A West Coast Gothic

I often wonder how many authors got an angle for a story idea from some sort of weird situation. Most of mine are sparked by some sort of random occurrence or dream and The Namaqualand Book of the Dead numbers among these that somehow just pounced on me a while back. The event that sparked it off was really quite random. It was a miserable winter’s day and I was walking down to the train station when I saw a man I thought was dead.

Lucien had been an old friend of my husband’s, and he’d passed away a year or so before the incident. What was odd about the situation is that I captured a glimmer of recognition in the man’s eye before he turned his back on me and vanished down a side street. Totally gob-smacked, I stood there for a moment, shook my head then carried on walking to the station.

Now Lucien had always been a bit of a storyteller. About fifty percent of whatever tale he shared could be true. Place emphasis on the word “could”. But he was dear to us, and we miss him. My husband later said to me it would be so like Lucien to fake his own death. The gods knew he had enough reason to.

This incident naturally left me feeling a bit odd, as though reality had stretched thin for a brief moment. Immediately I started stringing “what ifs” together until my muse yelled at me to grab paper and pen to jot down an outline. I dashed out the words for The Namaqualand Book of the Dead quickly and it’s my first novella-length work. I took my time revising it but with each batch of revisions, I’ve really enjoyed rereading it, and it’s not often that I can admit that about my writing.

All my contemporary settings are southern African. I’m a firm believer in “write what you know”. There’s more to this region than Big Five safaris. Trust me. I’ve lived here for the past thirty-three years of my life. Cape Town and the Western Cape Province are particularly rich in history, both cultural and natural. I offer my readers a fascinating glimpse into the South Africa you don’t see in guide books or on Discovery Channel.

While The Namaqualand Book of the Dead is classified as urban fantasy, and the story is very much about love, the supernatural elements are merely hinted at and only truly come to the fore near the end. I always wanted to write a story from the point of view of a person who was, in a sense, a victim of circumstances and totally clueless of the bigger picture. In many ways Chloë is the antithesis of your average urban fantasy heroine. She has her strengths, though, no matter how misguided she is in her intentions.

I hereby invite you to step into my world.

Read an excerpt from The Namaqualand Book of the Dead here: http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=1_22&products_id=313

And keep up to speed with my writing career by liking my Facebook fan page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Nerine-Dorman-author/173330419365374?v=wall

Panga Under a Full Moonfish

Waves crashed on the rocky shoal.

Starfish arrived to investigate.

Rumors spread rockfish were involved. Groupers quickly lined the shore. Crabs carped about the rising price of fish oil. Eels suggested electricity as an alternative, but candlefish objected, claiming the proposal was a baited hook. Someone shouted "aholehole" and a scuttle broke out. Mother squid herded their children away from the swordfish play with threats of calamari. The bitterling ended when an alewife gave her wandering bigeye husband a shiner and blackchin. Dogfish barked at catfish chasing batfish. Barfish bellied up. Trumpeters and cornets encouraged a banjo, drum, and bowfin to join their bandfish. Submissive chain pickerel eyed the plump chubs with more than a little guppy envy. Chum salmon angled for new friends. Clownfish combfished their seaweed wigs. A convict cichlid fingerfished a walu - the crocodile shark finned with a javelin made the con a croaker. Surgeonfish used an xray tetra to examine the remains, pronounced it scat, and angelfish swam the sole to the sea devil. The recently filleted soldierfish was thanked for his service entrée with a silver dollar from a grenadier and quickly located a sucker who was also a swallower. But when a sand diver leered at a young scissor-tail, a cowfish deposited a pile of crappie, requiring the emperor to declare school out for the day. Grunion ran as sardines canned the crowd, leaving the sweepers to clean up the scales and submit a plated billfish for their efforts.

Anyone up for red lobster?

Tom's Story / Chapter 11

Tom's Story

Chapter 11


The weeks dragged on. Occasionally I woke to find the ship's hold replenished, indicating the ship docked to take on stores and coal while I laid oblivious. My nights were spent honing my skills. I soon became adept at holding the gaze of three at a time. I found it easiest to feed in front of the other two, if took my selection away, my focus on the others lessened. The memory of the encounter was washed from their minds, leaving them none the wiser except one, who was a bit under the weather the following day.

I had yet to return to the galley mate. My first feeding weakened him far more than I anticipated. His illness was grave, even without my assistance I doubted he would survive the voyage. I kept watch, but hoped to avoid feeding from him again until we neared our destination where he might at least receive a proper burial.

In a fit of boredom I entered the captain’s quarters, mostly to assure myself I could without their knowledge. Although the captain and his first mate shared the room, neither woke to my presence. I was surprised to find a well stocked bookcase and even more so to find myself able to read them. I borrowed one book on the Orient that first night, returning the volume the next, having not only read the thing, but retained the knowledge as well. The library had numerous maps and charts, as one might expect, and I availed myself of these as well over the next weeks. Always best to know the lay of the land should escape become necessary.
*****
The ship pitched and swayed as the waves lashed over the decks and water rained into the hold where I lay. Luckily the coffin was made more sturdily than the crate housing it, or I would have awakened resting on a bed of mud. Above the creak of the ship and the groaning of the stores as they strained against the ropes mooring them, the captain shouted orders to the crew. Chinese prayers rose up along with a serpentine hiss when water reached the heated boilers below. Too many running feet on deck to venture out, I would have to bide my time until the storm lessened.

Retrieving my gold from the soil I laid on and the copy of Tom Sawyer from the coffin, I climbed atop the cotton bales. After knocking away the rats who sought shelter, I nestled down and began to read as the gale raged on.

