Dr. Pia Torres closed her eyes. In front of her, Test Volunteer #7 was starting to groan. She could hear him pump his cock faster as his orgasm came closer.
“Fuck!” Text Volunteer #7 cried out. A second later, the first hot splatter of semen landed on Dr. Torres’ forehead. Another splatter landed on her chin and a third splatter stuck to her cheek.
She kept her eyes closed as Text Volunteer #7 squeezed out every last drop of semen onto her face.
“Start now,” the computer said.
Dr. Torres reached for the bottle in front of her. Her eyes shut; she squirted the contents of Semen Deglazer Variant #7 into her hands. She rubbed the solution into her face and scrubbed. A rich lather formed that she hoped it would get all of the semen out.
She tilted her head towards the sink and splashed fresh water into her face. She opened her eyes and checked her face in the mirror.
Nope, still had a sticky strand on her forehead.
Dr. Torres applied more of Semen Deglazer Variant #7 and scrubbed again. In front of her, Test Volunteer #8 was stroking his cock and staring at her. She paused when she recognized him as Dr. Li from Robotics.
“Please keep cleaning,” Dr. Otto Von Madd reminded her.
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Torres said. She finished cleaning and dried her face. The test officially ended when she confirmed that all semen was gone from her face. The bottle of Semen Deglazer Variant #7 was moved by a robot hand and a bottle of Semen Deglazer Variant #8 was put in its place.
“Doctor Von Madd,” Dr. Torres said as Test Volunteer #8 stroked faster.
“Yes, Doctor?” Dr. Von Madd said. He never looked up from his desk.
“I am really sorry about the miscalculation in my report,” she said.
“Of course you are,” Dr. Von Madd said. “Bad science is a terrible thing and you will feel remorse for quite some time. It is perfectly natural.”
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Torres said. “I guess what I am saying is that I have learned my lesson and I don’t need to participate in the rest of these tests today.”
Dr. Von Madd looked up from his desk. His purple goggles looked at her without pity.
“Chin up, Dr. Torres,” Dr. Von Madd said. “There are only 92 more variants to test.”
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Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sheba's Menu
Entrees
Double A’s – Two small burgers for those who like to put it all in their mouth at one time. Each burger has a thigh pressed meat patty, lettuce, cheese, onions and our special Sheba Sauce. There is no pickle. Who the $*#% eats pickles these days?
Junior Knockers – Two small burgers that are the same size as the Double A’s, but contain no onions or Sheba Sauce because some customers are afraid of flavor. Each burger still has a thigh pressed meat patty, lettuce and cheese.
Double Whammies – Two large burgers, each bigger than a handful. Each burger has a thigh pressed meat patty, lettuce, cheese, onions and our special Sheba Sauce. Still no pickle. Seriously, stop asking.
Nibbles- Eight chicken tenders you can’t wait to put between your lips! Comes with dipping sauce of your choice, Sheba Honey, Barbeque Babylon, Ranch Cream or Caribbean Sass.
Foot Solomon – A big hot dog for big appetites. Ladies love this succulent plump sausage crammed with flavor and meat. Men like it too and here at Sheba’s, we don’t judge! Put whatever you want in your mouth! It’s all about the love.
Foot Solomon come with Western Romp Chili on a toasted bun. If you ask for ketchup on this perfect dog, we just might hurt you.
Venus Salad- Other places offer stale salads crammed inside a boring plastic package. At Sheba’s, all our salads are made the moment you order them by a busty vegetarian that wants you to eat healthy. All Venus Salads contain three kinds of lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots croutons, and come in our special Venus Clam Bowl made of more lettuce but shaped like something that you will want to stick your whole face in. Comes with your choice of suggestive looking dark cheese shavings or not.
Dressings include Sheba House Italian, Ranch Cream, French Delight and Thousand Island because some of you are still eating Thousand Island because you had it as a kid and you have never tried another dressing, but $*#%, at least you are eating salad.
Sides
French Kisses – These fries are hand made in the back of the store by barely legal women who love potatoes. Infer from that what you will.
Nippy Tots – Deep-fried grated potato products shaped like the peak of Sheba’s breast.
Drinks
Sheba Juice – This special blend of five fruits squeezed between the massive breasts of a Sheba employee will quench your thirst and run down your chin.
Sheba Juice has been scientifically proven to improve the flavor of your sexual discharges. (Ref. Von Madd Blind Taste Tests of 2011)
Sheba Shake- No other restaurant can offer a milkshake shook between the thighs of a Sheba employee while she sits in our special Spinner Seat. Each cup comes with a signed photograph of the Sheba employee with your shake between her legs.
Flavors are Chocolate Heaven, Vanilla Daydream and Strawberry Romp
Soda- Sheba’s does not carry soda. For real. That ^$#% is not good for you. We do this because we care about you.
Dessert
Thong Sunday – Two scoops of your choice of vanilla or chocolate ice cream, topped with whipped cream, caramel and a special collector thing worn by a Sheba’s employee. Collect all sixty-nine!
Double A’s – Two small burgers for those who like to put it all in their mouth at one time. Each burger has a thigh pressed meat patty, lettuce, cheese, onions and our special Sheba Sauce. There is no pickle. Who the $*#% eats pickles these days?
Junior Knockers – Two small burgers that are the same size as the Double A’s, but contain no onions or Sheba Sauce because some customers are afraid of flavor. Each burger still has a thigh pressed meat patty, lettuce and cheese.
Double Whammies – Two large burgers, each bigger than a handful. Each burger has a thigh pressed meat patty, lettuce, cheese, onions and our special Sheba Sauce. Still no pickle. Seriously, stop asking.
Nibbles- Eight chicken tenders you can’t wait to put between your lips! Comes with dipping sauce of your choice, Sheba Honey, Barbeque Babylon, Ranch Cream or Caribbean Sass.
Foot Solomon – A big hot dog for big appetites. Ladies love this succulent plump sausage crammed with flavor and meat. Men like it too and here at Sheba’s, we don’t judge! Put whatever you want in your mouth! It’s all about the love.
Foot Solomon come with Western Romp Chili on a toasted bun. If you ask for ketchup on this perfect dog, we just might hurt you.
Venus Salad- Other places offer stale salads crammed inside a boring plastic package. At Sheba’s, all our salads are made the moment you order them by a busty vegetarian that wants you to eat healthy. All Venus Salads contain three kinds of lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, carrots croutons, and come in our special Venus Clam Bowl made of more lettuce but shaped like something that you will want to stick your whole face in. Comes with your choice of suggestive looking dark cheese shavings or not.
Dressings include Sheba House Italian, Ranch Cream, French Delight and Thousand Island because some of you are still eating Thousand Island because you had it as a kid and you have never tried another dressing, but $*#%, at least you are eating salad.
Sides
French Kisses – These fries are hand made in the back of the store by barely legal women who love potatoes. Infer from that what you will.
Nippy Tots – Deep-fried grated potato products shaped like the peak of Sheba’s breast.
Drinks
Sheba Juice – This special blend of five fruits squeezed between the massive breasts of a Sheba employee will quench your thirst and run down your chin.
Sheba Juice has been scientifically proven to improve the flavor of your sexual discharges. (Ref. Von Madd Blind Taste Tests of 2011)
Sheba Shake- No other restaurant can offer a milkshake shook between the thighs of a Sheba employee while she sits in our special Spinner Seat. Each cup comes with a signed photograph of the Sheba employee with your shake between her legs.
Flavors are Chocolate Heaven, Vanilla Daydream and Strawberry Romp
Soda- Sheba’s does not carry soda. For real. That ^$#% is not good for you. We do this because we care about you.
Dessert
Thong Sunday – Two scoops of your choice of vanilla or chocolate ice cream, topped with whipped cream, caramel and a special collector thing worn by a Sheba’s employee. Collect all sixty-nine!
Friday, July 22, 2011
Lubinex
Lubinex is a popular sexual lubricant introduced five years ago to the Euphorian people. Three times as slippery as the next leading product, Lubinex is also highly regarded for its pleasant fruity flavor. After five minutes of physical contact, users will experience low level empathetic bonds. In short, the fornicators will experience what the other is experiencing. The frequency of simultaneous orgasms is greatly increased.
