From Every Angle ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #29 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The prompt for this podcast is That’s when the cameras all turned toward me…

*  *  *  *

She slowly pulled herself up off her knees. His penis now appeared like a shriveled earthworm nestled against his scrotum. She crouched on his lap facing him, spreading her thighs on either side of his and looked into his face. When he didn’t respond, she brushed her index finger lightly across the lashes of his closed eyes until he took an audible breath and sighed. With the taste of him still fresh in her mouth, she licked her lips and felt the skin tighten around her chin from the caked semen.

“Did you notice anything?” he asked, opening his eyes to stare at her.

“About what?”

“That mouthful you just swallowed. Did it taste … different?”

She wondered how to answer, not really paying attention to that aspect of him. “Hmm…” She pressed her lips together and thought fast before responding, “Sweet, you tasted really sweet.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

A smile slowly crossed her face. “Really? What did you do?”

Pineapple, he said. He’d read it improved the taste of a man’s ejaculate and could provide a stronger orgasm. He’d eaten three tins of it in the past week.

“Yes…now that you mention it, it was intense, almost too much for me to swallow.” She lied; he grinned like a ten-year-old boy.

In so many ways he was still a boy—only twenty-two. Theirs was a business arrangement, though she suspected he’d grown rather fond of her in the process. Seeing each other every Thursday for the past two months, he was not only a regular, but her best paying client as well.

He intrigued her with his expensive taste, living in an artist’s loft filled with gadgets. When asked what he did for a living, he said he was trained as a filmmaker but confessed his first loves were gaming and larping, a term she had never heard of before.

“Larping is live action role-playing,” he said. “I’ve always had a love for games, so I’m trying to turn it into a business.”

She admired his creativity but couldn’t understand it as a money-making venture. “Your job would be to play games?”

He shook his head. “No, not play games, develop them.”

The concept was too vague for her and she wasn’t all that interested anyway. She could see he had a talent. Costumes, props, and simulated weaponry including guns, swords, and knives filled his house. As long as he paid her for her hour with him, she didn’t care how he earned a living. For a man who liked the fantasy life, his pedestrian sexual appetite was the only thing that seemed out of character.

He’d sit on his Italian leather couch and watch her undress, clad only in boxer shorts. She’d do a strip tease for him, always wearing the identical pieces of clothing and removing them in the same order—first, her red silk blouse—button by button, then her leather pencil skirt—inch by inch, then her black stiletto heels. Next, she’d slowly roll down her thigh high stockings—starting with the right leg. With only her panties and bra remaining, she’d saunter over to him where he’d fondle her breasts, peel back the cups of her bra, lick the right nipple, suck the left nipple, push her tits together and bury his face in her cleavage. She’d moan—loudly, then pull away to do a painstakingly slow dance where she would fondle herself, remove her panties and bra, and masturbate until she screamed from her orgasm. Not long after, she’d crawl over to him and stare down his erection before taking him deep down her throat.

As with previous visits, today was no different. After she dressed, he paid her in twenty, crisp ten-dollar bills.

“Thank you, Laura for being so wonderful,” he said, walking her to the door.

She looked at him with uncertainty in her eyes. “Anthony, will I be seeing you next week?”

He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks. “I don’t think so. It’s time I move on.”

She wanted to say something, ask him why, but by the time she walked out and turned around, he’d shut the door behind her.

****

Anthony dismantled four tiny cameras strategically mounted in the room. He’d positioned them differently for each of Laura’s visits, ensuring he would capture her performance from every angle.

It was a big job, and he’d be paid handsomely for it. His client was a wealthy man who had specific requirements. Laura had met them to a tee, from her physique to her voice to her technique. Anthony had written the dialogue to elicit certain responses from her, and she had delivered brilliantly. Now, it was time to edit the raw footage of the past two months and turn it into a one-of-a-kind virtual experience.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic stories too.

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to read a sample.

Available at Amazon:

US | UK | Canada | Germany | France | Japan | Italy | Spain

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one).

 

Farewell My Love ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #28 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The prompt for this podcast is One. Two. Three. He caressed each bullet in the palm of his hand before slipping it into its chamber…

*  *  *  *

James stopped typing mid-sentence and glanced across his desk to where she sat. Her sweet scent alerted him to her presence. He knew she’d return this morning to continue their conversation of last night. Mesmerized, he watched her put down her writing tablet and unwrap the long, silk scarf from around her neck. Curled up in her favorite chair by the picture window, knees drawn, her face revealed a woman of timeless beauty and infinite wisdom. Torn between his love for her and his work, he re-read the three nonsensical paragraphs on his computer screen. They were the same words he’d been typing for the past several days.

