Friday, August 31, 2007


It's still dark as I crawl awake through the murkiness of sleep. Within the confines of the bedroom, the furniture hunch like ghostly silhouettes. Familiar forms huddled together in their customary places.
The voice is loud. My eyes snap open wider. I am alone on this large bed snuggled under the sheets against the cool draft from the open window.
Usually the voices inside my head chitter away incessantly like ninnies at a bridge table. Occasionally one of them will turn around to address me directly, but never this early in the morning. But today, in the cool of the morning, this voice which is as familiar as a lover's kiss, yet as fleeting as a butterflies breath, strokes the back of my mind like long delicate fingers.
The stereo clicks on. Diffused light from the dial washes the wall in a blue glow. Soft strains of violins and pianos float through the air. 6:00 a.m. The coffee machine gurgles and spits. It won't be long before the heady aroma wafts in through the open bedroom door to nudge me fully awake.

Coffee in hand, I open the door leading out to the back yard allowing the cold tendrils of a late summer morning air to slip through inside. The temperature gauge says 14C. Quietness and solitude hang like drapes among the trees. Dew twinkles along the blades of the grass in the waning moonlight. 6:14 a.m. Soon the sun will be up. I can almost feel her hand creeping around my waist. Soft breasts will be pressed against my back. Her warm breath will caress my neck. Today, work awaits.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

The Curse

Help me I don't know what I'm doing
Help me before I fall to ruin
And if I'm blind, I will lead you on
Come follow me now, before our time is gone

And as you're laughing at this fool tonight
Let me rid myself of any line that I might use to trip you up
And as I'm howling at the moonlight, don't you kid yourself
I will be your luck and never your curse

Help me I don't know what I'm saying
Sometimes this tongue can be betraying
And if I'm wrong, is that such a crime?
And if you want, you can set my words to right

And as you're laughing at this fool tonight
Let me rid myself of any line that I might use to trip you up
And as I'm howling at the moonlight, don't you kid yourself
I will be your luck

And if your eyes forget to well
And if your lies forget to tell
And if our paths forget to cross
It doesn't mean you're lost

So as you're laughing at this fool tonight
Let me rid myself of any line that I might use to trip you up
And as I'm howling at the moonlight, don't you kid yourself
I will be your luck

If you're laughing at this fool tonight
Let me rid myself of any line that I might use to trip you up
And as I'm howling at the moonlight, don't you kid yourself
I will be your luck
Cause even at my worst
I will be your luck
never be your curse

Words: Chris Cornell
Music: Audioslave

Saturday, August 25, 2007

buyer beware - Chapter 2, Part I

The glinting flash of silver disappeared into the dark confines of her right pocket. The dagger would not be needed. Her long slender fingers now bare, empty void of a weapon. Her nostrils slightly flared from fear but this was part of the game. She did well to hide the slight tremble of her hands from him along with the tremor that quivered up her inner thighs, like a jolt of electricity. She raised a bemused brow in his direction, green eyes fathomless in their depth stared intently at the figure before her. She flicked a tongue across her lips which curled with a small countenance of annoyance at having her 'short cut' interrupted. red, painted thusly so as the frown toyed deeper. With a deep intake of breath, her breasts swelled once again testing the confines of the tight black lace blouse. Her already sensitive nipples hardened as the air between them crackled from an unseen force. She knew instantly that this evening would never be the same again. Raking her eyes over him from head to knee, from what she could see; same height thereabouts, he did not seem to pose too much of a threat. But then again her Mother had raised no fool. One can not judge a book by its cover. She relaxed her features, though she appeared passive, the edge to her glare still said 'Beware.'

"Dirk indeed. And I hope sharp enough to get the point?" She couldn't help but poked fun at the reference of his name and what it meant. Perhaps here was one that she would enjoy toying with, like a cat with a new object of obsession. Hopefully he had brains as well to go along with that charming sneer. Her mind drifted back to the last one she had played with; was wonderful but Hades forbids, he had opened his mouth, and well, that was the end of that. She rolled her eyes in thought, as a caustic sarcastic expression graced her alabaster features.

