Inspiring Places I Wish I'd Seen. J.P. Bowie

 As I've lived in quite a few different cities over the years I generally set my stories in places I know well, My home town of Aberdeen ,Edinburgh, London, Los Angeles, San Diego, but I have been a bit adventurous on occasion and set at least part of the story in places I've never been too... only imagined... well with a little help from travel guides. In Trip of a Lifetime I imagined a young man traveling to Tuscany on his own, renting a car and despite having no sense of direction, a bit like me, setting off into parts unknown.
 ***
Trip of a Lifetime

An hour later, he threw his bags into the trunk of the Renault then climbed into the driver’s seat and reached for the detailed map the travel company had sent him. His shoulders slumped slightly as he remembered how much he’d been looking forward to this, and now?
Okay, don’t do this.

He put the car in gear and backed out of the hotel garage. He’d need all his wits about him if he was going to find the freeway that would take him on the first part of his trip. And his buddy Russ was right—he had no sense of direction.

Keeping his eyes on the road and looking for the road signs was difficult. The countryside he drove through was too beautiful to ignore. The Chianti region, with its rolling hills covered with vineyards, tall cypress trees all set to perfection against the bluest of skies, helped take his mind off his depression, at least for the next hour and a half or so. Like he’d thought earlier, even if he did get lost, who cared amongst all this beauty?

Then he saw a sign that read, Siena 5 km. Amazingly, he’d made it to the outskirts of Siena. He gave a little laugh of satisfaction mingled with some disbelief. Now came the hard part. finding his way into the city itself. He knew he’d have to find a place to park outside the downtown area. The travel company had emphasized that walking was the only way to see Siena. He decided that, once he’d found a parking spot, he’d have lunch then reread the directions to the bed and breakfast, but he wanted to savor the legendary charm of Siena first.

Again, he was in luck. After asking the policeman on duty—was every Italian male a contender for a career as a model?—who had waved away Alex’s phrase book, announcing he spoke very good Eenglish, he was directed to a large car park and given directions to the ‘best place for lunch in Siena’. From the high recommendation, Alex had a feeling the restaurant was owned by the handsome policeman’s brother, at the very least. The policeman sent Alex on his way with a message. “Tell them Roberto sent you.”

After a couple of hours strolling and sometimes climbing the streets of Siena, Alex was famished, and decided to find the restaurant recommended by the friendly, and hot, policeman. It didn’t matter that he made a few wrong turns. The medieval charm of Siena’s streets and buildings made getting lost something of a pleasure, and there always seemed to be someone with a smiling face to help him on his way, despite their stumbling English and his even more stumbling Italian.

Terracotta-colored tiled roofs, shuttered windows, sunlight and shadow mingling together slanting down between the houses on the narrow streets lent a unique air and ambience to the small bustling town.
The restaurant, one of many on Via Pantaneto, was busy, but a table for one was found, and he was fussed over when he said the apparently magic words, “Roberto sent me.” The food was delicious, a pasta e fagioli soup and a side of fettuccini that had Alex hoping the bed and breakfast villa he’d be staying at for the next three nights had a gym.

***

Then onto Paris - a city I have visited, albeit a hundred years ago. I have set a couple or so stories in the City of Lights - when my memory fails me, there's always the travel guide. This time a young American obsessed with the movie Midnight in Paris takes a solo trip, looking for adventure. He meets a private detective, Anton, and Jay's visit to Paris takes on an adventure he could not have dreamed of.

Paris Connection
 Anton took time off to act as Jay’s personal guide and together they spent a day strolling in leisurely fashion through the curving streets of Montmartre, stopping for coffee or a glass of wine at the sidewalk cafés. The following day they visited the Sacré Coeur Basilica, then went on to a wine tasting at a restaurant on Rue de Saint Jacques.

The old district of Le Marais gave Jay a glimpse of what medieval Paris must have looked like.

“Paris has seen many wars,” Anton told him as they sat at one of the tables outside a small café. “But it was a war that actually saved the way Le Marais looks today.”

“Really?” Jay loved the fact that Anton was so informative about the places they visited.

Anton nodded. “This whole area would have been plowed under, modernized like so much of Paris with the wide boulevards you’ve seen. Then the First World War happened and all those plans were abandoned, thankfully never to be fulfilled. If you like, we can have dinner at one of the gay restaurants. There are many in the area, some of them quite good.”

“That sounds great,” Jay said, okay to fall in with any of Anton’s suggestions.

“And afterwards, we could go to see Alaina’s show. You remember my neighbor you met when we were coming out of the elevator? She performs at Le Petit Lido, a small nightclub not far from here. I can call her and she will arrange tickets for us.”

