last supper fiction by Greta Stone

Last Supper

— 272 word micro fiction —

“Here. One bite. I know you’re hungry,” he said, touching the warm meat to my mouth.

The tantalizing aroma hit me square in the nose. 

With a wiggle, he pressed it harder against my lips. My stomach growled, betraying me. He grinned, raising a brow. I watched carefully for his next move.

In my peripheral, the meat and the fork and the hand holding it floated away and, with a clink, rested on his plate. In the flicker of the candlelight, he stared at it for a moment, pensive. I might have thought he was finally growing tired but a flare of his nostrils told me otherwise. He wasn’t done yet. 

He smoothed his brow and looked up at me, his gaze then tracing down my bare body and back up. “I’m trying to help you.” He leaned closer and wiped juice and gravy off my lip with his thumb. 

I shuddered at his touch and drew away, thonking my head on the post against my back.  

“Stop trying to fight it. You’re only hurting yourself.” He stroked my face, his open palm filling my head with the smell of blood, concrete, and mildew. I winced as his fingers brushed a flaring bruise under my cheekbone. 

“Shh. It won’t be much longer now.”

My eyes watered as panic rose up in my chest. I yanked my wrists against the rope, which refused to give.

“Tsk tsk tsk.” He raised the fork to his mouth and slid the meat off with his teeth. Chewing, he continued. “When will you learn to behave, Amber?”

I swallowed hard. My name wasn’t Amber, but he insisted.

What's fair is fair fiction by Greta Stone

What’s Fair Is Fair


This was my round 2 entry for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest where I was given a genre, setting, and item to include in a story of 1000 words maximum. I had 48 hours to complete this and made no edits before posting here. I placed 5th of 30 in my group which earned me 11 points. My total score tied me with 2 other people for the final spot to move on to the next round. The tie breaker rule was not in my favor so this was the end for me. See judges remarks at the end. Enjoy.

{996 words}

Genre: romantic comedy
Location: science fair
Item to include: defibrillator

Summary: Olivia’s only goal in the state science fair is to prove anything can be proven.

Rain poured down so heavily Olivia couldn’t see a thing through the back window of her parents’ car. Her father pulled up to the curb outside Quinnipiac University’s Science Fair with twenty minutes to spare for check-in.

“Good luck!” her mom yelled over the pounding rain as her dad checked the rear view for traffic.

Of course they weren’t going to go in with her. She was on her own to convince the people of Connecticut to ban something that was vital to life with nothing more than the truth presented in an official manner. “Thanks,” Olivia said under her breath.

She straightened the garbage bag around her folded presentation, delivering a whiff of plastic to her. Protect herself or protect the project? That was the question. With a sigh, she shoved the car door open and stepped out, propping the project over her head.

Cool rain splashed on hot pavement, filling the air with the smell of baked earth and tar. Olivia made a run for cover, kicking up water as she stomped through puddles. She yanked on the door handle and stepped inside, then stopped quick to shake herself dry.

A body plowed into her from behind, tossing her project to the floor, then her on top of it. A loud crash followed, echoing through the foyer like splintered glass.

She turned to find Luke Reilly, a jock from her school, rush to collect the parts of a broken defibrillator.

“I’m so sorry,” Olivia said, stretching to retrieve a piece of broken plastic.

“It’s fine,” he said shortly, taking the piece from her. His t-shirt, dark with rain across his broad shoulders, clung to him.

She’d spent more than a few afternoons gawking at him from the bleachers with her friends. He was pretty but no way he had the brain for a state science fair. What was he doing here?

“You all right?” he asked, extending a hand.

“It’s coming down in buckets out there,” she said stupidly. She placed her hand in his and the room spun as he swept her to her feet. Didn’t knights in shining armor usually sweep you off your feet?

“Yes, it is.” With a glance at her project on the floor, he said, “Good luck,” and disappeared through the second set of doors.

Speechless, Olivia watched him go. Maybe someone had fainted from nerves and, as a volunteer EMT, he was rushing to resuscitate them. You’re the only one who faints from nerves, Olivia, she reminded herself, and pulled it together.

Three hours later, the gymnasium’s ecosystem mimicked global warming and the volume of chatter had risen at least 20 decibels. Judges had made their rounds. Now parents, family, and friends had filled the room to max capacity.

While a young couple signed Olivia’s petition to ban dihydrogen monoxide, she caught a glimpse of Luke through the crowd. He stood beside a contraption across the aisle a few booths down, pieces of the defibrillator duct taped to it.

She winced. Of course she ruined his project. How else would she win a guy over?

“Good luck with the petition,” the couple said cheerfully, drawing her attention back to her own project and the list of names and email addresses.

Olivia produced a large smile for them, her thoughts drifting to her hand in Luke’s as he lifted her effortlessly to her feet. Too bad his name wasn’t on her list. What any girl wouldn’t give to have a direct line to the phone in his back pocket.

Turning to look for her next victim, she came face to face with Luke a foot away, arms crossed and scowling as he studied her presentation. “I thought your project was supposed to be on human behavior.”

Olivia’s cheeks warmed. The only way he’d know that is if he looked her up in the program. Her heart drummed against her ribs. “It is.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “It looks like a petition to ban dihydrogen monoxide.”

The scientific words from his lips sounded like chocolate drizzled over strawberries. “It is,” she repeated like an idiot, still gawking. “I’m sorry if I ruined your project.”

“I made it work.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It was meant to be more of a monkey wrench than anything else.”

“Mm hm.” She blinked up at him, finding it hard to stay focused on what he was saying.

“So what’s your beef with dihydrogen monoxide?”

Heat rushed up her neck and face at the shift of attention back to her. Turning away to hide her blazing skin, she grabbed her petition off the table and pulled into character. “It can cause severe burns and that’s just the beginning. It’s responsible for land erosion and can even be fatal if inhaled,” she rambled, ignoring his smirk and the way he kept glancing down at her mouth.

He had to know what dihydrogen monoxide was. She hadn’t expected to persuade her fellow scientists. Only the gullible public who would believe any report that looked half as official as hers. “You know, the latest studies show the Connecticut River is contaminated by it.”

“Is that so?”

Was it just her or had they shared a conspirator’s look? She was convinced he was in on it until a long moment passed without a word.

“I always thought you were just a geek,” he said. “But now I see there might be more to you.”

Her stomach fluttered between the insult and compliment, her mind whirling to latch onto anything intelligent to say. “I always thought you were just a jock, but now I see there might be more to you too.”

A grin spread wide across his face. “Touche. Where do I sign?”

She watched, unbelieving, as he wrote “Luke Reilly,” then added in the margin “860-563-8374.”

“Thank you,” she said, floating.

“You’re welcome. And be careful on your way out tonight. I hear dihydrogen monoxide is falling from the sky in buckets.”


{Judge #1611} This is an engaging, humorous project with great attention to pacing and well-developed characters. Some excellent details to ground readers in the narrative.
{Judge #1651} I enjoyed the “water” joke as a way to vet potential dates. The ending was fun and well-earned.
{Judge #1589} Nice how you give a sense of smell, as well as sight (“a whiff of plastic.”) Cute ending. This sentence feels off. She’s focused on a science project, gets knocked down by the jock, and then begins fantasizing he is a knight in shining armor? “. Didn’t knights in shining armor usually sweep you off your feet?”


{Judge #1611} I wasn’t quite sure what Luke’s project was. When he said it was a “money wrench” did he mean something to disrupt the science fair? I wanted a bit more. Also, I think the story warrants a stronger title.
{Judge #1651} It’s unclear why Olivia likes Luke in the beginning (just looks?), especially after he doesn’t try to help her pick up her own project that fell on the floor. You set up Luke as a jock, not a scientist, so why would Olivia expect him to know the dihydrogen monoxide joke? Overall, I’d make it more clear in the end how Olivia feels/reacts once she thinks he doesn’t get the “water” joke, and then again how her feelings change when she realizes that he understands her.
{Judge #1589} Give us a bit more of a set up. Who is in the car? Where are they going? Why? What is Olivia concerned about? What is her goal for the day? The following is a long sentence: “She was on her own to convince the people of Connecticut to ban something that was vital to life with nothing more than the truth presented in an official manner.” Try breaking it up. Let us in on the conspiracy. Is she out deceiving the public to see how many people sign? Tell more.

