Kinkybits Loves Blowing Bubbles  … Do You ?





Deep inhale

Slow exhale

Ring of membrane

Are forming circles

Made from water

Orbs of pleasure

Bring joyous giggles


Bubbles bubbles

Beautiful bubbles

Floating chortles

Flying chuckles


Dazzling opals

Of aimless jewels

Drifting marvels

Wondrous idols

Bobbling baubles

Mottled spangles

Trembling twinkles


Bubbles bubbles

Beautiful bubbles

Floating chortles

Flying chuckles


Reflective pastels

Conjuring easels

Higher than angles

Heavens sparkles

A sphere trembles

As the shape changes

Balloon dwindles


Bubbles bubbles

Beautiful bubbles

Floating chortles

Flying chuckles


Sadly crumples

Popping pimples

Dying dimples

End of giggles


Until ….


Deep inhale

Slow exhale

Ring of membrane

Are forming circles

Made from water

Orbs of pleasure

Bring joyous giggles


Bubbles bubbles

Beautiful bubbles

Floating chortles

Flying chuckles


by Tracey Owen

Copyright March 2012







The Flat of Ghosts

The Flat of Ghosts

Monmouth is a very picturesque village, nestled at the neck of the Wye valley. The valley with its forestry covered hills that surround the town and a large river that meanders across the bottom of the valley. The town is on the border of South Wales and England. A very rural place mainly  grazing fields with a mix of farm lands that share a rich in history. My Grandfather was a amateur archaeologist which is where I inherited his passion for history.

Monmouth can be traced back to the Roman town of Blestium. The Romans built a network of forts in the area, of which Blestium was one. The Romans eventually had to leave Britain, and the settlement appears to have faded after that. There is little written about it until the time of the Norman Conquest and the Domesday Book of 1086. During this time Monmouth spent the next two centuries ruled by Norman French Lords.

Norman Lord William Fitz-Osbern, built a wooden motte and bailey castle at Monmouth. The initial a wooden castle was built as early as 1067, and later was rebuilt of stone. A Benedictine Monastery was established at Monmouth in 1101. This is where Geoffrey of Monmouth, author of History of the Kings of Britain, was educated.

The town was destroyed in the wake of the Battle of Monmouth. The fight was between the rebels led by Richard Marshal, 3rd Earl of Pembroke, and a royalist force led by John of Monmouth. St Thomas Church and the Monnow Bridge were burnt during the struggle with the victorious rebels. Although, the 13th century stone gated bridge still stands, and is the only remaining bridge of its type.

Monmouth Castle was owned in the early 13th century by Edmund Crouchback, Earl of Lancaster and son of King Henry III. He made the castle his main residence in the area and put considerable effort into its redevelopment. It was remodelled further in the early 14th century by the 1st Duke of Lancaster; Henry of Grosmont. The castle became a favourite residence of Henry Bolingbroke, who became King Henry IV. He continued to spend much time at Monmouth after becoming King and it was there in the late 14th century that Henry of Monmouth, later to become King Henry V, was born at the castle. Henry Vs famous victory of Agincourt is commemorated around the town of Monmouth, with place names such as Agincourt Square.

Monmouth was never besieged or directly involved in the troubles associated with the rebellion of the early 15th century, but it was an important stronghold for Henry’s troops, who were involved in many battles in the surrounding areas. King James I granted Monmouth a town charter at the beginning of the 17th century, giving it a town and borough status. In 1610 John Speed made a map of Monmouth which shows a layout of the centre of the town that is still quite recognisable in modern day Monmouth centre.

The Shire Hall was built in 1724, on the site of the original Elizabethan market hall, design to be used as a court house. Looking at the map John Steed made, In the top right can be seen the castle and to the right of that is St Marys church. East of the church which stands on a high mound within its church yard is a row of tall houses built in Victorian times. These houses are on the foundation of pre-existing homes whose cellars go back to pre 1600.

My friend Caroline and myself having had enough of living at home with our own parents decided to stretch our wings and find a flat to share. We found a flat available to rent in the street opposite St Mary’s Church. The house was in the middle of a row of tall terrace homes and shops. On the ground floor there was an old book shop and the 2nd floor was converted into office space.

We occupied the 3rd and 4th floors. Going in the front door there were stairs going up and a long hallway which went to the rear garden door. The 3rd floor had a large living room with two big bay windows overlooking the church. The the kitchen nestled behind it with a window overlooking the back garden. Next to the kitchen was the bathroom that’s toilet was tucked in under the stairs leading up to the 4th floor which consisted of two small, attic bedrooms. 

The back garden was overgrown and unkempt space that was filled with tall bushes, trees, and waist high grass. There was a very old, stone out house, which hid the entrance stairs to the cellar. I refuse to do cellars or lofts so I cannot describe these rooms very well from my one visit down into them. My friend described them as two very old stone walled rooms devoid of anything, except spiders webs and a single dim light bulb in each hanging from the more modern ceiling.

