Friday, September 3, 2021

A Thing of Beauty - A Patreon Novel


A Thing of Beauty
A Patreon Faere Trade Novel

Brindle Davis ducked her head and shut her eyes, feeling far too large for the café booth. She did not want to be doing this right now. There was nothing more humiliating than having an intimately awkward argument with her girlfriend in public.

“Well?” Bloom Fairfield scooted forward on the pleather seat to press against the table, expectantly. “Talk to me.”

Brindle shrugged, her hulking shoulders tense. “I don’t know what to say.” Bloom was dumping their most personal and private issues out on the lacquered table for everyone to see; frankly, what Brindle wanted to tell her was to stop.

At least they were at Faere Trade, a magical café that was used to seeing far stranger things than a couple bickering. Not that that made it much easier for Brindle.

Bloom huffed. “Could you please look at me, while we talk?”

Brindle couldn’t. She wished she could. But she struggled to lift her head, when she swore she could feel the weight of other people’s stares. She tried to tell herself that no one was looking at them, but it felt as if everyone was. Bloom’s gaze alone made Brindle’s shoulders slump in a useless effort to make her massive body small. As someone who did not like to be stared at, Brindle wanted to shrink and disappear into the booth’s creaking cushions.


Shaking her head in a silent shush, Brindle coughed and sat up straighter when she saw the waitress approach with their drinks. Part of her was grateful for the small reprieve. But, as the waitress set their drinks in front of them, Brindle’s gaze caught on the café’s window and her own reflection haunting like a specter there. Not her reflection. Her glamour. The magically applied face she presented to the world. Leaning back, she sat on her large, awkward hands and stared at the strange, petite woman in the window.

Most women—most people—she knew hated their reflections, wishing they could change this and that about their appearance. Brindle wanted nothing more than to look like the rather ordinary-looking brunette she saw staring back at her.

But, staring down at her large, fur-covered body, Brindle knew no amount of magic could do that.


Bloom looked at Brindle, who sat across from her in the booth, fiddling awkwardly with the straw in her large, mostly undrunk root beer float. “Well, let’s start with, what do you mean, I’m too beautiful?”

Brindle shook her head. “You know exactly what I mean.” Bloom tried to meet Brindle’s gaze but, no matter how she tried, the other woman wouldn’t. “Look at you.” Brindle shrugged. “Then look at me. You want to know why I don’t really take our relationship seriously?” Brindle pushed back in the booth, the pleather squeaking under her sliding weight. “Well, that’s why.”

Bloom was beautiful.

She’d grown up knowing this. Often—especially in that awkward transition between girl and woman—had cursed it, knowing she had this odd and seemingly irrational power but had no idea how to use it, much less to have it not used against her.

She remembered a boy her age in town who’d professed his love for her every day for a year. He would go on and on about the brilliance of her eyes and the silk of her hair. He’d tell her that her skin was like cream touched by the sweetest honey and her mouth like the lush petals of a rose.

At first, it’d been flattering to go from the knock-kneed girl the boys teased to a woman adored. It’d even been a little bit fun. She’d asked him for favors and gifts, which he would eagerly give. He would do anything she asked, except accept that she didn’t return his affection.
It’d quickly become less fun, when he began to demand her attention and to jealously snap at anyone who threatened to take it from him. Without warning, it’d felt less like he appreciated her beauty and more like he’d assumed he possessed it. Not even her, he hadn’t wanted the whole of her. Just it. That beauty. Even now, she couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his attention had stopped being flattering and began frightening her, all she knew was that it had.

In the end, it’d taken a pretty ugly act involving his best friend, a kiss, and a black eye to convince him that she wasn’t the girl for him after all. It was a lesson Bloom would never forget. For all the many gifts and privileges having a pretty face provided, there were always drawbacks.

She just never thought this would be one of them.

Bloom shook her head. She was so sick of this argument. “I don’t care what you look like!” She looked at her partner.

No, not her partner, not the real, non-glamoured, no-spells Brindle.

Bloom’s lips thinned at the pretty, but not-too-pretty brunette sitting across from her. She stared into her brown eyes, hating that those weren’t Brindle’s real eyes. Wasn’t even where her face was. She stared at the small woman’s frame sitting across from her, knowing that her girlfriend’s body looked nothing like her glamour’s. Bloom shook her head.

It was all a lie. And Bloom hated it. She didn’t get what the big deal was.

Okay, well, that was a lie.

She did know.

Without her glamour, even among the magical community, Brindle always attracted stares. Bloom knew that the startled gasps and instinctive recoils that were most people’s first reaction tolled on Brindle’s soul. Brindle was well-aware that people took one look at her and saw the embodiment of every monster, every nightmare, every demon, they feared.

Bloom watched the avatar’s head shake. “Do you have any idea how much magic it takes to glamour myself every morning, just so I can walk down the street without being stared at? Which is still better than when I was young and we couldn’t afford to pay for the spells, making it so I couldn’t leave the house at all. I’ve lived my entire life terrified that someone might touch me and discover my secret, since glamours might change how I look but not what I am.”

Bloom knew all that already. They’d talked about it. But damnit! “I just want to be able to hold my partner’s hand!”

Brindle’s eyes rolled. “That’s not all you want.”

