by Jude Mason
Terror and erotica, the two can definitely go hand in hand. A perfect topic for this time of the year, don't you think?
You may remember me telling you about my Roses. Roses Have Thorns and in this book, they do. Think of a young woman. She's out on her own, unable to find a decent job and thus turns to a life of prostitution. Sure, she's heard the stories about girls being mugged, raped, or worse, but it can't happen to her, right? Or can it?
A storm drenches the city, the johns aren't out, it's too miserable for them. Yet Rose is on her stroll. The rent has to be paid, food bought, she needs the money to survive.
A car approaches and a flash of warning makes her stop, but only for a second. It's cold, she's freezing. The car promises a warm haven if only for an hour or two.
Can you feel your heart racing for my Rose?
Can you imagine the fear she must feel every time she approaches a stranger in a dark car?
Here's a snippet of what happens to my lovely, sexy Rose:
A few short hours later, Rose was no more. In her place was a mindless, mutilated wretch. Naked, almost dead, she crawled. Not feeling the torrential rain or the cold wind, she inched forward. Blood ran in tiny rivulets from the many cuts decorating her too-white flesh and was washed away by the downpour. More trickled from her lacerated sex, and poured from her torn rectum. Several teeth were loose, one in the front gone, lost during her futile attempt to break free. Tears streamed from her eyes, both blackened and swollen almost shut.
Finally, her strength failed. She collapsed. Laying unconscious next to the dumpster, her body gave up. When her spirit fled, something entered and took control of the horrendously abused shell that had been Rose.
No one saw the convulsions that tore at the broken, skeletal frame. No one saw her shudder and rise to a sitting position. And, no one heard the mewling whimpers that spewed like demon-honey from her throat as the pain blossomed and grew, then inexplicably faded. Her eyes, somehow wide and staring, shone much too brightly in the gaunt pale face. And when she smiled, it was as if her face had split. A jagged snagle-toothed grimace, while she maniacally stared at nothing. There was no joy there, just a terrible quest for vengeance.
---
Do you still feel sorry for her? Or perhaps the man who did this to her is the one who should fear.
Then there are the ghosts who bring nothing but pleasure. Ghost of a Chance was one such story. A little shiver at the right moment, a mouth...or what felt like one. There goes that racing heart again...
"Open your legs again. Let me suck you," a deep, masculine voice whispered from inside his mind—from between his legs. Where?
He eased his knees apart, pushing his toes against the bundled sheets, spreading his legs comfortably wide. Cool bedding against his inner thighs sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. He pushed his hands down his thighs, around to the inside then back up, hands again going to his sac.
"Yeah," he murmured, more asleep than awake. His balls shifted, and he moaned. Felt good. Sleep reached for him, drawing him into its quiet embrace.
A mouth, that man's he was sure, engulfed the head of his cock. He didn't have to move, he knew it, trusted his knowing. Simply laid back and enjoyed the wet suckling of his glans and the tongue delving into the oozing slit. His ass cheeks clenched. Butt cheek rubbed against butt cheek. Anus itched. He wanted—something.
The face was there, the dark eyes peering up at him. Amused, teasing.
His cock pulsed, the head battering at the back of his throat, that man's throat. Swallowed, squeezed, released, deliciously squeezed again on its way into his gullet.
Firmly, his balls caressed, pulled on, milked by the expert touch of another man. Only another man could know how to pull only so far, until a bare hint of pain itched at his inner thighs.
A finger slipped back between is ass cheeks, searching, delving, for the dark, moist hole nestled between his glutes. He knew it. Knew it as surely as he knew he was about to fill that mouth with a load of cum. Touched, pressed against, the relaxed ring accepting, welcoming the digit slowly eased inside.
Groaning, he flexed his butt, his excitement growing yet still he slumbered. A dream, he knew it had to be a dream, and even thinking it made him doubt. The groan came from some distance, couldn't be from him.
"Yes, you like this. You always liked it up the ass," the smooth masculine voice crept into his sub-conscious, pushing his excitement up a notch.
