In a quandry...

I have three stories currently in progress. You might say that I can't commit to any one of them long enough to get it finished, but sometimes I have to do something else for awhile until the muse returns and directs me back to finish the tale. But that's not the quandry. This is. I have a story currently published that contains two parts. There is room for a third part, a part which I have ideas for but have not started. As of late, I have received several requests for part 3, including some ongoing dialogue with a reader about the appropriate plot line. So of course now I'm noodling over what might happen in part 3, and if the characters have any ideas of their own. But then, if I start part 3, then I will have 4 - count 'em, FOUR - stories in the works. Is that really fair to the other 3 who would be left hanging?

On the other hand, I really enjoy the characters in this particular story, and I think part 3 could be a somewhat easy write. As I said, I have some ideas for the next encounter, along with some interesting suggestions from a particularly interested reader.

And thus, the quandry.

What would you do, dear friends, if we were to switch places and you could be Bedtime Storyteller for a day??

Submitting to the story

It's no secret - I'm submissive. But what I didn't expect was that I could find myself submitting to a story. Sometimes, when I'm writing a particularly compelling story, the strangest thing happens - the story controls me. It doesn't just tell itself through my pen, but even when I'm not writing, I find myself seeing the world through the story's eyes. I find myself responding to others as though I were the story. I dream the story at night. I'm just consumed by the story.

I'm certain I can't be the only writer who finds this happening....can I?

Sex is a beautiful thing

There are so many people who thing sex is dirty, nasty, or something to be ashamed of. Too many people. Sex is life. If it weren't for sex, there would be no life! Sex fluids have a purpose, people! They're something to be grateful for, something to be enjoyed, something to revel in. Sex fluids, like sex, connect us.

I cannot tell you how sweet it is to taste myself on the lips of my lover. Each person has their own distinct taste, a fingerprint of flavor that is meant to be savored. Salty, sweet, tangy, bitter...mmmm.... I can still recall the taste of one lover in particular, a taste so rich and so decadent that I think I will never forget him. If you were to line up a dozen men, and put my lover in that lineup, I could pick him out blindfolded.

Don't waste the taste, kids! Savor it, swirl it around on your tongue like fine wine, and swallow it gratefully. Cum is a gift. Give it, receive it, and remember it.

Going Back for Seconds

I offer you a story for your reading pleasure...

The slate sky was streaked with rose, butter, and lilac, and the still air was pregnant with moisture. A storm was building to the south. The river was quiet as it slid between the banks, shaded by willows and speckled with dragonflies. She sat beside him, feeling suddenly awkward as his shoulder pressed up against hers. Seeing him again was impulsive on her part, but necessary. Necessary? she asked herself. Yes, necessary. Their first meeting had left her wondering what could be. She had agreed to a second meeting because, well, quite simply, there was no other option. She felt compelled to see him again. Staying away was unthinkable.

She shyly met his eyes, her gaze dropping and lingering on his lips as he tilted his head toward hers. She met him halfway, her mouth drawn to his by some invisible force. His lips were soft, his kisses tender and teasing. She leaned into him, wanting his mouth on hers as he held his lips just out of reach. His breath was warm, and they breathed in tandem. His hand caressed hers, his fingers tracing a path along her palm before he laced his fingers with hers, pulling her hand to his as his mouth found hers again. He squeezed her hand before releasing it to wrap one arm around her back, holding her close to him. Her hand lifted to cup his cheek, then slowly slid around to the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his blond hair as he made love to her with his mouth.

She moaned against his lips, wanting something she couldn't quite put a name to, trusting that he would take her there when the time was right. It was so hard to think when he kissed her like that, alternating between light and teasing and hard and insistent. He kept her guessing, and with each kiss her desire grew. She needed to feel him...she needed to know if he was as turned on as she, if his need was as great as hers... Her hand moved to find him through his jeans, and he pulled away, telling her no. She could hardly believe what she was hearing; how could he not want her to touch him? He continued to kiss her, and she tried to keep her hands to herself, but they had a mind of their own and caressed his chest, his back, around his waist...

Kissing him was like sliding under a feather comforter and discovering satin sheets, comfortable and familiar yet sexy and sensual and surprising all at the same time. She let her mind float as her lips played with his of their own accord. She was beyond coherent thought now, time ceasing to exist as his tongue explored her mouth, laying claim to it as a prospector to a stream. His kisses were dreamlike, quiet and soft, then increasing in intensity, his mouth growing more insistent, pushing her desire to another level, then becoming light as a whisper, tasting, teasing, caressing. These kisses translated feelings without words, and she lost herself in the feel of his lips on hers, the taste of his tongue, the touch of his hands on her face, warm and firm, holding her captive to his kisses.