Your comments and suggestions, as always, are greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading!

The Chase flash fiction by Greta Stone

The Chase


This was my round 1 entry for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest where I was given a genre, setting, and item to include in a story of 1000 words maximum. I had 48 hours to complete this and made no edits before posting here. I placed 9th of 30 in my group which earned me 7 points. See judges remarks at the end. Enjoy.

{972 words}

Genre: suspense
Location: funeral home
Item to include: garden hose

Summary: A woman on the run uses a funeral home to hide out. She must make perfect split decisions to avoid captivity and death.

The last time I saw him, he was on my heels, scaling the chain link fence I had just cleared. The clink and clatter faded behind me as the glow of flashlight danced around my feet. Getting caught was not an option or I faced captivity and death. Heartbeat in overdrive, I ran without looking back at him. The thick underbrush closed around me, blanketing me in complete darkness.

I shoved through the twigs and saplings, stirring the carpet of leaves with a shooshing that was way too loud. If he was behind me, I couldn’t tell. I exited the woods at the back of a white brick funeral home on a suburban street. Evening dew clung to the hem of my jeans as I crossed the open yard. At the front of the building, I paused to catch my breath and scan the area.

Cookie-cutter houses stood close together, each with a concrete stoop and short driveway. The glow of streetlights dotted the road. The smell of pavement, still cooking from the day’s heat, wafted through the air. I was alone. Shuddering, I glanced over my shoulder at the funeral home door. Alone except for the dead.

As if to defy me, the crickets spoke up. It didn’t matter. They couldn’t help me. Neither could the dead.

I curled my hands around the hard plastic in my hoodie pocket. Still there. At least I hadn’t lost it in the chase. I walked to the corner of the building to check the treeline. No one. Would he find me? Was I safe?

Legs aching for rest, I took a seat on the front steps. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He promised he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. He lied. Unsettled, I soon wandered to the edge of the street as if I might find an answer in one direction or the other.

A set of headlights swiped over the front of a house across the street. A car turned onto the road.

They’d found me.

I doubled back, my sneakers padding on the soft pavement as the headlights creeped closer. If I could get to the backyard, to the woods, I could hide out there.

My own shadow stretched out before me. I made a sharp turn at the corner of the funeral home and realized the treeline was too far away. I’d never make it. Clearing a row of low bushes, I landed hard against the concrete foundation. Wood chips flipped away in protest. I slid down, panting, inhaling the scent of cedar and baked earth.

I had to be still despite my racing heartbeat. If they found me, this would be my end. There would be no escape.

A spider skittered over the back of my hand. I had to fight not to scream and flick it away. There was no time for phobias right now.

Through the branches, headlights swept across the lawn and up the side of the white brick wall above my head. I ducked lower, all but kissing the earth beneath me. The car’s tires purred over the freshly paved funeral home driveway as they pulled around the corner and parked. Engine running, a door opened and shut. Footsteps. Coming toward me or moving away, I couldn’t tell. But they’d find me eventually. I needed to move.

I rolled onto one protesting knee and tucked a foot beneath me. Crouching, I slid one hand along the rough foundation as a guide. I tiptoed along, stepping over a coiled up garden hose and past a blackened basement window where the dead rested. At the rear corner of the building, I stood and ran.

Not one step out and I found myself slammed back against a hard chest, a large hand covering my mouth. Panic hit. I needed to scream, but there was no air. I needed air! Kicking at the leg behind me, I flailed in his strong arms.

“Shhh,” the whisper hit my ear, warm against my already damp skin, escalating my panic. “It’s me.”

I froze to process the information. Graham. He was here! They hadn’t caught him at the fence, and somehow he found his way back to me. I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I had in me and slumped against him with relief.

He peeled his hand off my mouth, turned me by my shoulders, and wrapped me in his arms. His t-shirt damp against my cheek, he smelled of sweat and spice. Kissing the top of my head then holding me at arm’s length, he whispered, “They’re in the side yard behind me, making their way around. We need to make a run for it but toward the front.” He gestured in the opposite direction I’d planned to run.

My face tingled at the thought of my near mishap.

“We’re almost clear,” he said. “You got this.”

I nodded, unconvinced. Whatever happened now though, we were in it together.

Grabbing my hand, he pushed through the bushes and ran. Blood screamed through my ears as we crossed the open lawn. Bright white spotlights blasted the building. Blinking blue and red lights flashed a warning, one we disregarded as we dashed across the street and cut through backyards. Swing sets and sandboxes glowed in the moonlight, guiding our way home.

Panting and winded, we collapsed onto the floor of our apartment, saying nothing as we stared at the ceiling to catch our breaths. The sounds of our own panting in the otherwise silent room soon sent us into a fit of laughter. I rolled, tossing my leg over his and wrapping my arm tight over his chest.

He rubbed my back and pulled me closer. “You’ve got the code, right?”

I slid my hand into my pocket and pulled the flash drive out with a grin. “Yup.”


{Judge #1702}  This story has some really strong thriller aspects, such as the action being nonstop. The pacing is very fast. 
{Judge # 1812}  The descriptions of the setting make excellent use of the senses to draw the reader into the story and experience the sites, sounds, smells and feel of the surrounding environment. The story begins with a good hook and gets right into the action. A good resolution to tie up the story at the end.
{Judge # 1858}  You definitely had me on the edge of my seat as I hoped the narrator would make it out of the situation. And then once she found Graham, I was hoping that they would both make it to safety. You’ve done a great job of creating characters that I was rooting for! I also love this line: “Swing sets and sandboxes glowed in the moonlight, guiding our way home.” 


{Judge # 1702}  This story feels more like a thriller than a suspense story. Suspense is usually a slow unfolding of events where the character slowly realizes exactly how much danger they’re in. In this story, people are in danger from the get-go, from start to finish. And this story is really action driven. As it’s currently written, I don’t think this story quite fits the bill for a suspense tale. 
{Judge #1812}  The synopsis tells us that the main character is a woman however readers won’t know whether she is a man or woman. Try to work in a visual understanding of her character and provide a name. It is much easier for readers to connect with a character when they have a name and a visual to go by. To further improve this story, provide a few details about the background story: who is chasing this couple and what will happen to them if they are caught? Turn the pursuers into stronger villains by making them more threatening. This will increase the stakes as well as heighten concern for the couple’s safety. 
{Judge #1858}  I think that you should start your story with the third paragraph, “Cookie-cutter houses…”. It feels like a much tighter beginning, and you get your readers to the “Alone except for the dead” line a lot quicker. I think it ups the suspense factor even more. Any critical information that is in those first two paragraphs could be included later in the story if necessary.

Your comments and suggestions, as always, are greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading!

fiction by Greta Stone-page-001

The Other Woman


I wrote this in preparation for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest coming up where I’ll be given a genre, setting, and item to include in a story of 1000 words maximum. My hubby and I registered, then realized the first round is while we’re on vacation. Oy.
We thought some practice might help.
I grabbed a random prompt from their examples and completed this in 48 hours.
(See prompt details at the end.) Enjoy.

{999 words}

Jennifer tapped her press-on fingernails against the thick, engraved glass award on the table in front of her. She should have splurged on a real manicure. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it. Plus it was an important night—for more than the awards. Tonight she was putting her foot down. Tonight she was claiming what was hers.

That was if the intolerable ceremony would ever end. As a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brittle hair droned on at the podium, Jennifer poked through her purse for a stick of gum, anything for a distraction. She shoved aside a tampon she’d been expecting to need all week and dug deeper. No gum. Sighing, she pulled out her phone. How many more awards could there be? How long had she been glued to her chair?

