Fat Girls: Smut for Good

“Fat girls,” Christina said, “are great dates, if you’re not too squeamish. Contrary to popular assumption, it’s not expensive to take us to dinner, because we’re far too self- conscious to eat much when someone else is watching. And if you take us to do something active, you’re pretty well guaranteed to come out looking good by comparison.”

She withdrew as she spoke—a thinner person would have pulled their knees in to their chest, wrapped their arms around their shins—but Christina was too fat for that, so she just turned away. “We never ask if something looks good on us, or God forbid, whether you think we’re pretty, because we don’t know if it would be worse to know you were lying or to actually hear the truth.”

Of all the stories in Whetting the Appetite, this one may be the most brutally honest. It's also one of my favorites. You don't see a lot of fat girls in fiction at all, and certainly not in romance, but I think there should be more. We can't all be willowy and athletic, after all.

“I...don’t know,” she said, even though the image shone, bright as day, in her head, closing her throat with fear and longing.

“Now who’s lying?” Jackson said. He pinched her bottom, hard, and she squeaked in surprise. “Why won’t you tell me?” Christina closed her eyes and shook her head. “Too much to ask,” she whispered.

“Why? Because you’re not skinny?”

Miserably, Christina shrugged.

Jackson pulled her over onto her back, pinning her shoulders with his forearms as he frowned down into her tear- stained face. “What do skinny girls get to ask for that you can’t?” he demanded.

Christina turned her head. “If I tell you now, you’ll just feel obligated. I don’t want—”

“Chrissy.” Jackson dropped his forehead to her breastbone for a moment, the picture of defeat, then lifted it again. “What if, just this once, you let me feel a little obligated? You’re my girl; I think I should be obligated to try something that you want, once in a while.”

Christina was silent, trying to reconcile her desire to please and her embarrassment, to convince herself that she might be worthy of such a gift as her own desire.

In honor of Whetting's release and in conjunction with the Smut for Good: Curves Rule blog hop, I'm having a contest! Comment here to enter, go "like" my Facebook page or follow me on Twitter for additional entries, or let me know that you've donated to the Smut for Good cause (link below) for three additional entries. The contest will close on April 13th, winner(s) will be announced on the 16th. Prizes are yet to be determined, depending on the number of entries I see, but will include, at minimum, an ebook and a coupon code. Here are the blog hop details and links:

Smut for Good: Curves Rule is a blog hop with prizes galore to raise funds for Parkinson’s UK as this is Parkinson’s Awareness week. To find more curves, and seek out further prizes please visit http://smutters.co.uk/smut-for-good and if you can take a minute to please visit the Smut for Good: Curves Rule Just Giving Page at http://www.justgiving.com/curvesrule and donate whatever you can to help us reach our target of £100 to raise awareness of Parkinson’s and to support the charity Parkinson’s UK http://www.parkinsons.org.uk/ who help those with the disease learn to cope with the challenges, give out information and search for a cure.

Guest V. L. Locey - Love of the Hunter

We have a guest post today, from the fantastic and lovely V. L. Locey! I first encountered her as the author of the hysterical Two Guys Walk Into An Apocalypse series (the first installment of which is in He Loves Me For My Brainsss) but she also has some amazing books out focusing on mythology, and she's here today to tell us a little about her latest!

~ ~ ~

Ever since I was a young girl I was fascinated with mythology. There was something magical and special about the legends of Heracles, Achilles, Perseus, and Odysseus. I would spend hours reading books about the Greek pantheon. I cannot recall how many times I have watched the first Clash of the Titans movie. More times than a grown woman should, that's for sure. I am a huge fan of Edith Hamilton, and use her novels as some writers use a dictionary or a thesaurus. It always struck me as sad that some people couldn't enjoy mythology as I did, but given how it's presented in classrooms from elementary school through college, it's no wonder so many hate Greek mythology.

I've tried, through my writing, to bring the gods to life. I've gone in and blown the dust bunnies off Zeus' marble nose and ran my Swiffer over Hera's peacock feather fan. With Love of the Hunter, my M/M mythological romance, I've taken things a step further and have rewritten one of the classic Greek legends. In this book you will see how Apollo, the most Greek of all the gods, meets and falls in love with Orion, the famed archer. This new adult romance is a dramatic one, make no mistake. There is a reason they call these tales Greek tragedies. Love of the Hunter is filled with pain and suffering, but the sadness is tempered with a love so deep it was immortalized in the heavens forever.

Here's a small sample from Love of the Hunter:

***

"You are a shameful man!" Orion glowers then gives me another shove. I fling out an arm to block him lest he strike out again. The man is strong, and his punches rock me soundly. "What possesses you to speak to your sister – your twin – in such a reprehensible manner?"

"What is said between her and I is not your concern!" I yell in his face then stalk past him, my shoulder meeting his. Orion grunts. I do not, although the contact pained me badly. My cape snaps around my ankles as I enter my bedchamber. My lover follows me. The wolves leave in the face of my anger. The door slams shut. I rip my cape from my shoulders and throw it to the corner. Turning, I come nose to nose with Orion. Undaunted and brazen my lover is. That is why he stood and fought Helios instead of begging forgiveness.

"What is said between you and her is my concern for it centers on me!" he shouts, his green eyes alive with his ire.

"So you defend this sick attraction she has for you? Why?" I demand to know. "Are you fucking her? Is that why?"

I let him hit me. I see the huge fist coming, and I allow it. The crunch of my nose breaking is liberating. Golden ichor gushes from my nostrils. I fall back into the wall, my arms getting caught in the thick teal drapery that hangs from the posts of the bed. I grasp a post for balance. My tongue darts out to catch a bit of the godly blood flowing down over my lips and chin.

I find Orion staring at me as if horrified.

"Apollo," he pants, his meaty fist dangling by his thigh.

"Nay," I cough, swallow, and then grab the curtain up to run it under my nose. The flow will stop in a moment; I am a god after all. "You did well. There are times that I require a sound punch to the face."

"I will not hear you speak of Artemis so." Orion steps closer. I hold the drapery tightly to my face, my eyes watery as I peek over the bloody material covering my nose and mouth. "She has been a veritable blessing during the long hours that you are gone. She tends my back, brings me well-cooked game, sings and laughs with me. She tells me stories and washes my hair."

"She loves you, Orion." I raise the drapery back to my nose.

He stares at me dully. He blinks at me as if I had just said something incomprehensible. "Nay," he says, his eyes leaping from me to his feet then to me again. He shakes his head.

"Aye," I mumble into the material over my face.

"Nay, she is naught but a sister to me," he says.

I drop the teal silk. A small trickle is all that remains of the bloody nose. "That is how you see her. It is not how see looks upon you," I tell him gently. I fear a feather landing on him would send him to the floor.