She wanted out; he couldn’t imagine writing without her.

“How can I go on if you leave me?” he said. “You’ve given me the best five years of my life, helped me through the darkest hours when I thought I would never see light again.”

“Oh stop it, James.” She pursed her lips in a manner that showed her annoyance. “You’re being melodramatic, cliché in fact.”

He wiped his brow and sniffled. “I need you Calli—now—more than ever.”

She took a deep breath and let her shoulders drop, as if to unburden herself from the responsibilities she held. “You don’t need me anymore, James. I’ve been your mistress, your lover, your confidante, but lately, I’ve been nothing but a roadblock. It’s time I move on. You know I’m right, and ….”

James cupped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. “La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la …” He repeated over and over hoping to drown out Calli’s voice. Surely, she had to understand he couldn’t just let her go. Without her, he would never have written his three best-selling novels.

“James, please, stop being childish. We’ve had an incredible relationship—a true meeting of minds, but it’s time to say good-bye.”

He opened his eyes to see a sunbeam brush Calli’s hair and highlight her face in a colorful prism. She was a goddess, beautiful even when he exasperated her. She was the one who taught him perseverance, listened to him ad nauseam as he cried over missed deadlines and rejection letters. She stuck with him and helped him hammer out hours upon sleepless hours of prose, dialogue, narrative, description, and then one day, her persistence paid off. In exchange, he cast her in a thousand scenes, made love to her, worshipped her, but now … her impatience with him hurt more than anything.

“I can’t say good-bye to you,” he said.

“You must.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “You’ve come to an impasse with your writing, and the only way to move forward is to let me go.”

He pouted and cradled his head in his hands. “Now who’s being cliché?”

Calli released a heavy sigh and slowly rose from her seat. She glided gracefully toward James. When she stood in front of him, she gathered up the skirt of her flowing, purple gown and crouched at his feet, resting her head in his lap.

“You know I love you, James. I always will, but I’ve been around much longer than you have, and it’s not good for us to continue like this. You will grow to hate me when your wellspring of creativity dries up, as it is already beginning to.”

James stroked Calli’s head and unraveled her tightly braided hair. He splayed her long, golden tresses down her back, breathed in her clean and earthy scent that held a hint of roses. He loved her even though he’d felt the past months tinged with boredom and lack of motivation. He wanted to believe the feeling would pass, but it didn’t. Only when confronted by Calli did he realize he was too cowardly to end it himself. Now her permission to do so flooded him with guilt.

“Calli, how can I go on without you?”

“You can, and you will.” She picked herself up and knelt in front of him. “Take this.”

He eyed the revolver she held in her hand. “What? Where did you get this?”

“Never you mind,” she said in her characteristic melodic lilt. You know I’ve lived long enough to have many sources.” She slipped her hand into the folds of her gown and pulled out a handful of metal. “You’ll need these too.”

James stared at the bullets she gently placed in his palm. “Calli … no.”

“You must, my darling. It’s time.”

­James stared into dark, emerald eyes and witnessed centuries of creative inspiration gone by. She was right, after all. He’d have to kill her if he held any hope of ever writing again. Her lips curved in a tiny smile and she closed her eyes, seemingly ready to accept her fate.

His fingers trembled as he caressed each bullet in his palm before slipping them into the gun’s chamber.

“Farewell my love,” he said with tears rolling down his cheeks.

* * *

James awoke in the middle of the night agitated but filled with wild ideas. He jumped out of bed, flipped open his laptop, and pounded away at a fresh, new manuscript.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic stories too.

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to read a sample.

Available at Amazon:

US | UK | Canada | Germany | France | Japan | Italy | Spain

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one).

 

MISTAKEN DOUBLE IDENTITY ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #27 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The prompt for this podcast is “Mistaken identity at the pub…”

*  *  *  *

Kim initially cast a wide net by chatting with nearly a dozen men who responded to her ad. After just two weeks, the field had narrowed to one. His name was Richard. He offered to send his picture early in the relationship. She preferred not to see it, said it wouldn’t change her mind about him.

After weeks of phone chat and texting, she thought he finally understood. “Looks are unimportant to me,” Kim said. “I like you. Let’s not complicate it with physical appearances until we are ready to meet.”

