Free Erotic Horror for #Halloween! #HPLovecraft #Free #Parody

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Are you a fan of H.P. Lovecraft? Do tentacles make you go all shivery?

If so, grab yourself a copy of my free H.P. Lovecraft parody story, The Shadow over Des Moines.

It’s available at Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo. Totally free!

Blurb

When my health forced me to retire from the stresses of my job as a newspaper reporter, I relocated to a quiet neighborhood in Des Moines. I’d hoped to find peace of mind and relief from the terrifying dreams that plagued me after my dear wife’s death. Instead, I found myself in a waking nightmare.

A Day in the Life of a Writer - #TheBeatles #Poetry #Humor #AmWriting

By Source (WP:NFCC#4), Fair use, Link

A Day in the Life 
(to the tune of The Beatles' classic)

I read the news today, oh boy,

About a lucky gal who made the grade,

Although the news made me quite green,

Well I still had to laugh;

I read her biograph.

She was both lonely and unknown,

Older than I am by a year or two.

Six major pubcos turned her down.

A decade on, she scored;

Nobody expected her to win the Nat'nal Book Award...

I saw a film today, oh boy,

Based on a novel I have always loved,

A crowd of people forked out cash

I couldn't bear to look

How they raped the book.

I'd love to turn you on.

Woke up, fell out of bed,

Brushed the cat fur from my head,

Grabbed a cup of joe and went to read my mail.

Found my keyboard blocked by a black tail...

Read my last day's work and winced,

Tried to keep myself convinced

I could write at all. I penned a line or two.

Checked when it was due and went into a dream...

I read the news today, oh boy,

The vampire lady made another mil.

The New York Times still didn't call

Two K seems awfully small

Now I know how hard it is to publish anything at all.

I'd love to turn you on ...

(to my books, that is....)

A Conversation with Polonius - #Shakespeare #self-love #AmWriting

“This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”

The old man shook a gnarled finger at me. His snowy beard wagged as he gulped for air, somewhat overcome by his own animation.

“Good Polonius,” I say, helping him to a velvet-upholstered armchair. “I thank you for your advice. But if we all followed such precepts, what kind of world would we have? A me-first sort of place, full of ego and ambition. No one would hesitate to take advantage of his fellows in order to further his own goals. Violence, cruelty, indifference—to an even greater extent than we already have.”

“Nay, child, 'tis not so. Although I am known as a taciturn and reticent individual, a man of few words who would never vaunt his wisdom or pretend to superior understanding, I cannot refrain from enlightening you and demonstrating the validity of my counsel.”

“Indeed, sir, I wait upon your explanation.” It occurs to me to wonder why I've adopted such antiquated speech patterns, but then, I'm easily influenced. When I visit my relatives in South Carolina, I find myself unconsciously adopting a southern accent. When I'm in New York City, I'm often mistaken for a native.

“As you have truly observed, the world is a sorry place, rife with horrific crimes against God and society that sadden and sicken the hearts of virtuous men such as I. The hard-won wealth of industrious men is squandered and pilfered by perfidious financiers. Did I not say, neither a borrower nor a lender be? Headless bodies are unearthed, the scourge of the undeclared wars between rival purveyors of addictive intoxicants. Every day, it seems, we hear tell of some misguided fanatic hoist with his own petard, taking scores of innocents to hell along with him.

Some would argue that the perpetrators of such evil deeds suffer from an excess of self-love. In pursuing personal goals, be it glory, riches or power, the villains care not whom they deprive of life or livelihood. Their overarching egoism permits any injury to another. The desires and dreams of others matter not a whit should such desires stand in opposition to the criminal's objectives.”

“Exactly my point.” I slip in my comment as the elderly Dane is gathering his breath for another paragraph or two. “Self-love leads to many ills.”

“You are deluded, daughter, if I may be allowed to say so. I believe that every individual is entitled to hold his or her opinion, however ridiculous, and it is not my place to correct them. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice, that is my motto. Nevertheless I cannot allow you to persist in such an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Yes, sir?” I know I will receive enlightenment whether I agree with him or not.

“These vile creatures who are responsible of the crimes of which we speak, do you think they love themselves? I will be brief. These persons are propelled not by self-appreciation but by self-doubt, inadequacy, an insufficient regard for their own worth which drives them to try and prove that they are better than their peers. It matters not how often they triumph, how full their coffers, how many they slay. No deed, however marvelous or vicious, can assuage their deep-buried convictions of their own worthlessness.”

“So you are of the opinion that self-love engenders virtue rather than vice?”

