Some Write It Hot

New Release: Jadette Paige and Nether Regions

2012-02-22T07:33:00.000-08:00

NETHER REGIONS

Lesbians VersusZombies from Noble Romance buy link

In the age of Amazons, fighting spirit and a courageous heart revealed awarrior’s true strength. Threso proved her prowess a decade earlier, inan epic battle against invading Spartans. Now, as she enjoys thecontinued peace, she looks forward to a possible future with her young recruit,Kreousa. But the gods lay a challenge to discover who has thestrongest warrior spirits: Amazons or Spartans. Because the gods have awicked sense of humor, the Spartans are undead. To make matters worse,they have chosen the unseasoned Kreousa to accompany Threso. Will Thresolose the one woman who has instilled a song of love in her?

Excerpt:

"Not in strength are weinferior to men; the same our eyes, our limbs the same; one common light wesee, one air we breathe; nor different is the food we eat. What then denied tous hath heaven on man bestowed?"

Penthesilea, Queen of theAmazons, at the battle of Troy.

Chapter One

Threso leaned back on her handswhile she soaked her tired feet in the pool under the small waterfall. Hernaked body still glistened from the quick swim she'd taken to wash off thesweat. Mist floated in the hot summer air, soothing her skin with a light, cooltouch.

The run through the hills hadrevealed that her new apprentice, Kreousa, was in prime condition. The past twodays' drills with sword and spear had revealed the same, along with anadmirable ability to move in time with the senior trainer's drumbeat, butnothing tested a trainee's endurance like a run that began at dawn and lastedinto the afternoon.

Kreousa lay not far away.Threso let her gaze wander to the reclining figure. Thick, red hair, streakedwith blonde strands, spilled about the young woman's slender shoulders and awayfrom her face, revealing the gentle curve of her ear. Lithe legs stretchedstraight, then bent at the knees, and the taut belly muscles moved up and downin a controlled rhythm. Her breasts, though small, were firm. Threso's mouthwatered to taste one of the peach tinted, pebbled nipples.

Kreousa had arrived in the cityscant days ago, to train and learn a warrior's art. Threso had not foreseen animmediate attachment forming between them, much less the nagging distraction oflust. Simply put, she wanted the young warrior. But she hesitated to act on herdesires.

While she had at times beenassigned to school a student in the gentler arts, such was not the case withthis one. And the queen preferred the new recruits to couple with others oftheir own generation, to instill stronger fighting bonds among them.

But seeing Kreousa like thisbrought to mind the type of future she dreamed of, enjoying their hard-wonpeace with the right woman.

Here in this secluded spot, astopping point on the return to the city of Mytilene, magic surrounded them.The waterfall played a peaceful, soothing melody solely for their ears. Eventhe low chirps of the birds overhead added to the serenity of the moment.

Plucking several blades ofgrass, she tossed them at Kreousa's bare breast, hoping to distract her waywardthoughts. But the grass clung to the younger woman's damp skin, raising asudden desire to take back the grass as an excuse to touch that beautiful,golden skin.

"Are you notexhausted?" Kreousa's sudden question cut across the peace surroundingthem. Kreousa looked over, her lips curving in a smile as she brushed the grassfrom her breast.

The young woman's gut growledwith hunger. Threso stifled a grin; the young ones were always hungry, anddenial of that hunger was part of their training. But those blue eyes seemed toshine with another hunger, which perhaps need not be denied.

Threso's heart thudded in afaster rhythm. "Do I look so aged? A morning run is nothing but a child'splaytime. And you? Has this jaunt tired you so much that you cannot even situpright?"

Low laughter came from Kreousa.The slightly raspy tones added to Threso's need to taste her.

Rising so that she, too, leanedon her hands, Kreousa licked moisture beading above her plump lips. "Ifyou were to say it was time to learn of the more sensual aspects of a warrior'slife, I would somehow find the strength to act accordingly."

"Truly?" The teasingwas close enough to impertinence. "Come hence and display your meagerknowledge, so I might judge your worthiness."

Kreousa sat straight andslanted a wicked grin at her. "Oh, ho, is this a challenge, myteacher?"

Impertinent indeed. Yetimpertinence could be a delicious spice. Threso tilted her head in assent. Theheat of anticipation traveled over her skin as she pulled her feet from thecool water. She waited until Kreousa had crawled nearer before she braced up onher hands and knees.

How long had she held back herdesire to touch, and to feel this woman's touch? Only two days? The need hadbudded the first time she'd heard the young woman's voice, and bloomed thefirst day they'd worked together, wrestling in the sandpit, straining muscle tomuscle, sweat-slicked skin to sweat-slicked skin. But the need was deep-rooted,like a lifetime without fulfillment.

She stared into Kreousa's cleareyes. The scent of grass and water filled the air about them. Soft wind swayedthe trees, dancing in the leaves, throwing spots of moving shade and shadow."Have you ever visited a woman's nether regions?"

Kreousa's throat worked. Sheshook her head.

Threso half smiled. She let hergaze wander over Kreousa's breasts to stop on the hard nipples. "But youhave played with yourself. Sliding your fingers across the bud there,yes?"

A pink tongue swept overKreousa's bottom lip. Yes, she was ready and willing.

Threso blew out a soft breath."I want you to explore my hidden bud of pleasure."

Trembling so slightly themovement showed only in her braids, Kreousa hesitated. Then she nodded.

"But . . . ." Thresosat amidst the softer grasses. She spread her legs wide so the young warriorhad a full view of what lay between them. "You are student. Rememberthat."

Moments drifted by as she allowed Kreousa to look atwhat awaited her.

Jadette Paige

Website

Blog

Undead Reflections In a Jaundiced Eye - by KB Cutter

2012-01-30T09:55:00.000-08:00

Hi, all. I'm KevaD, author and member of ERAuthors.
I adore anything different. Amber Green conceived the idea for this bizarre anthology of work, not having any idea what she was opening herself to.
A varied array of writers jumped at the opportunity to be a part of this collection.
Writing a story about lesbians, zombies, music, and college, isn't as easy as I thought it would be, but don't we all love a challenge?
My story, "The Zombie with Flowers in Her Hair" and Amber's "Dead Kitties Don't Purr" are already available.

There are plenty more works by several authors still to come.
My brief point is, don't be afraid to stretch yourself, to let your imagination take over and lead you where it will. You never know what you're capable of until you try.

KB Cutter's offering in the Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue anthology was released today by Noble Romance Publishing.

Here's a quick look at this wonderful author's work:

Blurb:

An undead infestation can be a real killjoy. For a group of misfit weekend bikers holed up in roadside dive, this is the understatement of the century. One of them, a jaded misanthrope, examines her life as civilization crumbles. Will true love finally pierce the cynical veil shrouding her heart before the zombie horde devours her flesh?

Excerpt:

Chapter One

A Zombie Apocalypse can be a real buzz-kill.

The jolly Captain Morgan and I, best mates, we were; however, the buccaneer was playing mischief with my sea legs. I stood with said legs slightly apart, swaying as if the bar’s floor were the wooden deck planks of a pirate sloop.

I spotted my prize leaning against the jukebox, booted foot tapping in rhythm to George Thorogood’s raspy lament of "one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer." Her treasures, encased in snug tight blue jeans that accentuated the tantalizing curves of her ass, were mine for the plundering. Life was good, damn good at Red’s Roadside Tavern, until one of the locals burst through the door.

The first thing I noticed was his eyes. Aside from an unnervingly vacant stare, his irises bore the milky white of cataract-afflicted orbs. His mouth was a crooked maw of blackened gums and jagged teeth; hair matted to his skull, slick with sweat and rain.

At the time, we had no clue that he—it—was the infected, soon to be walking dead. None of us did.
Christ, who would have?

After a bemused second or so, I recognized him—it—as the boorishly drunken local that Reginald (Red to the local patrons, Reginald’s Roadside Tavern just doesn't have the same masculine ring to it) had tossed out shortly after we arrived. We, as in me, my current squeeze Sasha, my boss Cherry, and Zoey and Fipps.

I suppose we looked like weekend posers, clad in our black leather jackets with Ink Bitches emblazoned in crimson on our backs.

Shit, maybe we are. Or were . . . .

I could bullshit myself, say I ain't no weekend road warrior. I ran with the real deal way out west in Nevada, tending bar in a bikers' beer and shot dive, and dealing weed—which got me into my first and last knife fight with a meth-head. Bitch slashed me across the stomach. I have the war wound to prove it, thin red line just above my navel. Sasha dug it.

Said it was sexy as hell.

Fuck.

Heat flared in my loins. I envisioned Sasha's pink, serpentine flesh gingerly tracing the contours of my scar. I felt her hot, moist breath pebbling my skin while my fingers curled in her tousled locks, urging her lower. We should have stayed in our shabby little motel room, wearing out the ancient bedsprings, her face buried between my legs, my thighs quivering as she furiously lapped the engorged nub of my sex, coaxing my orgasm into her overworked mouth. I wanted to return the favor, raking my tongue over every inch of her undeniably feminine, voluptuous curves, my hands relishing the generous heft of her full, creamy breasts, my fingers tweaking her puckered nipples.
Sasha wouldn't have it. She wanted to get her drink on, which meant when we later tumbled onto the worn bed, she would beg me to use the strap-on dildo. I wasn't a big fan of the latex cock. Sure, I enjoyed the use of a vibrator on occasion, just not one fashioned after some porn star's massive tool. Sasha wasn't completely down with the sister hood.

She hung out with me to piss off her parents by dating a girl, let alone a black chick. Despite my cynical exterior, I thought I could make a go of it, nurture our physical relationship into something deeper, more profound.

Love?

Who the fuck was I kidding? Leonard Cohen said it best: Love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah. Sasha's voice wasn't the whispered prayer I needed to hear in the dark. Nor was her flesh, pressed close to mine, the salvation that eluded me.

Damn, I'm getting all biblical; my Gran would be proud. And it ain't a stretch to think of now as the End Times.

My relationship with Sasha pissed off Zoey. I knew Zoey had a thing for me. We never dated, just hung out one or two boozy nights. We worked together in Cherry's Ink, a tat parlor on the lower east side of Manhattan. An 'office' romance was out of the question. I thought we were both a bit possessive, and to be in tight quarters even longer hours wouldn't jibe with our dominant personalities. Although I would not mind being dominated by Zoey, she, possessed of a rock-hard bod and killer, cobalt gaze that sweeps over my body like blue fire . . . .

Shit, my mind is adrift, like an unmoored boat. I have to concentrate. Anchor my thoughts. I want to get all this down while I still have my faculties.

Back at Red's, back at the beginning, Cherry pissed off this lumbering mountain zombie before he turned. She, a goddamn professional shit-stirrer, forgot where she was. We weren't hanging in the East Village; this was North Bumfuck. I don't mean to paint every resident of Manor Falls in broad trailer-park strokes; however, this was not the most progressive part of the state.

Cherry thrived on agitation and intimidation. She stood five feet ten inches, well over six feet in heels. Statuesque, no doubt. Dressed in decidedly theatrical garb: black throat choker with a pewter iron cross dangling in the front, thigh-high glossy obsidian boots, and one eye done up like Malcolm McDowell's in A Clockwork Orange. She did more than just turn heads.

She sashayed to the bar where the hillbilly pre-zombie was nursing his draft, intermittently looking at the muted flat screen TV above Reginald’s gleaming, bald plate, and eyeing us with baleful glances.
I knew trouble was coming on 4-inch heels to good ole Bo Cooter. (I didn’t know the local yokel's name. Never will. So fuck it. He got a bastardized Dukes of Hazard moniker.)

I did nothing but sip my spiced rum and ginger ale, licking my lips as Sasha caught my eye. She put the bottle of Corona against her mouth, her pink flesh fluttering seductively over the rim. Maybe if I wasn’t engaged in mental masturbation, thinking decidedly debauched thoughts about where Sasha should put her tongue, I could have intervened. Perhaps things would have been different. Maybe I would not have had to thrust the blade of my knife into his right eye.

No. That’s not true. The beginning of the end would still be staggering forward with or without a reanimated Bo Cooter.

Cherry put her bottle of Heineken on the bar, ordered another, and engaged Bo in conversation. I knew it would lead to something unpleasant.

Jesus, the understatement of the fucking century.

I caught snippets of conversation. The word "freak" came out more than a few times from his bearded mouth. He and Cherry kept going back and forth. I was far more engaged in watching Sasha do downright taboo things to that bottleneck. Something did catch the attention of Zoey and Fipps, who dropped their intense debate over some geek neo- lit- pop culture babble/dissertation. And their silence caught my attention.

That’s when the pilsner glass broke and a beefy hand shoved Cherry. Her arms flailed for balance as she toppled over a bar stool. I let my glass drop to the floor and reached for my boot knife. Zoey and Fipps stood, hands balling into fists. Sasha sat motionless, her lips puckered in a suggestive pose over the rim of the bottle, her eyes wide.

Reginald must've sensed things were going south; his face became all lines and creases as my blade flashed into my hand.

Reggie threw up his skinny arms, quickly making his way from behind the bar. “Whoa! Hold up, folks. No fighting and no goddamn pig stickers in my place! Put that knife away!”

“Tell Bubba Bo to put down the broken glass," I said through clenched teeth. "Then we cool.”

“My name ain’t Bubba, you freak fuck!”

I hate bad drunks, especially narrow-minded, hillbilly, pork-rind eating, Natural Light swilling sister-fuckers. I remember being glad tornadoes sweep through trailer parks, to thin the fucking mobile home herd.

Shit. I’m sure the swarms of the undead were doing just that. I’m so angry, tired, confused, and in pain . . . .

I didn’t respond to the insult. I stood, my center of gravity low, my legs splayed. My eyes never wavered from the broken glass.

Reginald spoke, his voice flat, thin like his body. “Cherry, would did you say? C’mon. What started this mess?”

All eyes went to Cherry, sprawled ungraciously on the floor.

Except mine. Well, one of them. I thought it prudent to keep one booze-blurred eye on Sir Bo of Bumfuck.

Cherry put her finger to her mouth, one black polished nail resting on her lower lip. “Well, me and this big, burly man here were having a hearty debate and I asked him if he would like to climb my peak. He thought I said peaks, plural, meaning these majestic, snowy white twins" (which she emphasized by running her free hand over her ample cleavage) "but I actually meant . . . .” Her finger left her mouth, slowly trailing to the prominent bulge below, her finger making semi-circles over the crotch of her jeans.

I grimaced.

Sick joke. Cherry was a he, was a she, was a chick with a dick.

She did have balls, big ones. I slid my knife back in my boot. If Bo wanted to cut Cherry—hell, she deserved it. I picked up my glass, which luckily had not shattered, and placed it on the nearest table.
“I’m steady, Red. Pig poker is back in the shed.”

He nodded, casting a glance at Bo. “Okay, my friend, put the glass on the bar. Cherry, apologize and it’s done.”

Cherry made sputtering noises. A hissy fit was not far behind.

Bo Cooter seethed. “Fuck that shit, Red. What kind of place you running, a fag joint? Fuck, this place was better when Proudman ran it. Man could sit, have a few beers, watch the game, and not play pocket-pool with some homo freakazoid. Fuck you and your gay-ass bar!”

Red/Reginald slapped Bo’s hand, knocking the glass from his grip. Being sloshed to the gills, the guy stumbled back from the force of the strike. Reginald's voice was low, with a hint of malevolence.
"Time to leave, my friend."

Bo Cooter muttered something unintelligible, turned, and stumbled out of the bar.

"Articulate chap, a rare thing in these parts," Cherry said, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.

Reginald cast a withering glance at her. "Keep the comments to yourself. You want to work your jaw in here, drink or get out. Remember, I live here. I have to see these people every day."

"Bully for you, Red. I'm buying, so start pouring."

An exasperated sigh escaped from Reginald's lips as he made his way behind the bar. Money talks; the bullshit don’t walk.

It gets hammered.

Zoey and Fipps bellied up. Sasha sauntered over to me, sat on my lap, and kissed me passionately, playful nibbling on my lower lip. I felt Zoey's gaze burn through Sash's back.

I returned the kiss, with less fervor.

Sasha wiggled her ass. She did not seem to mind my lackluster lip lock.

"What you did was so hot, babe. C'mon, let's join the others. Do some shots of tequila, and get back in the party mode."

I should have said yes to Sasha. Poured a few more drinks down her throat, and used all of my mojo to corral Zoey into a smoking little ménage. The mere notion of our bodies intertwined, mouths suckling, tongues lapping, flesh writhing, sighs evolving into guttural moans—those sensual thoughts left me damp with mounting desire.

It would be worth using the latex cock to fuck Sasha, despite my reservations.

Instead, I opted to stay put, cupping one of Sasha's ample breasts.

"Go on up, 'cause Cherry buying drinks is like an eclipse, a rare occurrence."

Sasha flashed me an impish grin and ground her ass one more time before jumping off my lap.

The images on the muted TV caught my attention. Schizophrenic pictures danced on the screen: some kind of mass disturbance, a riot. "Breaking News" flashed in bold text. The ticker tape scrawl raced underneath the pictures. I could barely read the information. Sighing in disgust, I wondered why I should care. Probably another 'Arab Spring' popping up in some desert country we had not yet bombed.

Let 'em kill each other. Kill them all.

I did not realize how prophetic my words would be.

Here's where to find KB Cutter:

Buy Link

Web Site

Dead Kitties Don't Purr

2012-01-23T05:57:00.000-08:00

Today the curtain rises onAct Two of Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue. This piece is called Dead Kitties Don't Purr.

Blurb:

People who take their shots and do as they're told havenothing to fear. Right?

The Rabies Z epidemic began and ended in Miami this past summer, didn't it? Andthat guy my daddy saw at the Jacksonville airport last week was just having anepileptic fit. No cause for alarm. Epilepsy always causes an eighteen-hourhazmat shutdown at a major airport.

So while my twin tours to flog her newest album, here I am, Camie Invisible,parked at this nice, safe college—as far as I can get from the infection andstill pay in-state tuition. Only now, my studies have become focused on thefascinating Risa Ruiz. And she has eyes for me.

Isn't this the perfect time for the zombies to show up?

Excerpt:

The dorm's safety rulesechoed in the back of my head. Never leave campus with someone you've justmet. If you see anyone walking strangely, having convulsions, or standing toostill, run as fast as you can to where the people are. Never approach anyonelying down, or anyone sitting in the wrong place. Stay on well-lit streets. Letsomeone know where you're going, who you're with, and when you'll be back. Keepa phone on you at all times, and never turn it off.

And I, the careful one, the most timid freshman in the quietest dorm on campus,didn't give a shit.
I had my hand on the top edge of Risa Ruiz's gauzy skirt, feeling her flankmuscles stretch and contract.

We reached another corner and turned into one of those dark cul-de-sacs thatdon't even rate a single working streetlamp. I blinked, trying to see.

She pulled me off the sidewalk.

I wondered for half a second, but then a bicycle whispered by.

She was paying attention—something I should be doing, as well. But there wewere, off the sidewalk, away from the streetlights and headlights, and thecrickets rasped as if giving coded messages, only all the messages overlappedand competed with one another, and the moonlight glittered on Risa's pectoralof claws and fangs while it shimmered on the swirling lace below.

"I want to kiss you," I said, my voice a stranger's. I swallowed,waiting for her to laugh at me, to push me away.

Instead, she pulled me closer, hip-first, and tilted her head. "What'sstopping you?"

I reached up and gathered fistfuls of that hair, cool and warm at the sametime, and I pulled her face down into reach, and I touched her lips with mine.And there it had to end, because I'd never opened my mouth to a kiss without wantingto gag.

But there it didn't end. She cupped my head in her hands, opened her mouth, andgently sucked my bottom lip between hers. My pulse pounded in my lips, in mytemples, in my breasts where they nestled against hers. For what seemed a longtime, she played with my bottom lip, licking it, then licking inside it.

She tasted of popcorn, or maybe that was me, and she smelled of something deep,woody, and rich—sandalwood or cedar, or both, or something I'd neverencountered before. I desperately wanted to wash in whatever soap made hersmell like that.

She pulled back, disengaging my trembling fists from her hair. "You're notused to this, are you?"

My skin shrank against my face. "I'm sorry."

At least I hadn't gagged on her. Hadn't had the first inclination to gag, cometo think of it.

She brushed a kiss over my cheekbone. "Don't be. Don't be nervous, either.And whatever you do, don't hesitate to tell me to slow down if I take this toofast."