He drops to the end of the bed. The thick mattress compresses under his massive body. I sit down beside him. We both stare at our feet. I sniffle occasionally.

"Orion, she has loved you for quite some time. Do you not recall her saying she had watched you before meeting you? I know her -- she is smitten."

"But she knows I am your lover," he mutters. I sit straighter and glance over at him.

"Yes, she does." I reach over to take the hands hanging like dead fish over his knees in mine. "And that I cannot abide. You are mine. I will not share you with anyone. I will not allow her infatuation with you to grow. I should have been firmer about it before this, but I worried about leaving you here sickly and alone."

"You do not need worry for me," he says, bristling at the jab at his masculinity. I squeeze his hands.

"Orion, you are still pale. Even if you were returned to robust health, I would worry when you were gone from my side," I tell him, lifting his hands to my lips. I kiss each scarred knuckle. His jade eyes rise from his feet to meet mine. "Look upon our hands," I say, rolling his over then showing him mine. "I have no scars upon me. You do." I press my lips against a raised white welt that runs across the back of his right hand. "You are only half god. Your blood is not gold, it is red. Death will come for you and take you from me. This is unavoidable. So I worry. I will worry each time I cannot place my sight upon you. It is not a slur against your manhood or virility, it is simply the knowledge that I cannot die and you can. I would postpone your demise as long as I possibly can."

"Your tongue is gilded and golden, Apollo," he smiles weakly. "How does a man talk a man who just hit him in the face from his anger? How do you make me long for nothing aside from being in your arms?"

"I am the god of poetry and rhyme, my love," I counter seeing his gaze shift from my mouth to my amber eyes. I nod.

He leans in to capture my mouth. We fall back onto the bed, our mouths moving over each other’s slowly. We lay side by side, kissing, exploring, touching and cupping, stroking and teasing. We strip each other slowly, kissing each exposure of flesh.

***

You can pick up your copy of Love of the Hunter at the Torquere Press website: http://www.torquerebooks.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=83&products_id=4070

Yours in love and laughter,
V.L. Locey


I love to meet new friends and fans! You can find me at-
Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/pages/VL-Locey/124405447678452
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Goodreads- http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5807700.V_L_Locey
My blog- http://thoughtsfromayodelinggoatherder.blogspot.com/

Chained Mages 101

Though Foxfur features sections from the point of view of both of the characters central to the romance (as well as a few interludes from the villain!) this is really Cheng's story -- he's the one who is in the most danger, and the one who undergoes the most growth.

But that means that you really don't get a solid handle on Jin during this book (there's the seed of a sequel germinating in the back of my mind that might drag him further into the spotlight). In particular, though it's not information you need to understand this story, the Chained Mages (of which Jin is one) are left in the dark. So I thought you might like a peek into their workings.

Gaena is a world of magic. Some thousands of years ago, there was a great war -- the Magewar -- that resulted in the corruption of the world's magic. The end result of the corruption is a magnification of the wielder's id and subconscious, a quiet "whisper" in the back of the wielder's mind urging them to simply take whatever they want, to indulge in shows of anger or give rein to fantasies of revenge.

The time following the Magewar was dark, indeed.

Eventually, a fraternity formed of mages who were strong-willed enough to resist those dark whispers. They developed artifacts -- Chains -- that magnify the ego and superego, bolstering willpower against the corruption. So armed, they made it their purpose to rescue and reclaim their fellow mages. Over the centuries, they have learned other techniques and tricks, and they became the Chained Brotherhood, a separate nation whose citizenship depends not on birth or residence, but inborn ability and willingness to submit to an apprenticeship that culminates with the donning of Chains.

Each set of Chains is sealed to its owner with devotion to a particular force or concept: knowledge, or justice, or love, to name only a few. This concept is one that the mage finds particularly useful in suppressing or resisting magic's corrupted call, and the mage's mastery of that concept is enhanced by the innate magic of his or her Chains.

Jin -- the mage in Foxfur -- is bound to the concept of balance.

The lissa lunged forward again, and the world tipped and swayed. Startled, Cheng barely had time to tighten his grip on the cage bars. The lissa growled and cursed as she slipped in the puddle of vomit. She fell sideways and clanged into the cell doors. Jin hadn't moved; he still stood where he had before, not even leaning against the sudden and unnatural angle of the world.

This was Jin's magic, he realized, not petty tricks of fire and illusion, but the manipulation -- the violation -- of the universe's most basic principles. Jin had changed of the direction of down. The world heaved again, and the demon slid closer to Cheng, venomous claws scrabbling for purchase on the rocky floor and iron bars of the cells.

Find out more about Foxfur at Torquere Press:

http://www.torquerebooks.com

Foxfur excerpt

You know I wouldn't let a release day go by without an excerpt that isn't available anywhere else, right? Let's just dive right in on Chapter One, then... (Probably NSFW, this scene is m/f.)

Chapter One: The Red-Haired Woman

The red-haired woman woke Cheng with a soft stroke of her fingertips along his spine. He shivered to wakefulness and suppressed a sigh as he glanced at the night-candle. He'd been asleep for less than an hour.

The red-haired woman put a finger over her lips and laid a hand on Cheng's shoulder, aborting his attempt to sit up. "Leave now, I," she whispered in her broken Shaodanai.

Cheng blinked in surprise. "You're leaving now, mistress? But it's after midnight. The Dog Star--"

The red-haired woman smiled with genuine amusement. "Fear not the stars, I. Night travel happy, I." Her soft fingers traced the skin at the base of Cheng's throat, just at the edge of his slave's collar. He closed his eyes and tried not to shiver. Of all the touches he endured as a waystation pleasure-slave, this was the one he found most difficult to accept with grace. "Too long here," the red-haired woman was saying. "Long travel, many nights." The fingers left Cheng's throat, to his relief, trailing down his chest. She leaned closer, her breath puffing softly on his face. "Kiss," she commanded, so he did.

Three nights, the red-haired woman had tarried at the waystation, recovering from the journey across the mountainous border between Shaoda and her home country of Khadya. Each of those nights, she had paid for Cheng's attendance. He had been a pleasure-slave for more than a dozen years, but never had he entertained a woman -- or a man, for that matter -- as insatiable as this flame-haired Khadyan beauty. Each of the three nights he had practiced his art to the utmost, bringing the red-haired woman to shuddering, gasping release again and again. Each time, the sweat had not even dried on her brow before her hands were on him again, demanding. Urging. Arousing.

