NAUGHTIE SCRIBE

New Body, New Me? - March 2010

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 18:18:00 GMT

I am known by many names Rubenesque, Pleasingly Plump, BBW, Large & Lovely, Thick Chick, Giantess, Full Figured, and of course Obese. All my life I've lived at one end of the overweight spectrum or another. In little more than two weeks my life, literally my life, as I've always lived it will change.

Until two years ago, living as a sensual woman of size was the norm. After years of dieting, exercise programs (when work and energy permitted), and being a single-working mother (translation - making time for everyone and thing except me), I'd learned to accept myself and reaffirm my worth. Admittedly, this wasn't too hard in my geographical area (plenty of men that "Love Em Large"). For the most part I've lived an active and full life. Family and a small click of great friends have always infused me with love, acceptance, and support. So what happened to change my life this drastically? My health.

Over the last two years I've developed painful arthritis in my knees, suffer from chronic lower back pain, was diagnosed with high blood pressure, and am pre-diabetic. For the last several months I went from being pretty healthy but needing to loose some weight, to developing severe medical issues that can and may well degrade my quality of life (if not shorten it - at any time). Needless to say, fear can be a great motivator.

So for the last nine months I've been enrolled in an extensive bariatric program that culminates with gastric-bypass surgery (Roux-en-y Gastric Bypass). This process has entailed:

Primary Physician Recommendation
Mental Health Clearance
Dietician Consultations
Medically Monitored Gym Appointments
EKG
EDG
Sleep Study
Cardio Clearance
Ultra Sounds
Chest X-rays
Insurance Approval
And Endless Lab Work

Only now that I'm within days of surgery has it hit me. Everything is going to change. The way I've self identified will change.

Will I like me anymore?

Being a large person is more than hoping you'll fit into the airplane seat, or being presumed lazy. It's an attitude (armor) developed overtime that helps you deal with the negatives that go along with the pounds, and the safe environment needed to build your self esteem.

In forty-three years my armor became stronger than iron and fit like a second skin. I have a helmet made of self worth and accomplishments which protected me from lethal doses of self loathing. My chest-plate deflected countless slings and arrows, and gave me the space needed to love and be loved. Arm and leg plates along with a shield that stretches from head-to-toe, granted me the confidence needed to plot my own course and plow through those who stood in the way. My armor has served me well; I don't know that I'm ready or willing to put it aside.

I'm not accustomed to letting fear dictate my actions, and I'm willing to face myself head-on, and with your consent I'll take you along for the ride. Over the next twelve months I will document my successes and failures with monthly posts and pictures.

I won't shield either of us from the fallout, nor withhold any of the victories. I hope at the end of this first year you'll still be with me, and together we become stronger.

The Dangers of Internet Dating

KNumerick — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 00:30:00 GMT

Anxiously waiting, Charles ran his palehand through his short, dark brown hair and exhaled slowly. Hestretched his thick palm across his nose to rid himself of an itch,then mumbled to himself softly, “This is it. This is finally it.After years of talking through emails and online messengers, we'regoing to finally meet.” He exhaled again, shook out his fingers asif warming them up before pressing them against his old whitekeyboard. The keys were thick, clunky and hard to press down, but itworked for everything Charles needed it for. Typing.

Charles, known to many as a great guy,incredibly charming and fun to be around was a little over weight.Almost 60 pounds, but he considered himself a plump, lovable man,someone any real woman would take interest in. Unfortunately, as hediscovered, that was not generally true. His weight had cost himseveral relationships, mainly because he was competing against thoseother guys. The guys that work out more than they are around, theones who are so focused on themselves they barely think about theirrelationship. Why should they though, if their relationship ended,they could find another girl, even though they were total ass holes.It was just that easy.

Not for Charles, however. His luckwith women had run dry several years ago as he began to gain weight.Once, he was an athlete too, a top class runner, one who competitorswished they were. That was before his injury. He was fine now, ofcourse, but pulling a hamstring to the point where he could barelywalk for a year set him down a path of laziness. He regretted notbeing able to force himself to get back into the groove of workingout everyday. He sighed, then brushed away the negative thoughts ofhis past and focused on the joys the next week would bring.

He typed fantastically to Joan, thewoman he had been trying to meet for the last several years. It beganthrough simple emails from an internet dating site, a place ofrefuge, somewhere single people can mingle, yet ignore responses ifthe person does not catch his or her interest. It was the perfectplace to try to get to know someone, specifically before having toworry about appearance, which is significant.

“Hey Hon!” His fingers clankedagainst the keys with haste, “How was your day? I missed you, asalways!” After a moment of silence his messenger flashed and Joan'swords appeared across his screen.

“Hi Charles. I'm good, I missed youtoo. How was your day?”

“I'm great. Work dragged out alittle longer than I would have hoped, but that's okay, you're herenow, *smile*” Clank, his fingers smashed against the return key.

“*Smile*”

“So, I'll be leaving tomorrowmorning at 6am and should arrive there around 8:30. I'm reallylooking forward to seeing you, finally.”

“*Smile*I'm looking forward to it too, Charles. It's been a long time coming,that's for sure. It will be nice to finally be able to talk to myfriends and family about the great guy I met too.”

“For sure. Iknow how you feel about online dating, but I would have thought youwould have told them about us by now, honestly.”

“I know, butit's just awkward for me, knowing that they all frown on onlinedating, I wanted them to have a chance to meet you in person before Itold them how we met. I'm sorry.”

“Ahhh, it'sokay hon, I understand, I just wish it wasn't an issue, but it won'tbe after tomorrow, right!?”

“Yes, they willknow about us in a few days for sure, when we go to meet them. Ipromise.”

“I understand,that sounds great then hon! I'm really excited! It will be very nicethat they will finally know about us. Will you be at the airport whenI arrive or will you be there a little later?”

“I'll be thereright on time. Unless traffic slows me down, of course. I shouldn'tbe too late, even in the worse case scenario. For all you know, Imight be waiting on you. *smile*.”

“Hah, that isso true. Hopefully my flight won't have any delays and we'll be ineach others arms before lunch!” Charles ran his hands through hishair again, then loosened his navy blue tie from around his neck andunbuttoned the top three buttons of his vanilla colored shirt, dashedwith a small amount of mustard, unintentionally, from the days lunch.

He rubbed hishands together and let out a long sigh. “Hey, listen hon, I have tofinish packing still and write up this report for work , plus getmyself some dinner. I should probably take off so I can be ready togo in the morning and then we have all of next week to ourselves!”

“*giggle* OkayCharles. I should probably finish cleaning anyway! Have a gooddinner, a safe flight and I will see you tomorrow!”

“Okay hon. I amso excited, I cannot even tell you! I love you and will see youtomorrow, Joan!”

“I love you too!”

Charles pushed away from his desk, rolling backwards in his black leather chair,then spun around to stand up. The room was small, but clean. A couch was behind him on one wall and he had two lamps, one on each side ofthe couch, which lit up the room. The lamp shades were removed sothat more light would brighten the otherwise dark and bland area. Thewalls were painted with a shade of green comparable to the middle hue in camouflage.

He stretched,arms reaching above his head towards the white and prickly seascapeof a ceiling. Charles yawned and then walked to his right and intohis room to pickup his suitcase, tossing it onto the perfectly madebed with a slight bounce as it landed.

Charles thenwalked over to his dresser, dark brown and rustic looking with agiant mirror lining the back of it. The dresser only went up to hiswaist, but it was long with three drawers across and stacked two highfor a total of six drawers. The top was for accessories, such assocks, underwear, specifically boxer-briefs, and the third drawer forhis ties. The bottom row was for shirts, pants and pajamas.

Without muchthought, Charles opened the drawers and started filling his suitcase with the necessary clothing for his trip to see Joan. A few t-shirts,some dress shirts, pants, jeans and multiple socks as well as multiple pairs of navy blue boxer-briefs. “Everything needs to beperfect,” he said softly, turning around from the dresser to make sure he had enough of everything in the case.

Charles'seyebrows rose as the thought of what was missing perpetrated histhoughts. He quickly turned around, opened up the drawer for socksagain and pulled out a box of her pleasure condoms and tossed theminto the suitcase. “Just in case,” he said with a grin beforere-examining the contents of his suitcase one last time. “Perfect.”

He returned tothe computer room and went into the next adjacent room. The kitchenwas small, but had ample counter space for him to prepare food andcook up his own meals. Charles opened the fridge and skirmishedthrough it quickly to find some eggs, bacon, green peppers and cherrytomatoes.

He turned on thetop of his gas stove and threw a small pan on it to warm it up. Heprepared himself an omelet, the scent tickling his nostrils as itcooked. He put the ingredients back into the fridge and then ate hisdelicious meal.

“All right,let's get this damn report done for work so I can shower, shave andgo see my potential bride to be tomorrow!” His stomach swirled inexcitement and anticipation. He went back to his computer and openedup a black briefcase, pulled out some paperwork and started to skimthrough it, using his finger as a guide to search through informationand pages of data so that he could prepare a report for his boss.With a quick click, Excel opened up and he began to enter numbersinto a spread sheet. Once the numbers were entered he opened up Wordand wrote a brief summary of what the data meant. Click, save, close.From there he opened up his email account and sent the report andsummary to his boss. “DONE!” He exclaimed.

Before Charlesknew it, hours had passed by and it was nearing bed time. He openedup an email from Joan with her picture attached before stepping awayfrom his desk. She was beautiful, with soft caramel colored skin,shoulder length dark brown hair, brown eyes and a wide, straighttoothed smile that pushed her cheeks out, creating dimples that anyman would adore. Joan was relatively thin, certainly not overweight,and she was full of life.

He looked at herpicture, exhaled, and said to himself, “How the hell does a fatfuck like me get such a beautiful, amazing woman to like me. I'mreally lucky, that's for damn sure.” He put his pointer and middlefingers together, kissed them and then pressed them to Joan's photo.“I love you and will see you tomorrow morning Joan!”

