Feathered and new

Many thanks to Nikki Magennis and Feather Lit for publishing my little flash, "Sugar Coated Sin."

Three cheers to Nikki for expanding access to high quality literary erotic art!

Feather Lit is a VERY classy publication! I am proud to be part of the delicious "Peacock Issue"

I also received an email yesterday from Oysters & Chocolate with a tantalizing offer to publish the unpublishable. Check it out here....http://oceroticbooks.com/author-guidelines

There is always hope

This fine day



Out popped the sun after eight or

nine months of winter, like a big

fat baby, but people being people bitched

about the cold. That damned cold sun,

they whined. I dashed outside

at first light in a short skirt, hair hiked
into pigtails like a harlot and pretended

to be warm, even drank some cold beer

before noon (alternating with smooth sips

from a pewter flask) in the brisk wind

with that damned cold sun on my face

while a flock of band-tailed pigeons cooed

in a big oak at the edge of the ninth tee.

The greens ran fast and the mud didn’t

plash past my ankles for once

in a long, long while. Blue sky shimmered

overhead like an impossible dream,

as improbable as hitting a decent drive

or a straight putt. I breathed in the cool,

green spring, cherished that damned cold sun,

shivered with delight, and cursed

this damned impossible game instead.

Good morning, to you and you and you

What is granite? Why is the sun rising in the north? What is the latitudinal center? Why do the loons wail at sunrise? Why to they gather at dawn? Why do they leave? Where do they go? How does a dragonfly’s jaw hinge? What will we see today? Why will we be amazed?

Heyyyyy Good Lookin'

Oh, what a nice evening. The hail is coming down. My boys are happy. The cats are lazy and so am I. The dishes are done after a fine winter meal of spicy shrimp, lobster ravioli & fried corn. A little whiskey. A little wine. A few months ago I rescued my vinyl collection from disaster. It's been so much fun to play the old records. Just today my new turntable arrived & it was like Christmas taking it out of the box. Buckwheat Zydeco, Elvis, Burl Ives. What fun! My favorite song tonight so far is Buckwheat's rendition of the old Hank Williams song, written in 1951, "Hey Good Lookin'" The same year, Frankie Laine & Jo Stafford released a duet version. Hank's song was finally inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 2001. Something about that old accordian, though....makes me horny ;) Seriously! Rock on, y'all! Spring is almost here. We can do this!

Buzzing

A good night's sleep, a few cups of coffee & I'm ready and already buzzing with excitement. Gonna rock this day with love, lust, some honest work, a little tough mothering, plenty of good food, a heavy dose of sweat & of course a healthy dose of hot sex. No time like the present to get 'er dun! What about YOU?

Technicolor bee dreams


--GM

When a worker emerges into the light for the first time she memorizes landmarks to enable her to recognize the nest entrance. She does this by making a zig-zag flight over and around the nest entrance. She also navigates by the sun and has an inbuilt clock to compensate for the rotation of the earth.
As a cock flies, the distance from Texas to Oregon is only a few thousand miles. As the bumblebee (Bombus Hymenoptera) flies, it’s several lifetimes away, several solar systems, a trip of a journey and worth every zig-zag and nectar stop along the spiraled route that, when mapped, appears eerily similar to all roads leading to Rome.
My sweet Texan likes to say he smelled his way towards me eons ago, sniffed out my scent-marked flower, all musk and sunshine and wanting. The incense between my legs signaled him like smoke on the mountain. And he came flying, following my scent markings, zig-zagging his way across the universe. His incessant buzzing had all the other girls swarming towards him, drooling honey at his feet. But what they didn’t realize -- what they may never realize -- is that it is not his wings but the vibrations of his flight muscles that puts the wildness in his stride, gives him that balls-out rock opera of buzzing that puts the other bees to shame. In fact, he was just warming up. Crazed though he was, he is even more so now. Buzzzzzz.

