Tag Archives: writing

Good Grades, Part the Fourth

14 Wednesday Nov 2012

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The door to the ladies room hissed shut as Janie made her way through the small crowded room to an empty stall near the end of the long row. She hung her backpack on the door and locked it behind her, swiftly pulling her skirt up around her waist and slipping her hand inside her white lace panties.

Women’s voices echoed all around her, their laughter bouncing off the green tile walls, punctuated by the rush of intermittent flushes and the steady trickle of streams flowing in the many sinks. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the din, parting the soft folds of her labia and seeking her aching clit. She breathed in deeply and bit her lip as she stroked the slippery little pearl, swollen and throbbing with need. Her cunt was hot and practically dripping, and the crotch of her panties was wet against the back of her hand.

She closed her eyes and pictured Professor Gilbert—she couldn’t think of his first name. What was it? Begins with a B…Bob? No. Not Bill, either…Benjamin. Yes. Ben. He smelled so good. His hands were warm and soft and strong…

She leaned her head against the edge of the stall and put her foot up on the toilet seat. She slid two fingers inside herself easily, the soft, wet, sucking sound barely audible in the cavernous echoes of the bathroom. Janie worked quickly, imagining his fingers inside her, getting her ready for his cock. She recalled the feel of him hard against her ass and the warmth of his breath on her neck. She could still feel his hand twined in her hair, pulling it back, the barest taste of what it would be like to have him bend her over that desk and fuck her hard.

God knows you could use a good fucking…

Her breath was coming harder in short gasps as the rest room cleared. She struggled to keep quiet, to keep from moaning aloud as she fucked herself, fingering her cunt with two, then three fingers, her palm smacking wetly against her mound. Knowing there were people on the other side of the door only made it hotter, the thrill that someone might hear her, or wonder why the stall was shaking slightly.

In his office, with students and faculty walking past his door…biting my lip to keep from calling his name as he makes me cum over and over…

With a strong shudder that coursed through her body, making her scalp tingle and her toes curl, she brought herself quickly to a powerful orgasm, acutely aware of the time, not daring to take too long and risk being late for class against his orders. She held her breath as she came, squeezing her eyes tightly and feeling the strong contractions pulsing through her throbbing cunt. Her hand was drenched, her panties soaked as she exhaled forcefully, reaching over and giving the toilet a flush, allowing herself to moan his name softly as she reluctantly slid her fingers out of her pussy.

Janie cleaned up as best she could with toilet paper before grabbing her backpack and exiting the stall. She was still breathing hard as she washed her shaking hands, and a glimpse in the mirror showed her the flushed cheeks and shining eyes of her spent passion.

She slipped into her seat with a few minutes to spare and got her book out, prepared to focus and concentrate. She wanted Professor Gilbert to be pleased with her.

Keep reading…

Good Grades

11 Sunday Nov 2012

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I’m starting a new story. This is what I’ve got so far.

*****

Janie sat at her desk towards the back of the vast lecture hall and worried the corner of her notebook with her thumbnail. She watched the clock as the minutes ticked by, adjusting the neckline of her low-cut sweater a couple of times and fidgeting in her seat. Somewhere in the logical recesses of her brain she knew she should be hanging on the professor’s every word, taking copious notes, and working hard to bring her grade up to passing, but it was getting late in the semester. The days were longer and warmer and party season was in full swing.

Sure, she could spend every night between here and finals in the library studying her ass off. She could skip the raging keggers at the Delta Tau house, or attend her scheduled classes instead of spending the afternoon on the lawn of the student center soaking up the sunshine in her bikini. There were all kinds of boring, tedious, and mind-numbing things that would get her grade out of the basement.

There was also extra credit—private extra credit.

She’d passed her freshman English Lit. class with a simple handjob in the professor’s office. One letter to her adviser and she was bringing in a solid C-minus despite not having cracked a book and attending maybe half the lectures. He was old—at least in his fifties—tweedy, and very married. Janie was surprised at how little persuasion she had needed to use. “It’s not what you do, it’s WHO you do” seemed to make perfectly good sense.

Janie squinted down at Professor Gilbert. He was okay enough to look at, if you could get past his uninspired everyday uniform of standard issue Old Navy khakis and a button down shirt. He was kind of attractive, in a nerdy, middle-aged sort of way, but it didn’t keep him from being boring as fuck, droning on about Civil War politics, yammering about state’s rights and federal authority as if it even mattered. Those people had been dead for, like, two hundred years and all that shit was settled. She frowned. History was stupid.

As the last few minutes of class slid away she put on a fresh coat of lip gloss and watched him as he wrapped his lecture up. He wore no wedding ring and she saw no line that gave one away, and Janie carefully calculated that with those Opie Cunningham looks there was no way he was getting enough pussy to turn down any offer she could make.

When the last of the students had filed out, Janie approached him confidently.

Keep reading…

NaNoWriMo or No?

27 Saturday Oct 2012

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Last year, I did it. I won NaNoWriMo. I wrote a 40K word novel in 30 days.

I’m not saying it was a good novel. I gave it to four beta readers and none of them could get through it. Well, I assume they couldn’t. The only feedback I got was “I haven’t finished it yet” and then I don’t like to push when folks are doing me a favor, so I let it drop. The fact that it wasn’t devoured eagerly and commented on either favorably or un- is telling.

It also doesn’t exactly make me want to write that way again.

The one good thing is that it made me get forty-thousand words on paper. It took a lot of hours to do, with an end result that’s worthless to me. I can’t edit it because to me, the story is told. It’s just (apparently) not a very good story. I can live with that.

But I have three full-length novels in progress that have all stalled for one reason or another, and I’ve had very little time to write lately. I’m thinking maybe during NaNo this year of setting aside a block of time every day to write. Perhaps log so many hours on the stories I already have instead of counting the words, and give myself a victory if I can get any one of them into a readable draft form. Hell, finishing all three and having manuscripts to submit to publishers would be an amazing accomplishment, even if I don’t earn a shiny new badge for my sidebar.

It’s for sure that writing is a discipline. I have to do it all the time, every day, or I get out of practice. Even blogging is hard (in case you couldn’t tell) because the words don’t want to come out of my head. My writing seems halting and forced and stilted to me, and the words flow only in messy, lumpy, stringy, scattered bursts.

It will be good to get my head back in the game.

I’m very close to finishing the ghost love story. I need to slow the pacing at the beginning and  flesh out a spot in the middle that also seemed a bit rushed, and put the denouement on paper instead of having it up in my head. It should be easy to do, if I can get my mojo back.