Dead Kitties Don't Purr

Writing is a Passion by R. Renee Vickers

2012-01-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

Saying that writing is a passion seems like a pretty obvious statement, doesn’t it. But, it’s something that everyone considering writing as an occupation should consider.

“Editors and publishers agree that the odds of being published are only 1-2%. That is, they only accept, and publish, one or two out of every hundred manuscripts they receive.” (http://www.fiction-writers-mentor.com/odds-of-being-published.html)

With the chances of becoming published being only slightly better than winning the lottery, most people aspiring for such a career focus solely becoming accepted. Writing about something you’re familiar with or passionate about will certainly increase your odds of writing worthwhile material, but it does not increase your chances of getting past the dreaded rejection pile. To increase your chances of acceptance, researching what works for the market or niche you’re looking to break into and having a lot of luck are essential.

So, let’s say you’ve beaten the odds and landed a contract. You’ve celebrated with your friends and family and all those who supported you while you worked on your passion. Now it’s time to kick back and wait for the money to start rolling it. Right? Wrong. This is the point where your passion is really put to the test. Not only are there rounds of edits to do to get your book to market on time for its release, but there is also prerelease promotional and marketing work to do. With the modern author responsible for a large portion of promoting their publications, they sink a great deal of time working on blog posts, networking and connecting with readers both before and after release day. And, no you’re not paid for any of this. The fact is, you’re likely to be given a small stipend up front, but before you can see any royalties, you must make enough sales to pay your publisher back for the upfront payment.

To stay relevant post publication, you must write more and better material, which means spending a lot of time reading and researching. Growth in the craft is absolutely essential to keeping readers happy.

Ever hear of the saying “paying your dues”? That’s what authors say after they've gotten to a point where they're happy with the quality of their work. If this happens at all it could take months, years, or half a life time for an author to be able to stake this claim. When something takes this much work just for a chance at paying off, it couldn’t be possible without a strong passion for it.

And this is certainly my passion. I might have started with my book, Sly’s Surrender, but I knew full well that wasn’t going to satisfy my desire for this craft. I’ve been working diligently on other projects including a piece for Amber Green’s brainchild, Lesbians vs Zombies called Night at the M.U.T. That piece has been submitted and I’m waiting on word if it’s been picked up or not. If it is picked up it’ll be thrilling for me. There are so many fantastic authors in on this project that I would be quite honored to have my work in the mix with theirs. I’m also currently writing a piece for a project being headed by J.S. Wayne for his charity Writing Out Child Abuse (WOCA). The idea of having my words added to such a great cause is beyond worthwhile for me.

If you’re considering being a published author don’t get discouraged at the amount of work you find yourself in. Remember that this is your passion and no matter what, no matter where you go in this field, that as long as you keep feeding your desire to learn and grow in this craft, it’s all worth it.

Before I leave you today, I’d like to leave you with a video of a quote from the great Ira Glass that I feel sums up what this passion is all about. Thank you all for coming by and reading this today.

To find out more about R. Renee Vickers, visit her blog the Muse Ampoule

The Zombie with Flowers in Her Hair - by KevaD

2012-01-17T04:03:00.000-08:00

My novella "The Zombie with Flowers in Her Hair" is now available from Noble Romance Publishing.

This book is the first release in the Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue anthology conceived by multi-published author Amber Green. The tales will range from comedy to horror to erotic to a little in-between.
So stay tuned for some wonderful stories by an eclectic gathering of authors.

Blurb:

The hardest part of being alone is realizing you are.

1969 was a busy year for the young woman nicknamed Isis. She graduated high school, engaged in a lesbian relationship, died, and rose from the dead as a pot-smoking, flesh-eating zombie in need of a good orgasm. Yet, in death she ended up as alone as she had in life. But when a beautiful zombie with flowers in her hair forgets her sweet butt on a toilet seat, Isis's undead life will never be the same. Nor will it be one she could ever have envisioned, even on the wildest acid trip. Because for Isis, her true reason for life lies in her death.
Excerpt:

Chapter One

“Nice ass," I said, and handed hers back to her. "You should carry Vaseline-coated covers with you in your bag. Next time, I might not be here to notice your cute little tush stuck to the toilet seat." I put on my best smile and slipped my blasé look into the pocket of my brown flannel shirt. "So, what was your name?"

"You-you know?" Uncomely lines creased her slick forehead, a feature in full view because she wore her dark brown hair parted in the middle and draped behind nicely rounded shoulders. Pert little tits jiggled under her ankle-length, egg-white linen dress.

Aside from the stutter, the undead creature's voice contained a musical interlude all its sexy own. The words strummed from her tongue, soft as a guitar played in a garden. A delicious-looking tongue, I might add. Not to mention the smooth, nearly perfect lips that parted for every rich note to pass between. I noticed. So did my clit. The unexpected throb hinted in that direction, anyway.

My nipples strained against the flannel. A wave of tightened muscles softly crept from one side of my vagina to the other.

Damn. I hadn't been so turned on since Karen had been sucking my tits in the passenger seat of my VW and I'd accidentally kicked the gearshift into neutral. We hadn't noticed until the car rolled over the cliff. All that ear-shattering silence and the car's perpendicular attitude were hard to miss. And kind of broke the moment.

The rock quarry's water, sixty feet below, broke everything else.

Why the turtles ate Karen and not me . . . . Maybe it had to do with the cherry cough drops she always had in her mouth. I hadn't touched cherry cough drops since. Better safe than sorry, and all of those other clichés.

Or it could have been the THC, I suppose. I'd smoked a nickel bag of Columbian buds all on my own. Karen was a straight. Well, about drugs anyway.

"Uh, yeah," I chimed, my voice as pleasantly interested as I could manage. "The living don't leave their butts behind. Pull up your dress"--Oh hell yeah--"and let me see if I can figure out a way to reattach—"

"No, thanks, I can get it. Not the first time." She walked back to the toilet, a former utility closet, and closed the wooden door.

Huh? Not the first time? I'd glued Velcro to the corners of my mouth in order to switch lips. But I certainly had no clue how to attach anything else that fell off.

If I did, I'd have swapped out my tits, as my left was smaller than the right. Karen hadn't seemed to mind, but one of the boys I'd banged in high school had shared my imbalanced secret with an entire shop class. Unfortunately, I had taken the class motto of Under the Covers Doing Fine, We're the Class of '69 a tad too literally.

Word spread like a cold in the hallways. Come to think of it, after that's when Karen, my world literature substitute teacher, first offered to privately tutor me. I really couldn't have cared less about Siddhartha or Rasputin—I'd been promised a B if I filled the last slot for the class. But at her apartment, while we listened to Joni Mitchell's latest album Clouds on Karen's Marantz stereo, the copy of the Kama Sutra she showed me grabbed my full attention. Had to give her credit, she never made an actual physical move on me until the night of graduation. At the rock quarry.

Sure wish Dad had fixed that emergency brake.

Thing was, I awakened from the dead as horny as when we'd gone over the cliff, the taste of Karen's cherry-flavored lips on my tongue, the wild thrill of her mouth on my breasts, and her teeth nipping my nipples. And no idea how to get a living woman to finish the job Karen had started. I wanted to come under a woman's touch.

I'd briefly considered one of the male zombies I'd encountered, just to clean my mind of this constant state of near-orgasm. But somehow, I couldn't get turned on by the thought of a dismembered member stuck up me while the owner frantically tried to reclaim his detached manhood.

The sock-it-to-me girl in the john, however . . . .

With a sigh so heavy my shoulders sank, I turned to the sink and cranked on the cold water. She'd ignored my request for her life-name. Maybe she wasn't into women or experimentation. I cupped my hands under the flow and splashed water over my face.

Midnight Cowboy had, only a couple months ago, snagged the public's raw fascination with gay, oddball characters. That didn't mean Joe the bartender would bed Harry the lawyer anytime in the near future. The film had simply provided Harriet the opportunity to share heretofore unspoken fantasies with Josephine next door while they hung clothes on the line. Hidden desires to lick each other's clits probably didn't come up in the conversation.

Not the first time. The young woman's words crashed center stage.

"What do you mean, not the first time? And how can you stick your—?"

The door creaked open.

"All better." White and yellow camellia formed a band around her forehead and hair. I blinked. The vending machine on the wall dispensed condoms, not flowers. Where’d she have those hidden? She flipped the back of her hand against her incredibly straight tresses, sending several strands over her shoulder. Hazel eyes shone as if a light inside her beautiful face illuminated them. The skin on her neck glistened like silk under the lone fluorescent bulb. A pale shade of rose colored her cheeks.

Colored her cheeks?

I glanced in the small wall mirror at my own ashen features. How had she managed to put what looked like natural color in her cheeks? Oops. The charming smile was all wrong for the circumstances. I retrieved the blasé one from my shirt pocket and made the exchange.

A muted giggle trickled from her delicate mouth. A shiver of want rattled through me. I bit back an urge to tear the body-hugging dress off her and suckle what had to be a perfectly matched pair of tits. Tiny, but definitely mouthwatering. I swallowed hard.

She reached out a slender arm.

Wait a minute!

Her arms were bare, and sleek as a toddler's. My long-sleeved, flannel shirts hid the gray skin drapery hanging from my arms—same reason I wore denim bellbottoms even in the muggiest weather. I filled bowls with skin softener every night in order to soak my hands and disguise the wrinkles that never stayed away for as much as a day. Her hands were smooth, with manicured nails tipped in cobalt.

What the hell? She had to be a zombie. Had to be. But if I hadn't seen her tush planted on the toilet seat with my own two eyes, I'd have sworn she'd never died.

"Close your mouth," she whispered.

I snapped my jaw shut. My teeth clicked together. Hadn't known it had fallen open. "H-how—?"

Damn. Confusion knotted my tongue. I held my breath and tightened my chest. Then I forced the question out in a rush of air. "How come you're so beautiful?"

Another marvelous giggle shot straight to my already-erect nipples. The dual points poked at the flannel, leaving no doubt of their location.

She stopped at the mirror and licked her little finger before dabbing at one of her pencil-thin eyebrows.

"What are your plans?" she asked, and then shot me a stony glance.

My back stiffened, and I scraped my fingers through my unruly, over-the-shoulders, brown hair. "I don't know. Usual, I guess."

"And that would be?"

What was with the interrogation? It wasn't like zombies had a lot on our minds. Eat, rest, eat, stagger around, eat some more, and eventually wither to nothing.

"Maybe smoke some pot later, if I can find a party somewhere that's got some decent smoke. Why? You looking for something to do?"

Are you? Huh? Please say yes. Because I could find lots to do with you.

"Has anyone ever said you resemble Janis Joplin?"

Her smile sent a shudder between my thighs.

"Yeah." I groaned and winced. "All the time. I don't consider it a compliment."

She stepped to me and placed the tip of her index finger on my hand. Then she traced her touch up the sleeve covering my arm and over my shoulder as she walked past me to the bathroom door. My stare followed her like some puppy about to be abandoned in an alley.

"I do," she said without looking back. "We made love once. She has a pleasing body, but I'll wager yours could please me even more. And one more thing. Do you really believe I went to all this trouble to bring you back just so you could smoke pot and eat raw meat?" She opened the door, and let it click closed behind her.

I was dead. Without a doubt, I was dead. But every nerve within me came screaming to life.

"What? You and Janis Joplin? You're a lesbian?" I blinked. "Janis is a lesbian?"

I bolted to the doorway and threw the door open. "And what's this you brought me back shit? Are you high or something?"

A soloist plucked a guitar. The lyrics of Leaving on a Jet Plane filled the smoke-clouded coffee house. Longhaired heads nodded in rhythm to the music. Every seat at every round table had an occupant. Barefooted men and women lined the walls.

But the zombie with flowers in her hair had vanished.

Thank you so much for stopping by!

Writing Romance Isn’t Easy – by Tracey H Kitts

2012-01-16T02:57:00.000-08:00

Years ago, I worked with someone who had a terrible opinion of romance novels. I know, shocking. Ha. Ha. He was one of the organizers of a Creative Writing Club and made the remark that he could make a living at writing if he could write romance. But, “Who the hell wants to write romance?” he said.

At the time I agreed that romance writing wasn’t for me, although I didn’t agree with his attitude. He went on to say how he felt romance was just “fluff and crap.”

As far as I know, his writing never made it outside of that Creative Writing Club. This could explain why years later (after we no longer worked together and I write romance for a living) he felt the need to write me a long-winded insult of a letter. In this letter he insulted romance again, along with my readers. He also misspelled the insults.

As much as it chaps my butt to admit it, there are more people like him out there. I’m sure some of the readers out there and many authors can relate. There are a ton of people who either think that writing romance is easy (fluff and crap) or that it’s just plain trash.

First of all, writing about anything (and doing it well) isn’t easy. No matter how much you enjoy it or how easily the words come to you, it’s still work. By the time you’ve edited and polished it a million times, you’ve put a heck of a lot of work into a book. Having someone call it crap is beyond insulting.

As I said before, at first I didn’t think writing romance was for me. I didn’t have anything against it. In fact, I have always enjoyed reading romance. I also loved horror and sci-fi and felt like (one of these days) when I started writing books, that would be where my interests remained. I was wrong. When I started writing my first book (a combination of horror and sci-fi for sure) romance sort of “took over.”

I can’t help it, I’m a sucker for a good love story.

Something else people may not realize is, it takes more than a creative (and dirty) mind to write sex scenes. It takes NERVE. Especially, if you choose to write under your own name. You have to learn to vocalize your most erotic thoughts, to give voice to what your characters really want to say. That can be both a liberating and a frightening experience.

No matter how much we might like to think otherwise, people will judge you by the words you put down on that page. So much more than your characters are laid bare when you write about sex. For anyone who doesn’t think that’s a challenge, I’ve got a suggestion for you.

Write down one of your most intimate experiences. I don’t mean with flowery prose and overly glamorous sentiment. I mean frank, honest language that people would actually use. This also means no clinical definitions. Make it sexy, but most of all, make it real. If you can do that, bravo. Now, how would you feel if everyone in the world could potentially read that little piece of yours? That’s what writing erotic romance feels like.

No, I’m not suggesting that every scene I’ve ever written is about me. Of course it isn’t. But, if you aren’t comfortable with talking about sex, you will never be able to write it convincingly. The same thing goes for love, which brings us back to the original topic of writing romance.

I think the man I mentioned above had (and to this day) still has no understanding of relationships. He seemed very much afraid to feel anything beyond contempt. If you’ve never experienced an emotion as life altering as love, how can you write about it? I suppose happy endings don’t appeal to everyone, but they sure as hell do to me.

You can find out more about Tracey at her website www.traceyhkitts.com

Her latest release is Frank and The Werewolf Tamer, an erotic paranormal romance, available exclusively on Amazon Kindle.

Purchase link: http://www.amazon.com/Frank-Werewolf-Tamer-ebook/dp/B006PU2JBW/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_7

Going Indie

2012-01-11T05:13:00.000-08:00

To do it, or not to do it, that is the question. Sorry, couldn't resist.

I’ve been toying with the idea ever since I read Zoe Winters’ book, pictured here, so I decided to do a little informal survey on Google+ about the subject. Granted, I only received a few responses since I just recently put it out there, but they were almost all negative.

Problem was, people automatically assumed because I was considering indie publishing, I had no intention of having my work edited, and therefore would be turning out an inferior product. But I am planning on having it edited. Why would I want to put my name out there without having the best product possible? Why would I want readers to have any reason to turn away from my writing?

Then there were the concerns about cover design, marketing, etc. One argument centered on how the traditional publishers would do all the marketing for you.

Really? I’ve seen many authors from those big, and little, publishers working their butts off in the marketing of their books. I’ve also read—although I know you can’t believe everything you read—that those big publishers only put major marketing money into you if you’ve written one of those few best sellers. You know, the ones they turn into movies.

Would love that to be me, but I highly doubt it since I’m writing erotic paranormal romance.

This brings me to another point. Because I write these types of stories, and there is a great online market for them, I might actually have a chance at this.

Sure, I realize it may take longer to build a following. Yes, I know I will have to do the majority of the work myself. And I do realize there is a stigma attached. Many people believe if you’re indie, then your writing must not be good.

I’ve taken all this into consideration, even to the point of coming up with a company to publish under, as Zoe Winters suggests in her book. This isn’t a whim on my part. It’s something my husband and I have been thinking about for a while, for many reasons. Not just a publishing company, but a company that will have branches under it for my art, crafts, writing, and, hopefully, online psychotherapy in the future, as well as whatever we come up with to go along with that.

I like having all the creative input, from writing, to cover design, to marketing. I am one of the few lucky ones who have a little experience with all these, so maybe this is why I’m willing to give indie publishing a shot.

I’m not saying I won’t consider traditional publishing, but it is extremely difficult to break in, so I’m not banking on it. And I know if I try going indie, it may tank. Thing is, I’m okay with that because at least I'll know I gave it my best effort.

Okay, enough of me blathering on. I’d rather hear what you have to say. What do you think about indie publishing? Would you do it? Would you read someone who did? Have you tried it, and if so, how did it turn out?

Let’s start an amazing debate for the new year.

Oh, and don’t worry. That announcement I promised will be coming soon. Just a few more details to work out first.

Lorraine Pearl

http://lorrainepearl.webs.com/

http://lorrainepearl.blogspot.com/

31 Flavors - Deleted scene

2012-01-10T04:05:00.000-08:00

Here's a scene from 31 Flavors that got excised with extreme prejudice and didn't make it into the final version. Leia made me take it out because she said Sidney would never have allowed this.
Leia Shaw is my co-author on 31 Flavors, a contemporary BDSM romance, and since this story is based heavily on a real person...I gave in.

By the way, up there is the cover featuring Leanna Velez, a friend of Leia's who is a body-builder, and, good friend that she is...she volunteered to be photographed in her underwear and tied up for our book.

But, here for your enjoyment is the uncut, cut scene! Sidney has just had a chuckle at Nick after a small accident, but she's still tied up to the kitchen tap.
This is very much Adults Only - 18 Plus
*****
“I’m sorry I laughed. You okay?”

“Honey.” He looks sideways at me. Somehow his expression conveys both dark seriousness and amusement. “You just earned yourself extra punishment.”

“Umm.” I did?

“How’s your hands?”

“Good.” He’s not letting me go? Excitement climbs a notch in my veins. I eye the spatula. Truly the flat blue end on it looks promising. I can’t help doing a tiny wiggle.

Confidence back in his stride, he goes to the fridge and with a rustle of plastic gets something.

“Nick! Whatever’s in there is for eating. Not…not.”

A flat grin plastered across his face, he returns and pokes me.

Cold!

“Stop! Nick!” I dodge, laughing, as best I can but the thing -- which turns out to be a cucumber -- gets applied to my belly and my breasts and then he holds me down and slips it along my cleft. “Nick!”

“Not for putting up inside your wet little pussy? Hmm? Stick out your ass.”

Before I can reply he steps away and smacks me with the spatula right on the crease of thigh and bottom.

“Ow!”

His hand gripping my hip also has the cucumber, but at least the vegetable has warmed up a bit. My giggling returns as he lays a series of fiery smacks all over my butt. There will be marks left, I’m sure. By the umpteenth smack I’m going hazy and I arch my back out and up some more, seeking that odd fusion of pain and pleasure that sits there waiting for me. I sigh.

A few more swats and he swipes his fingers along my folds, wiggles some inside, deep, then slips them out and in with my moisture.

“You’re soaked down here,” he says distantly, painting my skin with coolness. I don’t care at all, lost in a foggy land where all is right.

No more smacking. I lean on my forearms as he makes me move my stomach away from the counter. I feel him get down between my legs. There’s a thump as maybe his back hits the cupboard door then his broad hands are on my thighs, parting me. Heat engulfs my clit.

“Ohh.” I moan and push into his mouth, still with my elbows braced in the sink, with my butt hot and the strong beat of my pulse spreading throughout me. My flesh is infused with fire and lust and wet molten lava that seeks out my little clit. It pumps up, filling. Blood. Hotness. Delicious slippery tongue.

The cucumber probes at my entrance, then he pushes it up, up inside until I feel as if I’ll burst. A fridge and food thing inside me. I want to say no, but can’t, won’t. God. Too much. I’m filled to the very top.

The coldness wars inside with my warmth, making me more aware of precisely where he’s put it.

