Seasonal Allergies Can Bite Me!

Hello all! I'm Michelle Houston, the sub guest for the week. : ) Hopefully the planned guest will be feeling better soon. Some of you might remember me from my guest post, way back when the topic was Spring.

I find today's topic all too fitting given that, like Helen and some of the others, I have been ill for the last few weeks. I suffer from "seasonal allergies", some of which are summer ones, others are spring, still others are fall, and then there are some winter ones too.

I remember when I got married, hubby and I promised the whole love, honor and cherish part, nixing the "obey", although I wanted to sub in "promise to do strange and interesting things to your body" but I felt that it wasn't the best idea. We also did the in sickness and in health, I just didn't know that I was in sickness and he was in health. The man never gets sick. Me, I spend about one week every four ill.

The good part though, I don't tend to get strep, the flu, or even colds for the most part. The not so good part, I make up for it with Bronchitus, Sinusitis, and Pnemounia, with the occasional ear infection just for good measure. Basically, anything that allergies can lead to, I suffer from. I just finished up round two of my antibitics a few days ago and I am thankfully cleared up, but I woke up today with a sinus headache. I am really hoping not to start the whole process over again.

As a mom, a wife, working two jobs, writing, and attending college full time I generally have so many things on the burners it is amazing I haven't set the house on fire. : )

Sadly, when I am not feeling well, the writing part of my life is the first to go. But I do have some things on the burner that I am hoping to get back to soon. Provided I survive my "Thanksgiving vacation", which the college has added two days to, so that we have the whole week off, and my professors take it as a person challenge to fill every minute of.

So cross your fingers for me that the house doesn't burn down around me this week and that next I am still feeling well. Cause baby, have I got some ideas. And I am edgy to write. : ) Don't worry though, you will be hearing more from me soon, but I will have to fill you in about all of that later.

Until then, take care and safe health.

No chicken soup for you!

I think this week is the first in a few months that I've actually felt half-way decent. I've been able to drag myself out of bed in the mornings with a minimal amount of effort, I can stay upright and functioning most of the day, and I've even made it to karate class twice this week. Oh yeah, I've got this pain-in-the-ass sinus thing going on which isn't any fun, but over all I do feel pretty good.

I knew this year was going to be prime time for sicknesses in la Casar de Madden. You see, my youngest started preschool in September, and I know from experience that putting a child in a new environment with lots of other kids automatically means that the entire family is going to be infected with every disease that comes along. So far this year we've had strep throat, the flu, sinus infections, walking pneumonia and an ear infection spread amongst the lot of us. And those are just the diseases we can identify! I've been laid up twice since September by some weird unnamed malaise, where I get all the chills and the aches and general feeling of fatigue of the flu without the congestion or upset stomach that normally goes with it.

And have I been writing through all this? You betcha!

Like others have mentioned here, when I'm sick, I tend to push aside all non-writing tasks and just focus on the most important thing, the writing itself. I have a weekly deadline for the Heat Flash Erotica podcast and I don't want to bust that deadline under any circumstances. To ensure I do what I need to do, I will curl up in bed with my heating pad and my laptop and keeping tapping away at the keys until I've got my story done. Then I'll either fall asleep, take a long hot bath in the tub, or...

Go take care of my kids, because there are some non-writing related tasks that simply cannot be ignored.

(I would like to state here that I do not recommend being a writer and a parent and ill all at the same time. All three at once will just about kill a person some days.)

Thanks to Twitter, I've noticed that a lot of writers tend to be sick more often than not. We literary types are plagued by migraines, insomnia, ulcers and other ailments, and we talk (or tweet) about them constantly. It's as though we want the whole world to know we are suffering, but we are still producing our art. To hell with that, I say. I hate suffering. If I'm going to be sick while writing, I'm going to do my damnedest to be as comfortable as possible. You know what that means of course. Comfort food.