The elder's cheeks were pink with exertion. He gestured with such energy that, had he a sword, he might well have cut me to the quick.

“I would represent my position not as mere opinion, a bauble to be tossed about in the tavern by drunken wastrels, but as manifest truth. Think on it: what said our Lord Jesus Christ? 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.'”

“Sir, I do not think it is advisable to descend into religious arguments on this blog...”

“This is not religion, you green girl, 'tis merely common sense. How is it possible to be considerate, compassionate, generous, if one is not at one's own ease? How can I care for my neighbor unless I care for myself? Kindness toward others is the fruit of self-love, as are respect and affection.

"If you suffer from the belief of that you are inferior, others appear only as threats. Their accomplishments and their worldly possessions accuse you. Voracious envy gnaws your heart. Suspicion cloud your eyes. Believing that you have little, you live in fear that it will be taken from you. Suffering from a sense of lack, you attack those who enjoy the blessings of which you feel you have been deprived.

“Self-love protects a man from this terror. Knowing one's worth, one can appreciate the worthy deeds of one's fellows. A man who is true to himself can afford to be even-tempered, tolerant, charitable. He can follow my oft-dispensed counsel: take every man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. He can share his bounty, loving his neighbor as the Scriptures dictate, because he is confident that no one can deprive him of the love he bears himself.”

Despite his volubility, the old man made some sense. “Well...”

“Think on thine own case, wench. You are a scribbler, I believe, penning fantastic tales for the ignorant masses.”

“Well, I'd like to imagine that my readers are not ignorant...”

“No matter, that is not the meat of the matter. I have heard that you are quite willing to help other authors, are you not? You write peer reviews, offer critiques, share information on opportunities for promulgating news of their activities and for disseminating their own scribbles, and so on, do you not?”

“Um—yes, but I don't see...”

“I beg you not to interrupt your elders, girl, when they are attempting to share their hard-won wisdom!”

“Sorry. I offer my apologies, good Polonius.”

“I accept them graciously as is my wont. Beware of entrance to a quarrel, I always say. Where was I? Oh yes. You are moderately generous with your time and your energy. You do not feel that these other authors are your enemies, do you?”

“No, of course not! I am happy to provide assistance where I can. Many people have helped me. It is only just that I reciprocate, maintaining the flow of positive deeds.”

“You do not envy other authors' success?”

“Perhaps a bit, but I know that in most cases they have worked hard to achieve what renown they may claim.”

“And what do you think about your own writing ability?”

“Well, to be honest, I have a fairly high opinion of my work. I know that I am not a great artist – I'll never be a William Shakespeare – but when the inspiration hits, I can write a spicy tale that entertains.”

“You see, you love yourself. You believe yourself to be worthy, in the realm of your writing at least. This allows you to share your time with other writers without feeling threatened. You are true to yourself and hence you cannot be false to your fellows.”

“Hmm. I suppose that you may be right, sir.”

“Of course I am right. Videlicet, a sage, well-tempered in the ways of men, bearing the benedictions of age along with its burdens. But the king calls me, no doubt to solicit my counsel. I must hasten to his chamber. Farewell, Lisabet, and remember well what I have said to you.”

“'Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key to it.”

“Good girl.”

“But Polonius, sir, if I might offer you some advice of my own...”

“What is it, child? Be brief.”

“Do not be too curious or eager to spy. And stay away from the curtains.”

Fur and Avarice (#parody #JaneAusten #amwriting)

From https://twitter.com/Foyles - Foyles Bookshop

Just for fun--with apologies to Jane Austen...

Although no one will dispute that marriage is the most desirable estate for both men and women, there are times when the institution demands an excess of patience. Eliza endeavored to suppress her sigh when, over the remains of breakfast, Mr. Sarai raised the subject she had been dreading.

"My dear, we really must attend to the matter of Tiger's claws. If we do not convey him to the veterinarian soon, he may suffer injury from his in-grown toenails."

"But Thomas, I have so many responsibilities to fulfill today. I've three blog posts to pen and two calls for submission awaiting my attention, not to mention my normal heavy correspondence. Can you not bring the cat to the clinic by yourself?"

Thomas' curt reply made his irritation clear. "You know very well that I can't communicate with the doctor. You speak the local language far better than I."

He spoke the truth. Eliza understood that it galled her husband to admit her linguistic superiority. Male pride was so tender and easily bruised She smoothed her skirts, brushing away the toast crumbs, and adopted the sweetest demeanor she could manage.

