"Contractual Obligations" is copyright Zoe Miller, all rights
reserved.

Contains: FF, trans, transgender, magic, summoning, succubus, ritual

For more of Zoe's work, please visit
http://zoegmiller.tumblr.com/tagged/zoewriting
 
A tremor of anticipation runs between Arsa's shoulder blades. The
summoning is nigh she just knows it. Nailed fingers scrape
through her thick, short purple hair, dragging it away from the
stubs of the nascent horns above her forehead. She runs her
tongue out, moistening her pale lips, shakes her head and shifts
her hips, applies a bit of heft to her sporty breasts, and puts
on her best game face. This is it. This is what she's waited for.
She's finally going to do it.

The call pulls her across the void, her first appearance in the
human plane announced by an acrid burst of purple smoke and a
peal of thunder. Told to expect something the candle-lit den of
someone's slumber party or maybe a ring of stones in some wooded
copse, Arsa is surprised to find herself in what looks like... a
corner office?

No matter! Though the dim fluorescent lights sting her eyes, Arsa
does not hesitate. Setting her feet against the floor, she
exclaims, "Rue the day of this ritual, human, for--"

Before she can finish, a manicured hand wraps around her cheeks.
Firm fingers drag her face to face with a tall woman with dark
brown skin and dyed blond hair shaved into short, tight Mohawk of
curls.

Expecting easier prey for her first summoning, Arsa instead finds
herself face to face with this statuesque woman in a power
suit--tightly cut jacket almost bursting against the swell of her
breasts, densely constructed white button-down left partially
open to show just the right hint of cleavage, and constrictive
pencil skirt providing a natural visual taper down to her thick
legs ending in expensive, unwieldy high heels. The woman turns
Arsa's head from side to side and purses her violet-painted lips.
"A Skint." Her baritone voice is clear and exact, dense and
deliberate. "Horns haven't come in, so you're still young--a
hundred, maybe?" She reaches for something; metal glints in the
dim light of the stuffy office. "Hold still."

Arsa struggles her lips against the inadvertent goldfish pout her
captor's fingernails have squeezed them into. "Now just wait a
minute--ow!" The sudden pain has Arsa flailing her arms on
instinct. Breaking free, she retreats a defensive step, holding
her hand against her neck to staunch the blood from her newfound
cut. "What the shit!"

The woman lifts a scrap of parchment from the mahogany desk
beside her and wraps it around the box cutter she holds. As she
draws it across the blade the ragged, age-yellowed skin quickly
blots to maroon as it absorbs the peculiar color of Arsa's blood.
Grace's eyes flit towards Arsa's crotch. "I thought Skint's tails
were on their backsides."

Arsa's tapered tail flicks quizzically in the air behind her. She
lifts her arms and tilts her hips, cocking a searching gaze back
at her rump. "What?" She asks. "It's right where it's always
been..."

Suddenly self-conscious, Arsa sweeps both hands in front of her
small, flaccid cock.

The woman's lips quirk into a curious smile. "A bit small for
proper use, isn't it?"

Arsa's eyes light in the dark room, her felid pupils soaring with
amethyst energy. "Listen, lady--"

"Grace Gallant," the woman corrects, extending a lithe, powerful
hand. "Esquire. I'm a lawyer."

"Whatever!" Still using her hands to mask her crotch--it's not
her fault the growth fairy apparently decided to skip her--Arsa
hunches her shoulders and spools up the power deep within
herself, beginning the internal invocation that will burn Grace
Gallant, Esquire to a rotten smear on the carpet. Can't steal a
charcoal briquette's soul, but oh well. Skints are a proud sort
of demon; even the young ones don't suffer these sorts of slights
lightly. "Doctor, lawyer, fucking veterinarian, I don't care!"

"Ah, ah, ah." Without a hint of concern for her imminent demise,
Grace Gallant (Esquire) lifts a single, long finger and tsk-tsks
it in front of Arsa's face before pointing to a corner of the
room. "I wouldn't if I were you."

Taken off guard, Arsa blinks. Craning her neck this way, she
observes the cylindrical masses, glowing the cerulean blue of
larval energy, set into each corner of the room at about head
height, between the gaps in the bookshelves that line two walls,
and the equally impressive floor-to-ceiling windows with their
perfect view of the twinkling cityscape at midnight.