Cheng had prided himself on his training and his stamina, but at midnight the third night, every trick he had learned from his former mistress, the Courtesan Mihai, had failed him. Aware of his failing but too worn out to dredge up the proper sense of shame, he had collapsed into exhausted slumber. But even now, as he kissed her, his cock stirred to sluggish life. It was raw and oversensitive from too much arousal, too many orgasms, in too brief a span, but it filled slowly, moving toward a hardness that Cheng thought was as likely to make him whimper in pain as sigh with pleasure.

The red-haired woman released him as the kiss ended, though, and stood to draw on her clothes. "Too long," she murmured again. "Leave, I."

Cheng hid his relief, watching her dress from under his lashes. "Will you come back this way, mistress, when you return to Khadya?"

Her violet eyes blazed with sudden fury. "Not return, I! Never!"

Startled, Cheng bowed deeply, letting her unexpected anger rush over him like a river. Most Khadyans did not expect the instant and unquestioning obedience that his Shaodanai clients demanded, but he had found that it was unwise for a slave to show true defiance of any sort. "Forgive this unworthy one his impertinence, mistress."

The red-haired woman frowned at him, perhaps puzzling out the meaning of his words, then smiled slightly and stroked Cheng's hair. "Meet again, we," she promised. "Kovarstvo. Soul tied."

She had insisted from their first night that the two of them were linked, though it had taken half a mark's pantomime and stilted conversation before he had haltingly taught her the word for "soul". Cheng had been amused, and obscurely pleased -- it was said that Khadyans tended to the romantic, but those who came through Master Dewei's waystation were mostly traders and couriers, more pragmatic than fanciful.

Dressed, she tied her copper-colored hair back into a tail, then sat again on the edge of the bed. She laid one hand almost gingerly over Cheng's cock, which had gone limp again. "Good service, this," she teased. "Mine now."

Cheng grunted softly at her touch and forced himself not to groan at the combined rush of pain and arousal. "Yours always," he promised, though it was necessarily a lie. Cheng belonged to Dewei Kan, and his cock and skill as a courtesan-trained bedslave belonged to whatever traveler offered Master Dewei the most coin for them.

The red-haired woman donned her shoes and gathered up her pack, then dropped a final kiss on Cheng's forehead. "Dream, I," she said solemnly. "Dream, you. Soul joins."

Cheng had no idea what she meant, but he nodded just as soberly. "Of course, mistress."

Then she was gone. Cheng listened as she padded in near-silence into the hallway and down the stairs. He waited until he was certain she had left the waystation's yard, and then let himself fall back into wearied slumber.

Read more at Torquere Press:

http://www.torquerebooks.com

Sampler

I didn't post last week. Bad author/editor -- ten lashes! (Yes, please!)

I've got no excuses, good or bad. I was working from home for the day so I could talk to the contractor who's working on my house, and I simply forgot.

And today I'm off quick to take my youngest to his kindergarten pre-screening tests, so how about a sampler of excerpts from the collection Lynn and I are putting together?

***

- from Crisis of Faith:

The cock churned in her and Faith made the noises the cock's owner expected, but in truth, she barely felt it. It couldn't touch the burning, couldn't slake the need.

She'd tried, God witness, she had. The burning had come on her late in her twelfth year, but she'd pushed it from her thoughts, concentrated on her crafts and skills and her lessons, and she'd held it off two full years before her oldest brother had caught her trading kisses with one of his cronies behind the gooseberry patch. She hadn't lied, not quite, but she'd let Thom and their parents think it had gone further than that, and before her fifteenth year was out she'd been wed to Nicholas.

The first weeks had been jolly, but then Nick had seemed to lose interest and Nick's mam had started ordering her about like a drudge, and the next few years had been a misery of scullion work and a burning that never left her, not even when Nick would get drunk enough to remember the wife that warmed his bed and come home from the pub to put his cock in her.

She'd tried to be good, but when Nick's da had died, Faith had taken her best dress and run away. She'd let the man who drove the haycart put his cock in her in exchange for a ride up to the city, and she cut the hem off her dress and took up with Singing Jenny, the two of them selling what they had to sell in the sidestreets and alleys.

***

- from As If It's Real:

A horse crossed the line. A heartbeat later, two more thundered across, and with a collective sigh, the crowd at the railing broke apart, its noise ebbing briefly and then swelling into another crescendo. Edward's posture relaxed somewhat, though aside from that minute shift in position, Edward did not move, either to seek out winnings or to place a fresh wager.

Davis pushed through the crowd until he drew up at Edward's side. "Here you are," he observed.

Edward looked down at Davis dispassionately. "Yes."

"Come on," Davis said, taking Edward's arm. "Let's go home."

Edward did not immediately move. His head tipped to the side, for all the world as if he was considering other options. "I want to stay."

Davis sighed. "Edward, you can't keep living your life as if it's real."

***

- from Surrender:

Mistress Masque removed the green and brown leather demi-mask, signaling that the evening's play was at an end. Red marks on her face mapped the territory where the disguise had once lain, pressed tight against her flesh. She sighed, rubbing absently at her temples.

Bradley lifted his head and rocked back on his heels, a graceful movement, much practiced. He didn't speak. Technically, she was no longer his mistress, only his friend and co-worker, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She would dismiss him soon enough – and too soon – and then he could ask questions, talk to her, and figure out just what the hell was wrong. And get his street clothes. Having a mistress was all good and well, but sometimes the outfits she put him in, meant to highlight all those desirable aspects of him, were a bit chilly.

"You should just go," she said. Said. Not commanded. Not demanded. Not even suggested. Just said. Her voice was flat, unemotional. Bradley blinked.

"Mistress -"

"I'm not your mistress!" Her temper flared, as hot angry as the red wigs she usually wore over her normal, sensible business haircut. In her suits, at work, she looked androgynous, even with the gray pencil skirts that showed her shapely legs. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over the elaborate makeup she wore, sending green glittery smears down her cheeks.

"Of course you are. Mistress." Bradly was openly shocked. Never had his mistress revealed any sort of vulnerability. He could not have been more unnerved if the sofa where she sat had stood up and walked away.

"Oh, knock it off," she said. She blotted the tears from her face, leaving her makeup job in tatters. A twist of emotion, lust, longing, wonder, desire, surged through Bradly's chest, a lightening bolt of agony. "You know as well as I do that she set her eyes on you, and you'll go. Submissives always go to her. You all flock to her. I can't compete. The best I can do now is turn you loose on my own, so she doesn't get the satisfaction of taking you from me."

Invitational

It's all about who you know.

