Sign Up

Sunday, May 6, 2018

Filthyrottendirty Excerpt: Milkweed & Gossamer


Who Needs a Filthyrottendirty Dose of Patient Lee? 

From Milkweed & Gossamer- a new adult romance. 


When the food was gone, Jaime showed him the fish pond at the other end of the garden. They sat on a wooden bench, watching the enormous red and white Koi swim through the shallow water. The incandescent lights at the bottom of the man-made pond cast a soft glow on the corner of the garden. “This is my favorite spot in the world,” Jaime said. “I come in here at night all the time.”
“It’s very romantic,” Josh said with a soft smile on his lips.
“Romantic?  That’s the first time I’ve heard a guy use that word!”
“What? It is!” he said. “The lights, the sound of the water, the smell of the roses, the girl next to me . . . ”
They kissed again. This time Josh slid his hands under the hem of her shirt. She giggled when his fingertips trailed over her belly. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his hands out. “I’ll stop.”
“No!” she said with definitive force. “You’re just tickling my tummy.”
“Oh. So, you’d rather I move my hands up a little higher? Is that what you’re telling me?” He wagged his fingers again, bringing another fit of giggles. She grabbed his wrists and pushed his hands right up to the lace cups of her bra.
“No,” she said, holding her hands over his, as if she was cupping her own breasts. “I’m telling you that I’m terribly ticklish, so don’t touch me there.”
“But here’s good?” he said, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs.
“Yes. Very good.” She relaxed and let her hands fall to Josh’s thighs. Her hand trailed closer to his fly, and he shuddered.
“You’re making me hard, Milkweed,” he said in a raspy voice. “I’m just warning you.”
“Right here? Is this where you’re hard?” She placed her hand over his bulge and gave it a squeeze through the denim. 
“Oh, yeah. Right there.” His voice was a moan.
Josh’s brain relinquished control and let his cock do the thinking. He moved his hands up higher on her chest, lifting her shirt and revealing the red lace on the cups of Jaime’s bra. He tipped his head to get a better look at her tits, and then he slid his hands back down, inside the cups this time. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, the moan in her exhale giving him permission to proceed. 
“Can I take your shirt off?” he whispered. 
“Uh-huh.” She nodded and moved her arms to make it easier to remove. Her braid got caught on the butterfly-shaped button on the pocket of the shirt, causing her to yelp at the tug. 
Shh!” Josh warned, smiling at her while he fought to untangle her hair.
Ow,” she said, quieter this time. “It’s a good thing our house is so far down the road.  All we’d need is for Dad to hear me hollering in pain.”
While Josh wrestled with the shirt, Jaime reached behind her back and unhooked her bra.
He finally got the shirt free, and he caught the first glimpse of her bare breasts. His mouth dropped open. Her perfect little tits, her nipples standing straight out of their centers enticed him. In the dim light of the fish pond, he couldn’t determine the color of her nipples, but he dropped his head and took them in his mouth, first the left then the right. 
“Oh, my god, Josh. That feels so good,” she said in a shaky voice. 
He flicked his tongue over the hard nubs and wondered if she had ever sucked a cock. He knew she was a virgin—Scott had been quite clear on that point—but lots of high school girls gave blowjobs. Josh had received a few at high school and college parties from girls that were desperate for attention, but it had been a long time since he had a pair of lips wrapped around his cock. Oh, please, he thought to himself. Please let me get lucky.
He was lucky.


Available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBooks, Google Play, and Kobo. Check it out at Patientlee.com.

Monday, April 30, 2018

Is It Summer Yet?

For me
March is like a black hole.
It sucks
The joy out of my soul.

And why
Do I hate March so much?
It has
My spirit in its clutch.

April
Can bring violence.
School days
Are just so fucking tense.

In May
I start to feel some hope.
Sunlight
Can help me start to cope.

But June
It is my favorite.
I know
It will be summer, yet.


Sunday, March 18, 2018

Product Review: Butterfly G-Spot Vibrator

Get it from Manshop for $11.99.

The Butterfly G-Spot Vibrator

I gave this one away in March for my Muffin's Change event. That little beauty tortured me from its package for months, so when hubby felt frisky yesterday, he set out to buy this one for me. If you're more patient. (yes, Patient Lee hears the irony) click here to get it from Manshop for $11.99. (I paid more for it on another site for my giveaway, much to my dismay.)


When he got to the store, he found the Platinum Edition, which he purchased. If you have a couple extra bucks, click here to check it out.I think it's worth it. 

