short shorts

Monday, May 30, 2016

Dream Time Dancing

It was another dreadful Monday in Milwaukee. The day was very grey without yielding to any warmth or sunshine, after all this was winter in Wisconsin. I was back at work as a data entry clerk. Take one column of numbers from one log and enter it into yet another log. Column after column, day after day. I had learned to dull my brain enough to make this repetitive task almost endurable. By doing thisbrain exercise, I became very good at my job.

When I went home, I ate a light dinner and sat down on the bed. I found that if I looked over my shoulder, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other place. That place of magic where fairy tales live. If I fell back quickly into that space, I could go there, not just look. It was the escape that made my life at work bearable. I could dance all night with one handsome prince after another.

There were no conversations just beguiling smiles and an occasional wink. At one point I began to feel as if I became heavier while dancing. As if something was sitting on me making it difficult to move. Almost as if someone was standing on the train to my gown. Suddenly I felt lighter and a new Prince appeared. I had never seen him at the ball before. We danced and I recognized him. He was the man who delivered the office mail. The man who brought me the endless columns of figures. In the real world he was a pimply kid, but here he was actually handsome Prince, my Prince.

That morning when I awoke, my tattered dancing shoes were on the floor, and my Prince was asleep beside me. He woke and we smiled. Sometimes fantasies can be shared. We had stayed on in that other world and would never have todeal

with numbers again.

First published: May 2016
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer:doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com

Googling Down Memory Lane

Sandy Vrooman

The day begins and the muse, I have missed as of late, shows up for breakfast asking questions. Is that fluffy bread you are eating really qualified to be called a bagel? Look at your feet.

Looking down, I see my Grandmother’s toes and memories flood my mind. Now I am the one that has trouble reaching my toes in order to trim them. At the time I watched her pedicure process, it was the end of the Great Depression.

A child of ten again, I remember growing up in Chicago’s south side in the shadow of Midway Airport in one of the yet to be developed neighborhoods. There were only seven houses on our side of the street, eight across the street and behind them “the prairie”.

The muse says, “Try to Google your past, isn’t everything you need on the internet?” Finding memory lane clogged with change, I found the area where I had lived packed with houses and a large park. Now my youth seems farther away than my toes.

The trips to Maxwell Street, one of the largest open air markets in the states, comes into focus. The surrounding neighborhood was referred to as the Ellis Island of the Mid West; a melting pot of cultures - Greek, Italian, Jewish and Black - living side by side with acceptance. We frequented the part called Jew Town the most. It was the place where almost anything could be found at a bargain.

My Mother wouldn’t let us buy bagels from the open stalls, twelve hard, small pieces of bread sold on a string, but Grandma would take a 2 hour bus ride each way to get them. To be careful as possible, she would wash off any probable contamination from the bagels before we could eat them.

There was the semiannual excursion from our house on Kostner Avenue to Jew Town to buy coats. It took over an hour to get there by car back then, now a Goggle map says 17 minutes if you take the Dan Ryan expressway. Our travels would take us up and back between several stores trying on coats. My Mother kept bargaining with the merchants to lower the price, waiting for that moment, as we were walking out the door, to finally agree to a cost she would accept as reasonable…oh, the embarrassment of it all.

The prairies are gone, Maxwell Street has been moved to accommodate the University. Google says the mile I walked to school is really only half a mile, but my toes are still there. The muse suggests a professional pedicure before she leaves for her next appointment.

First published: November 2015
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer:doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com

Carving, aRewarding

Hobby

Sandy Vrooman

Stitch is my street name, ‘cause I like to cut people, who need stitching. Sometimes I leave them barely alive but so disfigured that they would be better off dead. Their suffering gives me a thrill. I’m a psychopathic killer.

Some jerk offed me. Maybe he got his kicks that way. One thing about being so called crazy is that I see the world different. I see those parts that keep the world turning, but you guys have never heard of them. You normies can’t see them, the spirit world maybe obscure to you, but not to me. I know this unearthly place and I’ve managed to escape several times.

When people die, they go back to the agency for an overhaul and a reissue. We newly dead and preborn mingle for a while, exchange some information or talents. The preborn go out and the newly dead become preborn. I’ve escaped several times. This time I was too anxious. There was someone I just had to kill in the worst way. She said I had a tiny dick and I wasn’t a real man. So I jumped an unborn and took a quick ride out.