The time flashed on her phone’s lock screen, answering her. 9:43.

She uncrossed and crossed her stockinged legs, eying the empty chair beside her with displeasure. Where the hell was Matthew? He’d disappeared somewhere between the Building of the Year Award and the lemon torte, about ten minutes after Amanda excused herself to use the restroom. He’d missed Jennifer’s reception speech and the nugget of gratitude she’d laced into it for him.

“And the endless hours of support from the only man who can tolerate my insanity,” she’d said, crestfallen as she scoured the crowd, hoping to find Matthew observing from the outskirts.

He wasn’t. They were both still gone. Jennifer shoved the award away and sat back, arms crossed. What good was the damn thing if she couldn’t keep Matthew by her side?

Amanda’s cinched waist and delicate thighs caught Jennifer’s eye as she squeezed through the congested room of aged men with large bellies. No wonder Matthew’s eyes lingered on her whenever she was present. She was an art form in human flesh.

Three dress sizes larger, Jennifer couldn’t compete in that department. But she was a goddamn accomplished architect with her own office of 13 employees. She’d climbed Mt. Washington. She’d mastered Boeuf Bourguignon in only three tries. She could bring a man to his knees in a matter of minutes. What did Amanda have other than a slender figure?

Amanda slipped into her seat and placed a French-manicured hand over her flat belly. Leaning closer with a cordial smile, she whispered, “I’m so sorry I missed your award, Jennifer. I wasn’t feeling well.”

I bet you weren’t. Jennifer delivered a smile in return. “Don’t worry about it.” I’m about to show you what it’s like to not feel well.

“May I see it?” Amanda asked, extending her delicate hand, palm up.

Jennifer obliged, dropping the heavy award into Amanda’s hand and reveling in the woman’s struggle to hold onto it. She recovered and held it up for inspection.

“Excellence In Design? That was for the Nelsonville Commons project, right?” Amanda raised her pencil thin eyebrows in impressed shock. “Matthew must be so proud of you.”

Jennifer grinned. “Yes, he is.”

A round of applause broke out, drawing their attention to the podium where the same woman delivered her closing comments. Thank God the night was almost over. There was only one more thing to do.

Jennifer snatched the award back in preparation of the battle she was about to fight. You don’t get to have this. And you don’t get Matthew either.

The room erupted into chatter, hand shakes, and congratulations. Jennifer pushed through the suit- and gown-clad crowd in search of Matthew. She needed to find him. She needed to take him by the hand and lead him home. She needed to remind him why she deserved him.

She searched the foyer and the hall and the front room and the cocktail bar. No Matthew.

Resigned to waiting on him, she headed back into the main banquet hall. With a curse under her breath, she located Amanda, holding her own in a conversation with four of the five lead architects of her firm. Amanda had grown practiced at mingling above her stature. But this wasn’t her place. It was time she learned her lesson.

Smiling affably, Jennifer stepped into the circle beside Amanda. Matthew would come here eventually. She knew that much. All she had to do was wait.

“Congratulations, Jennifer,” Robert said in his deep, gravelly voice. “You deserved that award. Your work has improved by leaps and bounds this year.”

“Thank you. I had an amazing mentor.” Despite herself, Jennifer’s face warmed.

Robert’s gaze shifted over Jennifer’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil!”

The two women turned, opening the circle for Matthew to join.

Yes, speak of the devil.

“Congratulations to you, Matthew.” Richard slapped his hand into Matthew’s, giving a firm shake. “You’ve made the company proud. We knew you would.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Matthew said.

A proud smile spread on his face, creating all the laugh lines Jennifer loved to trace with her fingertip. He hooked a finger into the knot of his tie and loosened it, sending her into a reverie of provocative moments.

“I’m privileged to work with some amazing people.” Matthew gifted Jennifer a proud smile.

His attention struck her right in the chest, leaving her breathless and lightweight. Yes, he loved her, and was not afraid to show it. Now was the time to take her stand.

“Let’s get you home, baby,” he said, turning his back on Jennifer and slipping his arm around Amanda’s waist, pressing his lips to her temple. “I pulled the car around. It’s waiting out front.”

Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, honey. Hopefully, we’ll make it home before another wave of nausea hits.”

“Oh, right!” Robert bellowed. He squeezed Matthew’s shoulder, adding, “Congratulations. You’re going to make a great dad.”

“Yes, he is.” Amanda cooed up at him, pressed close with a hand on his chest.

“Thank you,” Matthew said. “Have a good night, everyone.” He waved over his shoulder, glancing around the circle, averting Jennifer’s dumbstruck expression, and ushering his wife to the door.

The prompt was:
genre – drama
setting – awards banquet
item to include – press-on fingernails

Your comments and suggestions, as always, are greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading!

Surrender, erotic fiction by Greta Stone

Surrender Part 3

Part 3

Sexy erotic D/s fiction. Sexually explicit, obviously. *smirk* Enjoy.

{1960 words}

If you missed Part 1 or Part 2, check them out first.

Squirming beneath him, I evade his thumb for only a second before he brushes it over my nipple again. It’s hard and aching for a solid pinch.

“I’m letting go of your wrists now,” he says with a reprimanding look. “Stay put.”

I smirk. Leaving my cuffed wrists free over my head is not the smartest move. I keep this to myself. If I don’t, he’ll tether me to the bed and make me pay for the rude assessment of his plan.

He notes my reaction with a raised brow and the butterflies in my stomach spread their wings.

“Is there a problem, kitten?”

“No, Sir,” I say, trying without success to wipe the grin off my face.

He draws back to look at me more squarely. “Move your arms and it’ll be the belt. Do you understand?”

His threat hits me square in the chest, squeezing the breath out of me. Fear of his punishment, or more accurately fear of disappointing him inspires me to be on my best behavior. I will try to stay put, but it won’t be easy. “Yes, Sir.”

Shifting, he lies on one side of me. Instead of taking his bite, he strokes my hair and cheek tenderly, looking into my eyes, setting a false calm I’m leery of. One quiet kiss on my lips, then another on my clenched jaw.

“Relax, kitten,” he whispers against my throat, lifting my chin for better access.

“I can’t,” I say. “Sir.”

“Yes, you can.” With his warm tongue pressed against my neck, he sinks his teeth in. Slowly.

My heart beats hard inside his bite, faster and faster, matching the rhythm of pulses through my core. A vision hits me of him slamming into me over and over while he breaks the flesh of my neck with his teeth. He sinks his teeth deeper, breathing moist, hot air onto my sensitized skin. I’m dying for relief, the pleasure of a violent orgasm mixed with the searing pain of his bite. I throw one leg around him and thrust my hips up, moaning as my clit collides with his hip.

Without thwarting his plan, he reaches down, removes my leg from his side, and pins it to the bed with his own. His strength and determination are hot as fuck. I squirm a little just to feel his power over me.

As he curls the tip of his tongue into the hollow of my throat, I consider grabbing him by his hair, flipping him on his back, and mounting him, watching him slip into a blissful daze as I have my way with him. I probably could if I move fast enough and catch him off guard.

How far will I get before he wraps his strong arms around me and pounds me into the mattress? How fucked will I be for presuming to take control? Will he punish me deliciously or savagely?

He clears his throat. “Am I boring you, pet?”

“A bit,” I say, goading him.

His raised eyebrow is the perfect response. I have his attention. He’s looking at me, waiting for me to explain myself…and beg his forgiveness. The ball is in my court.

“I’m anxious for more, Sir,” I say, lowering my chin and blinking up at him.

He glares at me for a moment, then snarls, “As am I, love. Patience.” He resumes kissing across my collarbone at an even slower pace. Because he loves to torture me. And because he’s punishing me for my misbehavior.