He wanted to shift, to push his hips up, to bury the deliciously wicked digit deeper into his hungry ass. Sweat trickled down his ribs. He felt that, or dreamed it.
"My sweet Daniel, let me fuck you the way we both love it," the voice droned.
Robert knew it was wrong, somehow, but he didn't want it to end. It'd been so long since he'd had anyone, and the sensation was driving him insane. He gripped the sheets, then fought to relax his hands. Who was Daniel?
The intruding finger probed a little deeper, finding the nut-sized prostate gland all too eager and ready to be stimulated. His cock throbbed, wetness touched his stomach.
He pulled his legs up, his knees towards his chest. Asleep, he had to be asleep.
Filled, his ass stretched, the opening pressed against, the membrane taut as something wet and slick and beautifully hard slid inside him. Again, the head of his cock engulfed in smoothness, pulsed.
Close, he was so damn close, his blood raced. His fingers and toes clenched. He wanted to scream. He ached to thrust. He trembled with the desire to grab and hold, and touch, and he knew he was alone.
Do you think fear, terror can add to the excitement? I'd love to know!
Showing posts with label Roses Have Thorns. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Roses Have Thorns. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Rest in Peace, my lovely
By Jude Mason
Roses Have Thorns
By Jude Mason
ISBN: 1-60054-084-8
Genre: Paranormal Horror / Retribution
Contains: Vengeance, Torture, Death, Bondage
Rating: Super Nova
Cover Artist: Ron O.
Buy Now
By Jude Mason
ISBN: 1-60054-084-8
Genre: Paranormal Horror / Retribution
Contains: Vengeance, Torture, Death, Bondage
Rating: Super Nova
Cover Artist: Ron O.
Buy Now
What happens when a whore hooks up with the wrong john? What happens when he murders her? You'd think she'd die; there'd be an investigation that went nowhere and that'd be the end of it, right?
Wrong!
Rose did all these things…both of them. The first Rose died and swore vengeance, somehow. When the second Rose died, something horrible, something supernatural happens and Rose comes back. Months pass, while she heals the body, transforming it into and searches for him. When she does, she takes her vengeance, and it's not sweet. Not sweet at all.
Sigh, I love erotic horror. This may not be exactly what Garce had in mind when he came up with the idea for this week's topic, but I just had to bring my Rose's up. I actually opened this book with a death. The grisly, macabre death of a street prostitute whose body was quickly taken over by the ghost of another woman who had also died horribly. The paranormal aspect was the heart of the book, yet without the horrible death, the rest would have really had no meaning.
I've written a couple of books where characters died, or were dead before I started the book. A nice ghostly scare is enough to drive many hesitant couples into a sexy clinch! And if that ghost is troubled, in need of love and horny, all the better.
Scorpio Tattoo
By Jude Mason
ISBN 978-1-59426-994-3
Contents: m/f, menage, paranormal, contemporary
This cover was created for me by Kathryn Lively
Publisher: Phaze http://www.phaze.com
Buy Now
A tattoo is one of the most personal art forms that can adorn the flesh of a human. What happens when women are kidnapped and tattooed? What happens when those women die? And, what happens when the tattooist isn't alive?
Jonathan Rorke searches for the answer these questions and others when his psychic talents lead him to the latest victim. Jessica Crane, latest victim, and the only one who's still alive. Why? Together, Jonathan and Jess have to find out who and why she's being tattooed, before her tattoo is finished and she becomes casualty number three.
In this book the main characters had to learn a dreadful secret in order to save the woman from a terrible fate. The twists and turns in this book as well as the suffering of the ghost make his anger and confussion understandable. It also enhances the terror of the woman. Those emotions are strong and make for some 'sitting on the edge of your seat' moments. To me, that's what makes a good story. Grab your reader and don't let them go. If you, as the author, can keep that suspense going from beginning to end, well, you've got one fine read.
