Blogging as Natalie Dae today over at Three Wicked Writers Plus Two. Contemplation. What makes you stop and pause?
WordPress appear to have changed the way you link. It’s annoying and not working for me. So here you go: http://threewickedwriters.blogspot.com/2010/11/contemplation.html
After Lee leaves hospital to further recover from being shot, Ryan takes them on a long weekend. They stay in a hotel and enjoy one another’s company, taking strolls on the beach and eating in the local pub. During one beach walk, one of their old adversaries shows up, letting Ryan and Lee know in no uncertain terms that the gang leader hasn’t finished with them yet.
Ryan has always brushed off the fact that some people are anti-gay, but now he is forced to accept that as much as he wishes people would just leave them alone, you don’t always get what you wish for.
Drawn to the attic in her new home, Amelia finds a saucy nineteenth-century wench dress. At first glance, it’s just a dress, but once she dons it, desire streaks through her and she’s transported to the past. Overwhelmed by lust, she is caught pleasuring herself, discovered by the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen, who turns out to be—her lover?
Amelia and Emmet join in an explosive sexual union, erasing the months—or is it centuries?—they have been apart as though they never existed. But suddenly Amelia awakes—alone.
Until the dress calls again.
Emmett’s not the only one lusting after Amelia. Lord Graham wants her and he doesn’t fight fair. He kidnaps her, sends Emmett on a deadly errand and forces Amelia to participate in his voyeuristic games. Although Amelia’s body betrays her, she vows to remain true to Emmett, but will he return? And can she escape the clutches of Lord Graham’s debauchery?
Amidst subterfuge, treachery and murder, Amelia and Emmet’s love grows and they reach new heights of carnal passions.
Emmett ignored her, only sliding his hands to span her stomach. His mouth covered one nipple, teeth lightly nipping, and the shock nearly had her opening her eyes. He sucked, tugging on the taut peak the way she liked, as she knew he would. She cried out, almost reaching her pain threshold. Emmett eased the pressure a little, then sucked and reared his head back once more, the torment too much for her, too intense.
He let her nipple go. It ached, and despite wanting the sweet torture to end, she longed for more. As though picking up on her thoughts, he tongued her nipple, sucking it as before. Amelia clasped her hands together tighter, wanting to cry out yet at the same time testing herself to see how far she could go. He pulled harder, his fingers stroking her waist, circling her navel, and she clenched her cunt, willed herself not to gasp.
She failed, snatching in air.
Breast free of his mouth, she lifted her pelvis, needing him to cater to her throbbing bud. The mattress dipped again as he shuffled his knees farther down the bed then settled between her legs, the heat of his breath on her slit forcing the air out of her lungs. Her torso juddered beneath his questing fingers and she itched to pinch her nipples. Instead, she squeezed her hands again. His tongue parted her. The tip swirled around her nub and a blaze of sensation warmed the folds.
“Oh God, Emmett…”
“I’m going to sup your cream. Lick you, make you want me so much you can’t breathe.”
He flattened his tongue, licking her with quick strokes, fingers smoothing down her body to widen her slit. She bucked as he worked faster, exquisite waves of pleasure ebbing and flowing in and around her bud. Panting, she writhed, unclasping her hands and gripping the headboard spindles. She dug her nails into her palms, the bite adding to her excitement. Tongue flicking from side to side, Emmett brought her to the brink of orgasm then stopped, kissing her mound and her lower belly. She hissed out between clenched teeth, frustrated but knowing when he touched her there again the pleasure would be stronger. He took his mouth from her belly and didn’t move. She waited, eyes still closed, and listened to the sounds around them—their breaths, a creaking bed downstairs, faint moans from customers, footsteps on the wooden floor below. She longed to open her eyes, to see whether he studied her, but at the same time not knowing suited her. And she waited, her heart picking up speed, her wet nub throbbing in time with it. God, how she wanted to let go and slide her hands into his hair, pushing his mouth down onto her slit, directing his movements and orchestrating the pressure. To tell him to sup her now, beg if she had to. But she remained silent, confident he knew exactly when to begin again.
