fff #11

barely made it to a machine today. trigger for flash fiction friday #11, inclusion clause:
block, clock, frock, rock, flock

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

to fff or not to fff?

moving this week, and not sure if triggering a flash fiction friday's worthwhile since only myself and 1 other person been writing lately...if you want to participate, please say, since right now i not sure if i should expend the energy...walk good.

flash fiction friday #10

a day gig plus evening rehearsals plus moving plus editing all this week, so i got an early start and fff-ed earlier than usual. inclusion clause trigger, inspired by a comment on my last fff: dirtier, messier, sloppier, wetter, read...

i surveyed the damage – far messier than anticipated. even after 13years of marriage i would never have guessed he could be filthier than i’d (sadly) grown accustomed to, with me gone just 3weeks. even looking past the wreckage of this last fight, the place was foul. i sighed and started cleaning, wondering if our dance of death was worth wading through his dirty linens and dirtier drawers…
i thought about what i was working toward with each swipe of the cleaning rag and swish of the broom. i had already committed to this act so i administered some small pleasure to get me through this nasty bit, playing my favourite records of his treasured collection while i worked on his dirty countertops and dirtier dishes. i listened to his mighty shadow, his al green, his andre tanker, his david rudder, his michael jackson – and yes, it took that many albums to get that pigsty clean enough for what i knew came next. at least he was no longer my pig…
i cleaned the bathroom last, to stevie wonder, so i could bathe immediately as i was done. i needed to wash the stink off my hands, from my skin, out of my hair. i knew this routine so well i’d put towels in the wash when i started, so i had something warm+clean when i stepped out dripping wet and ready for part deux.
i dried myself, wrapped myself in another dry towel, keeping dreadlocks tied up with the damp one for the moment, and sat on the now-clean couch with a recently-washed-glass of wine and amy winehouse on the turntable. i relaxed and read the paperwork for the last time, then finally signed my name on our divorce. drama done, i sat back with the bottle of wine and waited. the makeup after our fight was the only thing left, and we now had a clean house to do it in. we’d do it all over that house.
i knew he’d be awhile. the eye i swung a fist at a few hours prior would be showing its bruised colours by the time he turned up – he knew i’d want to see it – the makeup wasn’t as good without evidence of the fight.
i lay on the welcomingly soft cushions and as i worked my way through the wine and winehouse (appropriate in so many ways) i catalogued my own sore spots – no obvious bruising, he knew better than that, but there were aches already and the few places he knew he could really hurt would show colours by the end of the night. this would be the last time we played this game and i wanted it to be a night i’d remember gladly – after all, this was the only thing he ever did right, the only way he ever gave me what i wanted. he was a shit husband in every other regard and it was a testament to how well he did this that we lasted 13years. but tonight would be the best yet – hotter, wetter, sloppier, rougher, sexier than we’d indulged in before. i wondered if he had any idea, if he was nursing his drink somewhere, feeling the swelling of his eye and realising that this fuck would be the fuck to end them all.
i ran my fingers gently over my bruised thighs and ass, thinking about the fact that nobody else would know these marks existed when i went to work, walking around out in the world with my secret, soreness amplified and expanded after the events still to come tonight. the thought of our imminent romp sent my fingers higher, exploring tender areas yet to be penetrated, pounded, spanked, banged, bruised. i was already wet and knew i’d be instantly wetter when i heard his key in the door, so there was nothing wrong with taking advantage of this moment for myself. all my toys were at my new flat, but i was so excited i didn’t need any assistance.
i sucked+licked my fingers and played with my clitoris, imagining his tongue doing exactly what i wanted, swirling and writhing, flicking and licking…
i wished my fingers could suck like his mouth and felt a huge rush as my fantasy became being able to use my own mouth on myself – maybe it was narcissism, but who knew better what i wanted? the dry towel wrapped around me had fallen loose and was probably developing a wet spot under my ass, but i knew we’d use it the rest of the night once he got back anyway. i plunged my fingers deep inside myself and rocked my hips against them, my clit now rubbing against the heel of my hand. my body rose to meet my imaginary lover, and the friction of my clitoris against my hand combined with squirming fingers quickly made me convulse with the beginnings of my 1st orgasm.
as i rode the wave, utter relaxation washing over me, i wondered if i really needed to wait for him – i could make this night unforgettable all by myself…

walk good.