In my case, who I know is, mostly, Lynn. I think at least half the people I know are through her, quite honestly. Case in point:

Lynn likes music. Lynn likes music the way dragons like gold, quite honestly; she doesn't just enjoy it -- she hoards it. Though unlike dragons and gold, you can share music without having to let go of it yourself, and so she's also extremely enthusiastic about sharing it. And so I think it was at the 2012 MarsCon (in January, so early in the year, but I'm still a little surprised that it was that recent) that she dragged me to a performance by Jonah Knight, who writes steampunk/goth/horror music. It's good stuff. He's got a great voice for doing slightly spooky songs.

Jonah ran a kickstarter campaign later in the year to finance a new album, and one of the higher-price perks on offer was a personal performance. Lynn waffled over the money for a while, then decided that it was her birthday and Christmas present to herself, and ponied up -- and so for their Christmas party last year, Jonah put on a concert in their living room and then we all did a geek-themed gift swap before going out for Chinese. It was a lot of fun, and resulted in my newest favorite novelty Christmas song, "Bacon and Beer", which -- alas! -- is not yet available on any of his albums. Dammit. And also while I was there, he gave me permission to use one of his songs for my book trailer for He Loves Me For My Brainsss.

He was at MarsCon again in 2013, of course. And at RavenCon a couple of months later. And when I went to a wedding in June, he was the musical entertainment at the reception for that, too, much to my amusement. He sat down at my table during his break and we chatted about this and that -- but it always surprises me when people I've only met a few times remember me. I tend to think of myself as fairly forgettable.

A couple of weeks ago, Jonah unveiled his latest project: he and some friends are starting a publishing company, Antimatter Press. Specifically, they want to explore ways of breaking away from the traditional publishing models, and I really like some of their ideas. From their Vision Statement (which I really wish was on their website):

Because of our desire to experiment, when we buy a story, we will buy all rights. For example: we may release a story in audio form paired with a song. We may have a story illustrated. We may adapt a story into a short film.

I went and looked at the call for the first anthology and pondered it, but wasn't having any ideas. It's a little out of my usual venue -- I mean, I mostly write romances, yeah? So I pushed it to the back of my brain.

And then this Monday, he sent me an email, specifically asking me to contribute. In fact, asking me to contribute, specifically, a GLBT romance that fit the submission requirements. The notion, apparently, is to gather specific genres of stories together and release them as packages. e.g., urban fantasy, mysteries, romances, etc. He'd invited Lynn first, knowing her well... and then when he'd asked her for other recommendations -- well, she'd put me on that list.

I still didn't have any ideas, but allowing it to be a romance helped. And then I thought about the "local history" requirement some, and an idea just... jelled. I wrote about 600 or so words on it Monday night, and another 650 or so last night. Which is pretty good, considering that I'm doing my writing in the last hour of the night, after I get my youngest put to bed and before I chivvy the eldest off the computer for the night. It's coming together nicely, and I'm actually pretty excited about it.

Sarah bared her teeth in what Jason had come to recognize, even after only a month of graduate school, as an expression of commingled disgust and fury. It terrified him, and he didn't feel the least bit of a wuss for admitting it; it terrified most of the department. Physicists were supposed to be weedy geeks, not Amazonian women who ran ultramarathons and could probably bench-press Jason without even gritting their teeth. "Those... people," she spat. "Those people!"

Jason nearly sagged in relief -- whatever she was angry about, it wasn't his fault -- before recalling that he was still in her crosshairs. "Um, which people?" he tried.

Sarah actually growled at him, a wordless thing that almost prompted him to ask if she'd been messing around in the bio lab's lycanthropy samples. He managed to keep the remark behind his teeth, barely.

It's really nice -- flattering, even -- to be specifically requested and invited to participate in a call like this. Even if it came, mostly, from Lynn.

Newsy

I know I haven't posted for a while. Bad author; no cookie!

But! But but but! This week, there is news!

First and foremost, we are only one week from the release of Human Aspect from Prizm Books (the YA imprint of Torquere). I'm so excited for this story, I can't even begin to tell you!

What's that, you say? Excerpt? Why, yes, you can have an excerpt! How about something just a little sexy?

[Dauch] woke from a doze with a start at the sound of bodies moving through the underbrush. He sniffed, but caught only the faintest of scents; he was upwind.

It was the same pair, though, he was certain of it. Even in the dark, he could make out the red of the female's hair, and the breadth of the male's shoulders could not be mistaken. Dauch's tail whipped through the air, but he remained still otherwise, watching them.

They had gained some confidence. The male did not plead, but took the female into his embrace quickly. They grappled in near-silence, punctuated only by an occasional grunt or groan. Dauch was amazed and confounded by the things they did with and to each other.

What was the purpose of that caress, or such a position? Was it sanity to allow a female to use her teeth thus? What lochmar would put his mouth there?

When the female cried out, the male petted her hair tenderly, like a mother soothing a child. But she did not whimper as if in pain or fear, and indeed reached for him again. Dauch realized, with startling clarity, that their purpose was not mating, but pleasure alone. He could scarcely believe such a thing -- but though he waited and watched, the male never mounted to plant his seed, letting it spill fruitlessly to the earth instead.

In silence, then, the humans dressed. They clung to each other a moment longer, and despite the wrongturned wind, Dauch could smell the musk of their strange and fruitless passion. His tail lashed in confusion, but when he resumed his natural shape, his body's reaction was painfully intense.

That's about as explicit as the story gets, by the way -- this is not the purchase to make if it's erotica you're after. Because of the maturity of the content, this is being classified as a "New Adult" story, the very "oldest" of Prizm's offerings, but it is still a YA imprint, so there are lines that remain uncrossed in terms of what's shown on-screen, so to speak.

***

And in other news, I finally finished my novel, Foxfur, and submitted it. I don't even want to admit how long that's been in the works. Its initial incarnation, Willow Bough, is some eight years old, and I didn't seriously think about publishing it until at least three years ago -- at which point I ran into this brick wall of, quite honestly, kind of hating the plot.

It had all my least favorite story elements.  The bad guy was bad for no apparent reason. (Or rather, he had perfectly good motives, but no excuse at all for carrying anything to the extent that he did.) There were threads introduced and never used; there were characters and capabilities showcased that later completely disappeared; the climax smacked of deus ex machina, and the denouement was actively depressing. And all of that could have been overlooked if the main character had been especially relatable and on a journey of self-discovery, but he wasn't especially likeable, and worse, he was passive, apparently unable to act on his own behalf. (To be fair, it had started out as an exploration of total power exchange submission, but I didn't realize at the time that's what it was, and so I'd utterly failed on several points, including the understanding that good submission -- by which I mean both enjoyable and readable -- is an active decision rather than a passive one.)

Despite all that, I liked the feel and tone of the story. So I spent a long time trying to fix it before eventually I gave up and shelved it.