Get it from Manshop for $21.95.
#recommendedbypl


Here's what I thought:

The shape is enticing. It's made of "flexible rubber jelly," which made it pleasant to the touch, even just on the fingers. Mine is pink, but all three available colors look great. 
The original Butterfly has three speeds only. The Platinum beats the hell out of the original with six additional settings with different vibration patterns. I'll confess, I didn't use the three original settings. I'm all about the switch up.
I took it into the shower with me, put it in place and washed my hair. It was pleasant and fun. It's a good size, so it stayed put without much trouble. Until I tried to wash my feet. That was comical, but I managed not to drop it. I'd like to try it in the bath sometime. 
After my shower, I positioned myself comfortably on my bed and found some porn. Then I got serious about getting off. It isn't easy for me, and I have a tendency to burn out battery-operated toys. I'm happy to say that the Butterfly still worked after the Big O. (I just got it yesterday. I may change my mind the next time I pick it up. Who knows?)

At one point, I was thinking it was too much because I thought I was losing sensation around my clit. When I investigated, I realized it had twisted around, and it was only the vibrations from the internal part I was feeling on my clit. I laughed at myself, repositioned it, and got back to business.
Not only did it get me off, it got me off HARD. It's a good thing no one was home because I was LOUD. 
I love waterproof toys. I never feel as though I can wash a non-waterproof vibrator thoroughly enough, so I tend to use condoms with those. That's a definite selling point for the Butterfly Kiss.
This is mine. Get your own!
The size is quite nice. My favorite, go-to toy is my Magic Wand, but it's quite heavy, and my hands get tired from holding it. This one stayed in place with no hands when I was lying down. It's much lighter, too, so gravity wasn't pulling it out of position. 
One criticism is the noise, but I guess I could have gagged myself. I'm kidding! The device itself was quieter than the Wand, but I would still worry that someone would hear from the other end of the house. 
There was also no option to use the vibration patterns on a lower setting, and I think it could be too much for some women. That's just a guess though. 
Last criticism, I swear. Perhaps I'm not as smart as I think I am, but I couldn't turn the damn thing off. The on button cycled through the rest Not a problem when you're on dry land. Just twist to open the battery case on the handle. The problem is in the shower. If you decide to turn it off to save your batteries while you shave your legs, you can't open the battery compartment to shut it off without destroying the vibrator. 

Overall Impression: #recommendedbypl


If you have a clitoris, I'm pretty sure you'll like this toy. If you can get a quick orgasm out of other toys, you'll probably like the original model. If you're like me, and you prefer something with variety, shell out the extra ten bucks. And you might want to pick up a gag while you're at it. I'm pretty sure the neighbors knew I was coming. 

Saturday, February 24, 2018

Hexborn: Can a Child of War Fight for Peace?

One of my very favorite authors is A.M. Manay, and she has some incredibly exciting news. Her Young Adult, High Fantasy novel, Hexborn, is in the middle of a Kindle Scout campaign. She needs our help with nominations.

If you haven't read her stuff yet, you should. I don't usually enjoy paranormal or vampires, but her November Snow series is one of the best things I've ever read. Twice. I'm gonna ask you to trust me on this and click here to nominate this book for Kindle Scout. Please. You have nothing to lose, and an excellent author has EVERYTHING to gain. The campaign ends March 9. Please click now. 

Patient Lee and A.M. Manay thank you!

Here are the details:

Author: A.M. Manay
Cover Design: Eeva Lancaster, www.thebookkhaleesi.com
Genre: Young Adult High Fantasy

Kindle Scout link:
https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/2Q22TVKET6NES

Kindle Scout Campaign: Feb. 8 – March 9, 2018

Tag line: Can a child of war fight for peace?
Mini-blurb: Hexborn. Abomination. Unclean. Young Shiloh knows exactly what she is. Her missing hand and the world at large are ever ready to remind her. Outcast she may be, but her broken body hides great magical power. The king’s servant Silas seeks to use that power to preserve the uneasy peace the kingdom has enjoyed since the end of the Siblings’ War. He'll slit her throat if she threatens it instead. Will Shiloh prove her worth? Or will past sins rise to destroy Shiloh, Silas, and the kingdom of Bryn?

Trailer: https://youtu.be/AC78jhZ5q4Q
Contact info and social media: Email: ammanay@gmail.com
Website: www.ammanay.net
Blog: http://www.ammanaywrites.blogspot.com
Facebook: facebook.com/ammanaywrites
Twitter: @ammanay
Instagram: instagram.com/a.m.manay
Amazon author page: amazon.com/author/ammanay

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Jars of Dead Things, Bradley

I like to write dreams. Mine are vivid and complex, even though they don't always make sense.