The second novel is gay erotica, a story of an idyllic summer full of man love on a farm. It’s hot. And when I realized what I was writing, I loved the story. I know why the main character is telling his story, and I know what happens, and it’s amazing. Again, it’s all up here. *points at head* I need to get it on the page.

The third one is still mostly idea. It’s based on a true story I found on my Twitter feed, a tale of long-distance lust in the cyber-age. I know what it will look like when it’s done, and I have a framework story around which the main story will be built. I know the characters, too, and they want me to tell their story. It needs the most work, but progress would be good, too.

I have four days to set a game plan. I will keep you posted.

Has the Sexy Ghost Story Been Done to Death?

17 Wednesday Oct 2012

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Or is there still room for more?

I spend a lot of my writing time, when I have it, scanning the Calls for Submission in the erotica genre. Sometimes I’m lucky and find that I have a story that fits what they’re looking for with little tweaking necessary, and sometimes what they’re looking for will spark an idea.

A while back I got an idea for a story about a sexy ghost. I wish I could say I remembered what triggered it. I posted it bit by bit in the forum where I used to hang out and it was interesting to see people’s reactions to the characters as the story progressed. In a way, I think the plot was driven in part by my trying to elicit responses from the readers. Sometimes I make otherwise likable characters do awful things to see how far I can push it before sympathy wanes.

In the cheating story I wrote for Not Safe for Work, “Dirty Little Secret,” I found it interesting that as the story unfolded, that as the man in the story became a first-degree cheater with a girl half his age, the readers’ sympathy was with him. Considering that many of my readers were married women, I was intrigued that very little–if any–thought or compassion was given to the wife. Granted, I infused her with some of the worst characteristics that most of us are guilty of from time to time. She took him for granted, had lost interest in sex, focused on the kids and ignored him, valued him only as a breadwinner, and used him to get things done around the house. The intimacy in their relationship was gone, and I drew him as a man wanting desperately to connect with the woman he loves but being unable to, so in a fit of frustration, he looks for it elsewhere, and finds…well, not what he’s looking for, exactly, but some truths about himself and his life and he teaches his young partner something about herself as well. She, too, becomes a sympathetic character, and when I looked back and read the posts and the reactions, it still amazes me that a cheating man and the girl who steals another woman’s husband are both sympathetic characters, while the wife–the only victim in the story–was the villain of the piece. Of course I’m simplifying, but in a nutshell, I made something bad palatable. In the end, these two people who have done a bad thing are both still likable.

With the ghost story, I pushed that envelope a bit harder. I set it up so that a woman working in a historic inn meets a ghost who, for reasons that are still a mystery to science and para-science, can only be seen and felt by certain people, and it’s been decades since this particular ghost has had any human contact. I made him awesome. I created him to be the exact kind of man any woman would want to be with. He is a heroic figure, a bit tragic, very romantic, and I set up a love story for the ages. Swoon-worthy, you might say.

And then, I made him do something bad. Really bad. The kind of bad that made everyone reading exclaim, “Oh, no! He DIDN’T!” Yeah, he did. I don’t want to give too much away, but suddenly I yanked the rug out and left the man they really liked and the couple they rooted for stumbling and falling and crashing badly. There was serious backlash against our romantic hero. And the challenge for me, sitting here behind my monitor reading the visceral reactions and being wholly inspired by them, was how to make those same people sympathetic to him again. The challenge I gave myself was to make them fall back in love with my protagonist, despite what he did. They had to forgive him. I was going to make them love him.

In the end, what I like about my ghost erotica is that it’s less about spooky, paranormal coupling and all about real human emotion. Arthur the Ghost, despite his non-corporeality, is still very much human.

The story is all but done. It’s a full-length novel at this point, albeit a short one. Maybe a novella. I’m never sure what the criterion for length is. It currently stands at right around thirty thousand words. Way too long to be a short story, but too short for a novel which I believe is over forty thousand. Maybe when it’s finished and the last two scenes are added and fleshed out, so to speak, it will be a proper novel. Then what? I don’t know.

I keep reading that sexy ghosts are overdone, overused, and folks are bored by them. I don’t wish to be boring. But I wonder if anyone will want to publish or read it. Then again, with the appalling lack of time I’ve had to write these days, by the time it’s done ghosts might be hot again.  It’s as true of writing as it is of sex and life in general: timing is everything.

Anyway, you want to read some ghostly smut? Okay, then. So, Kate has come to work at a Victorian-era inn and on her first night in the mansion meets the resident ghost, Arthur. They have an instant attraction and spend a most pleasant night together in Kate’s bed. In this scene, Kate wakes up to the all-too-common “Did I dream this?” feeling, made even more powerful by the fact of, oh, ghost sex. What happens the next morning? Let’s watch.

*****

Kate woke in the morning to the Spring sun reflecting brightly off her white sheets. She opened one eye and squinted at the alarm clock, and with a groan made a mental note to buy shades for the eastern-facing windows before the day was out. She rolled away from the windows, pulling the comforter over her head and burying her face in the soft, feather pillows. She stretched out her arm across the warm bed and froze.

She opened her eyes and looked at the rumpled bedclothes, the dented pillows, and her discarded shirt from the day before tossed carelessly on the wood floor. For a second, she wondered if it had all been a dream. She pulled back the covers and looked down at her nude body. Her normally light pink nipples were a darker purplish color and very sensitive from being sucked on, and she ran her finger over one lightly, causing it to spring to life. In the bright morning light, it was easy to see the already darkening bruises left by Arthur’s fingers on the milky-white skin of her full breasts. She ran her hands over them gently, tracing the outline of each finger. She shivered, partly from pleasure and partly from the early-morning chill in the room, and pulled the covers back up to her neck.

“Oh,” Arthur said, appearing suddenly. He was perched on the arm of the sofa, dressed in another soft, flannel shirt, worn jeans, and a pair of wool socks. “Don’t stop on my account,” he continued with a half-smile.

She looked up at him, startled, and then grinned. “Don’t ghosts ever knock?”

He shrugged. “Only when we want to be noticed. When we want to watch a beautiful woman touch herself, we stay very, very quiet.” He crossed to her and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in to kiss her. When her arms went around his neck, the comforter slid, exposing her breasts. He scooped up the soft globes in his hands, and she winced.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, letting her go.

She looked down. “I bruise like an over-ripe banana.”

He looked crestfallen. “I’m so sorry,” he said, kissing her lightly on each breast and rubbing the skin very lightly. “I got carried away.”

“We both did,” she said with a smile, as she shuddered again. “Damn, it’s cold in here.”

He kissed her nipples again, making her squirm slightly as the all-too-familiar tingling in her pussy started up again in earnest. With a smile that was half-promise and half-tease, he pulled the covers back up and tucked them in around her neck. “Oh, why’d you stop?” she asked, pushing her lip out petulantly.