Now I do not do this "Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul" crap. Quite frankly, I hate chicken soup. Besides, chicken soup is not an appropriate soup for erotica writers. Erotica writers need something spicier, and meatier. When erotica writers get sick, they should all make themselves a pot of kielbasa-potato stew! What? You've not heard of this amazing delicacy? Because I love you all, I will share the recipe.

Ingredients:

• 3 cups water


• 1 10.5 oz can of cream of chicken soup (okay, yes it has chicken soup in it, but it's still not chicken soup!)


• 1 pound Polish kielbasa (Don't get cheap kielbasa! This thing should be long, and stiff, and meaty, and mouth-wateringly tasty! This is a stew for smut writers, people!)


• 20 oz of frozen shredded potatoes, preferably Southwest style because they're so spicy (and we smut writers are all about the spicy!)


• 1/8 teaspoon black pepper

Cut the kielbasa into 1/2 inch slices. Add all ingredients together in one pot. I prefer to make my stew in a slow cooker to bring out the flavor of the kielbasa, but if you're in a hurry, a big Dutch oven on the stove will do. Then just let everything cook until it's done (about 6 hours in the slow cooker, 30 minutes on the stove). Grab a bowl and eat up. Trust me, you will be feeling much better by the time you're done.

You see how much I love you? You see how much I care? Now go make me a pot of this stew, because I feel another cold coming on.

;^)

Ill, Hot & Far Out

By Ashley Lister

I’m sick. Yet I still write. I think I write because I’m sick.

Sick. [Please note, as I say the word ‘sick’ here, I’m accompanying it with a rapper’s gesture, the third and fourth finger of my right hand tucked into my palm, little finger and index finger pointed out, and my hand moving in a 450 angle from my right nipple down to my left hip]. I’m totally sick, and I’ve been sick for the last couple of years: ever since the word became slang meaning good.

Before I became sick I was tight. And before being tight I was either wicked or bad. My memory is whack at the moment. My memory used to be meh, and before that it was pants. But right now it’s whack.

Before being sick and being tight, possibly during the popularity of Austin Powers movies, I was groovy. I had been groovy a long time before that, but I don’t wish to show my age. I’ve been easy, far out, fine and filthy. Back in the day when Mutant Ninja turtles were popular I teetered between being awesome and gnarly. I’ve been cool and hot, and possibly every slang temperature in between.

A century ago I might have been the cat’s pyjamas, or its whiskers. I’d like to think I would also have been the bee’s knees around that time. Twenty years ago, in the UK, it was laudable to be the dog’s bollocks: and I was. I’ve been radical, happening, hip and the shiznik. Although I’ve never written whilst I’ve been poorly, I’ve done it whilst I’ve been ill and, as I said at the start of this blog [insert hand gesture] I can do it whilst I’m sick.

All of which is my way of saying I can’t write about this week’s theme from a genuine and honest perspective. If I’m feeling sick (without the hand gesture) or poorly, regardless of deadlines or demands, the writing takes a back seat whilst I regale everyone within earshot of my misery, and generally feel sorry for myself.

Fortunately, my health appears to be the bomb and all good at the moment. I’m not amped about the situation…

And I’m going to lose the slang words now.

I admire those authors on this blog (and those people who have commented) who can write when they’re not feeling well: but I’m not like those super humans. Kudos to all you guys for your heroic efforts. I think you’re all bad and wicked, and you know I mean that in a good way.

The Iron Nails

(Photo by C. Sanchez-Garcia 1984
Old woman and blind son.
Kangwon-do Province Korea)


They say a man is either chasing the ghost of his father or being chased by the ghost.They say a man spends his life trying to live up to the expectations of his father, even after he's gone or trying to avoid or if possible repair the mistakes his father made. Women; I don't claim to know who or what's eating them.

My father did not marry well. He fell in love with a beautiful woman,my mother, who over time proved to be schizophrenic. She was terribly ill, mentally ill. She became delusional, occasionally psychotic and at the end died homeless and alone. He did the best he could for us for as long as he could stand it and then came the big break when I was fifteen. He went on to sow some wild oats, explore himself, read extensively and study spiritual matters. As a result of his new insights he met a sane, responsible woman who was perfectly suited for him and went on to become the great love of his life. He prospered and lived in a trendy part of Minneapolis and had two fine daughters who adored him. When he died he was attended and mourned by legions of honest friends who had known him for many years. I have not yet found a way to forgive him for these accomplishments.