I dream about snakes all the time. Snakes in cages, snakes in baskets, snakes under the couch. Friendly snakes, snakes on the attack, dead snakes. All kinds of snakes.

One summer my family took home the corn snake from the biology class next door. (The same teacher who inspired Mrs. Maitland's SAD Valentine with her idea to mate her pythons for Valentine's Day. Her female snake wasn't a healthy weight for breeding, so she had to scrap her plan, but for Mrs. Maitland, it went much more smoothly.) I enjoyed our temporary pet until the night I dreamt that I sautéed him. I cut him in three and cooked him in garlic and butter. Ralph Scampi, I guess.

After that dream, I was terrified of him. As if he knew I'd had a wicked plan for him.

Anyway. Here is a snakey excerpt from Mrs. Maitland's SAD Valentine.
 
 
While others dreamt of roses and lovers and sex on that Valentine’s Night, Brad dreamt of snakes and dead things in jars.

In his dream, he stood in Mrs. Maitland’s classroom, staring at the Jars of Dead Things. The lights weren’t on, and the sun had dropped below the horizon, but the last vestiges of daylight allowed him to see the contents of the glass-paneled cabinet. As he looked from jar to jar, he felt the familiar mix of revulsion and shame he knew so well when he was in high school.

Just like he always had, he started at the bottom shelf, looking at the tapeworms and the starfish and the other faceless creatures, swimming in formaldehyde ponds. The second shelf held the kinds of creepy-crawlies you wouldn’t want to see up close, but were fascinating from the safety of a tightly closed jar—a hornet, a scorpion, a brown recluse spider.

Movement on the third shelf caught his eye. Before he could even lift his gaze, the snake’s head hit the glass with a single knock. Brad tried to jump back, but his shoes were bolted to the floor. The snake was thin and about three feet long. He didn’t know what kind it was, but it wasn’t one of Mrs. Maitland’s pythons. It disappeared behind the jars.

Brad turned his head to look over his shoulder, which he wouldn’t have risked during biology class. The room was three times its usual length, and even in the dream, he was overwhelmed by the amount of cleaning it would require. The desks stretched in long, crooked rows which would take half his night to straighten.

Mrs. Maitland’s animal cages had been replaced by tall stacks of papers on every available surface. Her posters and skeletons and drawings and photographs had disappeared. The walls were bare except for the Emergency Eye Wash instruction poster and the fire exit sign. 

“Look at the Jars of Dead Things, Bradley,” he heard behind him. “Maybe they’ll remind you to come to class prepared.”

Mr. Morgan? He retired last year. What the fuck was he doing here?

A projection screen the size of the front wall had been pulled down in front of the chalkboard, and Brad’s stomach lurched when he smelled the almost-but-not-quite banana scent of dry erase marker. His palms were sweating as he searched his pockets for a pencil. He was falling behind, and he hadn’t even taken out his notebook yet. Mr. Morgan was about to erase the screen and fill it with another page of nonsense words, and he hadn’t found anything to write with.

He heard Morgan’s voice again. “Jars of Dead Things, Bradley. If you can’t participate in class, at least educate yourself with the Jars of Dead Things. Look on the third shelf. Learn something.”

Third shelf. Animals with faces. He hated the third shelf. 

He felt the second snake slithering across his ankles before he saw it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he remained frozen in place. After circling his shoes twice, it slithered toward the teacher’s desk. This one was much longer, maybe five or six feet. Brad wondered if it was poisonous. It wasn’t a python, but he had no idea what it was.

“Third shelf, Bradley,” Mr. Morgan said again. Third shelf. A miniature shark. A frog. A chick. All bleached white. 

And then his eyes rested on the fetal pig. His stomach lurched as it always did. So tiny. Its features frozen forever. So sad. Shame and revulsion. If he could just be prepared for class, he wouldn’t have to look at this poor little piggy.

Another snake dropped from the ceiling, dangling right in front of him. This one was yellow with huge fangs that dripped venom.

He was suddenly aware of the scent of liquor and breath spray.

He tried to take a step only to find that his feet weren’t bolted to the floor. They stuck to the floor, held tight by some kind of adhesive. He could bring his foot up a couple of inches from the floor, but the glue immediately pulled it back to the ground, like in a cartoon.

A drop of poison fell from the snake’s mouth, landing on the tip of his nose. Brad tried to scream, but no sound came out. 

