Thea Martin Method || Step Two: Red Dress (Preparation Stage)

Chapter 4

Step 2: Red Dress

(Preparation Stage)

“Thea! That’s preposterous! I’m not buying yet another dress!” Caitlin flails her left, unoccupied arm, and makes a few irritated puffy noises into her mobile. “If I buy anything else for the sole purpose of seducing a bloke, a shag with him will feel like hiring an escort. Once we’re done, I’ll know exactly how much it cost me!”

Caitlin climbs into her Prius, and smacks the door behind her.

“Cai, you asked for my help, may I remind you!” Thea is full of righteous indignation.

Caitlin’s phone beeps, and she sees she has another call.

“Thea, shush! He’s ringing me! What do I do?!”

“Remember that film with the yummy Scot we watched couple months ago?” Caitlin realizes Thea means The Ugly Truth with Gerard Butler.

“I’m not letting him go to voicemail! And even more so, I’m not picking up and calling him a wrong name. I can see his office number on my screen!”

“Suit yourself,” Thea answers in an haughty tone. “At least don’t agree on the day he proposes.”

“But… But… I don’t know what to say!” Caitlin thrashes in her car, not sure what to do; she drops the keys; her purse jumps under her feet from her lap; and finally she manages to swipe the screen, and choke out a ‘hello.’

“Dr. McGrath?” Oh god, how is he not assaulted on the everyday basis with a voice like that?!

“Uh-huh,” answers Dr. McGrath, PhD in Mediaeval French Lit, and Women Studies. You’d think a person with all these degrees would be more articulate. “Dr. Oakes?”

“Perhaps, we could use our first names, Caitlin?” Caitlin sags in her seat, and closes her eyes. Perhaps, they could – but how will she refrain from rubbing herself up and down all his glorious bod like a cat if he does it in public settings?

“Sure, John, I’d love to. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping you were still interested in going to that exhibition next week. The photography one, by the American artist, August Anderson?”

Caitlin confirms she is. They set up day and time, and agree to meet in a coffee shop in front of the gallery. He’s talking; Caitlin’s wondering if it’s just her, or the students at his lectures also have out-of-body experiences at the sounds of his wonderful Northern accented speech? It’s like velvet, chocolate fondue, and the 16 year old Lagavulin.

She hangs up, and then realizes that she has the Master of One-Off, the magnificent Thea Martin still waiting on the other line. And Caitlin has just openly disobeyed an order and agreed on the day he offered. She’s also probably broken couple rules she doesn’t even know about. Caitlin exhales, and braces herself.


The same evening the two ladies are having a ladies’ night. And it doesn’t involve the activities, prohibited by the Equality and Human Rights Commission as unlawful gender discrimination. It involves a film, sweets, and a jar of Phenomé Blossom Therapeutic Face Mask.

While Matt Damon is industriously planting potatoes on the screen, Caitlin is chewing a macaron.

“I still think you should get a new dress. And it should be red,” Thea suddenly announces, and Caitlin ignores her, as if absorbed in the intricacies of Martian agriculture. “Cai…”

“Thea, I’m not buying a dress. I already bought one for your Step One. I’ll still wear it later, so that wasn’t a complete waste; but that’s the end of it. I’ll find something to wear to the photo exhibition.”

“But how are you going to execute Step 2. Red Dress, if you don’t have a red dress?” Thea asks pouting, and Caitlin finally turns to her.

“What exactly is Step 2?”

“Well, Caitlin, I’m glad you asked…” Thea grins widely. “It involves three simple sub-steps. Stun. Tease. Retreat.”

“Sounds complicated.” Catlin sighs and picks up another macaron. “Can I just spend an evening with him? Maybe he didn’t even get what it’s all about last time, you know…” She’s sad to admit that the thought has visited her before. What if he didn’t quite understand that she was asking him out with shag being the outing’s direct and sole consequence?

“Wow, McGrath! Wait a minute!” Thea exclaims, and pauses the film. “Are you saying me there’s a chance that he might be expecting something else out of it?  Not a nice thorough one-off?” Thea looks suddenly mortified. “Goodness, Cai, are you saying you might have hinted it was a… date?” Thea spits out the last word like the worst of swearings.

“No! I mean, maybe… I don’t know… I hope not!” Caitlin mournfully ponders the purple almond beauty in her hand.

“What do you mean ‘maybe?’ It’s either shag, or… blagh… romance! What else is there?”

“Maybe, he thinks we’re just… mates. He had no one to go there with, and I offered. Maybe he’s spoken for. He’s officially single, I checked. But maybe he isn’t looking.”

“Who cares, Cai? If he has a doxy, or a girlfriend, it’s his business!” Thea scoffs. “You should only bother to understand where he’s taking it, and redirect him if the poor sod is lost.”