I fell in love only once in my life, very long ago. It failed miserably, then I joined a religious group and was celibate until age thirty three, then married in an arranged marriage which I have endeavored to honor and preserve. I know nothing of myself. I did not have the opportunity to explore myself, and must write my stories from that shallow foundation as best I can. I don't really know what form of sexuality would give me pleasure, or what relationships would make me happy. The price of exploring myself at this point would be catastrophic to those two people who deserve the best of me, such as I am. I am spiritually ill and have been for a long time.

I made breakfast for my family this morning. It won't get me sex. It won't earn me gratitude. Later I will do some ironing. It wasn't what I wanted to do with my day. The pleasure I took was not in the cooking, nor in the providing. It was in the physical labor which enabled my mind to wander, to reach behind to a yellow note pad and scribble some ideas to try out. Sausage on the skillet, coffee in the filter basket,reach behind and scribble some possible lines of dialogue, a string of fine sounding words that may turn stupid when its time to connect them to something. Flip the eggs between some doubts about a blog premise. None of this is what I want. What I want to is to read this collection of erotic short stories I just bought and try to learn from the authors who write better than I do. What I want is to work on this short story that is becoming interesting to me. I will do none of these things today. I will cook mostly, listen to complaints,many about myself, drop family members where they need to be, buy the groceries. Tomorrow I will go back to work.

I am not inspired about my dead end job. But I am certainly grateful for it. It is adequate as I am adequate. It is an even exchange and fair expression of aging mediocrity which enables me to care for my wife and child, the one thing I really do care about in this world. I have had jobs in the past that I was passionate about, authentic and heartfelt work that excited and fulfilled me. These were the jobs that broke my heart. These jobs had to be abandoned because there was no money. Now I've learned better. Me - I go for the money.

I feel a great distaste for modern self help talkers like Dr. Oz and others who want to teach you how to live an "authentic"life, find the job and relationships that will be reveal your authentic self. Fuck that. Babies and dairy cows are authentic. My opinion is that life is not about being authentic. Its about being true to your responsiblities to those who depend on you. If you want to be authentic be true to the people who need you. Begin there.

Once a friend of mine told me about her parents. Her mother, like mine, was crazy. Even lethally crazy at times. Her father loved this woman dearly and stuck with her through the years, at a cost of great personal misery and occasional mortal danger. Through the violence and hallucinations, the hospital stays, the returns home, the relapses, he has never left her and is with her still. He will never abandon her and she knows that. He is an intelligent, educated, hard working man who might have made a name for himself, but he has never had a prosperous or happy life. I don't suppose he gets laid much if ever at all. But he is faithful to this drowning woman, who would have sunk into oblivion without him. He has nothing much to show for it, though clearly she loves him too. But he is a hero beyond all words to his daughter. Perhaps, in lucid moments he is a hero to his wife. I have never met him, but he is a hero to me. He represents the kind of person I would like to be. You see these people around. A mother pushing a palsied child in a wheelchair. A soldier missing limbs, shopping with his family. We see these plain and common people, who tuck their grief away out of sight, pick up the burdens of some permanently wounded person, and carry them along with love and without complaint. They love not with competence or wisdom, but with unshakable fidelity.

I think that all of us at one time or another are drowning. Some of us never stop drowning because we have no capacity to learn to swim. Drowning is what we do. We find ourselves looking for that person we can cling onto who will not permit us to drown. Most of the people you think will save you will kick you off as soon as you start to pull them down. On autumn nights, when dry leaves blow down gutters and the air is chilly, they'll think of you with a twinge of nostalgia for their own past and wonder whatever became of you. But if you show upon their facebook looking to be tagged as their friend they will politely ignore you.

