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Whatever it takes



Time for some new freebies. If you are not afraid to go beyond erotica… not afraid to read what  erotica sites have refused to publish…


if you want to know what a real insider from the BDSM scene let me in on, and how this has inspired my writing


then I have something for you…


(that photo; her face far too cute for naughty business? Naaa. You can’t tell a person’s inclinations just by looking at their face, can you? Now, take me…)

The Lonely Darkness vs The Dark Alone


Who better than a sleepless writer to explain the distinction between the Lonely Darkness and the Dark Alone? Allow me, if you will.

The Lonely Darkness is tossing in bed until your useless, 800-thread-count sheets turn warm with worry and that Tylenol PM bottle—despite you swearing off sleep aids—beckons from the bathroom shelf. The Lonely Darkness is 2:38 am and dreams you can’t return to and the cruel trick of a bone-tired body and a churning mind, hopelessly bad at getting back to sleep, but effortlessly good at remembering affronts and dread diseases that run in your family.

The Lonely Darkness is every fear you’ve had since the pregnancy stick showed a plus sign. It’s teenage children. Their college applications. Your sister’s cancer. That unwritten book. The Lonely Darkness is the insomniac’s principal’s office where you are furious to have been sent yet again, while fully aware that the true punishment will come in your workday, as sleep-deprivation tortures you into stupidity. The Lonely Darkness is your epic demon.

Then there’s The Dark Alone.

The Dark Alone finds you waking up in a house hushed with the silence of a sleeping family. You peek at the clock—5:12 am—and count forward on your fingers from 11:30 pm. What? Six hours if you round up! (And you always round up.) Energized by this rare sleep achievement, you roll out of bed and reach for your sweatpants dropped on the floor the night before. You slip them on in the searing darkness of your bedroom, and, still sightless, feel around for your Rhode Island sweatshirt hanging inside the closet door. If you’re lucky, you can extract two mismatched socks from the clean laundry pile in the corner. If not, you resort to yesterday’s stretched, slightly pungent ones on top of the hamper. Sometimes you even like those better.

Finally, wasting no time, you steal out of the bedroom where your husband, who has missed maybe a dozen nights of sleep in your 21 years together, will not wake up for two more hours. Although he’s spent some time in The Lonely Darkness, he knows nothing of The Dark Alone. This is your territory.

Downstairs you rinse out the only mug you will use at this hour—the cracked purple one your kids painted a decade ago at Clay Dreams—and brew your dark roast (the beans, the heat, the cool dash of cream) that will taste better than absolutely anything else you put to your lips all day. Nearly trippy with gratitude for sleep and caffeine, you will carry your mug to your office, set it on your desk, open your computer.

And there they are, the thoughts, seeded by quiet, watered by dark roast, they grow in the fertile soil of the morning hours. They thrive in The Dark Alone, not unlike the way plants require sun. They vine and flourish. They flower. They fruit.

In the Dark Alone you may only write for one hour, but it is always the most productive hour of your day when nothing comes between you and your words. No one’s worry or radio. No cellphone. No child. In these morning hours, you will be awed by the power of your ideas to bloom, bold and vibrant on the stalk of your genius, growing in size and strength, until all at once the sun, like a burglar, breaks through the crack between shade and window pane. Still tapping away, head bent to the sound of your inner voice, you try to ignore that thin band of brightness, but then you hear an alarm clock upstairs, then another. Soon a symphony of rap and radio and shower noises ensue while you rush to hold onto what is fast slipping away.

Minutes later the light is full up, cast across the to-do list on top of your inbox. Your daughter stumbles downstairs. “We’re out of cereal!” she shouts. And your son needs a ride to early band. Your husband, who only ever wears matching neutrals, wanders into your office. “Does this tie match?” he asks.

“Perfectly,” you assure him. And with those first words, the spell is fully shattered.

“What time did you get up?” he asks.

He winces when you tell him. He doesn’t understand.

With that, you kiss him good-bye, shut your computer, and step beyond the now blurred boundary of The Dark Alone. You toast a frozen waffle for your daughter. You tell your son you’ll drive him. You check your phone. You nibble a cracker. You look at the house, the mess, the clock. The darkness hid a hundred needs, the way the light spares nothing.

Already you miss the Dark Alone, your secret place of creation. You can only hope it will be there again tomorrow.


Sandra Miller‘s essays, articles, and short stories have appeared in over 100 publications including The Boston Sunday Globe Magazine, Spirituality and Health, and Glamour Magazine which produced a short film called “Wait” based on one of her personal essays. Kerry Washington starred. You can find out more at Or, if you happen to be up at 4am, visit her blog,, where Sandra reckons with all things nocturnal.

