The Pixie’s Sexy Goodbye

Warning; the following content is sexual in nature and contains mature themes. Please read at your own discretion.


The top of the old manor house was level and gravel-strewn, presumably with a graded metal roof beneath to control rainfall. It had an insulated hot water tank the size of a tractor tire set in its center. I stopped short of the tank and gazed past it, across the street, where the hedges had long since burnt out. The wail of sirens had almost arrived and I could see flashing lights approaching. There were multiple tones and frequencies to the sirens and a rave-like blend of lights. Whoever made the call had requested the police, fire department, and paramedics. Which was probably for the best, because they might all be needed.

The Pixie strode past me with swaying hips and leaned on the hot water tank with a sigh of satisfaction. She undid her voluminous blue cloak and spread it on the tank’s rubberized surface and leaned forward on both forearms, avidly anticipating the arrival of the authorities.

“Are you sure this is the best part?” I asked skeptically, following until I stood inches behind her, watching the flashing lights over her shoulder. While I had to agree that the results were the purpose behind the violence, I preferred knocking thugs out to observing the aftermath.

“Not just yet,” she said, and I could hear the sly smile in her voice. She reached back with both hands and I took mine in hers and wrapped my arms around her belly. My bare chest made electric contact with the smooth material of her purple rashguard and she shifted and slid back until her hips pressed against the tops of my legs. She drew me closer her until she could feel how badly I wanted her.

I smelled the familiar lavender perfume emanating from the right side of her neck. I arched around and kissed her left collarbone and inhaled the scent of her.

Her mouth met mine as she twisted around but I broke the kiss in shock. I’d smelled the soldier girl’s sweat during our lengthy rolling session at the gym. Until that moment I’d been certain the soldier was the Pixie… but this woman’s sweat was sweeter, her body more supple, and the mystery made me mad with desire.

“I want you inside me,” she said, slightly breathless as she raised on tiptoe to grind her hips against mine and lifted one of my wide hands to touch both of the perfect, tiny breasts through her tantalizing top.

“Could you be more specific?” I asked, freeing my wrists from her little gloved hands. My left forearm sealed her waist in place against me and my right hand wrapped lightly around her throat.

She arched her back and took a long shaky breath and all but whimpered.

“I want you to fuck me,” the Pixie whispered, “right now.

I grasped her wrists and leaned her forward until her pink leather palms rested on the cloak covering the old water tank. I tapped the inside of her foot with my toe and she spread her legs wider. I lifted the rainbow-striped skirt up onto her lower back so I could see her ass outlined beneath the purple material.

“Don’t move,” I instructed her, and knelt down and retrieved the balisong from my back pocket and unfolded it. The butterfly knife had a short, razor-sharp steel blade. I pinched the purple fabric between the Pixie’s thighs and pulled it down as far as it would stretch then carefully sliced a rough circle of it free. The fabric went in my pocket with the folded knife and I stood up and unzipped my shorts.

The Pixie gasped and bit down on her cloak as I slid through the welcoming hole in her tights into her warm wet embrace. I sighed deeply and bent forward and turned her head so I could taste her lipstick again. She breathed shallow and fast through her nose as she drove her hips backward, trying to absorb every inch of me.

I broke the kiss and straightened my back and put both hands on her shoulders to help accomplish her goal. A catlike moan escaped the Pixie’s lips before she clasped both hands over her mouth and buried her face in the royal blue cloak. As our quickened I slipped a hand down the front of her tights to massage the flower bud between her legs. My other hand wrapped around her throat again and applied pressure to the carotid arteries both sides of her neck.

Yes,” the Pixie gasped, trusting herself to speak for only a second, “do that!” She muffled her mouth anew as fresh moans echoed from deep inside her. The blissful energy between us built to an unbearable level.


And that’s all there will be! I’m almost sad to say that I’ve completed the manuscript for The Pixie’s Paramour and will spend most of the month of May editing and promoting it, as well as considering possible avenues of publication. Thanks to everyone who has read and supported my work, and I promise to keep bringing quality to fiction (and the occasional recipe or rant) to this blog!


Nightime Parkour with the Pixie

“Come on,” the Pixie insisted, “this is almost the best part.” She whisked me out to the front of the house where the guys in loose shirts and shorts were still piled against the door, and we raced across the street in a dead zone beneath a burnt out lamp like twin shadows. I followed her up the ramp of an abandoned manor-house whose disheveled sign labeled it as a former home for the physically disabled. The funding for such programs in Murderville had fallen through long ago.

The Pixie squared to a halt opposite the railing atop the ramp and swooshed her cape back the way most women flip hair off their neck. She placed her pink-gloved hands atop the rusted black bar and leaped onto it, then sprung forward onto the high fence that surrounded the property’s sides and back. She landed like a cat on all fours atop the fence and straightened up, taking a couple tottering steps sideways and using the branches of an overhanging tree for balance. Her feathers bent against them in a most amusing way as she looked back at me expectantly.

The hell with that. I thought. I kicked one long leg up and over the railing and stepped over it with a wide wave of the other leg. I bent my knees and arched my back as if preparing for the leap, and then just hopped down the ground and walked to the base of the fence where I could see up the Pixie’s rainbow skirt.

“You’re no fun at all.” She announced, and then raced along the fence as quickly as I could follow on the ground in my crocs. The top of the fence was a fairly sturdy two-by-four, but even still her balance and dexterity amazed me. As we reached the backyard she jumped over my head and skipped off the back deck’s wooden railing and landed with a purple and blue flourish in the center of the big old porch.

I walked around the deck and climbed the stairs and came to rest in front of her. The tiny pink fists on her slender waist could not have been made cuter by the scowl she wore.


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Immolation (Excerpt from The Pixie’s Paramour)

The lighter the Pixie had given me was quite nice; stainless steel, auto flame activation when the cover flipped, and an embossed eagle emblem. Not the kind of thing I wanted to leave at a crime scene, or throw away for that matter. Besides, it was the only gift she’d ever given me. I pocketed the lighter and took a book of matches from one of my back pockets and paced to the hedges.

The stench of gasoline was almost overwhelming up close. I cupped my hand and lit a match and tossed it into the hedge.


The hedge on the south side of the front gate erupted in flames. I repeated the process swiftly on the north hedges and then ran for the front door and made it to the wall opposite its hinges in time to hear shouting within. Angry men, frightened women, and some other less authoritative confused and frightened sounding men. The clients.

“Shut up!” A single dominant voice overpowered the others within and then carried on as they quieted at a volume too low for me to make out more than murmurs. I heard some general remarks of agreement and then footsteps closing on the door.

I leaned my right hip on the gray brick wall and cocked my right shoulder back and practiced my punch a few times, like a pitcher rehearsing the motions for a fastball. Despite my combative lifestyle I don’t actually punch people that often, and I wanted to get it just right.

The door opened with a low squeal and the first guy walked out, clad in drab shorts and an unbuttoned shirt and carrying some kind of pistol one-handed while he shielded his eyes, staring at the inferno the hedgeline had become. He had his left hand up and didn’t see me at all, so I waited. He got a whole step out the door before the second guy followed. He looked almost identical with the same short-cropped dark hair and the same drab shorts, but his unbuttoned shirt displayed Hawaiian colors. He was carrying his pistol in both hands and was going to see me in a fraction of a second.

I grabbed the barrel of the colorful guy’s gun left-handed and pivoted and threw a right cross to the first guy’s jaw just as he turned toward his buddy’s yell. The punch made his head snap back and a pink mixture of blood and saliva sprayed from his mouth, possibly the result of broken teeth. He spun to the ground in the direction his head turned and stayed there.

The guy in the Hawaiian shirt kept trying to aim at me and pulled the trigger repeatedly but the weapon only clicked; somehow in that adrenaline-charged moment I realized he’d left the safety on, and my hand was covering it. I pulled him outside and slammed the door and then shoved him against it and got my forearm across his throat. I smashed the back of his head against the solid wood until he slumped to ground, unconscious and blocking the door, which gave me an idea. I rolled the first guy over until he lay in his buddy’s lap. With the dead body weight of two decent sized men outside, whoever remained within would have a hell of a time getting the door open.


Thank you so much for taking the time to read this far! If you’re interested in getting the latest updates on this story follow The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page . Stay sharp!

Hostile Takeover (Pixie’s Paramour Excerpt)

We entered the kitchen cautiously but found it quiet and empty. Three well-oiled money counters sat empty upon the cheap table. The counters and sink were covered in dishes. The cabinets were all closed, some missing handles. I didn’t care for the smell. From the back room I heard a round of laughter from the three guys echoed by tinny laughter from the studio audience on SNL.

“She must have gone upstairs,” the Pixie whispered, “unless she’s back there with them. What do you think?”

I shrugged, surprised at being consulted.

“I’ll go in full force and take down whoever gets up the fastest. You cover the rest.” She could hardly disagree with that plan. I crouched and edged along the wall toward the back room, the Pixie nearly crawling behind me.

I passed the empty staircase, and then I could see them between the bars of the wooden banister. Three guys, all from the market square shooting. The baby-faced scarecrow and the rugged runty bruiser who’d been at the bridge and a third guy who looked a little more clean cut and better fed and all around more dangerous. I held three fingers behind my back to let the Pixie know it was just the three of them. And then I waited.

The sketch on-screen progressed to a punch line and the studio audience exploded, surround speakers flooding the room with sound. The guys on the couch guffawed heartily, leaning forward with their eyes glued to the widescreen.

I stepped out of my crocs and stalked silently over the shag carpet barefoot, moving swiftly to beat the ebb of laughter. I reached the back of the plush leather couch and grabbed baby-face by his long hair and runty by the collar of his army-surplus jacket and smashed their head together three times as hard as I could, like a mad ape opening coconuts. They fell in a heap in front of the couch with a leathery whisper.

The blond guy with the crew cut leaped up and away from me, fumbling in his long khakis pants. He was swearing and shouting but I didn’t make out many of the words. I was too busy getting the baby-faced guy’s hair out from under my fingernails. I moved around the couch as the tough guy drew a balisong blade and flicked it open with practiced ease.

“You think that’s the good idea?” I asked as I stepped within striking distance. The guy was about my size but more muscular and looked like he knew how to handle himself, but I had the Pixie at my back.

His gaze wavered over my shoulder and then he attacked with a long low lunge meant to slice out my innards.

I pivoted off his center line and elbowed him in the face at the same time as my left hand grabbed his right wrist. My right hand joined it and I shouldered him back to the wall and aimed the lethal blade at his thigh with my two-on one hand control. It was the same movement I’d used with the shotgun. Self defense boils down to some pretty basic concepts; don’t get shot, don’t get stabbed, are among them.

The muscle guy tried to beat me one-armed for a moment while trying to backhand me in the face but gave up and tried to switch the knife to his other hand.

I swatted the balisong at its midpoint and it skittered away across the floor. I brought the same hand back and elbowed the guy in the solar plexus. He doubled over and I caught his neck in a crushing guillotine and pressed him against the wall leaving no escape. I watched his hands fumble for his pockets. They went limp before they got there. I held the choke a few extra seconds and then dropped the unconscious man on the floor and turned to see what the Pixie had been up to.

She twirled the butterfly knife thoughtfully as she stepped daintily around the couch and kicked the stirring runty guy at the base of the skull. He must have had a harder head than baby-face, but he went to sleep swiftly enough.

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First Blood (Excerpt from The Pixe’s Paramour)

Good evening readers! Both because I’m nearing the end of the novella and because page views have been way down recently, I’ve decided to switch from posting almost every day to every 2-3 days. As I mentioned before the excerpts will be brief but potent, and focused on making you itch to buy the awesome and affordable book that will be available in paperback and ebook format this summer. For anyone on Facebook following the Pixie, I would love to have your support at The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page. Thanks for stopping by 🙂

And now…

The Breach (Previous TPP Excerpt)        


“Get ready!” She hissed.

I flattened myself low against the outside wall so as not to throw a shadow in the peephole’s line of sight. I leaned in and put my ear on the door and my hand on the knob. The chain rattled and then the deadbolt slid out of place. The knob turned under my light grasp.

I yanked the door open and seized the short barrel of the guard’s weapon with both hands and charged inside, headbutting him in the nose and forcing the dangerous double-barrels toward the blonde on the stairs all in one motion. I changed direction and drove him against the wall, putting my shoulder in his neck and my forehead on his jaw and continuing to twist the shotgun. It wavered between his own body and the girl in the strangely lethargic girl in jean shorts and a white tank top.

“Hey,” the girl said sleepily, “who are you? Hey, help!” There was little energy in her cry, but she took a deeper breath and then The Pixie had her.

The guard let go with his left and backhanded me in the ribs. He was looking for space to call for help and he found none, and his hand went back to the gun to fire a warning shot. Too late.

I wrenched the weapon sideways and backwards with all of my force, breaking the finger in the trigger guard and taking the weapon away. I clubbed the guard in the temple with the remainder the sawed-off shotgun’s wooden stock and then soccer-kicked his head before it struck the ground. He slumped down against the wall, laying oddly straight with his arms rested in front of him. He would be there awhile.

The Pixie stood proudly next to the girl in the tight top and jean shorts, who appeared to have given in to her former sleepiness and naturally drifted off, curled up in the corner by the stairs.

The Breach

We kept low among the bushes and used the larger trees and hedges for cover as we crept to the front of the house. From the shadows of the hedgeline we could see the guard clearly through a side window. He was sitting on the stairs and had the bleached blonde on his lap. The shotgun was on the third step, loaded and close to hand.

“As soon as you jimmy the lock,” the Pixie whispered, crouching, down beside me, “I’ll distract him through the window, draw his fire if necessary. But the plan is for you to get inside and get the gun away from him before it goes off.” She crawled on her hands and knees to a haggard bush set in the garden, the last bit of cover between her and the window.

“You know what they say about plans,” I hissed after her, and then circled to the sidewalk and went up the front steps, standing off to the side of the door with my back against the wall in case anyone looked (or fired) through the peephole. I pulled the bump key out of my pocket and slid it into the lock as smoothly and quietly as possible. Only the first third of the key made it in. I retrieved the key and pulled the file out of my hip pocket, making it’s arches shallower and sharper in the place it had caught like the videos on the internet had shown me. I glanced at the Pixie who was signaling clear, clear, clear, with alternating thumbs-up and OK signs.

I jammed the key in the lock a little more forcefully and it slid past the half-way point. Almost there. I filed down the base of the key and slid it nearly all the way in. I glanced at my partner to make sure it was still clear, and then stood up and planted my feet shoulder width apart perpendicular to the door. The instructions I’d read had advised using a brick or hammer. I put one hand on the solid wood atop the door frame and swung my hips left and then right and bumped the key with my hip, right on the hard bone with my leather belt riding low around it. I heard it click home and grasped it and then glanced at the Pixie. She was waving her hands like a referee calling the end of a fight, creating a repeated X in midair.

I froze. And then I breathed and pulled the key out of the lock and tossed it in the garden.

The Pixie ducked away from the bush and flattened herself against the wall on the opposite side of the door.

“Get ready!” She hissed.

I flattened myself low against the outside wall so as not to throw a shadow in the peephole’s line of sight. I leaned in and put my ear on the door and my hand on the knob. The chain rattled and then the deadbolt slid out of place. The knob turned under my light grasp.


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Click Here to read next Excerpt: First Blood

The Big Cheese’s House (TPP Sequel Excerpt)

I tried not to laugh too loud as a rubber weight on a long nylon rope sailed over the railing. I could not fathom how she’d gotten ahead of me. I caught the weighted ball on reflex, figuring it must have an iron core or something, and looped it several times around two separate sections of the railing and held on tight.

“Come on up and find out,” I called, trying my best to sound like a goat, which wasn’t much different than my normal voice.

Within seconds the Pixie fluttered over the railing like a purple blue and pink butterfly.

“It’s not far,” I said, leading her over the bridge and down the first street, avoiding the spots of light cast by streetlamps as much as possible. “That’s the one,” I said as we neared Tegan’s house, approaching on the other side of the street.