He grips my clit in teeth and swipes that tongue across the top. I bunch my fists and arch into him, thighs straining. His hand splays across my belly, while I strive and push toward Nick’s mouth and his wriggling tongue that’s found every nerve in my clit and wakened it. The cucumber goes in, out, adding its forceful pressure to my walls. I clamp down onto the chill hardness, quiver and shut my eyes, pull on the tap to create tension. I’m here, trapped, for him to pleasure.

In and out, lick, wriggle of wet tongue and then, I come, and goddamn come, hurtling into white space. My legs and tummy jerk as I moan at the exquisite explosion of my senses. I settle, slowly, falling almost into the sink with my head laying on my wrists. I pant and recover, listening to the slithery metal sounds of a zip undoing and then the shuffle of Nick shedding his clothes.

“Now,” he whispers huskily at my ear, his hands on my shoulders. “I get to perform.”
*****
Hmmm, I still think we should have kept this scene.
31 Flavors is due out on Valentine's Day as an ebook.

My website is http://www.carisilverwood.net/
Leia's website: http://www.leiashaw.com/

A Drabble - A Story in Exactly One Hundred Words - by KevaD

2012-01-03T20:06:00.000-08:00

He sat on the stoop, his forehead on his folded arms atop jeans worn at the knees.

The cause of the fight blurred within the words she’d said between tears, the words he’d growled in return. Or was it the other way around? His truck waited on the gravel driveway, the keys in his pocket. A June bug pinged in the metal shade of the porch light. A mosquito drilled his bare shoulder.

When the punishing words ran dry, she'd told him to leave, so he did. But neither had said the cruelest word… goodbye.

He sat on the stoop.

Facing the New Year

2012-01-02T01:00:00.000-08:00

"New" is a subtly threatening word. Think of a new love, a new job, a new home. Each offers tantalizing promises. Yet behind the paper mask of each promise, identified and inchoate alike, lurks the prospect of loss.

Perhaps the loss might be catastrophic. Certainly any such loss will be more painful without the familiarity of the old to lend support. Identifying something as "new" makes a cut in one's ties to the old, with whatever security its known patterns provided.

On the other hand, burdens often make the transit in distressingly familiar forms.

So why risk the new? Because a snail's shell does not spiral inward--only outward. And so we who live--this might be a definition for living--constantly step out into the unknown, and leave the old irrevocably behind us.

Here we are, if we're lucky, with a day or two to rest on the cusp of time and consider its passage, before we must plunge into the new year. Do we spend it tying off the old threads, closing the doors gently? Sorting our accounts for when future circumstances require some part of our doings to be scrutinized? Or might these slow hours be better spent in sketching out the events that we hope will be the bones of the coming year?

How many will be like me, mixing the two like a cook making Today Soup with the roots of yesterday and the bones of tomorrow? I bought calendars, organizers, and a copy of TurboTax yesterday. A couple of weeks ago, I arranged to join a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) cooperative as of this Wednesday. This means receiving a weekly sack of fresh vegetables, some of which I've barely heard of before, and finding ways to eat them. Honestly, my default recipe for winter vegetables is to chop them, oil them, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, and broil them. Knowing that doesn't stop me from obsessively collecting the recipe cards at Publix. Hey, I could dig those out, sort them by season. Wouldn't that make a lovely procrastination project? But I have no time to procrastinate.

Apart from improving the family diet, my plans for 2012 have focused on setting up for Lesbians vs Zombies: The Musical Revue. (Yes, I'm still interested in submissions.) The books will be released one per week from Noble Romance starting January 16.

Gulp...that's two weeks and two days. I've gotten as much of a head start as I could: I'm learning about Twitter and advertising, and about how to maintain a blog--all new things to me. Editing for the first story, KevaD's The Zombie With Flowers in Her Hair, is complete; the story lacks only formatting and a cover. The second story, my Dead Kitties Don't Purr, is in another editor's hands. Primary edits for the third story, Undead Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye, have been sent to K.B. Cutter. I should finish first edits on two more stories by tomorrow night. Meanwhile, other stories are in various stages from incomplete drafts to contracted but as yet unedited.

For virtually all the authors involved, this project is a new beginning. Those who've written lesbian romances have never considered zombie stories. Those who've handled zombies have never tried to write the lesbian point of view. The prospects of failure, knowing it would be a very public failure, are intimidating. But living means moving forward, even when that means leaving a comfortable rut. Moving forward means facing the new, stepping out to grasp and embrace it. Even though we see the promises and know some of them mask losses, we move forward anyway. Because that's what living is. And because some of those promises will come true.

We're under attack!

2011-12-30T06:30:00.000-08:00

by Ellie Heller

This has been a very odd end-of-year for us.

Over the past week or two gremlins seem to at hanging out at our blog.

Not trolls (thank goodness!), but mischievous littlecreatures, which seem determined to remove our cover art and replace it with exclamation marks.

Oh! It could be The Riddler, the punctuation marks, therandomness of the timing, the perversity of it all…but what would he want witha bunch of links to cover art by our members?

Nah, I’m sticking with gremlins. (no! don’t look over thereat the side bar – apparently they redouble their efforts if you catch them inthe act!)

So, while the admin is working diligently on getting thelittle buggers out of our system and keeping the images up, I thought I’ddistract everyone from the missing covers and put up some of the funnier images Ifound during the past couple of weeks.

Enjoy and please don’t let them catch your eye wanderingover to the edges, it’d take us weeks to recover! Heck, they might even wander over here to the middle and steal a couple of theses. :-)

Hopefully we'll have it all straightened out in the New Year.

Vacation?

2011-12-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

I, like so many writers out there, work a full time day job, come home to my family, and somewhere in the few hours left of the day find time to write. It's exhausting. So when the opportunity to have some time away from work comes around, I make plans to consume as much of that “free time” with writing. Of course, it rarely works out that way.

Before this vacation started, I had all of these ideas to begin and finish a story. All in two weeks of free time. For some reason I didn’t anticipate family time taking over and tending to all of the pre-holiday obligations. Why? I don’t know. Planning is not really my strong suit, I'm finding.

By the third day of my vacation without having been able to find the time or energy to write, I became pretty stressed out. How can I get this story done if I can’t get my butt in the chair to write?

My solution was counter-intuitive, but it worked. I walked away. I closed my computer and didn’t open it back up for a full day. Yeah, I had plenty to do to keep me away from the keys but I put in an effort to detach myself. In that down time I figured out my story line, calmed down about everything that was bothering me, and regained some sense of direction.

Even though my brain was still focused on my stories I didn't feel stressed out about it. I wasn't thinking about the 10 blog posts coming up, promotions, book sales, writing or editing. I was able to let go of some of the anxiety that was blocking me.

It’s easy for non-writers (can we call them Wuggles? Would that infringe on some other story’s copy rights?) to shake their heads and say, “This is your time off. You should be enjoying it, not working.” (ooh, I felt some of you out there cringe) It’s hard for me and folks like me to not want to make the most of their time when the opportunity arises. I have this passion that burns at my heels, and a seemingly endless path ahead – I have no want but to run.

That’s not to say that I won’t try to relax a bit. Over the next few days my house will be packed full of smiling faces (at least at the beginning) and lots of stories and jokes; I’ll have next to no time to think about writing. Next to no time.

I hope everyone has some happy holidays with lots of love and laughter! And for those like me, with more plans than time, I wish you success!

Visit R. Renée Vickers on her blog: http://museampoule.wordpress.com/

Face Book: https://www.facebook.com/muse.ampoule

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/MuSeAmpouLe

For a saucy tale about power and control, check out Sly’s Surrender https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/364/Sly%27s-Surrender

(No cats or carolers were harmed in the making of this post)

Feeling For Your Characters--by S.D. Grady

2011-12-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

"Friday morning. Meredith frowned and pulled at the coverlet, stitched by the sisters down the river. She felt...how did one feel after such a horrid and wondrous week?"

I wrote that opening to a chapter about two weeks ago. Then somebody called me away and now every time I read the damn sentence I realize I have no freakin' clue what Meredith is feeling. Crap. Writer's block.

It isn't so much that I don't know how poor Meredith is feeling--she's happy, afraid, sad, thrilled, a little in love, ticked off at her mother...you know, teenage angst in royal princess form. What is really preventing my fingers from clicking out another chapter is the wrapping, the parties, shopping, cats who must be fed, car that's rattling a bit more than it should...I feel a bit like Meredith, sort of out of place and not quite in sync with the holidays.

Which if I'm planning Meredith's royal ball, you'd think the writer in me would want to deck the halls, pick out the dresses and straighten a few cravats here and there. This would be a fine chance for the author channeling their life in their work. Fortunately, my muse understands I'm "not in the mood" and is reminding me that if I don't feel like dancing, I probably shouldn't be trying to make my little princess do a jig, either.

That's not to say that I can't write a sad scene without being depressed, but there is something to be said about letting the joy in your life slip through your fingers into your tales. Does that make writing a symbiotic relationship? I suppose there might be something to that thought. As to which direction the symbiosis runs is another question. Do I draw my happiness from my characters or is it the other way around?

So, is it Meredith causing my holiday blues? I doubt that. However, in the natural course of the tale I am creating she has reached a moment of decision where understanding why she is feeling so lost is key to her further growth. At this moment, I seem to be lacking the motivation to move her beyond this life's moment.

For everything there is a season...and so it seems this season is not meant to discern the difficulties of a teenage princess. Perhaps instead it is a season for me to find the energy and determination to untangle Meredith's feelings before I put them to paper.

So, this week I will spend a little time wrapping, baking, scurrying and dispensing hugs--for there's magic in this season of giving. When I spend a little time talking to those I hold dear in my life, I'll find the clues needed for Meredith to discover her happy ever after. Lucky girl.

Visit S.D. Grady's Website: http://sdgrady.info/

Follow Me on Twitter: @laregna

Love tales about Princesses? Try "The Forgotten Princess"

Enjoy Your Holidays!

From a Reviewer’s Perspective - by Bobby D Whitney

2011-12-19T04:04:00.000-08:00

I’m a reader, not a writer. Oh sure, like countless others, I’ve dreamed of writing a book “one day” and have even dabbled a bit at expository writing, but truthfully, I’m happiest when I have a book in my hand, not a pen.

When my wonderful husband gave me an e-reader a few years ago, I discovered the varied and colorful world of electronic books and indie publishers, and this appetite for reading became even more voracious. Since I refuse to participate in pirating reading material (or anything else), all of a sudden, my favorite pastime became an expensive hobby.

It was the lure of free reading material that initially attracted me to reviewing for another website (i.e. not BookWenches). Writing for them was fun but not earth-shattering. While there wasn’t much demand placed on me except to review what I requested, the politics of the group irritated me like fingernails on a blackboard; therefore, it didn’t take much for my friend Teagan to convince me to branch out with her and build our own review site. So after my arm healed from my friend’s twisting, BookWenches was born, and the real fun began.

You might ask what makes me think that I am qualified to judge the writing of others. My answer: I’m not. As a reviewer, I’m not passing judgment on anyone or anything; I’m merely sharing my reading experience with you. Assigning numerical “ratings” to books is an attempt to quantify my enjoyment of a story. I’m well aware that you may not share my opinion, because there have been numerous times in the past where a book that received a thumbs up from yours truly was panned by other readers. And stories that I felt were absolute crap have received accolades and squeals of delight from others. In fact, one memorably bad book sat at the #1 reader rated position in its category on Omnilit for several weeks in a row. Ugh, there was a tragedy I won’t ever forget.

In the early days of BookWenches, we would write and post one or two reviews every day, seven days a week. I know…crazy, isn’t it? But as time went by, we added features to the website like guest blogs and interviews, backed off on quantity of reviews and focused on quality instead. Because let’s admit it, you can find a review that basically says “it was HAWT” or “it SUCKED” or “it RAWKED” just about anywhere. We decided to take the time to be just a touch more thoughtful and encourage the writers we enjoy while still providing feedback.

What do I love about reviewing? Yes, free books are part of it, but I also buy quite a bit of my reading material. It has brought authors and publishers to my attention that I may never have noticed on my own. And while this has resulted in some truly painful reading, the opposite is also true, and I have discovered quite a few new favorites. It has forced me to develop a writing routine and to follow it even when I don’t feel particularly talkative or creative. But I believe that my favorite aspect of this entire thing is the interaction that I have had with authors and publishers and even some readers. The pats on the back are great, of course – wonderful, in fact – but equally valuable are the knowledge and insight that I have gained and the friendships I have made.

Of course, this reviewing biz is not all sunshine and daisies; there are a few drawbacks as well. First of all, although we’re not getting paid (except in review copies of books), maintaining the website, writing reviews, interviewing, and keeping the content fresh and hopefully interesting can feel like a full-time job with all the associated stress.

Negative feedback is another drawback of writing reviews. As I previously mentioned, some folks won’t agree with us, even though we believe in putting a positive spin on what we have to say. (That is, if we have a negative, we think of a positive as well.) Some folks tend to think that the Internet gives them carte blanche to be as ugly as possible, and we have received a number of emails over the years that have taken our breath away. Of course, there’s a lot to be learned from negative feedback. I now proof and re-proof my reviews repeatedly, and if I’m not one hundred percent sure about the spelling or usage of a word or phrase, I look it up.

Finally, there is the sense of obligation that comes along with requesting a review copy of a book from a publisher. Although we try hard to review everything we ask for, there have been times that we just haven’t been able to get to some of them. Or the book was so very bad that we can’t find anything positive to say. Or we got distracted. Currently, I think I have about thirty titles on my Kindle that I feel an obligation to review. I don’t think I’ll ever catch up, and due to my over-developed sense of guilt, that drives me crazy.

I asked my fellow Wenches for their input on the pros and cons of reviewing, and I wanted to share their words with you as well. My bouncy, happy Teagan of the rose-tone glasses says that she loves reading, reading, reading, having the opportunity to “meet” authors, and being exposed to new genres, authors, and publishers. Her frustrations revolve around lack of quality in some books and being ignored by authors who specifically asked (begged, even) for a review.

Ever-thoughtful Clea has loved expanding her horizons and having the opportunity to read many new genres that she never would have picked up before. She also enjoys the responses she gets from authors about her reviews, saying “it often leaves me feeling giddy because I feel like I am making a small contribution to someone else’s life and dreams.”

“Writing reviews is a hobby for me,” Clea confides, “it is something that I enjoy doing because it's something that is all mine; I don't have to share with the hubby or kids. On a rare occasion, a writer will get overly possessive about their work and want to critique my review line by line and have full-on discussions about why I wrote something or try to give me ideas about what to say in my review, and that just makes me angry. It makes me want to stop writing my reviews because they're taking all the joy out of it for me. It makes me leery about writing my next review, because I am afraid I am going to get harassed again.”

Regardless of any quibbles on our part, my fellow Wenches and I adore what we do. Come visit us at www.bookwenches.com. Read a few reviews, comment on author interviews or guest blogs, and perhaps enter a book giveaway. We’d love to see you ‘round and hope that you enjoy your visit. If you see a book you’re interested in, go forth and purchase it and dive on in. Happy reading!

Zombie Poll!

2011-12-16T15:02:00.000-08:00

by Ellie Heller
Coming in January, Noble Romance will be putting out a series of Lesbians vs Zombies titles. A not insignificant number of the authors of these novellas are also ERA members. The stories range the gamut from hot-hot-hot to sensual, contemporary to historical, humorous to, well, okay, I personally have not seen one without some humor, but then I have only seen snippets of the ones members of our group have worked on.

The zombies, though, have been the kicker. They range from…well, actually, I’m not going to say. Instead, I thought I’d do a poll, see what you all thought were necessities for zombies to be, um, zombies. We’ll find out later if the authors agree.

So here we go, three parts. Please put your responses in the comments, thanks.

A) Appearance. Zombies ‘should’ have:

Pale and/or decaying skin – definitely not glittering
Visible scars or blood spatters– which can be theirs or someone else’s
‘Unseeing’ / white eyes – all the better to creep you with my dear
Any two of the above (clarify which)
1, 2 & 3
Other (explain in comments)

B) Physical abilities. Zombies ‘should’:

Shuffle, not walk – rigor mortis, dude
Have super human strength – Clark Kent watch out
Be uber difficult to kill – um, dead already!
Be nocturnal – undead and daylight don’t mix
Any combination of the above (clarify which)
Other (explain in comments)

C) Mental capacity. Zombies:

Have no thoughts, you know ‘cause their brain died when they did
Act on instinct only – mainly the one which says they need to kill humans
Be unable to talk - see 1 & 2 for reasons why
Emulate lemmings, i.e. let’s all follow that dude off a cliff
All of the above
Other (explain in comments)

I look forward to seeing the results.

Erotic Romance Writing as Therapy

2011-12-12T05:32:00.000-08:00

My post last month, Erotic Romance and Psychotherapy, received an amazing response, so I’ve decided to write a follow-up. Since many of the comments last time centered around the flip side of what I wrote, it was obvious this needed its own post.

I hadn’t thought about writers benefiting from their works before the comments on my last post, but I should have since I suggest writing, journaling, poetry, etc. for my clients to use as therapy. The reason it hadn’t occurred to me was because by the time I had started writing erotic romance I’d already worked through my own sexual issues, and therefore I wasn’t using it as therapy for those problems. Looking at it now, it’s easy to see how the act of writing these types of stories could be very therapeutic.

For anyone who has survived sexual repression, sexual abuse, molestation, rape, or any other type of sexual trauma, it is very important to find a way to take back what was stolen. In my last post I wrote about the empowerment gained from reading erotic romance, but that same empowerment can come from writing it, as well. It can be a way to heal those wounds by taking control of a situation which at one point was out of our control.

When we write, it is all about what stories we want to tell, and how we want to tell them—well, at least until our characters try to take over because they all seem to have minds of their own. We are the masters of our own universes. We’re safe. And we can explore painful memories and emotions within our own comfort zones.

Of course, we will more than likely push the boundaries of that comfort. It’s how we move past the pain toward healing. The point is, we are doing it in our own ways, in our own time, and gradually we start to feel whole again. Little pieces of ourselves that were lost along the way, that were stolen from us, are found, retrieved, and healed.

Maybe the scars never go away completely, but they are less noticeable, which means that ache inside is much smaller. The pain is less severe. The guilt, shame, blame, and all those other nasty, self-sabotaging emotions are squashed under our new resolve to no longer let the people who hurt us rule our lives.

I know what you must be thinking. Sounds like I do use my writing for therapy. Yes, I now realize I do, but it is for the other hurts I have suffered through the years, not the sexual issues. Believe me, I wish I would have found erotic romance years ago to use for that, but I got through those issues another way and now help others do the same.

The way I use my writing for therapy is simple. Some of my characters end up in similar situations to what I have been through, only instead of having their hands tied by real-life consequences, they can push the boundaries—and sometimes exact revenge—allowing me to liberate parts of myself that there is no way to do in reality.

Laws really suck, don’t they?

Okay, even if there weren’t laws, I could never morally let myself do what I can let my characters do. And when some of my characters are vampires, there are all kinds of ways I can take out my frustrations.

I think we all know that when we write, we need to live and breathe the characters to make sure the emotions come across. This means there are times we cry when the characters are going through their problems. And when those problems are similar to our own it means the crying is therapeutic and healing. It can be a safe way to confront our emotions, under the guise of the characters' emotions.

I would like to invite you to please comment about your experience with writing erotic romance, or writing in any genre, and how it has been therapeutic for you. And, if you have any questions for me and my experience, I’d be glad to answer.

FYI, early next year I will be posting an exciting announcement about an upcoming project from some of the authors here at Some Write It Hot. I had a little idea not long after joining ERAuthors, and, to my surprise, I’ve had many people jump onboard with my plans. I’ll just say this much, it will be HOT and EROTIC. I know, I’m such a tease. You’ll just have to wait to find out what it is.

Don’t forget to check out my website and blog—you might even find a little, or not so little, clue there. (look under the Books tab on my website) Hmm, got to wonder just what he is packing under that sign.

http://www.lorrainepearl.webs.com/

http://www.lorrainepearl.blogspot.com/

Lorraine Pearl

'Tis the Season by S.D. Grady

2011-12-09T08:30:00.000-08:00

Ever feel lonely? As writers, it's a sensation that might be a little more familiar than to many other groups in society. Part and partial of our craft is observing the world around us--watching. And despite the requisite mantra of, "Use active voice, not passive. Show us, don't tell." It is in fact a passive life we lead--cataloguing the world's idiosyncrasies and then telling the rest of the planet all about them.

