elsewhere_and
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Hey all...so a short time ago (loljk it was 14 years ago), I wrote a story called She. It was an attempt to write from a woman's perspective. The response was pretty positive, and since then I've been quietly developing a set of stories. I've recently been convinced to publish them.
Below is a lil' sample of the first one I've published. And the link is...like right here: The Devil's Touch
Canadian Amazon: The Devil's Touch
I don't love changing the original title The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, but whatever. In keeping, however, this story was also a request. And a brilliant friend of mine did the cover.
However! In order to get over a particular algorithm-shaped hump, I was hoping to enlist the help of a few people. If you'd be interested in writing a review I'd be happy to transfer you the cost of the purchase. It'd bump sales, and reviews have a big effect on Amazon. The only catch is that you need to have purchased stuff recently on Amazon.
DM for details.
And thanks to anyone who just wants to buy it and give it a read. Any reviews would be amazing, as are you all.
Take care
elsewhere_
And here's that sample:
The Devil’s Touch
Or
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
By Lexi Darling (oh the lolz)
Brea watched his fingers. He was tapping something crimson and slender. He lifted it to his mouth, and she saw a pink glimpse of tongue as he opened his lips. He drew deeply and exhaled slowly. The smoke didn’t billow but crept like tendrils from between his lips, falling downwards, reddish and thick. A rich, cinnamon smell drifted towards her.
The music in the bar, a middle-concept place called Caerula, changed into something with a heavier bass. It thumped against her heart, moved her hips.
The smoke reached her, still with its strange reddish tinge. She wondered if it was somehow reflecting the red lights behind the bar. The smoke moved across her skin as if it was its own wind. Wherever it touched, her skin began to tingle.
Brea had come to that club, Caerula, to tease. She had felt like washing her week away with the tantalizing buzz of men’s gazes. Low cut, thin dress, no panties. The combination allowed her to walk about, sometimes giving the flesh of her liberated ass a gentle shimmy, generating a hawt charge that would draw in many energizing stares. She wanted nothing from the poor adorants, though; gracefully avoiding their fumbling advances so as to gracefully avoid their fumbling gropes. They might spank one off to her later, but she would leave alone, having drunk the liqueur of horny attention.
That’s what she had wanted.
But she had been subtly watching the man in the dark suit for some time. Several women had approached him. One blonde leaned against the bar next to him, waiting for him to notice her, but if he saw her, no one knew it. Brea had an unexpectedly terrible moment when two clearly drunk women, both sporting a significant amount of cleavage, spoke directly to him. They were all over each other, and it looked like one asked him to join them in a drink. When he looked at them, but didn’t respond, one of them nestled a shot glass of amber something into her friend’s tits. The man in black lifted his glass off the bar and clinked it against the nested shot. He smiled, seemingly pleased, and that was the end of their exchange. Shortly thereafter, the women went on their own way to have noisy sex in the ladies’ room.
Brea had no way of discerning exactly what this man’s allure was. She couldn’t make out his face, but its edges indicated that he wasn’t unhandsome. His motions indicated that he was graceful. But he never moved from his corner at the far end of the bar. He never spoke, nor did his eyes search for any gazes. Not once did he bother to make direct eye contact with anyone the whole evening, sitting instead with unfocused eyes and an air of contemplation.
But every time a sexy new pounding rose from the speakers into the air of the bar, some woman or another would ripple with an unspeakable shiver and turn to gaze longingly at him.
Brea, though…she wasn’t subject to any of these passing whims. He was the first person she noticed that night and had ignored him entirely. Save the quiet, subtle watching.
Until, quite suddenly, as a slow throbbing bass rolled a new song over her body, she realized that he was staring at her. His full, basilisk gaze bore down on her.
She blushed furiously.
And in a pulse, her sex was filled with warmth and wetness.
She blinked and shook herself once, picking up her purse just to have something to do with her hands. Then she remembered her drink which made much more sense as something to occupy her hands; it was easier to strike a confident pose with a drink than while clutching a purse. But when she looked up again, he was gone.
She had already struck her cool pose, though, so she used it to mask the wash of disappointment.
And then something tickled the insides of her biceps.