"Please, darling, let us wait until next week. By then I should be more at liberty."

Her husband settled his teacup into the saucer with a deliberateness that Eliza recognized all too well. "You're always making excuses, Liza." His eyebrows knit in disapproval. "How can you be so callous? Tiger and Velvet deserve the very best we can offer them. Your lack of concern almost makes me glad that we are childless."

"Please, Thomas, do not berate me." Eliza released the sigh she had been holding back. Thomas ignored her distress. "Very well, we'll go this morning. Just let me dress and we can be on our way."

The pleased satisfaction on her husband's face almost compensated for the inconvenience of the early expedition. "Thank you, my dear. I'll fetch the carrier while you prepare yourself."

Back in her dressing room, Eliza surveyed her wardrobe, trying to decide what sort of garments were appropriate for a visit to a veterinary clinic in a foreign land. The navy cotton ensemble wouldn't do. It would highlight every strand of cat hair. Given the sweltering humidity that characterized the climate in her adopted home, she was sorely tempted to don nothing more than a pair of cutoff shorts and a tank top, but she recognized that such a costume would be viewed as highly inappropriate for a woman of her years. Finally she settled on a batik-print skirt in hues of salmon and peacock, and a short sleeved shirt in matching green. The vivid patterns in the skirt should hide the inevitable consequences of holding Tiger in her lap, yet the design was sufficiently artistic that she would not be dismissed as some gaudy, painted tourist.

As might have been expected, the cat himself offered significant resistance to their plans. By pooling their efforts, Mr. and Mrs. Sarai finally succeeded in depositing him in his padded carrier. Outside their dwelling, they hailed a hansom and gave the cabbie directions to the animal clinic. As they wended their way through the narrow streets, Tiger's piteous cries issuing at intervals from the cage, Eliza watched the driver sitting in front of them.

He was a handsome young man, clean-shaven, wearing a crisply-pressed shirt of sky blue that complemented his dusky skin. She noted the muscled forearms peeking out from his short sleeves, one of which was adorned with a tattoo in characters she could not read. A chain with links of gold circled his strong neck, gleaming through the black locks that feathered his nape. She felt the first hint of moisture gather under her skirt and dragged her imagination back under her control. After all, he was far too young for her. However, he'd make a fine match for Miss N., the language teacher whom she and Thomas had come to think of as a friend.

"Excuse me, sir," she began in the local language. "Might I inquire whether you are married?"

The driver turned to smile at her, with a flash of brilliant white teeth. "No, Ma'am, not yet. I am working to save money. I want to buy a house before I marry."

"And do you have a sweetheart?" A sidelong glance at her husband told Eliza that he was buried in his newspaper. Of course, he would have difficulty following her conversation in any case.

If the man's complexion had not been so dark, Eliza was sure she would have seen him blush. "No, Ma'am." His melodious laughter made her think of a lively creek, dancing over the rocks on its way down a mountain. "Who would want to marry a poor cabbie?"

"Nonsense. You are obviously a thoughtful, prudent man - a man who desires to take care of his wife. And well-favored, too, with a fine smile " She leaned closer to the young man's ear. "I have a friend who I am certain would like to meet you."

"Is she rich?" the driver asked. Tiger wailed as the man whipped the vehicle around a corner somewhat more rapidly than Eliza considered safe. The poor cat was prone to car-sickness. Eliza prayed that the animal would not vomit all over the inside of his carrier, as he'd done so often in the past.

"Gently, if you please. My cat cannot bear a rough ride."

"Sorry, Ma'am." To Eliza's satisfaction, he reduced his speed considerably. "So, about your friend - is she rich like you?"

"I'm hardly rich!" Eliza wavered between amusement and offense.

"In comparison to us natives, all foreigners are rich. I'd like to marry a rich woman - one who'll buy me real Rolex and an iPad."

"My friend is not rich, but she's respectable and intelligent, and she has a warm heart. She's also quite beautiful, I might add. Oh, there's the clinic. Stop here, please."

"Well, beauty is a plus, but if I have to choose, I'll take money over beauty any day."

Eliza swallowed her annoyance at having her romantic fantasies so rudely dispelled. "This is the place," she told her husband in English. She handed the fare to the young man behind the wheel, pointedly giving him the exact amount rather than rounding up as she normally would have done.

The veterinarian made quick work of Tiger's misshapen talons. Eliza clasped the animal to her breast as the doctor measured the cat's temperature and listened to his heartbeat, resigning herself to the inevitability of a patina of fur on her carefully selected clothing.

