Low burn excerpt

Circe, the sixth and final book of my Fair Warrior Chronicles series, is scheduled to publish tomorrow. The book is erotic from start to finish. Some passages are hot-hot-hot. Others are a low burn. Tomorrow I'll celebrate the publishing by posting the cover and a hot passage. Here, for a preview, is one of the low burns:

 Tonight, as always, the pub is shoulder to shoulder. The late crowd is building energy. I nab the silk hanky from Devon’s jacket pocket, dab my eyes, and open the cab door. From inside the pub, men stare as my foot extends over the water streaming curbside and my skirt rides up my legs.

The men redirect their gazes when Devon joins me. He’s not a man whose woman you admire too openly.

He pats my ass. I say, “Once again, darling.” He obliges with another pat. My appetite to drag him to bed and thrash his body rekindles, as does my appetite for food. The kitchens of our pubs are a match for Gage’s Arms. On the way to our loft we’ll order something cheesy, toasty, and meaty from the kitchen, and bottles of Devon’s special reserve ale.

 

A new love

My story Circe comes out this week. I loved writing this story.  My editor at eXtasy Books said nice things about it.  The story wraps up my Fair Warrior Chronicles series in an interesting way.  The cover designer did a fine job on the cover.  I' m proud to have written this book and thrilled to see it published.

The thing is, other than pouring a glass of wine and raising a toast to Circe as she leaps into the cyberworld of ebooks, and hoping that you, the reader, find her to be as fascinating as I did, I've moved on. Circe, you're great, but Laurie Deloit has captured my attention. Laurie is the tortured, driven,beautiful, smart,and pissed-at-the-world heroine of The Glass Rooms Adventures, my next erotic story series. I'm so deeply involved with her that it's hard to remember sweet Circe.

Writers should think of themselves as an endless cornucopia  of stories. This isn't a rule I made up—I heard it from an excellent writing teacher who possessed a string of notable popular and critical writing successes. It's a very liberating way of looking at writing, and at life. Don't pin everything on one novel. Write it, do your best to give it a decent start in life, and go on to the next. Remain constant to your true love—writing.

Between fucks

One of my favorite pieces of writing advice is that a reader should be able to open a book at any page and be able to get a pretty good idea of what the story is about. Maybe you can see how I try to do this in the following passage, which is part of a first-draft scene I wrote this morning.

            I'm white down to my nails. Painted white feathers surround my lips and eyes. Real ones hang from the choker around my neck. The gown the maid brought me isn't one I picked out and charged to my new client's credit card in an Athens shop. It's a replica of the costume I wear for the Mercedes Lounge, only white. 

            The slits run higher, inches above my hip bone. The neckline dips far below my navel. The back doesn't start to exist until halfway down my ass. How the slinky material manages to hang on me is a mystery. I feel as if the slightest shrug could send it slithering around my feet. Every sway of my movements reveals parts of me that my underwear would cover if I had any on.

            I emerge from my cabin in a cloud of fresh perfume. Phil is leaning on the deck rail outside my door, face pensive, arms crossed, head shaded by the stripped awning, back warmed by the sun.

            He says, "He's ready."

            I say, "So am I."

            I'd figured on going no further than the master suite next to mine, but Phil leads me down a companionway. He doesn't offer his hand. This is tricky. In my white heels, taller than the ones I wear at Seattle Young, I can barely manage the steps. The maid follows behind me and catches the shoulder straps of my dress whenever they try to fall off my shoulders.

            We pass the crewman who carried my bags to my suite and one of his buddies. The look in their eyes tells me I'm a sight they'll never forget.

            Phil opens the door to a cabin on the deck below, stands aside, and says, "Good luck." His smile bends under the strain of whatever he's feeling. The maid stops beside him. I enter alone. The door closes behind me.

            I have three more steps to negotiate, curving glass ones with a brass rail like the ones at Seattle Young. They tell me I'm on display. I keep my eyes straight ahead, my shoulders back, and my smile wide. My feet find the steps. My hand wants to grab the rail. I make it slide lightly over the brass.