Then there are the other ones, the iron people. Those people who through some noble spirituality or ferocious love refuse to let you go down without a fight,no matter what the cost to themselves, even if you must drag their own dreams down with you. These are those iron nails who hold the ship of life together. They keep the human story afloat and chugging ahead. They are the ancient and unsung heroes of our species, and maybe our only legitimate claim to divinity.

The universal dream of all people, anywhere you go, is not for romance or erotic fulfillment. Those are incidental. What romance points to,what people dream of, is that person who will love you unconditionally. The person who knows you as you really are and will love you anyway and will not change. The iron nails. People say "Jesus loves me." Nobody says "Jesus is in love with me."

Romance fiction lives and thrives on this border line of fantasy and reality. I think for most it is a healing escape, as is most popular fiction. Romance fiction isn't Love the way most of us have experienced it, which I think is the whole point. We don;t fantasize about what we already know. I tend to see it as the WD-40 for the iron nails of this world, a taste of a life most of us will never have but would like to imagine from a distance. I think literary snobs who dismiss it as chick-porn are missing the point. Erotic romance I would argue, far from being junk reading, represents a kind of hard nosed innocence. It is a sweet fireproof faith against reality, which can be so cruel, that a consuming passion and true love can exist somewhere. It is the medicine for melancholy for the person with a dull marriage, or the iron soul propping up a hopelessly damaged loved one. It represents what religion used to represent not so long ago, a glimpse into a better world.

Sick, sick, sick!

by Jude Mason

No, not the perverted kind of sick, although that's not necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps the title should have been Illness Intensified or something.

For years, when I was younger, I spend weeks with bronchial problems during the fall and winter months. When I got a cold, it went to my lungs. When I had flu, it was in my lungs. Also, when I was in my teens, I was sensitive to some moss in the area...yeah, I know, that's crazy...and yes, it went to my lungs as well. I guess I learned to ignore the wheezing and breathlessness after awhile. Surprisingly, I was a very active child and teenager and never spent time in hospital, never even saw the inside of a hospital until I was in my late teens.

They say that every seven years your body completely renews itself, and I believe it. From 0-7, I was pretty healthy. From 7-14, I had the moss sensitivity thing. From 14-21 I had bronchial issues. When I hit 21, my life took a turn for the best. No more lung problems, just raising kids and keeping a house, and all that entails. I remained very healthy then until I was in my late 40's.

I'm back to having a certain amount of lung issues. Also surprisingly, there's no damage to my lungs. I am just prone to congested lungs when I'm ill.

Now, do I write when I'm feeling like someone's sitting on my chest? You bet your sweet bippy I do. I may take a day or two off, but only if I'm really ill. Writing takes me out of myself. If I can immerse myself in a character, I'm not there. I become that person and can simply let my 'self' go. I may still cough or wheeze, but I don't actually hear it. I'm usually by myself so there's no one to ask, 'are you okay,' or 'do you want ...' it's just the character telling his or her story.

Deadlines might be a little more of a hassle if I'm not well. Or I allow them to become more stressful. I'm one of those people who never miss a deadline. So sick or well, I'll meet them. I have a feeling I might write femdom a little more aggressively when I'm not feeling well, but that's about it.

Anyone else have health issues they ignore, or can't ignore when they're under the weather? Hmm, now there's a concept. Under the weather. What weather and how under it can you be?

I'd love to hear comments on this post.

Hugs

I'm SO Hot...

...literally. How's that for irony considering this week's topic? We've been spared the H1N1 (knock on wood), but the previous two months have been a continuous pinball game of sickness in our household. All thanks to my two darling children and their hygiene-challenged classmates, I'm sure. This week it's some upper respiratory thing that makes me extremely glad that I don't have to talk to anyone since coughing is all I can seem to manage.

In those two months, I've faced down two separate deadlines for submissions and the kickoff of NaNo, and it was a gratifying discovery to find that when I didn't feel like doing much of anything else, sitting with my nice, warm laptop on my lap with only my fingers moving provided a nice outlet for my brain. The only fight on my hands wasn't trying to put together scenes that worked, it was trying to stay awake long enough to get to my prime creative time. Being sick is a great cure for insomnia..darn it.

