Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Titillating on Tuesday (Recipe)

Thought you could leave me out! Well, as a guy, here's my recipe - Stop at convenience store and purchase 24 pack of favorite beer (cold). Rush home, put in fridge. Serve cold (forget that chilled shit).

Pull pizza place magnat off fridge and carefully dial number (best done before cracking first of 24). Order deep-dish with extra-cheese (very important EXTRA CHEESE).

Specifically ask for the blonde with the slight overbite (that used to work for Hooter's) to do the delivery (may require extra tip).

Put magnat back (you will need it again).

Remove all clothing but dirty white t-shirt and 'I'm a Stud' boxers (dirty white athletic socks optional).

Crack first beer, grab remote, surf to suitably certified T and A channel and wait.

When pizza arrives be sure to leave the money on the coffee table hidden under dirty laundry and/or pizza boxes from previous purchases. This creates atmosphere and provides an opportunity to invite the pizza girl in.

Best served hot (the pizza too).

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Sway Me .... Oh yeah!

A little Latin today. No Christmas music. A dance classic. If I consider talent and true artistic ability I'd have to go with Dean Martin’s rendition. Well, a quick search and my own artistic integrity went out the window. Not sure why. Must have to do with the… ah… way they never blink.

Gives whole new meaning to puss'n boots. Now, where the hell are the boots?

So, anyone up for a dance?

Monday, November 26, 2007


And I can assure you Jill, this would not be here if you hadn't had a need.

BTW - what's with the singing snowman? And does that make her a Snowman's helper?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. I think I need new search words for finding French Christmas Carols. Didn't come up with much.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Monday Poetry Train

Not much of an effort but at least I showed up. I think I'm still recovering from the blogaversary.

The Essence of You

Your sigh is enough
To calm my heart
To lift my soul
… the essence of you.

I’ll take you with me
A touch on my fingers
A promise on my lips
… the essence of you.

Wrapped safe and warm
I’ll wander my day
Ponder my night
In the essence of you

Saturday, November 24, 2007

A Seasonal Thought

After Bob I thought it was time for some more Yule tide cheer. And this one has words. Enjoy Jill.

Friday, November 23, 2007

The Entity - AMP Flash Fiction Friday

Something from the darker side. An excerpt from The Entity. Not for the faint of heart.

Copyright 2007 Roscoe James

Scanner Bob was also walking arm in arm with evil that night.

No rest for the weary he thought. The twins had been very entertaining. As promised, they’d kept him up all night. The sun was just beginning to permeate the dilapidated motel room as he gathered his tools, stuffed them in his duffle bag and headed out the door.

He’d made many trips to the old rusty dumpster during the night. He could see that more dogs had materialized and were sniffing around the wheels and licking something red that dripped steadily through rusty holes along the front.

Both bound and gagged, they'd still thought it was all part of the game when he'd pulled out the knives and started cutting clothing away from their bodies. He'd even smiled and played along and whispered a constant litany of profanities and lustful promises in their ears.

Pauline had passed out when the first cut was made. Paula hadn’t. Considering it was Paula that first received Bob’s undivided attention, the pain kept her eyes open wide as Pauline came and went, opening her eyes long enough to see the changes Bob was making in her sister before straining against the duct tape and passing out again.

Feeling a need for praise from his Mistress, Bob flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial.

The male voice that answered surprised him sending a small shiver of jealousy up his spine; his immediate thought was that his mistress was breaking in a new one. Someone to take his place.

“This is the FBI. Who’s calling this number?” promptly Bob folded his phone shut, dropped it in the dusty gravel and stomped it several times with the heel of his bloody shoe until he was sure it was unsalvageable by anyone that might happen by and pick it up.

Resolve was quick to settle in. No important, he decided. No matter what, he would carry out the wish of his mistress.

Dropping the duffle bag behind the driver’s seat, Bob slid behind the steering wheel, started the engine and headed west.

He felt a rush of exhilaration. With no leash pulling, he felt changed. He felt he was moving up. He’d learned so much from the twins. He’d peeled away so many layers to find their sensitive spots. Maybe it was time for him to become the master.

With a chuckle, he thought just how much he’d learned about bending Tammy to his will. About peeling back her layers one cut at a time.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007


Okay all you Scrooges out there gather round. Marley here. Just thought I’d get the season started. No, I am not one of those bah humbug Christmas pessi-skeptics. I’m also not one of those plastic Santas climbing a ladder into oblivion guys… well, maybe you get it. I just enjoy the change of pace. A time to reflect. A time to charge batteries and get centered again. And an excuse to give someone special something special just ‘cause I want to.

So let’s get the music started.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


This is a take from one of the local parties for Rhian's Blogoversary. As you can see, they thought 1,175 was a great number. Stop in a take a look today.

Who knows, maybe you won one of the great prizes! Stop on over and check it out.


Thursday, November 15, 2007

Monday Poetry Train

Again, an aside for me. I'm off to NY with Amanda Ramrod so I thought I'd post early in case I'm, ah, all tied up on Monday. Nothing new - reposts from the Party.

Happy Annie-Verse-Airy Rhian!