How could something so wrong feel so unbelievably right? Five and a half years younger than she, and one of them was promised to another. Yet here she was, sitting on the floor of a gazebo overlooking the river, mosquitoes competing for her flesh, not only kissing this man she had only seen twice, but kissing him with a passion she hadn't felt in at least ten years. "I'm going to hell," she thought, as her hands spanned his back. She moaned her surrender as his lips found that sweetly sensitive spot on the curve of her neck just below her ear. "I've got a one-way ticket and my bags are packed."

She could clearly remember the last time she had felt drunk on kissing, that heady rush of desire and breathless anticipation, but even that was nothing compared to this. He held his mouth centimeters away from hers, their lips parted on the brink of touching. She could feel his breath, their breath, mingling, making her crave him even more. She wanted him, needed him, to kiss her again. "Please," she whimpered, the plea coming out of the very depths of her soul. In a heartbeat, his mouth was on hers, hard, crushing her lips beneath his, taking her breath away. When she felt like she would surely spiral away into nothingness, he ended the kiss, his eyes locked with hers, his gaze so intimate and deep she felt as though he could see right through her.

He pulled himself up on his knees, raising himself above her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his mouth, leaving her neck exposed to his gentle touch. At first, she was concerned that he was going to get up and walk away, but when she asked him where he was going, he replied "Nowhere" and continued kissing her. The position enabled him to kiss with even more force, trapping her lips with his, her head back against the slatted side of the gazebo. She belonged to him for as long as he wanted her. Kissing him was pure torture. A pure, unadulterated, blissful torture she hoped would never end.

When she opened her eyes again, it was dark, and the only light came from an occasional car on the road and the streetlight over the access road to the gazebo. She glanced at her phone and realized they had been kissing for over an hour. How on earth could an hour have passed so quickly? But it had, and she needed to get home. They stood up together, and she stepped down off the platform they had been on. He touched her shoulder and she turned around, right into his arms, and she rested her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She tilted her head up to him, and again he kissed her, forcing her to stand on her tiptoes and rely on him to steady her when her knees grew weak. Some time later, they came up for air and walked unsteadily to her car, their arms wrapped around each other, stealing kisses with every other step.

They reached the car, a white island in the dark night, and the importance of that milestone sank in. She was taking him back to his car, and the evening was drawing to a close. As she moved to open the passenger door for him, he moved in to her, backing her up against the car and holding her hands, his fingers laced with hers, as he kissed her with a ferocious passion that forced her head back to the roof of the car, arching her breasts into his chest. As she walked back around to her side of the car, her mind was blank. A hotel. The thought came out of nowhere. We could just go get a room, she realized. But no. She was expected at home, and he had an hour's drive back to his house once she returned him to his car at the mall. Consummating their relationship was not possible tonight. And besides, if this was the state his kisses left her in, she couldn't even begin to think about what making love with him might do to her.

She poured herself into the driver's seat and paused after shutting the door. She couldn't remember what to do next, and stared at the dash like it was the cockpit of a jumbo jet. Her head dropped back against the headrest and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. It was all she could do not to reach over and kiss him again, but kissing him again would be her undoing. She felt his hand on hers, his thumb sliding over hers, grounding her again. She could do this. She could start the car and drive – on autopilot for sure – back to the mall and drop him off and go home, home to her husband and kids. But there was no doubt in her mind that she would see him again. There was no other choice to make.

The drive back to the mall was quiet, and he held her hand the whole way, keeping her focused and continuing the slow seduction which had begun 2 hours earlier. At one point, she pulled his hand over and kissed it, sucking his index finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it as she slid her mouth down the length of it. She heard him inhale sharply, and she slowly, gently slid it back out, nipping at the tip with her teeth before kissing his fingertip and returning his hand to his lap. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his head was back, his eyes were closed. She wanted him to know how badly she wanted him, how much she wanted to please him, that the seduction was mutual.

When they finally pulled up beside his car and she slid the gearshift into park, they turned to each other and kissed again, a soft, gentle, open-mouthed kiss that spoke of promises and possibilities and next times. As he turned to slide out of the car, she leaned over and kissed the back of his neck along his hairline, and he moaned. "I've got to go," he whispered. She kept kissing. "I'm going...I'm..."

