Sneak peek revisited

A second pass through the scene I posted yesterday prompted quite a few changes. Now it feels like a good enough first draft to go on with. Here's a part of the revision:

We dress—if you can call it that—and follow the guy through a maze of hallways and down a flight of stairs. No brass and glass spiral this time, only a dim unpainted service staircase.  I'm wearing the shortest possible short shorts, purple with yellow trim, a matching cap with a yellow W on the front, my black feather choker, and my face paint. Nothing else.

          Holly and Skyla are better than me at managing the steps in super-high heels. I hold the handrail to keep from teetering. Though I try to hurry, I can't keep up.

          When I finish struggling down the stairs, I'm in front of open double doors. The guy who escorted us here serves me a grimace of impatience. I sashay past him with my nose high, hoping my body language puts him is his dickwad place.

          A pinch on the seat of my shorts makes me flinch, which is all it takes too lose my balance. I stumble into a tall bar chair. The back of the chair falls against the shoulder of a man at the next table. He's too busy running his hands all over Skyla to give me more than any annoyed glance.

          Mr. Dickwad gives me a wink as he walks away to tend bar. I regain my balance and look around. Old rock music and sports announcer nonsense blare out of huge speakers. In the light cast by a room full of giant screens, naked women come on heavily to men who seem nearly as interested in the televised football game. Beer bottles are everywhere. So is sex. Evidently there aren't any private rooms connected to the sports bar. Fondling, kissing, sucking, and fucking are happening at the bar, around and on top of the tall tables, in the booths, and on the couches.  

 

Sneak peek

Here's a clip from what I wrote this morning:

We dress—if you can call it that—and follow the guy through a maze of hallways and down a flight of stairs. I hold the handrail to steady the wobbling of my ankles in my six-inch heels. I'm wearing the shortest of short shorts, purple with yellow trim, a matching baseball cap with a yellow W on the front, my black feather choker, and my face paint.

            I'm the last in the line again. A door opens. Old rock music and sports announcer nonsense blare out. I watch Holly and Skyla stride into the light cast by a room full of giant screens.

            At the threshold of the piano bar I was intimidated. This place is lower rent. I tell myself I'm not scared. I pull my shoulders back, thrust my hips out, and try to imitate Skyla's entrance.

            I can't tell her and Skyla from the other naked women curled in the laps of the men on the couches. Hands wander over skin, but the eyes of the men are on the screens. Something happens in the game they're watching. The room fills with cheers. Beer bottles sway in the air.

            The screens cut to commercials. The men play with the women.  Tits go into mouths. Fingers find cunts. Heads dip to crotches.

            No one is grabbing me. How did Holly and Skyla get themselves taken so fast?

 

Putting out

Possibly the best-known quote about the art of writing is:

The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair. –

                                                                                                                 Mary Heaton Vorse.

 With that in mind, I'm signing off this post and spending the next hour firmly affixed to the seat of the chair while I plow ahead on my new story.

Going all the way

The new spin I thought up for my story is working better than the one I had to replace. (See yesterday's post, if you're curious.) Now the thing to do is push on through to the end of the story. A wonderful writing teacher taught me to avoid too much rewriting until a first draft is finished. Then you know the story. After that, you can rearrange, add and subtract, and work on the language. If you try to rewrite every chapter until it's perfect, you tend to never get finished. The most important thing about a story is--duh--the story. Many readers will put up with bad writing to read a good story. (Think, John Grisham.) Relatively few readers will put up with a bad story to read good writing. (Think, Raymond Carver.)

Writing all the way to the end before extensively rewriting also seems to help keep the tempo of the story upbeat. You end up with fewer paragraphs of ambling description, and more paragraphs of movement, action, and in erotic fiction, fucking.

If you read my last post, you've probably noticed how deeply I'm contradicting myself. Yesterday I wrote about going back to the start of a half-finished story to add a spin. Today I'm talking about the importance of pushing straight through the story to the end before rewriting. So you were expecting me to be logical? Stories are driven by emotion, not logic. The same should be true for writing. 