“Because I came up here to tell you that I have a pot of coffee on in the kitchen and a roaring fire going in the dining room fireplace, which was no easy task considering I had to get wood in the house without it looking like logs were floating across the back porch.”

“That sounds lovely,” she said, leaning back into the pillows and smiling contentedly.

“Did you want to come down and get warmed by my amazing fire, or would you prefer to take your coffee up here, madam?”

“I will make myself presentable and join you in the dining room,” she said, grinning as he stood and bowed formally.

“Very good,” he said, kissing her on the forehead and walking out of the room straight through the heavy oak door.

“Show off!” she called after him, and heard his laugh in the hall.

The fire in the dining room was an impressive one, and the dry logs crackled a greeting as she walked into the large, brightly lit room. The floor-to-ceiling windows were full of sunlight, and through the wavy, blown glass panes, she could see the light green buds on the lilacs just starting to unfurl. A small table near the stone hearth was set with a crisp, linen tablecloth and polished silver and antique china gleamed. She sat down in the heavy chair, enjoying the feel of the warm fire on her back, and smiled at the artfully folded napkin on her plate.

“That was fast,” Arthur said, coming in from the kitchen with a silver coffee pot.

“This is lovely,” she remarked. “And the napkin swan? Too much.”

He laughed and poured out the strong, hot coffee into her cup. “There was a housekeeper here once who could make napkins into the most fantastic shapes. And she did it so fast it was like magic. I used to follow her around, waiting for her to do her thing and then I’d study what she did. I mean, I spent hours watching this woman fold linen napkins, and then when everyone was asleep, I’d practice all night trying to get them as perfect as she did.”

“That’s dedication,” she said, sipping her coffee.

He shrugged. “I have a tendency to get obsessed with things,” he confessed, plucking up the swan by one wing and shaking it out with a soft snap before draping it over her thigh. “But then with unlimited time, one needs a fair number of time-killers.”

She chuckled. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to the empty chair next to her.

“I will,” he assured her. “But first, what would you like to eat? I’m not much of a cook, but I think I could manage toast without much trouble.”

“You’ve done enough,” she said, putting her cup down on her saucer. He quickly filled it and set the pot down. He pulled up a chair and sat close to her, and took her hand in his.

“Kate, I don’t feel like I can do anywhere near enough,” he said, pressing his lips to her hand. “Last night was…” He paused, looking for the right words.

“Yeah, it most definitely was,” she agreed with a naughty smile, putting her hand on his thigh and leaning in to kiss him.

He kissed her passionately, and Kate felt the delightful tingles return. “Breakfast can wait,” she said, forgetting everything else but the feel of his lips on hers.

Arthur’s hands slid up under her wool sweater, feeling her skin through the clinging softness of her silk camisole. He pulled the warm garment up, letting go of her mouth long enough to pull it over her head. He leaned back and smiled, admiring the curve of her breasts beneath her filmy undergarments. “So beautiful,” he said, and lowered his head to her chest, his lips warm against her.

She ran her hands through his hair, holding him as he nuzzled her hard nipples through the thin silk. He pulled the straps off her shoulders, letting them fall on her arms and sighed as the wisp of fabric slithered off her bare breasts. Gently, he took a rosy tip into his mouth, sucking gently and making her squirm delightfully in her seat.

“You’re insatiable,” she said, giggling as his hands worked the button on her pants. He let go of her nipple and looked up at her.

“If you want me to, I’ll stop,” he said, arching an eyebrow playfully.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, leaning forward and pushing him back his chair. She stood quickly and shimmied out of her jeans, sliding them down her thighs while smiling seductively at him. She straddled his lap, wrapping her arms around him. “Where were we?” she asked, slipping her hands around his neck and kissing him deeply. Kate ran her hands down his chest, releasing his lips only long enough to inquire, “Don’t you feel a little overdressed?”

He smiled, and closing his eyes, he made his clothing vanish. His cock was suddenly hard and hot between her legs and she moaned at the sudden contact. He shuddered too. “That feeling right there is the best part of being able to do that little trick.” She moaned her agreement, kissing him on the lips before sliding down off his lap. She knelt on the hardwood floor and cradled his cock in her hands. “Oh, God,” he said with a groan as her lips closed around him.

Kate pressed her lips against the head and let them rest there. She kissed him gently, first on the tip, then down the shaft to the thick nest of dark curls. She ran her tongue along its length and teased the tiny eye with the tip of it.
He leaned back in the chair, his ass nearly off the cushions as Kate pleasured him, his growing desire making her own pussy throb and hum in sympathy. He moaned and twined his fingers in her hair, his firm pressure on the back of her head guiding her speed and depth. He was rocking his hips back and forth, meeting her motions with small thrusts of his own. Her hands gripped him tightly and stroked him hard and fast in time with her bobbing head and sucking lips.

Kate could tell Arthur was close to coming, and she stopped, looking up into his eyes. The sight of her smiling at him, her lips full and wet and her hands still stroking him lightly drew another groan from his throat. She kissed him lightly on the tip, causing his cock to jump in her hand, and she stood, her knees marked with two red circles.

In an instant, his hands were on her hips, guiding her onto his lap. He slid into her easily, and she moaned as he filled her. His need for her was intense, and the feeling of his strong hands urging her on, holding her fast while he directed her movements went to her head in a rush. He was impaling her, hitting secret spots inside her that were making her legs shake with passion.

His face was buried in her bouncing tits, licking and sucking her swollen nipples and nipping the already tender skin. Her thoughts rushed and swirled in her head, hedonistic and wild, blinding her to anything but her need for his cock and his hands and lips on her body.

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, crashing against her and breaking apart. Her hands went around his neck as she braced her feet firmly on the floor and rode his cock hard and fast. “Come in me,” she commanded, her voice husky and deep with lust. As if he had been waiting for her command, he groaned and held her fast while his own pleasure exploded and he swelled and throbbed deliciously against her clit.

She leaned her forehead against his, breathing hard and rocking her still-sensitive clit against his pubic bone, shuddering at the powerful sensation. His touch was light, his hands stroking her warm flesh, caressing and adoring her.

Her legs were still shaking slightly when she lifted herself off of his half-hard cock and stood naked before him, her camisole still crumpled around her waist and her cheeks flush from the warmth of the fire and their exertions. With trembling hands, she slipped her arms back into the straps of the thin undershirt and pulled it up, shivering at the touch of the fabric, light as it was, over her hard nipples.