It was discovered by the conquestship, Violatrix, on the distant planet of Fecond Seven. Appearing as a sort of slime, it occurs naturally on the surface of the ponds and lakes of the world. Science officers on board the Violatrix quickly determined the sexual applications of the slippery slime. The Captain ordered that as much of the slime as possible be gathered and brought back to Euphoria.
Queen Erishella wisely changed the name of the slime from Sample 34S to the much more market friendly name of Lubinex. The Queen also ordered the mass importation of the slime and declared a monopoly on the production and selling of Lubinex to the galaxy.
Recent research suggests that the empathy qualities of the slime were due to the sentience of the slime trying to make contact with the people using it for fornication. Although no one has been able to establish any meaningful communication with Lubinex, the news of its apparent sentience increased sales 34%. Experts believe that this is due to the Euphorian preference of having an audience during sex.
Clean up is easy. A hypersonic pulse disintegrates all traces of Lubinex leaving the skin and genitals untouched.
--Euphorian Gazetteer
It was discovered by the conquestship, Violatrix, on the distant planet of Fecond Seven. Appearing as a sort of slime, it occurs naturally on the surface of the ponds and lakes of the world. Science officers on board the Violatrix quickly determined the sexual applications of the slippery slime. The Captain ordered that as much of the slime as possible be gathered and brought back to Euphoria.
Queen Erishella wisely changed the name of the slime from Sample 34S to the much more market friendly name of Lubinex. The Queen also ordered the mass importation of the slime and declared a monopoly on the production and selling of Lubinex to the galaxy.
Recent research suggests that the empathy qualities of the slime were due to the sentience of the slime trying to make contact with the people using it for fornication. Although no one has been able to establish any meaningful communication with Lubinex, the news of its apparent sentience increased sales 34%. Experts believe that this is due to the Euphorian preference of having an audience during sex.
Clean up is easy. A hypersonic pulse disintegrates all traces of Lubinex leaving the skin and genitals untouched.
--Euphorian Gazetteer
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Fiction: Society of Ruthless Journalists
“Wakey, wakey, ‘allo, ‘allo!”
Holly Valentine opened her eyes. It was pitch dark except for the tiny amount of moonlight coming from the ceiling of wherever she was. The floor underneath her felt like metal. The smell of chloroform made her nauseous.
“Who the fuck uses chloroform these days?” Holly groaned. She sat up and her head swam. At least, she thought everything swam; it was hard to tell in the dark.
“I know, right?” someone said close to her. He had a sexy British accent, like James Bond about to get laid. “There are at least seven other more effective drugs to incapacitate someone.”
“Come now, chloroform is a classic,” the voice on top said. He had a similar British accent but his accent was more uptight butler.
“Oh shit, that’s right,” Holly said. “I’m in Britain. I was covering the phone hacking scandal where all those shit reporters hacked people’s phones to get their stories. Fuck, chloroform messes with a girl’s head.”
“Hey!” the voice on top said. “We are not shit reporters! You are talking to a member of the Society of Ruthless Journalists! And you, my American tramp, have been captured and will be disposed of!”
“The who to the what now? Holly said.
“The Society of Ruthless Journalists is a centuries old organization,” the sexy voice beside her said. “They dig up dirt and splash it on their front pages but never dirt on their corporate masters. No, they only exploit the rich and famous who offend the corporate line.”
“Oh, we just call them cable news people where I come from,” Holly said.
“Right, now that we made introductions,” the voice above them said. “Here’s how it goes. You are in an abandoned train car in the middle of a deserted quarry. No one will hear your cries for help. You will die of starvation while me and my mates tell the world that you two eloped and went on a whirlwind honeymoon. There may be sex with donkeys included in the story. We’ll make a mint selling papers about your sordid sex lives while you die here and incidentally, don’t do anymore investigating into the phone hacking business. I get a promotion and maybe an editor’s position and Bob’s your uncle, understand?”
“Wait? You’re going to kill an American reporter just to cover your dirty work?” Holly said.
“Love, you ain’t the first batch of bodies this night,” the voice said. “Right, goodbye. And you too, Johnny!”
The opening sealed above them. Holly heard the sound of the man climbing down the side of the car. She also heard him curse a little as he fell.
“That’s it?” Holly said. It was so dark that Holly couldn’t see her hands but she knew her fellow captive could hear her. “They didn’t even tie me up. I mean, they expect us to die of starvation? Shit, they didn’t even add some poison gas or maybe fill the cart with water? This is a terrible excuse for a deathtrap.”
“They are shit reporters,” the voice said.
The British accent sent a shiver down Holly’s spine. “Wait, I know that voice. He called you Johnny. Are you Johnny Jones? The reporter giving the phone hacking so much coverage right now?”
“Yes, miss,” the voice said. “I am assuming by your colorful language and defiant tone that you are Holly Valentine, reporter for INX?”
“Holy shit!” Holly said. “I am such a big fan of yours! That expose you wrote on subliminal advertising in singing competitions was awesome!”
“Thank you, Miss Valentine,” Johnny said. “I found your piece on HMO’s and their price jacking to be brilliant. Simply brilliant.”
“Damn, I wish there was some light in here,” Holly said. “I finally get to meet a colleague that I like and I am stuck in the dark.”
“Yes, at least we will be spared the indignity of looking badly while we die,” Johnny said.
“So, these reporters really will leave us to die?” Holly asked.
“Oh yes,” Johnny said. “The Society is made up of lazy reporters but they have a long history of killing. They once kidnapped and tortured a woman just to make her soccer player husband give then an interview. Death is old hat to them.”
Holly sat on that information for a few minutes. “Mr. Jones?” Holly said.
“Please, call me Johnny,” he said.
“Okay, Johnny. And please call me Holly. I wonder if you could do something for me?”
“Certainly Holly. Are you cold? I don’t have my jacket but perhaps my shirt could give you comfort.”
“No, I’m not cold,” Holly said. “I was wondering, since we are going to die here and all, if you could help me fulfill a lifelong dream?”
There was a pause. “I don’t think I have much in my power at the moment to grant wishes, Holly.”
“Actually, my dream was to sit on the face of a reporter that I admire,” Holly said.
“Oh,” Johnny said.
“Since we are going to die and all,” Holly said.
“Beastly business that,” Johnny said. “In the interest of global cooperation among colleagues and granting the wish of a condemned woman, I can not help but comply.”
“Right-o!” Holly said in her best British accent.
“Right, and don’t do that ever again,” Johnny said.
“Sorry,” Holly said. “It’s hard. You hear all these accents and you just want to join in.” She crawled in the darkness towards his voice.
“True, I have a friend who does a Texas accent every time he watches your cop shows,” Johnny said.
She found him. Broad shoulders, some slight stubble on his face and an interesting crooked nose. She pushed him gently down to the metal floor.
“You were serious about sitting on my face?” Johnny said. “I thought that might be some American phrase.”
“I’m a good reporter, I tell the truth,” Holly said.
Holly was wearing a pair of green panties when she was captured but she discarded them now in record time. Thank God that she was wearing a skirt. It was a bit chilly and Holly was glad for every bit of warmth she could get. In a moment, she planned to get a lot of it.
She climbed onto Jimmy’s head. The British hunk was on his back and his hands guided her onto him. Fingers that had typed the downfall of the rich and powerful pushed her ass right where it needed to be.
The first contact of tongue against her sex was electric. Holly moaned as his tongue worked its way inside her. She gripped his hair and pressed against him. Fact to cunt, she was right where she wanted to be.
It was cold in the train car but it was so damn hot between Holly’s thighs. The car blocked the sounds of the outside world so that the only thing she could hear was the sound of his tongue lapping away at her. She stared as hard as she could into the darkness and tried to see even a glimmer of the delight occurring beneath her.
Johnny’s fingers grabbed her ass. She moaned as he held onto her. Johnny was pulling her harder against his, trying to get more of her into his mouth. He moaned and she felt every moan on her sex.
Holly wanted to return the favor but it felt too fucking good to move. She couldn’t believe that her favorite reporter was eating her out like she was his last meal. Well, she kind of was but that wasn’t important. What mattered was staying right here and enjoying his mouth. If she moved, it might dispel this wonderful dreamlike that she was in.
