"The Right Thing"

My latest story, "The Right Thing," is now at Ruthie's Club! Here's a tease:

I walked into the side door, the one marked Hospital Personnel Only. Robert followed me, even though I tried my best to slam the door in his face. I marched into the first unoccupied room I could find, and Robert was right behind me, making little noises that sounded suspiciously like whimpering, as though he wasn’t sure what to say but had to make some noise to show that he was trying to come up with something.

I rounded on him as soon as the door was closed. The fluorescent glow from the hallway fell through the small window in the door, leaving just enough light to see the mixture of emotions on Robert’s face. I got right up against him, toe-to-toe, and made him look me in the eye.

“What are you following me for, Robert? Huh? You want to get a promise out of me that I won’t run down to the cafeteria and announce your little indiscretions, don’t you?”

Even in the dim light, the ruddy flush on Robert’s face was unmistakable.

“Look, I know you’re mad. I know that’s my fault.”

“Mad ain’t the half of it, weasel.”

“Weasel?”

“Hell, I might not run down to the cafeteria. I might announce it on the intercom.”

Robert shook his head, his eyes wide as saucers. “You will not!”

“I don’t answer to you,” I said, punctuating each word with my anger. “Understand? You will have to wonder if I’m going to tell her. You will wonder for the rest of your life.”

“You can’t do that,” he said stupidly, looking at me like I had grown another head.

“You can’t stop me,” I growled.

Robert moved toward me. He meant to grab my arm, to shake some sense into me, to hold me steady in one place so he could tell me the way things were. I saw it coming and beat him to the punch, so to speak -- I reached out and slapped him. The sting of it traveled through my palm and all the way down my arm, a lightning bolt of pain. Robert’s head rocked to the side, and he looked back at me in amazement.

In the sudden silence following the slap, a tinny, disinterested voice boomed from above us. It called my name, and asked me to dial two-five-one.

Then he reached for me. Despite all my tough talk, I let out a little squeal that was half fear, half rage. Did Robert actually grow a set of balls? And if he did, God forbid and holy shit, what was I going to do?

He grabbed the bottom of my scrub shirt and yanked it up. He grabbed my scrub pants and yanked them down. He shoved me to the side of the bed and pushed me down on it. It all happened in a matter of seconds. It took a few more seconds for the whole scenario to register.

Did he really think he could fuck me into submission?

I helped Robert yank his belt loose. His penis was harder than I had ever seen it. He came down on top of me and the bed made a squeak of protest. One of us hit the adjustment buttons, and the bed moved up a few inches with a smooth, mechanical hum. We both froze, united in sudden fear of who might have heard, and who might come through the door.

A nurse in whispering shoes laughed with someone in the hallway, oblivious to what was happening in the room just a couple of steps away. After a few moments, the voices became distant.

Robert moved his hips. I arched my back. He pushed into me -- not slid into me, because I wasn’t wet enough for that, I was pissed off, after all -- and that anger rose to the surface. I was good enough to fuck now that he was angry, but as soon as he shot his load it would be the same old saw about doing the right thing.

“You don’t seem so upstanding now, do you, Robert?”

He glared at me and pinched one of my nipples. Hard.

I grabbed at his shirt. I yanked at it. At first I thought it wouldn’t work, but then it did. The fabric made an ugly ripping sound and buttons scattered to the floor.

“Explain that to your wife,” I hissed.

***
I'm a tease, so that's all you get!

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Panty Fetish, anyone?

It all started with a pair of purple panties.

I bought them at Victoria’s Secret, one of the few indulgences I could afford to make on a part-time salary. I was a full-time college student, and saying money was tight was an understatement. I had scrimped and saved for those panties and that beautiful matching bra, the one that held my breasts in just the right way, the one that always made me look a size bigger. Those panties, however, they hugged in all the right places, never rode up and made my hips look perfectly curved. I loved the bra, but I loved the panties even more.

My boyfriend loved those panties, too.

Taylor would lie in bed beside me and run his fingertip across the edging of those panties, riding it all the way around my hip and between my thighs, over my belly and across the small of my back. He would slip his finger underneath and lightly touch the satin with just his fingertips, then trace the places on my skin where it had touched. The panties became our own special brand of foreplay. He would spend a good hour making smaller and smaller circles until he found the wetness he had created, and then he would make me come while those panties caressed my skin with the familiarity of a lover.