They connected on every level of likes and dislikes, but more importantly, they shared the same family values. He wanted to have children, maybe two or three. He had no clue what she looked like either, yet his willingness to continue their relationship revealed an important character trait in her eyes—he wasn’t fickle.

“I’d be a good provider,” Richard said in one of his emails. “You wouldn’t need to work, unless of course, you wanted to. I guess I’m old-fashioned that way.”

“I like that you’re old-fashioned,” Kim wrote back. “That’s how it was with my parents, and they were happily married for over fifty years.”

Conversation flowed smoothly between them, an effortless union. Following a three-month courtship, they finally agreed to meet at a pub downtown. Kim had dreamt about walking in to the bar, scanning the crowd and seeing a man in a dark suit, a red rose on his lapel to identify him. He’d spot her too, smile, and know she was the one. She’d saunter over and look into his blue, green, or brown eyes. He’d hold her face in his hands and say, “I’ve waited for you all my life, Kim.”

Yes, that was how she envisioned it would happen, but it never did.

On the eve before they were to meet, Kim received an email from Richard, devoid of a subject line. Had he changed his mind? She opened the email in a panic only to stare at a headshot of a male model’s face—large, brown eyes, an aquiline nose, curvaceous lips, all framed by a strong jaw line and flawless skin. Beneath the photograph were two lines:

“Taken last year in San Diego. I can’t wait to see you, Richard.”

I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to see you … The line echoed in Kim’s mind. She had thought Richard was different than other men, that looks were not all that important to him. Obviously, she was mistaken.

She shuffled to the bathroom, her heart heavier with each step. The mirror on the medicine cabinet reflected a thirty-year-old woman whose face was perfectly proportioned. “Women would die to have such beautiful eyes as yours,” her mother had said to her all her life.

Kim grabbed a bottle and several large cotton balls from a nearby shelf. She unscrewed the cap and pressed the absorbent fibers to the opening, soaking the cotton balls in clear liquid. She stared at her perfect blue eyes and swabbed her right cheek, wiping away a layer of foundation and blush. She did the same for the other cheek, aware that tears now blurred her vision as she uncovered the hemangioma. No matter how much make-up she applied, she could not conceal the reddish-purple birthmark that blanketed the left side of her face.

Following a good cry, Kim returned to her computer and fired off a note to Richard.

 * * *

Richard had hoped that by sending his picture to Kim, she’d be even more excited to meet him. His handsome face had always attracted women.

After receiving Kim’s terse rejection, he realized he’d made a big mistake, though he couldn’t understand why she never wanted to hear from him again. He turned off his computer and sat for a moment with his head in his hands. Muscle fatigue plagued his weary body. He pushed himself to his feet and reached for his cane. A bout of polio as a child had left him with an atrophied right leg. As he hobbled to the bedroom, a heavy sigh escaped his lips. He wondered if he’d ever find a woman who would love him, in spite of his imperfection.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic stories too.

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to read a sample.

Available at Amazon:

US | UK | Canada | Germany | France | Japan | Italy | Spain

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one).

 

LAST STEPS ~ A story written and read for @RBwood’s Word Count Podcast

You can also hear me read this story on: Episode #26 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The theme for this podcast is “Those last few steps seemed the most difficult I had ever made in my life.”

*  *  *  *

The phone rang just as I was sitting down to eat. With my feet tender and swollen from a recent attack of gout, the only thing I wanted was to elevate my legs on the La-Z-Boy chair and watch the baseball game. On the fifth ring, I swore under my breath and put down my TV tray. Who the hell would let it ring so many times?

“Hello?” I said in a brusque manner, ready to snap if a telemarketer came on the line.

“Tony?” The woman’s voice vibrated in my ear and immediately sent a shiver up my spine.

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Gina … from Vegas.”

Her name bounced around in my head, and I struggled to match a face to it. “Gina … Frank’s wife?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

I overheard a sigh. Was it relief or something else?

“I’m sorry to call you like this,” she said, “but I didn’t know who else to turn to.” A sniffle, another sigh.

“Does Frank know you’re calling me?”

Silence.

“Gina?”

“No,” she said finally, “Frank doesn’t know.”

I wasn’t surprised. I’d had a thing for Gina once—a big thing, but that was a lifetime ago. She left me and married my cousin Frank about fifteen years back, had a few kids, but the family never liked her. She was French, and her real name wasn’t even Gina. It was Ginnette. To appease Frank’s widowed mother who’d only call her “Gina,” she had her name legally changed.