But a passive life does not engender the active pursuit of goals and accomplishments. Thus we must start walking the tightrope of balance if we want to avoid that hermit status--which can be an alluring call. The ability to answer the siren song of the muse, block out the noise and interruptions of daily life and escape into the worlds of our imagination's making is something many of us dream of--but we mustn't. It's not wise.

And so we look around and seek the support of friends and family to banish the lonely gremlins.

This is where we find success, as writers and people. Once we hit that elusive status of "published author" somehow everybody thinks we've got all the answers. Lordy, no. The uncertainty of acceptance still lingers in our hearts. But, we must have learned something on that path...didn't we?

I know I did. I couldn't do this seemingly impossible thing without friends--writer friends. And for those of us in the erotica business, a group of writer friends who don't shy away from looking in the bedroom.

There is nothing so awkward as mentioning to a new acquaintance, "I write." Followed by an interminable silence. If I'm lucky, it's a, "Oh really!" But then comes the, "What do you write?"

Ummmm....yeah. "The latest story I had published focuses on unabashed lust between two acquaintances in a very public place." That's totally the kind of conversation to be had at the grocery store checkout line.

But there are places I can go where I don't have to feel awkward. Where nobody thinks having second-thoughts about plots, characters or impossible contortions when unclothed are anything out of the ordinary. When I cruise into my weekly writers group meeting or log onto my crit group, the lonely gremlins are banished. I find the strength to do what my muse demands of me.

Before I embarked on the journey of being a writer, I honestly didn't think there were others out there like me. The world looked very empty indeed. I'm glad to report, that simply isn't so. It's a world full of friendly faces.

And so in this season of joy and sharing, I'd like to send out my thanks to everybody in ERAuthors and EWAG--the two groups of friends and fellow scribes who keep me on track--hopeful and productive. Without you the world would be a very lonely place indeed, and my muse might have succeeded in locking me--the true me--away from the rest of humanity.

Here's an active hug full of gratitude and hopefully an equal share of inspiration to help keep all my fellow writers from simply watching the world go by. It's an exciting place to experience and it's far more rewarding to be part of the great human equation than simply a remainder.

Thank you.

Social media, blogs and book marketing

2011-12-07T07:02:00.000-08:00

by Ellie Heller

Okay, I fully admit I have no practical experience usingsocial media and blogs for actively marketing a book. Right now, I’m sitting onthe outside looking in. However, I’ve been reading up on social media trends,in the hope that my piece will be picked up by Noble Romance.

I’m trying to figure out what my marketing strategy shouldbe since, in this day and age, even with a large bricks and mortar publisher,part of the responsibility of publicizing your book resides with the author. Andsince the publisher I’m hanging my hopes on is a small but solid e-publisher,almost all of the responsibility is on my shoulders.

After several hours over a couple of days, I think I have agrip on what to do. Now, I could be wrong, I could be sitting here with mythumb up an anatomically inconvenient part of my body to reach. So I’m sharinghere what all I’ve found and getting input on what you think.

Because from what I’ve gleaned, the times they area-changing.

Again.

First I went back and re-read a post I had come acrossearlier this year on Kommein by Deb Ng regarding changing trends in social media.As I went through it again with the prospect of marketing looming before me, oneof her points resonated with my own experience:

I think many of usare experiencing social networking fatigue.

She also talks about winnowing out people whom you don’tknow and whose only tweets/posts seem to be about promoting theirsite/book/product. Certainly one of the things you could take away from thisarticle is that bigger is no longer better. And for a good reason, having asmaller network, as she puts it, puts the ‘social’ back in social media. Why?Because having a smaller group which interacts allows for less “noise” and more meaningful conversations.(op cit)

Michael Hyatt, in his article The 20 to 1 Rule, furtherexpands on the idea of ‘less noise and more meaningful’. He states:

Twitter and Facebook are relational tools not transactionaltools. Contrary to what many think, social media rewards:
.       Generosity;
.       Other-centeredness; and
.       Helpfulness
It is a vehicle that appeals to people’s deep, God-givendesire to connect. It works when there is trust. When it becomes just anotherform of spam (violating people’s trust), it fails to be effective.

Well, that’s pretty clear, I should not be using socialmedia sites such as these as primary marketing tools. I certainly can do some marketing, butnot solely marketing via social networking sites. Of course there is theargument that any media exposure is “marketing”, but here I’m talkingspecifically about marketing a book.

Then, um, newbie here, what should I do?

Blog tours seem to be popular once a book comes out. On theone hand, hosting other writers on your blog (and appearing on other people’sblogs) certainly meets Mr. Hyatt’s need for other-centeredness and helpfulness.Particularly since, most often, the authors who appear on each others blogs sharesimilar or overlapping genres or publishers thus exposing their followers toother books they may like.

On the other hand, having a blog which primarily hosts otherauthors may not provide the social connection readers are looking for. And,yes, I’ve seen more than a few blogs that seem to primarily be marketing toolsand have very little content from the ‘host’. Not to be confused with websites,which are more static and are very clearly marketing tools, everyone expectsthat.

So again, looks like I certainly can do somemarketing on my blog, but need to be diligent that I don’t veer into solelymarketing.

Given I’ve just kaboshed two of the big areas I expected touse, I wasn’t sure what I should do.

Then it struck me that I was going about this all the wrongway, so I took a step back.

Instead of worrying about how and where to market, maybeinstead I should look at the goal of marketing.

Okay, then, my goal is to drum up interest in my book sopeople will buy it.

Yes, but how many people am I trying to reach out to?10? 100? 1000?

Or, perhaps, I should think of it this way, how many peopleam I trying to make a meaningful connection to? Because this is different,right? I want not to just tell people my book is out there, but make theminterested in the story, connect with them. Which I’m more likely to do if I’m alreadyconnecting to people whom I know are interested in books like mine.

And this type of smaller exposure to a more likely to beinterested audience works because, as KevaD says below, there exists what Ithink of as the Faberge effect (yes, I’m showing my age here). I made a comment about how few readers thereseemed to be at a yahoo group chat, and asked if that was typical. He assuredme a lot more were lurking, then said:

I think the best results from these that I've encounteredare one or two folks who buy my books, and then tell their friends about thebooks. Friends telling friends about books or an author they like is alwaysgood.

From my long ago retail days, I remember there was an adage,a formula if you will, which said something like in order to get Y number ofpeople to buy whatever thing you were selling, you need to reach out to (100?200? 1000?) times that number. So, if it’s one hundred (which I think was muchlower than the actual number), that would mean you’d need to reach out to 100people for one sale. Again, not somethingI know a lot about, and these numbers may be totally off, but in the backrecesses of my mind I think I recall something like this. (and I haven’tbeen able to reach my friend Cindy, whom I’m sure could easily tell me this.)

But, times have changed and I have to wonder if those crazyhigh numbers to get one sale I recall from my youth are still valid. Of coursethis is based on the assumption that if you’re already reaching outmeaningfully to people whom you know like the genre you write in, you’vealready vastly improved the odds of someone buying your book. Which makes sense,doesn’t it? If I’m hanging out and cross blogging with a bunch of people whowrite Zombie and/or Lesbian and/or Paranormal stories, the people who readthere are more likely to already be fans of Zombie and/or Lesbian and/orParanormal fiction and, thus more likely to, possibly, buy my story.

So, then, my big conclusion: Because, by it’s very nature,social media is able to keep your focus on smaller but more likely to beinterested groups, it can, and should be, a primary marketing tool. But itshould never be used primarily for marketing. Keeping interactions helpful anduseful and not just about whatever it is you are marketing is key.

Okay, now that I can do. Novice as I am, I think I canhandle this far more social style of what might be termed niche marketing.

Fingers crossed I’ll have the need to do so.

After all this research, I’m curious what other people’sexperience has been (or if anyone knows what that ‘standard’ retail formulais!). How are you currently using social media and is it working as a markettool for you? Have you seen any changes in people’s approach from, say, twoyears ago? Am I sitting here like a contortionist after all? ;-)

Ellie Heller, aka EllieWrites2, writes stories tingling withmagic, romance and suspense. You can find her blog on her writing journey hereor follow her on twitter @ EllieWrites2 .

Meet and Chat with the ERAuthors Members

2011-12-03T14:59:00.000-08:00

Sunday, December 4th - All Day

Love Romances Cafe: ttp://groups.yahoo.com/group/LoveRomancesCafe/

Many of the wonderful members of ERAuthors will be posting excerpts of their latest works and chatting live with anyone who cares to stop by at Love Romances Cafe.

Here's your chance to ask any question you've been secretly wanting to ask, or simply drool at some marvelously erotic excerpts.

Don't be shy. You know you want to come . . .

Is it a Romance or Something Else? by S.D. Grady

2011-11-30T07:00:00.000-08:00

Now that NaNoWriMo is over, we have an opportunity to pause, take stock of our feverish typing and decide if all that effort is complete rubbish. I'm always prepared to embrace the possibility. Anyway...the topic I find myself facing after contemplating those fine 50,000 words is did I actually start writing a romance? Or is it something else altogether.

I've got a sneaky suspicion it's the latter. Which wasn't what was intended, and yet there I am in Chapter 13 with far too many characters and none of them seem interested in finding the closest closet, darkened alcove or shadowed garden. *sigh* That's not to say we haven't exchanged a nice kiss or two--might've been three, in fact. And it was a most satisfying moment, but there's still that part of the author in me who wonders what the heck I'm doing.

I write romances. Right? With the occasional dark, fantasy twist, true. But they are romances...aren't they?

Currently I've got boy meets girl, rearranges the existing political structure of the kingdom and everyone lives happily ever after. Except there seems to more in-fighting amongst the nobles than kicking up of skirts. There's always the opportunity to go back to the beginning and re-engineer the focus of the storyline, but then again it is possible that this story was never meant to be about him and her and all the fun to be found in the sack.

Oft-times when cruising the submission calls out on the world wide web, I stumble across the random "will also consider works with romantic elements" or the "please only romance".

And so I sit here, with a story that's straddling the great void between established genres and the vast unknown. It's a bit scary. And exhilarating. I think I'll jump.

So, this is what I learned for this NaNo. My muse is being most insistent that I depart from established ways and explore new regions...and so I must.

In Chapter 14 I think there might be a duel and possibly a coup...how utterly delicious! What surprises has your muse sprung upon you lately?

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Worldbuilding – by KevaD

2011-11-22T04:54:00.000-08:00

Worldbuilding, world building, or world-building is the current overused term finding its way into nearly every conversation on writing. But what exactly is worldbuilding?

In truth, worldbuilding is nothing more than the construction of an imaginary world or setting. The geography can encompass an entire universe, or be as small as a back roads community where gossip heats the coffee. However, I've been seeing the term used more and more in conjunction with paranormal and fantasy stories, to the point in fact that a degree of ownership seems to have become improperly attached to it.

The term "worldbuilding" gained acceptance and popularity during the 1970s science fiction writers' workshops. Maps, history, geology, genealogy, ecology, language, and entire races were created for the writers' stories, plots, and characters to thrive in. Dungeon and Dragons role players specialized in creating fantasy worlds from the outside-in and inside-out where the science fiction enthusiasts worked from the bottom-up or top-down.

How a writer chooses to create the world for their story is entirely up to him or her. There is no right or wrong method. What is important is that the writer understands the importance of consistency and accuracy within the world/setting being created. Expectations of conduct for vampires and werewolves have become the norm. Full moons, silver bullets, garlic, and wooden stakes are as ingrained in readers' minds as hamburgers are to golden arches. If your vampire doesn't sleep on the dirt of his birth or death, the writer better have an immediate, solid argument the reader can reluctantly accept. In other words, a world parallel to the readers' level of acceptance has to have been constructed, or be prepared for a load cry of "Foul!".

Minutia matters, no matter what world the writer is building. In the 1950s, "running shoes" didn't exist. Sherlock Holmes never requested a crime scene technician. And, Neanderthals didn't know they were Neanderthals, unless the writer built the right world around them.

Which brings us to my novella "Desire Damned."

What could "Desire Damned," an MM erotic tale that takes place on the battlefields of Gettysburg, possibly have to do with Neanderthals? I hope you'll read the story and find out.

Buy Link

KevaD's Web Site

Thanks so much for stopping by!

Research and learning something new

2011-11-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

As some of you already know I'm a HUGE MMA fan and between watching the fights and watching my kids in karate for the past few years of course a plot bunny developed. I mean come on what kind of writer would I be if it didn't, right? LOL

Now with this new plot bunny my heroine needs to know some self-defense, nothing huge just regular protect yourself kind of stuff so it got me thinking about self-defense classes for women. Now I took one back in University but that was... oh my gosh 10 plus years ago how is that possible? Holy cow.... I digress, anyways, so I was due for a refresher. The course I took in University was offered through the school and it was a padded self-defense class which meant they taught you the moves and then the instructor was dressed up in full gear so you could really put your all into those kicks and punches. Actually it was kind of fun and I learned some good stuff.

But you guessed it, being an MMA fan I thought it would be fun to try something a little different when I decided to do a refresher course.Now I was thinking Krav Maga would be fun, but it wasn't offered in my area so I decided why not try a women's self-defense class taught at a jui-jitsu school. I mean I watch it on TV I have the basic idea, right? Oh sweet mother of god no I don't. It's definitely harder in real life, I should have known. Now part of that might be that I was stupid enough to talk to the instructor about being an author and wanting to do some research so could he help me out blah blah blah LOL.*Note to self ask questions after the class next time not before.

The instructor was amazing and incredibly helpful but the guy was huge, well he wasn't really but next to me he was, he had a foot on me and easily 70 pounds which I gotta say makes a big difference in an attack type situation just on arm and leg span alone. I have to be a whole lot closer to make contact then someone taller does. I guess that's why it's so important to take the class because most men are bigger than women so it's good to know how to defend yourself against an attack both verbally and physically if necessary.

The class was absolutely amazing and I learned alot and honestly it made me realize that plot bunny or not taking a refresher course was a good idea and I wish I'd thought of it sooner. It's one of those things you hope you never have to use but it's comforting to know you've got in the toolbox. Plus it fed the plot bunny so she'll shut up about the story for a little bit so I can wrap up the other ones that are ahead of it in line. *grin*

~Lauren

http://www.laurenfraser.com

The Great Nano by S.D. Grady

2011-11-14T08:00:00.000-08:00

As I sit here, with my fingers clicking away over the keyboard, these little red squiggles keep appearing in my various tweets and IM's. And there is one word in particular that the little spell checker is having an apoplexy over--NaNoWriMo and its various incarnations.

There is NaNo'ing. Being a NaNoer...or is that Nanite? I've been NaNoed. There is the impulse to Nanner somebody.

None of this actually means anything unless you have taken complete leave of your senses and entered the twilight zone sometimes known as NaNoWriMo. Then it all becomes crystal clear.

NaNo'ing: v. the process of writing as many words as quickly as possible, taking a deep breath and then doing it again.

NaNo'er: n. the person engaged in NaNo'ing. Sometimes indicated by a lack of clean clothes, combed hair and the ability to hold coherent conversations beyond, "How many words do you have?"

NaNo'ed: adj. the state of having lost all sense of self through typing until your wrists are burning in agony ex: I am NaNo'ed out. ex2. You look totally NaNo'ed, dude.

Nanner: v. Sticking ones tongue out and yelling at the top of your lungs, "I have more words than you!"

NaNooooo!: "I won't do this anymore! You can't make me!"

As you can see, my Word program has a lot to complain about these days. And as I abhor little red squiggles, and refuse to turn them off lest I start making silly mistakes, the stress level for this NaNo'er has been increasing with each passing hour and word of the great insanity of NaNoWriMo. (There. I just wrote another one to totally piss off the Red Squiggle Demon!)

It is Day 14 of the great noveling event that has taken hold of hundreds of thousands around the globe. This means you should be approaching that magic 25k number as you read this pithy blog entry. Yet, I hear your pleas. Make it stop!

But no! We are NaNo'ers. A new breed! And if we use the damn word often enough, it will get entered into the Oxford English Dictionary! Shall we start a movement? Why not!

NaNo. NaNo. NaNo. Say it three times. Spell it three times. Use it in a sentence three times. Make it your own...or simply run screaming from the room. Your choice.

I am still typing until my fingers fall off or I'm sent to the place with padded walls. Haven't decided which I want, yet.

Write on! And good luck (insert word count here)

Join in at: http://nanowrimo.org 50,000 words. 30 days. Because you want to.

Visit my website: http://sdgrady.info

Follow me on Twitter: @laregna

Read my latest story! Dinner and a Movie

Erotic Romance and Psychotherapy

2011-11-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

Odd combination? Not really. At least not when the therapy includes work on sexual issues.

Many women are afraid to say the words vagina or penis, and they absolutely won’t say pussy or cock. Don’t even mention masturbation or oral sex—or vibrators. If I do, they will give me grimaces as if I’d just told them they had to eat something moldy and unidentifiable from the backs of their refrigerators.

So when my clients accidentally let it slip that they have sexual issues, I say, “I can help you with those, too. I do sex therapy.”

They normally sit there stunned—and seemingly terrified—because I suggested working on the taboo subject.

“No, that’s okay. I’m not comfortable talking about it. I shouldn’t have brought it up,” is the typical response.

A lot of women are sexually repressed because of family, religion, society, sexual abuse, self-esteem, etc. The list could go on and on. They don’t know how to enjoy sex because it was never encouraged.

In fact, it was discouraged. “You don’t want to be considered a slut, do you?”

Yes, as the years pass this mentality is changing, slowly. But for a few generations of women, the damage is already done.

This is where I come in, and the many other sex therapists around the country. Believe it or not, I’m the only one within an hour of my home who does sex therapy. Granted, I do live in a rural area, but, on the other hand, this is a poor area with one of the largest mental health agencies in the state—where I work. With such a high number of therapists, I shouldn’t be the only one working with this.

But there is another problem. This is also an issue for many of the therapists I know. If I would try to sit down with them and have a discussion about sex, they would be very uncomfortable. And if they’re uncomfortable talking about it with a colleague, how are they ever going to be able to help a client with sexual problems?

So where do the erotic romance novels come in? Simple. It’s easier for women to read about sex in the privacy of their own homes than it is to have an open and explicit discussion. I suggest erotic stories to clients, and coworkers, so they can slowly become comfortable with the “idea” of sex, and all the terms associated with it. Then we can begin to have conversations about it.

For example, one woman had been molested repeatedly, and nearly raped once, before she was a teenager. These traumas caused her to be unable to truly open up sexually with her husband, even many years into the marriage. The thought of being touched intimately made her nauseous, reminding her of what had been done to her as a child. She could only associate certain sexual acts with those horrible memories.

This also deadened her sexual response in general. No interest or enthusiasm, though she loved her husband completely.

Needless to say, this created problems in the marriage when they would go months, and sometimes years, without sex. Her husband never strayed, realizing she had a problem she was unable to control, but by the time she got up the courage to go to therapy, the strain on their relationship was almost too much.

Besides the normal treatment to deal with her past, and bringing her husband in to work on how to help her through, I had to teach her to associate sexual intimacy with something positive. Yes, we worked on this with her husband, that was a major part of it, but she needed something for herself, as well.

Already an avid romance reader, it didn’t take much convincing for her to give erotic romance a try. After the first book she was shocked. As strange as it felt to her, she enjoyed reading the explicit sex scenes, especially the ones where the hero slid his fingers into the heroine—and the heroine’s unashamed reaction of joy and pleasure.

She wasn’t yet ready to move these sexual acts out of the pages of books and into the bedroom, but after a few more similar novels she was.

This process took time, months, and in the end she was able to associate good thoughts and memories with these acts. Now she craves her husband’s touch, and now she wants to touch him back.

I’ve seen this happen repeatedly, but just like any other issue we may need to deal with, it only works when the person is ready to make a change.

There are definitely clients, coworkers, and friends I could never suggest this to because of religious beliefs or other reasons. But for those who are open to it, reading these stories can completely turn their lives around, and not only sexually.

What it also does is gives them back something that was stolen from them. It gives them back control. The empowerment created by this is phenomenal. They are more confident and outgoing in all areas of their lives, when before they had been fearful and closed off.

They actually begin living, rather than merely existing.

So, for those of you who read erotic romance, be proud that you are comfortable with sexuality. For those of us who write it, be proud that we can make it okay, take away the taboo, and maybe change someone’s life forever.

Bet my fellow writers never thought they were giving therapy.