By the time I finished the book, the crate housing my coffin was afloat. The Annabel Lea had taken on considerable water and even now the pumps chugged and gurgled above the dying wind, drawing the water out of the hold. I knew without seeing, the storm ebbed with the approach of dawn. I dared not venture out this late. Mariska had warned not to skip a feeding. In fear of what I might become, what I might do, I snatched the first rat unfortunate enough to scamper up my bale-- and bit.

One would have to do. I couldn’t force myself to try another.

I leapt from my perch and slogged to my coffin rocking like a cradle on the receding water. My bed would settle soon enough. I tucked the book into my coat, lay down and pulled the lid closed. The rodent had done little for my thirst, but the dawn took away the hunger with my soul.

Waking to the gentle rocking of the ship, I knew at once we were anchored. No voices or chugging of the engines reached my ears. It was far too soon to have reached our destination. Had the captain anchored somewhere to make repairs? If so, where? Only one way to find out, I climbed from my box and stretched. The horrible flavor of rat lingered in my mouth. I spat, which did no good at all, then, went to the ladder and climbed.

A leisurely stroll around the deck followed by a check of the boiler room, confirmed my suspicion. The entire ship was deserted, save for me, the rats and the pelican. I returned Mr. Twain to the captain’s quarters. I gazed over the rail. The ship was moored in a cove about a half mile from shore. I could see the escape boats lining the sandy beach. All of them.

Well, I had been longing for a bath.

I removed my boots and coat, hiding them among the ropes and buckets, stepped to the rail and dove, immediately bobbing to the surface. The water was surprising warm and shallow. I understood the need to anchor off shore. I took a turn around the vessel and noted two new patches. The crew had been busy during the daylight. Was the trip to shore for a job well done? I lengthened my stroke, heading for the beach.

I glided through the water with amazing speed. Always a strong swimmer, I seemed more buoyant now. On a whim, I tried to dive, but as with my plunge from the ship, bounced back to the surface.
Lesson learned-- I would never try to hide in water. I soon reached the beach.

Like a child at play I whirled, but at a much greater speed. When I came to a stop, my clothes were practically dry. [i]How convenient[/i]. I listened to the wind and the voices it carried then, strode off through the sand and rocks in that direction. Cresting a small hill I saw the village nestled below, here and there the glow of a torch or lamp lit the night. The sound of laughter drew me down the hillside.
Panic seized me. My head spun and my normally still heart, beat a staccato rhythm. What was that horrendous odor? When my vision cleared, the ropes of bulbs adorning the drying racks came into view, the stench overpowering. I fled.

I practically stumbled into the Chinamen in my haste to get away from the noxious root. Away from the vapors I realized the chins of braided bulbs were garlic. Yet another chapter missing from my education, I would have thought our severe reaction would have warranted at least a short tutorial from Mariska.

The Chinamen had made themselves a camp, some quarter mile from the village. Were they not welcome there or did they just prefer their own company? At the moment I didn’t care. I needed to feed and to be away from the vile odor of the village. Some slept while others ate and drank from bottles covered in woven straw. The aroma of wine, rice and fish replaced the garlic and my heart stilled.

I watched from the shadows as a man staggered into the brush then, followed. When he had relieved himself, returned his dick to the confines of his pants and pulled his tunic down, I struck. With one hand clamped over his mouth to stop his scream, the other bent his neck to the side, he stilled as soon as my fangs pierced his throat. The first rush of blood over my tongue washed the ratty residue away but reminded me of my hunger. With great restraint, I lowered him to the sparse grass. Only drunk, not dead, but my thirst was not yet sated. The sweetness of wine in his blood was not intoxicating as the moonshine had been, or perhaps, I just had a head for wine.

I drifted back into the shadows and waited until another came my way. It was not a long wait. The man knelt by the first, placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him. The drunkard stirred and spoke softly, his words carried away by the sound of the surf. The tide was coming in. The second took a few steps away, loosened his pants and fisted his cock, sending a stream of piss into the night. I waited patiently for him to put himself away. He didn’t, but approached the prone man and lay beside him. His hands reached to untie the cord at the man’s waist. One dipped inside while the other tossed the man’s braid out of the way. He nuzzled the neck of his friend, but paused, as if uncertain. When the man began to rock in his grasp, his focus returned.
No longer interested in the bite, he used his free hand to pull down his companion’s pants then to wedge his hardened cock between the cheeks of his ass. The man groaned as if in pain but thrust his hips back, so perhaps not. I left them to it. I would find other prey.

I mulled over what I had witnessed. Far from an innocent, I knew such things happened. Some men and women preferred their own gender. While men held no physical attraction for me, I remembered the lust I felt when I fed and could not find it in me to judge. Life was short and hard, and joy should be taken where one found it.

The rising wind carried a scent to me, the smell of death. I hastened toward the source, knowing what I would find.

The galley mate lay between the dunes, gasping for air, a trickle of dark blood oozed from his lips. I knelt and touched his shoulder and his eyes flickered open, pleading. Cradling him in my arms, his head lolled to the side. I struck quickly and fed deeply as his pulse weakened more and more. I raised my head and licked the blood from my lips, looking into his clouded eyes. His heart labored to pump what little blood remained, as his breath rattled in his rotten lungs. With a quick twist I snapped his neck, with another I took his head; the third pitched it into the surf.

I carried his body to the shore. The tide had turned and my fellow shipmates would soon be returning to their boats. I carried the cook’s mate into the water with me, half way to the Annabel Lea, I let him go. The tide would carry him out to sea.

I kept my word.

The rope ladder brought me back to deck, a twirl dried me and I retrieved my boots and coat from their hiding place. The men were loading into their boats but it would take time to row even with the current aiding them.

I went to the captain’s cabin and looked through the library for a book. The Karma Sudra, another book about the Orient no doubt, but I didn’t have time now to peruse it. I returned to the hold and my coffin. I had given up on finding better accommodations. We would reach our destination in another week. I tucked the thick volume into my coat and pulled the lid closed.