After a couple of years living under her mother-in-law’s roof, she and Frank moved to Vegas and severed all ties with the family. Not long after, I’d heard rumors Frank beat her, that she deserved it. I didn’t care to know the details. It was all family gossip to me. Gina had made her bed.

Now I listened as she told me the story of the last few years of her life with Frank. She begged me to help her, said she’d always trusted me. She wanted to do the right thing by the kids. I couldn’t believe I’d be the only person she could turn to, but she swore she had no one else.

After I hung up the phone, I turned on the television and sat down with my Hungry Man dinner—roast beef, peas, mashed potatoes, and peach cobbler. I stabbed a piece of meat and broke it away from a white fatty film, which had crusted over the gravy. I immediately lost my appetite.

Why me? Couldn’t Gina have called anyone else from the family to do this?

* * * *

I felt no obligation to Gina, but after thinking about her request for a day, I decided to do it. I heard the relief in her voice when I called her back, and at that moment, I knew she really didn’t have anyone else. It upset me somewhat that she’d suffered so long in silence. Maybe a part of me still cared for her, even hoped that after all this was over, I might have a chance with her. Funny how I should be thinking with my dick at a time like this. I had no clue what she looked like anymore, but her voice still tugged at my heart, and her sexy French accent had not completely disappeared.

I arrived in Vegas Friday evening. The flight only worsened my gout. After removing my shoes on the plane, my feet had swollen and were throbbing by the time we landed. Squeezing into a pair of shoes I couldn’t even lace up, I was in agony after I checked into my hotel room off the strip.

Gina had given me directions to where Frank would be the next morning, and the exact time he’d be there. She tried to sound casual about it. “Imagine me asking this favor of you, Tony, after all these years. I never thought it’d come down to this.”

Neither did I.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll be over soon, and you and the kids can go on with your lives.”

* * * *

I arrived fifteen minutes early in a land of water fountains, palm trees, and immaculate greens. It was dark and overcast, unusual for a Vegas afternoon this time of year. I stood and watched the clouds drift through an empty sky. Quiet like death.

In the distance, I heard the drone of car engines headed my way. I stepped back from the path and leaned against a tree to alleviate the pressure on my right foot. I looked at my watch and saw Frank was right on time, just as Gina had said.

Three cars slowed down and parked by the side of the road twenty feet in front of me. A pause, and then it seemed all the car doors opened at once. I walked slowly toward the first car, one hand in my pocket, the other gripping a curved wooden handle.

To the right of me, I saw Gina exit from the second car followed by three teenagers. A crack of thunder, and the sky opened as she came toward me. I depressed the metal button of my umbrella and shielded her under its canopy.

“Thank you for coming Tony,” she said and leaned in to kiss me on each cheek, as beautiful as the last time I saw her.

“I’m sorry about Frank,” I said.

Gina gave a tiny smile. “He wouldn’t listen, still smoking even as he lay on his deathbed.”

I gave her my umbrella as a man approached and handed me a pair of white gloves. “Put these on,” he said, “and follow me.”

Along with the funeral director and four young, skinny lads who looked like they could use an extra meal, we carried the casket nearly thirty feet to Frank’s final resting place.

Those last steps just about killed me.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read a collection of erotic flash fiction and poetry, pick up my ebook Hot Flash, which includes two non-erotic Christmas stories too.

Available at Amazon.com and Amazon.UK.

No Kindle? No Worries.

There is a Kindle App for just about any electronic device (Click here to get one). If you own a computer, smart phone, iPad, or iPod touch, then you are able to download my e-books.

* * * *

Click on the cover and LOOK INSIDE to learn more.

“Doing it With the King”

You can also hear me read this story (complete with sound effects ) on: Episode #25 of R.B. Wood’s “The Word Count” podcast.

The theme for this podcast is “A scene between you and your favorite fictional character.”

*  *  *  *

The flickering of amber light turns me on. Perhaps it’s the heat, the crackle of wet wood, or the licking of hard wood. Whatever it is, dancing flames hypnotize me. They also remind me of a film—one about a king. No, I’m not talking about Elvis. I’m referring to a different king from my fantasies. I’ve seen most of the movies. I’m sure you have as well. It started in 1933, a classic starring Fay Wray. Since then, numerous sequels have been made about this beast. My favorite though, remains the panned remake with Jessica Lange. For me, she and the king had the best chemistry.

