March/April Play-It-Again Bingo

February was brutal, with a week long out of town work assignment, and then March came in like the proverbial Lion, with a week lost to the mega stomach bug o’ doom. First thing that went out the window with all of that on my shoulders? All of my good writing intentions!

So I’m going to ease back in to writing with the rest of March and all of April working towards a blackout of my own personal 3X3 bingo card made up of the February Valentines Bingo prompts people have already requested, and more writing in worlds I’ve already started stories within that I’m interested in revisiting again!

Please feel free to claim spaces from the Bingo Card below if you wish to give me more prompts or direction on any particular theme or “world”.

“Someone To Care” – Zakiya Love I Told You So Villain Slowly Falls in Love with Hero/Heroine
Ace Hero/Heroine Doesn’t Want The Guy Demisexual “C. Herish” – Body Worship
Fantasy Centaur Body Worship “Morning” – Terrie & Marv Victorian Era Cross Dressing


I didn’t sign up for this. This condition that steals my breath. Making the air I need thick and inhospitable. A clenching fist around my throat, each inhale like drowning.

I didn’t sign up for this. This new catastrophe that races lightning quick pain down my face. Tracing the path of my tears with agony and despair. That crushes and grinds the nerves of my face into live wires.

I didn’t sign up for this. My body attacking parts of itself just like the foreign invaders it fights so valiantly but never conquers. A disease that weakens my digestion and defenses. Leaves me vulnerable to all the viruses and the embarrassment of going in the woods like the proverbial bear.

I didn’t sign up for this. An illness of the mind or body chemistry or whatever “they” finally decide causes all of this acid fear. Crawling from the pit of my stomach to coat the back of my throat. Racing in my veins until my hands tremble and making day to day living a constant struggle through waves of terror and insecurity.

I didn’t sign up for this. My body feels too heavy to move and my sick mind tells me we shouldn’t even bother trying anymore. Everything too hard, too pointless. A sly voice whispers that perhaps there’s only one way to solve our problems. I’ll ignore its poison again today, and pretend to smile instead.

I didn’t sign up for this. Born with missing vital pieces, leaving me reliant on all of these meds. Strangers see only my thinness and judge my actions because my pain isn’t plain to them. I devour brownies to gain breasts, and envy the friends with plush bodies who themselves are envying me.

I didn’t sign up for this.

We didn’t sign up for this.


A 10 Minute free write from this week’s timed writing sessions. I really enjoyed this piece because it came to a place of rest, rather then leaving me and any potential readers hanging at the end, I feel like we get a sense of conclusion. Also, unexpected second person POV.

Just keep your hands moving. Don’t think too much about what it is that you’re moving, touching, absorbing through your skin, just keep it moving left to right. The smell is something you’ll also need to ignore. It’s omnipresent and surrounds you like a noxious mist, clings to your hair and will haunt you days after you’ve finished this job, but it’s best not to think about that right now. You’ll take a skin scalding shower latter, once you’ve safely made it back home. You’ll scrub every inch of your body with that pungent orange industrial hand soap, the kind mechanics use on tough grease. And you’ll clip your finger nails back behind the quick, not noticing the sting or blood when you clip too far, because they’re both better than leaving even a miniscule particle of this atrocious job lingering on your hands.

Left to right, you keep it moving, sliding it along, and you’d love to have more light so that you’d feel like you could actually see what you’re doing, but the risk would be too great that more light would mean more chances of someone else spotting what you’re up to back behind the closed down Home Depot. So in the near perfect darkness of an abandoned suburban shopping center, with the fumes suffocating you as you rush to complete the nights work, hand over hand, left to right, you feed the wood chipper. Trying only to remember; just keep your hands moving.

Published in: on April 26, 2015 at 12:27 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Kitten Story of Kit Katticus the White Delight el Gordito

This is a true story, based on actual events, witnessed through a dream and a haze.

On the last night of winter, tipping into spring first thing in the morning, I cuddled into bed under my sheets and blankets and tucked my head gratefully onto the pillow. I was tired. The bed jostled mightily, and up strolled to my face our most fiesty kitty, Kit Kat White. He who has many names; Kit Kat, Katticus, Kit Kat White You Fuck!

Rescued four years ago, almost to this exact day, he has a secret side only Husbando or I ever witness. In bed, under cover of shadows and on the cusp of dreaming, Kit Kat is a stealth snuggler. And he purrs with the roar of a diesel engine.

And that was his mission on the Eve of Ostara, to cram his plump furry body against mine, tucked half under the blankets where he had wiggled himself in against my side, and demand in a mighty purr that I scratch just between his ears and along the side of his neck, but nowhere else on fear of biting and leaving indignantly. I chuckled sleepily and complied with his demands, and I was so content, in my deep fluffy blankets and spooning my warm rumbling cat.

This was all very normal of the evening, even though it was a closely guarded secret in the day. His dignity and reputation for grand trouble making couldn’t hold up in the daylight if anyone else knew his secret cuddle dalliances. But then it all got very weird.

Looking into half lidded slitted cat eyes, I felt like I began to drift away. Still petting the cat, still looking around the bedroom with a tiny sleepy smile, I began to hear and see something else. And so my most mischievous fur child revealed to me, in many fuzzy cottonball memories The Kitten Story of Kit Katticus the White Delight el Gordito.

It began with the milk scented dreams of Mother, and that was how we knew her because she smelled like Mothers should and we loved her the most in the whole world at that time. There was surely a Father, who had been there during her time of season, but we’d never met him and didn’t feel a care to.  Then there were memories of our first rivals, which were occasionally siblings when we were very tired and a little cold and wanted to cram into a pile for warmth, but mostly had to be pushed away from Mother so that we could have more milk. There were three, or six, or eight rivals, too many in any case because we wanted more of Mother to ourselves. Some were more adoring kittens, some more dignified, and one was a very timid and shy kitten, but we were a fiend. We grew and became rambunctious. We tumbled and grappled and had no qualms about biting and hissing. We were a tiny chubby terror, and we felt Mother’s distinct pleasure that we should be so; a very catty cat indeed. When she groomed us, which was wonderful and annoying all at once, she would purr in a bed shaking grumble that we would choose to imitate as we grew older, and we would feel her love of our antics. We could always detect upon her many whiskered face a clever cat grin, so pleased that she had spawned such a brat cat as us.

The final memory shared was a sad one, full of cold  and mistrust, as Kit Kat White was taken away from Mother, much too soon, and too little, despite how unruly and independent he may have behaved. Luckily cat sadness swiftly passes, since cat’s have better thoughts to be having. Many about eating and destroying.

But as I drifted just a little past the hazy half thoughts we were sharing into real sleep he sent one last contented memory feeling my way. That despite how he was in the daylight, the bane of our other two cat’s existence, sometimes when he was very tired and a little cold and wanted to cram into a pile for warmth, he loved us most in the whole world, and that right now I smelled just like Mothers should.

Keeping a sharp eye

Keeping a sharp eye

Published in: on March 22, 2015 at 9:08 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Carrion Crow’s Cart

Here is a snack sized piece of poetry that’s been rumbling about my brain…

Flying in on dead black wings,
Screeching songs like a mad man sings,
Preparing a harvest for,
The Carrion Crow’s Cart.

Picking bowel and brains galore,
They’ve been here twenty times or more,
Gathering a heap for,
The Carrion Crow’s Cart.

Hiding in cellars and under the beds,
Dragging our blankets up over our heads,
Avoiding becoming fodder for,
The Carrion Crow’s Cart.

Writhing in fever with skin gone bad,
Losing all the friends we’ve had,
Providing ample tributes for,
The Carrion Crow’s Cart.

I’m not sure if there’s going to be any more or not, but it was one of those quick gruesome tales that jump your brain and demand release or promise to cause creeptastic dreams. There was a visual image that prompted this, and I’ve shared it for you to enjoy, but don’t be terribly disappointed by how mundane it seems – obviously it has the secret power to be very disturbing.

 Crow Pulling Cart

World Renowned, C. Herish, Whip Master

Back at Kaya and the writing went incredibly well this morning.

I blame this 10 minute Free Write on my good friend Sarah M. and the unexpected influence of fan-fiction on my dream time. (Notable – 10 minutes turned into an hour and a half in order to arrive at an acceptable stopping point.)

And now, spell checked but otherwise raw, here is what could have happened this morning in my dreams:

++ She threw the collar into the bottom of her duffel, cramming clothes and personal effects over top, pushing the collar and her mortification deeper into the dark of the bag where no one would ever have to know it sat; useless.