 

The spin

A story works better if it has a spin—some element, large or small, that throws the whole narrative beyond the edge of normality. This is my opinion. Others disagree. You see a lot of stories about characters who are (a) living in a realistic world, (b) not very good at it, and (c) extremely sad. Sometimes I find stories like this interesting. But not usually.

You don't need to have the spin defined when you start writing the story. In fact, you don't need to have much at all defined. A general idea of the type of story you hope to write is enough. Then dig in. Describe. Explore. Invent. The spin might grow naturally out of this process, or you might have to backtrack and add it more purposefully.

In an erotic story, the spin needs to be erotic. For my novel Mandi, it was the sex pills, first the Fire Genie and then the Master Genie. I wasn't planning on these when I started. Mandi was having a fine time and lots of sex right from the first line. But when I dreamed up the sex pills, the story spun off in whole new directions

In my novella Clytie, the spin was the title character. The point of view character, Paris, had enough going on to fill up a long story, but his life got far more intense when Clytie came on stage. I invented her on the fly. Paris was looking at the backs of three novice bull leapers who were about to be tested by their first live jump. It occurred to me that one of them could be a female. From that point on, Clytie stole the show to the extent that she forced me to use her name for the title.

In my Fair Warrior Chronicles series, the idea of a cave on Crete where six friends would be ravished by a paranormal presence was not at all in my mind when I started the first story. All I had for the opening was the idea of writing about a minor character in Clytie, a guy who goes around in a bull mask and causes riots at orgies.

Now I'm working on the first story in a new series for eXtasy Books, and the spin hasn't emerged. I decided to go back to the beginning and dream one up. Icame up with a pretty good thing about the point of view character being driven to sexual heights by dreams of mating with a huge bird. (Think, Leda and the Swan.) But then I remembered the eXtasy Books policy against bestiality. For some reason, I have a hard time with that limitation. They made me take out a great scene in Clytie simply because it had a scene with a woman fucking a bull.

So I'm back to the drawing board on the spin for my current story.

Writing wild

One way to get a good result out of writing a scene, especially in an erotic story, is to describe a place that's full of possibilities, and then let your imagination loose inside it. Say for example a high-priced bordello, seen through the eyes of a woman on her first night of work there.  I've just finished the first draft of a scene in that setting.  Here's an excerpt:

The room has a long black bar built in an S curve and backed by a glowing wall of red glass. The light makes silhouettes of the liquor bottles on the glass shelves and of the bodies of the topless women tending the bar. They wear black masks across the upper halves of their faces, derby hats, and white collars. Their red lips are pretty, their bodies are slim, and their tits are small. I wonder if the bartendresses are for sale.

          Men standing at the bar watch me descend the stairs. Their eyes follow me without any pretense of politeness. Some wear the business casual uniform of khaki slacks and polo shirts, but most are in good suits and some have on tuxedos.

          The women walk straight to the men at the bar and at tall round tables under red spotlights. Shapely bare arms reach out. Bodies sway under the touches of strangers. I stand with one foot on the last step and wonder where in this wildness to go.

         

 

Morpheus excerpt

Here's a passage from my new story, Morpheus, which published today on the eXtasy Books site:

           The Fair Warriors are tangled with one another on the floor around us, deeply asleep.

 
           Joy asks, "When are they going to wake?"

            They look enticing, the naked women in their accessible postures, and their husbands locked in dreams. I wonder how our intense attraction to one another is going to play out.

            I say, "I'll let them sleep until after we're gone."

            She says, "Mighty Morpheus." 

            She's trying to break down my discipline and persuade me to let her go with us on the mission. I need to resist. She absolutely can't go. It's too dangerous. I won't let her fuck me into changing my mind.

            My body doesn't listen. My undisciplined legs wrap her hips. My mutinous arms carry my traitorous hands to her breasts.

 

New release

Out tomorrow from eXtasy Books--my newest story, Morpheus.