In a way, being able to write whilst ill makes sense. Most of the things that pull me out of that creative mindset melt away; the barrage of non-computer to-do's on my mental list are easily vetoed when you can't find the energy to move, same goes for the need for fresh air and exercise. And food? No thanks. Even the kids are more cooperative, mostly because they're sick as well, so plopping them in front of a mindless show or three is no longer bad parenting, it's just good sense.

Yesterday I wrote about 6K plus a synopsis to wrap up a manuscript and get it in to my publisher. And while absolutely no part of me was eager to actually do anything resembling what I wrote, I managed to craft some pretty smoking love scenes. Here's a secret encounter in the dark:



Warmth.


That was the first thing Cam noticed as a slamming sound brought him abruptly into wakefulness. Despite it being summer, most nights in the motel rooms he awoke chilled to the bone from the artificial air conditioning they’d cranked up to combat the day’s residual heat the night before.

But tonight he was toasty warm. Mmm... Eyes still closed, he pressed back into the warmth. An arm tightened around him and he smiled.

Arm?

His eyes flew open, but all he got for that effort was blackness. Must still be night. Even with black-out curtains, he’d be able to see something if the sun was coming up.

A feminine giggle and an answering masculine grunt.

Now he was really confused; that sure sounded like a girl. Trying hard to think, not an easy task coming out of a deep sleep, he tried to remember the previous night to get his bearings.

Okay, getting there. New motel. Furnace behind him must be...Jon. And they were sharing a bed, because...

The wet sounds of kissing clear as a bell in the darkness.

Ah shit, Sid for a roommate. Who must’ve brought a girl home from the bar, apparently their entrance was what woke him up. Cam rolled his eyes in the dark, trying hard not to listen to the rustling of clothing and murmurs coming from the direction of the other bed. Crap. He pictured the clothes coming off some faceless girl, and his damn teenaged hormones perked his prick up, picking right up where it had left off without satisfaction earlier in the shower. Not even the thought of Sid being involved could quell the rush his cock and imagination were getting from the almost pornographic sounds emanating from the couple.

Cam wriggled with his discomfort, and the arm around him tightened once more, bringing his attention back to his own bed. This time, as the arm trapped him close, the unmistakable feel of an erection pressed against his backside had him momentarily freezing in place.

That’s Jon’s hard-on against my ass.

Just putting words to the acknowledgment in his mind was incredibly arousing. Jon was hot, yes, but he was his best friend. Never in a million years would Cam have thought he’d be tucked into bed with him, cradling Jon’s apparently very unchoosy cock in the crack of his backside.

His own erection took on new life and his breath grew short as the struggle to not move became way too much for him. Surreptitiously, Cameron arched his back, pushing back against Jon and was answered with a volley of thrusts and an incoherent muttering in his ear. His heart pounding through his chest, fuelled by the addition of skin slapping and unmistakable sounds of fucking off to the right, Cam set up a rhythmic undulation back against Jon that had his friend following suit as if taking his lead in an intimate dance.

His own ragged breathing was masked by the noise from across the room, and as Jon’s own breathing picked up along with the speed of his rubbing, Cameron went for broke, pushing his shorts down in the front enough to expose his cock then licking his palm and taking his erection firmly in hand. As he began to stroke, his upper arm was resting along the top of Jon’s, whose hand was still wrapped around his middle. It was an incredibly intimate feeling to be so surrounded by another, by Jon, as Cam pleasured himself. His breath caught and he sped up his motion, pressing back recklessly, wantonly, invitingly...

Suddenly, his own hand was batted out of the way and a larger, firmer hand took its place, curling around his straining cock with assurance, spreading the pre-cum welling from his slit over his sensitive head with a calloused thumb. Cameron gasped aloud, thankful that the sound coincided with a moan from the girl in the room. Jon’s chest was heaving against his back, his breath was on Cam’s neck, coming way too fast for him to be anything other than fully awake...