            Piano music comes from hidden speakers, the same show tunes Toussaint plays at the Mercedes Lounge. There's a real piano, a white one. No one sits at it, but the keys move as if unseen hands play. The short backlit bar beside it has rows of glass shelves arrayed with bottles and glasses. In the center of the tiny dance floor, a barstool waits for me. It's about the same height as the fender of the car where I sit at the beginning of a shift in my whorehouse. The top if it is slick-looking red leather. My gaze falls on it with relief. It's the first thing I've seen on this boat that isn't white.

            I take my place on the stool. The rungs where my feet find a hold are high enough to lift my knees and make my dress fall away from my legs. I lift my chin, shove out my boobs, and wait. The piano keeps playing. I wonder how long I can hold this pose without falling off the stool or getting a cramp.

            A curtain of white beads covers the entry to a short arched passageway. The space beyond is brightly lit. I know what's back there. A glass room. Just for me.

            "You are so lovely." The voice is weak and hoarse. I turn toward it. The movement makes a strap fall from my shoulder and exposes my lfft boob. There's not a man standing where I expect to see one. I look down. He's in a wheelchair.

            The smile he gives me looks as if it's all he can do. His withered neck leans to the side, leaving his head propped against a metal brace. One of his hands rests on the controls of the chair. He motors closer to me. His other hand trembles a he touches my leg. Many men's hands have done the same. This one seems to shake more from palsy than excitement.

            I catch it in my own, and guide it as far up my thigh as his arm will reach.

            He says, "Very nice." He sounds like a connoisseur appreciating a painting. But I'm real.

 

Sneak Peek

Circe, the last story of my Fair Warriors series, publishes November 1.  Here's a sneak peek excerpt from the story:

 

Master conditioned me ruthlessly. He required me to run the treadmill at the highest speeds, wearing nothing but running shoes, while he sipped tea and watched my pumped-up breasts bounce. And he forced me to learn yoga.

I achieved the most difficult yoga positions. I held them while he and his companions played with the angles my body presented.

I’ve kept up the yoga for Devon. An exotic position is one of the gifts I can give him.

I kneel. I extend my arms over my head. My shoulders and spine bend backwards. My hands settle on the soles of my feet. This is the camel, the ustrasana. The circle I make leaves my face hanging upside down, my breasts pointed at the ceiling, and my hips pushed outward.

If these people are slaves of the Master, this pose might please him. If they aren’t, the pose will answer their need for everyone to fuck me.

Hands run over my skin. A mouth claims one of my breasts. A second mouth sucks the other. A finger delves my cunt. My position limits my field of vision to what is behind and above. I see Jess standing beside the window. Her attention is divided between me and the street below.

 

Guest author Destiny Blaine

Take a look at this great new paranormal erotic romance from Destiny Blaine:




The wild side is an interesting stretch of territory where only the courageous survive.


Joe Kramer is a simple-minded young man tending farm with his father. When a neighbor needs a lift, his dad sends him out to give the woman a ride. Soon, a Moonlight Clan Council member has her claws in Joe, leaving him a changed man.
Accepting his fate, Joe joins a wolf pack steeped in history and tradition, but someone among them is threatening to tear their pack apart. To make matters worse, as the pack master, Joe rebukes the traditions of the past while ignoring the mandated placement of two mates.
As he leads his pack to a position of strength, Joe will stand out as the clear Alpha destined to protect the East Tennessee Moonlight Clan Council, but will his lack of experience and immaturity cost the clan what they cherish most? And who, if anyone, will stand beside him when he fights to protect those closest to home?

Destiny Blaine is an author of erotic romance and spicy mysteries. With top finishes in the 2007 Preditors and Editors Reader Polls, Destiny is hard at work with versatility driving her. Look for stories from Destiny in all genres including western, paranormal, contemporary, futuristic and fantasy.

International bestselling e-book and trade paperback author, Destiny Blaine writes in all genres using several pseudonyms. Destiny lives in East Tennessee with her husband and daughter. Her son is serving in the United States Navy. For more information, please visit her website at http://www.destinyblaine.com/

 Here's a word from Destiny: 

Hi Valerie,

Thank you for having me today. Your blog looks great! Let me know when you can

visit over at my place again. ;)

Destiny Blaine

 

 

Fucking in a limo #2

The excerpt in my last post showed Mandi on her way up, using sex to push her own agenda for success. Today's excerpt is from the second half of the book is after she's been trapped by a more potent sex pill.