fff #10

this week's flash fiction friday trigger, inclusion clause inspired by a comment on my last fff:
dirtier, messier, sloppier, wetter, read...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

black friday fff #9

want to experiment with erotica, plus 9's the magic number and this flash fiction was set on black friday so this should be good, right?

all that was left was a little indigo triangle covering the barest (or about to be) of necessities, held in place by a less-than-sturdy-looking string. she shivered slightly against the breeze that licked her nipples into tiny pebbles on its promenade through the upstairs gallery, but a defiant stare met the gaze that beheld her. her unashamedness was half the appeal, the other half was natural allure. no makeup or perfume, no fancy dan, no enhancement of any kind, because none was needed.
“mama, look woman…” i couldn’t help muttering my amazement out loud, wishing i could be as confident in my skin with my body exposed to the world.
the cat snaked past her dress on the ground, taking the time to weave its way between her legs, smoothly curved dark chocolate pillars begging to be licked and stroked, and this curious kitten took full advantage. i was jealous, wanting to rub the side of my warm face against her calf, run my nails up her instep and follow with my tongue as far as it would reach. i swore the damn cat smirked at me from between her ankles, more-than-usual self-satisfaction splitting her furry black face into a grin to rival alice’s toothy cheshire.
she grinned back at the cat, “insert prerequisite pussy joke here...” and picked her up, returning the adoration. this cat never liked anybody, but they were made for each other, sleek+sensual, strength belied by grace.
still caressing the now-purring cat she asked, “you sure you want this? no shame if you frighten…”
“i scared, i cyah lie. but i not letting that stop me.”
“i’ll take it easy on you. come…” she turned and walked over to the low stone wall at the edge of the gallery, “and bring the wine.”
i joined her and the cat looking out at the view of town laid out in lights, to the cat’s apparent displeasure – her purrs became almost a low growl until she realised my proximity didn’t affect the attention she was basking in, clearly determined to get hers even if i didn’t get mine.
i set the glasses on the ledge and poured for us, noticing the cat seemed miffed that she didn’t have her own. she cut those gorgeous tiger-eyes sideways at me and i found myself apologising to her, as ridiculous as that felt. she seemed more comfortable in this moment and more knowledgeable about how please a beautiful woman than i did and i almost wished we could switch places, just until lust swallowed my nervousness more completely. i wondered if this is how men feel their first time, or if being man provides all the confidence one needs…
she sipped her wine, turning just enough to make four eyes with me over the rim of her glass. she smiled, slowly, and i felt her warmth even without her touch. she winked, drained her glass in one long swallow and put the cat on the ledge, and a moment later her soft mouth was pressed against my neck.
as her lips trailed fire over my collarbone i exhaled the last of my anxiety and let myself slide into desire…

walk good.

s+m

every delicious painful sip of mauby forces me to reflect on the sense+sensibility of my tongue rubbed raw by nerds.
walk good.

play yuh mas

robert anthony young of the cloth say (and although i have no info to post yet, i know ashraph+co do similarly independent mas):
a vulgar fraction 11/3
"AN INDEPENDENT MAS PLAYER COULD BE YOU - COME & PLAY.
What is required
1) Develop your concept.
2) You design your mas.
3) You get support from artists that are playing and making their mas.
4) You make your mas.
5) You cover your face. (Some of us have been doing this for 18 years)
6) You play your mas.

As in mas, there are persons who make it their politics to make and play there own mas. We will call these persons Independents.
Politics is private action for public change (Lloyd Best)
Making your own mas with community may be vulgar at a time of Incorporated mas.
Before we play will have a few meetings. Music is on the road left behind sounds from other bands. We will have a transport, a four wheel vehicle made by powered by us. A Peddling mas.