Sometimes we would go out to dinner or a dance or simply walk around the college square at night and at some point, I would lean over and casually tell him I was wearing purple. Other women might get a rise out of their men by mentioning they were stark naked under whatever demure outfit they were wearing, but I could always get Taylor going by simply leaning over and whispering into his ear, “I’m wearing purple.”

Sometimes he fucked me while I wore them. He pulled the crotch aside just enough that he could slip his cock against the satin even as it slid into me, and the delicious friction of my tight wetness and that satin tease would drive him over the edge faster than anything else we could possibly do in bed. Then, of course, he would pull the panties back into place. I would walk around the house with panties on and nothing else, drenched between my legs from the wetness he had put there, and before I could get out of the bedroom to get a glass of water he would be ready for another round.

I was wearing the purple panties when he asked me to marry him...

And then, things started to get really interesting!

To read the rest of the story, as well as other hot and steamy tales from fantastic authors, visit Ruthie's Club. You'll be glad you did.

"Under a Broken Sky"

Jack is a cold bastard, and he knows it. If the drinking hadn’t convinced him, running out on his wife when she found out about his affair was proof enough. But even a cold bastard can change – or so he hopes.

Here's a preview of "Under a Broken Sky":

Jack slammed on the brakes when he saw the snake in the road. He crept forward, the speedometer needle barely trembling, until the heat of his tires made the rattler see things in a different light. Jack watched as it slithered off the side of the road without a backward glance.

He looked at the watch on the dashboard. The crystal face was broken but the hands still worked just fine. It was two in the afternoon. He had half a tank of gas. He had two cigarettes, a bag of chips and one flat soda. He had six hours of road to cover. If he was lucky, he would make it in four.

He pressed on the gas pedal.

It had been six months since he had seen Hannah. It had been two months since the divorce papers found him somewhere in Oklahoma. He stuck them into his pocket without glancing at them and raised an eyebrow at the man who had delivered them. The officer had a gold badge on his lapel and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his eyes, but Jack didn’t need to see the disdain in them. He could feel it well enough.

He had waited almost a week to call, long enough time to leave no doubt that he had the papers, but short enough to let her know he actually did give a shit. Her voice was cool, too soft, too careful. He knew she was trying not to cry. He knew it as well as he knew her careful choice of words were for whoever was in the room with her, as if she didn’t want the new guy to know she was talking to the old one.

“Who is he?” he had asked, and in the one extra beat of silence, he knew she would lie to him. He hung up before he heard her do it. She would think he was angry, and he was, but not with her. He deserved the divorce, but he didn’t like the fact that he had turned her into a liar in the process.

He wondered who the guy was. What had her mother said about that new development? Her mother was always after Hannah to get Jack to straighten up and be a man and — his absolute favorite — stop drinking that beer. He started keeping a six-pack in the fridge just to spite her, and made a point of lying back on the couch and watching television when she came to visit, even if he had a dozen things to do out in the yard or the garage. Hannah chided him and said he was making it more difficult for her, and he supposed that was true, but his pride was louder than her protests.

His pride was louder than a lot of things.

He pushed the speedometer up to ninety and the old car rattled from every corner. The engine whined. He put his hand out the open window and let the wind blow it back.

Hannah wasn’t expecting him and that was good. He wanted to see her face when she realized he was back. The element of surprise worked in his favor, and her reaction would tell him whether there was a chance or not, no matter what her words said when he asked her.

Jack wasn’t entirely sure what had started the chain of events, but it didn’t really matter. What mattered was the way it had ended. Hannah had been acting all strange that day, making snide comments that Jack didn’t understand and really didn’t want to. While making dinner she had thrown a spoon into the sink so hard that it flew up onto the counter and cracked one of her porcelain soup bowls. She had buried her face in her hands for a moment and then turned around, but instead of sobbing, what came out was a screech of anger.

“You never change, Jack. You never change!”

She was right. He never did. They met and he fell in love and things were good for a while, then they married and things were even better. But Jack had somehow skipped that for better or for worse part. He always did have a problem with tuning out what he didn’t want to consider.

