I know, I know…

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} catch(err) {}I’ve been blog negligent but with good reason. I dedicated last week and probably the better part of this week to completeting the editing, revising and rewriting of ‘Her Haberdashery’. I want to finish it by friday and after two quick read throughs by some close friends I intend to put that ho’ out on the track and see if she can make me some money. (lol, I’ve always wanted to say that). Right now, it’s just shy of 50k words, 11k longer than it was before but still tragically short of most publisher’s submission requirements. Sigh! I’m still searching for ways to push and expand this story without it seeming trite, redundant or formulaic. I hope it hits the mark. With any luck, Yves Santiago will find a home. And maybe then I can finally stop writing about her.

As if rewriting and editing isn’t enough, I’ve been working on another project which is shaping up pretty nicely. It started out as a short story but I’ll be damned if the thing hasn’t run off and got an agenda of it’s own. I want to include a little excerpt here. It’s kind of a little ode to the BJ, since the Tour is over. It’s from the Muslim, it features Amil who is quickly becoming my favorite pretty, submissive. It’s times like these that I wish I had some witchy powers to make him real for just one second.

Just a teeny-tiny one. I promise I won’t do anything too naughty…

The Muslim
excerpt, by T. Elle Harrison

It takes two weeks for him to crumble but crumble he does. He approaches me on the crowded train; strangers to the left and right and on every side. He removes his knit kufi, wrings it in his hands and beseeches me with his dark eyes.

‘I am yours,’ he whispers desperately. ‘I belong to you. Do whatever you will with me.’

‘Kiss me,’ I demand. There’s only a moment’s hesitation before he leans in and presses his silky lips to mine. My nose fills with his heady scent; the smell of Far East spices and hard work cling to his skin. His rather large hand cups my neck as his tongue slips between my lips to delicately taste the inside of my mouth; his tastes of basil and mint. ‘Say it again,’ I whisper on his lips.

‘I belong to you,’ he whispers again.

‘Good,’ I push him away; drunk off of the power he’s just given me. ‘Now go away. You made me wait. Now you can to wait for me.’ He’s so caught off guard, so hurt that he nearly weeps but when he hears the murmurs of the passengers around us, he pulls his shoulders back and stands proud.

‘Yes, that is fair,’ he agrees. I watch him walk to the opposite end of the train barely able to conceal my pleasure at his submission. He stands at the far end of the train, his back toward me, his hand gripping the rail, his shoulders hunched.

‘Honey,’ the older woman next to me says, leaning in close so she can whisper. ‘Whatever he did forgive him. That man is in agony.’

I laugh and shake my head. ‘Agony? Not yet.’

But that got me thinking. Agony…how would that look on him? I imagine how his pretty features might twist and contort; how his lips will curl back from his teeth, the sounds that would slip from those silken lips. I imagine him on his knees, knees so accustomed to kneeling in prayer, bending, bowing and worshiping me. I imagine is skin, welted and reddened from my enthusiastic flagellation. The mere thought of it intoxicates me; like drinking too much whiskey in a warm room. I begin to sweat. A thin sheen of perspiration forms on my top lip, under my arms and trickles down my back. I’m hot, smoldering; it feels as if my clothes have been reduced to ash and I am a smoldering, red-hot coal sitting between these two evening travelers. Buoyed by desire I move toward the Muslim. When I touch him he flinches as if he’s been scalded by my hand.

‘Get off at the next stop,” I rasp. I don’t even recognize my own voice. It has a growling, feral sound that I’ve never heard before. He gives a short nod to let me know he’s heard me. But his heart; his heart under my hand is beating quick and loud like someone terrified; like someone who might at any moment break into a run.

The next stop lets us off on the bottom floor of the mall. I walk briskly through the crowd; navigating through the throngs of shoppers and loitering teenagers until I find the bathrooms. I don’t bother to look back; I know he’s following me. I can feel him; feel the magnetic power connecting his body to mine. When I open the door to the unisex bathroom he is in the doorway in seconds. I close and lock it behind him. We circle each other as if we’re sizing each other up; feeling the intense heat building between us, both of us hesitant to make the first move. Then with a hungry little grunt we leap at each other. This is not kissing; this is a fight. Our hands grope and scratch with abandon. Our teeth scrape, drawing blood unintentionally as lose ourselves. He tries to overpower me. It’s an inclination he can’t resist. He grabs my hands to pin them behind my back. First I try to wrestle my hands free then, finding that fruitless, I dig my nails into meaty portion of his palm until he draws a pained gasp and releases me. My hands slip under his hijab. He feels hard and solid under my hands, his skin, like the soft inside of a rose petal. I grab his narrow hips and force him into the wall.

‘No,’ he whimpers turning his mouth away. I find it again as I unbutton his soft linen pants and let them fall in a puddle around his ankles. I back away for a moment to take him in. The Muslim is tall, lean, with a swimmer’s build; the kind of build that can be deceptively strong. The hijab still covers him modestly above the knee, but below the knee I can see strong legs densely covered with dark hair.