            He chewed my neck and squeezed my breasts. I pushed his pants to his knees, wrapped his ass with my legs, pressed my cunt over his little dick, arched as if he had penetrated me to the core, and gasped, "Oh, oh."

            My act set him pumping. I couldn't feel his dick. When he grunted and stopped, I screeched and squeezed as if he'd shot a spasm through me. I was the best fake orgasm I'd ever delivered.

            He sat up, straightened his sunglasses, and started the car. I lay on the seat, waiting for the next order.  Eddie hummed and ran a hand up the inside of my leg.  His big smile put a hellish glow in me. I had succeeded at making him happy. I had obeyed.

            I watched the garage roof give way to a heavy blue sky outlined by the ramparts of high rises in the Mumbai financial district. Not an hour ago, I had been the master of it all. Under the pall of obedience that smothered my will, I sought to understand how Brandon had overcome me.  My effort unraveled before I could weave it into a thought.

            Eddie's hand settled on my cunt. Make me happy. These words of his were the last command I had received. A compulsion to follow it overpowered every other thought. My hands covered his. I worked my hips while he probed my labia. I  sighed like a pleased woman when he stabbed his finger inside. It was longer than his dick. I raised my arms over my head and wriggled, belly dancing on the seat.  He glanced at me, shook his head, and said, "What a sorry whore."

She's in the limo again, but now she's straining to please the driver, not her boss. She knows her plight, but she can't help throwing her mind and body into what the sex pill compels her to do.

Fucking in a limo

Instead of picking a subject and finding something in my writing to illustrate what I'm talking about, I decided to pick a passage at random from one of my stories, and then find something to say about the writing.  This is from my novel, Mandi:

Brandon stays beside Alex until the car arrives in front of us and the tall Jamaican chauffer hops out to open the door. Alex doesn't seem concerned with anything but my chest. His people are quick to usher him and me into the security of the limo and get underway. Brandon waives goodbye from the curb.

          Alex presses a button. A barrier rises to hide us from the men in the front seat. The windows darken as if the city is falling under an eclipse.

          "Oh, that's cool!" I take off my pants.

          Alex slips his hand between my legs. "Congratulations on a great meeting, Mandi."

          I squeeze his hand with my thighs and ask, "How soon can we take a pill?"

          He draws a package from his pocket and shakes out a pair of Fire Genies. The one he puts in my palm is the second I've seen. I ask, "Why does it have a Y on it?"

          Alex says, "It's a peace symbol."

          "Oh, sure," I say, feeling like a dumb shit. The peace symbol is not exactly my generation, or his. The way he waits tells me he's trying to communicate something about his motives. I'm more interested in immediate sensations.  "Let me swallow the peace symbol," I say, "and then I'll swallow a piece of you."

          Alex puts a Fire Genie between my lips, unscrews the cap of a bottle of Italian water, and gives it to me. While I wash the pill down my throat, he places his on his tongue. He takes the water from me and sips. We are communicants. A demanding glow spreads through me like a benediction.

          I stretch on the seat with my ass on his lap. He tugs my thong to my knees and strokes my cunt.

          "Oh, baby!" The genie ignites an instant conflagration wherever his fingertips glide. I reach to his crotch and find him hard as a rock. He stretches on top of me. The wonderful material of his suit drapes me like a pleasure tent.

           He unbuttons my blouse and licks the tops of my breasts. I thrash my feet to free my legs from the bondage of my thong. His tongue finds a way beneath my skimpy bra and teases my nipple. I go for his zipper.

 

This scene gets the two main characters in the story, Mandi and Alex, on the way from one place (a business meeting in a London skyscraper) to another (their hotel). It says something about their ages (both too young to really remember when peace symbols were current), and their motives (Mandi senses Alex is trying to make a statement about his motives, but she ignores it and dives into sex.) It deepens Mandi's experience with the Fire Genie, a sex pill that ultimately leads to her downfall.  It gives the reader a taste of the high life—zipping through London in an ultra-plush limo. But mostly it's a fuck scene. Mandi is a highly erotic story. My goal was to fill every page with explicit and entertaining sex.