Charles moved tohis bedroom again and undressed, walking into the bathroom to shaveand shower immediately after. “A nice hot shower sounds so niceright now and will help me sleep, hopefully.” He turned on the hotwater in the shower and then the sink, used his shaving cream andbegan to shave slowly.

After he finishedshaving he got into the shower, glass doors steamy from the heat, andscrubbed himself clean. Once he finished cleaning himself he stood inthe shower a little longer, closed his eyes and thought of Joan somemore. His mind raced to thought of them talking, sitting next to eachother on a couch, similar to his own, and kissing. He smiled andopened his eyes.

Charles steppedout of the shower and grabbed a towel from the rack directly in frontof him and dried off. He hung the towel back up on the rack andrushed to his bed, setting his small black alarm clock to 4:00am toensure he made his flight. He lifted up his covers and slid into bed,his nakedness meeting the soft feel of his cotton sheets. His headmet his pillow and his eyes closed immediately after.

MEEEP, MEEEP,MEEEEEP! Charles jolted upright as his alarm blared. He tossed thecovers off of him and stumbled out of bed, reaching for the alarmclock, knocking it to the floor. He picked it up and struggled toturn it off while the weight of his sleep still hung on his eyelids.He finally managed to turn it off and rushed to take another showerto remove the nights sleep and help wake him up.

His stomachtwisted into knots. He let out a loud sigh, “Here goes nothing.”He finished showering, rushed to brush his teeth, got dressed,grabbed his suitcase and then hopped into his car, a plumb coloredSaturn Aura. He managed to get to the airport without any problemsand got onto his flight.

After listeningto the instructions on how to use the seat belt, oxygen mask andnoting the exits, the plane was finally off. No one was sitting nextto Charles, so he was able to close his eyes and sleep through mostof the flight. He didn't open his eyes until he heard the captainspeaking, “Please Fasten your seat belts as we prepare to land.”

Charles smiledand adjusted his seat belt as the plane got closer to itsdestination. It landed and came to a stop. A muffled voice came fromthe speakers,“At this time you may turn on any cell phone orelectronic devices. We will be able to get off momentarily, so pleasebe patient and thank you for flying with us.” Charles turned on hiscell phone and called Joan.

“Hi, this isJoan, leave me a message and I'll get back with you as soon as Ican!”

“Hi Joan! It'sme! I'm here, but on the plane still, hopefully you'll be here soon!I love you and will see you shortly!”

The sound ofCharles's special ring tone went off, but the phone had fell onto thepassenger side seat floor as Joan was driving down the freeway so shecouldn't answer. The phone beeped to signify there was a newvoice-mail. Joan looked towards the passenger side floor and saw thephone laying in about the middle.

“I shouldreally let him know I am running late. If I could just reach theblasted phone.” She kept her feet steady, traveling at roughly 70miles per hour down the freeway and reaching for the phone could bedifficult. She looked ahead to make sure there weren't any vehiclesin front of her, then unbuckled her seat belt, leaned over towardsthe passenger side seat and stretched her arm out to try to grab thephone. It was just out of reach.

She forcedherself to lean further towards the phone and managed to flick itwith her fingers, putting it within range of her hand. “Ah hah! GOTIT!”

She looked up tosee a semi pulling in front of her from an off-ramp as she smashedinto it, spinning her vehicle wildly, flipping it over and over. Thewindshield shattered, Joan was tossed from the vehicle, her phoneclenched tightly in her grasp as she screamed and flew towards theasphalt below. Her head hit the ground, knocking her unconscious andthe phone went flying, breaking across the road as she slid down thefreeway until pieces of it lay strewn alongside her breathless body.

Written by Kevin Numerick: Life, As I write it.

Orange Line

Naughtie Scribe — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 19:31:00 GMT

"Funny how calming it feels, this urge, like sipping hot cocoa while soaking in a bubble bath. Three steps to redemption, barely a yard, and then no more anything. Simply walk off the platform, and all the hurt goes away. Please mercy, let it just go away," she prayed.

Transfixed by the blackened tunnel, seemingly vacant of light or hope, Giselle stood alone with her guilt, carelessly close to the edge of the platform. The screen on a mounted schedule noted the 'Orange Line' from New Carrollton was due in fifteen minutes. Another forty-five minutes and the rail would arrive at the Rockville Station, only a few blocks from her home. Too long a ride, too much time to sit in my head, she thought and trembled with unease.

"Aren't you a bit close to the edge, hon," a garbled voice asked.

"I'm fine, sir, I don't ever take chances," she said, parroting Sean's favorite slam.

Sunken globes of red light aligned on either side of the platform began to pulse, alerting passengers of an oncoming train. Much like a toddler who's begun to walk, Giselle took a wary step closer to the ledge, as a morbid exhilaration began to take hold.

"It's my choice. You don't get to decide. How many times, Sean, how many times have you broken your word? Can you even count the heifers you've been with? But I'm supposed to trust you, especially now?" Their last fight, over the phone no less, preyed on Giselle's heart for weeks after the breakup. She knew she had every reason to doubt him, but being right isn't the same as doing right. Forgiving Sean was part of loving him, maybe if she'd forgiven him one more time things would be different.

A light breeze kissed by early winter attempted to steal the little warmth her regrets had missed. In her rush to Sean's apartment, Giselle had pulled on whatever clothing was at hand. As she stood in the near empty subway wearing a light sweater, tank top, and jeans, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd just thrown a jacket over her pajamas could she have gotten to him sooner.

"You're not the only one with a say," Sean yelled. "My family and most of my friends are planning to come. Even the Pastor is willing to rearrange his schedule. Why would I put myself out like this if I weren't going to stand by you? How could you do something so drastic?"

Giselle cringed as she recalled the message he left. She'd have given anything not to have Sean find out. She bought several over-the-counter tests and, like her courage, stashed them out of sight, unused. She knew someone who worked at the hospital, and was able to get a morning-after pill. Convinced it wouldn't be wrong if she didn't really know, Giselle took the pill without telling Sean. Two days later, she had a heavy flow, not much different from her normal cycle, for which she was grateful. Later that week, Sean surprised her with dinner, flowers, and a diamond engagement ring.

"It's dangerous so close to the edge, hon. Anything's possible," the garbled voice warned again.

"It'll be fine soon, thanks for your concern," Giselle replied, with her back to him. Oblivion was coming and it would erase everything. She wouldn't remember Sean's trashed and crowded apartment. She wouldn't have to remember the cut piece of rope that dangled from his home gym. And she wouldn't have to remember Sean, naked on the living room floor, surrounded by paramedics.

The train exploded from the tunnel. Giselle bolted toward the edge. Unyielding brakes locked in place. An iron grip claimed her wrist. Massive wheels slid along metal tracks, as she traced the raw ones on his throat. The station pulsed with a mechanical rhythm. Sean wrapped his arms about her waist. Passengers streamed into waiting cars. Resolve flowed from one to the other. The conductor announced last call, while they savored one more kiss. As the train pulled from the station, hand in hand, they took a final step.

Friendly Advice

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 05:01:00 GMT

It was a little after 10:00 a.m., and the day already sucked. The sun was bright in a cloudless sky, a delicate breeze carried away the morning chill, and hatchlings chirped in a nearby tree, safely nestled above the day’s drama. Even that hag of nature was against me today, I thought as I shuffled through the doors of Washington General Hospital toward the park across the street with all the exuberance of the condemned.

Protected by a moat of asphalt filled with honking man-eaters built mostly in Detroit, the park stood out against a backdrop of smoked glass and baked concrete as a welcomed refuge in the center of D.C.‘s commercial district. After a brief game of dodge the car as I jaywalked to the other side, I headed off in the direction of a recently cleaned walkway that led to the center of the park and the only true solace in my life, Jorge Rumme.

With my hands clenched, shoulders hunched, and an expression that could give ice cubes frostbite, I trudged past budded trees and newly planted flowerbeds, resentful of their promise for renewal and hope. Still irked at the hospital administrator as I replayed the morning’s incident, I was unaware I’d reached my destination until an explosion of bright white and yellow stars blew apart my train of thought as my kneecap banged into the edge of a pressed-wood-and-steel bench.

“Damn it, Rumme, you could have said something before I took out my knee.”

“I did Marion, twice. Apparently the bench speaks louder than I do.”

With one hand, I gripped the top of the bench for balance, as I drew up my injured knee and began to vigorously massage it with the other. I concentrated on the sharp flashes of pain and my ministrations; it was all that kept me from literally choking off the braying laughter of the chestnut-maned ass that was my best friend.

By the time I was able to hobble around the bench and take a seat, Rumme’s guffaws had subsided to a mildly uncontrolled fit of wheezing. I wanted to say something mean and hurtful, the words pressed against the back of my lips. I should never have dared to look at the pudgy idiot, for a smile broke free in spite of the pain. Typical Rumme. No matter how bad I felt he always managed to lighten my mood, even if at my own expense. It was his unique magic, one for which I’d go to the grave and back.

“Whose crap got you wading so deep you can’t watch where you’re going?” Rumme asked as he pushed up from his knees and slouched against the backrest of the bench.

Even though the raw-honey of his eyes was shielded by dark state trooper-styled glasses, which I noticed he’d begun to wear around the clock, and the puffy caterpillars that passed for eyebrows continued to wrestle for composure, I knew Rumme was still whooping it up on the inside. It was just his nature to turn any bad situation inside out until he found the buried humor. Bastard.

“Some jerk spread my personal business around the ward. The grapevine being what it is, the higher-ups got an earful and decided to reassign me from lead nurse on the critical patients ward to supervisory helpline specialist. True, I’ll be making a few extra dollars, but basically I’ve been demoted to a desk jockey.”

“Well, I’d tell you not to worry yourself gray, Marion, but the shine from your dome is blinding.”