A couple of years later, I had an idea of how to revamp the story to make it better. It required, however, starting over, completely from scratch. The only bit of Willow Bough that remains to this story is the main character's name and profession (sort of). Everything else is completely revamped: new bad guy, new plot, new romantic interest, and most of all, a new personality for the main character.

(When Lynn beta-read it for me, she said two things: first, that she'd opened the file when she received it that night just to make sure it hadn't been borked by the email -- and found herself looking up when she got to the end only to discover it was one in the morning. And second, "You really weren't kidding when you said you started over from scratch." Because usually when an author says they completely rewrote a story, what they mean is that they edited extensively. Not, you know, actually rewrote it.)

Anyway, if Torquere accepts it, it'll be my first real novel, which makes me feel pretty excited!

Out of My Zone

Yep, I'm a day late, but that's because yesterday was kind of a weird day, and Tuesday popped up with surprise work for me to do, so I wasn't able to finish a post in advance and schedule it for you. Sorry about that.

But in a way, I'm glad, because I spent about five hours yesterday sitting in a Panera, editing and writing. I'm sprucing up something that I'd discovered was a good four-fifths done so I can submit it, and I got about halfway through that before my brain rebelled and wanted to do something new, so I decided to try to get a jump on next week's shortfic for my project with Lynn.

Just a refresher, in case you (like me) read about a zillion blogs and have trouble keeping everyone's projects straight -- Lynn and I are each writing a short prompt-style fic a week, and have been since January. (We've each missed a week or two, and mine are sometimes late, but we've both been remarkably good about getting them done.) The plan was to write a bunch of them, then weed out the crappy ones and bundle the rest of them together and offer it all up as an anthology, possibly to JMS Books, because we didn't want to limit ourselves to a particular sexuality.

That's the plan.

About a month ago, Lynn noticed that we were both -- independently, simultaneously, and without discussing it -- writing a fairly wide margin of stories that stretched the boundaries of the norm. In more than one way. We were bringing in kinks that we don't usually write about, things that are definitely not for everyone (even a few things that aren't really for ourselves). We were playing with writing constructions (one story I wrote leaves the reader completely in the dark as to either character's gender, for instance). We were not necessarily standing on happy endings. And we were introducing characters who didn't fit the usual molds.

So yesterday, tired of editing and wanting to write something new, I thought: what haven't I written before, that might be fun?

You know what I've never written before?

A transgendered character.

But you know what I have done? Gotten so deep into the head of a male RPG character that my face started to itch from his imagined beard.

So I took a deep breath and I dove in.

It's a little terrifying, the "what if I got it wrong?" thought -- but it's also a bit exhilarating, stepping out of my comfort zone like that.

Zach met me at the airport. I texted as soon as we touched down: Landed now. Come get me? and the answer had shivered onto the screen nearly immediately: Already at bags run run run XOXOX.

He folded me in his arms and we kissed like starving lovers, and if there's an argument to be made against my starting the medicals, it's that no one gave us ugly looks as we reunited, just a short, skinny guy kissing a shorter girl with close-cropped, slightly butch hair. Thank God for unisex styles and the ubiquity of jeans and t-shirts.

"Missed you, babe," Zach whispered, pulling me tight into a full-body hugs, and if there's an argument to be made for starting the medicals, it's that I wished to God I could push my cock against his thigh the way he was doing to me. I ground against him anyway and grabbed a handful of his hair to drag his head down so I could growl into his ear, "I cannot wait to get you home and fuck you senseless."

Unsaid (excerpt)

I was already struggling with what to talk about today (my brain is not in good working order lately) and then I came in to the Day Job to discover that my right-hand man (well, woman) isn't coming in and that, naturally, things are Quite Insanely CrazyBusy.

And what do I do when I am lacking ideas and/or time for a proper blog post? That's right! An excerpt from something I've written lately!

How about this, from the shortfic/prompt project I'm working on with Lynn, titled "Unsaid":

"We could go to the movies, if there's something on worth watching?"

The vibrator is nestled snugly against my clit, and even without turning it on, its shape and pressure taunt me. I am fidgeting; it's an effort of will not to rock my hips, not to make that nub of plastic push and stretch me out of myself. The car stops, and I allow myself one small thrust against the firm leather of the seat as you walk around to open the door for me. You come back into view and you smile at me, through the window, and one hand slips inside your coat pocket. I jump as, gentle and insistent, the vibrator comes to life. I can feel the blush climbing my cheeks as I look up at you, and your smile widens as you open the door and offer your hand. I take it: I will need your support well before we reach our seats, it seems.

"A movie could be fun, I guess. Maybe a walk in the park, after?"

The scent of fresh-cut grass mingles with that of your hair as you lean back against my chest. I push my cock against the curve of your ass and I feel, more than hear, your chuckle. You stand behind the park bench, leaning only slightly forward, your hands resting on its back as if you are posing for a portrait. From behind you, I lift your skirt and slide your panties down, and only a moment later my prick is seeking your depths. My hands cover yours as we rock together, but as the need mounts, such delicate restraint ceases to serve me. My arms wrap around you, hands closing on your breasts, and I pull you tightly back against me, tighter, tighter, tighter still, as if through sheer will I could meld us into a single being. You tip your head back, nestling it into the hollow of my shoulder, giving yourself to me entirely, your eyes closed to the expansive brilliance of the night sky.

I hope you enjoyed that! (I certainly did...) And now, I'm afraid I have to dash back to the Day Job...

Resolve

I talked in detail about my new year's resolution(s) over on my personal blog, last week. The writing and editing summary is that, well, every day is different, and every week is different, and making a resolution like, "I will write for at least one hour every day" or even, "I will write for at least three hours every week" is asking -- nay, begging -- for failure. Because sometimes, I just can't.

So, because I'm trying to train myself to plan to take time for myself, but without letting it disappear into mindless TV (or movie, or YouTube) watching, I'm making myself a productivity list every morning. The list starts with the day's caveats: whether I have the kids, whether I have social plans, how heavy my Day Job's workload is expected to be. And then I make a list of what I need to do to call it a productive day. Some of those items are for the Day Job, some are household chores, and some are for my personal and social life. And some are for writing and editing. What items go on a day's list depends on a lot of factors, but to borrow a phrase from one of the managers in my office -- they're the wolves closest to my sled. Because things tend to pop up throughout the day, I don't try to assign tasks for any day except today, because I never know what the priorities are going to be tomorrow -- but I keep a running list of possible tasks (and their due-dates, if they have any), and add them to each day's list as it seems reasonable.

And when I do tasks that I hadn't counted on doing, I add them to the bottom of the list. So far, they haven't interfered with my completing the original assigned list, but I can envision that as a possibility. The Day Job tends to be crisis-driven, to a certain extent.