Copyright 2007 Roscoe James

What Need

We tried to climb the mountain high
To touch the stars, the moon, the sky
A gentle touch, a muffled sigh
We tried to climb the mountain high

We tried to still celestial cries
To touch our souls with open eyes
A soft caress we did not try
… to still celestial cries.

What need to climb the mountain high
To touch the moon, the stars, the sky
What need to still celestial cries
To touch our souls with open eyes

What need a gentle lovers sigh
… when climbing mountains high

Will the Darkness Keep a Secret

Will the darkness keep a secret
If I hold you close and sigh
Lean in and whisper softly
Will the darkness turn away

Will the darkness keep a secret
If our eyes meet and we cry
If our hands touch oh so gently
Will the darkness turn away

Will the darkness keep a secret
If our lips touch and we fly
If our hearts sing in the twilight
Will the darkness turn away

Would Time Not Wait

Would time not wait
For lovers arms
To find the silence
Of the night

Would time not wait
For a gentle kiss
To heal the hurt
Of times apart

Would time not wait
For mornings’ dawn
To find our hearts
In quiet bliss

Monday, November 12, 2007

Poetry Monday - Week Long Warmup Party Starts Here!

The PARTY moves here. Have fun!

The only thing I can say is if you missed the first three days of the Week-Long-Rhian-Poetry-Annie-Verse-airy-Party - You missed out. The party moves on from here. I've been called to NY by Amanda Ramrod. Something about a board meeting. She asked me to bring Y's paddle with me. No idea what she wants. It was fun and thanks to all. Quips in a while.


A parting shot - have no idea why but Y seems to love Coyote Ugly dancin. Be sure the bar is wide enough for everyone. So here's Y's last dance...

Okay - here's one for everyone else. Got a beat and you can dance to it!

So, thanks again. No quips today but the entire party has been recorded. You can find it in the comments section.

One last thing. I found this guy this morning in the ladies room. Not sure what you ladies did to him. I have no idea who he belongs to. Rhian! Hey, drum ho', is he yours?

Sunday, November 11, 2007

An Aside for Me - Monday Poetry Train

Certainly not my forte – I do like trying new things. So here you find a few regurgitations for the Goddess’ Poetry Train. One thing though – DO NOT READ UNTIL MONDAY. That said, let me get on with my literary suicide.

Copyright Roscoe James 2007

Celestial Embrace

With moonbeam love,
And starlight sighs,
Comets burn as lovers eyes.
Venus traps us with her guise
Mars our passion, no reprise.

Mercury’s spin is
Full of lust.
Uranus winks and we just blush.
Terra cool and blue will rush
Beneath old Sol to warm our touch.

Dreams of Neptune
In our head
Pluto’s cold will soon be shed.
On Jupiter we make our bed.
With Saturn’s ring…

…I thee wed.

Not over yet... I go for slow agonizing deaths.

Office Angel

A smile, an aside
Coffee in hand
A pout and a giggle
A bright red hair band.

A shoe strap, a button
Glasses in place
The sound of you typing
A soft, gentle grace.

White silk, peeks of lace
A call you must take
Chanel number five
Your bust gently quakes.

A stretch, a soft sigh
Lips red with gloss
Crossing your legs
Blond hair with a toss.

A zipper, high heels
Nails with a shine
Bright emerald eyes
Send chills up my spine.

I think that's enough for the moment.

Friday, November 9, 2007

Excerpt from - The Sentinel - Flash

As a newbie to AMP’s Flash Friday I thought I’d take the low-keyed, cautious route and write about my dog. Or maybe my cup collection. Hey, or watching Kudzu grow. After a little consideration – this is what I came up with:

All rights reserved - Roscoe James - 2007

Who is this strange man, she thought, as she sucked his fingers gently. Obviously a strong and powerful man, yet so tender and giving. Pulling his hand away from her mouth, she guided it to her breast, her fingers gently closed around his as they pinched her swollen nipple together.

Her head tilted and she found the shallow valley of his chest hidden in the V of his shirt where she kissed, her tongue coming out to play as she felt his hand find its own initiative, pulling and teasing.

Looking up, she was startled by his stare as his eyes found hers. She could see the conflict, yet felt overwhelmed by the desire that lurked behind his half closed eyelids.

“Take me,” she whispered huskily.

His hands were warm. Gentle insistence pulled her shoulders until she moved up his body. Opening her thighs, she straddled his hips; her mouth hovered over his, their breath mingled, as his hands slid around her shoulders and down her back.

Sitting on his lap, the hard bulge of his pants made her moan, “Yes.”

Looking between them, she found his belt buckle and brought a hand down, pulling on the thick leather end, extracting it from a pants loop. Her eyes came up and watched his, as the belt finally fell free, exposing the button above his zipper.

Her lips fell gently on his as the button came free. Finding the zipper, she pushed it down as his tongue danced across her lips.

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he said, “Yes,” into her mouth as her hand pushed down the waistband of his white briefs, her fingernails raking across the dark matt of hair, digging until they found the skin beneath.

He pushed her back, leaned away from the headboard and quickly pulled his shirt up, over his head throwing it off the bed. It happened quickly. For a few seconds she was scared as he grabbed her shoulders and rolled her to the side. She found herself on her back, his head below her chin, kissing between her breasts.