Brief.
Make a mas
Make a mask that covers the face.
White draw string pants Supplied by THE CLOTH
Scarf The marker for your identity a pleated scarf to be used as a (belt, collar, scarf, sash, headpiece.........). it can be hard as denim soft as chiffon textured as lace spotted as polka dots flowered striped suiting bright dark drill satin.
Suggested mask (Mesh and zipper at mouth for eating and drinking).
It should speak of your politics with your present Identity and how that identity moves you or hold you back from acting and living fully, A mas that reflects you presents successes and or struggles in living a fully PRESENT life.

Independents
As in politics, an independent is a politician who is not affiliated with any political party. In countries with a two-party system, independents may hold a centrist viewpoint between the two parties, or may feel that neither of the two parties adequately represents their viewpoint.

Vulgar
1 a: generally used, applied, or accepted b: understood in or having the ordinary sense
2: vernacular
3 a: of or relating to the common people : plebeian b: generally current : public c: of the usual, typical, or ordinary kind
4 a: lacking in cultivation, perception, or taste : coarse b: morally crude, undeveloped, or unregenerate : gross c: ostentatious or excessive in expenditure or display : pretentious.
5 a: offensive in language : earthy b: lewdly or profanely indecent.

Identity.
Identity is an umbrella term used throughout the social sciences to describe an individual's comprehension of him or herself as a discrete, separate entity. This term, though generic, can be further specified by the disciplines of psychology and sociology, including the two forms of social psychology.
In sociology and political science, the notion of social identity is defined as the way that individuals label themselves as members of particular groups (e.g., nation, social class, subculture, ethnicity, gender, etc.). It is in this sense that sociologists and historians speak of the national identity of a particular country, and feminist and queer theorists speak of gender identity. Symbolic interactionism (SI) attempts to show how identity can influence, and be influenced by, social reality at large. SI is based largely on the work of the American pragmatists, such as Charles Peirce and William James. (Cote 2002:32)
SI has two schools of thought: the Iowa School and the Chicago School. SI researchers in the Chicago School argue that social reality is emergent and is constructed from personal, "situated" interaction, i.e., from the process of impression management. To observe identity scientifically, the Chicago school opts for ethnomethodology and qualitative observation techniques. Iowa School researchers attempt to show that personal and social identities are representations of, or are otherwise connected to, social structures, and tend to use quantitative surveys. For example, McCall and Simmons make use of the notion of role-identity, and Sheldon Stryker's theory of structural interactionism explains identity in terms of interaction density and interaction opportunities. (Cote 2002:35-36) Of particular concern to sociologists who subscribe to the theories of Émile Durkheim is the question of how social phenomena such as mass anomie relate to the identity formation strategies.
Identity has played a functional role in social movements. By emphasizing a group identity, social movements have sought to strengthen politically oppressed groups both by improving members' sense of confidence and by familiarizing the external society with the existing social group. However, national or ethnic identity is sometimes also tied to demagogy, leading to ethnic or religious conflicts.[citation needed]
Based on identity theory as rooted in the work of George Herbert Mead (1934) and expanded by Sheldon Stryker (1968), the process of the individual interacting with others in order to create an identity is called identity negotiation. The purpose of identity negotiation is to develop a consistent set of behaviors that reinforce the identity of the person. In general, a person will have to negotiate separately on each identity he or she possesses by interacting with those who are affected by the role in question. For example, a person's identity as "office worker" would be negotiated separately from her identity as "mother", because the collectively established role of the worker involves negotiation with coworkers, and not (directly) with one's children. See Stryker and Burke (2000). A related notion is that of identity capital, developed by Cote & Levine (2002).

