Plug

Just finished the text and cover for two stories that I am about to send to my publisher – Smutville Press.  Picnic and Munch are both little heavy breathing sex stories and a bit of fluff and fun.

I’ll announce on twitter when it’s out, but here’s a little bit of picnic 

 

There was a car already there.

The trees swayed in the wind, making the shadows dance along the high grass and roll over and back across the picnic tables.  There was enough of a wind to keep the flying insects at bay and to make it a perfect place for an assignation.

But there was car already there.

She lifted her right leg and placed the bare foot on the dashboard.  The pink shorts she wore dutifully slid over, exposing the white frilly panties she’d chosen for the occasion.  She reached over to his lap and rubbed the hardness that pressed against her hand.  She’d been teasing him since they left.

She pulled the tiny white panel of the crotch out from under the rolled fabric of the shorts murmuring about how wet she was, letting the gentle folds of flesh under it to peek through for a moment.

He pulled into the parking lot.  It was big enough for a dozen or so cars, she’d imagined he would go to the end of the lot away from the one interloper to their planned assignation, but he pulled one spot over from the intruder.  She looked at him, turning her head down, peering through thick lashes as the practiced little pout puffed her lower lip.

He reached beneath her foot, leaning between her legs and opened the glove box.  He removed a pair of scissors he found in there and reached under the flimsy shorts.

“HEY!” she called before she could stop herself, but by then the damage was done.  He’d taken hold of the waistband of the bright frilly panties and snipped it through.  She could feel the cloth give way around her waist.  He reached across her belly and slit the other side.

“They were pretty…” she murmured.

He reached between her legs, thumb skillfully sliding under the crotch of the shorts and grabbed her sex through the white panel of the now destroyed underwear.  She gasped as his rough touch electrified her to her core.

“Lift your ass,” he whispered.  He pulled the frillies out from the leg of the shorts, his fingers pulling her mound as he did.  “They are pretty,” he conceded and placed them on the dashboard of the car, spreading them out neatly.  “Now they can be enjoyed by so many more people.”

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Romantica

I HAD to do this week’s Wicked Wednesday.  I suggested the prompt, so I felt like it would be rude to not join in.

I wrote a story in an anthology (http://sirjaerls.wordpress.com/2013/02/28/deal-from-some-like-it-rough) located somewhere in this stream of consciousness blog, and the only negative review from Amazon boiled down to: it wasn’t realistic. 

No.  And that’s the point.  Pizza delivery guys and plumbers don’t get laid by the beautiful housewife either, it’s the FANTASY that people want to read … and write for that matter.  So I got the wild hair idea of “what would it look like to make it REAL“?  

So for better or worse, here is the ROMATICA (romantic erotica) and the REALITY.

 

ROMANTICA

Looking deeply into her eyes he smiled as his deft fingers slipped the sweater over her head and reached around for the clasp nestled between her shoulder blades.  Her back jumped and trembled as his powerful touch freed her from the confines of the bra and she lowered her gaze as she lowered her arms to allow him to slip the cloth away, baring her to his gaze.

Yet he held her eyes, and wrapping a hand behind her head, pulled her in for a deep lingering kiss that spoke of passion, need and desire.

She fumbled a bit with his shirt, cursing the small buttons that delayed even for a moment when she could touch him, feel him, the warmth of his skin, the fur on his chest, the belly she was so anxious to hold. In a glittering shower of buttons, the shirt won free.

He reached for her again and in a frenzied orgy of cloth and moans, they undressed each other, clenched, locked in step, bodies pressed as closely together as they could be while fevered grasping hands bared more flesh until finally they were both free of their clothing.

He lifted her in his arms, lips locked breath shared and lay her on the bed.  Looming over her, watching her he lowered himself as she guided him in.  Her breath caught in a half sob and her mouth fell open as she moaned.

“So good,” she whispered, her voice dark with desire.

REALITY

He lifted her shirt as it stuck in the hem of her skirt.  A quick tug freed the tail of the shirt and caused his fist, clenched in the stubborn cloth to slam against her breast.  Her gasp of pain came at the same time as his apology.    She grasped his neck and leapt to his mouth, clashing her teeth on his.

