She -- A Dark Erotic Tale

She was first written in 2006, as a submission for a magazine called Cthulu Sex, which, if I recall correctly, prided itself on works of sex, death and tentacles.  This story was perhaps my first attempt at erotic horror, but unfortunately, it didn't make the cut for the magazine. There's something about it I still love, though, so here it is, my lovelies.

Enjoy!

 

He’d first seen her from the walkway connecting The MGM and Excalibur casinos: she was below, in the milling flow of the sidewalk that ran the length of the strip.  Her dark, wavy hair was held back from her face by a pale blue headband; she wore a loose, short white blouse which had slipped down on one shoulder, and a black vinyl mini-skirt.  Her eyes, scanning the crowd, were the deep, liquid color of fine green glass, shaded by long, feathery black lashes.  But it was her lips he focused on: sensually glossed, they parted slightly in patient anticipation.  Perhaps she was only waiting, unaware of the tantalizing shimmer of her pout—but he doubted it.

This woman was a killer.

NaNoWriMo Heats Up

NaNoWriMo Day 12:

Fae Love and Desperation

 

Talaith was surprised to see me at her door. I hadn't called ahead. I'd barely known I was going to be there myself. When she appeared in the doorway, though, one eyebrow cocked, I didn't offer any kind of explanation. I just threw myself at her.

It was a hard, desperate kiss I gave her, wrapping my arms around her luscious frame. I pushed her backwards into the entryway of her apartment and kicked the door shut behind me. She squeaked. She actually squeaked.

"Milady Knight!" she huffed when I let her up for air. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"This?" I growled, and kissed her again. "This isn't pleasure, Majesty. What I'm about to do to you, that will be a pleasure."

Just My General Musings: Why Do I Write Lesbian Fiction?

Rhiannon and Aijyn
Lotus Petals

I've got several novel-length projects in the works currently.  I realized today that four out of the five of them are lesbian romance. 

I've been criticized in the past for writing from gay or lesbian points of view when I myself am not a man, a gay man, nor a lesbian (just to be clear, though, I am bisexual). I've never felt ashamed of writing from these alternate-to-my-own points of view.  People who (in my opinion) don't know what they're talking about seem to believe authors should "write what they know".  I was recently privileged to hear an urban fantasy author whom I admire respond to such advice with a very strong opinion of his own.  He said, "That is bullshit."

Even though I've never felt ashamed of writing lesbian fiction (or gay, or poly, or Master/slave for that matter), I can't help but wonder at the realism or authenticity of what I write. Noticing today that four fifths of my current novel-length interests feature lady lovers, I started wondering to myself... why do I write lesbian fiction?


I suppose the real answer is, I don't.  To be honest, I don't mentally label my work as 'lesbian' fiction as opposed to 'straight' fiction.  Sometimes friends comment that I have a large collection of lesbian characters, and that's true.  I also have many characters who are straight, bisexual, kinky, virginal, or several combinations of the above.

Angel never thought she'd fall so deeply in love with another woman, until devilish Tali swept her off her feet.

When a character comes to me, that character comes with their own personality and interests, which I really only discover as I write along. I've had characters develop in my mind and fully intended  them to be paired up with an opposite-sex romantic interest, only to have them veer directly towards a same-sex supporting character instead.  I've had gay ladies swoop in and steal the hearts of characters who had, for years and years of story-writing, been staunchly straight.  I've had ladies who never felt even the slightest attraction to men, and ladies who never felt at all drawn  to women.  I've had male characters who never showed the slightest sexual interest in a woman, yet be driven nearly to tears over a beautiful young man. 

I've even had one leading lady begin her story courting only other ladies, but then one day found her heart pulling her towards a man.  I've never appreciated the concept of 'turning' a lesbian... the idea that somehow the right manly macho man could change a gay woman's mind or somehow 'show her the light'.  I find the idea patently offensive, as a matter of fact.  As though one's sexuality is driven only by who gives her the wildest time in bed.  So I was actually a little frustrated at first to find a character I understood to be wholly and happily gay suddenly falling for a man.  At first blush I cringed to think I had let my fiction take a turn for such a cliche and frustrating trope.  I tried to write it away, even, but I couldn't... as I wrote her stories, my leading lady was, after a lifetime of loving only women, strangely drawn to a man. 