As he looked up at the monster hanging before him, snakes of all sizes and markings came out of the room’s cracks and crevices. They came from every direction, all converging on Brad. Their long bodies knocked over the piles of photocopies, scattering the papers to the floor in the slow motion only seen in nightmares. It would take all night to clean this room.

And he still couldn’t find his pencil.

The snake from the ceiling stretched toward him; its head touched his skin right below his ear. Again he tried to scream. He felt the snake’s scales on the back of his neck as it moved across him. It was still attached to the ceiling, and it seemed to get longer and longer. 

He felt it brush his other ear, and then he heard it speak. “Look at the Jarsss of Dead Thingsss, Bradley,” it hissed in his ear.

His bladder let go, and he woke up.

Now he could scream.

Friday, December 1, 2017

Sexual Assault in the Workplace

Click here for a free copy of She's My Reference.

The second piece of fiction I ever wrote started out as a rant about those in my workplace who receive special treatment because they're tight with administration. Where I work, people walk into opportunities because they went to high school with the boss or because they make extra coffee and invite only those in charge.

In my story, it happens to be a man losing out to a woman because she and the boss went to high school together. (I wanted to try writing from the male perspective, and I felt less whiny since I wasn't writing about myself.) The man and his friends go to a bar and lament the inequality in hiring, and the cute, younger (female) bartender overhears and makes an outrageous offer--to be his reference because the boss needed some *ahem* oral persuasion.

What follows is a scorcher of a date between the younger bartender and the older teacher with steamy fantasizing and  super-hot sex.

And then I went and ruined it with a Patient Lee Tittie Twister Ending. (I can't resist the twist at the end of a short story.) The ending resulted in my lowest scores ever on Literotica (vote for MST while you're there!) and most hateful comments I've ever received (and believe it or not, I've gotten some doozies. Literotica is not always a friendly place.), including threats to maim and kill me, all because I horrified the straight, macho readers at the very last minute.

After the sting of the comments eased, I realized that I had struck a nerve. Hard. They didn't hate my story because I hadn't written well. They hated it because I lured them in with the heat of the rest of the story and then poured a bucket of ice water on their *ahem* Johnsons by putting a man in a position usually "reserved" for women in the workplace--on his knees.

This week, my story feels particularly relevant. If you read this story and feel revulsion at the end, good. Women are not any more comfortable performing *ahem* oral things on a man they don't choose and more than a man feels. If it revolts you, it means you understand how these women who are finally coming forward to tell their stories felt. Choosing between your career and performing a coerced sexual act should not ever happen again to a man or a woman.

(This didn't happen to me or anyone I know, BTW. It's fiction. And the inequities in my workplace are greater than ever. Preferred parking, bathroom in a classroom, missing meetings, and a host of other perks--offered to one, but not the rest.)

Thanks for reading. If you'd like to read the story for free, click here. Usually I ask readers to subscribe to my newsletter, and I give the book in return. This week it feels important to get as many readers on it as possible.

Thank you,

PL

Friday, July 21, 2017

Flash Fiction: Alex and the Intern


Last weekend, I participated in the WritersWeekly.com 24 Hour Short Story Contest. In this contest, we had 24 hours to write an 850 word story following the prompt below.

It was supposed to be the summer job of a lifetime, working as a chef at an upscale "summer camp" for adults. But, the air conditioner was broken again. After closing, the stale outdoor air brought little relief. The path to the cabins housing seasonal employees was dark but short. She stopped in her tracks when she came across one of the windows. With her pupils dilating, she couldn't look away...

 I was traveling with my parents and my three children when the contest started, so between sleeping in the car and unpacking, I wasted about six hours dancing around the first thing that popped into my head: octopus. For a less-than-two-minute education on octopuses (yes octopuses,not octopi), click here for a clip from Animal Planet's show Tanked (one of the few shows my family watches together with no grumbling).

Since the key to winning the heart of the judges (according to the recommendations in the materials they sent to participants) was a surprise ending, I took the advice seriously. (If you've read my erotic shorts, you've read some Patient Lee Titty Twister Endings. This one's just a Twister.) I didn't want to use a plot twist I've seen on TV, so I stayed away from the horribly venomous Blue Ringed Octopus.

After struggling and sketching and trying to pull the story together, I was beginning to lose hope of bringing it together. But then the clouds opened up, the sun shone down on me, and Tool came on. Schism is my writing song. "I know the pieces fit." (See the video below.)