Her hands fell on his broad back and she marveled at how hard his entire body was. His thighs forced her to open as he found a nipple with his mouth, and looked up at her as he sucked. Her body responded as her other nipple swelled, her fingers curled and her nails dug into his back enough to elicit a moan around her red swollen nub.

Suddenly her wet nipple felt cold and abandoned. His head receded, his tongue dancing across her skin as he scooted down her body, his hands danced down her thighs and found her knees. His wet tongue probed the depths of her navel as his hands tugged her knees, urging them up and out.

God, she thought, I’m so wet, I can feel it, as she felt it run between the cheeks of her ass. It quickly became more intimate than she’d imagined as he started moving down again, shifting his broad shoulders as they passed between her thighs.

Closing her eyes, she focused on the wet trail of his tongue as it played in her neatly trimmed pubic patch. Then it was gone. She felt the mattress shift and sag, her hands searched blindly for the top of his head and she panted in anticipation.

Then she felt it. His tongue was pressed flat, broad across her wet slit, pushing, probing, in search of something. Her eyes opened wide when he found his goal and sucked. She could feel a finger tracing, pressing, just below his chin, and her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling slightly, his tongue finally parting her lips, licking deep, pulling her thick nectar out where he pushed it hard against her clit.

“Ummmm,” her toes curled and waved in the air, the muscles in her thighs tightened as she felt a finger press in, opening her, pressing deep.

Closing her eyes, she pulled on his hair as he sucked hard before sending his tongue on another fervent mission of discovery.

A second finger joined the first and she writhed slightly as she was opened more.

Her breath caught as he sucked and nibbled. He’d found a slow, steady rhythm that was shoving her, ever closer, to the edge.

She was lost. There was no killer to catch, no office to run, no fake Lisa, and certainly, no stranger in her bed doing these things to her. This man, this complex animal that knew her better than she knew herself. At that moment, she knew she’d do anything he asked. Anything he demanded. And she hoped he would.

Then he was gone. The bed shifted, she heard a grunt and the rustle of clothing as her thighs started to relax, her feet coming down slowly to find the mattress, and a small whimper pushed forth.

His mouth was wet with her essence as he pressed it against her mouth. His tongue tasted different as he forced it in. His broad chest trapped her breasts between them; her swollen nipples sent small jolts through her body as his weight pressed down.

She thought she knew what she was saying when she invited him to take her. She had wanted him then, as she’d used her naked body as an enticement. She thought she’d known what want was. But now, with his body pressing, penning her to the bed, his small moans as he sucked the end of her tongue, now she knew what want really was.

Her body ached with need. Her hands pushed and urged, unable to budge or change the course of events. Then he pushed up on both arms, planted them firmly, penning her arms at her side. Opening her eyes she found him looking down at her. Her mouth was slick, waiting for his to return. His hips shifted, pressing her thighs apart, her eyes widened and her mouth snapped shut as her want was quenched.

His eyes never wavered as he pressed in, parting her, finding that most intimate of touches as he did as she’d asked, and took her.

“Yes,” she said, her voice low and husky.

Once buried, he dipped his head and kissed her passionately. Raising his head, he found his rhythm. Bringing her legs up, she wrapped them around his waist as they melded, becoming one.

She pulled and clung to him as he continued to push away from the bed with his powerful arms, his hips penning her bottom to the bed.

Her mouth opened as she struggled to breath. She could feel it happening, radiating. Starting below her stomach, it spread steadily up like a flush.

“Now,” she urged again, as she noted the determined look on his face, his jaw set, his eyes burning as he continued to invade her.

“Fuck,” he replied, as he finally let his chest drop on hers, pressing hard into her breasts, his feet clawing for traction, his head buried beside hers on the pillow.

Then her world, her being, exploded as she writhed and convulsed beneath him.

“God!” he yelled and she felt a sudden rush of wetness as he filled her, his body still driving, pushing, pressing.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Let’s talk romance. One of the things I love about Mexico (LatAm in general) is the music. They truly do have a corner on the market of romantic music. For $100 dollars you can hire the services of a trio (three guitars and three male voices) to perform at your house, an office party, a celebration, whatever, and their forte is romance songs.

One of my personal favorites is ‘Contigo Aprendi’ (With You I Learned). The all-time-best performance is by Louis Miguel on his Romance CD. I highly recommend both of them (there’s a second Romance). I picked up Alejandro Fernandez for you ladies because this guy could easily be the next hero in one of your books.

With you I learned
There are new and better emotions
With you I learned
To know a world of new hope
I learned the week has more than seven days
… to focus on my happiness
… I’ve already said I learned with you

Not the whole thing but it will give you an idea.

Due Diligence - Amanda Ramrod

Hi, y’all. I’m a friend of Roscoe. I knew him way back when. We won’t go into that. Well, not right now. Anyway, he said I could post out here so, from time to time, you’ll see a little blurb, flash or story about my life. Given the, ah, position (well, several positions) I occupy I really can't risk my own blog.

