Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Writer Wednesday Featuring KR Bankston

For the final "Writer Wednesday feature of 2014, I'll be introducing my good friend KR Bankston to you guys. Take a moment to check out her work. she truly is one of the best doing it.

KR Bankston is originally from Tallahassee, FL and has been writing for years creating several poems, short stories and inspirational plays, before finally venturing into a full-length novel and the commercial publishing realm. KR currently has 24 books in publication, with more soon to come. KR is the Owner/CEO of Kirabaco Publishing.

KR is the Author of The Gianni Legacy; which includes A Deadly Encounter, Sins of the Father, and Smoke & Mirrors, with a fourth installment coming soon. KR is also the author of the Thin Ice serial, an ambitious 12-part serial of full length novels being introduced episode by episode. Episodes one through ten are available now, with the serial scheduled to wrap in November 2012.  KR is also a contributing author in Crossroads: An Anthology, the cutting edge compilation to change the face of anthologies.

When not writing, KR Bankston is an avid Dallas Cowboys, Atlanta Falcons football fan, and Miami Heat, basketball fan. KR is currently in the process of writing a new novel and introducing another new series.

You can find the Author on the following networks:

Kirabaco Publishing
P.O. Box 500072
Atlanta, GA  31150

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Introducing Kayla Dawn Thomas

Hey there folks. Today I'd like to introduce you guys to a very talented author and a wonderful lady, Kayla Dawn Thomas. After you finish reading, please click on her links and show her some love. You won't be disappointed.

Arriving at her parents’ house for an impromptu visit, Jenna Ray gets her own surprise when she finds her father lip locked with a strange woman. Then, her brother-in-law defiles her sister’s car with a waitress in a parking lot. Jenna Ray snaps the night she discovers her mentor with his receptionist wrapped around his waist and proceeds to dump the guy in nothing but his boxers at his wife’s feet.
Discovering her hidden talent to seduce, Jenna walks away from her IT career and reinvents herself as a vigilante seeking justice for women who are too tired and hurt to stand up for themselves. Jenna never misses her man, until she comes up against the sexy, unfaithful ad executive, Steven Benson, who leaves her frustrated, humiliated, and losing herself in an unexpected pair of brilliant, blue eyes.
Narrow Miss is the first in the Jenna Ray Series, and Kayla Dawn Thomas’s second published work. Her first novel, Swept Up released in April 2014.
A storyteller all of her life, before she knew how to write, Kayla told tales to a jump rope. Thankfully that stage ended once she learned how to work a pencil. Now she’s blessed to be able to write full time.
Always a romantic, Kayla managed to marry her high school sweetheart. She and her husband have a very bright, active eight-year-old daughter. Her Olde English Bulldogge, Norm, keeps her company in her office.

When not writing or being mom, you can most likely find Kayla in a cozy spot with a good book and a glass of wine. 
Follow Kayla Dawn Thomas on Twitter:
Stop by her website: and sign up for her monthly newsletter. 

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Excerpt War Angel III - Chapter 15 "The Red Woman"

Good afternoon folks. As I promised, here's another raw, unedited sample from "War Angel III: Catalina." After reading this, you'll see why it falls under the "Reem After Dark Presents..." category. Melody Adler is a new character that I introduce in the last book of the trilogy. On the pages that I've written so far, I've enjoyed her interaction with Paulo. You'll have to read the novel when I finish it to see what role she plays in the scheme of things. Enjoy and as always, feel free to leave comments or feedback.

The Red Woman

Melody Adler buried her face in the pillow and nearly ripped the black satin pillowcase with her teeth as she bit down to muffle the sound of her own screams. With her face down,  ass up and back arched, she was on the edge of losing her mind as her body was overwhelmed with sensations of pain and pleasure at the same time. Behind her, Paulo thrust himself deep inside her and touched her in all of the right places like no other lover ever had in her entire life. She looked back over her shoulder and saw that his expression was stoic and unchanging, as if his features were not flesh but instead carved in stone. He never moaned, grunted sighed or made any sound to let her know whether or not he enjoyed the sex as much as she did but somehow, that excited her. She knew that he may have believed that he was in complete control because of the way he always physically dominated her during their sordid encounters but in her mind, she was the master. She believed that she commanded him to please her in every way she liked with every dirty phrase she whispered.
Despite his silence, Paulo greatly enjoyed Melody’s tight body, her enthusiasm and her unquenchable, burning lust. He definitely did not love her in a traditional sense but there were things that he definitely liked. There was a bravery about her that he had seen in very few women in his life. He made most of his lovers nervous but she always boldly sought his company and rushed into his cold embrace with reckless abandon. Part of it might have also been that she was the only redhead that he had ever been with. Most of his conquests had been brunettes. Every now and then he had a blondes as a treat, a welcome change of flavor. The color of Melody’s hair and the way her cheeks flushed whenever they had sex excited him. He also liked the way she fucked. He reached forward to grab a handful of her hair as she moaned for him to penetrate her harder and deeper. Visually, he imagined that he thrust his brown hand into the flames of the sun as he gripped her red locks. He performed as she requested, intensified his stroke and listened to her holler in ecstasy. He used his subtle gift during sex the same way he had in every other interaction in his life. His supernatural intuition allowed him to give the red woman everything she liked, exactly how and where she liked it. The harder he pulled her hair was the more she seemed to enjoy it. His lover loved it rough and intense so that is what he gave her, an experience that no one else could ever match. That was how he sexually enslaved her.

After every orgasm, Melody seemed as if she died and then was reborn like a phoenix that threatened to set Paulo’s bedroom on fire.

****NOTE: Yes, I know the text said "black satin pillowcase" but I couldn't find an image that matched that so the sheets and pillowcase in the photo are white. Blah!**** 

Copyright © 2014 Keith Kareem Williams
All rights reserved.


Saturday, November 8, 2014

Sneak Peek of Chapter 13 from "War Angel III: Catalina" by Keith Kareem Williams

Hey guys. I woke up in a really good mood this morning so I figured I'd share another sneak peek at what I KNOW you all are waiting for, "War Angel III: Catalina." All week I've been really inspired so I'm even more confident that the final book of the trilogy will be something exciting, imaginative, frightening and epic! (Those of you who are intimately familiar with my work know for a fact that I always deliver what I promise.) 

