Foreplay and Fangs: June 2015

This Friday we'll be continuing this spin on the Three Musketeers. After explaining her curious tale with Monsieur Athos, Mademoiselle Dara meets with his companion, Monsieur Porthos, in the next leg of her search for her missing brother.

Porthos

Monsieur Athos was a most knowledgeable guide, quickly arranging for young Dara’s board at a suitable Parisian motel and ensuring her comfort there before leaving her to search out his two compatriots, gentlemen he called Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Aramis. While Dara waited for the men to return, she withdrew a small leather journal from her meager belongings, and took stock of the day’s discoveries in the careful and well-practiced script of a noblewoman.

Monsieur Athos has most kindly called upon a favor from his friend, the owner of this fine establishment, to ensure my safety and provision. I am eager to meet with his companions and hope they will assist me in my search for my brother, D’Artagnan; each day that passes fills me with renewed anxiousness at his absence, and I wonder why it is he had not found his way to the ranks of the soldiers he so eagerly wished to petition.

She wrote for quite some time before a knock at the door drew her attention; she had not expected anyone so soon.

“Who is there?” she asked quietly, tucking the journal away and standing up from the vanity.

“My name is Monsieur Porthos, milady,” came a voice from the other side of the door. “My dear friend Athos informed me of your presence here, and said I should come to meet with you .”

“Where is Monsieur Athos?” she asked.

“Gone to find the last of our troupe, Aramis,” the man on the other side of the door replied. “Who likely will be found in one of the brothels down the way, tiring the whores with his hopeless obsession with becoming an abbe.

“Please,” he said. “Open the door, so that we may speak face-to-face?”

She crossed the room and obliged him. As the door swung open and she first gazed upon him, she was immediately struck by how dashingly handsome this man Porthos was. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his straight hair a dusty brown. She admitted him with a smile, shrinking back a little to let him in the door.

“I am glad you have come,” she said quietly. “Monsieur Athos… he has told you of my dilemma in locating my wayward brother?”

“He has,” Porthos said with a grin, giving her a proper bow once she had closed the door behind him. “He told me of a beautiful young girl vainly in search of a boy who had come to petition our ranks.”

As he straightened, he reached out a hand to take her own, lifting it to his to kiss the palm. Then he took her chin in his hand and examined her own face with a wide smile.

“He failed to mention how absolutely stunning you were, however.”

She felt a coy blush rise to her cheeks. “Monsieur, please—”

He gave her a charming little wink.

“Milady, I will promise you that we will help you find your missing brother, whatever the task may require of us.”

She smiled at him.

“Then you have my deepest thanks.”

Boldly, she inched up more closely to him, almost but not quite brushing her slender body against him.

“How long do you suppose it will be until Monsieur Athos returns with Monsieur Aramis?” she said quietly.

“Perhaps half the night,” Porthos replied with a suave little chuckle. “When Aramis is waxing poetic he can be quite the chore.”

“Well, then,” she murmured. “We shall have to pass the time somehow, shan’t we?”

Tilting her face up, coming onto her tip-toes—he was a very tall man—Dara pressed her lips against his, twining her slender arms up to wind around his neck and tangle fingers in his hair.

Porthos was happily a more jovial and amorous man than his companions. As she kissed him he returned the affection with equal ardor, taking her firmly in his arms and lifting her up to carry her to the rooms small but inviting bed. As he gently placed her back on her feet she spun very coyly away from him, giving him her back and giggling almost shyly. The man swept the thick spill of her red hair away from her graceful neck and brought his lips to the thin, tender flesh there, while his hand strayed down to her hips and skirt, gathering the fabric up to slip one warm, callused palm underneath, to her soft, intimate flesh.

Dara obliged him gladly: lifting one long leg up to rest her foot upon the wooden bed frame, she leaned forward, presenting her hindquarters helpfully. Porthos gave her an appreciative agreement as he hiked her humble skirt up, over her small pink buttocks, slipping her undergarments slowly down to the floor.

“What a pretty little thing you are,” he murmured cheerfully as he leaned over her, exploring her sweet little cleft with warm, expert fingers. Dara closed her eyes, moaning with a little pout as the tips of those clever fingers found the excited little pearl of her sex, gently massaging it in slow, tiny circles as he whispered encouragingly over her shoulder.

“Sweet girl,” he murmured. “Whatever has brought you to seek out our number in this errand, hm?”

“I know my brother wished very much to join your ranks,” she muttered back. “And I was a little curious to see what the Musketeers might offer, myself?”

“I do hope we can live up to your expectations,” he said.