My name’s Amanda Ramrod. A lot of people, people that don’t really know me, call me Amanda or Ms Ramrod. Of course, as you can imagine, Ms Ramrod garners its fair share of snickers around the corporate office. I don’t really care, but you don’t know that, because you don’t really know me. Yet.

I’m thirty-four-years old, look twenty-four, and flirt like a sixteen-year old on Redbull. My only boyfriend used to call me Hotrod. He married the head cheerleader (what a cliché). I was never sure if head or cheerleader most described her particular talents. That’s when I stopped having boyfriends.

Now a days, my girlfriends around the water cooler, call me Ramjet. They say I’m like a stealth bomber swooping in to drop a four thousand pounder on some unsuspecting target.

No, I haven’t married. Yet. I’m sure it will happen. And when it does, it will happen on my terms.

You might say I’m shopping around. Well, you can say whatever you want. But let me be perfectly honest, here. I like sex. I mean, I really like it. Of course, I don’t believe I’ve cornered the market on that one. Probably one of the best kept secrets on planet Venus is that women like sex. Just as much, just as often, and sometimes, just as hard as the Martians do.

I’m not about to fall in the, ‘I love you, too,’ trap. You know the one. The one where we’re always saying little things like, ‘I love you, honey,’ just to get a response out of him. And then it always comes with that word attached. The, ‘too,’ word. Like, oh, right, yeah, I hear ya, me too.

And, of course, then we have to practically beg for it. I mean, what’s that all about? What happened to the bionic man? The one with a steel rod implanted between his thighs? The one that could punch holes quicker and deeper than Exxon (and make as big a mess, I might add). The one who’s hands did more exploration than National Geographic?

So it was right out of a liberal arts college (I really don’t want to say which one. Reputations must be protected here) with a BA in communications, on one of those recruitment Saturday’s that I found my niche, the peg for my round hole, you might say.

No! Don’t be silly, not a guy! I mean, why settle for a hotdog, when you can own the hotdog stand? I found a Fortune 500 corporate head (no, not that kind of head, that’s water cooler jargon for headquarters) with offices around the world, a nice location in midtown Manhattan, a very nice health plan, and lots and lots of hotdogs.

I was a good student. Well, not a 4.0, but I believe a 3.9 still falls on the good side of the scale. One thing I learned in college was, ‘take notes.’ So I did. And, thanks to that, this is my story. Names have been changed, adjectives multiplied and adverbs exaggerated.

I’ll start at recruitment day and, well, work (because I did work for it) my way all the way to the top. Where you’ll find me most days flogging away with the best of the corporate Dicks trying to meat a deadline. No, those weren’t Freudian slips.

... That's it for today. I have a board meeting to, ah, how can I put this delicately - prepare for. This will be a serial post so come (and I hope you do) on back now, ya here? Well, until next time. AR

Southern Belle

Cover illustration of Harper's Weekly, September 7, 1861 showing a stereotypical "Southern belle"

A southern belle (derived from the French belle, 'beautiful') is an archetype for a young woman of the American Old South's antebellum upper class. During the period, Kentuckian Sallie Ward of Louisville was the most noted belle in the South, and her portrait, which hangs in the Speed Museum in Louisville, Kentucky, is often called "The Southern Belle." A Southern Belle epitomized southern hospitality, cultivation of beauty and a flirtatious yet chaste demeanor. The stereotype continues to have a powerful aspirational draw for many people, and books like We're Just Like You, Only Prettier, The Southern Belle Primer, and The Southern Belle Handbook are plentiful. Other current terms in popular culture related to "southern belles" include "Ya Ya Sisters," "GRITS (Girls Raised In The South)," "Sweet Potato Queens," and "Bulldozers disguised as powder-puffs."

To detractors, the southern belle stereotype is a symbol of repressed, "corseted" young women nostalgic for a bygone era.
GRITS - Well, I must say, that gives a whole new meaning to GETA (Good Enough To Eat).

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

I'm still doing investigation - thought I'd share

According to the Kinsey Institute, the biggest erect penis on record measures 13 inches. The smallest tops off at 1 3/4 inches.

The Caramoja tribe of northern Uganda tie a weight on the end of their penises to elongate them--sometimes to such a degree that the men literally have to knot them up--while the Mambas of New Hebrides wrap theirs in yards and yards of cloth, making them look up to 17 inches long.

The most common fantasy is oral sex.

8% of us have regular anal sex.

60% of men and 54% of women have had a 1-night stand.

Women buy 4 out of every 10 condoms sold.

In 1609, a doctor named Wecker found a corpse in Bologna with two penises. Since then, there have been eighty documented cases of men similarly endowed.

Men say the average erect penis is 10". Women say it's 4".

A female orgasm is a powerful painkiller (because of the release of endorphins), so headaches are in fact a bad excuse not to have sex.

56% of men have had sex at work.

Among the Mangaians of Polynesia, 18-year-old couples make love an average of three times a night, every night, until their thirties, when the weekly average drops to a mere 14.

1 in 3 of us have had an extramarital affair.

62% think there is nothing wrong with affairs.

The maximum speed at which erotic sensations travel from skin to brain has been clocked at 156 miles per hour.