It didn’t take her long. Hell, she had been clenching ever since she first heard his voice in the train car. She was wet, horny and eager. She would have climaxed if she had just ridden his nose but no, Johnny Jones had to be an excellent pussy licker as well. She had one more talent of his to admire.
“Brilliant!” Holly cried out. She climaxed on Johnny’s face. Her thighs clenched around him and she humped his face as she rode her orgasm. Johnny, being the excellent reporter that he was, kept licking till the job was done.
“Oh, that was awesome,” Holly said as she slumped off his face.
“That was fucking awesome,” Johnny said. There was a sexy growl to his already sexy British accent.
“Yeah, it was,” Holly said. “Wait a second.”
Holly reached around till she found her purse. As she expected, her cell phone was missing. Her lipstick was still there, which meant the Society of Ruthless Journalists were just as sloppy as she had come to expect.
A turn of the lipstick base and a small acetylene torch flared to life. Sitting next to her was Johnny Jones. His face was soaked.
“Bloody hell,” Johnny said.
“It’ll take a few seconds to cut through the train car,” Holly said. She went to work on their escape.
“And you had this the whole time?” Johnny said.
“Of course,” Holly said. “I just wanted to sit on my idol’s face first. If we escaped, you might have done something silly like try to file your story first.”
“Makes sense,” Johnny said. He pulled something out of his sock. “It was why I was holding off on activating my emergency tracker.”
Holly laughed. “How long will it take for a rescue?”
“Ten minutes I except,” Johnny said.
Holly nodded. “Once we get out into the moonlight, let’s see how fast I can suck you off before help arrives.”
“Ye-haw,” Johnny said in a terrible Texas accent.
“Wow, don’t ever say that again,” Holly said.
“Sorry,” Johnny said.
Holly Valentine opened her eyes. It was pitch dark except for the tiny amount of moonlight coming from the ceiling of wherever she was. The floor underneath her felt like metal. The smell of chloroform made her nauseous.
“Who the fuck uses chloroform these days?” Holly groaned. She sat up and her head swam. At least, she thought everything swam; it was hard to tell in the dark.
“I know, right?” someone said close to her. He had a sexy British accent, like James Bond about to get laid. “There are at least seven other more effective drugs to incapacitate someone.”
“Come now, chloroform is a classic,” the voice on top said. He had a similar British accent but his accent was more uptight butler.
“Oh shit, that’s right,” Holly said. “I’m in Britain. I was covering the phone hacking scandal where all those shit reporters hacked people’s phones to get their stories. Fuck, chloroform messes with a girl’s head.”
“Hey!” the voice on top said. “We are not shit reporters! You are talking to a member of the Society of Ruthless Journalists! And you, my American tramp, have been captured and will be disposed of!”
“The who to the what now? Holly said.
“The Society of Ruthless Journalists is a centuries old organization,” the sexy voice beside her said. “They dig up dirt and splash it on their front pages but never dirt on their corporate masters. No, they only exploit the rich and famous who offend the corporate line.”
“Oh, we just call them cable news people where I come from,” Holly said.
“Right, now that we made introductions,” the voice above them said. “Here’s how it goes. You are in an abandoned train car in the middle of a deserted quarry. No one will hear your cries for help. You will die of starvation while me and my mates tell the world that you two eloped and went on a whirlwind honeymoon. There may be sex with donkeys included in the story. We’ll make a mint selling papers about your sordid sex lives while you die here and incidentally, don’t do anymore investigating into the phone hacking business. I get a promotion and maybe an editor’s position and Bob’s your uncle, understand?”
“Wait? You’re going to kill an American reporter just to cover your dirty work?” Holly said.
“Love, you ain’t the first batch of bodies this night,” the voice said. “Right, goodbye. And you too, Johnny!”
The opening sealed above them. Holly heard the sound of the man climbing down the side of the car. She also heard him curse a little as he fell.
“That’s it?” Holly said. It was so dark that Holly couldn’t see her hands but she knew her fellow captive could hear her. “They didn’t even tie me up. I mean, they expect us to die of starvation? Shit, they didn’t even add some poison gas or maybe fill the cart with water? This is a terrible excuse for a deathtrap.”
“They are shit reporters,” the voice said.
The British accent sent a shiver down Holly’s spine. “Wait, I know that voice. He called you Johnny. Are you Johnny Jones? The reporter giving the phone hacking so much coverage right now?”
“Yes, miss,” the voice said. “I am assuming by your colorful language and defiant tone that you are Holly Valentine, reporter for INX?”
“Holy shit!” Holly said. “I am such a big fan of yours! That expose you wrote on subliminal advertising in singing competitions was awesome!”
“Thank you, Miss Valentine,” Johnny said. “I found your piece on HMO’s and their price jacking to be brilliant. Simply brilliant.”
“Damn, I wish there was some light in here,” Holly said. “I finally get to meet a colleague that I like and I am stuck in the dark.”
“Yes, at least we will be spared the indignity of looking badly while we die,” Johnny said.
“So, these reporters really will leave us to die?” Holly asked.
“Oh yes,” Johnny said. “The Society is made up of lazy reporters but they have a long history of killing. They once kidnapped and tortured a woman just to make her soccer player husband give then an interview. Death is old hat to them.”
Holly sat on that information for a few minutes. “Mr. Jones?” Holly said.
“Please, call me Johnny,” he said.
“Okay, Johnny. And please call me Holly. I wonder if you could do something for me?”
“Certainly Holly. Are you cold? I don’t have my jacket but perhaps my shirt could give you comfort.”
“No, I’m not cold,” Holly said. “I was wondering, since we are going to die here and all, if you could help me fulfill a lifelong dream?”
There was a pause. “I don’t think I have much in my power at the moment to grant wishes, Holly.”
“Actually, my dream was to sit on the face of a reporter that I admire,” Holly said.
“Oh,” Johnny said.
“Since we are going to die and all,” Holly said.
“Beastly business that,” Johnny said. “In the interest of global cooperation among colleagues and granting the wish of a condemned woman, I can not help but comply.”
“Right-o!” Holly said in her best British accent.
“Right, and don’t do that ever again,” Johnny said.
“Sorry,” Holly said. “It’s hard. You hear all these accents and you just want to join in.” She crawled in the darkness towards his voice.
“True, I have a friend who does a Texas accent every time he watches your cop shows,” Johnny said.
She found him. Broad shoulders, some slight stubble on his face and an interesting crooked nose. She pushed him gently down to the metal floor.
“You were serious about sitting on my face?” Johnny said. “I thought that might be some American phrase.”
“I’m a good reporter, I tell the truth,” Holly said.
Holly was wearing a pair of green panties when she was captured but she discarded them now in record time. Thank God that she was wearing a skirt. It was a bit chilly and Holly was glad for every bit of warmth she could get. In a moment, she planned to get a lot of it.
She climbed onto Jimmy’s head. The British hunk was on his back and his hands guided her onto him. Fingers that had typed the downfall of the rich and powerful pushed her ass right where it needed to be.
The first contact of tongue against her sex was electric. Holly moaned as his tongue worked its way inside her. She gripped his hair and pressed against him. Fact to cunt, she was right where she wanted to be.
It was cold in the train car but it was so damn hot between Holly’s thighs. The car blocked the sounds of the outside world so that the only thing she could hear was the sound of his tongue lapping away at her. She stared as hard as she could into the darkness and tried to see even a glimmer of the delight occurring beneath her.
Johnny’s fingers grabbed her ass. She moaned as he held onto her. Johnny was pulling her harder against his, trying to get more of her into his mouth. He moaned and she felt every moan on her sex.
Holly wanted to return the favor but it felt too fucking good to move. She couldn’t believe that her favorite reporter was eating her out like she was his last meal. Well, she kind of was but that wasn’t important. What mattered was staying right here and enjoying his mouth. If she moved, it might dispel this wonderful dreamlike that she was in.
It didn’t take her long. Hell, she had been clenching ever since she first heard his voice in the train car. She was wet, horny and eager. She would have climaxed if she had just ridden his nose but no, Johnny Jones had to be an excellent pussy licker as well. She had one more talent of his to admire.