She couldn’t remember a time when a man had so driven her to distraction the way Arthur did. He sat in the antique dining chair, still slumped against the velvet cushions, smiling at her through heavy-lidded eyes. His strong, lean body was as it had been in life; he was the picture of young virility and sated passion, but the eyes that watched her dress were old eyes–eyes that had seen so many things, yet they bore the sadness of one who had seen but been unable to partake. There was another emotion there, she thought, but she couldn’t quite place it. It tugged at her heart.

The chair creaked as he stood, as if to protest their harsh treatment of it. He stood before her in the window-shaped patch of morning sunlight. Gently, he put a finger beneath her chin and tipped her head to look at him. She smiled up into his handsome face, and he kissed her. “I never want to let you go,” he said, and put his strong arms around her, holding her close. She rested her head against his chest and sighed with pleasure.

*****

Should I publish it? Or are ghost stories passé?

From “Photo Finish”

11 Thursday Oct 2012

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This excerpt is from “Photo Finish” from my anthology of short fiction called Not Safe for Work. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. In this story, our innocent but willing heroine is being seduced by one sexy bastard. 

*****

He slid his hand up her back, under her long, dark hair to the bare skin of her neck. Her eyes closed and she exhaled as he ran his hands over the soft spot, goosebumps rising on her arms. “You’re really beautiful,” he said in a low voice, leaning in to nuzzle gently on her ear. “I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

She turned and sought his mouth hungrily, her sweet, full lips open and seeking his. He kissed her passionately, letting his lips tease hers and seeking her tongue with his own. “You’re making it very hard for me to be professional,” he said, his voice a half-whisper between kisses.

He felt her hand slide down between his legs and feel for him, and he shifted his hips so that his erection was more prominent. He moaned softly as her hands caressed him through his jeans. He ran a hand over one of her full breasts, cupping it gently and running his thumb over her hard nipple. It was her turn to moan as he skillfully manipulated the hard point, causing her to squirm in her seat and increase her fumblings in his crotch.

She managed to get his button open and was tugging at his zipper. His cock jerked with anticipation at her touch, and he forced himself to concentrate on her and not yank her inexperienced hands out of the way. He wanted to sigh with relief when he felt the zipper finally give way. Her hand was on him, grasping his shaft through his underwear. He put his hand on top of hers and looked into her eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, not meaning a word of it.

“I want to,” she said, her voice husky with desire.

He smiled. “I just hope you’re not disappointed.”

Eagerly, Andie freed his cock from its cotton restraint. As her hands slipped around his cock and stroked him, he moaned with pleasure, half at the delightful sensation of feeling a beautiful woman stroking his rod, and in part at how ridiculously well the “I hope I’m big enough to satisfy you” gambit always worked.

He continued to kiss her and fondle her breasts, slipping his hand up under her shirt and sliding her big tits out of her bra. He pulled on her sensitive nipples, making her moan in a most satisfying way. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” he said, his voice playfully light. “Because you’re driving me absolutely wild.”

Andie smiled at him, the words catching in her throat as he continued kneading the soft flesh in his hands and kissing her over and over. “You’re my first.”

Eric nearly shot his load in her hands.

“I don’t really know if I’m doing this right,” she confessed, looking into his eyes.

He reassured her, first. “It feels so good, baby,” Eric said, and it wasn’t a lie.

“I want to make you…you know…” she began, haltingly.

He forced himself not to sigh or roll his eyes. Again, with the stammering. But there was plenty of time to get her to begging for his cock using all the dirtiest words she could imagine. For now, it was all about getting that sweet mouth around his dick.

Eric took her face in his hands and kissed her softly. “You’re amazing,” he said, “and your mouth is so soft. Maybe if you kissed me…down there.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson again, and for a second he thought he’d overplayed his hand. “But only if you want to,” he added. “I want this to be all about you.”

He watched her reticence crumble as she slid off her seat and knelt between his thighs. He spread them slightly and adjusted himself so that his cock was out and she could get all of it in her hands. He twined his fingers in her shiny curls, cradling her head and whispering words of encouragement. “I want you so much,” he told her as she put her lips on the swollen purple head, his throat tightening slightly at the thrill of it. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

She opened her mouth and took him in, tasting her first cock. He gently stroked her hair, fighting the urge to shove her head down onto him and fuck her mouth properly. There would be plenty of time for that, too. “Oh, baby,” he said, “it feels so good when you suck it like that.” And like magic, she responded, sucking harder and taking him deeper into her mouth. “Oh, God,” he said, meaning it.

For a novice, Andie threw herself into her first blow job with gusto. A simple murmur of direction from him–“Stroke it…yeah…oh, just like that”–and she followed, as easily as she had taken direction in front of the lens, and she was becoming as adept at giving head as she was showing her cunt for his camera. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine what it would be like shooting her while they fucked. The idea alone was enough to cause the cum to boil up from his balls, and with a grunt, he shot his load into her mouth.

To her credit, she handled the unexpected mouthful of cum well, swallowing most of it and only allowing a trickle of it to escape her lips and run down her chin. When he caught his breath a bit, he scooped his arms around her waist and pulled her up onto his lap, wiping the bit of his jizz off her chin with his thumb. “That was so fantastic,” he said, nuzzling her tits and fondling her freely. “Before I take you home, I’m going to make sure you know how much I appreciate you doing that for me.”

He opened her jeans with all the practiced skill that she lacked. In one swift move, her zipper was wide open and his hand was buried inside her soaked panties, seeking her warm cunt. His fingers slipped inside her pussy, stroking her slippery clit and causing her to moan almost instantly. His mouth was on her large tits, sucking those big, rosy nipples and teasing them in his teeth. She humped against his hand, rubbing herself on him like a bitch in heat, and he fingered her skillfully, his fingers working her slit the way he’d worked so many before her.

He pressed his fingers deeper and deeper inside the tight confines of her pants, wriggling his fingers into her virgin tightness with every one of her thrusts. With a cry, her cunt let down a flow of hot, musky fluid over his hand as she came with her second explosive climax of the day. She shuddered around his fingers, throbbing and moaning and clutching him. “That’s right, baby,” he whispered. “Hang on to me. I’m not going to let you go.”

*****

Does Eric turn out to be her Prince Charming? You can read the whole story along with five other pieces of erotic short fiction in Not Safe for Work, available for the Kindle, the Nook, and in paperback.

From “Museum Piece”

07 Sunday Oct 2012

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This is from a story called “Museum Piece,” published in its entirety in Not Safe for Work. In this story, Laura is working late getting ready for an art gallery opening and is captivated by the sensual, erotic collection being prepared by fellow curator Christanka.

