Sweet Lust Affair, with Photo Proof (Flash Fiction True Story)

It was most definitely lust at first sight. 

I couldn’t look away. She was round and firm, dressed in simple but elegant style in fall colours, awaiting an invitation for a party for two And all the signs were there that she wanted me to take her home: the seductive brown eye catching mine, the smooth roundness of her body, laid back and relaxed behind a clear window deliberately designed to frame the object of my desire, to make my hands clench in anticipation, to have my mouth watering in need. 

I tried to walk away. I knew it was wrong. 

I didn’t need it.

But oh, I wanted it. 

I wanted the satisfaction. I’d never had this before, not completely. Selfishly, I wanted the taste. I had only had a sample of it before, dampening my lips, a hint of it on my tongue, and I wanted more.

I tried to walk away, but my feet took me in a circle — right back to the window, to the temptation, and my will crumbled. 

In my hands, we almost lost control. I couldn’t stop looking at her. She popped her top open on our way to the door, and her sweet fragrance overwhelmed my senses. “Just wait,” I murmured tenderly, uncaring of the state of the people nearby. I covered her back up, carefully. “Our time is coming.”

But not yet, I thought on the way to the car. No, I want the anticipation to build. I want the first moments to curl my toes. 

So I brought her home, and I made supper. Was it the suspense of the wait, the delight of certainty of the decadent pleasure that made my dinner so good? I held myself back from rushing, savouring every mouthful in practice and preparation for my . . . dessert. 

And at the same time, while she waited in the kitchen, perched coyly on my table, I thanked my lucky stars that my son had to be driven to karate as soon as I was done eating. That my daughter was having dinner at a friend’s house. I prayed that my husband would stay asleep where he was napping in the bedroom, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of us being interrupted. 

I wasn’t in the mood to share. 

Took the teen to his class. 

Went into the kitchen.

And she was mine. 

I had her fully in my hands, now, and oh, Gods, I wanted to just open my mouth and lick her clean, bury my face in her depths, consuming her coolness with the heat of my lips. I hungered like a vampire, baring my teeth, hovering over her curves with only a hair’s breadth of will keeping us apart. But it was too coarse, too quick. Our consummation had to be leisurely, slow, and entirely centered. A marathon, not a sprint. I wanted the pleasure to linger, rising and falling, rather than a burst of sensation over too soon.

So I brought her to the love seat, the better to support my feet as I stretched my legs beneath her. I took my time, choosing the perfect crevice into which to sink my tool. She gave gracefully, bending and breaking under the touch of my outstretched silver, opening to me in a delicate burst of fragrance and pale flesh. 

When I finally had her in my mouth, smooth and velvety, she tasted just as I’d imagined, just as I’d hoped. I closed my eyes to appreciate her flavour, rolling it on my tongue. 

And then I did it again. And again.

She’s in the kitchen, even now. Waiting for me to come back to her. I’m waiting for the others to go to bed, to have privacy once more. 

Like I said, I’m not going to share.

Want proof? It’s in our photos. Go ahead and look! I don’t care who knows about it, so long as you don’t come between us. 

Me, and my sweet lust affair.


Sci-Fi/Fantasy Flash Fiction: Heart-Right’s 100% Guarantee

Worried that your child may not choose the best life partner? Concerned about a potential Romeo-Juliet tragedy? Why take the chance? At Heart-Right, our professional DNA Design team can ensure that your precious bundle never has to worry about heartache or heartbreak in his or her adult life. With our patented system, falling in love with the right person is no longer an uncertainty — it’s a guarantee!

I stared at the contract in my hands. By the stove, my mother cleared her throat, her hands busy with the frying pan and the spatula. 

“You bought me a life partner before I was even born?”

She studiously pushed the bacon around. “That’s not how I would put it. Your father and I didn’t have a very stable relationship. We knew so many people, too many people, having problems. We just wanted to make sure that you wouldn’t have to go through that. I mean, it’s not like we paid for you to have enhanced vision or extra digits, you know.”

“But, Mom . . .” I flipped through the pages again, re-reading the terms. “This is . . . totally different than picking my hair colour and leg length from a catalogue. I mean, how on earth does a company even make a promise like that? This was twenty-odd years ago! Have they been tracking me?”

“Honey, everybody is tracked. You know that.”

Frustrated, I slammed the papers down on the table. “That’s not what I meant! You paid money to these people for some crazy scheme to make sure that one day I’d have a perfect love match, something that you’d approve of –”

“No, not just for our approval,” she replied testily, turning to face me. She brandished the spatula, ignoring the drips of fat onto her clean bamboo floor. “To save you from the problems of trying to find someone right. I don’t want you to end up being abused, like your grandmother did, or all alone like your Aunt Mitsy.” Her voice broke and she threw the spatula on the stove. “I don’t expect you to understand until you’re looking to get pregnant yourself, or until you actually are expecting a child of your own. That’s when you start to wonder what your baby’s future is going to be like. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

I shifted in my chair, slumping down. “Yeah, but this whole idea — it’s not possible. It can’t be.”

“The technology has been tested and it’s been successful for twenty-five years,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. “We did our research before we registered and paid our money. We considered it an investment, like your college fund.”