Little Birdies

hree warm, naked bodies lay together with their limbs sensuously entwined on the cozy queen-sized bed. In the middle was a gorgeous curvy woman, pale of skin with dark hair and eerie, blue eyes. A few, barely noticeable crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and a deep, gruesome scar marked the cheek on what was otherwise an almost flawless face. Her head lay on the muscular, tan chest of a young man who lay snugly on her right side. His name was Tristan and he was almost as pretty as she was. She affectionately ran her fingers across his flesh, absolutely in love with how smooth his body was, from his bald head to his clean-shaven private parts. On the left side of the scarred woman lay Tristan’s twin sister, Isolde, with black tears flowing from her eyes. That was what happened whenever the white-haired, bronze-skinned beauty dreamed of dark tidings.
“Why is she crying? What did she see?” Anika asked Tristan.
He acted as a mouthpiece for his mute twin. He hadn’t been gifted with her sight but, since the day they were born, he could feel her emotions and read her thoughts as if they were his own.
“Isolde says that something is coming, something very dangerous and very, very powerful,” Tristan told Anika.
His voice was deep and rumbling, like a boulder rolling down a mountainside, but also somewhat hollow, like a distant echo, whenever he spoke for his sister. Anika turned from him to look into the troubled face of her female lover. She wrapped her arms around the slim shapely girl when she felt Isolde’s body shiver.
“What’s wrong? What has you so frightened my pretty little bird?” Anika asked before she kissed Isolde sweetly and wiped away a streak of tears that flowed down her face like spilled ink on paper.
“She says that she has seen the Reaper sitting atop an asylum roof, sharpening his scythe and licking his parched lips,” Tristan answered.
“What else did she say?” Anika asked.
“Nothing. I can feel that there’s more but she’s afraid to tell me,” he replied.
“And does that frighten you too, handsome?” Anika asked with her back still turned to him. “I can feel you trembling like she is.”
“You know that’s how our bond works. If she’s afraid, then I’m afraid. We feel the same things,” he answered.
Anika intimately understood exactly how the twins’ “gift” worked which was why she found them to be such interesting, satisfying and exciting lovers. When they said that they shared feelings, they literally meant everything. She enjoyed sexually pleasing them simultaneously and when they satisfied her together as one, it was unlike anything she had ever felt. Many years before, her own twin sister had been gunned down and murdered by a man that she hated. She still remembered what it felt like to be connected to another human being the way that Tristan and Isolde were linked. She ached for the days when she and her beloved Anya would speak with one voice. That destroyed connection had left a deeper scar than the ghastly gash on her cheek. The wound that was left after her twin was torn from this world was a festering sore on her soul that she knew would never heal. Now, the twins that she spent her nights with brought her closest to what she once had.
“Don’t worry my little birds, I promise to keep you safe. I’ll protect you,” Anika attempted to reassure them. “What’s the matter my beautiful boy? You don’t believe me?” she asked when she rolled over and clearly read the fear in his eyes.
“We know that you would never hurt us, or want to see us hurt but,” he started to explain but then paused.
“What’s wrong my loves?” Anika asked, curious to hear what her little birdies seemed afraid to say.
“Isolde says that if you stay with us, love us and find that to be enough, all three of us can be happy and safe. But, she says that if you chase blood, we will all get bloody. You won’t be able to protect us from the things you set in motion,” Tristan told her with doom and depression heavy in his voice because the twins already knew what choices Anika was going to make.
“There are things that I must do. My sister’s soul demands it and she won’t rest until I take her killer’s life. But, I swear, I won’t let anything happen to you two, my pretty little birdies. You trust me don’t you?”
“Of course we do,” Tristan answered.
“Good. I’ve already lost half of my soul. You both have made me almost feel whole again and I won’t let anything take you away from me,” she said with supreme confidence.
Anika climbed out of bed and sauntered over to the closet with a hypnotically graceful gait. They both became aroused as they watched her slip into her robe. Her stiff nipples poked through the thin, satin which also clung to every one of her curves making it almost seem as if she was still naked.
“Don’t leave us. Stay a little longer,” Tristan pleaded with honey in his voice while Isolde begged the same thing with longing in her eyes.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m just going down the hall to parlay with my brother. Keep each other warm until I get back,” she told them on her way out of the bedroom.
Once she was gone, the twins cuddled cozily with their naked bodies pressed together incestuously. Although most normal people would surely deem their twisted intimacy repulsive, they cared very little for the opinions of the world outside of their tiny circle. Life had never been particularly kind to them so they viewed themselves as outcasts anyway and refused to allow themselves to be governed by conventional morality. Anika’s brother, Paulo had found them barely surviving on the streets after they had escaped from a dark and abusive home. There were times when they could still feel the grimy hands of their mother’s numerous, random boyfriends, pawing at them and touching them in places where they didn’t want to be touched. When Paulo brought them home, Anika had immediately taken a liking to them. Eventually, that “liking” had grown into a lustful love. Over time, she had become their surrogate mother, their lover, their teacher and their pale goddess to worship. For the first time in their entire lives, they felt favored and protected from the ugliness of the world, until now. Something was coming for them all and the daydream was almost over.
“Why won’t you show me everything that you saw in your dream? Was it that scary?” Tristan whispered to his sister as he ran his fingers through her short-cropped, pixie-cut locks of white hair.
Isolde nodded her head to let him know that her vision had been so terrible that she refused to share the details with him. If she had, he would have become consumed by the same dread and their combined fear would have been amplified tenfold. So, instead of fully opening up her mind to him, she opened up her legs instead. She chose to grant him the gift of blissful ignorance as she distracted him with a kiss.

Paulo lay flat on his back, wide-awake in bed and staring blankly at the cracks in the ceiling above his head. The sound of the squeaky doorknob turning caught his attention and made him turn his eyes toward his door in the dark. Then when the door opened, he suddenly found himself temporarily blinded by the light that poured in from the hallway just outside.
“What brings you to my bedroom at this hour? Tired of playing dirty love games with your incestuous little toys?” Paulo asked his sister disdainfully as she rudely invaded his privacy without knocking.
“Isolde had a dream,” Anika answered coldly, annoyed by his tone and the judgment in his ghostly grey eyes.
“Poor little broken thing. She’s always dreaming of some sort of doom or dread. So what? Personally, I think she needs therapy,” he answered dismissively, eager to get back to his own dark, private thoughts.
“This dream was different. I think you’ll want to hear about this one.”
“To be honest with you, I don’t really want to hear about anything that goes on with you three in that bedroom but, go on if you must,” he grumbled.
“She dreamed of the Reaper looking down from atop an asylum rooftop,” Anika informed him smugly.
She believed that he had never truly recognized or appreciated the value of her young lovers but she always had, from the moment he brought them through the front doors, hungry and filthy but gifted as well. Anika was extremely pleased to see that that tidbit of news make her brother quickly sit up and keenly pay attention.
“What?” he asked, suddenly extremely interested in what she had to say.
“They are finally coming for her. We need to be prepared,” Anika smiled.
“Wait a minute. How can we be sure that that’s what the little mute’s dream means?” he asked.
Anika’s grin grew even wider as Paulo’s cell-phone suddenly began to ring and vibrate on the antique nightstand next to his bed. She wasn’t able to see who was calling from where she was standing but, she was certain that she could easily make a pretty good guess.
“I’m willing to bet you anything that that’s your fiery nurse from the asylum, eager to warn you that someone we’ve been waiting for has finally come calling. See? My little birds saw this coming first which means that my little birdies are much better than YOURS,” she said before she walked out of his bedroom and closed the door behind her.
“Hello. Is everything alright my love?” Paulo asked as he answered his phone.
“Two people came here today asking about your friend in room three-sixteen,” the woman on the other line told him.
“Really?” he asked while slowly stroking his course goatee, now heavily streaked with silver-grey hairs. “And what were theses visitors like?”
“Well, they were both very young. Neither one of them could have been much older than eighteen.”
“Interesting. Why don’t you put on something see-thru and sexy and come over to tell me all about them,” he suggested.
“I’ll be right over,” nurse Melody Adler answered with eager excitement.
As soon as she hung up, she hurried to her dresser drawer to pick out something to wear under her clothes that she knew he would love. She liked to impress her favorite lover. It had been almost two months since she’d last seen him and she needed desperately to feel him.

Copyright © 2014 Keith Kareem Williams
All rights reserved.

I hope that you enjoyed this tease. As always, feel free to leave comments. 
COMING SOON (I promise)

Wednesday, November 5, 2014


Good afternoon ladies and gents. Today for WRITER WEDNESDAY I'll be featuring Artistic Words Publishing's latest release, "Shug'ah" written by Author Imani Writes.

Shug’ah has an ideal teenaged life and a boyfriend who loves her. However, her life changes at fifteen when she becomes the victim of rape. After a year of being violated, Shug’ah puts an end to the assault the only way she knows how…by murdering her rapist.
After serving time in a juvenile facility for murder, at twenty-one, Shug’ah finds herself outcast and alone. She joins an all-male crew, making them her new “family”. She’s got something to prove, becoming a paid killer for one of LAPD’s dirtiest cops. When the crew’s leader is gunned down, Shug’ah steps up to help lead the group. Everything is good until her past shows up, offering her a chance at a life she believed was out of her reach.

Shug’ah’s worlds begin to collide. Can she stop it? Can she really have the happiness she desires? Or is it too late?

Author Imani Writes
Imani Writes is an Oakland, California-born, Virgin Islands-raised author and published poet. She discovered her passion for writing as a teenager. She loved to create heartfelt storylines while bringing unforgettable characters to life. While working between jobs, she discovered that writing was her true calling and had a desire to do it fulltime. She self-published her first book in 2012.
She sees her writing as works of art and believes her overactive imagination is what keeps her pen creating more stories that readers will enjoy. Imani Writes currently lives in North Georgia where she is working on her next book.


