If time could be recognized, then we would have no need for clocks or calendars. These things are metres set against a background of haze and dream. The truth of time is that we live it. We breathe in moments and release seconds to the atmosphere where they bound and prance, teasing us before disappearing completely. They taunt us with their ephemerity.
Never have I known this so well. There is a phrase that I’ve often heard, growing up in a redneck family: “never bullshit a
Tommy still wasn’t sure whether he was awake or dreaming. All he knew was that he was naked, and the thick tentacles were gently lowering him down towards the soft bank of waving cilia that formed the centre of the anemone. The multi-coloured, pale-tipped cilia seemed to have a faint aura glowing about them, which was soothing to Tommy’s eyes.
He gasped as he felt the first of the thousands of tiny undulating fingers brush across his buttocks. Then he finally was properly sat down
I was sitting in my chair looking at the files of the girls that were due for training. As I sipped my wine I saw what was to soon come my way. Six lovely subs, slaves, whatever the hell their “Masters” called them, to visit me for training.
Some scheduled of their own accord, some were sent by their Doms. What a problem to have, to have to choose between a number a beautiful girls to use as I saw fit.
Remembering my last time with the little asian girl, I was still in the mood for
“Dr. Norwood to Trauma One, Dr. Norwood to Trauma One, Stat,”
Natalie looked up with bleary eyes from her cup of burned coffee. The little break room seemed dreary, but it was a sanctuary from the pandemonium of Watkins General on a Friday night. She rose unsteadily to her feet and gulped down the bad coffee, tossing the cup into the garbage as she hurried out.
Dr. Natalie Norwood was a tall, striking woman of twenty – three. Angular features and long brown hair set off her
We broke up for a lot of reasons, Angela and I, as people always do. It was the laundry that triggered it. We must have squabbled over the laundry at least a dozen times before, but for whatever reason, this time the proverbial camel collapsed under the pressure. I’d been putting through load after load, trying to get through it all before she got home from work, hoping she’d appreciate coming home to a tidier living space.
I was even starting dinner as she walked into the basement
All the characters in this story can vote in Federal elections
I’d not been home in over four years.
*
As my folks had divorced while I was in my senior year of college, I’d gone straight to work at a hedge fund in Connecticut. I guess I chose the job to put as much distance between all the family pain and myself as I could. I of course sent the obligatory greeting cards on holidays and birthdays, both to my parents and my sister, but other than a few phone calls from my mother,
I was taking the night train from Paris to Perpignan. There were no sleeping compartments left, and, as the train pulled out of the station at 7 p.m., I was resigned to spending the night dozing upright in my seat.
That was annoying enough, but what irritated me more was that I had eaten an unpleasant hamburger on the way to the station.
I watched enviously as passengers made their way to the restaurant car. I should have been more patient, because eating on a train is a wonderful way of
Jessica and Travis had known each other for a couple of weeks and were developing a flirtatious relationship. It wasn’t too serious yet, but their tantalizing and sexy interaction was starting to build. He had just invited her over to his beach house for the first time. He, also, mentioned to her that he had something daring and sexy planned. This peaked her curiosity. When she arrived, Travis gave her a friendly, affectionate hug and welcomed her in.
“Hey there, hot stuff,”
I wiped the counter clean for the fourth time; making sure to eliminate any crumbs or marks that might have evaded my first three passes. I sighed and looked at the clock – again. Only two minutes had gone by since my last glance. I looked at my watch and, of course, it said the same thing as the kitchen clock. Quarter of one. Aurelie would be arriving in fifteen minutes, and she was never late.
I had always been fairly mellow about the passing of time. But at age fifty-five I had
The illumination from the streetlights was more than enough to see by, even after the intense electric glare of the subway station. But the addition of the subtle light of the full moon added a certain something to the night that Alex Johnston had always thought special, almost ethereal in nature.
Even now she marvelled a little at the way in which the moonlight seemed to erode the clean and ever so modern edges of the nondescript Yokohama street, eating away a part of the very real and