“Maybe he’s gay,” Caitlin offers another option, and Thea chokes on the tea she was drinking.

“Cai, how off is your sex-dar if you can’t tell?”

“Thea, I haven’t had sex in five years! How off do you think the poor gadget is?” Caitlin answers snappily, and jumps off her sofa to march to the kitchen to start the kettle.

“God, McGrath, I’d have died!” Thea hollers after her.

Caitlin rolls her eyes. Thea wouldn’t understand, so there is no point to explain – but Caitlin just didn’t feel like it. It wasn’t important. It wasn’t interesting. It is interesting now.


Caitlin is standing by the sink watching water run into the kettle.

She needs to make sure that Dr. Oakes – with his wide shoulders, mouth-watering jaw line under the exciting black and silver beard, and his large scorching hands – knows exactly what it’s all about, and where it’s going.

And perhaps for the first time in her life, Caitlin agrees with Thea wholeheartedly. Romance is out of the question! Caitlin doesn’t need a man! She needs a man after midnight – as in ‘gimme, gimme, gimme’ – and after that toodle-pips, and adios!

Caitlin loves her life. It’s fulfilling, rewarding, and exactly the way Caitlin wants it to be. She has her work, her students, her books, her paintings – her interests and habits. She doesn’t want to acclimatize to another set of those.

Also, Caitlin worries. She worries about her very, very old Nana, her only living relative. She worries about every single of her students: Are they satisfied with their studies? Are they feeling suffocated in the academia? Are their needs met? Are they developing as persons and scholars? Is there something she could do, or stop doing to allow them to better fulfill their potential?

She worries about her six goddaughters and five godsons; about Thea; about the world politics; about climate change; about each and every charity she participates in; about the decline of tiger population in the world; about polar bears in Canada.

Caitlin doesn’t need to worry about a man.

Having one and living with him seemed as a marginally attractive theoretical possibility when she was twenty. She isn’t anymore.

There’s only one way to ensure that after she rises out of the arms of Dr. Oakes, PhD, she isn’t required to cuddle and listen to his problems. And he surely has plenty, real, or imaginary – he’s male. She wants to say a polite and relaxed ‘goodbye,’ take a cab home, and then enjoy a long bath. After which she will go back to her life in all its perfection, with pleasant – hopefully – memories of consensual, adult, quality shag.

And the path to this – hopefully – satisfying ending lies through Step 2: Red Dress.

“Thea, I’m going to need more instructions on the whole ‘stun, tease, retreat,’” Caitlin shouts from the kitchen, and hears Thea’s ‘thank Odin and other creepy Norse deities’ over the noise of the boiling kettle.


Next Thursday, after her classes, Caitlin is running out of her building on campus, huffing and puffing, and panicking. A student fainted in Caitlin’s class. And then there was a long conversation with the nurse; and the student turned out to be pregnant. And then there was the drama with the student ringing up her boyfriend; and then the other bloke she’s shagging; and on and on. And somehow the student decided that letting go of Caitlin’s hand was out of the question.

And now, instead of her carefully chosen outfit – Thea participated, and the dress and the heels did receive her approval – Caitlin is clad in her usual assortment of cozy cotton and linen layers, all loose, and baggy. Caitlin buys most of her clothes on Etsy. She likes the idea of her money travelling all over the world supporting women, and the closeness she develops with some of her ‘dealers.’ Currently, she’s her usual ball of shawls, harem trousers, and oversized tunics by Aakasha. All grey and charcoal. The clobber is ace. It travelled all the way from Bulgaria – but unlike the slaggish and non-feminist outfit sadly abandoned on Caitlin’s bed – it doesn’t say ‘come hither, sailor.’

She’s also ten minutes late; and Thea said being late could be interpreted as romantic. Caitlin can’t allow anything remotely romantic to happen! She’s here to suss out if Dr. Oakes is up for a lovely one-off; with anything else being a no-no.

She pushes the door of the coffee shop, and smacks into his chest. He was standing by the entrance, reading a flier for some indie play he’d picked up from the cork board by the door.

Sadly, Caitlin’s libido doesn’t get a chance to enjoy the delicious shiver that runs through her body after the smack. She’s just starting to formulate her hungry thoughts and her randy assumptions on what’s underneath this black Burberry peacoat, when he ruins everything!

“Caitlin, evening!” Does he need to looks so happy to see her, and smile, and show his white teeth, and have these crow’s feet, and be so… nice?! “You look flourishing! Were today’s lectures inspiring? You look like a professor well listened to.”

He chuckles, offering her to share into how silly his joke was. Oh horror! She did like the joke! And she thought it was funny! And he didn’t say ‘you look lovely tonight,’ which only means either ‘I know I’m expected to say this,’ or ‘I’ve noticed you dressed up for me.’  

Oh poop.