The main door that we used had a strange metal grill with glass set into the pavement outside, so you could look down into the cellar beneath. I hated this ground window and would step over it with my eyes closed. Caroline and I moved in and accounted any weird feelings we both picked up on as leaving home emotions, or new house syndrome. It took a while to get use to all the creaks and groans in an older home.

Fortunately we both had full time jobs in different supermarkets, and being nineteen years old, Fridays and Saturday nights were spent out having fun. Sunday’s were different, we alternated weekends between inviting our mums and other kin to Sunday dinners at the flat. These were lazy afternoons and evenings in front of the TV, or just chatting. My Mum, being an ex-smoker noticed the aroma first. Since we didn’t smoke Mum did the Mum thing and asked casually if we had a new boyfriend that was a smoker. She explained that it was because she could smell the strong scent of piped tobacco.

When we said there was nobody new it started a hunt for the origin of the smell. With our noses in the air or down near the ground we all sniffed and searched, and eventually agreed it was pipe or cigar smoke concentrated in one corner of the living room. Though strange, we thought maybe the book keeper was in the shop and the smell drifted up from below. He did look the sort of man that would smoke a pipe. Educational professor type, always wore a shirt tie and jacket with leather elbow patches. Long beard and eyes that stared off into the thought provoking distance.

The following Sunday Caroline’s Mum and her sisters came over and again after dinner the pipe smoke drifted around the room. This time we checked the offices and book shop and no one was around. Going back into the living room you could see the haze of tobacco smoke drifting from the far corner window seat. Out of the corner of your eye,  just occasionally if the light was right. A small smoke ring would drift across the room, to dissipate amongst the other hazy pipe smoke lingering near the ceiling. The heady pungent aroma of Cuban leaves smouldering would fill the room with its aromatic fumes. We grew accustomed to our Sunday dinner guest or maybe he grew accustomed to us staying in his home.

He wasn’t the only apparition in that house or our flat, after a few months of living there we started noticing some other strange happenings. It wasn’t our smoker, he only appeared on Sunday and just sat and smoked his pipe for an hour and always left when the sun disappeared behind the roof of St Mary’s church. This other character, ghost or spirit was young and a very mischievous minx. She I guess it was a her, it felt feminine, was a comic joker or trickster.

Things in the flat would disappear and reappear in strange places. I know that often happens, either of us could have moved the item and put it down in an unusual place. Forgotten until found, it happens in all homes. We kept a box under the kitchen sink and in it were all sorts of utensils and bits of DIY tools. We put up some shelves and curtain rails when we moved in, and had begged and borrowed from family for the stuff we needed. One of the items was a spirit level that Caroline’s relative came up with. A very old, and heavy wooden plain, used for shaving wood, that had a set of spirit levels in the top and side. It was nearly two foot in length and 5 inches wide with two protruding knobbly handles on its top. It was kept under the sink waiting to be returned to its owner.

One day I went to put a load into our automatic washing machine. It was a side loader with a small circular glass door in the front. Grabbing a load I shoved in a handful of the dirty wash, and my knuckles rapped on something hard that shouldn’t be there. Pulling out the clothes, I peered in, and there, lying across the width of the metal drum was the wooden plain. I laughed and went into the other room chuckling at Caroline saying, “Funny joke. Now come and get it out.” Her returned gaze and puzzled look of what are you talking about frown showed she obviously didn’t have a clue what I was on about.

We struggled, pulled, pushed and wriggled that damn plain every which way, but it wouldn’t come out. It was way bigger than the door and it was jammed tight to the sides of the round drum. It took two very bemused engineers, three hours to take that washer apart enough to get that thing out. How it got there we will never know, but it wasn’t the only unexplainable thing to happen.

Food items vanished from the cupboards to be found later in beds or placed in a slowly filling bath tub. The washer was subjected to other items placed in it, but never anything that wasn’t easily removed or washed clean. Our Mums became more aware of this ghostly minx one rainy Saturday in April. It was grand national day, the English major horse race of the year. We all sat or knelt around the main table where the days newspaper carried a main centre spread of the races,  runners and riders.

We were all going to pick a horse and have a little flutter on our hopeful winners with the local bookmakers. The doors in the house were of the old wooden sort with a large lock and key. The living room lock had been painted over so many times the key in it was immovable. It wouldn’t turn even with the two of us trying to twist it with pliers. So we had left it wedged in its lock on the living room side of the door and had hung a pretty glass ornament containing scented petals from it.

It seemed as though the joking ghost, waited for a quiet moment in all our excited chatter to proceed with her prank. The sound of the glass hitting the floor made us all turn to look at the door. We watched as the key smoothly and slowly turned in the lock. The sound of the lock clunking into the door frame broke our silence. I jumped up and approached the door, everyone else close behind me. I grabbed the door handle, it was freezing cold to my touch. Pulling the sleeve of my cardigan down as a glove I tried the handle, the door wouldn’t open. We never locked that door we couldn’t.

