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A chunk of years have passed since I last posted a story. No reflection on SOL; the real world came crashing down upon my head. I lost my career or my career lost me. Either way, the loss of optimism and the sense of betrayal turned my muse into a bitter, paranoid rant, not worthy of the good readers here.
"Blue Hand" was first written ten years ago, partly in response to a complaint about the homogeneity of my protagonists. While most of my stories assume that graphic sex is appropriate in the task of storytelling, as opposed to using stories to present graphic sex (I like to read those!), this tale is slow on the sex because of the protagonist.
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"There was cock custard flowing from his veiny quim prod and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. When he removed his greasy slimelight from my rusty bullet hole, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like a ripped out fireplace, and I was no different! Inserting a number of chillies into my vaginal bacon buffet got me spraying flange custard faster than a greased weasel shit. With his cervix cigar raiding deep into my stench trench, the sensation of his greasy slimelight smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery."
Follow this link to the longest list of euphemisms for ladies' genitalia I have found. I am humbled.
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