As he nears the peak of my breast, I’m antsy and can’t hold still. Daydreams aside, it’s coming. And it’s going to hurt. I writhe in anticipated discomfort.

“Don’t. Move.” His voice rumbles over and through me.

Heart pounding, I hold still and brace myself.

He nibbles and sucks his way toward my nipple. Then stopping, he grins at me, opens his mouth wide, and lets out a hot breath without touching me.

Fuck obedience. “Do it already!”

Smile gone, he raises his head. “Excuse me?”

Shit. His chide startles and excites me, shoots straight to my groin. He’s not going to let me get away with that. I’m glad. I need his sternness and direction. I need to feel contained by something stronger than myself, a safe place to lose control. I blink. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“You better be,” he says, and closes his teeth over my breast when I’m least prepared for it.

I yelp and shove him away, covering my aching nipple. With a swift twist, he flips me over, face down. My hair tents around my face, blocking my view. He pins my hands to my lower back and lies on me, flattening my palms to his stomach. He’s so deliciously warm. I need him closer still. I grasp at his shirt, managing only a pathetic pinch between two fingers.

He curls his hands under my shoulders. “Oh, Kitten,” he says. His breath falls hot on my ear. “All the rules you just broke…” He grinds his jean-clad hard-on against my bare ass.

I gargle some sort of grunt moan, six times wetter and twelve times more impatient for release. I offer a meager apology half muffled against the bedding. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Yes,” he says. “You will be.”

He pushes himself off of me and I cling to his shirt, catching it in my fist.

Smack! His palm cracks against my ass without warning.

“Ow!” I say. It’s more about the shock than the pain, but I roll onto my back to protect myself from further blows.

“Oh no you don’t.” He grabs both my ankles and flips me over. Securing one in each hand, he spreads my legs and holds me there face down. “Did I say you could roll over?”

A vivid image of his view of my spread legs and jiggling ass sends my heart racing and pussy pulsing. I pant against the comforter, “No, Sir.”

“Are you going to do as you’re told now or do I need to strap you the fuck down?” He punctuates his point with a jolt to each ankle. His roughness combined with his words tells me I’ve pushed him too far. I’m shaking with frustration and it hits me that I’ve lost control of myself. Dammit.

My face prickles with heat and I press it into the bedding to hide. I don’t know when to stop being a brat and to start obeying. I act out and end up pushing him too far. Too many offenses stack up against me and I’m crestfallen. “I’m ready to obey, Sir,” I say into the mattress.

He lets go of my ankles and in the brief silence that follows my pulse kicks into high gear and my eyes water.

Then from the depth of his broad chest, a deep, rumbling command, “Submit.”

A tingle slides down the back of my neck and I let out a whimper. This is the worst thing he could ask me to do in this moment of self-loathing and bruised pride. Not only is he asking me to get in a vulnerable position, but he’s asking me to do it on the raised bed. Facing away from him, exposing my ass for his eye-level inspection is the last thing I want to do right now.

Did I miss any spots shaving? Can he tell how bloated I am? Am I clean enough? Is it bright enough to see my–

“Did. I. Stutter? Submit.”

I moan and walk my knees closer to my shoulders, ass in the air, ear to the mattress. My skin tingles with the heat of my embarrassment.

Smack! “Proper response to a question?”

Shit. “Yes, Sir,” I cry. I expect another blow and wince.

“Good girl.” He strokes my ass and the backs of my thighs with a tender touch.

The heavy weight I had put on myself lifts a bit. It’s okay. If he were truly upset, he’d stop play. He wouldn’t react in anger. Hard rule.

The bed dips as he presses his knee into the mattress beside me and anchors my hip to his groin. Smack! “That was for your impatience earlier.” Smack! “And your attitude.” Smack! “For acting on your own will without waiting for instructions.” Smack! “For hesitating to obey my command.” Smack! “And for forgetting your manners.”

My ass and face are on fire. The faint sound of my own sniffling seeps into my awareness. He’s being extra hard on me, and I’m not handling it well. But I asked for this–his force and strength. And I’ve been extra bratty. So it’s only fair. I deserve this. Don’t dish it out if you can’t handle the consequences.

He rubs my sore ass, bringing feeling back into it. “Do you understand why you’ve displeased me?” he asks with a level voice.

The question shoots straight through my chest. ‘Displeased me.’ I do know. All too well. My answer comes as a croak. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” His praise is bittersweet and fires off another round of hot, prickling tears. I’ve soaked the bedding beneath my cheek, and I don’t want him to see it. I’m ashamed that I’m not stronger, that I’ve promised him a certain kind of play and am not delivering.

Leaving me in submit pose on the bed, he stands, letting his hand slide off the curve of my bottom as he goes. He shifts around the room for a moment and I’m rapt by the sounds, focusing on each to try to anticipate his next move.

The shuffling noises stop and I hold my breath.

“God, baby, you are so fucking hot.” He laughs, a deep, husky laugh that fills the room.

I’m stunned by it. Conflicted. Lost somewhere between my own angst and the joy he’s having over me. He likes me like this. He wants me like this. Not to humiliate me, although it does a good job of reminding me who is the submissive one here. He just fucking loves to look at me on display for him.

I should let that soak in and fill me up with hot, pulsing energy. But I’ve fallen too far and can’t quite pull myself back up.

There’s still time to recover though. My face is still hidden.

He steps up behind me and places both hands on my hips, squeezes hard and slides them up to the small of my waist. Reaching to massage my shoulders, his chest presses against my raised ass. I nuzzle back. He rewards me by running his fingers through my hair, something he knows I love. It’s so sweet. So gentle. I close my eyes and let myself relax in his grip as he plays with me.

He trails his heavy fingertips down my back, over the mound of my ass, and down the backs of my thighs.

“Mmmmm,” he hums. “Fucking delicious.”

A few heavy breaths later and I manage, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Now,” he says, sliding one hand up the inside of my thigh. “Spread for inspection.”

All the tension returns to my muscles as I stiffen. My pride has been brutally bruised and now he wants me to spread. I can’t handle that. Not now. Not tonight. Why isn’t he reading me? Why isn’t he moving on to something less humiliating?

“Proper response to a command,” he barks. Smack!

I jump with a gasp. “I’m…s-sorry, Sir,” I stutter.

“I don’t believe you. If you were sorry-” smack! “you would have obeyed by now.”

The second smack does me in. My chest clenches tight around my lungs, forcing me on all fours for a breath of air.

“Excuse me?” he growls from behind me.

Shit. I fall into a sobbing heap as I whimper my safeword. “Red.”

[To be continued]


Thank you for reading!
If you enjoyed, please comment and/or share.
I’m especially interested in how you feel about the direction of the story in this part.
Thank you in advance!

Surrender, erotic fiction by Greta Stone

Surrender Part 2

Part 2

Sexy erotic D/s fiction. Sexually explicit, obviously. *smirk* Enjoy.

{3880 words}

If you missed Part 1, check it out.

He’s still sitting behind me with his knee between my legs. With my panties tied over my eyes, I’m hyper aware of his breath on my fingertips. He slides his hands over my ass, thumbs settling beneath each cheek. His grip is firm, solid. When he touches me, he really touches me. Like he needs me. And I want to give him every little thing he desires.

When he speaks now, his tone is gentle, coaxing. “Hands up, please. I want to look at you.”

I could melt into him, find the perfect curve of his chest to fill, inhale his scent, and savor him wrapped around me, compressing me. I could spend all night there. But he gave me a command and I’m ready to behave now.

Bending my elbows, I press my thumbs between my shoulder blades and try not to think about the curve of my belly and the girth of my thighs. My shoulders ache in the awkward position, but I’ll hold it without complaining. He deserves this at the very least. He cares for me and finds the best ways to please me when I don’t even know myself.

The only sound for a moment is the shift of his thumbs rubbing over the soft skin at the crease between my thigh and ass. “You are so beautiful.”