Here's the jacket cover blurb:

When Paul wakes up after leading his elite combat team in a disastrous assault on the Fair Warriors, he finds that the people he was sent to attack are his friends. One of them is his lost love, the prophetess Joy. The Fair Warriors use their erotic paranormal abilities to help him uncover his own weird powers. He's drawn into their struggle against a sinister corporation. Paul and the other Fair Warriors are drawn into a strange, secret battle that unfolds in the midst of a massive Occupy Washington demonstration in the nation's capital

And here's the totally hot cover, designed by Carmen Waters:

Coercion

This afternoon I introduced myself to the Goodreads discussion group The Erogenous Zone. They're a fun bunch that centers on an appreciation of BDSM, as a fantasy or as a lifestyle. They encourage book promotions (or, as they call it "pimping"). So I pimped my novel Mandi, which is the most BDSM story I've published.

For those of you not familiar with meaning of BDSM, here's a definition from Wikipedia: BDSM is a preference and sometimes form of personal relationship centering around activities that are erotic but may not be sexual, and which may include the consensual use of restraint, intense sensory stimulation, and fantasy power role play.

To me, some form of constraint is a key ingredient of erotic fiction. Characters must be compelled by some force, need, or circumstance that forces their sex lives beyond where they'd normally go. A love story with a lot of sex is a hot romance. A love story with an overmastering whether-you-like-it-or-not complulsion is erotic. If the restraint and compulsion are pushed to the whips, chains, and agonizing foreplay level, it's BDSM.

Beautiful bodies and deadly bulls

Here's a new promotional announcement for my novel Clytie that my publicists are posting around the net:

In the bedrooms of a secret resort island where wealthy owners treat their servants like slaves, Paris serves as a consort trained to provide every sexual pleasure. But in the arena, he's like a god. He's the only living athlete who can perform the ancient and deadly sport of bull leaping. He can catch the horns of a charging bull and vault over its back. He's pampered and lusted after. Then Clytie, a slip of a woman with a fearless agility, matches his feats in the arena and captures his heart. But Clytie refuses to be anyone's sex slave. Her determination to live with a free heart forces Paris to rebel against his privileged captivity.

Here's an excerpt from Clytie:

“What, you’ve never deflowered a virgin?” Uncertainty flits through her eyes, chased by mirth. She says, “We’ll see how you are at it.”

Her head bobs under the water. Her shoulders wedge between my knees. Her short, dark hair floats on the surface of the pool, tickling my chest. Her lips find my cock, their touch swift, warm, light.

She is a newborn child of the ocean, rising from the waves to the golden air. Her kiss is harder. Her hand works my cock. Her legs press my chest. Her hips settle onto me. Before I know it, I’m inside her.

Her quick rocking is fiercer than Mistress Dalia’s wildest shows of abandon. Clytie gives a sharp cry, a soft groan. Her head settles on my chest. She hums contentedly with each drive of my hips. My coming wells from a fountain deeper than I believed I possessed.  

Here's a buy link for Clytie: http://www.extasybooks.com/clytie-5/.

Motivation

In the new series I'm starting, motivation is a problem at the outset. Why would a beautiful and successful professional woman take up night work in a high-class bordello? Here's a passage I just finished writing:

          A seafood restaurant glitters like a diamond in the black bracelet of closed retailers. The bright windows show diners at slim-legged tables and waiters in white jackets. I could stop the cab here, go into the restaurant, take a table for two, and pick up some young techie mico-millionare to buy my dinner, take me bar hopping, and fuck me through the night. I could never become a whore.

          It's the dark storefronts that drive me on. I hate shut-away things, secrets, walls, the blindness of devotion. This anger is Michael's legacy in my heart. Time to put myself on view. The crass openness of the bordello draws me. And the money, the charm of owing nothing, financially or emotionally, to anyone.

What is erotic Part 11: Wanting it

The raw desire for sex might be the very essence of eroticism. My work as a writer of erotic romances leads me to think about the varieties of erotic experience and the wellsprings of love. Today I'm thinking about the bare need for sex, without the other feelings and needs that go with desire and romance. 

