By Eva West (Guest Blogger)
My erotica journey began with a ghost.
A few years ago, I left my family for the weekend to cozy up in a historic inn on the coast of Northern California. This building had once been the town’s hospital, something hard to ignore with the wide hallways, ramps instead of stairs, and the eery basement/game room I was given a tour of. They had filled corners and wall space with Victorian furniture and black and white photos of what the town used to be. It was a comfortable space, with an undertone of historical darkness.
I was there to finish my novel. I sat at the table in my room with wine, chocolate, and 80,000 words on my computer. Eventually, I had to call it a night. I slipped into the clean sheets of the bed tucked into a recess in the wall, and passed out.
My dreams that night were sexy and seductive, a man wooing me with skill and desire. I awoke with his name on my lips.
Calling out to him is what woke me, though I don’t remember his name. I lay in the bed, slightly stunned and feeling as if I was not alone in that room. I didn’t stay there long. My goal was to finish the novel that weekend, so I hopped up, got dressed, and went out for a quick breakfast.
When I came back to the room, that energy was still there, as if I was walking into someone else’s space. I knew I was staying in a “haunted” building. The stories were on the internet, and I had had my own brief experience, easily brushed off, a year before. This, though, felt real.
I sat at the table in front of the window to write. My attention could not stay focused on the book. I fumbled through pages of notes and outlines and started reading through various scenes. However, my eyes kept turning to the bed as if I was expecting someone to be there.
Finally, I gave up. I opened a new document and set my fingers free. There I wrote my first erotica scene. In 18th century England, a lustful woman is ill in bed when a stranger, a man she has seen in her dreams, comes to her as the ‘healer’ and brings her to an exhausting climax.
I typed fast, flooded with images, the intensity building within me. I turned periodically towards the bed, desperate to finish so I could take care of the growing heat in myself. Finally, the scene ended, and I retreated to the bed for my own release. It was a powerful one, aided by the image of the man from my dream.
When I stood up from the bed, the energy in the room had dissipated. I was alone.
This scene eventually became part of my first erotic romance novella, The Healer. It took me a few years to give it the time it deserved. Since then, I have built up a backlog of stories that I am now fleshing out.
I’ve been a writer most of my life. Taking this turn into erotica is an exciting experience that tests my writing craft skills in various ways. The subtleties of language are almost as important here as they are in poetry. The build-up to climax is crucial for a well-told story.
I’m at the beginning of my erotica journey, but I expect it to be a long one. I hope you’ll follow along with me.
Here is an excerpt from The Healer:
With these visions forcefully feeding the ache between her legs, she went to her bed and threw back the covers. This agitation would not leave until she handled it herself. She slid the robe off her shoulders, enjoying the whisper of silk along her skin, and imagined callused hands caressing with a gentleness born of desire. She crawled seductively onto the bed and flopped onto her pillow, one arm raised in acquiescence above her. The other hand slowly trailed along her skin, cupping the roundness of her breast, fingers sliding to grasp her nipple and tug with the assuredness of one who knows how this pleases.
She could feel the wetness between her thighs and thought longingly of a bearded stranger’s face rasping along her tender skin. Her hips swayed with the longing as her fingers rubbed and pulled on her nipple. She would prolong this, torture her own body with desire until her bud begged to be touched, throbbing with need.
Her eyes closed to the ecstasy as her hands explored her breasts. She knew why men loved to touch them. They were soft and full and round, and she enjoyed their touch as well.
Suddenly her skin sizzled with fingerprints of heat. There was a hand on her thigh, a smooth and seeking hand moving slowly towards her wetness. She flung her eyes open, and there, there was the bearded stranger from her dream. Dark hair pulled back in a loose braid framed an angular face with a nose akin to an old Roman statue. Piercing green eyes looked upon her with such genuine desire she could not think beyond the heat of his hand.
“I am the healer. I was sent for.” He rasped gently as his hand moved slowly, but assuredly, toward her most sacred opening. They were silent for a moment. “Shall I try a different method, or is this to your liking?”
She knew this was not a dream, though the absurdity of the situation was not lost on her. There were no appropriate, formulating thoughts. Her body screamed for this.
“You may continue,” was all she could whisper.
A smile slid across his face; his eyes half-closed in satisfaction as his hands found their mark. A warm, strong finger pushed into her open flesh. She squeezed in sudden ecstasy, wanting to draw him in more. Never had a man’s touch reached her so deeply, so intensely.
She rocked her body towards him, trying to draw more of him in. He chuckled then, a deep, resonant sound full of desire and satisfaction. She moved to the rhythm of his hand. Together they found a steady pace that quickly began to crescendo. She could feel the ache growing, the swelling of the flesh between her legs, and thought for a moment she would swoon.
The stranger slowed his pace and put a gentle hand on her belly to still her, removing wet, confident fingers from her. She looked at him, dazed, fighting a whimper that arose. He would bring her this far and leave her unsatisfied? As if reading her thoughts, he bent and kissed her knee.
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