Swept Away by a Daydream

By Diane Bator (Guest Blogger)

I started down the writing path at a very early age, more to amuse myself than to impress others. Stories fascinated me. Daydreams swept me away to other worlds, other realities I longed to capture and relive time and time again.

I can't recall my earliest stories, they probably had a lot to do with me becoming a famous singer or actress. The later stories, from junior and senior high school, had more depth. Those stories were filled with damaged people who held onto a sliver of hope for a better world.

Later, when I married and had kids, I set aside my passion for writing, only allowing my muse out of the closet occasionally. Still, I didn't take my talents or my passion seriously, it was more something I did to unwind. To daydream.

Eventually, we moved across Canada to a new town 2,000 miles away from home. I discovered a great way to meet like-minded people, I joined a writing group in 2007. My first meeting, I was terrified! We went around the group to introduce ourselves then the group leader gave us a writing prompt and we wrote for 10 minutes. How freeing to write without censoring the thoughts that tumbled out of my head! The fear factor escalated, however, when we were invited to read what we had written. I dove in and read, my hands shaking so hard I couldn't even hold my paper.

I discovered I truly enjoyed working with other writers, working from prompts, and eventually created a complete novel using one prompt at a time. Voila The Bookstore Lady was born. The book had gone through so many different incarnations over the years and while I queried it to every agent and publisher I thought would like it, my story remained unpublished. Not one to sit back and wait patiently, I kept writing. Eventually The Mystery Lady followed. Slowly, I dared to take myself seriously as a writer and dreamed of having one of those novels published.

I've been called a prolific writer, even once I had gone back to a "real" job, not a stay-at-home mom, and taking care of three kids, taking them to appointments and activities and so on. My best time-management secret was to write everywhere. I wrote on lunch breaks, while waiting at appointments, waiting for kids at soccer, karate, baseball, etc. Writer's block was never an issue. Everything that popped into my head, I'd write into a notebook to work on later.

In 2010, I happened upon a writing contest called Murder in Ink sponsored by a small publisher. I entered on a whim and won! My first e-novella, Murder on Manitou, was published in 2012 and print copies soon followed. My daydream started to become reality. This was the catalyst for taking a bigger plunge, becoming involved with an online critique group.

It was through this group, I met a lady who encouraged me to send my novel to an agent she knew. I submitted a query to Dawn Dowdle, who went on to helped me polish The Bookstore Lady to the point we could query it with confidence. The Bookstore Lady was accepted by Books We Love in 2013. Shortly later, they offered to published more books in my Wild Blue Mysteries series. The Mystery Lady was released in March 2014 as an e-book and will be available in print this summer.

As well as the Wild Blue Mysteries series, I am working on a new series that my agent is querying, which I cannot wait to see in print. Sorry, no details yet, but I can say it's a cozy mystery set in an unlikely business I'm very familiar with.

Along with writing, I've picked up some invaluable editing skills. I've had the pleasure of doing critiques for some fellow authors and - as nasty as I feel I've been to them - they seem happy for my help. In turn, I'm more than happy to share what I've learned and help them sell their books. I have to admit, I find it much easier to edit for other people than for myself.

My goal as a writer isn't to become rich or famous. My goal is to write stories people want to read and can enjoy. Many, many, many stories! Rather than give up or tuck everything aside, I've given in to full-fledged goal setting and planning now, with a side of daydreaming when it's time to write.

And now for a little taste from The Mystery Lady.

Blurb

Danny Walker used to enjoy chasing criminals, but after being kidnapped and nearly killed, he longs to close the Wild Blue Detective Agency to live a simpler life. Forced to take leave from the police force, he has a long way to go to convince the shrink he's even close to sane, especially when he helps his former partner solve a series of murders that endangers the woman he's tailing.

Wanna-be writer Lucy Stephen never wrote about murder until her husband moved out and now she thinks some man in a blue car is stalking her. When her husband and his girlfriend take her kids on vacation, Lucy discovers a hidden package of jewelry her husband desperately wants back. The more she learns about the assorted pieces, the more Lucy realizes she may never see her kids again and needs to fight for her life with the help of the man who's stalking her.

Excerpt

Lucy clenched her jaw, headed for the door, and marched to the Davidson house, the oldest house the street. The slap of her flip-flops ricocheted down the street like gunshots and drowned out the radio murmuring in his garage. The clatter of tools and revving of the pickup’s engine for the past three hours had finally pushed her over the edge. Again.