“Brilliant!” Holly cried out. She climaxed on Johnny’s face. Her thighs clenched around him and she humped his face as she rode her orgasm. Johnny, being the excellent reporter that he was, kept licking till the job was done.
“Oh, that was awesome,” Holly said as she slumped off his face.
“That was fucking awesome,” Johnny said. There was a sexy growl to his already sexy British accent.
“Yeah, it was,” Holly said. “Wait a second.”
Holly reached around till she found her purse. As she expected, her cell phone was missing. Her lipstick was still there, which meant the Society of Ruthless Journalists were just as sloppy as she had come to expect.
A turn of the lipstick base and a small acetylene torch flared to life. Sitting next to her was Johnny Jones. His face was soaked.
“Bloody hell,” Johnny said.
“It’ll take a few seconds to cut through the train car,” Holly said. She went to work on their escape.
“And you had this the whole time?” Johnny said.
“Of course,” Holly said. “I just wanted to sit on my idol’s face first. If we escaped, you might have done something silly like try to file your story first.”
“Makes sense,” Johnny said. He pulled something out of his sock. “It was why I was holding off on activating my emergency tracker.”
Holly laughed. “How long will it take for a rescue?”
“Ten minutes I except,” Johnny said.
Holly nodded. “Once we get out into the moonlight, let’s see how fast I can suck you off before help arrives.”
“Ye-haw,” Johnny said in a terrible Texas accent.
“Wow, don’t ever say that again,” Holly said.
“Sorry,” Johnny said.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Victory at First Draft
This weekend I finished the first draft of the Violatrix novel. That is some sort of a record for me. By my sloppy notes, I think I started writing on June 23rd, and I wrapped it up on Juy 16th. That is less than a month with 16 chapters to show for it. Not fucking bad at all.
It helps that I spent a year thinking about this story. I had a rough idea for a bdsm starship and way back in August 2010, I made my first attempt at an outline. I still had the Island Princess book to finish, and then I had inspiration for Pusse' and Cox and wanted to act on it. The Violatrix was the project I kept punting on, thinking I would get to it later. After punting it a few times, I began to wonder if I really wanted to write it.
That might be a bit hard for readers to understand. As a writer, I can love the idea of a book I want to read but it might not be something I want to write. I'd love to read the erotic adventures of Irene Adler for example, but the thought of writing Victorian mystery erotica is just beyond my ability. It would be too much work for it to be fun. I began to fear that maybe I was subconsciously avoiding the Violatrix.
The best cure for a fear is confronting it head on. I gave myself a buffer of five stories to post on Wednesdays so that I would have 5 weeks of no excuses. I adopted the attitude that writing a first draft that could be revised later was better than writing a first draft that was perfect the first time around. I gave myself permission to make mistakes as long as I was just writing.
So I wrote, I wrote and I wrote some more. The speed required fast decisions. I completely deleted a science character I had in mind because I recognized that he was a personal indulgence on my part that did nothing for the story. One character got red skin because everyone looked a bit too human for my tastes. Another character became part of a royal family.
Often when I write a novel, I go through a phase where I can't stand the story anymore. It is because I am so deep inside the story that I see all the flaws and failed aspirations and no longer see it as a story. I think it also just comes down to exhaustion. I didn't reach that with this story and that is amazing to me. I am sure I will during the revisions but to escape the first draft still fond of it is new for me. I like it.
Another amusing side effect is the havoc that writing this fast played on my ending. On the Violatrix, the crew are the ones most likely to kill each other. I didn't want to fall into the Star Trek trap of eight invincible crew members. I want to shake the cast up with every story if I write this as a series. I had a list of characters to die and by the time I reached the end, I had a new set of characters in mind. I think the speed writing turned the story into an audition. By the time I reached the end, I knew who just didn't click as a character and I never wanted to write again, and I knew the character that was so interesting that they had to die to complete their story arc.
Now it's time to put the book away and work on other things. Like that pirate anthology which I really need to put the finishing touches. Shit, I also don't have a story for this Wednesday. At this point, the idea of someone else writing that short story would be my idea of porn.
"Oh master, I will be your slave and do anything you want! do you want a blowjob? How about anal? Should I call my sister?"
"Slave, write a short story and make it funny. This I command."
It helps that I spent a year thinking about this story. I had a rough idea for a bdsm starship and way back in August 2010, I made my first attempt at an outline. I still had the Island Princess book to finish, and then I had inspiration for Pusse' and Cox and wanted to act on it. The Violatrix was the project I kept punting on, thinking I would get to it later. After punting it a few times, I began to wonder if I really wanted to write it.
That might be a bit hard for readers to understand. As a writer, I can love the idea of a book I want to read but it might not be something I want to write. I'd love to read the erotic adventures of Irene Adler for example, but the thought of writing Victorian mystery erotica is just beyond my ability. It would be too much work for it to be fun. I began to fear that maybe I was subconsciously avoiding the Violatrix.
The best cure for a fear is confronting it head on. I gave myself a buffer of five stories to post on Wednesdays so that I would have 5 weeks of no excuses. I adopted the attitude that writing a first draft that could be revised later was better than writing a first draft that was perfect the first time around. I gave myself permission to make mistakes as long as I was just writing.
So I wrote, I wrote and I wrote some more. The speed required fast decisions. I completely deleted a science character I had in mind because I recognized that he was a personal indulgence on my part that did nothing for the story. One character got red skin because everyone looked a bit too human for my tastes. Another character became part of a royal family.
Often when I write a novel, I go through a phase where I can't stand the story anymore. It is because I am so deep inside the story that I see all the flaws and failed aspirations and no longer see it as a story. I think it also just comes down to exhaustion. I didn't reach that with this story and that is amazing to me. I am sure I will during the revisions but to escape the first draft still fond of it is new for me. I like it.
Another amusing side effect is the havoc that writing this fast played on my ending. On the Violatrix, the crew are the ones most likely to kill each other. I didn't want to fall into the Star Trek trap of eight invincible crew members. I want to shake the cast up with every story if I write this as a series. I had a list of characters to die and by the time I reached the end, I had a new set of characters in mind. I think the speed writing turned the story into an audition. By the time I reached the end, I knew who just didn't click as a character and I never wanted to write again, and I knew the character that was so interesting that they had to die to complete their story arc.
Now it's time to put the book away and work on other things. Like that pirate anthology which I really need to put the finishing touches. Shit, I also don't have a story for this Wednesday. At this point, the idea of someone else writing that short story would be my idea of porn.
"Oh master, I will be your slave and do anything you want! do you want a blowjob? How about anal? Should I call my sister?"
"Slave, write a short story and make it funny. This I command."
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Fiction: Jack Shadow
A hard working man all his life, Jack Loken was murdered by his corporate bosses for knowing too much. Raised back to life and granted mysterious powers by the enigmatic God in Purple, Jack now steals from the rich and corrupt. He terrorizes the wealthy inhabitants of Comfort Bay as Jack Shadow!
Jack stood at the corner of Hughes and Cho. Before him was the Doch Building, home to the rich and decadently wealthy. It was forty stories of pampered rich people, high tech security and quite a few steroid fuelled security guards. Jack’s goal was the penthouse, home to famous Comfort Bay socialite and gossip queen, Colleen Bulmer.
“Easy as nightfall,” Jack said.
The darkness wrapped around Jack. Shadows pulled from the walls and covered him from head to toe. He stood next to a street lamp but the light avoided him. Instead of a man, there was now only a shifting patch of night.
With a thought, he headed up. It wasn’t the clumsy flight of heroes with their jetpacks or their mutant wings. When Jack flew, he simply moved. One moment he was on the street, and the next he was hurling upwards as fast as the absence of light.
Jack stepped out of the darkness when he reached the penthouse patio. The shadows clung to him, teasing behind him and shrouding him in night. He tried the patio door. It was locked.
“Well, there are super villains around,” Jack whispered to himself. He did a slight turn and suddenly he was as thin as shadow. He sidestepped through the crack in the door and once on the other side, he returned to his normal body.
It was midnight and the lights were off. Jack could see in the dark as easily as he once could see in the day. He looked around for his prize, the legendary Moon Opal necklace, recently purchased by the ridiculously wealthy Colleen Bulmer. He knew a fence that could sell it on the black market for some much needed cash for the homeless shelters of Comfort Bay.
