Tracy St. John's Blog, page 175

Sunday’s Serving – Clans of Kalquor 8: Alien Caged (WIP)

Oret looked from him to Miragin and back to Zemos.  In a careful tone, the Nobek said, “I’ve had an idea, but I know you won’t like it.  I think the lovely one might be the key to our release.”
Miragin stood bolt upright.  “Matara Elisa?  Is it really necessary to involve her?”  
A flash of anger bolted through Zemos, but he controlled it easily.  He was a Dramok, but he also possessed strong Nobek tendencies, almost to the point of being a dual-breed.  His Nobek father and grandfathers had taken great care to train him to not give in to temper.
Zemos’ tone remained steady as he said, “She could get hurt, Oret.  You can’t tell me there won’t be risk to her life if we involve her.”
Oret’s shoulders sagged, letting Zemos know how much the solution weighed on him.  “I know, I know.  She’s also the weakest link and our best chance, especially if Walker is sending Remington away.  I would have loved to get my hands on him instead.”
Zemos couldn’t help but pace, the tension getting to him.  The food he’d eaten, prepared by Elisa herself, curdled in his gut at the thought of putting her in peril.  Yet he’d noted Remington wasn’t the only Earther getting more aggressive lately.  Walker’s nearly passive control over the crew was fraying.  Zemos had the fear that even if he could convince Walker to surrender his vessel to the Galactic Council of Planets, the more militant members of the crew would kill the Earther captain.  
It was obvious that he and the rest of his captured crew must soon make their attempt to escape and take over the ship.  It had become painfully obvious after three months of captivity that the Kalquorian fleet had no idea where Zemos and his men were.  Rescue was not coming.  Outnumbered and unarmed they would have to find some way out of the predicament they were in.  Sweet, lovely Elisa, the most vulnerable of the Earthers on board this flying horror of a ship, a woman that Zemos had begun to think of with more feeling than he wanted to, was their best chance of securing that escape.
Zemos snapped out the words he didn’t want to say.  “If we have no choice, then we’ll have to use the girl.  Damn it,” he added with feeling.
Tentative release date in October.

Kalquor’s Casting Couch

Those of you who have followed me for a couple of years know that I have a background in scriptwriting.  I’ve even done decently in major screenplay competitions, though I’ve gotten only tiny nibbles as far as actually getting a movie made.  Hope springs eternal, however, so I keep on trying to break into Hollywood.
 I was recently encouraged by a reader who also works in the film biz to consider putting together a pilot for a series based on the Kalquor novels.  It sounded like a fun project, so I bit.  I wrote a pilot episode for ‘The Chronicles of Kalquor’ based around Amelia first meeting Clan Rajhir.  I enjoyed putting it together.  I’ve even marketed it a little, using the hook ‘True Blood meets Babylon 5’.  Again, a few nibbles but nothing more, so far.  A couple of weeks ago, I entered it in Scriptapalooza’s television competition, mostly to get feedback from an industry professional on how it can be improved.  We’ll see how that goes.
Dreaming of what could be got me thinking about the ol’ casting couch.  Who should we get to play our favorite men in the Kalquorian universe?  What Hollywood hunks do you see as Rajhir or Clajak or Krijero?  I’m curious as to who the readers would cast.
Lidon is already set as far as I’m concerned.  Jason Momoa of ‘Game of Thrones’ and ‘Conan’ fame is my Nobek through and through.  I kind of like Joe Manganiello (Alcide of ‘True Blood’) to play Tranis.  I also like Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson for Wynhod.

 

















Who would you pick to play what character?  I’m dying to know which hotties that you would put on the screen to play Kalquorians, so leave me some comments.  I’d also love to know which of the heroines you’d cast yourself as.  Do tell!