The last time I watched the movie was back in college. I was dating the pitcher of the varsity baseball team, staying over at his apartment following yet, another disappointing romp in the sack. He held the school record for the fastest pitch. Unfortunately, that translated to the bedroom as well. After pumping me like a wild animal and coming in less than five minutes, he fell asleep. I was left to my own devices.

When he started snoring, I got up, went into the other room, and turned on the television. To my delight, King Kong was playing, and the best part was yet to come.

Aroused and unsatisfied, I foraged in the fridge for a suitable dildo. Aside from a jar of relish, a soggy cucumber, and a skinny carrot, there was nothing I could use. I pulled open several drawers, rifled through them, finally settling on an old-fashioned aluminum ice-cream scoop. I stretched out on the couch naked and fingered myself in anticipation of the big scene.

The room was pitch black save for the light coming from the TV. Blaring horns and the pounding of drums transported me into the jungle. The natives had just abducted Jessica Lange’s character, Dwan. I was wet.

Dwan was drugged and tied up, her wrists secured to an altar. She stood weaving in and out of consciousness. I inserted the scoop handle into my pussy. It wasn’t as thick as I would have liked, but it was certainly hard enough. With one hand, I fucked myself using the utensil. With the other, I grabbed my breasts and squeezed my nipples. I closed my eyes and the beating of drums intensified. The natives were restless.

Kong! Kong! Kong!

I masturbated in time with their chant, savagely thrusting the scoop in and out while they hammered their torches on the ground to summon up their god.

In the distance, a huge beast awakened. He stomped his way toward the light, snapping trees in his path like twigs.

Kong! Kong! Kong!

My hands moved faster. My breathing grew shallow. The chanting suddenly stopped. The chirping of cicadas filled the silence. Dwan sensed something large standing in front of her. She raised her head to see a monstrous gorilla thumping his chest. He let out a barbaric roar; she screamed; and I rammed the scoop into myself as deeply as I could. Unlike the orgasm I faked earlier, this time I erupted—for real. My body convulsed, and I wasn’t sure if I had screamed along with Dwan. In the end, it didn’t matter, the snoring from the bedroom would have drowned me out anyway.

After my passion subsided, I turned off the TV. On my way to the bedroom, I passed the kitchen. As I was about to put the ice-cream scoop in the dishwasher, a whimsical change of heart struck me. I thought to myself—oh,  fuck it. I opened the drawer and tossed the scoop back in.

This story is included in a collection called  HOT FLASH, now available 

Amazon US  ~ Amazon UK

“Cancer – My Story”

You can also hear me read this story on:

Episode #23 of The Word Count podcast. The theme for this podcast is “Beating the Odds.”

This is a special Word Count Podcast dedicated to Joshua Moore, son of friend and author Maxwell Cynn. Joshua is currently fighting leukemia, and the community of authors, filmmakers, and artists have rallied to raise at least $10,000 to help the family with medical expenses. Numerous people are on board helping with the fundraiser by donating their books, services, and time.
This podcast is an example of R.B. Wood’s generosity in using his excellent show to promote the cause.

Please donate what you can at IndieGoGo: Indies Unite for Joshua, and help us spread the word.

Sincerest thanks,
eden

*  *  *  *

Mine is but one of millions of stories about cancer. It is neither more nor less significant than any other story from a survivor or someone who’s been touched by the disease. I don’t usually share it publicly for a few reasons. Firstly, the word “survivor” carries an undertone of achievement. Metaphorically, it’s as if surviving cancer elevates one to a different status as a human being. I’m not comfortable with that, but it’s clearly my issue. I don’t downplay cancer as a formidable opponent, however, it was never an option for me not to survive. Secondly, cancer does not define me even though it was a large part of my life. Lastly, I am now cancer free and have been for almost twelve years. It’s in the past—and as with most things of my past, I’ve made my peace with it and moved on.

I share my story on a personal basis with those who are going through cancer treatment, and I do it because survivors shared their stories with me when I needed it most. I felt empowered by people who had endured so much—multiple surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, and countless other treatments and then went on to live their lives fearlessly. For this reason, for Joshua and his family, and in support of R.B. Wood’s special Word Count Podcast, here’s my story.

* * * *

The specialist ignored my request to do a core biopsy. Instead, he did a fine needle aspiration to test for malignancy of the lump I’d found on my breast. It was a test I knew carried a high percentage of inaccuracy. I’d done my homework before I went to see him.