A light turned on. Jack spun on his heels towards the source of the light.
“Here they are,” a woman said from the doorway. It was Colleen, and she was wearing the fabulously expensive necklace around her neck. She also was not wearing anything else. Her full body was shamelessly naked, from her heavy breasts to her wide hips down to her plentiful thighs. Her golden blonde hair was piled delicately above her head in a hairdo that probably cost what some people pay for mortgages. She was a stunning display of decadence.
“Hand them over,” Jack growled. The shadows swirled around him. The room dimmed as he absorbed the light. His hands were sheathed in claws made of midnight.
“No,” Colleen said.
“No?” Jack said with a deeper growl. He came closer, hovering inches above the ground.
“I want you to take them from me,” Colleen said. She had shaking as she spoke. “I have heard of you. Sarah Blochman told me. So did Mary Turner and Victoria Wu.”
Jack of Shadows stopped in mid-air. Oh. Jack was a scary man. He stole from the rich and invaded people’s homes. He violated the sanctity of mansions and desecrated the privacy of the powerful. Men were terrified of him but women? Women tended to be turned on.
“I told them not to tell anyone,” Jack growled. Shadows crept across the floor towards Colleen. The woman stood her ground. There was a bit more fear on her face. Jack liked that.
“They had to tell me,” Colleen said. She took a step back. “They said that you used them. They said that you fucked them like they had never been fucked before. They said that you stole their most valuable possessions, but it was worth it.”
It was true. Rich women liked Jack but Gods help him, he fucking loved them. After years of working in the factory and then cursed to this twilight existence of night and thievery, Jack found that rich women did things to his cock that he never would have imagined.
“Is that why you bought the Moon Opal necklace?” Jack asked. “Is that why you had it shipped from Cairo to your home here? Was it just bait for me?”
“Yes,” Colleen said. “I knew it wou-“
He was on her. He was weightless as his body attached to hers. His hand groped her breast while another hand grabbed her ass like a possession. Her moans were choked by his mouth, stealing kisses from her lips like a bank robber.
She stumbled back. His body was a shadow on hers but he was pushing her. Shadows wrapped around her body, biting and nibbling every inch of her body. The darkness was an extension of him, so it bit her thighs, bit her plump breasts and caressed her wide hips.
Jack let Colleen make it to her bed. She fell backwards on onto it as Jack solidified on top of her. She gasped as his weight pressed down on her. He stopped kissing her so that he could take her nipple into his mouth.
He bit down as hard as he could.
By the God in Purple, he loved real women. In his line of work, he ran into plenty of super heroines with their toned muscular bodies and their asses carved of granite but what he craved was weight. He loved the feeling of soft skin, pliant breasts and thighs that he could lose himself in forever.
Jack released her tit from his mouth. He looked at Colleen’s gasping face in the darkness. She was scared. She was turned on. The Moon Opal Necklace glittered on her chest. She could have spent her money helping people but instead she was buying herself a night of passion.
Jack hated her.
Jack couldn’t wait to fuck her.
He kicked her thighs open though they would have parted if he had asked. He thrust inside her. A touch of shadow and his cock expanded inside her. He watched in delight as Colleen’s body arched from the perfect penetration.
“Oh my God!” Colleen cried.
“Not your God,” Jack snarled. He pumped his hips, thrusting deep and hard into the rich slut’s pussy.
Jack did wonder about his patron. The mysterious God in Purple never explained why he brought Jack back to life and gave him these powers. Jack assumed it was to right wrongs. Certainly it couldn’t be to fuck horny women with too money?
Could it?
Colleen shuddered and Jack forgot all about his patron. He turned his focus back to taking this woman. Shadows slipped out of his body and returned to ravishing her. Tendrils made of darkness wrapped around her ankles and spread her legs apart. Snapping shadows bit her nipples and ample breasts. As his cock thrust into her, another shadow probed into her anus. Jack of Shadows fucked her ass and her pussy with each thrust.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” Colleen cried.
Jack was offended by her bliss. He put his hand over her mouth, the darkness sealing over her mouth better than any gag. Her eyes widened and he suspected that she was enjoying it. Jack decided to pretend that she wasn’t.
He kept fucking her. Her shadows wrapped tighter around her and nibbled wherever his desires directed. He was in her pussy. He was in her ass. As the shadows pushed past her lips, he was even in her mouth.
He fucked her ruthlessly because she was wasteful with her money.
He fucked her ruthlessly because she had the arrogance to lure him here.
He fucked her ruthlessly because she was a big woman and he loved their bodies.
After a time, he came. Supernaturally charged bodies take a while to climax and by the time he was through, the first rays of dawn were sneaking into the bedroom. It had been a long night and Jack had made the most of every second. He was sure that Colleen had climaxed several times but it couldn’t be helped. The important thing was that he came between those lovely thick thighs.
When his cock had drained itself inside her pussy, Jack of Shadows began to drift away. The rising of the sun meant that he would return to his grave, unable to act until nightfall returned. It was a strange life, but the nights more than made up for it. He tore the Moon Opal necklace from her body, carrying with him as he vanished.
As for Colleen, she stayed in bed and tried to catch her breath. Every part of her body had been pinched and bitten. Her ass was tender, her jaw was sore and her pussy ached from a long night of sex. The rich socialite laughed in the empty bedroom as the sun came up. People complained about the crime in Comfort Bay, but some crime was certainly better than others.
Jack stood at the corner of Hughes and Cho. Before him was the Doch Building, home to the rich and decadently wealthy. It was forty stories of pampered rich people, high tech security and quite a few steroid fuelled security guards. Jack’s goal was the penthouse, home to famous Comfort Bay socialite and gossip queen, Colleen Bulmer.
“Easy as nightfall,” Jack said.
The darkness wrapped around Jack. Shadows pulled from the walls and covered him from head to toe. He stood next to a street lamp but the light avoided him. Instead of a man, there was now only a shifting patch of night.
With a thought, he headed up. It wasn’t the clumsy flight of heroes with their jetpacks or their mutant wings. When Jack flew, he simply moved. One moment he was on the street, and the next he was hurling upwards as fast as the absence of light.
Jack stepped out of the darkness when he reached the penthouse patio. The shadows clung to him, teasing behind him and shrouding him in night. He tried the patio door. It was locked.
“Well, there are super villains around,” Jack whispered to himself. He did a slight turn and suddenly he was as thin as shadow. He sidestepped through the crack in the door and once on the other side, he returned to his normal body.
It was midnight and the lights were off. Jack could see in the dark as easily as he once could see in the day. He looked around for his prize, the legendary Moon Opal necklace, recently purchased by the ridiculously wealthy Colleen Bulmer. He knew a fence that could sell it on the black market for some much needed cash for the homeless shelters of Comfort Bay.
A light turned on. Jack spun on his heels towards the source of the light.
“Here they are,” a woman said from the doorway. It was Colleen, and she was wearing the fabulously expensive necklace around her neck. She also was not wearing anything else. Her full body was shamelessly naked, from her heavy breasts to her wide hips down to her plentiful thighs. Her golden blonde hair was piled delicately above her head in a hairdo that probably cost what some people pay for mortgages. She was a stunning display of decadence.
“Hand them over,” Jack growled. The shadows swirled around him. The room dimmed as he absorbed the light. His hands were sheathed in claws made of midnight.
“No,” Colleen said.
“No?” Jack said with a deeper growl. He came closer, hovering inches above the ground.
“I want you to take them from me,” Colleen said. She had shaking as she spoke. “I have heard of you. Sarah Blochman told me. So did Mary Turner and Victoria Wu.”
Jack of Shadows stopped in mid-air. Oh. Jack was a scary man. He stole from the rich and invaded people’s homes. He violated the sanctity of mansions and desecrated the privacy of the powerful. Men were terrified of him but women? Women tended to be turned on.
“I told them not to tell anyone,” Jack growled. Shadows crept across the floor towards Colleen. The woman stood her ground. There was a bit more fear on her face. Jack liked that.
“They had to tell me,” Colleen said. She took a step back. “They said that you used them. They said that you fucked them like they had never been fucked before. They said that you stole their most valuable possessions, but it was worth it.”
