In the bruised-purple bedroom, Harold (72) and Elena (54) kneel, rope-burned and paddle-marked. Braids, collar, sippy cup, duck blanket, Goodnight Moon surround them. “I’m only lovable when little,” she sobs. “When Daddy,” he chokes. Pull-ups, journal confessions: I’ll die mid-story. They make love—tears, Daddy, Harold braided. Aftercare: salve, shared sips, blanket-cape. Miso purrs. Tomorrow: burnt toast, crayons, rituals. They stay—leaky, creaky, little, big—choosing each other daily.
A story in the Lesbian Romances Universe
Clarita owes the mountain her seventh daughter’s seventh daughter. Michelle breaks every salt line she finds. Hate becomes hunger, hunger becomes rope and brand and fist. To keep the witch in the walls fed, they pay with blood, welts, hot wax, and shattering squirt under the Mothman’s red eyes. Love here is a debt paid in screams and perfect surrender. The ridge claimed them. They claimed each other harder.
The world is ending in hellflame, and Lucifer has captured the love of her life; a man whose loyalty to his heavenly father might cost the demon everything she has sacrificed. Written as a love letter to all the masochists and sadists who kneeled before the altar of a hollow, ruthless god.
A saintly yoga wife, her burned-out "nice guy" husband, and a creepy basement janitor slip into one messed-up loop of lust, guilt and voyeurism. This isn’t about cheating, it’s about something worse: when you suddenly realize it turns you on to see your perfect little world get dragged through the mud – and you don’t want it to stop.