It was quite the unexpected shock. She giggled and looked down to see wisps of reddish smoke rolling out from between her body and her biceps. She lifted her arms out of the wisps but moving through them tickled. She giggled again. The tickling had brought a shame-blush to her cheeks, and she nervously scanned the room to see if anyone saw her breathless giggle; to see if anyone could tell what the tickling had done to her.
With a swallow of horror, she realized that, somehow, the man in black was behind her.
“Sorry…is my smoking bothering you?”
“That’s not a cigarette,” she said, hearing the awkward in her voice.
“No,” he replied as he tipped it away from his face to examine it curiously. “No, it isn’t.”
“It smells so good.”
“Would you like to try it?”
“Is it weed?”
“The plant from which this came would be most offended if you called it a weed.”
“Your cigarette has feelings?”
“Everything has feelings. And it’s not a cigarette.” His eyes gave a quick and polite search of her person. “You look,” he cocked an eyebrow, “flustered.” He drew out the ‘s’ of ‘flustered’ and flicked the ‘t’ off his tongue like a snake.
“No, no…not at all.”
The tickling had had its effect, though. She was now breathing harder and felt her wetness anew. And the presence of the man in black was like a forcefield pressing against her body; making her feel the thinness of her dress.
Brea felt like she was losing ground. It didn’t help that he had turned away again. She had not decided whether she wanted any part of this fellow; watching him was, she told herself, simply a matter of social interest. But it couldn’t be denied that losing his attention would not stand.
He tilted his head, examining something by the door.
“Why would I be flustered?” she asked, ready to turn away as soon as the insult hit home. “Is there something special about you I should-”
That’s all she got out before he turned his basilisk eyes on her again. There were pinpricks of red in their depths, and his gazed skewered straight through her body, and she could do nothing but stare at those red sparks. Her head gave the slightest bounce as she was stunned.
He pulled another drag, and she involuntarily opened her mouth to taste more of the smell. His jaw lowered, and the scarlet rivulets of fog rose over his teeth and down the front of his body. It drifted towards her. Its tendrils caressed her wrists, and she let out a giggle. She involuntarily shimmied her bum, but otherwise couldn’t move. The smoke fell deep into her cleavage, and she squirmed, opening her mouth further to suck in air.
The man in black put a hand on her knee. Brea suddenly realized that wearing a skirt as satiny as this one was without panties was asking for trouble. She knew that one cool breeze would demolish her will. Her plan of becoming the all-powerful tease was crumbling. The man in black pushed the satin back only a couple inches, but the red smoke creeped up her thighs.
Brea had gone from maintaining her air of disinterest to near panic in a matter of seconds. “Please,” she said, not caring that it was impossible for smoke to bend the laws of physics, nor caring that she was giving up most of her power in the exchange. “Please…don’t.”
But the smoke was already tickling its way down the insides of her thighs.
She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and crushed them under her fingers, inadvertently pulling him closer.
The red pinpricks in his eyes danced again.
He leaned into her, almost cheek to cheek, lips to her ear.
Her whole body tightened at the touch, ready to shiver.
He spoke silver notes into her, “Tell me a secret.”
“Oh my go-”
Brea found herself sitting in a classroom surrounded by other students. She blinked once and, just that like, this was her new reality.
Mr. Book was walking back and forth before the rows of desks. His clever, trimmed voice keeping the class engaged. He loosened his tie and his considerable chest expanded as he took in a new breath.
She felt warm, turned-on. Almost luscious. She investigated her own body. She was wearing a school uniform, and she remembered how limiting, how binding her school uniforms were. She ran her hands down the front of her body, trying to work out some of the warm pressure she was feeling.
“Miss Brea?” There was expectation, nearly accusation in the voice. Hearing her name triggered a shiver.
Mr. Book was staring at her with his dark eyes, eyebrows raised. Everyone in the room was watching. She looked around guiltily. “Did I do something?”
Brea realized that her hands were still on her body. She quickly dropped them to her sides, then flipped them onto her desk, folding her hands. Her skin began tingling. She could feel her pulse in between her legs.
Mr. Book walked slowly towards her seat; his lean body almost undulating, wolf-like. His chest was more full than she remembered. With every step he took, her skin tightened more and more until, when he was standing above her, she thought she might just pop, constricting uniform or no.