A honeymooning couple are suing Holiday Inn for ten thousand dollars, claiming their sex life is now dysfunction because an employee mistakenly walked in on them on their wedding night.

At least 500 Americans die each year from asphyxia in an attempt to lessen oxygen flow to the brain in order to induce a more powerful orgasm.

England's King Edward VII, a man of considerable heft, had a special table built so that he could comfortably engage in sexual intercourse.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Mississippi Mud - Completed

This is a small excerpt from Mississippi Mud – a completed Novella.

Chapter 1

It had been one of those days. One of those days only found in Tennessee William’s stories and along the banks of the wide Mississippi. One of those days when the muddy water of the wandering old man ran flat like molasses, the lethargic turn of a bass, or something less interesting, the only sign that life did exist below its flat brown surface.

The August sun had been relentless, the oppressive heat stifling and the humidity smothering.

And days like today always preclude nights like tonight in the Mississippi Delta. A night not unlike the one that Robert Johnson, standing at an isolated crossroads in the Mississippi Delta, handed more than just his guitar to the Devil.
Flipping his Zippo open he ran his thumb across the flint wheel and lit his cigarette. Snapping it shut he placed it on the scratched Formica and gave it a spin.

Pulling a napkin out of the matt black dispenser he unfolded it and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead.

Broad ceiling fans, small tufts of lint and dust clinging to the patina of grease that covered their wooden paddles, looped lethargically.
Glancing at an old Seth school clock above the front entrance John O’Bannon wondered if Miss Lee would be a no-show.

Snippets of chatter drifted up from the four old men sitting at the back of the Cat Bucket, a Vicksburg eatery that specialized in fresh-caught catfish and was frequented by the locals. He watched idly while an apron-wrapped busboy cleared tables.

Sitting on a small knoll overlooking the Mississippi, the Cat Bucket had been around since the war. No need to ask which war, there was only one when it came to the south.

He’d followed Warrenton road, the main blacktop that followed the river south of Vicksburg, right on an old gravel road by the cider stand, west to the ‘old hangin’ tree where he’d turned left and parked his car in a dusty gravel lot that filled the expanse between the restaurant and the muddy bank of the river.

“Hell no, son,” the wrinkled old gas station attendant had explained, “That’s the tree where we hanged all them there Yanks in the war.” Deciding that might not explain it completely, he spit on the broken concrete apron for emphasis and added, “That there’s sacred ground.”

Left to his thoughts in the ratty booth swimming in the heavy night air of the old clapboard restaurant, he took a drag of his smoke and sorted through the strange string of events that found him sweating in a catfish restaurant in the Deep South on a hot August night like tonight.


John O’Bannon, ex-Chicago-homicide-detective, stats like most cops, was a divorced father of two, a house in the burbs he never visited but still made payments on, and an ex-wife that despised him in an oddly mutual sort of way. Married too young, loved too little, his children already in college, he’d decided to throw in the towel and take early retirement.
From hell raising teen, to blissful newlywed, to proud father - twice, to woeful domestic kidnap victim, to giddy hostage survivor in twenty-five years. A lifetime, he was sure. And he had the scars to prove it.

On the street at forty-five with no real skills other than filling out police reports, solving the occasional murder mystery and shooting a handgun with uncanny accuracy, he’d drifted a few months before accepting an offer from Don Brakin, the Detective that broke him in many years before.

Retired ten years now, Don’s offer sounded as good as any and he’d taken it. Providing security for visiting dignitaries, politicians, the occasional rock star, and anyone else that felt that venturing into the public venue unprotected was dangerous, it was a puff job that paid a little better than his old one and he’d started getting comfortable with life again when, as is often the case, things changed.

At first he’d thought his wife wanted to squeeze the turnip some more when a lawyer showed up at Don’s office, briefcase in hand, and asked for a little private time with one John O’Bannon.

“My name is Nigel White of White, White and Jackson, a small law office in Vicksburg, Mississippi.”

Can’t be the ex he’d decided and invited the seersucker clad gentleman and his good ol’ boy accent into the small coffee room just off Don’s office.

“Nice to meet you,” John shook his hand and added, “I guess. What can I do you for, Mr. White?” Mr. White didn’t smile much and John was sure his pasty white face would crack if he did. Instead, he popped the latches on his briefcase while explaining, “It’s about your Uncle, Mr. O’Bannon.” Pulling out some stapled papers, he’d shoved them across the sticky tabletop and waited.

John picked them up and read as far as ‘…last will and testament of Robert Lee Sneed’ before looking up.

“I guess you didn’t hear,” Mr. White said.

“That’s an understatement. Who the hell is Robert Lee Sneed?”

“Actually, he’s your great-Uncle on your mother’s side. He married the sister of your mother’s mother, Lorry Sue.”

“You still got me, buddy. Sounds like a lot of mothers to me.” He decided Mr. White probably didn’t have a mother of his own when the hard ass façade stayed the course.

Leafing through papers, Mr. White looked up and asked, “You ARE the only son of Patrick and Deborah O’Bannon?”

“I sure ARE,” John said and got up, dropped some coins in the old coffee machine, slapped it twice on the dirty worn spot on the front, and watched a cup fill.

