Lust Games: An Essay on Honor A Novel

By B Schiff

Cynical chiselers, power hungry bastards, low rent power vacuums. Lust driven temptresses. Besotted clowns. Worlds in flux. Integrity. Victory. Lovers. A muse.

Honor; the wicked master. Redemption, the tough and unforgiving act. Lust; the wicked mistress. Death. Legacies. A heathen home. Paradise lost.

Happy little gnomes scamper about the rivers and eddies of rancid muses, fallen idols, Pharisees of honor, decrepit absences of godly wonder.

“Tears were what I offer,” she said. “A trade among new friends is always brokered. Your killers kill, your owners own, your breakers break and if that were not the case then,” she said, “you would be just out of the ordinary,”

“I offer you sleep at night, warmth in contemplation, dear boy,” she said. “I offer you stunning charges to be made by rancid outlaws and fairy princesses,” she said. “You could be the backdrop for the haunting sides of viral poisons careening through times and weak demeanors,” she said. “Limber up the rewards for action, play, being, purpose, dear little boy blue,” she said.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B Schiff
• Release date: Jan 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458159403

B Schiff

B. Schiff writes to avoid ennui.

Book preview

Lust Games: An Essay on Honor

A Novel

by

B. Schiff

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

B. Schiff on Smashwords

Lust Games: An Essay on Honor

A Novel

Copyright © 2011 by B. Schiff

Other titles by B. Schiff at Smashwords.com:

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

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Lust Games: An Essay on Honor

A Novel

Through decades coming and coming. Through times immortal charge. The oppressive and private journeys of weepers land on the doorstep of slick demeanor.

Haunting ghosts of time and pride work dimensions of worthwhile pursuits while smart actors know of greater protection. In the end there is a story and in the end there is a meaning.

The plays, the tricks, the loss provided for in sad lines of work give grief. The views of rough worlds front for fairy tales and souls of sweet perfume. Craven raven haired beauties dwell in fates embrace. Happy little drainage pests suck the blood and life from ill mannered sloth. Their advances and their strengths are created for sickening jelly or the parasites of choice.

The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet wants.

Sweet, sweet Amy would straddle any sweet, sweet little asset that sweet, sweet Amy could get her sweet, sweet little hands on. Sweet, sweet Amy would straddle any sweet, sweet little asset that sweet, sweet Amy could get her sweet, sweet little tentacles on. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

The suckers she was aiming at, the suckers who did good things, a laugh for Amy. To fight injustice, to fight evil, a laugh. Her rotten bastards tripped the light fantastic and rode merry go rounds too putrid for words.

The lips of those who fondled. The sighs of those who brought her to the heights, the ecstasy without which her life was barren. Sweet, sweet Amy could only think of thighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. Sweet, sweet Amy could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

The thief that was her father and the sinister whore who was her mother set her up in good stead. The princesses of desire, of which she was one herself, had made life highly judicious and eminently profitable. To live and be well and be a chimera, a haunting spirit was a thing of beauty. Players and apothecaries wished from Amy pulsating magic and searing inner being. She craved and died for death a thousand times, Sweet, sweet Amy.

* * * * * * * * * *

Choices, choices, choices. Always the unholy alliance of song and story.

Sweet sweet Amy could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. Sweet, sweet Amy could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue, glisten her eyes with the mists of her lusts, seal forever with the dreams of her heart. If only sweet, sweet Amy could find another as sweet as her sweet sweet self. If only sweet sweet Amy could fashion lust for sweet sweet ever.

The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet assets.

Carnivals of sinister slobs played patty cake with each other time and time again. The world conspired to draw in the boundaries of life and times. Time paraded the ebbs and valleys of dense stern dispositions. The gods themselves sneered and snickered at luxurious snaked forbearers. Shy innocents, awkward inanities claimed props of order and disdain.

Sweet, sweet Amy would straddle any sweet, sweet little asset that sweet, sweet Amy could get her sweet, sweet little hands on. Sweet, sweet Amy would straddle any sweet, sweet little asset that sweet, sweet Amy could get her sweet, sweet little tentacles on. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

Secrets, always secrets. Troubles always troubles. Tough, always tough. Reaches through time always reaches through time. Sweet Amy’s killers always marched through the holes in time. Sweet Amy’s little prayers answered always the true hearts of lust. Sweet Amy’s eternal finds of the little places of the possible was the stuff of Amy’s dreams.

The lures of those who fondled, the lures of those who craved. Amy, sweet, sweet Amy would live to crave a thousand lives. So enamored with her charms, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. Sweet Amy, lust for sweet sweet ever. Sweet, sweet Amy could only think of thighs and such, sighs and such and those who brought her to the heights, the ecstasy without which life was barren.