Our readers can look forward to unpredictable, yet compelling works of written art from authors who are passionate about writing and touching people with their stories. It is one of our goals to create and produce stories that haven’t been told the way that we tell them. Expect amazing. Expect surprising. Expect the unexpected.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

The Hottest Cup Preview

By Keith Kareem Williams

It was summertime in the big city and there was an unusual buzz in the scorching streets around a sport that we, the pessimistic, gritty citizens of New York, usually didn’t particularly care for. We only sacrificed precious time from our hectic lives for physical contests that were hard-hitting, brutal, fast-paced and most importantly, high-scoring. Even baseball, one our beloved national pastime, was dying a slow death. (Any sport where the television commentators had the time to casually drone on about weekend fishing trips in-between exciting plays was doomed.) In a crowded sports bar in lower Manhattan, on a Tuesday afternoon, we beer-drinkers and lovers of liquor were all there to watch the World Cup, of all things. Thanks to the constant barrage of relentless coverage and promotions on all of the top sports networks, soccer, better known as Futbol in most parts of the world outside the U.S., had become the new novelty that had temporarily grabbed a hold of our collective short attention spans.

The United States had already been eliminated from contention by Germany despite a valiant effort, mostly from out thirty-five year-old goalkeeper, Tim Howard, who at times mad superhuman save after save with the full weight of America’s pride on his back. The way he defended against Germany’s skilled strikers’ onslaught made him appear as if he was thirty feet tall. Our interest could have waned after that defeat but, we were all there on that day to watch soccer anyway, hopeful that the host country’s home team heroes of Brazil would stomp the mighty Germans, the villains that had just bounced our guys from World Cup contention just a few days before.
Once the match started and it immediately became obvious that it was going to be a painfully lop-sided, old-fashioned ass-whooping, (The Germans scored THREE goals in the first seventy-six seconds of the match which is UNHEARD of), most of us turned away from the big-screen televisions, got back to discussing the off-season news stories about our favorite sports and concentrated on getting drunk. After all, we were in an establishment that’s main function was to serve alcohol…and lots of it. While we speculated about which of the big named, free agent basketball stars might end up switching teams and signing huge contracts with different franchises, I spotted her sitting at a table all alone.
In the entire bar, she was the only one whose teary eyes were still glued to the television as she watched the painful massacre masquerading as a futbol match. Even though she must have been absolutely filled with shame, she seemed unable to look away as Brazil put up zero resistance and Germany continued to score goal after goal. I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed her before because, out of all the patrons in the place, only her darker skin tone was even close to my own. I made my way towards her, past guys in European-cut business suits who were busy boasting about how much money they were going to make this quarter, all of whom were all too narcissistic to notice a beautiful woman, literally crying her eyes out right in their midst. Most of them probably spent too much time in front of mirrors admiring their own awesomeness to notice beauty in anything else. When I was only a few feet away from her, I saw how truly gorgeous she was.


The forlorn female in the yellow T-shirt didn’t notice me as I tried to make eye-contact to gauge how she felt about my attention being on her. (If a woman frowns, looks puzzled or rolls her eyes when she catches you looking at her, it is best not to even approach her to save yourself a heap of grief and embarrassment.) The Brazilian flag printed boldly on the front of her top was warped and stretched because of the size of her breasts but I tried my best not to stare. Most women hated that. Her nose was broad but perfectly fit the shape of her face and she pouted with thick, full, luscious lips that shined with whatever gloss she had covered them with. Her kinky, curly, jet black hair was styled in a wild ponytail and she stared at the TV screen with eyes that were ocean blue which was unusual for someone with her complexion. I found it extremely sad that she should sit and mourn her nation’s humiliation alone so I bought two drinks at the bar and then pulled up a chair right beside her at the round wooden table.

“Hello, my name is Andressa,” she told me in a thick, Portuguese accent after I introduced myself and offered her one of the two rum and cokes I sat down next to her with.
If she had refused I would have just guzzled both of them myself. Andressa smiled, and accepted the tall shot glass of liquor. She eyed it suspiciously at first before she eventually shrugged her shoulders and gulped it down all at once. She grimaced as it burned her throat, then turned her attention back to the match. I decided to watch it as well without hounding her with conversation that she was probably not in the mood for. It made no sense to hound her when her focus was somewhere else. As the cameras panned through the stands in the stadium, the Brazilian fans, draped in flags and varied patriotic regalia looked more like mourners at a funeral than sports fans. They might as well have been wearing black instead of their national colors as they wept from disappointment and shame. I handed Andressa a napkin as the first of many tears rolled down her chocolate cheek.
“I know how you feel,” I leaned close to her and whispered in her ear.
“How could you?” she asked. “America lost but, at least they put up a fight. This is disgraceful so how could you possibly know how I feel?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. I’m a New York Knicks fan and THEY haven’t won a championship since three years before I was born,” I joked in an attempt to brighten her mood.
She finally turned from the television to look at the exaggerated, sad, disgusted, frustrated expression on my face and smiled. She had a grin that was mischievous and mysterious enough to inspire a burning desire to know what she was thinking. Her eyes reminded me of a tropical ocean deep and clear enough that you could see right down the depths to the sandy bottom.
“Are you from here?” she asked.
“Yes, I was born right here in New York, more specifically Brooklyn. Lived there all of my life,” I answered.
“I was born in Brazil, obviously,” she said, stretching out the front of her shirt to show me the flag. “But, I love it here in this city.”
“Have you ever been to Brooklyn?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t had a chance to. I’ve only been living here for a few months. My apartment is just a few blocks from here. I’ve been to Times Square though. It’s so nice,” she told me.
“Times Square is pretty but, it’s not really New York,” I said.
“Why isn’t it?” she asked, somewhat puzzled. “It’s one of the most famous places here. I used to daydream of seeing it one day for myself when I was back home.”
“Times Square is pretty but, it’s like a glammed up model with way too much make-up on. That part of Manhattan is what big corporations think tourists want to see…the wonder, the fabricated fantasy and all of the hype but it’s not real. It’s not authentic New York,” I explained so passionately that I seemed to spark a burning curiosity that I could see burning behind her big, bright, inquisitive eyes.
“So, what is real Mr. Brooklyn?” Andressa asked and leaned closer to me as she waited for my answer.
That’s when I looked directly into her beautiful chocolate face, swam in the deep blue of her unusual eyes and boldly said, “Let me show you.”
Five minutes and two drinks later we were out the door, on our way to my part of the town that never closed its eyes.


By the time either one of us realized how fast the time had flown by, the sun was long gone. When we finally did look up, only the pale moon swam in the black-as-ink skies above my beloved Brooklyn. We had stood in the shadow of the beautiful basketball arena where I made her close her eyes while I described all that used to be there before the Nets brought the team over from New Jersey. We went window shopping in a few of the unique boutiques and when she got hungry, I took her to dinner at one of my favorite spots to eat authentic, West Indian food, just like my Granny used to cook. Everywhere we went, I had a story to share, either from my city’s history or from my own rich memories. I shared with her the soul of my home, past and present. The twinkle in her eye let me know that she was falling in love with it all, just as I had always loved it from the day I was born. At the end of our adventures and tour, we found ourselves sitting outside at the promenade at the end of Brooklyn Heights, (Or the beginning, depending on how you looked at it.) We sat on the benches and stuffed our faces with cheesecake as we looked across the water at the towering, brightly-lit skyscrapers of Manhattan.

“It looks so different from here,” she said to me.
“It IS different from here,” I answered, putting one arm around her and pulling her close. “All of THAT is the glitzy, tourist attraction,” I said as I pointed. “It’s just a mask, a front, a dolled-up pretty face but, make no mistake, places like Harlem, Southside Queens, and Brooklyn are the soul of this metropolis.”
“You love your home,” she said.
“I really do. I get homesick every time I’m gone for too long.”
“It’s a beautiful thing, to love something so much, with such passion,” she sighed.
“Well, I’m a passionate man,” I said with a smile.
After that, there was silence between us for a few minutes. I wasn’t quite sure why she had suddenly gone quiet but, things still felt right, even without us exchanging a single word for that time and I wasn’t about to ruin the moment or alter the vibe. I didn’t interrupt her thoughts with clumsy questions and I let her feel what she was feeling until she was ready to share.
“Take me to where you live,” she told me and although I had not anticipated that request, I didn’t hesitate to oblige her.