“Again, that sounds great.” Jay smiled as Anton reached across the small table and took his hand. He wondered if he’d ever been happier in his life than he was right then. This trip had been everything he had hoped for, dreamed of, and meeting Anton had made it so much more. Sitting at this sidewalk café, soaking up the Parisian atmosphere, and especially being in the company of this incredible man was the ultimate in fantasy fulfillment.His smile hid the fact that he was dreading the day when he would have to bid all of this, and Anton, adieu—a day that was approaching all too quickly.
* * * *
Le Marais and Montmartre I remember well. I hope next year to revisit Paris and for the first time Tuscany. I'll most likely get inspired all over again.

Valley of Stories

By Lisabet Sarai

Near the center of Massachusetts, the huge, butterfly-shaped Quabbin Reservoir practically divides the state in two. Constructed in the nineteen thirties to satisfy the thirst of the Boston metropolitan area, Quabbin figuratively divided the state as well, pitting the rural inhabitants of the Swift River Valley against the city dwellers in the state capitol. Four towns--Dana, Enfield, Greenwich and Prescott--were drowned by Quabbin's advancing waters. The houses of their inhabitants were dismantled and relocated on higher ground. Bodies were exhumed from their graves and reburied elsewhere. Forests were leveled in order to reduce the amount of degrading biological material that would pollute the reservoir. The land that had belonged to Dana and its unfortunate fellows was allocated to neighboring towns. Communities which had prospered in the valley since the seventeen hundreds ceased to exist.

Needless to say, the Swift River Valley is haunted. Even if you don't know the history, you can't escape the sense of mystery as you drive the winding length of Route 202, which hugs the west end of the reservoir. The evergreens that were planted to protect the watershed have grown tall now, shadowing the road. The woods around the man-made lake are home to bears, bald eagles, wildcats and perhaps stranger, more secret beings. On the eastern shore, overgrown dirt lanes meander through the village of Petersham, sending tentative fingers toward the still water.

Ghosts of the dispossessed inhabitants from the flooded towns still seem to hover in the area. They're joined by older creatures from the earlier times when the Algonkian natives fished in the Swift River, grew their corn along the banks, and worshiped the spirits of the forest.

My M/M erotic romance Necessary Madness is partially set in the Quabbin Valley. As I've commented previously on this blog, I almost always have a specific location in mind when I sit down to write a story. Necessary Madness is a M/M paranormal novel that revolves around various psychic powers--precognition, telepathy and the like. I used to live near Quabbin, and had friends in Petersham. It seemed like a natural place for the home of a consulting witch who helps individuals with psi talents to understand and control their abilities.

Here’s a scene from the book, in which one of the heroes ventures out into the ominous Quabbin Valley dusk, where he encounters a fascinating and dangerous stranger.

*****

The afternoon was clear but cold. There’d be frost tonight. Kyle could tell by sniffing the air. He swung out the driveway and turned left, heading back up Quail Hollow Lane towards the village centre.

He strode along the gravel road, snug in his warm clothing, humming a Christmas song. His breath hung in white clouds in front of his face. He reached Main Street—Route 32—and considered turning around. The shadows were getting longer by the minute, though a few rays of sunlight still slanted through gaps in the trees. Moving felt so good, though—his lessons with Elspeth involved long hours of virtual immobility. He kept going, driven by restless energy, past the Congregational and the Baptist churches, the shuttered country store and the white-shingled houses clustered around the village green.

His eyes adapted to the dimness as dusk approached. He didn’t realise how late it had become until he heard the bell in one of the churches behind him chime five.

Damn! Elspeth will have my hide. Kyle wheeled around and began to retrace his steps at a faster pace.

The two-lane road was lonely and mostly empty. A pickup truck clattered by, laden with metal scrap, then vanished into the gloom. It was much colder now that the sun had disappeared completely. Kyle hurried along, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets.

An engine roared behind him. A low-slung sports car raced up and screeched to a halt on the opposite side of the road. “Want a ride?” called the driver out the window. “It’s a cold night.”

“I’m not going far,” Kyle answered. The voice was young, urban, cultured. Not one of the local farmers. “Just down the road, maybe a mile.”

“Me, too. Why don’t you get in? It’s not a good idea to be out here on the highway after dark.”

Kyle crossed and pulled open the passenger door of the sleek vehicle. “Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

“No trouble at all. Just tell me where you want me to let you off.”

“Thanks.” Kyle settled into the bucket seat. “Cool car.” He caressed the leather dashboard.

