Bianca Sommerland's Blog, page 25

Guest Post-Cartoons: Not just for kids anymore!

By J.S Wayne
*Cue tranquil music*

When I hear the word "cartoon," it takes my back to my misspent childhood of He-Man, Transformers, and GI Joe, and the associated toys and action figures. I think about the cumulative years of imagination that contaminated me to the point where I'm wholly unsuitable for a 9-5 desk jockey's job and that helped create a neophyte writer STOP THE MUSIC!!!

The first inkling the American mainstream had that cartoons were not solely the province of children and emotionally-stunted adults was the wildly imaginative animated movie Heavy Metal. Featuring a hard-driving metal soundtrack and incorporating nearly every genre from sci-fi horror to erotica to fantasy, Heavy Metal was a wake-up call for a generation. I remember it because it was the first cartoon I ever saw featuring exposed breasts and nipples, which as a healthy nine-year-old male made it a REALLY BIG DEAL to me. (Yeah, the caps are intentional: I'm amazed my palms aren't furry because of the chick with the white hair.)

The way the women were dressed, in a whole lot of not much mostly consisting of a complicated series of straps that barely covered the essentials, was echoed in most of the comic books I started reading around the same time. The women either wore form-fitting bodysuits that in the real world would be so snug you could see their labia or a few wisps of leather or latex not a great deal more modest than the gauzy material that some jurisdictions require exotic dancers to wear around their hips. Don't believe me? Go over to your local Mecca of Geekdom (aka the comic-book store), grab a random comic book, and open it up. If there's a woman in the story, 9.9 out of 10 times, she's wearing this kind of outfit, give or take a cape, a crown, or some kind of accessory designed to do thoroughly unpleasant things to anyone in its path and featuring an elaborate semi-divine back story a la Excalibur.  Now, let me back this bus up for a second before it builds any more momentum and someone gets all the wrong ideas. I'm not saying comic books are bad or are loaded with subliminal messages; far from it! Comic books and movies like Heavy Metal were specifically intended to cater to the budding sexuality, natural curiosity, and feelings of social isolation that plague adolescents. (Oh, yeah, there's plenty of eye candy for the girls, too. All the guys look like they've been dressed by dommes or are so ripped they look like they can bench-press refrigerators.) Comic books offer that little thrill of the forbidden, wrapped up in heavy morality tales and liberally peppered with punches, kicks, slashes, and blasts from various exotic weapons to make them palatable. "It's a comic book! Little Timmy won't learn ANYTHING about sex from this." (Although I myself had some fairly "torrid" fantasies about Marvel Comics' Psylocke. I say "torrid" because while they were pretty randy for a thirteen-year-old, they were positively pedestrian compared to what I write on a daily basis now!)
And now, here's the kicker: The point of this little diatribe is that if you read between the lines with a knowing, adult eye, you're likely to find all kinds of little kinks and fetishes hidden in comic books. The meaning and metaphor will most likely be wholly lost on the kiddies, who just see a good or not-so-good story. They're not as likely to focus on the exposed "naughty bits" as they are the number of explosions or "Hey! Did you see how Wolverine/Superman/Batman sliced up/blasted/beat up that Sentinel/rogue missile/bad guy?" Thinking on Batman: The whole joke about what REALLY happened behind the scenes with Bruce and Dick has become a little shopworn, but still bears consideration.

A disclaimer: Everything that follows is off the top of my head and the ones I am aware of from personal experience and knowledge. I'm sure that I'll miss some, but this is by way of example, not the encyclopedia. Any fetishes that I didn't give specific references for, you can find online with a little research, but trust me: They're out there. Also, I'm not weighing the relative "goodness" or "badness" of any particular fetish or proclivity; I'm merely acknowledging their existence.

In the broad sweep of the comic book world, you've got shadings or blatant mentions of BDSM (Batman, Spider-Man, Wonder Woman), GLBTQ (subplots of The Green Lantern, Superman), necrophilia (Not touching this one), voyeurism (Spider-Man, Superman, Batman. . . need I go on?), an entire host of bestiality fetishes (Batman again. . .  what's up with this guy?), and sado-masochism (Insert your favorite comic villain here. If they weren't getting off on getting pounded on, why would they insist on pissing off the people most likely to push their faces into their brainpans?).

So what does it all mean?

Comic books are a great medium. They have layers to appeal to their nominal target audience, and the messages they convey, of tolerance and justice and being the one to stand against the darkness, are timeless parables written to be accessible to the tween and up set. But if you scratch the surface and take a closer look, somewhere in the colorful costumes and explosions, you can find yourself looking back from the eye-catching pages.

And in the grand scheme of things, that's the entire point of ANY medium of writing: To see ourselves in a glass, darkly, either an idealized or debased reflection of our own personas, beliefs, and desires. No matter how extreme or well-tolerated, we ultimately just want to be accepted for everything we are, and a truly good book will leave us feeling, at the end, a little less isolated. And that includes our own peculiar kinks, too.