She had let his name roll off of her tongue, adding an almost tangible note that hung rigid and erect in the air betwixt them. She gave the appearance of being docile now, as it to throw him off her scent; he seemed like a wolf on the prowl on the scent of some quarry. An easy mark or victim she was not. Already the distance between them was charged with an unseen force that would make a mere mortals hair at the nape of his neck stand upon end. Taking her time in answering him, for it was proper to be polite, she was not rude. Uncouth perhaps, but never ever rude.

"Good evening, but You have not earned that right to know my name. Namesakes are a powerful tool. And in the wrong hands........". Again that tinge of an alien accent. She shrugged not finishing her sentence letting him come to that of his own conclusions. She felt aloof, hard to handle now. Her moods usually shifted like that of the weather, hot to cold, stormy to placid, if one did not like what they had, wait ten minutes she was bound to change. It changed now. She took two steps forward closing the distance and as she moved the breeze rolled over the forsaken earth. The long forgotten untamed grasses swayed and undulated at her merest of movements. With a slight look of askance tainted across her face as she held her arms akimbo taking an arrogant stance now with him. The bottom of the trench coat flickered and billowed gently in the breeze, showing long tapered honed legs from miles of endless walking encased in black patent leather boots. The striking stainless steel heels ominously caught the shifting moon light above filtering in through the canopy of twisted tree branches. He stood slightly taller then her, almost as if he was on a pedestal. She had to tilt her head back ever so slightly to see his shadowed features. She growled low and deep to her self, almost sulking at not being able to have a clearer view.

"You may call me whatever you wish Dirk, only the privileged know of my name. Perhaps you will. In time." The arrogant tone, the lifted chin, the upturned slightly hooded eyes daring him. Perhaps she was pushing limits, which already seemed to have reached it's zenith. She took two more steps closer. Now she was within his reach if he should lunge at her. But she already knew he would not. He was a charmer. Libertine. One that would twist and curve the words to his advantage. "I hope this does not anger you?" She said in a tone that at another time would have gotten her face slapped. The sarcasm, sheer insubordination and defiance barely scratched the surface. She almost hoped he would just sulk back into the woods with his tail between his legs. Yet half of her enjoyed this little encounter this night. She drew a breath and huffed almost disparagingly, still playing the part...

©two bucks, inc.

Monday, August 20, 2007


"Yes", her voice carried along the fragrant wisps of tea tree oil is soft and inviting. There is a pause in the sound of splashing.
Pushing open the door further, my eyes take a moment to adjust. The bathroom is lit only by the flickering tongues of candles placed strategically by the tub. In the darkness, her pale white body glows not unlike a chimera. She is seated upright, her bright eyes focused directly at me.
She invites me to sit on the edge.
"Have you come to wash my back?"
"I have other ideas, but yes I would wash your back as well"
She hands me the cloth. The strong smell of lavender rising from the bath water. I dip my fingers into the murky water. It's cool to the touch. She likes it tepid almost to the point of cold. I run the tips of my fingers up along the inside of her thigh all the way to the deep vee of her snatch. I brush the back of my fingers along the small hairs of her tightly trimmed bush. It's just the way I like it - I like the way it tickles my nose and scratches against the tip of my tongue. I remember how the ends glisten like twinkling stars when mixed with her juices and my spit. She jerks in reaction drawing in a hissing breath the bath water sloshing once again within the confines of the tub. I pick up the terry cloth...

Saturday, August 18, 2007

a longing

Winters icy tendrils slip through the open window to curl around the bedroom floor. It won't be long now before this city is gripped within it's cold fingers. He stretches awake, swimming to the surface of awareness with agonizing slowness.
It is dark outside, darker yet within the confines of the room. Rolling over to his left, he reaches out to touch the empty space where once a body lay. Her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her hair like a crimson halo upon the pillow. She would stir with him, tuned to every movement even in her slumber. She would turn to face him, mumbling some secretive words even he does not understand breaking the corona, causing it to ripple along the bed covers like a celestial stream as she turned to face him. Their lips meet. The taste of last nights passion, strong and sweet still lingers. I love you, in unison. She giggles, eyes still closed, one arm resting across his shoulders, nuzzled against his neck.