Now the administrators at the agency didn’t catch me. That is I didn’t think they caught me until I was born. I had nine months to plan the killing. It would be a slow torture and near the end she would beg me to kill her, or maybe not. If she craved death I would deny her. I would find a basement and duct tape her to the wall. Then cut off one of her fingers with the axe, quickly stuff it in her mouth and do a quick duct tape so the finger stayed in her mouth, bleeding. I stuffed her toes up her cunt, the other fingers up her ass one at a time. The horror on her face is so luscious.

What!

I was being born and when they handed me to my Mother, I screamed. It was my arch enemy! The woman I had sworn to kill was now my Mother! My anger boiled over with a passion I didn’t know was possible. When they put me to nurse, I bit her tit as hard as I could, then continued to scream.

They had to put me in a special nursery, so my screams would not disturb the other patients. The diagnosis was severe autism. I was locked in a cement room with bars on the windows

. The spirits came to taunt me. The only way out was to bash my head against the concrete floor. I lost consciousness several times only to hear their laughter again. Finally I heard nothing.

First published: November, 2013
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer:doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com

What We Want the Most

Sandy Vrooman

As fairy god-madam I get to play with all the sexual fantasy requests phoned into our agency. I get to use the candidates first to see if they have potential. My turn on the night shift in New Orleans brings out the weird ones. Take Jerome Prince. If he could clone himself that would be his ideal lover. He wanted a woman that matched all his physical characteristics except she would be the opposite gender. I had tried to talk him into the same gender with a hair dye job and colored contacts, but no…he wanted what he called the real thing.

Just describing what he wanted started both him and me panting, six foot,slim

with small but definite boobs, hair cut like his, a need to dominate, and to dress him in her clothes. She would be wearing a custom leather corset that covered her body from arm pits to knees. It would lace up the back (I just had to try this on with or without his conscent), and stiletto heels. He wanted the underwear to be a surprise. Something he could fantasize. Would it be slippery wet looking pink satin, very transparent white lace, or even shiny black leather? He would imagine the different sensation each would bring. The tactile smooth slide of the satin, lace just inviting to be torn off with the mock innocence it represented, or the strong dominant leather.

Oh the shoes…platform stilettos, with the highest heels possible. She would have the arrogance to dress like a bottom with a defiant look that would melt his heart and raise his cock. He had parties to show off these women. I told them to leave by midnight or lose the fee. They ran across the back patio and would lose one or both their heels in the soft asphalt.

I had been working on the case for three months and was ready to give up until I found Cindy. She would do anything for a man who would lick her shoes. She was slim but still feminine. Hot enough that I thought of keeping her for myself. Well they hit it off, I know, I was there, I got to watch them both get hot. So hot, the party ended early and Cindy led Prince off to his room on a penis leash. I had a camera hidden in Prince's room (wanna see the video?). It was a match made in hell and they lived in a pain filled ecstasy for ever after.

First published: August, 2012
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer:doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com

All By Himself

Sandy Vrooman

I watched him, watched from my hiding place. If he had known of my proximity he would have picked a different site. I watched as he analyzed the area and chose. He cleared the site and began to build, bringing in materials from various sources. A self-reliant guy, he stepped back and admired his work. Then and only then, he flew off to find a mate.

I watched from behind the curtain, out thewindow

. My old apple tree had some deadwood that was good for carving. He picked the spot on the underside of a trunk with an old twig for a perch. It was a very well thought out design.

I had a fleeting sensation that this was the woodpecker's first nest. I wonder what it is about a survival system that lets him bang his head into a wall repeatedly and be able to still function. There were obstacles he addressed and removed, like trying to get a long twig into a small hole. It took him several tries before he turned the twigs sideways.

He found her, and wooed her, and they moved in. In no time, mornings were announced by the demanding cheeps of baby birds.

Fall came and the family left. This winter finally turned to spring and the birds tried to return but, the tree had rotted too much, and they moved on. It was for the best, the local cats seemed to have stepped up their vigilance.