Slowly, he sunk down behind her, his large hands coming to her round, pert cheeks and parting them. Dara gasped as his tongue gently found her soft, pink lips, and lovingly searched their depths.

“Oh!” she giggled. “Monsieur, you are quite adept!”

“I’ve made it a point to spend much time pleasuring beautiful young women,” he replied with a grin. “And Athos tells me you were quite the naughty little child yourself, and had to be sent to a nunnery for your misbehavior.”

Again, she blushed.

“Oui, monsieur… I have a certain weakness for handsome men, and the feel of their rough iron.”

“Oh, you do?” he murmured. She felt his tongue slip teasingly close to the quivering entrance of her inner sex, and before she could gasp in astonishment he had dipped the full measure of it into her wet depths, sending a shiver of pleasure through her.

“Oh! Monsieur…”

His lascivious attentions were sweet and almost cruel. To her delight, however, he soon stood up again, taking a moment to free his firm member from his leather breeches and placing one hand on her slim hip. She raised her hindquarters as much as she could to give him a generous view, and with great relish he guided his hot iron into her wet, welcoming sex.

Monsieur Porthos was indeed a man who knew how to pleasure his women: he was slow at first, taking time with each long stroke within her, letting her adore every inch of his exciting manhood as it slid into her warm, most intimate depths. His wonderful hands held her hips firmly and clasped her against him as he thrust; the ruffles of her skirt whispered against the quilt on the bed and she chuckled with secret, mischievous joy.

His rhythm was sure and firm, and he quickly found the deep, thrilling little spot within her that sent warm, undulating pleasure through her depths.

“How shall I delight you, milady?” he whispered in her ear, taking his time with another long, lovely stroke. “Allow me to assuage your troubled mind with whatever sweet fantasies you might desire.”

“Oh, monsieur,” she murmured. “You have quite delighted me already… I shudder to think what other arts you might exercise upon my tender womanhood.”

“Simply direct me,” he said, “and I will oblige your every wish.”

She laughed, a pretty, happy sound. He was leaning over her, one arm still halfway around her waist, the other slipping beneath the fabric of her bodice to take one generous breast in his palm, his lips attending the skin of her throat with worshipful desire.

“If you will forgive me for being crude, monsieur,” she gasped quietly. “I wish you would not tease me so wonderfully… please, take me before your friends return, and shall want to join in!”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” he asked. She laughed again.

“Perhaps… not…”

His gentle rhythm picked up, his hand straying down the back of her thigh and caressing her flesh to the buttock; then, quite suddenly, he gave her a little swat and she cried out in shocked glee.

“Ooh, monsieur—”

“Little Dara,” he murmured, thrusting more urgently. “Please call me Porthos.”

“Oh,” she murmured in joy. “Oh, yes, Porthos…”

She was very quick to reach a point of pleasure nearing her peak; his thrusts were edged with attentive hunger—he was like a stallion breeding his mare, sinking deep and urgently, striking up a ravishing heat of climax within her. His other hand came up to free both her breasts from her bodice and then he returned both palms to her hips, pulling her tight against him as he claimed her, invading her with his iron, filling her with his hard, indomitable flesh. Her words were senseless now, mere cries and gasps of joy—quickly, her body crested its heights and she was climaxing around him, raising his name up to the heavens as sweet orgasm overtook her every limb.

“Ah, Dara—” he gasped urgently, thrusting harder, carrying her through the intensity of her pleasure. “Ah, little mademoiselle, I fear I am close to climax myself—turn around!”

He slipped from her quivering little cleft and spun her—she sunk to her knees before him and offered her bared, flushed breasts. His hot seed spurted exultantly across them, smearing them with thick, white semen. The second stream spurted on her pretty little face, marking her rosy little cheeks as she laughed merrily, surrendering to his generous ejaculation.

“Oh, dear heart,” he gasped as the last of his climax subsided. “You are truly a wonderful little thing, to offer up so much in the search for your brother.”

As he rearranged himself, fixing his breeches, he helped her to her feet, smoothing her skirts and giving her an almost chaste kiss on the lips.

“We shall have to clean you up, however,” he said with a grin. “Before my two companions arrive.”

There's a lot of talk about erotica and storytelling lately, with the release of E.L. James newest hack-job, Grey. It's a depressing situation for me, because E.L. James makes writers of real romance and erotica look like a joke, and our genre look more than ever like trash. And it's not even well-written trash.

Surgeon general's warning:
Consumption of this product may cause
spontaneous vomiting, loss of IQ,
and potential permanent brain damage.