That dreaded first page. Why, oh why, is it so important?

I've been rejected. Many, many time. And form rejections are the worse.

Do you want to know why I, or anyone for that matter, gets them?

Well see, it’s like this. All agents--and more so, editors--are not men and woman from this realm, but beasts that mimic human form. And their claims of hundreds of queries is a lie.

For days their lairs are quiet as tombs, then suddenly their monstrous machines chime a new arrival and they prepare to pounce. You've innocently handed your manuscript--which you've spent months, or maybe even years slaving over--to creatures that don't want the diamond in the rough. They want the chance to sever any hope from the weak, fragile artist who dares cross into their trenches.

One look at your baby brings a snerk followed by barely coherent rants as the agent paces his office.

"First draft by jove! Why must you waste my time?"

The agent's secretary makes a hasty retreat (smart girl that she is).

"Show! Don't tell!" The agent shakes head and sighs as he pulls out his pitchfork. "Commas are not to be used like chocolate chips!" The staff of the pitchfork strikes brimstone in time with his steps. He stops and lets his head falls back. "Adverbs! You weak, spineless maggot!"

Copies of your query with all errors highlighted are distributed around the office to facilitate mocking. Gathered en mass around the table sized red ’Form Reject’ button the other agents wait--hence the reason a no from one agent is a no from them all. Beady, red eyes glow. Caffeinated morning breath hovers in a rancid red smog around eager, pale faces.

The last mousy, unpaid intern trudges in, weighed down with submitted manuscripts, ready for the weekly bonfire. Flames dancing high around them, their raised fists slam down as one. A moment of silence is held while they envision the screams of your crushed spirit.




Sound realistic? Of course not. It would be silly to think your work gets that much attention from one page that didn’t catch the agents eye.

*unless you did the unthinkable and sent a nude photo along with it...you didn't, did you?*

So what scenario do you have in mind when you’re taking rejection personally?

There is only one way to look at form rejection in my opinion, and most agent blogs will confirm it. The agent reading queries is like you when you browse through books in a bookstore. You know what your tastes are, know you have a limited budget--if you don’t imagine, you do for the sake of a good comparison--but you don’t have a specific novel in mind. Eyes skimming over the books the first thing you notice will be title and cover. On that alone if you haven’t heard wonderful things about the book you’ll probably pass on it.

So as a consumer, you will pass on someone else’s baby because in essence one of its parents dressed it funny? For shame!

On to the next stage. After nastily passing over the little darlings of hundreds of authors, one appeals to you. You pick it up, skim the blurb on the back and quite often, if the description doesn’t grab you in a stranglehold that demands you give it more of your precious time, you put it back on the shelf.

A book that was good enough for an agent, and a publisher, and you have the audacity of rejecting it on the same blurb that probably got them to snatch the manuscript out of the slush? How could you!

Last but not least you crack open the book and start reading. Not with the patience you’d give a book in the comfort of your home, but with the rush of someone who has been on their feet all day and just wants to find something to read on the way home from work, or in the bath after the kids are in bed, or while your significant other watches Family Guy. The first sentence is about a girl contemplating the sunset. The book is supposed to have action, you’re bored already…

So naturally you pull out your wallet and drop ten bucks on the book. I mean, you want to support this writer who’s spent months, or years, on this masterpiece.

You’re a writer yourself! You didn’t really put it back did you? You cold, heartless meanie!

The author, the one that finally gets your attention, has maybe a paragraph to hook you, and at most a page to reel you in. That’s exactly how it works with agents, only, in many ways, they’re kinder than consumers. Would you buy a book that had a typo on page one? Probably not. Why waste money on shoddy product? An agent will often overlook small errors if the story’s exceptional (which does not mean you shouldn’t put a Herculean effort into getting rid of as many as possible).

What does all this mean? This means that you, the consumer, are crueller than even the most fussy, snobby, rude agent or editor you’ve ever come across. You’re lucky you’re not trying to cold query yourself. It wouldn’t be pretty.

Now that you’re being honest with yourself look at your first page, as if you had to fork out dough on it with nothing but the first page and the pretty cover you’ve got all planned out in your mind.

Alright, done? Still convinced it’s ready? Great.

Now zap the cover because the agent can’t see it and doesn’t want to hear about it. Sure now?

This reality is what makes it easier to deal with rejection on queries, even those with pages of your manuscript pasted or attached. The critical eye you need to use on your baby is necessary if you want to give it the best shot among all the other babies that are cuter or cry louder. Are you absolutely positive you didn’t dress your sweetie funny? Can you maybe add an extra curl to help show off that cherub face? That isn’t *gasp* dirt on that pudgy cheek, is it?

Got you thinking? Good. Here’s a cookie, you deserve it.

For more of me, go here: http://imnoangelauthorsblog.wordpress.com/

Sexy Shoes...

Or no shoes at all.

Part of the fun in writing erotica is indulging in the world of fantasy.  Your characters get to have the curly, red hair you always wanted, or the sparking green eyes you’ve only seen in the movies.  The guys…well, you only need to visit the supermarket to realize the world is not filled with six-pack abs, jeans that hug every little bulge and low, soft voices with just a hint of a foreign accent.

However, there is one thing that is easily scripted into a story, and also your closet…shoes.  Ahhh, shoes.  And yet, they are so easily dismissed when dressing your characters. 

The tight black dress clung to her, hugging her breasts and ass in a tight grasp.

Okay, great.  But as any woman knows, what is a little black dress without the necklace, bag and SHOES!  Don’t forget the shoes!

Little ballet slippers or pumps or…my favorite…boots.  Boots that are buckled, laced, pointy, spiky, lacy, leather, or even practical.  Bumping boots is a whole lot of fun.  They get in the way…who can disrobe with a pair of boots still stuck to their feet?  And it slows the whole seduction scene way down.