“Thank you, Sir.” I soak up the praise until I feel weightless. Whimpering, I  press back into his hands. With a growl, he slides his thumbs away and bites the tender spot beneath my cheek. I clench. I need him everywhere at once, hard against my soft, rough against my smooth.

Taking his time, he slides his tongue between my thighs, so close to where I need him. Warm and wet, leaving a chill in its wake. I squirm as he drags it across the same spot he just bit.   

He digs his hands into my soft flesh. “Patience, pet,” he warns.

“Sorry, Sir.” I’m the opposite of patient. Even with my wrists cuffed, I want to spin around, shove him down, and impale myself on his erect cock, glaring down at him as I have my way, daring him to stop me.

But I’m the submissive and he’s my Dom. So I try to be patient. For him.

“Step forward.” He nudges me then holds me until I’m steady.

I relax my arms back down behind me and roll my shoulders to relieve some of the aching. The bed creaks and his shirt tickles my forearms. With one hand, he wraps all of my hair and slowly pulls it to one side, twisting my neck, careful not to disturb my panties blindfold. I can sense the change in his tone before he’s even spoken. He’s rumbling. I can’t tell if he’s heating up for action or if I’ve displeased him.

In a low tone that I can feel through my chest, he whispers in my ear, “Why did you put your arms down, kitten? Did I ask you to?”

Shit. He didn’t. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

I begin to bend them back into their proper position, but my bound hands bump the front of his pants. I freeze. He’s hard as a fucking rock and it shoots aching need straight to my groin.

I’m tempted to cup him in my hand and knead him until he squirts in my palm. I grin.

“Do not touch me unless I tell you to,” he commands.

He knows me too well.

“Yes, Sir.” I do my best to wipe the grin off my face but I can’t stop thinking about bringing him to his knees.

“Behave,” he warns.

I flatten my hands against myself. “I am! I’m not touching—”

He bites the back of my neck hard enough to make me jump and tightens his grip on my hair. “Listen. Don’t speak.”

He’s hot as fuck when he commands. He knows exactly what he wants, what we both want. And I’d be smart to let him lead us there, but I need to clear things up, let him know I mean to behave. “Sorry, Sir. I wasn’t trying to—”

“I. Know.” He tugs my hair and presses me to my knees. “Kneel.”

My toes jam into his boots as I fumble into position: kneeling tall, my back to him, heart racing. I clench, painfully aware of the emptiness inside me where he should be.

He taps the outside of my bare foot with his boot to tighten up my position. With his hand still wrapped around my hair like a leash, he shifts, tilting my head as he moves. His thighs press to the back of my shoulder blades. He curls his other hand around my throat and slides it up to my chin, forcing my head back, crown against his groin.

Low and quiet, he asks, “What did I say?”

“Listen. Don’t speak, Sir.” It’s hard to get the words out with my throat stretched tight. I’m uncomfortably bent, lost in darkness, and raging with thirst for him. I want to suck on him, on anything, to soothe myself. I open my mouth, searching.

He presses his thumb in and I latch on, petting it with my tongue, sucking. He hums his approval. Letting go of my hair, he finds one breast and strums his fingers across my nipple, each catching on it and hardening it. I moan and press my thighs together.

“Good girl,” he whispers, pulling his thumb free. “Now let’s address your transgressions.”

He lets go of me.

I’m lost without his touch. Bound and blind with no anchor but the carpet beneath my knees.

His boots thud behind me, to my side, in front of me. A shadow passes over my hooded eyes. The creak of the cabinet door. Shuffling, wood sliding against wood. I’m clenched and halfway to an orgasm by the time the soft leather tip of his crop grazes the outside of my thigh.

“Up tall, kitten. On your knees.”

I straighten. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” He drags the crop up over my hip, dipping at my belly button, then dragging it up and over my other hip. “This is going to hurt. Do you understand?”

Breathless, I nod.

He gives me a quick warning swat on the hip. “I asked you a question. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” With the anticipation of his next strike, my focus fixes on his location. Nothing exists outside this room, his voice, and the crop in his hand.

“Good girl.” He releases the clamp between my wrist cuffs. “I’m freeing your arms. Keep them by your sides. Do not move them. I know this will be difficult for you but I’m positive you can do it. Do you understand what I expect from you?”

“Yes, Sir,” I answer quickly. The cuffs are thick and bulky against my thighs.

He drags the crop over my arm, around to my ass, and circles there. “I’m going to swat you once for each offense, three total. Do you understand?”

Three offenses and I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done wrong. Damn my memory. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” He traces the curve of my ass with the crop. “You look sexy as fuck, kitten.”

My mind does somersaults between his reprimands and approval. I’m both bad and good. I’m disobedient yet exactly what he needs. I’m sexy. I let a smile form on my lips. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Now, when should you touch me?” He draws circles on my cheek.

Right. There was that. “Only when asked to, Sir.”

The crop disappears and whooshes briefly before it cracks against my ass, leaving a focused sting. He drops his voice an octave. “That’s one. When will you speak?”

“Only when asked a question.” I want to rub the spot but know better.

Another whine, this one longer, the smack harder in the same spot. It burns. I clench my ass and curl my toes.

“That’s two.” Without warning, he cracks me a third time in the same spot. “But how will you address me?”

My ass is on fire now and it’s hard to catch my breath. “As Sir, Sir.” I really want to rub it. He’s made it harder not to now that my hands are free. I tighten them into fists at my sides, then release and stretch my fingers. But I do not touch the burn.

“Good girl.” He taps the crop between my thighs from behind. “Spread.”

I obey, reluctant to open such a delicate spot to vulnerability.

wiz and crack just below one cheek. I jump.

He raises his voice. “How will you respond to my commands?”

“With a ‘Yes, Sir.’…Sir.”

“Good girl. Best start remembering that, kitten, or you’ll regret it.” His boots pad against the carpet again as he walks around me, dragging the crop over my other arm, to my belly button, and down several inches to the height of the curve between my legs.

I’m shaking with adrenaline and need and anticipation. I want him to stop what he’s doing and fill me, fondle me until I come. But I love this more than anything else. I love the power he holds over me, the absolute control of my every thought and of my body. He owns me. There is nothing for me to think about or decide on or ponder. There’s just him and me and the next place his crop will land.

He pauses. “Kitten, breathe.”

I inhale and exhale.

He slides the crop down until it grazes my tender labia. My heart drops to my stomach. He wouldn’t. While he holds it there, I can feel my pulse in every inch of flesh surrounding his crop, an electric current from him to me.

He slides it back up to my clit. I bite my lips.

“Lastly, when will you argue with me, pet?”

“Never, Sir.”


At first, it tingles more than hurts.

But I fold forward, squeezing my thighs together against my need.

He gives me no time to either enjoy or suffer from it. “Up, pet. Stand please.” He helps me to my feet. “At ease.”

I stand with even weight on both feet, not slouching but not standing tall and straight. I let my arms hang by my sides, leaving my body open to him. Even though he hasn’t asked me to pose a certain way, I still keep his wishes in mind.

He holds me still with one firm hand on my shoulder. The other he slides down over the curve of my ass and between my legs, cupping me from behind, his wrist and forearm pressing between my cheeks. I can’t help but move against him.

His breath falls hot at the base of my neck. “So eager.” He tightens his grip. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you inside me, Sir.” Heat flushes up my neck to my face. It’s a selfish request and not the thing I wanted most a few minutes ago. I wanted to pleasure him.

I can’t think when he’s touching me.

He closes his warm, soft lips over my ear lobe and presses one finger hard against my clit. “What part of me do you want inside you?”

He knows what I want. And he knows I hate saying it.

“Just…you,” I offer meekly, squirming under his grip.

“Say it,” he rumbles.

“I want your dick inside me.” My whole body flushes hot, skin prickling.

“Good girl.” He pulls his hand away and gives my bottom a promising smack.