She stormed up the asphalt driveway behind a tall, broad-shouldered man and cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

He straightened up, the top of his head cracking on the open hood of the rusty pickup truck. As he rubbed the wound, she tried not to snicker. If he wasn’t more careful, he’d need to get both he and his truck fixed by professionals.

He ran a greasy hand through his hair, then turned and wiped his hands on his faded blue t-shirt. Six-foot-four and two hundred or so pounds, the man was a mass of tattooed, rippling muscles and had shiny brown curls and pale green eyes. “Well, hello, gorgeous. What brings you by today?”

Lucy sucked in a sharp breath. Totally not her type of guy, yet her hands shook as badly as her voice and her heart raced. Perspiration trickled down her chest in rivers and soaked her tank top as she babbled. “My air conditioner broke down, there’s a hole in our pool, and I’ve had to listen to my kids whine all day because they’re hot and tired. Top that off with listening to you and that stupid truck all afternoon and I’ve had enough. So knock it off.”

Her neighbor could have been sympathetic. He could have even offered to make peace. Instead, he winked and asked, “But aside from that, how are things going?”

“You’re not funny. I have two deadlines, three bored kids, and a flat pool in my yard.” She stopped ranting and pasted on a fake smile. “Other than that, things are wonderful. Thanks for asking.”

He narrowed his lime green eyes. “Was that sarcasm?”

She stared hard. Nope. No way he was her type. Too rude. Too…glistening with sweat and easy on the eyes. When her knees wobbled, she thought about her three kids. “Yeah, that was sarcasm. You’re not the brightest bulb in the string, are you?”

He grinned then studied her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Clancy Davidson. Mel and Daisy’s son. I’m watching the house while my mom’s in the hospital.”

“Sorry to hear that.” She folded her arms across her chest, aware he was checking her out inch by sweaty inch. “Lucy. Lucy Stephen. Hot and cranky mom of three.”

“Hot I agree with. I notice you didn’t say married.” His smile made her knees flinch. “Are you sorry to hear my mom’s ill or that I’m staying here?”

“Both actually.”

“Well, Lucy Stephen. Either I work on the clunker now, or later tonight when I’ll keep you and your three kids awake.” He waved a hand toward her. “Your choice.”

Her shoulders drooped in defeat, but her jaw remained tight and defiant. “Fine, but if I still hear you out here after nine o’clock tonight, I will personally blow this heap up.”

“Honey, if I’m still out here at nine o’clock tonight, you and I’ll have a beer then I’ll supply the dynamite and help you.” He winked then picked up a rag and wiped his hands again.

Unconvinced he was sincere, her gaze shifted back toward her house and she tapped the toe of her flip-flop on the driveway.

Roger always said she’d make a good writer because she was such a drama queen, but maybe she was a drama queen because she was a writer. In truth, her mood was more about Roger and her deep down reluctance to let her kids go with him for the week. Normally, she’d probably have a hard time staying mad at someone like Clancy.

“Look, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “You go back to whatever it is you do all day and have fun with your kids. I’ll pad my tools with bubble wrap so you can relax.”

“You are such a jerk.” She snapped.

“That’s quite an observation considering you just met me. Maybe you should give me a chance to actually be a jerk before you accuse me of such a heinous crime.” He toyed with a wrench.

Fondled? Stroked? Darn her writer’s brain. What was wrong with her? Lucy blew out a frustrated breath then rolled her eyes and stomped away. “Men.”

She stormed up the cobblestone pathway to her front door and cursed under her breath. Her entire body vibrated after her confrontation with Clancy. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t followed. One yard over, Clancy stood in the middle of his driveway grinning then waved.

She huffed. There were a thousand things she needed to do before the kids went away with Roger on Sunday. Every single one of them would make her cry since next week marked the first time they’d ever be away from her and Lucy was already on edge.

After confronting Clancy, the whole neighborhood now knew what a nutcase she really was. Maybe they’d leave her alone so she could write in peace.

Get your copy of The Mystery Lady here: http://www.amazon.com/Mystery-Lady-Wild-Blue-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B00J456WK4

Leave me a comment with your email address, and you could win a print copy of The Bookstore Lady!