"He's perfectly healthy," the medical practitioner told her. "You've taken excellent care of him."

Thomas beamed, clearly understanding at least this much of the social interchange. Slipping his arm around Eliza's waist, he hugged her to his side. "My wife and I brought him from America. He's very dear to us." Eliza found his enthusiasm touching. She knew that he'd be less pleased when he realized how much fur had been transferred from her blouse to his suit.

Tiger appeared to find the events of the morning severely traumatic. He cowered in one corner of his cage during the trip home, alternately panting and swallowing as though he felt nauseous. As soon as Eliza unfastened the catch of the carrier, he dashed away to hide himself beneath one of the sofas. Even the promise of breakfast could not lure him from his sanctuary.

Thomas, on the contrary, appeared to be in an excellent mood. He captured his wife in a tight embrace and planted a hearty kiss upon her lips. "Thank you, my dear. I truly appreciate your taking time off from your pursuits for errands like this."

Eliza scraped a cat hair off her tongue and smiled up at her sturdy, reliable husband. "You were right, Thomas. The felines are far more important than my scribblings. If you'll excuse me though, I think I will resume my work."

"Of course, Liza. I have urgent matters to attend to myself." He disappeared into his study, leaving Eliza to ponder the commonplace mysteries of marriage and to consider whether she might find a way to introduce the dashing, avaricious taxi driver into her latest opus.

Myonphobia (#flashfiction #parody #bigfoot)

[Just for fun... a send up of romance stereotypes!]

Laurel gazed out at the lake from the cabin porch and released another sigh. A full moon silvered the water. Little ripples murmured as they kissed the narrow beach. A gentle wind stirred the pines. Otherwise, silence reigned. She ran her fingers through her long, blonde locks. Pain knotted under her lush breasts. The night was achingly beautiful, but so very lonely.

Of course, she had wanted solitude. That's why she'd fled, after Harold's funeral. Her step children circled like vultures, ready to attack, determined to contest his revised will. She had to get away. Let her lawyers handle them She understood why her husband had cut them out and left his entire fortune to her. He was trying to assuage his guilt, to apologize for his failures. No amount of money, though, could ever compensate for those lost years.

She had always loved this place, buried in the forests of the Upper Peninsula, ten miles from the nearest settlement. 

“Aren't you worried, Lauri, up there all by yourself?” her best friend Marissa had asked when Laurel announced her plans. “A woman on her own? What about wild animals? Criminals? Rapists?”

“I've got the satellite phone, hon. And the Farleys in the next cabin are barely a mile away. Jim checks by every day to make sure I've got everything I need.”

The haunting call of a loon echoed through the stillness A chill shiver ran up her spine. During the day it was easy to forget how alone she was, but at night...

I'm fine, she told herself. There's absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

A sudden noise arose, as if to contradict her self-reassurance, the crackle and pop of something moving through the underbrush along the shore. Shrinking back into the shadows near the cabin wall, she scanned the thick vegetation. The racket grew louder, snapping twigs and a huff that might have been the breathing of some great beast. A moose? she wondered. A bear?

She gripped the rifle Jim Farley had pressed on her. Laurel had no idea how to use it – what romance heroine would? - but the cold metal under her palm blunted the razor edge of her terror. If I just stay quiet, it will probably go away. She knew she should slip back into the cabin and lock the door, but fear held her paralyzed. Quite simply, she couldn't move. Standing barefoot on the rough boards, wearing only brief shorts and a tank top – why bother with undergarments when there was no one around? – she'd never felt so vulnerable.

The intruder was close now. She could see the bushes shaking, off to the left. Any instant, it – or he – would burst into the clearing in front of the hut.

She found herself whispering a childhood prayer.

“Ugh! Damn roots!” It was a man's voice, confident and mature, deep and rich as milk chocolate, with a hint of a drawl that brought back memories from her youth. A decidedly masculine body stumbled out of the brush onto the beach. He pulled himself up to his full height – easily six three or six four – and gazed around him. Broad -shouldered and narrow-waisted, that lithe, powerful form set alarm bells ringing in Laurel's mind and a current of heat swirling through her body.

No. It couldn't be.

The interloper peered into the darkness and sniffed the air. All the lights in the cabin were off. He seemed not to see her. He raised his face to the moon.

There was no doubt. She would never forget those perfect cheekbones, that arrogant nose, that chiseled jaw. Moonbeams lit his bottomless blue eyes, making them glow like sapphires. A strangled moan escaped her throat. Her nipples beaded under her thin top and a growing hunger throbbed in her core.