"Do you know what those are?" Grace asks.

The all-encompassing hellfire flickers uncertainly in Arsa's
eyes. Chipping her toenail ruefully against the caked goat's
blood of the summoning circle, Arsa answers like she's just had
had her nose rubbed in something. "Thronic Dispersers..."

The tall woman's subtly confident smile grows. "Then we're on the
same page."

"Sure," Arsa says. "If 'the same page' is 'your head will explode
if you try any of that funny demon bullshit in this sanctified
room.' So fine, you got me. What do you want?" She squints
against the pain of her wounded neck. "And what's with the
blood?"

Raising one expertly tweezed eyebrow, Grace smiles. "Oh you are a
young one. One hundred, was it?"

Arsa grits the inside of her lip against her budding fangs. She
resists the urge to cover herself again--though only just. "One
hundred and seventeen..."

"I'll make a note of that." Grace lifts the blood-stained
parchment between two long fingers. "This blood," she says,
"makes you an official asset of Harris, Harris, and Clay."

"What the--" Forgetting, for a moment, her nudity and
vulnerability, Arsa balls her fists against her sides. "Lady,
stop this ride before I throw you off it."

Grace turns to the dense mahogany desk behind her. Bending over
in a way that positively compresses her ass beneath that tight
skirt, Grace opens a leather-bound catalog and flips precisely
through its stiff pages, stopping on an empty space. "You're a
Skint, age one hundred and seventeen. Name?" She asks.

"Huh?" The Skint blinks. "A-arsa."

"Aarsa," Grace repeats.

Arsa, perhaps forgetting the imminence of her situation, stands
on tiptoes behind Grace, watching over her shoulder as the lawyer
picks up a pen and begins to write. "What?" She says. "No,
'Arsa.' One 'a.'"

Grace emits a measured sigh. "Please be more precise."

"Please fuck off!" Says Arsa, unused to being chided by humans.
"Why am I even tolerating this? You think those stupid wards can
stop me, you rank--"

In a smooth, lupine motion Grace turns and wraps her fingers
around Arsa's neck. "Excuse me?"

Goosebumps break across Arsa's skin, the grind of Grace's palm
into the shallow cut forces her heels against the ground before
she's even had the idea to pounce. Grimacing, she digs purple
crescents into the back of Grace's hand with her sharp nails.
Grace's lips set into a firm line, her chestnut eyes cloudy with
intent. She speaks almost in a hiss. "You figured you'd get
summoned by some drunk college kids or a pot head Wiccan who
accidentally burnt the wrong herbs. You thought you were going to
eat some simple-minded souls and be home in time for dinner.
Sorry to tell you honey, but the shoe's on the other foot now."

"S-screw you." Arsa's sharp nails score against Grace's hand,
spilling blood as she scrambles for some modicum of control, but
the woman doesn't even flinch.

Instead, Grace darts her eyes downwards, just for an instant.
Looking back to her captive, her lips quirk up into a smile.
"Aptly put."

A clench runs through Arsa's shoulders, the color washes away
from her face when, her attention directed to it, she feels the
soft bob of her inexplicably erect cock...

Oh what the fuck, why now?

Those cheeks are pale only for an instant. Her face blooming with
tender color, the Skint darts her eyes this way and that, taking
in the tall bookcases, the posh fixtures basking the room in a
soft white light, the comfortable-looking black leather armchairs
on either side of the summoning circle--anything but the baleful,
voracious gaze of her captor. Grace seems to grit her teeth as
firmly as her fingers clench on Arsa's neck, but she says nothing
further, simply waiting.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Arsa drags down a painful
swallow. "Just because it's... T-that doesn't mean anything."

"You don't have to explain it to me, dear." Grace's fingers
slack. She lifts her hand to stroke through Arsa's iridescent
hair, smoothing it away from where it's scattered across the
stubs of her horns. "You look hungry."

Arsa's toes curl against the hardwood floor beneath her. She
shakes her head. "I'm not."

Grace's hand meanders downward, around the curve of Arsa's ear,
drawing out a cautious flinch with tickling fingers. "How many
souls have you stolen, hm?"

"Plenty."

Grace's hand drifts further, her palm embracing Arsa's cheek, and
lightly turning her head. "How many?"