Weekend Wake-up Call – Clans of Kalquor 4: Alien Salvation

Japohn kissed her, his mouth more demanding than the other two had been.  One arm still wrapped around her waist, holding her off the floor, and the other slid down her concave belly to search out her sex.  Lindsey bucked against his knowing fingers as they found her softest flesh, and she moaned around the invading tongue.  She gushed honey, and Japohn growled against her lips.
He lowered her onto the bed, putting her on all fours.  His mouth released her, and after sweeping her hair over one shoulder, he kissed a path up her spine to the back of her neck.  Japohn knelt over her, covering her with his solid warmth.  His arm left her waist, and he gripped one breast in his palm.  He kneaded the soft mound.
The other hand never missed a beat as it rubbed her wet folds.  Lindsey moaned, lost in a haze of desire as he handled her expertly.  When his thighs pressed against hers, she obligingly slid her knees farther apart, giving him complete access to her womanhood.
Japohn’s sexes brushed her anus and vulva, and somewhere in her excitement, Lindsey realized it was the larger member homing in on her tightest orifice.  She knew he couldn’t take her that way, not with his girth, but she was too aroused and intoxicated to resist.  Fortunately, Japohn wasn’t as far gone as she was.  His hand left off its delightful torment of her nether lips to adjust himself.  His penis slid down her crevice until it found her more pliant opening, leaving the smaller organ to rub against her clitoris.
Lindsey warbled a happy sound as Japohn pressed into her.  Her inner walls expanded to welcome the thick visitor.  In he traveled, deeper and deeper to claim her innermost recesses.  Towards the end, her body became a little more grudging in its acceptance, yielding with an ache almost as sweet as the pleasure suffusing her lower regions.  Her breath came in little gasps as he came to his end, rooted firmly within her tight niche.
As needful as his clanmates, Japohn wasted no time in working his length in and out of her core.  His second penis stroked with delicious friction against Lindsey’s pearl, making her sob with agonized delight.  His hands held her shoulders, driving her back against him as he thrust forward.  The pain of taking him so deep and hard somehow translated into pleasure, an anguished bliss that radiated throughout her womb.  Her insides seemed to tremble, a precursor to the quaking that would soon suffuse her entire body.
Japohn growled, his utterances as beastlike as his lovemaking.  He bent over her, covering her with his magnificent body.  His mouth closed over the back of her neck, but instead of a gentle kiss, she felt the scrape of his teeth on her skin.  He took a mouthful of her flesh and bit down.There were no fangs involved in this bite, just the firm grip of his square teeth holding her by the nape.  His hands moved from her shoulders to clamp around her hips, moving her harder still against his driving length.  Lindsey wailed as craving suffused her.  Japohn growled in answer, the sound reverberating down her spine and into her nether regions.
The alien took her like an animal, a primal beast bent on rutting, and she gloried under the desperate attention.  It was sex in its most base form, with no adornments, no false pretentions.  Only the urge to couple existed, an urge as old, as brutal and unassuming as life itself.  It was the ultimate act of species survival, and it felt more right than anything Lindsey had ever done.
She screamed back at the brute riding her, losing herself in the torrential rhythm of his hips pounding hers, driving his need hard into her eager warmth.  Her womb flexed with a long, muscular pulse, and bright light burst through her, turning her cries into ragged, torn things.  Japohn howled into her neck to feel her clench around him, and his rhythm staggered.  He managed two more thrusts before his climax ripped from him, pouring liquid ecstasy into Lindsey’s body.
Available from Amazon, Amazon UK, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Smashwords

Shalia's Diary Thursday Post

Confession.  http://shaliasdiary.blogspot.com/

WIP Wednesday – First Mataras: Michaela

For the third time in the last ten minutes he muttered, “Maybe she’s not coming.”
Korkla restrained an urge to grab Govi and make him sit down.  “Israla said she is bringing her in the next few minutes.”
“Israla also said she has great difficulties with facing others who know what she is.  We know.”
“And she told us she’d drug Michaela to get her here if necessary.  Calm down, Govi.  You’re making me nervous.”
Govi halted in front of Korkla.  His hands closed and opened.  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”  His expression lit with wonder as he looked between the other two men.
Raxstad slowly nodded.  His broad face lit with real pleasure.  “The loveliest I’ve seen.”
Govi’s excitement faded quickly to be replaced once more with worry.  “She has so many problems with self-acceptance, though.  After what Israla told me, I’m not sure I can help her.  I’ve never had to deal with someone with this level of esteem issues.”
Korkla smiled at his worried clanmate.  “You are the best at what you do, my Imdiko.  There is no one on Kalquor more qualified to help this poor woman.”  He sounded sincere because he was.  Govi, unable to settle his own worries, was amazing when handling the agonies of others.  It was why he’d been made the head of Earther Matara psychology in the Empire.
Right now, his Imdiko’s emotions ran the gamut.  The mild-tempered psychologist actually scowled at Raxstad, an expression rarely seen on Govi’s face.  “By the ancestors, how can you be so still?  So controlled?  It’s like she had no effect on you at all.”
Raxstad arched a heavy brow at him.  “You saw very well the effect she had on me.”  He snorted and looked at his crotch, which was still quite lively after having watched Michaela Blake and Jessica McInness do a presentation of belly dancing.  Korkla could even detect the spicy scent that betrayed the other man’s arousal.
The Nobek shook his head.  “The way she moved.  That lush, young body.  Mother of All, how could I not react?”
While Raxstad’s arousal didn’t surprise Korkla, it did worry him.  His tone tense with warning, he said, “Both of you be calm.  On top of everything else, she is Earther.  They are repressed like no other species.  Blatant arousal will probably send her screaming from us.”
Govi fretted, “Yet she needs to know we find her attractive.  It’s going to take a careful balancing act, my Dramok.”
Korkla’s tension increased at his Imdiko’s words.  How were they supposed to do this?  He and Raxstad knew nothing about Earthers, and Michaela Blake’s situation was beyond anything Govi had ever encountered.  
He forced himself to take another deep, steadying breath.  “We will do our best.  That’s all we can do.”
Release date not set.