He pulled the thin strap down, exposing her pale breast.  His hot tongue swirled over her nipple.  She hissed.  Hungry, she reached for his neck, scoring his skin.  In an attempt to maintain balance, she leaned forward, her knee seeking the bulge of his cock beneath his jeans.

His strong hands kneaded her ass, and then lifted her.  She bit his chin and rubbed her bare breast against the steel of his shirt button.  So very hot.  The cool surface of the kitchen counter stung her naked ass.  His thumbs pulled at her thong.  Wet and hungry, she wiggled on the counter as he peeled the panties down her legs…until he encountered her boots.

Ah, see?  Those little bits of lingerie always get caught on something.  Now we have to unlace, unzip, tug, pull…all sorts of really unsexy efforts that probably will result in one of two things…the destruction of that little black dress while their hormones take over, or a cessation of hot kisses while feet are unveiled.  After all, he’s probably got either cowboy or work boots on and those are even more evil than the lady’s more decorative fare when it comes to their removal.

We could just skip the whole boot thing….

No.  I don’t think so.  This is my fantasy, after all.  They’ll just have to work it all out, and ain’t that just a ton of fun to read about!

Kissed From Beyond - New Release - Paranormal Anthology

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON KINDLE

(This is an Indie published book. Support INDIE Authors)


“This 'must read' anthology will take you to the mystical beyond and back with four erotica novellas from bestselling and award winning authors: Keta Diablo, Amber Scott, Elise Hepner and Stacey Kennedy. Can you handle the magic?”

Cradle of Dreams – Keta Diablo
With visions of battle still fresh in his mind, Roane Bradfield returns home to find the woman he loves betrothed to another. He corners Kendrick Moreland at Dowager Huggins’ Grand Ball and whisks her into the secluded library. One way or the other, he will know the reason the duplicitous beauty cut him from her life when she promised to wait forever.

Kendrick can’t believe her eyes when Roane suddenly appears at the ball. Has he truly risen from the dead? Amid wagging tongues and hushed murmurs, the fantasy of her every dream whisks her from the ballroom. And the expression on his face is anything but loving. Revenge, danger and powerful love collide in the Cradle of Dreams.

A Love Soul Deep – Amber Scott
If only Sara had known no man would ever make her feel like Crew did, she would have let him love her. A regret that can never be undone. His death haunts her dreams and her wishful thinking, reminding her of everything she has lost.

Years later, a visit to an antique store in sultry Savannah changes everything and makes her deepest wish come true. Her beloved returns to her. Her every fantasy gets the chance to be fulfilled. But she wants more than one night. She wants a lifetime and wonders what magic will let her keep A Love Soul Deep.

One More Rub – Elise Hepner
Flynn has been cursed for over a century for a social slight he never committed. A voodoo priestess hexed him and forced him into a teapot where he could only be summoned by the rub of a woman’s palm. Once free, he grants these women three sexual favors—and cuts off his own emotions in the process. Unable to break free from an invisible cage of lust and sex to fall in love again, he’s resigned to being a sex object and nothing more.

Helena has been house sitting far, far away from her complicated past in England— including her former childhood sweetheart, who wasn’t satisfied when Helena didn’t want to be barefoot and pregnant. But she’s resigned to leave behind the complications of men and sex. She hopes that logic will win out over her unreliable emotions—but she’s put to the test when she accidentally summons Flynn from his teapot prison

‘Til We Meet Again – Stacey Kennedy
Ethan Thomas has spent years alone,forever trapped between worlds. Once a soldier in the Civil War, he’s now a ghost bound to a chaise lounge that once belonged to him. He’s spent centuries lingering in Savannah, Georgia, waiting to be saved…

Cassandra Cole is an interior designer who has been hired to restore an old Victorian home. But as she begins to furnish the home strange happenings begin to erupt around her. She suspects the house is haunted. Determined to find out, Cassie will set out to discover who this ghost is, why she feels a connection to him, and what she has to do to free him will surprise her in ways she couldn’t have imagined.

* * *
AVAILABLE on SMASHWORDS
Also Available on KINDLE: AMAZON KINDLE
Follow: KETA'S KEEP EROTIC BLOG

Dependence

Over the many years of my life, I have steadfastly believed that I am independent in all areas; family, friends, children, everyone. To me, independence is standing on my own two feet, without having to call on anyone for help.

As the years go by, my view point about my independence has changed. Gradually, I've discovered over the years that what I thought was independence is nothing but a fake front I enjoy projecting to the world. I do depend on people. Loved ones, friends, family--my kids, they are all a part of my world that I would not be able to function without. The guise of this dependence was hidden from my view in my younger years.

Not only did I realize I needed people, but I also thrive on that need. My fellow writing buddies are always there for me. My kids listen to me and need me in return. Friends call me for advice or just to talk about their lives as I share mine with them. A give and take, the flow of spirits reaching out to one another that spans years, a lifetime. Now does that make me a dependent of others? Sure, I'll admit it. I need people in my life and I fill a spot in their lives, too. It doesn't make me less a person or unable to function on my own. It just helps to make me a more rounded individual. Someone whose journey through live, touching people's souls and allowing them to touch mine, is full and overflowing with blessings.

For all my friends, acquaintances, my beloved family, I say Thank You. Without you, I would not be the person I am today.

Judith Leger Website
Blog

What One Non-family Person Truly Impacted Your Life? - by KevaD

Easy question for me – my fifth grade teacher in Beloit, WI.

I've always written stories. Before I knew the alphabet I drew tales in crayon. Once I was in school, teachers read at least one of my stories to the class each year.

However, those same teachers openly humiliated and condemned me; made it crystal clear to my classmates I was different and abnormal.