*****

The handle moved easily and the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges and she sighed, irritated that it had been left open. Suddenly, a face appeared in the door and a hand shot out towards her, clamping firmly over her mouth. She tried to scream but was so startled she couldn’t get a breath. Her eyes opened wide, and then she relaxed when she realized that she wasn’t in any danger.

He smiled at her and put a finger over his lips. She nodded and breathed deeply as he lowered his hand from her mouth. He gestured wordlessly for her to put her purse and jacket down outside the door and follow him inside. Curious, she did as he bade.

It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, but she knew she was in the storage area immediately behind the raised display platform, and off to the left a bit. The area was curtained off by heavy velvet draperies and some of Christanka’s tapestries and hangings, and all she could see was the dim outlines of large wooden shipping crates. The only thing she could hear was her own breathing and his directly behind her as he guided her to a spot behind the curtains.

Carefully he lined her up so that she could see that there was an opening in the drapes, and despite herself, she gasped. Again, she felt his hand go over her mouth and his lips brushed against her ear. “Shhhh,” he whispered, and the feel of his warm breath on her raised goosebumps all up and down her body. And again, she nodded, and his hand slipped away, pointing through the curtain.

Christanka was nude, her long hair loose and cascading down her body. Her breasts were beautiful, high and firm, and her nipples were dark and swollen. She closed her eyes and ran her hands over her body, feeling the weight of her tits in her hands and sliding them down over her flat, tight stomach. Her fingers slipped into her tight slit and she moaned slightly, licking her lips and letting her head hang back.

She teased herself, swaying in place, letting the cascade of hair brush against her perfectly formed ass. She ran her hands back up her body, running a wet fingertip over her nipples before sucking her own juices from it, tasting her own musky essence. Smiling to herself, she opened her eyes and drank in the sight of the carved marble statue before her.

Pressing her palms together, she bowed low before it, and ascended the dais. She slithered onto the waiting body of the idol, running her soaking cunt along the huge onyx penis, wetting it thoroughly with her own juices. She lowered herself onto its very tip, taking just the head inside. She teased herself with it, riding it slowly up and down. Laura watched as inch after inch of the black cock split Christanka’s shaven pussy. She took it in all the way, effortlessly, and ground her erect clit against the nubs at the base of the cock.

Laura’s pussy burned at the sight of Christanka being filled with the giant stone phallus. She felt a hand on her waist, and arching her back slightly, she rubbed her ass against the young intern still standing behind her. She could feel his cock hard against her, and he pressed into her, his hands on her hips pulling her close.

Laura bit her lip to keep from moaning as she leaned back into him, never taking her eyes off of Christanka’s lovely form. He slid his hands up her body and cupped her large, soft breasts, rubbing and teasing her rock-hard nipples through her clothes. She ground her ass against him, reaching behind him and pulling him closer. He lowered his nips to her bare collarbone and kissed the soft, sweet skin, making her shudder.

She reached behind her, searching impatiently for his cock. From her vantage point she could see the swells of Christanka’s round, tight ass and the sight of her pussy stretching to impossible limits as it swallowed up inch after inch of hard, marble cock. Laura needed to feel that, to feel a hard cock inside her, filling her up and stretching her wide. She fumbled with his zipper, struggling to free him, and he obliged her, undoing his trouser button with a deft flick of his fingers and releasing his cock for her.

She fought back another moan when she realized how big it was, throbbing and rigid in her hand, and she squeezed it appreciatively, causing him to stifle a groan in the back of his throat as he pressed his lips to her neck.

He gathered the hem of her skirt in his hands and flipped it up, leaning her forward over the packing crates. Her hands rested on the rough wood, while she watched Christanka ride the stone statue, her hands working feverishly on her own tits. Christanka reached up and pulled her own nipples, tugging at the flesh and moaning.

Laura felt his hands at the waist of her panties and she trembled as he slid them down past her ass to the floor, where she stepped out of them and kicked them aside. She spread her legs, opening herself to him, and feeling her legs go weak as his hands slid over the soft globes of her ass. He sought her warm, wet center, stroking the engorged lips and parting them, slipping his fingers easily into her ready cunt.

Laura could do nothing but stand still and watch as Christanka rode the enormous stone tool, moaning and crying out with her building passion. She leaned back, encouraging him to go deeper into her, but he pulled his hand away with a suddenness that almost made her knees buckle.

She wanted to cry out with relief when she felt the hot, hard head of his cock against her aching hole. He teased her with it, slipping the head in between her lips, then pulling it back out, then placing it back in, just a bit further. Every time she leaned back into him, trying to get more of him inside, he’d pull away until she stopped moving. Finally, he slipped his cock inside her and she pulled away from him, causing him to slip out a little, but this time he grabbed her hips and thrust into her, filling her completely and causing her hands to slide a little on the wood crate.

*****

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon.com for the Kindle, in paperback, and at BarnesandNoble.com for the Nook.

From “Dirty Little Secret”

28 Friday Sep 2012

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This is an excerpt from the story “Dirty Little Secret” that is published in my book of erotic short stories, Not Safe for Work. A married man is having some issues at home and takes comfort in the arms of a much younger woman. 

*****

He walked up to the window and gave me that panty-dropping smile of his. I opened the small window and the sudden draft of cold air made my nipples stand right at attention, and right at his eye level too.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without your family,” I said, as nonchalantly as possible.

His eyebrows knit and then smoothed out quickly as an emotion I didn’t recognize flicked over his face and disappeared just as suddenly as it came. “My wife took the kids to her mom’s for a few days,” he explained.

“Oh,” I said, smiling. “And you had a craving for ice cream that you just couldn’t ignore, right?”

He smiled back, and that look flicked on and then off again. “Let’s just say it’s been the kind of day where a dish of ice cream served by the prettiest girl in town is just what I need.”

If my nipples hadn’t already been standing at full attention from the chilly night air, they would have popped up right then, like you read about. I gave him a saucy grin and said, “Prettiest? I don’t know about that…” I started. “You mean besides your wife, right?”

He shrugged and said nothing, but when his eyes met mine and locked there, I got the feeling that he might be up for a bit more than some playful flirting through a take-out window. I leaned in on my elbows and looked at him through the small opening. “Why do I get the feeling you’re here for more than just ice cream?” Again, I got a shrug that could have meant anything, really, and another one of those shy, sweet smiles of his. My heart thumped in my chest a little bit.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked. “I can let you in the side door. I was just about to close anyway.”

“Sure,” he said, sliding his hand across the formica counter and running his finger lightly along my forearm. “I’d like that.”

Before I gave myself even half a second to consider what I might or might not be doing, I shut the window and pulled the shades down that read “Closed”. I all but ran to the side door, stopping only long enough to hit the switches to kill the parking lot lights.