Shalia's Diary Monday Post

Lead me not into temptation...oh hello, Commander Nang.  http://shaliasdiary.blogspot.com/

Sunday’s Serving – To Protect and Service: Ravenous Virtue (WIP)

“Raven, you are free to move about on your own.”
Vendeen’s command loosened the hold on her body.  Raven thought about jumping up, maybe even kicking both of their asses, but she couldn’t muster the energy.  Like Daagiis, her body seemed to be in shock from the wild lovemaking.
Lovemaking?  No, nothing so sweet as that.  We had sex.  There was no love involved.
“Fatigued, little one?” Vendeen asked.  His expression was still relaxed, still lending extra beauty to his face.  It made Raven’s mouth go dry just to look at him.
He rose from her side and gently picked her up.  Cradling her lax body in his arms, Vendeen carried her into the connected bath facility.
It was certainly a lavish room with double sinks, a deep tub, and a huge glassed-in shower.   Everything was gleaming white, including the fixtures.  Vendeen took Raven straight to the shower, setting her on her feet.  She expected the tiled floor to be cold, but it radiated gentle warmth.  If there had been any tension left in her soles, it would have been soothed by the heated floor.  She nearly moaned in delight.
Daagiis had apparently re-discovered the ability to walk, because he joined them.  “Temperature setting, Vendeen custom, steady stream,” he said.
A delicious hot torrent of water poured down from the ceiling, drenching them within seconds.  Now Raven did moan, enjoying the feeling of flowing liquid warmth all over her body.
“Close your eyes, Raven.  Our cleansing agents aren’t geared to your biology and it will sting if it gets in.  Add soap, unscented.”
The water falling on Raven’s shoulders seemed to get heavier.  She kept her eyes shut.  Soap dispensed with the water ... well, that simplified bathing, didn’t it?
Coarse but careful hands worked her scalp, building a lather.  More hands bathed her body in slow circles.  Raven gasped a few times with how meticulous the men were as they bathed her.  Not one crease, crook, or cranny went unwashed.  It was actually a little embarrassing to be so scrupulously scrubbed.
“Water only.”
They rinsed her, still handling her as tenderly as fine china.  It was so nice to be treated kindly after all the revelations about what had happened to her.  Nearly shot to death, taken from her home, rebuilt with robotic parts, placed in servitude that included allowing men to enjoy her body...
The realization of her situation steamrolled over Raven.  She drew in a breath and released it in a sob.  One tear begat hundreds, and she was shuddering and bawling her eyes out with abrupt violence.
She somehow heard Daagiis’ voice over her cries.  “There it is.”
“I wondered when she’d let go.”  Vendeen pressed a kiss to her forehead, stroking her face.  “It’s a lot to come to terms with, and we are not the kindest of people, are we Raven?  Water off.”
She continued to blubber as they led her out of the shower and dried her off.  They wrapped her in a silky-soft robe that was much too big for her, but all the more comforting for its size.  Raven was unsure which of the two carried her back to the bed and laid her down, but they both crowded in to hold and comfort her as she wept uncontrollably.
Daagiis whispered in her ear, his voice a soothing warmth there.  “Cry it out.  Get as much of the shock out of your system as you can because we need you strong.”
Releasing end of August.