Thanks to Bianca, and all you terrific readers, for letting me come by again and shoot my mouth off. It's been fun! I look forward to seeing YOUR takes on this notion.

Until next time,
Best,
J.S. Wayne

In the Villain's Words-Part Two

How he lost his . . . I sucked in air through my teeth and could almost taste the blood lingering on his breath. He was

"Enough bullshit." I took a gulp of whiskey and then took a small notepad from my pocket. Pen posed, all business, I prepared for the task at hand. "So, you were saying your first time would fit the topic of the week?"

"Yes." He waved to the waitress for a refill and leaned back in his chair, his eyes becoming glazed, as though seeing another time, another place. "I was born into wealth. Nobility. My father only held the title of Lord, but he was second cousin to the king of France and had several vast holdings. He was privy to all the most scandalous intrigues of the court, which meant he could use the information to blackmail powerful men and assure his own standings. I learned at a very young age how to play the same game. Every servant in our household was afraid of me—of what would happen to them if I let their secrets slip. My step-mother was the first and last to stand against me. I . . . found evidence that she was a witch. On my tenth birthday she was burned at the stake."

"Nice." So much for picturing him as a cute, innocent little kid. The man had been born a monster. "But what does that have to do with dubious consent? Or should we just be honest and call it rape?"

"Believe it or not, I know the difference," he said, dryly. He rubbed his hands together, then propped his elbows on the edge of the table and his chin on his fists. "I learned that one of the king's illegitimate daughters had become something  . . . unnatural. Rosali was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. Fragile, sweet, sheltered. He governess turned her—the woman was an abandoned fledgling with no control. The king hoped her death would destroy what had 'infested' his daughter, but of course it didn't. So he hid her in his castle, using his enemies as fodder, desperate to keep her true nature hidden from the nation. He had to keep her safe, whatever the cost. He'd truly loved her mother."

I drained my whiskey and started on another. "I'm guessing you threatened to expose them both?"

"You know what happened, Bianca." He gave me one of his wicked smiles. "Your readers will be disappointed if they can't enjoy the experience with us. Show them."

Show, don't tell. Basic rule. He was right, the bastard.

So here it is:

Pure innocence. Cyrus plunked himself down on the princess' bed, observing her childish decor with amusement. Tapestries with unicorns and faeries covered the walls, white fur covers the cold stone floor, sheer silk curtains fluttered over her windows and around her bed like wispy clouds. In essence the room housed an angel. In reality a hungry demon slept here. One he was anxious to meet.

'Give her to me and I will protect her. Otherwise, I will caste her to the suspicious fools who watch your every move, seeking a way to bring you low.'

'You will be gentle with her?' The king clung to his robes, flimsy velvet trappings of his rank, unable to shield him from his desperation.

   'That is none of your concern. She will live, that is all that matters.'

Be gentle with her? A jest, surely. Her body was his to use and use it he would. In the most twisted, deprived ways a man could use a woman. And with his guards standing vigil outside her door, he needn't worry about interruptions, no matter how loud she cried or screamed.

Just the thought of fucking her to tears made Cyrus hard. At a score and five years, he had more than his share of experience with women. Virgins, whores, he'd bedded them all. And come to an interesting conclusion. They were all more fun to fuck while they writhed in agony. He stroked himself through his braise and groped around the side of the bed for the bottle of wine provided by the king. To make it easier for the princess.

Perhaps being sauced would spare her some of the pain of losing her innocence.

He uncorked the bottle with his teeth and laughed. As if I'd allow that.

One of the guards tapped on the door. "My Lord?"

"Yes?"

"The Lady Rosali."

Cyrus grunted and gestured at his man with the bottle. "I'm here to pound the bitch's cunt, not court her—get in here, girl!"

His crude words, his detached tone, hid his eagerness quite nicely. Neither the guard nor the girl could guess how the mention of her name quickened his pulse. He'd only seen her twice, from afar, and the vision of her had hazed his mind ever since, as though just thinking of her intoxicated him.

God willing, he'd screw her out of his system. Once, twice—he'd keep her in this bed until he was sick of the sight of her.

But the second she slipped into the room, he knew that would never happen. His mouth went dry and he choked on the wine he used to wet his tongue.

 White robes fluttering around her, Rosali strode across the room, grey eyes flashing like lightning in storm clouds. The sweet, demure lady known for her beauty and composure was gone. Had the demon given her the spirit she hadn't possessed before?

Her ebony hair spilling over her face, she came to the bed and aimed a slap at Cyrus' face. She hissed through her teeth when he blocked her swing with his forearm. "How dare you threaten my father? Have you the slightest clue of what I could do to you?"

A clue? He was fairly certain she'd fractured his damn arm!

He bit his tongue lest any weak sounds escape and then sneered at her. "You may be stronger than I, Rosali, but I am much more powerful."