The teasing and torment, that just adds flavor, in my opinion. I'm a great one for teasing. I adore dragging the sexual frustration of a character on for pages. From the comments I get from readers, they seem to enjoy it too. Keeping it going, sustaining that special 'note' of frustrated pleasure takes some doing. In my opinion, it's worth it though. It's a bit like, how long can you hold your partner, during sex, on that pinicle of pleasure? I want my readers to dangle there too, breath held, blood racing, ready to explode when the powerful 'I' let them.
Hugs
Wrong!
Rose did all these things…both of them. The first Rose died and swore vengeance, somehow. When the second Rose died, something horrible, something supernatural happens and Rose comes back. Months pass, while she heals the body, transforming it into and searches for him. When she does, she takes her vengeance, and it's not sweet. Not sweet at all.
Sigh, I love erotic horror. This may not be exactly what Garce had in mind when he came up with the idea for this week's topic, but I just had to bring my Rose's up. I actually opened this book with a death. The grisly, macabre death of a street prostitute whose body was quickly taken over by the ghost of another woman who had also died horribly. The paranormal aspect was the heart of the book, yet without the horrible death, the rest would have really had no meaning.
I've written a couple of books where characters died, or were dead before I started the book. A nice ghostly scare is enough to drive many hesitant couples into a sexy clinch! And if that ghost is troubled, in need of love and horny, all the better.
Scorpio Tattoo
By Jude Mason
ISBN 978-1-59426-994-3
Contents: m/f, menage, paranormal, contemporary
This cover was created for me by Kathryn Lively
Publisher: Phaze http://www.phaze.com
Buy Now
A tattoo is one of the most personal art forms that can adorn the flesh of a human. What happens when women are kidnapped and tattooed? What happens when those women die? And, what happens when the tattooist isn't alive?
Jonathan Rorke searches for the answer these questions and others when his psychic talents lead him to the latest victim. Jessica Crane, latest victim, and the only one who's still alive. Why? Together, Jonathan and Jess have to find out who and why she's being tattooed, before her tattoo is finished and she becomes casualty number three.
In this book the main characters had to learn a dreadful secret in order to save the woman from a terrible fate. The twists and turns in this book as well as the suffering of the ghost make his anger and confussion understandable. It also enhances the terror of the woman. Those emotions are strong and make for some 'sitting on the edge of your seat' moments. To me, that's what makes a good story. Grab your reader and don't let them go. If you, as the author, can keep that suspense going from beginning to end, well, you've got one fine read.
The teasing and torment, that just adds flavor, in my opinion. I'm a great one for teasing. I adore dragging the sexual frustration of a character on for pages. From the comments I get from readers, they seem to enjoy it too. Keeping it going, sustaining that special 'note' of frustrated pleasure takes some doing. In my opinion, it's worth it though. It's a bit like, how long can you hold your partner, during sex, on that pinicle of pleasure? I want my readers to dangle there too, breath held, blood racing, ready to explode when the powerful 'I' let them.
Hugs
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Ghosts and Ghouls and Sexy Spirits...OH MY!
by Jude Mason
I've written several stories about ghosts and adore them. Mine aren't always the spooks who simply appear, scare the living bejeebers out of you then fade into the ether. I like em when they stick around and do some real haunting. Even better, when they have a mystery to solve, help you solve it then hang around to enjoy their after life.
Let me start with a story my father shared with me years ago. When he was very young, he had a favorite Aunt who thought the world of him. They'd visit often and spend hours talking about things little boys talk about with Auntie's. He loved her immensely. When he was about 7-8, I'm not sure exactly, his Auntie died. Being as he was a youngster, no one wanted to tell him. He went to bed that night and slept soundly, until his Auntie appeared at the foot of his bed. From what he told me, they sat talking for a little while then she told him she wouldn't be able to see him again for a very long time. Course, being the young boy he was, it upset him. But, she explained she'd gone away and he'd see her again when it was the right time. That apparently soothed him and he went back to sleep.