It wasn’t that anything had gone bad; it was just that it had gone stale. They had been together for ten years. It happens, his friends said. But that didn’t stop Jack from thinking of himself first instead of his union. When he ran into one of his ex-girlfriends at the bar after he told Hannah he was going to a friend’s house to watch the game on the big screen, he didn’t bother to push away her advances. That night he wound up in a hotel room with the ex while Hannah waited at home, thinking nothing was amiss.

He did it once, so he thought he could do it again. So he did. Dozens of times, and everyone at the bar was talking about it, but he never dreamed it would get around to Hannah.

That night, she threw their dinner at him. Her good pot roast, the kind with the thick gravy and every good vegetable from the garden, slid down the front of his body and dripped onto the floor. Then she threw the beers at him, one by one, and caught him upside the head with the last one just as he reached the car. It hurt like a son of a bitch, and when he yelled back at her she threw out the words whore and hotel and the one that made Jack’s world grind to a halt: divorce.

It was pretty clear that she knew.

Jack didn’t know where to go, so he just kept driving. He stopped at a gas station and threw his ruined shirt into the trash. His jeans were passable. He cleaned himself as best he could in the tiny bathroom that reeked of piss and stale vomit, and stared at himself in the dirty mirror.

When he took stock of what was in his wallet, things didn’t look good. He bought an overpriced shirt with a smiley face on it at the convenience store and broke his last twenty for a deck of smokes. Then he went to his ex-girlfriend’s house and bummed two hundred to get him out of town. He told her it was to buy a part for his old truck, to get it running again so he could give it to her. The truck had gone to a junkyard three years before, but she didn’t know that. He fucked her before he left.

He drove into Arkansas. Somehow he found himself in Oklahoma, then in Texas. He managed to get a job on a cattle ranch for a few weeks, and made enough money to get back up into Oklahoma, where he landed a job pulling black gold out of the ground. He thought he might never get the smell of oil out of his hair or the black of it out from under his fingernails. It seemed embedded in his skin.

But it was good for him. In the oil fields, he had time to think.

He wanted Hannah. Being away from her reminded him of the things that he loved about her in the first place, the reasons he had fallen in love. He remembered her soft and small hands, the smell of her good dinners on the stove, the way she packed a napkin in his lunch pail with a little note that made his coworkers tease him. He remembered the way she cursed when she tried to drive a stick shift for the first time, the raised eyebrows when she wanted to make a point, the music she played too loud and the way she danced to it when she thought no one was watching.

Where had it all gone? Ten years of marriage was a long time, but a woman who would stand by you for a decade was a blessing, not an excuse for doing shit you would regret. Hannah had put up with his cocky ways, his bad attitudes, his string of jobs that didn’t last more than a year at best, his reckless driving, even his outrageous flirting with her sister, though he had to do some fancy talking to get out of that one.

And yes, okay, fine — since he was being honest why not just go for the whole shebang? — he did drink too much. In the last year or so it had been too much whisky, but it always started with beer. He had been drinking too much beer since he was nine years old and started sneaking it from his dad’s cooler in the garage. It was true, and her mother was right about at least that much, so there.

Hannah knew her mother was right, but she stood up to her anyway. She gave Jack more chances than any man should have had. She believed in him. A woman like that was worth her weight in gold.

Then she filed for divorce.

And now someone else had her...

Read "Under a Broken Sky," the first of several stories about Jack, at Ruthie's Club.

"In the Middle of Nowhere"

My latest story is up on Ruthie's Club! "In the Middle of Nowhere" is a two-part story. Here's the teaser:

Keith doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body. His girlfriend was surprised to learn that little secret, and she was even more surprised to know she could be with any man she wanted -- as long as Keith was allowed to watch. In a situation like that, a one-man woman might have to change her way of thinking...

Enjoy the story by visiting Ruthie's Club. Membership is required, but trust me -- Ruthie's is worth every penny!

"Independence Day"

I love to write flash stories. Sometimes my flashers start out as longer versions, like this one, and then I slowly cut and edit until I get it down to the desired word count, and keep all the best lines...and so I usually like the flasher much better than the original. But this time, I just can't seem to decide.