Calico Sue originally found a male companion, in my mind, but when Idris of the Desert came along Sue had other ideas.

One of my readers once asked why I didn't just call this character bisexual and avoid any controversy.  The truth is, because she wasn't bisexual.  She was gay... and one day, she discovered a person she fell in love with, as much as she had ever loved others, and the fact that he had a penis was pretty much incidental.

I don't really write 'lesbian' fiction. I write the characters as they feel genuine to me: gay, lesbian, bisexual, straight, poly, kinky or vanilla.  If I try to write them any other way, it just doesn't work.  So I write love stories... I write characters who seek happiness, in themselves, in their relationships, in their one-night stands.  And I love to write that.  And at the moment, I am loving writing the stories of my tomboy lady Knight Reagan and her beautiful princess Ceridwen; I love writing voluptuous Captain Devon of the airship Chimera and her fugitive aristocratic love Samantha; and as always, I love returning to the world of Rhiannon, my vampire, and the ladies who have shaped her over three centuries of unlife.  

Sadira has always been meant for Bannon.  There has never been another who can master her as he does.

But on other days, I love writing Sadira, rapturous and passionate slave to the barbarian Bannon, and all the ways his dominance and control makes her feel so vibrantly alive.  I love writing Raschael, my scheming succubus, to whom gender means nothing when it comes to selecting a victim or mate.  I love writing Feste, a pensive and clever vampire 'fool', who stalks lovely men into graveyards to kiss them and kill them with his deadly brand of romance.  And I'm still looking forward to the day I can write out the story of Finn of the Morrigan, the Elvyn half-breed, who loves both his Ladies with equal passion and fervor, in the 'perfect' love triangle.

So, I suppose I just write what I like.  The characters shape themselves up as they will and I follow them in the directions they lead.  I love my gay ladies and their lady-loving ways, as much as I love my straight ladies and my ladies of other persuasion. I'm happy to write all their stories, and see all the different facets of romance and erotic love that there are to be offered in the telling.

Goblin Fires: Chapter One (WIP)

Want a taste of what I'm writing for this year's National Novel Writing Month?  Here is the opening scene of Goblin Fires, an erotic romance full of faeries, elves and goblins:

 ***

The warm aroma of blended spices—nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon and just a hint of black pepper—curled up in tendrils of steam from the simple blue mug on the table before me.  I closed my palms around it, relishing the effusive heat like a nice hot bath, and inhaled the scent of Talaith's favorite chai tea with a soft sound of approval.

"Careful, sweetie," Tala purred in my ear.  She had a very eloquent, very refined accent, and she leaned over my shoulder to sprinkle a pinch of cocoa powder into my cup.  "Don't want to burn your tongue now, do you?  I think I should be very disappointed…"

 

"Flirt," I accused her with a smile.  I lifted the cup to my lips and blew gently over the tea, then shut my eyes and took a long, leisurely drink.  I never mind Tala's habit of teasing.  It's a welcome, cozy bit of humor, pleasing even in its childishness.  She always makes me tea after one of our delicious liaisons.  Our familiar ritual, her means of keeping me a little while longer in a gesture of intimate yet innocent domesticity.  She was ever the gracious host.

Guess Who's Back, My Lovelies...

Yes, after more than a year away.  I really ought to be punished, oughtn't I?

Allow me to make a rather intimate confession: I have been away dealing with some rather deep personal issues, and didn't have the energy or the willpower to write even my sexy stories.  I've recently been diagnosed bipolar and have been learning how to manage it.  So that is why I have been so very long away, my friends.

But now I am back, and with some wonderful news!