“It is, isn’t it?” the driver laughed. “My latest toy.” The dim light made it difficult for Kyle to make out the man’s features. He seemed to be no more than a few years older than Kyle, with a slender build and fair hair. “I’m Stefan, by the way.”

He offered his right hand to Kyle, steering with his left. The man’s skin was warm and dry. He wore some sort of cologne, a slightly bitter scent that reminded Kyle of fresh mown grass. “Kyle. Pleased to meet you.”

The car sped along the pavement, hugging the curves. “Likewise. You’re not local, are you?”

“No,” Kyle laughed. “I’m—um—visiting someone. She lives on Quail Hollow Lane.”

“Elspeth Holmes?”

“Yes, that’s right. Do you know her?”

“I’m headed to her house right now. She’s an old friend of my family.”

“What a coincidence,” Kyle commented. “Hey, here’s her street!” Stefan swerved onto the narrow lane just in time.

“I haven’t seen her in a while.” The rough surface forced Stefan to slow down. Kyle breathed a sigh of relief.

“She didn’t say anything about expecting guests.”

“I wanted to surprise her.” Kyle could feel Stefan smiling at him in the darkness. He felt suddenly, uncomfortably warm. “And how do you know her?”

“Friend of a friend. She’s helping me with some—research. About the town, its history, that sort of thing.” Stefan made Kyle a bit wary. In any case, Kyle knew that he shouldn’t reveal anything about Elspeth’s business as a psychic consultant. If Stefan really was what he claimed, he might already know—but Kyle wasn’t about to tell him.

Stefan chuckled. “Elspeth is a font of wisdom. Her family has been in Petersham for generations—since colonial times, or so I’ve heard. So you’re a student?”

“Um—yeah, right. Elspeth’s quite amazing. She’s helping a lot with my project. She’s a fabulous cook, too.” Stefan turned into Elspeth’s driveway and cut the motor. Kyle relaxed slightly. “I’m sure she’ll want you to stay for dinner.”

“That would be great. I’m looking forward to seeing her. And that will give you and me a chance to get acquainted.”

Something about Stefan’s voice bothered Kyle. He just couldn’t get his mind around it, though. Whenever he tried to focus, he felt vaguely confused. Maybe it was the after-effects of his last session with Elspeth.

Elspeth waited on the porch, coat-less, a frown twisting her normally placid features. “Kyle! Where have you been? I was worried…”

“I’m fine, just fine. I walked a bit farther than I’d planned, that’s all. But then this gentleman came by and gave me a ride…”

Stefan stepped out of the shadows. “Hello, Elspeth. It’s been a long time.”

“Sam!” Elspeth’s face remained serene, but Kyle heard shock in her voice.

“I’m called Stefan now. Stefan Aries.”

I'm not the only individual to feel that the Swift River Valley is full of supernatural stories. The movie version of Stephen King's Dreamcatcher features the reservoir as a prominent plot element. The cult horror author H.P. Lovecraft explicitly set his now-classic tale "The Color Out of Space" in the valley before its flooding. A variety of other authors and singers have been touched by the mystery that seems to permeate the place.

Years ago, during a serious summer drought, my husband and I went hiking in the woods around Quabbin. The level of the reservoir was at a historic low. As we followed our way down the hill from the Prescott Peninsula, we found ourselves on what had clearly been a road. Tumbled stone walls marked its boundaries. The tracks worn by cart wheels were still visible. In a normal summer, the road would have been submerged, but now it wound for a quarter of a mile, down to the reservoir's edge. Then it disappeared into the gray water.

We stopped to contemplate this fragment of history, revealed by the vagaries of climate. The air had the sultry weight of a New England August. The silence was complete--no birds, no cicadas, not a breath of wind. We both felt their presence--the souls of the folk who had last used this road almost a century ago.

I wasn't writing then, at least not for publication. Even so, I knew there were stories here to be told. Now that I've ventured into the valley with Necessary Madness, I expect that I'll be returning to explore more of these tales. I hope that the inhabitants won't mind sharing them.

Sauce for the Goose, Sauce for the Gander

by Jean Roberta





“Aren’t you curious?”

Paul shifts and twitches and gazes beyond my ear before looking down at his feet. “Uh, no. I know what guys are like. I’m a guy. I don’t have to – I mean, you know, touch some other guy’s junk to know how it works.”

“You have to if you want to watch me with my girlfriend.”

“That’s different! Every guy wants to see two chicks get it on. Show me a guy who wouldn’t!”

“Okay, well, then, you can’t blame me for wanting to watch two guys. You’d be helping me with my research. I can’t be sure my M/M scenes are true to life unless I take a close look.”

“Then watch some of your gay friends!”

