Picking up the pencil

Her mind was a total fubar of thoughts. Confusion was outweighed only by discombobulated desires. Nothing felt right without his touch, his approval, the knowledge of his pride. She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her left ear then twisted the end of several writing implements which teasingly taunted her from their desk top holder.

“I could doodle,” she thought as she reached for an orange ink pen. “Or draw?” The question resonated in the tiny space of her upstairs office. Her nimble fingers wrapped around the end of a bright blue colored pencil then jerked away as her laughter echoed.
“Draw what, you ninny? You can barely doodle flowers and stick figures.”

It took ten minutes of valuable life altering moments to attain a drink of water, use the bathroom, slip into a well worn t-shirt then return to her sanctuary of space. She inhaled deeply as she closed the door. “You can do this. You have to do this. It is time to erase what was in order to write what is.”

She sat at the desk with a stubborn determination. “A pencil. I can erase it. It will fade over time. No one reads pencil, no one will know.”

There were six yellow number 2 pencils in the holder, none of which were sharpened.

“Hmmm” she said then locked the door behind her as she skipped downstairs to find a sharpener.

We all have to start somewhere. Most of us must begin again – and again. Life is a journey after all rather than a destination. My journey never fails to amaze me. Now it is time for me to be amazing. ~ pixie

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I think every woman has a little pixie hidden deep  inside of them. I’ve had this blog for quit some time with the intent of posting short stories here. I’ve decided to utilize it to unleash the curious, mischievous and passionate thoughts that seem to pop up when I least expect them.

I hope you will follow along as I discover the passion of a pixie in the most unusual places … pixie 

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When Souls Collide part 1

It made absolutely no sense to her. Yet he seemed so damned determined, the light passive aggressive banter they shared was entertaining. She allowed it to swallow her time and as time passed it swallowed her attention.

At first glance they were polar opposites. He moderately educated and precisely trained. She minimally educated and nescient. Attractive, well kept and disciplined meet adorable, haphazard and ambitious. His discipline was an animus. Her ambition was as oxymoron, as was everything about her. So their first commonality was the distinction of propelling forces which they detested.

He listened intently to the comical twist of her daily life. It was always tainted with just enough sexual innuendo and enough common sense that he was convinced she knew something he did not. She was competent is all of her actions, a characteristic he admired greatly. He took freely from her stories and ponder them in their time apart. Frequently he found himself smiling and laughing out loud at the lewdness of her implications and the courage of her actions.

She challenged him, asking his opinion, trying his thoughts and making him feel the power of their possession. She found him honorable in his actions but never failed to leave him knowing she knew him. She knew that beyond the facade of rightness lay a boiling passion that no one had allowed him the privilege of unleashing. So she teased him, dreamed of teasing a little more to the surface each time they communicated. Yes, she dreamed of him. He troubled her ambition as if he had the power to halt the progression if he chose.

Both aware of something kismet growing between them still they mingled amidst a crowd just enhance the obstacles. Perhaps its was a cognizant effort than again it complimented their dance. It provided a curve, a bow, a turn to what otherwise would have stolen their breath and forced confrontation neither of them were prepared to face. Others became unknowing pawns in the exchange of what was to become an affair that shattered boundaries, crushed illusions and gratuitously defined the unelucidated.

She stepped across the threshold by teasingly inviting him to a secret she shared. A theory of connectionism; she boasted of the author and brilliantly expressed how the revelation had affected her life. She told him she felt it, believed he understood it. As he listened quietly to her exuberant, yet delicate ramblings his mind began to complete her thoughts. He leaned closer to absorb more than what she offered. When her words grew heavy in her throat he moistened them, lubricating with a completeness she had never known. Her hesitation made him chuckle. In the end a greater understanding of what was and the possibilities of what could be gifted them with a wordless possession. It’s tangible strength began to twine around minds, thoughts, feelings, hearts and actions.