This is my first post for Some Write It Hot, and I'm grateful to have this opportunity since I am still one of the newbies on the block. My day job is psychotherapy, but by night, another side of me emerges. I write erotic paranormal romance under the name Lorraine Pearl—mostly involving vampires, although I am playing around with other creatures, too. Sounds a little dirty, but that is our specialty here. I am currently working on a book called Night Therapy.

For a little taste of my writing, please visit my website and blog.

http://www.lorrainepearl.webs.com/
http://www.lorrainepearl.blogspot.com/

Thank you for welcoming me here,

Lorraine Pearl

Remember our veterans today, 11/11/11, and every day.

Fun Kinda Research

2011-11-09T09:33:00.001-08:00

Research is always a fun part of writing for me. It must be my inner nerd talking, but I love looking up facts to incorporate into my stories. It’s really the only part of plotting that I enjoy. I have folders full of information that I’m waiting to fit into just the right story.

Of course when one writes erotic romance, research can take on a whole new meaning. In the past few months, I’ve had to look up different rope bondage techniques, aphrodisiacs, BDSM conference names, and skiing techniques. Hey, it can’t always be sexy funtime town :) Obviously some things are more entertaining to research than others.

Of course no author worth their salt stops at just reading about such things… But I'm gonna stop right there. Some things are better left unsaid ;)

What’s the craziest thing you’ve had to research?

You can read more about the fruits of Gillian's research at her website.

Erotic Romance Genre vs Marriage - by R. Renee Vickers

2011-11-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

Hello! Many of you don't know me so please, let me introduce myself. My name is R. Renee Vickers (please call me Renee) and I'm one of the newer members at ERAuthors and a soon to be published author at Noble Romance Publications. My debut book, Sly's Surrender is a M/F BDSM short story due to be released on November 21st. To say the least I'm very excited about its publication, the success I've seen so far and the toasty reception from fellow authors.

I'm honored to be posting here today about a topic that's close to the heart of many of the writers in the Erotic Romance genre.

A few months back, a friend brought to my attention several high profile articles talking about the supposed degrading effects of the Erotic Romance genre on marriage and life in general. One of these articles asserted that women who read erotic romance stories become so entranced with the fictional hunks they find their own real-life spouse less appealing. Fellow author, J.S. Wayne provided the following link to one of the articles in question. (http://ladeetdareads.wordpress.com/2011/06/07/romance-book-addiction/)

If you follow the link provided in the blog you'll be led to an article highlighting several professionals in the psychiatric and counseling fields discussing the risks women face when exposed to pornography including addiction. They include the Erotic Romance genre of fiction in the pornographic category. It's not difficult, in fact, to do an internet and turn up a plethora of sites discussing the potential consequences women would face should they be introduced to the Romance and Erotic Romance genres. Some of the potential consequences they discuss include (but are not limited to): addiction to pornography, expectation of unrealistic romantic situations, dissatisfaction with spouses, affairs, and becoming incapable of maintaining healthy relationships.

Sadly there is no shortage of articles arguing against the erotic romance genre which imply women who are exposed to the erotic romance genre are at a high risk of becoming delusional.

While the thought we romance writers are so powerful we could snooker the skirts off a nun is humorous, it’s simply not true. Think about it for a moment. If anti-Erotic Romance genre assertions were true, readers of fiction in general would be boarding their houses up in preparation for the upcoming zombie apocalypse; they’d be readying their flight plans to Never Never Land, or perhaps sleeping with a garlic garland in an attempt to ward off stalking vampires. That last one would be a marriage killer for sure, far more than reading a little naughty tidbit.

An article written by Catherine Bennett, highlights flaws in the accusations of the anti-Erotic Romance advocates. “…but as Quilliam points out, it is the very escapism of romantic fiction that fosters psychosexual problems." (the article she's discussing can be found at: http://jfprhc.bmj.com/content/37/3/179.full?sid=7afe8cdb-1d8e-4428-b592-3f88054cb6ad)

Bennett continues, "While," Quilliam allows, "there is much more real-life awareness nowadays – female characters have jobs, male characters are sensitive and sensible, both face challenges such as addiction, disability, single parenting or domestic violence – still a deep strand of escapism, perfectionism and idealisation runs through the genre.” (http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/jul/10/catherine-benett-books-propaganda-libraries)

In this article Bennett specifically addresses Quilliam’s arguments that in addition to fostering unhealthy addictive traits in our readers, writers in this genre fail to educate and influence their readers in the use of safe sex practices.

It’s laughable that someone would go so far out of their way to propose that a genre is responsible for the ails of society, but it’s really not funny. Saying that those who read erotic romance become so enthralled with the subject matter they find their spouses less satisfying, or completely forget there are such things as sexually transmitted diseases or unexpected pregnancies, is a sizable insult.

What they’re saying is that Jane Doe was smart enough to marry John Smith but as their happy marriage wore on, Jane got led astray by the big bad wolf who sucked her brain out with a straw. Then, returning to John, she realized she liked the wolf better. The truth of the matter more likely is, Jane and John had children (let’s name them Jack and Jill), each worked a full time job, stressed over looming bills, mortgage payments, and obscene work deadlines and realized the love was no longer there.

Blaming problems on outside sources is easy, but not reality. Life is not easy. It’s painful, difficult, and answers are not that simple. And our readers are not stupid.

Make no mistake, I can say with confidence that writers in this genre are also readers. If anyone knows how the material affects the consumers, it’s the writers. I can speak to this with experience on both sides. Yes, reading erotic romance has changed my life as a reader. But rather than limiting my perspective on romance, it’s been expanded.

I started my adult life with a rather prudish outlook, a condition that was only exasperated by surviving years of domestic violence. Even after working out the emotional issues following my experiences, I had impenetrable trust issues which stymied any attempts at intimacy. Meeting the man who became my husband certainly helped, but even after years of being together, I was stuck, incapable of moving forward. It wasn’t until I began reading and writing erotic romance that the last little switch flipped in my mind. What I read gave me a peek into the minds and emotional states of the characters involved. These stories helped me believe I was worthy of pursuing my desires and helped me create a more open dialog with my spouse.

Yet, even reading romance and relating to the characters and situations portrayed in the stories, I never dismissed reality. I’m well aware of both mine and my spouse’s physical and emotional limitations. I have no interest in pursuing the heart throbs portrayed in the cover art. I’ve never lost touch with the fact that, without proper contraceptives, consequences happen. As a reader, I’m more than aware fiction is fabricated for entertainment. As a writer I assume my audience is intelligent enough to understand that, though I write about situations, it doesn’t mean I’ve experienced them.

There’s no doubt the Erotic Romance genre has affected my life positively, not only in the bedroom, but in my creative world as well. What started as a challenge by a friend, writing my first erotic romance short story has provided my first publication opportunity.

Sly’s Surrender won't be released until November 21st, but I’ve already made so many contacts with so many great writers in this genre it's mind boggling.

Being a writer, by its nature, is a reclusive occupation. Everything from the writing process to publication, marketing and promotion takes so much of the author’s time that it’s easy for us to feel isolated and alone. But I’ve had exactly the opposite experience with my involvement in this genre. I’ve been in touch with and welcomed by so many incredibly talented, creative folks.

If my experience has proven anything to me, it’s that writers in the Romance and Erotic Romance genres are far from the social degenerates naysayers would have you believe. They are certainly not conspiring to foil the sacred nature of marriage and healthy loving relationships. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion of course, but before blanket statements saying an entire genre is responsible for the downfall of the sanctity of marriage are made (and accepted), think about the implications. What’s being communicated is not that the genre is bad, but that the readers are too dim to discern fiction from reality.

Thanks so much to the wonderful authors at Some Write it Hot and ERAuthors for having me here today. I truly appreciate the opportunity to express my thoughts on this topic. Thanks also to all of the readers who gave a few moments out of their days to spend reading this.

Creating A Fantasy

2011-11-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

I've said it before, and I'll say it again right now: Good writing is not enough to create a good story. A writer can be technically competent and still put out only "average" or even substandard work. When we look at writing as an art form rather than a business, many of the rules of "good" writing go right out the window because everyone's tastes tend to be just a little bit different.

One example of this is Stephen King. Millions of people really enjoy his work, but I personally find him wordy and far too interested in description, which bogs down the pace of his stories almost to a crawl. This is not to take anything away from Mr. King: God knows the man's sold more books than I ever hope to, and if I only had one hundredth of his fan following I certainly wouldn't need a day job. And I'm sure as hell not trying to put myself anywhere near on his level. But the problem I've had with much of his work is the afore-mentioned description jungle; the basic storylines, in my humble opinion, would be a lot more compelling if there was less emphasis on minutiae such as the pleats in a pair of brown corduroy pants.*

So how do I, as a writer, counter this tendency while still creating a story I believe people will want to read?

Before I can sell the fantasy to anyone else, be it a publisher, a reader, or a reviewer, I first have to sell myself on it. I have to see what the characters see, feel what they feel, and understand how their environment and their background created the people they are. For this reason, I engage in a great deal of play-acting and thought exercises. I work myself into a state where I can fully engage my senses in the world I'm trying to create, whether the setting is Hell, Harlem, or Heaven.

This active imagination of mine comes at a price, as all such things do. I can sometimes get a little carried away with my immersion in the story to the point if the house caught fire, I may not notice until a burning roof beam fell on my head. And maybe not even then! But the tradeoff is that, with an innate understanding of the world I'm creating, I can sift through and decide what details are crucial, what has no consequence, and what absolutely must be included to give the reader a proper sense of being there without spelling things out until the description almost becomes offensive to my reader's intellect.

You see, I believe my readers are possessed of active imaginations in their own right. If they weren't, they wouldn't read MY work. They'd be reading technical manuals or biographies. So I like to give just enough detail to set the scene and let the reader's imagination take over. If I say there are a bunch of bare trees gleaming ghostly gray in the sallow light of a half moon and a cold wind whistling through the gap-toothed maw created by the carved stones studding the ground in the open field just beyond the wrought-iron fence, what am I talking about?

If you said "cemetery" or something similar, you're absolutely correct. Now you've determined the setting and your own imagination is taking over, and I don't need to linger on details unless there's something I think you really, really need to pay attention to. Just a hint for my readers: Anything I mention twice or more is decidedly important, regardless of the story. From this point, the trick is to keep the action moving so the reader doesn't lose interest in what's going on. Whether the characters are about to fall into bed or a trap, I like to layer on just enough description and detail to keep the reader's interest, without burying them in words.

Whether I succeed or fail is up to the reader to judge. But so far, the readers seem to think I do a pretty good job overall!

You didn't think I was going to leave you without an excerpt, did you? My latest release from Noble Romance, "Ancient Magic," is now available. Hopefully, this excerpt will give you a little taste of what I'm talking about. I hope y'all enjoy it!

More than two decades have passed since the Hodans invaded the peaceful kingdom of Jurav. In their zeal for conquest, they have mercilessly rent the Juravian national character asunder, starting with the temples of their gods.
Varath's uncle raised him to one day assume his father's mantle—command warden of the Temple of Noradi, the most beloved goddess of the Juravian pantheon and the deity of heart, hearth, and the fires which burn in both.
Melody would have been High Priestess to Noradi, and her own family has groomed her with equal care against the day when the Hodan hordes will be expelled and she can assume her rightful place as the most powerful figure in the entire nation . . . and as Varath's bride.
When Varath departed to serve in the Hodan army, Melody saw it as an unconscionable betrayal. Now Varath has returned to take his father's place as the sole guardian of a temple where no one dares enter, and he has made overtures to claim the other half of his bequest: Melody herself. But can Melody see past the deceptions and lies his rebellion has forced and learn to love the man who seems to have turned his back on his own people?

Tumbled columns once demarcating a stately courtyard glinted in moonlight, now lay as sad reminders of the glory mere hand spans of years before had been the temple of Noradi. Shattered and broken sections of white stone lay scattered in a rough ring around the now weed-choked, polished flagstones of the broad walkway leading to the steps of the temple's inner sanctum. Beyond the courtyard, the trees of the sacred grove in which the temple was set wove their leaf-crowned branches together. Dense greenery formed a nearly impenetrable screen, which even the keenest eye could not pierce.

Varath grunted and turned away from the courtyard, resting one hand on his broad belt scant inches from the haft of his heavy battle-axe. At the first sign of anything not as it should be, he could draw the axe with deceptive speed, as many a fallen foe had learned in the last, fatal miscalculation of their lives.

How much enemy blood had tempered the finely forged steel of that axe? He'd given up trying to keep count long ago when he'd first joined the Hodan army as an eager young subaltern. The years between had been good ones for a warrior, filled with wine, song, and women, punctuated with bloody battles and interspersed with moments of utter terror. Varath had distinguished himself in action, decorated to the point where had he troubled to wear only half his baubles, he would have been quite unable to move. And those were the lesser of his awards of merit and valor.

Every one of them served to reinforce a grand deception.

Not that he was ashamed of them; no matter the name of the medal or the provenance, he had earned every last one. Medals and awards of valor were not given to corpses, and each one spoke to his talent for surviving in circumstances where many others had fallen instead.

The deception lay in Varath's own loyalty to the Hodan cause.

He had none.

His outward calm, controlled demeanor gave no hint to the storm of apprehensive thoughts plaguing his mind. Like jackstraws in a tornado, random thoughts skittered past, each one triggering an avalanche of images and memories. Here, the letter he'd sealed carefully and dropped with a villager his uncle had deemed trustworthy came into view. The wax seal he had placed on the missive bore the emblem of his rank in the Hodan military and should have been sufficient to keep the contents safe from prying eyes. Varath had learned the hard way no traveling communication could be guaranteed to remain confidential. As an added precaution, he had carefully encoded the letter, couching the contents in terms intelligible only to a Juravian.

Like himself.
The envelope vanished to be replaced by a painfully clear image of the intended recipient: a young woman with hair the color of moonlight, wearing a deep green gown, staring at him with hurt loathing. After all these years, was it possible she still believed him a traitor?

He turned the thought over like a putrid gem, examining the label from every angle. The bitterest part was, depending on how one viewed his situation, he was exactly what she thought him to be, if not precisely in the way she thought. He played a dangerous game, and he knew if he were discovered, even his exalted rank would not save him from Hodan retribution. Indeed, Brigadier General Varath would certainly pay a much higher price for his betrayal than any man of lesser rank. Imprisonment was still life, no matter how unpleasant; for him, he could only expect a protracted and agonizing death. The Hodans were known for many things. Mercy to traitors was not to be found on the lengthy list.

Shoving aside the bitter thoughts, he let his gaze roam over the ruined façade of the temple front. The huge bronze-sheathed doors, once barriers against the elements had been destroyed in the Hodans' assault and now hung askew, suggesting a gaping, toothless maw. The interior flickered dimly from the brace of torches Varath had lit before coming outside to make his rounds of the perimeter. Even though he was familiar with every stone and crevice of the temple, the place still looked eerie and haunted to him in the torchlight.

As well, it should, traitor, a cold voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

*See 'Salem's Lot, by Stephen King.

Release Day for Catherine's Toys III - by KevaD

2011-10-31T11:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, yeah. Weirdness and crazy abound in the third installment of the Catherine's Toys serial.

Thanks to everyone who has followed this dark, erotic, and psychotic tale.

Catherine suspects Larry the security guard knows she's the one sexually assaulting hospital patients.

Casey just wants to have sex with somebody. Please? And if he gets to kill that "somebody" afterward, all the better.

Catherine comes up with a plan that will take care of both of their needs.

Excerpt:

Casey gagged on his bite of pepperoni pizza. The heat of the ground peppers he'd scattered over the extra cheese didn't come close to the burning in his ears. He gulped a swig of soda to clear his throat and quickly glanced around the pizza parlor for any gawkers staring at their booth. No one seemed to have noticed, but he kept his unwelcome surprise to a whisper. "What'd you say?" Catherine really hadn't just publically outed him, had she?

"I think that hospital security guard, Larry, has a crush on you." Catherine's voice contained an unnerving mix of taunt and mockery. "Why don't you call him up and invite him to join us." Her tone plunged to wicked sneer. "He's got a really nice looking tush. Maybe I should let him play in my toy box."

Anger bubbled in Casey's belly amongst the gas pockets from the pizza. He opened his mouth—and belched.

"Oh!" Catherine scrunched her face like a pug dog. "You are so gross." She waved her hand as if to fan away the varnish-stripping stench. "And you wonder why I won't fuck your fat ass? Good God! You'd probably fart in my face if I gave you a blowjob."

"Bitch," he growled, once again looking around the room for any voyeurs to this conversation he'd never hoped to have, but the scant few other patrons' focus seemed riveted on their meals. Odd, he'd thought there more customers when he'd arrived. "You stay away from Larry."

Her brown eyes glowed eerily in conjunction with the devil's smile that curled the corners of her lips.

Shit. He'd screwed up big time. Now Catherine knew that even though Casey loved her, he'd found something in Larry that interested him enough to want to keep the attraction a secret from her.

Catherine ran her soft, plump hand up and down Casey's trousers-covered thigh. "I'm only teasing. Relax."

A crisp pang of disappointment jabbed the back of his skull. "You mean Larry doesn't like me?"

She moved her hand to his knee where she massaged each bump and depression. "You really do have a thing for him. Well, well." She finger-walked her way up the inside of his leg. Her words came throaty and harsh.
"Ever got a hard-on thinking about him, Casey?" Her hand stopped at the top of his thigh.

With a finger she traced the outline of his penis; the slight pressure awoke his fantasies—Larry naked and chained to his bed.

"What about right now? What if Larry was here, would you get hard if this was his finger on your little dick?"

Arousal was imminent, blood rushed into his soft cock, and his growing erection shifted position. Casey pushed Catherine's hand away and nervously looked around the room for the third time, but the patrons' and the staffs' attentions were glued anywhere but toward Casey and Catherine.

"Stop it. Somebody will see and throw us out of here."

"Who are you worried about?" she asked in a snicker. "The teenage waitress with the perky tits? You like her tits, Casey? Maybe I should grab one when she walks by our table next time. She might like it. We'll never know if I don't try. Do you think the little bitch has a hairy cunt? I've never fucked a woman. Would you like to watch me eat her pussy, Casey? Maybe you'd like to suck her clit with me?"

"You're disgusting," he hissed between his teeth. "Knock it off. I'm not kidding."

"Ohh," she moaned, and cupped her hand over his groin. Catherine roughly slid her hand back and forth over his cock. "You're turning me on. I didn't know you could get so angry. I kind of like it." She gripped the fly to his zipper and tugged it open just a tad. "I think I'd like to fuck you. Right here. How about it, Casey? All these people watching us? Mmm. Let's fuck, right here in this booth. Come on, let's do it." She yanked his zipper completely open and maneuvered her fingers through the opening of his shorts.

Thanks for stopping by!!
Buy Link: Noble Romance
KevaD's Web Site

Trick or Treat: Costuming a Sex Scene by S.D. Grady

2011-10-28T07:15:00.000-07:00

When we plan for that big night out with somebody special, there's usually at least a few days pondering on the dress, shoes (oh yes, the shoes!) hair, nails, waxing...okay, so we ladies tend to over do things. But when you read a book and that big moment comes along, whether it's the kiss on the front doorstep or the removal of any and all clothing in two seconds flat, the reader might not stop and consider all the things the author did before settling on her skin-tight jeans, spiky boots, button-up shirt and front closure bra. Or his slouchy jeans, boxers, construction boots, t-shirt with a hole just over his left nipple and a silver pendant necklace. (Did somebody turn up the heat in here?)

Yes, when all is said and done, we're gonna be talking about hot, sweaty skin. However, first there are the impediments and what they say about the characters. If clothes truly made the man, we wouldn't actually have a story, it would just be sex. Nothing bad there, but it can be boring. In most cases though, it is the man that makes the clothes.

Why does he wear the construction boots? Or the slouchy jeans when a nicely displayed ass is actually much more interesting. Maybe the jeans are a remnant of youth. Perhaps he just found the boots to be really functional before he got the job sitting at a desk. Maybe he's a carpenter who forgot what mirrors are for. His clothes are his costume--a function of his life and history.

As are hers. The hot chicky who knows how to select a sharp looking outfit, but just can't resist topping it off with a chunky cardigan because she's always cold. Or loves the high heels, but never really learned to walk in them, so she sits down as often as possible, creating an illusion of insecurity.

