Friday, April 12, 2013

Stormy Days


Thunderstorms have been rumbling their way through Michigan over the last week, a sure sign of spring, with all the theatrics of Mother Earth announcing its imminent arrival. Spring couldn't get here soon enough to suit me, but that's another story.

I love a good noisy storm...and I'm not talking about the kind that wreck a heap of devastation in their wake. Just the average garden variety of thunderstorm... electricity in the air, huge booming sounds and bursts of light. Even the small ones seem to be announcing a monumental event. There's a bit of mystery about a storm, too, a prickly feeling that heightens all the senses, and a little (if not a lot) of fear. It's the kind of excitement that stirs passions, and there's nothing quite like making love during a thunderstorm. I recall years ago when Ken and I were young, getting caught at the lake in his grandfather's cabin as a summer storm moved through. There was nothing to do but ride it out...and what better place than atop the cabin's big brass bed...as the sky darkened until it almost seemed like night, and the thunder roared, the lightning split the air and the rain came down in sheets against the windows. It was an afternoon I'll not forget, not without a smile of fond remembrance and a tickle of arousal as memory brings the eroticism back to me.

It's no wonder that thunderstorms often work their way into my fiction. This week, as I was editing my novel Jocelyn & Alexandra for its impending re-release, the very first scene in the book took me back to that afternoon in the cabin. Though the characters and circumstances I wrote about were very different from that day, that particular thunderstorm feeling was the inspiration for that scene.


From Jocelyn & Alexandra
Too humid a night to sleep, Alex climbed out of bed while Will remained sleeping—he could sleep through a hurricane. There must have been a storm about to burst from the heavens the way the wind whipped the hanging plants on the patio. Walking into the midst of that murky darkness, Alex let the brisk gusts of air rip though her long blonde hair, tossing it about her face. Her silk chemise billowed, the breeze lifting it above her thighs. The atmosphere, so prickly from the impending glut of thunder and rain, produced a present rawness between her legs, as if she was on the verge of something, an anxious brew of sexual heat and chaos building rapidly.

       
Was it just the night, or was it something spookier, like a premonition? Were her stirrings just the foolish meandering of thoughts and pent-up need taking her on the dreaded but familiar paths of sex?


She could think for just a second and see the blinking pink flamingo and the naughty fantasies that drove her to Will and Reggie, and now to what? How easily she created sexual theatrics. As much as her mind and better judgment knew that it was dangerous to be creating anything raunchy now, she was diving deep into all the darkest places where the wild things reigned.


In the distance there was lightning, and the rumbling thunder, and then voices—ones that played in her head, and then another, one reaching into her psyche almost unnoticed until she suddenly sensed another presence on the patio.


“Raise your arms,” it whispered to her.


She complied with her slender arms rising above her head, and either by the wind itself or some unseen hands, the chemise vanished and she presented her naked self to the tempest of a night.


“Your arms behind you,” the voice continued. As she obeyed its command, her hands were clutched by strong masculine ones and bound together with something soft, though softness didn’t alter the fact that she was imprisoned.


The agitation between her thighs changed to warmth, the sensations thus channeled rose up in her, sending lightning strikes into her interior, as sharp and brief and savage as the spears of light that played across the threatening sky. She winced with pain, feeling a sharp sting on her bottom, another and another and then a fierce burn crescendoed. Thrust to the chaise lounge a step away, her shoulders were pressed to the cushioned surface, her ass forced high, her arms still awkwardly useless behind her.


Her attacker had only one desire, access to her ass. Something slick and wet entered her first, before the invading prick filled her full. A wicked oblivious ride commenced even as the storm came closer still, the lightning like some evil master’s charm, the thunder rumbling from hell. Ridden like the devil’s bride into the very blackest place in her soul, Alexandra submitted to the still unseen hands of a masterful servant of her most dreadful desire.


The stinging on her ass continued, the accompaniment to the thrusting force. The burn of it filled her everywhere, adding passion, adding to the tremors that wracked her body. The ruthless taking was not over before she was crying out loudly for some end, though she had no way of knowing if her pleas were intelligible at all. When the raucous wails ceased she was simply crying tears, a heady climax bursting from her as her attacker blessed her with a few delicate strokes to the feminine places where she held her greatest longing.