First of all, some old news revisited: in March, Graveyard Games and Hunting Grounds, two of my supernatural sexy shorts, were published in Breathless Press's Crimson Anthology, Volume 1.

Available at Breathless Press and Amazon.com.

Now some additional good news: Breathless is also publishing two of my shifter stories, Equinox and The Wages of Sin, in their upcoming Ravaged Anthology!

Release date forthcoming!!

In other news, I'll be submitting to the second Crimson Volume soon, and resubmitting Lotus Petals for consideration as well.  I hope you will wish me luck on that, my lovelies!  It would mean so much to me to see the book in print (or E-Print, as it were...)

So I'm back again, with happier times on the horizon I hope, and some beautiful books with my name (as well as the names of many wonderful wonderful erotic authors!!) on the cover.  I will keep you posted, lovelies!

Conditions of Anonymity (Pt 3)

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Conditions of Anonymity (Pt 2)

<Pt 1

There was a man stationed just inside the entryway to the ballroom where the guests were gathered.  He wore a mask, but it was a flat, uninteresting gray, and he was garbed in a red suit that seemed to indicate he was staff, not guest.  He greeted me with a nod and extended a hand for mine—I let him take it, and we glided into the room, he leading me through a warm crowd of party-goers.  They were all in masks all the same style and design, but in a myriad of colors.  I saw silver, green, royal blue, all glittering and sparkling in the dim golden light shed from the chandeliers overhead.  My mask was the only one with detail and accessory, and the same went for my outfit: all of the men wore simple, rich red fraternal robes, like monks.

Conditions of Anonymity (Pt 1)

The latest Hump Day Request story deals with more masquerade fun, hidden identities, and secrets revealed.  Enjoy this brand-new story, my lovelies!

The address on the little slip of paper in my hand belonged to an austere, officious sprawl of a manor on the Gold Coast, a big, dark building of cool stone and creeping ivy.  I took a long moment to appreciate it as I stepped out of the gleaming black limousine that had come out to my humble apartment to fetch me: perhaps I should have known, given the invitation I’d received to tonight’s event and the detailed instructions contained within.  This wasn’t going to be just any old party.

Of course, no party is any old part if I’m invited.

Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 3)

         <Pt 2

          “What are you?” she asked.  “Why are you doing this?”

          “Just the natural order of things, sweetness,” said the dark-haired girl.  “We had to make sure Genesis hadn’t killed you, or we’d have had to punish her, but now that we know you’re alright, we can get on with the party.”

          “Party?”  She was still groggy, her mind still slowly coming awake.  “I don’t… want a party…”

          The girl laughed—it was like ice and glass, hatefully biting.

          “Sure you do.  Colt’s been waiting ages for you to come along and play, haven’t you, Colt?”

          “Sure have,” the male agreed.  “But it’s all right, Cleo… let her catch her breath.”

          He smoothed back her hair; her shoulders relaxed a little.  Devilish as he looked, he seemed gentle.

          “There now.  You are pretty… no wonder our little puppy likes you so much.”

Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 2)

 <Pt 1

 

           She went to the window and poked her head out.  They were there, just as she’d imagined them: Darry in the same shirt and jeans—they were even dirtier now—and Genesis, standing behind him, her hands clasped demurely behind her back and her face upturned with a knowing, winking smile.

           Thankfully, though, no fangs.  And she wasn’t wearing that red kimono… just jeans, Doc Marten boots and a violet, laced-up-the-front corset top.  Her hair was pale blonde, but it wasn’t white.

           Maybe, Winnie thought to herself.  Maybe I am overreacting.

           Maybe I am a little jealous.

Dance of the Paper Dolls (Pt 1)

Darry had missed classes for over a week; she’d left him message after message on his cell phone and hadn’t gotten so much as a text in return.  Winnie was just about to contact the police to make a missing person’s report—something she knew she should have done from the beginning—when, amazingly… he returned.