She let out a tinkle of laughter, but uncertainty dimmed the light in her eyes. "You are a fool if you believe that."

"Am I?" Cyrus sat up, set the wine bottle by his feet, and then reached out to tug at the ribbon at the base of her throat. Her cloak came loose and fluttered to the floor. Not once did she attempt to stop him. "Then do to me what you do to all the other men who come in here. Maul me like an animal, tear my heart from my chest, we both know you can."

"Yes." A single tear spilled down her cheek as Cyrus went to work on the ties lacing the front of her dress. She clenched her little fists at her sides. "But you knew the risk. You must have done something to keep yourself safe."

"I have. If I don't return home within a fortnight or send one of my guards to assure my valet that I am well, he will deliver a letter to my father, detailing everything I know about what you are." Cyrus used the front of Rosali's dress to pull her closer until her quivering breasts were level with his face. "Do you have any idea what my father would do with the knowledge? You should thank me for accepting you in exchange for my silence. I could have demanded so much more."

Rosali covered her breasts with her hands and pressed her thighs together as Cyrus slid her dress over her hips. Her whole body shook as he ran his hands down her legs in the same manner he would his horse's flanks. Like she was no more than a beast he'd purchased, one he planned to ride long and hard.

So long and hard these pretty, pale thighs will bare the marks of my use for weeks. He slapped her thigh, grinning when she yelped and tried to back away from him. Her step parted her thighs enough for him to shove his hand between them. He stood before she could wrench away and wrapped one arm around her waist. Prodding with his fingers, he found her hot slit and pressed against it until the tips of two breached her.

"No." She sobbed and put her hands on his shoulders. "Please don't. I will give you anything else—"

"You will give me everything . . . ." One digit would have been easier, but the gaspy little sounds of pain she made as he stretched her were lovely. He twisted his fingers, and, feeling a bit of moisture at the tips, thrust a little harder. "Ah, there we go. You're starting to enjoy yourself."

"I'm not!" But the way her hips tipped forward betrayed her. She hadn't even attempted to close her thighs again or shove him away. "I want you to stop!"

"Then stop me, Rosali." His fingers moved easily in and out of her slippery cunt. He loved the way she winced as the wet sound of his palm smacking her got louder. "Stop me or my dick will take the place of my fingers."

His thumb circled her clit and she whimpered. "No . . . ."

"No what?" He lifted her up, then lowered her to the bed. "No don't use my dick?"

Her lips moved, she shook her head. Then she arched up and moaned. "Don't."

He spotted something on the floor by the bed and smile. "As you wish, My Lady."

To be continued...

In the Villain's Words-Part One

For this week's topic, I decided to turn to a man who is something of an expert in dubious and—more often—non-consent. He wasn't easy to find, he's been hiding out ever since the massacre at the Church of Peace, but I have some advantages as his author. I found him in Midland, North Carolina, and followed him for awhile, never getting too close. This late at night, I really didn't want to be talking to Cyrus alone, but since I didn't really have a choice, I'd settle for approaching him on a brightly lit, well populated street.

Instead, I trailed him into an alley. My nose wrinkled at the sour scents spilling from the big garbage bins lining one brick wall. I listened for his steady footsteps. Nothing.

What the hell are you doing? Get out of there!

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as his cool breath caressed me. "You wanted to speak to me, Bianca?"

I swallowed, shaking a little, glancing back at the street to gauge the distance. Could I make a run for it? Then my eyes narrowed. "Don't play with me, Cyrus. I own you. You can't control me."

"I just did." He chuckled and put his hand on my hip, turning me to face him. "But I won't have much fun if I hurt you, will I?"

"No." Damn it, why haven't I killed this guy off yet? I did not like him touching me. "So enough with the bullshit. I have some questions for you."

"Do you?" His tone softened as he circled me. "Then join me for a glass of wine—or maybe whiskey? I won't have . . . a conversation with you here."

His eyes drew me in, had my mind grasping for the words to describe them. Which words had I used? Sky? Summer sky . . .

"Come, Bianca." He held out his hand. "I promise you'll enjoy yourself."

A wavy strand of black hair spilled over his cheek and I caught myself reaching up to touch it, knowing it would be so soft, like his skin. From the corner of my eye I saw his lips curling and snatched my hand back.

"I'm not going anywhere with you." I shoved my hands in my pockets and took a big step back. "Actually, you know what? Forget it. I'll talk to Joe. Or Vince. There's nothing you have to say that the readers want to hear."

"Are you sure about that?" He shrugged and hooked his thumbs to his belt loops, rocking a little on the heels of his Italian loafers. "Then kill me since I have no story to tell. What's the point of keeping me around?"

Good question. I frowned and looked him over, trying to decide if staying was worth the risk. Cyrus' strength hadn't diminished since the last time I'd written his words, but he had changed. His outfit seemed very modern. Expensive, a perfectly tailored fit, yet, somehow wrong. His arrogance was still obvious in his posture and tone, but it was . . . less pompous maybe?