The Night Writing Saved My Life

That’s a pretty melodramatic title for a blog, isn’t it?  In all honesty, it kind of makes me laugh and roll my eyes at myself.  What a drama queen!  However, I am comfortable saying that writing ... or the desire to write ... truly did keep me among the living about 24 years ago.  Such is the power of books, whether reading or creating them.
Books have long been my salvation.  A difficult childhood with a mentally ill parent, a neglectful parent, and a drug abusing stepparent was alleviated to some degree by reading.  Escaping into other worlds chock full of fairy godmothers and damsel-saving heroes kept me hopeful and offered glimpses of happiness.  I daydreamed of my own magical rescuers, often surrounding myself in fantasy because reality was much too grim to live through day in and day out.
Reading helped me survive.  Yet it was writing that kept me alive.
The event that led to my descent into a real hell took place on January 13, 1988.  I was only 20 years old and attending college in Wilmington, Delaware.  On that fateful morning, I took to the icy roads to get to my part time job as a secretary in a chemical plant. 
Long story short, I was involved in a fender-bender along with half a dozen other people.  There we stood in the median, waiting for the cops so we could file our police reports.  I was feeling a bit sick looking at the cute little Thunderbird I had bought from my dad only three months prior.  Its grill was all smashed out, the hood crumpled like tissue paper, and I spied one of the headlights at my feet.  I picked the headlight up and tried not to cry.
That was the last thing I remember, fortunately.  I was told later about the Cadillac approaching our position and losing control.  It slammed right into our little group, tossing us all over the place.
When I regained my senses, I had been drug from the median across the lane to the side of the road.  Passing cars had begun sliding all over the median, having found a particularly bad patch of ice.  Those of us who could be moved were, to avoid getting hit again.
Seeing I was covered in blood was a terrifying thing.  The snow all around me was drenched in it.  Yet, after a few panic-filled seconds, I felt that I wasn’t in imminent danger.  It turned out I was right.  The only thing broken on me was my nose.  I was covered in lacerations and I’d been pounded pretty righteously, but I wasn’t dying.
The 18-year-old girl who had been standing next to me in the median wasn’t so fortunate.  A matter of inches had separated us, and apparently a few inches was all that stood between life and death.  They shut off the machines on her the next day.  I kept her obituary for six months, awash in survivor’s guilt.  I couldn’t return to work or school for three weeks due to my injuries, but at least I returned.  I’d gotten off lucky.
Fast forward approximately two years later.  I’d graduated college with my degree, a member of the honor society.  I had landed a plum job making almost as much money as my dad was after two decades of him being with the same employer.  The T-bird had almost been totaled, but in the end it was saved.
Life should have been great.  Instead, it was an awful nightmare.  I hadn’t walked away from that accident so lucky after all.  I’d taken extensive nerve damage to my neck and shoulders, which spread down to my arms and hands.  I was hurting, in so much pain that I was forced to take a leave of absence from my job.
If you’ve read Alien Embrace, you’ll remember the horrific pain Amelia suffered from her nerve-damaged hands, arms, and shoulders.  That was actually my world ... and I didn’t have a talented Kalquorian doctor to make it better.  For months I battled pain so vicious that I couldn’t stand the weight of my own arms hanging at my sides.  I couldn’t sleep lying down, because any pressure on my shoulders brought raw agony raging.  I could barely sleep at all no matter my position.  My body had become a torture chamber, and I had no escape.  Even when exhaustion finally made me unconscious, the pain was in my nightmares.
The nerve damage was inoperable.  The neurosurgeon in charge of my case kept switching my medications.  If there was an anti-inflammatory prescription out there, we tried it.  I sampled a lot of painkillers too, but I drew the line at the addictive ones, remembering all too well that stepparent and the damage addiction wrought.  I decided I’d rather die than become a drug addict.  Unfortunately, the few meds that worked on the pain made hamburger out of my guts.  When I wasn’t huddled in agony, I was too sick to stand.  One medication even gave me a nasty case of heart arrhythmia. 
I cried every waking moment.  My life shrank to being curled on my sofa when I wasn’t sitting in the doctor’s office.
“Will it ever stop hurting?” I asked one day, desperate for something to hang onto.
The doctor could only shrug.  “I wish I could tell you that, but I can’t.  We’ll just have to find a way to manage the pain.”
I’ve got news for you:  there is no managing constant pain of that stripe.  It was relentless in its brutal constancy.  I kept searching for the light at the end of the fathomless tunnel I had entered, but it was looking more and more like a bottomless ravine from which I would never emerge.
Hearing that I may never feel better was the last straw for me.  Was this my life from now on?  Was this all there would ever be?  I couldn’t stand the idea.
One night soon after that conversation with my doctor, I went into my kitchen, weary desperation making my head pound.  I wasn’t sure when I had last slept.  It felt like it had been an eternity.  In this state, I opened the cabinet that held my meds.
I am a packrat.  I hate throwing anything away that isn’t broken or worn out.  So instead of getting rid of the painkillers and anti-inflammatories that didn’t work or made me so phenomenally sick, I had kept them.  They sat filling that cabinet, mocking me with false promises of relief.
I’m not sure why I did this, but I started to take them all out, each and every bottle, lining them along the edge of the kitchen counter.  I had a monstrously huge kitchen, and the counter ran almost ten feet long.  When I had finished lining up the bottles of pills, they stretched down two-thirds of that counter.