She caught sight of him from across the student union—he was sitting in the teal nylon sofa chair he always sat in, waiting for her as if he’d never left.  A rush of sudden excitement filled her and she picked up her pace to join him, practically dropping her tray of food as she did; as she got closer, though, she realized how strange… how incredibly different… he looked.

Scarves (Pt 3)

<Pt 2

She groaned, tilting her head towards his voice, arching her back to press herself closer into his hands.  His heat radiated against her, making her quiver.  She wanted him, oh, God how she wanted him; she would offer him anything, let him do anything he liked—she was desperate for him.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he muttered, and she uttered a sad sound as he carefully drew away from her.  She’d betrayed her want too early; now he was going to deny her.

She strained for him, following the sounds of his movements, desperate for him.  He circled her again, paused; circled the other way, paused.  He was just out of reach—not that she had any hands to reach with—teasing her with his nearness, his unrelenting distance.

Scarves (Pt 2)

<Pt 1 

It was as she had suspected: she was forced to stand on her toes, grasping the scarves to steady herself, or else strain both shoulders with her full weight.  She gasped a little and her highlander pulled her arms even higher, stretching her reach further, leaving her even more precariously balanced.

“Sadira,” he murmured lowly, running a rough, callused hand across her bare breasts, vulnerable little teacups spread almost flat by the stretch of her arms, the arc of her spine.  He circled her, touching her, trailing his hands idly over her nudity, tickling her and making her tremble as she danced from toe to toe.

Scarves (Pt 1)

Orange torchlight; the rock and sway of percussive song, the embrace of flute, dulcimer, cymbal, drum.  The men watched, enraptured by the winding twist of her hips, the sinuous motion of naked sensuality, following the shimmering gold firelight over bared breasts and long, slender legs.  Sadira’s tawny mane fell wild to her shoulders, held back from her face by a headdress of beaten bronze and adorned with great feathers of exotic birds; thin braids, wound with ribbons and small red jewels, fell at different lengths behind her ears.  As she slowly spun in place, weaving her arms in seductive rhythm over her head, the light of the fires lighting up her savage curves, the dark lines of the tattoos marking her hips and shoulders—markings of her former allegiance to a fallen clan and fallen master—wound with her, a map of her ignoble heritage, a testament to her alien origins.

The men around her cared little for the marks, however.  The foreign beauty, famed as a lover and a soldier to their greatest enemy, now danced for them, enchanting them and pleasing them, impressing them with the sultry talents they might never have expected from one who had been raised in the way of swords and combat.  One who knew the woman’s story might have recognized the distant aloofness on her face even as she arched her body, displaying herself for her enemies, the clan of rugged highlanders that had captured her and kept her prisoner so far from her homeland.  One who had heard the tales of her might expect the beautiful slave yet harbored a searing fury and distrust in her heart, a plan of rebellion in her mind—that observer might even believe he caught a glimpse of something like the subtlest hint of a sneer  across her lips, the defiance of a legend brought low.

Orgasm (Hers)

Every touch and every stroke, driving me to heights

Meant just for this, for tangled bodies racing towards their bliss.

On and on, your hunger and my passion climbing.  Tight,

Trembling, quaking, slick and hungry—I yield to your kiss.

I want you deep inside of me, to satisfy desires,

Oblige my need, plunge into me and

Nudge me closer, drive me wild.

It stirs, it sparks, it crests within me, waves upon the sand,

Now increasing, now escaping—God, I feel it there!

My body—arching—welcoming each thrust, yes—deeper—please!

Out of breath, I moan for you, my wordless, thankful prayer.

Taut as you explode in me, each shudder, each release

Inciting me still further, driving quaking passion mad,

Overthrowing senses in crescendoing demand,

Naked pleasure echoing and grand.

(Special thanks to Mae West for this one.

Why?  I have my reasons.)