Bloom sighed. She wasn’t wrong. “So I want to be able to kiss you and hold you and, yes, make love to you.” Bloom already knew what Brindle really looked like—though getting her to drop the glamour had taken months of building trust too—how could touching change anything? Bloom already knew Brindle’s secret; she longed for a different kind of discovery. “Is that so wrong?”

Arms crossed, Brindle made a disgruntled sound. “We talked about this, when we first started dating. I told you that touch is hard for me.”

Bloom sighed and reached out her hand to Brindle. “I really like you, so hard I can handle.” But they’d been dating for seven months now with nearly no physical contact. “But impossible…I don’t know if I can do that.”

Brindle’s eyes widened, even through her glamour, hurt shone clear in the brown depths. She stared at Bloom’s outstretched hand with distrust. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Bloom’s jaw tightened. “No.” That wasn’t what she wanted. But… “Even if we go slowly—as slowly as you want—I just need to know that it’s possible.” That, together, they’d get there. Someday. “I just need to know that there’s reason to hope.”

Brow furrowed and gaze lowered, Brindle nodded. “I’m good with hope.” The sounds of the café, the hum of tens of different conversations and the buzz of the espresso machine and the clink of cups and plates, filled the space between them. Brindle sighed. “But I don’t know if I can guarantee anything.”

Bloom hated the despondent tone in Brindle’s voice. Almost to the point where she wanted to just laugh and tell her to forget the whole thing. To assure her partner that what they had was enough for her.

But it wasn’t.

She wished it was.

But she knew that, if she put her own needs aside for Brindle’s sake, she’d start resenting it. Bloom looked around, seeing the other couples there, some cuddling in booths or kissing over coffees. She wanted that. For herself. For Brindle.

She knew that Brindle couldn’t understand—couldn’t even imagine—why anyone would want to touch, to love, her body.

But, when Bloom closed her eyes at night, that was all she thought about. How would their bodies fit together? What would Brindle’s mouth on hers feel like, taste like? What would it be like to make love? Could they even do that? She wanted to know. However long it took, she could wait.

But, if she could never know, if it ultimately wasn’t something Brindle ever wanted, Bloom knew it would be better for her to walk away now. Before she fell too deep. Felt too much.

Before it would break her heart to leave.

If it wouldn’t already.

Bloom instinctively touched her chest as if anticipating that pain.
She shook her head. Maybe this would end and she’d be left with nothing but regret and loneliness. Nothing was guaranteed in life, not even in magical ones. But they weren’t done yet.

So she reached out her hand again. “I’m willing to try, if you are...”

To read the rest, check out my Patreon Exclusive monster love novella “A Thing of Beauty.” 

If it looks like a monster & moves like a monster, it must be one, right?

Then why does the human world seem so much more frightening to Brindle? Built like a beast, she never felt like she fit in the world she was born in.

Until Bloom.

Can she and Bloom find a way to live and love together in a world that refuses to see them as they are?

My VGP monster love story is free (for now) on Patreon. A wlw Beauty & the Beast story, it focuses on the realties of loving a monstrous body, from toxic gossip & body issues to defiantly following your bliss & discovering the joys of pervertable sex toys!

Hope you check it out & enjoy!

Listen to an Excerpt

Checking In - A Patreon Novel


Checking In
A Patreon House of Glass Novel

Rowan Drury carefully restrung the violin laid lovingly in his lap, running his hands over the sleek, shiny wood marred only by the long scratch along the side of the instrument from when he’d tripped over one of his cousin Jack’s skateboards. The violin had been forever marked and he’d spent six weeks with his arm in a sling.

Rowan had been sad about the Drury heirloom that had dated back to who-knows-when and about all the worry he’d caused his mother and the rest of his family but, in truth, the whole situation could have been worse.

He stood, clutching the violin by the neck, and stared out the conservatory window at his brothers, sister, cousins, and other assortments of relatives who dwelled in the Drury castle. They were all dressed up, grouped together on the twisted driveway that led down the hill from the castle to town. They were going out tonight. Good night for it.

It was the Midsummer’s Eve and there’d been rituals all day—feasts and gatherings, prayers and parties—all to celebrate the year’s longest day. Rowan loved the Midsummer because he got to spend the whole day with his family outside of the castle. Still on castle grounds, true, but the gardens were beautiful this time of year—all blooming Irish roses and towering ivy. And, in this one day, he would spend more time out under the beautiful Irish sun than all the other days combined. And despite the layers of sunscreen his mother would smother his too fair skin with, Rowan would soak it all in, knowing this rare treat would have to hold him for a very long time.

He lifted the newly strung violin to his chin as he watched the others pile into cars, ready to make their way into the city and make the most out of the year’s shortest night. He nodded as his sister, Willow, and his cousin, Jack, turned to wave at him. Rowan smiled at his mother who—still as pretty as any of his cousins—blew him a kiss as she held his father’s hand. Rowan raised the bow and played a fast and rowdy tune in their honor, closing his eyes as he remembered planning the night with his cousins during supper. They’d have fun in Waterford City. There would be dancing, drinks, and music. With his eyes closed, Rowan could almost imagine it.

There’d been a time—when he was much younger—when he’d longed to go with them. But he was older now. And he understood that he was Widdershins.

He sighed and laid the violin back in its case. Feeling restless, he walked about the stands and cases and shelves of instruments lining the room. Finally, he slipped onto the bench and ran his fingers over the baby grand piano’s keys. The tinkling notes eased the tension inside him.