Identity and historical sociology
In sociology, social identity can also be examined from the perspective of social and historical change. Postmodern views of identity understand it as a function of historical and cultural circumstances. Some works, like that of Berger and Luckmann, argue that all aspects of social reality are actually social constructions created by historical facts. Nevertheless, they emphasize that these constructs have real consequences upon the lives and behaviors of human beings. (Cote 2002:37)
Kenneth Gergen and Anthony Giddens have both attempted to place theories of identity formation in a historical context. Gergen argues that changes in popular types of identity have run parallel to a change in broader culture: a sense of robust ego identity was present in the romantic period, followed by a sense of self as rational actor during the modernist period, and the sense of a relational self was typical of the postmodern period. In contrast, Giddens accepts that there is historical change in identity styles, but attributes it to aberrations in socio-economic conditions which are unique to the "high modern" period. (Cote 2002:42-43)
Location: PORT OF SPAIN"

play mas. walk good.

flash fiction friday #9

trying not to let my desire to experiment with erotica affect fff trigger choices...especially hard with my mother, when asked to help provide inspiration, saying shit like,
"i need a pants..."
me: "why?" (cause you know we live in a naked house and the only reason i have pants on is cause the mosquitos eating me alive, but she have no such problems)
ma: "cause this top doh match my panty..."
hilarious and inspiring, but panty references make my erotica bent too easy, no?
so, this week's trigger (edit: trigger to be used at any point in flash fiction):
all that was left was/were...

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

carnival diet, reconsidered, fff #8

i'd planned to continue in the erotic vein of fff#7 with flash fiction friday #8 but somehow it didn't happen; maybe sex next week. but i did write (not sure if i like it yet) with inclusions:
gun, tonne, fun, plum, drum.

“3tonnes of fun…”
the words echoed in her head, bouncing off the inside of her mind, reverberating her skull between her ears louder than she thought possible for a repetition internally created by her own imagination. she looked into the mirror in disgust – or, at least, tried to, but only managed disgust at not feeling any. she knew she should be repelled by what looked back at her, but wasn’t. she tried to make herself feel the way she knew she should, but fell far short of appalled.
despairing of her ability to ever do what social mores required, she reconsidered what she wanted versus what everybody seemed to think appropriate. she thought of the gorgeous design she coveted, thought of the colours, the feathers, pictured herself in it, bumsee beating the drumbeat and bassline of sweet sweet soca across the savannah stage, and tried to hate that image, to no avail. she tried to picture herself in the alternate, the kit everybody else liked for her, military green – did it have anything fun? not colourful feathers or other pretty mas detailing – not a sequin in sight – did it even have a headpiece or a standard? she tried to remember the name of the section, it didn’t even sound exciting, something punny like “gun for the road”, something that didn’t make her feel to wine+jam or wave her flag or her rag or jump through the streets with wild abandon – and wasn’t carnival for that? playing yourself as you secretly desire, as you see yourself, knowing and not caring that nobody else sees you that way…shouldn’t she play whatever she wanted and who doh like it could lie down by it? if her shining flesh pressed into that sexy little costume made her feel the feelings then wasn’t that everything?
she turned so she could see her backside. she was sure females bigger than herself would be out there in bikinis+beads, why should she hide in shame she didn’t truly feel? because others (could they really be friends?) say she too big, say somebody her size have no business in a tribe costume, others don’t see the vision of her in fuschia+plum-coloured spandex and fringe and feathers and faux-jewels the way she did, as her right for the 2days of leggo, beautiful because it made her happy – could a festival purporting to celebrate national unity mean anything while discriminating against fatties? she secretly liked that word, liked her size, liked the way her ample, oiled skin looked when she stood at the mirror after she bathed, liked seeing her legs dimple coming out the bottom of her skirts, liked her big, round backside enough that she wore shorts for her own enjoyment – talk ‘bout bottom in the road!
she cultivated this size, didn’t just “let herself go”; she grew herself into her idea of beauty. but here it was, her first carnival playing mas, and people she considered close telling her she shouldn’t wear the costume she wanted.
she turned back to look at her front, debating whether she cared what anybody else thought of her very generous body. she tried again to summon those feelings of disgust that she knew others harboured, and still couldn’t. she tried to make herself feel bad but the more she stared, the more she liked what she saw. she fulfilled her idea of what a woman should be.
in that moment she knew her decision was made.
as her granny would say, “every mouldy bread have its stinkin’ cheese” – she loved herself as she was, would love herself even more in her tribe costume, and somebody else would love her too – fire bu’n the rest!

