Smokedawg “Tales of the Poisoned World: Expressions of Power”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis with a flurry of fiction writing instead of a sports car and trophy mistress. He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) before branching out to the Smoking Fetish Kingdom, the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective, SmokingStories, and elsewhere with smoking and non-smoking erotica, as well as non-erotic fare. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

I began my “Poisoned World” stories with the “Venomous Passions” trilogy at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/category/venomous-passions-trilogy/

Tales of the Poisoned World:

Expressions of Power

Noon came dimly in New Philadelphia, as was usually the case—the sun a sepia globe, it’s golden light filtered through the constant dun haze in the sky. Except when it rained hard with droplets that stung the skin, and cleared the air enough for people to remember the sky was supposed to be blue.

Or at least bluish.

Noon on this day was darker than usual, at least in the office of the city’s Executive Mayor, thanks to the mood of the man who had three months earlier won 60% of the vote to claim this office. Oswald K. Drummond IV. The third-richest man in the city and someone who was accustomed to being farther in-city, surrounded by only the rich. Cocooned from the dregs.

The central government building were in a clean part of the city. A safe place. A moneyed city-sector. But still, not the gem that City Center was. Where the upper stratas lived.

But this is where I need to be, to serve God and my fellow leaders of society, Oswald groaned inwardly. I’ll give up a few comforts to do what needs doing.

“Abominations and dangerous criminals,” he muttered.

Ashley Davidson “Untitled”

“Untitled”

Ashley Davidson

It was a dark a dreary night when she walked into town. She looked alone so we thought nothing just said hi an went along our way. Little time went by we started noticing people were missing? Children were scared to go out and play an not an night but in day? The air turned cold and chill in mid summer? Then the sun started not to rise an the moon stayed long hours of the night? Nobody could have seen it coming we were a happy town we all knew each other…are so we thought? It all went down a none so quiet evening at the pub “The Drunken Angel.”

I always hated that damn name it was bad medicine I always said. But like always nobody listen I was to young to know anything they said. I would ask “whats to know?” I’d get a sly remark its not a woman’s place to question her elders are the men. I would tell the to get the fuck out of my bar. An they would by victor my big strapping bodyguard. They would kick an scream some even bite, men they say more like boys with big toys. Just cause your born with a dick between your legs don’t make you a man only gender wise an I still just say their males as we are females.

Smokedawg “Waiting for Her”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He sometimes writes exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and is also regularly contributing general erotica and even some non-erotic fiction for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

This particular story is NOT erotica (although there is some inappropriate touching…LOL), which is a rarity for me these days (aside from my in-progress sci-fi novel). I think it’s horror but in the end, maybe it’s a romance. Only you can know for sure.

Waiting for Her

Father and son stood atop the hill. It was a commanding position, had they been in any position to defend their position against an attack.

But as it was—armed with a half-loaded 9mm pistol, a nicked machete, a surgically sharp meat cleaver, a club wrapped in barbed wire and a sawed-off shotgun with just one shell remaining—they weren’t in a position to defend much more than their honor.

No, their position now was just to have a commanding view. The valley before them, stretching for miles. The sea at their back, and Renaldo’s freighter waiting just off the coast for them.

“She’ll come,” the father said.

“What if…” the son began.

Lexi Sylver “A Thirst For Truth”

About Lexi Sylver…

Currently residing in Montréal, Canada, I divide my time between writing short erotic stories and running a small lingerie business.  My passions for psychology, reading, writing and sex have all combined wonderfully to help me produce original, detailed and explicit erotic works for my fans and friends to pore over.  I am in the midst of working on Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories.  Read my erotic shorts, sex advice, and humorous Top 10 lists on my site: http://www.lexisylver.com/.

A Thirst for Truth

By Lexi Sylver

Currently residing in Montréal, Canada, I divide my time between writing short erotic stories and running a small lingerie business.  My passions for psychology, reading, writing and sex have all combined wonderfully to help me produce original, detailed and explicit erotic works for my fans and friends to pore over.  I am in the midst of working on Mating Season, a collection of previously unpublished short erotic stories.  Read my erotic shorts, sex advice, and humorous Top 10 lists on my site: http://www.lexisylver.com/.

The evening is brisk, a chill sweeping up her bare legs, signaling a change of season.  She feels his arm slide over her shoulders, hugging her body to his, trying to warm her.  She eases into him, making the walk back to her apartment more bearable.  They reach the front steps to her building, and she turns to him with a smile.  Without speaking, he grabs her in his arms.  She looks up at his shadowed face, her body faltering against the hardness of his body.  Then his mouth is on hers, soft yet urgent, the scent of him making her dizzy.

“Come up for a while,” she murmurs against his lips.  He follows her up the winding staircase to her apartment.  She fumbles with her keys, drops them, nervous.  He picks them up and smiles, reassuring her.  The key slides in the lock, and she opens the door, bringing this man into her personal space, her little world away from reality.

He comes up behind her and grips her tightly, sliding his hands down her back, finding the hem of her dress and slipping beneath it.  She moans as he touches the soft, sensitive flesh of her bare thighs and bottom.  His lips lower to her neck as his fingers wander closer to her most aching spot, touching her gently over her moistened panties.  She moans, leaning her head back onto his chest as his fingers slip the straps of her dress down her arms, the fabric falling into a silken pile onto the floor, leaving her almost naked.  He pulls off her panties, propelling her to the bed, where she lies down on her back.  Her eyes flutter shut as his mouth hungrily presses into her inner thighs, until she feels him bite into her flesh, the most exquisite pleasure washing over her…

Smokedawg “Bound Flesh”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He sometimes writes exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and is also regularly contributing general erotica and even some non-erotic fiction for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

Bound Flesh

Life in Chicago post-invasion certainly wasn’t a bore—and exhaustion was par for the course, Audrey considered. Of course, she’d put herself, as had her brother Oliver, into that position when they elected to be part of the resistance three years before. Among the few who hadn’t embraced their new reptilian overlords.

OK, to be fair, only some of them are reptilian, Audrey acknowledged in her mind. Along with amphibians, inverterbrates, avians, mammalians, herbacians, botanoids, arachnoids, insectoids, silicoids, hydrocarbon-based colloidal intelligences, sentient mathematical equations, luminous cohesive thought matrices, and a slew of others.

But reptilian beings did form the largest single bloc of extraterrestrial entities in the Grand Hegemony. And Earth was the newest member, whether it wanted to be or not. It wasn’t as if there had really been much resistance. Hegemon starcruisers had surrounded the Earth, some of them had entered orbit, and others had landed on large areas of open ground or now floated near coastal areas. But there had never been any assault. No bloodshed—at least not by member of the Hegemony.

“Fuck all those sci-fi movies,” Ollie had said to her in the early days they were putting together their Humanity’s Heart organization. “No lasers, no exotic viruses or chemicals to wipe us out. No trying to serve us up for dinner. No mind control devices. No troops. No concentration camps. Just plain old simple strategy of give us what we want, and we’ll roll over.”

Michael L. Lewis “Trick ‘or’ Treat”

About the Author:

Michael L Lewis born Feb, 26 1974 raised in the beautiful Blueridge mountains of Southern West Virginia. Having grown up on cattle farms in the wide open country of Tazewell Va, he is no stranger to hard work and perseverance. Loves horseback riding, hunting and fishing. A father of five wonderful children and is currently enrolled in the Childrens Institute having the childrens Author ‘Shirley Raye Redmond’ as his tutor. Recently has a poetry book ‘Death Awaits The Ressurection’ published on Lulu.com and is also working on a Western Horror Novel as well as short stories for magazine articles.

“Trick ‘or’ Treat”

Michael Lewis

The rain had just stopped for the night as fog began to rise from the dark asphalt. I have just begun the last round of trick or treating before returning home to calculate my bounty.My Mom, and Aunt wait for me a block or so away until I finish up. I always cut down by the maple view cemetary- where a dozen or so homes reside, this is where I usually pocket some of the best candy, and a few bucks to boot. Although the cemetary freaks me out as I walk alone in the dark. I didn’t let that stop me from getting what I wanted. But this night would turn out to be quite different. As I made my way down pass the old willow trees, and directly across from a small playground built for the neighborhood. I notice a little boy about my age sitting upon the merry go round in a shadow of complete darkness. I would not have seen him had it not been for his reflective costume he was wearing. I proceed to ring the doorbell of the last house not taking my eye off of the boy who had an eerie look about him. He was just sitting there looking down to his empty halloween bag with an expression of dismay. At first I thought he must’ve been a victim of a candy robber, namely the high school bullies who think it fun to rob small children of their lute. I decide to walk over to him as it seemed that no one was answering the door here anyway. He doesn’t pay me any attention as if I’m not even visible to him. He continues looking down into the empty bag mumbling over,and over. “Trick or Treat, trick or treat.” Maybe he is lost?” I thought to myself looking around for someone to help me out. I didn’t want to just leave him here all alone. The storm returned sending bolts of lightning streaking overhead. That’s when I noticed that the boy was also bare footed, and cacked with mud. “You been walking about in the cemetary?” I ask him, but to no avail; He just kept repeating the words Trick or Treat, trick or treat. I was starting to get a little frustrated when I heard my Mom, and Aunt yelling for me. “I’ll be right back.” I tell him and go for them. Upon our return, and after I told my Mom what all was going on-the little boy was gone. In the exact spot to where he was sitting a floral reef had been placed like the ones you would find on someones grave. “How could this be?” I say to a whisper. That’s when my aunt began to tell me about a little boy who had been struck by a drunk driver and killed last halloween right in front of his home. Which upon looking at it now, I could see the (For Sale sighn)posted out front in the yard. His parents divorced, and moved out a couple months later, my aunt tells me. I began to feel lost, then scarred, and then a great sadness for the boy. I never walked by that way again as a child. Now that I am grown, and still feel sadness for the child. I go to where he sat that night and place a bag of candy for him. The park is now a row of pic-nic tables, and a few shrubs for looks. No one places a reef there anymore, and a new family has moved into the two story home. I would have never believed in ghost if I hadn’t seen it first hand, but I never would see my little friend again to this day.

Stephanie Sendak “The Smell of Sex”

About the Author:

I live in Miami and this is the first time I’ve sent my poem for publication.

“The Smell of Sex”

By Stephanie Sendak

His lips trembled as I sucked

The hard length of him

As my man gasps his pleasure his penis

Invade my throat

I hold back a little to take in some air

I smell his funk and my juices flow

A dick in the mouth

A finger in the pussy

A squeeze of the breast

All temptations

I swallow him once more taking my time

I clutch at his ass, bulging at the pleasure of my touch

I want him so much that urges to bite his sex overwhelms me

I want to eat him

To be part of me forever

Instead I spit on his veined cock wiping it off with my face and hair

I rose to straddle him, my wet cunt dipping easily down his shaft

It was my turn to be pleasured but on my own terms

I rode his slickness

Up and down

My breasts slaps together

My quim burning from anticipation

He bucks under me

I slam down

I scream when it is over

Panting until the tremors subside

Celis T. Rono “Sleeping Dead Re-Edited”

This version has been re-edited.  I think this is one of the strongest stories.  Hope you enjoy it.

“Sleeping Dead”

by Celis T. Rono

There was a reason why my grandmother was so adamant about not disturbing the sleeping dead in the forest.  I shake my head even now at the strong-willed girl of eighteen too mature to listen to her elders.  In fact, I shake my head at many things I did at that age.

In the forest lay sleeping forms that could not be awakened by even the loudest of screams or the fiercest of kicks.  My brother once had the temerity to throw a rock at an unmoving man in an immaculate tunic then ran away for fear of the figure awakening.  I stayed to watch and see what would happen, but nothing did.

A particularly handsome man with dark hair, strong nose, and full lips had intrigued me ever since I was a child.  He looked to be asleep, leaning against the cradle of an old leathery redcran tree.  I used to sit on his lap as a child and touch his black eyelashes.  As a young woman, I caressed his cold face from his cheek to his jaw wondering about the color his eyes.  He never moved.  His chest didn’t even rise to breathe in air.  Out of the twenty bodies strewn all over the forest, I was particularly drawn to this man.  I visited him everyday and even bestowed upon him a name, James.

“What happened to those people, Granny?” I asked once again, hoping my grandmother would finally reveal something useful to me.  She was the wisest in the kingdom, and some contend that she practiced the dark arts.  “They’ve lain on the forest ground for years.  Why don’t they decay?  Animals won’t even come near them.  And if they’re alive, how can we waken them?”

My grandmother shook her head.  “You’re much too curious, my child.  You’ve been asking me these questions since you were a child.”

“Then maybe it’s time you start telling me the truth,” I said annoyed.  “No one wants to talk about them.”

“You’re a pesky child, but alright, I’ll tell you what I know if you help me with my spindle.  It seemed to have hit a snag,” she sighed, brading thin fabrics together for the gowns of her granddaughters.  She was one of the richest women in the land yet she dared use her hand in lowly tasks.

“Anything, Granny.  I’ll do anything you ask,” I said, noticing for the first time how withered and gnarled my grandmother was, and it pained me.  Any type of loss disturbed me. “Rumor is these people were punished hundreds of years ago for offending the Great Lady of the forest.  They were too prideful and vain.  One particular man, the handsomest of them all, turned his back on the Great Lady’s advances and he can never thaw into a living man again.  She hated him the most,” said my grandmother.  “That’s all I know, child.  Now leave me to work in peace.”

Siren Bacall “Wolves”

About the Author:

I am a professor at a local Junior College in a city I cannot reveal at the moment.  I am dabbling at writing erotica and Ms. Rono was nice enough to indulge my fantasy.  I am 35 years old and am very satisfied with where I am in this juncture in my life.  Enjoy the story and let me know what you think of it.

Wolves

By Siren Bacall

They surrounded me.

Dozen pairs of eyes glowed in the dark, their wolf body stalking my naked, huddled   body.  I shook with fear as I smelled their hatred and hunger for my flesh.

“I didn’t mean to kill one of you,” I said, my voice breaking.  “I was just protecting my horse.”  They growled and salivated in the half light.  They didn’t care for my explanation.  I was riding home on my horse whose flesh had been ripped apart by the pack not ten minutes before.  Three of them flanked Ashby, my little mustang, and began to stalk him.  I had no choice but to pull out my pistol from my waist holder and fire at the closest beast.

My aim proved deadly.

Before I knew it, the grey furred animal on the right of my horse transformed into that of a man.  Hi savage eyes captured my eyes as he yanked me down from my horse and throw me to the ground.  From the damp grassland, I witnessed the black wolf hurl toward Ashby’s jugular while the other brown feral things attacked the tendons of his hind legs.  Within minutes, my beloved horse since I was a child was mauled in front of me.

Grey eyed man standing naked before me glowered and began to rip my clothing until nothing was left.  I covered my self the best I could but even in early sunset, my nakedness was stark.

Smokedawg “Widow’s Web: Promoting From Within”

About the Author

J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis by finally writing the fiction his schoolmates always thought he would have been writing since graduation (but didn’t). He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) as a way to explore the smoking fetish in fiction and commentary. He also has begun writing exclusive smoking fetish erotica for the forum “Smoking Fetish Kingdom” and now also writes some non-smoking erotica, exclusively for the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective (unless of course by some miracle some publisher wants to pay him to put it in print). You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.

I had originally intended to publish no more smoking fetish fiction here at Celis’ blog, but I want to maintain a regular presence, had no time to write something from scratch right now, and realized that this story had been sitting on my hard drive since the early 2000s. I was surprised to find out how close to completion it was, and found it to be better written than I had expected it to be, since it was during a period I thought I might start writing mind control fiction erotica, then gave up on the idea. I had intended it to be part of a series, obviously, but not sure if I will do that. We’ll see…

Widow’s Web: Promoting From Within

Arriving for her fifth week of work, Cecile was amazed at one thing above all others: She still had a job. Not the best of typists, hardly ever on time, barely able to handle any software application more advanced than the word processing program…not to mention the fact she was working for a fledgling e-venture in a time when dot-coms were continuing to crumble…well, she wasn’t going to question her good fortune.

So, when the human resources director who hired her suddenly showed up at her cubicle, she figured she was done for. When he told Cecile that the CEO wanted to meet with her immediately, she knew she was doomed.

But considering the way the H.R. geek’s eyelids were drooping and way his words seemed…well, not slurred really but somehow flat…she was thinking maybe he’d be next to get fired—for being stoned on the job. Come to think of it, a lot of people had a certain glassy-eyed look around this company. Too many hours in front of computer screens, no doubt.

Her stomach bunched into a knot tight enough to hurt, she followed the bespectacled man (what was name again? Walter?) as he led her to the CEO’s office.

<My God, Cecile thought, what kind of CEO of any company drops the axe personally?>

A few minutes later, their destination reached, Walter nodded to the CEO’s personal assistant and then lazily rapped on the door the head office, where Cecile fully expected to have her head chopped off.

She was amazed that the person inside the office would even have heard Walter’s limp-wristed knock, and even more amazed when she heard a woman’s voice summon them in with a nearly magisterial authority.

<Sydney Prescott, Cecile realized, is a woman. I never even considered it. Of course, I’ve never seen so much as a picture of our CEO, much less witnessed a public appearance in the office. Oh, well, oh hell…There goes any chance of sweet-talking my way out of this and flirting my way into a second chance.