I do hope you stop by for a visit! You can find me at:

Website: http://penspaintsandpaper.com

Blog: http://dbator.blogspot.ca/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/dibator

Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/pages/Diane-Bator/263599617046736?ref=hl#

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Diane-Bator/e/B009CGCPRE

 

Review: Winter Howl by Aurelia T. Evans

Winter Howl by Aurelia T. Evans

Totally Bound Publishing, 2012

We live in a world obsessed with labels. Liberal. Conservative. Erotica. Romance. Gay. Straight. Kinky. Vanilla. The passion to pigeonhole affects (or perhaps I should say “afflicts”) both individuals and organizations.

In some ways, this trend to slice and dice everything into appropriate categories is a necessary adaptation to increasing complexity and information overload. However, it has many negative consequences. People – or let's get specific here, readers – seek out categories they've liked in the past (just as individuals consult media outlets that reinforce their already-established opinions). They resist exposing themselves to different types of literature, sticking with familiar genres, and thus lose the opportunity for new, possibly wondrous experiences.

Then there is the problem that some books simply don't fit neatly into any of the genre boxes, but have to be assigned a label anyway. Such works tend to be overlooked or even maligned, because they violate the expectations of readers who chose them based on the admittedly inaccurate categorization. Such books are rarely judged on their own merits, even though they may be more original and creative than average.

Winter Howl by Aurelia T. Evans is an example. The book is labeled as erotic romance, but it breaks the traditional rules of the genre at every turn. The heroine, Renee Chambers, has sexual and emotional connections with several different characters, rather than focusing on a single relationship. The book sets these relationships against one another – indeed, that's one source of the fundamental conflicts in the story. It is not clear which of her lovers, if anyone, is Renee's “soulmate”. One of her partners is another woman, her long time friend and companion Britt, even though F/F interactions tend to be unpopular in stories that also include heterosexual sex. And the ending, unlike most romance, is hard to predict as well as emotionally ambiguous. In fact, I can't quite imagine an unadulterated happy ending for Winter Howl. Every one of Renee's possible choices involves some gain and some loss.

Personally, I really enjoyed this book. But then, I'm a bit of a genre buster myself. Renee is a rich, surprising, three-dimensional character. Afflicted with severe agoraphobia and subject to panic attacks, she can barely deal with human society. She manages Sanctuary, an isolated rural compound that shelters abandoned dogs and canine shape-shifters seeking protection from harassment. The inhabitants of Sanctuary are her family, her support, her lifeline. She believes herself to be powerless, weak and fragile without them – especially Britt, her loving friend who doubles as a service dog on the occasions when Renee can't avoid dealing with the outside world.

Then the werewolf Grant arrives – a wolf shifter, made not born like the rest of Sanctuary's inhabitants. Renee is inexplicably drawn to him, despite his crude, violent nature. He brings out a totally different side of her – questing, hungry, willing to take risks. The connection between them feels alien, but is just as powerful as her bond with Britt and the other shifters.

So which Renee is real? The tentative, tender woman Britt lovingly initiates into Sapphic sexuality, or the raw, animalistic siren who bites her lover and marks him with her fingernails? Both, of course, and Renee must face the problem of arbitrating between these two disparate aspects of her personality.

The tensions between familiarity and growth, safety and danger, tenderness and passion, drive the plot of Winter Howl. Meanwhile, the book chronicles in delicious detail the carnal interactions between Renee and those competing for her lust and love. Ms. Evans' sex scenes are glorious, full of subtle detail, without any of the hackneyed prose that sometimes characterizes erotic romance. The early interactions between Renee and Britt are especially wonderful. Their relationship is not fully consummated from a physical perspective until well into the book. The author succeeds in making even the early fully-clothed session of exploration spectacularly erotic.

Renee's sexual collisions with Grant have an entirely different tone. They more or less attack one another. These wild, raw scenes may even turn off readers with more delicate sensibilities. As for me, I was impressed by the range of the author's imagination and her ability to bring both types of sexual encounter to vivid life.

Winter Howl is the first volume in Ms. Evans' Sanctuary trilogy. I am looking forward to reading Cry Wolf, the second book (already available), which puts the spotlight on Kelly, an intriguing minor character in Book One. This series may not fit within the standard constraints of erotic romance, but it's got me hooked.

Finding Bliss

By Spencer Dryden (Guest Blogger)

Scratch a writer about story development and you can sit back for an hour of uninterrupted babbling. We love to talk about where stories came from, but in fact many of us don't know. I don't really know where Bliss came from. (look already, he's ending sentences in a prepositions.) I am new to writing fiction. My bio says I was trained in fiction writing on the job with the sales and marketing reports I wrote for management. 