“I hope to watch one of them, anyway. I hear someone coming up the front walk. Dustin always makes a point of being punctual.”

The sound of the doorbell changes Paul’s expression to one of anxiety mixed with doubt.

I move swiftly from the front room to the hallway, and peep through the peephole in the door. Sure enough.

“Dustin!” I sing out as I swing the door open. He really is one of my favourite people, but I exaggerate my welcome for Paul. “We were just talking about you. I’m so glad you could make it.”

Dustin has glossy dark hair, a chiselled face, and well-defined chest and arm muscles. He worked as a male model and held some shadier jobs in his youth, but he has reached a certain plateau of respectability, and is now known as a Hunk. This is not why I chose him for Paul. Dustin is also known as a Cherry-Buster. He flirts constantly with women, including me, but he prefers men.

I hope Dustin won’t refer to himself as the Black Widow. It’s his way of coping with the grief of losing his boyfriend to a cruel disease, but it makes all his friends wince. It might make Paul jump through a window.

“Paul, Dustin has been looking forward to meeting you.”

Paul is now pasty-faced, but he extends a clammy hand to shake with Dustin. “No offense,” babbles Paul, “but I’m not—I’m sure you’re a good guy, Dustin, but Cheryl doesn’t understand, I mean, not everyone can just, you know.”

The winning smile never leaves Dustin’s face. Without warning, he wraps his arms around Paul’s chest and raises him up on tiptoes as he presses his lips to Paul’s.

Incoherent sounds leak out of Paul’s trapped mouth.

I know my ex-husband. Paul wants this, and I want him to stop fighting himself. He is still breathing hard as Dustin holds him at arm’s length to study him better.

“I don’t want it to hurt,” mumbles Paul, looking up into Dustin’s eyes.

“I’ll stop whenever you want me to, honey,” assures the Cherry-Buster.

Paul has a misty gaze. “Not yet,” he tells us both, almost whispering. Then he kisses Dustin the way he used to kiss me.

Blessing or Curse?

by Annabeth Leong

Deirdre sat naked at the table with a jar of peanut butter, a cheap plastic ruler, and a hopeful grin.

"Oh for Christ's sake, honey."

"I'm curious…"

"About what? How do you come up with this shit?"

"I made a joke. Then I started wondering…"

I put down my purse and sighed. I had curiosity to thank for our relationship. The night we met, I'd been more than happy to help Deirdre figure out whether she could come from sitting on the seat of a running motorcycle.

On the other hand, my hip still smarted from where I'd banged it in my haste to get out of the bathroom at the automotive store while wearing a makeshift strap-on harness we'd constructed entirely from items we'd found in the aisles.

She batted her eyelashes at me. "Please…"

I kept thinking I ought to put a stop to this foolishness, but damn it, I was curious, too. I hauled her to her feet and gave her a sharp crack across the ass with the ruler. That part didn't need to be figured out.

Dierdre whimpered. Fuck, that sound turned me on.

"Okay," I said. "Fine. Where does the peanut butter go?"

What Package?

by Daddy X

“Margaret? What’s in the package?”

“Uh… what package?”

“The one I signed for this afternoon. Before you got home.”

“Where is it, honey? I thought it would arrive tomorrow—when I’m off.”

“What’s in it?”

“Nothing. Just some girl stuff.”

“What kind of girl stuff?”

“You tell me about your package; I’ll tell you about mine.”

“What package?”

“The one I put in the basement two months ago. Right after you stopped paying attention to me. I’ll get it and we can open our packages together.”

Henry’s face blanched. He’d long forgotten the one on-line purchase that hadn’t arrived, figuring it was a scam. “Did a package come here? Sure it was for me?”

“No, it came for a ‘Sydney Longcocking’, but delivered here. Other things for him have disappeared off the stoop. Open mine first, baby!”

“Well, whoever this ‘Sidney’ is, he’s not getting his package thanks to you. Give it to me and maybe I can track him down.”

“Just open the box, Henry.”

“Jesus Margaret! Really? A dildo and a fuck book?”

“You never want to have sex with me any more. What should I think? Especially when you’re buying some woman’s funky panties.”

Curiosity Killed the Cat--A visual essay by Suz deMello

The current topic is "curiosity" and while some are writing flash fiction, I did that for "oversexed." I'm FF'd out!

Have you heard what's by now an old joke? "I hold in my hand a device that allows me to access the entire repository of human knowledge. I use it to get into political arguments with strangers and post videos of my cat."

So here are some of the funnier cat videos I've seen lately.

