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.

Celis T. Rono “The Great Hoax at Bloody Convent”

This is not an erotica story.  It’s pretty much a horror story that I wrote many years ago.  Early Halloween everyone!

“The Great Hoax at Bloody Convent”

By Celis T. Rono

His dark scornful eyes followed the figures of Sister Isabella and Sister Lucretia who were making their way to the third floor.  He spat on the cold marble hall as he watched the two ascend the stairs.  The stone building he inhabited was suffocating him.  The heatless walls chilled his bones and the myriad statues that stared down at him with their painted glassy eyes disturbed him rather than provoke wonderfully benign thoughts.

“Bloody nuns!” he muttered as loudly as he could without being overheard by the handful of people who still roamed the second floor hallway.

“James Dalton, why are you still here?  You ought to be in the chapel praying with the others,” reproached Miss Timball, a thick waisted Algebra teacher with coiled red hair.

“I left my books in Miss Ridge’s room.”

“You could have done that after prayers.  Now get going.”  She glared at the insolent twelve year old boy who always had an excuse for everything.

The moment the teacher turned her back Jimmy scrunched up his face and muttered, “I’m not even Catholic.”

Miss Timball, hearing such a blasphemous remark from her least favorite student, sharply faced the boy.  “What did you say, James?”

“I said I’m not even Catholic.”

“I see you’re still as imaginative as ever.  Of course you’re Catholic!”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are truly vexing me, child.  You were baptized a Catholic; you know that.  Your parents are devout followers of the church.”

Evee Vaughan “Trystal Brewer Chronicles”

About the Author:

I’m 18 and just recently graduated High School and I live in New York City. More accuratley, The Bronx. As a child and even now, I have a mild curiosity for the paranormal and preternaural. Any book that has a paranormal/romance topic, 9 times out of 10, I will read it.

I have a love for science fiction and anything that has to do with history.

I’m a fun loving person that is pretty good at giving advice. Most of my friends call me crazy, cooky, spontaneous and just downright “out there”. Most of the stories that I write usually have to do with my own expierences in life with a supernatural twist and most of the characters are usually based on my friends. My favorite authors are Sherrilyn Kenyon, Laurell K. Hamilton, James Patterson, Anne Rice, L.A. Banks and Richelle Mead just to name a few.

I hope that everyone enjoys my writings and thanks to everyone who reads them.

I can be reached at Starfire2231@aol.com and also on myspace and soon enough on facebook under the same email adress.   XOXOXOX Ciao!!

“TRYSTAL BREWER CHRONICLES”

By Kyle Vaughn

Chapter I

Dillan’s Roller Rink was the hotspot for Delco University’s college students. The strobe lights, variety in music, exotic cuisine, and all around aura made it a haven for high school students, families and the college crowd. But tonight, this was the last place Trystal Brewer wanted to be. While she and her two best friends were sitting down and enjoying a quick snack on one of the rink’s many balconies, her boyfriend had his hands and lips all over another girl. How dare Him!!

“Can I go over there and choke the living shit out of him please?” A normal comment coming from Trystal’s best friend Amanda. She hated Jason with a passion and right about now so did Trystal. How many times was she going to let him get away with cheating on her? “Don’t bother, I’m leaving.” Trystal said choking on tears. To think she came here all dressed up for him. Hoping it would make him stay around her more than wonder off. A tight baby tee that enhanced her double D breasts and very feminine figure, navy blue booty shorts which gave length to her already long and gorgeous bronze legs and navy blue and white converse sneakers completed the look. Trystal stood up to leave when Amanda pulled her back to a stop. “Don’t you dare walk away from this! If you walk away now he knows he has you for good.”

“I personally don’t care what he thinks right now, I just want to get out of here.” Trystal said as tears began to fill her eyes.

In the three years she spent dating Jason, he never did anything like this. There were rumors about him with other girls and plenty of them he actually admitted to but he never cheated on her in front of her face. He never embarrassed her like this in public.

Jennifer Lauren Ackermann “Unveiling the Secret Fangs”

About the Author:

I’m 19 years young and live in Orlando, Florida.  I am currently attending my local community college and working toward my degree in English.  I would like to thank Celis for all her kind words and support.  Feel free to follow me on Twitter: www.twitter.com/ItsMeJaylah.  Enjoy.