As I stood there, looking at all this medicine that hadn’t helped me one bit, a thought came through my head:  I wonder how many of these I can take before I drop?
The funny thing about that notion was the lack of emotion I felt.  It was a cold, hard thought that elicited no feeling whatsoever; no remorse, no horror, no shrinking away.  If there was anything I came close to feeling, it was relief.
There was a way out.  I didn’t have to go on one more awful hour of this horror that my life had become.
I’d often heard of those who had committed suicide referred to as cowards for running away from their problems.  I’d heard them called selfish for leaving people behind to grieve.  I can tell you from facing this dilemma the truth of it:  I honestly felt this would be the solution to the problem, not running away.  I would also be sparing my family the need to take care of me as I became more and more dependent on them.  No one would be financially ruined over my medical care.  As far as I could tell, finishing it would be doing all a huge favor.
I’ve asked would-be suicides about this, and found almost all of them had come to the same conclusion – that their deaths would actually be a relief for their loved ones, a kindness.  When you’ve reached that point, it really does seem to be the only answer left.
Still feeling absolutely nothing, I walked to the end of the counter where the first nearly-full bottle of pills waited.  I picked it up and eyed it for a few minutes.  I opened it.  I took the first pill out.
“Do you really want to do this?” a voice asked me.
I was alone in my house.  Neither TV nor stereo were on.  Yet the voice had been as clear as someone standing right next to me.  I have no idea where it came from.  A guardian angel?  Spirit guide?  Base survival instinct?  An imagination so sleep deprived it conjured a hallucination?  I can’t even begin to hazard a guess.
It was enough to make me hesitate.  That made me mad at myself.  Was I such a coward after all that I would watch myself fall apart and ruin my family by continuing on?  Why was I waiting to take this step that seemed more than ever the right thing to do?  I couldn’t face another day in the agony I was in.  There was no reason to go on.
Yet, as if guided, my eyes went to the kitchen table.  This was where I sat and wrote before the pain in my hands had made it nearly impossible to hold a pen or hammer at the typewriter.  My first serious attempt at a book, at least one hundred typed pages, lay there.  Writing had always been my dream, the one thing I wanted to accomplish more than anything else:  more than finding love, more than having children, more than anything I could imagine – I wanted to finish at least one book and call myself a writer.
I hadn’t finished my book yet.  I hadn’t achieved the one thing I felt I’d been put on this earth to do.
A tug of war ensued.  Live and write and prolong the hell I lived in; or die and find peace and never finish the most important thing to me?  Enduring another single moment of what my life had become was impossible to contemplate – yet bowing out with that book unfinished was just as unthinkable.
It occurred to me that I could end things at any time, if I could just hold out against the pain.  However, once I was gone, everything was done.  My book would not be finished.  If there was the slightest chance the pain would recede, that chance would not be realized.  When I closed the book of my life, so to speak, there would be no re-edits.  That would be it.
Yet the pain ... God, the pain was just so incredible.  A large part of me begged to be done with it. I had already held out longer than any reasonable person would expect had they lived in my tortured body just one minute.  I wanted out so damned bad.
Still, the siren song played on:  write the book.  It wouldn’t take longer than another three months at the most, even if I had to peck at my typewriter with just one spasming finger.  When it was done I could leave, knowing I had done the one thing I always wanted to do.  Just three months – that’s all I needed.
I let the muse talk me into it.  I slowly put the medications back in the cabinet, saving them for the day when I could use them without regret.  Then I sat down at my typewriter, my wrecked arms curled close to my chest, my clawed hands picking at the keys.  I wrote.
By the time the book was finished, I had found another doctor.  This pint-sized hellion from the Philippines put me on one of those addictive painkillers, shutting down my protests with the heavily accented, “I not let you get addicted.  I watch you.  You take only to sleep or no more for you.”  She gave me no refills, forcing me to see her each time I wanted more drugs.  Our combined vigilance kept me from the horror of drug dependency I had watched my stepparent succumb to.
As the weeks went past, the pain began to abate on its own.  The nerve damage was progressing, moving from overactive sensitivity to numbness.  There is the possibility I will eventually lose the use of my hands due to the damage.  I already drop and fumble things and don’t feel some of the injuries dealt to my hands and arms.  It’s a small price to pay, in my opinion.  I would rather be an absolute klutz than lost in that mire of torment I knew in those awful months.
I’ve heard of people who have said a book inspired them and changed their lives.  I’ve even heard of people who said they read a book that saved their life.  So far, I am the only person I know of who wrote the book that saved her life. 
As for that particular story that was written one halting keystroke at a time, well ... it was pretty awful, as books go.  The best that can be said about it was that it contained the germ of an idea that went into a much better book.  However, it was the book that snatched me away from the abyss.  It kept me alive to write other books, as I was meant to do.  It kept me from dying with regrets.  For that reason alone, it was the most important and best thing I ever wrote.
May your own dreams guide you through the fathomless and seemingly endless tunnels life sometimes places in your path.  No matter what you do, don’t let yourself leave with regrets, with your purpose in life unfinished.  Take it from one who made the journey; there is light on the other side and it is brighter than you imagined.