“You take the north side, I’ll take the south.” She said, giving herself the more covered route, which made sense because of her costume. The south side of the house was lined with hedges and small trees that led to a small forest adjoined with other properties out back. I removed my leather gloves from a navy cargo pocket and put them on deliberately.

“Are you worried about fingerprints?” I asked.

“Not at all, boop!” She replied, tapping me on the nose. I noticed a difference in the texture of her skin. There was something transparent and rubbery stuck over her fingertips. I shook my head.

“Maybe I should call you the girl scout,” I joked as we parted ways.

We surveiled the house for fifteen minutes, checking the windows and doors from shadowy angles. I looped around the back and met the Pixie in the bushes on the building’s south side. The whispered tally was in our favor; A guard and his girlfriend with a sawed-off in the front foyer. The Big Cheese in the kitchen counting money, and three of her boytoys in the back room watching SNL on a widescreen. No lights on upstairs, no lights on downstairs, but as we plotted our approach the Pixie filled me in on Tegan’s criminal enterprise. She’d built a comfortable life off the profits of prostitution and slavery.


I took a step straight toward the kitchen window. A leather gloved hand landed lightly on my shoulder – four ounces of padding concealing metal domes. I turned and the Pixie met my eyes and took my face in her hands. She leaned close.

“We’ll breach through the front,” she whispered in my ear.

Through Murderville (TPP Excerpt)

Do you have a name?” She asked slowly, blowing air through pursed painted lips.

“Tegan Labelle is the-” I stopped talking because the flow of air out the Pixie’s lips expanded and then ceased. She straightened the utility belt concealed beneath her rainbow skirt and moved close enough I could smell her familiar perfume. She looked so small up close.

“Tegan Labelle is one of the worst sex-offenders in town,” the Pixie whispered tensely, “she runs a rape house out of the west end but I’ve never tracked down her headquarters. Are you saying you found-”

Her home,” I nodded, “so far as I could tell she lives there with some guys for security. Guys I recognized from the shooting at the square.”

The Pixie took two steps away from me with the poise of a ballerina and then turned batted long lashes behind painted lids.

“How many guards?” She asked.

“Three, at the most,” I replied, “maybe as little as one. I chased two guys I recognized from the shoting there after an… incident.”

She glowered but smoothed her gloves and uniform, obviously thinking hard.

“You have a way in?” She asked?”

“I should be able to crack the lock, I brought a bump key.” I showed her the mostly smooth fresh key and file I’d already used to give it a few shallow ridges. I’d gotten a good look at the front door’s lock on my walk-by and done a little research on the lock’s generic make.

“Good,” she said, smiling approvingly and leading me to the arena’s east wall where the reinforced drainpipe stood, nearly invisible in the darkening night. “I’ll follow you from cover, you lead me to Labelle’s house. And try not to start any fights,” she added admonishingly as I swung over the building’s edge.

Following the same path Woody Mcrgroe had led me on for a few blocks, I turned toward the river early between two ramshackle buildings. I heard the odd scamper from above, the kind of sound I might usually attribute to a squirrel, but knew it was the Pixie in close pursuit.

I walked down the alley between the two brick flophouses, avoiding variously stinky and messy porches extending from the buildings’ side units. My crocs squished or stuck occasionally, but as I exited the narrow space my navy cargo shorts and a loose black t-shirt fluttered in the breeze. The humidity in the air had my hair curling more than usual, or maybe it was just anticipation. I threaded my way between cars in the barking lot behind the strip.

As I stepped onto the footbridge a strangely disguised female voice hailed me from below.

“Who dare cross over my bridge?” The Pixie demanded in her best troll imitation.


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Atop the Arena Again (TPP Excerpt)

Hello readers, a big thanks to everyone who has liked The Pixie’s Paramour Facebook Page. As I’m nearing the end of the novella excerpts will become shorter and scarcer, so to keep interest going I’ll be running some contests for free books or collaborative opportunities through the facebook page in weeks to come. If you’re a fan of the Pixie, check it out!

And now…


I resisted the urge to smoke through the pack of cigarettes the Pixie had left in her dozens of purses strewn across the arena’s roof. The soldier girl had never showed again at the gym, and after waiting half an hour on the arena I began to worry I’d come too close to discovering her identity, and she decided to avoid me. Or perhaps her unit had just shipped out. My mind raced in circles until a familiar voice hailed me.