I’m reeling somewhere on the edge of reality as he unties my panties from over my eyes. I blink in the dim light.

He cups my face with one hand and leans closer, stopping short of a kiss. I haven’t been blindfolded for long but I still lose my breath at the site of him. He has the kind of face I could lose myself in. Every angle, every crease, every flaw. So perfect. And mine. I want to steal a kiss from him, take his whole mouth and have my way with it.

He smirks. “Is there something you want, kitten?”  

My gaze drops to his lips. “I really want to kiss you, Sir.”

The smirk disappears. “Please do.”

I don’t wait to thank him. Leaning in, I press my mouth to his, inhaling his heady scent. His lips are deliciously warm and soft. His skin is unusually smooth.

He’s shaved for me!

I dive back into the kiss with renewed fervor. Our heads tilt in unison, mouths open, fitting together perfectly. Tongue to tongue, teeth scuffing, until we’re breathless and settle into a slower rhythm. I could kiss him all night.

He draws away, and I cling to his bottom lip with my teeth. Don’t go.

He groans as it stretches and releases. One brow shoots up. He’s grinning like the devil. “Biting? You know the deal.”

A bite for a bite.

He wraps his arms around me and we spin, the room whirling, and fall onto the bed. He lands heavy on top of me even though he catches himself. His weight roots me and I’m home. His legs pin mine and he hooks both of my cuffs, locking my hands over my head. Sliding his other hand down my arm and over my chest, he brushes my nipple with his thumb.

His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Now, where shall I take mine?”

[To be continued]

Read Part 3 now.


Thank you for reading!
If you enjoyed, please comment and/or share.
I would be ever so grateful.

Surrender, erotic fiction by Greta Stone


Part 1

Sexy erotic D/s fiction. Sexually explicit, obviously. *smirk* Enjoy.

{2337 words}

With four bags of groceries over one arm and a jug of milk in my hand, I shove through the door and kick it closed behind me. My mouth waters at the smell of freshly baked pumpkin pie until I spot a Pumpkin Spice candle on the hall table. Three more candles flicker between the front door and kitchen. Every room is lit and the heat’s been turned up.

He wants me naked.

“Baby?” I drop the bags on the counter and exhale at the relief. “Are you here?” I know he’s here.

He steps into the doorway of his office, leans against the frame, and levels a gaze at me. It’s smoldering and speaks volumes. He’s wearing my favorite snug jeans, black boots, and a long sleeved T pushed up on his forearms.

My stomach growls.

Postponing his unspoken request, I bustle between the fridge and stove. “Will you put the cold groceries away so I can start dinner?”

“Dinner can wait,” he says, his voice deep, tone firm. I want to drop to my knees on the linoleum floor and suck him while he grips the oven handle for balance.

I cock my head and try to raise one brow, which I’ve never been able to do. The corner of his mouth quirks up at my attempt but he recovers, crossing the room purposefully.

“Baby, I’m hungry,” I say, backing myself against the counter to buy time. If he touches me, I’ll cave. “My meeting went straight through lunch—”

He’s a step away.

“—and I had to fire Aaron today—”

He takes my face in both hands.

“—and then grocery shopping in the snow—”

The heat of his lips on mine and the grip of his fingers on my jaw ignites me. I welcome his tongue, tasting and caressing it with my own. The kiss is lips and skin and teeth. It’s him and the way he makes me feel wanted. Needed.

I slide my hands around his waist, under his shirt, and up his back, squeeze him against me. I need you too.

My stomach growls and I swear it echoes from my open mouth to his. I grin, inadvertently blocking his tongue with my teeth.

“I’m sorry,” I say against his lips. “I really am starving.”

He groans, rolling his forehead against mine. “Half an hour.”

“That’s barely enough time to cook, nevermind eat. An hour.”

He raises one brow quite successfully. My stomach flips. His warning is one I’m quite familiar with, but it doesn’t stop me from glaring back.

He compresses me between himself and the counter, his belt digging into my belly, and his warmth against me from chest to thigh. “45 minutes, pet. Final offer.”

I fucking love him in Dom mode. And I’ll worship him the way we both need…in 45 minutes. Until then, we are equals. And I plan to take advantage.

“45 it is, Sir.” I attempt to push him away, knowing it will instigate. “For now, will you please put the groceries away?”

“Watch your attitude.” He pins my arms behind my back, his fingers wrapped tight around my wrists. Tucked into the vice grip of his arms and chest, I’m right where I want to be. The only way he could get closer is to get inside.

I deliver a slow grin, pleased with myself for effectively goading him. “I will. In 45 minutes.”

He rumbles a low hum, tightens his grip, and takes his time examining my cleavage pressed between us. “I’m tempted to cancel our deal, drag you into the bedroom right now, and show you what final offer means.” There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he grins. “But I won’t. Because I don’t want you hungry tonight. I need your full attention.”

He lets me go and smacks my ass.

We eat dinner in a flury and he sends me off to our bedroom to get ready. I strip, tossing my clothes over the back of a chair. He’ll expect to find me kneeling at the foot of the bed, hands on my thighs, back tall. I need to fold my clothes into a neat pile the way he likes, but the bed hasn’t been made yet. With a tug, I square the blankets to the headboard. One fluff for each pillow, just the way he likes.

I pick up three socks from the floor and walk to the hamper, toss them in. The light hits my dresser, catching my eye. A thin film of dust covers the surface and then my finger as I swipe.

The door swings open and he halts.

Oh, shit. I drop to my knees where I am and lower my head farther than usual. “Sorry, Sir.”

This isn’t like back in the kitchen. During play, I’ve agreed to submit to him. Failing to do so now is a much graver sin.

The door clicks shut and he pads across the carpet toward me, each step slow and deliberate. By the time the hard toe of his boot bumps my bare knee, I’ve conjured up all sorts of punishments, both thrilling and troublesome. I welcome them, the heart-racing, skin-tingling suspense of what he will do next.

He sets his hand gently on top of my head. “I’m pleased that you’re repentant, but it won’t change your punishment. Understand?”

I study the stitched seam over the arch of his boot while my mind wanders. How will he punish me? The crop on the tender part of the back of my thighs? The paddle square across my ass? Orgasm deprivation? I clench in anticipation.

I trust that he won’t hurt me beyond the threshold we’ve discovered together. The journey has been as exciting as the play. I haven’t found any other way to feel closer to him than this. My Dom, my love.

My scalp tingles as he slides his hand through my hair. I lean into his hold, yearning. I could purr and nuzzle him for need of his attention. More contact. I reach for him, slide both hands around his legs to the backs of his thighs. I want you.

He inhales deeply, and I want to bury my face in the front of his pants, open them with my teeth and—

He tugs my hair. “Look at me, pet.”

I do. He glares down, disappointed, and it sets my chest on fire. That look could send me crawling over hot coals without a second thought. That look stirs rebellion and obedience in me. That look tells me more about his love than any other. What is it about that look?  

His voice drops an octave. “Hands by your sides, please.”

I obey, regretfully removing them from his thighs, and blink up at him.

He opens his mouth to speak but pauses. “God, you’re sexy right now.”

My lungs fill with a sudden deep breath and I smile. I’m never as beautiful as I am in his eyes. I would stay here all day just for him.

“Doesn’t mean you’ll escape punishment.” He smirks. “Got it?”

The disobedience comes easy to me but the punishment does not. “Yes, Sir.” I study his boots again.

He corrects, lifting my chin.

“Tell me why I’m going to punish you.”

I don’t like to disappoint him and I can’t look him in the eye when I have. But he makes me and I’m not happy about it.

“Because you love whipping my ass red,” I say with snark.

The single raised eyebrow again. “Excuse me?”

My heart skips a beat but I glare at him, unflinching.

He digs his fingers into my hair, gripping tight, stinging my scalp. Two octaves lower now if that’s possible. “Kitten…”

I blink once. “Yes?”