Unveiling the Secret Fangs

By: Jennifer Lauren Ackermann

Darkness hadn’t really freaked me out before, but when floating yellow eyes that glowed started moving toward me from the shadows, that, I admit, did scare me.  Even though I was twenty-three years old, living on my own and financially stable, I wanted my older sister there with me more than anything.  Sinthea had always been the brave one growing up.  I had learned my cynicism from her.  Sinthea had always told me that all realists needed a hint of cynicism in their bones.

Having a mom that had passed away shortly after my birth and a father that had worked himself non-stop to keep busy and away from the house where all of mom’s things were, growing up had been hard and lonely.  Sinthea had taken it upon herself to care for me where our father had failed to.  Being four years older than I, Sinthea had sacrificed a lot for me and my happiness.  It hadn’t been until a few years ago that I realized that and felt stabs of guilt from it occasionally, even to this day.

We were very close.  Close enough for me to see that my big sis had a darkness that was inside her deep, deep down.  Even being as close as we were, it seemed that I could never get close enough to touch or identify it.  She seemed to guard it, keeping it safe from everyone.  It hurt me to see her practically thriving off of it, like it was the only thing that could keep her going.

Sinthea had gone missing the day she moved out of the house, severing all ties with everyone.  She quit her job, cancelled her cell phone service and didn’t tell anyone where she had moved to.  The last thing that she had ever said to me whispered through my mind, reopening the wound that would never be fully healed over.

I love you, Roberto.  You are my brother and my best friend.  I need you to know that before I leave.  If you’re mad at me for this, I understand and I won’t blame you, but you must also understand that this is for your own good.  I know you don’t see it now, but you will, she had said.

When she had left and never bother to call, visit, e-mail or write a letter to let me know that she was all right, I hadn’t been mad.  No, I had been pissed.  She had left me all alone with a father who couldn’t even look at me since I reminded him so much of his dead wife.  Maybe I was stupid or ignorant, but after eleven years I still couldn’t see how it was for my own good.  Maybe I simply didn’t want to see it.  I didn’t have a clue as to what she had been talking about.  Eleven years of constant wondering hadn’t gotten me any closer to an answer than I was now.

The burning, yellow orbs stopped coming closer and blinked a few times.  I back peddled a few steps right into a cluster box that clanged loudly.  The wind that had been rustling the leaves, died, the night bugs’ song silenced as well.  It was creepy, to say the least.

Rachel Carroll “Black Feather”

About the Author:

‘Ello mates, I guess I should tell you all a little about myself before you read this VERY short story that I wrote in college last quarter (And I really mean short, hehe). I live in Ohio with my parents and siblings, a state known for its annoyingly unpredictable weather. I’m 22 years of age, and will be 23 in November. I’ve always loved writing stories, even in kindergarten, and wish to one day be a writing as well known as my favorite author Sherrylin Kenyon. My mother’s paranormal romance book collection was my first glimpse into erotically written stories, and is still my ultimate favorite works of writing.

This story is based on a poem I wrote many years ago, which made it easy for me as an assignment to write a one-page short story for my Creative Writings class. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! PLEASE give me feedback, and of course the constructive kind.

BLACK FEATHER

By Rachel Carroll

Piercing eyes of crimson red stared down at the slumbering head of a human child, their depths glowing with an inner fire. The owner of the eyes cocked her head from either side like a bird, unevenly cut ebony hair falling in numerous lengths over a heart shaped human face. But when the child mumbled incoherently and rolled over in its sleep, those sensual blood stained lips spread into a wide grin, serrated teeth glinting in the moonlight that washed over the room from a window the being had snuck in through.
The leather-clad being silently stalked forward, her booted-legs easily passing over the toys that littered the child’s bedroom. Once standing behind the dreaming ten-year-old, she then slipped under the covers and rested on her side next to the little one. She leaned close, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in the innocently sweet scent that was the child’s.
“My name’s Samantha, what’s your name?” the child’s voice rang out through the room, even though it had come out as a whisper. The older female nuzzled at the back of her neck, a shuddering hot breath washing over the child’s skin. Silence reined as if the child hadn’t spoke, the darkness encompassing the room seeming to thicken and force out the moonlight.
“Raven,” she said after the long hush, her voice pitched so low that the child almost thought she had imagined it.
“That’s a pretty name,” said the little girl, before suddenly rolling over to face Raven. The being hissed softly at the unexpected change of position, but then went silent as she stared into warm honey eyes. No fear filled those eyes as they took in her dark appearance, only pure curiosity. “You’re pretty too,” she said after a moment, a cute smile quirking those small lips. Raven’s own lips stayed neutrally closed, her crimson eyes flaring like a blazing fire even as the rest of her face continued to appear like a blank canvas. When it became obvious to Samantha that the woman didn’t talk much, she yawned wearily and curled up on her side, all the while still watchful. “Are you a dream?” she asked after a few more passing moments of silence. Raven blinked once at the question, but didn’t answer yet again. The child gave another long yawn and closed her eyes. This made the being lean closer to that sleeping face, her warm breath puffing over the little one’s face. “Your breath stinks. Nighty night, Rae.”