Ignoring the stinging he felt in his mouth, he began to kiss down the side of her neck and pulled her shirt off over her head, the sound of her glasses clattering on the tile somewhere in the distance.  Setting to work on the bra clasp he pulled the straps tight and sought to open the clasps one by one while using his feet to wedge off his shoes.  The bra twisted and the clasps jammed.

She batted his hands away and reached behind her to undo the clasps and pulled the bra free.  His left shoe skittered across the floor and he grabbed her breasts, filling his hands and leaning down to kiss her again.  His open mouth covered her nose for a moment before he was able to try again with more precision.

She reached for the buttons on his shirt, mumbling in his mouth about the frustration of buttons at a time like this.  Frustrated, she pulled the shirt open shredding it as the buttons held when the cloth could not.

His stocking foot fought the right shoe, but it refused to slip off the way its mate had done.

He stripped her skirt and panties and she fought his belt.  He batted her hands away and opened his pants.  In a single savage act, she tore his pants down and he gasped as her fingernails scored long red welts over his thighs.

He stepped out of the left leg of his pants; the right leg still stuck by the reluctant shoe like a clog and picked her up in his arms, swinging her to the bed.  Her foot caught the lamp and the bulb shattered, scattering glass across the floor.

Laying her on the bed, he lay over her as she held him.  As he lowered himself she smiled and a moment later whispered, “Are you in yet?”

 

Actually, that was kind of fun.  I may have to try that in an expanded version.

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repaint

The WickedWednesday Challenge this week was “Write from the Point of View of and old car that has gotten a new paint job”. I have never really taken direction well, but what the hell, this was kind of fun to do it wrong.
Then too, I was supposed to keep it under 1000 words. I failed. It’s 1021. Yeah, what a rebel.

“Lady Kar,” Lord Canton cried out as he was escorted into the perfumed opulence of the drawing room. The woman who smiled in return offered her gloved hand for his kiss.

“Lord Canton,” she purred, a stately cat, proud and well aware of herself. “Welcome back. You’ve been gone too long, you naughty boy!” Canton blushed at the gentle teasing. Calling him a “boy” was as flattering as calling Lady Kar a girl.

“I have been abroad, Madame,” he replied, reclaiming his walking stick from the diaphanous half naked young girl who escorted him. “I’ve only just returned and paid a visit straight away!”
“An honor as always, Lord Canton. And just in time also, I might add.”

“Indeed? And what manner of temptation have you in store today?” Lord Canton’s eyebrow lent an air of lascivious sincerity to his inquiry but his eyes carefully regarded the calculated sway of the girl’s hips as she left the two of them to their negotiations. It wasn’t until they were completely alone that he turned back to the Madame.

“A rare find, sir, a rare find indeed. While you were away and causing us to worry so about your absence,” she pursed her mouth into a mue in playful recrimination, “ I have come upon such an exotic beauty as you have never witnessed. She will be displayed this very evening!”

“Displayed?” Lord Canton echoed. “Not used?”

“Well, my lord, tonight will be special indeed. Tonight I have paired her with two strapping young men of some beauty. They shall be in the spotlight and those fortunate enough to witness will be in the shadows. Anonymity for all sorts of dire happenings.”

“I see.” Canton pursed his lips. “Alone in the dark,” he said slowly signaling the beginning of the negotiations. “Not unlike the insufferable accommodations I endured on my journey. “Surely there is a greater temptation?”

“Of course, my Lord,” Kar smiled. It was a point of pride that even at her age, her teeth were white and straight. A rarity she exploited to her best advantage. “We do of course offer the finest companions for your watching enjoyment.”

“I think, Madam, I have a counter proposal. I should like to offer you half again the usual fee – but I insist that I be escorted by you yourself.”

It was the last thing she’d expected him to say and for the first time in many years she was left without a comeback. “Lord Canton,” she swallowed. “You are a dear man, but I no longer…”

“Nonsense, Villma,” he dropped all pretense of distant propriety. “You’re still a lovely woman. I want you on your knees before me with your mouth around me. I’ve wanted it for some time now.”

Lady Kar smiled, and though the professional woman tallied the coin such a liaison would bring, there was a genuine glee in her smile that radiated over her face and under the powder and rouge.

“Come then, my lord,” she took his arm and indicated a private booth. Here a panel of the wall slid open and Lord Canton had a grand view of a stage lit by candle and gas. The action had already begun and the girl – a nubile young thing with skin as dark as brandy had just finished disrobing.