My crime? My societal abhorrence? I was left-handed. At that time, being left-handed was totally unacceptable. Yes, I even had a teacher who tied my left arm to my body during class, until my mother intervened and threatened to remove me from the school. I suspect the fact Mom brought a newspaper reporter with her to see the principal had more effect on the situation than her threat. Still, being in the third grade at the time, the incident didn’t help my self-esteem. The teacher moved me to the back of the classroom so the other students didn't have to look at me.

And people actually wondered why I became shy and reserved.

However, in that same school was a fifth grade teacher who quietly watched. She arranged for me to be placed in her class during writing exercises the remainder of that school year, and the next. I learned writing amongst fifth graders. No surprise, when I was elevated to the fifth grade, I was assigned to her class.

That was when the true beauty of this woman shone. She spent time before and after school teaching me to be me. Her encouragement opened my mind to the reality that all people are different and being different is what unites us, actually gives us all a common bond.

My stories flowed. I couldn't stop. That teacher set my mind free, and I've never allowed my thoughts to be confined since.

Today, I continue to write whatever I choose. My stories aren't always popular, not necessarily what the current trend is. But each one is from my heart, my soul. They truly are a very real part of me, not contrived and forced, not subject to "you should write this or that".

I do understand that may well be a curse as much as a freedom. Readers aren't going to find me writing in one style or one specific genre. Sometimes I wish I could fit into a specific box with a specific label. But it's not going to happen. My next tale may involve gay romance in an era where the lovers could be sentenced to death if discovered, or a battered and scarred shifter condemned to a powerless existence, or an old man tied to a bed in a nursing home as he waits for his deceased wife to find him and take him home, or a single mother balanced on the edge of a blade until she takes the knife in hand and carves out a life for herself and her scorned child, or a young brother and sister attempting to escape East Berlin as the wall is built…

That teacher gave every one of my stories breath. Unfortunately, we moved before the end of my school year with her (due to my Dad's work, we moved a lot). But I've never forgotten the gift she gave me. How could I? Left-handed writing commands my life now.

So, who stepped up and changed your life when they didn't have to?

Erotic Short Story - Guilty Pleasures - Keta Diablo

Guilty Pleasures

Keta Diablo

“Yes, yes.” My pleas for more echoed through the quiet solitude of the hotel room.

My hands were bound behind my back and tied to the chair, my ankles secured to the legs in the same manner. Blindfolded, I couldn’t see the binding, but the scent of leather spiraled up my nose. Of course, the flogger. I should have known.

Allowing my mind to wander, I imagined Master D looming over me, big and powerful. The whip in his hand sliced through the air before delivering the next kiss of pain to my naked thighs.

I didn’t know his real name, knew only the moniker he used in the bondage chat room, Tie Me Up. Two months had passed before I’d worked up the nerve to introduce myself to the online members. Until that day, I’d been content to lurk. No, that’s a lie. I’d planned to emerge from the shadows and confess my darkest fantasy. No matter, I was here now, living the fantasy, reveling in the pleasurable pain.

“Your knees are touching again,” he said, low-voiced. “So far, I’m not impressed by your lack of obedience.” Master D grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked. “Why should I waste my time with a woman who has no desire to submit?”

“I put the blindfold on as instructed, didn’t I? Took my clothes off?”

“Don’t play games with me, Zoe. You’ll lose.”

Zoe wasn’t my real name. I’m sure he knew that, had known long before I agreed to meet the infamous Master D in this five-star hotel. The man had good taste; I had to give him that.

I writhed and arched my back when the flogger whistled through the air. It connected with my skin like a caress. God, I understood why he chose the name Master D. Right now, I didn’t believe any man in the world had mastered the delivery of the whip so well. Not once had the leather snake landed in the same spot, but rather it crisscrossed my breasts, abdomen, and thighs. He meant to tease me, torment me. And he had from the moment he entered the room. My nipples were hard and swollen, and moisture had pooled between my thighs long ago.

His calloused hands wrenched my legs apart, his muffled voice piquing my curiosity even more. I heard him shuffle around me, and felt him loosen the binding around my wrists. “Slide forward on the chair until your cheeks are resting on the edge.” Again I heard him move to stand in front of me. “Now, open your legs wide. I want to see those pink, swollen pussy lips.”

A shiver ran up my spine, then another, as I obeyed. I wanted to prove I could be the submissive he wanted. I’d die if he left the room now, decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.

His breath quickened. That pleased me. Did he like what I showed him so willingly? “Don’t move, not a muscle. If you slide back a fraction of an inch or twitch a muscle when I finger you, I’ll leave you here trussed up like a turkey. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master, I understand.”

I stifled a shudder and clenched my eyes tight when he pushed a finger inside and stroked my wet tunnel. Oh, God, concentrate. Of their own volition the muscles of my pussy tightened around his thick digit. With a growl, he inserted another finger, pushed, and probed, driving me mad with desire.

He would pick just this moment to question me, knowing I’d tell him the truth rather than run the risk of losing him before . . . .

“You’re a beautiful woman, Zoe, which makes me wonder why you’re here. Huh, why did you agree to meet me? Your old man isn’t into kink? Can’t deliver like you want him to?”

I shook my head, didn’t want to talk about Michael at a time like this. Oh, Michael, where did we go wrong? What happened to the love we once shared? I love you still and will until the day I die.

His voice sounded desperate and . . . something else. “It doesn’t make sense—a woman as lovely as you coming to a stranger to get her thrills. Tell me, Zoe, is that it? Your man won’t do you like I can? Won’t give you what you need, crave?”

His mesmerizing voice and the wicked motion of his fingers inside me made me forget I wasn’t supposed to move. My hips lifted up and a gasp of pleasure pushed past my dry lips when he applied pressure to that special spot inside me, the one I found the nights Michael didn’t come home from work.