It sounds funny, but it is literally true. I was never an avid reader and certainly not a writer. This fiction thing is something that was hovering in the background for a long time. When I turned 62 (I'm 64 now) I realized I was running out of time to act on my dreams. My friends are retiring from long distinguished careers. I've never had one. They are also dying of natural causes now. When I go to class reunions only old people show up. The babes I lusted for in high school are grandmothers now. It's my time now, or never.

Luck, and the kindness of strangers are essential ingredients for writing success-everyone is talented, everyone works hard. I got lucky. Lucky, in that a friend who is a successful playwright read some of my initial scratchings I sent him on a whim. He told me I was a natural storyteller and I had a good ear for dialogue. Blew me away. I never would have started without that wonderful anointing. What ever it is he saw didn't come from the traditional path of reading, writing and dedication to learning the proper construction of the English language.

Many of my stories come out of the blue, as if delivered by the muse riding the purple unicorn blasting me with pixie dust. Bliss is very different from the other stuff I've written. If I were to put ropes around my writing, it is male erotica, laced with humor. I'm the guy who invented The Gueschtunkina Ray Gun-one blast from this weapon renders a woman into a high state of sexual arousal. That's funny. That's not Bliss. In fact it took me a couple of rejections to realize that Bliss wasn't romance or erotica. Fortunately the good folks at Breathless Press have a line for romantic suspense, Covert, where Bliss has found a home. More luck. I barely did any research before submitting to them. I'm even a little embarrassed to say I hadn't read a single offering in their portfolio when I pushed the 'send' button.

The story line of the book came from a practice I use that is not to far from the actors training of improv. I smash ideas together and see if I can make something begin to take shape-often with two characters talking. So, I though, suppose there is a woman who is suddenly elevated to the kind of career and social status that is the modern woman's dream. But she's unhappy because her husband has lost sexual interest in her and she doesn't want to lose him. She doesn't have tools to address the problem so she goes to a sex therapist where deep dark stuff comes out. Then, instead of a 200,000 word John Updike novel of midlife, suburban angst, which requires using words like avuncular, the story turns to the manipulation by her misogynistic pastor and his desire for spiritual purity among the men of his flock. So I'm smashing unresolved psychic trauma in youth into the burden of religious guilt and shame, imposed by charismatic man of God. Fun stuff.

 

Bliss is the story of a woman's struggle with sexual shame. Strip away the decoration and it is a story of the way society fails to protect women and even places blame on them, compounded by religion that keeps heaping it on. Christina McArdle was assaulted as a girl by a predacious boy no one would do anything about. When she struck back at him, she ended up being the one in trouble. Her challenge is she must cast out the demons of past and present or lose the love of her life.

In one of those quirky writing things, Bliss is not a state of being but is the name of the the mythical town in New Hampshire where the story takes place. In my original story line the pastor was going to be at war with the town's largest employer, Bliss Industries, a maker of sex toys. But it just wasn't working out. Not all smashed together ideas do. I found a much more nefarious plot line which I cannot reveal without spoiling the story, but I never changed the name. 

 

The story is set in 1995. There's nothing terribly memorable about 1995 but I wanted a story before cell phones became ubiquitous. (Hey now, there's John Updike word.) I also wanted it set long enough ago that my MC, Christina McArdle, (35 in the story) could have attended old time Catholic school. The guilt and shame thing plays heavily in this story. As a Catholic school kid of the 50's, I'm telling you, they could lay it on-never mind what the priests were doing to young boys. (This celibacy thing just has not worked out.)

Another quirky writer thing in this story, and all my stories, I name characters after friends who have passed. 

It's just a little tribute to their memory. The character in the story usually bears little resemblance to the one remembered. Unlike Hitchcock though, I do not make cameo appearances in my stories. There is enough of my real life buried between the lines already. Although there is a disclaimer in fiction books about representations of living persons, in fiction you can get the revenge that real life only affords with long jail terms. I love it.

I have to admit I am very anxious to get a gauge on how this story is received and interpreted by the reading public-which hopefully will be millions (right). I have been surprised by how different the story I write can be from the one that is read. Steven King reminds writers that once you put something 'out there' you lose control of how it is interpreted. This story has elements I think will resonate with a lot of women. It might also piss off a bunch of people as well. I guess if its a good story, it will do a little of both. If you happen to be motivated to read it as a result of this lucid post (my what an ego) I hope you'll send some feedback.

You can get the book from Amazon or your favorite e-bookseller.