Pushed down on the lounge when the intruding prick withdrew, she panted noiselessly, a few small whimpers escaping, while the aftereffects of release dwindled away. The storm was almost on her by the nearness of the thunder and the lightning bolts; it was time to escape this place before the rain drenched her.


“Will you sleep now?” the gentle voice asked.


“I hope,” she replied as gently, coming around to her senses again.

       
“Don’t hope, just let yourself have some peace.” The words were demanding even as they attempted to reassure her.


“I’ll try,” she qualified her answer again, as her hands were freed and the well-known assailant lifted her to her feet.


 “I’m glad you woke up,” she told him, looking gratefully into Will’s eyes.


 “You thought I was sleeping?” he asked.


 “You weren’t?”


 “How can I sleep when a storm’s about to strike?” he said.       


 “Sometimes you do,” she reminded him.


 “Not when there’s a storm in you,” he countered. “You’re like trying to sleep with a wildcat.”


 She smiled. “I’m just glad you understand what I need.”


He ran his hand through her hair tenderly, and leading her inside, he closed the patio door and went for the thermostat to turn on the air conditioning, closing out the provocative night. “No more storms, I’ll blindfold you if I have to,” he said wearily. “Now get some sleep.”


It was quieter inside even though the traces of rage outside were still getting inside her bones. As blissful as the orgasmic moment was, the annoying aftermath of her midnight madness was the continuing suspicion that something more was swooping down into her life, some unsuspecting happenstance about to blindside her.

      

Excerpt from Jocelyn & Alexandra
Copyright ©1995 Lizbeth Dusseau

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

In the beginning...

Writing Erotica was a happy accident for me. I've mentioned in many writings (and on this blog) about my first novel Alexandra's Awakening and how that came to be written (in my in-laws back yard during a burgeoning spring). Initially, I thought that first novel was merely therapy. However, with that one story, the dam burst on a whole string of naughty fantasies. Story ideas started arriving regularly, first a slow trickle, but the more I wrote the more the characters, events and settings started to plant themselves inside my brain, and of course, I needed to get them down on paper. Needless to say, I was obsessed.
All of this was before I had a computer...much of my first writing began with pencil and lined yellow notebooks. The text was then typed into a now ancient Brother electric typewriter. (It had a little 3 inch window where I could do small corrections...this was a pretty big advance in the late 1980's.) I must have filled hundreds of yellow notebooks before I finally switched to a computer for my first drafts. But even now, when a story starts to germinate inside my head, I go to pen and paper to jot down notes and flesh out a plot. There's a very practical reason for this...when the stories start to germinate I'm NEVER sitting at my computer (you can extrapolate from there).

The fact that Alex's story sold so quickly to Red Stripe Books was the compelling force behind my second title, The Applicant. (not to be confused with The Applicant II: The Mistress of Sparrowhawk, a later sequel, still in print) While I'm rather fond of story within the The Applicant, I honestly can't stomach reading it. All the early flaws in my writing, from grammar to punctuation to sentence structure leap out at me from the pages and I want to throw the book across the room and never open it again. It must be ten years since I've made any attempt, which makes me wonder if I should take another peek now. Perhaps give the story the same treatment I just recently gave to Alexandra. In this case, it would probably be best to remind myself of the plot then start fresh. There is NO computer copy of the work, likely a good thing, since I wouldn't even attempt to simply "re-edit" the original book. It's the very thought of typing it from the paperback that leaves me squeamish and ready to toss it into the back of my closet, again.

What really bothers me about The Applicant is that the work was my best-selling title in those days, while clearly not the best example of my writing. It was published by Masquerade Books. For those who weren't reading erotica that long ago, Masquerade Books was THE erotica publisher in the US in the late 90s and early 2000's. They folded many years ago, going the way of most traditional erotica book publishers around before the Internet. The novel's publication was quite a coup. I'm still amazed that it was actually accepted for publication and put into print.