"So what's your story, Cyrus?" My lips curled a little—I wanted to make it clear he didn't frighten or impress me—but my voice sounded like half my volume was stuck somewhere in my chest. Maybe under my rapidly beating heart, or lower, where I was . . . aware of him.

Why must so many psychos be sexy?

"Would you like to know about my first time?" His gaze drifted down my body and he ran his tongue over his teeth as I squirmed. "The situation fits your topic."

"You mean when you lost your virginity?" I wrinkled my nose. I didn't really want to hear about him doing his daddy's mistress when he was fifteen. "Nobody—"

"No, sweetheart." He moved a little closer to me, forcing me back until I was trapped between his body and the alley wall across from the garbage bins. "Let me tell them how I lost my soul."

Guest Post: Bodice Rippers – the original dub-con?

by Paige Turner

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

Scenes of dubious consent in erotic romance novels are a hot-button topic – a kink for some people, and a definite squick for others.

But let's face it, dubious consent scenes are nothing new in romance. The traditional (and rather dismissive) view of romance is the Barbara Cartland bodice-ripper. All steely-eyed heroes and manly embraces on one side, all heaving bosoms and swooning on the other. Although Barbara Cartland's later novels had little in the way of saucy scenes, her heroes were dominant and her heroines were virginal – and often had to be coerced or even forced into the hero's arms. Of course it was what they really wanted deep down and everyone lived happily ever after. But if that isn't dubious consent, I don't know what is.

I think the difference today is that we write dubious consent scenes with a little more self-awareness. We write dubious consent

HEA, HFN, GMAFB

Flickr Attribute Jan Willemsen A romance novel must always have a happy ending or at least the promise of one. Always. No exceptions. No ways around it.

The very idea of never, can't be and shouldn't be done, rankles. My muse glowers at me every time I try to force him to conform, to deal with rules and limitations. I can almost hear him saying 'I could make you write a romance and kill everyone'.

Scary thing is, I bet he could.

Maybe my idea of romance is different. Plays like Romeo and Juliette, like Othello, which I always considered romantic, are called 'tragic comedies'. One of my favourite books by Barbara Michaels, Black Rainbow, is gothic suspense. Any other book I'd list is probably not a 'real' romance.

What about Phantom of the Opera? Or actually, any opera? Aren't they all tragic? And the stories romance, no? Then there's movies like Titanic, Ghost, Pearl Harbor...
Flickr Attribute Professor Mortis I could probably go on and on and you could probably shut down my every argument by simply saying either, 'that's not really a romance' or 'But that had a HEA'.

Come again?

Can you have a HEA if one of both of the main characters die? Does the great love they experienced, and the closure of saying goodbye for now, knowing they will be together again, someday, meet happily ever after criteria?
Flickr Attribute Lily Warrior I think it could. Then again, to me a romance isn't definied by how it ends, but by that moment when, as a reader, I truly feel that what's between the hero and the heroine is real. Nothing can take that away or make it something less—not death, not betrayal, not competition. What happens after is irrelevant. I would say a 'romance' that lacks that precious moment doesn't deserve the title. Let the hero and the heroine marry and grow old together, resolve their predictable misunderstandings, never ever stray. How sweet. Without either of them touching on that purest form of love, something we can all identify with in a raw, basic way, they're just a couple with a story.
Flickr Attribute Elyce Feliz To me anyway. But I intend to take writing 'dark erotica' (a label given to books that might have romantic scenes and love but don't meet HEA requirements) to a whole new level. Might take me awhile, but one day I'm going to write a gothic romance and trash convention. And no one will be able to debate that the story is a romance.

If I can pull that off, my next goal is learning to fly ;) Note: I was really bad assuming everyone would get the acronyms, sorry about that.
HEA- Happily Ever After
HFN- Happy For Now
GMAFB- Gimme a Fucking Break

I'm gonna keep this simple…

So, I'm moving. Got me a new blog and website. But I'm not going to just leave you all behind! You're too awesome for that!

The thing is, much as I love my new place, I get how shifting from place to place can be a PITA. For motivation, I'm going to make you an offer. Any blog followers from here that follow me to my new blog gets a change to win a copy of my new book, The Trip. They will also be entered along with new followers for the giveaway of a second copy!

To enter, go here: www.im-no-angel.com and follow on networked blogs. That's it!

Best of luck! And don't forget to visit!

Guest Post-Never work with Kids or Pets…in Movies

By Cari Silverwood
Is erotic romance any different?

In my first novel, the heroine is woken from a sexy dream by her cocker spaniel, Killer, slurping
her on the face. To me this was just an adorable thing to put into a story. It helped me make
my lady, Danii, real and three dimensional. If I want to engage the reader and get them to dive
into the story and wiggle their toes in the wet sand as the waves sweep toward them, smell the
lemongrass in the Thai meal, or maybe even, hell, get carpet burns off the rug, I have to put in
real stuff. Pets are part of that, and children too.

