by Charlaine Harris and the wonderful Miriam Black books by Chuck Wendig. Just because those are all fictional doesn't mean the powers the characters possess are actually impossible. And if I lie on my bed and concentrate hard enough...well, who knows what I might achieve?


My newest release came out not too long ago. It's my first time playing in someone else's sandbox (in this case, Milly Taiden's "Sassy Ever After" Kindle World). I've been making covers for Milly for nigh on three years now, so it was a ton of fun to put my words to good use as well.

Sassy Healing by Willsin Rowe

Skilled Chicago surgeon Adam Gunnarsson abandoned his wolf heritage—and elitist parents—when heartbreak tore his world apart. And he swore never to let love sink its fangs into him again.
When family commitments lure him home, though, his determination is tested by Simone, a spicy human with more curves than baseball, and the voice of a bourbon-soaked angel.
Pressured by his parents to mate—to a suitable shifter girl, of course—Adam is instead drawn to the sassy singer whose heat seems destined to heal the rift between his two halves.

But as passions rise, so too do tensions. And anyone who’s not a predator becomes, by default, prey.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

The Truth In My Ghost Story ( #LesbianErotica #ParanormalErotica )

by Annabeth Leong

I feel like I’ve given you guys my best uncanny stories based on personal experience already. A pitfall of sticking with the group for a while, I guess.

So I thought I’d share a ghost story I wrote for an anthology called Like A Chill Down Your Spine, edited by Artemis Savory.

It’s called “Dear Kim,” and what strikes me as I think about it is that it’s probably based in reality and actual events more than the majority of the stories I write, even while being largely made up.

The story takes the form of a letter to Kim, the narrator’s college friend who also happens to be the unacknowledged object of her affections. Kim, per se, is not a real person, but I’ve had that friend so many times it hurts, and some of the incidents the narrator describes (of times when their closeness seems on the verge of becoming romantic) are based on events from my actual life.

The narrator is apologizing to Kim for ghosting over Spring Break, which I didn’t intend as a pun or connection to the theme, but which now strikes me as funny. She’s explaining what she was up to and the ghosts she saw, and what they made her realize.

The narrator, it turns out, went to stay with an old woman who is haunted by a female lover she never fully acknowledged. Their back story, too, is based on real things I heard growing up, and the place where the story is set is somewhere I have lived and know quite well.

So while the uncanny part is invented (I never saw these ghosts or experienced them that way), so much of the story seems absolutely true to me when I think about it.

I have a friend who says (I’m paraphrasing) that writing speculative fiction is a way of making your metaphors very literal, and I think that’s true for me here. I am haunted, emotionally, by the friends I’ve had who inspired Kim. I am haunted, emotionally, by unacknowledged feelings and regret. And in “Dear Kim,” I turned that haunting into an uncanny truth rather than a psychological one.

Here’s an excerpt:

I got to the Springs and it was awesome. I figured I could spend all of Spring Break there if I wanted to and Jessie didn't mind. I hiked and did nothing and felt like I had traveled to another world entirely.
In the afternoon, I finally made my way to the water. People went scuba diving there. I watched them put on their gear and dive down and disappear. Even in the brightness of day it gave me a shiver, thinking of that cold water running down far below the cheery swimming pool where kids played with inflatable swim toys.

I peeled off my outer clothes and got in the water. At first, I stayed near the kids, liking the knowledge of concrete below me. But the depth of the spring made itself known even there. The water ran colder than it should have under that powerfully hot sun. Before long, I swam to the deeper end, clinging to the side of the pool and peering down, hoping for a glimpse of the divers.

Something trailed down my leg. I shook myself, thinking I'd gotten wrapped in a water plant. A moment later, the same touch teased my left leg. Tease is the right word, too. Whatever it was stroked my skin, sometimes clear and sometimes barely there. I thought of the party where we met, when you ran an ice cube down my spine, and how when I turned around you laughed and laughed. I yelled, but you grinned through it all, and the next day we were friends.

I shouldn't distract myself from the story with that, though. I reached down to dislodge the plant and didn't feel anything. I decided it must have floated away. Before I could forget the whole thing, the touch returned to my right leg, where it ended by grasping my ankle with unmistakeable fingers and giving me a tug.

I jumped a mile and looked down into the water. That was the first time I saw her. Pale, pale, pale girl. Short red hair haloed around her face and wide green eyes so pure the water didn't fade their color. A little nose and big ears, and friendly, high cheekbones. Her bathing suit was the first clue something was wrong — she wore a little red 1950s number more like a minidress than a suit. Could have been retro, but there was also her expression. She grinned like she had a secret, but tugged my leg like her life depended on it.