I opened the door and he was standing there in the soft light of the single bulb. I took a step back to let him in, and all at once he was so close to me I could feel his warmth. I closed the door behind us and locked it with a flick of my wrist. I turned, and in a heartbeat his arm was around my waist, pulling me close. His mouth was on mine, soft but insistent, and if I might have had any objections to what he was doing, I couldn’t think of them at that moment.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, and returned his kisses eagerly, a little overwhelmed by the rush of desire that was running from him and through me like an electrical current. His hands slid down the curve of my ass, cupping it and pulling me close to him, and I could feel his hardness against me. He gathered up the hem of my short, khaki skirt and ran his hands over my bare skin, sliding his hands inside my panties and kneading the warm, soft flesh.

I moaned a little in the back of my throat, enjoying his caresses and his obvious need for me. It stopped him short, and he pulled his mouth from mine, leaning back and looking into my eyes. He looked like he was about to say something, and then perhaps thought better of it, choosing instead to kiss me again, opening his mouth and seeking my tongue with his.

I was melting like a dish of ice cream left out on the counter, not that I would ever do that. I’m nothing if not a conscientious employee. Well, except for the whole having-sex-with-random-men-after-hours-on-the-counters thing.

The boss’ desk was right next to the side door and I leaned against it, my skirt sliding up as he pressed close to me, exploring all the soft curves of my body. My breath caught in my chest when his hands found my breasts. He murmured appreciatively as he scooped up warm, soft handfuls through the slightly sticky cotton of my t-shirt. “So nice,” he said softly.

“Would you like to see?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper.

“God, yes,” he replied, and I smiled and raised my arms over my head, allowing him to pull my shirt off. I leaned back on the desk, thrusting my breasts forward for him. He stroked the soft flesh where it swelled out over the pink, polka-dot satin cups, making me shiver slightly with excitement. He hooked his fingers inside the smooth fabric and pulled them down, allowing my tits to spill out and hang free and full. He ran his hands over them, obviously enjoying himself.

“You like?” I asked.

He nodded. “Very much.”

“Show me,” I replied.

I watched as he unbuttoned his jeans and slid the zipper down. His cock bulged in the opening, snug under the white cotton of his underwear and seeking an escape just under the elastic of the waistband. I ran my hand over the hard, warm outline of his erection, brushing my finger against the hot, throbbing head. It leapt at my touch and I smiled, stroking it gently through the slightly damp fabric.

“I need you,” he said softly, looking into my eyes.

“Take me,” I replied, pulling his cock free of his pants. I wrapped my hands around the warm, hard flesh and stroked him, making him moan anew. He slid his hands up my skirt and pulled my panties to the side, seeking my hard clit with his fingertips. I shuddered as he made contact, gasping with pleasure. He sought my opening, sliding his fingers easily into my tight, hot cunt. I moaned and bit my lip, raising my hips to urge him deeper inside me.

His arm slid around my waist as he pulled me to him, and I felt his cock hot and hard against my pussy. “Wait!” I said, even though every fiber of my being was screaming “Fuck me!” at the top of its lungs. He stopped, breathing hard and pulling away slightly. I exhaled, and scrambled around behind me on the desk looking for my purse. “Condom,” was all I could manage to get out, and he nodded with sudden understanding.

He laughed a little, helping me find a little foil packet in the pile of junk I’d dumped out of my bag. “Been a long time since I’ve needed one of these,” he confessed breathlessly.

“Let me,” I said, tearing it open and rolling it smoothly over his cock, making him groan with pleasure. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him close. “Now, where were we?”

He guided the tip of his cock to my opening and pressed against me, slowly, almost hesitantly. He looked into my eyes and I watched a dark cloud of doubt cross his face that was so obvious I almost stopped him right there. The sudden sadness and compassion I felt the second I recognized it must have registered on my face as well, because like a cloud on a windy day, it slipped away as I watched him mentally shrug it off. He kissed me with renewed passion, trying to drown himself in my kisses, and God help me, I let him. I helped him.

As he breached the entrance and entered me, whatever defenses either of us might have had up a moment earlier slipped away.

He took me right there on the desk, surrounded by the gleaming stainless steel ice cream freezers and stark white walls. His need for me was urgent, and I held him close as he fucked me, driving his cock into me over and over again so hard that he lifted me off the desk with each thrust.

I knew I had ceased to be just a pretty, willing girl for him and that he was using me to tame some demons that were tormenting him–or perhaps in spite of them. There was something so desperate about the way he clung to me, his face buried in the soft curls at my neck, murmuring words I couldn’t quite hear or understand. I wanted to make him come, to bring him to the height of pleasure, to try to release him from whatever was driving him.

He felt so good inside me, his body so warm and heavy next to mine. We moved together in rhythm, my hips snapping up with each thrust, my lips against his ear urging him on with moans and whispers and sighs, begging him not to stop. I was getting so close to coming, going wild from the pressure mounting inside me. I told him what he was doing to me. “You’re going to make me cum,” I told him. “Oh God, I’m so close…don’t stop…”

I came hard, crying out as my pussy spasmed and throbbed around his cock. He put his hands on my face, looking into my eyes as I came, watching me lose control. He kept fucking me, each stroke long and deep, until I was spent. When he was sure I was satisfied, he moved faster, harder, and deeper, managing only a couple more thrusts until he came inside me, his cock swelling and exploding.

We were both breathing hard, and my legs slipped down. He pulled me close and held me, whispering, “I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry…”

I stroked his hair and held him until I felt him soften inside me.

Gently, I reached down and eased him out, sliding the condom off. I was about to drop it into the garbage, but thought better of it. He busied himself with tucking his still sticky and half-hard cock back into his pants, and I saw him look at the used condom dangling from my fingers, and at my spent pussy, panties wet and pulled off to the side, accusing him. He stepped back, his face flush and his eyes averted and I hopped up, dropping the condom into a take-out cup and putting a few napkins in and the lid on before dropping it into the trash. Just in case.

Quickly I yanked my bra up and pulled my skirt down, and he handed me my shirt from the desk. As I turned it right side out, he spoke. “I’m sorry…” he began, but this time I stopped him.

“Don’t.” I said, gently. “Please don’t apologize.”

“I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t be silly,” I continued, pulling my shirt back on. “Of course you should have.” I slipped my hand in his and squeezed it warmly. He looked into my eyes again and I smiled at him. “Maybe you’re ready to talk now?” I asked, and he smiled back with a sweet, embarrassed smile and nodded gratefully.

“I’d like that,” he said.