Who doesn't want it?  Who can deny the need? Try to suppress it, and you lose. Fail to find an outlet, and the need twists to a perversion.  Love without sex is like an aquarium without water. You can make it work, but it's a lot harder to keep the fish alive. No difference if you are unable to find a mate, or physically unable to perform, or determined to give your life to other things. It's there. It never goes away. Like it or not, it drives you.

I'm building a new series around wanting it. The heroine has a lot going for her, but…. 

Sorry, I've just started the first story of the series. I don't want to give the story away. And I don't want to define the underlying themes too strictly. That's why we write and read, to explore the deep desires. This time, I'm diving for the deepest.

Mandi excerpt

In this passage from my novel Mandi, published by eXtasy Books, Mandi first encounters a sex pill called the Fire Genie:

"Call her Mandi. With an i." Alex pats me on the butt. I dip my head.

  "Man-dee." They giggle.

  The seats are of the same superior leather as the interior of the Bentley. Eddie the driver follows us on board and peels off his jacket to show a black T shirt stretched tight over a buff torso, and a pistol in a shoulder holster. He takes the seat in the row opposite of us, nearest the door. His sunglasses stay on.

  Michelle and Annette bring us ice water before they buckle into seats facing us. Their skirts barely cover their goodies. Where they sit gives them a view of mine. The plane starts to roll. Alex places his hand where his little finger can brush the shave line of my pubes. Michelle and Annette giggle. I sip ice water.

  Alex says, "If you're not enjoying this..."

  "I'm ready." I meet his eyes, and find there a display of his burning will to dominate. For now. Alex doesn't miss my instant of rebellion. The only reaction I see in those intense eyes is a glint of amusement.

  The plane finishes the climb to cruising altitude and levels. Alex withdraws his hand from the border of my cunt and says, "Ladies, please show Mandi the boudoir." Michelle and Annette pop out of their seats with a perky display of their tight assets.

  "Man-dee." Michelle or Annette offers a small paper cup. It holds a pill.

  "A stimulant developed by one of my pharmaceutical companies," Alex explains. "Field trials have proven it safe and effective, and rather interesting. We're filing for FDA approval next week."

  Michelle or Annette shakes an identical pill from a bottle and hands it to Alex. He pops it into his mouth and sips ice water.

  "You vil like eet, Man-dee," Annette or Michelle prompts. Alex makes a point of not watching. The pill is plain, round, yellow, and uncoated.  It has a Y stamped on it, making it look like a pie chart with three sections. I swallow it and drink. Michelle or Annette extends a hand. I accept her warm clutch and rise from the seat. I'm slightly dizzy. The brush of my arm against the childish breasts of one of the women tingles my nipples. Alex pretends to return his interest to whatever he's reading on his pad, but I can see the bulge in his fine slacks. I let Michelle and Annette lead me to a door in a mahogany bulkhead. If I hadn't failed to suppress my iota of rebellion, would Alex be walking me down this aisle?

  The bedroom barely accommodates an antique French bed. A pink silk coverlet is repeated overhead in a ceiling video panel. So there are cameras going, and recorders. Wall sconces drip beads of crystal. What looks like a genuine Renoir hangs above a photo of Alex Leed finishing a marathon. A narrow doorway opens on a bathroom with hardly space to stand between sink, shower, toilet, and bidet.

  Michelle and Annette undress. Their lingerie is sexier than mine. Nipples show darkly through sheer bras. One of them hops onto the pink spread, cocks her head, smiles, and holds out her arms. The other turns a dimmer to lower the lights, and puts her hand in the small of my back to press me toward the bed. The room seems warm. 

  I'm facing my first major "I quit" test. If I walk out of this room, the plane will land, the Bentley will return me to Leed headquarters, Belle will cut my quarter million dollar severance check, and I'll be on the street.

  Michelle or Annette encircles me from behind. Her fingers pluck the second button of my blouse. The soft pressure on my breasts sends a wave of heat down a cord from my nipples to my crotch. "S'il vous plaît, Man-dee?"

  "Yes. Oui."