“You know, Rumme, you’re the only person I let get away with that crap.”

“What crap?”

“Making fun of me when I feel like a steaming shovel full of dog shit.”

“Is there anything you can do about your situation, Marion?”

“Not really.”

“Won’t the extra money help out?”

“Yeah, it really would,” I huffed.

“Are you going to sit there and pretend, as drained as you looked, that a lighter workload isn’t a good thing?”

“You know, Rumme, I could bury your ass out here and no one would know.”

“Yeah, well all things considered, that’s not likely, now is it?” he remarked through a lopsided smirk.

He was right of course, damn him. There was a time when I was NBA fit. My big feet and long legs used to carry me along a three-mile run in less than forty-five minutes. I’d done crunches and weight training four times a week that left my abs, pecs, and biceps so defined, water didn't glide down my body: it tumbled.

Lately, if I didn’t get winded on a trip back from the corner store, it was a good day. I took hundreds of pills to keep my white blood cell count up, which left me a little better than the walking dead. Still, the way things went down this morning was foul, at least I had our trip to look forward to.

“So, we still on to do Kilimanjaro this month?” I asked as I gingerly swiveled on the bench toward Rumme and rested my knee. I’ve always been a competitive bastard, and I decided it would be better to pick a fight I might actually win. I watched as his flabby chest expanded and fell on a deep sigh. His lips became thinned and pursed, and I could have sworn I saw his eyes roll behind the heavily tinted lenses. Score one for me.

“Gee, that was a smooth segue. I hardly noticed. Public speaking is truly your calling,” Rumme said in a voice better suited for the end of a ten-hour lecture on the mating habits of slugs.

“Yeah, well I’m not feeling my A-game today. Are we still on or what?”

He didn’t answer right away. That bothered me. I watched as Rumme took in another deep breath and a moment to consider his response. His gaze focused, as I knew it would eventually, on a misshapen birch tree about thirty yards from where we sat. If he started with that old mess again, it was going to be all-out war. Time was ticking for both of us, and she was a complete waste of it.

"You know, Marion, before I met my lady-love-"

"Man, don't start that mess up again."

"Before I met my lady-love, Maaaarion. My life was as fulfilling as yours. No family, no close friends-"

"Excuse me, I am sitting here, right?"

Pushed too far, Rumme fell silent. His chin dropped to his chest as he slightly shook his head. After a moment he became still, and his gaze once more trained at a spot just below the birch tree. A look of contentment had replaced his exasperation. He was with her again, which meant the situation was critical.

***

"I'm sorry," I said from behind my hand as I rubbed the tension from the bridge of my nose. I didn't need a reminder that before the day Rumme approached me in the park, I had no friends, no family left who would deal with me, and a sorry-ass job only good for paying the bills.

"You need to let go, Marion, if only for your own sake."

"I know, Rumme. I just can't remember when it’s ever been this tense between us except for maybe the first time you came to my job as a patient."

It continued to eat at my soul that I hadn't paid enough attention to his symptoms. Caught up in my own drama, which hadn’t been as serious at the time, I was AWOL when my friend needed me most. No wonder he turned to that heifer.

“You should never have ended your appointments, Rumme, not for any reason.”

"Marion, the problem with opening old wounds," he said in a weary tone, is once they’re opened they need to be re-dressed. Are you sure you want to go there? I'm seriously tired of you ragging on my lady-love."

This confrontation had been in the works for months. I should have broached the issue sooner, but I was too afraid I’d lose my best friend -my brother- in the aftermath. I’d been given another chance, damned if I’d let it slip away without a bare-knuckled-alley scrape -not again.

“You never answered my question, Rumme. Kilimanjaro. Are we still a go?”

“No, Marion.”

“Care to tell me why?”

“Very soon, my lady-love and I will be fully committed to each other. “

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, Marion, we share the same passion for sailing. I’ve already placed a sizable down payment on a forty-five-foot destination houseboat. I had to cash in almost everything I own to do it.”

“Riiiight,” I responded through teeth clenched so tight my ears began to twitch.

“We’ve plotted a course that will take us down the Eastern Sea Coast, shoot us around the Gulf, and spit us out in the Caribbean Sea. This is my last shot to chase this dream or to have someone special to share it with.”

“If you say so, Rumme.”

“See, Marion, I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.”

“Seriously? Rumme, you can’t even face me like a man, eye to eye. “

He moved very slowly, as if quick-drying cement had begun to set within his veins. With a slight wince Rumme removed his sunglasses as he turned in my direction. Cautiously, he trained the full force, or as much as he could muster, of his honey-glazed attention toward me. The pained look that framed his clouded orbs was all the evidence needed. The aneurysm had ruptured.

***

At some point I must have blacked out. It was the only explanation. When I came to, it felt as if a huge belt were looped around my chest. I couldn’t see it, but it was there. I knew this because as I tried to make sense of what Rumme had told me, the belt tightened. Soon it was almost impossible for me to breathe, my thoughts became fuzzy, and my vision blurry. I knew one of us was a dead man, I just couldn’t be certain it wasn’t me.

I braced my hands on either side of me and kept my breathing shallow. It helped. My lids closed of their own volition and left me temporarily blind. Even better. I was ashamed, but the last image I wanted in my head was Rumme’s face, folded in on itself out of concern for me. A stray thread of rationality flickered through my brain; I grabbed hold of it with everything in me.

“Rumme, your relationship is not what you think. You’re not really in love,” I said gently.

“You’re my brother, Marion, and I love you, but you don’t know my heart not even a little. Maybe you should check your own and make sure it’s not jealousy that has you hating my lady-love.”

“Jealous? Of that heifer? How can I be jealous of someone I’ve never seen, Rumme? Anywhere!”

“I don’t mean any harm, Marion, but you’ve been attracted to me since the first time I met you at this very park. Hell, you were sitting on this exact bench when you asked if I wanted a date. Instead of hating my lady-love, maybe you should go find your own Prince Charming or at least get laid.”

My head became too heavy for my neck. It lolled forward and swayed against my chest, like a buoy rocked by a strong wave. I was being sucked in. I would drown on this bench in the shame. If I could just put some distance between me and it, I’d be able to surface, regain myself.

“You bastard, Rumme. You sorry-assed bastard.”

Somehow I managed to turn the rest of the way toward the backrest. Guided by the last shred of my self-respect, I was able to grasp the top and push off from it into a bent-over stance. With some effort I was able to stand. My knees were still a bit so-so, but for the moment they held.

“You call yourself my friend, Rumme, my brother?“ I challenged as I tried to dislodge the hurt that had settled in my chest with several pounds of my fist.

“I am, Marion, but that doesn’t give you the right to cross every line.“

“I thought we’d gotten past that crap.”

“We’ve been friends for years, Marion, so don’t get all sensitive on me now. You hit a tender spot, and you did it on purpose, so deal with it.”

Oh no, I wouldn’t let him squash it that easily. I’d never been more embarrassed than that day I mistook Rumme’s initial gesture of friendship for a casual hook-up. It took me months to get over the need to apologize and to accept I’d found a true friend. Until now, he’d never thrown it in my face. Fine!

“I’m gay; an older man approaches me in the park, Rumme. What the hell else was I supposed to think?” The binding loosened, my chest filled with deep, scalding breaths. Liquid steel fused my knees and backbone into the straight and upright position. Indignation consumed me, and the burn felt good.

“Look you ass. All I‘m trying to do is get you to put your affairs in order. Not because I want anything from you, Rumme. Because I care. You clear?”

At six feet two inches I’d tower over Rumme, even if he weren’t seated. I’d invaded his personal space. I was too close for him to stand comfortably and not shove me out of the way. I blocked his precious view of that damnable silver-barked tree and his imaginary lover. He’d have to deal with me. I was ready for any response except for the one I actually got.

At first, Rumme sat there seemingly unfazed by my behavior. He simply crossed his leg with one ankle resting on the other leg and began to pick unseen lint from his nylon sock. I started to reach for his shoulders in order to shake some sense into him, when an alarming look crossed his face.

The ruddiness of his skin took on an odd bluish-green pallor. Sweat began to stubble his bare lip. His hands slid to the edge of the bench, drained of all color by the force of his grip. His stomach collapsed in on itself and doubled Rumme over, as if an invisible mugger had attacked him. The moment I touched his shoulder, he convulsed violently then spewed an inconceivable amount of pink-orange bile over my shoes.

***

There was no soundtrack. No cars wrecked on the streets, no thunder clapped overhead, not even the screams from a mugging or crack of gunfire interrupted the tranquility of the park. Absent, too, was the inane chatter of the local minions who preferred to remain in their offices working frantically to justify their existence. I was about to lose my best friend, and the city simply lost its voice.

I needed space; Rumme’s insanity might have been contagious. I offered him my handkerchief, which I’d dampened at a nearby water fountain. So, what does the fool do after he freshens up? He smiles weakly and waves his fingers, not at me, but the damn tree. I was done. I sprinted toward the small reflection pool, no more than fifty or so yards opposite where we sat. I still wanted to keep an eye on Rumme as I cleared my head.

In medical school I was taught never to get personally involved with a patient. At the time I thought it was a completely obvious and unnecessary course to take. If only I understood then… I walked up and down the length of the pool with my fingers tightly laced and resting on top of my head. The counter-pressure from my big hands eased the one inside my skull that threatened to blow it apart.

On a sunny day, in a quiet park, by a pool of calm water, I was faced with breaking the heart of the dearest man I’d ever met. Rumme stood by me when half my family disowned me because I’m gay. He was there when the other half abandoned me because of my HIV status. In a world where it’s still okay to break a bottle over the head of a homosexual, Rumme embraced the human being and never let me forget I was worth something.

Exhausted, I laid down across the cool marbled ledge of the reflection pool. It was the only thought of the last few minutes I didn’t second-guess. At once my body responded as if I were lying on top of a tension magnet. Every muscle that came into contact with the mystical stone unknotted and immediately relaxed. Only after a mild drowsiness began to blanket me had I risked a glance in Rumme’s direction.