A spicy scent clogs Arsa's brain, the smell of human arousal
filtering through the air, sparking a predacious response that
crinkles her nipples into an unfortunate hardness. "I said
plenty--" Nonplussed, Grace pinches her fingers around Arsa's
earlobe, drawing a yelp from the Skint. "Ow, fine! None. Is that
what you want to hear? None!"

Then, she's free. The sudden motion leaving her reeling, Arsa
stumbles backwards a step or two while Grace belts out a husky
laugh. "A virgin Skint? For once, I'm suddenly not pissed about
pulling overtime on a Friday."

Arsa's hands clench so hard her nails dig furrows into her palms.
"I am not a virgin!"

With the hard clip of heels against the floor, Grace closes the
short distance between them. "In this plane you certainly are."
Arsa raises her arms, priming herself to fight, only to have
Grace dart a hand past her defenses, squeezing down finger and
thumb around one of her painfully stiff nipples, forcing Arsa to
step forward, and into her, to relieve the pressure. Towering
over Arsa in the closeness, Grace speaks quickly, fluidly. "How
did you think it would go? Did they tell you it'd be easy? Did
they tell you'd grab some wanton slut, bend her over her Martha
Stewart coffee table--"

Arsa's scrabbles her nails into the rigidly constructed material
of Grace's blazer.

"--feast on her eager, needy essence--"

Arsa groans in pain. Hellfire sparks in her eyes--fuck the wards.

The pad of her thumb still working its painful pressure against
that throbbing nipple, Grace snares her free hand around the nape
of Arsa's neck, using the trailing, wispy bits of her hair to
arch the demon's head upwards and expose her lips. "--well, sorry
to disappoint you. It's a dog eat dog world out there, little
Skint."

But it's not just pain that makes Arsa groan. Trying to shunt
away the heat building between her legs, Arsa emits an
unconvincing growl. "You better--"

The glossy substance of Grace's lipstick smears against pale lips
as Arsa's mouth opens to accept her tongue. A tentative shiver
shoots down the demon's back. Grace's hand at the base of her
neck guides her backwards, almost dipping her, as the tall woman
deepens the kiss, thirstily roaming over and past Arsa's fangs,
searching for the retreating mass of Arsa's cowardly tongue. And,
finding it, Grace works against it in a spiral, urging a cautious
blush into Arsa's cheeks. The Skint, beside herself, finds her
legs have gone to shaking, and grips her fingers around Grace's
elbow for support.

She moans.

Grace relents. Brows lowered deeply over her smoky eyes, she
asks, "Are you going to be a good girl, Arsa?"

Arsa, trembling, lost somewhere between passion and rage, can do
nothing but nod.

"Good." Grace folds her arms around the smaller girl, just for a
moment, "To tell the truth, this summoning comes as a surprise to
us both--I expected a wage demon, something simple,
half-intelligent. Never in my life did I figure I'd summon a
Skint, let alone a virgin Skint."

Arsa coughs, averting her eyes. "Can you stop saying that? It's
embarrassing."

Grace's hand wraps laces through the slicked-back ends of Arsa's
hair, slowly encouraging the Skint to meet her eye to eye.
"Embarassing?" She asks. "It's perfect. Harris, Harris, and
Clay--you've heard of us?"

Arsa's lips purse from side to side. The bridge of her nose seems
to tingle. "How the hell would I?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised." Grace chuckles as her fingers slip
affectionately through Arsa's hair, trussing it behind the
Skint's ears. "Aside from the usual mergers, acquisitions, what
have you, our firm specializes in molding appealing young
prospects, such as yourself, into all they can be."

Arsa laughs, seeking to maintain her composure even as Grace's
searching fingers send a quiet thrill up and down her spine.
"What the heck do I need some lawyer's help for? I was born to do
this."

Grace offers a calculated smile. "And yet, you never have."

"So?"

"So," Grace says. "We'll offer you opportunities for better meals
than hapless college students, we'll put you up in the best
suites money can buy while you do it, and what's more--" Her lips
press out each and every word with a delibrate pop. "--we'll
train you to have them begging for it."

Arsa wrinkles her nose. "And what do you get out of it?"