There was always the broad range of flops and fops preening in this world of reason and enlightenment. There was always Amy’s want and need, gruesome excess and penury conceits. There were always the hot, mad unleashed dogs of hell to go after the souls and treasures of Amy’s disdained. There were always the complementing efforts of the eternal muse that Amy was, the eternal muse that she would be.

Sweet, sweet Amy could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. Sweet, sweet Amy could only think of thighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

Cross. Double cross. Triple cross. Weary minds charted the actions of Amy’s revelers who vied to be angels. Weary minds brought ladles of grief and moments of release. Weary minds did their little bit of over heated action and made golden moments of life the lame dirt of hell. Amy loved fate and Amy loved luck. Amy loved a history to ponder.

Desirous of the body, the sweet little charms of Amy, sweet, sweet Amy, answered prayers. Sacred and profane Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. She craved and died for death a thousand times Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. Sweet, sweet Amy could only think of the thighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. Sweet, smart Amy.

She started as a dancer, Amy. She worked very hard at her craft, put in time. She honed her body, her mind. She was sheer poetry to watch. She was sheer poetry to behold. She was a magic magnet. She drew the special places in the lanes walked on this earth reserved for those who have that sweet touch of prominence and that small touch, small hint of royalty. Movements cherished by young and old, Amy. Bitter harvests for those who sighed, Amy.

Long ago and far away, Amy. The winds of the vapid, the engulfing of the treasures of hope, Amy. She and hers had to taste the taste, Amy, find the awareness in the hidden poems and toxic pools, Amy. Float as it did in its own little paradise Amy’s world was a bastion of gain. Foolish acts and dirty lairs, foolish buyers and dirty sellers chased after the beauty in Amy’s wake.

Charmers played in low rent, malnourished places for Amy. Charmers played in high rent, overvalued heaps for Amy. Charmers wove their magic little spells and brought all infantile ills to a simmer for Amy. A boil, a lavish stew, places for the sea nymphs of recreation and frolicsome fairies of rest were the just rewards of the heroic classes who begged for Amy.

Winds of stability gave the world a purpose. Seething, wastrels and vagabond princes of the open road gave Amy’s world some local color. The mean ability to slither through the cracks of time, the warps, the ways of dimension, this was the trick, the fate of the effervescent Amy.

A hold on a mystic past taken from inferior attackers, mystic clowns and insipid bunglers grew lame and dead. Choices yanked and collateral damage falling routinely inspired the emptiness of fable and true hearted glory hounds. The lazy rich acquired no honor. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet tastes.

* * * * * * * * * *

Me, I worked the world as I got it. I cherished its smile, enjoyed its chivalrous chuckle. I saw the insides of the upsides of the frailties of human endeavor as I poked and prodded my prey and my fools. Silly ploys towards establishing sturdy homes for the world of magic were deemed special enough to be touched by ravaging angels shaped or made aware of the hole in the center of time. I was home and it was a fierce little home to be sure.

Josephine, my Josephine, put a leash on her kettle of snakes and dragged them through her time to shape realities. The stolen moments of her days formed the color and ways of her destinies. Most passionate mentors, the sirens of the wind, the raving partners of awareness, her mother figures in worlds of fantasy and otherworldliness would let her soul perish as she squeezed need beyond reason. Killers kill. Games of survival demand that which is necessary. Empty laughs with great ideas often have little time to flourish.

Lusts had to be sated. Jo’s businesses provided the forces of fate to be compelled to work far and wide. Her business was too pristine, too perfect, too enticing. There were many who wished her business. Many who sought after it. Many who challenged it. Many who tried not to be bought.

The sights of the singers of songs swinging the melodies and the tempos of Jo’s enticing moves crisply and neatly played hip musicians and sharp cats who got the feel, the drive, the hole in the soul of the basic beats that matched the way things went down around Jo and her ilk. The music played well for those who understood, those who were there to watch scores settled and wrongs righted. Piano and drums, bass and horn, slow songs and mean riffs, the pulse of small sounds built upon small opaque wants opened up shows to strong audience attraction. A dead Josephine was not something the world would be better for. She was my gift.

She whispered coy little nothings in my ear as she harnessed my will to fight, Jo. She made me a damned fool who was there to take in the poise, the caress, sweet invention, Jo. She purred just enough to sweetly entice, Jo, stung just enough to make the dumb cry and come back to be stung again. With sultry compassion she left the soft breeze of her wake, Jo.