The next day, he told him mom he'd seen his Auntie. She finally told him his dear Auntie had passed on, but he refused to believe her. He'd spoken to her, sat and talked for ages he said. I don't think he ever stopped believing he'd seen her.
A little spooky, but in a very good way.
Now my ghosties. No, I've never personally seen or talked to a ghost. But, I do love to think about them. The first book I wrote about a ghost was called, Roses Have Thorns. Here's a little blurb for you:
What happens when a whore hooks up with the wrong john? What happens when he murders her? You'd think she'd die; there'd be an investigation that went nowhere and that'd be the end of it, right?
Wrong!
Rose did all these things…both of them. The first Rose died and swore vengeance, somehow. When the second Rose died, something horrible, something supernatural happens and Rose comes back. Months pass, while she heals the body, transforming it into and searches for him. When she does, she takes her vengeance, and it's not sweet. Not sweet at all.
You see, there were two Roses, both killed by the same man. The ghost of #1 takes over the body of #2 when she dies. A shivery prospect for the bad dude in this one. Poetic justice can be a bitch sometimes...LOL I'm thinking Rose would be more along the lines of ghoul, but as I tend to just write these things and let someone else worry about that part, I'm not really sure.
On to the next of my ghosties. This would be Scropio Tattoo, one of my all time faves. And heres the blurb for it:
A tattoo is one of the most personal art forms that can adorn the flesh of a human. What happens when women are kidnapped and tattooed? What happens when those women die? And, what happens when the tattooist isn't alive? Jonathan Rorke searches for the answer these questions and others when his psychic talents lead him to the latest victim. Jessica Crane, latest victim, and the only one who's still alive. Why? Together, Jonathan and Jess have to find out who and why she's being tattooed, before her tattoo is finished and she becomes casualty number three.
In this book, the ghost doesn't realize he's dead, kind of. And he also doesn't realize his lady is dead, kind of. Without saying too much, I'll just tell you, he doesn't leave when he could.
Now that Jenna and I are writing together, we've found that ghosts are a topic we both seem to like writing about. Ethan's Choice, from the Kindred Spirits, our ongoing series of ghostly tales, will be at least four books long. Each will target at least one ghostly problem and we'll hopefully solve them as we go along. Whether the ghosts all leave is a different matter. Angry Annie's problem is solved, but she seems to like it at the Inn. I'm hoping she shows up a lot in future books.
I think ghosts are an entity we as authors can use in an enormous number of ways. The rules don't 'have' to apply. Some people say you can't touch a ghost, but in Scorpio Tattoo, the ghost is touched a number of times, by more then one flesh and blood character. No one complained. Ghosts live as long as you like, can pop in and out of the story, enter places and know things no one else can. I'd say they're a great way to solve mysteries. LOL
Oh, and then there was Ghost of a Chance. I had to wind this up by posting a snippet from that one.
Hugs
I've written several stories about ghosts and adore them. Mine aren't always the spooks who simply appear, scare the living bejeebers out of you then fade into the ether. I like em when they stick around and do some real haunting. Even better, when they have a mystery to solve, help you solve it then hang around to enjoy their after life.
Let me start with a story my father shared with me years ago. When he was very young, he had a favorite Aunt who thought the world of him. They'd visit often and spend hours talking about things little boys talk about with Auntie's. He loved her immensely. When he was about 7-8, I'm not sure exactly, his Auntie died. Being as he was a youngster, no one wanted to tell him. He went to bed that night and slept soundly, until his Auntie appeared at the foot of his bed. From what he told me, they sat talking for a little while then she told him she wouldn't be able to see him again for a very long time. Course, being the young boy he was, it upset him. But, she explained she'd gone away and he'd see her again when it was the right time. That apparently soothed him and he went back to sleep.
The next day, he told him mom he'd seen his Auntie. She finally told him his dear Auntie had passed on, but he refused to believe her. He'd spoken to her, sat and talked for ages he said. I don't think he ever stopped believing he'd seen her.
A little spooky, but in a very good way.