"We skim a little of your takings off the top. You think Skints
are the only things that feed off that sort of energy? We're not
some namby-pamby non-profit, Arsa. Occult practice is a growth
industry, and Harris, Harris, and Clay is where sharks learn how
to be bigger, hungrier sharks." Tracing her fingers around the
curves of Arsa's ears, Grace draws a causal shudder from the
Skint. "And you're not going be just any shark, Arsa, you're
going to be Grace Gallant's shark. What do you say?"

Arsa's eyes flit back and forth across the dimly lit room. "Why
should I believe any of this?"

"Well I wouldn't be much of a lawyer if I didn't honor a
contract." Grace divulges an umbral chuckle. "Which loops us back
to the beginning: I know how your kind seals their deals."

The lump in Arsa's throat grows to the size of a softball, she
hesitates.

Fingers trace agonizing lines of touch across the Skint's soft
cheeks. "Clock's ticking," Grace says. "Am I sending you back
across the void or are you going to finish what I started when I
took your blood?"

Arsa draws a hard wash of air through her nose, shuffles her
shoulders, and stands up as tall as she's able. "I'm going to
fuck you."

"Yes," Grace says. "You are." Her strong touch folds down Arsa's
scalp, across the back of her neck--conscientuously skirting the
perimeter of the tender cut--and rests atop her shoulders to
apply a slight downward pressure, a gentle suggestion. "Time to
get on your knees, honey."

Though she's hesitant to remove herself from Grace's embrace, an
instatenous spark of indignation forces Arsa to wiggle free.
"Excuse me?" She asks.

Grace spares her not a moment. Stepping precisely backwards, she
extends a hand and blindly searches for the desk behind her. When
she finds it she stops, stands up straight, and begins the
arduous process of drawing her absurdly tight skirt up to her
waist. "I said..." Her hips shift this way and that, gaining an
inch here, an inch there, exposing bit by bit, her robust,
sculpted thighs to Arsa's rapacious look. "On your knees."

Arsa sets her hands against her hips, standing proud, despite the
tenuous circumstance and the treacherous erection so pointedly
blaring her true feelings to the room. "I don't know what you
think is going to happen, but Arsa, Seven Hundred and Sixth of
her line, does not... does not--"

"Does not... what?" Grace settles her taut rear against the desk,
letting her legs fall askew at the knees to exposing her clean,
cotton panties. "Eat pussy?"

"A-absolutely not!"

"Well..." Grace's palm slides against her toned thigh. "Arsa,
Seven Hundred and Sixth of her line, is allowed to say no,
but..." Her eyes indicate the folio beside her, and the parchment
of Arsa's captured blood. "I thought I was talking to a shark;
sharks live to eat, don't they?"

Arsa swallows but holds steady, even as watching Grace's slowly
roving hand sends sharp tingles through her nipples and down the
back of her neck.

Grace's hand stops against the crux of her leg, wide thumb
framing her panties, so vibrantly white. "You're hungry."

Arsa shakes her head, breath coming faster. Her tail lashes
behind her in anxious whips, calling attention to the pent-up
need she can no longer ignore.

"You came here to eat." Arsa struggles to ignore the furious
desire ricocheting around her core. Grace cants her chin
downwards, eyes smoldering with a different sort of hellfire. She
arches her foot, tap-tapping her heel against the floor. "So eat,
already."

And Arsa kneels.

Grace pinches delicately around one of Arsa's stubby little
horns. It's only a playful pull she applies to it, just the
suggestion of movement; it's Arsa's greedy, vicious longing that
drags her, hands and knees, across the short distance between
them.

With careful touch against the back of her head, Grace guides
Arsa's nose to the curve of her hips where, moments ago, her hand
had so precisely lain. The core of Arsa's being fluxes with an
inward retch, unable to suppress the tremble that builds within
her.

"There, there." Coddling the Skint, Grace's fingers guide her
position in slow motion, urging Arsa's lips to find the crease of
her thigh. "Is this your first time, being so close to a human?"

Stifling a winsome, passionate sound before it spills out of her
throat, Arsa nods, the motion subtly swiping her nose against
skin, plush and warm above the dense layer of muscle beneath.

"Take a deep breath..."

Arsa's eyes cloud with unbidden wetness as she inhales her
captor's scent. The air seems filled with Grace's delicate
perfume, but that mundane aroma is nothing beneath the piquant
tinge of her human arousal, smelling to the demon's nose like
coriander and cinnamon.