He clenches his jaw. “You are very fucking sexy but don’t push it. Answer my question.”

I bite my lip to buy time while I consider ‘pushing it’ or submitting. I think I’ve pushed enough for now. Suppressing a sigh, I say, “I disrespected you by not being in position when you arrived.”


I try to lower my head to escape his intense gaze but his grip on my hair doesn’t budge.

I lower my voice to a whisper. “And I touched you without your permission.”

“Yes. And you made me wait.” He releases me and walks over to the chair I slung my clothes over. “Not to mention this mess.” Shifting my shirt and jeans, he finds my panties, turns, and levels a searing glare at me.

I escape his gaze again, biting both lips. My mind sorts through all the possible ways I can beg for his mercy. I’m not afraid of the punishments. I trust him. But I want to do exactly what he wants before he asks. And he likes it when I beg.

“Close your eyes.” He walks behind me so I can’t see him anymore, which shouldn’t matter if I obey his command. But I don’t. Because I want to see what he’s doing.

“Don’t.” He spreads his hand over the top of my head and turns it back before I’m able to get a peek over my shoulder. Holding me there, his fingertips squeeze my skull and I hear the reprimand loud and clear. He’s reaching his max tolerance for my misbehavior. He needs me to obey now. He needs me to submit to him, to yield, to surrender wholly.

Behind me, I hear fabric ripping, then the clink of metal on the wood dresser. Fabric slides over my eyes. I can smell myself on them, my panties. I’m reeling with abashed desire as he knots them at the back of my head.

A breeze blows against my back.

“Don’t move. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” I hold still, kneeling, hands on my thighs, back straight and tall. I’m blind and naked and completely at his mercy, as excited as I am anxious.

The door swooshes open and the room is quiet for a long time. I should be contemplating my errors and my submission to him, the reasons this dichotomy is important to me, to us. But I’m too excited to play. All I can think about are the ways I want to pleasure him, by doing as he asks and by touching him the way he likes. My thoughts drift to steamy daydreams.

When the door clicks shut, I hear the rattle of china, a tea cup on a saucer maybe. The air around me shifts with his movements, sending a wave of fresh soap and citrus toward me. I’m curious as hell what’s going on. A clink on the dresser next to me and the rattling stops.

He places his warm hands on my shoulders. “Recline.”

Following his guidance, I lean back until he stops me at a 45 degree angle.

“Hold there.”


His metal belt buckle clinks, followed by the leather flapping through his belt loops. My skin prickles with anticipation, ready for the sting though not sure where it will land.

“Hands back.”

Oh? This is new.

I press my wrists together behind me, my belly and thighs already beginning to ache from the position. He slaps a thick padded leather cuff on each wrist and binds them together with a metal clip, the clink of solid, well-made materials resonating. A leather leash coils on the floor behind me, pressing into my toes.

“Open your hands.”

I’m not sure how when they’re behind me. Palms facing each other, I splay my fingers. The tea cup clatters. He corrects my hands palms up and places the teacup in them. It’s difficult to balance, but I manage.

“Three minutes. Do not spill this or I will be very disappointed.”

Three minutes? I can’t… I’ll never make it.

The leather belt falls limp across my thighs and I jump, the teacup clattering.

His fingers grip my chin and his voice hits so close I feel his words on my face. “If you spill, you will get the belt. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” My thighs burn and the china clatters as I shake. I don’t know where he is. I can’t hear him anymore. But the door hasn’t opened so he’s still in the room. Watching, I’m sure. I want to make him happy above and beyond what he expects. I want him to know that, despite my misbehavior, I am his. He owns me. And I will do anything he asks to make him happy.

I make a concerted effort to hold still and breathe through my time. The tea cup quiets as I pull myself together and find calm. The burning in my belly dissipates. I am an inanimate object yet thoroughly alive, breathing just to please my Sir.

He finally speaks. “Your time is done, pet.”

I hold it for ten more seconds to demonstrate my penitence. It feels like an eternity.

“Bring me the cup. Don’t spill it.”

He gives no acknowledgement of my extra effort. A part of me is crushed, but I carry on.

Still blindfolded, I rise to a standing position, the cup jiggling behind me, the leather leash slapping at my bare calves as I shift. If I’ve spilled, I can’t tell. I’m thoroughly exposed to him with my hands secured behind me but I stand tall, unashamed. My body is his—his toy, his treat, his tool.

The location of his voice tells me he’s sitting at the foot of the bed about three steps away. I take two confident steps then a third careful one. My toes meet the hard side of his boot.

Stepping in front of him, I turn my back and present the cup and saucer. No shenanigans. No snark. Just as he likes. He takes it from me without even a brush of our fingers. I hear him sip and set it down on a hard surface. I don’t move.

“Good girl.” His warm hands land on my bare hips. I want to face him and feel his forgiving arms around me.

I stay put.

He bumps one knee between my legs. “Spread.”

[To be continued]

Read Part 2 now.


Thank you for reading!
If you enjoyed, please comment and/or share.
I would be ever so grateful.

BDSM short fiction



If you’ve been following me at all, you know the sexy nature of my poetry. Here, I share (for the first time) a very short story of the same nature. Enjoy.

{996 words}

I sat in a lukewarm bath, bored and irritated. He’d texted me an hour earlier.

Run a hot bath and soak. Use a cinnamon & ginger bath bomb. Drink one glass of pinot noir. Await further instructions.

There was little I loathed more than confining myself to an uncomfortable, hard bin full of rapidly cooling water which made it impossible to either read a book (lest the pages curl with humidity) or watch my favorite show (lest the tablet fall into said water and it die.)

But I did it. For him.

When my phone buzzed on the tile floor, I lifted one dripping, wrinkly hand out of the murky, suds-free water and reached for a towel. 

Be downstairs in 30 minutes. Dress up. 3” heels or higher. No panties. Put your hair up.
Sit in the exact center of the white sofa in the lobby, ankles crossed, left over right.
I will arrive between 8:12 and 8:36.
You will wait there in that position.
You will be alone on the sofa.

Alone on the sofa? All of his instructions were in my control except for that. How the hell–

Do you have any questions?

I’d find a way.

No, Sir.

If you fail to fulfill my request, you’ll not be able to walk for a week.

My heart raced at the threat and promise. He’d done it before. And while a part of me longed for his fury, my ass, numb from the hard bottom of the tub, did not.

Yes, Sir.

Exactly 30 minutes later, I took my place in the center of the stretched white sofa in the ornate yet modern lobby. Room for two or three people stretched on each side of me. With only a few other people milling about, I took a refreshing breath. Maybe I wouldn’t have to fight anyone  off after all.

Sitting, I tugged the hem of my pencil skirt down just over the curve of my knees, crossed my 3” t-strap heels at the ankle, left over right, and tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear.

Twenty minutes later, at 7:52, the lobby began to fill up with couples in gowns and black bow ties. Nervous, I fiddled with my fingers in my lap. He wasn’t even due for at least another 15 minutes. What was his plan? And why were there so many people around?

At 8:07 a silver-haired man with a hefty girth sat beside me. The woman with him, thin and delicate, sat, too.

“Hello,” the man said with a gravelly voice and a nod.

“Hi.” I smiled but inside my stomach whipped up into a whirl. How would I get rid of them? I couldn’t be rude. I had to act quickly or they might get settled and stay.

“I’m so sorry but I’m saving these seats for a friend.”

The man scowled at me.

“…who has trouble walking the full distance from the door to the ballroom.” What the hell was I even saying? I wasn’t sure. But the man and woman stood and walked away.

The lobby was now packed. Fifty…or a hundred people stood about, waiting for something. Some balanced the thin stem of a wine glass between their fingers. Some held napkins with fancy hors d’oeuvres, though I could see neither a bar nor trays of food over the height of the crowd around me.

At 8:21 a beautiful young woman in a sparkling purple gown sat beside me.


She was too enthusiastic. Too excited. What did she know that I didn’t?

