Jack Poignet

Sounds strange, but when reading I look for little details that make a world „breathe“ (and readable). Loved this one: “Why is the sugar in the fridge?” he asked, confused, while he was already fiddling with the little capsule machine. “The stuff has to go somewhere and I don't have that much space here.”

Ok, that’s all I wanted to share on here of Bob‘s first time. While most of my stories contain some sex scenes, sometimes funny, sometimes rather extreme, this site should be about the story itself, not the sex. I might continue this one day on some other site (or do a full proper story? ) Thanks for reading! Edit: Obviously, there are now more chapters, but I think I stayed mostly true to the spirit of the first three chapters. Enjoy

The biker pushed himself up to a sitting position and patted the empty space on the wide leather seat of the chopper in front of him. “Sun’s good out here.” Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, “ Take a load off. You earned it.” Bob’s blush, which had receded, came rushing back, hotter this time. He looked from the biker to the chopper seat, then down at his slightly strained jockstrap. “I… I can’t, really. I mean, I’d like to, but…” He shuffled his feet. The machine truly was beautiful

24 April, 1788. The air above the recovering city, thick with humidity this late April, carried a complex perfume: the lingering smokiness of distant, burned out fires, mingling with the sharp tang of new construction. Above it all, the scent of wet earth and decay clung like a heavy musk to clothes and skin, carried into town by the annual spring floods. The river, swollen and angry from weeks of snowmelt and rain, reeked of churned-up mud, rotting vegetation, and the musty bre

As the Biker lowered his arms from the stretch, his hand moved to the front of his jockstrap. A brief, unconscious adjustment, yet Bob’s gaze was drawn to the way the stark white fabric of the pouch shifted, resettling. Through the thin material, Bob’s mind registered the distinct, weighty presence of the biker’s balls finding their place, the fabric visibly contouring to accommodate them. The outline of his manhood, too, gained a more pronounced definition as the jockstrap settled anew. Bob’s e

Indeed! Next he'll be allowed to polish the exhaust pipes and stuff... After that, well...

The sun beat down, a tangible weight on the shimmering asphalt, the kind of late spring heat that baked the dust into the cracks and made the air above the blacktop dance. Inside "Earl's Gas & Go," the ancient air conditioner wheezed, doing little more than stir the scent of stale coffee and old motor oil. Bob leaned against the counter, tracing patterns in a condensation ring left by his soda. A well-thumbed copy of "Road Atlas USA" lay open beside the till, its pages filled with highl

Bob is bored behind the counter... but things heat up when a sexy biker pulls into the otherwise deserted gas station.

Is that really what she will do? Hmm...

Nothing big. I just noticed that at the very end "A final, hard look at Ray." was repeated in the last two word. So I changed it into "A last, long lock at Ray." I will NEVER change anything worth a reread. What you're reading is the first draft, published as soon as I have written it... major rewrites will happen after, when/if I prepare to publish it as a proper book.

I‘ve already discovered this story on Nifty. The writing and the (not so slow) build up really stand out so far, so to everyone: Enjoy

Ray woke slowly, cheek pressed into linen still faintly warm. For a moment, the scent soothed him—sunlit fur and cold forest air, snowmelt over moss. Clean and wild and warm. Like getting hugged by a mountain. Except it was a pillow. It made his chest ache. The smell wasn’t fresh. It lingered like a memory. Like a warmth left too long in an empty room. He stretched out a hand. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool. No weight. No indent. No breath. The silence w

April 12th, 1788. The air still tasted of ash. Etienne stepped over a crumpled shutter, his boots grinding soot and plaster dust into the cobblestones. A light wind stirred the haze that clung to the city, as if even the sky refused to forget what had happened. The fire had passed over two weeks ago, yet the smell—burned linen, scorched sugar, something metallic and dry—hung in the streets like a final judgment. New Orleans still stood, in places. Over three quarters of the

I had already seen your comment before it disappeared. It it was greatly appreciated ❤️

It’s of course annoying when a server glitch destroys all likes and comments up to that point (and seriously impacts the story‘s statistics. My inner scientist died more than a little… ) but it’s also interesting to see how people‘s like differ the second time around… Of the first round of likes/emojis almost half were „angry“… and now you give way more „love“ to this chapter 🤫