The goal is not to fill every waking moment, but to get to the end of the day and look at the list and think, "Yes, this was a day that I did something worthwhile." Which is why social activities and reading are, in fact, valid productivity tasks.

So far, at least, it seems to be working. Monday, I did some editing, and also finished my first, very rough draft of a story. (And also worked a minor crisis with Brainsss that turned out, eventually, not to be quite as much of a crisis as expected, but we still had to re-generate all the e-book files, because the TOC was wrong. Again.) Yesterday, I did some more editing, and some editing administrivia. Today's plan is to tackle the slush pile, attempt a prompt fic for the project Lynn and I are doing*, and start working on a flyer to take with me to MarsCon.

And, I will note, I have spent some time on YouTube, but I don't think I've turned on the TV except for the kids in over a week.

And now, having slogged through that, let me reward you with a snippet from the story I finished drafting on Monday:

I fought to maintain my dignity, casting my thoughts for any topic of conversation that might bring him back to the grave but polite lover he had been during the feast. His hand was rising toward me; I could not predict its course, but knew that I must -- must! -- stave off his touch, or be, somehow, lost. "Why me?" I ejaculated.

His hand halted in its course, paused, and fell. His eyebrows raised, questioning, and I pressed onward. "Why not one of my elder sisters? You might have been prince-consort!"

That knowing smile lingered on his lips, and he shook his head. "I do not want to be a prince," he said softly, "or a duke, or an earl. I wanted..." Caught in his eyes, I had not noticed his hand moving again; he captured my hand and lifted it to his lips. Recalling the kiss with which he wed me, I shivered at his touch and barely suppressed a whimper of fear. But the brush of his lips over my knuckles was as soft as a rose petal, and I shivered again in relief.

He drew nearer still, until I could feel his breath ghosting across the bare skin of my neck. "I wanted you."

* Prompts! I almost forgot! Lynn and I are doing a prompt a week, each, from now until summer, which we hope to collect and publish. If you'd like to leave prompts for us, here or on my Facebook page, we will credit you when/if we get the collection published. (Lynn would like prompts to consist of one noun, one verb, one adjective, and 2 other words of your choice. I'm not nearly that picky; three or four words of any variety will do for me.)

The Sinner's Star - Release!

It's another release day! My story, "The Sinner's Star", is out in the anthology Ink from Torquere Press!

The anthology is about guys with tattoos -- yummy! -- and my story in particular is about Dope, an ex-con who thought his best friend, Rat, had died as they were fleeing a crime scene... right up until Rat shows up on his doorstep with a new tattoo, a lot of scars, a .45... and a grudge.

I really like this story. I'd had the notion for it almost as soon as the call for it came out, but I couldn't get the characters to gel, couldn't get them to go where I needed them to go. So I shrugged it off and put it away and went on with life. I came back to it about a month after my husband and I separated, only a week before the call deadline, and apparently the spark I'd been missing was a little extra anger to put me in touch with Rat, because once I started, the whole thing came boiling out all at once.

I do believe I promised you some release-day excerpts, did I not? This is the opening, not much changed since the taste I posted back at the end of August:

The knock on his door was staccato and brief, the kind of knock that heralds only bad news. Still, Dope did not expect to open the door and find himself staring straight into the muzzle of a .45.

Dope had stared down more than a few barrels in his life -- he'd come up hard, and things had only served to make him harder over the years -- but it wasn't the kind of thing a man ever got used to. At best, he'd learned to hide the reaction, the way his stomach flopped and his balls curled up tight and his throat suddenly went dry. Dope's outward reaction was pretty good by now. His jaw clenched and he rocked back on his heels, but he managed to avoid actually taking a step.

One thing he'd learned, last time he'd been in the joint, was that it was a mistake to look at the killing end of a weapon pointed at you. You had to look at the man holding it. Look him in the eyes. Sometimes, if you were a big, mean-looking sonuvabitch, like Dope was, if you looked hard enough, it would make them back down. And if not... Well, it showed in their eyes first, before they attacked.

Dope didn't figure any warning would be fast enough to matter when the weapon was a gun instead of a prison shiv, but he looked up anyway, let his gaze follow that cold steel barrel to the hand holding it, along the arm, up the neck to the face. The face had a lot of scars, especially on the left side, which was so pitted and seamed as to be grotesque. But it was the eyes Dope was looking for. These eyes were chocolate brown under the narrowed lids, cold as ice, pitiless as a crack whore on her last fix, and... familiar.

And another one, since you'd probably already read that back in August:

Rat smiled thinly. "You like my ink, Dope? Tats don't set well on scars, but my guy was one of the best." His free hand lifted, his thumb absently brushing over the design.

"God, Rat." Dope's throat was thick. "What the fuck did you do to earn a Sinner's Star?" A Sinner wasn't anyone you wanted to cross, if you were inside. Even the guards gave the Sinners a wide berth. Most of them were lifers, or the kind of repeat offenders who might leave, but you knew they'd be back inside of six months.

"None of your damn business, Dope," Rat snapped.

Amazon and B&N aren't showing the listing yet, but I'll update my assorted links when it shows up. In the meantime, the ebook is available at both Torquere's site and on All Romance Ebooks, and probably some other distributors quicker on their feet than Amazon and Barnes and Noble. And in a few weeks, it'll be available in print as well, from Amazon. I hope you enjoy it!

Duty and Desire: Release

Officially, Duty and Desire isn't released until next week, on the 13th, but the print version is already available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble, and the Kindle/Nook versions are available for pre-order, so I figure I might as well jump up and show it off!

It's got a fantastic lineup of authors (including Lynn!) and it's been reviewed by freaking Publishers Weekly, who said:

...18 red-hot tales of men and women in uniform that range from WWII-era Russia to modern-day Afghanistan. While celebrating the valor, not to mention hotness, of those who serve their country, this anthology commendably covers darker issues, including post-traumatic stress syndrome and serious injuries, and love of all kinds, both straight and gay. ... This touching and realistic lineup is highly recommended.

How awesome is that, I ask you?!

So in celebration, how about a little excerpt from my story, "Dead On Her Feet"?

Jamie kept her eyes closed, even though the plane was descending and she couldn't sleep. Tired wasn't the word. Exhausted wasn't even the word. Dead on her feet came somewhere close. Non-essential travel, like finally coming home after two years in the God-forsaken desert, was slow. And frustrating. She'd caught a supply truck from her unit's camp that ran three hours into the city base, and then waited around for most of a day for a military transport plane that had room for her, which had flown eight hours to Germany. Then it was a bus to take her to the commercial airport in Munich, where not a single ticketing agent could be found who spoke English. She'd made do, though -- a soldier made do, even in some crazy backwater where a shovel-dug latrine was a luxury and female soldiers couldn't leave base without escort and even the kids you were there to help hated you for the uniform on your back.