My Mum using her sleeve grasped the key and it turned easily and smoothly. The click of the lock returning into its unlocked position made us all jump and gasp. I opened the door and closed it again and tried to lock the door with the key, it wouldn’t turn it was completely solid and immovable in its painted layers. We stood there looking at each other until my stuttered words broke the mood, “OK, so we live in a haunted house.”

Friday night of the following weekend, I woke up in the early hours of the morning to a hand shaking my shoulder and an angry high pitched childlike voice shouting “wake up, wake up,” in my ear. The breath of the person was putrid smelling of old wet dirt and death its stench making me awaken fully. When I reached out my arm, fingers fumbling for the light on the bedside table. The shadowy figure vanished and my bedroom was empty. Was it a dream possibly, but that smell lingered in my bedroom for days after.

The final incident before I moved back home, occurred on a Saturday night. My friend and I got dressed up in our posh frocks. At the front door I turned to lock the door and my new shoes with their high heels sunk into a small hole in the cellar grill and glass. Tugging and twisting my foot wouldn’t release the shoe I had to look down.

As I have said before I hated looking down into that dark sunken room. Fear rode through me and panicking I shouted for Caroline to release my shoe before something came out of the dark and grabbed me. Later that night when we came home from the club, and sober, you can imagine our shock when looking down, a light was coming from that cellar window below our feet.

Being the brave young woman we are, we phoned for the police. We lived in a sleepy quiet town, there wasn’t a lot for the local police to do. Three of them turned up several minutes later. All of them, were tall, very broad shouldered and looked extremely macho. They were just the right type to send into a spooky haunted house of two terrified women.

They peered into the cellar window and agreed it needed looking into why the light was on. We unlocked the door and led these burly policemen out into the garden. Very courageous macho men these policeman letting two young ladies lead the way. The only light in that shadowy garden was from their torches and a very dim light peeking out from the cracks around the cellar door.

That’s when I found out big men, are not always that brave, all three men hesitated at the door urging each other forwards. Eventually one cop pushed open the door and we all crept down the old worn stone steps. Our foot steps echoed loudly reverberating back at us from the old underground rooms.

The bulb in the first room was dull and dingy as it swayed slightly in a breeze making the shadows of our body’s dance across the stone walls. So cold and damp I couldn’t help shivering and clutching at the policeman’s hand, who stood next to me. The rooms were empty, but for some reason none of us wanted to stay down there a second longer than we had to. The cellars were thick with silence just the sound of our ragged breaths and the foreboding whisper of the night air as it whistled gently through the cracks of the pavement window.

Then it happened. “BOO” Caroline shouted, I screamed, spun on my heels still holding tight to the policeman’s hand. I raced up the stairs and out into the garden, dragging the policeman behind me. The stomp of boots and high heels echoed behind me, They all followed me out at a break neck speed. We stood there in that dark garden grinning stupidly at each other and our strange reaction to the spooky cellar rooms. The group of policeman very nicely checked the whole house and flat for intruders, and found nothing. They stayed for coffee, regaling each other with spooky ghostly stories, until a radio call sent them rushing away.

The police officers came back every so often to make sure we were OK, and get some coffee, but a few weeks later I was sacked from my job with no warning. I had to give up the flat and move back home. Caroline stayed a few nights alone, but couldn’t afford to live alone, so she moved back with her mother. I never really think much about the time in that house. I do not believe in ghosts, but I cannot truly say they don’t exist after what happened. Was that house haunted or was there simple explanations to all the strange occurrences. I will probably never know the answer, but to this day I still hate entering attics or cellars.

By Tracey Owen & R.B.Rueby

copyright May 2011




Adult Readers Only

Please DO NOT Read If Under Your Country’s Legal Age

Cupids Arrow

I don’t think cupid has any forethought or planned technique as to his love matching. Impishly he flew over a gathering of people, loaded multiple arrows into his tiny bow, drew back and aiming high let them fly. Then giggled mischievously, as he watched the little arrows of love rain down randomly on the prospective lovers . . . . . .

Our eyes met for the briefest of moments, his continued on, to scan the room, then returned to mine. Maybe he felt my gaze, maybe he liked what he saw, or maybe I was the only thing fairly interesting in the room at that time. His eyes stared straight back at me. They were so hard to read with the strobe light’s, flashing beams and the shifting of neon colored lights.

I kept looking over the melee of revelers, but had singled him out from the rest of the crowded bar on the first pass. The group of men he was with was rowdy, drunk, overpoweringly noisy, even with the pulsating beat of the loud music. He stood quiet, shoulder propped against the wall, proud, aloof, occasionally he sipped from the glass in his hand. He looked bored, a frown puckered between his eyebrows. Whenever the neon beam flashed, his eyes turned to slits against the glare, he defiantly was not enjoying himself. Seemed out of his element, like fish out of water, which made two of us.