As his family’s newest Widdershins, Rowan really didn’t get out much. He didn’t go out at all. It wasn’t allowed.

And for good reason.

The people of Redeshire called his family cursed. And they were, Rowan supposed. In a way.

While most of their Drury ancestry—that had inspired many of the myths and misconceptions of Druids, wizards, and witches—had died out a long time ago with the rise of science and the convenience of modern technology—for God’s sake, his father was an investment banker and his mother a software engineer—there were legends and legacies that still lingered.

There was a story his grandfather used to tell him. One of a Drury elder who—for the good of his people—had stopped the hand of fate. This powerful man—a witch, he’d be called today—had cast a protection spell that would pass down through blood. It was the Drury blood that bound the curse and repelled all evil. All those that carried the family name carried with it magic in their veins and a life filled with luck. And, even now, centuries after the spell was cast, the Drury family possessed wealth, success, great love—everything most people wished for and few ever got.

It wasn’t that they got everything they wanted or never had to work for what they had. Just that the little uncontrollables in life, like being at the right place at the right time with the right people, just seemed to happen more frequently to the Drurys. It was as if the invisible hands of destiny were a bit more clear to them. A Drury learned to listen to the way the wind whistled or to track the sun’s progression. A dove in the sky boded well for one’s current plans. Strong sea air brought with it change. One simply learned to be patient and wait at a crossroads for fate to eventually tip its hand.

For the Drury family, there were always signs.

But with every spell comes a price and every Drury knows the balance that rules the world must always be maintained. So, to safeguard the whole family, the elder had sacrificed himself and become the first of the family Widdershins, vowing that another would be born into every generation. That person’s fate—their duty—was to keep the balance. If every other Drury member knew only good luck, then the Widdershins knew only the reverse.

Rowan was the family’s latest Widdershins, his destiny sealed from his first breath. And though he couldn’t say that every breath since had been an easy one, he’d long since made peace with his lot in life.
And so, as the year’s longest day came to a close, he played a song he’d only heard in the farthest parts of his mind, not quite sad but in some way longing. He marveled at the way the music flowed from heart to fingertips to key to air. It was a type of magic. And it was his.
But just as he moved into the coda, Rowan jumped at a loud crash coming from somewhere down the hall. His knee smacked smartly against the baby grand, causing the keys’ heavy cover to slam down hard onto his fingers. Hissing between clenched teeth, he shook his hand vigorously before sticking it in his mouth to suck the throbbing digits.

Rowan looked toward the direction of the noise he’d heard. Everyone should be out of the castle by now, leaving Rowan and his grandfather—the eldest Widdershins—alone.

Poking his head out the door, Rowan peeked into the empty hallway. Knowing Grandda, Rowan figured the old man had probably just knocked something over or tripped on something. He was probably all right, but Rowan couldn’t get it out of his head that something was wrong.

His grandfather, though proud to serve his family as a Widdershins, wasn’t known to suffer quietly. Rowan’s knowledge of Gaelic curses came entirely from his grandfather’s mouth.

But the large stone hallway that usually echoed the slightest sound was silent. “Grandda?” Rowan murmured, the sound reverberating through the now twilight-tinged house. “Grandda?”

He heard scrambling—the slightest squeak of shoes across the waxed tiles. Stepping from the smooth wood and soft cream-colored room and into the lofty gray stone and glass halls, Rowan headed toward the noise and hoped his grandfather wasn’t terribly hurt.

Pausing by the windowed wall that overlooked the castle gardens, he noticed a large crow perched hungrily on one of the eastside windowsills. Its black feathers gleamed a strange green in the sun as the bird pecked viciously at the glass, its beak half-opened in mid-caw as its talons clenched and released in anticipation.

Carrion in an in-between. A bad omen.

Rowan held his breath as he headed east. He turned into the courtyard foyer, opening the door cautiously. “Grandda?”

At first, there seemed to be nothing wrong. Just a feeling that something bad hovered on the edges. Though the room was exactly as it should, an ordered mess of Aunt Gilly’s gardening supplies, Truman’s summer reading, and various bottles of Bella’s tanning oils and screens, the orange hue the setting sun cast made the familiar room seem foreign. He turned toward the tapping on the window and the crow that still beat its beak furiously against the glass.

Every Drury knew a bad omen at an entrance or exit—a suspicious sign within the spaces between one place and another—meant danger close at hand. The in-betweens were places, where if one wanted to know what the future held, warnings waited.

Forcing his eyes from the crow, Rowan tried to convince himself that sometimes a bird was just a bird. But as his gaze swept the room, he took in the overturned pottery and the cracked bottles. He could smell the slight metallic scent of blood mingled with the spilled fragrances mixing together on the floor.

Rowan shivered at the small signs of struggle and knew omens never lied. He turned to face the bird’s hungry, beady eyes as its head tossed back and forth in frustration. He could hear the crow cawing raucously as its wings flapped, desperate for balance, and its talons viciously scratched at the window pane. He turned away.

And there on the scuffed, slightly dirty hardwood floor, Rowan saw his hands first. Burned, scratched, and oddly disjointed—the hands of a Widdershins. His grandfather had always loved to cook despite the obvious and many dangers a kitchen held for his kind, causing scars—from knife-cuts, grease splatter, and burns of every kind—that patterned those recognizable hands.