(originally published in Brevity Magazine)

RAPE! (3)

Time for the third episode of RAPE! I’m in two minds as to whether I should start a whole new blog to feature adult fiction or continue to share it here. I take it my readers are freethinkers, able to laugh at themselves and the world. I take it you all won’t get your knickers in a twist if I don’t stick to what is politically correct. Good. Got that sorted. Let’s move on. Matthew, over to you.


It was a while longer before I again saw Little Miss Defiance.  She had to do her things and I had to do mine before we were to meet the second time.  While she was masturbating to my image and sticking all manner of vegetables into her pussy, I was hanging with my boys, Tic Toc and Macrobiotik.  We were at Bruno’s.
“Is this it?”
Macrobiotik looked at me.  “What do you mean, is this it?”
“Sherman, you promised me this wouldn’t be a sausage fest.”
“It isn’t.”  Sherman motions toward the dance floor.  “There’s like..a seven-to-one ratio out there.”
“Yes, but all those bitches are sasquatches.  Sasquatches don’t count.”
“Show me one sasquatch.”
I point to a very large girl with hairy armpits.  “Sasquatch.”
“Just ‘cause there’s one sasquatch doesn’t mean they’re all sasquatches.”
“Yes it does.  They infect.  I’m going to take a piss.”
I get up.  I can see those motherfuckers later.  Dragging me to this hellhole..sasquatch-breeding motherfucker.  Bruno’s huh?  I think Bruno has a pink dildo up his ass.
I go down this long hallway leading to the bathroom.  There’s a guy and a girl making out.  He’s this academic-looking type, and she has on fishnets, is slightly taller than him, and has a purse slung from her shoulder.  It’s open.  As I walk by I look in the purse and it’s littered with condoms.
I say, “What’s up?”
They both kind of turn and look at me.
“I said what’s up, baby?”  I do this little motion with my hands that’s designed to make a bitch go crazy.
The guy is looking at me like he’s really angry.
I say, “Tell your man to stop looking at me.”
The guy says, “Just leave us alone, ok?”
I keep my eyes on the girl.  “Tell that motherfucker to stop looking at me.”
She puts her hands on his cheeks and turns his head to her.  “Stop looking at him.”  He turns and they’re looking each other in the eyes.
“What’s your boy’s name?”
“He fuck you in the ass?”
She doesn’t say anything.  I’m looking at her body.  She’s got fly legs.  Fly tits.  And a fly-ass face.
“Francis, what do you think you’re doing with a girl like that?  You can’t handle her.”
“And you could?” the girl says.
“Yeah,” I say, and smile.  “What kind of tampons you use, bitch?  Kotex?  Playtex?”
“Let’s go,” the guy says.
But I flash my gun.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say.
“I use OB alright.”
“Super protection?  Extra glide?”
“Super protection.”
“What size?”
“Don’t answer that,” Francis says.
I put my gun to his head.  “Let her answer.”
“Extra smalls,” she says.
“Extra smalls?”  I start to get hard.  “What dorm you live in?”
“Don’t tell him.”
“Francis, do you want to get shot in the head?”
“Crawford.  I live in Crawford.”
“Good.  You two can go.  Be good and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, ok, Francis?”
Then this bitch says, “Don’t you want to know the room number?”
“Why, do you want me to know it?”
Francis says, “Let’s go.”
“Do you want me to come and visit you at night?  I can suck the blood off those extra smalls and stick my dick in your extra-small pussy.  Francis, would that be ok with you?”
The girl says, “Just let us go.”
“No I’d like to hear him say it.  Would it be ok with you, Francis, if I snag your girlfriend’s small-size fishnet cunt and drop a load in it?”
“Yes, it’s fine, can we go now?”
You can tell by the look on fishnet’s face that she’s not happy.
Francis says, “What?”
“You’d let him drop a load in my pussy?”
“I wouldn’t really let him drop a load in your pussy, I just want him to get the gun out of my face and let us go on with our evening.”
“I’m gonna let you do that, Francis.  But I want you to promise me one thing.  When you’re fucking this bitch, I want you to know that I’m there somewhere, over your shoulder maybe, waiting to take over when little miss fishnet here gets tired of your pencil dick.  Ok.  Go on.  Go on!  I’m trying to take a piss here!  Get the fuck out of my face.”
And, gun in hand, I unzip right there and take a piss in the hallway.
On the way back to the bar, this Poindexter-looking dude sees me and he sees the pile of piss.  I give him this hard look and he just keeps going.  “Thought so,” I say.
It’s just Tic Toc, sitting alone.
“Where is Macro?”
“Dancefloor,” Sherman nods.
I look to the dancefloor.  Indeed there is Macrobiotik, dancing with some average-looking girl.
“Is that the girl from his polisci?”
“That’s the girl from his polisci.”