The great stone hall was quiet, save for the crackle of the central hearth and the almost inaudible rustle of fabric as Rafael shifted in his carved Steward’s chair. The late afternoon sun cast golden rays through the high, narrow windows, painting the walls in hues of amber and grey. Two hours. That was the estimate. Two hours until the vampires started their assault. Rafael looked toward his daughter, a rare softness in his often stern gaze. Muriel stood beside him, her posture impeccable

I‘ve just noticed that… let‘s wait a while, there is some server work going on that does not seem to be finished yet… Maybe I should start writing something nice about the witches ? 🤫 Ah, I‘ve just read the message that an older backup had to be restore, damn, that ruins my statistics and I lose the comments for chapter 20

The black oak… Amélie’s last name is Chênier, which is very close to the French word for oak, chêne. Etienne’s last name is Noir, which is French for black. And because the child will be their « Light Bringer », I’ll call him Lucien (The same one often mentioned in my story Shadow’s Reach … which was my first attempt at writing and really needs a good editing and re-drafting 🤷‍♂️)

March 22nd, 1788. Afternoon. The afternoon brought with it not peace, but fresh waves of the city’s anguish. Sounds of hammering had begun—a sporadic, desperate noise as citizens tried to tear down what they couldn’t save, salvage what they could or board up broken windows. Word filtered in with neighbors who stopped by for water or a moment’s rest, their faces etched with exhaustion. It was young Jean-Pierre, a baker’s apprentice whose own shop was now a ruin, who brought the m

Thanks. I do have plans for this one. I‘m still very new to writing, so some editing/rewriting will need to happen and then I can continue this story… Remember, whatever I publish on here is just the very first draft, as I publish chapters as soon as I have put them down. For now, I‘ll finish BigPaws first, then edit it and publish it as my first book. I find your comments highly encouraging, so thanks a lot!

Mother screamed—a raw, animal sound, ripped from the depths of her, a sound stripped of all composure, all crown, all silken deceit. Her eyes, moments before blazing with interrogative fury, flew wide with disbelief and sudden, abject terror as her own spell—twisted, empowered, and spat back by the indomitable core of Ray’s inherent nature—slammed into her with the force of a battering ram. She staggered back, her body convulsing as if struck by lightning, hands clawing at her own throat, a desp

Historic fact seems to be that Governor Miró provided fast relief by providing shelter like tents, keeping order up without draconian measures and making sure there wasn‘t any price gouging… There‘s a second fire 1794. The order to build houses with bricks and tiles on roofs seems to only come after that second fire (it‘s not easy to find facts on the internet), but I‘ll let them build the new house solidly in this story.

I'm not sure how accurate of a description of New Orleans I can give you. A lot of the plots making up today's French quarter was actually still empty in 1788. The city's population was about 5000-5500 people. There were roughly 1100 built structures, 850 of which were destroyed in the fire. In parts, New Orleans back then looked like a pastoral village, especially a bit further away from the Place des Armes (Jackson Square). I'll base my descriptions mostly on maps found in The Collins C. Diboll Vieux Carré Digital survey ( vis.hnoc.org ) and on "Barthélemy Lafon in New Orleans 1792 - 1820" by Jay D. Edwards, Ina Fandrich, Gabriele Richardson, that I found on ResearchGate.net. Of course I'll include other historic facts/persons like Governor Miró found more easily elsewhere. I just hope I get it mostly correct. Please do correct me or give me better sources. Many things you can find for example on Wikipedia about the history of New Orleans are vague at best.

March 22nd, 1788. Morning. The first light of the new day was a cruel mockery, filtering grey and thin through the single small window of the borrowed room. It illuminated motes of dust dancing in the air – dust that carried the pervasive, acrid scent of a thousand smoldering pyres. Outside, the wounded city of New Orleans coughed its grief in the distant clang of a dropped tool, a half-heard shout, the pained squealing of a burned and lost pig that had escaped its enclosure. Am

@Darryl62 Hope you’re alright. This is the part where I absolutely should not joke that Australia’s ESC entry wasn’t THAT terrible … 🤷‍♂️ Be thankful that I did not actually come through with my threat to submit an entry myself (in the end my Italian friend who was supposed to fix the lyrics let me down, saying the country where I had planned to submit my fabulous 80s Italo-Disco entry had an unbeatable winner before their national selection even started (and my friend’s part of the jury) ) Oh well, maybe next year.