Orgasm (His Turn)

quick, compulsive rhythm; racing heart, driving homE

my body throbbing heavily; your body writhing; i’M

sliding, slipping, thrusting, touching—deeper, faster—nO.

pause, withdraw, go slowly, drawing out the blissful fighT.

inch by inch exploring your slick depths, your flesh naoI

 working up excitement, pressure, passion. To and frO,

three times fast, than draw it out again, our forms ajoiN

in wet, hot lust; the beating pulse of muscles, moaning,  oI

plunging to the hilt I feel you tighten, tense, and moaN

i’m almost there—a little faster—now I’m at the briM,

i’m deep inside, and with a strangled cry at last let gO.

surrendering to overwhelming rapture, this is iT

thrust again, and still again, I need to fill you, I

am helpless as my body must be satisfied, and O,

i hear you moan for more and more; in your flesh, I resigN

(Special thanks to Mae West for this one.

Why?  I have my reasons.)

---

("naoi": Plural of naos, a temple in Greek architecture)

Commentary: Hunting Grounds

Hunting Grounds is one of my "experimental" pieces: it's the first time I've written gay male romance.  People who have been following long enough will remember that Eat Dessert First is a gay male romance, but Hunting Grounds was actually written first.  I've held it off the blog for a while because I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with it, but I think it's time to let it take its place here with its brothers in the Blood and Fire stories.

Hunting Grounds deals with a character from Rhiannon's world, a male vampire who has not (as of yet) been revealed to be gay in the course of his travels with her.  I didn't want to throw scenes into a book that didn't belong or fit there, just to point out something about this character that didn't naturally come through on its own.  At the same time, I really wanted to try my hand at writing from a gay male perspective, and to give this vampire his day in the sun, har-de-har-har. Hence, Hunting Grounds was born.

Writing Challenge by Remittance Girl

If you don't follow me on Twitter... then you should.  If you did, you would have seen that I have thrown my hat in on this writing challenge posed by Remittance Girl, essentially to explore the effects of language and POV in determining the intensity of a scene.  In this case, depicting a sex act as either 'vanilla' or 'kinky'.

      This is just a quick little sex scene.  The characters have no names and no place in my greater headcanon... this was just to see what could be done by changing only the language and perception of the character.  Since Remittance Girl specifically mentioned the differences between styling such a scene in regards to missionary position, that's the path I took.  I did want to try and include a third scene with a sub-on-top position to see what I could do with that, but ran out of time.  Perhaps in the future I will try that, too.  Since this is a writing exercise and I love comments, please feel more than welcome to tell me what you think of it!

Into the Dollhouse (Pt 2)

<Pt 1

Colt reminded Darry of a boy he’d taken theater classes with in high school: he was lean but muscled, catlike almost, and probably agile and wiry.  There was only one word for this young  man’s face, though: beautiful.  He had an almost royal countenance, gorgeous hazel eyes and lovely, pouty lips.  He was sitting lazily on an uncovered sofa when Genesis led naked Darry into one of the musty upstairs rooms, where the sheets had been pulled off of the furniture, and the shades thrown open to let in the sparkling, bright moonlight.

Colt was a lovely man, but it was Cleo—his sister—that immediately drew Darry’s eyes.  She was even prettier than Genesis, with long, shapely legs and smooth, delicious hips.  Her elegant but low-cut gray blouse showed off the curves of her gorgeous breasts, and her long, dark hair fell in a cascading wave down to the small of her back.  When Genesis and Darry entered, she turned away from a musing study on the night sky, and Darry noticed a lithe dancer’s grace accented even her slightest movement.

Into the Dollhouse (Pt 1)

 Guess what? I write sequels.

The days were filled with desperate, wild sex, passionate and indulgent, more than he had ever thought he could take or give.  And yet, each time his beautiful Genesis reached for him across the cool, quiet darkness, silently beckoning to him and whispering sweet, lustful promises into his ear, Darry found himself ready, burning with a fever to consume her and bury himself in her, over and over.

He was losing weight—he was never hungry, except for her.  He was missing classes, he hadn’t spoken to his friends or even his family.

And it didn’t matter, as long as she was there.