He is bumbling down drunk on my nectar and so laden with pollen that his long, athletic legs are liquid, pooling into shimmering puddles of molten lead upon the burning sheets. His electric charge draws my pollen to him, whirls of it swirling around his head and falling like yellow rain, clumps of it clinging to his damp skin. His face buzzes wildly upon the center of my flower, his tongue and chin wet with sugar and fingertips hardening my clit from soft sun-kissed petal to a slick, hard, glassy outcropping of ancient obsidian.

The bees suck up the nectar using their tongues. The tongue is long and feathery at the end. It is contained in a sheath formed by a pair each of palps and maxilla (these are just mouthparts). Together the palps and maxillae act a little like a straw, so the bee sucks the nectar up this and into her honeystomach. The honeystomach is just a storage bag, and when she gets back to the nest the bee empties the honeystomach into a honeypot.

The pheromone-infused flower tissue, all honey and salted caramel and crepe paper tenderness crinkles about his lips. His nostrils flare and his cock jumps and twitches, growing fat with each inhale, hardened by the overwhelming scent of legs spread wide, of honey. The heady burst of smell and sensation blossoms as I spread myself wide. Sustenance. Pleasure. My legs are twitching around his sweaty back, hips lifting and grinding against his face. He takes over my body and mind, inhaling me, feeding on me like an animal.

The bumblebee queen can lay two types of eggs; fertilized eggs with chromosomes from the queen and a male whether or not to fertilize it with sperm. The fertilized eggs develop into workers (females), and the unfertilized eggs develop into males she mated with the previous year, and unfertilized eggs which contain chromosomes from the queen alone. The sperm from the mating is stored in a small container called a spermatheca located in the queen's vagina (pussy).

The queen’s pussy, my dark nest cavity, is warm against the rain. I am shivering with need as he strokes every inch of my nectar-sweetened folds, juice pooling just below my ass until I am literally drenched with desire. The sky opens up. The queen’s clit, my lightning rod, is shiny with fluid and hardened by his vibrations and sunlight and electricity. The pillowed pink surfaces of my petals are softened by the tenderness of his tongue and by moonlight. My flesh tingles and quivers and swells, rising into the endless blue for this singular moment – to mate.

Males do not return to the nest once they have left it, so spend their nights either inside or hanging under flower heads. In the morning they are often very lethargic and may appear to be ill, but this is normal. They just need to get up heat by drinking nectar or being warmed by the sun or both.

I lap at the drop of honeydew at the end of his hard cock with my lips as he strokes me urgently with the delicate, feathery tip of his tongue. He does not hover at my edges. He is gentle only to crawl deeper. He leans over the edge towards the ripe, heady scent, towards the wet, sugared center. I can see myself in the mirror as he dances and whirls against me, spinning my crystals into cotton candy. Pink. Wet. Hard. Soft, curved flesh. Sweat beading on my stomach, throat and breasts. I look into his eyes and melt. His eyes are lit up by hope, desire, the promise of relief. His hands grip my thighs. His buzzing now feels like the whole hive. He is awake, flight muscles fully warmed after shivering in the morning sun. He knows he will never return to the hive.

Once released, he belongs to the queen, feeding incessantly and searching for nothing more, but to return, again and again to the center of the flower, to fuck and eat and fuck and drink. He leans in, the scent of the purest nectar deep inside tugging at his instincts, lighting him on fire from the inside out. I open myself wider, legs twisted and jerking against him. His buzzing is the song of songs vibrating through my whole body, twisting my existence, dancing my filaments and stripping my anthers. He is buzzing, leaning, spinning. Then he goes, slips over the edge, the satin of my petals closing in around him, disappearing him, as he free-falls into the technicolor pheromone tunnel, landing, at last, in the shimmering pool of pure nectar.
The prize.
Buzzzzzz. Buzzzzz.

Melt in your mouth

Tonight: braised oxtails with red wine sauce. Onions, scallions, garlic, cabarnet, beef broth. Hours and hours of simmering until the meat falls off the bone, until the meat and fat and broth slide between our lips, melt in our mouths. Hours of simmering until I melt in your mouth, spread myself for your pleasure, drip rich juice into the pan, scrape the bottom of the pot, gather the cracklings for gravy, thicken the sauce, pour my sin atop the creamy mound of garlic mashed potatoes, slide slowly across the plate. Supper is served.