Other than him being seated on the opposite side of the bench, nothing else seemed changed with Rumme. He even managed to regain that stupid doe-eyed look he got whenever she was present. Should I have told him when I first suspected his lover was just a by-product of pressure to his optic nerve? Did I have the right to? Wasn’t he better off delusional, happier even?

Fear slammed into my groin and snaked its way up my spine. Suddenly, I pictured Rumme, penniless, filthy, and warehoused in some state-run facility, left to die with no one there who gave a damn to even hold his hand. No, better he faced the truth and lived out what little time he had left on his own terms. My decision made, I eased off the ledge and went to destroy a dying man’s dream.

***

I took one step then another on the grayish-white walkway that led past the benches, through a wooded garden, and back toward the hospital. A few yards more and I’d reach the ruination of my friendship. My feet had already carried me halfway across the manicured lawn before I realized I’d made the decision. Well before Rumme could amble out of his seat, I stood before the birch tree and unzipped my fly.

“What the hell, Marion? Was that really necessary? What was that supposed to prove?” Rumme bellowed as stomped around the tree.

“Marking territory I guess,” I replied with a slight shrug. I felt damn near giddy. If I had to battle this bitch for my friend, then it was going down dirty.

“Sometimes, Marion, you can be a complete asshole.”

“At least this asshole was around when you lost your stomach. So tell me, Rumme, where was your lady-love then?” I knew it was wrong, but an evil satisfaction welled up in my chest.

Rumme lowered himself to sit on the lawn just a few feet away from the tree. Though he moved like a man twenty years his senior, there was a slight flush to his face. He was angry and for the moment focused. He was exactly where I needed him to be.

“Unlike you, she respects the fact that I hate to be fussed over like some slobbering old man.”

“Fair enough. So where did you meet your angel of mercy?” I prodded as I took a spot on the lawn across from him.

“At the hospital, as a matter of fact, on the critical patients ward,” Rumme said as he leaned back on his hands and crossed his ankles. A look of smugness he hadn’t earned washed over his face. If I hadn’t known him better I’d swear he was enjoying this.

“I know every patient and staffer on that ward, Rumme, and I’ve never seen this woman you’ve talked of.”

“Do you know every visitor as well, Marion?”

Okay, he had me there.

“If you must know, I was there about the headaches. I ran into my lady-love as I was leaving the building.”

“Fine. So how come you’ve never mentioned her name?” He better have a good one for this.

“You’ve made your feelings plain about my lady-love, Rumme. Was I really supposed to help you persecute her as some kind of gold digger or black widow, just because I might have done something nice for her?”

“Ouch.”

“May I ask the interrogator a question, or would that be against the rules?”

“We’re friends, right? Ask me anything; just be certain you can handle the answer.” I was determined not to be sidetracked, no matter what he threw at me.

“What makes a relationship real to you?” He asked with a sincerity that was unsettling.

Rumme knew the answer as well as I did. It was everything I hadn’t had until I met him. It was what my family didn’t have the courage to give, what strangers who didn’t know me feared I could offer. “Acceptance without conditions, genuine concern for each other’s well-being, someone by your side always”, I blurted. “Everything I lost when you died.”

It was out. It all came out in a rush the guilt, the regret, the loneliness. For several months, I’ve come to this park, on the same day, at the same time, and prayed for a second chance to make things right. I saw the symptoms, the neck pain, the sensitivity to light, the headaches and rationalized them away. I was so obsessed that some lab tech mistakenly posted my test results that I neglected my best friend. By the time Rumme began to talk of his lady-love, I needed her to be real too.

“Do you want to know what makes a relationship real to me, Marion? A sense of belonging, memories I can cherish, the comfort that comes from knowing I mattered to someone. In this I’ve been blessed two-fold, by you and my lady-love.”

I saw Rumme then really saw him. Not the guilt-tinted specter with which I’d haunted myself for so long, but Rumme the way he’d always been. Head tilted to one side with a smile that matched. His honey-colored eyes were uncovered and sparkled with mischief, and an aura of gentleness surrounded him. This was my Rumme, the one I’d cherished and loved. The one who needed me to let go.

“I’m afraid, Rumme.”

“You’re also ready, Marion.”

“What if I never find another friendship like ours?”

“What if you stop being such a drama queen?”

I closed my eyes for just a moment to let Rumme’s good-natured chuckle work its magic in my heart. When next I opened my eyes I was alone, in a quiet park, seated under a silver-barked tree, on a wonderfully sunny day.

Last Hurrah

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 04:51:00 GMT

Four years at Juilliard, top student in the Arts Department, graduated valedictorian, and I‘m no better than this, Noelle thought. With very little effort, she was able to pull back the grate from a lower window enough to make an opening. Lincoln Junior High was one of the poorest schools in the city; it would be weeks, maybe even a month before the break-in was reported.

With a list of supplies already in mind, she wasted no time with side trips. Heading straight for the Art Class, she made short work of her scavenging. Grabbing a roll of paper towels, an assortment of brushes, a palette, a small spackle, a handful of paper clips, and a roll of double-sided tape Noelle had everything she needed.

Getting out proved more difficult, but at this hour of the night unless the local dealer and hookers developed a sense of civic duty, her getting arrested wasn’t likely. Having maneuvered her way through the opening with all items accounted for, Noelle made her way home with a new purpose.

“Damn. Can't bleed a rock.” Posted to the front door of her apartment was an eviction notice. She wasn't all that surprised, after all it had been over two months since she'd paid rent. “Everyone knows it takes time for a struggling artist to get situated. A few months rent won't mean anything once my big break comes," she reasoned.

Inside her one room apartment, she immediately went to work. Much like her dignity, most of the furnishings were sold or bartered for food and drugs. Save for a battered three-legged easel, one dining chair, a milk crate, a card table, and an old mattress.

The image had played in her mind for weeks and now it was time to get it on canvas. First, Noelle ripped up a section of linoleum from the dining room floor. She next grabbed a sheet from her mattress and began cutting both in a twenty by twenty square. Stretching the linen tightly she used the double-sided tape to affix the sheet to the flooring. Now she was ready to begin sketching.

Cigarette ash and spittle made the perfect charcoal and allowed her to transfer the image in her head onto the linen. Noelle realized this work would demand all her creativity and talent. Never doubting herself, she prepared to meet this new challenge head-on. She would imbue this piece with her very essence.

Jonathan, her ex-husband and only true friend, would serve as the subject. She crucified him on linen, by his good intentions and failed attempts to get her off the streets and clean. Paying special attention to his face, she made sure to depict all the torment and heartache she caused.

Next to take form were the johns and dealers whose actual faces were too numerous to recall. Not that it mattered; she would expose their true selves as a warning for all. In the form of bestial specters, they began to envelop the condemned soul with vaporous bodies composed of regret and self-loathing.

“It’s good, not great, but good. “ Noelle felt the initial flutters of satisfaction as she stepped back to appraise the grey and white portrait. Left as it was it captured in a two-dimensional sense the image that had obsessed her for weeks. In order to breathe life into the sketch it needed emotion. Raw emotion. Determined to give her work great depth as well as immense feeling, she decided to go old school and use egg tempera based colors.

Spread out before her on the card table were several emptied and washed cat food cans, a carton of eggs, a pestle from where she’d forgotten, a two liter soda bottle filled with tap water, as well as the supplies she procured earlier. She scoured her apartment much as she had done at the school for the organic ingredients in which to mix her colors.

Petrified fecal matter left by a kitten long gone would be the base for the blacks, brown, and maroons. Mold painstakingly scraped from the bathroom walls and refrigerator would be blended to make the greens. Sputum and drainage from a wound that refused to heal would constitute the base for the yellows. Blood from a gash to her thigh with the spatula provided the material needed to give the browns, blacks, reds, and oranges greater intensity.

One color was still missing. White. Racking her brain for what seemed an eternity, Noelle remembered getting a travel sized toiletry kit from one of the many rehab centers she frequented. Rummaging through it, she spotted a sample-sized tube of toothpaste. She now had the base for the final color needed.

Sitting at her worktable, Noelle began the process of separating the egg yolks from the whites. Careful not to break the yolks she used a sheet of paper towel to roll the yolks in order to remove any remaining whites or membranes. Once done she placed the yolk in one of the cat food cans and repeated the process until every can contained a yolk.

Next, she placed the cat’s offerings between two sheets of paper towel, and ground it into a fine powder using the pestle. Once done she placed the powder and the other remaining ingredients in separate cans. Adding a teaspoon of water to each, she diligently mixed the contents using a plastic fork. Surplus egg yolks were included in the tempera to lighten colors as needed.

She worked for hours without a break, testing every color on a separate sheet of paper towel until she finally had the exact array of colors required. Choosing to start with two of the smallest brushes she had on hand, Noelle began to flesh out her creation. One unsteady stroke infused the following stroke with a fraction of her past resolve. Soon she recaptured the sureness of hand that was the envy of her classmates in college.

No more a lifeless reproduction of her imaginings, the portrait came into agonizing being with every brush. The condemned’s tormented splendor burst to life in rancid colors. Spirits no longer willing to remain dormant erupted from the canvas in malevolent hues. The whole suspended in a crater void of light, kindness, and hope.

More potent than she remembered Noelle embraced the euphoria of creation. Unable to rest until the painting was finished, she ignored the constant throbbing and seepage from her leg. The onset of chills and light-headedness became merely an annoyance; the dimming of her vision required nothing more than extra concentration.

Having reached a turning point, Noelle settled into a calmness that had evaded her for some time. She hoped Jonathan would understand the meaning and importance of her work, as she made peace with the fact she would never know.

STROKE YOUR MUSE UNTIL IT HOLLAS!