But one of my readers disagreed vehemently. Killer was the worst thing in my story and from the
sounds of her review, yanked her from the story. Being a little concerned with this, I did a poll of
readers of BDSM and erotic stories. To my relief most readers seem to love stories that have pets
and children in them.

A few didn't want children in there due to getting worried about the virtual children, as they
called them, but almost everyone wanted pets. Some of their real life anecdotes about cats and
the male dangly bits being latched onto during sex may even make their way into a story. Ouch.
Sorry guys but they were funny in a tears-in-my-eyes way.

Some publishers do specifically demand no children in stories but they seem to be in the
minority. I'm not talking pedophilia here of course; the sex scenes get nowhere near the children,
just as in real life. But letting your heroine have a baby somewhere along the line, or maybe a
children's party in between all the sexy shenanigans is perfectly okay with me. If it serves the
story, adds something, makes everything clearer and realer, I say go for it.

One proviso that a reader pointed out is that if the pet gets killed off they automatically throw
the book. I'm a bit that way myself. After reading several books where the dog or whatever died
at the hand of the villain, one day I consciously said to myself, no way am I doing that in one of
my books. I hate it when I read about a pet and find I'm making a mental note along the lines of:
Oh-ohh, this author's put this in just so the death of the pet will make the villain come across as
meaner. Hate hate that with capital letters. HATE.

So if you kill a pet in your story at least give me another happy pet to pat while I sob. And be
prepared to run, real fast. I may be rummaging around in my closet for my antique sabre. I keep
it for burglars and authors that rile me.
Blurb:

Raised from childhood as an assassin, Claire finds her world knocked off kilter when Theo Kevonis, a rich, ex-Air Corp nobleman, rescues her from an airship crash. Being a soldier of a hostile nation she cannot reveal her identity, but Theo sinks his steely Dom fingers into her heart and soul, showing her the pleasures to be found in surrendering to his touch. Captivated, Claire cannot help but bind herself in lie after lie rather than risk losing the one man who's ever loved her.  

When her loathsome commander returns from the dead, her deceit is uncovered. Somehow, Claire must find a way to win back Theo's trust and destroy the man who threatens them both.  And Buy Link:
http://www.loose-id.com/Iron-Dominance.aspx


Excerpt

"Stay there," he said. 
 
She could smell him.  
 
She almost opened her eyes to say something, but instead balanced there. Why she obeyed him, she wasn't sure but it satisfied something primal, something deeply sexual. And letting go like this, made her feel safe.  
 
Anticipation strung her insides tight. She yearned for further caresses. Her cleft swelled.  
 
"Here. Raise your feet." An article of clothing, both silken cloth and something harder, slid with muffled clicks up each leg. Theo arranged it about her torso, cool beads shifting across her breasts until the garment fitted snugly on her body. Something narrow settled between her legs. She gasped at a throb of pleasure as his fingers played in her moisture. A few more adjustments and he led her off to one side. A light flared on. "There. Open your eyes."  
 
In a tall mirror, she saw herself, dressed in a black corset paneled with satin. Coming down from a halter, pearl ropes fanned out over each breast with her nipples peeking out between. A tiny skirt of chiffon, divided at the crotch, barely made it as far as her upper thighs. Lines of seed pearls undulated down the satin and a string of larger pearls dove deeply between her legs, emphasizing the split lips of her sex. She could feel it run up between the cheeks of her bottom at the back. Even as she looked, she felt a renewed throb, for every movement she made, from breath to heartbeat to shift of feet, moved the line of pearls and rubbed against her clit. 
 
In the reflection, she saw Theo beyond her shoulder, bare-chested, the ringlets of his black hair stark against his forehead. He raised a satin and pearl choker and positioned it about her neck, clicking it into place. "And these," he said, holding first one wrist and then the other to snick matching black satin bracelets on her wrists. "They suit you." From the hardness, metal lurked beneath the black cloth. 
 
Where the choker and bracelets rested on skin, her pulse rose, thumping, to the surface and reminded her of where she was, who she was with, and especially, how dangerous this could be. But…she trusted him. 
 
To her surprise, her throat still worked, though the words seemed to stick to her tongue. "How did you know my size? Where did this come from?" 
 
"Bought while I was away. I have a good memory, especially for someone as striking as you."  
 
Which meant, he'd planned her…seduction, while she'd been planning escape. She leaned back against him, fascinated by the allure of the woman in the mirror. The heat from his body soaked into her like a glass of wine. She lifted each wrist and examined the bracelets -- identical, and each with tiny loops of steel projecting from them.  
 
"That's for a chain to pass through," he whispered, mouthing the nape of her neck. "Does it bother you? Think, before you answer." 
 
 "Yes…" she said slowly, fearful of being again restrained in cuffs. 
 