Grant. Grant Steele. The one man she'd ever loved.

“Laurel? Laurel baby! You are here, after all.” In two athletic bounds, he'd scaled the porch and stood towering over her diminutive frame. He was solid, real – this wasn't one of her eternal fantasies. Without preliminaries, he gathered her into his arms. He smelled of balsam, damp earth and grease from his favorite french fries. The all-too-familiar scent left her limp and increasingly damp.

His firm lips pressed against her, mastering her in an instant. Molten need flooded her as he pulled her more tightly against his rock-hard body. His tongue invaded her mouth and tangled with hers, brazen and insistent. Meanwhile his always-bold hands traced her bountiful curves, kneading her well-toned buttocks and tickling the side of one full, tender breast.

Lightning sparked through her with each of his touches. His massive erection prodded her pubis as he continued to ravage her mouth. All she wanted was to sink to the ground and open herself to him. It took every ounce of will she could muster to push him away.

“Grant – Grant – wait a moment, please!”

“I've waited half a lifetime for you, angel. That's long enough!” Nevertheless he backed off a bit. She pressed her hands against his chest, needing to catch her breath for a moment, to increase the distance between them. If she didn't, she'd go mad.

Under his tight tee shirt, ridges of unyielding muscle rose and fell under her fingertips, like a bumpy road. She fought down a sudden wave of nausea. “Grant, how did you ever find me?”

Instead of answering, he bent to kiss her again, nibbling at the corner of her mouth, sliding his burning lips along her jaw, sucking on her earlobe until electric sparks sizzled down to her moist center. His hands busied themselves, too, slipping under the waistband of her shorts to cup her bare rear cheek.

The shock of his flesh on hers made her see stars. He kindled delight in every cell of her being, but she had to hold on, at least for a moment. She had to know. She trust her palms against his chest once more, ignoring the shudder that crept through her.

“Grant! Please! Who told you I was out here?”

“Nobody told me. I just knew. You're my soul mate, Laurel. I always know where you are. Of course, getting to you might not always be that easy.” He glanced a bit ruefully at the biceps bulging out of his short sleeves, which were scratched and raw from fighting his way through the woods, then favored her with one of his irresistible, boyish grins. “But it's worth it...”

The sight of his torn, pneumatic flesh made her a bit queasy. She ducked away before he could descend on her mouth once more. She wanted him – oh, how she wanted him, with the pent-up urgency of fifteen years apart! But first they had to talk. Communication was important. She wasn't going to just give herself to him like some slut. She had to know how he felt, why he'd left town so suddenly after that night, so long ago...

Still. His soul mate, he'd called her. Passion flared in her heart and between her thighs. It was too wonderful to be true!

“If you felt that way – why did you leave me – you know, after...”

“After you refused to give me your cherry?”

“Come on, Grant, you know we couldn't. We were barely seventeen. We were romance characters. It's just not allowed.”

He didn't try to disguise the bitterness in his voice. “I ran away from the hurt. I thought I could forget you. That I could bury myself in other bodies and burn out the need.” With a gentleness that almost made her sob, he trailed his fingers through her luminous golden tresses. “And I tried, baby. Believe me, I tried. I whored my way from Mombasa to Bangkok. But you were with me the whole time. Every woman I ever fucked was really you.”

His crudeness made her own desire flare. “Oh, Grant...”

“Then, when I heard your husband had died, that you were a widow now – I had to track you down. To make you give me what you've owed me for so very long... what we both need and deserve...”

He seized her with new roughness. “I'm finally going to make you mine, baby.” Her clothing tore like tissue paper under his assault. She sprawled backward onto the porch, bare as the day she was born. The night air, cool on her fevered skin, both thrilled and terrified her.

Her nakedness stunned him for a moment. He gazed at her with something like reverence. “God, you're beautiful, Laurel! You're a dream come true.” He dabbled his fingertips in her moist cleft, barely revealed by her gracefully parted thighs. “And so wet, darling! You want me as much as I want you.”

He knelt between her legs and she held her breath. The moment – the moment was coming. But she had to tell him the truth.

“Of course I want you, Grant. I always wanted you, no matter what I said or did. That night up on the hill above town – you have no idea how much I wanted you to be my first. How difficult it was to say no.”

“I should have been.” Anger and regret both rang in his voice. He was fiddling with his jeans, trying to get his zipper open. Laurel held her breath. “But it's too late now.”

She propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes glued to his fingers. “No, Grant. It's not.”

“What?” He sat back on his heels to stare at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Harold – he – well, let's just say that he and I never consummated our marriage.”