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 09:38:00 GMT

NyceNNaughtie is where grown folks gather to share, discuss, and learn about the craft of writing, poetry, and graphic arts. Whether a novice, aspiring or published professional we welcome writers/artists of all levels. All manner of genre are accepted, the sensual, shocking, and sublime all have a home here.

February 2010 Short Story Challenge

Write a short story of no less than 500 words and no more than
1000 words.

Theme: Write a punany twitching, johnson jolting story featuring the erotic use of Champagne & Chocolate.

It can be as hot or as graphic as you want it. At the end of the month a poll will be set up at NyceNNaughtie.Ning.Com for members
to vote on their favorite story.

Step out of the 9 to 5, and let your muse bounce bare naked.

Nyce N Naughtie is a free social network for adults to express their passion for writing, poetry, and graphic media. We welcome authors/artists of all levels.

Check us out @ NyceNNaughtie.Ning.Com

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ONE & ALL

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 07:54:00 GMT

Dear Reader:

This will be my last post for a while. I'm currently working on an adult fairy tale submission due on February 1^st, 2010.

New posts will resume on January 31^st, 2010. In the meantime I encourage you to reacquaint yourself with the series installments, flash fiction, poems, polls, discussions, and other material currently posted on this site.

Until next we chat, I wish everyone a happy and joyous holiday season.

Yours truly,

Naughtie Scribe

P.S.: Remember there is a reason Santa keeps a naughty list (wink).

Pictures courtesy of HIPSANDCURVES.COM. Visit this site for more voluptuous lingerie and fashions.

Perfect Mate

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 02:45:53 GMT

"They ate him! Mercy, they ate him."

I bolted through the woods thrashing at stray branches and brush with one clear destination in mind, AWAY. The scene played in my head as my stomach churned, even though nothing remained to purge. Only an hour had passed since the ambush in the clearing, and I alone survived. I knew it was a mistake to camp so far out, in these woods, at this time of night.

"Help me, please help me", I cried into the wind, praying it carried more than my desperation. Maybe a rancher was near, out checking his livestock would hear, and come with his rifle cocked and loaded.

Dank air scorched my lungs; the ground leeched my strength, as I willed my fear to be still. I couldn't loose it just yet, had to push myself onward, panicking only made for tastier prey.

The crunch of dead leaves became the soft rustle of grass, as I cleared the forest in a stumbling trot. My calves strained with effort, knees threatened to buckle, and both arms were too numb to command.

Exhaustion found me first, as I knew the pack would soon too. Time, like my luck, had run out. Less than a mile away, I heard the alpha's bay, and the blood froze within my veins.

Not an owl hooted, nor frog croaked, or even a cricket dared to chirp. For the master had spoken, his long reign unbroken, in homage the forest fell silent in token.

No matter what, I had to get up. I had to make myself keep going. Across the pasture floor, a hundred feet or more, stood a cottage with door wide open. It was empty I could see, which didn't matter to me, as I had no more strength to flee. I barred the heavy door, crawled across the wooden floor, and prayed, as I never had before.

Through the trees they poured in a monstrous wake, of grizzled fur, razor fangs, and foamed maws. The cottage was soon surrounded: with large paws they pounded, against every shuttered pane, door, and grate.

I ran to the second floor, pulled down the attic door, and climbed the stairs with desperate intent. Then I secured the bolt, built a barricade and hoped they'd loose interest, go away, relent.

The autumn moon burned bright that sorrowful night, as a harsh wind rattled the roof. Upon a discarded mat in a far corner I sat, alone in the dark with the awful truth. I was glad the others had died so that I might stay alive. The relief I could no longer hide. Overwrought, I rocked as I heard a knock and watched as a shadow passed outside.

I braved the window to see, what destiny had in store for me, and immediately filled with dread. For on the opposite side the alpha grinned wide, and regarded me with a tilt of his head.

I suddenly despised the Lon Chaney lies, and Hollywood's special effects. No college kid in London or silver tipped bludgeon could save me from this horrific fate. My humanity it seemed would soon be a dream, as the alpha crashed through the glass plate. He decided not to tarry, as he was anxious to marry, and determined I would be the perfect mate.

THE ART OF FAKING ORGASMS - Part II of III

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 03:01:00 GMT

Dear Reader:

I know this article has been a long time coming. Shamelessly your curiosity was whetted then left mercilessly stranded between exquisite anticipation and unfulfilled frustration. A necessary inconvenience I assure you. For now, you have some understanding of what motivates the Responsible Practitioner or RP.

Unlike her irresponsible counterpart, which I discussed in the first article, an RP engages in AFO for the sole purpose of improving the mechanics of intimacy without damage to the male ego. For truthfully, few things are as delicate as the male sense of self.

Now before my testosterone inclined readers protests too much, consider the following:

You're at a bar tossing back a few with your male friends. Everyone is having a good time ribbing each other over a stupid play made during Sunday's game. While in the midst of dissecting an official's apparent loss of sight, your attention is drawn to a female at the end of the bar. She is without a doubt the most attractive woman you've ever seen in person. She notices that you've noticed and unabashedly serves up an I-could-eat-you-alive smile. Before you can act on the invitation, another male arrives and soon departs with the temptress on his arm.

If in a similar situation you:

A. Experienced a chest puffing satisfaction that out of all your friends,
she found you the most worthy of her attentions.

&

B. Felt a twinge of disappointment as you realized she preferred another male.

Based on nothing more than a look and/or a smile, it should come as no surprise that a female who actually cares for you would engage in AFO.

Honesty in Fakery: AFO to an RP is not deceitful. In fact, it is the goal of every RP to achieve a mind-blowing experience as a result of your very learned and capable hands (as well as other parts), learned and capable being key.

Every male reaches a certain point in his sexual prowess where he's confident in his ability to meet the sexual needs of a given female. Most males take pride in this perceived accomplishment.

Yet males often overlook the fact that what is exciting to one female is merely pleasant to another. Males just as frequently fall back on one or two techniques that garnered them the most noteworthy response from a prior lover, and apply it to a new one expecting the same level of response. It therefore becomes difficult to explain to an enthusiastic lover that his specialty needs more work.

Additionally, no male should misunderstand the need to improve or adjust his technique, with a woman's desire to be intimate with him. It is her desire to share satisfying physical closeness with a chosen male that necessitates AFO. After all, a female strives for sensual completion too, and her hungers should never be dismissed as secondary to a male's.

The Right Way To Stroke His Ego: We all have a need to feel special. Male or female we all need to stand out, even more so to those we hold dear. From the clothes we wear to the decor of our homes and the cars we park outside them, we need the accolades of recognition.

This is particularly important in the areas of sensuality and intimacy. In short, how healthy or skewed our self-image, in large part, can be gauged by our confidence in the bedroom.

Which as previously discussed can be a dicey area when dealing with males.

So how does a Responsible Practitioner in the Art of Faking Orgasms navigate such a sensitive mine field. Easy, by playing to the males need to dominate and achieve.

In the final article, we will take a closer look at "The Right Way To Stroke His Ego", and techniques that can lead to a satisfying physical relationship.

THE ART OF FAKING ORGASMS - PART I OF III

THE NAKED TRUTH

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 01:53:00 GMT

What is the last thing you do before going to sleep alone?

If they never found out, would you sleep with your friend's lover?

THE NAKED TRUTH

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 05:04:00 GMT

If they never found out, would you sleep with your friend's lover?

LET THE FUR FLY

Naughtie Scribe — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 02:23:00 GMT

"Looks like the cat kicked your butt again." He knew he'd face capital punishment for the remark. If the death-rays powering up behind her near-colorless blue eyes were any indication, his end would be clean and swift. Emboldened by the inevitable, Marques embraced his executioner and sought reprieve in the crook of her neck.

Mercy help me, Loewyn thought. Auburn hair styled by low hanging branches, jacket and khakis grass stained, and goodness only knew what she'd stepped into that made her running shoes reek, yet in her husband's arms she felt like a newly crowned Miss Universe, whose wish for world peace suddenly became reality. As she savored the not-so-gentle nips to her neck, Loewyn tenderly cupped the side of his face, and whispered, "Bastard."

In no rush to leave the tranquility that was Marques, Loewyn contented herself to stand in the open doorway until exhaustion won out. She and a team of elected peacekeepers had been in pursuit of a rogue were-saber who'd been harassing the elderly residents of their mixed community. Though the Tepes Conflict ended well over a hundred years ago, many humans and weres still clung to the old ways. Their community was only one in a slow growing number of such places, that humans and were-animals lived for the most part peacefully. It was one reason she and Marques decided to settle here. The saber had to be caught, and by the book. Loewyn doubted anyone would survive another war.

Loewyn wasn't sure how long she stood with her head rested on Marques shoulder; before Chico's familiar yaps caught her attention. Nor was it easy for her to hide the wicked delight she felt, as her husband's chest began to rumble with the beginnings of a low growl. As beta male of the largest werewolf pack in the country, he wasn't accustomed to having his dominance challenged so unceremoniously. Of course, the fact that her six-foot three, two hundred-thirty pound, big bad wolf felt the rights to his female weren't being respected wasn't lost on her.

"You have no rival, love," she whispered into his chest, then slowly through the fabric of his tee shirt, pulled his nipple into her mouth, for a quick nip of her own. While still in his arms, Loewyn took a reluctant step back in order to look into his face, and was pleased with the effects wrought by a little reassurance. His bittersweet cocoa hue took on a subtle glow, as his rust colored eyes became ringed with amber and heavily lidded. A smirk--tinted by something primal--shaped his full and slightly parted lips, a signal Loewyn knew well, as she backed out of his embrace to shut the front door. Somehow she didn't think the neighborhood would appreciate the eminent performance.