As Rowan peered forward in the messy foyer, his boots clicking against the now marked varnish, he followed the broken lines of his grandfather’s battered hands to his stretched-out body lying in a cluttered corner among several large, now cracked potted plants. He gasped.

Kneeling at his unconscious grandfather’s side, Rowan cut his hands and knees as he pushed aside some of the mess. “Are you all right?”
This was why Rowan avoided this part of the castle, too many things to trip and fall on. His grandfather ought to have known better. Rowan could see a bit of blood on the shards of terra cotta that littered the floor. He hoped the elderly man hadn’t cut himself too deeply. Groaning with effort, he turned his grandfather’s prone body over.
With a choked cry, Rowan jumped back, bumping into heavily laden shelves, causing more pottery to fall and shatter at his feet. Rowan cringed and curled in on himself.

A crow at the window meant one thing. Death at a doorway.

The crow’s caws grew wild as his grandfather’s body fell face-up on the floor. Rowan squeezed his eyes shut but he couldn’t wipe the image of the dead man from his mind. The body was untouched, just pale and so cold. From the right angle, Rowan could have almost believed that his grandfather was simply passed out. But his grandfather’s face, that in so many ways looked much like his own only many years on, oozed blood, dark and thick as it streaked down his tattered cheeks and around his opened, silently screaming lips. He could still see where the trail of blood met and mingled both into and out of the long, deep slash across the old man’s throat.

But the worst of it—the part that had Rowan panting and pleading to his God—were the empty sockets where his grandfather’s eyes gaped open, bloody and hacked.

Oh, Merciful Mother of God. Who did that kind of thing?

But Rowan knew exactly the type of person who would cut out his grandfather’s eyes.

Most myths, legends, and old sayings had origins in truth. And eyes were in-betweens too. Windows to the soul, as they say. And with no doorway, no exit or entrance, his grandfather’s soul—a Widdershins’s soul—was trapped inside his impossibly still body, unable to pass into the next generation.

Jesus, son of God. Crawling shakily to his knees, Rowan crossed himself quickly and bent his head. He wished he could close the old man’s lidless eyes. Rowan prayed as he draped a towel over his grandfather’s form. May God bless on your journey, Grandda.

Rowan sank down and fought back fear and sadness. He couldn’t afford to mourn long. He had to think.

This was an assault not just on Paddy Drury, but on the entirety of the Drury family. With one Widdershins dead, the balance of luck was tipping. Rowan wondered if his family could feel the change already. He hoped that they were all right, even as he feared the dangers that now seeped into their once impenetrable lives. One Widdershins dead, murdered and mutilated—his soul stuck. Who knew what damage could be done now?

Rowan gasped as a thought dawned on him, for a second drowning out the worry for his family.

One Widdershins dead. One left.

Rowan backed away from his grandfather. Rowan was now the only Widdershins left. Left alone. Left defenseless. With shaky panic, he called the first number on his mobile phone. His nervous fingers fumbled on the keys, but no matter what number he dialed, there was no answer. Rowan looked down at his phone, appalled to realize that his phone’s battery was too low to place a call. Shit. Damn. “Fuck!”

He clapped his hand over his traitorous mouth as he caught that same slick slide of rubber coming from somewhere in the hallway.

The mobile slid to the floor.

Someone was still in the castle and was now headed his way.

Rowan took one last look at his grandfather—hating to leave him—before easing the garden screen door open and stepping soundlessly outside. He could see the woods that bordered the Drury property. He’d never been in them—too dangerous—but his siblings and cousins had said that the hill the castle grounds sat on was flanked by a town and a motorway.

That meant people, right?

Lots of people. Most of whom weren’t ritual killers. Right?

Rowan paused at the large hedges that bordered the gardens about six meters from the forest and wondered what he should do. The shadowed trees looked harsh and unforgiving as their branches twisted in on each other, strangling the light that tried to break through the thick canopy. He began to hyperventilate as he took a tentative step back into the familiarity of the castle. But as he heard the door to the foyer creak open, Rowan took a deep breath and ran.

He turned as a loud flapping flutter of feathers swooped down, its talons and beak aimed for his head. He screamed as he waved his arms above his head, trying to beat the crow away, but it just kept coming. Ignoring the pain as the bird scratched and clawed at his skin, he headed into the trees.

Rowan rushed past low branches and jumped over fallen limbs and when finally the crow’s ravenous caws sounded distant and muted, he slowed, panting and wheezing. He looked around, confused and lost. He had no idea where he was or whether he was even closer to the castle or the road. His body ached, his arms torn and his legs tired, but he had to keep going. He looked around and sighed before limping ahead in a random direction, hoping it led him somewhere safe.

Rowan spun as he heard the leaves rustle behind him before jerking around again at the sound of a snapping branch. He tried to slow his breathing and listen. He could have sworn he heard whispers, but the wind was whipping them in every direction, making him feel cornered.

He started to back away uneasily before tripping on the rocky ground. Grunting loudly, he landed hard on his side. He scrambled to his feet as he heard the leaves shift. Choking on panicked sobs, Rowan ran.
He could hear the rustling and footfalls catching up to him. He peeked over his shoulder and tried to figure out where they were, but he couldn’t tell in all the darkness. All he knew was that they were close and getting closer.

Pumping his legs, he checked his back again. He yelped as his foot slipped on mulching leaves, his knees buckling beneath him as he tumbled down the rocky hill. He held out his hands, trying to catch himself before he crashed to the ground. But he couldn’t stop himself from falling.