So, when you answer the door on Halloween, who is really in costume? The kids who don a $10 plastic version of Spiderman, or Mom who just threw on the ratty jeans, flip-flops and her husband's sweatshirt from college? Who is that lady and what story lies behind her suburban uniform of indifference?

Ah...there's the mystery and the intrigue. Hope your holiday is full of tricks and treats...and lots of chocolate. Enjoy!

~~~~

What costumes are Miss Bernie and Mr. Clarke wearing in my latest release? She's in a brown mini-skirt, ivory flirty top and low-heeled boots. He's in a black pin-stripe suit. But what aren't they wearing and why would that cause any trouble in:

Dinner and a Movie

Now available at Amazon

Excerpt: Her eyes closed in bliss as he traced her lips. “You have a soft heart, Miss Bernie.”

She pulled back just enough. Heat and moisture collected in the wisp of space between their mouths. A spark leapt across the void.

His mouth took hers, hard. His tongue surged past her teeth and ferreted out every crevice of moisture remaining in her mouth. The light from the wall sconce dimmed. The sounds of silverware and glass vanished, leaving only his pulse pounding against hers. Her limbs weakened. Her entire world tilted.

Anything. She would do anything for this man. His touch. His voice.

He released her mouth. Dazed, Bernie rested her head against the wall and stared at the ceiling. He continued to place a trail of fire on her throat, nibble the cords of her neck and suck. She moaned as the sharp pain triggered an erotic tightening in her belly.

“What do you want?” she asked. Whatever the answer, she would give it.

Liam groaned, placed his hands by her head and seemed to struggle to push away from her thrumming body.

An antique clock in the foyer ticked, the tock grew louder with each moment that he watched her. Invisible strings pulled her forward. It would only take a moment to loosen his tie, unbutton the top and expose the triangle of flesh—the bit that beckoned her tongue. She would lick it and leave it wet and wanting….

He chuckled, a sound that reverberated between them. “At first I just wanted your car. And then your legs…” Long fingers kneaded the back of her thighs. “When you bent over to get something from your car, it killed me.”

He drew her into another kiss, brutal and short.

“I want your body splayed open, waiting for me to take my pleasure. Are you wearing anything under this skirt?”

Bernie’s eyes rolled back in her head as she tried to think. “God, I wish I wasn’t.”

“What is it?” His voice lowered with desire.

“A thong.” She ran her fingers through the short locks at the back of his head. “And it is soaking.”

~~~~~~~

Follow S.D. Grady on Twitter: @laregna

Lesbians vs Zombies: Dead Kitties Don't Purr

2011-10-26T15:13:00.000-07:00

My editor persona is gathering a heaping double handful of lively Lesbians vs Zombies stories. So far I've seen drafts or partials from eleven of them, and they are good. Here, for your entertainment, is the (wholly unedited) opening of my own Dead Kitties Don't Purr.

At my dorm's first mixer, a costume party, I wentdownstairs wearing white jeans, a white t-shirt, and a crown of flower petalscut out of paper plates.

A quartet of girls in cowboy boots, andcheek-baring shorts turned to me like sheep in a herd and bleated,"Wall-flower!"

My face burned. That obvious, was it? I got a cupof sparkling apple juice and a handful of cold unbuttered popcorn beforefinding a section of wall that might could use someone to hold it up for awhile.

I'd promised my roommate and her boyfriend onehour of privacy. By my phone, it was 8:39. At 9:39, I could head upstairs andget my Catriona-proof earphones to block out this dumpidy-dumpidy-dumpidyracket.

The weekend's cold front had passed, so only afew people wandering in and out wore cover-ups. The cotton-candy-coloredfurries snuggling in the corner by the fireplace were probably sweating. Maybeon purpose, to give them something to lick off each other's necks.

Someone cut off the music with its relentlessthree-four beat, and put on a new disk. I eyeballed a path to the nearest door,expecting the newest Catriona Wall megahit, but instead heard somethingelectronic, vaguely familiar, with only a mildly annoying screech.

"You're Camie Wall."

I turned, and stared straight at a naked cafe aulait throat, and collar bones decorated with an intricate necklace of sharpclaws and curved fangs, backed by a curtain of straight, glossy, black hair. Ilooked up.

And gulped.

Sonrisa Ruiz taught the jewelry-making class I'dchosen for my art elective. Someone else's name was on the syllabus, butSonrisa, the grad student in the class, had taken over two weeks ago. And I hadmemorized every curve and angle of her long-fingered, capable hands.

"I'm Risa, from--"

"I know." Oh, crap! I'd snapped at her. I gave a smile I knew looked sick. That'swhat comes of not practicing what to say. "I've been watching you."

Oh, shit--that was worse. I was a bitch and a dorkand a stalker. Just the kind of person she'd want to know better.

She smiled gently. Her lips were full and dark. Atiny scar, like a white thread, accented the right outer edge of her bottomlip. Her white stretch-lace top was off the shoulder, baring plenty of tawnyskin under that intricate necklace.

I dragged my gaze up before it could sink into hercleavage, and still couldn't think of anything to say. That smile hypnotizedme. She had dark-carnelian eyes, the richest possible shade of brown, and herpupils expanded as she watched me.

"Noisy in here," she commented after amoment.

Was that a hint? I'd been accused of beingimpervious to hints. "If I had someplace quieter to go, I'd be out thedoor already."

She laughed, a sound as rich and mellow as hereyes. "Then walk with me, if you dare."

If I dared? I'd dare a lot to spend time listeningto that voice, watching that mouth shape words. She called me Camie Wall,as if that was my whole name. Not Catriona Wall's twin Camie, who doesn'tsing--can you believe it?

Dropping my crown and cup onto a table clutteredwith used cups and spilled popcorn, I followed her out into the moonlight.

Amber

Visit www.shapeshiftersinlust.com tonight!

Release Day for "Desire Damned" - by KevaD

2011-10-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

"Desire Damned" is an erotic MM historical paranormal tale, and became available to readers today from Noble Romance Publishing as part of their Timeless Desire Line.
I hope you enjoy this quick look at this dramatic story.
Buy Link

Satan wants the warrior Taka to bow before him. But Taka bows to no one except his gentle lover Har.

For thousands of years the two men have been doomed to a life of torment. While one walks the earth, the other suffers under the devil's lash. Their only respite is an occasional night; a random, beautiful, love-filled night, knowing that with the dawn one of them must die in battle and return to Satan's wrath.

On the war-torn fields of Gettysburg, the two lovers are reunited once again. But this time something beyond Hell's reach has happened. Something so wondrous, Satan may finally get his wish.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Glory could not be found in death. Taka chuckled sadly. For him, not even death could be found in death. How long had it been this time? He pulled the blanket tight around his neck and kept his eyes closed. The blanket stank of sour sweat and damp wool.

What new ways have they found to kill each other by now?
He'd learned with each new age he found himself in, war was nothing more than the testing ground for technology, an incubator for new-fangled ideas. Men died, war ended, only the inventions remained to tell the tale. People soon forgot the lives destroyed, but enjoyed the innovative toys and the comforts spilled blood produced.

Taka rubbed his head over the soft grass. So many wars, so many battles. So many times he'd died, only to awaken in the midst of another opportunity to be killed.

There was one good thing about war though, for a day or two, Taka wouldn't suffer under the devil's lash. Insects wouldn't crawl in and out of festering wounds, gnaw at his eyes and lips. And if he was lucky—very lucky—he might even live until the next war. He sighed heavily. To live meant Har had to die and suffer the unrelenting torment, the inextinguishable pain. And he would never allow Har to suffer, not as long as he held the strength to die and keep Har alive.

Har. How he missed him. Hopefully, they would find each other. His heart thumped at the thought. Har in his arms, their lips meeting, their bodies entwined. How joyous the time shared would be . . . before one of them died and submitted to the hellish torture inflicted on their immortal bodies.

An odor of beef and boiling potatoes drifted past. His empty belly rumbled in want. Clothing rustled. Men groaned and moved. Metal buckles clicked. Rifle hammers snapped back, clapped shut. Low conversations started, faded. The voices were tired and broken, not hopeful and filled with excitement.

Wherever he was, whatever war this might be, hadn't just begun.

In the distance, cannon fire shattered the stillness.

"Fall in! Form a line, recruits."

Taka puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. That would be him, a recruit—one of the new men, not known to the rest. He tossed off the blanket and sat. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Leafy boughs of trees sheltered him from the sun. A tree grove. Shade surrounded him. Elms and walnuts mixed their odors to provide a façade of serenity.

"I said, fall in, goddamn it!"

English. He'd heard English before, but never spoken the language. Each new war brought another tongue to add to his growing list. Satan seemed to have a fascination with tongues and dialects and always made sure Har and Taka mingled well. Ojibwa had been his last voice, the one prior. He'd fought nearly naked alongside Frenchmen in grand, colorful clothes. Running through the forests, his skin free to breathe, had reminded him of his earliest days when few men walked the earth. Before he'd disobeyed Satan and incurred the devil's unrelenting anger. He shook off the memory. Today, he lived once more. No need to waste a moment on the past or the future.

Taka stood and combed his fingers through his thick hair. Then he ran his hands over his clothing. The shirt was a pullover of discolored white cotton, the material soft on his skin. Dark gray trousers of wool scratched his legs. Braided suspenders held the pants on his hips. He wiggled his toes inside brown leather boots. Cotton covered his feet. At least he had on socks. The boots were a bit tight, a tad too small, but not all that uncomfortable. When the opportunity presented itself, he'd take a bigger pair from a corpse.

Taka grabbed his blanket from the ground. A folded paper fell out. He retrieved and opened the parchment. Enlistment papers. His name was Sanford Rawlings, and he'd been drafted into the Army of Virginia, whatever that was. Not that it really mattered. Finding Har was his only goal, and his love wouldn't be in this army—he'd be a member of the opposing force.

He stuck the paper inside his shirt and took his time rolling the blanket.

Heavy steps tromped toward him.

"Did you hear me, boy? I ordered you to fall in!" The voice was thick with a drawl and full of raw domination. A sergeant of some sort, no doubt. Officers didn't waste their valuable time with individual soldiers.

Taka/Sanford Rawlings placed the blanket next to an elm's trunk and turned to face the man huffing anger on his neck.

The bearded man planted the edge of the black brim of his drooped front forage cap against Taka's forehead. Brown eyes flamed. "You don't want to cross me, boy. I'll be the weevil in your cotton, you want to mess with me."

This man, this overconfident rabble, defeat the warrior Taka? Hardly. He tried to stop the chuckle, but the minute laugh slipped between his lips.

"You think I'm funny?" The voice climbed two octaves. Sallow cheeks burned red. Bushy brown brows lowered. Spittle splashed on Taka's lips.

Better to leave this annoyance alone and get started finding Har. "No, I don't. Sorry. Didn't mean nothing by it."

"Sergeant," the man growled. "Didn't mean nothing by it, Sergeant."

"Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant."

The sergeant's eyes shifted their gaze back and forth. "Best be. Now fall in."

Taka slipped around the man clad in gray from throat to pants bottom. Large stripes blazed yellow on the man's woolen waist-length coat. Sweat dripped down his dirty neck. A wide, black belt cinched around the jacket. A leather holster with button flap dangled from the right side of the belt; a sheathed bayonet on the other.

The uniform was soiled, but not with fresh dirt. The sergeant hadn't seen combat in at least a few days. Cannon continued firing from a distance too far for Taka to accurately judge. Could he be among reserves maybe? Troops not involved in the actual fighting, but at the ready for a moment's call should the battle sway in the wrong direction for either side. Which, since Taka was here, probably stood a very good chance of happening. Add that to the bayonet—an infantry weapon—on the sergeant's belt, and a charge into the enemy's ranks had to be on somebody's agenda.

Taka walked out of the grove into a lush pasture of grass dotted with the white petals and thick scent of sweet clover. A black and yellow bee nonchalantly buzzed past. Heat pressed his face. The sun beat down from behind. Summer. Had to be. The fiery orb sank almost imperceptibly. Afternoon. Four o'clock or thereabouts. The sun sat in the west. That meant the cannon fire, and possibly the bulk of the fighting, was north of his position.

Har would instinctively know he had arrived and make his way to the farthest end of the battle sometime after dark. Undoubtedly to Taka's right—south. Lifetimes ago, they had agreed to always seek out a small river or stream to meet. Trees and thick foliage would hide their all too brief time together.

"Move your ass." The sergeant brushed past Taka.

At the bottom of the slope lay rows of small canvas tents extending east, interspersed by an occasional, larger tent with the sides drawn up and tied. Uniformed men milled about the larger tents. Command tents. Men shuffled about a quadrangle of stone-ringed fires. Two cows hung on spits over a pair of the fires. Kettles boiled over the others. Supper.

Small groups of soldiers led by sergeants in waistcoats practiced marching with rifles held waist high. More evidence of an upcoming assault. But the marching aspect dictated there would be a lot of ground to cover before the actual call for the charge.

The cannons boomed.

"Ohh," Taka moaned. Cannon and men marching on open ground. An inevitable bloodbath. Whatever time had passed, man had learned little in the spans.

Men, some as young as thirteen and others as old as dirt, formed four staggered lines of ten men in length. Taka stood next to a tall, man-child clad in trousers of flax and a faded, red cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A strand of blond hair lay sweat-glued to his forehead under a wide brimmed straw hat. The youth's face held strikingly handsome features. Lean and muscled, the man-child was not an unpleasant sight to behold.

"What's your name?" Taka whispered.

"Tobias T. Toler, sir." The child's voice was husky, but meek, dusted with fear.

"Ta . . . ."—he gulped the mistake—" Sanford Rawlings, pleased to meet your acquaintance."

"Quiet in the ranks!" the sergeant shouted as he paraded back and forth. "Supply tent's the fourth major tent down. Pick up your uniforms and rifles and ammunition there. Find an empty tent, eat some vittles. We'll be sending them Yankee dogs back north where they belong in the morning, so get you some rest. Y'all in the Army of Virginia. General Lee's personal army. Our commander's none other than Major General George Pickett himself. You do him proud as he do the South. Fall out!"

The sergeant strode off. The newest members of Lee's army straggled behind. Taka walked beside Tobias T. Toler.

There was no fire or hardness in the youth's eyes. "You ever killed a man?"

Tobias thrust back his shoulders. Pride led the flurry of words. "I'm a crack shot. Only one better marksman in the county than me, and he's the one what taught me to shoot. My father. Clemons Toler."

A chuckle tangled in Taka's belly. "Your father, eh? He the one let you come to the war? Where is he anyway? A man, a real man, would not allow his child to fight in his stead." Taka never would. He'd die, like he had so many times, and suffer more than he had already to keep his children safe.

Children. The word, the dream, hung like an oasis's desert mirage. The damned couldn't have children, but could freely carry the emptiness.

Tobias spun on a heel. Now his eyes flamed. "Don't you talk that way about my father," he snarled.
"You don't know nothin'." His hands balled to fists. A vein in his scrawny, suntanned neck pulsed.

Taka crouched and swept a leg against Tobias's ankles. The young soldier dropped flat on his back. A thud, a crunch of the hat brim breaking, and an oomph, and the non-fight was over. Taka straddled the heaving torso and offered Tobias his hand.

Tobias blinked rapidly. "You move pretty quick."

"Lots of practice. I meant no offense. Take my hand." The youth raised a limp arm. Taka grabbed the offering and pulled Tobias to his feet. "Where is your father? He fighting in this war, too?"

Tobias stared at the ground and shrugged. "Yankee patrol took him some time back. Not a word since. Our farm were up by the state line. Father didn't want to fight. Said he wanted to sit this one out. Said he wanted to see me grown and on my own afore he fought again."

Taka placed his hand on the youth's bony shoulder to steady him as they walked. "Fighter, huh? What other war did Clemons Toler serve in?"

"I don't know. Father never said as much." He looked at Taka with eyes as round as the setting sun. "But the stories he'd tell. Father's a great man, sir. He knows a lot about fightin'." A smile broke through. "And about peace. Nothin' he can't grow. Taught me how to raise crops and live off the land when there taint nothin' else to live off. And he taught me the value of life. Don't never kill unless it's for survival."

A memory took kindle and glowed. Har cradled an injured rabbit. Taka smiled. "Your father sounds like a man I know."

"Good man, sir?"

"The finest it's ever been my honor to spend time with." He glanced toward the sun. Soon he'd be with Har. An ache stabbed at his chest. Soon together, too soon parted. Guilt flooded his brain. One of them would die tomorrow, one would live, alone. One would be lashed by the devil until the next time they met on a battlefield. The other would wander life aimlessly, brokenhearted. He sighed. Life or death, in the long run, didn't much matter. Torture was torture. But this last bout under the lash had nearly broken him. He'd almost surrendered what few strands remained of his will.

His gut wrenched in agony. He didn't want to go back to hell. But he didn't want Har to have to return there either. Still, one would.

"There's the supply tent." Tobias pointed ahead.

At a table, a scruffy man who stank of whiskey and urine handed Taka a Lorenz rifled musket, a flask of powder, and a pouch of shot . . . and a bayonet.

A green-teethed grin creased the man's face. "From what I hear, you a goin' be needin' that pig sticker."

"What about a uniform?" Taka asked.

"Check around. They be plenty on the ground you want to play dress up. Where you think that rifle come from?" The man staggered away.

Taka and Tobias walked along the rows of small tents just large enough for two men to squeeze into. Toward the end of the rows, near where they'd started, they found one with a lone bedroll.

"You take it," Tobias said. "I can sleep fine without a blanket."

Taka smiled. The boy had manners. He'd been raised right.

"How old are you, Tobias?"

"Fifteen my father says. But I can hunt, farm, and shoot better than most men older than me." His tone contained that tint of pride again. "Father says I can have my own place when I'm seventeen."
A warmth embraced Taka. He liked the boy. Boastful, but not so much he was annoying. "You're pretty proud of your father, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir. He's a good man. I never knew my mother. Father raised me best he could by himself. Taught me all he knew." He scuffed the ground with a toe. "Hope I see him again."

Taka patted Tobias's back. "Me too. I've got a blanket back there in that tree grove under an elm. You take this bedroll—"

"I'll get it." Tobias was on the run.

A chuckle rattled in Taka's throat. Then he nodded. If there was a way to keep Tobias T. Toler alive, he'd do it, and hope the boy got to see his father again someday when this war ended.

"Looks like the sergeant's gonna break your mustang for you." A vine stench of tobacco, whiskey, and stale beef lumbered past Taka's nose. "Wouldn't mind a little of his backside when you're done. I still gots some corn liquor left in a jug. Trade?"

Taka focused on the tree grove. The sergeant who'd mustered the recruits slunk across the pasture, shifting his gaze from side to side. Taka turned. The man who'd issued him the rifle stood wiping drool from greasy stubble with a sleeve of his shirt. A sheathed knife hung from the man's belt.

In one swift move, Taka had the knife, and the man's throat under the knife's blade. "I see you again, I'll gut you like a boar." He pulled the knife away and sprinted for the grove of trees.

Lesbians and Zombies, Oh My!

2011-10-21T07:49:00.000-07:00

A comfort zone is a safe and beautiful place, but nothing ever grows there.

As ERAuthor members know, this is my sig line on the boards. One of the reasons this particular phrase popped into my head today is because lesbians and zombies have taken over the critique boards at ERAuthors.

In a good way. There are several members who are aiming to submit to a possible anthology where the theme is lesbians versus zombies. A good handful, including myself, have taken up the challenge of writing something different than they usually write.

In practical terms, this means chapters full of lesbians and zombies have been showing up routinely in critique folders. The level of heat tends to be on the more intense side, given the criteria the publisher has set.

I’ve never critted a f/f sex scene before.

I have now.

I’ve never written a f/f sex scene before.

I have now.

These pieces have led me, in a good way, to move outside my comfort zone of writing mild heat level m/f stories. Personally I found writing the f/f sex scenes both difficult on one hand and easy on the other.

Difficult because, for me, writing f/f sex is far more introspective than m/f sex.

The easier part was, well, I am a woman and I’d like to think I have some clue of what women like. As KevaD said in his interview on It’s Raining Men blog on October 18, when asked what’s a het male doing writing MM romance and gay fiction (I admit I only pasted his juicy response regarding the sex scenes, you should be sure to read the entire interview):

Well, why not? I certainly know how a man's heart beats when the object of his affection comes near, as well as how his groin stirs under sheer passion and physical desire. And I definitely know how it feels from the male perspective to explore a body, and be explored.