I grabbed a scoop from the sink. “Go on and sit down,” I said, flipping open the freezer lid with a bang. “I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

From “Dirty Little Secret” published in its entirety in Not Safe for Work, available at Amazon.com in paperback and for the Kindle, and at Barnes and Noble.com for the Nook.

Where Does This Stuff Come From?

18 Tuesday Sep 2012

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I get asked that question more times that you’d believe. “How do you think of this shit?” My inspiration comes, as I think it does for a lot of people who find themselves inspired to do, say, create, write, paint, craft, sculpt, or whatever something: in a sudden flash and usually out of nowhere.

One of my favorite stories I’ve ever written is “Dirty Little Secret” that’s published in Not Safe for Work. The working title for that story was “Ice Cream” until I actual compiled the anthology of short stories and was putting it into print. The entire inspiration for that story came from an exchange in an online forum in which an ice cream cone was mentioned.

Ice cream. Those two words were the catalyst for a whole story. Honestly, nothing more.

Obviously there’s more to making it into a full-blown story than that. Once the inspiration hits me, it sits at in the center of my thoughts not unlike a magnet, and bit by bit, ideas drift by and are attracted like bits of stray bits of metal. The ice cream story started small, as little more than a stroke piece. But as I finished writing the first section, published it, and stepped away from it, I realized that the magnetic inspiration that sat at the core was still attracting ideas. I thought the story was told, but it wasn’t. The characters had more to say, so I opened the file and kept writing.

The second time I stepped away from it, I felt like the story was told, and the resulting story of a man who in a moment of crisis walks away from everything he holds dear resolves itself in a way that was true to the characters. I felt like my characters had both grown and discovered something about themselves. The central idea had stopped attracting, so to speak.

It’s also one of the sexiest stories I’ve ever written, I think, not just because these are two people who’ve just completely given themselves over to fucking each other, but because of the turmoil going on inside his head. He’s a complex character and I think it’s why his story garners so much response. I think it’s why people are sympathetic to him even though he’s cheating on his wife. They can relate to how he feels. He’s very real.

He is, to be clear, no one man I know. Yeah, he shares attributes in common with real people that I know well. They’ve let me inside their heads by being friends and lovers and companions. I know how they think because they’ve told me. They’ve shown me. That character is his own man, but the way he feels about his life, the way he deals with his angst, the things he needs from the much younger woman in the story–those all come from different places. They are different bits of metal drawn to that central core.

One of the comments I hear a lot is that my stories are so real, but with the tagged on assumption that I draw heavily from my own life. Obviously, I do to an extent. I do write what I know.

For instance, I wrote the short story “Falling” out of thin air. The inspiration for that story was an ad on a website that had a picture of a rumpled bed. It flashed by as ads do, largely unnoticed. But the image that barely registered in my conscious brain became that magnet. And ideas floated by and grabbed on. I don’t know what order they took or how an innocuous picture of a bed made me think of two people being in it that shouldn’t be.

Even the imagery of falling means something different to me than it did to the people who read it first. I pictured two people on the edge of something big. Something life-changing. Two people having to make the decision to let themselves go, to give into their lust for each other, to just…fall, and damn the consequences.

I didn’t mean falling in love, and I was surprised when that was the reaction I got. I had to go back and re-read it again with different eyes to see if that’s actually what my words said.

I meant it was two people not necessarily in love giving in physically to a craving for each other.

I could see how a reader could assume deeper feelings, though. I thought to clarify it, but decided not to when I realized those beta-readers were bringing their own thoughts and feelings to the story. My experience, my fantasies, my own moral compass aren’t the only driving force. I steer the ship, but the readers all follow their own currents.

But that story brought up a lot of questions, especially from my husband. We had a long talk about just this sort of thing: where do my ideas come from? Is this about someone in particular? Am I having feelings for another man that he should know about?

The answers were no, it’s not about anyone in particular and no, I don’t have any feelings for any other man but him.

But I can imagine those feelings. I can articulate those feelings and apply them to characters I create. I can do those things because I’m a writer.

It has (and does, I guess) beg the question if my stories are in any way me working out my own personal fantasies.

The answer is yes, and no.

Sometimes I find myself working out some of my own issues in my writing. But more often than not, it’s just my imagination hard at work. Do I want to cheat on my husband? Hell, no. But can I imagine it? Hell, yes. I get in my own head and think, in that situation, how would I feel? What would I do? What kind of emotions would I be feeling? It’s not hard. And there’s an honesty to that kind of writing. A lot of the fantasy I write is just that–pure fantasy. Not some deep-seated desire or any sense of longing for anything in particular, just a matter of asking myself “Can you imagine?” and finding the answer is, “Well…yeah. I can.” I won’t lie. There are other men I find sexually attractive. I mean, just because I’m on a restricted diet doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu.

Right now I’m working on a story that’s got so much metal stuck to it that I can barely see the magnet at the core. I’ve started writing it three times now, trying to weed through all the bits that have stuck on and finally think I’m moving it in a direction where it will highlight the more substantial pieces I want to get at.

The basic idea that was kicking around in my head, the inspiration magnet, was the idea of a long-distance romance. I was drawn to the challenge of writing an erotic story where the two people never actually touch each other. There’s a lot of romantic possibility and a great conflict.

My brother-in-law’s wife once said that she didn’t consider Internet friends to be real friends. I was affronted, to be honest. Hell, one of my best friends is someone I met when she was living in England, then for the three years she was in Germany, and now even though she’s stateside again we still have yet to “meet”. We’ve laughed together (a LOT) and cried together and have shared our hearts time and time again. The fact that we’re not breathing the same air doesn’t matter. I’ve come to know her through words, and as a writer, words matter to me.

Knowing in my own life that I have Internet friends that I hold very dear to my heart, the idea of a romantic relationship forming doesn’t seem far-fetched at all. And sexually? Well, there are lots of dirty things that can be done over the ‘net. I know it. You know it. Maybe you’ve even done it. I don’t judge how you get your jollies.

So the story is a friendship with sexual overtones that’s about to jump over into romantic feelings, and while both people are free to be in that relationship, will it be enough for both of them? It’s been a hard story to write. The subtext is tricky.

And I really should get to work on it.

Forsaking All Others

14 Friday Sep 2012

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As I sat down to work out a story idea that was scratching around in my brain, I did what I usually do. I think about who the characters are, what they are like, what kind of personalities they have, and what’s going on in their life.

One of the most important things I consider when I’m starting to put the story down on paper is the conflict. I wrote a little while ago about how it seemed to me that stories with no discernible conflict are selling. How it seems that readers are looking for simple stroke pieces and not stories where the sex is less than perfect.