walk good.

fff #8, late

so sorry about the lateness of today's trigger, but i had a (paying) gig conflicting with our noon deadline. feel free to reclaim the 2+ hours on your writing deadline.
this week i have no idea what i feel like, and usually i try to fight against my "feel like" for triggering purposes (keep it challenging for me, too) so i had trouble triggering since i suspect i'm better when i have something to rebel against.
so, inclusion clause this week; please pepper your piece with (also suspect this one real hard, but that's what you get for missing my erotic fff #7):
gun tonne fun plum drum

rules of engagement:
you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.
if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too wonderful not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.
you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.
you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your story (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).
you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.
you will display your story as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).
you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.
write fresh!
walk good.

homophobic homosexual (and related ignorance)

before we reach the person referenced in the title lemme admit something that probably shows me up as the nerd i am, but must be said: jon stewart is still one of the most doable white dudes on that short list, looking all distinguished and consistently smart+funny just like i like (and love when he's suited to complement+compliment the greying hair- sexy too bad!). and while on the topic, aasif mandvi's also too sexy, even if i'm even nerdier for finding him even more so for playing the mystic masseur...
that said, last week i had a bizarre (for me) experience (full disclosure: i may seem naïve because i have little to no patience for people i find stupid or otherwise unenjoyable company and have done an excellent job of eliminating such people from my life, thus rarely, if ever spend time with ignorance/bigotry; incidents like i'm about to relate don't come up in my existence so i receive stories of shit like this almost like myth, or the purview of people with the kind of power that corrupts, and am still shocked+appalled when i hear of worse, especially when it devolves into violence; this incident made me realise how wonderfully i shelter myself from jackassery).
so i'm apartment hunting. last week i saw a listing for something sounding perfect for my needs and within my price range. i call and the landlord say i could see it one time, mom had errands to run too so we ride together.
as he opened the door to show the apartment he asked about my job, checking that i could pay rent; i tell him i freelance in the arts. he seemed pleased, telling me as i look around the apartment that he used to (ballroom)dance and the front of the compound houses a dance studio- i start getting glad because is a bes' place, with bes' amenities and price, and now i hearing rehearsal space on the premises...then mr.cooper say we should adjourn to his apartment to discuss details because he wrapping up with a brand new tenant come to collect keys, who i should meet because his wife in the arts too, maybe we know each other...i get gladder because he seem interested and i definitely am.
we go by him, the tenant's "wife" is somebody i know well, worked with before, dude rings her so i can say hi, gladness all around. dude leaves, ma+mr.cooper figure out why they find each other familiar (bwee), we all chat a bit, then i ask what i need to do to retain the apartment.
after all this 20minutes smalltalk, he is to now tell me he has "reservations" about renting me the place. what i do for a living makes him hesitate because he doh want no "known gays" on the property. i was actually speechless for a hot minute when he drop that. ma jump in (so proud of her) asking him how he could say that, even if he disagree with the lifestyle people is people and to be treated fair+equal, they is folks too, etc.