Book 'em!

Going through my pile-o-smut for Seattle, I came across this old piece. Yes, I suppose I am a little twisted. Isn't it fun?

Cops & Robbers
--Gina Marie

I was just leaving the Dunkin Donuts at 3rd & Jefferson when the call came in. Yes, it’s true, cops really do like hanging out in donut shops. We love the drama and cliché – the attention we get is all negative anyway. Might as well throw a little grease on the fire. And now that Dunkin has decent coffee, well, bonus.
The dispatcher reported a robbery in progress at a gas station/convenience store around the corner. Dispatch reported a six-foot tall white male perp with a gun. I accepted the call, flipped on my lights and gunned it down the street in my undercover car, a Dodge Charger.

Yeah, of course it’s a fucking dangerous business, but I love my job. Calls like this get always get my pulse racing, sweat beading in my armpits, adrenaline flooding my veins. As I raced to the call, I tried to prepare mentally for the scene. Would shots have been fired by the time I got there? Who was the perp? A pedigreed crook? A piker? Some kid on crystal meth? How would he react when a female cop came on the scene? Some whimper like puppies and come crawling to mommy. Others don’t give a shit who you are and will fight to the death.

I pulled in to the far edge of the parking lot across from the entrance and near the gas pumps. I got out of the car and went to the far edge of the building to size up the scene. A man dressed all in black with a green stocking cap pulled down low walked out of the store and took off across the parking lot, most likely tailing it for the apartment complex a few blocks away.

I took off after him, calling out, “Halt! Police, you’re under arrest. Drop your weapon!” The cocksucker kept running, so I turned on the juice and sprinted, tackling him when he tried to jump a low fence.

I got my hands onto his shoulders and shoved my knee in his crotch. “You freaking little piss ant,” I screamed at the perp twice my size. “You’re under arrest.” On your stomach, NOW! Hands behind your back!” I cuffed him and pulled him up by one of his cocked elbows. Then I read him his rights before walking him back and shoving him into the back of the Charger. He spewed profanities as we drove, but that shit doesn’t bother me. Goes with the territory.

About a mile from the station, as I turned onto a side street, I felt hot, moist air on my neck. I tried to bash the dude’s nose in with a backhand to the face, but he was already on me, hands around my neck. The car swerved off the road and came to rest on the side of the road. The perp was out of his cuffs and on me before I could get to my gun. He dragged me out of the car and shoved me to the ground.

“How does that feel, copper?” He growled. “You like being trapped like an animal?”

I struggled against him as he twisted my arms back for cuffing.

The perp pulled me up, my hands now cuffed behind my back, and slapped me hard on the ass as whispered, “You are a very bad cop!” I tried to kick him in the groin, but he was too powerful. He slapped me again and ran his hands down my sides.

“You can’t get away with this,” I sneered. “I’ll hunt you down and eat you alive.”

“Sorry baby,” ain’t gonna happen. You’re the prey tonight.”

His hands were on me then, pulling at my clothes, reaching between my legs, squeezing my breasts. There were no signs of life on the deserted side street except for our struggling.

The perp continued to feel me up. He ripped open my shirt and ran his tongue from below my navel to my throat, his hands grabbing everything they could. I could feel his hard cock pressing against my leg as he licked and grabbed like the crazy sonofabitch he was. I clawed and scratched at him, but he was huge, and I didn’t have a chance.

He slapped me hard across the face and let loose another string of profanities, cuffed me and shoved me into the car. He drove me to the station, cursing the entire way, before jumping out taking and off.

“Don’t let your guard down bitch,” he screamed as he ran away. “I’ll be back for you.”

When I walked in the front door, that fucking perp was sitting naked at my kitchen island, drinking a glass of merlot.

I sauntered over to him in my ripped uniform, my hands still locked behind my back.

My husband looked me and grinned, his forehead still shiny with sweat.

“Damn, that game’s a winner, baby!” he said. “You make a fine lady cop, but you’re my prisoner now. Ready for fingerprinting?”