“Exotic indeed Lady Kar,” he whispered appreciatively. The Madam smiled and leaned against him, her hand resting idly on the front of his pants. Her fingers trailed slow circles over his hardening member and she could hear his breath catch as she found the parting of his trousers.

The new girl in the lamplight stroked her pert breasts and pulled the nipples as from the shadows, two figures entered the light. Both were young men Lord Canton had seen in the house before, servants for the main, but available for those members who preferred males or liked to be voyeurs instead of participants.

The girl grabbed the first male aggressively by his belt and tore it free, allowing his pants to fall. The man’s sex was enormous and she bent to lavish him with her tongue. The other male appeared behind her and eyed the thick black bush around her delicate skin. Dropping his own pants, he held her hips lining up his cock.

Lady Kar opened Lord Canton’s buttons one by one and pulled him free. The lace of her gloves wrapped around him and pulled on his hardening shaft as they watched the second young man split the girl. The exotic girl groaned and bucked but never lost the cock in her lips. She pulled on the first man’s balls and Canton watched with growing arousal as the incredible length of the man disappeared down her throat. He groaned.

“You like what you see, my lord?” Lady Kar whispered her voice husky.

“Luck bastard, that.” He said

She smiled and released him, his ridged cock standing straight from his hips. She turned to him and slowly descended to her knees, voluminous dress pooling at her waist. She took the member in her mouth and incredibly, he grew even larger.

The Madame should have been watching the grand attraction. It was making her a lot of money with all the gentlemen and even a few ladies that gathered in the shadows. She should have been sure that it went smoothly for her guests, but Lord Canton wanted her. With all the girls and young women in the house to choose from, he was willing to pay EXTRA for the Madame.

She dove upon his cock with an enthusiasm she hadn’t felt for a long time. Taking him deep into her throat she used every technique and trick she’d learned over a lifetime of pleasuring men. Lord Canton groaned and closed his eyes and Lady Kar stroked him and let his discharge glaze her face.

When he was done, she smiled and kissed the tip of his manhood, licking the last of the moisture away. She tenderly put him back together and rose, his discharge still glistening on her face.

“Pardon me, Lord Canton,” she smiled. “I will return shorty, I need some fresh paint.”

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Misogyny

I was accused of misogyny. 

I laughed.  I was accused by someone that I never met who knows nothing about me except that I identified myself on twitter as a sadist and Dom.  That was all they needed to make an assessment. 

I don’t talk about my sadism, my role as a dominant, or my desire to see a woman squirm and beg and lose the barriers that keep her isolated as we all are in this world.  I limit that to here and to twitter. 

This is one reason why.

Look upon a woman in the throes of passion; look at the muscles that constrict, the flesh that spasms and jumps and all under my touch.  This is beauty restrained and gifted to me in a way deeper and more intimate than any vanilla relationship could reach.

Look into her eyes.  The fire of intelligence that sparks her day, the powerful brilliance of an agile mind subsumed under passion and emotions she might not even know were there.  Barriers fall under the strain of the body’s attention.  When a bright, powerful woman lets herself fall to instinct and desire and becomes little more than the grunting, straining mindless need, it is the greatest gift imaginable that she would allow me to take her there, keep her there and allow me to release her.

D/s can be a misogyny/misandry practice.  There are those who see the tools: the whips, chains, ropes, paddles and think they are Doms.  These are dangerous, foolish children playing with another human blindly and without concern for their partners.  I wish they didn’t exist, but they are legion.

For me, my sadism, my control is all about bringing her to a level she’s never known – taking her deeper into the primal “I” where the lizard knows only the need, the desire and the power of release. Therein lays a beauty breathtaking and intense.  Therein lays a fire that is blinding and deep. 

I can make her cry, laugh, moan.  I can make her need, I can make her scream, I can make her pass out.  But she warms my soul in the light of that fire and her rise and fall brings to me an intimacy that enwraps my heart and fills my soul.

Misogynist?  Quite the opposite.  I am a sadist and a dom because I can clear away the borders, tear down the walls and with breathless wonder touch her core, caress her soul.  And when she wakes, if she is in my arms, if it is me she sees and holds and clutches like rescued child, my heart finds completion and I know for that moment, for that instant in time, she is mine.  I will rebuild her walls, I will rebuild her defenses, but now I can do it from the inside.