"Go," she whispered in his ear as her tongue traced the curves of his earlobe. He leaned back into her and turned his head, his mouth seeking hers again. Her head reeled with the sensation of his lips on her, just as magical as the first time. She pulled back. "Go. I don't want you to, but you've got to while I can still let you go."

He kissed her again, quickly this time, and got out of the car, looking at her with a longing she had never seen before. "Goodbye," he whispered. "I'll talk to you later," and he shut the door.

She didn't stay to watch him drive away, preferring to get out of the parking lot while she still could, resisting the urge to follow him to his house and finish what he started. Her lips were swollen and rosy from kissing him, and she had a glow she couldn't hide. He was amazing, and she would see him again.

How kinky are you???

Take the kink test and find out!

I scored 565, which is "kinkier than most"...and I do enjoy being above average! :)

Thank heaven for editors...

I sent the beginning of the diary story to two friends to read provide feedback -- essentially I was asking, if you started this story, would you want to finish it? So far, one has responded yes, with some constructive criticism, and the other won't be reading until this evening. He prefers to save erotica for the weekends, I guess.

When I read back over the story, the thing that strikes me the most is that it's as though I like the guy's bathroom more than I like him. I spend more time describing his loo than I do describing him. Is that a problem? I'm not sure. We'll see if editor #2 notices.

In the meantime, I did go ahead and finish part 2 of a story I'd started 2 years ago, about a woman who meets an online friend. In part 1, she can't help but see him a second time. In part 2, she goes to meet him for a third time. Part 1 got very good reviews with many requests for Part 2. Part 2, however, is receiving mixed reviews. So far it's only posted on one site - will be posted on site 2 by Monday, where it may get more exposure (and where feedback was more positive than the other site).

I'm wondering if it's worth posting stories here.... If I did, is it likely anyone would notice? Who knows - I just might give it a try...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I finally heard back from editor #2. He liked the story and felt it was definitely worth continuing, with no concerns about the amount of time spent describing the bathroom. So the story will continue.

As for the other story, part 2 was posted on the other site, and is getting mediocre votes. They're ok, but they're not as good as part 1. Part 1, for the record, has been posted here: Going Back for Seconds.

Beginnings (again)

And so I'm trying to write a new story. The previous one never did make it to the page. Just couldn't get into it. I think I do better when I write from personal experience, even if there's just the hint of truth behind the storyline. And, seeing as how this new story doesn't have an iota of truth behind it, I'm not entirely sure that it will ever see publication, but only time will tell.

This one is told through the diary of a young woman who, due to a series of choices, finds herself facing eviction and default on student loans unless she comes up with a second job that can work around her primary job hours and pays really well. Dancing topless isn't something she can see herself doing. She's tried waitressing, but still finds herself coming up short. But then, opportunity falls into her lap. An acquaintance - with a lot of spare change and not a lot of free time - is looking for someone who will, to be blunt, fuck him a few times a week for money. He's good looking, is a doctor, and could have any woman he wanted. But he prefers to set up a business arrangement of sorts with someone he knows and trusts. And so she agrees to give it a go, just once she tells herself. Just once.

I think what fascinates me most about this story is the illegality of prostitution. It's ok for women to give themselves away, but not to charge for the use of their bodies. Seems like a rule made by men, don't ya think?? So it's ok for me to "rent" my body for medical research studies, to "rent" my mind to market researchers, and "rent" myself to my employer, but I can't charge for the use of my twat. It just makes no sense. And yet, for some women, this is the only thing of value they have with which to make a living. The more I think about it, the more I think it ought to just be legalized. But I digress.

I just finished editing about 8 pages of a story for a friend of mine. His story isn't sexual - or not yet, anyway. I think he's toying with the idea of a novel. So far it's not something that grips me, although I am a little curious about what happens next and why things have happened the way they have so far. But what really gets me is his strange use of punctuation. He has a fascination with semicolons. Drives me up a wall. He also seems to have a hard time writing in a conversational tone. The main character is telling the story, and yet he "talks" to the reader as though he's writing a paper for school. I think that's what I have the hardest time with. I can't relate to this character at all.

So that's all that's on my mind tonight. Well, all that's writing related, anyway. More another day....

51,687 and other musings about sex

I was just checking the stats on some of my stories, and one of the stats is number of reads. I was stunned to see that one of them has been read 51,687 times, give or take. That's a heck of a lot of people! I don't think I could name a thousand people. But to think that over 50k have had a glimpse into my fantasy world is just astounding. And that means a great portion of them have probably used my story to generate their own erotic (or autoerotic) experience. Freaky to think about.