“I asked you a question,” he said, tilting his head sideways, examining her.
She flushed again, tried to breathe under the pressure of his eyes. His fingers were spread out on her desk.
“The Devil?” she said. “The archetype most common in American folk tales is the Devil?”
He didn’t smile. His stare just grew more penetrating.
A dream inside a dream, she wished more than anything that he would just reach down and slip his hand under her kilt.
“While that may or may not be true,” he said sternly, “It’s not at all the answer to the question I asked you.”
She exhaled a quick gasp, breathing the words ‘oh god’ off her lips.
“What I asked you, was…is there something important in your diary there that is keeping you distracted in my class?”
She looked down and her heart leapt into her throat.
“I’m sorry, sir…I’m so sorry…I didn’t…this isn’t my-”
In deep blue ink she had unconsciously doodled dozens of feathers into her diary, which was for some reason open on her desk. On the opposite page, written in bright, incriminating red, was, “my most ticklish spots are probably my neck, hips, ass, and thighs. Armpits are my favourite, tickling them compares to oral sex”
Shame drizzled like cold crushed ice all over her body.
“Please, sir…this isn’t…it’s not mine…please”
“Stand up, please, Brea.”
A ripple went through her classmates. Something terrible was about to happen. He walked to stand in front of the blackboard.
“Please don’t make me.”
“Now.”
She stood up, the cold shame rolling down her back. It trickled under her kilt and down her ass. She shuddered as she stood up straight and walked to the front of the room. The tingling on her skin had turned into a rush of cool electricity.
“Turn around. Face the class.”
She could feel her whole body turning red; embarrassment flooding her skin scarlet. All of her classmates’ eyes watched her every move, her every shiver. Her sex was pounding like a heart.
From behind her, Mr. Book spoke sternly, “I expect students to listen in my class.”
“Yes, sir.”
She felt him moving behind her. Her mind was tearing itself in two. Half of her wanted to curl into a ball and disappear, but the other half was screaming for anything oh god anything at all to touch her throbbing pussy.
But even if they weren’t in front of dozens of students, Brea knew that he wouldn’t touch her. She had written several assignments with seductive themes. She had leaned over friends’ desks with her ass facing him, feeling the fringes of her skirt tickle her midway up her ass. She had even presented a power point to the class that included a St. Andrew’s cross. Again and again she asked him for help with wide eyes and parted lips. But he didn’t even seem to notice her. Until now.
“Are you listening, Miss Brea?”
His breath on her neck made her cry out. She clasped her hands over her mouth. Several male students at the back of the room snickered. She shut her eyes.
“Hands down, Miss Brea. And eyes open.”
“Please, I’m listening. Can I sit down please?”
“Undo your shirt, Miss Brea.”
“Wh-what?” she stuttered. Her mouth had betrayed a very quick, pained smile so that the question came out sounding like a laugh.
“I told you to unbutton your shirt.”
She started to turn around, not sure what she was going to say; perhaps beg him not to, perhaps to plead with her eyes. But his hand clamped down on her shoulder firmly. His grip prevented her from turning away from the eyes of the room.
“You were touching yourself while I was teaching. And now you’re going to share with the class what keeps you so distracted.”
The finality of his tone closed her eyes for her. Whimpering, she reached up and fumble felt for the topmost button of her blouse. She felt it pop under her fingers, so she reached for another. And another. The cool air served the skin of her breasts into goosebumps. Her head clouded with the screaming sensations of her skin and the thunder in her pussy. It caused her fingers to fumble even worse.
“How many?”
“All of them, Miss Brea.”
She plucked the last buttons, and her shirt fell open, and the flush of her skin was exposed to the class.
A blonde girl in the front row shifted down in her seat. She was staring entranced at Brea, and her hand was working furiously under her skirt. She reached up and, mouth open, clearly crushed one of her nipples.
“Untuck it.”
She hung her head and pull the material from inside her kilt.
“Arms up, Miss Brea.”
She lifted her arms into the air, exposing the sweet, shivering skin there.
She felt Mr. Book move right up behind her and then his touch on the undersides of her arms.