"And yet?" He pressed a hand against her stomach, holding her against him, making her feel the rigid line of his cock. The pearls slid in her juices, pressing, rolling over her clit and anus. She let out a whimper. "Ahh. You feel them working on you." He chuckled. "And yet?"  
 
And yet the idea of it, of being restrained by Theo, held a strange and deadly fascination. She shied away from that thought, and shook her head. "And nothing." 
 
"Ah-h. I can see my first project will be to get you talking more." 
 
She stood there in silence. The fear she felt came intertwined with lust in almost everything that Theo did to her. Taking her by the shoulders, he moved her to face him, gray eyes inches away, then his mouth descended, covering hers, devouring her. She breathed in his breath, letting him do as he willed. One broad hand held the base of her neck, the other splayed over the curve of her buttocks. His fingers wrapped around the pearl rope running between her legs, tightening it. Desire ran rampant through her, surging higher with every tiny movement of his lips on hers, and the rub of the pearls on her pussy and nipples. 
 
When she put her hands to the belt of his pants, he reached between their bodies, snared both her wrists and pulled them round to the small of her back where he held them with one hand. Again, the pearls shifted. She bit her lip, a moan escaping her as she arched. 
 
Eyes shut, she heard a soft animal-like growl. 
 
"Claire, if you're not damn careful, I'll eat you up."  
 
What? She opened her eyes a slit, still panting, to see that he'd stepped away a little, angling his stance so as to observe her.  
 
His gaze brushed her, lingering on her breasts before he locked on her eyes. "Last chance. Do you want to stop? Are you too sore? It might cause me irreparable harm, but I can stop." Then he eyed her darkly, as if he'd liked to do exactly what he'd threatened to -- eat her up. 
 
The pain of the bruise at her neck had faded to nothing in spite of the choker. With her whole being, she yearned for more of him. He inflamed her past bearing and knowing that he watched her, swept her excitement to another level. 
 
She licked her lips, aware of her wrists still caught behind her and the display of her body. God, if he didn't do more than this, she'd surely burst.  
 
"No," she said huskily. "Don't stop." 
 
"Please?" 
 
Ah, how he tormented her. "Please." 
 
"Over here then." Still gripping her wrists he urged her toward the bed, to kneel by the side of it, and lie face down across the quilt with her bottom up. He spread her hands, palm down over each cheek of her buttocks. 
 
"Don't move," he whispered in her ear. "And I won't have to tie you." 
 
Tie me? She almost let go at that. Was this what she wanted? But he held his hands over hers a moment. She stayed there.  
 
"Good." 
 
His fingers trailed over the backs of her hands, over the ends of her fingernails, and down her thighs. She quivered, sucking in air through the quilt bunched beneath her mouth. 
 
"Spread your legs, Claire." 
 
She shifted them, feeling even more exposed, a breeze caressing her engorged labia. He traced down the line of pearls, reached her wet cleft and followed deeper where the pearls seemed to have sunk into her flesh. Slick and wet. The scent of her lust reached her. Slowly he went farther until he reached her clit. He circled it, teasing, making her shift her bottom to place the finger just right.

A little about Cari Silverwood
Though I'd much rather stay invisible and spin you all tales with my words, here's a little snippet of my world.

I have a lovely family, with the prerequisite teenager who dwells in the dark bedroom catacombs…a husband who raises eyebrows when he catches glimpses of what I write, and a furry menagerie of other animals barking meowing, and swimming about the place. 

Before writing the novel, "Three Days of Dominance" I had never dipped my little toes in the hot and lust-swirled sea of erotica. Now every time I turn around there's someone begging me to write down their story in the most lurid way. I'm sure I don't where my people learnt their morals. They're quite adamant about teaching me creative new ways of making love. So I doubt I'll run out of ideas anytime soon.

And, dammit, I can't seem to stop reading other erotica authors either. I have come over to the dark side. Someone please find me a candle...and some rope. 'Cause if Darth Vader's here, I'm going to see if he's up for some bondage and wax play.

My website, if you're curious about my other evil pursuits:  http://www.carisilverwood.net/

Mini Rant about Kids and Pets....

First, I want to officially welcome you all to my new blog! And my new website! Isn't it pretty? Did it all by myself!

Now then, just to get you all up to date since I haven't been posting much, I've decided to do a theme every week. Part laziness and part practicality. If I know this weeks is enema week, I won't have to drive myself nuts to come up with something interesting to say. Enemas are plenty interesting! I bet I could fill posts and posts on that topic alone!

We'll save that for another day.

This week, the theme is kids and pets in erotic romance. Oh don't ew me! Perv. That's not what I'm talking about and you know it. Seriously, get help.

Any good book has realistic characters. With realistic lives. Which means they have families and houses. And sometimes those families and houses are infested with kids and pets. Happens to the best of us. No way around it.

But wait a second! There's a whole lot of other stuff that happens in real life that I don't want to read about! Think about it! My sex is disrupted often enough with 'Mommy, I had a nightmare. Can I sleep with you?' Must my action between the pages of my favourite novel be interrupted as well?