The first version is the 300-word flasher published by Ruthie's Club.

The second version is the original story, about twice as long.

Do you like the short one, or the long one? Either way, I hope you enjoy!

***

Independence Day (Flasher: 300 words)
By Gwen Masters
(Originally published on Ruthie's Club)

From the moment I saw him sitting there on that Harley, I wanted to feel his cock inside me. The hotel was the kind that offered rates by the hour. He paid for thirty minutes. I looked up at him from the old bed and spread my legs wide, inviting him to take what his money had purchased.

He thrust in with no hesitation. I was dripping and within three strokes, so was he. His cock glistened in the flickering neon light just outside the window. Did he use a condom? Hell, I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was my voice saying those things, fuck me, fuck me hard, use me...

He didn’t care if I came, and so I did. Twice. Once, when he slid his rod into me with a kind of delicious indifference. And again, when I asked him what his name was as he pushed the mushroom head of his cock across my clit. “Why the fuck do you care?” he said, and I went off like the rockets that were booming above the hotel.

When he slid out a gush of wetness soaked the sheets. The money appeared from his wallet and dropped on my belly. Without a word he walked out, closing the door behind him as another fireworks explosion thundered its way across the darkening sky.

My husband was waiting for me when I got home. He asked no questions. He pushed me down to the floor and rammed his hard cock between my legs, slipping through the wetness there. He yanked my hair and bit down on my shoulder. We moaned and came together while the fireworks pounded over a distant lake and the engine of our new Harley cooled in the driveway.

***

Independence Day (Original Version)
By Gwen Masters

From the moment I saw him sitting there on that Harley, I wanted to feel his cock inside me. The hotel was the kind that offered rates by the hour. I made my offer and he accepted with a frown that told me I wasn’t exactly what he was looking for, but I would do. He paid for only thirty minutes. I looked up at him from the old bed and spread my legs wide, inviting him to take the delights his money had purchased.

He thrust in with no hesitation. I was dripping, and within three strokes so was he. That was my own juice that made him glisten that way in the light from the neon sign outside. I wasn’t supposed to want it this much. Did he use a condom? Hell, I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was my voice saying those things, fuck me, fuck me hard, use me...

He didn’t care if I came, and so I did. Twice. Once, when he slid his rod into me with a kind of delicious indifference. And again, when I asked him what his name was as he pushed the mushroom head of his cock across my clit. “Why the fuck do you care?” he said, and I went off like the rockets that were booming above the hotel. I could hear the oohs and ahhs of the crowd outside and for a moment I felt as though they were applauding me.

I thrust up to him, wanting him to come, needing this strange man to empty his seed because my body had driven him to no other choice. He settled back and watched as I undulated against him. “You are a slut,” he growled in disgust. His eyes shone with the jaded light of a man who had known far too many sluts in his time. “Make me come, you filthy bitch. You begged for this. You wanted a fuck. You got it. You want my spunk, too?”

I did want it and so I fucked him with abandon, using every trick I knew, until he thrust hard and bit my shoulder to stifle his groan. A thrill of victory, a low and sultry pride spun through me. That was his seed that was filling my cunt, spilling out onto the dingy sheets. His hips pressed so hard into mine that I could feel the pressure of him against my womb.

When he slid out a gush of wetness soaked the sheets. His expression was carefully blank as he pulled up his zipper and adjusted his softening cock. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. After some thought, he pulled out another one. They fluttered down to rest on my belly. Without a word he walked out, closing the door behind him as another fireworks explosion went off high above the seedy hotel.

My hands shook as I dressed. I waited until I heard the roar of the Harley heading down the highway, then I tucked the money into the pocket of my shorts. I didn’t bother to shower. I wanted to feel his semen slipping out of me and running down my thighs. My hand was almost steady as I slipped the key into the ignition, started the van and headed toward home.

My husband was waiting for me when I got there. He asked no questions. He just pushed me down to the floor and rammed his hard cock between my legs, slipping through the wetness there. He bit down on that little bruise on my shoulder. We moaned and came together while the fireworks pounded over a distant lake and the engine of our new Harley cooled in the driveway.

Introducing M. Davenport!