My workmates had convinced me to come out on the monthly work’s night out. “Come on,” They said, “it will be fun. You’ll love it. It’s a new club, come try it.”  “Yea right.” It was noisy, bouncing, hot, stuffy, and I was being ignored by my supposedly mates. I guess my face must have held a worse frown than his. I glanced over to the exit wondered if I could make my escape, but hanging near the door was my boss. He wouldn’t let my escape go unnoticed. I would be taken into his office on Monday, and be given the “Were a team.” lecture.

I swallowed the last bit from my glass and made a beeline for the bar. Pushed my way through the throng of chatting groups, I head subconsciously towards the end closest to him. I used elbows and my shoulders to ease my way through the hovering crowd as they jabbered noisily to each other. Their voices raised to bellows, just to be heard by there friends standing next to them. Propped my hip against the solid support of the bar, and waved my empty glass randomly in the air. It was a faint hope, but there’s always the chance that I can catch the busy eye of a bar keep.

A gentle nudge brushed my arm. I turned, and looked straight into his dark eyes. He was breathtakingly handsome, butterflies did cartwheels in my stomach. The flashes of the strobe lights made it hard to define the true tone of his eyes. The vivid greens, yellows, and reds of the music’s flashing lights danced within them keeping me transfixed. Long dark lashes curled away from his humor filled eyes. He was laughing at my hypnotized gaze. Blushing I dropped my eyes back to the bar counter. Through my peripheral vision I watched as he held out his empty glass and a bill note, as he joined my attempt to catch the eye of the bar staff.

“Too damn busy in here tonight, I hate these specials nights. Can’t get a bloody drink, a man could die of thirst.” his voice carried to me in that low, but clear tone, with that masculine husky base. Not wanting to bellow, he had leaned close to my ear when he spoke, a thrill filled shiver ran through my skin.

Who was that man, that after just a brief glance and few off handed words could cause this ripple of excitement in me? I turned to reply, I was to late, his empty glass stood on the bar. I scanned through the throng surrounding me. Finally caught sight of his back as the exit door closed behind him.

“Your next, what do you want to drink?” I turned back to the bar, my mind fought to remember what I wanted. Stumbling out with the first drink I can think of, disappointment blurred any sane thought. Nursing it, I too small sips at it and took my time. I stayed lodged against the bar not caring as I got jostled and nudged by the drink seeking people around me. The heavy beat of the music mixed with the drunken shouts and laughter made my head swim.

The pounding noise was overladen with the cloying smell of humanity enmeshed together, cigarette smoke, sweat, alcohol, fresh and stale slopped beer trodden into the floor by many feet over the years. All mixed with various perfumes, aftershaves, the prominent overlay of all the intense smells of urine, and the toilet disinfectant. They try to conceal it with, but the two smells just mixed together to make a more evilly sickly aroma. That wafted through the club every time the toilet door opened or closed.

Suddenly the  urge to run out of that crushing noise overwhelmed me, it became too much. Angrily I shoved my way through the crowd. Uncaring, I pushed past my boss’s annoyed stare. Forced open the club’s door, and let it slam closed on the noise behind me, reducing it to a gentler, muffled roar.

I moved away from the clubs steps, my lungs sucked in deep breaths of clear fresh air. The dull throb in my brain eased with every inhaled gasp. A heavy rain was falling and it felt so good after that club. I tilted my face up to the darkened sky, reveled in the refreshing feel of the chilled droplets. A group of lasses rushed by, they laughed and chatted away as they swished past me on their way to the club. It broke the spell I was in. They made me aware that I was gazing up to the heavens with my arms raised in supposition in a monsoon like downpour. No wonder the ladies had giggled at the sight of me, beware the weirdo village idiot.

The street was deserted, peering through the gloom of the downpour, the dim streetlights reflected off the road’s wet surface. Deep puddles were everywhere it must have been raining heavy since our group entered the club. An especially large puddle of rainwater had formed at the other side of the street, it disappeared into the gloom of the darkened shops doorways. I watched as the splashes of raindrops hit the surface of the puddle, while my mind decided what to do. I should go home, seemed the obvious plan, but the thought of entering that flat alone did not appeal to me in the slightest.

A shifting of white movement caught my eye, and the muffled deep sound of a stifled cough made me peer deeper into the darkened doorway. A shadowy figure stepped forward, hair slicked against his forehead as the rain cascaded in rivulets down his face, only to be lost in the widest cheeky grin. His once white shirt clung to his body his skin shimmered through the sodden materiel. He would get first prize in a wet T-Shirt competition if I were the judge.

His body was very well toned, the clingy cotton shirt showed a finely defined six pack, his trousers clung snugly to his legs. With hands stuck in his pockets, and shoulders hunched against the rain, he slopped his way towards me. His socks and shoes squelched with every soaking wet pace. “You took your time, I’ve been getting a little damp waiting for you” he said.

“I, I, I, didn’t know that you were waiting.” I stammered out.

“Well you do now.”