In Sickness and in Hell

By Lisabet Sarai





How do you write sexy steamy stories when your temperature is over 103 degrees? Can you write a sex scene when you feel like your feet are about to come out your mouth and the toilet bowl is your best friend in the world right now?

Basically, write about writing while sick. Do you do it, or do you crawl in bed and stay there until you feel well again?

This week it's Helen's turn to pick our topic. Unfortunately she spent the last few weeks suffering from the flu, so it's not surprising she asked the questions above. Our Jude has also been down for the count for nearly two weeks, so I'm sure that she'll have some insights to share.

Fortunately, I have little to say on this subject. I'm probably tempting the gods by saying that I have not been really sick in a long time. Yes, I get the occasional cold, which makes my throat scratchy and my head feel like it's stuffed with mashed potatoes. I did have a mild gastrointestinal bug a few months ago that killed my appetite and kept me at home where the toilets are nice and clean. But I haven't been as ill as Helen describes in years.

Of course, my situation is easier than Helen's because I don't have two toddlers. Plus I'm not insane enough to commit to writing and recording a story a week, as she does for her Heat Flash series. (Maybe I'd have more readers if I did, but that's another topic.) As I've shared previously, I am deliberately conservative about what I promise, since I normally can write only once a week. So I'm rarely down to the wire even if I feel totally crappy.

That being said, I do make myself write on my scheduled days, even if I'm not feeling 100%. No excuses. Alright, there are some things more important than my writing, but if I am home on a Sunday, I'll be at the computer concocting as spicy a tale as I can manage.

The only experience I recall where I was writing under serious pressure and feeling quite horrible was one I shared in a post a few weeks ago. When I submitted my first novel to Black Lace, I didn't understand the critical importance of word count, especially for a print publication. My contract said 80,000 words or more. The manuscript I sent them was only about 72,000. I got an urgent email from the editor insisting that I make up the difference right away!

I had either a mild flu or a bad cold that weekend. Whatever it was, I was totally exhausted and my head felt like it was splitting apart. Still, I had to deliver the additional chapters by Monday. I wrote all weekend, 8K words. I don't know where I got the ideas or how I managed to get them down on the page, but somehow I managed. When I think back on it now, it's all a fog.

The odd thing is, the new chapter that I created that awful weekend is one of my favorites.

Raw Silk is the story of a woman who moves to Thailand in order to take a job and become sexually involved with two very different men: the charismatic, dominant proprietor of a go-go bar and a handsome, aristocratic and very married Thai sensualist. Kate participates in increasingly outrageous activities with each of them. Meanwhile, her American lover visits Bangkok, and Kate realizes she has to choose among the three of them. The climax (so to speak) of the tale is a contest in which each man strives to give her the maximum pleasure.

The chapter I wrote that unpleasant weekend takes place before the showdown. Somtow, the Thai, invites Kate to lunch at a hundred year old restaurant in Chinatown. The restaurant is segregated into private curtained booths. (I did not make this up!) After a sumptuous lunch (there is a lot of food in Raw Silk, including a sex scene that involves chilis), Somtow tries to weaken Kate's resolve not to have sex with any of her lovers until the day of the competition.

---

He rang for the waiter, and the dirty plates disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. The young man also brought them a fresh pot of tea.

When the curtains were closed again, Somtow reached into his pocket. He brought out a blue velvet box. "I hope that you will accept this, Katherine, as a token of my love and respect for you. As something to remember me by, perhaps."

Kate wanted to refuse the box, but the look in his eyes stopped her. Silently, she took it from him and opened it.

It was a sapphire necklace, an oval pendant on a delicate gold chain. It was unbelievably beautiful.

Kate was overwhelmed. "Somtow, I can't take this. This should be for your wife, not for me."

"Nong has her own sapphires, Katherine. And she has the honor and misfortune of being my legal wife. I want you to have something tangible, something precious, something to convince you that you are more to me than just a playmate and a diversion."