And when we part for the day, for a week, or sadly forever, she will be as much a part of me as I am of her.  I will never let that moment go, even if it ends badly, that moment in time is MINE forever.

In the darkness when the shadows come, at work when the politics are crushing, in traffic when I am the only one who values his vehicle, I reach for that moment and remember the sweating, unconscious naked woman in my arms whose eyes flutter open just enough to smile at me.  I will remember how she strains every muscle to give my beard a kiss.

it’s then I let her into my barriers and let her past my walls.  After care is as much for me as for her. 

PAIN2

It’s NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and all the moments I can steal are dedicated to creating a new book of no less than 50K words.  

But this week’s Wicked Wednesday is “When Pain Because Pleasure”, and that’s my theme song!  I could NOT turn away from this WW, so I dug into the archives (yes, I have archives) and found two pieces that I think work rather well for this assignment.

Forgive some old poetry, but enjoy if you can:

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Sadist

Light coalesces to a pinpoint

Life shrinks to an endpoint

Body arches in writhing pain

Torn throat pleading “do it again”

Orgasms that tear and burn

Emotions, sensations bubble and churn

Physical creation of emotional pain

Share with me, all one and the same

A gift I can give, one with release

Sharing anguish without grief

Connection, reflection, reaching accord

Building, releasing: a two edged sword

I grant you my pain, but from

Love I grant your freedom

It’s here in my arms

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This one I wanted to play with.  It’s called “Counting” because I started a refrain with two word sentences and then three and four and five.  Despite the play with word count, it turned out to be fair.

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“Counting”

Clamp bites

Neck arches

Mouth parts

Tongue lifts

Teeth clench

Eyes close

Breath catches

Back arches

Arms tense

Legs shudder

Sex moistens

Fingers flex

Belt caresses flesh

Red welts rise

Horse cries echo

Torso twists, lifting

Legs strain restraints

Eyes fly open

Mouth bares teeth

Neck powers cries

Shoulders press table

Writhing against ropes

Feet curl up

Fingers into fists

Cane caresses tender flesh

Bruises and welts dance

Blood rushes in hot

Eyes cross and close

Face pulls in pain

Ass jumps and flexes

Hands reach out blind

Sobbing screams sharply muted

Moisture hot on thighs

Beaten, spanked and now taken

Used and loved and dominated

Eyes glazed all but love

Body shakes and trembles again

Touch and sex and pain

Release and love and passion

It’s all the same emotion

Intimacy without shame, soul deep

 

I love this topic…

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Study1

When an artist prepares to do a painting, especially a large painting detailing many people and lots of action, he will often create a “study”, meaning that he will do a mini-painting or sketch of some detail to better have an idea where it will fit and to help create a feel for the finished work.

My NaNo this year is a “sword and sorcery” high fantasy/horror novel.  Although it will have a lot of explicit sex, it’s not erotica in that the sex isn’t the point of the work, it’s incidental.  Here then is a study for that work.  I wont be including this in the novel, or at least not in this form, but it gives me (and you if you care) an idea what the tone will be for the tale.

**********************************************************************

The sword stopped with an abruptness that sent a thrill up His arm.  The blade gave a dull “thunk” as it struck and shattered bone.  The corpse at the other end of His arm slumped and nearly tore the blade from His hand.  The hilt and pommel were slick with the spilled blood of nameless, uncounted dead and only the grip of tightly wrapped leather let Him hold the weapon long enough to wrench it free.

In the same motion the blade flew across the front of His horse and blocked a feeble blow from some farmer’s get.  A shock of brown hair, a face too young to have ever known a razor were the instant impressions He had before the horse reared under His spurs and crushed the boy’s head with a shod hoof the size of dinner plate.

The screaming of men and horse was deafening.  His voice, battle trained and tried, screamed defiance and rage, hate for enemies and all that ever lived.  Another sweep of the blade and another gusher of blood added to the slick red mud under the horse’s hooves.

From the corner of His eye, He saw the banner droop, the numb hands slipping away from the boy who once held it.  An arrow had found its way into the youth’s eye and death had taken him before the body could fall.