The good news is, I learned about writing from writing and reading and writing some more, and reading still more and writing and editing, whew! until the rules for grammar, punctuation and sentence structure finally stuck. (previous sentence aside) Most of my titles I still read with a editing pen in hand, just because I can't help but find something I'd like to tweak, but for the most part I can read and enjoy my stories without first wincing and then racing to the computer to begin editing all over again. 

Because I don't have an excerpt to post from The Applicant, here's one from my third published novel, Member of the Club.
 
Excerpt from Member of the Club


In my fantasies I’m an exhibitionist in revealing clothes; in public places my behavior is indecent. I loved the thought of secret rendezvous and nasty lingerie underneath my proper clothes. Beyond the prim exterior, I have the most submissive thoughts. I imagine myself under the spell of mystery, under the grip of men I hardly know. Were there a club to join like the one my friend Joanna and I whispered about that evening, it would take my deepest dreams and make them real. The only question was how far I’d really go. Did I have the nerve to do the things I imagined? Or was I only kidding myself?

       By the time I reached home at dinner with Joanna, my body was alive. I had thoughts so decadent that I was ashamed of myself for thinking such scandalous things.

       I undressed before a full-length mirror so I could see myself from head to toe. My long brown hair wildly framed my face, descending past my shoulders in kinky curls. This was my one statement of nastiness to the rather stuffy business world where I worked.

       I removed my blouse and gazed at myself, liking the way the darkness of my hair accented my pale creamy skin. Full hips, generous bust, firm belly and small waist—I recalled one lover telling me I was his voluptuous wet-dream. He liked women with flesh he could fondle and maul, whose bodies are ripe for squeezing. 

       I felt my breasts, cupping them in my hands, watching the way they looked when I pushed them together. They were large enough to consider a curse at one time in my life, but I was beginning to find them a real treasure the way they made such a charming cleavage, and spilled out of my bras when I set them free—the way they moved with a sexy jiggle when I didn’t wear any bra at all. As I massaged them, I practiced seductive looks, my eyes turning smoky and obscure.

       My nipples had grown hard, protruding from the softer flesh and turning a deeper shade of purple the more I pinched the little things between my fingers. I pushed one breast to my face, leaned in and kissed it, licked the surface and ran my tongue along the skin seeking the hard nipple so I could caress it with my wet mouth. 

       My body burned hot as I stripped my clothes away, and viewed the firm flesh beneath—my long legs, and the sweet sex mound underneath a pair of tiny pink bikinis.

       My right hand found its way inside my panties where it roamed along my belly to the wetness of my cunt. As a finger slipped inside the delicate folds of flesh, the other hand pushed my panties down so I could see clearly what I was doing. Kicking the clothes away, I stood naked in front of the mirror. My head was spinning from the liquor, my body insisting on its release, while my mind engaged in a drama inside itself. Some delicious sex-charged man would be standing in front of me, pleasured by every move I made. Perhaps there would be two or three or a whole audience of men to perform for.

       Fully naked now, my hands wandered over my hips and down to the creamy softness of my belly; I was an ardent lover. I could almost feel body heat reflecting back on me. Grazing a palm over my pubic mound, I twirled a finger through the fine dark curls and aimed for the sweet pink bud at the tip of my clitoris. Rubbing it gently, I pressed two fingers to the side of the engorged sliver of skin and began rubbing vigorously, sending sudden shock waves of intense, desirous heat though every part of me.

       The waves of pleasure rose and fell, so I could hardly stay on my feet. But I was forced to remain where I was, believing that my cum was a theater for the imaginary guests who used my satiation for their own. They demanded I perform, so I rubbed the hot bud harder, pausing occasionally to let the sensations free. I played the sensuous places, feeling a peak of satisfaction begin to build, and then a wonderful rush of energy as I exploded against my fingers, washing my hand in the nectar.

       The orgasm swept me silly, my body jerking, clenching, cumming hard and wild. A moaning cry escaped my lips, and then receded as I slowly stroked the spent bud and the sensations gently died away. With each new breath I felt the pleasure, a perfect pleasure, remade every time I masturbated—even though those private moments were the same.

       Collapsing to the bed, I let the covers caress my skin and the languid moment last as long as the little fires inside still burst their tiny bursts of erotic fire. It didn’t surprise me that it was not my last orgasm of the evening.

Copyright ©2000 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved