The sorcerer explained to me that magic and time were fluid, like water.
He said those who honed their talents might someday touch the gods.
Then, he showed me Poseidon—as an incentive, I guess.
A good idea but, in my case, counterproductive.
So far, all I’ve been touching is myself.
I’ll be honest with you. After the Moral Majority Party took over globally on Earth, things got more than a little dicey for human females.
Those bastards took women’s liberation back to the Middle Ages.
Head coverings, ugly ass dresses that veiled our glory from here to there, and electronic chastity belts were issued to women of all cultures and ages. Lesbians were outlawed. Sex was suddenly a secret, shameful thing, with all the pretty young virginal types being snatched up as wives of the ruling class to be initiated into it.
Lucky for me, I didn’t have to participate in the repressed pussy party—I was young but far from virginal. From the first time I skinned my knee and conned somebody into kissing it for me, I knew I was destined for bigger and better things.
I had heard through the rumor mill several sex clubs on a recently colonized Mars were looking for fresh talent. The skin job was mostly to get me off Earth—nothing says “not from around here” like going green.
Of course, the transport ship I jumped on didn’t exactly make it to Mars. We were boarded by space pirates instead. Turns out they really liked the color green, and I never pegged myself as a tentacles girl, but … wow, apparently, I am.
You have to understand, the main reason I switched to demons in the first place was all the damned posing.
It’s the same with every angel out there—give him a little attention, tell him you like the cock, and suddenly he thinks he’s Michelangelo’s David.
Not demons, though.
Demons are low maintenance, high libido … not as pretty, but not as prissy, either, and great in the sack.
Plus, they think I’m delicate, so their idea of torture is my version of light BDSM.
Nipple clamps and spankings?
I’ll be there with bells on—or a collar … just don’t pose.
Behind the door, she found a moth free walk-in with a multitude of hangers above a rack on the floor loaded with giant shoes.
There were a few dress slacks, several long-sleeved shirts, and a plethora of t-shirts and jeans. They were all of the Big and Tall variety, and there was only one person she had ever met who was that size.
“Please don’t be what I think you are,” she muttered.
Her heart did a backflip and a sideways rollercoaster drop into the pit of her stomach as she slid the nearest black t-shirt sideways off its plastic hanger. She held it out in front of her, still sideways, and slowly turned the fabric so that the front, with its gold gym logo, was facing her. There was no mistaking the last name, etched in big letters on the front.
“God damn it,” she said, her terror giving way to righteous indignation.
At least, now, she could rest one hundred percent easy on the no unconscious sex with her abductor part. She was certain the meat-monster he kept locked up in the pairs of pants now surrounding her would put her battery-operated boyfriend to shame—and she felt nothing, not even a twinge down there.
Okay, technically, she did feel something, only it was more like a heartbeat centered in her clit—thump-thump, thump-thump—along with an obscene amount of moisture between her thighs at the thought of the man’s undoubtedly generous cock.
There’s so much more than Eskimo kisses….
Long, slow licking.
Let me show you.
May the lives and loves lost in Orlando be remembered and celebrated long after the acts of bigots and zealots fade.
No doubt about it—he was a dark, strange man with a quiet sort of dominance that bordered on cruelty.
A Clockwork Orange fuck you in the ass on a public park bench near a bar at midnight until the blood rushes to your head, and sings in your ears, and all you can do is scream his name kind of man.
Sexy. Enigmatic. Moody.