On TV this past week, I watched three episodes of The History of Sex. It was fascinating to see just how much sex was an integral part of cultures throughout history. I was also amused by the way Christianity was determined to quash as much of our sexual nature as possible.

My husband laughed when he heard that Martin Luther was excommunicated several times from the Catholic Church. Guess I'm in good company - but the Lutherans only excommunicated me once. Luther, it seems, had pretty definite ideas about the Catholic church's ban on marriage for priests, and included it in his 95 Theses. (Probably why we never did get to read those in my Lutheran grade school. Too racy, I imagine.) He went on to not only marry, but his bride was a nun. Well, former nun. She got the boot too. I hadn't realized that there was a time in the early Catholic church when priests were allowed to marry and have children, and then the Church changed its mind, because they felt sex was taking the men's attention away from the Church. And now we have priests preying on young men (and presumably some young women). Sex continues to take their focus away from the church. Maybe they should be allowed to marry again.

Getting back into the swing of things

I've been a bad blogger. I neglected these little public diaries for almost a year, but since they haven't developed any sort of a following, I don't suppose anyone has missed me.

I did manage to get a few stories written in the past year, although under my new pseudonym, they're not getting as much traffic as I'd like. The "old me" had quite a following, but when I had to head underground, there was no way to notify my groupies. To them, I just disappeared, leaving only poetry behind. So I'm thinking perhaps I can use this blog to drum up some new readership and maybe get things going again. It's hard to write without a good fan base to write for.

On another note, I'm contemplating incorporating some new methods into a story. I was thinking about maybe a sex swing. (Click to see a video if you're over 18 and it's legal for you to do so.) Do you think enough readers would understand what it is that I could put it into a story without too much in the way of explanation? I think it raises all sorts of interesting questions - like, "Son, what is that and why is it hanging in your library?" - "Gee, mom, that's Susie's new exercise equipment. She's really getting a good workout every time she uses it." It could certainly create some interesting scenes, not to mention sensations (...you spin me 'round like a record baby...)

But then there's the Tantra Chair. For only $999 plus shipping, this too can be yours, designed to last a lifetime and to bring you pleasure like you've never experienced before. And I do have to say, if I didn't have a garage to fix and a billion other projects in this money pit I call home, I'd be tempted. Seriously seriously tempted. And it could certainly make for an interesting location in a story, don't you think?

But then I ran across this, in my quest for interesting sex furniture. It comes with a carrying case, so you can travel with it. (Yeah - like you're gonna get THAT through airport security! Although it does sort of resemble a luggage rack you'd find in a hotel room...) However, I'm wary of any site that can't spell "beginner" correctly.

That's enough for today, folks. If those links don't get your imagination going on this Freaky Friday, then you might want to check your pulse.

'Til next time....

Pop the Clutch: The challenges of starting a new story.

I've started a new story. It's not going well. I have this great idea, but I'm having a hard time fleshing it out. Why? Well, for a long time, I wrote stories that were based on situations I had been in. And when you write from experience, it's very easy to capture (or re-capture) that sense of being there, because you can draw on your memories to pull in details. But when you're writing a story that has no basis on your own personal experience, it can be very difficult to create those details in your mind. I find that I have to trick my mind into believing I lived the story in order to write it. It can be easy sometimes, but this time I'm having trouble. Here's the premise of the story:

Girl has her first real corporate job after college. She has a lot of student loans, and an entry level position doesn't pay quite enough to pay the loan payment. She answers an ad for modeling - she did a little runway modeling for a mall when she was in high school, never still photography, but she figures it can't be that hard. She follows the directions to the location - it's a seedy part of town, a loft in an old warehouse or factory of some sort. The photographer lives there, and the other model has already arrived. They are being shot for a series of erotic book covers, and the male model is incredibly good looking, so she thinks this will be a piece of cake, although she's a little reluctant at first - her religious upbringing creates guilt that gnaws at the corners of her mind. Several shoots later, the male model seduces her while they are filming, she forgets about the photographer and camera...you get the picture. (Pun intended.)

I've never modeled. Never really wanted to. I like photography, but I know nothing about it beyond point and shoot and a little shot composition. So I'll have to do a little photography research, I think, and I need to get myself into a model's frame of mind. I understand the desperation of needing money to make ends meet - when I was out of college, I worked at Pizza Hut to supplement the income from my first two "real" jobs (which weren't all that real, given they were telemarketing and phone sales). Yes, I was a Pizza Slut. But it was a decent job and meant that I had to buy very little in the way of groceries, because I'd eat dinner there and bring mistakes home for lunch the few next days. I also worked with some really great people - we were like a dysfunctional family, but we knew how to have fun.