Smokedawg “Dragon’s Breath”

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.

Incidentally, while the story below isn’t a smoking fetish fiction story as such, it is inspired by a conversational exchange between two characters in a fetish story I wrote for my blog, “Nobody’s Princess,” which Celis re-published here some time back at this link: http://celisrono.wordpress.com/2009/07/21/smokedawg-nobodys-princess/

Dragon’s Breath

By Smokedawg

His armor fairly gleamed, as did his demi-sword, grand-sword, spears and brassig-barbed lances. The oversized shield—wrapped with exotic keuvhrga fronds from far-away Jhuoolha that were said to repel fire—might have made his horse tilt sideward if not for the fact a near-twin of it was on the other side his saddle as well.

He, the warrior who would prove his mettle and win a lordship for himself by revenging the High-King on the dragon who had stolen his daughter.

Or, if she yet lived, a princedom and her hand if he returned her to the king.

Unlikely chance of the latter, he had thought to himself as he rode away with several retainers, but still, a jewel worth consideration, which is why I have weapons to simply harry the monstrosity instead of killing it, should I get the chance to flee with Galiana on horseback.

That was how he had departed the King’s Demesne, at least.

Now, almost a lunar cycle later, his armor was tarnished and dented, though still strong. Two of his three lances had lost the brassig barbs he has been counting on to pierce the dragon’s scaling, lodge there, and poison it just to give him an edge in the battle. His demi-sword was pitted from multiple battles with hungry fauna and vicious brigands. And all who had accompanied him were now gone—either killed or having fled.

Amanda Letterman “Dark Mansion” Chapter 1

Currently I am actively seeking representation for my first full novel.  Writing is my ultimate passion, whether it’s my poetry, adult stories or my fantasy, I want it to be something the reader can enjoy enough that they hate to put it down at the end.  Right now I’m running a website for people who like to role play and write with other people.  Feel free to join up at www.aflightofancy.com

“Dark Mansion“

Chapter 1:  Pre Dinner Jitters

By Amanda Letterman

Angel was flipping channels on the TV when there was a loud knock on the door.  Squealing in surprise the young woman jumped up and ran to the door.  Opening it she was expecting a postman or some sort of delivery person.  Instead much to her surprise there were a dozen deep orange roses sitting in front of her apartment door.

“Oh, how beautiful!”  She said and picked them up and took a deep breath.  They were the most fragrant roses she had ever smelled.  There was a card attached to the vase.  Her name was written in elegant hand writing across the front of the card.  She sat the vase down on the end table and opened the card.

“Dear Miss Rhimes,

I have watched you for a long time.  Your beauty is beyond belief.  I would like to invite you to my mansion in the hills north of your home.  You are beauty itself and I would love to have you as my guest.  Simply a dinner with me at my home.  Nothing more, nothing less.”

Angel wasn’t sure what to make of the note.  Who would have been watching her?  She worked at a local restaurant as a hostess.  There were a lot of rich men dining there.  She didn’t know what to do.  She looked at the number embossed in gold at the bottom of the card.  There was no signature or indication to who it might be from.  She ran her fingers over the thick expensive paper as she thought.  Before she could change her mind she went to the phone and dialed the number.

She nervously dialed the last number and waited on the first ring.  It barely made it through before a hushed voice on the other end spoke.

“Thank you for calling Miss Rhimes.  My employer will be glad you decided to accept his invitation.  We have arranged for you to have the weekend off of work and a car will be by to pick you up at 6 pm. Friday evening.  Dress is formal. You do have something to wear?”

Bridget Miller-Coogle “No Secrets”

About the Author:

I live in SouthCentral Kentucky. I found that I was inspired to write after my aunt died back in 1994. That is when I wrote my first poem and then later a short story which has since been lost. During a stressful part of my life, I turned to writing again and started working on No Secrets back in 2001. Since then I have off and on worked on it. It is still in progress. Outside of writing, I enjoy role playing, playing with my 2 toddler kids and spending time at home with my husband watching movies. My friends and husband encourage me to follow my dreams. Both my husband and I have native american roots which we are both interested in furthering. We both love animals and family, which is a very important thing to us.