“Look,” he said, annoyed with my questioning him. “I can tell you right now you don’t have cancer. You have no family history of it, you’re Asian, and you’re too young.” His voice was authoritative and dismissive, implying he was doing me a favor by even performing any test. It was obvious to me that I was nothing more to him than a body part to examine. After all, he was the specialist with letters behind his name, and I was just a scared woman who knew my body. Though I considered him a heartless bastard whose practice had long outlasted his compassion, I was relieved when my test results came back showing I didn’t have cancer.

When my lump continued to grow over the next few weeks, I returned to my general practitioner and asked for a referral to a different specialist. I wanted a second opinion.

I got a young female doctor this time. She confirmed that fine needle biopsies carried a high degree of error and recommended I have surgery to remove the lump. Given its aggressive growth, she didn’t want to waste time doing additional tests. I walked out of her office slightly nervous, but relieved that I’d made the decision to have surgery. The thought of a scar didn’t appeal to me, but hell, having a third boob wasn’t going to be any more attractive.

 * * * *

On the day of my surgery, my best friend, Mae, drove me to the hospital early in the morning. Everything went off as scheduled, and after the anesthesia wore off, I was moved to a private waiting room where my girlfriend was waiting. We laughed and chatted about where to go for lunch. I was starving!

The nurse who had prepped me for surgery came in with the doctor carrying some pamphlets—post-surgical care instructions, I thought, but no … they contained information about breast cancer—which I had.

The only thing I remembered hearing was the word “cancer,” and then my girlfriend’s quick intake of breath before she started crying.

It was surreal as I watched the doctor mouthing words “Cancer … metastasis … more surgery … oncology …” and other medical terms I’d never heard of at the time.

Finally, at the end of it, the nurse handed me the pamphlets and asked if I had any questions. Sure I did, I had plenty. But my friend was sobbing, and I couldn’t think straight. The questions would have to wait.

Don’t ever underestimate a hungry woman who’s just been told she has cancer, or her best friend who’s quite reserved until she gets behind the wheel. That day, we hit a hundred in a sixty-kilometer zone, barreling down one of the city’s main arteries in search of comfort food.

“I dare a cop to stop me,” Mae yelled at the top of her lungs. “I’m going to tell him you’ve just been diagnosed with cancer, and I don’t give a shit what he says!”

“No kidding,” I said, “as if he can possibly make my day any worse. I’ve got cancer for fuck’s sake!”

“Yeah, but if I get a ticket, you’re paying for it!” she screamed.

We laughed until we cried.

* * * *

From the day I was misdiagnosed until the end of my treatments, there were countless decisions to make. I can only compare it to climbing an old tree with numerous branches. Reaching the top meant I could grab my health back, but there were limitless, different ways to get there. At times, I was paralyzed for fear of making the wrong decision. In the end, I did what was right for me based on all the options I was aware of. As an active participant in my well being—knowledge gave me power.

My mother always said I hated to lose—she was right. There was no way I was losing my life to cancer.

*  *  *  *

Some final words for Joshua

You may feel the weight of cancer on your shoulders right now, but you have hundreds of thousands, if not millions in your corner to help lighten the load.

Keep fighting, young man. I know you can do it. ♥

Related post: Cancer ~Fuck. The Hell. Off

“On the Heels of Submission”

You can also hear me read this story on:

Episode #22 of The Word Count podcast.

The prompt was “I washed the blood from my hands…”

*  *  *  *

I could tell what he wanted the moment he sat next to me. He showed me what he had in his duffel bag and invited me to his place. He was aggressive, which was ironic. I had to follow through, or I might not get another chance. The six beers, three glasses of wine, and two Tequila chasers made me brave. My ex always said to me, “Never mix your fruits with your grains. You can’t handle it.” He should know. He’d experienced more than his share of my violent outbursts.

* * *

Goddamn it, what the hell was I thinking? I couldn’t even recall how I got here. Thoughts tumbled around in my head like clothes in a dryer. I was in the dingy bathroom of his apartment, staring at my ruddy complexion in the mirror. My eyes were puffy and bloodshot, my mouth dry like I’d been sucking on a tennis ball. I spit out a blob of brownish phlegm, turned on the water, and watched the thick mucous swirl down the drain. With my chest heaving, I managed to gulp two handfuls of water.

“Hey, are you almost done?” he yelled. He was already in the bedroom, and the only thing separating us was the flimsy lock on the bathroom door.

“Yeah … just give me a minute.” I left the water running to mask the sound of my coughing. I spit once more and took several deep breaths before I unlocked the door.

