Sunday, February 12, 2012

Cinders Post #1

Notes:  So, this is my new story.  I'm using the fairytale as more of a reference than anything, so don't expect too much literary fidelity.  Depending on this one's reception, I may or may not start up a second one concurrently on the blog.  I do have my sanity to keep, after all, but it's a possibility.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy the first part of Cinders.

And I know, the new template is really pink, but I figured a change was due after over a year of the same thing.  It may end up adjusted.

Title: Cinders

Part One: Round About Midnight


                Mankind is made up of storytellers, and storytellers very often don’t know their own strength.  Words have power, and to use them is to give them will, and breath, and movement.  Stories can take on a life of their own.  It’s happened many times, with the epic cycles of history repeating themselves despite our best intentions and traditions becoming warped out of all recognition by circumstance, transforming into something completely new.  Stories float through homes, cities, cultures and continents and look for fertile ground, and when they find it, they dig in their roots. 

Stories, however they come about their imperative to live, do require actors to play the crucial parts.  If you fall into a story, you had better hope it’s one of the more benevolent ones, although without some current of strong emotion or trauma a story isn’t likely to endure.  The best characters are the ones who can adapt the tale to fit their personal needs, without getting totally swept away by the narrative.  If you can’t do that, well, then the story runs roughshod over you and you’ll probably end up dead, cooked in a pot of boiling water at the bottom of a chimney or turned into a deer that is subsequently torn apart by hunting hounds, or some other equally grisly and poetic end. 

This particular story decided to settle in a house.  It waited patiently for the right person to come by, and when they came…it pounced.


It’s nearly midnight.

It’s nearly midnight, and Asher is walking as fast as he can with only one shoe on.  His other foot is bare, no sock, nothing.  It irritates the fuck out of him but he doesn’t want to stop, because stopping would be acknowledging it and then he’d have to think about it, and right now all he wants is to move, fast enough that the anger doesn’t have a chance to boil over.  This is as fast as he can go without breaking into a run.  Not for the first time Asher wishes he’d never sold his motorcycle, because fuck it would feel good to slide onto that smooth seat, feel the engine rumble to life between his legs and go, just go, fast as he could to anywhere else.  The bike was easy escape, pure and simple, but now he has to make do with his own two legs or, God forbid, the San Francisco public transportation system, and anyone who’s ridden it knows that it isn’t the way to escape from anything.

His face is still swelling; he can feel the sting and pull of the skin, and it’s getting harder to see out of his right eye.  Fucking frat boys and their goddamn inability to lose graciously.  Not to mention the undertones of sexual repression, but that’s just to be expected.  Asher doesn’t typically hustle pool in college bars, but he needed the money and it was close by.  Two hundred and fifty bucks in and the guys didn’t want to play anymore, but they were more than ready to beat the shit out of the pretty fag who was holding their cash.  Asher got out, he’s good at getting out, but not before he took a shot to the face with a pool cue that rocked his world. 

Stupid fucking college boys, think they’re so smart…and Asher should know, he lives with one.  Not that Ty is like those guys, really.  Asher met Ty when he was sixteen, new to the streets, skinny and shy and so damn green he practically glowed neon.  He would have gotten his ass handed to him in under a week if Asher hadn’t shown him how to live, what you had to do to get by if you weren’t gonna get into the system, and nobody wants to be in the system.  Asher shared his money and his place, got Ty’s stupid shaggy hair cut, because you never gave a john more to hold onto than you had to.  He took Ty out to work with him, helped him stay away from the hard drugs and the guys who wanted more than a blowjob or a quick fuck, because there were always people who wanted more than you should give them.  He helped Ty build a fucking life away from his past without asking any questions, and it worked for them, damn it.  It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

Except Ty was greedy, and smarter than was good for himself, and as soon as he hit eighteen he enrolled in community college.  He got a job in a library shelving books, and now he spends all his time studying shit like Basic Anatomy or American Literature.  He’s let his hair grow out again, and after he hit his growth spurt he shot up past Asher, well past six feet, big enough so that even the biggest guy thinks twice before stepping up to him.  Now instead of a twink Ty looks like a gangling scarecrow, still skinny, all long limbs and oversized hands and the stupidest big brown puppy dog eyes imaginable, eyes that can make you do things you never had any intention of doing.  When he pouts it’s like watching someone poke a baby bunny with a stick, or push a kitten off a countertop.  There are whole YouTube channels devoted to this kind of sickly-sweet sadism, and Ty probably subscribes and takes notes.

It would be tolerable if Ty didn’t want Asher to change as well.  But he does.  And that sucks.  Like tonight: he got home okay, he had the money and he hadn’t had to turn any tricks to get it, which was kinda nice.  But as soon as he walks in the door, Ty is on him like white on rice.

“Holy shit.”  Ty dropped the book he was reading on the couch, his legs folded up beneath him awkwardly, and ran over to the door.  “Ash, what the hell?”