You can reach me through my website: http://www.fictionbyspencer.com/

At Twitter: @SpencerDryden

I am also on Goodreads and google+ and Facebook

About Spencer

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Some men are born great, others strive for greatness; still others have greatness thrust upon them. Spencer Dryden is none of these men. In fact, he is so unimpressive, he leaves no footprints on newly fallen snow. He was trained in fiction writing on the job with the many sales reports he produced for his managers, winning the coveted “keep your job contest” three years running. His expense reports are still considered masterpieces of forgery by the bankruptcy trustee of his former employer. He lives an unremarkable life in a suburb of a northern city. His friends and family would drop dead in horror if they knew of his secret life as a writer of erotica. He hates the family cat but still loves to pet his wife.

Admit You Want It....

So you like BDSM stories. Spanking. Bondage. Nipple clamps and floggers. Exhilarating power and delicious submission.

That's great. You've come to the right place! Don't be embarrassed. I have what you want.

Today I'm celebrating the release of my boxed set Admit You Want It: BDSM Erotica by Books We Love. Designed for connoisseurs of literate kink, Admit You Want It combines eighteen of my's sizzling D/s short stories plus a 30,000 word novella in one economical package (only $3.99)!

And when I say I'm celebrating, I mean it. You'll find a snippet from Stroke, one of the stories in the volume, below. Leave me a comment, with an email address, telling me what you think. I'll draw one name and give away a copy of the entire boxed set. In addition, if you like, I'll send every person who comments a copy of my BDSM short story A Case of You. All you have to do is ask - admit that you want it!

"Look at me." His tone was softer but no less firm.

I raised my eyes to his, which were the startling blue of glacial ice. I shivered and burned.

"You're new, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, sir," he corrected me. My nipples tightened inside my bra. 

"Yes, sir." Just his voice was enough to make me ache. 

"What's your name?"

"Cassie, sir. Cassie Leonard."

"Don't look away, Cassie. Look at me. Do you know who I am?"

"No, sir. I just started at Lindenwood this week. Before that I was in the rehab department at Miriam Hospital."

"My slaves call me Master Jonathan."

My earlobes, my nipples, my fingertips, all seemed to catch fire. I wanted to sink through the floor. I didn't want him to see how his words excited me.

But he did see. I stared at my hands, knuckles white from gripping the rail.

"You have a boyfriend, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I do." An image of Ryan rose in my mind, his brown curls and uneven grin, muscled chest and hard thighs. I did love him, truly I did, with his quirky humor, his gentle fingers and his boyish ardor. He was a fine young man. My mother approved of him.

"He doesn't satisfy you." It was a statement, not a question. Tears of remembered frustration pricked the corners of my eyes. "Why not, Cassie? Is his cock too small?"

I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with a stranger, a patient, a half-paralyzed man nearly forty years older than I was. I stole a glance at Dr. Carver. His mouth was firm but his eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth.

"No, sir. His cock is fine." Ryan was justifiably proud of his meaty hard-ons.

"What is it then? Is he a selfish lover? Does he come too quickly for you?"

Guilt washed over me. Ryan would happily spend hours licking my pussy and fingering me, trying to get me off. The only way I could manage it was to think about scenes from the kinky porn I hid from him. Whippings and spankings, gags and handcuffs, all the clichés that I couldn't stop myself from wanting.

"Well? Tell me, Cassie. What do you need that he doesn't provide? What do you want?"

My mouth filled with cotton. I couldn't speak. I was acutely aware of my rigid nipples pressing against the starched fabric of my uniform. My clit pulsed like a sore tooth inside my sodden panties.

"Cassie, I'm waiting." His sternness sent electricity shimmering through my limbs. "Don't disappoint me."

I dared a glance at his face. His left eyelid drooped slightly. His eyes snared mine. I couldn't look away. One eyebrow arched in an unspoken question.

"I—um—I want him to, uh, to do things to me. That he doesn't want to do.” I tried to break away from his gaze, but the force of his will held me.

“Things?” He sounded amused. A fresh wave of hot, wet shame swamped my body. “What sort of things?”

“Uh—tie me up. Spank me. Use me. Treat me like his slave.” It all came out in a rush, the desires I'd never shared with anyone except Ryan. Even then, I'd only shown him the tip of the iceberg, the least perverted of my needs. “He wouldn't, though. He was shocked when I told him. Disgusted. Said that I had a filthy mind.” The tears that had gathered earlier spilled out over my cheeks.