He watched her. She could feel his dark measuring glare upon her even when time and distance separated them. Responsibilities and obligations remained but they no longer controlled either of them. The restriction that governed was a connection neither of them dared to acknowledge nor could they define. What was once an individual morphed into a consortium.

It was viable with a pulse so loud it annihilated all intrusions. Then she unexpectedly opened her casket and challenged him to look inside. He had no choice and that truth stirred him like nothing he had ever encountered. She boiled to an eruption to which he captured every drop. He slurped them deep into his soul. Her tears strangled him until his own soothed the hollow past. The depth of passion engulfed both of them, dragging them past the murk of questions into an abyss. In a moment of time he became her guardian.

jpp 2011

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You are my Valentine …

There are times when I find us indescribable love…today is one of those days.

You are my Valentine and I hold you close.

We met and we connected, it was quite unexpected
I liked what I found, and I was deeply infected
It grew like an addiction, an insatiable desire
to be warmed at the hearth of a pixie’s hot fire

From like grew something more, impossible to capture
a low internal buzzing growing towards rapture
It was love and it was passion, intense and consuming
it crossed the great gap of the distance always looming

Across the quiet chasm, our yearning unabated
our connection stands strong against desires unsated.
We wait and we love and wonder at forever
and smile as we know our paths are fated together.

jpp 2011

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The storm

Crashing waves and pounding surf, a heart beat of their own,
swirling water churns and moves, unhindered, free to roam.

Rapid pulses, heaving breaths, awaiting what might be,
you are my waves you are my surf, come crashing into me.

With lightning’s flash the thunder rolls, it echoes through your heart,
the clouds they build, then near it grows, the storm’s about to start.

We are the storm, we build and grow, we thunder through the night,
you feel me all around you, as fantasies take flight.

Storms of deep desire, this craving gives no peace,
until our hearts are one, bound together in release.

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I dreamt of You last night by Snow


I dreamt of you last night,

Hands quiet in my lap kneeling on the floor.


I dreamt of You last night,

Standing above me powerful, confident,

holding me in your gaze.


I dreamt of You last night,

As you chained me to you

Blindfolded to darkness.


And I dreamt of You last night,

As Your voice and hands became

the focus of my being.


I dreamt of You last night.



Posted in Author, BDSM, Poetry, Romance | 1 Comment

Hope in the Eye of the Storm

It was late. She knew she should have been in bed hours ago but the storm pelting against the window seem to be as restless as her soul.  Kimberly stood staring out toward the blacken night. A bolt of lightning hissed in sizzling slow motion to an open area between where she stood and the distant yard light. Rather than jumping in alarm as some would react, Kimberly tossed open the French door and stepped out on to the balcony. On this night the storm was welcome. It seemed to be calling to her. The thin gossamer lace of her robe ruffled up to brush along her neck. The soft touch in the cool nocturnal air was sensuous. She moaned a soft hum as she leaned her head to one side then shrugged her shoulder up for more of the caress. It was soft, gentle and reminded her of him.

Kimberly lifted her wrist to her nose and inhaled his scent deeply. A smile crossed her pink lips at how silly he must think she was when it came to things that reminded her of him. His deodorant had become her perfume of choice, his shirt which he intended as sexy sleep wear was now a part of her wardrobe when she tossed it over a pair of fitted leggings. The wind sent her blond tresses billowing.

Time slipped by before she felt the moisture against her skin. The material of her robe was searching her body for a place to adhere from the tugging rage of the swirling winds. The storm increased and her thoughts began to float away, far far away; chasing the storm toward the ocean.

She leaned against the banister, careless and wanton.  The sting of the rain hitting her skin was welcomed. Kimberly just wanted to feel, needed to feel something anything tonight. The longing inside was like a disease that had crawl from a dormant state to ravage her mind while it ignore the screams of her body. She knew she should be stronger, yet as the thunder cracked so did her resolve to honor her self-imposed integrity.