“That’s the reason we came out here?”
“Sherman.  Tic Toc.  What the fuck.  We gotta get out of here.”
“‘Cause I flashed my piece.”
Sherman turns.  “What?”
I shrug.
“What happened?”
“There was this fishnet girl with this gentleman named Francis.  Francis is, shall we say, a cake boy.  Francis has no right being with this piece of hotness.  And then there’s me.  I found out where she lives.  She wears extra-small tampons, super protection.”
“What does that have to do with you flashing your piece?”
“They were actin’ up.”
“Well we have to leave this bar.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’.”
“Before the police get here.”
“I’ll get Macro.”
So Sherman heads over to ye olde dancefloor and tugs on Macro’s shirt.  I see them arguing and Macro’s girl looks unhappy so I figure it’ll be a while.  I turn to the bar to order a shot.
“Whatcha havin’?”
“I’ll have the gunslinger’s special.”  I laugh.  “That’s a special..for gunslingers—”
“There’s no guns allowed in the bar.”
“I know that, I was just saying—”
“What are you having?  I don’t have all night.”
“A cup of Goldschläger.”
“A cup?”
“You can have a shot.”  The bartender leaves.
I’m tapping my hands on the bar and Sherman and Macro and Macro’s girl come up behind me.
“So let’s get outta here.”
“I’m having a drink.”
“We’re leaving because of you.  Skip your drink.”
“I already paid.”
“No you didn’t.”
The bartender comes back.  He tells me the price and I put it on my card.
“Can’t you pay with cash so we can get out of here?”
“I never carry cash.”
“What kind of policy is that?  You never carry cash?  Psychopath.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Why do we have to leave?” Macro’s girl says.
“Because I’ve been a bad bad boy.”
“What did you do that’s bad?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” I say.
Macro puts his arm around the girl.
“Macro, what the fuck is this bitch’s name?” I say.
Sherman says, “Drink your drink.”
“I’ll drink a minute.  I don’t like to be around a bitch and not know the bitch’s name.  ‘Specially if the bitch is the bitch of a friend of mine.”
“I’m Kelly.”
“Nice to meet you, Kelly.”
And I do my shot.  Then I sign my name on the credit card receipt with a scrawl that in no way resembles my signature.
“Let’s go.”
Outside, the four of us walk down State Street.  There are many hunnies, bitches, and hoes, as well as a few vixens, some foxes, and an intolerable number of dykes walking hand in hand and flaunting everywhere that they had released themselves from their dangerous dependency on dick.  When dykes pass I think of how tight their pussies must have become after such a long vacation from dick, or in some cases a complete lack of dickly intruders.  To turn a dyke is the ultimate accomplishment for a straight guy.  Or, let’s just say it is one of the ultimate accomplishments, for their are many ultimate accomplishments.
“So, Kelly, when you suck Macro’s dick does he precum a lot?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m concerned about my man here.  He’s showing a lack of progress, academically.  All he wants from you is your polisci notes.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”  I smile at Macro.  “Now about this precum.”
“Why are you always so interested in everybody’s sex life?” Sherman asks.
“Because it’s my specialty.”  Duh.
We walk a while, and I think the subject is dropped.  But then Kelly says, “I haven’t sucked his dick yet.”  And she looks at Macro.
I felt like a proud mother, hearing this “yet.”  Knowing Macrobiotik sperm would be lodging themselves between the teeth of this average-looking girl as she gulped down his cock.  I mean, hey, if he wanted to date down with this mutt-looking girl Kelly, she better be sucking his cock.  “She better be sucking his cock hard,” I say.
And everybody looks at me for saying that.
“Me, I like a girl with a pretty face.  Like that girl we met at the coffeehouse this morning.  Wasn’t she pretty, Sherman?”
“If you like mice.”
“Mice?  You think the looked mousy?  She wasn’t mousy, you just like a long face, Ticky Toc, where I like a round one.  She had a round face, it wasn’t mousy.  If by mouse you mean she had a small pussy, then I bet you’re right.  I bet that girl’s pussy is just as defiant as she was.  She was like holding her fist up in the air in protest.”
“She wasn’t holding her fist up.”
“But it was like she was holding her fist up.  Like she was Che Guevara and I was the Cuban emperor.”
“Uh, dude, Cuba doesn’t have an emperor.”
“Shut up, nigga.”
“Can you not say the n word?”  That was Kelly.
I stop walking.  Then everybody else stops walking.
“What?  I just don’t like that word.”
I look at Macro.  Then I look at Kelly.  I pull out my gun.  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, bitch.”

(from RAPE! by Matthew TEMPLE)