All normal ability of conversation betrayed me as my brain emptied of all thought. I stood there with my mouth open, struggling to regain the ability to form sounds, and all I came out with is, “You’re gorgeous.” Oh my god I had said that out loud. Turning on my heels I spun off down the street. I rushed away in my embarrassment heedless of the pounding rain. The need to remove myself, away from him was all I could think of. Then his running footsteps were right behind me. I could hear them splash through the puddles so close behind.

He touched my arm to still me, when he finally caught up to me. “Where are you going? It’s OK. Calm down. I am a handsome devil, thank you for the compliment.”  Quieter more concern was in his voice he asked softly, “Where are you going? Are you OK?”

Not able to look at him I replied, “Yes, I’m fine, just been a bad day, in a bad week, in a bad life. I’m just going home. I need some coffee.”

Great, I would love some.”

Not looking up I just nodded in response. No words were needed between us we slopped on through the pouring rain, as a companionable silence settled between us. It reached out, feeling each others need for company, as I steered the path homeward. Eventually I realized that I was holding his hand and my heart skipped a beat.

Unlocking the door we entered, he stood there in the middle of the living room as he dripped rain water onto the carpet.  I moved deeper into the flat and then re-emerged with a towel that I tossed at him. “Strip off. I will stick your clothes through a quick wash and dry. Least I could do for making you stand so long in the rain.” Then pointing to the door to my right with tilt of my head I said “Jump in the shower. There’s a dressing gown on the door. I will make us something to go with the coffee. Just make yourself at home.”

“Okay.” He started to strip out of his clothes, right there in front of me. No sign of embarrassment showed as he threw each soggy item to me, until the boxer shorts that hit me full in the face. He laughed, tossed the towel over his shoulder, and sauntered off to find the shower with a delightful wiggle to his ass.

I covered the slight blush on my cheeks with busying myself in the kitchen, as I sorted his clothes into the washer. Then watched as it started doing what washers do, then rummaged around the fridge. It was almost empty, which made finding food more of a challenge, all the while the coffee gurgled away in the percolator. He emerged from the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist. Wisps of steam followed close behind him, which is where I would have liked to be.

“I’ve left it running. It’s hot and you’re still damp. Go on. Get in there.

I’ll finish up here. I can find my way around a kitchen” he said to me.

I hadn’t even noticed that I was still in my own wet clothes. Nodding absently I head for the bathroom, grab some nightwear of my own as I go. As I passed near he reached out and traced his fingertips across my shoulder and smiled.

The hot water did feel good as I stand under the shower head, but I couldn’t dawdle, he was in my home. When I got out I found out that he had been busy while I was in the shower. The lights were dimmed, soft music played quietly in the background, the low sturdy coffee table had been moved up to the couch, and he had the food and coffee placed on it. A bottle of unopened wine and two almost matching glasses stood ready.

I smiled gratefully at him as I lowered myself onto the couch next to him. All I wanted was to slide over and touch, leg to leg, but I kept some distance, which was proper. As we ate, we chatted, alternating between us as we told our life stories. So similar in circumstances, both searching for someone, or something to make our lives meaningful, but stuck in a boring rut of work, eat, and sleep.

The thoughts softened by the ambiance of the room, and the alcohol consumed, I dropped into a deeper, more confidential conversation. Told him things such as wants, the loneliness, and my growing need for companionship. I eased closer as we talked and leaned against his broad chest. I felt like I needed his support or I would fall. His hands worked gently as they massaged my neck and shoulders, eased the stress from the taunt tendons and muscle with the firm tips of his kneading fingers. His warm, soft, gentle, and sensual caresses lulled me into a blissful state.

I sighed deeply, “That feels so good. You have great hands. I haven’t felt so relaxed in a long time.“ I cringed at my naive attempt to come on to him.

If you laid down, over there on the rug by the fire, I could do your whole body.” With a light tap on my shoulder he says, “Well?” My body tensed up beneath his touch. Feeling the nervous twitch of my body, and reading it wrong, he laughed, and slapped me playfully. “Calm down. I am just offering a rub down.” Shuffled his body out from next to me he stood up. Grinning he took my hands and pulled me to my feet.

Stood up, I am so close to him that I could feel the heat from his body through the gown. My heart screamed in my head for me to reach out and touch him. Feel the heat of his body under my fingers, the velvety texture of his tender flesh, the swell of the muscles, and tendons. I wanted to run my fingers through the short wiry hairs on his chest, needed to tease the little hard nubs of his nipples with my tongue and lips. My eyes were drawn up to his lips. Desire filled me to kiss them  lips, push my tongue between them, to seek his.

My brain sadly out shouted what my heart’s desired, overpowering it with the sensibility that I have trained myself into excepting as right. I yank my gaze from his body and searched for something to break the moment, It gave me time to regain some semblance of composure. “There’s oil in the bedside cabinet.” Oh great, now there’s no going back, I groaned to myself.

“OK. I’ll get it while you get comfy. Be right back.”