Now my ghosties. No, I've never personally seen or talked to a ghost. But, I do love to think about them. The first book I wrote about a ghost was called, Roses Have Thorns. Here's a little blurb for you:
What happens when a whore hooks up with the wrong john? What happens when he murders her? You'd think she'd die; there'd be an investigation that went nowhere and that'd be the end of it, right?
Wrong!
Rose did all these things…both of them. The first Rose died and swore vengeance, somehow. When the second Rose died, something horrible, something supernatural happens and Rose comes back. Months pass, while she heals the body, transforming it into and searches for him. When she does, she takes her vengeance, and it's not sweet. Not sweet at all.
You see, there were two Roses, both killed by the same man. The ghost of #1 takes over the body of #2 when she dies. A shivery prospect for the bad dude in this one. Poetic justice can be a bitch sometimes...LOL I'm thinking Rose would be more along the lines of ghoul, but as I tend to just write these things and let someone else worry about that part, I'm not really sure.
On to the next of my ghosties. This would be Scropio Tattoo, one of my all time faves. And heres the blurb for it:
A tattoo is one of the most personal art forms that can adorn the flesh of a human. What happens when women are kidnapped and tattooed? What happens when those women die? And, what happens when the tattooist isn't alive? Jonathan Rorke searches for the answer these questions and others when his psychic talents lead him to the latest victim. Jessica Crane, latest victim, and the only one who's still alive. Why? Together, Jonathan and Jess have to find out who and why she's being tattooed, before her tattoo is finished and she becomes casualty number three.
In this book, the ghost doesn't realize he's dead, kind of. And he also doesn't realize his lady is dead, kind of. Without saying too much, I'll just tell you, he doesn't leave when he could.
Now that Jenna and I are writing together, we've found that ghosts are a topic we both seem to like writing about. Ethan's Choice, from the Kindred Spirits, our ongoing series of ghostly tales, will be at least four books long. Each will target at least one ghostly problem and we'll hopefully solve them as we go along. Whether the ghosts all leave is a different matter. Angry Annie's problem is solved, but she seems to like it at the Inn. I'm hoping she shows up a lot in future books.
I think ghosts are an entity we as authors can use in an enormous number of ways. The rules don't 'have' to apply. Some people say you can't touch a ghost, but in Scorpio Tattoo, the ghost is touched a number of times, by more then one flesh and blood character. No one complained. Ghosts live as long as you like, can pop in and out of the story, enter places and know things no one else can. I'd say they're a great way to solve mysteries. LOL
Oh, and then there was Ghost of a Chance. I had to wind this up by posting a snippet from that one.
| | |
ISBN: 978-1-906811-06-8
m/m, paranormal
Publisher: Total E-Bound
Publisher URL: http://www.total-e-bound.com/
Buy Now
Ghost of a Chance
Made #2 at Total E-Bound's Fictionwise Page
From
Chapter One
Silken softness wrapped around his cock, sucking gently, exquisitely.
Robert shifted. Rolling onto his back, he stretched his legs out, barely conscious of being in bed, not really awake.
Wet suction pulled at his shaft. A tongue slid over the crown of his cock, the tip delving into the slit. His thighs eased open.
Yes, a dream. That’s what it is. A wet dream, a fantasy—a disembodied mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, all there just for his pleasure.
The suction eased, the lips barely skimming over his shaft—up and down, up and down. His hips twitched, his buttocks clenched, his thighs tightened. He splayed his knees wider. A tongue moved wetly up his shaft again. The sensation faded.
Excitement waned. He fell into deeper sleep.
A face appeared—dark hair tousled, thick brows with one arched more then the other, sideburns longer than fashionable. The nose had a bump in the middle. Eyes—brown, wide open, framed with beautifully long lashes—watched him. Lips—thick, moist, kissable—opened.
Robert’s hips moved, churned his ass into the bed. Soft sheets brushed against his shaft and its head wept and stuck to the material.
He reached for himself. A squeeze, a tug. He sighed and his slumber again deepened.