At last, movement! He hooked his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her, setting her lower half on his thighs. His balls rested against her ass, their softness and warmth arousing her beyond measure. Emmett brushed his hands up and down her legs, thumbs skating close to her thatch each time he reached the top. When he drew away she almost cried out in frustration, wanting more of the touch of his fingertips beside her mound. He leaned back to caress her shins, then her calves and she loosed a strangled moan. God, he teased her so! She needed his hands higher up, at her nub, which pulsed and swelled with every passing second. Sliding his hands beneath her knees, he pushed so her legs bent and she placed her feet beside him on the bed. He spread her legs and she could only imagine the sight of herself open for his viewing.
“Beautiful, wench. Beautiful.”
Her stomach flipped at the hoarseness of his voice, a voice that belied the fact he was in control. He was close, she sensed it, and it wouldn’t be long before he could hold back no longer and plunged inside her. She hoped it would be soon, because she was close to coming herself. The slowness of his actions had brought her to a high state of arousal, and just the slightest touch now might send her over the edge.
Thumbs sliding up and down each lip of her slit, Emmett tortured Amelia some more. She jolted, eyes nearly springing open, and waited to feel what he would do next. He placed his thumbs together then glided them down to her opening, easing them inside with his fingers splayed over her mound. He pressed his thumbs and fingers together, her pelvic bone in between, and moved his thumbs up and down the upper wall of her sheath. Suddenly, he curved his thumb tips and touched something deep inside her, a place he had never been before. A sharp sensation had her abdomen jerking and she almost, almost opened her eyes.
“Did you like that?” he asked, dragging his thumbs down then returning them to that place, pressing there with his fingers.
The sensation came again, and now he concentrated on the area, rubbing what felt like a ridge inside her. She nodded, wondering what would happen if he kept stroking. Amelia didn’t have to wait long before successive shots of fierce pleasure momentarily took away her ability to breathe.
“I told you I’d take away your breath. Good. That feels good, doesn’t it, wench?”
She nodded and gasped, riding out the new feelings his thumbs produced. As the bite receded, her bud still throbbing and in need of attention, he eased his thumbs out and gripped her waist. Without warning, he thrust his cock inside her, fucking her hard and fast. She clenched her sheath around him, gripped the bed spindles tighter and gave in to the rising tide.
“Ah, wench!” he ground out.
His firm thrusts nudged her up the bed and she crossed her ankles at his lower back, her whole body tingling with excitement. Juices coated his cock, the length of him gliding in and out easily, the aroma of sex heightening her desire. She came, bucking, keening, emotions running so high they overwhelmed her with their intensity. Emmett’s low moans and grunts brought on another wave of pleasure and her cunt ached with it. Wet heat filled her and her lover loosed a strangled yell, pushing into her with short jabs as he emptied himself into her contracting sheath. He slowed to a stop and lowered his body to hers, brushing her cheeks with sweet kisses.
Amelia opened her eyes, staring into his. Love shone from him and she wanted so much to tell him how she felt, but the words wouldn’t come, halted by the lump in her throat.
I love you, Emmett Dray. Love you…
Today I’m blogging at Four Strong Women about the trials and tribulations regarding waxing…
I’m also at Three Wicked Writers Plus Two sharing an emotional moment between myself and my seven-year-old daughter.
Have a great day!
I wrote a book once about sayings, and the main character wondered where they came from. Yesterday, I revisited a site I went to about the origin of sayings and it gave me an idea… Want to play a game? It’s called “Fill in the blanks”. Let’s try and create some really funny new sayings, just because we can, just because it’s childish and fun to be immature sometimes, and just…well, just because. You know, kind of like: What the hell. It’s insane to play this game, I really wouldn’t normally, but it’s Friday, for God’s sake, and I fancy being silly.
