With Charlotte, it never felt like cheating because it never felt like love. It always felt like what it was supposed to be in the first place; an overpowering, unadulterated hunger for flesh with a genuine sadistic regard towards dignity that would spiral itself into an uncontrollable feeding frenzy of self-respect and warm body fluids; otherwise known as hot, throbbing lust.

She never played hard to get and she would never make him pay. She was the All-American whore next door. She was one thousand Penthouse Forum stories rolled into one rapturous page-turning novel. She was an unsuspecting, upper-class nymphomaniac who knew how to scratch an itch.

The sex was just that. Sex. It was wonderful because it was just what he had imagined, hoped and anticipated it would be and it was predictably average because it was what he had always imagined, hoped and anticipated it would be. It was uninhibited masturbation with the presence of a live body. The feeling was mutual and Charlotte was the ‘come inside and leave your condoms at the door’ kind-a-gal.  And there was never any spooning or sappy pillow talk or any gestures of gratitude. The gratitude being expressed, already, in various selflessly compromising acts; it was understood.

Rules were established in rapid accord. One rule was that the sappy pillow talk and spooning stay reserved for for their significant others, the ones they each loved so dearly. There was no lip kissing other than when applied as a basic fundamental first move. Another rule was to stay focused on the main objective at hand: a couple of jarring orgasms delivered as quickly and as easily as possible. Making a day out of it would be a form of lovemaking and that was not what either of them wanted from each other. They had their significant loved ones for such things.

© 2011 Mark Rogers

Front Cover for Driftwood (book 1)

Driftwood (Book I)


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Close Encounters of A Preposterous Kind

“Okay, okay…sit down.” As Pumpkinhead sat down at a corner table in the coffee shop, Captain H threw his sandwich on the plastic tray and continued, “How do I communicate with the little green men?”
“Little green men?”
“Hey dude, did Jezebel sell you some of that liquid acid? That’s to be taken in small doses, you know. I hope you didn’t slurp that down.”
“Don’t be coy.”
“Coy?” Pumpkinhead picked at his hash browns. “You sure you mean coy?”
“Yeah I mean coy; you know like a wise-ass.” He took another bite of his sandwich.
“A wise-ass is just a wise-ass. If you’re coy, then you’re a bashful, or a shy wise-ass.”
“But you’re still a wise-ass!”
“Only if you use that particular adjective in there, otherwise you’re just a demure person.”
“Stupid….a stupid person. Like, ‘that guy skipping across the street is acting a bit demurely’.”
“Because he’s demure, he’s stupid?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Being demure has nothing to do with stupidity. Did we go to school in the same country?”


Continue reading

The Rock – Of Ages

It was a night just like any other night; a night of good times, a night of bad times, but mostly just a night of times. It was a night to remember, but more over, a night to forget. It was a night of endless ribbing and poking at one another’s blemishes and shortcomings, a night of mundane inebriation and quick fixes, a night of bonding among futile friends and worthy adversaries; in short, another night of explosive mediocrity.

For those who went, The Rock had been a source of nirvana, an escape from everyday troubles, a place to call their own and to hide from the world; regardless of the fact that the world was sometimes less than fifteen-hundred feet away. And, except for the one time, no parents or cops ever came to The Rock and, except for an occasional canoe or kayaker….and Moon, there was never any other signs of humanity at The Rock. It was their safe zone, and would forever be remembered as a peaceful haven in their memories.

Mahdakis stood on the edge of the small cliff, which held the rock and over looked the tail end of the Brandywine River that poured into The Christina, which eventually poured into the Delaware. It was a small river, only several feet deep at its deepest points, and at its widest point, you could throw a Frisbee to someone. But it was peaceful and had a calming effect on him. He stood thinking of the inevitable future, and the nagging past that just wouldn’t leave him alone. At this point he could hear almost every inane conversation going on behind him………………

Continue reading

Ride The Snake

Waking to the fuzzy feel of the rapidly fraying silk sheets, her naked curvaceous body intertwined with his and, and more importantly, to the comforting knowledge that he was safe. Safe in her arms; cocooned within a calming sense of belonging, purpose, want, and need; the beat of his heart, once again accompanied with a melody. He was with his true love.