“Did you know your grandmother had a sister?”

“Sure didn’t.”

From Mr. White’s demeanor it would seem not knowing you had a great-aunt that had lived and died without crossing your doorstep was a deadly sin. And as far as John knew, in the south, it was.

“Do you have some kind of identification, Mr. O’Bannon?”

The guy was starting to tick John off. “Sure do,” he’d said, crossing his arms across his chest and asked in his best bad-cop voice, “Do you, Mr. White?”

“Mr. O’Bannon, this has been in probate for nine months. If you are, in fact, the only son of Patrick and Deborah O’Bannon, then you are the last living heir to the estate of Robert Lee Sneed.”

Few things left John O’Bannon speechless and he wasn’t about to let this prick ruin his track record. Setting his paper coffee cup on the table he’d quipped, “I guess the buck stops here then.”

It was no great surprise when Mr. White hadn’t seen the humor in that one either as he slid an officious looking piece of paper, check attached with a paperclip, across the table.

It had taken a month to tie up loose ends. He’d paid off the mortgage on his ex-house leaving his ex-wife very happy. He’d sent both his children some of the money along with his new address, sold his old car, got on a plane, and set off to discover Vicksburg, Mississippi and the late and great Uncle Robert Lee Sneed.


Yes, he thought, here I am.

Just before eleven Flora came around with a scorched Silex pot and said, “Last call, Sweetie, we’re gonna close in a few more minutes.”

They called it Mississippi Mud on the menu. An acquired taste he thought. And after a month in Vicksburg hanging with the locals and watching the kudzu grow, the thick brew was starting to annoy the hell out of him. He still shoved his china mug toward the edge of the table and smiled as Flora tipped her pot.

“And here’s your check, Hon,” she said sliding a pink counter check with ‘Thank You’ on the back, through the sugar that had slipped off his spoon.

A few gritty sips later and a last look around the mostly empty restaurant and he started to push out of the booth when the rusty spring on the dilapidated screen door announced a new arrival. Settling back in the rickety booth he waited to see who it was.

He’d never met her so he really couldn’t say but watched, mesmerized, as a true southern bell walked through the door.

Her honey-blond hair was shoulder length and brought to mind the 60’s with a broad white band holding it off her ears. The straight-cut bangs that hid her eyebrows and her small chest gave her a girlish look. He guessed she was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.

“How ya’all doin’ there, Flora May?”

He watched Flora May look up from swatting a fly and say in a smartass sort of way, “We’re doin’ just fine, Jeri Lynn.”

Her dress was a sleeveless A-line in red linen with a turned down collar and a handful of quarter size white buttons from just between her small breasts to six inches above her knee-length hem.

He noticed the gab club at the back of the restaurant stopped mid gab and wondered if they were staring as openly as he was.

You couldn’t call it showing up late. Jeri Lynn Lee, at least he guessed this beautiful creature was Miss Lee, completed her grand entrance by walking along the counter, white handbag clutched under her arm, her free hand running along the edge of the chipped Formica counter, and stopped just short of mid-way.

Spinning on a white three-inch heel, she leaned against the counter, cocked her hip, and struck a pose between two gaudy, red-vinyl covered, counter stools looking directly at him just long enough to make him feel uncomfortable.

He was surprised when she pushed off the counter and headed back toward the rusty screen door, a languid sway to her hips, saying in a southern sing-song, “Well, I guess I better get on home now, Flora May.”

Picking up her Silex, Flora dumped the last of her Mississippi Mud down the sink and replied, “You tell Mr. Lee we all said hey there, Jeri Lynn.”

He watched as her red summer dress disappeared with an annoying screech and wooden slap of the old screen door. Grabbing his check and his recently acquired seersucker jacket, required attire in the south, he stepped to the counter and threw a couple of bills down beside his check. Not bothering with the change he headed out the door and thumped across the old tongue-in-groove porch trying to find the woman.

“Damn,” he muttered and knocked a balled fist on one of the rough-cut porch posts.

Stepping into the dusty gravel parking lot he headed for his old pick-up truck, a faded 1947 Studebaker one-ton with a cracked windshield, something he’d found in the equipment shed on the farm he now called home, and wondered what the hell had just happened.
Just as he stepped on the sideboard of his old truck and pulled down on the door handle he saw the red glow of a cigarette coming from the passenger side of the cab. The door groaned in protest, the end dropping half an inch as he pulled it open, and there she was.

He couldn’t see her but he could certainly smell her. Sweet; smells of spring and jasmine. The musty old pick-up cab never smelled better.

Offering a hand, he said, “Miss Lee, I presume.”

Taking a drag from her cigarette, the butt glowing, she said, “Just get in and get going before Flora throws the Vicksburg four out.”

Looking back at the white clap-board building he saw the busboy sweeping the porch and noticed the red neon ‘OPEN’ sign had been turned off.

The old truck threw gravel as he made his getaway.


At the blacktop she pointed right and he headed south. His second attempt at conversation had gone unanswered so he worked the old truck through the gears and found a speed it seemed comfortable with and waited.