He was on the floor, naked, save for the dog collar around his neck and the leash in his mouth.  My first instinct was to bolt, but it’d be pretty difficult to run with swollen feet inside five-inch heels.

He crawled over to me on all fours, and dropped the leash at my feet. “I’ve been a bad dog. I couldn’t wait for you and had an accident.” He whimpered and rubbed his face along the side of my leather pants. Sure enough, there was a puddle in the corner of the room. I suppressed my gag reflex and again thought of running.

“You are a bad dog.” Did those words really come out of my mouth?

Proceeding to the bed, I sat down awkwardly as a wave of nausea hit. He followed behind me, panting like a lovesick puppy. I crossed my legs and extended one in front of him. “Lick my shoe. Now!” I demanded.

Relieved with my quick recovery, I waited for my stomach to settle, but my discomfort only increased. His flabby body spilled out in front of me in full view. I, on the other hand, was stuffed like a sausage into my corset unable to escape. Listening to this fat slob slurp my stiletto and suck on my heel made me sick. I just wanted to get it over with and vomit.

“Bring me your whip,” I said.

He stopped tonguing my shoe and crawled over to his duffel bag. Using his teeth, he unzipped it and burrowed his head inside like a truffle pig.

With my heart hammering inside my chest, I quietly removed both shoes and gripped one in my sweaty hands. As I neared him, he craned his neck and saw me just before I stabbed the heel into his eye with all my strength. His body stiffened, and he let out a high-pitch yelp. He scrambled to his knees, frantically grabbing at the embedded shoe in his face. From the opposite side of the room, I watched as he twirled around like a wind-up toy and then slumped forward until his head hit the floor.

Inside the bathroom, I washed the blood from my hands, scrubbing my skin raw. Next, I knelt over the toilet bowl and vomited, immediately feeling better. After a few moments, I got up and braced myself against the sink. There was half a bottle of mouthwash in the medicine cabinet, and I used it up. When I  saw my reflection in the mirror, I frowned and wondered who the stranger was staring back at me.

This story is included in a collection called  HOT FLASH, now available 

Amazon US  ~ Amazon UK

“Better Her, Than Me”

You can also hear me read this story on:

Episode #16 of The Word Count podcast.

The prompt was “Your character suspects his/her husband is having an affair and decides to spy on him. What she/he discovers is not what he/she was expecting…” (I completely forgot about the “spying part” in this prompt, but the rest is there!).

*  *  *  *

The nightmare of the past seventy-two hours began when I received a phone call from San José, Costa Rica. The man speaking English with a Spanish accent asked for Mrs. Collins, and I knew something had happened to Mike. All I heard was: accident; hospital; and please come as soon as possible.

I had not heard from Mike in almost two weeks. He had been in Cahuita, a small city on the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. He’d been living there for the past eight months, supervising the building of a bed and breakfast —a new venture and our second chance.

We had been married ten years, were childless, and life in the big city of Chicago had become stale. Mike and I had honeymooned in Costa Rica, and he had fallen in love with it. An indiscretion with his assistant had created a rift in our marriage about two years ago. In an effort to recapture the romance, he begged my forgiveness and convinced me to return to Costa Rica. It seemed to work. That’s when he got the idea to move there permanently. It was a tough sell initially, but I had to ask myself what was I afraid of?

Aside from my mother, a small network of close friends, and a teaching job that was no longer fulfilling, I really didn’t have much to tie me to the city anymore. At thirty-eight, it was time to take a leap of faith.

When the phone rang, I was in the middle of packing. The house had been sold, and the plan was to stay with my mother until the guesthouse in Cahuita was ready. It was left to me to settle everything in the city—not an easy task, but in the end, I had to believe my marriage was worth it.

* * * *

Now, I was on a plane to San José with a hospital address scribbled on a post-it note, a suitcase of clothes hastily thrown together, and a host of unanswered questions regarding Mike’s condition. Were it not for the sweet old lady beside me whose head kept hitting my shoulder as she nodded off, I probably would have burst into tears.

What could have happened to Mike? Was it an accident at the construction site? How badly hurt was he?

* * * *

I threw a twenty dollar bill at the cabbie and his eyes lit up.

“Senora, no tengo cambio,” he said, looking like he had just won the lottery.

“Keep the change,” I told him in Spanish. Three months of conversational Spanish was proving handy, but when I entered the hospital and was bombarded by all the signage, I didn’t know which way to turn.

