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Stopgap [Jan. 30th, 2012|06:08 pm]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
I know I haven't used this in ages, but it's also my back-up file for a lot of fic, so I'm posting in order to keep my "community" "active".

Moving right along. Nothing to see here. ;-)
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The Scent of Cedar (Sensual, Somewhat Romantic, BDSM Porn) [Jul. 20th, 2009|09:02 am]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
[Tags|, , ]
[mood |determined]
[music |Dip It Low (in my head)]

I wrote this for my girlfriend, 'cause I love her and wanted to turn her on. :-)

*~*~*~*~*

The Scent of Cedar

“What do you want me to wear?” I’d asked, a week ago, on the phone. I had asked, wanting to please her, to give her the final say in how I would present myself to her for our first private play-date.
“Where something that feels good on your skin,” Morgan had answered. “Something that turns you on.”

I must have considered and rejected a dozen things over the course of the week between that phone call and our play date, but I finally decided on green silk. The night of our date, I dress carefully, zipping the dress tight over my ribs, my small breasts, and letting it fall from my hips, skimming my thighs. I pair it with my brocade cuffs, royal blue and deceptively strong, wrapped around my wrists. I straighten my hair, making it soft and feathery around my face, dab honeysuckle perfume in the hollow of my throat, loving the way my body warms the scent and makes it float around me.
I dither over footwear but eventually conclude that I’d be happier going barefoot, and so slip into my sandals, planning to leave them in the car when I get to her house.

An hour later, I pull into the driveway of a modest, brick house in one of the more residential areas of down town. White roses gleam in the light cast by the porch lamp. I can smell them in the muggy August night.
I swallow, setting my shoes in the foot well of the passenger seat and slide my hands over the slippery, emerald silk of my dress, thinking about all the secret desires that Morgan has uncovered in me over months of public play, and weeks of all-too-vanilla dates, the alchemy she works on my skin and in my heart.
My breath gets shallow and I feel my heart beat start to race, my pussy growing moist. It occurs to me that I could leave my underwear behind, turn up at her door in only this green dress, these cuffs, this heady desire.
I leave the pink cotton panties in the passenger seat. The light, slippery silk brushes my hips, my thighs, my now-naked pussy. I can feel the slick wetness of my own arousal, my hungry cunt already drooling, and I think that if this doesn’t convince Morgan that I’m hers for the evening, nothing will.

Read On... You Know You Want ToCollapse )

*~*~*~*~*



So there you have it.

Suggestions and concrit (and, y'know, fan letters) are always welcome.

In particular, how was my descrition of what it feels like to climax from flogging?

The description is a re-write (it wasn't even close to accurate before) and I'd like to know if I'm in the right general area now.


- TTFN,
- Amazon.
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Surfacing [May. 27th, 2009|03:40 pm]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
[Tags|, , ]
[mood |melancholymelancholy]
[music |Fidelity - Regina Spektor]

Surfacing

I swear I saw a mermaid
Flash of fin
celadon green
between blues of sea and sky

She surfaced
when she heard me
crying

slipped her arms around my neck
voice gentle
her mouth
tasting of salt
tasted mine

a sudden kiss
my lips, cheeks, wet
then she was gone

i swear I saw a mermaid

sometimes
I hear her singing
in the deep
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Clouds (poetry) [Apr. 30th, 2009|08:23 am]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
[Tags|, ]
[mood |thoughtfulthoughtful]
[music |Sunrise - Norah Jones ("Feels Like Home")]

Clouds

I rise with the sun
house crowded with furniture
dirty dishes
unwashed laundry

pick my way between paper bags and patio chairs

forage in the fridge for food
something I can stuff in a tupperware
take to work

I haven’t cooked in weeks

dawn on Gladstone is concrete under foot
walking
toes cold
on mornings that are still
cool

cumulus mist disperses like dreams

but this grey miasma lingers
ghostly
waiting

Sun burns slowly through
her haze of halo’d clouds

wish I could do the same
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Lost (Poetry) [Mar. 11th, 2009|03:04 pm]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
[Tags|, ]
[mood |sadsad]
[music |heartbeat, breathing]

Lost

A laughing labyrinth of leering
Faces
the music’s loud
Pounding
bass
on the outside
You’re fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine

Lovin’ the beat and the big city
Sex that they grind, grind on the dance floor
in the bathrooms
hard against the wall
against you

are you trembling
inside

when someone offers you a drink
another

another

Liquid courage burning
all
the
way
down
to a churning stomach

are you trembling
inside

Wanna forget where you are
what you want
what YOU want
forget that you’ve been here before

Baby
are you trembling
on the inside

Did someone tell you
THIS
is what you’re for
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Mireille/Amaya (502 Words) [Mar. 3rd, 2009|12:37 pm]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
[Tags|]
[mood |creative]
[music |Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies - Tchaikovski (Performed by Bond - In my head)]