Ever patient, Grace's fingers sift through Arsa's hair, stymying
the heave of her demonic instincts that still weakly thrash
against this submission despite her need. Almost cooing, Grace
ushers Arsa to look at her panties, damp with evident ardor.
When, quietly, she says, "Take them down..." Arsa lifts trembling
fingers to obey, only to find herself dissuaded.

"With your teeth," Grace says.

Arsa's fangs scrape across bare skin, once, then twice, before
she hooks them into the elastic band of Grace's underthings. She
tugs them ineffectually, a useless moan echoing in the room.

Grace's palm rests against the space between Arsa's shoulder
blades. "Carefully," she says, lifting herself off the desk to
assist Arsa's effort, her thighs mildly clenching around the
Skint's ears. "Slowly."

Her tongue flexes against the strange texture of cotton. With
painful effort, Arsa tightens the muscles of her neck, applying
all her concentration to dragging those panties free of the rise
of Grace's ass. Sweat beads across her forehead, her brow ceases
deeper and deeper and finally, finally, she tugs them all the way
down.

Arsa's breath leaves her in quiet pants. Her eyes search through
the deep bank of Grace's curly, onyx pubic hair, trailing down to
shaven, crinkled lips of an even deeper shade than her
unthinkably dark skin. Arsa observes her prey, the rich pink
flesh of Grace's center only barely shown behind her
labia--lightly spread as if in quiet yearning, flecked with
modest dampness waiting to smeared, tasted, and touched. With a
languorous motion, Grace steps a foot free of her panties,
leaving them snagged around her other ankle, so she can cock her
knees outward, heels grinding against the floor.

"Kiss me," says.

Arsa no longer needs the encouragement of Grace's fingers. Her
mouth embraces Grace in a sloppy, impatient clasp. She sucks down
like she would against a candy, finding Grace's lips tender and
soft, without a hint of stubble. Arsa's lips part, her tongue
spearing out to clear away the salty tinge from those delicate
folds. Eagerly, she searches for every brief taste of the day's
sweat that's collected upon Grace's body. The scrape of Grace's
nails drag passionate furrows into Arsa's scalp; she moans.

Arsa doesn't realize what she's doing until the pointed end of
Grace's shoe guides her hand away from her throbbing cock. She
was stroking herself--and who would blame her? Except for Grace,
of course, who, her hips rocking with imminent longing, uses her
heel to pin Arsa's hand against the floor.

"No," she says.

And Arsa obeys. Letting Grace's body consume the whole of her
attention, Arsa traces her tongue upwards, splitting wide those
lips and exulting in the tangy sensation of arousal across her
taste buds. Inexperienced, but swollen with zeal, Arsa is
rewarded with Grace's generous cry of pleasure as her tongue
peaks against her captor's cunt, slipping under the hooded flesh
that hides her clit.

Slick with want, stomach clenching with denial, Arsa seeks to
sublimate her own pleasure on the body of this woman, losing
herself in trying, and failing, to find the angle that allowed
her access to that slick button, that dense bundle of nerves that
provided such obvious approval, that confirmation of her effort.
Grace's heated panting increases with each inaccurate swipe of
Arsa's tongue, the near misses forcing tremors out of the woman's
legs that stab her feet downward, and her heel into the back of
Arsa's pinned hand. But still the Skint suckles, kneads, and
swipes every inch within her reach, demanding, begging to hear
that sound, just one more time...

So it's with a pained whimper that Arsa finds herself removed
from this hidden treasure. "No," says Grace. "No." Lips groping
at thin air, she butts her forehead against Grace's bracing palm,
but she is denied, made to watch as Grace lowers her hand to her
cunt, pressing the pads of two fingers down against her hidden
clit through its thick hood, their glossy nails glinting in the
light as she moves them in an eager frig. Voice quaking,
overflowing with manifest passion, Grace says, "Fuck me."

Arsa surges her head forward. Lips meeting lips, she stabs her
tongue out and through in shallow, needy strikes. Each jab of her
tongue through the immodest defenses of those hungry lips draws a
strangled cry from Grace, or a slap of her palm down against the
desk, or a jab forward of her hips. The scramble of Grace's
fingers against her clit clips manicured nails against Arsa's
nose, but the demon hardly notices. The slam of Grace's hips
against her face batters pubic bone against Arsa's throbbing
lips, but still she refuses to relent. Grace's heel grinds
against the back of her hand as if it could puncture down and
through, but Arsa never falters--what use does she have for a
hand? She would sacrifice it all, everything, to add even a
single ounce to the overwhelming pleasure of the woman above her,
that trembles just beneath its crescendo, warbling just before
the finish line, and sending an arcing shock, like lighting,
through Arsa's demonic bones with every contraction of Grace's
magnificent, dominant cunt.