“You mean – are you trying to say....” he whispered.

“Yes, my love. I'm still a virgin.”

“Praise the Lord and the saints!” He dragged her back into his arms, kissing her all over. “I can't believe it. After all this time... Oh, baby, I'm going to make it so good for you, so very good. Just lie back and let me take care of everything!”

With exaggerated care he settled her onto her back once more. Her legs flopped open and her musky aroma pervaded the atmosphere. Never in all her thirty three years had she been so drenched, so aroused, so ready.

Grant gave her a devilish grin. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head to reveal his naked torso.

Laurel screamed. Terror drowned out every erotic thought, every lascivious sensation. “No! No! Get away from me!”

The vision before her was more monster than man. Unnaturally smooth, totally hairless skin stretched taut over the swollen contours of his massive pectorals. Puffed-up deltoids merged into the ballooning biceps she'd glimpsed earlier. Ropy veins twisted around the contoured flesh of his arms, like tubing installed to nourish some artificial life form. Below his nipples, his abdomen rippled, wavy crests and valleys, all hard and burnished. The sight made her ill, made her weak. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the horror.

“Laurel, honey. What's wrong?” Grant bent closer to her face. One rubbery nipple brushed against her own breast.

“Aye! Get away from me...!” Crab-like, heedless of the splinters embedding themselves in her bare butt, she scooted backward, trying to get away from that unbearable ugliness and the awful fear it kindled. Fear was her only reality now. She clambered onto her feet, stumbled down the porch steps and raced off into the night.

Of course, Grant could have stopped her – he outweighed her by sixty or seventy pounds, easily, and he had all those muscles – but he was so astonished by her reaction that he didn't even think about it. What was wrong with her? All the women he'd had over the years had raved about his physique. He'd expected Laurel to go weak with lust, as they had...

He shook his head. She had always been a bit nuts. A virgin at thirty three! Maybe she wasn't his soul mate after all.

Meanwhile, Laurel crashed through the forest, heedless of the branches tearing at her naked flesh. Her only thought was to put distance between her and the disgusting reality of Grant's over-inflated body. She ran and ran, until she was totally lost. Finally, when her strength failed her, she collapsed on the mossy bank of little stream that ran through a moon-dappled clearing.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gasped for air. Sobs shook her ripe, vulnerable body. Was she crying for her lost love? Her lost innocence?

Gradually her breathing slowed. She drank deeply from the crystalline rivulet, to soothe her raw throat. Then she lay back and closed her eyes, focusing on the faint sounds of the night and the sweet, spicy scents of the nature. Gradually a kind of peace stole over her. She had escaped. She was free.

Her fingers drifted to her bare sex. She was still wet, still tingling with residual want. Not for Grant, though. Never. Dreamy and relaxed, she stroked her moist folds and savored the ripples of sensation kindled by that light touch. Perhaps she didn't need a man at all.

The sound of breaking branches roused her from her erotic reverie. Grant! But whatever was forcing itself through the underbrush was bigger than Grant, more powerful.

Her heart in her throat, Laurel rolled onto her knees. She was ready to run if she had to, but for the moment curiosity held her fast.

A hairy form at least seven feet tall burst from the trees into the open area and stood, sniffing the air. The beast stood on its hind legs like a man, but its immense stature and shaggy pelt made it clear this creature was not human. Its tufted ears swiveled, trying to locate the source of Laurel's shallow breathing. Saliva dripped from its maw, which bristled with vicious looking teeth. Meanwhile, jutting from its groin was a rigid and very human-looking male organ – aside from the fact that it was half again as long and thick as any penis that had ever appeared in an erotic romance story.

The creature's ferocious growl changed to some more ambiguous vocalization when he finally noticed Laurel's naked form crouched on the earth. He took a step forward, his erect member bobbing like a conductor's wand. The rhythmic motion held Laurel transfixed. Rekindled lust flickered through her, tightening her nipples and moistening her virgin cunt.

Her fur-covered companion made another sound, grunting with a rising intonation that seemed to signal a question. He took yet another step in her direction.

He didn't seem inclined to attack her. Laurel almost wished he would.

Finally, worn down by too much terror, frustrated with waiting, she flopped over on her back, raised her knees and gave the creature a good look at her wet and gleaming sex. Enough was enough.

“Come on, big boy. Let's see what you can do.”