Her face contorted into a grimace and her whole world became a single thought oh god if he tickles me if he tickles my underarms if he tickles me I’ll die
Below is a lil' sample of the first one I've published. And the link is...like right here: The Devil's Touch
Canadian Amazon: The Devil's Touch
I don't love changing the original title The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, but whatever. In keeping, however, this story was also a request. And a brilliant friend of mine did the cover.
However! In order to get over a particular algorithm-shaped hump, I was hoping to enlist the help of a few people. If you'd be interested in writing a review I'd be happy to transfer you the cost of the purchase. It'd bump sales, and reviews have a big effect on Amazon. The only catch is that you need to have purchased stuff recently on Amazon.
DM for details.
And thanks to anyone who just wants to buy it and give it a read. Any reviews would be amazing, as are you all.
Take care
elsewhere_
And here's that sample:
The Devil’s Touch
Or
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
By Lexi Darling (oh the lolz)
Brea watched his fingers. He was tapping something crimson and slender. He lifted it to his mouth, and she saw a pink glimpse of tongue as he opened his lips. He drew deeply and exhaled slowly. The smoke didn’t billow but crept like tendrils from between his lips, falling downwards, reddish and thick. A rich, cinnamon smell drifted towards her.
The music in the bar, a middle-concept place called Caerula, changed into something with a heavier bass. It thumped against her heart, moved her hips.
The smoke reached her, still with its strange reddish tinge. She wondered if it was somehow reflecting the red lights behind the bar. The smoke moved across her skin as if it was its own wind. Wherever it touched, her skin began to tingle.
Brea had come to that club, Caerula, to tease. She had felt like washing her week away with the tantalizing buzz of men’s gazes. Low cut, thin dress, no panties. The combination allowed her to walk about, sometimes giving the flesh of her liberated ass a gentle shimmy, generating a hawt charge that would draw in many energizing stares. She wanted nothing from the poor adorants, though; gracefully avoiding their fumbling advances so as to gracefully avoid their fumbling gropes. They might spank one off to her later, but she would leave alone, having drunk the liqueur of horny attention.
That’s what she had wanted.
But she had been subtly watching the man in the dark suit for some time. Several women had approached him. One blonde leaned against the bar next to him, waiting for him to notice her, but if he saw her, no one knew it. Brea had an unexpectedly terrible moment when two clearly drunk women, both sporting a significant amount of cleavage, spoke directly to him. They were all over each other, and it looked like one asked him to join them in a drink. When he looked at them, but didn’t respond, one of them nestled a shot glass of amber something into her friend’s tits. The man in black lifted his glass off the bar and clinked it against the nested shot. He smiled, seemingly pleased, and that was the end of their exchange. Shortly thereafter, the women went on their own way to have noisy sex in the ladies’ room.
Brea had no way of discerning exactly what this man’s allure was. She couldn’t make out his face, but its edges indicated that he wasn’t unhandsome. His motions indicated that he was graceful. But he never moved from his corner at the far end of the bar. He never spoke, nor did his eyes search for any gazes. Not once did he bother to make direct eye contact with anyone the whole evening, sitting instead with unfocused eyes and an air of contemplation.
But every time a sexy new pounding rose from the speakers into the air of the bar, some woman or another would ripple with an unspeakable shiver and turn to gaze longingly at him.
Brea, though…she wasn’t subject to any of these passing whims. He was the first person she noticed that night and had ignored him entirely. Save the quiet, subtle watching.
Until, quite suddenly, as a slow throbbing bass rolled a new song over her body, she realized that he was staring at her. His full, basilisk gaze bore down on her.
She blushed furiously.
And in a pulse, her sex was filled with warmth and wetness.
She blinked and shook herself once, picking up her purse just to have something to do with her hands. Then she remembered her drink which made much more sense as something to occupy her hands; it was easier to strike a confident pose with a drink than while clutching a purse. But when she looked up again, he was gone.
She had already struck her cool pose, though, so she used it to mask the wash of disappointment.
And then something tickled the insides of her biceps.