“I imagine that you do, little one, delightfully filthy.” His voice was a caress, soothing and seductive. “I knew that right away, just from your reactions to my voice. Your deepest desire is to submit to a strong master, isn't it?”

“Yes–sir.” I felt relief, now that I'd admitted my secret. He at least didn't seem to condemn me.

“You want to be beaten and buggered, shackled to the bed and split open by a huge cock. You want to bath in your master's come, maybe even his piss. To be forced to service his friends.”

It was thrilling and horrible, listening to him enumerating my darkest fantasies out loud. My clit felt the size of a ripe plum, swollen and juicy, ready to burst. I nodded, still finding it difficult to expose myself so completely.

“I will do those things for you, if you'd like.”

***

Don't forget to include your email - and ask for your free story!

 

Sunday Snog #123: Rajasthani Moon

It has been awhile since I've shared a kiss from my outrageous steampunk BDSM opus Rajasthani Moon. Just yesterday I was thinking that it might be my personal favorite novel out of my back list, because I could give my imagination totally free rein.

So here's a spicy kiss from early in the book, the morning after Cecily's first session in Rajah Amir's dungeon.

After you've enjoyed my snog, head back to Victoria's Sunday Snog page for more lip-smacking action!

 

Neither kink nor curse can stop a woman with a mission.

Morning sun filtered through the latticed windows, the intermittent light adding new patterns to the intricately-woven carpet. Cecily stirred in the nest of cushions Amir had scattered upon the floor at the foot of his bed. She stretched her bondage-stiffened muscles, wincing as embroidered satin abraded her punished backside. The Rajah’s spanking appeared to have irritated the welts from the flogging administered by his brother. What a pair of deviants!

A short chain tethered her ankle to the massive mahogany bedstead. Otherwise she appeared to be free—not counting, of course, her deadly collar. Rising to her knees, she peered at Amir, who lay careless and relaxed in sleep upon the fine linen sheets. With his eyes closed, luxurious lashes brushing his smooth cheeks and full lips slightly parted, he looked boyish, fresh and innocent. How appearances could deceive!

Was he merely feigning sleep? Cecily scrutinised his naked form, studiously ignoring the tell-tale swell below his waist. She could not detect the slightest evidence of tension. His gloriously-muscled chest rose and fell in a slow, regular rhythm. She held her palm above his luscious mouth and felt the warmth of his breath upon her skin. A faint aroma of almonds hung around him. She recalled the scented oil with which he’d greased her rear channel and shuddered, half disgusted, half aroused.

For the moment, the Rajah appeared to be in her power. Cecily knew many techniques for quickly and efficiently terminating a man’s life, without the need for excessive force or blood. It would be quite simple to eliminate this enemy of the Empire.

The train of thought came automatically, a consequence of her training. She dismissed it as impractical. She would still be a prisoner, and a proven assassin rather than merely a seeker of intelligence. Besides, what purpose would such a murder serve? Amir was far more valuable to her alive, as a source of information.

Underneath all her rationalisation, Cecily was keenly and shamefully aware of the fact that she could never kill this man—no matter how vicious or dangerous he might be. He had a hold on her, far stronger and more difficult to escape than his silvery chains. Her quim was still tender and raw from the effects of his infernal instruments—his sparks, his clamps and his cock—but she felt herself moisten as she gazed on his slumbering beauty. In his presence, what she truly wanted was to give in, to have him use her like the helpless captive she was.

Helpless? She shook her head as if to scatter her offending thoughts. What was wrong with her? Had the Rajasthani ruler cast some sort of spell over her? She should be focusing on escape. She might not have ferreted out all the Rajah’s secrets, but already she knew much that was of value. Furthermore, if she managed to get out of the palace, she could disguise herself and engage in some additional sleuthing…

“Good morning, pet.” Amir’s piercing eyes fluttered open and pinned her gaze, while his lips curved into a self-satisfied smile. Any semblance of innocence fled. “Did you sleep well?”

“I’m not your pet. Furthermore, I scarcely had a comfortable moment all night, due to the after-effects of your tortures.”

“Tortures? Please! Based on your reactions to my little games, I don’t think ‘torture’ is exactly the appropriate term, my delectable spy.”

He reached up, grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down on top of him.

“Ow!” Cecily began as the chain bit into her skin. His voluptuous lips sealed off any further commentary. She wanted to struggle but his arms were steel bands confining her. Her breasts mashed against his solid chest, the nipples plump and swollen as grapes, while the sweet rigidity of his cock poked into her from under the sheet.