“So how does it work?” I gestured around the kitchen, empty except for the two of us. Her pet canary sang a cheery tune in the sunlight. I wanted to throw it, in its cage, out the window. “Where’s my Prince Charming? Do I get a note in the mail or something? ‘You are cordially invited to meet your soulmate.’ I mean, what if I already met him — or her — how would I know? What if that person got killed or died from sickness before we even met?”

“Page six of the contract: if the party of second part is deceased at any time before contract fulfillment, or within five to ten years of the party of the first part’s birth (according to the parents’ discretion), a replacement partner will be selected and conditioned for the partnership agreement.” She turned off the stove. 

“It sounds like you’ve memorized the damned thing.” 

“I’ve read it over often enough,” she shrugged. She strained the bacon pan into the bio-energy generator. “More, lately. You were supposed to have met your husband by this point, but we hadn’t been notified of it.”

Damnit. Fucking tracking! I got up, not bothering to put the chair back under the table. There wasn’t a lot of space to pace in my mother’s food prep area, but I managed, even while avoiding the fat spot on the floor. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this before?”

“I did! Well, I tried,” she protested. “Don’t you remember the stories I used to tell you?”

“Yeah, but I thought those were . . . fairy tales, Mom!” I snatched a piece of bacon and sucked on it furiously. “Jesus . . . I started dating in high school!”

“Yes, you did,” she sighed. I watched her pat the dishcloth around the bacon to soak up the grease. “Every time, I thought, ‘this is it!’ But then you’d break up. I was actually thinking of suing the company. I mean, the whole conditioning of the fetus through DNA manipulation is to make sure you’re only compatible with one other individual. But you — you’re compatible with everyone!”

I almost left the kitchen at that point. “Don’t make it sound like this is my fault!”

“Well, I don’t know whose fault it is.” She thrust the pan into the sink to soak. “The procedure is foolproof, 100% effective. They were getting down to three weeks left in the agreement to set up your first date with your ideal partner, genetically matched and psychologically designed to be the right one for you. If it didn’t happen, I was going to sue them for false representation. But it did! Your match arrived this morning!”

I watched my mother reach into a drawer and pull out a sealed envelope. A relic from another time, printed on real paper just like the contract. She offered it to me.

“I  . . . I have to pee,” I said lamely. I left the room, moving awkwardly down the narrow hall. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. 

What if I refused to go on the arranged date?

What if I went, just to satisfy my own curiosity (and her nagging), and it turned out we weren’t compatible after all? She’d definitely sue them at that point.

Because there was one thing I hadn’t told her. I didn’t know how to tell her. I was already in love, had been for years, and it was a precious jewel I kept close to my heart, away from her prying eyes and gossipy tongue. 

Cold prickles washed over me. 100% effective — what if I met this guy, and I did fall for him, just like my designers had planned? Biologically and psychologically matched from pre-birth . . . could I handle being in love with two people at once? Was that even possible? 

It wasn’t fair. The whole point of the program was that I wouldn’t have to choose. 

I locked the door the bathroom and studied the window, debating whether I’d be able to fit through it as well as I’d been able to when I was fifteen.

Book Review: Plundering the Romance Novel by Ionia Martin


Ah, spoofs. The comic genre that is the parody is as critical as it is funny, turning a lens on the stuff that we tend to take just way too seriously. I heartily enjoy over-the-top, “Surely you can’t be serious?” “I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley.”, eye-rolling, face-palming, targeted comedies that sharply identify the tropes of a story type and go to town on them. 

Oh, yeah. Mama likey. 

So when I started reading Ionia Martin’s quick nosh on romance novel tropes, by page two my son was looking at me and asking what the hell I was laughing so hard about. And again, about ten minutes later. And again, five minutes after that. Have you ever tried explaining a trope, romance-related or not, out of context? And why you’re laughing so loudly that the neighbours are about to start complaining? I was having such a great time, I started live-tweeting the sections that made me hoot.

Ionia has the romance genre right on the mark. It’s like watching The Jewel of the Nile on helium — well, that opening scene, anyway. 

It’s a quick read, a good length for satire, and it’s terrific. I wish I could write a parody review for it, but I’m not sure I have the talent for that as much as Ionia Martin does, though I may have to try it tomorrow! I particularly love the meta-ness of the narrative — how Captain VD (heh heh) of the Fuzzy Beaver (snort) can appeal for do-overs from the Almighty Author, his reactions to a heroine who isn’t averse to having her bodice ripped and her body ravished, and the working over of basically everything we’ve come to expect from a period romance novel. I just love it.

Here, Ionia. In honour of Plundering the Romance Novel‘s excellence, I award you a second Fuzzy Beaver (and an Alan Thicke), because as we all know, two beavers are better than one. Thanks for the laughs — I’m definitely looking forward to your next one!


Story time! Well, a writing exercise for a romance, at any rate. Should I keep this one going?