The last sight he remembered was that of the hungry, black bird perched on a branch above him before his head smashed against rock and pain and blackness brought him down...

To read the rest, check out my Patreon Exclusive fantasy novel “Checking In.” 

The Elysium Hotel is not exactly your average B&B.

Rowan Drury, cursed from birth and chased from his home by killers, awoke at this supernatural haven for the lost and lonely.

But something dark is growing under the seemingly serene surface.

The Elysium may look like an Eden safe from the troubles plaguing the boarders’ pasts, but even protection comes at a price.

And staying at this parasitic paradise costs nothing less than your soul.

Rowan, with cursed powers he doesn’t yet understand, can see the trap hidden beneath the hotel’s flourishing beauty, but can he and the other guests escape before it’s too late? Will they even want to?

Or, for those already damned, is a taste of heaven worth the loss of whatever’s left of your soul?

Listen to an Excerpt  

Saturday, August 14, 2021

Show Me How to Love You!


Tasha sat up straighter. “There’s something I should probably tell you too.”

Ro held her breath, knowing what was coming next. Some Midsummer Night’s Dream fantasy. Or some humanity-first philosophy. It was the world she lived in as a Puck and she’d long since learned to brace herself for it.

Tasha’s grip on the teacup tightened, her long, teak fingers tapping against the vibrant green. She took a steadying breath. “I like to take relationships slowly.” She looked up at Ro, her dark eyes wide and impossibly vulnerable. “Like, really slowly.”

What did that mean? Ro couldn’t even guess. “Explain that to me.”

Tasha shifted in her seat, her long, thick side braid swaying a bit against her shoulder. She bit down on her bottom lip, worrying the full flesh. She sighed and shot Ro a clear fuck it expression. “Since we’re laying it all out there, I guess you should know that pretty much every relationship I’ve ever been in has ended because I never feel comfortable getting... physically intimate with someone until I know them well.”

Ro huffed, steeling herself a bit. “Look, I know that there’s a stereotype about pucks and sex.” She waved her hand dismissively. “The whole ‘you know what pucks like’ thing.”

“What thing?”

Was she kidding? “That pucks like to...” She felt her cheeks flush. Surely, Tasha had heard the saying before. Ro had certainly grown up with people — classmates, friends, lovers, strangers — teasing and taunting her with it. She’d spent her whole life being the punchline of a lazy, rhyming sex joke.

“Oh!” Tasha’s face paled as she shook her head. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all. I didn’t mean that you —” She swallowed hard. “I just mean that I —” She took a breath. “It sounds bad, but this really is a case of ‘It’s not you; it’s me.’” She looked so awkward, her jaw clenched and her hands tucked tightly in her lap, that it was hard not to believe her. It wasn’t judgement Ro felt radiating from her; it was shame. “Truth is, I’ve never really felt like I’ve known anyone, so, you know, intimacy — all kinds, not just sex — and me just...” 

Ro fought to freeze her face, not wanting to show her shock. “So.” How to phrase this? “You’ve never...”
Tasha gave a humorless laugh. “I have; it was just...” She wrinkled her nose. “Uncomfortable.”

Ro sat back thoughtfully. Okay. “So how well do you need to know someone before you feel comfortable?”

Tasha leaned on the table, resting her face in her hands as she stared into the tea pensively. “Well, the idea of sex never really sounded all that appealing to me. Truth be told, I often wonder what possessed the first people to even try it. It just sounds... messy and awkward and, if everything I’ve heard is true, often more work than it’s worth.”

Ro frowned. She wasn’t the stereotype people thought pucks were, some sex-crazed creature constantly in heat. But she did like sex. A lot. And intimacy in general. She enjoyed kissing and cuddling and holding hands. She couldn’t imagine being in a relationship without those things. 

Tasha looked up, her dark eyes a little hopeful. “But the idea of making love...” She lifted her shoulder a bit, smiling sweetly. “That sounds like it could be nice. Like a physical manifestation of that feeling.” Then her shoulders slumped. “But making love kinda necessitates that you be in love, right...”

To read the rest of my story “What Pucks Love” that explores the often magical possibilities of love in this anthology from Speculatively Queer

It Gets Even Better: Stories of Queer Possibility is an anthology of speculative short fiction about queerness as it might be. These stories are about identity, relationships, and community. They're about hope, acceptance, affirmation, and joy. And most of all, in a time when uncertainty feels inescapable and overwhelming, they're about taking one another by the hand and choosing together to embrace the unknown. 

The possibilities are endless.

This anthology is full of uplifting, affirming stories by an outstanding line-up of speculative fiction authors: Charlie Jane Anders, Phoebe Barton, Zen Cho, Sonni de Soto, Ben Francisco, Amy Griswold, S.L. Huang, Jaxton Kimble, Rafi Kleiman, Kristen Koopman, D.K. Marlowe, R.J.Mustafa, Aimee Ogden, TS Porter, Lauren Ring, Swetha S. Ziggy Schutz, Nibedita Sen, Leora Spizter, Merc Fenn Wolfmoor, Nemma Wollenfang, & Xu Ran.

Available Now in Print, ebook, & Audiobook On 

Listen to an Excerpt HERE


Monday, November 16, 2020

Keeping It Hot When It’s Cold Outside

Whether you’re looking for something sweet or sexy, check out these great holiday stories to get you into the spirit of the season!