When Wishes Come True
Sandy Vrooman

Once upon a time there were three sisters, Amanda, Isabel, and Grace Buckworth. After the births of their first two the Buckworth’s had visited the old woman at the edge of the wood and wished for a normal child. Dear reader, you will understand as you delve further into the story.
The Buckworth’s were thrilled when Amanda moved out and changed her name to Domina Lash. Her kinkiness had put such a stigma on the family, they were only too happy to disassociate. Especially after the porno chamber of commerce listed her as an attraction.
Ron, the perfect gentleman, dated all three sisters, one after the other. He was someone the Buckworth’s thought would be the perfect son in law. Ron had never disagreed with a woman. He honored all of Amanda/Domina’s requests, licked her boots, and scrubbed her back as directed. She didn’t think too much of this. What good was a slave who never disobeyed you, and never needed discipline? She eventually found someone who screamed loud enough in ecstasy. She cut Ron loose, so to speak. He was not her perfect mate.
Isabel, in typical sibling rivalry, was as opposite her older sister as possible. She was so prim and proper that even she had never seen her adult body naked. Isabel turned down an invitation to join a devotional convent that took vows of chastity, austerity and silence. She though they lacked self discipline.
Ron, obeyed Isabel’s every requirement. They spoke only if they had a barrier between them. Ron stuck to the assigned topics, but the description of what Ron was contained a forbidden word, the opposite s**. Being a “he” meant Ron was less than perfect, he left at her request.
Grace, the third sister, turned out just right. The fees paid to the old woman were worth it. Their wish had been granted. This happens in stories that begin “once upon a time." Ron and Grace dated for a while and realized they had the makings of a perfect couple. She read books while he listened to sports, and he listened to every word she said. They even enjoyed shopping together. After an appropriate time of courtship, and the beginning of them becoming fuzzy around the edges, they married.
Strange, though, only their families remember the wedding (1). As Ron and Grace’s sublime existence began to meld two into one, day by day, they became more difficult to see. No one remembers what happened to them after they moved into their perfect little home.
There is no such thing as normal. Be careful what you wish for.

(1) The ink on the marriage license has vanished, City Bureau of Records, 1943, Topeka, KS.

Tricksters of the Trade
Sandy Vrooman

Mehwanomi, born to the Meskwaki (Fox) people, was the daughter of a much feared sorceress. Shunned by the tribe because of her Mother’s reputation, she lived in her departed Mother's lodge on the shore of a large lake. Accustomed to solitude, she felt no loss, but her people, pushed from their ancestral lands by European invaders, did feel loss, acutely. They felt betrayed by her mother as well.
During her solitary time, a white man stumbled into Mehwanomi’s lodge, feverish, incoherent, and hungry. She gave him some willow bark tea and a simple broth until he recovered enough to feast on her acorn and rabbit stew.
His thanks was to woo and seduce her, providing a need for closeness and affection she had never felt before. Mehwanomi thought that anything that felt that good was a gift of the Manitos. He convinced her he was also Meskwaki, one of her people, because part of his name, Jean Claude Reynard, was fox in his language.
Jean Claude, a seasoned trickster, taught her how to experience the ultimate satisfaction in their relations and how best to reciprocate. When he left, she followed. For the first time in her life there was something she did not want do without.
Jean Claude had a lodge bigger than anything she could imagine, in a village so large; Mehwanomi thought it must have no end. He taught her how to function in his world and even provided her with a servant, a Japanese woman named Kitsune, also a fox.
The two women rapidly became close. Kitsune further enlightening Mehwanomi in the lore of fox magics, something her Mother neglected to do. When Jean Claude tired of the two women and left them for new adventures, they felt betrayed. Through the power of suggestion, they brought Jean Claude's shadydealings to the attention of the authorities.
When he was hauled away, Mehwanomi felt a longing for the forest and convinced Kitsune to travel back with her. The village had been attacked, burned and abandoned and her people moved further from their ancestral home. Even though the village had shunned Mehwanoi, she felt a cord to her past had been severed. Kitsune suggested they go back to town and try their luck.
Relying on fox logic and the skills Jean Claude had taught them, they formed a business partnership. Slowly and surely by creating and collecting gambling debts, and selling other favors, they became very powerful women. Both vowed to never take in or be taken in by a hungry man again.

First published: August, 2010
comments to the writer: doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com