++ She seethed, gut curdled and throat burning with hot tears she would never release. After the Royal Procession and the glorious agony of her prolonged bullwhip session she had been down incredibly deep, sunk into a bliss where her only thoughts were of the flow and flick of her best whip and the figure of the Royal Dominant, King ____ striding ahead of her the whole long way. When he had turned to her at the end of the parade, just steps away from retreating into his massive Great Hall, and had asked her to await him later that evening when he could find her to discuss an exclusive event he wished her to attend, the only answer she had been coherent enough to give was a breathless “yes.”

++ Now, furiously packing in order to flee the King’s City, she was devastated. He’d never arrived, and sent no one to find her. Worse, she hadn’t dropped into subspace in years, her control and Dom persona too embedded, too ingrained, to be released for even a spare moment. Yet on first sight she’d felt a nearly overwhelming desire to kneel for him.

++ Disgusted with herself she harshly pulled the zip to close the duffel and roughly tugged the strap up and onto her shoulder. Arms and elbows helping her muscle through the door of the closet-like room she’d been given for her stay she managed to exit into the hallway and began barreling towards the end of the long corridor. Her destination was the servants door that would let her exit the lower levels of the Great Hall and into an area of kitchen gardens that she had found while practicing in the week leading up to the Royal Procession. The gardens conveniently connected by back alleys to the city’s markets and from there she could get away from this horrid city and her nearly disastrous loss of sense.

++ If anyone had perceived her drop into subspace during the Procession all of her years of careful hiding would have crumbled. The world renowned C. Herish, Whip Master, would have been stripped and publicly beaten for impersonating a Dominant. She pictured the outrage and betrayal on the faces of the submissives she had occasionally dominated in order to help solidify her Dom persona, and the inevitable abuse charges that could be filed against her, and once again felt sick at the enormous risk she had taken at just the sight of that goddamned man.

++ Quick strides finally brought her to the exit stairs of the dimly lit servants corridor and she pushed her bag through the door then skinny-ed through herself as quickly and quietly as possible. The sun of a new morning was still gentle on the Eastern horizon and the barely illuminated paths through herbs and deep green vegetation passed rapidly as she ran from the hall. The gateway ahead was still unguarded in the early morning and she sighed in relief as it swung freely. The gate released her into a narrow alley between the Great Hall’s walls and the quiet of the nearly deserted market streets. Tempting smells attempted to snag her away from her hurried escape. Bakery stalls open early with fresh bread, fragrant sausage breakfast rolls, and the overwhelming aroma of warm cinnamon caused her traitorous stomach to growl in need, but she resisted and persisted in her goal of leaving the city and her shame as rapidly as possible.

++ An hour and a thousand twisting alleys later she had made it through the market, the central square, and rows of cramped apartment homes to reach the Western Toll Gate of the King’s City. In that time she had succeeded in drawing her Dom personality back around her like a comfortable but smothering robe, and now walked briskly but without the earlier urgency. Fear and shame were squashed beneath an exterior of false cold and calm. She approached the short line of travelers attempting to leave the city in the early morning and paused briefly to remove her Ident Pass from a catch-all in her jacket pocket, getting ready for the city Police Doms and Trade & Export officers inspection. The city was rousing now as light grew, and soon the line would wrap back through the streets as the spectators, merchants and special performers who had been drawn to the King’s City for the Annual Royal Procession began trickling away towards their home cities or the next major attraction. She wished she had the luxury of waiting until mid-afternoon, when the Police Doms and the tax men would be overwhelmed by the crush of traffic and more likely to let her and her one single duffel pass through with little inspection, but the driving dread and nauseating self-loathing twisting inside wouldn’t let her linger.

++ Nearly at the front of the inspection line and she continued to mentally reinforce her rigid Dom demeanor. People knew her as a cold and aloof Dominant. Never cruel, but strict and demanding with little humor and even less tolerance for bull-shit. She had attempted a sort of warmth in her persona when she first realized how critical it would become for her to hide her natural submissiveness, but it had kept her too open to responding inappropriately subby at the wrong moment. Cold and locked down was the only means she had of portraying an acceptable and believable level of dominance.