We didn’t make it inside my place before we started kissing and peeling off each other’s clothes right in front of my door. I fumbled clumsily with the keys, desperate to get inside before my neighbors heard the commotion, stuck their heads out into the hallway and caught us both in heat and  half-naked. With a smooth click, the lock finally opened and we stumbled inside after I turned the knob. Andressa had already undid my belt and opened my jeans by the time I closed the door behind us. At the pace we were going, we would never make it to the bedroom.

© 2014 Keith Kareem Williams
All Rights Reserved

TO BE CONTINUED in Naughty Ink Press' "Steam Room" anthology....COMING SOON!

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Building Relationships Around Books' Best Male Author 2014

When I got nominated for "Best Male Author" in Atlanta a few weeks back, I was honored but I didn't expect to win. It's good to know that you SEE me, you read my work & that you recognize what I do. I love y'all & I SEE you too. 

First, I’d like to thank everyone that voted for me. I really do love you guys. Since I released my first novel independently, it has seemed like a constant uphill battle to be seen and heard. It is truly heartbreaking to pour so much of my heart and soul into my work but, to not be able to reach enough readers. I quit my job in 2010, with almost NO savings and took a leap of faith. I had about enough money to print copies of my second... novel, “Open Spaces,” and that was about it. To people on the outside, it seemed as if I had lost my mind and jumped out a window but I believed in my talent. I didn’t have any kind of budget for marketing and when I saw what it cost, I knew I probably wasn’t going to be able to afford it. I became a one-man marketing team and hit these streets with books packed in a black bag, determination, and faith. I’ve gone broke…had to start back from the bottom, only able to buy 10 or 15 books at a time until I built myself back up…had rough Christmas after rough Christmas and birthdays went by when I couldn’t really treat my kids to anything at all. Through it all, they never complained and with each setback, I became more determined. (I bend but I’m from Brooklyn so you know I’ll never break. Lol) I tell you guys these things not to make myself seem like a superhero but to show you the struggle and to express to you how much the recognition and the award means to me. I usually don’t talk about the tough times because, in order for me not to quit, I need to focus on the good things….the beautiful, positive things that come with sharing my words and thoughts with others. Since I started this journey, I’ve been doing almost everything on my own. I’m not a part of any cliques. I LOVE my independence. There are readers that have become my team, my friends, my confidants and my biggest supporters because they believe in me. I just want to say that I love you all. Real talk. Since I’ve started this thing that I do, this is one of my proudest moments. Thank you. You all inspire me to be great! (Sorry if it sounds like I'm rambling. I kinda was because I typed this off the top of my head)

Wednesday, October 29, 2014


Good afternoon folks. Welcome to another installment of "WRITER WEDNESDAY" here on the chronicles blog. Enjoy and please, show some love and support for the authors I feature weekly. This week, I'm going to introduce you to Denise Hill.

Denise Hill was born and raised in Indianapolis, Indiana where she resides with her son Daniel and her daughter Devin.  Denise works at one of the largest financial institution in Indianapolis as a Sales and Marketing Associate and had been employed there for over 27 1/2 years.  Denise graduated from Thomas Carr Howe High School and earned her Business degree from the University of Phoenix.  Denise has always enjoyed writing and decided to try her hand at writing her first romance and suspense novel.  Denise is currently working on her second novel and hopes to see this novel on film in the near future.
Love of a Lifetime is a romance and suspense novel about Jordan Daniels.
Jordan Daniels has spent years in and out of worthless relationships and is just about to give up on love when he learns that someone special, someone that has occupied a place in his heart for years has moved back to his hometown of Indianapolis.
Jasmine Smith walks away from her marriage after years of  physical and verbal abuse.  She returns home to Indianapolis where she lands her dream job.  Jasmine never expects to work for the man who has held a piece of her heart since her childhood years, but when the opportunity presents itself she jumps for it not knowing the affect Jordan will have on her.
Jordan and Jasmine have an encounter that neither one will ever forget, but what they don't know is that the person who is out to destroy Jordan's company is also threatening to destroy what they could ever have together.

Love of a Lifetime can be purchased on, Barnes & Noble, and is available on Kindle.

Sunday, October 19, 2014


    "Blood & Vengeance" is...CRIME NOIR: fiction is a literary genre that shares to some degree its characters and settings with crime fiction (especially detective stories). Although deriving from romantic tradition which emphasized the emotions of apprehension, horror and terror, and awe, the hardboiled fiction deviates from the tradition in the detective's cynical attitude towards those emotions. Other common characteristics include the self-destructive qualities of the protagonist.[2] A typical protagonist of the Noir fiction is dealing with the legal, political or other system that is no less corrupt than the perpetrator by whom the protagonist is either victimized and/or has to victimize others on a daily basis, leading to Lose-lose situation.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Nominated twice in Atlanta

As some of you already know, I was recently in Atlanta for "The Building Relationships Around Books" Book Group's Southern Retreat as a guest/featured author. At the nominations dinner, I was honored to be nominated in two literary categories, Best Male Author as well as Best Urban. Now, if you've read and enjoyed my work, please cast your vote. You also have to vote for ALL categories for it to go through and also, make sure that you vote for Keith "WILLIAMS" (There are two different Keith's on the ballot) Thanks for the love and support. You guys keep believing in me and I'll keep doing what I do. Love y'all!!!!!!!

Monday, October 6, 2014

Blood & Vengeance- Chapter 18 "Spiders & Flies"

Keith Gaston and I are FINALLY finished with our first, fill-length collaboration titled, "Blood & Vengeance." As soon as it gets the stamp of approval from our test readers, it will be available for purchase on Kindle and in paperback. It's been an amazing experience working together and blending our different writing styles so seamlessly that I don't think that our own readership with be able to tell who wrote what. In the meantime, here's a sample.


The blood-red beams of the failing, evening, sunlight found their way into the room, even through the fabric of the deep pink of the Pretty Princess cartoon curtains that Will had drawn shut to protect him from unwanted, prying eyes. Aside from yellow police tape, the man bleeding profusely and tied down to her bed, the room was exactly how Will’s little sister had left it.
The dolls were still on the dresser and the cartoon posters still decorated the walls. He shuddered to think of what those walls had witnessed the night she had been butchered and he hoped that he had given them something equally as terrible to see that day. He sighed wearily as he sat down in a giant, yellow, bean bag chair.
His face was slick with a mixture of sweat and blood that was not his own. In his left hand he held his murdered sister’s favorite, oversized, fuzzy teddy bear, its light-brown fur still matted with her dried blood. In his right hand, he held an icepick, wet with Jeffrey Rogers’ blood. It had taken him all day and well into the afternoon to get the blue-eyed stranger to tell him his name. Poking so many holes in the man’s left leg that it looked like Swiss cheese had loosened his tongue. After that first breakthrough, the information had flowed a little more fluidly.
At first, even after being walked into the house at gunpoint, tied up in just his underwear, beaten and tortured, the man had refused to break. Even after losing an eye he refused to talk. It was a few hours later that he lost a testicle and began to tell Will everything he wanted to know. It had been a long day. Nearly satisfied, Will wiped his face with the stuffed bear as if it was a towel and stood up.
Jeffrey Rogers wept with the one good eye he had left when he saw Will drop the icepick on the floor, believing that his torment was coming to an end. In great pain and ashamed, he had no more information to share.
“Well, you can’t say that I didn’t warn you not to choose the hard way, even though I’m glad that you did,” Will told him coldly, monotone and emotionless. “Now, it’s time to set you free.”
With his left hand, Will pressed the Teddy bear violently against Jeffrey Rogers’ face and with his right, he pressed his gun against it. The stuffing from the bear flew everywhere and muffled the sound of the gun firing, over and over again until the clip was empty.

Copyright © 2014 Keith Gaston & Keith Kareem Williams
All rights reserved.


Monday, September 29, 2014

ReemAfterDark Presents..."The Painter's Canvas"

Welcome to another sexy installment of "Reem After Dark Presents." This week's short story is actually an excerpt from my 4th novel, "Glass Goddesses,Concrete Walls."  Enjoy and feel free to order an autographed copy of the novel via the link posted below. 