“You look more concerned than a housewife who’s lost her pies,” The Pixie joked as she clambered over the arena wall. She seemed a bit slower than usual, but most likely she had just given up on being so showy all the time. Parlor tricks are only impressive twice at most.

“You on the other hand,” “I replied sternly, “are late.” We faced off on the rooftop, me in my green crocs and khakis shorts and an army-green polo, her in her usual costume of purple, pink, and rainbow. She planted tiny pink fists on her hips.

“How do you know I wasn’t working on our adventure?” She asked over her shoulder as she strode gallantly about the rooftop swishing her cloak back and forth.

“Because I’ve already decided on our adventure.”

She stopped and turned slowly to face me. Nothing moved except the breeze stirring her cloak and the feathers atop her mask.

What adventure is that?” She asked sharply.

“I know where,” I said, taking a slow step forward, “and I know who. And I know how.” I took another step. “We can take down the crew that shot up the cops after my… incident at market square.”

Do you have a name?”

Sequel to last Pixie’s Paramour Excerpt!

Thanks for your patience readers, I’ve had a lot of freelance work and other commitments commanding my time… but I’ve kept on schedule, and tonight’s excerpt will be short and sweet. If you haven’t read the prequel to this excerpt you can find it here.


I crossed the old parking lot on slightly shaky legs and beeped my chevy open with the FOB and ducked into the driver’s seat and dumped my bag in the passenger footwell. I fiddled for my water bottle as I got the engine going and drained the last of it and then dropped it atop the backpack. I pulled my phone out of the bag and pulled up my frequent contacts and called an order in to my favorite local eatery. After several swiftly exchanged sentences I put the blue sedan in gear and three-point turned out of the parking lot.

The streets were quiet, more pedestrians on foot than people in cars on such a nice night uptown. I drove a short distance north with the windows down, enjoying what passed for fresh air and the freedom of a functional vehicle. As I neared a traffic light I ticked my left signal on and changed lanes and turned early into the lot outside the only restaurant I frequented uptown.

The beat up old chevy chugged on worn rockers and grated horridly as the brake pads ground down. The long, low sedan shuddered to a halt in the last available slot outside the Grassfed Burger. Of course it would be busy. I shouldered the door open and swung my feet onto freshly swept pavement. A shiver swept up my spine as I stood straight and slammed the door. With any luck the line would be clear when I walked in, and my order ready, and I could be back in the shoddy if warm chevy and on my way home. Unless you cut little brunette was working. Then maybe I would sit and pick at my house-made fries and chat her up again.

I crossed the lot and pulled open the heavy glass door and found that the line was clear, and the cute brunette was on cash… but I couldn’t see a single free table. I sidled up to the counter and gave the cashier my best smile and told her my pickup number. She already had it ready for me because she knew my order – a grassfed beef patty on a gluten free bun, lots of veggies, no cheese, a little ketchup, a little mayo and mustard. I’d ordered it with fries and a fresh bottle of water and accepted the large brown paper bag and bottle while I dug in my pockets for cash.

“How’s school going?” I asked, knowing she was studying Architectural Engineering at the local University from previous conversations we’d had. I always went for the smart ones.
“Great!” She exclaimed, playing her role as cashier/server with her usual energy. “There’s so much work but I’m in the top fifteen percent and I love what I’m learning about. How are you?”

“I’m well,” I replied, paying her with bills and leaning on the counter while she made change, “just came from the gym, figured I could use the protein.”

“Oh nice!” She said, brown eyes sweeping the eatery for signs of arriving or leaving customers. “Where do you work out?”

I told her and bit my lip at the way her pupils dilated. Even some smart women like fighters. It must be and evolutionary thing.

“I used to kickbox,” she told me, leaning forward over the counter and drawing me in with deep brown eyes, “before I got so busy with school and work and-”

The chimes above the door jangled as a family of four entered and the cut brunette sprang upright, welcoming them to the Grassfed Burger. I whispered a goodbye and left while my food was still warm.


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