I miss you My Precious.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

to wait

...absence makes the heart grow fonder, it is told. Being apart is the heart's lesson in humility and fortitude.


Wednesday, August 15, 2007


To be thrilled at the touch of leather,

around by the sound of harsh words,
or satisfied by the security of rigid bondage
is the mark of a lover.

To be thrilled at the opportunity
to provide useful service,
aroused by a pleased nod,
and satisfied by the proverbial job well done,
is the mark of a slave.

It may sound severe. Almost ant-erotic.
Until you see two people, owner and owned,
existing in a complimentary relationship
where each suits the other
like balances on a delicate scale

~Laura Antoniou, The Marketplace

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

well met - Chapter 1, Part IV

Soft hair and a velvet tongue
Wanna give you what you give to me
And every breath that's in your lungs
Is a tiny little gift to me
~The White Stripes (Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground)

He watched her approach. His loins tingled from a long forgotten yearning. A burning hunger which had been repressed after many lifetimes of unfulfilled empty encounters. His heart began to thud in His chest, ragged breath puffing out of his flared nostrils in small wisps. The hairs at the nape of His neck tickled erect like fine-tuned antennae. A smile spawned from the carcasses of a thousand dead souls, curled across his lips. A shadow darkened his features. He flicked his tongue once more across his lips as he scrabbled forward silently, the sounds muffled by the soft moist soil of the freshly dug grave he was crouched on. The warm damp smell of the earth enveloped his senses. Buried memories scrabbled at the back of his mind.
She must have heard something for suddenly a glint of steel flashed in the cool night. His breath snared at the base his throat and he froze with the realization that she was armed.
"Shit!" He swore under his breath. This was an unexpected turn of events, but still within his control nevertheless. It just would not be as easy as he had hoped. His mind flashed back to the last time someone had tried to resist. She had put up quite a fight, impressive for such a petite little thing. He had picked her up up not two blocks from here with promises of a hot meal, a shower and $200 for an hour of his entertainment. She was pretty too, one of the better looking ones, long smooth legs, calves accentuated by high heels in that porn-star sort of way that he enjoyed - flowing blonde hair and small perky breasts. A shame about those breasts really - such pretty pink nipples too. She had finally collapsed like a rag doll in her own puddle, ruining the expensive stockings he had asked her to wear. He mused how her nipples had hardened, pushed out by the terror that had raged through her mind, how her pupils had widened as the madness of her death played like a jagged movie reel behind her eyes.

He shook his head, snapping out of his reverie. There was business at hand and this new woman was walking towards him. He marveled at her stride. Back erect, head held high, measured steps so perfectly in time. He could have composed a symphony

(perhaps a swan song?)

He snickered. But His composure was short-lived as she turned towards him and stopped not more than 3 metres from him. His cock jumped within the tight constraints of his jeans, all feelings of relieving himself again forgotten. An icy hand clamped across his chest, making it hard to breathe and his heart pounded so hard against his rib cage, he was forced to steady himself against the cold hard rock of a nearby headstone. How the fuck did she know he was here! Had she heard something or simply sensed him? Had he spoken out aloud? He cursed silently. His face prickled with anticipation and near awe at the sheer courage this woman displayed. She was different from the others. Stunningly beautiful, now that she was so close, her features were soft and delicately carved yet a hardness lurked beneath the surface. A long neck flowed downwards to an ample bosom that rose and fell with every breath. There was a glimpse of defined cleavage beneath her coat, and he knew instantly how he could use that tight confined space. He slurped at the spittle that almost escaped his lips trying to decide His next move-and then she spoke.

"Be you man or beast..."
The soft lilting sound of her voice, delicately garnished by a thousand years, accented by history, sent a bolt of bright blue electricity through him that he had never felt before. It filled His ears, heavy like honey, viscous as molasses, prickling his face and neck as it surged downwards through his belly to jolt violently against his loins. Slowly the Beast awakened. The rude percussion nudging it from it's deep slumber. It raised it's head and growled, low deep and long. It smelt her fear above the scent of her perfume - Lilac and Lavender, and the tattoo of her nails as it tapped atop the headstone, beat in perfect meter with it's cold dark heart. A deep hunger clawed at it's belly. It was time to feed again.