Give to YouMake-up sex makes everything better! See what happens after Kat & Peter's happy ending in my story from Deep Desire Press!
Available Now On
And Listen to an Excerpt

Checking It TwiceWhat’s worse than being suddenly single for the holidays? Deciding to fake a relationship with your nerdy roleplaying buddy. What could possibly go wrong? 
Check out my Patreon to join me on this sweet and nerdy holiday Work In Progress romance story!
And Listen to an Excerpt

Under The MistletoeHave yourself a kinky, little Christmas! Please check out my story in Coming Together's charity anthology that lets your feel-good do some real good!

Full-Upright Position: Toying with the mile-high club! Check out my story "Full-Upright Position" on the Rosy Wellness App! Lyndsey hates flying, but Porter knows exactly how to make her flight better. With vibrator in hand, he's determined to make her pleasure fly high enough for her to forget they're off the ground. Let's make some titillating turbulence! 

Thawed: Breaking the ice to show you you’re beautiful! Become a Patron to read this sweet wintry story about a steamy photoshoot under the ice.
And Listen to an Excerpt

Naughty or Nice: Turning my head by turning my world upside-down! Become a Patron to get into the season with this tipsy-turvy sexy holiday story.

Wednesday, November 4, 2020

Open Season - A Patreon Novel


Open Season
A Patreon Faere Trade Novel

Sometimes it really sucks being female.

Juli Soon wakes up feeling lethargic and lazy. Her body sore, she wants nothing more than to snuggle up next to her boyfriend, Kyle Cross, and fall back asleep.

But her alarm rings, insistent and unignorable, next to her as she feels a hard, equally unignorable length push against the small of her back.

She sighs and tells herself to think. You have options; you always have options.

If she doesn't get out of bed to deal with one of them soon, she's going to have to deal with the other. She could stay in bed. Roll over to him. Or roll onto him. She could spend the morning touching every inch of him, trailing her fingers over taut, teak skin, before taking that pressing length inside herself.

Or she could hit snooze. She could cuddle close and sleep for ten more minutes. Then maybe ten more.
Both of which would definitely make her late. And she does not have time today. She wishes she did. But she already knows, with her cycle starting and the vote happening, today is going to be hell.

So she gets up. Turns her alarm all the way off. Stretches. Lights a candle, then another. And takes her first shower of the day.

She turns on the water, but not too hot. The steam—the heat and the comfort of it—will call her boyfriend to her, not to mention make her shower completely useless. She's trying to not smell like herself today.
Not that she smells bad.

That's actually the problem.

Juli stands beneath the lukewarm water and tries hard not to feel disappointed. Even disappointment can make things worse. Any heightened emotion will do it, even extreme boredom. So, she tells herself, get yourself under control. Remember, in the grand scheme of things, having an uncomfortable week every two months isn't the worst thing in the world.

But that doesn't mean she has to like it either. It's infuriating—or would be, if she wasn't keeping such a tight lid on her feelings—that, six times a year, her body doesn't feel like her own. That it belongs to her biology.

She reaches for her strongly scented, cycle soap and scrubs. Hard. Especially around her neck, armpits, wrists, groin, and feet, anywhere near any scent gland. As she does, she can smell herself on the air around her. It doesn't smell like anything on this planet, nothing native to it anyway. But it always reminds her of a dish she barely remembers from her childhood on Pixis, warm and homey and rich. She can't even remember the last time she ate it, much less the recipe to make it—not that she could on Earth, the ingredients a galaxy away—but her memory can still taste the savory luxury.

Every time, it makes her a little homesick for a place that feels more like a dream than anything. It makes her wonder what her life would have been like, if her parents hadn't decided to join the Great Migration when she was only four years old. Hadn't looked at the way overpopulation and pollution and war were destroying their planet, their lives, and given up.

She wonders if this scent—her scent, the scent of her people—would make her hungry instead of queasy. If nostalgia wouldn't twist with anxiety the way it does here.



Juli twists under the now floral-scented spray, grateful to see the bathroom door still shut. "Morning." She bites her lip guiltily. "Did I wake you?" She tried not to. She sniffs the shower, but smells mostly soap. Doesn't she? She sniffs again to be sure. The cloying scent of chemically created rose clogs her senses.
She hears him yawn. "No worries." The sound of him shuffling behind the door seems loud, even muffled by the shower, while he waits for permission. Biting her lip against the words—the invitation—she longs to say but doesn't have time for, she holds her breath and waits too. Until she can almost feel his shrug. He sighs. "I'm just going to go downstairs and start the coffee."


Hypnotized by the sound and smell of his girlfriend showering, Kyle's feet feel stuck to the carpet. He can't stop imagining her on the other side of the wood, water raining down her naked body. Not wanting to leave that door, not with the smell of her wafting out through the cracks, he inhales. 

Lord help him, nothing smells like her. It's literally out of this world. It's like smelling a feast with his every favorite food right in front of him laced with the most addictive drug.

He inhales one more time. One last, long drag through his nose that fills his lungs and stirs his body.

Then, even though it's the last thing he wants to do, he sighs and does what he promised. He leaves the room. Closes the door. With determined steps, he goes down the stairs and heads to the kitchen.