It felt far too pleasant—outrageously so. Amir prised her mouth open and probed deep with his brazen tongue. She could not help imagining that tongue rooting in her cunny. Desire shimmered through her as she opened to him, savouring his flavour of cinnamon and fennel.

Clearly he sensed her surrender. He released his hold on her torso so that he could trace her bountiful curves, down over her hips to her buttocks. Seizing two handfuls of her opulent flesh, he ground his cock against her mound. His fingernails scored her arse and woke twinges of remembered pain that only fanned her need. Awkward because of her chains and his still-tight hold upon her, Cecily tried to spread her thighs, so that his erection would provide more direct stimulation. The sheet that separated their flesh was soaked by their pooled secretions.

She wanted to roll away, so that they could remove that barrier. Amir held her fast, determined, perhaps, to frustrate her, while he continued to ravage her mouth with astonishing ferocity. Even Cecily’s well-honed muscles were no match for his strength. She gave up, closed her eyes and allowed him do whatever he pleased. For now, at least, he was in control—and if she was honest with herself, she didn’t mind.

If My Book Were Made Into a Movie...

By Carmen Stefanescu (Guest Blogger)

Which author wouldn't want his or her moment of fame? To get great reviews, to be interviewed by big newspapers or TV channels, and make it to the top of the bestseller list. Like most authors, I also cherish the secret dream that one day my books may attract the attention of Hollywood producers willing to invest in their screening and, obviously, turn out to be blockbusters! 

 

Well, let’s imagine that Shadows of the Past, my paranormal romance, were made a movie. Casting for Genevieve would require several actresses, since the character Genevieve starts as a nine year old girl, then we meet her as a teenager and only later as a young nun. None of the beginning parts can be played by current young adult famous actresses.

In terms of the adult main characters, however, I have a clear mental image of the best performers for my characters. Genevieve, a frail young woman living in Middle Ages Britain, cannot achieve her happiness because of the society she lives in. Anne is a strong, determined business woman who always takes matters into her own hands; these are features which actress Jordana Spiro has proved in the movie "The Mob’s Doctor". In my opinion, she is the best actress to play Genevieve/Anne. Jordana is fragile in appearance, looks like a kindhearted person ready to help those next to her, yet she’s determined and brave.

The lusciously evil antagonist, the Abbess, sister Clementa, should be played by Madeline Stowe from the series "Revenge". The Abbess is a cunning and manipulating woman, typically cold-hearted and evil. She hates Genevieve from the start. The main story line should focus on these two nuns playing a game of cat and mouse with each other.

For the male actors, Dan Stevens from the series "Downton Abbey" is the perfect Andrew/Neil, in my opinion. A friendly young priest with a sunny disposition and warm heart. I even have some ideas regarding the scenes that take place up in the mountains, among the ruins of the ancient abbey and also regarding the apparitions in the cursed forest.

What a challenge would a screening of Shadows of the Past be! A challenge I would love to have the chance to meet. Now, let’s get back from dreams to the real world. I focus on what I need to do to get media coverage, to generate sales, to build up word of mouth. And, hopefully, one day my book will get in the hands of people who can help make my dream reality.

By the way, I'm giving away two copies of the book in ebook form to two lucky people who leave comments on this post. Be sure to include an email address so I can contact you!

Blurb

Anne's relationship with her boyfriend Neil has disintegrated. After a two-year separation, they pack for a week vacation in hopes of reconciling. But fate has other plans for them.

The discovery of a bejeweled cross and ancient human bones opens a door to a new and frightening world--one where the ghost of a medieval nun named Genevieve will not let Anne rest. This new world threatens not only to ruin Anne and Neil's vacation but to end all hopes of reconciliation as Anne feels compelled to help free Genevieve's soul from its torment.

Can Anne save her relationship and help Genevieve find her eternal rest?

A touching, compelling story of tragedy, loss and the power of endless love and good magic.

The twists and turns in this paranormal tale keep the reader guessing up to the end and weave themselves together into a quest to rekindle love.

Excerpt

"Come, we should leave at once," she said and glanced nervously over her shoulder. "Something terrible happened after you left for town. I think the Abbess found out about us. Our meeting in Uncle Ryan's cabin is no longer a secret. We have been overheard. For all I know someone spies on us even as we speak. I think the Abbess, or one of her 'friends,' is hovering somewhere nearby and listening to every word."

Andrew pulled Genevieve to his chest. "Do you regret you've come with me?"