My eyelids are heavy with sleep. I am drowsing still from the wine and the languor in my limbs which belies the couple who have long since left our impromptu bed under the stairs. I can hear the revels, yet, laughter spilling from the ballroom down the hall, but here all is still and there are stars above me.
Here is where Amaya finds me, her feet near-silent on the marble floor.
“May I join you?” she asks, formally.
I smile, still reclining on the broad couch, pillows strewn about me.
“Always,” I answer, feeling generous.
Her mouth, lips painted as dark and red as blood, turns up in an almost-smirk, but we both know she is too sweet for sarcasm.
She joins me on the couch, propping a velvet pillow behind her. The black silk of her long, long hair falls over my arm.
“You’re watching the stars tonight,” she comments, following my gaze to the glass-domed roof, the constellations visible beyond the burnished spiral of filigree stairs.
I nod, but I am not watching the stars anymore.
Amaya’s gown is cut very low, a valley of ivory skin between two dark peaks of ruched and gathered silk. I can see the inside curve of her small breast, and a single dark spot just below it.
“What’s that?” I ask, too late to bite my tongue and guard my foolish question.
Her liquid eyes slide towards me.
“What?” she asks, curious or cautious, I can’t tell.
“Forgive me,” answer, retreating to formality.
“No, I want to know,” she turns towards me slightly, and her eyes search my face.
“This,” I whisper, hesitantly, and my finger brushes the dark spot – a beauty mark, my fingertips tell me – on her skin.
“I have a lot of them,” she says, sounding rueful. “All over.”
I can’t help thinking of the witch trials, then, the way the priests would prick a woman’s body to see if she bled. But Amaya is a witch’s daughter, I remember, with the skills to hear the whisper of hidden truths, no matter how hard one strives to hide them.
Would she bleed for me if I pricked her skin?
The thought makes my mouth water, my pulse quicken.
Amaya draws the fabric aside, bares her pale breast to the moonlight and my hungry eyes.
There are four of them, dark beauty marks under her breast.
“Casiopia,” I murmur, tracing the lines between them with fingers grown suddenly too bold.
“Yes,” she whispers, and I can’t tell if she is agreeing with my pronouncement or asking for more, but her breath is quickening under my touch.
“Amaya,” I breathe her name without thinking.
Her hand trails up my arm, from wrist to shoulder, and she claims my gaze with her own.
Her river-dark eyes hold me in thrall.
“Yes,” she answers.
There is no uncertainty this time, only her fingers tangling in my hair, her supple body rising to meet me, her blood red lips, full and ardent on mine.
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Musicians [Feb. 23rd, 2009|05:22 pm]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
[Tags|, ]
[mood |lovedloved]
[music |El Tango di Roxanne - "Moulin Rouge" Sound Track]

MUSICIANS

We are singing
together
a duet in progress
the tune learned from each others' lips,
plucked from each others' tongues
written in skin
Sweetness of sixth and third
Passed mouth to mouth
voice to voice
I learn to trust
To follow
In the shifting
Unfamiliar patterns of your song
Find the hidden logic of your spiral path
Find ways to bring that sweetness out again
You make allowances
Re-learn the simple and familiar
For me Draw closer in the learning
Reach and give me another reason
to feel safe with you
this is composition and performance both
intricate collaboration
constant improvisation
variations on familiar themes
searching for elusive resolution
dissonance giving way to harmony
a refrain cherished in fingertips and tongue
that returns again and again
a piece written by and for the both of us
a piece that we can only write together
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There are No Shadows Here II [Feb. 14th, 2009|09:22 am]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
[music |Girl - Destiny's Child ("Destiny Fulfilled")]

A Fireside Confession

Outside it’s snowing.
I know that.
People who come here think we have no windows, but we do. There is a hidden courtyard, where only we may go – there is a hidden spring there, and trees that bear cherries in lat summer, apples in early autumn.
Mist lifts off the burbling surface of the stream, which never freezes, and mingles with the snow.
I stood at the window and watched it for a time, I don’t know how long, before I came upstairs again.
Dimitri offers me a cup of tea from the samovar, and I take it, gratefully.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, when the teacup rattles in its saucer.
I didn’t know my hands were shaking.
I sip my tea.
I have played the confessor to a thousand men, and no few women, held their hands as they told me their secrets, punished them when they needed it and offered absolution on my altar.
But in ten years, I have not stood on the other side of the screen. I have always kept my secrets to myself.
“Mireille?” the lightest touch on my knee.
Who can I tell, if not him?
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There Are No Shadows Here (Prose) [Feb. 11th, 2009|06:02 pm]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
There are no shadows here.
That is, in fact, its selling feature.
Light gets into every corner, reflects off every surface. Music and jasmine are thick in the air, and champagne flows like water. Men with gold watch fobs and women with red lips and satin gowns, gather here to laugh and dance, sip wine from crystal glasses and forget, for a time, that the outside world exists.
Here, strangers become lovers in the space of a song. They cling to each other in twos and threes, their skin glistening with sweat and diamonds.

High above the whirling crowd, the moans and sighs of lovers, the skirl of music, there are windows in the domed ceiling. During the day, when the halls are empty, when the beautiful girls and boys who populate this place are sleeping off the previous night, shadows form as easily as breathing. One can track the passage of the day by the way the light moves across the floor. But at night the mirrors and chandeliers conspire and no shadow may appear that it does not fade or flee at the touch of light.

It’s said that if you come here once, you will leave a part of yourself behind and will return, again and again, trying to find it.
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Vulnerable (poetry) [Feb. 4th, 2009|07:53 pm]
Amazon Fiction

amazon_syren
[Tags|, , ]
[mood |thoughtfulthoughtful]
[music |Always - Bon Jovi ("Cross Roads")]

Vulnerable

If you would offer
Yourself
On my altar
You must understand
It isn't screams I want
Nor begging I crave

Don't give me this easy submission of mere flesh

From you, I demand something greater.

From you
I want nothing
Less than the whole of your heart

Not blood and tissue
Nor the one you wear on your sleeve
But the heart you keep hidden
Armoured against the world

Can you place it in my hands and trust me
to carry it
care for it

can you place it in my hands

and trust me
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