The story will continue in Chapter 5. Stage 2: Red Dress (Execution Stage)

Update Schedule and Patreon News


I decided that it would be nice of me to post my update schedule, since I was asked several times, and generally, I feel people are already twitching nervously since I’m jumping from platform to platform, updating in a seemingly frantic fashion 🙂

Firstly, yes, I am. There’s a lot going on, and it is very much frantic 🙂

Secondly, here’s the schedule in case you want to read something else by yours truly (or all of it! But who has that much time? 😉 )

Monday: Fairy Wars on Archive of Our Own (Celtic mythology and The Hobbit fusion)

Tuesday: Read Like a Book (BBC Sherlock fanfiction; previously posted on on Archive of Our Own

Wednesday: fanfiction day 🙂 Either Four Corners of Middle Earth or Read Between the Lines on FanFiction. Or both. I can’t help it! I want it all!

Thursday: second chapter a week for Fairy Wars on AO3 + Better Than One (romance/mystery/erotica parody) on JukePop

Friday: catching-up day (there are couple things here and there, such as a new Star Trek fusion crossover Sunny Side Up on AO3, and the exclusive for my supporters on Patreon 1930’s Agatha Christie style mystery story Lady Leary Mysteries; so it’s not like I have nothing to do 😉 )

SaturdayDr T Series on my blog.

Sunday: no updates. I’m probably in the zoo with my kid. Have you read the chapter in Better Than One about goose poop? Yeah, that zoo 😛

And now, regarding my Patreon:

Firstly, my most heartfelt gratitude to my Patrons! Your support is most appreciated! I’m hoping my Patreon to grow soon, and then I don’t have to find a job 😉 and can just continue this updating madness, and finally finish my children’s book Axolotl Returns, and start looking for a publisher for it! (Let’s face it, if you like my Johns, you will love Uncle Darius 😉 )

As for the exclusive Patron posts that are only available for you if you’re donating (as little as) $1 per month:

I’ve sort of lost my interest in my Rodhina Project. I blame the lack of a dark haired, blue-eyed male protagonist 😉 The interest will, of course, be back in September, when I am planning to start working on more art for the upcoming Winnipeg Comic-Con where I’m going to have a table. We are having William Shatner as a guest this year! I’m excited 🙂 (Also, whatever art I create by then will be surely available on my Etsy shop. I’ll keep you posted.)

So, I’m thinking for now my Patrons will receive exclusive chapters of Lady Leary Mysteries as a reward for their support: The general rating ones, containing the investigation plot will be available to all my Patrons (pledges starting at $1 per month); and for those pledging $10 – erotic companion pieces. (I’ve written one already. I’m completely infatuated with this story, and this couple thrills me. So I wrote ahead, which I only do if I can’t contain myself 😀 I hope you like them too. And again, the fashion!)

So, see you in my multiple platforms and (hopefully) my Patreon!

Love you all,


P. S. Did you see my modest doodles on my Instagram? I’m planning to start posting my doodles on a DeviantArt page. I’ll keep you posted 🙂

Heal All Wounds || Chapter 6. Wrennie in Recovery

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It’s actually very nice to be tucked in bed all day. Especially if it’s such a luxurious big bed, and you manage to ignore the intimidating Kandinsky above your head.  And of course very much due to the fact that you also get to be waited on by a gorgeous man.

It’s not bloody nice though, because whatever you said in the hospital you want that man in the bed with you. And he resists.

Literally. He presses his hands into the edge of the bed, and you can’t pull him into it. He’s so bloody heavy!

“Wren…” Your lips are too busy to answer. God, his neck is delicious! “We can’t…”

“But I’m feeling fine…” Your words are muffled; you add some teeth. You know what he likes. He jumps away.

“The kettle is probably ready. I’ll make you tea.” He clears his throat. And has to adjust his crotch. Let’s face it, you do know what he likes.

You fall back into the sheets with an ‘oomph.’ It’s been four days, and you’re bored. And randy, you are so fucking randy. The bed smells like him, Hermes Epic Marine, and something specifically John, and you nuzzle a pillow. In a mo you realize you are rubbing your whole body to the sheets like a feline. OK, that needs to be addressed.

You jump out of the bed and quickly walk into the kitchen. He’s decorously stirring tea in a mug for you.

“I need an orgasm.” His jaw drops. Again, literally. His mouth opens slightly, his eyes widen.

You’re standing in front of him, his tee on you reaching mid-thigh.

“I get it, John, doctor’s orders and such, but I’m so randy that I literally almost just came from humping your blanket.”

He can’t contain a smile, and you feel miffed.

“It’s not funny, John! I get it, we can’t stick anything in it, but you have to help me here. One orgasm, and I will leave you alone.” He guffaws.

“You’re saying it as if I am resisting.”

“You are! You slept on the sofa today!”

“You were molesting me in my sleep!”