"Please--" Arsa gasps, her lips smearing in useless circles
against the woman's need, no longer able to focus against the
waves of pleasure that crash against the shoals of her being.
"--Please!"

Unsure of what to expect, having heard only stories, Arsa is
overwhelmed by the flood of passion that explodes from this
woman, arcing through the rooms like gossamer strands of energy,
invisible to human perception, but all too real to this Skint,
one hundred and seventeen years old, but still quite young by any
demonic reckoning. As Grace screams her orgasm to the ceiling,
Arsa can only mimic the sound in anxious confusion, unsure if she
experiences her own climax or if she is merely reeling against
that of the woman above her, whose grip in Arsa's hair plasters
her lip-to-lip, and whose knees around her lissome body clench as
if they will never, ever let go.

And really, why should she want them to?

But eventually, regretfully, she is freed. Grace's spasming
fingers unfurl from their death grip in Arsa's hair, their owner
needing both hands to brace herself against the desk before she
collapses beneath the burden of sitting upright. Arsa falls back,
resting her ass against the flats of her feet and hugging her
arms around her stomach, body ringing with bemusement, still
unsure where Grace's climax end and hers began... or if she even
had one at all.

They're apart only for a few scarce breaths. Seeking warmth,
Grace guides Arsa's cheek to the inside of her thigh. Arsa rests
quietly in this embrace, eyes closed, exulting in the novel
sensation of Grace's now gentle hand stroking affectionately
across her head, smoothing out her mussed hair into place and
setting right.

As their twinned gasping slows, it's Grace who speaks first.
"Tell me," she asks, "wasn't that better than some sorority girl
with a Ouija board?"

The air stinks of their sweaty effort. Even as her rasping breath
slows to a manageable pace, Arsa fears the next one will throw
her again off that brink, into that hungry oblivion. She stares
at the floor, at the caked blood of the summoning circle smeared
beneath her knees, and shakes her head, spilling sweat-dampened
hair over her horns and in front of her eyes. "How should I
know?"

Grace throws the last of her effort into a chuckle. "Would you
like to?"

The question alone radiates a wanton ache through her weary body.
Arsa bobs her head in a silent, eager nod.

Grace lifts her chin with a single finger, bringing Arsa's gaze
to her smoldering, predatory eyes. "Well then," Grace says,
"welcome to Harris, Harris, and Clay."

*END*

See what happens next in Performance Review!

"Hands on top," Grace says.
Spine flexing, her core nearly bouncing from the promise of fresh
emotion to feed on, Arsa places her palms down against the
blotter atop the desk, scraping her nails curiously against the
black leather. A squeal of excitement builds inside her as Grace
adjusts and positions her hips, splaying her bottom outward. In
this proximity, Arsa convinces herself she can feel the heat
washing off of Grace's nearby fingers and over her needy organ,
slowly stiffening, but not quite hard. Grace's hand digs into the
front of Arsa's hip, yanking a timid sound from the Skint. She
waits.
A crack of skin against skin fills the room as Grace brings her
hand down upon the slope of Arsa's ass. The demon yelps as the
impact causes her body to surge forward, cracking her skinny hips
against the front of the desk. Snapping her head back, she slits
her eyes at her aggressor. "Ow, Grace!"
"Ms. Gallant," Grace says.
A wrathful snarl builds in Arsa's throat. As Grace's hand wraps
over her shoulder, the Skint's body tenses like a cat preparing
to strike, the instant rage of receiving the smack tempered only
by the confusion of the sting of it on her backside. And why is
she blushing?
Another snap resounds through the room; Grace's open hand strikes
Arsa cleanly across both cheeks. The Skint yowls against the heat
rising in her cheeks. "Stop that!"
Grace ratchets Arsa by the neck, forcing the demon to look back,
and up, at her. "You want to be fed, don't you?"


Find the rest of Performance Review here:
http://zoegmiller.tumblr.com/tagged/zoewriting