It was after one of those nights I’d dragged my body from bed and wandered into the computer room, praying he’d sent me an e-mail. How I longed to see the words had to work late again. I turned the computer on, intending to go directly to my e-mail, but instead an unfamiliar screen came up—Enter the bondage chat room Tie Me Up now?

My heart fell to some unknown place beneath my knees. Was this the reason Michael had been pushing me away? Was he into something I didn’t know about, bondage, kink and-and other women? Anger replaced my pain. I clicked the mouse and entered the room, using my middle name, Kathryn Zoe McDougal, to register. And the rest is history, as they say.

One thing led to another, and soon I met Master D. I was drawn to him immediately, his commanding presence, his authoritative demeanor, even though I never joined in on the conversation. Master D was like a flame and I the moth. He wooed me, seduced me, drove me crazy with his talk of domination and decadent pleasure. He knew what I needed, he said, would have me begging him to fuck me after thirty minutes. Damn if he wasn’t right.

He withdrew his fingers so fast I gasped again. “What did I tell you?” Without waiting for an answer, he walked behind the chair and ripped the ties from my wrists. I concentrated on his movements, realizing he was in front of me now, on his knees, and untying the rope around my ankles.

Without another word, he dragged me to the bed by an elbow and pushed me roughly onto the mattress. On my back, I wanted desperately to pull the blindfold off, look at him. Just once. Did he have long, dark hair like I imagined or the total opposite, short with strands of golden honey from the sun?

He must have read my mind. I didn’t doubt for a minute that he had such capabilities. He must have done this a thousand times before. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted him to fuck me. And while he did, I’d pretend Master D was my Michael, my tall, beautifully built Michael who once loved me with all his heart.

“Don’t take that blindfold off until you have my permission.”

Oh, God, I felt his weight on the bed, his knees pushing into my hips on both sides, his warm breath against my cheek. I was trapped. He was going to fuck me, and I couldn’t wait a moment longer. “Hurry, Michael,” I said, not realizing the words slipped out until it was too late.

He went perfectly still. “What did you call me?”

Now I froze, my body, the air in my lungs, even the words stuck in my throat.

“Did you call me Michael, Zoe?”

Time stilled, along with my heart.

“Huh, did you, Kathryn Zoe McDougal?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. It couldn’t be. Not Michael, not my Michael.

“You can take the blindfold off now, Kate.”

Kate, he hadn’t called me Kate for years. My heart soared.

My Michael had finally come home.

* * *

Keta Diablo writes Erotic Romance and Gay Fiction. You can find her on the Net at the following places:

Keta’s Haunt, Author Home, http://www.ketadiablo.com/

Keta’s Keep, Erotic Romance Blog, http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com/

Keta’s Facebook Fan page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Keta-Diablo/88641942024?v=wall

Keta on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/ketadiablo

Her latest paranormal shifter, Where The Rain Is Made, has been nominated for a Bookie Award by Authors After Dark in the Best E-novel category. You can read more about Where The Rain Is Made here on Kindle: http://amzn.to/gu3acT

The Dunning-Kruger Effect

The Dunning–Kruger effect was put forward in 1999 by Justin Kruger and David Dunning.

Their hypothesis states that dumb people rate their abilities highly because they are unable to see their own incompetence.  The opposite is also true. The more skilled people become the more they see their flaws and failings. Therefore you end up with the unskilled beating their chests and stating how brilliant they are and those who are more competent bemoaning their abilities and feeling inadequate.

Writers are not immune to this effect.  When I first started writing I thought I was a genius.  I knew nothing about tense, point of view, characterization, plot, and a million other things, but I battled on, convinced it was only a matter of time before I got a seven figure book deal.

My overblown ego even led me to submitting some absolutely horrible drivel to agents and publishers.  Guess what?  No one offered me anything other than a form rejection.  Undeterred by their lack of vision I battled on. 

Now, I cringe when I read what I used to write.  I cringe when I read what I write now.  Time and the love and devotion of family, friends, and crit partners not hesitating to point out my inability to punctuate, my characters lack of personality, my plot flaws and a myriad other issues, have woken me up to myself.  They broke me down do that I could see the truth and now I shall no doubt struggle in an attempt to become the writer I once thought I was.

Now I submit with caution and wait with certainty for a form rejection. If I get anything other than a rejection I am shocked and amazed.

So, the next time you feel inadequate maybe you are suffering from the Dunning-Kruger effect. Of course if you think you’re a genius…I will say no more. 

Lillian Grant

www.lilliangrant.com

http://lilliangrant.blogspot.com/

Passing Time

It’s book release day for Passing Time, a m/m contemporary romance out today from Loose Id. This novella began life as a short story that developed into something more with the addition of an unexpected character in Louis's dead boyfriend, Carter. Carter soon made his presence known to me as I was writing this story and promoted himself to a central character, even no one but Louis can see or hear him. 

Blurb

When world-weary Louis Duncan returns to the English town where he grew up, the last thing on his mind is finding love. He's come home to be at his estranged mother's side as she lies comatose in a hospital bed.

The always-sunny barman Jake Harvey yearns to offer Louis much more than a willing ear. After an evening of too much wine, too much Indian take-out, and too much of Jake's soft lips, Louis succumbs to the young man's charms. Jake proves to be a passionate lover as well as a loyal friend.

When his mother’s condition deteriorates, Louis leans on Jake to help him through the difficulty of another loss. The love of his life died two years before, but to Louis he remains every bit alive as Jake. He and Carter continue to chat, smoke together, even argue over whether Louis is living or merely existing. They do everything as they always did, except have sex. Now, despite Carter urging him to take the risk, can Louis give up his first real love and take his chances with the living?