A young woman approached me in a white dress with a silver nametag over her heart. It read “Maria” and her position was “Customer Service.” She directed me to the elevators and even pushed the button to the third floor where Mike was located.

Following a brief conversation with the lady at the information desk, I took a seat in the waiting room. The modern look of the hospital gave me hope that Mike was receiving good care. From what I had read about the facility, it was one of the best in Central America.

No more than five minutes later, a thirty-something man came up to me and introduced himself as Dr. Filip Ramirez.

“Mrs. Collins, thank you for coming so quickly. I know it could not have been easy.”

His English was surprisingly good. “Doctor, what can you tell me? Is Mike all right?”

“He’s suffered a…devastating injury. We had to operate to stop the bleeding.”

“What happened? Is he going to be okay?”

“Mrs. Collins. This is an unusual case. Your husband is going to need your support over the next few months.”

“Doctor, for god’s sake. What happened to him?” My anxiety must’ve been palpable.

“Mrs. Collins,” he said, “I promised your husband that I’d let him tell you the story. You may go see him.”

I followed the doctor through several corridors before entering a large room. As I walked in, I saw Mike sitting up in bed. A sheet covered the lower half of his body, and he appeared deeply tanned. I ran over and wrapped my arms around him, tears streaming down my face with relief.

“Mike, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

I nodded my thanks to the doctor as he quietly left the room.

“Abby, Abby…” Mike cried. “Oh my god Abby, I’m so sorry.”

I slowly pulled away from his embrace. “What are you sorry about, what happened? Was there an accident at the site?”

“Abby, promise you’ll forgive me. I’ve been such a fool, I never meant to hurt you.  I…”

Mike had an expression of terror, which I’d never seen before. It both scared and confused me. I held his face in my hands and kissed him gently on the lips to calm him down. “Forgive you for what? Mike, you’re not making any sense. Where did they operate on you?”

I followed his gaze as he looked toward his legs. Gently, I pulled down the sheet and saw he was heavily bandaged around his groin.

“Mike?” I turned to see him welling up with tears. “How did this happen?” Was it a shark attack, some freak industrial accident, or…?

The realization slowly began to sink in, but I refused to believe it.

“Abby—” Mike pleaded.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s gone, Abby … It’s gone.”

“How the fuck did this happen?” I didn’t want to hear the answer, but I couldn’t contain the rage that now threatened to overwhelm me. “Tell me right now or I’m walking out of here.”

“Abby, she meant nothing to me. I swear it.”

The color drained from his face as the blood rushed to mine. Taking a deep breath, I released all the tension I’d been holding in. The past seventy-two hours had come down to this – my husband had been having an affair—again, and now, he no longer had a dick.

“How long, Mike?”

“Abby, does it matter?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Six months.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand.

I cringed. “Six months meant a lot for her to do this to you.”

“She was a psycho, she—”

“Enough!” I said. “How dare you try to blame her for what you’ve done.”

“Abby, Abby, I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I love you.”

I never expected to feel so much anger, yet, in my mind, there was a quiet resolve, a detachment that gave me strength.

“Just answer me one question, Mike.”

“Anything, babe, anything.”

“Where’s your penis now?”

He hesitated before responding, “In the ocean, she threw it in the ocean.”

I bit my lower lip, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In the end, all I could say was, “Better her, than me.”

* * * *

This story is included in a collection called  HOT FLASH, now available 

Amazon US  ~ Amazon UK

Announcements – What’s New?

March got off to such a fast start that my head is still spinning—but in a good way!  I’ve updated all the events under the March News page and summarize in a brief blog now.

This past weekend, I found out that my book, Fall into Winter, was nominated by The Romance Reviews in the category of: Best Anthology-Erotic Romance.

The winner is chosen based on # of votes, so if you’re so inclined and would like to vote for me – I’d greatly appreciate it. To do so, GO HERE.  I’m in the very first category listed. You will need to create an account with The Romance Reviews if you don’t have one already.

Many thanks in advance! Voting closes March 31st.

The WORD COUNT Podcast - You can hear me read my story with 6 other authors on a writers’ podcast. The prompt was: “A Conversation with Death,” and my story is entitled: “A Second Chance with Death.” Of course, it’s of an erotic nature, so be forewarned. Find the links for it here on my blog.

I’m judging two events this month: EROTIC/COMEDY SHORT STORY CONTEST and FEMINIST PORN AWARDS. Go to my March News page for all the details.

Thanks for your continued support, and as always,

Stay sexy,

Eden