He dropped His shield and reached, capturing the pole and banner in His left hand.  Rising up, the sturdy shaft blocked an axe blow and a sizable chip of wood splintered off and spiraled over His head.  Behind the battered flimsy helm, the attacker’s grizzled craggy face was battle crazed.  It was a look He knew well.  Another block with the thick pole and the sword reached over the horse and came down on the axman’s head, cleaving it open, parting the bone like cracking an egg.

The standard swooped back again, the pike at the top of the flagpole severing a neck.  The gush of life’s blood stained the flag a dark crimson.

He spurred the horse around to find He was alone in circle of death.  His troops fought on in small pockets, one on one. He rose in the saddle, standing in the stirrups.  In a voice strange even to Him, raw from battle, burning from hours of fighting and screaming orders, yelled one more command.

Waving the banner high, blood of His foes spraying from the motion of the flapping grisly flag till he and his mount were thick with crimson, He called his soldiers to Him, rallying on His command.

The battle was won.  The enemy defeated.

They might have surrendered.  He’d made the offer.  They’d refused.

“NO MERCY!” was the hoarse call that echoed over the final dying screams of men as the horde of demons that called Him “Master” rode over the last of the unarmed defenders.

Supplicant

A Wicked Wednesday prompt.  It started with the word “wet”.  

I found a lovely image on the internet with a girl kneeling in a heavy rain.  It’s quite beautiful,   I am adding it here.  (I believe this to not be a protected image, but if it is, let me know and I will take this one down too.)  I had this image in mind when I started this challenge.  The story took a rather dark turn, however, but let’s put that in the category of Happy Halloween.

A finger of pure light tore through the blackness of a cloud-cast midnight with the scream of shredding steel. Thunder slammed against the forest floor like a fist.

Breaching the tree line, she strode barefoot through the sodden leaves and detritus to the clearing.  Here where trees did not dare to grow and only stubborn twisted grass that covered the barren hill, she stopped: a lone figure in a perfect circle of emptiness.

She stood, head bowed, arms at her sides and concentrated on breathing.  Lightning sparked again, white fury, but a long way off and the roll of the thunder tried to reach her, but the gathered trees muffled its growl.

There was blood on her breasts, on her hands, on her mouth and running down her throat.  She balled her fists, digging the elongated nails into her palms, holding the rage, the anger, the… fear.  Fire danced through the clouds and the rumbles of thunder doubled and trebled on each other.  The sky seemed alive with angry gods, light as pure and venomous as vengeance brought moments of daylight to the clearing and in the distance, a tree exploded from a caress of the light.

Raising her arms, fists released in open accusation of god and fate, she raised her head and faced the ethereal wrath of the storm.  She screamed the defiance of her breed.  Water, fresh and pure ran down her flesh and cleansed the blood from her skin.  It covered her face, ran through her long black hair and sheeted over her belly and hips to run in rivulets along her long legs, pooling at her feet.

Her unearthly roar harmonized with the growling, howling storm.  Her arms raised in defiance, supplication and a need to be touched with the glimmering, deadly purity of the light.  A need to burn, a need to cleanse more than flesh, more than skin, a desperate need to cleanse by fire.  Calling the gods, the sky, the storm – one touch, one kiss of the light and the nightmare ends, one caress of the divine and she could rest.

Her cry outlasted the growl of the thunder, her plea denied, her curse upheld.  Light and sound moved on, leaving her in the middle of an emptiness, and the rain fell harder.

Cursed and cursing, she fell to her knees, hands grabbing the rough, twisted grass.

She had no tears, so she stole the storm’s.  The rain fell, striking the earth and filling the clearing.   Had she been able to cry, it would have been no less severe, no less copious than the wringing of the dark clouds above.

Image

As the storm abated and moved on, abandoning her where she knelt, she rose to her feet and straightened her shoulders.

Cleansed, she slipped back into the trees, forever young, forever beautiful, forever condemned to feed.  The storm was ended.  The traveler she’d feasted upon was a sodden empty husk.  She stood at his feet for a long time, simply watching his withered corpse, searching for some residual feeling she prayed she still had.

Unable to find even the memory of emotion, she walked on.  It was almost dawn, time and more than time to find shelter.

 Another Wicked Wednesday Prompt.

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