Before the game, though, here are some interesting (I hope!) facts on adages, the originals on THIS SITE:
Getting out of the wrong side of bed
Apparently, this saying comes from way back when, when many children shared the one bed. When one got up, having to climb over all the others, it woke those still sleeping, causing them to be in a bad mood. I can agree with that. Imagine those poor little buggers being clambered over. Yes, I’d be pretty naffed off too. An elbow in the temple or a knee to the groin isn’t my idea of waking up happy.
To let the cat out of the bag
I like this one. Apparently, in medieval England, piglets were sold and given away in bags. Most probably sacks. Off you go to market, thinking, “I’m going to buy a little piggy today. I could fair do with a pork chop for my dinner!” only to get home and find a cat in it instead. Enraged, the next time you go to market, you check in the bag, make sure your little piggy is inside. If you see a cat again, that’s it! You’ve let the cat out of the bag. Love it!
On the wallaby
On the bloody what? I’ve never heard of this one, but many Australians might have. It refers to men from years ago who trekked through Australia looking for a job. It possibly means they jumped from town to town, much a like a wallaby, although that image leaves me a tad disturbed. I can’t imagine men holding their hands up together in front of their chests, fingers curved, and jumping around. Then again, I’m quite a literal person, possibly insane, so this image popping into my head doesn’t surprise me.
And now for the game! Fill in the blanks with as many words as you like to make a new adage:
Good things come to those who __________
A problem shared is ___________
Practice makes _________
Come on! Make me laugh with your new adages!
After twelve days of writing like a loon, my first m/m novel, Scared, came in at 67K. It’s one of those books that, as soon as the plot formed, I had the urge to keep going until it was done. No stops, no procrastinating. I had the plan to write a 3K chapter every day, but obviously some days went to two or three chapters. I wrote it arse-backwards all the way, skipping chapters so the loudest characters got their say first, then went back to fill in the ones who didn’t have the courage to bully me into writing their parts. Bless them.
There are six main characters, something I didn’t expect when I started. Originally it was meant to be a novel about Toby and Russell from my short story Grave Findings, expanding on that book and what happened after that one ended. Whoa, lots happened, and a small part of Grave Findings, where Toby stops a couple of men harassing a young boy, turned into the basis of the plot in Scared. Boys abducted in order to be sold on in the sex trafficking trade.
It isn’t a pleasant subject, and I’m praying I handled it well, but it’s something that has bothered me for a long time. I read a true-crime book once, that stated more boys are abducted than girls, just for this purpose. It’s shocking and frightening, and when you delve into this terrible world, you realise there’s so much nasty stuff going on right under your nose.
Tomorrow I’ll be going through the book again from start to finish, making sure, because of me skipping chapters, everything runs in sequence and makes sense. The second draft also gives me the opportunity to add extras, things I tend to skimp on with the first draft, because I want to just get the main story down.
I felt lost when I finished. The book has literally controlled my life the past few days, and now maybe I can get to sleep without thinking on what happens next. Unfortunately, I don’t think that will be the case. The bad guy in Scared, “Frost”, decided he has a tale of his own to tell, so don’t be surprised if I do another mad few days writing another novel all about him. But that can wait for a little while. I need to give my poor brain a rest, not to mention my fingertips.
But, ahhhhhhhhhhh, it feels so good to have got that story out of my head and onto the page. I’ve just got to hope readers like it, despite the horrific subject matter. Eep!
Let’s face it, making money as an author, decent money, is something we’d all like to do. However, many people I know who are not in the publishing business are shocked when I tell them how things work. They’d thought that by being an author it meant you were automatically coining it in. This isn’t so. I can’t speak for everyone, because I have a few friends out there making as much money per month as they would by going out to work five days a week. Not so for me and many others I know. It’s just lucky my husband’s prepared to be the worker and that I can stay at home and write because I love it. I tried writing with the making-money-in-mind thing going on, writing what was selling out there, but it took away my creativity by treating it like a job. Doing this works for many people, but in my case it just took the fun out of it. So I’ve gone back to writing because I love it, and if I make big money, that’s fine.