19 Cats Who Instantly Regret their Life Choices--this one is really more about curiosity than the others:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=evo5gW2OQ5s

Cat in a Fishbowl

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FjGP4t2zKY

You shall not pass, Dog:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7znI_Kpzbs (sorry about the ads)

and finally: Cats are Assholes

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1KW3ZkLtuo

Enjoy!

The Goddess Bites

Sacchi Green


Rory's ass tingled with a vulnerability oddly close to pleasure. She had wondered sometimes, just curious, what her games felt like to all those girls who’d been bound by her ropes. But this was no game. She wanted out!

Her numbed fingers couldn't feel the crystals whose gleam had lured them into an unstable crevice. She could never resist caves, the lure of the unknown; now her wrist was trapped by immovable shards of stone.

With the crunch of steps on gravel came thoughts of bears. Her knees flexed, heavy boots ready to lash out.

"You still okay, Rory?" A beam from Gwen’s flashlight brushed her body.

"Just fine.”

 "I called the ranger station. A rescue team should be here in an hour or two. They’ll cut the band of that macho watch so your hand will slip right out. Which ex gave that to you? Ex-before-last? Ex-cubed, maybe?”

Rory cursed, then groaned.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I may chew my arm off before they get here!" Mind and body had betrayed her. As a sculptor, she was supposed to know stone, its grain, its faults, its balance. Now the hand that could wield a mallet against a chisel with precision, searching out the hidden shapes in stone begging for release, was immobilized. By stone. The hand that could thrust rhythmically into a woman's deep, secret places, making her beg for more, more, harder, was trapped. In the deep, secret places of the earth.

"The earth goddess has teeth!" Gwen had said before going for help.

Now she wriggled her way close to Rory and offered a drink from a straw stuck into her canteen. "You could become famous as a one-handed sculptor. And fucker. Girls could leave damp underwear at the tomb of your legendary fist."

Rory’s jerking body put pressure on her injured wrist. “Damn!”

"What's the matter? I hope you don't have to take a piss!"

 "Oh, God!" The urge was sudden, brutal, inevitable.

 "Sorry I mentioned it." But Gwen wasn’t penitent. "Let’s get your pants down just in case."

 Rory, desperate, raised herself. Her jeans slide past her hips, leaving her legs as immobilized by denim as her hand by stone.

 "Distraction might help," Gwen said coolly; but there was nothing cool about her touch on Rory's exposed flesh. The urgency shifted a few vital centimeters. Cunt and clit, not bladder, begged for relief.

 "Oh shit!" Rory’s glutes tensed.

 "Nope. Piss would be bad enough." Gwen’s hand withdrew.

Rory stifled a whimper. She never begged, she commanded!  But this hardly seemed the time to give orders. After a few indecipherable movements, the hand--or something--returned, nudging at Rory's asshole.

"Hold still!"

No arguing with that. Thought vanished as Gwen stroked from Rory's cunt to her asshole, spreading heat and wetness. She was distracted, all right. The urge to shrink away fought one to press closer.

The snap of a latex glove resounded off the tunnel walls. “Good thing I had emergency provisions in my pack,” Gwen said complacently, "including Big Bad Bear, looking for a den." She held the butt plug in the faint light for Rory to see, then probed her again, twisting the toy, going deeper. Rory braced her knees, lifted her ass higher. The plug filled her, and Gwen's fingers slipped in and out of her cunt, playing against the insistent, maddening  pressure in her asshole.

Rory didn’t notice Gwen's other hand going back and forth past her head until something wet, and pungent, brushed her cheek. In the flashlight’s rays she saw the drinking straw probe between the imprisoning stones, withdraw, disappear, and reappear, coated with thick, glistening moisture. Gwen's musky scent mingled with her own.

     "Come on," Gwen urged. "How slippery you can get?" Her pumping hand went on, slurping in and out, teasing but never quite hitting the spot.

 "Please, damn it!" Rory’s voice was raw. "Please!" Finally, after an agonizing minute, Gwen used both hands, one to steady the butt plug and the fingers of the other to thrust fiercely into Rory's cunt, while the thumb challenged her straining clit. Waves of pressure from front, back, and deep inside met in a roaring tsunami of liquid heat.

At last Rory realized that her trapped hand had slipped free, streaked with thick cunt-juice. Then she saw the tube in Gwen's breast pocket. "You had lube all along!"

"Just in case," Gwen admitted. " Didn't need it, except for Big Bad Bear. We made plenty. Shouldn’t an offering to appease the earth goddess be all-natural?"

Rory's uninjured left hand thrust ruthlessly down into Gwen's pants. "The goddess must be on my side again," she muttered against Gwen's wide grin. “She's just granted me the gift of ambidexterity.” And satisfied some curiosity, too, but she kept that thought to herself.