It was true. Rich women liked Jack but Gods help him, he fucking loved them. After years of working in the factory and then cursed to this twilight existence of night and thievery, Jack found that rich women did things to his cock that he never would have imagined.
“Is that why you bought the Moon Opal necklace?” Jack asked. “Is that why you had it shipped from Cairo to your home here? Was it just bait for me?”
“Yes,” Colleen said. “I knew it wou-“
He was on her. He was weightless as his body attached to hers. His hand groped her breast while another hand grabbed her ass like a possession. Her moans were choked by his mouth, stealing kisses from her lips like a bank robber.
She stumbled back. His body was a shadow on hers but he was pushing her. Shadows wrapped around her body, biting and nibbling every inch of her body. The darkness was an extension of him, so it bit her thighs, bit her plump breasts and caressed her wide hips.
Jack let Colleen make it to her bed. She fell backwards on onto it as Jack solidified on top of her. She gasped as his weight pressed down on her. He stopped kissing her so that he could take her nipple into his mouth.
He bit down as hard as he could.
By the God in Purple, he loved real women. In his line of work, he ran into plenty of super heroines with their toned muscular bodies and their asses carved of granite but what he craved was weight. He loved the feeling of soft skin, pliant breasts and thighs that he could lose himself in forever.
Jack released her tit from his mouth. He looked at Colleen’s gasping face in the darkness. She was scared. She was turned on. The Moon Opal Necklace glittered on her chest. She could have spent her money helping people but instead she was buying herself a night of passion.
Jack hated her.
Jack couldn’t wait to fuck her.
He kicked her thighs open though they would have parted if he had asked. He thrust inside her. A touch of shadow and his cock expanded inside her. He watched in delight as Colleen’s body arched from the perfect penetration.
“Oh my God!” Colleen cried.
“Not your God,” Jack snarled. He pumped his hips, thrusting deep and hard into the rich slut’s pussy.
Jack did wonder about his patron. The mysterious God in Purple never explained why he brought Jack back to life and gave him these powers. Jack assumed it was to right wrongs. Certainly it couldn’t be to fuck horny women with too money?
Could it?
Colleen shuddered and Jack forgot all about his patron. He turned his focus back to taking this woman. Shadows slipped out of his body and returned to ravishing her. Tendrils made of darkness wrapped around her ankles and spread her legs apart. Snapping shadows bit her nipples and ample breasts. As his cock thrust into her, another shadow probed into her anus. Jack of Shadows fucked her ass and her pussy with each thrust.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” Colleen cried.
Jack was offended by her bliss. He put his hand over her mouth, the darkness sealing over her mouth better than any gag. Her eyes widened and he suspected that she was enjoying it. Jack decided to pretend that she wasn’t.
He kept fucking her. Her shadows wrapped tighter around her and nibbled wherever his desires directed. He was in her pussy. He was in her ass. As the shadows pushed past her lips, he was even in her mouth.
He fucked her ruthlessly because she was wasteful with her money.
He fucked her ruthlessly because she had the arrogance to lure him here.
He fucked her ruthlessly because she was a big woman and he loved their bodies.
After a time, he came. Supernaturally charged bodies take a while to climax and by the time he was through, the first rays of dawn were sneaking into the bedroom. It had been a long night and Jack had made the most of every second. He was sure that Colleen had climaxed several times but it couldn’t be helped. The important thing was that he came between those lovely thick thighs.
When his cock had drained itself inside her pussy, Jack of Shadows began to drift away. The rising of the sun meant that he would return to his grave, unable to act until nightfall returned. It was a strange life, but the nights more than made up for it. He tore the Moon Opal necklace from her body, carrying with him as he vanished.
As for Colleen, she stayed in bed and tried to catch her breath. Every part of her body had been pinched and bitten. Her ass was tender, her jaw was sore and her pussy ached from a long night of sex. The rich socialite laughed in the empty bedroom as the sun came up. People complained about the crime in Comfort Bay, but some crime was certainly better than others.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Farmer's Daughter Almanac Call For Recipes
The Farmer's Daughter's Almanac is a book I plan to put out in 2012 at cost. It will feature contributions from anyone who wants to contribute and because it will be at cost, I won't make any money and neither will the contributors. It will be fun though, right? One thing I would like to add is recipes. This is your chance to be your own erotic Paula Dee, pornographic Julia Child or dirty minded Rachel Ray. The food itself doesn't have to be erotic in nature. If you want to give a recipe for pasta salad, that's fine. The running joke is that the recipes are so good that you can be forgiven major transgressions just because it tastes so good.
Example : Sorry I Fucked Your Brother Apple Pie.
I am going to excerpt a recipe from the wonderful t'Sade as a style guide
"The first step is to get all the ingredients somewhere between room temperature. Cheesecake melts together a lot better when everything is warm and pliable. When the cream cheese is as soft as a woman's breast, get ready to turn up the heat."
Now granted, if you are more of a reader as opposed to a writer and just want to send in your divine recipes, go right on ahead. Our team of dirty minded writers can jazz your recipe up and you still get full credit. If you don't want your real name listed, knock yourself out and create your own sexy pseudonym. Have fun with it.
So send in your favorite recipe(s) to shon.richards at gmail.com and for the love of plump asses, please put Farmer or Daughter in the subject line so I will catch it.
*image is from the marvelous Marcus Ranum
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Erotica Threat Level: Three Day Weekend Blue
I am going on a 3-day weekend. I am visiting my mother in North Carolina and will be sure to suffer about a dozen flashbacks from childhood. There may be a trip to the beach involved. I am terribly excited.
I don't think I will have internet for the trip, which is a bit inconceivable. I will be taking the laptop so hopefully I can keep doing my three pages a day.
I have a fraction of an idea that could either be a cute short story or another damn novel. It involves summer. It involves bdsm. The big concern I have is that the last time two times I did summer bdsm stores was BDSM beach and Beach Volleyball Madd-ness. Neither story seemed all that popular and it makes me a smidge hesitant. I'll have to think about it.
You know, I used to think that the biggest crime of erotica writers was their tendency to take a short story idea and stretch it out into a long unnecessary novel with a predictable pornographic path. In other words, the character gets introduced to sex, the character experiments, the character falls in love, the character gets conflicted, and finally a happy orgy. I still feel that way but there is something nice and rich about a novel following one character. I used to call those 'coming of slut' stories and I think they have their place. At 38 years old though, I suspect I should be writing about something else though. If 'coming of slut' is what young people read to feel good about themselves and older people read to get back in touch with your young selves, then what is the sex story of people my age?
I should really not be thinking these thoughts while writing about a space crew trying to murder their captain.
I don't think I will have internet for the trip, which is a bit inconceivable. I will be taking the laptop so hopefully I can keep doing my three pages a day.
I have a fraction of an idea that could either be a cute short story or another damn novel. It involves summer. It involves bdsm. The big concern I have is that the last time two times I did summer bdsm stores was BDSM beach and Beach Volleyball Madd-ness. Neither story seemed all that popular and it makes me a smidge hesitant. I'll have to think about it.
You know, I used to think that the biggest crime of erotica writers was their tendency to take a short story idea and stretch it out into a long unnecessary novel with a predictable pornographic path. In other words, the character gets introduced to sex, the character experiments, the character falls in love, the character gets conflicted, and finally a happy orgy. I still feel that way but there is something nice and rich about a novel following one character. I used to call those 'coming of slut' stories and I think they have their place. At 38 years old though, I suspect I should be writing about something else though. If 'coming of slut' is what young people read to feel good about themselves and older people read to get back in touch with your young selves, then what is the sex story of people my age?
I should really not be thinking these thoughts while writing about a space crew trying to murder their captain.
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Fiction: Release
“Ms. Currie, I require release.”
Claire Currie turned to her boss, Mr. Dillon. He was staring at the cleavage that was rising out of her white blouse. Claire would be the first to admit that her dark breasts were looking fantastic at the moment, but the way that he was licking his lips was entirely unprofessional.
“That poses a problem, Mr. Dillon” Claire said in her brisk British accent. “Considering that we are attending an auction filled with the some of the richest and most powerful book collectors in the world, it may be disadvantageous of us to fuck in front of everyone.”
“Ms. Currie, I am not sure that I give a fuck about what people think about us fucking,” Mr. Dillon said.
