Thursday, August 29, 2013

A Soldier's Hands

All works posted are original stories. As such, they may not be copied or used without author's express permission.

                                               Photo credit: Toni Aleo, Mialy photography

A Soldier's Hands
   NC-17

My stomach leaps as the army aircraft rumbles down the runway. I shift from side to side and bob up and down, anxious to see him. He’s home! He’s home! He’s home! The words non-stop in my brain since receiving word he is once again on American soil. His deployment was hard, and from what the other wives and girlfriends tell me, the next won’t be any easier. But I refuse to dwell on him leaving again, not when I’ve yet to clamp eyes on him.

New Series Alert!

All works posted are original stories. As such, they may not be copied or used without author's express permission.



Preview: Hands

I've begun a series of stories about something near and dear to me - men's hands. The first pair to make an impression on me was my daddy's. He had strong hands - wide palms, thick fingers. He was a mechanic, and they were always a little dirty with ground-in grease and often smelled of oil and gasoline. On Sundays he would dress for Mass, and it was then he wore jewelry, his gold watch, his cuff links, and his wedding band. I remember staring at the ring, how the wide band of gold looked so sophisticated, amazed at how it changed his working hands to something more, something different.

 I adored his hands, just as I adored him. He was a gentleman, and a gentle man. I was never afraid of those hands, not even when he was angry.  When I saw them working, I admired their strength. When he held me, I felt protected. He agonized and willed them to move them over his accordion keys, an instrument he loved. They hurt him and moved him to tears when they cramped up in the winter.  I've held those hands more times than I can count, and I wish he were here now, so I could hold them again.

Every pair of hands has a story to tell. I hope you enjoy mine.

Love,

Dari

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Make It Count NC-17

All works posted are original stories. As such, they may not be copied or used without author's express permission.

 Make it Count NC-17

 Snow. For some unfathomable reason, it calmed him and soothed his soul. In his office hung his prized Ansel Adams print, a stark black and white landscape of an apple orchard in Yosemite, with Half Dome in the background.  To him, it was majestic and fantastical in its simplicity.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Now and Again

All works posted are original stories. As such, they may not be copied or used without author's express permission.





Marti and Joe: Now and Again


Martine is tired, hungry and not in the mood to put up with the thousands of shopping carts clogging the aisles at Whole Foods. It is a hot Friday in June, the end of a crazy workweek, and whatever patience Marti started with is now on a slippery slope. As she weaves in and around other harried customers, she admits that part of her problem is Kit; tonight will be her first night without him for two weeks. This morning he boarded a plane flying East to spend part of his summer break with his dad.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Here and Now Chapt. 2 NC-17

All works posted are original stories. As such, they may not be copied or used without author's express permission.


Here and Now Chapter 2 NC-17

As they step onto the dance floor, he pulls her close, catching the scent of her perfume again. He wonders if she’s always smelled this good and he’d been too young and stupid to notice. His pulse quickens as her body brushes his; he should be shocked by this hard, gut-wrenching attraction, but all he feels are her breasts against his chest and her hair brushing his chin as they sway, following the heavy bass.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Just One More Time NC-17

All works posted are original stories. As such, they may not be copied or used without author's express permission.


Just One More Time NC-17
(Sequel to The New Neighbor)

Her eyes search the kitchen frantically, looking for something, anything, she can use to hurt him. He lunges for her again, nearly falling over, but he catches himself on the edge of the counter at the last minute. He’s blocking her only exit, and his eyes are mean and hungry. She fights looking towards the stairs to see if Kit is there, hiding, watching, and prays he’s still asleep. She feels sweat trickling down the small of her back. She knows he is eventually going to catch her.

He lurches again, grabbing her wrist. Reflexively, she reaches behind her to clench the side of the sink and wrenches herself free. She casts a furtive glance behind her and sees scissors sticking out from beneath the dishtowel. Fear spears her stomach, stealing her breath. Saying a quick prayer he won’t see her, she grabs them. They continue the dangerous dance around the kitchen island, he trying to grab her, she trying to escape. Suddenly his meaty hand catches the back of her shirt, and she can’t twist out of his reach. He spins her around, and she smells the whisky on his breath. Without thinking she swings her arm, stabbing him, then stumbles backwards, breaking his hold. The scissors is sticking out of his chest. 

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Here and Now NC-17

All works posted are original stories. As such, they may not be copied or used without author's express permission.


 

Chapter 1

The night was warm, but the breeze was cool coming off the lake, and the only light came from the moon as it cast a spotlight on the black water. The grassy beach was deserted, but tucked under a stand of trees, hidden in the shadows they lay on an old, worn blanket. She was on her back, naked save for the tiny denim shorts he was desperately trying to get into. His chest covered her, hard, smooth skin pressed against her soft full breasts, and he felt her heartbeat. He wanted to go slow, but his cock was ready to explode.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. Her kisses tasted better than his mom’s lemon pie and his dad’s whisky. He needed to touch her, to bury dick inside her. He rubbed the denim covering her pussy, and she lifted her hips, pressing hard against his palm. He punished himself for another long, agonizing minute until he unbuttoned her fly and slid his hand inside. His finger brushed against her swollen clit, and she whimpered in his mouth. He bit back a low growl and slowly slid a finger inside; she was so hot and wet, he almost came.  She unwrapped her arms from around his neck and frantically began pushing her shorts down her legs then reached for the snap of his jeans…

Will’s alarm wailed, and he awoke, stiff and breathing heavy.

Goddamn it, Dory.