It was quite the unexpected shock. She giggled and looked down to see wisps of reddish smoke rolling out from between her body and her biceps. She lifted her arms out of the wisps but moving through them tickled. She giggled again. The tickling had brought a shame-blush to her cheeks, and she nervously scanned the room to see if anyone saw her breathless giggle; to see if anyone could tell what the tickling had done to her.
With a swallow of horror, she realized that, somehow, the man in black was behind her.
“Sorry…is my smoking bothering you?”
“That’s not a cigarette,” she said, hearing the awkward in her voice.
“No,” he replied as he tipped it away from his face to examine it curiously. “No, it isn’t.”
“It smells so good.”
“Would you like to try it?”
“Is it weed?”
“The plant from which this came would be most offended if you called it a weed.”
“Your cigarette has feelings?”
“Everything has feelings. And it’s not a cigarette.” His eyes gave a quick and polite search of her person. “You look,” he cocked an eyebrow, “flustered.” He drew out the ‘s’ of ‘flustered’ and flicked the ‘t’ off his tongue like a snake.
“No, no…not at all.”
The tickling had had its effect, though. She was now breathing harder and felt her wetness anew. And the presence of the man in black was like a forcefield pressing against her body; making her feel the thinness of her dress.
Brea felt like she was losing ground. It didn’t help that he had turned away again. She had not decided whether she wanted any part of this fellow; watching him was, she told herself, simply a matter of social interest. But it couldn’t be denied that losing his attention would not stand.
He tilted his head, examining something by the door.
“Why would I be flustered?” she asked, ready to turn away as soon as the insult hit home. “Is there something special about you I should-”
That’s all she got out before he turned his basilisk eyes on her again. There were pinpricks of red in their depths, and his gazed skewered straight through her body, and she could do nothing but stare at those red sparks. Her head gave the slightest bounce as she was stunned.
He pulled another drag, and she involuntarily opened her mouth to taste more of the smell. His jaw lowered, and the scarlet rivulets of fog rose over his teeth and down the front of his body. It drifted towards her. Its tendrils caressed her wrists, and she let out a giggle. She involuntarily shimmied her bum, but otherwise couldn’t move. The smoke fell deep into her cleavage, and she squirmed, opening her mouth further to suck in air.
The man in black put a hand on her knee. Brea suddenly realized that wearing a skirt as satiny as this one was without panties was asking for trouble. She knew that one cool breeze would demolish her will. Her plan of becoming the all-powerful tease was crumbling. The man in black pushed the satin back only a couple inches, but the red smoke creeped up her thighs.
Brea had gone from maintaining her air of disinterest to near panic in a matter of seconds. “Please,” she said, not caring that it was impossible for smoke to bend the laws of physics, nor caring that she was giving up most of her power in the exchange. “Please…don’t.”
But the smoke was already tickling its way down the insides of her thighs.
She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and crushed them under her fingers, inadvertently pulling him closer.
The red pinpricks in his eyes danced again.
He leaned into her, almost cheek to cheek, lips to her ear.
Her whole body tightened at the touch, ready to shiver.
He spoke silver notes into her, “Tell me a secret.”
“Oh my go-”
Brea found herself sitting in a classroom surrounded by other students. She blinked once and, just that like, this was her new reality.
Mr. Book was walking back and forth before the rows of desks. His clever, trimmed voice keeping the class engaged. He loosened his tie and his considerable chest expanded as he took in a new breath.
She felt warm, turned-on. Almost luscious. She investigated her own body. She was wearing a school uniform, and she remembered how limiting, how binding her school uniforms were. She ran her hands down the front of her body, trying to work out some of the warm pressure she was feeling.
“Miss Brea?” There was expectation, nearly accusation in the voice. Hearing her name triggered a shiver.
Mr. Book was staring at her with his dark eyes, eyebrows raised. Everyone in the room was watching. She looked around guiltily. “Did I do something?”
Brea realized that her hands were still on her body. She quickly dropped them to her sides, then flipped them onto her desk, folding her hands. Her skin began tingling. She could feel her pulse in between her legs.
Mr. Book walked slowly towards her seat; his lean body almost undulating, wolf-like. His chest was more full than she remembered. With every step he took, her skin tightened more and more until, when he was standing above her, she thought she might just pop, constricting uniform or no.
“I asked you a question,” he said, tilting his head sideways, examining her.