“Are you here alone, too?,” she said. “Thank God! We can stick together.”

Where were “we”? What was she talking about?

“I’m actually waiting for someone,” I said, wracking my brain for a way to get rid of her before he showed up. My ass throbbed in warning of my promised punishment.

Her shoulders sunk. “Oh. I guess I’m the only one then. I should have known better than to come to a wedding without a date.”

Wedding caught me mid-swallow, sending me into a coughing fit. He wouldn’t. We’re not… I sucked fruitlessly at the air, unable to catch my breath, sputtering and coughing.

We’d never been in public together. Didn’t know any of the same people. Avoided all chances of pictures in order to prolong our privacy and the nature of our relationship.

The woman stared wide-eyed at me as my choking began to catch the attention of nearby onlookers.

It hit me then that I could use this to get rid of her. I pointed at my throat and exaggerated another cough. “Water,” I whispered.

Her brows shot up and she stood quickly. “Oh! Yes. I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared through the crowd, parting it in her wake as I regained control of myself. With one last swallow, I raised my head, squared my shoulders, and caught his eye through the maze of people between us.

He paused, took note of the empty sofa beside me, and pulled half his mouth into a smile. Recovering himself, he strode straight toward me, wedding guests flowing out of his way as if there were some invisible force moving them.

When he reached me, he held out his hand, smiling. “Miss Adesso.”

I placed my hand in his and stood. “Mr. Burke.”

Tucking my arm under his and wrapping my hand around his forearm, he leaned in to kiss my ear, inhaling. “I could eat you right here.”

My neck and face flushed hot. Could everyone tell I was bare beneath my skirt?

He grinned as I squirmed.

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“We’re going to a wedding.”

My eyes shot open. “Whose?”

“Don’t know. We’re crashing.” He leaned in to whisper. “And you’re going to come before we leave tonight.”

I’ve shared this story in full as it was originally written. If you’re interested in seeing more of Miss Adesso and Mr. Burke’s night, please persuade me to write it by commenting below. ~___^

Thank you for reading!

Me and a Gun: Fiction & Sexual Abuse Discussion*

The fiction piece below contains triggers.
Skip to discussion if you’d like to chat.

me and a gun fiction sexual abuse discussion Greta Stone

Me and a Gun

[Flash fiction]

The cold metal barrel pressed to the back of my neck. Pinned to the hood of a stranger’s car at the back of the mall parking lot, I struggled to breathe. Snot smeared from my nose and tears made the skin at my temple stick to the aluminum surface beneath me. My hair lay sprawled and tangled over my face, masking the real world on the other side—the world in bitter, cold, November darkness. My most intimate parts bare to the night, I squeezed my eyes shut tight. See no evil. See. no. evil.

Pressure from the barrel let up, but I stayed put as the rip of his zipper warned me of what would come next. The back of his hand brushed my bare thigh as he freed himself. I winced. It was coming, and it was going to be horrifying.

Dissociate, my mind told me. So I tried.

Somewhere in the distance beyond the van blocking us from view, two women chatted, the thud of car doors, an engine starting. I focused on those details. I focused on anything but him, my heart pounding so fiercely it drummed a rapid rhythm in my ears.

The bright parking lot lights, the alarm button on my car remote, the key I had lodged against the palm of my hand were all futile against his skillful attack. I should have run when he stepped up with a smile, when I politely smiled back while my instincts called Danger!, when I told myself not to overreact, when I didn’t want to be labeled a bitch.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I caved to compassion and lent him my phone, carelessly surrendering my wrist. With one slick twist, he flipped my fate.

The barrel returned to my neck now, heavier, colder from the night air.

My shoulders ached, arms numb as the zip-tie on my wrists chafed the skin beneath. He used his hips to jam me against the car. At the icy collision of bare thigh to metal, I recoiled. The gun barrel dug deeper into the soft flesh at the base of my skull, scolding me. I held still, obeying its command.

A brush, a breeze, a hard button pressed to my soft flesh. My insides burned as he ripped through me. I opened my mouth to scream but bit the hair that fell in instead. I willed him away, praying for a savior, a miraculous rising of the sun, a heart attack…for him or me, didn’t matter.

My thoughts stuttered, running off far, far away then ripping back to the present with every thrust of his hips. I must survive this. But why? Was it worth surviving?

My mind grew tired of running so it stayed right there with his heavy panting, the clink of my hoodie zipper, and the eery silence beyond our horrid bubble until he released himself inside of me, leaving a stain only I would see. Forever.

Let’s Discuss

Why would I write something so dark and horrid? Three reasons.

  1. I am a sexual abuse victim. I have endured multiple sexual abuse situations. I choose not to be loud about it, but it is an important topic to me.
  2. I’ve lived with depression for as long as I can remember, and it wasn’t until I started channeling the darkness into writing that I could function well in everyday life.
  3. Society sends us mixed messages when it comes to personal safety. This is the point I want to discuss today.

ground rules

There are two sides to every incident and every incident could play out in one of two ways. Let’s use the example from the story above. First, I need to clarify a few things.

Although it’s not explicitly stated in the story above, we’re going to assume that the victim is female. Yes, all of it could happen in reverse or with same sex or with any kind of person that lives. But this is the scenario I relate to. So this is what I’m writing.

For the sake of simplification (because this is going to get kind of complicated), I’m going to name the man from the story Lucas and the woman  Olivia. (2016’s top two names, although different sources quote different names.)

Okay. Still with me?

the real question Cell phone

So, Lucas approaches Olivia, asking for help. “My car died and my wife has my phone.”  *points over shoulder toward mall* “May I borrow yours to call someone?”

Olivia can do one of two things:

  1. Help Lucas by lending him her phone.
  2. Deny help and get away as fast as possible.

What does society expect Olivia to do?

That’s a good question.

“Baby, you don’t go around accusing innocent people.” ~Jake Houseman, Dirty Dancing


It all depends on how the incident turns out. If Lucas is not a criminal, society will praise Olivia for helping (“What a kind and giving person you are!”) and shun her for denying help (“Don’t be such a bitch.”) If Lucas is a criminal, society will shun Olivia for helping (“Are you stupid? What were you thinking? You were asking for it.”) and praise her for running (“That was some quick thinking on your part. Saved your life!”)

Don't judge a person by appearanceThe problem is, Olivia  has no way of knowing if Lucas is a criminal or not when he approaches. The best attackers make themselves appear safe and non-threatening. And often the people who look tough and “criminal” are soft-hearted romantics. (Notice I said often, not always.)

So if Olivia doesn’t know what Lucas is, how should she respond?

The answer is, any fucking way she wants to in order to feel safe.

hold that thought

In the moment, there is no time to worry about what others will think of you or say about you. You must act on instinct. If something doesn’t feel right, don’t ignore it. And this applies to the long-term manipulations too. If something doesn’t feel right, don’t ignore it.

It’s that exact hesitation your attacker needs to make their move. With random acts of violence, it’s the pause before handing over the phone. Your attacker knows what society expects of you. He knows you don’t want to be labeled a bitch. He relies on that fact to trap you.

In long-term manipulations, it’s the pause while you recollect all the good things you know about the attacker that seem to disagree with that icky feeling you have that something just isn’t right. Again, he knows. He’s relying on the surety that you will not quickly dismiss all the good things you know about him. In fact, he has most-likely groomed you right into this position. (Read more about grooming here.)

don’t judge meSexual assault discussion

What it all comes down to is that so many attacks and incidents could be avoided if we didn’t stop to consider “What will people think of me if I falsely accuse him/make it clear I don’t like what he’s doing?”

Stop doing that. Personal safety first. No matter what.

And society, for your part, stop judging others period. Just stop.

Your turn

I would love to hear your thoughts on this. Have you experienced The Pause before? How did it turn out for you? What did others have to say about it? How do you feel about societal standards and how they play into sexual assault?

Talk to me.

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