“You can’t blame me! I was asleep myself! It’s instinctual! And besides…”

He doesn’t let you finish. He presses his mouth to yours and picks you up under your arms. Then he puts you on the window sill and spreads your legs. Your head drops back, and you painfully hit the back of it into the Venetian blinds. Who fucking cares! He drops on his knees in front of you, and you exhale.

“Finally, for fucking fuck sake!” He chuckles, and you grab the thick hair at the back of his head. You might be pushing him towards yourself a little bit.

“Well, aren’t we impatient…” You shiver from the pure indecency of his voice.

Your knickers theatrically fly across the kitchen, and you moan. The cool air hits your heated fanny, but is quickly replaced by soft warm lips. You cry out.

“You’re always such a screamer.” He’s chuckling, and then the tip of his tongue slides across your sex.

“Fuck!” You jump up. He presses a palm to your thigh.

“Sit still…”

He lowers his mouth on you, and his movements are slow and gentle. You really don’t need much today. You’re sloping down, he has to support your waist, his large hot palms under your ribs.

He licks the clit once, and you come, shaking and moaning. Then he lets you go, and you slide down. He actually has to catch you, and you end up on the floor together. He’s laughing.

“Oh, shut up…” you mewl weakly and smack his chest.

You two are sprawled on the floor, he wraps his arms around you, and you are curling up into his side, nuzzling his neck.

“Wren, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“You’re very comfortable…”

Your eyes are closing, and the last thing you hear is the low rumble of a chuckle in his chest. Oh, the chest, you bloody love the chest…


You wake up in the bed, and it smells like Italian. Your mouth waters. Then an absolutely indecent image of licking red sauce of the corner of his lips leaps into your brain. You have to be honest, you were rather embarrassed for exactly this behaviour of yours couple weeks ago, but then, in that posh Italian restaurant you just couldn’t help it. Judging by how he grabbed the back of your head then and snogged you senseless, he didn’t disapprove.

You trot to the kitchen. He is sitting at the table reading a cookbook. In his glasses. Bugger. He lifts his eyes, and then one black brow starts sliding up. Tosser, he knows precisely what he’s doing to you. Time to reciprocate. You’ve got a thing for his glasses – let’s be honest you’ve got a thing for his everything – and these bloody specs especially, but he’s not made of stone either. He would probably be very embarrassed if he knew that you knew, but he can never resist your biting. And not necessarily into him.

You pick up a slice of cucumber from the salad bowl and sink your teeth in it with gusto and a loud crunch. He freezes. You finish the slice and pick up another one.

“Smells really nice. What is it?” Your tone is perfectly nonchalant. He’s silent, eyes dark, fixed on your mouth. You let him enjoy the show of the green ring in front of your mouth for a second, and then you bite into it.

He jumps on his feet, and the chair actually falls on the floor with the bang behind him. You can see cogs frantically turning in his head. He has two ways to go: towards the washroom where he can stick his head under cold water. Probably won’t help, he has been sleeping near you for three nights and didn’t get any. He could take a shower and attend to his needs. Or he can make a large step towards you and ravish you. He frowns and clenches his teeth. You are slightly pleased to see that the shower option is winning in his head. But you might also be a bit disappointed at his relentless self-control.

You take pity and stretch your hand towards him.

“How about we go to bed and help you with your tension?” He opens his mouth, but you interrupt him, “But without risking my health obviously.”

You think you might have been just teleported into the bedroom.


It takes three rounds to release his tension, and you feel very nice and tired now.

“So, John, what was it in the oven?”

He curses, under his breath obviously – always a gentleman – tumbles off the bed, and runs in the kitchen. The view of his naked backside disappearing around the corner might just be your favourite memory of recent. Although no, that time on the bathroom floor just before you thought you got pregnant…

You hear him cursing in the kitchen. Here goes your lunch.

He yells from the kitchen, “Take away?”

You guess he didn’t put the timer on. You giggle.

“Sure, but I still want Italian.”

You throw his robe on and walk to the kitchen, the window is open, and he’s waving a tea towel in the air. The smoke is almost gone, but the smell of burnt tomato paste is pungent.

You giggle again – he seriously shouldn’t be doing it in the buff. All the swaying!

He pounces on you, and you squeal.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I can’t help it!” You can’t breathe, squirming to escape his fingers roaming your ribs. “You were waving so thoroughly….”

You’re roaring with laughter, and unsurprisingly get teleported to the bedroom again.


You are finishing your dinner in bed, since it still smells kind of grotty in the kitchen. Or maybe you two just like it here. He’s nibbling on your shoulder, when his landline rings. You didn’t even know he had one.

He exchanges a few phrases with whoever is calling, and you understand that it is the concierge. He hangs up and looks at you.

“You should probably throw something on. My sister is coming up with an unexpected visit.”