But with all that, came the familiar air of uncertainty. The uncertainty of what she was thinking (and why), or scheming to do next (and when), and then, how long this euphoria would last. But it was his choice, and he knew the plausible consequences. He knew he’d forfeited all control the moment he stepped towards her; yet he stepped anyway. The serpent that was their twisted, masochistic passion for one another had reawakened itself and was cotton-mouthed; thirsty for new blood. And in its unyielding quest to quench the thirst, would lead them both down a long spiraling ride of emotional anguish and sexual nirvana, as only a serpent can be held accountable. Continue reading

Homo & The Marlboro Man

“Dude, do you have to sit so Godamn close?”
“Sorry,” said Tony, scooting over towards the window.
“And why the fuck aren’t you in the back, anyway?”
Tony looked in the back seat at Floyd, Frank, and Snowy, who were already packed in like sardines. “I don’t know. I thought three in the front and three in the back was a much better fit.” –Bobble-bobble-bobble
“It’d be fine if you weren’t one of the three up front!”
“What the fuck’s your problem man?”
“Oh man,” uttered Floyd, putting his forehead in the palm of his hand.
(inhale) “Here we go.”
Jason turned around to address the three in the back, “You wouldn’t be laughing if you were in my situation How would you feel if you were up here sitting next to a flaming queer?”
“Say WHAT???”
“Huh-huh-huh-huh. Not good.”
“Who’s a flaming queer?”
“You! You haven’t been able to keep your fuckin’ eyes off of me since we met. Winking at me and spewing derogatory remarks in my direction. What the fuck’s the deal with you? I don’t go that way.”
“Neither do I, you narcissist fuckin’ nut-job!”
“Nut? Job? An interesting choice of words. Not crazy, insane or wrong…but NUT! And job! You know why? Because you got my nuts on your brain!” Continue reading

Pasta Affair

After finally securing her right leg to the bedpost with a towel, Tony went to the dresser drawer, pulled out a roll of duct tape, and proceeded to cut off a seven-inch piece, “I’m tired of your mouth, already. Try this, you bitch!”
Tony walked over to the bed where Nicki was screaming, “No! No! No! Don’t! Please, No! I can’t breathe! I’ll hyper ventilate!”
“Too bad, bitch!” Tony quickly applied the tape over her mouth.
Nicki lay on the bed flailing her naked flabby body around; her left leg trying to kick him away, “Mmm! Mmm! Mm-mmmmmm!!”
The smoke alarm started going off, “Shit!” Tony quickly cuffed her left leg to the post, “I forgot about the pasta on the stove. I’ll be back!”
“Mm-mm?” she mumbled as Tony turned and ran downstairs to the smoky kitchen.

Tony returned, holding a large pot of steaming lasagna noodles, which he set down on the dresser, “I hope you like butter,” he said, taking one of the hot noodles out of the pot and dangling it in the air, allowing the hot butter to drip on her naked body.
“Yeah, Mm-mm…yummy, right?”
“Okay. Okay, I won’t make you wait any longer. Here, take this,” and then Tony thrashed her several times with the hot, wet, buttery lasagna noodle on her torso.
“Mmm!!! Mmm! Mmm!!!!”
“Yeah…mm-mm. You want some more, huh?” Tony walked over to the steaming pot and yanked out another noodle in which to torture her with.
“Yeah…..I know…You got an appetite for sausage too. I haven’t forgotten.” Tony began yanking on his penis while he whipped her with the noodle on her inner thigh and the sides of her ass, butter splashing everywhere upon impact of her body . Nicki tried to scream through the duct tape as he whipped her with more noodles, over and over again; all the while frantically masturbating.