Determined not to be outdone by the interloping wolf, Chico, their Miniature Schnauzer, sprinted past Marques, head first into his master's ankle. Incessantly his tail wagged with spiteful glee, when his master's posture shifted as she regarded her mate. Marques’ resentment toward all dogs was apparent. He considered canines to be nothing more than very distant and dimwitted cousins, who debased themselves for handouts and belly rubs. He particularly took great pleasure in what he deemed Chico's humiliation. Fixated with the idea the family pet was affecting a coup for her affections, Marques sought ever creative ways to prove the dog's inferiority.

Eyes wide with disbelief, Loewyn was ready to accept her husband had lost his mind. Chico clambered at her leg dressed in a full leather bondage outfit and matching mask. The pullover was studded, as were the matching crotchless pants, and the mask, she noted, had cutouts for the dog's eyes, ears, and muzzle.



Loewyn thought her eyes must have been deceiving her; as she stooped down to better inspect what dangled from the dog's throat. Attached on either side by thin leather straps was a small red ball, which made an effective gag when placed in the dog's mouth.



Having sensed his victory snatched from the jaws of his rival, Chico spared a defiant glance at Marques, before rolling over and presenting his belly, ready to receive his much anticipated reward.

"You do know this is a mood buster, right," Loewyn remarked, as she scooped Chico into her arms, and started toward the living room. She'd spent most of the day following leads that she believed pointed to a juvenile saber tooth were-lion, attempting to take over a local pride. Now she wondered if the rogue juvenile hadn't been closer to home.

Marques watched with some concern as his wife slumped onto the sofa, and fumbled with the closures on Chico's outfit. While her disapproval was expected, the resigned tone he detected in her voice gave him pause. He knew this particular case could be troublesome, and suspected Loewyn had taken the fate of their community on as her personal responsibility. Too much heart, in too little a frame, Marques thought, as he started for the living room to comfort his wife.

***

To say Chico didn't take advantage of Marques' sudden change in mood would have been a bald-faced lie. The bedroom was their sanctuary. It was also the only room in the house; where the dog was absolutely not allowed. The fact that Chico ran in sporadic circles all over the place, while Marques went about preparing a bath for her without so much as a nasty look, made Loewyn appreciate her husband all the more.

Even if the master bath hadn’t been adjoined to their bedroom, Marques' keen hearing would have still alerted him to the fact that Chico was now under their bed. No doubt the mutt was scrounging for a pair of his shoes. An almost lethal sensuality radiated through his groin, as he thought of new games to play with the little darling. One way or another that mutt was going to respect his rank in their home.

As he leaned against the doorway of their adjoining bath, Marques considered the lack of progress her patrol was having locating the saber. What they needed was a tracker, someone who could spot the signs her patrol obviously missed. "I know my status in the pack worries you, Loe, but you really need my help on this one. I wish you'd reconsider letting me go out on patrol with you."

"Don't you have enough problems being married to a human; must you add beast-basher to the list as well?" Marques would be pack leader already, if he'd been practical and accepted his Uncle's offer. All things considered, it was a livable compromise. Marques would take an older female as his mate, one who was well past child-bearing years. In this way, the pack could keep face and Loewyn, as well as any children they had, would gain full acceptance from the pack. In truth she'd still be Marques’s only wife, except in title. While she was willing to swallow her pride for his benefit, Marques surprised everyone and walked away from his pack. He'd told his Uncle in the presence of the full council, that he'd rather go rogue, than disrespect his wife in such a manner.

"I'm not totally ostracized, Loe. I can challenge my Uncle for leadership. I'd win too, and he knows it."

"And how many challenges would you face from those who think as he does?" Loewyn felt the old regrets threaten to overtake her exhaustion, and overwhelm her completely. All she wanted was to soak in a hot bath, secured in her husband's embrace. But Marques had clearly shifted into protect mode, and she could think of only one thing that would distract him.

Marques’ eyes bled to pure amber as he watched his wife's slow and methodical striptease. He knew it was a blatant attempt to sidetrack their discussion, not that he minded. As he examined every inch of her lush, full figured frame, he hoped for nothing less than a lifetime together. He loved his mate more than his next breath, and her wellbeing, both mentally and physically, was his first priority. Since she was determined to table the discussion for now, he'd force himself to indulge her for the moment.

Loewyn watched in amazement at the speed in which her husband disposed of his clothes. His body was poetic without being overdone, and she loved the predatory grace of his movements. Loewyn offered him a tender smile as she took his hand and followed him into the bathroom. Marques stepped into the tub first, then lifted Loewyn into his arms, and settled them both into the water.

Just as her eyes were about to close in much appreciated bliss, Chico burst into the room proudly dragging along his latest trophy. Loewyn sighed as she reached for the pink shopping bag emblazed with the brand 'Perfect Pooch'. Marques' chest trembled uncontrollably as he attempted to stifle his laughter. Unwilling to ruin her mood, Loewyn tossed the bag on top of the nearest cabinet, and issued a low growl of her own. "Don't you dare put doggie fashions on Chico!"

'YOU WANNA FIGHT - BRING IT!"

Naughtie Scribe — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 15:18:00 GMT

This clip had me literally crying with laughter. Enjoy.

You Wanna Fight - Bring It

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment 8

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 08:04:00 GMT

I struggled to remain calm. My leopardess vibrated with excitement. I tried to push them apart. She wanted her backside pressed against their packages. I demanded they stop. She devised how further to provoke them. I cried out for help. My cat asked “what for? “ That’s when I prayed not to be killed, and hoped the message didn’t go straight to voicemail.

“No, damn it. We don’t have time for this idiocy”, I roared at myself as much as to anyone else. If what I suspected proved to be true there’d be a hell of a lot more to worry about than some sordid love square. For the umpteenth time I flattened my hands upon each man’s chest and pushed with everything I had.

"Worthless bastard!"

Scotch snarled and threw his shoulder into the punch.

"Pissed she wasn't into you?"

Ryland backhanded the blow and shifted to one side.

"You took advantage, Ry."

Scotch swung again. I ducked.

"Liz came to me, and it fucks with you."

Ryland grabbed his arm, turned momentum against Scotch, and yanked the two hundred pound security chief forward.

The hardness of him slammed into my back, and for a fleeting moment, my cat was elated. Heat radiated across my cheeks. An arrhythmic pattern dictated the rise and fall of my breasts. As an electro-erogenous charge raised the hair on my skin, and began to overload my analytical circuits one by one. Goodness knew I understood her need, a year had passed since our last lover, and well Diehard just didn’t make a battery THAT strong.

I had to clear my head fast, or find myself on the floor presenting my behind to whoever was left standing. It took all the will I could muster to send my leopard’s trifling-ass deep into my psyche where she normally slept. That faint act of will gave me just enough presence of minded to act.

I shifted my weight to the opposite leg, pushed off with as much strength as I could without evoking primal energy (or my cat), and pushed off on the opposite leg.

Scotch utilized the momentum and energy from the shove to break Ryland's hold. He then propelled himself with the aid of my shoulders four feet above our heads, to land on the opposite side of Ryland.

"You used her."

"No, Scotch, I gave her what she needed."

Ryland kept his back from Scotch with a half turn to the right, as he lowered himself into a partial squat. Scotch overshot his next swing, by a handful of whiskers, which he corrected a millisecond too late. Ryland made use of the opening to lunge forward and deliver an open-palm strike to the center of his adversary’s chest.

Scotch backpedaled a few feet, recovered his footing, spun in the direction of his fall and landed in a three-point stance. Within a breath, he’d rushed the wall and managed a three-foot vertical climb, before he launched himself through the air.

Ryland once more pivoted to one side causing Scotch to torpedo past him. As his belt buckle came into range, Ryland raised both arms over his head, cupped one hand over his fist, and with precision accuracy brought an elbow down into the defenseless man’s gut.

Finally, I saw Ryland without his mask of humanity. It chilled me to my very core.

Ryland never hesitated, hadn’t held back. He had one friend dead at his feet, and appeared content to add another. With the exception of a few stray hairs, he looked as immaculate as he had during my interview. I understood then what had concerned Dr. Lynn. Scotch was a much closer friend to Ryland than the deceased. Yet in spite of the obvious pain and guilt his friend displayed, Ryland had shown about as much concern or remorse as the very dead Mr. Prentice.

I immediately placed myself in front of Ryland, and took hold of his left arm. He would have to fight me if he wanted to continue, a premise that suddenly felt very likely.

“Mr. Hynes please stop this. I believe Chief Landers is partially correct in his assumptions. I think I can demonstrate that it had to be someone in-house who killed Mr. Prentice.”

“I already knew that, Kitten. What do think we were discussing before you showed up?”

“Then for the love - can we stop this stupidity and work together? The institute isn’t the only thing at stake here, Mr. Hynes.”

“I don’t need you to remind me of that, Kitten. Tell that asshole.”

I thought to reason with him. I hoped his bloodlust would temper when confronted with his obvious passion for Tepes Memorial and it‘s staff. It might have worked, if not for a fragile spike of energy that emanated from behind me.

Intermission it seemed was over.

Scotch lay sprawled on the floor, breathless, a few inches from the deceased. For a full minute, he remained as he’d fallen, a slight trembling of his midsection the only clue he hadn’t followed poor Mr. Prentice beyond this realm.

The first twitch started in his left cheek, moved across his massive chest, and down his right arm. As expected, a cascade of spasmodic eruptions followed intent to claim their own pound of flesh.

Eyes wide and unfocused, chin thrust toward the ceiling, Scotch bared his fangs and rent the entire room with silent rage.

“Don’t,” was all I managed.

Ryland flash stepped past me, snatched Scotch from the floor by his throat, and yanked the partly shifted hyena to his knees.

“Are we done with this yet, or do you wanna dance for real?”

Ryland held Scotch firmly in his hydraulic grip, as the impulse to snap the Were’s spinal cord bled into his eyes like amber fire. With a control few shifters possess, Ryland sprouted a single black talon that he trailed down the back of Scotch’s neck.

To be continued…..