Did I really not want this, or did I need this now. I’ve confused myself well. I could just go with the flow, see what would happen and blame it on the alcohol tomorrow. Lying down on the thick, soft rug, I  fidgeted until my body was just right, rested my head on my hands and waited.

If he thought, I was going to let him leave it at a massage, he had a shock coming. I wanted him. My body wanted him, and my brain had given up the fight. It had resigned itself to the fact that we were going to have him. Reaching out I tucked the few condom packs deeper under the rug. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea, yet.

He dropped down beside me and started rolling the oil between his palms to warm the bottle. Popping the bottle open poured the warm into his palm and laid his hands on me. The gentleness of his touch, combined as it glided over my body. Like liquid gold, his hands left rippled sensations that ebbed and flowed in the wake of his sensual movements.

His legs straddled my thighs I could feel the straining of his leg muscles, as they rhythmically squeezed me. His steady rocking motion of his body as his hands moved up and down my back. Gently he ground his pelvis against my buttocks and thighs. Only the thin cotton of his boxers was between his hot flesh and mine.

His movements paused while he raised the squeezable oil bottle to arms length above my body. He allowed the oil to trickle from the small spout. Tiny rivulets swirled from the bottle as he painted intricate dribbles from my shoulders to the curve of my arse. The feeling of the luke warm tiny goblets of oil as they trickled and dripped over my body caused shivers as they rolled and scattered in various directions. Like microscopic insects they wiggled and scurried as they sought shelter in my crevices and groves.

I allowed a small, gentle moan pass my lips as one tiny oily rivulet oozed down the deep crevice of my cheeks. Its pace quickened as the grove descends around and down, until it found its way blocked by my tightly compressed thigh muscles. There it sat, the lone droplet as it vibrated gently as more and more droplets followed in its wake, as it created a tiny pool of trembling slipperiness.

With the added oil spread over my body, his hands glided over me smoothly as he placed them at the tops of my thighs. He slid both his hands with a firm thrust up and over the mounds of my butt. They continued to slide up either side of my spine, compressing the muscles in such a tenderizing and sensual way up to the nape of the neck. There both hands separated to push downward, across both shoulders, they followed around my arms, and reaching so far forward, that his chest lays along the length of my back.

His groin pressed tightly against my cheeks, without pausing he reversed direction and in a rowing motion he pulled on the muscles as he slid with his body to lift up and away. This was repeated over and over again. The motion turned my muscles into a mushy, relaxed putty as his body does exaggerated rowing motions on top of me. My head emptied of thought as it filled with the heat of the seductive sensations, my whole body was a set of tingling, twitching, muscles contracting and relaxing as his fingers kneaded them into submission.

Mixed with this the growing tendrils of desire, want and lust that continued to build in both of us. His staff of desire pressed hard against me with every forward movement. Not able to contain my lust, I was so far past wanting to protect myself from embarrassment, my fingers groped under the rug and found one of the small packages. I held it up over my shoulder with out even looking. He paused as his fingers brushed against mine to take it from me.

I heard the wrapper being torn open and my heart skipped a beat at the sound. He moved gently off my legs, spread them apart as he forced his knees between. I held my breath eagerly, as I awaited the first plunge. Instead of receiving his eager thrust I felt the teasing stroke of his tongue. Hot and slick across my lower back. Gently he teased a path over my buttocks, his touch made the nerves twitch with sensitive pleasure.

His hands caressed my arse cheeks, firmly he squeezed, and kneaded. The tongue tickled and flicked its way down the crease, drawing gasps of moans from me. Fingers gripped my cheeks, he pulled them wider apart until his tongue found the puckered goal it  had searched for.

His skillful tongue drew rasps and ragged breaths of rapture from my throat, his fingers joined the probing and stroking as they sought other sensitive, sexual areas to nibble or suck on. The fingers continued to probe and pull at my tender flesh, teased me until my need is so strong I gasped out for him to take me.

His mouth kissed its way up my body, so gently I hardly felt the pressure of his lips as they touched my body.  But I did feel the warmth of his hot breath as it passed over my skin. Like the gentle flutter of a butterfly’s wing, the soft vibration of his voice murmured in my ear soft, tender words that wrapped themselves around my pounding heart.

“Now, I take you.”

I arched my hips into the air and spread my legs wider, as I offered him easier access. All the while I desperately showed my eagerness for him and his hard shaft. He probed gently as the large swollen head eased into me. Holding the throbbing head motionless just buried inside me. His teeth nipped on the nape of my neck, they nibbled their way round to the sensitive tender skin covering my jugular. Then  sucked gently at the thin muscled membrane that covered the throbbing vein as he pulled the flesh into his mouth.

The rhythm of blood coursed through me, unbearable hunger pulsated in me. I wanted him so bad. Need burned inside me, I thrust back on him, taking him deep and fast into me. Guttural groans of pleasure emitted from me as he matched me thrust, for lovely thrust.    He lifted his body’s weight off me so that I could rise up onto my hands and knees our body’s matched in perfect rhythmic motion. The pace increased or decreased as the pressure of our passions dictated. As those long hard thrusts drove both of us towards our mutual end.