My Precarious Foray into Historical Erotic Humor

By Diane Scott Lewis

Back in the old days, before the internet (cringe) I decided to become an author...I mean, how hard could it be? I took a pen name since my real name was the same as a woman who had just posed for Playboy Magazine. I didn’t want anyone to confuse me with her—my husband is still laughing hysterically over that one. It took me much-longer-than-I-thought-necessary (and those piles of rejections) before accomplishing publication.

Since then I’ve had five historical novels published.

Later on, I was curious (jealous) of a young author who was making millions on an erotic novel called Fifty Shades of Grey, so I thought, since I write historicals, why not pen a historical parody of this story? Little did I know at the time that several others had already written parodies of this book; but I believed I could give it a new prospective. 

I’d researched the eighteenth century for many years, even perusing rare books at the Library of Congress. Now, I prided myself on being somewhat of an expert on the later eighteenth century, the 1780s through 1790s. The majority of my novels take place in this period, and none are romantic fluff; I like to reveal the seedier side of those bygone days. Thus, I thought how perfect to set my naughty novella in this era. I wanted it to be very much tongue-in-cheek, but using the restrictions, class-system, etc. of the time.

I set the story at a sprawling manor house in England, with an uppity matron, her distracted husband, and the matron’s guest—her extremely handsome and lascivious brother. Into this mix, I put a naive young woman, a pastor’s daughter, who arrives to work as a maidservant.

First I tried self-publishing, but that didn’t get me very far. I didn’t sell those millions I dreamt of, and still didn’t own my villa in Italy, or chateau in France. Then, after finding my wonderful new publisher, who at the time did erotica, I decided to submit it to them. The novella was accepted and published.

Now for the perils of marketing. I am a member of a huge group that caters to authors of English-set historical fiction, and we are allowed to promote on the site. I was a fairly new member, so I blithely posted my link and talked about my story. Immediately (and I’m not exaggerating here) I was scolded, and warned, that this site does not and never will promote erotica. I withdrew my links, tucked my tail between my legs, and was prepared to be booted out of the group. However, the very kind moderator talked me out of leaving, though I’m certain other members still cyberly stare aghast at me.

Everyone who has read it thinks the story is hilarious. Even a very famous author read an excerpt and called it “very funny.” I won’t name her since I don’t have her permission to quote her. But be assured, she’s extremely famous.

I still don’t have my villa or chateau, but I love writing historicals, and had a blast creating my parody.

Following is a blurb and excerpt from: Miss Grey’s Shady Lover

In this erotic, tongue-in-cheek parody of a bestselling novel, Anya Grey enters service at Pretentious Hall in the eighteenth century. She meets brooding, dangerous, but strikingly handsome, Lord Libidinous who soon involves her in a sultry, sexual relationship to soothe his damaged soul. Prepare to laugh, and sigh, at their sexy, and explicitly steamy, antics.

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Excerpt

The glass of pale yellowish Canary wine sat before her in its crystal goblet. Several times Anya went to pick it up, but pulled back her nervous hand. Perhaps she’d beg Pip to take the drink to his lordship, but then he might threaten to discharge her for disobeying his order. No man had ever made her feel this out of sorts.

With a deep breath, she plucked up the glass, put it on a small silver salver, and walked down the dark, wood-paneled corridor. Candles flickered in sconces, giving off the faint smell of beeswax and smoke.

At the library door she scratched, then heard a resonant “come in.”

Shoulders back, she entered the room. A fire crackled in the marble hearth to her left. Books lined the many shelves in cases against the walnut paneled walls. A polished desk sat to her right. The room was dim, shadows everywhere. She froze in place.

Lord Libidinous sat in a leather wing-backed chair near the fire. He looked up and waved her over. He glanced at his gold pocket-watch. “Ten minutes past ten. I’d nearly given up on you, Miss Grey.” He spoke almost languidly while her muscles tensed.

She approached unsteadily and stood before him, the salver tight in her grip. “Here is your wine, as you requested, sir.”

“Ah, you are an obedient girl, aren’t you?” He smiled, the firelight glistening off his white teeth. “Set it on the table.”

She bent and set the salver on the low table with a click. “Will that be all, sir?” Grateful for the kerchief around her neck that hid her voluptuous cleavage, a sight she’d allowed no man to see, she prayed he’d send her on her way now.

He picked up the glass and took a slow sip. “You disappoint me, Miss Grey. I thought we were going to have a lengthy discourse.”

Anya straightened and smoothed down her apron. She also smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, another annoying habit she had trouble overcoming.

“What would you care to discuss with me, a mere servant?”