Of course, you know, that rarely happens. Because the hero and heroine have perfect little babies or nieces or nephews. They are all well behaved and only act up when the nurturing woman or protective, yet stern man, need to prove themselves. Which makes me hate them. Really, truly hate them. I am not that patient when I'm interrupted. Bad enough these fictional people are already having more sex than me! Must they have endless patience too?

So yeah, I'm not longer turned on. Or enjoying the story. I'm aggravated and about to toss this book at my not so perfect kiddies.

And then there's the animals. Sorry, but it's not cute when Rover watches the hero giving it to the heroine. His little grunts make me think he's wondering when he gets his turn. Just plain nasty. Put the dog outside! And the cats...jeezum, don't you have a door?

Well, that's it for now. Sorry this post is short—to tell you the truth, I really don't mind kids and pets in any stories...like anything else, it's just gotta been done right.

Swing by again in a couple of days to get my dear friend, Cari Silverwood's, take on the subject. She's also going to share an excerpt from her new release Iron Dominance.

But don't wait—don't read the excerpt. Go get the books now. http://www.loose-id.com/Our-Authors/Cari-Silverwood/ This is only the second book ever to be given a bottle by me...okay, I haven't given it a bottle yet—officially anyway—but this book is worth the good stuff. When you get it, get yourself some extra batteries. Just do. You'll thank me ;)

In Someone Else's Skull

One big book finished. One coming out September 5th. One sequel to write.

So where's my head at?

Not where it needs to be. Not yet.

Being a prolific writer is great, and I guess some people would call me one. At this pace, I'll likely have four full length books, and at least two novellas, published this year. Not a bad start. And I can keep this up without my writing suffering. No problem!

Except…

Well, if you've read my books, you might notice they are very, very different. Rosemary Entwined is sweet and romantic. Deadly Captive is dark and disturbing. My novella, The Trip, falls somewhere in-between. Obviously the characters in each story are very, very different.

I say again. Where's my head at?

At the moment, somewhere between the three books.

Unfortunately, that makes it hard to write well. I can't be thinking about Kurt and Rosemary in the apple tree—never thought apples could be so sexy!—or Mark and Shawna struggling in the bushes (sneak peak butt plug scene coming soon) while I'm thinking of creative new ways for Cyrus to torture his latest victims. It's kinda like trying to watch a movie while you've got five stereos blasting five different stations.

So what do I do? Meditate? Brainstorm? Slam my head on my desk until all the noise goes away?

On occasion, but in a situation like this, nothing works but immersing myself in the mentality of whoever's head I'm supposed to be in. If someone's supposed to be falling in love for the first time, I have to do everything possible to recall what that's like. Only better. Brighter. If my characters are living through hell, I have to throw myself into the depths. Music and movies, poetry, pictures, anything that will make the emotions real.

I've mentioned method acting before, I'm sure. Well, to me, writing well takes some of the same skills. When I was in college, I had to do a monologue. My choice, from any script or play, and I chose a scene from The Abyss. I read the whole script until I was the woman, encouraging her lover to live. Everything that brought them to that moment was in the back of my mind. As I stood in the middle of the classroom and spoke to the man who was now my lover, dying, with only my words to hold on to, I lost myself completely. With the last words, tears fell, and the students and the teacher clapped. But I couldn't come back.

I sat alone for a bit and forced the woman—a character who was no more than words on paper—into the back of my head. I think she still lives there. My teacher came and gave me a hug. "Watch the movie again when you get home," she said. "So you'll remember he lives."

And she was right. I needed that closure because while I was doing the monologue, I'd forgotten—or more, I didn't know. I wasn't supposed to because the woman whose life I was living didn't.

Back to writing, I believe that is one of the most important things you can do to make your characters real. Forget the happy ending. There isn't one. Not yet.

Sorry to cut this short, but my characters will never get any kind of ending if I don't get back to them!

Guest Post-Emotions of the Rain

Please welcome my guest—->

Taige Crenshaw

It has been a very rainy time the last few weeks. It had me thinking again of how rain makes me feel. There is just something about the sound, scent and overall feeling that rain brings out so many various emotions. When I look out my window at the rain coming down I think of some of the different rains that and what emotions they invoke.

All New

The misty rain brings to mind the softness of a kiss or the blush of first love.

Lost and Adrift

The soaking rain with the wind blowing you to and forth batters at you like that moment when all seems lost in a relationship you put your all into. Everything you are yet it seems as if all is lost and there is no middle ground.

Resonate in the Soul

The deluge of rain with thunder and lightning resonates in the soul just like that moment when you know that person is forever yours. They are the one for you. The tumultuous emotions makes your soul sing.

Aftermath

As the rain slows and the rainbow comes out reminds you that you know all will be right. No matter what happen you will be stronger than yesterday.

