Showing posts with label masturbation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label masturbation. Show all posts
Friday, February 27, 2015
Friday, January 23, 2015
Friday, May 23, 2014
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Friday, May 2, 2014
Spontaneous Combustion: The Novel
"There's the story, then there's the real story, then there's the story of how the story came to be told. Then there's what you leave out of the story. Which is part of the story too." — Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaiden's TaleThe finishing touches on the manuscript of Spontaneous Combustion: The Novel are just about done, and this long labor of love, begun nearly a year ago will be released in print and ebook later this month. My most personal and most true to reality BDSM lifestyle novel. This one has been hard to let go but now it's time, and I'm excited to see it in print at last.
More information and the book description coming soon!
I'm re-posting a piece that I first posted in May of 2013, which is now the prologue for this novel. By the way, the post directly following this one, "I Bring the Collar out at Night" is one of those pieces that I left out of the story.
Spontaneous Combustion
Eleven o’clock, I’m ready for bed. It’s been raining all day, and there’s another storm passing through… thunder, lightning, driving rain. Suddenly the tornado siren in town is going off, and the ‘take cover’ announcement interrupts my TV show. I grab a flashlight, just in case, and fly down to the basement to wait…
Wait
Wait
Wait until the siren dies and I tiptoe back upstairs.
Nothing is damaged, nothing undone.
As I slip off to bed in an attempt to sleep I hear another storm coming through.This one won’t be as severe I am assured by the local weatherman
And yet…left in the wake of that last furious frenzy, my muse strikes like a thunderbolt. It's just a first draft, but here's what poured out...
I want you to tie me to a tree, thrust me against an old tree stump, order me over a table, over the end of the bed.
After yanking down my pants, you draw your leather belt from your jeans …
Doubling it in your fist you begin to flail it against my ass…
Hard
Fast
Until white turns crimson, until my ass is scorched
I’m groaning deeply and crying out for mercy
Ah! But mercy will wait until later…
Until you’ve dropped your belt, unzipped your jeans
Until you’ve rammed your way home inside my cunt
Hard
Fast
I explode and you explode
almost belligerent but strangely beautiful
Like the storm that just passed through on its way to elsewhere
Before you’re done with me you have me in your bed again
Hard
Fast
Inside my ass this time, driving through like a man possessed
I explode and you explode again
And then…
When the fury dies you hold me, you kiss my lips and run your hands over my
sweaty skin.
Hurts are healed, a day’s worth of trouble forgotten
Worry quits is anxious grip
And wounds bound up in tenderness are carried away by love
In the long twilight thereafter we stretch out in each other’s arms
Later in the evening, I sit at your feet and rest my head against your knee.
Unpublished Copyright © 2013, Lizbeth Dusseau
Friday, April 11, 2014
I bring the collar out at night...
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Thursday, February 6, 2014
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.
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
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
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