mr.cooper say he's a "godfearing churchgoing" man and know it sound bad but he doh care, is how he feel, we doh understand what he's go through..so i ask...
he is to tell me about how the man who own the shop on the corner nasty and they have animosity and the man always trying to muddy his waters, ruining his reputation with rumours that he gay and persecuting him accordingly, so he doh want "known gays" on the property because they'll be associated with him and provide fodder for the cornershopman cannon...
i still flabbergasted- i point out that that's hardly the way to choose a tenant: apart from the sexual orientation of my friends+colleagues being irrelevant to me and moreso to him (should be, anyway) he concerned not with whether they actually gay, whether i know/think so, or even whether he think so, but whether the man in the shop on the corner think so, and how the ass is anybody to know who the man in the shop on the corner might think might be gay?! i say maybe he need to go by the cornershop and ask the man for a written list of everybody in the country the man think might be gay so he could show prospective tenants and ask if any of their associates on the list! this shit so absurd i still doh quite believe it, except i meet a fella yesterday who tell me when he went with his (male) pardner to see the same place, mr.cooper was very vocally concerned about whether they were trying to rent together!
on top of that, the other reason mr.cooper gave for not wanting my "known gay associates" around is that he doh want no "unwanted advances"- picture that statement coming from a very homely, short, portly, 60somethingish dude in ugly brown plastic oldman glasses, madras-plaid shortsleeve shirt and multiply-pleated khaki pants- i had to work hard to not buss out laughing and tell him none of my known gay associates would give him a passing glance, far less look twice to tender unwanted advances, plus my gay friends so hot he should say thanks if any of them even notice him! instead i politely suggest that anybody coming to me would be coming straight to me, passing his door straight, and if he happened to be outside they would simply greet politely and come to my door since they coming to me, not my landlord. none of that satisfied him and i was denied the bes' apartment on the premise of having known gay associates. in 2009. what the fuck?! plus, how come he wouldn't rent to me but gave keys to dude whose "wife" works in the arts? (i know they not married, but not muddying their living situation by telling their godfearing churchgoing landlord so) but what about her known gay associates? we know all the same people and her regular limin pardners more flamboyant than mine, so what the man in the shop on the corner go say?! yuh see how people ridiculous+scandalous! i feel the cornershop man must be telepath to mr.cooper about me+howshename zammyin a couple months ago...
i leave mr.cooper with he stupidness, and manage to forget for a minute where we are and start thinking i should report the incident as discrimination, until i reopen the express classifieds and see a listing running unaltered maybe a week now (full text): penal $900.00 preferably indian.
so i figure mr.cooper know better than me just how much discriminatory behaviour a landlord could get away with, especially in sweet trini where immigration laws amended as recently as 1995 still describe people as being "physically defective, idiots, imbeciles, feeble-minded, dumb..." and consistently lump together "prostitutes, homosexuals, and persons living on the earnings of prostitutes or homosexuals" as prohibited for "prostitution, homosexuality and other immoral purposes..."
the more things change, the more they stay...sigh.
walk good.

fff #7- explicit

this flash fiction friday i stuck with the idea of a 'loose' trigger:
the only word the voice on the phone said was...

i was entirely unready. i came not knowing what to expect, and it was just as well, since any expectation i had would’ve been false – nothing in my life had prepared me for this.
i thought i was coming to discuss the expansion and potential future diversification of our line of ladies’ delicates – in explanation of how unprepared i was, let me say that my involvement in the sale of ladies’ delicates was a shocking stretch in the first place; my parents and fiancé had no idea what i did, and i intended that they never would. i’d stumbled into the job alongside my only other risky adventure to date, an affair that i felt i owed myself before marrying the only man i’d ever had sex with, and i planned to limit both to as little time as it took to get myself set up.
i met my affair (and boss) through a friend of a friend of a friend who knew i was good at my work, looking for an opportunity, and, i suppose, discreet. i’m sure it didn’t hurt that i looked good in and maintained a wardrobe of the products in question, then unaware of how differently intimate i’d become with my intimate apparel. i was thrilled at a job prospect and asked no questions about the line of business, content to find out at the meeting i hoped would get me started in the life and lifestyle i wanted for myself – i was in love (at least, i persuaded myself i was) and trusted richard (his devotion and simplicity were the appeal) but wanted power and control over my own life. i refused to live like my mother, forever dependant on my father and forced to tolerate+facilitate his every whim, from entertaining his boys however and whenever he saw fit, to his mistresses and outside children.
adrian was immediately impressed with my qualifications, and further impressed with my special skills – just because i’d only been with one man didn’t mean i’d neglected my repertoire; i wanted to make sure i’d continue enjoying richard. and adrian was doing his part to teach me more about both business and pleasure.
he demanded my presence at this meeting with little briefing, except to request that i wear something from our line (as always) and my poker face. the only oddity was that the client wanted to call at their discretion to tell us where to go and he gave them my number, so i was not to leave my phone unattended or unanswered for a moment until we got word – seemed strange, but if he was willing to go along with the arrangement…
the only word the voice on the phone said was, “national”. then there was a definite click; the caller had said all they deemed necessary. adrian said he knew what that meant. when he told me what time the car would collect me i was surprised, but figured if they wanted to meet after-hours, that was their business. i was being paid more than well enough, and since richard already knew i couldn’t talk about my boss’ business, once a car was being sent for me as usual and he was assured of my safety, he didn’t fuss too much. i reassured him these wouldn’t become regular working hours for me, and for now, he was content in his trust in me.
we sat at one end of what appeared to be a runway and without any orders taken, cocktails were presented by a gorgeous young woman wearing only one of our matching bra+thong sets and a tiny white apron, our best-selling thigh-high garter stockings, and heels i wrongly presumed her own.
the only other person in the room stepped onto the runway a moment later and quietly explained that everything we saw on any of his people that wasn’t already part of our line was a product being pitched tonight. i glanced sideways at the girl’s black peep-toes and smiled. this could be fun, and even if we didn’t want anything we were shown i’d certainly leave with new ideas…
the show started innocuously enough with variations on what we already produced, new fabrics, including leather bondage-type items, more risqué cuts, accessories, etc. i loved seeing items for men; i’d been thinking about suggesting the same addition to adrian. then we were beckoned by our waitress up the runway and backstage, which was outfitted like a store with everything we’d seen modelled on display. there was a black door to the back and as we followed her through she explained that the last part of the pitch was an addition to the physical store. as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting i nearly stopped breathing.
the centrepiece was a male model in a leather jockstrap, bound by his wrists to the ceiling, blindfolded+gagged, being whipped by a woman in nothing but knee-high black patent high-heeled boots and a jewelled mask. as my eyes adjusted further i realised that the room was populated by models in delicates even more dangerous than we’d seen on the runway, pleasuring each other and themselves with an array of toys and accessories. our waitress reiterated what our host had said about everything we saw being part of the pitch and i turned to adrian, unsure how “we” felt about the scene.
before i could say anything, he snatched my arms behind me and i heard the softly menacing click of cold steel. he clapped a hand over my mouth and gestured, and our waitress expertly gagged me with a ball like the whipping boy’s. she produced a small knife and sliced easily through my dress, leaving me in my favourite underwear and heels. now i was terrified – handcuffed, gagged, uncertain of where exactly we were, scared of adrian’s intentions – i realised how stupidly vulnerable i was, unsure whether i should even run for the door to be discovered in my current condition.
i stood trembling in my heels, looking wildly around the room for any sign of assistance. our waitress dropped to her knees and adrian took a step back for a better view, as she began decorating my inner thighs with little curlicues of her hot, wet tongue. i was torn between the sensation she was generating and fear, still not knowing how far this would go but knowing i was powerless to stop it.
as her tongue reached the crotch of my panties, the light in the room began to change. it slowly brightened and i realised that while i was distracted, the other players in the room had somehow disappeared, leaving only adrian and our waitress, who now inclined her head slightly to him and backed out of the room.
i looked at him in confusion, and now, building anger at this game. he stepped to me, slid my traitorously damp panties to the ground and lifted my feet one at a time out of them, and while still on his knees wrapped his arms around my thighs. he flicked his tongue quickly, brilliantly, over my clitoris and paused to look up at my face. desire and rage battled inside me.
“when i finish treating you to my personal services, you can tell me what you think of the idea for our store’s ‘back door’…”

walk good.