With shaky hands that would rather be touching something else, he measures out coffee grounds. He hates that his cock twitches, lengthening uncomfortably beneath his sweats while he listens to the shower going upstairs. He licks his lips, his mouth growing sloppy, as he imagines Juli soapy and wet with steam swirling around her slick curves.

When some of the coffee grounds spill onto the counter, Kyle grunts, the huff coming out as an aggravated growl. The mess is such a small, insignificant thing—nothing, really, on any other day—but it's just one more grating thing that's making for a not-great start this morning. He shakes his head, chastising himself for being so distracted by his fantasy-fueled dick. For still thinking about the smell, feel, and taste of Juli. And how he'd rather be up there with her. And how hard it is to remember why he couldn't be. 

For God's sake, she's his girlfriend. Of course he wants her. It's not like that's a crime or some awful act. He ought to just go back upstairs. He ought to join her in the shower. She's not in the mood right now, but he could get her there. Hell, he's hot enough for them both. All he needs to do is go.


With another hard shake of his head, he remembers what they've talked about. He knows what they agreed on. If she's in the mood, she will let him know. If she doesn't say yes, it's a no. Actively blocking the inevitable but in the back of his mind—the incessant but he could change her mind or but he could make it good for them both or but what about him—he swiftly sweeps the grounds off the counter and into his hand. He flicks his hand over the sink, dumping the dark grounds down the drain. Upset with himself, he grits his teeth and turns to get the water pitcher out of the fridge.

Only to turn back around, when he finds himself instinctively, unintentionally, heading toward the stairs.
No, he tells himself. Stop. Go. To. The. Fridge. Get the water. Pour. With a rougher than necessary jab, he pushes the coffee machine's power button. There. Done. Good. He knew he could do it.

Feeling a little helpless, when he realizes, with that done, he has nothing else to do but wait. Gripping the counter, he tries not to think about the fact that he fulfilled his promise. He started coffee. Obligation complete. He could go back upstairs now. Worrying only about the exact wording, while ignoring the actual intent of his promise, he could slip into the shower, grab Juli, and slide in deep.

Instead, remembering what his word, what her trust in it and in him, means to her, he plants his feet and grips the counter harder.

He wants her. So much it's hard to think beyond that. But she's not in the mood right now. And that's all that matters. 

Even if he has to remind himself of that.

He remembers all the tools he and Juli have discussed to deal with moments like this. Stop. Stop thinking about her and breathe. Leaning in, he forces himself to smell the coffee brewing. He breathes it in, letting it fill his senses and clear his head. Exhaling, he tells himself to stop thinking about her. To think about the coffee. Think about how many hands those grounds have gone through. Think about the grocery store he bought it in. Imagine the factory where it was packaged. Picture the fields where it was grown. He willfully fills his head with the story behind it and lets his hands, his senses, his whole being, be another part of that story. Forcefully, he reminds himself that he's more than his damned dick.

You know you can, he thinks, so do it. Control yourself. Breathe deep and be more.

He remembers, before the Pixisos came to Earth in the Great Migration, reading and seeing fantasy stories about alien invasions. Nerd fantasies of sexy aliens coming to Earth to seduce and mate with humans. Even then, even as he read and guiltily enjoyed them, he wondered what the aliens got out of the deal. Leave their home, travel millions of lightyears, land on some weird, insignificant rock, and all they want is to selflessly pleasure the planet's population? What sense does that make?

After the Great Migration, the frequency of those stories skyrocketed. Twisting themselves with old sci-fi tropes and new scientific discoveries. Kyle remembers seeing snippets of what the world was learning in the news about the Pixisos sneak into these stories. In a strange zeitgeist shift, every sexy alien was petite and silver-haired, with skin like the sun's sheen over the surface of a bubble.

When news of the mating cycle female Pixisos experience hit the planet's consciousness, this pocket of the internet went wild. Suddenly, every story obsessed over this week-long period every sixty days where their fantasy alien women went into heat, needing sex and male seed like breath.

Stories of cum-hungry extraterrestrials who begged men with wet sexes and open, eager mouths cropped up like literary weeds. Every one of these arousal-altered aliens were amazed by and impressively afraid of the size and shape of the nude human form. The men in these stories, like the benevolent, superior creatures they were, graciously gave them what they needed, making the women moan with the taste and thrust of their cocks, giving these women unimaginable pleasure by taking their own on them.

Kyle wishes he could say he hadn't been a fan of those stories. But he'd read his fair share. Had even, with eyes closed and cock in hand, created a few fantasies of his own in his head.

But it was when the stories began to turn that he stopped being turned on by the tales. Once the Pixisos were let out of governmental quarantine and given refugee status and homes among humans, public opinion changed. Now, the sex in the stories felt owed. A payment for humanity's generosity. Or, sometimes, a punishment for it. The stories became less about the human's pleasure and more about the Pixiso's humiliation. Their subjugation.

He quit reading those stories then. Stopped visiting those sites, finding the fantasy different now. Tainted and wrong.

After dating Juli and getting to know their partner, Dona Miles, he's ashamed he ever enjoyed those stories. After seeing them struggle with the reality of what others fetishize—which looks absolutely nothing like either the fiction people wrote or the so-called news reports—it kinda killed the fantasy entirely.