They say that art imitates life but wouldn’t it be amazing if just once things were the other way around and life imitated art instead? Just imagine what a beautiful thing that would be.

The Painter’s Canvas

ometimes, being lost after making a wrong turn can put you on a path to accidental adventures that in hindsight don’t seem as random as you first thought. Every now and then, a hint of fate’s existence shows up like a speck of dust in our eye to remind us that there is the possibility that there are no coincidences in our lives. That’s how I feel about one night in particular when I made a wrong turn in Manhattan.
I had been driving around in circles searching for the address of an author friend’s book signing. When I finally found the place I couldn’t find anywhere to legally park my car. New York City’s Department of Transportation was quick and eager to tow your vehicle if you didn’t pay close attention to the parking regulations. The city needed that extra revenue so they bled those of us who owned cars totally dry, every chance they got. Just when I was about to give up and accept the fact that my wallet was going to end up being raped because of nearest underground, parking garage’s fees, I found a safe place to park. Quickly, before anyone else took it, I pulled into it, right behind a white van with both of its back doors wide open. That’s when I saw her struggling to get a huge painting out of the van. She was dressed in a stunning, black, cocktail dress that hugged every voluptuous curve. Her body type, from the fullness of her breasts down to the thickness of her thighs, smoothly formed the type of hourglass figure that a man couldn’t take his eyes off. The things that strangely stood out were the beat-up construction boots on her feet and the red bandana that her hair was tied up in. Her outfit was a confusing cross between classy and grunge that suited her because she made it look good so effortlessly. Her weird was definitely sexy. When I finally stopped gawking, I got out of my car to offer some assistance.
“Need some help?” I asked as I caught her in my arms as she fell backwards. She had been stepping down to get the painting out of the van when she slipped.
“Thanks,” she answered nervously, certainly glad that she didn’t fall but surprised to find herself in the arms of a total stranger.
“I saw you struggling and thought I’d give you a hand,” I explained.
“And it’s a good thing you did. We can’t have the star of tonight’s art show breaking her neck,” said the metro-sexually-dressed  man wearing skinny jeans and a Mohawk as he put his hand on my shoulder. I was so focused on her that I hadn’t noticed him walking up behind us.
“Glad I could help,” I answered, turning to shake the hand he had extended in friendship.
“I’m Miguel and the beautiful, artistic, genius that you just saved from a terrible fall is my girlfriend, Alice,” he told me. Then he leaned forward and kissed her while still shaking my hand which really shouldn’t have annoyed me as much as it did.
“Nice to meet you and thanks again,” Alice told me once Miguel removed his lips from hers.
“You’re welcome. You both have a goodnight,” I answered and started to walk away. I was obviously the third wheel and the sooner I was on my way the better. Miguel would have certainly been glad to be rid of me if he could have read my mind and saw how much I was attracted to his woman.
“Hey, where are you off to?” Miguel asked.
“A friend of mine is having a book release party a few blocks from here.”
“That sounds pretty cool. Before you go, would you like to step inside with us for a few minutes and see some of Alice’s paintings? It’s her first art show. We won’t keep you long, I promise,” Miguel beckoned me as Alice smiled and, unless it was only my imagination, invited me with her big, beautiful, brown eyes.
“I can come inside for a few minutes,” I agreed although I knew that I should have politely declined.
“Awesome! Now we get to take you down Alice’s artistic rabbit hole and show you what’s really on the other side of the looking glass,” he said as he took the painting out of her hands and carried it through the gallery doors.
“He’s so corny sometimes,” she whispered to me.
Once I was inside the gallery, the few minutes I didn’t mind sacrificing somehow turned into hours. Time ticked off the clock and my previous engagement was soon forgotten. (I don’t believe that my author friend ever forgave me.) It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go but the feast for my eyes was too much to turn away from. My attention alternated between Alice’s amazing artwork and the beautiful woman herself, all while Miguel kept the champagne flowing. Before we knew it, all three of us were drunk and new best friends. Of course, things had been somewhat awkward at first but Miguel had been an excellent host. The gallery was packed and he treated every person in attendance like family while still managing to make them feel like royalty. He would have been an excellent politician. He didn’t even seem to care when my gaze may have lingered a moment too long on his woman and she definitely didn’t seem to mind because she never looked away. There were even moments when it felt like he actually encouraged me to lust for her. He kept asking me if I saw how sexy, or curvy, or delicious she was. I wasn’t sure if all of the champagne was to blame or if he wanted me to fall in love enough to perhaps purchase a painting before the night was over.
“I need to use the little boys’ room to set some of this alcohol free,” Miguel announced. He kissed Alice and left us alone, standing together in front of one of her abstract paintings. As soon as he was gone, the vibe between us changed.
“What do you think?” she asked as her hand brushed against mine. I couldn’t tell if it had been intentional or accidental. All I knew was that it felt like a spark that could ignite a bonfire if we fanned the flames. Fires are spectacular, raw, elemental forces of nature but when we stand too close to them, someone almost always gets hurt. I kept that in mind to help keep my impulses in check and under control.
“Beautiful,” I said. My answer made her blush which was proof that she understood the intended double-meaning. She smiled and moved from beside me to stand in front of me. She backed up just enough that her butt touched the front of my slacks. She had barely brushed against me but I could feel myself getting hard, excited by the slight, subtle contact, surely meant to tease and excite me.
“What does it make you feel?” she asked, looking back at me over her shoulder. I stared at the painting but all of my thoughts were on the soft, round, flesh squeezed into the lower region of the back of her dress.
“It gives me a good feeling,” I answered.
“Does it? In what way?” she asked, stepping back into me again, this time pressing her juicy butt against me even harder. “Oh,” I heard her whisper to herself when she felt how big the bulge in the front of my pants had become. I wanted to lift up her dress and take her panties down, if she was wearing any at all.
“It makes me curious to understand what it means.”
“It can mean anything you want it to. The only limitation is what you can imagine,” she whispered just as Miguel returned from the rest room. He didn’t seem to notice that she was standing so close to me and if he did, he pretended not to care.
At the end of the night, Alice sold a total of six paintings for very handsome prices. Miguel insisted that we all went out to celebrate so the three of us, well plied with wine and champagne, staggered out into the bright lights of the city that never sleeps on our way to the nearest diner. Alice suggested that we sat in a booth and squeezed in beside me, leaving Miguel to sit alone on the opposite side of the table. The cautious side of me was uncomfortable with the seating arrangements she’d chosen even if Miguel didn’t seem concerned. I would have been furious if my woman had done something like that but he never stopped talking, never stopped smiling and never stopped acting as if we were all best buddies.
“So, what do you do for a living?” he asked.
“I’m an author. I mostly write novels but occasionally I dabble in the realm of short stories and poetry.”
“Well now, I am humbled and truly blessed to be in the presence of such creative folk, one gifted with a paintbrush and the other with paper, ink and words,” he said, still grinning, still pleasant and still a perfect host. I don’t know how pleased he would’ve been if he looked under the table and saw Alice’s hand in my lap, resting on my thigh. Our waitress accidentally dropped one of the menus on the ground next to our table and as he reached down to pick it up for her, I was certain that he would have seen. When he sat back up and calmly placed his menu on the table I assumed that he hadn’t. Our friendly talk continued with flirtatious Alice’s hand safely removed from the inappropriate region and appropriately placed in plain view, on top of the table. We all agreed that we probably had way too much to drink so they ordered coffee for themselves and hot chocolate for me. (I’ve never been a coffee drinker.) When our hot beverages arrived, Alice reached into my cup, scooped up some of the whipped cream, put her creamy finger in her mouth and then licked it clean.
For hours we discussed art, literature and not-so-popular culture. If I ignored the naughty ways she had touched me, Alice and Miguel seemed to be a great couple. They found humor in the same things and even occasionally finished each other’s sentences. It was obvious that they were the best of friends and it’s a known fact that relationships that are bound by friendship form the strongest ties. This seemed to be the case with them although some of their other behavior seemed strange and suspicious. Eventually our conversation took a more personal turn and landed in the realm of more sensitive subjects.
“What are your thoughts on cheating?” Miguel asked me out of the blue and for the first time all evening, his face became serious.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that. You have to be more specific,” I told him.