That aside, I still look at the story I want to tell and ask myself, “What is the conflict?”

I’m married, and I’m finding that lately a lot of my stories have had an infidelity theme running through them. I’m not sure why, exactly. After 16 years together, we’ve discussed the issue of cheating pretty often and we know where we both stand.

More or less.

I confess that sometimes I feel lazy when I put married characters in a position to cheat. It seems like an easy conflict to me. But examining the reasons for cheating and getting inside the heads of people who have strayed–people who have broken their marriage vow to forsake all others–right now at this point in my life, that interests me. I’ve reached the point where honestly, I can see it. I can understand why it happens. I have been married long enough to know that marriage isn’t always easy, that happily ever after takes work, and it doesn’t take a whole lot to upset the apple cart. It really doesn’t take much at all, in fact.

I can understand the what if’s that come up. What if he meets someone else? What if her feelings of friendship turn into something deeper? What if you grow apart over the years instead of closer?

I’ve also found that lately among my married friends that the topic of cheating comes up from time to time. In online forums we’ve discussed what cheating actually is. In a world where people can connect emotionally without ever breathing the same air, it adds a new layer of complication. The emotional affair is as real as the physical one, and just as damaging. In my opinion, it’s more damaging.

I believe I’d rather have my husband fuck someone else for funsies than to find out he was in love with another woman he’d never so much as touched.

One of the more interesting definitions of cheating when it comes to online interactions was “Would you do it if your spouse was standing over your shoulder watching you?” If the answer is no, you’re cheating.

I’m still not a hundred percent sure I agree with that, entirely. I tend to be pretty much the same person I am when L. is around as when he’s not. I flirt at the same level in person whether he’s there or not. I’m an open book. I never pretend to be someone I’m not. I’m open and casual and I have lots of guy friends. There is flirting, online and in meatspace.

He’s okay with it. He knows. And he knows it doesn’t mean anything. He understands that it’s not about an emotional connection or about me looking for something I don’t have at home. It’s my personality and part of who I am, and he loves me for it.

But not all my friends can say that. Some of them are very different people when their spouses are around. Normally outgoing, sexy, friendly, carefree people put a muzzle on their personalities, and it confuses me. Why would your spouse want you to be someone you’re not? I don’t get it.

Be not another if thou canst be thyself.

Having said that, my husband I have secrets. We don’t need to know what the other person is doing all the time, or with whom, or what exactly is said. There are things I say to my online friends that I probably wouldn’t say with him over my shoulder. Not because he would disapprove or not understand, but there are things about me–kinks that I enjoy–that depend on secrecy. There are things that are sexier because they’re not shared directly with him.

For the longest time, I kept my erotica writing a secret from him. It was hotter knowing that people were getting off to stuff that I was writing without his knowledge. Not that he would disapprove, and when it got to the point that this little writing hobby might be a paying gig, maybe even (dare I say it?) a career, I told him. He didn’t flinch. He’s not much of a reader, though. I’ve written stories using my friends as inspiration and let him read them, and he’s still okay with it, though the stories themselves were just that much hotter to me when he didn’t know.

There’s something inherently naughty in secrets.

For me, cheating is anything that interferes in a negative way with our relationship. If it comes between us or pushes us apart, that’s a bad thing. If it doesn’t affect us, if it doesn’t touch his feelings for me, or mine for him, I’m okay with it. He can’t say the same thing, though. His definition and mine aren’t the same.

The thing is, if one partner would consider a particular behavior cheating, it holds the other partner to that standard. On the one hand, I can see that because it makes sense. If your behavior puts a wedge between you and your partner, it probably is cheating. On the other hand, I can see that taken too far. I know people with spouses whose are threatened by what could be considered next-to-nothing by any sane, rational person.

It’s not easy to define, and as such, it’s hard for me to ever point fingers and say “That behavior is okay” or “That behavior is always wrong.” I think people are more complicated than that. A person who cheats isn’t always bad, someone who gets involved with a married person isn’t always bad, and the wronged spouse isn’t always a blameless victim.

Shit happens.

Humans are delightfully complicated, and if you let it, it makes for good reading.

Ah, There’s the Rub

27 Friday Jul 2012

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As I submit stories to publishers, I’m realizing that there seems to be a certain type of smut that sells. And to be honest, I find it strange.

The collections my stories have been selected for are full of stories that I call “pretty people fucking.” Which is fine, as far as it goes. The men are studs: well-hung (of course), handsome, manly (but sensitive), wealthy. The women are thin and beautiful but think they’re (at worst) “plain”. They have perfect breasts and small waists and never have a problem buying pants to cover their asses.

These perfect people wind up madly attracted to each other and doing the nasty on every available surface. The sex is perfect and awesome and no one sleeps in the wet spot.

*yawn*

I write them, but I don’t like them. And to be honest, it’s why so many erotic stories and novels bore me. I need conflict.

I was taught way back in Basic Writing 101 that a good story needs a good conflict. The hero must have a struggle–something to fight against. In an erotic story, I still want to see that struggle. I don’t care if the obstacle is an external one, but I prefer an internal one. I want to read about what goes on in a character’s head. How do they feel?

Body image is a big one for me. To bare yourself for someone for the first time is scary. And awkward. Everyone has something they don’t like about their bodies. But so much erotica is fantasy. The heroine undresses and doesn’t wonder for a second if he’s turned off by her boobs that aren’t as perky as they used to be, or if the cellulite on her ass is turning him off. He’s never wondering if his cock is big enough, or if she prefers a guy who manscapes, or if she minds that he has a little beer belly and not a flat six-pack of abs.

In real life, these things come up. But as humans, we deal with our emotions and that struggle is interesting. When characters don’t, it’s boring.

Life is full of conflict and struggle. I just finished reading Brave New World and this passage struck me: “Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn’t nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand.”

And that right there is why “pretty people fucking” is boring. I don’t understand why it sells.

Scratch that. Yes I do understand. They’re what’s known in the world of erotica as “stroke pieces.” They’re hot and dirty. They’re not meant to make you think. They are aimed squarely at the genitals. And I suppose if you buy erotica to get off, stroke pieces will do it the fastest.

I had a story accepted recently that isn’t very good story, but it’s a good stroke piece. The sex is hot, but there’s no conflict and the characters are flat. I got it in my head last night to re-write it and make it a good story instead of a good stroke piece, just for fun. Because I can.

I guess I just wish the world of erotic fiction had more literature in it than porn. I wish publishers would insist on an interesting story and fleshed out characters.

I wonder what the tipping point for erotica is. There are lots of mainstream books with very adult content in it. When does one cease to classify their writing as erotica just because people fuck?

Something to think about, I guess.