‘Raise your hijab,’ I whisper. He shakes his head no but his hands bunch the fabric at his sides, revealing his knees and a peek of his strong muscular thighs. I sigh and lean back on the wall behind me. With his pretty face, softly curling hair and his hijab raised like the hem of a dress, he looks like a woman; a helpless vulnerable woman being made to do something she doesn’t want to.

‘Higher,’ I whisper.

‘No,’ he says firmly, suddenly finding his voice.

I smirk and then move in close again. ‘Lift. Your. Hijab,’ I demand.

He shakes his head no again. ‘Please…’ he pleads.

I laugh feeling perfectly devilish. ‘Please what, Amil? Please…touch me? Please…suck me? Please…fuck me? Pleasepleaseplease…’ With both hands I rake a trail up the insides of his muscular thighs. He melts; falls against me, his head nestling in the curve of my neck. The moment is so sweet, so vulnerable. Slowly, I slide myself down the length of his body until my mouth is only a breath away from his cock. I can see its shadow through the thin cotton. I grasp the hijab in my hands and push it slowly up his thighs. Instantly I’m engulfed in his scent. The smell of him…it’s delicious; like some fragrant exotic wood mixed with something sweet. I nuzzle my face into the place where his thigh meets his pubis; where the scent is strongest. I lose myself for a moment. My mouth opens to suckle at the flesh of his inner thighs. I lick and suck at the sweet tasting skin until his thighs are wet; releasing more of his scent. He shudders and moans and I look up at him. When our eyes meet his face flushes with shame as he slowly thrusts his hips toward my mouth. His cock gently brushes my cheek. It’s velvety to the touch. I grasp it in my hand.

“Don’t…’ is his pleading whisper as I bring him closer to my mouth. His breath hisses through his teeth and my mouth gets wet. I’m salivating like he’s what’s for dinner. I draw my tongue along the underside of his cock; this skin tastes just as sweet, if not more. He groans and nearly tumbles into me. The sound makes me feel weak, makes my clit pulse and throb against my wet panties. Suddenly, I don’t feel like I’m in control in this situation. How can I be? I’m on my knees, licking his cock like an over eager child with an ice cream cone on a hot day. There’s nothing dominating about this and I know he realizes it too. He takes a moment to try to take charge of the situation.

‘You can’t do this,’ he whispers and makes a futile attempt to back away. I circle his hips with my hands and pull him close again.

‘Don’t do that again,’ I threaten. I swipe the crown of his cock with the flat of my tongue and he tips his head back and squeezes his eyes closed.

‘Open your eyes,’ I whisper. ‘Look at me. Watch me,’ I demand. His dark lashes flutter open. His eyes meet mine and in them I see both desire and fear; mostly fear. I slide his swollen cock into my mouth again; slowly. He trembles, his hands clench into fists at his sides. I tighten my lips around his cock, wetting the entire length with my mouth. His hips thrust involuntarily, pressing to the back of my throat. His head rolls back on his neck again, banging against the door behind him.

‘Eyes open,’ I remind him. He forces himself to look at me. This time when I take him in my mouth I can feel his cock twitch and pulse in my hand. My mouth is a flurry of action. I grip the base of his cock and massage him from stem to tip while I use my tongue on the slit and the rim. A bit of pre-come dribbles out and I lap it up hungrily after that I lose myself again. I fall into a rhythm of sucking, swirling and flicking my tongue around the tip until his hips are rocking gently back and forth. Fucking my mouth. His hand is cupping my cheek. He moans as I take him in deep. Deep, deep, deep as I can. His cock gets even harder as he moans and gasps, shudders and whimpers. I’m loving the little sounds he’s making. His breath becomes is erratic. Conflicting emotions are at war across his brow; shame, pleasure, anger, revulsion. He wants me to stop but I can feel that what he wants even more is for me to take the decision out of his hands. I increase the pressure; increase the tension. I strive to pull the orgasm out of him; the orgasm that he’s fighting so hard against. When I feel it begin to ripple up the length of his shaft, I back away and I squeeze his cock in my hand. I’m not being gentle anymore. I want it to hurt.

‘What are you…?’ he stammers. His voice high and frantic.

‘You want to come?’

‘Yes!’ he whispers desperately.

‘You want me to finish what I started?’

‘Yes, please,’ he begs.

Again his begging sends that shiver of desire through my body; it’s so strong that I nearly give in. ‘The first thing you have to learn is that everything you do is to please me. It’s not about what you want.’

He whimpers and his knees buckle as he tries to force some sort of friction in my hand. I chuckle and nuzzle my face into his neck; taking in more of his delicious scent.

‘You have not earned the right to come,’ I whisper hotly against his skin.

‘You can’t–’ he begs feebly. He turns his mouth into mine, I’m beginning to love the way he kisses. But this isn’t about love. I grab a handful of his silky hair and give it a hard tug to break contact.

‘Pull yourself together. Next train comes in fifteen minutes.’ I back away and lean against the wall again to watch him. Hesitantly, he obeys; struggling to get his still engorged cock into a comfortable position before he zips his fly. His hands drop to his sides again. His posture is one of complete defeat but defeat isn’t want I want from him. I want his surrender.

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