Tell Me What You Want

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 00:43:00 GMT

"Ring, damn you," he spat at the disobedient contraption. Three hours before his flight to the East Coast, and Nathan hadn't slept a wink. Frustration and desire competed for dominance over his common sense, as he paced his empty bedroom with the temperament of a hounded wolf.

For the umpteenth time, he went over the scenario in his head. He had twenty minutes to get ready, a forty minute drive to her place, maybe fifteen minutes together, another forty minutes to the airport, and thirty minutes tops to check-in and catch his flight. "FUCK!"

Visions of Desia on all fours, warm and inviting, raced through his mind. His already stiffened member jolted. So strong was his need that he'd half dressed, and begun a frantic search for his shoes, before the demon timepiece on the nightstand doused his intent with cold reality: three twenty-six a.m.

******

Bbbbuuuurrrriiiinnnngggg.

"Hello?"

"I know it's incredibly early to be calling, baby--but I really needed to hear your voice."

"Don't worry about it. I guess the same thing kept you up too?"

"Do you mean a raging hard-on that won't quit until I make you forget your name. If so, you've done a great job at tucking, since I've never noticed we had the same plumbing."

In spite of his maddening state, the Demi Moore huskiness of her voice always did something for him, and he couldn't help smiling at the good-natured chuckles that filtered through the line.

"Ah poor thing, maybe I can help? You'll need to tell me what you want."

"You, naked on my bed, face down, ass up, but since that's not likely..."

"Tell me what you want, daddy."

"Undress for me, baby."

Intently he focused on the temptress at the other end of the line, as memories of her rod-hardening cocoa skin, mouthwatering full breasts, and spank-me behind streamed across his closed lids in agonizing high definition.

Transfixed by her voice and varying states of undress, Nathan found himself unprepared for a spasm that shot through his member, with the intensity of a kick to the groin. Using both hands, he gripped the length of his engorged shaft, and fell back onto the bed in utter surprise. Buttocks taut with tension, helm coated in expectation, Nathan desperately fought to keep his passions in check. Tears of frustration welled in his unfocused gaze as he stuttered his plea. "I-I-I don't think I can w-w-wait. Sing for me baby, p-p-please."

She too had been close to climax, and it wasn't long before he heard her love song in ear-piercing decibels. Her serenade was all the permission he needed.

His palms became slick with sweat. "That's it baby."

His scrotum tightened. "Only for me, baby."

Back arched, toes clenched, Nathan erupted with molten abandon. "Fffuuuccckkk! Baby, I love yyyooouuu."

******

Startled by the alarm's high-pitched bleating, Nathan snatched the clock from the nightstand and hurled it against the nearest wall. Aroused by the sight of the ruined device, he headed toward the bathroom for a much needed cold shower.

Fellatio: Why Men Really Get Off If You Swallow - Part I of VI

Naughtie Scribe — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 04:52:00 GMT

Okay, Dear Reader:

You knew this one was coming (lol), and yes it’s fine to read this article one-handed (wink).

Fellatio, blow job, giving head, washing the weenie, sucking sausage, special favor, slickin willie, the married man’s special, pecking peter, eating meat (borrowed this one from TheGuysPerspecitve.Com), and licking lollipop are the mature way of referring to oral sex for men (I’m being sarcastic if you haven’t noticed).

Why use such obvious metaphors? Simple, not all grown ups, are grown up. Sometimes adults will do some of the most scandalous acts, as long as they can pretend, even for a little while, that it is not what it is.

This is so we don’t feel like we’re being freaky, while we’re being freaky. Trust me, we get into the Freak Factor soon.

Origins:

So how did the first guy ever get up the nerve to ask a female to take his penis into her mouth? According to my research (Yes, I actually fact check my articles.) he didn’t.

The first ever-recorded act of fellatio was invented, performed, and perfected by a female. I can honestly say she was a female with super natural talents. In fact, she was the Egyptian goddess, Isis.

According to most historians, the story goes like this:

Seth (Set), the Egyptian god of chaos, kills his brother Osiris (Assur), the god of the dead and resurrections (Yeah, I get the joke too.), and cuts him up into bits and pieces, then scatters them all over Egypt.

Isis (Aset), goddess of protection and sister/wife of Osiris locates all the pieces but one (bet you can see where this is going). She searches really hard for the divine member. When she can’t find it, Isis takes a piece of granite (Some historians say clay, most say it was granite, now you know the origins of “hard as rock”.) and fashions a phallus from it.

After putting all the pieces together in the right order, Isis blew into the phallus and brought Osiris back to life (Sweetie, I couldn’t possibly make this up.).

Needless to say, Osiris was a very happy god.

The story of Isis and Osiris is literally legendary. Its hieroglyphic depiction appears in artifacts, temples, tombs, pyramids, tapestries, and so much more. Even today, the “Story of Osiris & Isis” is still revered in many Middle Eastern cultures.

Now that I’ve touched on the “How It Began”, my next article will address one of the five base reasons men get so excited if you swallow - Four Sense Stimulation (FSS).

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #7

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 20:47:55 GMT

One unbearable night I took my vibrator in hand, and fantasized I was sandwiched between two rivals competing for the right to mate. Both males were proud, had traveled far, and endured many hardships for a chance to assert their claim.

Testosterones spiked and biceps flexed, as would be conquerors assumed battle stances. Unwilling to yield, each stood his ground, and took in the measure of the other.

I trembled uncontrollably with anticipation, as my heart raced and breath stilled. The intensity in each warrior’s glare nearly buckled my knees, much as it were with Ryland and Scotch. And goodness knew if I cried out it wouldn’t be due to the double-A batteries.

Their battlefield of choice bode well for gilled shifters, for land bound combatants, not so much. An Olympic sized pool, as in ancient Greece, spanned at least thirty feet from one end of the room to the other.

The layout and design were as I expected for a place that healed through aquatics. The main focus was the pool, surrounded by marble and concrete, which encompassed ninety percent of the usable space. Four surface top whirlpools tucked into each corner, ran with jets switched to full throttle. Next to each tub mounted on the walls were chrome racks loaded with therapeutic devices.

A Caribbean seascape in rich blues, corals, and alabaster adorned the ceiling and walls. Froth capped waves lapped sandy beaches, as small fishing boats set off from the shore. Much thought and care had gone into the hand painted mural; it flowed from the pigments into your very soul. The only blemish of its splendor the visible outline of another exit carved into the opposite wall.

As in the corridor, I spotted the mirrored balls, anchored to the ceiling in similar fashion. Once more I felt that sense of wrongness I tried to ditch creep a little closer.

Scotched seemed the most eager for confrontation, his welterweight build thrummed with the tension. So much primal energy danced across his skin that my fingertips began to tingle. His clean shaven head and Zambian features glowed with the promise of spilled blood. Beneath the florescent lights his second nature peaked through, and no amount of pretense could disguise it.

Under different circumstances his chestnut hue and noble presence would command my not so clinical examination. But circumstances were what they were, and one look into the near onyx of his gaze revealed a deep shame hidden behind his grief.

“He was our dawg, Ryland, our brother. No way he should’ve gone down like this. Especially after the matter was supposed to be squashed.”

“Dogs don’t eat where they shit, Scotch. If I were going to take Eric out, you’d never have found a body.”

“I gave Eric’s remains a once over, Ryland. No marks, no bruises, nothing. Bet if we get him under the knife there’ll be a lot of ruptured organs.”

“Don’t mistake me for some whipped bastard, Scotch. I’ve never had a piece of ass worth killing over. And definitely none worth the life of a friend.”

“Damn it, Ryland. His mate! Liz was his life mate.”

“Not in my bed, she wasn’t.”

A sudden shift of his chest followed by a brief snort of indignation was all the warning that came. With a sharp thrust of his shoulder, Scotch shot his right arm over me in a slight arc aimed at Ryland’s jaw.

To be contiued.....

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment 8

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #6

Naughtie Scribe — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 04:45:00 GMT

Minutes felt like weeks as we finally neared the end of the stairwell. A sense of urgency piggybacked the stringent odor of chlorine and our pace quickened. I reached the platform at the end of the thirty-sixth floor, half leaping, half running, as I descended the remaining two flights. Ryland vaulted the railing on the same floor, his slim build clearing the narrow space between flights, before he nailed a perfect landing on the concrete below.

Without question, he possessed impressive speed, but I was no tortoise to his hare. I managed to pass through the glass doors as they continued to swing open, in time to spot Ryland wrench open a similar door further down the corridor.

Bright halogen lights, white walls and tiled floors, replaced the dishwater gray of the stairwell. Straight lines and panoramic windows that stretched from ceiling to floor enhanced my sense of wrongness. Nothing marred the pristine passageway, save the black mirrored balls partially sunken into the ceiling at each end of the corridor. A dreadful thought turned over in my mind and my stomach immediately followed.

My heels clicked across the high glossed tiles like a locomotive at full steam. I needed to address my concerns with Ryland. I also didn’t want to remain in the corridor alone. I grasped the handle of a door labeled “Aquatic and Fitness Center” before it completely closed. Only then did I again scan the area in hopes that my suspicions were wrong.

Too preoccupied with my own thoughts, I’d rushed through the door and stopped short of rear-ending Ryland and one of the security staff. Both men stationed themselves on either end of the body. The body. What a clinically correct and callous term. Less than an hour ago, he’d been a person, with a future and potential. Robbed of his life’s spark and individuality, society no longer allowed him to retain the title of person. It was cold blooded, but it was also a necessity.

“My apologies gentlemen, I was in too much of a rush.”

“Don’t think about it Ma’am. I’m Scotch Jefferson, Chief of Security here at TMI.”

“Dr. Mykael Xanders,” I said and offered my hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Scot. Did you know the deceased well?”

“It’s Scotch, Ma’am, like the candy,” he replied after a strong brief shake. “And, yeah, we knew Prentice. Better than some would like.”