To restate from my perspective: I certainly know how a woman’s body reacts when she’s around the object of her desire, as well the acts and actions which will heighten her passion. And, like KevaD with his own gender, I definitely know how it feels from a female’s perspective to explore a body and be explored.

Writing these scenes is one of the great things about ERAuthors: being in the group definitely makes me walk outside my comfort zone, heck I've taken leaps a bounds outside of it.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Love you guys!

:-)

For those curious, here is a snippet of the piece (still in draft stage!)

*****

“I won’t kill any more zombieswhich haven’t fully turned,” Camille said.

Killing everyone with the virus wasan early and unsuccessful response to the first wave. As skanky girl proved, if you took the properprecautions, and received monitored medical care, you could stave off the finaleffects of zombie virus almost indefinitely. Almost.

In the meantime hundreds of people werekilled simply for having the virus.

“No longer the plan,” Deidrainformed her truthfully, followed by another lie. Goddess grant that they notturn to truth. “Right now our problem is someone is starting to control themajor accesses into the city. All retired operatives in the area are beingprimed to help take back the transportation systems.”

Nodding Camille shrugged on herback pack. “When do you want me?”

Now,tonight, tomorrow, next Tuesday. Forever. “It’ll take me a week to get theteam in place. I’ll text you the time and location.” Deidra gave Camille along, hard look. “Don’t do anything foolish this weekend, we need you.”

Camille raised her eyebrows. “Do Ido foolish things?”

“All the damn time,” Deidra saidwith an exasperated sigh. She lifted her wrist to her face, still keeping aneye on Camille. Pressing a button on her large wristband, all entirely forshow, the Weres could hear every word, she enunciated the order to leave. “Amazon Two: we’re out of here.”

“Congrats on the group,” Camillesaid, surprising her. Oh, wait, she didn’t know exactly what kind of groupDeidra was running, just that she was the lead.

“Thank you,” Deidra said, and then,because she couldn’t help it. “This group’s okay, but I’ve had better.”

The surprise in Camille’s eyes wasoffset by the snort of a Were behind her. Good thing Camille couldn’t hear themuffled laugh. Time to go. Steppingback Deidra quickly ducked behind the nearest set of shelves then hurried tothe rear stairs. On the way she pulled out her phone and texted Camille. Sheadded the program, a virus really, which would send back to her phone all ofCamille’s recent messages.

‘You’re looking great.’ Which was most definitely the truth, the twoyears of grad school were good to Camille. She was no longer on the thin sideof lean and her glorious brown hair was now down past her shoulders. Camille looked content where she was. UnfortunatelyDeidra couldn’t keep her safe any more, so it was time for her break to end.

Not to mention being without hermate was leading Deidra to make poor decisions. Not safe for herself, much lessthe men she now commanded.

“So that’s her,” Huey said.

“Yep, hands off,” Deidra said asthe humming from the music resumed, “The tall, leggy one she’s all yours.”

The group made various retchingsounds. Right, they probably smelled thezombie virus too.

Laughing she shushed them, notwanting their group to draw attention in the frozen tundra of the parking lot.

“Next time, boss, remember we likethem still breathing,” one of the Weres joked once they were in the van andwarming up again.

“And stacked.”

“Nah, more than a handful is awaste. Me, I like a nice round ass.”

As they drove across town, Deidra listened totheir increasingly ribald qualifications, wondering if she’d become one of theboys, or if they were simply testing her limits.

Bumblebees and Perseverance

2011-10-14T18:41:00.000-07:00

I sat outside the other morning, enjoying the peace andquiet of the early hours to a beautiful day.

Next to me, my morning glories were in full bloom. Black and yellow bumblebees were busyharvesting the pollen for the upcoming winter.

I couldn’t help but think, “That has to be a monotonous job. Doing the same thing everyday of their lives.”

Then I stopped. Thesebees never complain. They go about their activities in the same manner theyhave for all their lives. This includes revisiting the same flower severaltimes on the same morning glory patch. Why?

Why do they do that? Don’t they realize they've alreadyharvested that flower? Where to do theyget their patience?

I thought about writing in these terms. So many authors write and throw work out inthe public without revisiting their books at all. Just to check to make sure it’s the best theycan produce.

Our writing should be like the bees. They go to the same flower not because theywant to but because they have to. Theycan’t miss a single grain of pollen. It’sa matter of life and death for them. Youcan look at this in the same manner with writing. We can’t miss a single opportunity to revisitour works and make sure they are the best. It’s a matter of a life or death for a writer’s career.

Wow, I can’t believe how ‘deep’ I went with this.

Okay, enough!

Here’s a little tidbit of my new WIP. It's very draft. I'm still revisiting it.

Hope you enjoy…

********

Movementfrom below pulled Parker from his morose thoughts. Rio flicked the longponytail over his shoulder and laughed. Though Parker couldn’t hear the sound,his heart sensed it by thudding hard to send blood surging tohis cock. As Rio moved toward theentrance to the building, he was innocently unaware of how desperately Parkerdesired him.

Parker’sentire body tensed, waiting for the moment Rio might enter the room. Before thedoor opened, the art instructor, Dr. Lyles, called to him, telling him to go tothe changing room and strip. His heart picked up and hammered in hischest. No one had told him this was a nude drawing class. Instant jealousyreared its head. What if Rio did take this class? And if he did, what the hell was he doing drawing naked people?

My inspiration for Parker

Tryingto maintain his temper, Parker went to the dressing room. Jacket, pull-oversweater, and jeans all came off while he struggled to control his breathing.Sweat dampened his palms. Oh, God, he dreaded leaving the safety of the smallcubicle. What if Rio was in the class?Please, please, don’t let him be there. Let him be down the hall drawing flowers or something. Takinga deep breath, he wrapped the towel around his hips and stepped out of thedressing room.

Parkerwasn’t sure what to expect when he walked out but he hadn’t thought the quiet murmuringfiltering through the room would increase in sound. It couldn’t be because ofhim. No, not at all. Of course, howoften did the star quarterback step out of a dressing room with just a towelaround his hips?

A student across the room called for someone to join them.

“Nope,light’s better over here.”

Fora brief moment, Parker felt like he’d been blitzed.

Husky,sexy in a way he couldn’t quite explain, the voice came from behind one of theeasel stations close to the windows on the far side of the room. The same voice that had haunted his wetdreams.

Parkerfroze and stared at the back of the easel.

Shit. Rio was taking this class.

“Youthere. You’re over there on the dais by the windows.” The professor waved inthe general direction somewhere in front of Rio’s easel. Parker stood frozen in place.

Oh,hell!

Dr.Lyles didn’t really want him to go where the light was the best, did he? Rightin front of Rio? The old man sent him a thunderous look, lifted an age spottedhand and pointed with a thin bony finger at the dais.

Obviously,he did.

Parkercouldn’t do this. No, he’d leave. If he stayed, Rio would believe he was stalking him orsomething. But he couldn’t leave. He wasworking. If he ran out now, he’d chanceloosing this job and he could use the extra spending money.

I can do this. Sure, no problem.

Alongthe edge of the wooden frame of Rio’s easel, the sweetly curved rear of the manhe wanted to fuck appeared. All thoughtsof leaving went south like all the birds. He moved to the modeling dais and waited for more instructions from Dr.Lyles. There were two other students, a toothpick of a guy and a girl, modelingtoo. They stood on similar daises.

Oncestanding where he’d been told, Lyles came and told him how to pose. With oneknee on the ground and the other bent forward, Parker leaned back on onehand. Before he could prepare, Lylespulled the towel from around his hips.

My inspiration for the pose. :D

Automatically, Parker covered his semierect dick with his other hand. Lyles stepped away and Parker met Rio’s bluegaze straight on. Shit, his entire six foot two frame went up in flames. Those blue eyes, which had haunted him since the gardens, now roamed over his body, a touch Parker swore he felt clear to his bones.

Rio was looking at him.

Really looking andseeing every naked inch of him.

Hiscock tightened.

Oh, shit, please, don’t get any harder.

Itdidn’t listen but most of his hand and wrist covered it. Maybe with his hand inthe way, Rio wouldn’t notice a little stiffness. Damn, was he staring at hishand-covered cock? Parker relaxed alittle only after Rio’s gaze shifted to the large drawing pad.

Jadette Paige

Jadette's Website

Jadette's Blog

Release Day: Dinner and a Movie by S.D. Grady

2011-10-12T06:34:00.000-07:00

Release Day!

The day a book escapes into the wide, wide world of the web it is truly a release day. It’s the day your baby has grown up and flown the coop. There’s nothing more to be done for it. For better, for worse all the deletions, additions and revisions are finished and now…the nail biting begins.

For me, I hope that readers are intrigued by the cover and blurb of Dinner and a Movie and need to click for the download. I want Miss Bernie and Mr. Clarke to find appreciative homes. They deserve it. They are, after all, simply looking for what we all seek in this world: undying adoration. Well, maybe coupled with more than a little lust. Okay. A lot. <g>

So, here’s a little tease. Think about inviting this pair over tonight for a little fun before you turn off all the lights. Available today at Purple Sword Publications and very shortly appearing at other major ebook outlets. Thanks for reading!

There’s only one dish on Liam’s menu tonight—Miss Bernie Watkins. After devouring the entrée, he dismisses the dessert cart in favor of snacking on her delectable generous curves at the local movie theatre. Stunned by Liam’s displays of passion, Miss Bernie discovers her inner wanton and beauty.

Her eyes closed in bliss as he traced her lips. “You have a soft heart, Miss Bernie.”

Small bursts of joy rippled through her body in response to his compliment. But the use of ‘Miss Bernie’ created new urgent responses deep within. She purred and arced into him. Her demon murmured into his ear, “Say that again, Mr. Clarke.”

She pulled back just enough. Heat and moisture collected in the wisp of space between their mouths. A spark leapt across the void.

His mouth took hers, hard. His tongue surged past her teeth and ferreted out every crevice of moisture remaining in her mouth. The light from the wall sconce dimmed. The sounds of silverware and glass vanished, leaving only his pulse pounding against hers. Her limbs weakened. Her entire world tilted.

Anything. She would do anything for this man. His touch. His voice.

He released her mouth. Dazed, Bernie rested her head against the wall and stared at the ceiling. He continued to place a trail of fire on her throat, nibble the cords of her neck and suck. She moaned as the sharp pain triggered an erotic tightening in her belly.

“What do you want?” she asked. Whatever the answer, she would give it.

Liam groaned, placed his hands by her head and seemed to struggle to push away from her thrumming body.

An antique clock in the foyer ticked, the tock grew louder with each moment that he watched her. Invisible strings pulled her forward. It would only take a moment to loosen his tie, unbutton the top and expose the triangle of flesh—the bit that beckoned her tongue. She would lick it and leave it wet and wanting….

He chuckled, a sound that reverberated between them. “At first I just wanted your car. And then your legs…” Long fingers kneaded the back of her thighs. “When you bent over to get something from your car, it killed me.”

He drew her into another kiss, brutal and short.

“I want your body splayed open, waiting for me to take my pleasure. Are you wearing anything under this skirt?”

Bernie’s eyes rolled back in her head as she tried to think. “God, I wish I wasn’t.”

“What is it?” His voice lowered with desire.

“A thong.” She ran her fingers through the short locks at the back of his head. “And it is soaking.”

A Dance with Bogie and Bacall - by KevaD

2011-10-10T08:01:00.000-07:00

Yay!
It's release day for my sweet romantic fantasy "A Dance with Bogie and Bacall," part of the Timeless Desire Line published by Noble Romance Publishing.
I hope you enjoy this brief look at this tender story.

Radio DJ Scott Kincaid's first caller of the night is a lady who died forty-nine years ago. The second wants to knock his head off. And he thought falling in love would be easy.

Maureen and Frank Johnson shared the kind of romance most people believe only exists in movies. Until a ballroom fire took Maureen's life.

Franci Johnson grew up hearing her grandparents' love story a thousand times and wishes to find the kind of undying love Frank and Maureen had once upon a time.

DJ Scott Kincaid just wants the ghost following him to go away. But Maureen thinks the hunky DJ might be just the answer to her granddaughter's dreams.

Noble Romance Buy Link
KevaD's Web Site

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Frank propped his elbow on the iron railing at the edge of the dance floor and absently watched yet another Humphrey Bogart lookalike attired as film noire detective Sam Spade arrogantly strut across the ballroom, through the forest of faux palm trees and potted plants with crepe paper leaves.

Ribbons of gray tobacco smoke broke and swirled in his wake. The hard, leather heels of his polished shoes clicked a beat on the floorboards. At a rickety, corner table barely illuminated under the flickering flame of a sconce gas lamp, a Rick Blaine copy in the character's patented white tux and black tie rose from a wooden folding chair and grasped Sam's extended hand. An obvious Vivian Sternwood Rutledge in full aqua gown uncharacteristically scurried across the floor until she stood at Sam's side where she ran her hand over the back of his black suit coat. A glint of a too long pocket watch gold chain flashed in the dim, orange light. A subtle nod to Rick's left, and Sam turned his shoulders to take the hand of a seated Nora Temple resplendently sensuous in a black dress with plunging neckline that tickled the top of the fleshy V of her very noticeable, ample cleavage.

"You're staring," whispered Frank's own duplicated Nora into his right ear. "Not that she doesn't have a lot to stare at."

"She forgot the necklace. When Lauren Bacall played Nora, she wore a necklace with that dress in Key Largo. A silver one that clung to the base of her throat and accentuated the graceful turns of her head. Lauren Bacall isn't only the most beautiful actress to ever grace the silver screen, she makes the clothing and accoutrements she wears stunning"—he shifted his gaze and lost himself in his wife's glistening green eyes—"just like you do."

A quickly raised hand pinched his jaw at the chin. "Franklin Johnson, you are such a liar." Maureen's glossy red lips curled at the corners. "But a sweet one." She pushed his face left. "She's wearing the necklace."

He coughed a hairball of embarrassment. Oops.

Maureen pulled his face back to hers. In heels, she stood nearly as tall as he did and leaned in as if to offer up a kiss but stopped a heated breath short. "You want to gawk at a woman's chest, gawk at your wife's."

Frank glanced down. Maureen had captured the top of her black silk, body-clinging dress between thumb and forefinger allowing a full view of her diminutive, unclad breasts and perked, pink nipples.

His groin stirred immediately within his Rick Blaine white tuxedo trousers. "You hussy," he heaved out in a thick rasp. "Where is your brassiere? Some new moral descent didn't happen when we left the 50s behind us." Heat scorched his ears. How had he not noticed before this? His breath caught. God, she was beautiful.

"Built-in cups just firm enough to hold me in place." She chuckled at his discomfort and released the cloth, then slipped her arms beneath his jacket and around his torso. Inching in to him, she only stopped when the hardened beads atop her bosom pressed through his shirt and against his chest.

"Mmm," he moaned. Her mouth found his ear. Little nips tugged at the lobe. He stroked the sides of her body under the cool silk. The temperature of her skin headed for sweltering, the silken material warmed. Sweat beaded under his arms and between his thighs. She pressed into his thickening erection, which snapped to full attention under a tidal wave of arousal.

He allowed himself the publicly displayed pleasure of sliding his hands to the top of her buttocks, tracing the indentation with his little fingers. Nuzzling her soft throat, he whispered, "I want to make love to you right now. Let's get out of here."

The six-piece band comprised of three strings, the leader's clarinet, one sax, and a trombone returned from break to the small stage at the end of the long room, and oozed into a slow, soft rendition of As Time Goes By. Humphrey Bogarts and Lauren Bacalls of all sizes, shapes, and costumes materialized from the shadows of the gas lamps resurrected for this annual event celebrating Bogart's life and death. The past's mimes took to the dance floor under tiny squares of haunting light from the mirrored orb of the Harvest Moon Ballroom.

"No." Maureen grabbed his hand and yanked him into the throng of couples on the dance floor. "Bogie and Bacall wouldn't let a night like this go to waste . . . and neither will we." Her left hand snaked its way to the small of his back, her right took his left in a pretense of submitting to his "lead." She opted for a closed box foxtrot with her body trying to merge with his, their steps no more than foot-length shuffles.

"Besides, you haven't given me my anniversary orchid yet. Ten years today, Franklin Johnson. And though I love you more than ever, and have borne you three children, you will give me my orchid."

All the blood in him fell to his feet. The room swayed, but not to the music. The mirrored ball spun in a prismatic dervish. A ghostly orchid, fragile and pulsing its matte colors, swirled in and out of his vision.

"Frank? Frank! Are you all right?"

Movement. His. Somehow he moved across the floor—the orchid just beyond his grasp led the way.

"Sit down." The voice from an unseen well belonged to Maureen.

He did as instructed.

"I'll get you some water. I'll be right back."

The orchid hung motionless in the air. He reached out his open palm. The flower settled onto his skin. A smile parted his lips. The orchid was as beautiful as Maureen. A faint heat emanated from the flower's core. He brought the bloom closer. Flames engulfed the petals, burned his hand. Reflexively he dropped the small ball of fire onto the table where it disintegrated into black dust and disappeared.

"Drink this."

The chilled rim of a glass touched his lips. Iced water trickled between them. He gratefully swallowed the mouthful, filtering out the ice cubes with his teeth, and then gulped down the entire glassful of water.

"Come on, pal." A man's voice. Hands under his arms lifted Frank from the chair. "You just need to lie down a few minutes. A little too much bubbly, eh?"

"Our tenth anniversary," Maureen said. "We had some champagne earlier, but I didn't think he'd had that much. My husband isn't a drinker normally. Only on special occasions."

Frank flopped his head back, watching the dark ceiling boards skip past. He tried to count them, but they moved too quickly as the men on either side of him half carried him from the ballroom. Then his feet scuffed their way up a stairway and into a small room. A lamp clicked on. Light under an emerald shade flooded a cluttered desktop. He was lowered onto a leather couch that squeaked his arrival.

Maureen appeared in front of him and helped him out of his jacket. She loosened his bowtie and unbuttoned his collar. Cool air sprinkled his exposed throat.

"I'll have a pitcher of water sent up. Stay as long as you want. Not the first time a guest needed that couch to sleep it off." Two shadows stepped through the doorway into the hall.

"He's not drunk," Maureen said in a huff. She wiped his face with her open hand. "Are you okay, honey? You scared me there for a minute."

Little by little, Maureen's face came into focus. Lines of worry wrinkled her brow. Still, the creases somehow looked damn good on her. Age would meet its match in this gorgeous woman. Frank grinned. "Yeah. Better now. Just got a little dizzy. I guess I should stay away from champagne that comes in six-packs. I'm fine. Let's get out of here." He placed his hands on the cushions and pushed in an attempt to stand.

Maureen countered with her hands on his shoulders. "You stay right there, Mister, until I'm sure you're all right."

He tilted his head and kissed her wrist. "I'm okay. Honest. Let's go home." Something inside him rolled over. An urge, a need of some kind. A desire to leave this place.

"We will, Frank." Maureen guided him downward and placed a throw pillow under his head. "But I want you to rest for a few minutes. For me? Please?" She lifted his feet onto the couch. His shoes thumped on the floor. Cool air swarmed over his stocking feet, delivering a sense of comfort in its rush. Her hands went to his waist. His belt came undone, then his trousers unbuttoned.

Tension ebbed under Maureen's care. Wrapped in her love, he was as safe as she was in his. He swept away the orchid as a momentary quirk in the thick tobacco smoke. "Too much champagne, celebration, dancing, and too much confined heat from the packed house crowd. That's all that happened. Nothing to be concerned with. I'm fine. And I still want to make love to you."

She arched a brow and ran the tip of her tongue across her red lips. Subtly moving her hips from side to side, she gripped the zipper of his pants and slowly tugged it down; each metal link clicked surrender to Frank's private lap dancer. A not unfamiliar game in their bedroom. But they certainly weren't in their bedroom. His interest and erection swelled.

Ten years of marriage, and Maureen could still turn him on in an instant.

"Are you trying to seduce me, madam? I am a married man, you know." He waggled his left hand back and forth. "I have a ring and everything."

Maureen narrowed her eyes, and huskily whispered, "It's the everything I'm after." She ran a finger over the cylindrical shape of engorged flesh under his cotton briefs. "Bogie and Bacall wouldn't waste an opportunity like this."

A grin of desire spread across Frank's face. "And neither will we."

Staccato tapping at the door.

Maureen snapped her head around. Frank groaned and looked at the young man in the open doorway. Oops.