“It’s nothing,” Asher replied, giving Ty a half-smile as he kicked off his shoes and slung his leather jacket over the end of their tiny kitchen counter.  Their whole place was tiny, basically a living room, a bedroom and a closet of a bathroom. The kitchen was a hot plate, a microwave and a sink.   It wasn’t much, but they didn’t need much.  “Some assholes in a bar just couldn’t bow out gracefully.”

Ty’s shoulder’s slumped a little, and he dropped his hands off Asher’s shoulders and went to rummage through their mini fridge.  “You were hustling pool?”  He found the ice pack, actually a bag of corn that had been thawed and refrozen way too many times, and handed it over.  It felt like bliss on Asher’s swollen face, and he flopped down onto the couch where Ty had been and stretched his legs out.

“Beer?” he asked hopefully.

“No.”  Ty found their latest bottle of generic painkiller and shook out two of the tablets.  He brought them over with a glass of water.  “Ash, were you hustling pool?”

“Yeah.”  Asher grimaced but swallowed the pills, and washed them down with water that tasted slightly like metal.  The landlord had warned them when they moved in that they’d probably want to put a filter on the faucet, to take the taste away, but there were so many other things to spend money on besides making water taste the way it should.  As long as it didn’t kill them, they were good.  “I won a lot of money,” he continued with a grin, and pulled the messy wad of bills out of his pocket.  He tossed it in Ty’s direction.  “There’s your textbooks, man.  Never say I don’t do shit for you.”

Ty stated down at the money, his mouth set in a line of distaste.  When he looked up again his eyes were opened wide, big and unhappy and Asher had to bite back a moan of frustration.  He knew what that look meant.  “Ash…I don’t want you to have to hustle pool to make money.”

“Well, it’s better than the alternatives,” Asher replied.  “What, you want me fucking crusty middle-aged douchebags if I can avoid it?”

“No!”  Ty pushed his sandy hair out of his face, tucked it behind his ears.  Stupid long hair, every time he saw it Asher wanted to touch it, to card his fingers through it and play with it and basically act like a five-year old girl.  Scary.  “No, I want you to not have to do any of it.  There are other options, Ash.  You’re twenty-one, man, you could get a real job.”

“What have you been smoking?” Asher muttered.

“I’m serious!  You could work in construction, or in a restaurant or something.  There are lots of other possibilities out there.  Or you could go to school too—”

“Not that again,” Asher cut Ty off mid-sentence.  “No thanks, college boy.  In case you’re forgetting, I don’t have a high school diploma or a GED.”

“I got mine,” Ty pointed out reasonably.  “It’s not that hard, I would help you.”

“Jesus,” Asher said, dropping the frozen corn and glaring at Ty, “Would you just let this go already?”

Except Ty didn’t let it go, and the argument became a fight and then Asher was out of there, so fast that he didn’t take the time to grab his other shoe, fast enough that he wouldn’t be tempted to just fucking punch Ty in the face, because no matter how big Ty got, Asher had the experience, he had been fighting for his place from the moment he could stand.  Asher had promised himself when he found Ty that he would never hurt him, and he never had, not even when the annoying shit drove him fucking insane with his fairy-tale fantasies.  What kind of world did he think they were living in, huh?  Nothing was ever right, things never worked out.  Or maybe for people like Ty they did, people so goddamn adorable that they bent the laws of physics, but for the Ashers of the world it was always a struggle.

 Not that he wasn’t gorgeous when his face wasn’t black and blue.  Asher got his mother’s Chinese features, cat-like and seductive, and his father’s Irish skin and physical proportions.  All American and yet decidedly exotic, he was gorgeous and he knew it.  His hair was spiky and short, bleach-blond, and he used eyeliner to highlight the sharpness of his eyes, which were blue like his father’s.  His mouth had been called “perfect for cocksucking” too many times to count by dumbass johns who didn’t realize or didn’t care that that wasn’t exactly a compliment.  He wore skintight clothes to accentuate the cut of his muscles, and radiated a bad-boy air that was irresistible to some.  It was only once he started talking that Asher’s luck changed, because he couldn’t hold back when someone was being a shithead.  He always spoke his mind, and that more often than not got him into trouble.

Like tonight.  He’s been walking and cussing and fuming so hard he doesn’t know where he is, and the sky is about to fucking open up and drench him, he can feel it in the air, and now his foot is really starting to hurt.  Asher stops and leans against a brick wall, turns the sole over and takes a look.  It’s filthy, almost black, and bleeding in a couple different places.

“Fuck,” he mutters, cradling it uselessly in his hands.  The rain starts to fall then, soft for the moment but he knows it’s going to get worse, and he’s stuck in the middle of nowhere, a street of ubiquitous row houses and flex-fuel cars, every one of them probably owned by yuppie hipsters who don’t give a guy like him the time of day until they’re drunk and horny, and even then the bastards manage to be condescending.  This is not the place he wants to be, but its dark out and there’s no way he going to be walking much further on this foot.  Asher pulls his jacket a little tighter and keeps going, looking for anything that might do for a night.  He could call a cab but he doesn’t have any money, he left all that with Ty, and anyway his phone is just about dead.