“Do you think that everyone does it? It just seems to me like everyone is unfaithful.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, most people have been guilty of it at one point or another but I still hold onto a small measure of hope that there are at least a few loyal people in the world.”
“Do you believe that men and women cheat for different reasons?” Alice asked me.
“To be honest, I don’t think that they do. Men and women are more alike than anybody wants to admit.”
“How so?” Miguel asked.
“Everyone believes that lack of self-control, greed and lust is what drives men to have affairs. Sometimes that’s true but women do it for the same reasons. They just make up different excuses because otherwise, people would call them sluts and whores. On the flip side of that, it isn’t always disloyalty or the desire for forbidden sex that leads to cheating. A lot of times things that are emotionally missing can be the cause. Society acknowledges that women are emotional creatures so it’s nothing for them to admit that they needed comfort that they weren’t getting in their relationship. Men aren’t supposed to have feelings so they almost always pretend that their infidelity was all about sex which doesn’t make sense when so many times their mistresses aren’t anywhere near as attractive as the women waiting at home for them.”
“Well said. I have to agree with most of that. You have some valid points,” Miguel said but his face still remained uncharacteristically stern.
“Interesting,” said Alice before she slowly took another sip of her piping hot coffee. Miguel continued to stare me down and waived off the waitress when she tried to pour him another cup. Just like that, there was suddenly a thick air of tension between us. He looked directly at me and I looked directly back at him.
“And you, how do you feel about it?” I asked him.
“I never worry about it,” he answered, confidently and coldly, obviously meant to send me some sort of message. “To act paranoid or suspicious because of all kinds of unwarranted jealousy makes a man appear weak to his woman. If you show a woman that you believe that she would seek comfort or pleasure from another man, how long before she begins to wonder if maybe she should? Accusations plant thoughts in people’s heads that weren’t even there before. Besides, if something is truly yours, no one can ever take it away from you,” he explained.
“Well said,” I responded in the same manner and tone that he had used before.
“Thank you,” he answered.
“Let’s dance,” said Alice as she pushed me out of the booth. Like a fool, I stood up expecting her to take my hand. Instead, she pushed past me and grabbed Miguel to drag him from the table to dance to music that only they could hear. I sat back down alone, finished my second cup of hot chocolate and watched them move together as lovers should. I felt like I should leave. Just as my discomfort became unbearable, they came over and sat back down with me. That time, Alice sat down next to Miguel and left me alone on my side of the booth. She insisted on paying the bill by herself when the waitress placed it on the table. We made polite small talk for a few more minutes and then said our goodbyes.
“You should stop by sometime,” said Miguel as he handed me a napkin with their address and phone number scribbled on it. “We don’t have a lot of friends and the ones we have are boring. It’d be nice to have someone to have good conversations with.”
“Sure, I’d like that,” I answered uncomfortably because there was something sinister in his invitation that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It felt like he was daring me to try something and I didn’t like it. Things would only turn out badly for me or maybe even him if I did. He seemed to doubt that possibility whole-heartedly.
I was somewhat sober by the time I got back to my car but I took a nap before I drove home, just to make sure. By the time I opened my eyes it was daylight. I couldn’t remember what I had dreamt but I was certain that Alice had made an appearance in my subconscious fantasies. I looked at the napkin that Miguel had handed to me and knew that I should have opened my window to let the wind take it but instead I carefully tucked it in my pocket. It took me three weeks before my curiosity won its battle with my common sense and I finally gave them a call. Miguel sounded glad to hear from me and invited me over for dinner.
The first time I went over to their loft apartment that also doubled as Alice’s art studio, I learned that Miguel was a musician. That first night we met, he hadn’t really said much about himself. He was the lead vocalist in a hip-hop/grunge band. He gave me a cd to listen to and truthfully, it was surprisingly pretty good. I actually wrote a few chapters when I got home later on that night while listening and vibing to it. I started to spend more time with my new friends and things remained fairly innocent until Miguel invited me to watch his band perform at an underground night club in Manhattan.
Traffic on the F.D.R. Drive held me up that night so I was running late. When I finally found a parking space where my car wouldn’t get towed, I hurried to the venue and ran into Alice out front smoking. She looked just as good in old jeans and a faded T-shirt as she had in a tight, form-fitting, cocktail dress. Her curves were undeniable and impossible to hide no matter what she wore. There are certain moments in life that set a series of unstoppable events in motion, not unlike the first loose pebble that starts an avalanche. That’s what it felt like when I walked up and she hugged me tightly. I’m not ashamed to admit that she felt good in my arms. Once she finished smoking, she flicked the butt of her cigarette into the street, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me past the bouncers at the door.
It was dark, crowded and as hot as a furnace inside but the atmosphere was live enough that it didn’t matter. Miguel’s band had the crowd in a frenzy as Alice and I guzzled down beer after beer in our red, plastic cups. I put my hand around her waist and when she didn’t move it, I turned her body to face me and we danced until we were both soaked in sweat. The music in our ears, the alcohol in our blood and the people packed together all around us didn’t matter. The world did not exist outside of the tiny space on the dance floor that she and I occupied. As our bodies touched we freed the long subdued sexuality that we both wanted to sample badly. I put my hands all over her body and she welcomed my touch. She wasn’t shy at all and boldly put her hands on me in private places. When the music finally stopped she smiled and surprised me with a big, wet, kiss on my lips. It was enough to hypnotize me but a second later she acted as if nothing had happened. It confused me at first but once I got a grip on the reality of the situation, I accepted that maybe I was making something out of nothing. Maybe everything that had happened only existed within the bubble we had created and now that it had been popped, it might as well have been a figment of our imaginations. Maybe Alice was just that friendly and recklessly comfortable with tempting me that way. Miguel came over and kissed her passionately. For the first time I was relieved by that well-timed reminder. Otherwise I might have driven myself crazy with wild, dangerous thoughts about what was almost impossible. I watched Alice greet each of the band members with big, affectionate, hugs. I also noticed that she didn’t kiss any of THEM the way she had kissed me though.
“Can you do me a favor and give me a ride home?” she asked as the band started to pack up their equipment.
“What about Miguel? Won’t he mind?”
“Why would he? It’s not like you’re taking me home to fuck me. Besides, none of his crew drives so he’s going to have to give each one of them a ride and they live all over the damn five boroughs. If I go with him, it’d be hours before we’d get home and I’m tired.”
“No problem, as long as he’s cool with it.”
“Whether he was cool with it or not, I’m cool with it. Let’s go.”
We were both quiet for most of the ride and I found the awkward silence unsettling. It was torture trying to figure out what she was thinking while she kept her eyes away from mine. Her gaze remained glued to the passenger side window. When I couldn’t stand the silence I slid Miguel’s cd into the player on my dashboard.
“Ugh, I think we’ve had enough of that for the night. Turn it off and tune to the slow jams station,” she told me. What happened next was crazy. Every single song that played for the forty-minute ride over to her place seemed to be about the situation we were in, or at least I thought so. I really had no idea what Alice was thinking as she quietly enjoyed the music. I cut the radio off once we got to her place.
“Well, I guess this is goodnight then,” I said even though I secretly hoped that it really wasn’t.
“Come inside for a drink,” she told me and I wondered if she knew that if I came inside I would want more than a drink.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I shouldn’t. I need to be on my way home to write a few chapters before I fall out,” I lied, my own tongue betraying what I desired in my heart. I suppose that was my last attempt to do the right thing and just leave.
“I’m not taking no for an answer. It’s the least I can do after you kept me company all night. Usually, whenever I go to Miguel’s gigs I get surrounded and swarmed by thirsty lames trying to get at me all night. Tonight I didn’t have to pepper-spray anybody and I actually got to enjoy myself for once. Turn the car off and come on.”
“Sounds like you’re not giving me a choice.”
“That’s because I’m not. Let’s go,” she giggled and sprinted off to her front door, dodging the rain drops that had started to fall. I shut my car off and followed.
Upstairs, Alice poured me a drink but only opened a bottle of water for herself. It was exciting being there alone with her in the dark. For whatever reason, she hadn’t turned on most of the lights. A lamp with a low-watt light bulb in the far corner of the room and the occasional sliver of moonlight that broke through the rainclouds were the only reasons why the place wasn’t completely pitch black. Alice continued to be as quiet and enigmatic as she had been in the car.