She flushed again, tried to breathe under the pressure of his eyes. His fingers were spread out on her desk.
“The Devil?” she said. “The archetype most common in American folk tales is the Devil?”
He didn’t smile. His stare just grew more penetrating.
A dream inside a dream, she wished more than anything that he would just reach down and slip his hand under her kilt.
“While that may or may not be true,” he said sternly, “It’s not at all the answer to the question I asked you.”
She exhaled a quick gasp, breathing the words ‘oh god’ off her lips.
“What I asked you, was…is there something important in your diary there that is keeping you distracted in my class?”
She looked down and her heart leapt into her throat.
“I’m sorry, sir…I’m so sorry…I didn’t…this isn’t my-”
In deep blue ink she had unconsciously doodled dozens of feathers into her diary, which was for some reason open on her desk. On the opposite page, written in bright, incriminating red, was, “my most ticklish spots are probably my neck, hips, ass, and thighs. Armpits are my favourite, tickling them compares to oral sex”
Shame drizzled like cold crushed ice all over her body.
“Please, sir…this isn’t…it’s not mine…please”
“Stand up, please, Brea.”
A ripple went through her classmates. Something terrible was about to happen. He walked to stand in front of the blackboard.
“Please don’t make me.”
“Now.”
She stood up, the cold shame rolling down her back. It trickled under her kilt and down her ass. She shuddered as she stood up straight and walked to the front of the room. The tingling on her skin had turned into a rush of cool electricity.
“Turn around. Face the class.”
She could feel her whole body turning red; embarrassment flooding her skin scarlet. All of her classmates’ eyes watched her every move, her every shiver. Her sex was pounding like a heart.
From behind her, Mr. Book spoke sternly, “I expect students to listen in my class.”
“Yes, sir.”
She felt him moving behind her. Her mind was tearing itself in two. Half of her wanted to curl into a ball and disappear, but the other half was screaming for anything oh god anything at all to touch her throbbing pussy.
But even if they weren’t in front of dozens of students, Brea knew that he wouldn’t touch her. She had written several assignments with seductive themes. She had leaned over friends’ desks with her ass facing him, feeling the fringes of her skirt tickle her midway up her ass. She had even presented a power point to the class that included a St. Andrew’s cross. Again and again she asked him for help with wide eyes and parted lips. But he didn’t even seem to notice her. Until now.
“Are you listening, Miss Brea?”
His breath on her neck made her cry out. She clasped her hands over her mouth. Several male students at the back of the room snickered. She shut her eyes.
“Hands down, Miss Brea. And eyes open.”
“Please, I’m listening. Can I sit down please?”
“Undo your shirt, Miss Brea.”
“Wh-what?” she stuttered. Her mouth had betrayed a very quick, pained smile so that the question came out sounding like a laugh.
“I told you to unbutton your shirt.”
She started to turn around, not sure what she was going to say; perhaps beg him not to, perhaps to plead with her eyes. But his hand clamped down on her shoulder firmly. His grip prevented her from turning away from the eyes of the room.
“You were touching yourself while I was teaching. And now you’re going to share with the class what keeps you so distracted.”
The finality of his tone closed her eyes for her. Whimpering, she reached up and fumble felt for the topmost button of her blouse. She felt it pop under her fingers, so she reached for another. And another. The cool air served the skin of her breasts into goosebumps. Her head clouded with the screaming sensations of her skin and the thunder in her pussy. It caused her fingers to fumble even worse.
“How many?”
“All of them, Miss Brea.”
She plucked the last buttons, and her shirt fell open, and the flush of her skin was exposed to the class.
A blonde girl in the front row shifted down in her seat. She was staring entranced at Brea, and her hand was working furiously under her skirt. She reached up and, mouth open, clearly crushed one of her nipples.
“Untuck it.”
She hung her head and pull the material from inside her kilt.
“Arms up, Miss Brea.”
She lifted her arms into the air, exposing the sweet, shivering skin there.
She felt Mr. Book move right up behind her and then his touch on the undersides of her arms.
Her face contorted into a grimace and her whole world became a single thought oh god if he tickles me if he tickles my underarms if he tickles me I’ll die
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