My biggest problems with E.L. James' books lie in the representation of BDSM (in case you haven't already heard, it's a BAD representation). Today, though, I'll be talking about the quality of storytelling.

50 Shades is a terrible story, full of terrible characters. And I'm not basing this on any kind of moral grounds: I'm saying her skill level is awful and her characters are caricatures of human behavior.

It's BAD. It's just BAD. And not only does it make the rest of us look bad, it perpetuates an idea that as writers of erotica, things like plot, characters, and quality of narrative are unnecessary.

So I thought I'd bring out one of my first even Talking Shop articles, and revisit one of my strongest beliefs about writing in the genre of erotica or erotic romance: erotica is storytelling, and storytelling is more than sex.

I've read a good amount of romance and erotica, both professionally published and, shall we say, amateur. No matter how good the sex, nothing ruins a good, naughty read for me more than a half-assed plot.

Pages

June 30, 2015

Wednesday Writing Challenge: More Dynamic Description

Welcome to the Wednesday Writing Challenge!

The Wednesday Challenges are open to all readers. In order to participate, simply comment on the challenge post with your response to the exercise. Not only is it good practice, but you could win something nifty and fun!

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~For Full Contest Details, See Here ~

July Prize: Ebook copies of all Foreplay and Fangs erotic short stories

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June 27, 2015

Talking Shop: Braving the Amazon Trail

June 25, 2015

Friday Free Read: All For One (Part 2)

This Friday we'll be continuing this spin on the Three Musketeers. After explaining her curious tale with Monsieur Athos, Mademoiselle Dara meets with his companion, Monsieur Porthos, in the next leg of her search for her missing brother.

She wrote for quite some time before a knock at the door drew her attention; she had not expected anyone so soon.

“Who is there?” she asked quietly, tucking the journal away and standing up from the vanity.

“My name is Monsieur Porthos, milady,” came a voice from the other side of the door. “My dear friend Athos informed me of your presence here, and said I should come to meet with you .”

“Where is Monsieur Athos?” she asked.

“Gone to find the last of our troupe, Aramis,” the man on the other side of the door replied. “Who likely will be found in one of the brothels down the way, tiring the whores with his hopeless obsession with becoming an abbe.

“Please,” he said. “Open the door, so that we may speak face-to-face?”

“I am glad you have come,” she said quietly. “Monsieur Athos… he has told you of my dilemma in locating my wayward brother?”

“He has,” Porthos said with a grin, giving her a proper bow once she had closed the door behind him. “He told me of a beautiful young girl vainly in search of a boy who had come to petition our ranks.”

As he straightened, he reached out a hand to take her own, lifting it to his to kiss the palm. Then he took her chin in his hand and examined her own face with a wide smile.

“He failed to mention how absolutely stunning you were, however.”

She felt a coy blush rise to her cheeks. “Monsieur, please—”

He gave her a charming little wink.

“Milady, I will promise you that we will help you find your missing brother, whatever the task may require of us.”

She smiled at him.

“Then you have my deepest thanks.”

Boldly, she inched up more closely to him, almost but not quite brushing her slender body against him.

“How long do you suppose it will be until Monsieur Athos returns with Monsieur Aramis?” she said quietly.

“Perhaps half the night,” Porthos replied with a suave little chuckle. “When Aramis is waxing poetic he can be quite the chore.”

“Well, then,” she murmured. “We shall have to pass the time somehow, shan’t we?”

Tilting her face up, coming onto her tip-toes—he was a very tall man—Dara pressed her lips against his, twining her slender arms up to wind around his neck and tangle fingers in his hair.

“Sweet girl,” he murmured. “Whatever has brought you to seek out our number in this errand, hm?”

“I know my brother wished very much to join your ranks,” she muttered back. “And I was a little curious to see what the Musketeers might offer, myself?”

“I do hope we can live up to your expectations,” he said.

Slowly, he sunk down behind her, his large hands coming to her round, pert cheeks and parting them. Dara gasped as his tongue gently found her soft, pink lips, and lovingly searched their depths.

“Oh!” she giggled. “Monsieur, you are quite adept!”

“I’ve made it a point to spend much time pleasuring beautiful young women,” he replied with a grin. “And Athos tells me you were quite the naughty little child yourself, and had to be sent to a nunnery for your misbehavior.”

Again, she blushed.

“Oui, monsieur… I have a certain weakness for handsome men, and the feel of their rough iron.”

“Oh, you do?” he murmured. She felt his tongue slip teasingly close to the quivering entrance of her inner sex, and before she could gasp in astonishment he had dipped the full measure of it into her wet depths, sending a shiver of pleasure through her.

“Oh! Monsieur…”