Claire realized that this was serious. Mr. Dillon and Claire were employees of the Colette-Ashbee Collection, the world’s greatest collection of erotic books. As people who spend every waking moment reading, purchasing and cataloging books of amazing vice and perversion, hysterical states of arousal were a frequent hazard of the job. Usually it was Claire who was begging for release from Mr. Dillon, but on occasion he did succumb to whatever tawdry book he was currently involved in. When this happened, it was up to Claire to make sure that he achieved release while maintaining his dignity.
“Well, they are still seating people,” Claire said. “I don’t think the auction will begin for another ten minutes. We could find some place to adjourn to, I think.”
“Or I could just push to the ground, flip up your skirt and take you right here,” Mr. Dillon whispered. “As I fuck you, I could take bids from the onlookers for who can enter your mouth.”
Claire blushed; a deep purple coloring her ebony cheeks. She nervously pushed her glasses up. He was her boss. If he ordered it, Claire would do it.
“Or we could go to one of the restrooms and perform a filthy act in a confined space,” Claire said. “Just like in that book we saw yesterday, ‘The Truckstop Slave.’
Mr. Dillon growled. Claire’s panties were soaked in seconds. She knew that growl. He approved.
“Come,” he said.
Mr. Dillon grabbed her wrist and pulled her from the auction room. Claire followed as best she could on four inch heels. The buyers were too concerned with their future purchases to wonder why a man with lust in his eyes was dragging his assistant out of there.
They went straight to one of the many restrooms in the Gunderson Auction House. Because the house catered to the insanely rich and pampered, there was no such thing as a restroom with multiple stalls or toilets. Each restroom was designed for use by one person. This gave the patrons the necessary distance and protection that they needed in order to step into a public place.
It was perfect for what Mr. Dillon needed.
As soon as the door closed, Claire was pushed up against the wall of the bathroom. Before she could respond, Mr. Dillon was kissing her. Claire moaned with surprise. Poor Mr. Dillon must be suffering terribly; he almost never kissed her.
Claire didn’t care. She lost herself in the moment. Her arms wrapped around her boss and she kissed him with the passion of several years under his employ. She kissed him so hard that she worried about stealing his breathe away but there was no danger of that. His passion was endless.
He grabbed at her breasts. As he clamped down painfully on her full bosom, Claire was shocked back into reality. They couldn’t afford to miss the auction. She had to restore Mr. Dillon’s sanity and she had to do it quickly.
She sank down to her knees. Mr. Dillon was reluctant to let her go until she unzipped his pants. As she pulled his cock out, inches from her face, Mr. Dillon surrendered to compulsions as old as bards reciting tales around the camp fire.
He thrust towards her face.
Claire opened her lips and took him. He was so hard and warm in her mouth. She moaned with disappointment. She would rather have this cock inside her cunt. She would rather be bent over the sink while he fucked her with his singular need. Claire wanted to benefit from his lust but alas, she had a boss to protect and a job to perform.
She sucked him. Mr. Dillon didn’t stop thrusting. He grabbed her hair and bucked his hips towards her. He fucked her mouth as Claire did her best to accommodate him. Claire understood that as aroused as Mr. Dillon was, it wasn’t the actual blowjob that he needed as much as the idea of a blowjob. When the lust was upon the librarians, a willing mouth trumped any skill involved.
Claire looked up at Mr. Dillon over her glasses. The need was rising within her as well. It was the kissing that had started it. It was the act of giving her boss what he craved that was driving her need further. Claire’s cunt was soaked and she knew a few fingers could give her the release that she craved as well.
She tried to ask him if she may have release, but the cock in her mouth turned her words to incoherent mumbles. Mr. Dillon kept thrusting.
Time was running out. Claire wanted to come but the auction would begin any second. Restoring Mr. Dillon was the most important task. No matter how much Claire’s body needed it, she had to be a good librarian and focus on the task at hand.
Mr. Dillon climaxed. What little self control he had was enough to keep from crying out. His cock emptied burst after burst of seed into Claire’s swallowing mouth. She stayed in position and kept sucking until she was sure that he was done.
“Excellent,” Mr. Dillon said softly. “I feel much better now. In the future I will have to refrain from reading Spanish erotica before social functions.”
Claire smiled and wiped an errant strand of seed from her lips. “That might be for the best, sir.”
“Come, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said as he zipped up. “We have an auction to attend and I will not be late due to your dallying.”
Claire sighed. That answered the question of whether he would give her a minute to bring herself off. That was okay. She wasn’t in bad as a state as he was.
After she stood up, Mr. Dillon paused before opening the door. He had his back to her.
“Thank you, Claire,” he said. “I needed that.”
“It was my happy duty,” Claire said. She realized that she treasured his thanks more than any physical release.
Claire Currie turned to her boss, Mr. Dillon. He was staring at the cleavage that was rising out of her white blouse. Claire would be the first to admit that her dark breasts were looking fantastic at the moment, but the way that he was licking his lips was entirely unprofessional.
“That poses a problem, Mr. Dillon” Claire said in her brisk British accent. “Considering that we are attending an auction filled with the some of the richest and most powerful book collectors in the world, it may be disadvantageous of us to fuck in front of everyone.”
“Ms. Currie, I am not sure that I give a fuck about what people think about us fucking,” Mr. Dillon said.
Claire realized that this was serious. Mr. Dillon and Claire were employees of the Colette-Ashbee Collection, the world’s greatest collection of erotic books. As people who spend every waking moment reading, purchasing and cataloging books of amazing vice and perversion, hysterical states of arousal were a frequent hazard of the job. Usually it was Claire who was begging for release from Mr. Dillon, but on occasion he did succumb to whatever tawdry book he was currently involved in. When this happened, it was up to Claire to make sure that he achieved release while maintaining his dignity.
“Well, they are still seating people,” Claire said. “I don’t think the auction will begin for another ten minutes. We could find some place to adjourn to, I think.”
“Or I could just push to the ground, flip up your skirt and take you right here,” Mr. Dillon whispered. “As I fuck you, I could take bids from the onlookers for who can enter your mouth.”
Claire blushed; a deep purple coloring her ebony cheeks. She nervously pushed her glasses up. He was her boss. If he ordered it, Claire would do it.
“Or we could go to one of the restrooms and perform a filthy act in a confined space,” Claire said. “Just like in that book we saw yesterday, ‘The Truckstop Slave.’
Mr. Dillon growled. Claire’s panties were soaked in seconds. She knew that growl. He approved.
“Come,” he said.
Mr. Dillon grabbed her wrist and pulled her from the auction room. Claire followed as best she could on four inch heels. The buyers were too concerned with their future purchases to wonder why a man with lust in his eyes was dragging his assistant out of there.
They went straight to one of the many restrooms in the Gunderson Auction House. Because the house catered to the insanely rich and pampered, there was no such thing as a restroom with multiple stalls or toilets. Each restroom was designed for use by one person. This gave the patrons the necessary distance and protection that they needed in order to step into a public place.
It was perfect for what Mr. Dillon needed.
As soon as the door closed, Claire was pushed up against the wall of the bathroom. Before she could respond, Mr. Dillon was kissing her. Claire moaned with surprise. Poor Mr. Dillon must be suffering terribly; he almost never kissed her.
Claire didn’t care. She lost herself in the moment. Her arms wrapped around her boss and she kissed him with the passion of several years under his employ. She kissed him so hard that she worried about stealing his breathe away but there was no danger of that. His passion was endless.
He grabbed at her breasts. As he clamped down painfully on her full bosom, Claire was shocked back into reality. They couldn’t afford to miss the auction. She had to restore Mr. Dillon’s sanity and she had to do it quickly.
She sank down to her knees. Mr. Dillon was reluctant to let her go until she unzipped his pants. As she pulled his cock out, inches from her face, Mr. Dillon surrendered to compulsions as old as bards reciting tales around the camp fire.
He thrust towards her face.
Claire opened her lips and took him. He was so hard and warm in her mouth. She moaned with disappointment. She would rather have this cock inside her cunt. She would rather be bent over the sink while he fucked her with his singular need. Claire wanted to benefit from his lust but alas, she had a boss to protect and a job to perform.