Our passion grew as he lost control of his tenderness, the animal urges surfaced within the snarl of his grunts. He pounded deep. My own gasps of exhilaration were in unison as we reached our climatic release.

My heart skipped a beat, surprised at the wondrous sight of him sleeping so peacefully on the pillows of my bed. One arm was thrown out, fingers twitched and flexed in the early morning light. The other held with the covers pulled up tight, wrapped around him in his deep, peaceful sleep of serenity.

I had gently slipped from the covers, eager to please him with the surprise of a breakfast, but I remained caught in the trance as i watched him sleep. The thought of breakfast had vanished as passionate flashbacks of our sexual pleasure invaded my head. Filling my body with desire for more of the fingers as they flexed again, drawing my gaze to the fingers that had shown me such gentleness. They had took me so skillfully to sexual heaven slowly my eyes were drawn back to his face. His eyes were open, so clearly awake they watched me intently.

“Coffee is ready.” my voice was husky with need, my body trembled  and yearned for this man. “I think the coffee had better wait.” his gaze had dropped down my naked body to below my waist, the evidence of my need stood erect and proud before him. He threw back the covers, from off his body, his own desire stood as erect and proud of his masculinity as my own.


by Tracey Owen & Brian Rueby            

 Copyright Aug 2009      



Flash Back

Flash Back
Mammoth metal monsters grind their teeth against masonry, as the screech and squeals of screaming tortured stone and steel scream out with unheeded pity. The metal maws crunch the roof timbers and brick work to dust as the debris rains down. Piles of mashed bricks that surround the walls of the old garage. The dust of so many years hang in the air, turning a bright summers day into a thick soupy gloom. The noise is deafening as the mechanical behemoths battle it out against the roar of the slowly shredding building.

A gigantic yellow JCB manoeuvres through the debris towards the front of the building with its large shovel lowered, aiming at the stout double doors. These same doors built to pass a double decker through or at least it had been some 30 years ago. Was it really so long, it didn’t feel that long ago. My fingers gripping the safety rail in front of me, so tight, they were going numb. The bull dozer pushes through the massive wooden doors, sending green splinters flying everywhere. I let out an involuntary scream of pure savage emotion, as the full wall implodes as the doors give way. The whole demolition site disappears in a blinding haze of dust.

Everything disappears in a cloud of swirling debris. The image of that building with its huge green doors set so firmly in my mind swirl before me as the Particles of dust become flurries of snow that are carried fast with a driving wind. Day turned to night in the blink of an eye. The big green double doors of the dilapidated garage were there before me, lit dimly by the one street lamp. The tall thin light swayed to and fro with the gusts as it cast a strange wavering wash across the doors. The snow turned to hail and pelted against the paintwork like a thousand tiny tap shoes dancing gleefully on the wood.

I should be freezing in this change of weather, but I wasn’t. I was frozen to the spot. A voyeur of the weather and location. A different tapping sounded off to the right, what ever was making it was hidden from view. Blocked by the curve of the road, the wall and branches of the bushes that rustled and danced in the wind. Click click. Click click, the noise grew louder as they grew closer. A faint sing song voice joined in with the rhythm of the high heel shoes, tip tapping out the songs beat on the path.

A bang near the run down garage whipped my head back around, one of the doors was ajar. The wind had caught hold of it and set it to rocking back and forth on its old rusted hinges. A shadow materialised, as the door stilled its motion abruptly. Silently the shadow slipped away into deeper shadows alongside a nearby building’s wall.

The voice was still singing its merry little Christmas jingle to the tip tapping of shoes. A young woman passed under the circle of  light from the still swaying street lamp. Head down, chin tucked into her chest. Her hands clutching her clothes tightly together around her as the wind tried to strip the wet cloth away from her body. Long damp hair whipped back and forth across her lowered face, as she tried to avoid the sting of the freezing winter storm.

The clicks of those tall heels stuttered for a moment as she lost her footing on the icy path. Her frozen hand releases the jacket and clutches at the wall beside her as the wind takes advantage and whisks its way underneath the thin jacket. As she fumbles to wrap the wildly flapping jacket back around her body. The wind catches the hem of her short skirt and lifts it showing flashes of very pale thighs. Angrily she slaps down the skirt, grabs the jacket back under control and steps forward into the wind. Eyes lowered to watch her footing, no song joined the resuming tip tap rhythm this time.

With eyes on the path before her she couldn’t see the shadow lurking behind the plinth of the garage’s drive entrance. I could. I tried to shout a warning as the two figures converged. My mouth filled with hail each time I opened it to scream. Foul tasting gritty snow, flowed into my throat making me choke and splutter. Unable to utter a sound except a muffled chocking cough. I could only watch what occurred before me.