The great construct had to be envisioned. Slavery had to be ennobled. The crushing apparatus of wills sublime had to be cherished. Jo was my own willowy wonder. She moved softly and quietly. She moved slowly, slyly. She moved covering her tracks with soft songs and milky thoughts. She eased about laughing, Jo, laughing lightly as she was in full appreciation of her glancing, angled, head on encounters.

Black Jack Henderson was Smokey’s father. Black Jack was a good hand with the cheap politicians and the movers and shakers. Black Jack made his friends, made his contacts, worked the cons, stole his money, looked for answers to questions. Where was the sweet spot, he always wondered. The magic spot where the plays were all good and the payoffs all sweet? Where was the sweet spot that ruled the roost, took in all things, all players?

Jack thought he had been stung by the sweet spot when he was young. He thought he had been created by it as he ran in fear being hunted down by the whims of forced circumstance and drained dry, almost broken. Black Jack was surely lost and hollowed out which was not a simple thing for him to accept. It was not a simple thing at all. The whims of history. The gifts of unworthy antagonists. Jack was haunted by events. They wished to chase him down and look for him in the night. Again and again. Jack was a target.

Smooth over negligent strains of endeavor and come up working easy, always easy, little Stephen, Amy said to me. Set the sun on wry killers and deal with them in good stead, Stephen, she said. Sometimes not, she said. The simple and easy plays, the simple and easy setups ride the cresting waves of forbearance Stephen, Amy said.

Those waves created the times and situations that gave good solid opportunity, that gave good solid takes on sleights of hand, she said. Suckers have no bearing Stephen, Amy said. The grey ghosts of your imagination have no heart, kid, she said.. The ghosts of killers past have no soul, Stephen, she said. The ghost killers of kills past have no meaning for you, poor boy, she said.

Someone had the goods, had the skills, had my number. Someone waited on me slowly, methodically, annoyingly. Tough guys were a pain in the ass. I had places to go, people to see, tricks to learn, deals to broker, chiselers to run from. There were always someone else’s ghosts to evade.

Heather, Jo’ erstwhile friend, was an elegant traveler, a sweet, charming hostess. She was the winds of her treasured life. Unfolding mawkishly, amiably in ways and colors regal and haughty Heather stalked the streets of New York as an encrusted jewel. She was too dangerous to touch, Heather, too hard not to look at. She was too mean not to covet, Heather. Dangers to watch. Characters to redeem. Heather had come from an empty world where knowledge was little and challenges sitting in wait always and with great dignity. The rotten strains of dirt that were waiting patiently for peace and trouble; the moments when she might be free put fear in her heart, Heather. Amy, sweet, sweet Amy answered tears and had forbearance. Sweet, sweet Heather watched over us all.

The driving hands of the true time travelers put my world in sync, dear Stephen, Amy said. The wry enjoyments of my trials and tribulations should be spared the fates of dissipation, the foolishness of derision, she said. For your useless all, your restless spirits cry in agony over searing loss, Stephen, Amy said.

Life spun fancies and its mysteries at me. I had the heiress of fortune, Amy. I had the angel of my connections, Amy. I had the paragon of fortune, holder of forceful fancies, Amy. I had those grappling with great appetites, those clinging to the hopes of redemption, those pleading for the taming of their weary fires.

Heather was a sainted saint. Jo came with the dawning of time. Amy was a wood nymph from hell. Kind hearts and emotionally spent weasels were points of origin. The measuring sharks of a little universe trumpet well the clarion call of surly regrets. States of vulnerability present themselves to spirits of those not at all employed. Jo was my lover and I was her man. Amy looked over my shoulder and whispered songs of freedom.

A siren, a muse, a goddess, a confidant, an angel, my Jo. The champion of will and need, my Heather. The champion of ghostly phantoms and feral pleasures, my Amy. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures. I could enjoy sweet, sweet pleasures. In midnight blue and in depths of redeemable, frolicsome, tawdry fancy.

* * * * * * * * * *

She squirmed, Jo. She was uneasy. She did not like where her story was going. She did not like where her road might lead. Smart information for a smart girl, Stephen, she said. Good reads for you, Stephen, she said. My trust is a luxury, she said.

Jo was a cultured woman. She was not squeamish. She did not rejoice in my chaste incoherent dreams. My game is preservation, Stephen, she said. Preservation of an ordered world, Stephen, she said. "My game is to distrust what I

Reviews for Lust Games

[raphaellivingston · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Novel writing Is a challenging endeavor. I commend anyone who finishes writing a novel. That’s the best thing about this book...Just because someone wrote it doesn’t mean you have to read it!