Kimberly turned her back on the storm to look inside the window of her home.  It appeared a haven of warmth. The fireplace emitted a soft glow in the far corner of the room. The light green paint was so faint that only the darker contrast of the room bought out the whisper of color. She had chosen it specifically for that reason.  Knowing she was a walking oxymoron, why not be surrounded with them as well.   Her blue eyes scanned the hand sewn quilt that was tossed haphazardly across her sturdy oak bed. The lace of the ruffle draped onto the rough unfinished wooden floor. Her delicate white ballet slippers lay one on top of the other, the lavender furry rug hugging the sole. They defined the beginning and ending of each day for her.

Her lap top and the desk lamp flickered. The candle on the desk top illuminated the pixie perched on the in and out box. Papers were stacked in an orderly fashion but a couple of reference manuals and a dictionary were left open. My life, she thought as the lights flashed off leaving only the fire’s glow to light her way.  Kimberly took a step toward the door when her eyes caught the outline of her coffee cup; the steam rising in wisps toward the cool night air.

A shiver past through her as the dampness lay upon her skin, the pale color heighten in contrast to the dark night. No stars to guide her, only the wicked lightning and thunder cracking like a bullwhip. Kimberly stopped short of stepping inside, one hand on the golden handle to safety. She turned toward the storm in deviance.

“I’m not stronger than this,” softly spoken yet loud enough to be caught upon a shard of wind. Her eyes followed the words as they swirled through the air dodging the zapping lightning and running from the thunder. They had a destination, they had to find his ears to warn him she was weak and frightened.

Her tongue found her lips, licking them tenderly. She tasted the salt of her tears; the evidence of her emotion, her love and her passion, seeping out in her weak moment. Her body flex hard with the vibration of the thunder rolling from the sky to the earth. Her hand squeezed the handle in her hand determined to hold on for as long as possible. She may not survive until the end but she would give it one hell of a fight, she resolved mentally.

There was a point to enduring the storm. She felt it just as real as the soaked fabric coating her body, sticking to her thighs and stomach. Kimberly took a moment as the sky illuminated her haven, to appreciate where she was and who she was. The horses rushed toward the barn and cattle were laying low on the high ground for protection from the roughness of the night. The water of the pond rippled as it reached its bank and threatened to spill soon. Then her eye scanned the open meadow that lined her driveway. Fresh cut and manicured, each blade standing at attention begging for more. That is where she discovered it, the tiny amulet of hope on this night.

She raced through the house, down the stairs leaving a wet trail as she flung open the front door and darted wildly into the eye of the storm.  The fear she had previously felt fading with each thump of her bare feet in the squishy red dirt. The grass magnetized to the skirt of her robe. Kimberly didn’t give a damn, she was on a mission.  Her hand raised in the black night searching for the switch to light her path. She had to find it. Please she begged from her core, Please.

Kimberly slowed her progression to recall the vague space. She turned around searching for the object. It was just here, she screamed, Please, I need it. She fell to her knees, lifted her face toward the heaven in ultimate submission to her need being irrelevant.  As she lowered her eyes, tears mixed with the rain, she saw the ray of hope. A solitary stream of lightning showed her the way. She scrambled through the mud to embrace it. The tiny flower stood in revered respect of the storm, its stem rigid and tall, the petals waved teasingly. She needed to hold it, feel it, to know that it was his way of showing he believed in her. He may not have planted the flower or caused the storm; but she had no doubt he loved her and that was all the hope she needed.

written 5/21/11

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The wonderful works of Howard David Johnson have been an inspiration for Pixies Paradise and The story of Discovering a Pocket Pixie.

We hope you will enjoy his talent as much as we have.  Please observe all copyright laws. Copyright 2009 Howard David Johnson

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Welcome to Pixies Paradise

What is Pixies Paradise?  It is an adult themed, adult content blog site.

You never know what you may discover in Pixies Paradise.  One thing for certain, it is a place for your heart to soar to places your mind has only dreamed.  It is the blurred line between reality and fantasy.  It is what ever you desire it to become.  For within the lush paths of Pixies Paradise, you must first believe …

artwork:  Copyright 2009 Howard David Johnson

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