“I had a good time tonight too. I haven’t partied like that in years,” I told her.
“I’m glad,” she answered. “I need a shower. Sit right there and I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
While she was gone, my mind was ravenously consumed by images of what she must have looked like naked, soap running down her smooth skin as the water from the shower poured down on her the same way that the rain outside beat against the loft windows. I wanted her but I couldn’t get completely comfortable with that idea because of the enormous black and white photograph of her with Miguel on the wall in front of me. In it, they were wrapped affectionately in each other’s arms and locked in a passionate kiss. It served as an undeniable reminder that she was his. All the same, it didn’t make me think that their relationship was any less strange. Miguel’s confidence seemed bulletproof as he constantly claimed that he was absolutely certain that Alice was dedicated to him, mind, body and soul. I suppose I was biased because of my desires but something told me that his hold on her wasn’t as strong as he would’ve liked me to believe. I definitely should have left her alone but the way he had flaunted her in front of me and taunted me to try to have her only motivated me to want her more. It felt like he was subliminally saying that he was a better man than I was and my pride didn’t like that at all.
“I’m back,” Alice announced as she re-entered the room wearing a black nighty that stopped mid-thigh. She looked like a curvy, lingerie model except for the black and red, striped socks on her feet. Her hair was wet and wrapped in a towel. I remember thinking that I wouldn’t mind coming home to her every night. She was stunning, amazing and absolutely gorgeous. Her only temporary flaw was the troubled look on her face.
“Do you want another drink because I’m about to make one for myself?” she asked on her way to the liquor cabinet.
“No, I’m good. Thanks. But, I would like to know what’s up with you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It just seems like you have a lot on your mind.”
“Wow. Is it that obvious?”
“It’s the show I have coming up next month. I’m worried about it,” she answered while pouring herself a tall glass of vodka.
“What’s there to worry about? I’m sure your paintings will be amazing. They always are,” I reassured her, slightly disappointed that relationship issues with Miguel weren’t the cause of the forlorn expression on her face. I had been hopeful that there was some kind of trouble in paradise.
“I wish that I could say that I believe that as much as you sound like you do. I feel really bad because Miguel worked so hard to set everything up. Some of the critics and art dealers he invited can make or break my career.”
“It’s just butterflies. You’ll be fine.”
“I wish it was just butterflies.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve created a few new pieces and they’re all nice but I don’t have anything that’s a show stopper. I really wanted to do something impressive but I just don’t feel that I have,” she said and slumped down on the sofa beside me with her drink in her hand. She didn’t bother to sip slowly as she tipped the glass back.
“Let me take a look at what you’ve done so far and I’ll tell you what I think.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you saw it and fell in love with it at first sight. Sometimes what other people see, I will never see,” she told me.
“I understand. I’ve written stories that I thought were mediocre at best but other people read them and loved them. I suppose we’re our own worse critics.”
“I suppose we are. Well, at least it keeps us from becoming complacent.”
“You should still let me take a look at what you’re working on. Maybe I’ll see what’s missing.”
“There really isn’t much to see. I’ve barely touched the canvas. The problem isn’t that I’m displeased with the work. There just isn’t any. My mind goes blank every time I pick up my brush,” she complained, banging her empty glass down on the coffee table.
“Maybe you just need some motivation,” I told her. The look that she gave me said that she recognized exactly what I was implying.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” she said, turning her eyes downward to stare at her striped socks.
“Why not?”
“Because you make me self-conscious. You make me blush.”
“You’re a grown woman. It should be harder than that to make you blush,” I said as I gently touched her chin, raised her head and forced her to look at me.
“But you do. I see the way you look at me. I’ve seen it from the first night we met.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I know.”
“So what are we going to do about it?” I asked and for a fraction of a second it felt like the moment in a movie where the two main characters finally lean towards each other to kiss passionately for the first time.
“Nothing,” she answered.
“Why not?”
“Because we shouldn’t, no matter how tempted we may be. Miguel has done a lot for me and I owe him my loyalty. I think you should go home. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have forced you to come in with me,” she said and just like that, my evening with Alice abruptly came to an end.
On the drive home, all kinds of mixed emotions kept me in a confused state. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Alice loved me but I knew that she liked me just as much as I liked her. I respected her for not wanting to betray Miguel but I also sensed that she had to fight hard to subdue the urge to be with me at least once. I replayed the events of the evening and wondered what would have happened if I had been more aggressive. I wasn’t sure if she would have stopped me if I had just kissed her when I wanted to. If she had let me, I might have been making love to her instead of driving home alone in the rain. Once again, I found myself feeling foolish so I decided to never press Alice in that way ever again. It was wrong. It was also exhausting trying to be moral, always fighting to do the right thing, when all I wanted was to give in to my impulses and willingly let lust blind me. I didn’t care about her relationship and only her seemingly concrete resolve had stopped me. That night, she had been a better person than I was. At home, in bed alone, I decided that it was best that I never saw her again. It was a hard decision but decisions like that have to be made sometimes. That was the only way to keep the torment of the temptation at bay. Besides, selfish desires usually lead to disaster.
The next morning and every day that followed I thought about Alice less and less. Concentrating on my writing helped me to start the process of forgetting her. Whenever she crept back into my mind, I forced myself to remember the photograph that hung on the wall in her apartment. I almost successfully abandoned the idea of having my hands all over her body when, after two weeks without contact, she called my phone one night.
“Miguel has a show tonight but I stayed home to try and finish this painting. The problem is that I still can’t figure out what to do with it. What do you do when you have writer’s block?’ Alice asked.
“I step away from the work for a while and just live life. I usually see or hear something that inspires me and puts me back on the right path.”
“I wish I had time to step away from it. I’m going crazy and my show is right around the corner. Listen, I’ll be here alone all night and I could use some company. Maybe some good conversation with a friend might get my mind right. Do you feel like helping me out?”
“Sure, but I don’t have to come over to do that. We can talk on the phone,” I said. I gave her the opportunity to stop me from coming over because I knew what would happen if I did.
“It’s not the same. Besides, I want you to take a look at what I’ve done so far.”
Thirty minutes later I was standing barefoot over a huge canvas spread out on Alice’s apartment floor. This time the room was brightly lit even though the night sky outside was black. It was easy not to look at the photograph on her wall that I hated so much because Alice was hard to turn away from. She had answered the door in a long, white, nightgown that was sheer enough to show that she was only wearing pink panties underneath. If she knew that her big nipples and perfect areolas were clearly visible through the thin material, she certainly didn’t act shy about it. The spots and streaks of paint all over her were proof that she had been working in a gown that most women would have only worn to bed to initiate sex. Her weirdness was arousing and intoxicating.
“So, what do you think?” she asked with her hands on the same hips that I couldn’t stop thinking about. I had to force myself not to stare at her because with all of the distractions, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the unfinished painting that she wanted me to critique.
“It’s a good start,” I answered, looking down at what she had done up until that point. She was attempting to create a self-portrait. That much I could tell from the incredibly detailed pencil sketch that she planned to paint over. The few blues, purples and oranges that she had already added let me know that she wasn’t aiming for a realistic look.
“Starting is about as far as I’ve gotten. I can’t get the colors right. It would be easy if I was trying for realism. My skin tone isn’t hard to paint. I could have even done it in black and greys but that’s not what I want. That’s too common.”
“So what exactly do you want it to be?”
“I have lots of other paintings that should WOW the people at the art show but I want this to be my feature piece. Everything else will tie into this. I want this to show who I am but not just the physical me. I want to paint the essence of me, the part that nobody sees.”
“So what’s holding you back?”
“I’m not sure. I’m nervous and afraid.”
“I understand. I go through the same thing with my writing. The who, what, where and when parts of the story is always easy to write. The why is always the most difficult because I have to give parts of myself to the readers that I normally might not even share with the people closest to me. Every single character in my stories represents different parts of me. They have to be in order for them to feel real and touch my readers’ souls. It’s not an easy thing to do and at times I get stuck too.”