Cass twiddled with the spare stir stick she’d taken from the counter, trying to turn or flip it in circles about her fingers like she’d seen done in a movie once. It was difficult to keep from checking her reflection in the darkened window of the coffee shop. Night had fallen too quickly, so unless she pressed her face right against the glass and blocked out the light, people would know she wasn’t just looking for her date. The other patrons would be able to see her checking her lipstick for smears, tucking lockings of hair back behind her ears or pulling them out again, uncertain as to which style looked better. She sipped at her tea, trying to gauge the attentiveness of the others in the shop — were they watching? Had they noticed her fidgeting?


I know, I should be working on the snowmobiling story, but I was thinking about this idea earlier today, and I figured I should get it down. And since my files are currently out of my reach (sob), I’ll put it on my blog! 

This short piece is mainly me trying to focus on showing, rather than telling. But also — fellow writers, do you often find it difficult to come up with character names? I find that’s one of the hardest parts of beginning a project, because too often, I’m faced with a name that belongs to someone I’ve taught, or worked with, and therefore it’s hard to separate the name from the history. Plus, I would never want to be accused of having written someone into a story that wasn’t compimentary of that individual. Sometimes I pick a name because it’s unique and cool and suits the character more than anything else. Sometimes the name of the character will change mid-draft. In this case, I went back and forth on several options before I settled on Cass, and I’m not even sure I like it. But there we are.


The tea was scalding hot, but she preferred it black with a bit of sugar, so with not a little trepidation, she peeled up the edges of the lid on the take-out cup in order to pop it off and let the worst of the heat steam away. At the last second, Cass remembered to open it away from herself, only just avoiding a spatter of brown on her cream sweater. She had a long scarf with her to hide any accidental stains, but it would be one more thing to worry about, if she had to disguise her sloppiness all evening. Already, she’d nearly dropped the first stir stick onto the floor, but she’d caught it in time to keep from feeling foolish.

If Henry was watching from Heaven, what would he be thinking of her right now? 

He’d tell me to take a deep breath, Cass thought, straightening her shoulders. And don’t worry about what others think.

She was trying, but it wasn’t easy. The last time she’d been on a real date with anyone had been thirty years  earlier, and that had been with Henry! Typical. There were movies made about moments like these, and romance novels, although she wasn’t sure she’d seen any that directly matched her own situation. That would have been nice. Like a kind of guideline, perhaps, although God knew, people didn’t behave in real life as they did in fiction. If they did . . . she could have a say in how this conversation was going to go. She wouldn’t have to fear stuttering, or having a booger dangle from her nose, or spilling tea all over herself. 

She caught a glimpse of her reflection again, and in a wild panic, debated wiping off her lipstick completely so she wouldn’t have to worry about whether it was still in place. Did other women even notice lipstick, or was that just a part of those expectations for women that had been imposed by a patriarchial society? Cass gripped a paper napkin, her hand hovering near her face. 

Don’t worry . . .

Cass forced herself to fill her lungs and look away from the glass. Her lipstick was fine. She liked how it had looked when she’d put it on, and she liked how women looked with a skillful application of makeup. So if this woman she was meeting — Katherine Batey, she was called — if she didn’t like it, that would be one sign for Cass that their relationship was likely to be short-lived. 

Then the door opened, making the bell above it tinkle merrily. Cass put her fingers to her mouth, sweeping the underside of her lip one more time, as the woman in the red coat came toward her.

Book Review: Que Sera, Sera by Leitha Cholette


What a sweet book this is… Entirely unexpected, and entirely beautiful. The two stories within are jewels, glowing with truth both painful and lovely. This is real romance, in the manner of The Notebook, Just Like Heaven, and Steel Magnolias — memorable, recognizable, told simply with carefully chosen words. And the book itself is pretty, a small paperback that fits exactly in the hand, decorated with specially chosen graphics and a gorgeous cover. It’s a real treat of a book, this set of novellas in one volume, and I look forward to the next instalment by this wonderful storyteller. 

Buy Link: http://www.lulu.com/shop/leitha-cholette/que-sera-sera/paperback/product-20989165.html

Book Review: Disappeared, by Jenny Twist


I started reading this while at the hairdresser’s, and as soon as I got home, I had to finish it right away. It is really well done — shades of the “Twilight Zone”, “Fright Night”, and Frankenstein, a chilling mystery that put me in mind of “The Woman in Black” as well. If I am ever fortunate enough to visit the mountains of Spain, this is what I will think of. It would be amazing to see this story put into film. I loved the unconventional vampire, the village, and the characters’ quest to find the truth of what happened to June (Mantequero, Book 1) — absolutely intriguing. I don’t want to say any more for risk of spoilers, but I highly recommend Disappeared as an enjoyable, creepy-romantic read.

Buy Link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00I50N9QE

Book Review: Cinderella’s Secret Diary (Book 1: Lost)

I wasn’t sure what I expected when I started this book last night — perhaps some light reading, or humour. Instead, I discovered a powerful reflection on the power of love, betrayal, hope, fear, innocence lost, and magic. I enjoyed the language, though it felt stilted at times, and I was absolutely captivated by the twists in the plot. I will definitely recommend Cinderella’s Secret Diary to my friends. Ron Vitale has written a moving and honest examination of a woman’s heart and power.


Buy Link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005IHDX18/ref=cm_cr_mts_prod_img