He walks on for a while, limping and feeling pretty miserable, still angry but sort of sick too, sick of himself and sick of Ty, but damn it he still wishes he were home right now anyway.  He walks, slow and searching for a place, and when he sees it he wonders as first if it’s a mirage.  Because this isn’t just another quaint house in the row, all girlied up and painted in pastels.  This is a three story stone mansion, or it would be a mansion if it were a little nicer.  As it is right now, it’s too gloomy to be considered nice.  There’s an iron-wrought fence surrounding the thing, which Asher doesn’t get at all, seeing as it has no yard to speak of, and there isn’t a light on anywhere.  It looks totally out of place on this street.

Asher tries the gate, curious but not expecting much, and is surprised when it swings open.  Huh.  Maybe no one lives here, maybe the house is condemned.  And if it is, then maybe he can crash here tonight.  Asher hobbles his way to the front door and gives it a try.  It sticks at first, almost feels like it’s locked but then it gives out under the weight of his hip banging against it, and he topples inside.

Christ, it’s dark in here.  Asher feels around for a light switch but there’s nothing on the wall.  The floor is gritty under his toes, like the house is shedding it's top layer.  He shuts the door behind himself and feels his way along the hallway, past cold, empty room and uninviting corridors.  The hall turns and he turns with it, and eventually finds himself in a large room with stone floors and a huge fireplace at the back of it. Against one wall is a grandfather clock, a big old thing that’s pacing out time like a metronome, noisy in the solitude. Someone was here, though, pretty recently too.  There are embers glowing faintly in the grate, and laid out on the floor are a few blankets and a musty old pillow. 

It’s probably some homeless person’s squat, but Asher doesn’t care right now, all he wants is to lay down and fall asleep and try to forget tonight ever happened, just for a while.  God, he hates his life.  He sits down, picks at his foot for a second before giving it up as a bad deal.  The floor is hard under his ass, cold too, but at least he isn’t still out in the rain.  The pillow feels moldy, but he can’t take his jacket off to cover it or he’ll freeze, even with the blankets.  He compromises and lays part of one of the blankets on top of it and scoots the whole getup closer to the fire, close enough that he can smell the cinders and feel the silky ashes rub up against his fingertips.  Whatever, it’s warmer.  Asher settles down onto his side, carefully avoiding the swollen parts of his face.  He listens to the ticking of the clock and wonders if he’ll even be able to fall asleep.  A few minutes later, he finds out that he can.

The clock strikes midnight.  The front door locks.  And the house…changes.


  1. Interesting beginning! I can't wait to find out what happens next :-)

  2. Glad you think so! It will be a process, figuring this one out. Should be fun, although I recently got an email asking why there wasn't more sex in my sex stories. To which I So maybe there can be, I'll think about it.

    1. Well, in general, I don't think that a little more sex would hurt anything...but one of the things I like best about your writing is that your stories aren't driven entirely by the sex. I think your sex scenes are very well written and very steamy but I like that you don't have 50 pages of sex for every 2 pages of plot development. Call me crazy, but in my opinion good erotica has to appeal to my mind as well as my libido. If you imagine a good erotic story as an ice cream sundae, then the sex should be the whipped cream and cherry on top and not the ice cream itself. Too often I think writers of erotica focus too much on the sex (yes, I know...but it IS possible) and the story itself suffers. Hot sex scenes are nice and appreciated, but not if their stuck in the middle of a mediocre or poorly constructed plot. I hope that doesn't sound as pretentious as I am afraid I made it sound. I'm not an expert or anything...just giving my opinion. What can I say? I like what I like... :-)

    2. Also, forgive me for using "their" instead of "they're" in the proper place. Maybe that doesn't bother you as much as it bothers me but GAH! I noticed that literally 2 seconds after I hit submit. Damn it!

  3. I love your ice cream metaphor. And I agree, obviously, because I write that way. Someday I will make a post detailing the things I find annoying about erotica and erotic romance, but too much sex with too little plot is definitely one of them.

  4. This is an interesting beginning! I have read all of your stories over at literotica and I am pleased to follow you here. I've become a bit disenchanted with the quality of stories over there at the moment, so I am always happy to find authors I like who publish elsewhere...

    As for the sex comment- well I'd say that you write well paced stories, and your characters have sex when they "need" to.

  5. Hi Ely

    Thanks! There'll be more story up soon.

    I sort of feel the same with Literotica, I read for a while, get through the stuff I really like and then just kind of lose the steam to keep going.

    I'm glad you're reading my work, and that it isn't undersexed for your tastes:)