Excerpt

Toward the end of yet another tedious day, Louis Duncan found himself wandering streets he’d not trekked in twenty years. Since his unexpected return to his hometown, he’d tried a variety of the pubs and bars that had sprung up along the High Street in his absence, but only one managed to draw his attention night after night.

The Prince of Wales public house had undergone a total transformation since the dark and dingy days of his youth. It was now a classy-looking modern bar called Harvey’s. Wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling windows had taken the place of the traditional beer-and-nicotine-stained walls Louis recalled as being off-limits to a teenager looking younger than his years.

The usual hum of voices permeated the low-level music as he entered the bar and approached the array of bottles. He took a moment to scan the various spirits, although he never ordered anything other than a large bourbon.

“Hey, Lou.” The barman, Jake, greeted him as though Louis had been a regular for years. “How’s your mum?”

Louis had spent most of the day at her side, the rhythmic chug and beep of the complicated machinery keeping him company. Occasionally a nurse would rustle up a coffee, and a doctor might pop in to update him on her progress, but apart from that the only conversation he’d shared these past couple of weeks was with a fresh-faced, eternally cheerful barman.

“No change,” he said, catching the faint nasal vowels of his own adopted New York accent.

Already the longed-for bourbon, a drink he had yet to order, sat before him. For all his youth, this guy knew how to keep his customers happy. Louis lifted the glass and swallowed the contents, savoring the thin heat flaming down into his belly.

“Another?” Jake asked, already reaching for the drained glass.

Louis smiled. For reasons unknown to himself, he always tried to arrange his features into an expression that might pass for pleasant with this particular guy. “Thanks, Jake.”

Jake returned the smile and then turned away to fetch the bourbon, affording Louis a prime view of plump ass. He wasn’t totally desensitized to the allure of a well-presented body.

“Cute,” Carter said softly, taking a perch on the stool next to Louis’s.

“I’m a little long in the tooth for cute.” Louis glanced at his lover, a handsome, smartly dressed man with a shock of sandy hair. Carter grinned, his gray eyes bright and mischievous, exactly like the man he was before the illness had yellowed his skin and ravaged his body to a wispy husk.

“You’re a little long in the tooth for spending yet another evening alone in a bar, but that doesn’t seem to bother you so much.”

Louis hunched forward on his stool. “Every day I get to sit by and watch the mother I haven’t spoken to in twenty years slip closer to death. I think I’ve earned myself a few lousy drinks, don’t you?”

“You don’t think you might have earned yourself more? A shot of that, perhaps?” Carter gestured to the barman on his return.

“Only you, my love,” Louis muttered as Jake set a fresh bourbon in front of him.

“Sorry?”

Louis glanced up to meet Jake’s curious gaze. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“Is that something you do a lot?”

“More than I should.” Louis was long past caring whether he looked like a fool or a loon.

“Do you answer yourself too?”

Louis shook his head. “Now that would make me insane.” He tried another of his smiles, but his lips refused to tilt.

“Well, I’m here,” Jake leaned his arms on the bar, all traces of humor gone. “If you feel like talking to someone.”

Louis laughed. “Haven’t I bent your ear enough these past couple of weeks?”

“With that accent you can bend my ear any time you like.” Jake gazed at him, although to Louis it felt more like a stare. Did he expect an answer? A few more bourbons, and perhaps Louis might have one for him, but not tonight.

He downed his drink and reached for the wallet in his jacket pocket. “How much do I owe?” he asked in his best business voice.

Jake waved a hand. “On the house.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Louis took out a note anyway. “I wouldn’t want you getting yourself fired because of me.”

“That’s not likely to happen. I have a very understanding boss.”

Louis set the note on the bar. “No boss is that understanding.”

“Mine is.” Jake slid the note right back. “Did I never tell you my last name?” He grinned. “It’s Harvey. My dad owns the place.”

He’d not mentioned it, but then Louis had no cause to ask. “Still, I’d rather pay what I owe.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Jake took the ten pounds, folded it neatly, and leaned over to slot it into Louis’s shirt pocket. “Why don’t you repay my hospitality by taking me out sometime?”

He stroked a thumb across Louis’s nipple through the cotton. Louis pulled back as a jolt of pleasure tingled down his body.

What was this? Flirting? No. No, it was part of the job to amuse the sad fucks who visited bars alone in order to drink themselves senseless before bedtime.

The gray area of taboo's

I was reading an interesting discussion last week about Taboo books  and it tied in a little bit with Jenika’s blog  about forced seduction.  I have to say  it got me thinking about what the line is for me as far as my reading material goes.  Now  in non-erotic books, I can read about pretty much anything depending on how it’s presented, LOL, but since we’re talking erotica, for the sake of argument, let’s assume this is a book meant to arouse or titillate. 

The taboo category is pretty broad; forced seduction books would potentially fit into this category and for some people so does BDSM, but it also has things like golden showers, incest, beastiality etc, so like I said the range is really broad.   

As a reader a huge chunk of what is considered taboo I’m fine with reading, but and it’s a big but, there’s a huge amount of it that would make me put a book down because it’s just soooo not my thing in my erotic reading.

Now personally, incest in a book just doesn’t work for me, but I do know lots of people who have the whole twin fantasy. Hell, look at some of the shows at the strip club, or browse through the adult section at the video store; twin girl-on-girl is HUGE. For me it’s a big EWWW. But judging by the porn industry, I would be in the minority. LOL  But those same people who like twins think brother-sister would be gross. What’s the difference? Either way it’s siblings touching each other sexually so for me the squick meter is out in full force.  But I’m fine reading ménages where two brothers share a woman but don’t touch each other at all, go figure, so that’s where that gray area comes in for me.

Same goes with animals, reading about sexual acts with animals is enough to make me put the book down, but I know lots of people who are cool with it if it’s in a paranormal book and the person is a shifter in animal form. So it seems for some readers that line blurs a bit too.