Just past an ornate white-brick entrance on the right she said, “Take the next road to the right. It’s right up there.” And she pointed, the glow of her burning fag a beacon that bobbed between her pointing fingers.

Slowing down he found an old gravel lane with twin ‘No Trespassing’ signs on the two fence posts and turned off.

After half a mile of potholed ruts and bushes and branches scraping the faded green paint of his old truck she pointed at a small pull off and said, “Park it there.”

She was out of the truck before he could shut the engine off and he watched as her red dress receded in the pale yellow glow of his headlights.

Finding the path she’d taken, he followed. On the phone she’d only confirmed that he was, in fact, John O’Bannon, and asked if it was true he did investigative work for hire. When he confirmed, she said, “Meet me at the Cat Bucket tonight at ten-thirty,” and hung up.

And here he was. Instincts told him something wasn’t quite right. Reaching under the back of his rumpled seersucker jacket, he pulled a small black handgun out and let it hang loosely at his side as he made his way along the path.

The air smelled earthy and damp and the stifling heat retreated as he followed the path down a mossy stone ledge that went off to the left. Water running, or falling, somewhere off to his right blanked the Mississippi night sounds.

When the path ended at a pebbled creek bed he looked back and could barely make out a drop off of about fifty-feet where the path had started down the stone ledge.

He could see a shimmer of white further up the creek and investigated. Set neatly on a large flat rock was a pair of white high-heels and a matching white purse, the white hair band stuffed in one of the shoes. Looking further up the small creek bed he saw a flash of color. Finding Miss Lee’s red dress neatly folded on a second flat bolder he picked up something wispy and discovered it was a silk stocking. The smooth material was still warm as it slid between his fingers. Leaving it with the dress he made his way further up the rocky creek bed and called out.

“Over here, Mr. O’Bannon.”

In the moonlight he could barely make out a dark line of water falling down a moss covered wall of rock from about the same height as the path he’d come down. Following the flow he could see the rock receded leaving the water in free-fall for about twenty feet before ending in a frothy white splash in a natural rock bowl about twenty-five-feet across at the base of the huge wall.

Miss Lee’s honey blond hair floated above the dark black pool. Stepping to the edge he said, “Well, Miss Lee, I think it’s time you explained what’s going on.”

She kicked around in the dark pool ignoring him completely.

Finally, turning in disgust, he stumbled on a few rounded creek stones and headed back the way he’d come.

“You need to start a fire. There’s wood over there,” he heard her splash some more before adding, “It gets really cold when you get out of the water.”

The southern drawl flowed like honey.

Turning back around he saw she’d moved to the far side of the pool and was climbing up on a heavy flat bolder at the edge of the waterfall.

Her skin was pale in the moonlight, her breasts small in contrast to her wide hips and long legs. Less hips and she’d look like a tomboy, he thought. As it was she looked ravishing as she ducked her head under the waterfall, hands covering her eyes, and disappeared through the curtain of water.

Overwhelming Evidence - Starting a new book

Chapter 1

Unlike other more ordinary destinations across the south, Concordia parish did not suffer well the more common term for the purple haze of twilight. Nightfall would never do. In Concordia parish night would never aspire to something as clumsy or unrefined as falling. In Concordia parish the night arrived.

That arrival was often heralded with the melodic warble of cardinals settling in for the night, the occasional haunting calls of the osprey defending their nests and the sporadic delicate titter of the tufted titmouse providing a final evening melody.
A blanket of cicadas and crickets, along with the sonorous undulations of a variety of frogs, were harbinger to the majestic advent of this night’s arrival.

And as with all majestic advents, more than a modicum of intrigue and Machiavellian machinations clung to the purple cape of this particular day’s closing.

Michael Landon Marceaux sat in Hurley’s café, fingers wrapped around a heavy china mug of coffee, oblivious to such underhanded maneuverings. Instead intent on the wide polished oak door the other side of Ferriday, Louisiana’s main street, where he’d watched her disappear.

He tried to recall that last time he’d seen her. It had been his father’s death that had brought him home. Still in his last year of law at Tulane, he’d been surprised to find her standing among the knot of somber mourners that rainy day who’d come to say goodbye.

Their eye’s had met at the graveside and she’d been the first to look away. A small parade of polite hugs, brusque handshakes and hollow well wishes preceded her apparition. Restrained, though sincere, her expression of regret had been heartfelt.

“I was so sorry to hear, Landon. He was such a good man. Thank God you’re just like him. What can I say?”

His first thought had been, I’ve been a fool Landon, would be nice. Instead he’d let her slender fingers slip from his hand and had said, “You look different, Creolla. I don’t know what it is. But different.”

She’d blushed and he’d smiled.

“And you look the same, Landon. You’re still my rock. You’ll always be my rock.”

He’d found it difficult to resolve such words of possession and durability as my and rock when measured against the ethereal remains of what had been his first true love.
“You’ll forget me. I mean, you’re going to Tulane. To New Orleans. To college. You’ll be out in the world and I’ll just be here,” she’d said as they’d kissed the pure and sincere kiss only high school sweethearts are capable of the night before his leaving.

“Never,” he’d said with the fervent sincerity only a small-town boy on the cusp of manhood could muster.