So I got to wondering what the very best-selling ebook authors do to create such high earnings. Do they promote like crazy? Or does their writing/genre appeal to readers and they sell lots of books because of that? And what about promoting when you have no money to pay for ads and, in my case, you’re not comfortable with what feels like ramming your books/brand down people’s throats? I hate promoting. I’m just about happy to put up notices of a new release, and some days I’ve even forgotten about a release day, a subconscious thing, I think, so that I don’t have to announce it. Don’t have to say: Look at me! Buy my book! It doesn’t bother me in the slightest seeing other authors promote. They’re happy doing it, and if they’re not, then I commend them in doing something I can’t seem to bring myself to do.
This probably sounds crazy, and some people would say: Well, if you don’t promote, serves yourself bloody right that you don’t make any money from your work.
I can agree with that to a point, but when I did promote, I didn’t sell many books either.
However, there are people out there who don’t promote yet still make good money, so then I’m back to the idea that some author’s plots, genre, and writing style are what a reader wants. I clearly don’t write in a style the majority of readers require. Readers apparently want something uncomplicated to read in their busy lives. This may well be true, and it may be the kind of thing I need write in order to gain more sales, but come on…what if I don’t want to write that way? What if I’ve tried it and I can’t? What if I’ve tried it and I’m unhappy with the final product because it isn’t me?
So then we’re back to the fact that I’m writing because I love it. I’m not writing to make money or to always pen books for people who don’t have the time or energy to read something a bit more complex/using words and sentence patterns that come across as “too much hard work to read”. I’m writing for me. This may be a stupid business decision, but it’s one I can live with. I’m all about my inner self being happy these days, and if writing for these reasons is what makes me a happier person, someone my kids enjoy being around, then that’s what I’ll do. If the books I’m writing for me just so happen to match what a publisher wants, then that’s a bonus.
I came to another decision lately, and that is to write tales as they want to come out and not manipulate them to fit the market. If the book won’t sell anywhere because it doesn’t have oodles of sex, that doesn’t matter. I’d have written the book as my soul intended, and if it sits in a file forever, or goes out as a free read, then so be it. So, my latest, an m/m I began last week, used to have 4K of sex at the beginning. It used to have a break at Chapter Three, which would have been all sex. Yes, used to. Now it has none. It alludes to the fact my men have sex, but with this story I didn’t feel it needed to be shown. A bit like my Reverse Blackmail. No sex between my men in that one. And it hasn’t sold as well as my others that do include sex, but do you know what? I don’t care. I loved writing that book, loved the fact they didn’t have to have hot monkey sex, loved that I didn’t have to pause between non-sex scenes and work out how to fit a sex scene in. Just a plain old book about two men living together, sex not needed.
Then that got me to thinking: Because it hasn’t sold as well as the sex books, in order to make money, do I have to write sex? Is that right? Sad, isn’t it? Yes, I’m an erotica writer, that’s what I do for the most part, but deep down inside I’m not. I’m a mainstream writer. Would love to write plain horror or psychological, thrillers or actions, tales where cocks aren’t allowed to strut into lady gardens. I started out as this kind of author. Did the agent route, got asked for partials, got asked for whole manuscripts—the end result all rejections because, and I’m paraphrasing here: People don’t want to read such frightening things about the realities of life.
Oh, really? I do. My daughter does. My friends do. And clearly others do too, because there are books out there just like the ones I have written and want to write.
Maybe they should have just said my writing was crap, as were my plots, and I should fuck off now before they chewed the ends of their fingers off in frustration at my shitness.
Regardless of my last foray into that side of publishing, I’m going to do it again. My m/m book is now mainstream, urban fantasy, and will hopefully be one of the best books I’ve written. Because I want to write it in the 1st person, Brit-Bloke style it’s coming out as. Because it feels right to do this. Because I want one last shot at writing what I really enjoy. I’ll still be writing erotica for those interested, by the way, but also going back to my roots.
And if it doesn’t get sold, then you’ll see it as a free read. With no sex.