“NO SECRETS”

Part One, Chapter On

By Bridget Miller-Coogle

He stepped out onto the foggy streets from the tavern, pulling a crushed pack out of his coat pocket and lit up his last cigarette, throwing the empty pack in the trash barrel next to the exit of the building. The bright full moon cascaded its light upon the lowering fog and opaque clouds in the dark velvety sky and illuminating the pavement that he began walking down from the pub. He looked down the bustling streets and crowded sidewalks that were still wet from the heavy rain earlier that evening. Sprinkles continued to fall from the sky, dotting his long, black trench coat as he walked on. Wrapping it around him to cover his tight leather pants and black shirt that clung to every muscle on his chest, he looked at the people walking into the building that he just left. He pinched the filter end of the cigarette and puffed the smoke out, exhaling the toxic fumes and finally breathed a long drawn out relaxed sigh. Looking at the street lit storefronts, he turned the corner from the bar and continues on his way.

Exhausted by the natives and their visitors walking in, trailing with them the clamor from the ongoing parties, he decided to head back to his hideaway. As a group of people walked by him, they gave him odd and fearful looks. He stared through them with his intense, piercing, dark eyes sensing all the emotions that he had at one time. The intensity that came from them, but the consciousness of others’ feeling, daring them each time to keep it inside and not to lash it out at others. He smirked at their inhibited lifestyles and continued on. He flicked the cigarette into the running water along the crevice of the street and watched it slip into the water drain and out of sight

Feeling strange in this new structure and frame of mind, he was becoming quite accustomed to it and knew that it was something that he could grow into easily. Although it wasn’t what he was quite expecting, he still revered the change, be it for the better or worse. Although set in his thinking, he still treasured his instilled values and beliefs that he held dearly to his heart, or what was left of it. He knew what the emotions that they were feeling felt like, but now, he couldn’t really regret choosing to live this way. There was no emotion that he would have to deal with, he had tried to train himself to this life previously, after many failed attempts, but not until now could he actually fit the mold that he was looking for.

He continued on down the street and looked over at the mini-mart with the people coming and going in their cars and on foot, carrying out paper bags of booze, packs of cigarette, and other random things that could come from this establishment. Starting to head toward this small building, he could hear the faint sounds of the conversations with his keen hearing, he barely had time to cross the street until his mouth started hurting from the alien growth piercing into his lower gums. He turned his head in agony out of view of the people around and darted to a nearby dumpster where he hid and muffled his screams of pain.

Toya Jenelle Jones “Purgatory”

About the Author:

I am a 33 year old Correctional Corporal from Ridgely,Tn. I’ve been writing stories since I was twelve.My dream is to never stop dreaming! Toya Jenelle Jones

“PURGATORY”

By Toya Jenelle Jones

Dana still wasn’t sure if she wanted to go to this night club.  Just the name of it, PURGATORY, was daunting.  They were sitting in her best friend’s car two blocks down from the club.  “Come on, chick,” Jorja exclaimed, “it’ll be fun .Trust me,” she said while getting out of the vehicle.  Anytime Jorja said that, they usually ended up in trouble.  With a deep sigh, Dana exited the car after Jorja and began to walk the two blocks to the club’s front entrance.  Dana saw that the streets were lined with cars; so, the club had to be popular.

One of the house rules was that the dress code was strictly Gothic.  As a result, they’d gone to Goth-Den and nearly blown their whole paychecks, yet it was fun to dress up.  “When we get inside, Jorja”, Dana warned, “behave!”           Jorja smiled brightly at her.  “Hell no!” she replied, “and neither will you!”

Purgatory was a renovated warehouse painted as expected in black.  The red neon sign flashed blood red.  Dana nervously turned to Jorja.  “Uh-uh, I don’t think so,” she said turning away.   “Oh chill!” Jorja exclaimed, drawing attention.  She did it on purpose because Dana hated people staring at her.  So, as usual, Dana backed down and stayed in line behind her friend.  The bouncer only seemed to admit the strangest looking people.  When it was their turn, he gave them the once over, eyes lingering briefly on Dana, and then held out his hand indicating that they would be allowed in.  Jorja paid him, and he opened the velvet rope for them to enter, but not before Dana got a good look at him.  When she did, she cringed because he had cat eyes, like an animal.  She had to force herself to look away.