She sucked him. Mr. Dillon didn’t stop thrusting. He grabbed her hair and bucked his hips towards her. He fucked her mouth as Claire did her best to accommodate him. Claire understood that as aroused as Mr. Dillon was, it wasn’t the actual blowjob that he needed as much as the idea of a blowjob. When the lust was upon the librarians, a willing mouth trumped any skill involved.
Claire looked up at Mr. Dillon over her glasses. The need was rising within her as well. It was the kissing that had started it. It was the act of giving her boss what he craved that was driving her need further. Claire’s cunt was soaked and she knew a few fingers could give her the release that she craved as well.
She tried to ask him if she may have release, but the cock in her mouth turned her words to incoherent mumbles. Mr. Dillon kept thrusting.
Time was running out. Claire wanted to come but the auction would begin any second. Restoring Mr. Dillon was the most important task. No matter how much Claire’s body needed it, she had to be a good librarian and focus on the task at hand.
Mr. Dillon climaxed. What little self control he had was enough to keep from crying out. His cock emptied burst after burst of seed into Claire’s swallowing mouth. She stayed in position and kept sucking until she was sure that he was done.
“Excellent,” Mr. Dillon said softly. “I feel much better now. In the future I will have to refrain from reading Spanish erotica before social functions.”
Claire smiled and wiped an errant strand of seed from her lips. “That might be for the best, sir.”
“Come, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said as he zipped up. “We have an auction to attend and I will not be late due to your dallying.”
Claire sighed. That answered the question of whether he would give her a minute to bring herself off. That was okay. She wasn’t in bad as a state as he was.
After she stood up, Mr. Dillon paused before opening the door. He had his back to her.
“Thank you, Claire,” he said. “I needed that.”
“It was my happy duty,” Claire said. She realized that she treasured his thanks more than any physical release.
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Halfway There
After twelve days of writing, I am at the mid point of my Violatrix novel. Holy shit. How did that happen? Who knew that not having a job would give you so much writing time?
Part of my success came from just writing the damn thing. I keep writing, even when I am not 100% confident in where it is going. I can clean it up in the second draft. The important thing is that there is no second draft without a first draft, so I keep writing like a mother fucker.
The other part of my success is that I built up a buffer of short stories for posting on Wednesdays. I am really understanding how much time goes into just thinking of a concept for a short story much less writing it. I have been averaging a chapter a day where as my normal story average is 1.5 stories a week.
Which makes me wonder if the time involved in writing short stories for free is time well spent. The short stories become testing chambers for my ideas and the novels are my ideas refined and expanded, but when I post a story and get that tiny amount of comments on it, it makes me wonder if I should have just spent that time making a book where I get some tiny financial reward. It is certainly on my mind.
Of course, halfway done with a novel is still not done. I got to write and I am going on a 3 day trip this weekend so that will certainly kill my momentum. The upside to writing this fast is that I have not become sick of the subject matter or the story itself yet (I'm looking at you, Island Princess). I just want to record this happy moment of novel writing bliss while I still love the story.
Part of my success came from just writing the damn thing. I keep writing, even when I am not 100% confident in where it is going. I can clean it up in the second draft. The important thing is that there is no second draft without a first draft, so I keep writing like a mother fucker.
The other part of my success is that I built up a buffer of short stories for posting on Wednesdays. I am really understanding how much time goes into just thinking of a concept for a short story much less writing it. I have been averaging a chapter a day where as my normal story average is 1.5 stories a week.
Which makes me wonder if the time involved in writing short stories for free is time well spent. The short stories become testing chambers for my ideas and the novels are my ideas refined and expanded, but when I post a story and get that tiny amount of comments on it, it makes me wonder if I should have just spent that time making a book where I get some tiny financial reward. It is certainly on my mind.
Of course, halfway done with a novel is still not done. I got to write and I am going on a 3 day trip this weekend so that will certainly kill my momentum. The upside to writing this fast is that I have not become sick of the subject matter or the story itself yet (I'm looking at you, Island Princess). I just want to record this happy moment of novel writing bliss while I still love the story.
Friday, July 01, 2011
Grabbag Pot Luck Post
I am elbow deep in writing my Violatrix novel, which is a funny coincidence because one of my characters is trying to get elbow deep into another character.
Since I have nothing sexy to share with you, I will share some writing wisdom.
Hands down, the most inspiring thing I have read in ages about writing is 25 Things You should know about writing a novel (or how the lunatic writes a book) You need to read this. I already knew most of these but never have I seen it so well articulated. It is like the crusty bitter writing coach I always wanted. It is written by Chuck Wendig, who to my knowledge is neither crusty nor bitter, but he may be my new messiah.
I worshiped at the altar of Chuck Wendig until he wrote this other article Strangling Mermaids: More writing myths that need to die. Now I hate him because I am so jealous of this article. Fuck, I have been thinking it for years but never really put it all together.
Especially this bit,
Does that mean I’ve never been surprised by my characters? Of course I’ve been surprised by my characters. But I don’t attribute it to them being real. Instead, I high-five my subconscious mind and say, “Nicely done, part of my brain, I approve of your decision.” I mean, it’s not like comic book writers are like, “Yeah, I don’t know why Superman just took a Kryptonian Super-Shit on Hawkman. It’s just, hey, that’s Superman. I don’t control him. That crazy motherfucker does what he wants. The underwear on the outside? His idea.”
So yeah, check out Chuck's blog. Leave him offerings and sacrifices.
In vanity news, Darius Whiteplume wrote a wonderful review of The Colette-Ashbee Collection which he liked. I have been writing for ages but it always blows my mind when someone I know happens to like my stories. I am especially happy to see the Colette-Ashbee book get some love because it contains a novella length mystery story and I was always curious how it stacked up with other mysteries. I don't get much fhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifeedback for books so there is often that niggling doubt.
With my new found free time, I have gotten around to organizing more of my stuff. Like any blogger, I am compelled to share this with you. I started a Tumblr called "Stuff That I Own" where I discuss stuff that I own. It also gives me a chance to discuss artists and creative types that I have dealt with as well as less than honorable sellers. Since I can't invite all of you to my house to show it to you personally, this Tumblr will have to do.
Finally, I leave you with my latest audio obsession, the supernatural Lykke Li.
Since I have nothing sexy to share with you, I will share some writing wisdom.
Hands down, the most inspiring thing I have read in ages about writing is 25 Things You should know about writing a novel (or how the lunatic writes a book) You need to read this. I already knew most of these but never have I seen it so well articulated. It is like the crusty bitter writing coach I always wanted. It is written by Chuck Wendig, who to my knowledge is neither crusty nor bitter, but he may be my new messiah.
I worshiped at the altar of Chuck Wendig until he wrote this other article Strangling Mermaids: More writing myths that need to die. Now I hate him because I am so jealous of this article. Fuck, I have been thinking it for years but never really put it all together.
Especially this bit,
Does that mean I’ve never been surprised by my characters? Of course I’ve been surprised by my characters. But I don’t attribute it to them being real. Instead, I high-five my subconscious mind and say, “Nicely done, part of my brain, I approve of your decision.” I mean, it’s not like comic book writers are like, “Yeah, I don’t know why Superman just took a Kryptonian Super-Shit on Hawkman. It’s just, hey, that’s Superman. I don’t control him. That crazy motherfucker does what he wants. The underwear on the outside? His idea.”
So yeah, check out Chuck's blog. Leave him offerings and sacrifices.
In vanity news, Darius Whiteplume wrote a wonderful review of The Colette-Ashbee Collection which he liked. I have been writing for ages but it always blows my mind when someone I know happens to like my stories. I am especially happy to see the Colette-Ashbee book get some love because it contains a novella length mystery story and I was always curious how it stacked up with other mysteries. I don't get much fhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifeedback for books so there is often that niggling doubt.
With my new found free time, I have gotten around to organizing more of my stuff. Like any blogger, I am compelled to share this with you. I started a Tumblr called "Stuff That I Own" where I discuss stuff that I own. It also gives me a chance to discuss artists and creative types that I have dealt with as well as less than honorable sellers. Since I can't invite all of you to my house to show it to you personally, this Tumblr will have to do.
Finally, I leave you with my latest audio obsession, the supernatural Lykke Li.
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