Weekend Wake-up Call – Unholy Union

            She perched on the edge, and he knelt at her feet.  She watched him stretch each sock long, and then he tied her ankles to the cut-down legs.  “Getting a little kinky, aren’t you?” she asked.  Her stomach warmed as she tested the strength of the knots.  They gave only slightly, holding her legs wide apart.            He stood with a grin.  “Lie down.  You’ll like this.”            When she hesitated he gripped her shoulders and lowered her to the surface.  The table was hard against her buttocks and shoulders.  “I don’t know, Ash.”            “Don’t make me tie your wrists too.”            She couldn’t tell if he was joking.  She lay still as Ash pulled his turtleneck off over his head, displaying tanned, sculpted flesh.  His physique bulged in bodybuilder proportions, powerful and delicious.  Her lower regions clenched, and she forgot her worry about being tied up.            He kicked his shoes free as he unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers.  The pants slid over his thighs, quickly followed by his underwear.  Elaine licked her lips to see his thick, long sex jutting from his groin, a bead of pre-ejaculate forming at the tip.  Her arousal swelled to a demanding roar.            He bent over her and crawled up the table until his turgid length hovered over her face.  She ran eager hands over his rock-hard thighs, cupping the softness of his balls.  She rubbed them, gently scraping her fingernails over the skin.  He rewarded her with a thick growl deep in his throat.            She stroked his cock next, enjoying the silky feeling of the skin sheathing the iron of his erection.  She propped herself on one elbow to lick the salty drop waiting for her, enjoying his flavor before laying back down to the table surface.  She wrapped her hand around the base of his rod, rubbing him with gentle pressure to make him gasp.            He lowered his hips, and she opened her mouth to allow his velvety length to slide in.  He was bigger than her husband had been, filling her mouth with inches left over.  She moaned to feel the pulse of the big vein on the underside of his penis beating against her tongue.            He pumped her mouth slowly, breathing deeply.  She rubbed her tongue over the flesh moving over it, swirling over the head as he pulled back.  He grasped her wrists, pulling her grip free of his base.  He pinned her hands over her head.            “Relax your throat so you don’t gag,” he whispered.  He pushed his entire length into her mouth, down her throat.            Elaine fought the gag reflex, unable to draw breath.  He drew back, and she sucked air in through her nostrils.  Again his hips descended to her face, and she braced herself as he pressed his groin to her lips.  She jerked against his grip as he paused.            “Take it,” he groaned.  “Relax and take it all for me, Elaine.”            The urge to obey his desire swept over her, taking away her resistance.  She relaxed in his grip, surrendering to his dominance.            “Good girl,” he praised, pulling back once more, allowing her greedy lungs to inflate.  He fucked her mouth with a slow rhythm, and she adjusted her breathing to accommodate him.  The control he exerted excited her.  Her sex spasmed, and honey crept from her core.  She moaned around the thick flesh claiming her mouth.            “That’s it.  Take it all.  It looks so good, watching my whole cock disappear between your sweet lips,” he said.  “You’re beautiful, Elaine.”            She thrilled to his praise, the feeling in his tone.  She only wished there were two of him, so she might have another cock filling her aching pussy.            “You’ve been a good girl, taking such care of me.  Let’s see what I can do for you now.”
Available from Amazon Kindle, Amazon UK, Nook, Kobo, and Smashwords

Shalia's Diary Thursday Post

Under attack.  http://shaliasdiary.blogspot.com/