He asked Juli once what her cycle's like for her. And what she told him, all the things she has to deal with every day, staggered him. She said it's like her body's betraying her, making people think something about her that she doesn't feel. It's as if her genes are sending out secret signals to strangers that she doesn't understand or want. She told him she can feel it work through her, worm and waft through her pores like some huge, uncontrollable ancient power inside. It makes her feel raw, ripped open and bleeding, while the world licks its lips.

Kyle hungers for her. He wonders if part of him always will. But he won't—refuses to—be that guy, one more person tearing away at her, thrusting his desires and expectations onto her at the expense of her own, whether she wants it or not.

He clutches the counter, letting its edge cut into his fingers. Leaning in so close to the machine he feels its heat on his face, he lets the strong scent of coffee fill his nose, his lungs, his soul, and breathes...

To read the rest, check out my Patreon Exclusive political erotica novel “Open Season.” 

Sometimes it really sucks being female. 

Especially for Juli, an alien woman going through a mating cycle that causes all genetically compatible persons to be irresistibly attracted to her—whether she or they want it. But she’s able to cope, with the love and support of her partners, Kyle and Dona.

Until an anti-alien vote threatens the life they’ve built together.

Can humans and aliens find love in a world determined to keep them apart?

Saturday, October 31, 2020

In Media Res: YOU In the Midst of Things Release Day!

Taking Pleasure in Making You Pay - 
Part Two
Read Part One Here

Check out my story “POS” in this unique anthology from the Sexy Librarian. IN MEDIAS RES puts YOU ‘In the Midst of Things.’ It’s a collection of erotic stories unlike any other. Curated by Rose Caraway, host of the Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast, you will connect with desire and fantasy in a whole new way through tales told in the second-person perspective. Partake in every moment as YOU are cast as the main character in each of these stories.

1.)BASIC TRAINING by Rachel Kramer Bussel:
The phone rings, and you know by the sound that it’s your Dom. He wants you, his prized submissive, available tomorrow. He’s sending his limo to pick you up early to bring you to his luxurious estate. His plans? A challenge—featuring you, five strangers, and the fulfillment of your fantasies. You will be graded on your performance.

Dr. Bixby-Charles is a goddess of a woman who outclasses you in every way. She’s been your tutor since Freshman year. Over these last four years, she’s given you an appreciation for the arts, culture, and Jazz—not to mention countless secret erotic fantasies. But now, you’re graduating, and it’s time to say good-bye to the boy you were and hello to the man you want to become.

3.)POS by Sonni de Soto:
You and your husband have learned a lot about one another, playing out sex scenes at home. You’ve tackled some pretty tricky topics and dealt with intense emotions along the way, which has allowed trust and adventure to blossom in your relationship; it’s become your cornerstone—your foundation. Now, you’ve invited a long-time friend to play out a particularly vicious scene with you. Can you three handle it?

4.)UNDER THE LANDSLIDE by Jade A. Waters:
He’s at your doorstep, and he’s not supposed to be. What you both feel is very real, and it impels you to come together again and again. It’s a tangled mess—obsession, moral conflict, knowing there’s no future with him. But, hard as you try, there’s just no getting around the undeniable passion you both feel. Last time was supposed to be the last time.

5.)ODONTE by Tamsin Flowers:
Kit McIntyre is the best Shakespearean actor of his generation, and he’s your husband. He commands the stage with every performance while you, his biggest cheerleader, stay in the dressing room with Odonte, a handsome, worldly man…and your best friend. Odonte has many stories to tell, in particular, a provocative tale about your illustrious husband.

6.)DOVE SONG by Rose Caraway:
It’s 1880. Your Mistress has been dead a year. It’s fallen to you to run Wineman House, and it’s “redeemed whores” with an iron fist, just as you vowed. Guests are to arrive soon—their bids have been placed. You know that promise means denying your pleasures and predilections, as well as losing the girls you’ve grown to care for—especially Mae, your feisty, freckled love, and Martha, your devoted housemaid who wants nothing more than to bask in your carnal eminence. And then there’s Samuel Fairaway, the mansion’s renowned gunslinger, whom you’ve shared a particular brand of violence with, in private sessions.
Wineman House’s loathsome handyman, Ben, has been slingin’ back whiskey all morning, and he wants to be sure you will keep your promise.

7.)YAN, TAN, TETHERA, METHERA by Janine Ashbless:
Papa Xanto is the biggest, dirtiest, most formidable troll down in the warren, and you, his most revered human ‘yow.’ You have been just as dedicated to your intense breeding-tutelage as Pappa has been. Your nestmates are jealous of your many silver piercings, bracelets, chains, and rings, but you are most proud of your girthy, carved ivory tail-plug—having trained so hard to be able to take something the size of an adult troll’s pizzle. Today, Papa Xanto is taking you to the tup-fair to find you a suitable human sire. More than anything, you want to bring your Papa offspring and honor.

Available Now On 

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Saturday, July 4, 2020

Love in Lock Down Patreon Series

*Okay, so awhile back, I said that romance/erotica writers SHOULD write more stories that portray and encourage mask-wearing. So I wrote a series of #MaskUp romance stories. They're available for FREE on my Patreon, so head on over and check them out:

Running Hot - Stir-crazed social distancing make libidos run hot.
Be Mine, Sweet Quaran-tine - Quarantine is better with a coworker with benefits.

Mask Marketing - Masks make for great protection, so do girlfriends.

Read My Lips - Not even quarantine can stop a crush.

Sent With Love - Sending love letters brings us closer, even when we're far apart.