I screamed a little and dipped under to grab her, but couldn't feel anything where she ought to have been. I've never been good at keeping my eyes open underwater, so I surfaced to look for her again. Nothing.
I swallowed. They had a lifeguard near the pool. He was even looking at me. I should have gone to get him, I guess, in case she was a real, living girl. But I had a bad feeling, and didn't want to spend the day getting lectured about how I shouldn't make up stories that required people to launch needless search and rescue missions.

I got out of the water fast, found my clothes, and headed for Jessie's place. Maybe Daytona Beach sounded better to me right then, and maybe it sounded worse. I was pretty sure I'd seen a ghost, but I liked the way she'd touched me. I liked her eyes.

Now, Kim, I don't want you to get jealous when I talk about this. Please know I'm telling the truth when I mention the times she reminded me of you. I even think I might have liked her because of you. You and I had a few encounters we never talked about — maybe that was my fault. Something about that ghost brought those memories to the front of my mind. The whole walk back, for example, I thought about the Halloween party we went to last year, where you helped me dress in some guy's vest, tie, and hat. On the way out of the dorm, I gave you my arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, and felt so proud when you took it. The fake blood on your prom dress must have killed the effect a bit, but you smiled and glanced at me sideways and I thought at the time I was just excited to be in college, but walking down that Florida dirt road months later, I wasn't so sure.

I thought about texting you when I got back to the house, but didn't know what to say. I guess that was the real beginning of me disappearing on you, and I wish I could go back and tell myself to just put "hiiiiiii" so you knew I was thinking of you. Always.

I read for a while, had coffee with Jessie, and pictured myself spending all of break in that sleepy routine. It got dark faster than I expected. I went to bed, heart pounding when I opened the door to that room.

If I expected a repeat of yesterday's scene, I was in for some disappointment. It smelled like me. The bed sheets remained crumpled exactly the way I'd left them. I turned out the light and fell asleep quickly. Sun makes you tired.

But the ghost hadn't had enough of me yet. I woke up a few hours later, cold. My feet had gotten out from under the blankets, and I wanted to pull them back in but couldn't quite summon the will to do it. You know how it is when you're mostly asleep. You want to do something, and you lie there thinking about it and half-dreaming, but you don't quite get around to actually doing whatever it is.

I dozed that way for a while. Maybe you will think this next part was a dream, but I don't think it was. A finger caressed my calf. I recognized the touch from earlier that day.

It didn't stop at the knee. A hand pushed the blanket up to my waist, and the fingertip continued its journey up my inner thigh. I wanted it to keep going, all the way to my panties and then some, but it moved so slowly. I didn't dare to respond. I didn't want to scare off the person behind the fingertip.

As I lay there being carefully touched, I remembered Thanksgiving, when I went with you to your parents' house and we shared your bed because the house was so full of your relatives. Sometime that night, I felt the heat of your arm, so close to me that the hairs on your forearm tickled the back of my hand. You shifted, so slowly and patiently that I didn't believe you were asleep. You touched the back of my hand with your thumb. I thought I would never breathe again. I lay still and waited. Maybe I was turned on, but at the time, I was just aware of curiosity. I wanted to know what you were up to. But you didn't move, just pressed your thumb against my hand until I had to speak up or fall asleep, and in the morning I convinced myself you must have done it in your sleep.

The fingertip climbed my inner thigh and I suddenly understood, like it had hit me in the head. You meant something when you touched me in the middle of the night. I should have told you I was awake, and that it was OK.

The fingertip stopped moving, and a tongue touched my knee instead. The wet warmth of it followed the trail blazed by that finger, easing its way up my leg and toward my dampening panties. A few inches from my crotch, the tongue slowed even further and flicked against my skin, in time with my heartbeat. I moaned and opened my eyes, needing to pull her close.

The room was empty.


Nobilis Erotica hosted an incredible audio version of this story (the link is here), so you can hear it in full that way. There does turn out to be something uncanny there. “Dear Kim” is a story that took me by storm. I could hear it being dictated in my head, and I heard the narrator’s voice with absolute clarity.

The narrator in the Nobilis Erotica version sounds exactly like that voice in my head. I actually cried when I listened to the audio because of the way that hit me.

If you’d like to read the whole book, which is excellent, you can find it here. If you do, it would be awesome if you left a review on Amazon. The book is currently doomed by a 2-star review from an inattentive reader who seems to have misinterpreted my story as some sort of grandmother/granddaughter incest. The book as a whole deserves better than that.