As if all this wasn’t enough for the helpless young woman, she was to be further traumatized when five police officers came crashing through the bedroom door, as she lay on the bed with her glory wide open for all to see, and watched them tackle Tony Ravioli. “FREEZE YOU FUCKER!”
“I GOT HIM, JOE. I GOT HIM! CHRIST THIS FUCKER’S HAIRY….YUCK!” the uniformed officer yelled, spitting something out of his mouth.
Officer Roy drew his weapon and pointed it at Tony, “Don’t move. You’re under arrest for kidnapping, sexual assault, stalking, endangerment, vandalism, trespassing, and all kinds of odious charges.”
“You have the right to remain silent, anything you ……”

© 2011, 2014 Mark Rogers

Covers for In Case You Werer Too Stoned to Remember...

In Case You Were Too Stoned To Remember…..


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The Passenger….

The dark, unassuming vehicle pulled over to the side of the highway. The driver leaned over and rolled the passenger window down. “Where you headed?”

“That way,” Goiter said, pointing north without making eye contact.

“That way? Huh, what a coincidence, I’m going that way. Get in.”

The man behind the wheel was Curtis Bolio, originally from Ohio. He was a decent looking, clean-cut white man in his late thirties or possibly mid-forties. It was hard to tell because he was a gym enthusiast and took extremely good care of his body. Curtis had a wife and kids back in Cincinnati, but they weren’t missing him. They weren’t missing him because they were dead; dead because he killed them after raping his son’s buddy in the middle of the night during a sleepover and then stabbing his wife and son to death when they discovered what he had done. It was of no consequence to Curtis Bolio however. He had done this before when he was much younger, to another young lad long before he was married…..before the days of the institution…..and he was eager to do it again….maybe with Goiter, maybe not. Goiter was a bit older than his usual prey, but perhaps he would be a willing participant in gratifying his needs so that Curtis would not have to kill him. He didn’t look forward to the killing aspect of it all, but sometimes it was a necessity in order to keep him out of jail. He did enjoy the raping however; he loved the way they screamed and squirmed and tried to fight back. It aroused him tremendously. In his mind, it was the same tough love that his father had enforced upon him when he was younger; enforced so Curtis would grow up and be tough. Tough enough anyway to hold down a young boy while riding his backside. What an absolutely delicious treat he thought it was, to be rewarded with such a well-deserved pleasure after a usually well-fought battle. The battle of course being the boy’s struggle to get away. And it was the struggle that made it all such great fun; It was the struggle that gave Curtis Bolio the rush of exhilaration he so desired on a daily basis. But how nice it would be if he could just find someone to play the rape game with him on a regular basis so he wouldn’t have to go through the killing process afterward. Curtis Bolio had boys like that but he grew tired of them after a while and had to ‘set them free’. “So what do you say we both go that way together?” he smiled and looked over at Goiter.

“Wherever. I don’t care. Just get me out of here.”

“Going through a bad spell?” The man looked over at Goiter and eyeballed his crotch, raising his eyebrows happily as he did. “Growing up isn’t easy, especially when you’re different than everyone else. And that’s the core of it all, isn’t it? You’re different and they don’t understand how to play with you; right?”

“Something like that,” Goiter nodded his head. “How’d you know?”

“It takes one to know one.”

“Know one what?”

Ignoring his question, the man continued, “But every once in a while we get sent a reminder from God that….you believe in God, don’t you?”

“Sure…why not? Sounds good.”

“No why nots about it. He’s here……and he’s queer.”

“Ha-ha-ha….Huh? Say what?’

“Never mind.”

“You were saying something before though.”

“Right…every once in a while God drops us little reminders to let us know that we’re not alone in our suffering. That there are others who share similar pains and doubts about who we really are and where we’re going. If nothing else, it’s comforting to know that we are never alone in our loneliness.”

“That’s deep. I know a guy in Norford who talks like that.”


“He’s a poet…or a rock musician….or something. Ha! Actually, right now he’s just a drunk. Ha-ha-ha-ha.”

“You like to laugh. That’s good; it’s good to have a sense of humor. Hold on to it, you’ll need it.”

“How so?”

“Hmm.” The man once again ignored his question and stared at the highway ahead, pretending to be thinking long and hard. “You wanna play a game?”

“A game? Hey man, I ain’t funny like that.”

“Oh I assure you this isn’t funny.”

“Oh okay; alright, lay it on me then.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)


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