Passion smothered Genevieve's doubt and guilt. "Never," she answered, aware of her body's response to his touch, and she succumbed to his embrace.

Calming the gnawing unease in her mind and the thought of Sister Dominica guessing she was the dough of a sinner, Genevieve repeated, "Never."

With her eyes closed and their bodies touching she became, for the very first time, simply a woman. She melted in his embrace in spite of the invisible vicious threat breathing around them. Aware they might never be alone again, she fought hard to silence the voice of conscience berating her.

"Oh, God. Please forgive me," Andrew muttered under his breath when he bowed his head to kiss her. Their lips met in a passionate first kiss.

Genevieve's spirits fell and her heart skipped a beat when, a couple of seconds later, she opened her eyes and her gaze fell on a knot strangers.

****

Tears welled in Anne's eyes, blurring her vision. She couldn’t explain them, or the sudden sadness seeping into her heart. This should’ve been a moment of happiness or, at least, contentment. She was with Neil again, and the outcome of their trip together should, very likely, bring their reconciliation. Why then did she seem detached from where she stood?

Anne shivered. Why the deep feeling of having seen this place, this forest before? And why the eerie sensation of being present here only in the body, while her mind was far away?

Away from the forest.

Away from Neil, the man who'd betrayed her trust and her love.

Get your copy of Shadows of the Past today!

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Carmen Stefanescu's Site: http://shadowspastmystery.blogspot.com/

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Story Man

Today is my dad's birthday. In fact, he also died on this day, six years ago, after living eighteen months in hospice care when doctors had given him a mere two weeks. Even hampered by a serious cardiac condition, he loved life enough that he really didn't want to let it go.

We were grateful to have those extra months, but I still miss him terribly. He and I shared a special bond from my earliest years, a bond of words and stories. He was a verbal guy, with the gift of gab despite being Jewish rather than Irish. He could charm anyone with his conversation. (He also had the ability to sound like an expert on any topic, even if he knew almost nothing. I've got that talent, too!) He dug into his fertile imagination to create clever songs and wild tales for me and my siblings. Ghost stories. Monster stories. Mysteries and tales of derring do. We'd camp out in the back yard, toast marshmallows around the fire, and he'd keep us enthralled with his lively narration.

He and my mom helped make me the voracious reader that I am. During my first three years, he read to me. By the time I was four, he was teaching me to ferret out the stories for myself. I still remember my jubilation the first time I made it all the way through "Dick and Jane" on my own.

We were mutual fans of Arthur Conan Doyle, H.P. Lovecraft and Tolkein. It was always easy to buy him presents for his birthday or for Christmas. He loved books, and I knew exactly what he'd enjoy. Meanwhile, my treasured volumes of Sherlock Holmes, Lovecraft and Edgar Allen Poe were all gifts from him to me.

He read my poems, my term papers, even my dissertation. But I never shared my erotic stories. That was one area where there were barriers between us. I always had the feeling that sex made him a bit uncomfortable. I was so tempted to give him an autographed copy of my first novel, but I was worried that his pride would be tempered with embarrassment.

It's too late now. However, I know that I have him to thank, at least partly, for my career as an author. I grew up surrounded by books, immersed in stories and rhymes. I know that's why, now, I never worry much about grammar or spelling, and I can trust my intuitions about language.

When my brother asked me to contribute to Dad's funeral, I wrote a poem. I didn't read it, though - my brother thought it was too personal, and maybe too flippant, that people listening wouldn't understand. So I wrote more standard eulogy instead. Still, today, I want to share that bit of blank verse. Even though it's full of references that won't mean anything to most of you, I hope you'll catch the spirit of the piece.

To My Father - May 4, 2008

You always knew 
Where to find the magic:
Under the rock
Behind the McNabbs',
Prowling the streets 
Of haunted Arkham,
Futures revealed 
By palpating pineapples,
Fabulous worlds
In a drop of pond scum.

You were the wizard
Unlocking secrets:
Rituals
Of the iron lantern,
Ancient prophecies
(Pip forty nine),
Timeless truths
Of the Austrian master.

Joy was your gift.
You jitterbugged
Through your years and days
To the sound of a sax,
Sailing, soaring,
Always in tune,
Leaving a trail
Of music behind you.

The road goes on
And you must follow
Wherever it leads,
With your hoary beard
And your sorcerer's staff
And your child-blue eyes
Brimming with wonder
To find new magic.

****

I miss you, Story Man. Happy Birthday.