But this was Germany, which was friendly and civilized and the only thing in the way was words. That was easy, even allowing for her being tired and discombobulated from travel already. She'd pulled out her Blackberry and loaded up an atlas and pointed and zoomed and pointed and zoomed until she'd finally made the crisply-dressed, ultra-polite young man understand her destination. Then it was commercial transport all the way, with its much more comfortable seats but its annoying security protocols (didn't they understand how goddamn hard it was to get in and out of combat boots?) and its annoyed civilians. Munich to London, London to New York, in and out of customs and security, retrieving and then re-checking her duffel every time she went through customs in a new country...

Thirty-four hours on the move, now, and counting, dead on her feet, but this was the last flight, and her ears were popping with the descent. Maybe another hour, now, and then she'd step out of the Atlanta airport into the lush thick humidity of proper Southern air, maybe even one of those summertime afternoon deluges and she would stand there and just let the rain soak her right to the skin. And then she'd take a bus a couple of hours down into Georgia, to a tiny little town that no one had ever heard of who hadn't been born there, and then it was only a couple of miles from the bus depot to Casey's mama's house. To Casey.

Eyes still closed, Jamie's hand stole up to her shirt pocket where she kept the most important things: her passport, and the receipts for all those planes and busses, and her ID cards, and the cash she'd drawn to pay for food... and the picture of her and Casey at his sister's wedding two years back. She'd looked ridiculous in that bridesmaid's dress with her fresh-from-basic close-cropped hair and those mannish muscles on her bare shoulders, but Casey had looked so very, very fine in that tux, and he'd pulled her close while they danced and told her she was the most beautiful woman there, and they'd snuck off down to the basement and almost not made it back in time to see the cake cut, and luckily the tux jacket had covered where she'd got lipstick on his cummerbund.

She didn't take it out, not here on the plane where everyone around her would be able to see her face, but she didn't need to. She'd looked at it so many times back in her sweltering bunk back at camp that she had it memorized. It was the image she called up in her mind's eye when she was trying to ignore hostile allies and murderous opponents, drinking two gallons of water a day just to keep her sweat glands from going into revolt, her teeth crunching on the nasty grey dust as she got into it yet again with those clowns from HQ who couldn't comprehend why shit kept breaking and she began to wonder if "back home" had ever even existed or if it had all been some kind of elaborate mirage or heatstroke hallucination.

I'll be the first to admit that this isn't the best story in the bunch -- it's a light, sweet aperitif or sorbet of a story; the other stories have more meat and spice and kick to them. Still, I quite like it. I like its rhythm, I like the way I managed to capture the way she's so tired she's babbling even in her head, and I like the little sparkles of humor and frustration that make it feel real to me.

And the other stories, with their meat and spice and kick, are even better. Go check it out!

Spooky Day

Happy Hallowe'en, my dears!

Check out this gorgeous, perfect Hallowe'en moon that was waiting for me when I got up this morning:

What shall we do to celebrate the day? How about another excerpt from my spookiest story, "Succubus, Inc."?

Lucy turns one final sheet. "And sign here, and date... Thank you, Mr. Field." Lucy takes the pen from Field's unresisting fingers and schools her expression to hide her sense of triumph as she adds her own signature to the page. "Now then, let's get started." She takes his hand and draws him toward the bedroom.

He follows, but now that he has signed, his feet drag. "I don't recall a no-harm clause," he hedges.

Lucy laughs. "Well, you have been a very naughty boy," she says. "Don't you think you deserve a little punishment?"

"I... I guess so."

"That's one," Lucy warns. "You will address me as Ms. Morgenstern, or Mistress. Do you understand?"

Field's expression is uncertain, but his eyes are dilated and Lucy can see the bulge of his cock pressing against his pants. "Yes, ma'am."

"Mistress. Not ma'am. That's two."

"Mistress!" Field corrects himself quickly.

Lucy smiles and positions him at the foot of the enormous bed. "Better. But for speaking without permission, that's three."

Field opens his mouth to protest, but realizes the trap and closes it again quickly.

"Clever boy," Lucy purrs. "Now take off your clothes."

Oh, Mr. Field, just what have you gotten yourself into?

Doctor Tentacle's Release

Carter Jenkins has been with the cult hit show, Power Man, for eight seasons now, amassing a small but dedicated following as Power Man's nefarious (if slightly campy) mad scientist nemesis, Doctor Tentacle. On screen, Doctor Tentacle and the hunky Power Man sizzle with an undercurrent of sexual tension, but when the cameras stop rolling, it's the quiet, geeky intern/gopher, David, that Carter wouldn't mind getting his tentacles on. There's something about David that's captured Carter's attention like no one else ever has -- is it simple chemistry, or is Carter about to encounter a real mad scientist?

***

That's what my blurb would be for "Doctor Tentacle and the Pheromone Incident" if there was space for it on the back of Weird Science, an anthology of mad scientist m/m romances from Torquere Press released today! Not only am I in the anthology, but "Doctor Tentacle" is the very first story in the book!

In celebration, let's have a nice big excerpt, shall we?

Sploosh! Power Man, strength sapped by the venom of the guardian giant squid, leapt through the moon pool to land on the decking.

Doctor Tentacle, ready for the appearance of his nemesis, triggered the release of a net. "Power Man! So nice of you to stop by!"

"Doctor Tentacle! I should have known you were behind this nefarious scheme." Power Man fought to free himself of the netting's tangles, but the more he struggled, the more it tightened. "You can tie me up as tight as you like," Power Man said, "but it won't do you any good."

"We'll see about that, Power Man," sneered the evil scientist. "You may feel differently after a few rounds with my Tentacles of Terror!"

"Two can play at that game, Doctor. Set one foot outside this cozy little bubble of yours, and you'll find yourself dancing with my Power Eel!"

"Cut! And scene!" yelled Joey. "Don't go too far!" He immediately hunched into conference with the camera crew, reviewing the scene to make sure they'd caught all the angles they needed.

Carter Jenkins, a.k.a. Doctor Tentacle, dropped his leering pose and offered a hand to help Lance Day, a.k.a. Power Man, up from the floor. "I must be twelve," Carter chuckled. "That 'Power Eel' line gets me every time."

Lance smirked. "Good thing you don't have to say the line. There's no way you'd be able to avoid camping it up even more."

"Too true," Carter sniggered. "God, I'm starving. How many more takes do you think --" He broke off to watch David, the new intern/gopher/researcher, dance nimbly over the cables and props strewn on the floor to offer the actors their water bottles. David was almost as hot as Lance, though in a wiry, geeky way, in contrast to Lance's all-American square jaw and sculpted muscles. And Carter was pretty sure that, unlike Carter's co-star, David wasn't straight. Carter smiled gratefully and squirted a long stream into his mouth, careful to avoid mussing his makeup, while David waited to take the bottles back.