“Oh.” It never occurred to me that Ryland might know the deceased personally. It would also explain the bite in Scotch’s remark, and the fine layer of tension in the room. As a para-forensic psychologist, I understood that grief sometimes manifested itself through anger and blame. With what little I knew of Ryland, I could be certain several staff members would attempt to scapegoat him. Just as I was, certain he’d only tolerate it for so long.

“Mr. Hynes, my sincerest sympathies. It never occurred to me that you had a personal relationship with the deceased.”

“Personal about sums it up,” Scotch remarked.

Ryland surfaced from whatever memory had enveloped him. A slight tick above his ear began to tap out Morse code, as his entire being went deathly still.

“You know, Scotch, I’m trying real hard to be patient with you. I know Eric was your road dawg, so I’m trying to cut you some slack. Don’t abuse it, brother.”

“Don’t let the scent of new meat get you twisted, brother. We can always step off property and knuckle-up.”

Scotch respectfully stepped around his friend’s remains and came within jabbing distance of Ryland. Instinctively I placed myself between the two men, who each towered at least twelve-inches over my five-foot two-inch frame. I knew that sometimes grief expressed itself as anger. I just hoped it didn’t express its way into a back alley beat down.

To be continued…..

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #7

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #5

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 19:46:00 GMT

Stunned. I think I had an out-of-body experience. I heard the words. Yet, I needed a second or two to sweep for hidden booby-traps. Ryland to my surprise reacted better than I expected. It would only require one elephant tranquilizer to settle his nerves.

"Congratulations, Dr. Xanders. Your ninety day probation starts now."

"Big mistake," Ryland snarled, as if he’d registered a threat only dogs could hear. His eyes once again became amber napalm, as primal energy radiated off his swimmer’s build like lethal gamma rays.

To pick a fight with a leopard was dangerous; to irritate Dr. Lynn further was suicidal. My excuse, simple, I had no friggin idea who I was dealing with. Ryland, he just couldn't be content to court danger, he had to invite it up to his place for the night. Clearly, the man had sociopathic tendencies.

"She won't last a month, Merryl. I promise it."

"Dr. Xanders' tenure will be dependent on her performance, period."

Silence, it only lasted for a few breaths, yet suffocated the room with so much anger and regret. A look passed between the two men, an agreement struck with a slight nod from each. The gauntlet thrown, I expected, over my dead body.

I waited for Ryland to rush Dr. Lynn, he didn't. I expected Dr. Lynn to throw Ryland across the room. He couldn’t be bothered. Instead, each man remained in his perspective seat, chins held high, chests puffed with the rightness of their own convictions. I felt the weight of their regard, like opposing fans at a playoff game. No matter how close the final score, someone had to lose, and both men were betting with my skin.

"I wish I could ask your forgiveness of Ryland's theatrics, and offer assurances they won't be repeated. However, that would be too obvious a lie to tell with a straight face, so I won't bother."

"Apologies aren't warranted, Dr. Lynn. Mr. Hynes merely demonstrated his great affection for Tepes Memorial Institute. I can only hope that I too develop a measure of his passion during my tenure."

"When I need your assistance, Kitten," Ryland crooned, "I'll unzip my fly."

"Give me a head's up," I shot back, "I'll warm the tweezers."

The remark lingered in the air, like the expensive cologne Ryland wore. A minute passed before full appreciation of each syllable sunk in.

Dr. Lynn broke first. The heat of determination that clouded the clear pools of his gaze, were washed away by a flash flood of bemused surprise. A sudden fit of coughing seized him, as he futilely attempted to suppress it behind his clenched fist. A crack in his omnipotence appeared, and through it, I caught a glimpse of his true warmth and compassion. My female intuition screamed to keep guard against Dr. Lynn, or a broken heart would be the least of my worries.

Perplexed, Ryland leaned forward and gave me the true weight of his glare. He scanned me from the top of my sun streaked brunette crown, across my toffee hued features, down the length of my plus sized frame, with only a minor delay over the expanse of my breasts. He continued past the slight paunch of my stomach, along the full curve of my legs, to settle on my size eight feet, clad in two-inch heeled pumps.

As if the data he'd mentally uploaded didn't quite compute, Ryland returned his attentions to the raw honey of my eyes, in search of that missing fragment of information.

It was all too much, the interview, news of the orderlies’ death, the scuffle between Dr. Lynn and Ryland, the forced trip down memory lane, the black out, and the sniping. But the sincere look of puzzlement etched across Ryland’s’ handsome features, pushed me over the edge.

Goodness help me, I laughed.

I looked right into Ryland's bedroom brown eyes and laughed in his face. It wasn’t a demeaning or spiteful guffaw, which he so rightly deserved. No. I simply leaned toward him and let loose with an old fashioned-stress relieving-belly busting laugh. I couldn't help myself, and I didn't care. With everything that transpired, I needed the release, and in the name of full disclosure, it felt too damn good to stop.

He smiled then, with the barest upturn at the corners of his full lips, he smiled. Once again I saw Opie, hints of him in Ryland’s softened expression, the gentle shake of his head, and the slight shrug of his shoulders.

Ryland seemed to have found his missing fragment of information in my release. Contented for the time being, he reclined against the leather back of his previously abused chair, and waited for me to regain my composure.

After another minute, we managed to return to our original roles, minus a level of the previous animosity, as I recounted the Reader’s Digest version of the war that killed my parents and scarred most of my early life.

Satisfied that I’d be more of an asset than a liability, at least for the moment, Ryland began to explain the seriousness of our situation. It appeared the death of the orderly was just the tip of the shoe, the rest had yet to land.

*****

"What have I missed, Mr. Hynes? If the U.S. Government is working with the supernatural community, why would either side have arranged such a drastic contingency?"

“You’re thinking with your heart, Kitten. A habit you’ll want to break if you hope to last at TMI.”

I let the “Kitten” remark go. I knew he’d chosen the slang term to get under my skin, as much as to refer to my Were-Animal. I wouldn’t allow him to goad me into a sexual harassment charge, or run off because my feminine sensibilities were infringed. Ryland Hynes could call “Kitten” all he wanted, this was one pussy he’d never lick.

“If the civilian government used paramilitary forces,” I continued, “especially trained to hunt dual natured species, how could a conflict between the two not erupt?”

“Exactly what we would hope to avoid,” Dr. Lynn interjected. “Imagine a culture that revered the Norse God Loki, suddenly faced with the existence of Were-Wolves.”

I didn’t need to imagine it. Dr. Lynn’s tactful reminder not withstanding, I knew first hand what could happen if such a thing occurred. The under-privileged and malcontents in that society would be the first to whisper “coup“. Soon everyone with a parking ticket or overdue tax bill would talk of it openly. All it would take for mass carnage would be a lycanthrope, with claims to Fenrir’s lineage and aspirations of grandeur.

“Seriously, Kitten, the civilian world isn’t ready to learn what lives beside them,” Ryland stated, with an exaggerated nod toward Dr. Lynn. “Our PR department has worked hard to develop a believable cover. As far as the public is concerned, TMI is a private facility for the mentally ill.”

Through my own experience, I knew few outside the supernatural community who were even aware of Tepes Memorial. And of those who were, few cared. Most societies regarded the mentally ill as disposable. “I’d say the cover is more than believable, Mr. Hynes. To the general public the institute is all but invisible.”

“Bet you didn’t know, we’re the only such facility in existence.”

The bats in my stomach stirred, as full realization threatened to empty my bladder. Ryland couldn’t be right. The supernatural community was a minority population, only when compared to the civilian world at large. I’d always assumed there to be numerous facilities for our kind, well concealed of course, in sparse numbers depending on the region, but at the very least one facility per country.

Ryland had to be wrong; he just had too. I looked to Dr. Lynn for affirmation. What I got was the ugly truth, as concern once again clouded his crystalline gaze.

“Now you understand our situation, Dr. Xanders. We’re not the heartless S.O.B.s you think. The loss of any life is tragic. The loss of this institute to our community, along with possibly the lives of every staffer and resident would surpass catastrophic.”

“What I think, Dr. Lynn, is that we’ve wasted enough time determining if my balls are big enough for this position.”

“Double-Ds are always the right size for any position, Kitten.”

Alright, the time had arrived to kick Ryland’s sexist tight ass. I shifted on the couch to ensure a good aim at his crotch, only to find an empty chair. Blast that friggin speed of his. The bastard leaned against the opened door and had the audacity to tap his watch toward me.

“Now move your ass, you’ve caused enough delays,” Ryland snarked, then headed down the corridor.

The jerk spoke part of the truth, which galled me to no end. I didn’t waste any more time with niceties. Not wanting Ryland to get too far of a head start, I immediately sprinted toward the door. I had one foot across the threshold when I heard Dr. Lynn’s request, inside my head.

“Please keep an eye on Ryland. It’s been a while since he’s been around anything that aroused his beast.”

The expression “stopped dead in your tracks” multiplied by infinity. I forgot how to breathe, and feared what I’d see even though I had to look. I managed to swallow a fraction of my fear, and turned my head enough to see inside the office. The very empty office, with only one exit, the door where I stood.

I nodded in agreement to no one, turned, and then broke the sound barrier to catch up with Ryland. The ass was right the world wasn’t ready. Hell, I barely was, and I knew what went bump in the night.　

To be continued…

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #6

DEAR READER: NMG Installment #5 Delayed

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 03:39:00 GMT

Dear Reader,

Due to malevolent outside forces (okay, it’s the day job) I was only able to keep part of my promise, and post No Mercy General Installment #4 on time.

Your readership and trust in me to post what I say, when I say, is paramount and not something I take for granted.

I therefore ask your patience a little while longer, as I complete installment #5 (extended version - a little something extra for waiting) and ready it for post on Monday, October 12, 2009.

You may also trust that delays such as this will be very few and far between.

Installment #6 will post on time, in addition to a new article entitled “Fellacio: Why Men Really Get Off If You Swallow”.

I thank you for your readership and support.

Until next we chat…

Naughtie Scribe