And he hadn’t. She’d haunted his dreams for weeks after his father’s funeral. And now, Ten years later, just the sight of her walking into Mason’s had brought the tender touch of her lips back to his along with a burning anger that surprised him.

No, it had been Creolla that had let go. It had been her letter just before Christmas his first year at Tulane that had declared her continued love just before saying how impossible it had all become.

Landon, dear, you must always know how much I love you. Just as I know I must not hold you back. I know in my heart you must be free. I know my love is not enough and that we are an impossible dream.

She’d glanced his way unseeing as she’d accepted Ethan Tyler Billodeaux’s hand and stepped from the low slung sports car they’d arrived in.

Her lilting laugh had penetrated the glass front of the Hurley’s café just before she was swallowed up by the quiet elegance of Mason’s restaurant.

She’d filled out. Become a woman. The watercolor of beauty she’d been ten years ago had transformed. She’d become a masterpiece in deep rich strokes of oil that fairly glowed on the drab canvas that was Ferriday.

Landon scowled as he dropped a few bills on the table beside his empty coffee cup. He wondered if she’d be there tomorrow to bid farewell to his mother as well.


The candle flickered and caught. Her hands moved to the next, the match burning short as the wick sputtered to life.

She regarded him with hooded eyes before crawling around on the bed like a cat to find her spot. With a throaty moan she stretched into the satin sheets before assuming her pose. The one he wanted. The one that brought ardor to the brutal sport their lovemaking had become over the years. The frightened submissive that had been so real all those years ago.

Before the thought could fade she amended. No, there is no lovemaking here, just carnal self-indulgence and mutual self-fulfillment.

Pushing her head into the pillow, she raised her ass and spread her knees finding perch on the mattress and waited. When the mattress sagged, she moaned. The warm weight of his palm on her rump brought a whimper of anticipation to her throat.

“Yes,” she whispered pulling balls of satin sheet into her fists as he started his rutting.

His hard body draped over hers and he sneered into her ear, “You’re just a whore.”

“Yes,” She mewed and pushed back against him.

“Nothing but a fucking whore.”

Her throat felt dry and her eyes closed as she gulped.

He lifted off her back and arched his own leaning into her, plumbing her depths with his hard cock and then the yelling started.

“I know what a whore like you needs!”

Their sweating bodies slapped together as her smoldering need burst into flames.

“A whore like you never gets enough!”

“No,” she grunted in submissive agreement.

“A whore like you isn’t happy at home, waiting!”

Her hips rocked to accommodate when he slammed into her again.

“A whore like you isn’t happy with just one cock!”

She tightened around him and exhaled in a long sigh.

“A filthy rutting whore like you wants her cunt used!”

Her breath caught.

“A fucking bitch in heat like you has to have it in her all the time!”

With the force of a freight train it hit. Her whole body exploded in one big convulsion and her legs went numb. But he didn’t stop. She new he could last an eternity and she hoped he did.

“A fucking whore like you would do it on the courthouse lawn in broad daylight if I wanted you to!”

All control was gone as her body quivered and quaked, the last of her strength being fucked away by his unrelenting cock while he proved his stamina once again.

When he pulled her hair back and slammed into her harder, her jaw fell slack from the mind numbing pleasure.

“Yes,” he hissed, “You’d fuck anything. You’d have fucked our waitress tonight if I’d wanted you to!”

“Yes,” she mumbled. She knew she would. She already had. Right here in this bed. She knew she would always do anything he wanted. Anything he demanded.

“You would have eaten her pussy right there on the table,” he grunted.

“Fuck,” an explanation of overwhelming pleasure as her head lulled and he pulled her hair harder, her back swaying.

“You would have watched me fuck her first! Watched me fill her with come!”

“Yes. Yes,” her voice was a breathy wisp of concordance. She could hear the roar of the freight train in her head. She knew it was going to hit her again. Slam her body into blissful oblivion.

“Then you would have eaten her! Made her come!”

“Yes!” she yelled in response to his thundering narration of things she’d already done too many times to count.

“You need it!”

Her breathing became a hard pant, she felt limp and weak and spent but she could feel it lurking, feel the tracks vibrate. She knew it was waiting just out of sight from the tingle in her thighs and clenching of her stomach. She heard his breathing quicken with each hard slam into her sopping cunt.

“Yes,” she moaned as his body stiffened, his cock swelled, and he exploded filling her with his foul seed. And as unstoppable as a freight train, her freight train, she exploded a second time. She exploded only as he could make her and clung desperately to her rock.

“Anything,” she whimpered as they collapsed in a heap on the sheets.

And, once again, as always happened in the aftermath of their angry masochistic couplings; her mind flooded with disgust and revulsion.

It was not at Ethan Tyler Billodeaux or her father.

But with herself and what she’d become. The willing heartless whore he wanted. The same whore that couldn’t wait to have his hands on her body. The same whore that craved his bitter fruit and lived and breathed just for him.

With renewed resolve she watched him snore as she pulled her dress on.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Another Roscoe James Reader

There is no greater reward as a writer than knowing your work is being enjoyed to the fullest.