So back to the story. That's where I'm at. I have a plot outlined, and I've started writing the first draft. I've gotten her to the photo shoot. She has that fake bravado that recent college grads adopt, that sense of "I can do anything! I have a diploma!" is still fresh, and the looming student loan payment is enough impetus to push her through the heavy sliding door at the end of the hall.

Are you intrigued? I am. While I have no interest in modeling, it's still a story that has the potential to get me going. I was young and innocent once, full of imagined experience. I want to know what happens next.

Snow and its effect on writing

It's snowing today. A steady stream of white that blankets the world in crisp cold sheets. It is the perfect day to write. A steaming cup of cocoa laced with amaretto or rum, a bowl of freshly popped popcorn (the homemade on the stove kind, not that chemical aftertaste microwave crap), and a cozy spot by the window with a wireless laptop and a soft snuggly blanket is a recipe for a good story.

So what's the problem? I'm supposed to be working. I have a real job, you see, and I work at home most of the time. Today is one of those work at home days. But I don't feel like working. I feel like writing a steamy story.

Snow has that effect. It doesn't just spin cars off the road, but it has a way of spinning me off track too. But, then again, I get distracted easily. See, here's the other issue. I'm a little horny. And I have a hard time writing stories about sex when I'm horny. It's a strange problem to have. I'm sure you're thinking, "well then take care of it and get on with the story writing!" I know, I know. And I could. But I'm feeling a little masochistic right now too, so I'm denying myself that little release until I've gotten some work done. It's a vicious cycle.

Erotica vs. Porn

Is there a difference?

If you read my first posting, you've no doubt figured out that I was excommunicated from my church because some nimwit who didn't know how to use the internet accidentally discovered that I write erotic fiction and post it on the internet, and decided to tell everyone she knew, including the Pastor. I was condemned for being a blatant and unrepentant sinner, knowingly leading others astray by my sinful hobby.

In the months since then, I've been doing a lot of soul-searching and investigating to see if I can figure out whether there is or isn't a difference between porn and erotica. What do you think?

I know what my former Pastor believes - there is no difference. Apparently if you're Lutheran, you are not allowed to have a sex life beyond missionary position lights out sex on Saturday nights with your husband or wife. I'm not a very good Lutheran, apparently.

I know what my friends and fellow writers believe - there is a difference. Erotica has a plot, with character development. It has some redeeming literary quality beyond just being a stroke story. It explores some facet of relationships, life, or humanness. It is geared more toward women, and often includes some hint of romance. Erotica relies on symbolism and subtext and imagery to add other dimensions to the story. Porn is about making objects of women (primarily) and is targeted to getting the viewer/reader off as quickly as possible. It's "insert tab A into slot B", a money shot, and cheesy music.

I've been writing erotica since I was in high school. I'm 32 now, so we're talking close to 20 years (I started high school when I was 13). And I have to tell ya, I really like writing it. And I know a lot of people who really like reading it. I get more fan mail than I know what to do with sometimes, a lot of it from couples who have thanked me for putting some spice back in their sex life. They're reading it together, or she's reading it to him, or vice versa, to get in the mood. So does that make me a sex therapist as well? But I digress...

In my opinion, erotica is as much about the imagination and the largest sex organ - the mind - as it is about the sex. It's about drawing the reader into a story, giving them a peek into someone else's bedroom where they can either play the role of the voyeur or imagine themselves acting out a secret fantasy. I try to create stories about real people having real sex. There are no impossibly perfect buxom blonds with wasp waists in my stories. There are no body building hunks fixing the cable in their speedos. It's the couple next door, or the college students down the hall.

I've had complaints from a few readers who wanted the porn - who wanted the sex up front in the first scene, and the orgasm within two pages. Sorry, guys - if that's what you want, then don't read my stuff. I write what I like to read. Porn is easy to come by (pun intended), but it's not what I write. Well - that's not to say that I haven't started off a story in bed, but there's certainly more to it than that, and there's generally a better sex scene later in the story as a reward for those who keep reading!

A lot of readers want the build-up. They want the anticipation. They want to be seduced. Erotica does that. Porn just bends 'em over, fucks 'em hard, and leaves 'em unsatisfied.

That's what I think. What about you?