Carter sighed -- it was hot, under all the lights and makeup -- and then drew another deep breath in surprise, because David smelled amazing. Carter didn't usually care for cologne; he had even talked Lance into using unscented deodorant whenever the script called for Power Man to have Doctor Tentacle in a headlock. But whatever David was wearing was going straight from Carter's nose to his groin, bypassing his brain completely. He'd always thought David's tousled student look was sexy, but suddenly he wanted nothing more than to shove the younger man into a dark corner -- or better yet, a well-lit bedroom -- and devour him. Holy fuck, Carter thought, and, Down, boy, we're still shooting. Then, with wry humor, Well, you wanted to add more sexual tension to your performance.

Joey was coming back from his conference with the camera crew. Carter handed the water bottle back to David as he tried to shake off the sexual daze and regain his focus. But his eyes met David's as he was mumbling his thanks and, Oh, shit, I am so fucked. Was he imagining the echoed desire he saw in David's warm brown gaze? Carter took another slow breath, luxuriating in David's scent.

Weird Science is available direct from Torquere and All Romance, and it should eventually show up on Amazon and the other usual distributors as well. It will also be available in print from Amazon, if you prefer physical books.

In Honor

In honor of Memorial Day, I've posted an excerpt from the upcoming "Dead On Her Feet" over on my personal blog. Check it out!

Dutiful

Picture via ABC News

I got the news last week that my short story "Dead On Her Feet" was accepted for Duty and Desire, an anthology of military-themed erotic romance! Any acceptance is good for a squee, but this is the second piece I've written that will appear in an actual, hold-in-your-hands dead-tree book, which makes it double-squee!

Better yet, I'll be sharing the Table of Contents with some really talented writers, including my dear friend, Lynn. Check out this Table of Contents:

The Long Ride Home by Delilah Devlin
Night Witch by Sacchi Green
Shattered by Shanna Germain
The Grunt and the Ditty Bop by Craig J. Sorensen
Fighting for Fresno by Ericka Hiatt
Homecoming by Kelly Maher
Passing Out Passion by Lucy Felthouse
Against the Wall by Catherine Paulssen
The Thunder of War by Anya Richards
Sergeant Rae by Toby Rider
Dead On Her Feet by Elizabeth L. Brooks
Out of Time by J.K. Coi
Done by Charlotte Stein
Wilco by Christine d’Abo
Christmas Presents by Mercy Loomis
Snake Dance by Lynn Townsend
Home by Michelle Augello-Page
For Better or Worse by Kristina Wright

This is from Cleis Press, so the stories are female-centric, either m/f or f/f. My story, "Dead On Her Feet" is about Jamie, a soldier on her way home after two years in the Middle East. Shall I give you a small taste? Sure, why not (though bear in mind that I haven't gotten editing comments back yet, so what I'm offering here may change before press):

Thirty-four hours on the move, now, and counting, dead on her feet, but this was the last flight, and her ears were popping with the descent. Maybe another hour, now, and then she'd step out of the Atlanta airport into the lush thick humidity of proper Southern air, maybe even one of those summertime afternoon deluges and she would stand there and just let the rain soak her right to the skin. And then she'd take a bus a couple of hours down into Georgia, to a tiny little town that no one had ever heard of who hadn't been born there, and then it was only a couple of miles from the bus depot to Casey's mama's house. To Casey.

Eyes still closed, Jamie's hand stole up to her shirt pocket where she kept the most important things: her passport, and the receipts for all those planes and busses, and her ID cards, and the cash she'd drawn to pay for food... and the picture of her and Casey at his sister's wedding two years back. She'd looked ridiculous in that bridesmaid's dress with her fresh-from-basic close-cropped hair and those mannish muscles on her bare shoulders, but Casey had looked so very, very fine in that tux, and he'd pulled her close while they danced and told her she was the most beautiful woman there, and they'd snuck off down to the basement and almost not made it back in time to see the cake cut, and luckily the tux jacket had covered where she'd got lipstick on his cummerbund.

Duty and Desire is due out sometime this fall -- I'll post a more precise date when I have one, and of course the cover when I get it.

Progress

After several weeks (and weekends!) of Day Job interference, I finally took most of two days off to recuperate, and I spent both mornings sitting at Panera writing. And I wrote some on Monday night, too. I learned that I'm only good for about three hours of writing before I need to take a good long break, which is good information to have.

And in those two days, I busted out nearly 4000 words. It felt great. I left the characters teetering on an edge, and it'll probably be a few days before I get back to them, but that should give me some time to headwork the big argument scene that's looming. And once we get past that, it'll just be a sex scene and then an epilogue for denouement, and it'll be ready to rest and polish! I could have this chippy ready to submit by the end of the month!

Since I'm feeling so happy about it, how about a little taste or two? (Do keep in mind that this is unpolished, unedited writing, and may change significantly before submission, never mind publication.)

And as always, if you leave me a few prompt words in the comments, I'll post flashfic on Friday!

***

(PG-13)

"Hi! I'm Jesse!"

The pronouncement had come from Craig's right, issued from the full lips of a perky blonde twink wearing eyeliner, a shirt so tight it might have been painted on, and -- God help him -- a pink feather boa. The twink was grinning at him, his wide blue eyes lingering on Craig's sculpted arms. "You're new."

Craig snorted. "Know every queer in town, do you?"

"All of 'em that come here," Jesse answered easily. "So are you new to town, or new to the scene?" God help him, the boy actually had a slight affected lisp. He was a walking stereotype.

"Town," Craig admitted. "Here on business for a few weeks."

"Sweet," the twink said, running his fingers through his carefully-groomed dirty-blonde hair.

Craig turned pointedly back to the bar and his beer.

Jesse didn't get the message. He turned toward Craig and leaned against the bar, his lithe body bending in ways that Craig was pretty sure a spine was not meant to allow, one hand petting that ridiculous boa. Those big blue eyes looked down Craig's body, then flickered up to his face. "So, wanna go in the back? You look like a man who could use a blow job."

Craig rolled his eyes. He didn't consider himself particularly picky, but he'd encountered this type before: self-absorbed, vain, and pushy, he was likely a prima donna and a drama queen, obsessed with sex but to focused on his own pleasure to actually be any good at it, and too empty-headed to have any redeeming qualities outside the bedroom. This flashy, pushy, shallow boy was everything Craig was definitely not interested in. "Are you even legal?"

***

(This next one is a rather heavy R, so I'm putting it behind the jump break. NSFW!)