He was so sincere. Kate felt tears prick her eyes again. Without further comment she carefully fastened the chain around her neck. The stone sparkled in the hollow of her throat.

"Thank you, Somtow,"she said softly. "I am deeply touched."

Her prince watched her, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You look lovely," he said. "Of course, you would look lovelier still if you removed your blouse."

"Somtow! You promised!"

"Promised what?" he said with mock innocence.

"That you would stick to the rules and would not try to seduce me!"

Somtow grinned. "I am sure that I never promised that!" He leaned forward across the table. "I would never make a promise that I could not keep. In any case, I have a feeling that you really want to take off your top."

It was true, of course. The attraction that Kate had felt toward him during lunch was a hundred times stronger now. She glanced over at the curtains. They were tightly closed. "The management would never enter a booth unannounced," said Somtow. "It would violate all the traditions."

Without a word, she pulled her silk shell over her head. Then she unhooked her brassiere in the front, and let it slide off her shoulders. She sat up straight, enjoying the hungry way that he eyed her bared breasts.

"Ah, Katherine," he sighed. "I see that I was right." He picked up his chopsticks, reached across the table, and deftly caught her left nipple between them. "Quite stiff," he commented approvingly. He applied a bit more pressure and the button of flesh swelled further. Her cunt muscles tensed and her clit tingled.

He switched to the other nipple, rolling it back and forth between the lacquered wood sticks. Kate gave a little moan, and thrust her chest forward.

"You are incorrigible, Somtow," she said when she had caught her breath. "In any case, I'll bet that you are quite stiff yourself."

"You would win that wager," he chuckled. He stood up and Kate saw that he had already unzipped his trousers and released his erection, that he had been stroking himself with his left hand even as he used the chopsticks with his right.

"You know," she said with a smile, "I am still a bit hungry after all." She grabbed one of the cushions from the bench and threw it on the floor in front of him. Then she knelt and began feasting on his smooth, cool flesh.

The slender Thai rested his hands on her shoulders and pressed his pelvis against her mouth. Kate worked his penis like a vacuum cleaner, sucking him as if to extract every drop of his come. She relished his slightly salty taste and the now-familiar whiff of sandalwood that came from him. He moaned, and she paused to admonish him. "Shh!"she whispered. "I don't want the management to come rushing in thinking that I'm doing you harm."

"I can't help myself, Katherine," Somtow gasped.

"Maybe I need to gag you," she said playfully, and then was a little shocked by her own words. Was her association with Gregory polluting her mind to such an extent?

She returned her attention to his cock, licking up and down its length before swallowing it again. The skin was petal-soft. She could feel the pulse of blood raging beneath.

As Somtow came closer to climax, Kate felt her own heart beginning to pound. Her clit throbbed in the same rhythm as his cock, and she could feel her lower lips swelling, opening, aching for attention. She was determined, though, not to allow him access to her sex. Technically, at least, she wanted to adhere to the rules she had established. She wanted the contest on Saturday to be fair and unbiased. She sucked harder, and lightly raked her teeth over his rigid flesh. Come on, Somtow, she thought. Come in my mouth, my sweet prince.

He hovered on the edge. Kate could feel his muscles tensing. But instead of letting go, he gently pushed against her shoulders, pulling out of her mouth. "Turn around, please, Katherine. I want to share my pleasure with you."

"No, Somtow. We all agreed, no sex until the showdown."

"Oh?" He raised one eyebrow. "And what do you call this that we have been doing for the last fifteen minutes?"

"In any case, the notion that you should have no sexual contact with any of us was your idea. In my opinion, it is unnecessary, and unrealistic. You cannot segregate your feelings and desires that way. This lunch is part of the contest, Katherine."

---

As you might expect, Katherine is not very successful in resisting the handsome and persuasive Somtow. Their activities in that curtained booth include some of the most transgressive scenes in the book. However, I won't spoil things by telling you anymore...

Honestly, despite the fact that my head felt about to explode from the pain, the scenes I wrote that weekend are undeniably hot. How did I do that?

I haven't the faintest idea. I guess that is part of the magic of writing.