"I – I . . . ." The trembling teen filled his lungs and tried again. "I brought your water?" He held up a cranberry colored metal pitcher and two matching tumblers. A vein of liquid dribbled down the side of the pitcher. Droplets splattered onto the wood floor.

"Put it on the desk, please," Frank mumbled. His cheeks could have lit charcoal briquettes. He dug out his wallet and a five spot. "Here. For your trouble."

"No trouble." His task completed, the teen turned to leave.

Maureen snatched the bill and stuffed it in the boy's shirt pocket. "Then accept it as a friend who won't spill his guts about what he thinks he saw that he didn't. Will that work for you?"

The freckled face flushed. "Yes, ma'am. Thanks." He all but ran out of the room. The door clicked closed behind him.

Maureen turned the lock, and then pirouetted on the ball of one foot. She kicked off her shoes. One hit the desk with a thud. Her hands slithered down her body to the hem of her dress.

"Are ready for this, Mr. Johnson?"

"Oh yeah, Mrs. Johnson."

Her features grew concerned. "Are you sure you're okay, Frank? We don't have to do this."

His heart pounded excitement and need. Muscles contracted, relaxed, tightened again. There was no way he wasn't going to make love to his wife right here, right now. "Want to bet? Take off the dress, or I'll rip it off with my teeth."

Maureen pulled the black silk from her body without mussing so much as a strand of her rolled blonde hairdo. Black panties hid the fluff between her sweat-glistened thighs. After wetting the tips of her index fingers on her tongue, she rubbed each one around the pink areolas of her milky breasts. The nipples strained and stretched.

Frank's mouth watered for the taste of her—for every inch of her. His erection throbbed for the feel of her wet folds.

"What would you like me to do, Mr. Johnson?" she throatily taunted.

"Undress me. Then I want you to lie down and enjoy. Tonight's about you. I'm going to eat you from top to bottom and back again. And I don't plan to stop until you beg me."

She ran the back of a finger down her chest, to her belly, and then dipped her hand under her panties. The black material moved in waves as she stroked herself.

His hard-on needed another two inches of skin or he'd explode.

She took a step toward him. His body quivered in anticipation. Another step and her gaze shifted to the throbbing pole between his legs.

"What if someone comes to the door? What if they discover what we're doing in here?"

The questions served to tease him, to make him wait a few more pain-filled breaths of wanting. "Let 'em wait their turn," he snarled. "Take my clothes off and spread your legs. Bogie's hungry, and he's looking at you, kid."

Should Children Know How to Read and Write? – by KevaD

2011-10-05T04:15:00.000-07:00

A ludicrous question?

Here's a cold, hard fact: Experts, including the Braille Institute, contend approximately 90% of blind children are no longer being provided the opportunity to learn to read and write. Braille is being sidelined for electronic means of communication, such as audio books, in order for schools to adjust to decreasing budgets.

In other words, blind children have become an acceptable quantitative figure within the illiterate roles. If you're blind, our current public education system now disgustingly accepts you don't need to know how to read and write, simply because it costs too much money to teach you.

I find this pathetic and appalling.

The Braille Institute has received assistance from a number of authors who volunteer their time copying published books to Braille format. In an era of recession potentially spiraling to depression, naturally the Braille Institute could use some financial help in the form of donations.

brailleinstitute.org

What you as an individual do or not do is up to you. I will ask that you take the time to Google this situation and learn more about the problem for yourself.

And if you truly believe every child in this country (Canada is also seeing these same alarming statistics) should be provided with the skills of reading and writing, then contact your local, state, and federal elected officials. Without public pressure, this trend will become the norm.

I for one find illiteracy unacceptable at any level.

How about you?

Change occurs after awareness begins. Share this information. Make others aware.

So many project so little time

2011-09-23T01:01:00.000-07:00

Lillian Grant – So many projects so littletime.

When it was suggested we all blog about ourcurrent works in progress I was stumped. Which one? I have a few on the go. Gone are the days when I would start aproject and see it through to the bitter end then edit it for weeks beforesubmitting it for rejection. Now I am a terrible procrastinator. The problem is due to an over abundance ofstory ideas that all seem so much better than what I am working on, and a lovefor the new and shiny. Yes, I love the book I am writing but when you get tothe middle and the end seems so far off it’s much more fun to start a new one.

I think I have about half a dozen on the go. So, maybe someone can tell me which one I shouldfinish or I could be stuck on this merry-go-round forever.

The first I am editing to add words. Itneeds to be longer, much longer. The first ten thousand were easy to add. The nextseven thousand seem to be impossible. The story is a humorous romantic suspenseset in the 90’s. My heroine goes on a quest to find her missing ex-boyfriendand personal flasher, dragging best friend and soon to be love interest, Nelsonalong for the frantic, dangerous and outright funny adventure.

The next is a sequel to Male Order. Thestory picks up from the end of the first book. Just when you think Sam and Meg might live happily ever after Great AuntMaud, nymphomaniac and admirer of male flesh, moves in. When Meg’s parentssplit up and her mother also takes up residence it seems Sam has finally methis match.

Another is a sequel to Keep it UnderWraps. Picking up six months later,George has taken Bent on as a partner in her PI business. When they are called in to try and find the causeof some accidents on the set of Jonathon’s latest movie it appears hard manBent may have found someone who won’t bend to his will. Ice queen, and personal assistant to the agingfemme fatal playing the female lead, the English peach has secrets she intendsto keep to herself.

I also have a half written futuristicsci-fi, a start to a plot that might be more dark fantasy and then there are thevoices in my head.

What is a girl to do when she has so manythings to choose from?

www.lilliangrant.com

Release Day - Catherine's Toys II - by KevaD

2011-09-19T04:05:00.000-07:00

Yay!!
The second installment in the "Catherine's Toys" gay horror serial is out as of today!
Here's the blurb and a short excerpt. I thank all of you for the success of the first installment, and I hope you enjoy the continued insanity of "Catherine's Toys II".

Blurb:

Casey wants Catherine to accept his love for her.

Catherine wants the Russian dancer in the hospital's surgical wing.

Casey and Catherine both want Larry the security guard, but for very different reasons.

And neither reason bodes well for Larry.

KevaD's Web Site
Noble Romance Publishing Buy Link

Excerpt:

Casey hopped across the floor on one foot while trying to get the other damn shoe on.

"You look ridiculous." Catherine snarled.

The apartment's exterior wall stopped his one-legged kangaroo stroll. Elbow on the window ledge, he ran his index finger inside the back support of the shoe. The slip-on canvas shoe finally slipped on. Casey beamed in triumph.

"Will you hurry up? I need to get to work."

Casey stomped his freshly shoed foot on the carpeted floor. "You just want to find a man to have sex with."

"Yeah. So what? I'm horny. Women get horny too, Casey. It's not just some guy thing. That shouldn't be news to you by now. Gawd! It's been over two months since the last time, and then you fucked that one all up. I can't even remember the last time I came."

"The Russian dancer." He mumbled. "The one with the shoulder surgery."

"Myka." She purred the name. "Oh yeah. How could I forget him? What a chest! A little on the small side, but when he blew his load I thought he'd blow a hole out the back of my head."

"Stop it!"

"Aww. Is widdle Casey jeawous?"

"Maybe. A little."

But not for reasons he'd ever share with her. Myka was as lean as Larry, the hospital security guard. Probably as muscular too. Maybe. Their forearms looked a lot alike anyway.

He lowered his head, walked over to the white, iron-framed bed, and gazed at Catherine so neatly sprawled over the Asian lily duvet. "You could have sex with me." His voice a near whimper, he scowled at his inability to win her full affection. "I love you, Catherine. I'd do anything for you."

"Oh, Casey," she whispered in her throaty way. "I adore you. And I do love you, but the harsh reality is you don't turn me on."

He thrust his arms out wide. "What's wrong with me? What can I do to make you want me?"

Her tone went spilled cream flat and just as sour. "You don't have love handles, for chrissakes, you've got an inner tube with a hole in it. I like a man with abs, not one who looks like he gave birth last week. Get your butt in gear or I'll be late. You know how I hate being late."

Yeah. He knew all too well. She'd punished him before for his tardiness. But he really wanted her right now. And yeah, he wasn't one of those steroid-ridden freaks of nature, but the thought of Catherine with another man when he was here for her taking ate at his skin like termites on wood. He had to do something—he unzipped his jeans.

"Casey," she said, her voice stern. "We don't have time for this."

He opened the flap of his tighty whities and flopped out his limp dick. "You want to go fuck some other guy, fuck me first."

"I'm not kidding, Casey."

"Me either," he growled, and then smiled. He was actually standing up to her. His chest and confidence swelled.

"I said no."

"And I said yes." He fisted his dick, stroked the length of it. Blood raced into his pale white cock. The helmet flushed rose. By the sudden burning in his face, his cheeks no doubt matched his cockhead. "Fuck me or we can stay right here, and you'll miss work altogether."

"I'm not going to fuck you, so get that right out of your pigeon-sized brain." She sighed. "But I suppose I can make you come, if you promise to take me to work as soon as we're done."

"Deal." He threw back his shoulders in pride to display his victory.

"You little shit." She grabbed his growing erection. "You are so going to pay for this."

The Web We Weave by S.D. Grady

2011-09-16T06:42:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am sitting here trying to conjure a blog about my current WIP (tentatively titled “Trust”). But instead of ideas and words traipsing across the screen I am being distracted by one of my favorite distractions—a movie. In this case it is The Sting starring Robert Redford and Paul Newman. Seriously, what a cast to die for. Anyway…

This is one of those films that I can watch over and over. The story is wholly plot driven, with a con within a con. Robert Shaw (yes, can you believe the cast?) plays the evil mark, who never sees it coming. Redford’s young character tries to lie to the cops, to his friends, but ironically his moment of truth is with the woman who wants to assassinate him. Newman’s older but wiser grifter guides the audience through the tale, always winking at the camera. All through the entire movie you are never quite sure just how all these threads are going to come together, but after viewing it for the nth time, I know every word spoken is essential to the final moment of shock and glee.

Much like my muse. She doesn’t like to tell me how I’m going to manage to write whatever story she placed front and center. I can’t see all the angles to Trust, yet, but I know they’re there. With each chapter I discover new facets to the characters—their strengths and foibles. And my own weaknesses.

Christy, my lonely and sad main character, has spent much time in her past year thinking about her life. It is an internal struggle that wholly shapes her actions and reactions within the tale I am typing…but a struggle the reader will never see. Thus I must spend a great deal of time thinking about what she thought about. Again, an internal dialogue that will never be recorded for posterity.

From all this thought…yes, way too much of it…a tale will unfold. It’s ending a foregone conclusion, and yet a mystery to me. I know there is a reason for each twist in the path of creation, but in the end, it’s going to be a surprise when the screen goes silent.

It is for that last page, the fading smile or tender touch shared, that I write. When the puzzle of a character’s very being unfolds—at first for me, but ultimately for us all.

Visit my website to see what other tangled tales I've conjured.

The Lengths We Go by Gillian Archer

2011-09-14T01:15:00.000-07:00

I haven’t played much with rope.

That sounds like a random confession but it totally has a context. My current WIP (work in progress)—the sequel to my upcoming Carina Press release, Wicked Weekend—has a heroine who’s obsessed with a certain well-known rigger. She’s drawn to his magnetic personality and his wicked way with rope.

Which is where the conundrum comes in. As I said, I haven’t played with much rope. So it’s time for some research! I’ve read a few books, watched more than my share of bad porn *shudder* and found a few classy guys who have some awesome how-to videos. I particularly enjoyed the Two Knotty Boys and Twisted Monk. But you can’t live life as an observer. So I’ve ordered some of my own rope. Can’t wait to see Mr G’s face when that package arrives!

And yes, I know the technical details are only just a small part of the story. The most important part is getting the emotion on the page and describing what the characters learn from their experiences. And I'll get there. Eventually.

But first I have some knots to tie!

What’s the strangest thing you've ever had to research for a story?

Release day for Male Order - Reigning Men Volume One

2011-09-12T04:45:00.000-07:00

Today my romantic comedy, Male Order is released by Liquid Silver Books.

Sleepingwith her flatmate, Sam had been a mistake—becoming a strip club manager's pimpwas a disaster.

Blurb:

Meg’s mother can't even say the word sex. Hergreat aunt is a nymphomaniac. The few men she’s slept with left herfrustrated. The closest she’s come to sex was as the unwitting visual aidfor hot flatmate, Sam’s, cowboy style, wanking session. No wonder her libidowent on permanent vacation and she substitutes ice-cream and chocolate for sex.

With so many hang ups, why does she agree to no strings sex with Sam? Why ishunky, strip club manager Michael bent on seducing her? And why the hell doesshe invest in a male escort business offering extra services?

Sam’s delighted when he convinces Meg to let him go looking for her missing Gspot. A ride on his wild stallion shows her how good sex can be...with theright man. One encounter leads to a dozen. Sam is living every man’s dream, sexwith no commitment, too bad it’s not his dream.

His new life turns nightmare when Michael enters the scene. Will the Irishmansteal her away, or will his involvement in her Male Order business leadto a disaster that gives Sam a chance to prove to Meg their relationship ismore than a sexual rodeo?

Excerpt

A dull thud, thud, thud accompanied byyells of, “Yeehaw, ride ‘em cowboy,” made Meg roll her eyes and sigh loudly.

“For fuck sake, can you keep it down inthere, literally?”

Laura glanced at her, then back at thebedroom door. “What’s he doing?”

Meg shook her head. “You don’t want toknow.” She shuddered with mock horror at the memory.

“Really? Oh, please tell me, or I’ll haveto go find out for myself.”

Laura got to her feet, a wicked gleam inher dark brown eyes. Geez, she would, too. Not that the sight of Sam laid backin a reclining chair, wearing only a cowboy hat and white socks, with his handwrapped around his dick, jacking off like it was an Olympic sport, would freakher friend out. Hell no, she’d probably offer to ride him. She wasn’t about tolet that happen. Sam was too good for the likes of Laura. He deserved a girl alittle fussier about where she slept.

Meg jumped up and grabbed Laura’s arm,spilling coffee down the front of her own white shirt in the process. Shit, whycouldn’t she do anything without making a mess of herself?

“If I tell you, willyou sit back down and promise never to mention it to Sam?”

Laura retook her seat, her eyes twinklingwith amusement. “Oh, this is going to be really good.”

Meg glanced at the bedroom door. Despiteher yelling at him to shut up, yips of pleasure still reached the lounge room.

“Go, baby, ride em. You got it.”

She looked back at Laura then stared at aslice of salami on the coffee table. It must be from the pizza Sam had aftershe went to bed last night. What a slob. An extremely well endowed slob,but a slob nonetheless.

“Well? Are you going to tell me or not?”

Meg sighed. “He’s jacking off.”

Laura snorted coffee all over the place.Choking, she banged her chest, tears streaming down her face. If Laura diedfrom asphyxiation, she sure as hell wasn’t telling the paramedics Sam’s wankingcaused her death.

Between gasping breaths Laura squeaked,“And you found this out how?”

Meg shrugged nonchalantly. No big dealreally. He liked to jack off, a lot, and she wanted to see what had himyelling. How was she supposed to know what he was doingin there? She could feel the heat rising to her face at the memory.

She had shoved the door open and there helay in all his glory, reclining chair toward her. The moment they made eyecontact, a huge grin spread across his face as he continued to pummel his dick.

The thought of that monster in his handstill made her panties dampen and her insides throb. The head red and engorged,the shaft decorated with bulging veins, heavy balls bunched up tight between his widespread thighs. She’d been unable tomove until he groaned and shot his wad all over his stomach. The memory of hiswarm spunk spilling from his cock made her squirm in her seat.

The spell had finally been broken when hewinked at her, asking if she wanted to take a turn on his trusty steed. She hadturned tail and run out of the house. Hiding in the mall for hours dressed inher food stained hot pink sweats and matching fluffy slippers.

“I went to check on him one afternoon whenhe got to yelling and I found him sitting in his chair jacking off. Anyway, Ithought you were here to talk about work?”

Laura leaned forward, her face flushed.“So you’re not even going to tell me if he’s hung like a horse?”

Having Laura over was a mistake, she madeno secret of the fact she liked Sam. Always going on about his buff body andrippling abs. No way was she going to add anything elseto her best friend’s fantasy life, she already had an overactiveimagination.

Despite all but chasing after him with droolrunning down her chin, Sam had shown no interest in her. She wondered why. Withher heart-shaped face, willowy figure and immaculately styled long blonde hair,most men found her irresistible. Now she thought about it, Sam hadn’t justignored her not so subtle advances but, as far as Meg remembered, the onlydates he had since he moved in were with his right hand. Even if the women hemet hadn’t seen him in all his naked glory, his cute smile and pale blue eyeswould win him many loyal fans. They had sure as hell worked on her when heturned up in response to the landlord’s advertisement for someone to flat sharewith her. She glanced at Laura, who was wrapping a fat blonde curl around herfinger and staring at her waiting for an answer.

Meg shrugged. “More like My Little Pony.”She was shocked at how easily and convincingly the lie slipped out withoutguilt or hesitation. “Now, can we please get back to our discussion?”

With a shrug, Laura put her coffee cup onthe side table and pulled a pad and pen out of her bag. “Okay, we need a sloganfor Wonder Bites.”

“I thought we did that already?”

“I ran them by Bill. His exact words were‘you girls better get your shit together or you’ll be wearing sandwich boardsadvertising condoms in a brothel’.”

“Such a lovely turn of phrase, no wonderhe’s in marketing. So did he hate both of them? I thought yours truly sucked.‘Wonder Bites, good all the way from your mouth to the pan’.” She giggled atLaura as she pouted in response to her teasing.

“I was focusing on the health aspects ofthe cereal. Anyway you can’t talk. You would hardly win the Clio Award foradvertising slogans with ‘Wonder Bites smell funky but taste real good’.”

“They do smell funky. I was just beinghonest. I’m getting sick of all the bullshit.” Meg stretched out the length ofthe couch and stared at the ceiling. She’d become fed up with peddling crap inNew South Wales’ least successful ad agency. How many more lies could she couchin catchy slogans to sell garbage no one wanted? If only she had a product shebelieved in, or a job she enjoyed. “Laura, have you ever thought about doingsomething else for a living?”

“Every day, hun, I’ve even researched whatelse I could do with my skills.”

A kernel of an idea had been growing inMeg’s brain for weeks. Maybe Laura wouldn’t laugh if she told her. “I wasthinking of going out on my own. You know, setting up my own business.”

“Doing what?”

Meg sighed. “That’s the big problem.”

Laura leaned forward into Meg’s peripheralvision. “Funny you should mention starting your own business. I’ve beenthinking the same thing and I might just have an idea we could both use.”

The door to Sam’s room banged open. Megglanced over at Laura. She’d lost her attention. Turning her head a littlefurther, she could see why. There he stood. Skin glistening with sweat, his onlyattire a less than adequate white towel slung low on his hips and a cowboy haton his head. Every step he took revealed the full length of his thigh, butthankfully not the full length of anything else.

He grinned at them, flashing a perfect setof pearly whites. “Ladies, what are you two plotting now?”

Meg crossed her arms over her chest. “Howto kill noisy flat mates.”

She didn’t need to look to know he hadmoved closer. The scent of fresh sweat and musky cologne tickling her noseannounced his arrival. His voice growled in her ear. “I think you enjoy hearingme almost as much as you enjoyed watching me. Maybe if you got out more youwouldn’t find my private life so stimulating. Unless you do really want me, butyou’re too sexually repressed to let go.”

His face hovered above hers. Screw him.Why did he have to look so damn good when he had that smug expression on hismug? His blue eyes twinkled with amusement, his full lips quivered with barelycontained laughter.

“For someone so ready to hand out datingadvice, I can’t say I’ve noticed you being so lucky with the ladies of late.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for the right jockey.”

Meg grinned at him. “Or maybe you can’tfind a jockey small enough to enjoy the ride.”

Her jibe missed the mark. He laughedbefore bending forward and brushing his lips against hers. His breath tickledher neck, making her shiver, as he whispered, “Perhaps you should slide in thesaddle one night and take me through my paces. Then you would find out just howbig my stallion really is.”

Hands on his shoulders, she shoved himaway. It wasn’t the first time he had kissed her, but this time it had feltmore intimate. Not the usual friendly peck and definitely part of his teasing.“Fuck off, Sam. We’re trying to work here.”

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