Clarity

The number one requirement of writing is to be clear. If readers can understand what's happening, then your writing is good. You might be more clumsy with language than the next author, unable to come up with elegant metaphors, stirring descriptions, or snappy dialog, but you've told your story.  The best writing is mistake free and unobtrusive. The writer stays in the background by writing simply and plainly, and the reader is able to let the story float in their imagination.

The need to be clear can present special challenges for a writer of erotic fiction, particularly when the you're trying to describe a complicated ménage.  Here's a passage I wrote this week:

          I'm trying to figure out how to leverage him out of my ass. His legs are so long that sitting spread on his lap keeps my feet off the floor. His cock slowly shrinks inside me.

          A different one dangles before my face. Another tall, fit, Russian guy stands in front of me. He's naked, and so is the whore he pins to his side with one long arm. They were the other couple on the couch. Her hair has come undone and her face paint is smeared. She looks totally fucked. He looks ready for more.

          Sergi says, "Is my teammate, Ivan."

          Ivan helps himself to a swallow from one of Sergi's beers. I stroke his cock, tickle his balls, and run my tongue over his knob. His woman leaves his side, climbs on the couch, and sandwiches herself between me and Sergi. Her ass rests on my shoulders. I can't see, but her cunt must be in Sergi's face.

 Clear?  I hope so.  It's a first draft. When I go back to this passage, I'll be trying to assess whether the words will convey to a reader the lewd picture I have in my mind.

Erotic villains

What I don't have going so far in my new story series is a villain.  Plot driven fiction can't do without one. In erotic fiction, the ideal villain is erotic. The villains in my novella Clytie were three wealthy and erotically fanatic women. My novel Mandi and the six stories my Fair Warrior Chronicles series all had the same villain, the stop-at-nothing chief executive of a murky corporation.

The closest thing I have to a villain in the first story of my new series is the heroin's ex-fiancé. She's mad as hell at him for running off with her secretary, and uses this as an excuse for diving into a wild erotic adventure. But at the start of the second story, I want her to be more or less over him. I need to come up with somebody else. I hope to use this blog entry as a means to figure out who my villain should be. So far, no luck.

We need villains in fiction for the same reason we need them in real life—to personify the crappy shit that hurts, haunts and harrows our lives. The difference between fiction and most of reality is that the villain can be brought to justice. My heroine in the new story is a trial lawyer at a large but shady law firm, so she's well positioned to come across an interesting villain. And she's tough enough to bring him down. I'm not too worried about what his villainous scheme will be. Once I get the character going, I can make up his motivations and machinations as I go along.

Notice I'm referring to the villain as "he." So I guess the villain of this story will be a man. (Aren't they all?)  Whoever he is, it's too late to integrate him fully into the first story of the series.  I'll give him a cameo appearance there, and build on him in the next series. Maybe I've already made him up without knowing it. I'll consider whether one of the men in the first story is suitable villain material.

Hey, I'm getting a pretty fair idea of who the rascal will be. Writing this blog post helped. Thanks!

 

More, more, more

Erotica thrives because we enjoy imagining more and better sex than anyone gets in real life. In the series I'm working on now, the heroine is stinging from being dumped by the man she loves. She sees an opportunity to live out her deepest fantasies, and goes for it. Her anger at the faithless lover spurs her on. What moves the story into the realm of erotica is her extreme willingness to fuck, her ability to handle all kinds of penetrations and positions, and the wildness her living fantasy stirs in her mind and body. She's limber, luscious, wet, and ready, and the next day she's hungry for more.

One problem with this story is that the sex is so frequent and detailed that I'm having trouble squeezing in a plot. I've left the first 20,000 word story in first draft stage.  I plan to push on through the first draft of the second story, then rewrite them in sequence. I'm hoping I'll invent a few more angles that I can go back and add to the first story.  I'm not too worried about this. As long as the sex stays hot, the series will get where in needs to go. In erotica, the sex and the plot should be nearly the same thing.