He stepped out of the shadows on silent feet, the silvery moon cloaking him in a shroud of obscurity as he faced her.
"Good Evening m'lady. Please let me introduce myself". Glancing down at the small weapon in her right hand, his eyes flicked upward to meet her emerald orbs, bright in the reflective moonlight. He bent forwards at the waist sweeping his arm theatrically before him. The shadows did well to hide the smirk that crossed his face, the glint in his eyes matching the reflection of the dirk in her hands.

©two bucks, inc.

Sunday, August 12, 2007


A butterfly
The last to die,
Wings heavily by.
Weighed down with topor.
The air grows sharper;
And the wind in the trees, like some sad harper,
Sits and sorrows with sigh on sigh.
~Madison J. Cawein

Friday, August 10, 2007

the calling - chapter 1, part III

Her hands jammed into the front pockets her fingernails cutting almost half-moons into the delicate flesh of her palms, smooth of callouses, as soft as the petals of a rose. She walked with even steps, her hips rolling left, right, left right, each pointed foot placed perfectly in front of the other. The tattoo of her boot heels echoed amongst the masonry and trees as her passage took her further, deeper into the Cemetery. Iridescent green eyes from beneath long lashes, flicked to the left and right, as she eyed the looming head stones that carved surreal shapes into the rolling fog that enveloped the pathway.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood erect all of a sudden, her nostrils flared in warning as an icy tingle ran down her spine. She quirked a brow stopping, her right hand racing out of her pocket. She was armed. A glinting of silver caught the bedraggled moonlight above as the clouds flitted across the midnight sky. A lady-like dagger, the blade twisted to a fine honed point, the acidic etchings in the blade worn away from age. The hilt of white ivory, rolled fluidly in the palm of her hand as if welcoming an old friend. She continued her walk, her eyes wide open, penetrating the murky darkness that surrounded her, muting her senses, twisting her thoughts. She thought she heard something, her head cocked to the right her gait slowed slightly, but still self assured that she could handle herself. Guttersnipe, cut-throat, vagabond beware, she thought.
Unruly locks of her coppery hair twisted about her alabaster face in which reflected naught of her terror but of her own heightened amusement for she now knew she was not alone. What? Whom? She did not know, but she was going to make sure they got the point first. No pun intended, she sneered to herself. Nipples instantly hardened. Why? She knew not, but the fine points cut into the roughness of the black wool sweater, her breasts testing the tight confines, pulled taunt till the five glass buttons threatened to pop with the strain. Withdrawing her left hand she felt out for the head stones as she now left the path, her boot heels sinking easily into the soft wet earth. Bramble snagged at her legs. She was not as quiet as she wished. A low growl came from her red painted lips as her left hand snaked out onto a weather worn head stone. An Angel, head bowed, wings tilted inwards to shadow the Dead that lay below. Her breasts heaved as she breathed deep. A bitter taste came up over the back of her mouth. Fear. She stopped. Standing bold, upright, shoulders back, she's had enough of this! Her voice was soft as she spoke out, the words traced with an almost ancient lilt that wandered in and out of her words.

"Be you beast or man. Come out now and know outright that I bow to no man or god!"

Head up, chin level, the aristocratic poise was unmistakable. A wolf in sheep's clothing perhaps was she. Her fingernails curled over the top of a head stone ' I. B. Fine' it said in the dim light, the letters chiseled in Roman font into the granite. She began to tap those long tapered fingernails against the hard gray stone, annoyance in each cadence.Twirling the dagger in that of her right hand, the blade glinted silver with each twist.
Unbeknown to her, she had walked almost directly towards him answering a silent calling that had tugged her until she was mere yards away from his presence. There was someone or something lurking in the darkness, she was sure of it. She could feel it's eyes boring into her. She was not afraid. She decided to wait. For the waiting only prolonged the hunt. She waited. And waited...