My latest story on Ruthie's Club is a very special one. "Who Do You Want to Be?" is part of the Halloween issue but more importantly, it is my first co-writing jaunt with the extraordinary M. Davenport!

M. and I have known each other for years, and I've always loved his sarcastic wit and lightning-quick sense of humor. This is a guy who can make me laugh no matter what the situation. He's very well-spoken, an outrageous flirt, loves his friends with everything in him, and has one of the kindest hearts I know.

I don't recall how our conversation that particular evening took a turn toward costumes in a costume store, but it did -- and M's usual joking self went into overdrive. I wrote a basic draft, and he ran with it. What began as a basic story about a costume shop turned into something hilarious and unique. I am so happy with our final version!

Take a visit over to Ruthie's Club to read the story. Ruthie's is adults only and requires a subscription, but it is worth every last penny. I am proud to be a part of M. Davenport's debut on such a great site!

Jumping on the Bandwagon!

That's right...the Blogging Bandwagon has just come my way, and I've hopped on for the ride. Though I have kept a personal journal since I was a child barely old enough to spell, I have yet to begin a professional journal...until now.

A bit about me and my career: I've been working this writing gig for the last twelve years, and as long as I have something to say, I'll keep doing it. Over the last few years I have become a regular contributor to Ruthie's Club, a monthly staple at Voracitybeat, and a member of the staff of a great place called Clean Sheets. This spring my business partner and I launched Masters Publishing...the jury is still out on the success of that particular venture.

I'm starting this blog in response to the release of Best American Erotica 2006. Several months ago I got the note from the extraordinary Susie Bright: "Fifteen Minutes", my story of that Unholy Trinity of sex, drugs and rock&roll, was being published in BAE '06. What a thrill that was! I have every BAE collection, from 1993 on up. It's going to be a great feeling to put the '06 volume in my bookcase, knowing I'm a part of the series I have enjoyed so much over the years.

Originally published on Ruthie's Club, "Fifteen Minutes" is the story of what really happens with those groupies who disappear into the limousines and onto the buses at the end of the show.

Here's a bit of a preview:

She was in her early twenties, John guessed. Her body looked young, but the hard living made her face look ten years older. He watched her from the sidelines, took note of her bleached blond hair, her long painted nails, her tank top that was just a little too tight and a little too short. Her jeans were cut off just below the hip. When she turned just the right way, she flashed anybody who cared to look. She wasn’t wearing any panties.

Girls like that were a dime a dozen. They were a joke in the music world, referred to as ‘gherms’, because that is what they were. They would follow the band around like a sickness that sticks to the skin. They were good for the occasional nightly release, the blowjob that left a bad taste in both their mouths. When they spread their legs it was with a practiced desperation. Anybody who fucked a groupie knew they were fucking somebody who had been indiscriminate with hundreds of guys before them. It had nothing to do with the man behind the microphone or the keyboard player’s talent or even the bus driver’s gift of getting everybody there safely. It had to do with comparisons between friends and one-upmanship.

“Is he a good lay?” one would ask.

“He is after his own pleasure,” another would snarl, as if they really cared.

Tom had asked for a blond this time. It was rare that the frontman wanted a woman after the show. He was more careful than most, usually refusing to feed the game that was played out on tour buses and backstage stairs and the occasional pricey hotel room. “A little something for me and then for the boys,” he said this time before he climbed onstage with guitar in hand.

The blond would do. Her legs were long and lean. Her tits were bouncy under the tank top, her nipples hard as rocks while she watched the band do their thing. She wasn’t jumping up and down or cheering them on. She was bopping lightly along with the music and studying the players as if they were her favorite kind of treat. She had been down the groupie road before. She would do.

Want to read the rest? Buy the book! (Is that a shameless plug or what?)

Speaking of books, my latest was released a few months ago. Sex & Guitars, set against the backdrop of Nashville's Music Row, is the story of a woman in love with a married man. Coffee Time Romance just gave Sex & Guitars a five-cup review; they called the novel "a stunning portrait of codependency and addiction....the sexual encounters were brutal and yet tender, endearing and frightenining, all of them necessary."

Venture to my website to get the latest updates on short stories, interviews, where to purchase and read my work, and all those wonderful things! Here's the link: Gwen Masters Website.

Until next time...