His eyes flashed with humor. “The war in the colonies, the disruptions in Parliament, or why does an educated young woman work as a kitchen maid? There are so many topics to converse on, don’t you think?”

She avoided his intense gaze. “My father, the vicar, said before his untimely death, that too many good men are dying in America, the taxes are too high here to support the war, and Parliament is split over the war and taxes. As for me, I need the wages, sir.”

His lordship laughed and slapped his knee. “By God, you are an amusing creature, Miss Grey. Of course, education is often wasted on women, who should be comforts to their husbands and raise his children.” He leaned back in the chair, watching her with a raised dark brow. “Why isn’t a comely woman like you married?”

“No one found me comely enough to marry, I suppose.” She caught his scrutiny and slid back a step. “I was known to be outspoken; perhaps that deterred any suitable swain for my hand.”

“Outspoken? I didn’t get that impression earlier.” He leaned forward, elbows on his elegant knees. “Or do I make you extremely nervous? I’ve been known to do that to the fairer sex.”

He was brash, insufferable, but still he drew her in a way she couldn’t explain. She stared at his sculptured mouth. “What else do you require, sir?”

“I require that you sit here beside me and keep me company.” He pulled over a stool, close to his left leg, and patted it.

“That would be highly improper, your lordship.” She slid back another step, her mouth as dry as that desert she’d never visited. “Lady Snoot would disapprove.”

“Never mind my sister. She’s gone to bed.” He again touched the chair, his gaze sharper. “Sit, Miss Grey. It wouldn’t look well on you to upset the new proprietor of the manor.”

Anya wanted to run for the door, but his dark eyes held her. A tingle started low in her abdomen, a sensation she’d never felt before. With stilted movements, she did as he ordered and sank onto the stool, careful not to brush his leg with hers. She gathered her skirt and petticoats close. “You are quite intimidating, sir. But I believe you enjoy being so.”

“I know what I want, that is all.” He nodded his elegant head. “And I was wrong about Biblical discussions. What do you know of Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“It was a city of great sin, and destroyed because of it.” She still hoped he’d send her out. Her hands shook at the mention of such a sinful place. “What if someone sees us? I can’t afford to lose my good character.”

“Since my dear sister’s husband is a milquetoast, and Bertha humors me, remember, I am the master here. And Lord Snoot knows that only too well.” Libidinous laced his long fingers together, his expression unreadable.

The danger from him seeped over her, but she couldn’t move. She clutched her hands in her lap, her heart racing like the curricle that had killed her father. “Since you have me cornered, what else would you care to discourse over or of?”

“Of you, Miss Grey. What do you enjoy in this blighted world?” His smile made her quiver, though he reminded her of a ravenous wolf.

“I like...flowers in the garden, the fresh smell of grass after a rain...” Under his intense stare she strained to remember anything else. “Chocolate is quite tasty.”

“Yes, yes, all very enjoyable.” He leaned farther forward and traced a finger along her wrist. “But do you like being touched in a certain way?”

Her skin tingled. “I...suppose that...it’s nice...very friendly...”

“What about being more than friendly?” He tugged at her kerchief. “I see you are a woman of suppressed passions.”

Her breath hitched and her hands flew up to stop him. “This is too friendly already, sir. And my passions are just fine where they are.”

He caressed the material, thus putting pressure on her bodice. “Are you afraid of pleasure, my innocent vicar’s daughter?”

Her stomach did a strange summersault and her breasts tingled. “I...don’t know. How would I know what I’ve never experienced? But I do feel this is very unseemly, though slightly gratifying.”

He chuckled, his fingers still caressing. “That is my point, my dear; I can show you pleasures you will never imagine. If you will trust me and only allow me to.”

A heaviness shifted low in her body. Her nipple puckered, stunning her. “I might not be ready to imagine them, sir.” She squirmed on the stool, which increased a strange pleasure down there.

About the Author

Diane Parkinson (Diane Scott Lewis) grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, joined the Navy at nineteen, married and raised two sons. She writes book reviews for the Historical Novels Review and worked at The Wild Rose Press from 2007 to 2010 as a historical editor. She has three published historical novels: Elysium and The False Light. Her sequel to The False Light, Without Refuge, was released in March 2012. Her debut novel, The False Light, was re-released by Books We Love, re-titled Betrayed Countess, in 2013. Her erotic novel, Miss Grey’s Shady Lover, was also published in 2013. Her current release is a romantic satire, The Defiant Lady Pencavel and a historical adventure, Ring of Stone. She lives with her husband and dachshund in western Pennsylvania.

http://www.dianescottlewis.org

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