++ “Ident Pass,” said the Police Dom, dressed in a standard blue leather uniform and hand extended towards her commandingly.

++ She slapped her C. Herish ID into his palm confidently and glanced around the gate area with a scrutinizing glare, pretending indifference to his demand. Not nearly the struggle she’d experienced in the beginning, pretending a Dom’s order was irrelevant to her and that she complied only out of a basic respect for law enforcement.

++ “Bag please, Mistress,” stated the collared Trade & Export submissive from her other side. She cocked an eyebrow at the older gentleman in a fairly nice suit and an even nicer and clearly expensive Permanent Bond collar. Ripping back the zipper on her duffel she barely held the two sides parted so that he could only peek at the top contents. The glistening length of a Master Bullwhip was coiled right on top, something a proper submissive would never dare to touch or handle. She’d found that the tactic usually worked to keep the Trade & Export people from rummaging any deeper into her belongings, and she was lucky this morning as the tax man quickly nodded and waved her small duffel and herself forward in the line.

++ Abruptly C. was stopped by the Police Dom’s hand connecting with the meat of her upper arm and holding her firmly.

++ “I’m sorry Mistress Herish, but you’ve apparently got an alert on your Ident Pass. It looks like his Dominance, King ____, has placed a hold on your passage from the city and has requested you be escorted back to the Great Hall to attend the Annual Council of Royal and Common Advisers,” the Dom cleared his throat and awkwardly released the arm he’d grasped. Scanning the notice on his screen further he continued, “Looks like this was flagged late last night. There’s another note on the hold saying the King couldn’t invite you personally ’cause he was caught up in some emergency meeting.” He looked up now and caught her eye, then gestured back towards the Great Hall. “If you’d please, Mistress Herish, I’d like to assign a Guard Dom to escort you back to the Great Hall.”

++ Thoughts furiously raced through her mind, The Royal and Common Advisers Council? What, why…? Was his interest in me last night as a diplomat, not as a …partner? She drew herself up and bit the inside of her cheeks to stop a flood of curses. Inside her head she spewed, Greeeaat. Now I’ll be forced to play Dom for the King in person. Damn my fucked up life…”

Published in: on April 25, 2014 at 4:18 pm  Leave a Comment  
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I find free writes helpful as a start to my writing time, because they allow me to silence the inner critic, and to give anything at the front of my mind that might be stressing me out just a few moments of time to express itself before I kick those thoughts off stage and get down to business.

This weeks 10 minute Free Write was pretty darn productive actually. I have no idea where this came from, and I’m convinced the writing itself is crap, but the idea? Intriguing…

As always, spell checked but otherwise raw rough draft:

++ A dress is a formidable weapon. One of fierce defiance if cut low enough or hemmed high enough. One of genteel reproach if proper enough and one of quiet authority if styled just so. I’m not a dress person really, but this was one of those occasions where a woman couldn’t be without one. And a man in disguise? Well there’s no chance of impersonating a woman to catch a certain senator’s eye, convince him to take me back to his room, and take incriminating video with hidden surveillance cameras if I didn’t have just the right dress.

++ The saleswoman was two parts annoyed and ten parts fascinated as she brought me different sizes and styles. I’d worn a few dresses before, looked pretty in them if done up and tucked up properly, but not one like these. Never one sexy enough to try and convince an old straight Republican to hire my services for an evening. The case tonight had well known tastes, and Anthony knew what he was doing when he set these things up, so I could only imagine I was the best for the job that he had on staff.

++ “I think that colors very flattering,” came the sales girls tentative comments. Working on commission must be a real bitch sometimes.

++ “Yeah, colors fine. Don’t think there’s enough tits yet,” I said in snide reply.

++ “Oh! Well, I’ve got another style in this red, but it’s…,” she hesitated and I turned raised eyebrows at her impatiently. I didn’t really have all day to play man-barbie.

++ “Trampy,” she finished fast.

++ “Let’s have it. Trampys just the thing for this john,” I smiled as I said it, watching her face leach white and her jaw fish mouth before she turned and fled towards the back of the store. Yeah I can be petty. But who isn’t a little catty at the prospect of cramming his dick back all night in order to fake interest in a self righteous sack of wrinkles? Anthony owed me for this job.

Published in: on March 23, 2014 at 10:45 am  Leave a Comment  
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