The tip tap shoes moved into the open area level with the garage doors the plinth behind her. The two shapes merged as the shadow wrapped its arm around her throat. Another arm around her slim waist lifting her up and arching her backwards. They disappeared into the shadows together, just her pale legs kicking and stumbling as they tried to gain their footing. I saw them again they reached the big green doors shadow and lady in a macabre dance. The glint of a knife was the last I saw as he forced her into the building. Thankfully the door slammed shut against the wind and my vision.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I looked around the street desperately looking for help. Only the weather moved in that deserted road. My eyes fell on a small shape in the darkened driveway. It reflected the waving light from the swaying street lamp. A single red high heel shoe. I forced myself to draw in a deep breath and before the dirty snow could fill my throat I screamed as loud as possible. A long drawn out scream of desperation.

I coughed and spluttered as water flowed across my face and filled my mouth, a wet rag followed the waters flow. A deep reassuring voice kept saying the same words over and over again. “Your all right love, your safe now.”

Hands gently wiped my face again with a sopping wet cloth. “Lie still flower, let me wash the dust from your eyes.”

The sun slowly filtered through my cleanly washed eyes. A lovely blue sky appeared above two concerned faces, there yellow hard hats gleamed in the sunshine.

Drink this,” says one of the men as he offered me a bottle of water.

Between sips, to clear the muck from my throat, I inquired of one yellow hatted workman. “What happened?”

As the end wall collapsed  the other walls must have been to old and weak they all crashed outwards sending dust and bricks flying everywhere. We all got caught up in the mess.”

There’s going be hell to pay for this.”

Health and safety inquiry, cops even.” The other man agreed, as they helped me to my feet.


The dust had settled, only a mangled heap of bricks and wood remained where the old garage with the big green doors had once stood.

I reached behind my back and pulled an object from the bag still hanging there. The men watched quizzically as I gently tossed the single high heeled red shoe into the pile of bricks.

Just laying a bad memory to rest.” I told them quietly. They nodded, they seemed to understand.


I recently travelled back to the place where it happened. Unfortunately no one has demolished that old garage. The big green doors are still there. The red high heel shoe is just part of my memory. I don’t know what happened to it when it was dragged from my feet. The skirt and jacket, I had brought specially for a Christmas party. I ripped to shreds and hid in the very bottom of a rubbish bin. Maybe one day that garage will get blown down by another winters storm and I can visit the town of my youth and lay a real red shoe on a real pile of bricks.


By Tracey Owen & Brian.Rueby

copyright Oct 2011



Two Rings Entwined

Two Rings Entwined

Born from the forest the log is thrown into the furnace,
then another till the hearth roars with a deep throated menace.
Feral flames swarm over the wood devouring it hungrily,
hotter than dragons breath the burning heat scorches savagely.
Casting dancing shadows over the smithy’s ruddy features,
within his coal black eyes flicker two fiery creatures.

“Beast has heat, its ready.” His parched voice urgently conveys.
His old leathered hand wrinkled, baked dry from the heat, waves.
Towards the skinny lad standing quietly, hidden in the shadows.
“Get to working boy,” he shouts. “Pump faster the bellows.”
Funnelled air whooshes loud with each artificial exhalation,
white hot is the heat inside this blacksmiths cauldron.

From the silken cloth bag I had handed the smithy,
he withdraws each little keepsake my precious treasury.
Earrings, a necklace and the broach from my sister,
little gold trinkets are dropped into the retardant mortar.
Long metal tongs move the bowl over Dante’s inferno,
heat dissolves gold forming molten metal of liquid yellow.

Skilfully the blacksmiths pours with a steady handhold,
a cascade of liquid gold into the pre-sculptured mould.
Easing apart the cooling cast, his face shows trepidation
he need not worry there complete is validation of his reputation.
Miniaturised copies of Thor’s mighty anvil and hammer,
look tiny in comparison to the blacksmiths large stature.

Metal on metal, the tip tapping resounds around the room,
sparks fly forth as if shrapnel from an explosive bloom.
Working his metallurgical magic he slowly refines,
with one final reheating the newly reshaped icon shines.
A thousand snakes hiss at the chilled waters blaspheme,
merge within a surge of metallic smelling clouds of steam.

From the bucket appears the newly forged gold,
a vision of perfection a shimmering sight to behold.
His fingers quiver causing a tinny jingle from the circled band
and with a flourish the blacksmith lays the rings in my hand.
Having done all I had requested, agreed upon, and now acquired.
In payment I cross his palm with silver for services rendered.

Leaving the shop I gaze at the gold splendour, in wonder.
Interlaced are two perfect circles, one smaller, one larger.
That with a little agitation I thread on a golden necklace,
the symbol of our mutual love, so eternal and endless.
Safely kept next to my heart I will be our ring bearer,
until that glorious moment we are finally together.

Then these golden rings will be reforged, pulled asunder,
our vows taken and each ring placed upon the finger.
But until that day safe around my throat they will stay,
entwined golden rings for our wedding day.

By Tracey Owen
copyright Aug 2012