My parents took the kids to the beach, and by the time they returned, the story was half-written. I finished twelve hours early. Amazing what a little quiet time can do for the creative brain.

Here it is, for your enjoyment.

Alex and the Intern

© 2017 Patient Lee

On the third day of Tanisha’s internship at Camp Wine and Sea, the octopus escapeyd, as though he thought by dinnertime, Chef Roscoe would be arranging his tentacles on a bed of rice pilaf.

It wasn’t true, of course. Alex, the Great Pacific Octopus, had been a dining-room fixture at the camp since it opened. Octopus was Chef Roscoe’s specialty, and it was on the menu every Saturday night, but Alex wasn’t dinner. He was the camp mascot, and he provided conversation fodder for the uncomfortable adults sharing tables with strangers on the first night of camp. Until the wine started flowing, Alex kept the party going.

Peter, the sommelier, discovered Alex’s absence minutes before the first dinner seating. He raced to kitchen. “Chef, where’s Alex?”

“The octopus?”

“Yes, the octopus. He’s not in his tank.”

"Again?” The chef groaned. “One of these days, I’m going to serve that monster in a tomato confit, I swear. Get the intern to look for him.”
Peter raised his eyebrow. “You want to leave that to her? She’s made a dozen mistakes since she got here. Besides, don’t you need her in the kitchen?”
“Would you rather she pour wine tonight?” The chef dismissed him without another word. Instead, Peter performed a cursory search of the kitchen and dining room himself, and when the first guests entered the dining room, peering into Alex’s tank, he distracted them with Sauvignon Blanc.

A misogynist, Chef Roscoe resented the management’s choice of intern for the summer. Tanisha Jones didn’t care what Chef thought. She’d earned her place in his kitchen with her 4.0 at the university and three wins in prestigious cooking contests. Even though he’d blamed every error in the kitchen on her since she arrived at camp, she was ready to stand tall against his pompous attitude.

While Chef was in the dining room announcing the evening’s menu—octopus braised in red-wine with Kalamata olives—Tanisha tended to the pots and pans on the stove. When he returned to the kitchen, he barked three orders in a row to her, and before she could do any of them, he said, “And put that octopus over there in the big pot for the third seating.”

Tanisha followed his instructions to the letter, knowing it didn’t matter. Chef set her up for failure every time she turned around, but she did her best for the sake of the diners who were paying a small fortune for a week at the adult summer camp.

The air conditioner quit halfway through the second seating, and by the end of the third, heat exhaustion threatened to knock out the staff. Tanisha and Chef Roscoe cleaned the kitchen as quickly as they could, and just when she thought she’d get some relief from the heat, her nose detected the odor of spoiling food. She scanned the kitchen, looking for the forgotten piece of fish or scrap of meat.


Sniffing the air, she followed her nose to the corner of the kitchen where she found a metal bowl containing an octopus, ready for the cooking pot if it hadn’t begun to rot from the intense heat in the cooking area. Swallowing the urge to vomit, she called, “Chef. You have to see this.”

“What the hell?” His eyes narrowed in anger. “You were supposed to cook the octopus. What did you cook?” His voice rose in pitch as his anger increased.

“The octopus in the jar over there!” She pointed to the counter next to the stove. “It was right next to the pot. I assumed that was the one you meant!”

Chef shook his head and chuckled without humor. “You idiot. You know Alex got out today, right?”

“Alex from the dining room?” Her face fell as it dawned on her. An octopus could open a jar to hide in it. “Did I cook Alex?” Her voice was a whisper, punctuated by projectile vomit as she accepted the truth. She’d cooked the camp mascot.

After cleaning her mess and the putrefying octopus, she stepped into the dark, wishing for relief from the heat. Instead, the stale air knocked her back a step, nauseating her again.

Regaining her balance, she started down the dark path to the employees’ cabins. Worry ran circles in her head. Would the camp administration fire her? Would animal rights activists call for her head on a pike? Could she live with herself after making such a horrific mistake?

She heard Chef Roscoe’s voice, stopping her short. She turned and found herself at his cabin, his open sitting-area window providing her a view of his kitchen. He sounded as if he was speaking to a puppy. “I got that uppity bitch. Yes, I did, Alex.”

Her eyes flew open, pupils dilating, when he stepped into view. Any thought that he’d stolen Alex to keep as a pet vanished as he placed the platter on the table, the octopus moving listlessly as it languished out of water.

Tanisha’s scream couldn’t save the octopus as Chef brought the cleaver down on Alex’s bulbous head.