“So what do you do to get past that?” she asked, squeezing my hand as she intertwined her fingers with mine. If there had been a tiny spark the first time our hands barely touched, then what struck us both just then was more like raw lightning.
“I stop being afraid and force myself to let go,” I said, grabbing her other arm to turn her body so that we faced each other.
“Can you show me how?” she asked and when I looked closely, I saw time tic by in her eyes like the timer ticking down on a bomb. She had been waiting for this moment just as much as I had.
“Yes,” I answered, pulling her close enough that her breasts pressed against my chest.
“What will it cost me?” she asked softly, her lips slightly touching my chin as she spoke.
“Everything,” I answered before she could say anything that might murder the moment, grabbed her by the back of her head and kissed her until she was breathless. When I let her breathe again, she staggered backwards and I had to reach forward to catch her in my arms.
“But Miguel could come home anytime now,” she started to say.
“Fuck Miguel!” I answered.
“But I love him.”
“Good. I’m glad that you love him. Love him tomorrow, love him next week, next year. Shit, love him later on tonight if you like. That’s still not going to stop me from fucking you right here, right now.”
“What makes you think I plan on going that far with you? Who says I want to fuck you?” she asked. That’s when I slipped my hand under her nightgown, up her leg and into her panties. She sighed as her thighs parted to let me.
“This says,” I answered as I pulled my had out to show her my fingers, slick and glistening with her own wetness.
“If he comes home and catches us he’ll kill you,” she warned me.
“He won’t and he can’t kill me,” I answered boldly while fondling her breasts. She put her hand over my hand as her nipples stiffened at my touch.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because right now…I’m a god and he’s just a man,” I told her before I dragged her panties down to her ankles. She stepped out of them and I tossed them across the room. The next move was hers. It was her last opportunity to stop what was about to happen. I waited to see what it was going to be. I watched as she pulled her nightgown up over her head and stood there completely naked. I had my answer. In that moment, right before we crossed over the line that we could never uncross, Alice stood above me as more than a woman. She was a goddess and the energy that passed between us felt like we were about to split the sky wide open. I put my hands on her shoulders and looked at her in awe. She pulled my shirt off and undid my belt buckle. I’ve never been comfortable with anyone else pulling down my zipper so I moved her hands and took care of the rest myself. Her eyes never left the bulge between my legs as I stepped out of my jeans. I knew she meant business when she dragged off my boxers, pulled her hair back into a ponytail and got down on her knees. The fantasy we both had toyed with for weeks was about to become real.
Alice grabbed my stiff dick with both hands, stroked it slowly at first and then faster with more intensity. She stared up at me and spoke to me with her eyes. The look that she gave me said that she was about to eat me alive. Then she smiled and opened her mouth wide and took me inside. My manhood was so hot that at first, the inside of her mouth felt cold. It was like taking that first step into a swimming pool. At first she moved with the uncomfortable tentativeness of a woman who was used to making love to only one man for a very long time. There was no passion. I could tell that she was uncomfortable and probably troubled by guilt. I gently touched the side of her face and felt her relax. She took it out of her mouth and looked up at me with a smile. Then she kissed the tip softly before she let spit drip all over my shaft until it was glistening and slick. She let go of her inhibitions and accepted what we were doing. Her thick lips, tongue and throat nearly drove me insane. She moaned greedily like a person who had just been given food after starving for weeks. Even when I closed my eyes I heard the sloppy, wet sounds of everything she did with her mouth. My knees got weak and I had to grab her head to stop her before she made me finish too soon. Her hands, my shaft, her breasts and the floor in front of her were soaking wet with saliva that had dripped from her mouth. I reached down and held her arm to steady her as she stood up to kiss me. I needed more. I gently pushed her down on the canvas.
“Right here?” she asked, her eyes wide with surprise. “On top of the painting?”
“Right here, right now,” I answered. I put my hand on her shoulder and eased her back until she lay flat.
First I kissed the delicate soles of her feet and she giggled as that tickled her. Then my tongue found her ankles, teased the sensitive spot at the back of her knees and eventually tenderly touched her inner thighs. I looked up at her, past her tummy, beyond her big, beautiful breasts and finally into her eyes that burned brightly like a summertime sunrise.
“Kiss me,” she said, looking down at me and that’s exactly what I did. I sucked, kissed and licked the lips between her legs until she screamed. I beat my tongue against her clit until she pulled her own hair and sucked on her own breasts, mad with pleasure. Her first orgasm was so intense that she splashed and leaked all over her painting. When she composed herself, she reached down between my legs, grabbed my thick, throbbing, dick and guided the tip slowly inside her. “Fuck me,” she said. I got harder when she said it and I put everything inside her.
With her legs on my shoulders she continued to flow like a waterfall, stroke after stroke. She moved her hips to match my movements as if we were dancing. No matter how deep I went she took it without complaining, even when the pain showed on her face. The way she purred and said my name made me feel like the god I claimed to be earlier. She nearly clawed the flesh from my back before I pinned her arms down above her head. It seemed to excite her even more when I had her restrained. She drifted off into ecstasy as I drove into her with force.
“I’m about to cum,” she told me. As I felt her inner walls contract, I pulled out and turned her over to take her from behind. I kissed her lower back and gently sank my teeth into her big, soft cheeks before I roughly entered her. She screamed as she creamed with pleasure. I looked over at the pallet of colors right beside where Alice was taking everything I gave her with her back arched while she was on her knees. I looked down at how I stretched her pussy as it gripped my dick and suddenly I got an idea. I slowed down my pace, reached over for a paintbrush and handed it to her.
“Now paint,” I whispered as I gripped her hips and slowly scraped her insides. She looked back at me over her shoulder, somewhat confused. “Paint,” I told her again while pushing so hard and deep that she straightened her back and cringed. Then she started to paint.
For hours, we recklessly went at it the same way, over and over again with no care or caution in spite of the fact that Miguel could’ve walked in on us at any moment. I gave it and she took it every way that it was possible for a woman to take it. Nothing was off-limits or taboo. Soon the canvas became covered with what seemed like perfection. Creativity inspired by sex had been spilled, splashed and stroked everywhere on her masterpiece by her paintbrush. Exhausted, she collapsed and rolled away from the canvas. I moved to lie down next to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I think I needed that.”
“Found your magic again? Think you can finish it now?” I asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
“When you’re done with this, it’ll be our secret about what’s mixed on this canvas with your paint,” I said after I kissed her shoulder and stood up to get a better look at what she’d done.
“Love, lust, sex, sweat and some bodily fluids that I’m too shy to mention,” she said, reaching up on the coffee table for her cigarettes.
“I hope they don’t ever put a blue light on it ‘cause it’ll glow,” I joked.
“Shut up!” she giggled as she reached up and slapped my thigh, still sticky from her love.
Alice stood up next to me to see what she had created with my help. As her cigarette smoke swirled around our heads, neither one of spoke as we admired the art and processed what had just happened. It told a story that was beautiful. The brush strokes, intense lines and vivid colors all represented the intimacy we just shared. Everything that she had been holding back had been set free. She smiled and I could see that her passions were satisfied and the artist was pleased. The lost look was gone from her eyes.
“One day, this painting will be on display for the world to see but only we will know how it was created,” I said and kissed her on the cheek.
“So, does the woman on the canvas look like me?”
“She does. She’s a beautiful immortal.”
“You flatter me and exaggerate.”
“No, I only speak the truth. The woman on the canvas is a goddess, created in your image,” I told her and watched a single tear fall from Alice’s eye. That one tear held more weight in my heart than some of the rivers I had witnessed other women cry. All females are not created equal.
“I can’t see you again, not after what happened tonight,” she said before she kissed me hard with a million goodbyes on her lips. I can’t say that I was surprised. Somehow, I knew what the outcome would be from the moment we first touched.

“I know,” I answered without an ounce of guilt or regret. I preferred that things ended that way instead of pretending to be just friends for years on end, constantly tortured by desires that would never be satisfied. That was the last time I ever saw Alice. I never did fully understand why she cheated on Miguel to be with me that night. I’m certain that her reasons were complicated. The motivation of the hearts, souls and appetites of creative people always are.

Copyright © 2012 Keith Kareem Williams
All rights reserved.