There are so many more variations of rains I could explore. So much that the sounds of rain bring out in me. No matter what I experience I can compare it to the variety of rain. The next time wherever you are take a moment to appreciate the sound, scent and overall feel of rain. Let it wash over you with the many emotions of rain.

* * * * *

Taige Crenshaw is a multi-published author with books available at Ellora's Cave Publishing, Liquid Silver Books, Loose Id, Total-E-Bound and Summerhouse Publishing. Taige has been enthralled with the written word from time she picked up her first book. It wasn't long before she started to make up her own tales of romance. With novels set in today, in alternate dimensions, or in the future she writes with adventure, fun sassy heroine's, and sexy hero's. Always hard at work creating new and exciting places Taige can be found curled up with a hot novel with exciting characters when she is not creating her own. Join her in the fun, frolic, interesting people and far reaches of the world in her novels. You can find out more about Taige at her website: http://www.taigecrenshaw.com or blog: http://www.taigecrenshaw.com/blog.Check out free reads at http://www.satinnotes.com/.

 

Hurricane

Summerhouse Publishing

Coming August 19, 2011

Series: Singleton ~ Book 1

Genre: Contemporary

Length: Novel

Format: E-Book

Buy Link: http://shpub.me/taigecrenshaw  

When life gives you a second chance how do you decide what to do?

Julianne Locke knows the pain of loss and what it can do to your soul. She has refused to let any man close… until an accident put a man in her path who will change her life. Keenan is the one man she cannot seem to put in a category or keep at a distance. Whether it is fate or coincidence that brings them together, Julianne cannot walk away from this man who pushes all her buttons and makes her want to believe in hope once again.

Keenan Callaghan's first look at Julianne makes him forget that he's there on business. The instant attraction and connection he feels for her leaves him unsettled. But he quickly comes to the realization that he wants to know more about this woman who not only tempts him, but makes him forget all else but her. Julianne might be trying to keep him at arms length, but he's a patient man. He knows the best way to weather a Hurricane is to hold on and ride out the storm together… forever.

Excerpt From: Hurricane

"No. Just wanted to know more about you," Keenan replied.

Julianne controlled her expression, not wanting him to see her shock. Keenan's smile, that same damn affable one, made her know he was aware he had unsettled her. She didn't like it one bit. His hands rested on the table. Her mind flashed, imagining his fingers on her skin. Julianne stiffened.

"Well, now you know a bit. I would offer you a tour of the place, but I really need to get to work." Julianne stood.

She gasped as Keenan moved, holding her chair for her. For such a big man, he was fast.

"Thanks. Let me see you out." She strode toward the door and reached to open it.

His hand on her arm stopped her. Julianne held in the shudder at his touch.

Closing her eyes briefly, she opened them and blanked her face into the business persona she used with a difficult client. It kept them at bay and offered her a shield of control. She glanced at him with a cool look.

"Is there something further?"

"Trying to put up a barrier against me won't work."

"I don't have any idea what you mean." The lie rolled off her tongue easily.

Internally, she cursed. She was usually blunt and able to handle things.

"You do. It was the same reason that I was so rude at the hospital when I spoke with you. There's a spark between us, Julianne." Keenan's smile was gentle and his look knowing.

The sound of her first name in his sexy voice was almost her undoing. Julianne refused to let him affect her. She pulled her arm away from his. Keenan's finger stroked her arm before her released her.

"All we have is business. And since that's done, we have nothing further to say," she replied.

"We had business. I didn't want to pursue anything while I was doing my investigation. Now that it's complete, there's a lot for us to discuss. I want to get to know you further, Julianne. Have dinner with me?" Keenan's light green gaze was intent.

"I don't date." She said firmly.

"Why?" he fired back.

Julianne gritted her teeth. It figured he would push the issue and question her.

"None of your business. Even if I did date, I don't like aggressive men," she stated.

"That's good to know, since I'm not aggressive." Keenan grinned affably.

"Could have fooled me," Julianne muttered.

"I do go after what I want," he said softly.

Julianne was caught by the look in his eyes. It was tender and possessive. She clenched her fist. He had no right to have such an expression. They didn't know each other.

But you want to, her inner voice goaded.

No I don't, she countered.

Keep lying to yourself. You want to go out with him, the infernal voice said.

No, I do not. He's already driving me to talk to myself. I don't need the hassle, she said firmly.

Julianne wrenched open the door, gesturing for him to leave. Keenan took her silent urging and passed her. Julianne followed. He turned suddenly, crowding her. Gasping, she stepped back instinctively before she caught herself and stood her ground. Scowling, Julianne glared at him.

"I unsettle you." His grin was smug.

"You startled me," she countered.

"Deny it all you want, but you're intrigued by what might be between us. I'm a patient man. I can wait until you come around. You have my number. Call me when you change your mind." Keenan shrugged, turning and striding away.

Copyright © Taige Crenshaw, 2011.

All Rights Reserved, Summerhouse Publishing.