What I’m talking about is that gray area between heck yeah that works and oh sweet mother of god there’s no way. Now I know where my line in the sand is and there are definitely topics that really don’t work for me, but I do realize that we are all different and there’s a huge range in where that line is for readers.  So I guess I’m wondering where is the line between acceptable and unacceptable for you as a reader. What topics really hit your squick meter and there’s just no way you are going to continue reading a book?

Lauren
http://www.laurenfraser.com

Wrestling With Love

New Release, Wrestling With Love, is now available in eBook format through amazon.com, ARe, and Ai Press. The book follows Derek and Scott on the journey they began in Wrestling With Desire. This new edition transcends from young adult to contemporary erotic as our two heroes not only go to college, but experience many new firsts with one another. 

It was really fun to be able to bring their innocent, experimental relationship from high school to the steaming sexual exploration of living together in college.  of course, I enjoyed their journey and what they learned along the way about themselves and each other, but it was awesome to get them all hopped up on sex.

 

Blurb

Derek Thompson and Scott Thayer met in high school. Facing challenges and overcoming obstacles that would make lesser young men fold, they now have the chance to forge a life together. As they enter college, they finally have the time and space to discover each other sexually and give their virginity to each other. However, in spite of the erotic thrill of exploration, there are still challenges ahead, challenges that will test their love and devotion…

While Derek wants to live as an openly gay man, Scott wishes to maintain a degree of privacy. Not only that, but another freshman, Tyrell Jackson, becomes infatuated with Derek and wants Derek for his own. In the face of these threats to their burgeoning relationship, Derek and Scott are forced to look within themselves and make difficult decisions which will change both of their lives forever.

Is their relationship strong enough to bear the strain of balancing their needs as individuals and as a couple? The only way Derek and Scott will attain their ultimate reward is by finding the courage to face their fears. Will they rise to the challenge?

Excerpt

Scott’s expression softened and his crooked grin appeared on his face. Without fail, that grin turned Derek on and decimated his ability to think coherently. “Shut up and come over here.”

Derek sat next to him, sinking into Scott’s embrace. As Scott cradled him, Derek was pulled close so their faces were a mere inch apart. “You’re lucky I love you so much,” Scott said, white teeth gleaming behind full lips. “Otherwise, I would have quit this thankless job after our first try.” He closed the gap between their mouths, locking Derek in a rugged kiss. Melting into Scott’s strong arms, Derek reveled in the way warm hands gently stroked up and down his back, lingering at the base of his spine, fingers dipping inside the waistband of his pants before he began the slow journey back up Derek’s back. Their tongues wrestled and a mild taste of salt entered his mouth as sweat mixed with saliva. That, and the hint of Scott’s musky scent which surrounded the two of them, caused his cock to become rigid.

The heat in the attic was pronounced, even with the window open. As they kissed, their bodies slipped against each other. Derek used the slickness to glide his hands along Scott’s hairless chest which had broadened over the course of the summer due to his incessant workouts. He hadn’t complained about all the time Scott spent in the gym because the effect was not only visually pleasing, but gave him new mounds of muscle to grab onto during their make-out sessions. He hoped Scott would be able to make the varsity wrestling team at his new weight class, since he would never weigh in at his high school weight of one hundred sixty seven. If he watched his diet, he might be able to make the one hundred seventy nine pound weight class. Jesus, I didn’t realize he’s gained twelve pounds of muscle in the past six months since we won the division championship.

“Hmm,” Derek sighed. “This is nice. Why did you establish the rule that we can’t do more than kissing and beating off until we get to college? I’d be happy to just leave the couch right here, get down on my knees in front of you and—”

Scott laughed. “As nice as that sounds, don’t you remember the last time we decided to spend quality time up here? Your mom almost caught us in this position. She pops up here unannounced all the time. I don’t want to worry about who’s going to walk in on us as we finally start to experience that level of intimacy together. It’s only two weeks. We agreed to this months ago. Besides, you’re the one who said you had to move the couch to the other side of the room so you could set up your mixing equipment and all of your music by the window. Now that this piece of shit is in the middle of the room, we’re gonna to finish the job.” He released Derek and pulled out of the embrace, glancing toward the door.

Derek reflexively followed his gaze and listened to hear if his mother was coming. His thoughts were interrupted by Scott’s question. “Explain to me one more time why we can’t just slide it across the room.”

Derek looked at Scott in horror. “Do you see this floor? Look at it.”

Scott complied. “Yes, it is made of wood. It’s shiny. Very nice.”

Derek shoved him, a smile spreading across his face. “Don’t be a wise ass. If we slide the couch it will scrape deep grooves across the room with its metal legs. My dad told me he intends to turn the attic into an office once I go to college so he can do taxes from home, instead of spending the ridiculous hours he does at work. If he finds the floor all scratched up, he’s not going to be happy with me.”

“Okay, fine. We’ll do it your way. But you realize you owe me after this, right?” Scott gave Derek’s shoulder a squeeze then looked at him with a wickedly seductive gleam in his eyes.

Derek flushed. “Oh, I’ll reward you. Don’t worry about that. Remember, my parents are going out to dinner tonight. How often has mom actually left us alone in the house since she found out we’re together?”
Scott leaned back, stretching his arms, a dreamy look crossing his face. “That’s right. I forgot. They’re going to be gone all night. I can’t wait to get my hands on you.”

Derek became quiet and Scott turned to face him. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s just hard to want you the way I do and have to control myself. I know it’s only a couple of weeks until college, but then you say things like that and it makes it so much harder for me.”

Scott’s expression became serious. After a few seconds, the corners of his mouth began to tremble and pull up into a smile. After another moment, he burst out laughing.

“What the hell are you laughing at?”

Scott became serious once again. “Just your choice of words. I’m sure that I make things hard for you several times a day.”