The beautiful, handsome face vanished, but the mouth remained. Lips, tongue, brushed the thick dome of his cock.
His balls shifted, moving up closer to his body. He clenched his ass. In sync, his hips rose, pushing his cock shaft further in.
Taking his hand off his cock, he reached lower and cupped the soft, nearly hairless sac below. Holding it, he pulled down on the two walnut-sized orbs.
He relaxed, his sleep deepened again. Time passed.
“You like that, don’t you, my love?” a soft masculine voice whispered huskily.
“Yes,” he hissed. Or I thought I did. Am I speaking? Am I dreaming? Does it matter?
The slickness of a mouth returned, nipping at the flesh along the length of his cock.
His shaft thickened instantly, if it ever actually had deflated at all. He was hard. He wanted to fuck.
He dreamed. The face was back. Thick lashes rose, revealing lust-filled, dark eyes looking up at him. The nose, a little too sharp at the tip, brushed his pubes as the mouth descended, taking him in to the hilt. Grunting, he basked in the feel of that lovely, soft, wet mouth engulfing his cock. The head touched, rubbed against the back of a throat.
“Yes,” he hissed again. Or is it the first time?
He shuddered, reached for the face, connected with…nothing, air, sheets. His fingers slipped over the cool silk fabric, gripped, clenched and held tight while his cock was lavished with gulping pleasure.
A chin nudged his ball sac, pushing the magic orbs to and fro. He arched his back, his fingers and toes curled tight, he was aching for release—half-asleep, half-awake, breathless with lust.
The face vanished. The mouth abandoned him.
Robert sat up. One of his hands rested on the bed behind him, supporting him, the other moved to his stomach. His cock pulsed against his palm. Glancing around, he peered into the corners, along the walls, the window shades drawn tight. He was alone.
He was fucking hard, needed to come. He was exhausted.
Peering at the clock on the bedside table, he saw the arms pointing at the three and the ten. It wasn’t ten fifteen.
Sagging, he fell back on the pillow. Too old for a wet dream, he told himself. Too tired to finish. Still he reached down and cupped himself, sighing. His thoughts wandered to the dream of the face, the mouth, those deep brown, smouldering eyes.
He sighed with pleasure.
Weird dreams. Fuck me dreams. Where’d they come from? His thoughts faded into nothing.
“Open your legs. Let me suck you,” the deep, masculine voice whispered.
He eased his knees apart, pushing his toes against the bundled sheets, spreading his legs comfortably wide. A shiver of pleasure raced up his spine. He slid his hands down to his sac.
“Yeah,” he murmured, more asleep than awake. His balls shifted.
A mouth engulfed the head of his cock. He didn’t have to move, he knew it, trusted his knowing. He simply lay there and enjoyed the wet suckling of his glans and the silken tongue delving into the oozing slit. His ass cheeks clenched. His anus itched. He wanted…something.
The face was there, the dark eyes peering up at him. Amused, teasing.
His cock pulsed, the head battering at the back of a throat, that man’s throat, swallowed, squeezed, released, deliciously held again on its way into his gullet.
A finger slipped back between his ass cheeks, searching, delving for the dark, moist hole nestled between his glutes. The digit slowly eased inside.
Groaning, he flexed his butt, his excitement growing, yet still he half-slumbered. A dream, it has to be a dream.
“Yes, you like this. You always liked it up the ass.” The smooth, masculine voice crept into his sub-conscious, pushing his excitement up a notch.
He wanted to shift, to push his hips up, to bury the deliciously wicked digit deeper into his hungry ass. Sweat trickled down his ribs. He felt that, or dreamed it.
“My sweet Daniel, let me fuck you the way we both love it,” the voice droned.
Who is Daniel?
* * *
Hugs
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Under my skin... and yours... and his... and theirs
by Jude Mason
After Jamie's horrendous post and the upheaval it's had in her life, both online and off, the post I had planned seems so trivial. Yes, we as authors of fantasy strive to immerse ourselves into our characters. Yes, we spend hours finding just the right words to take you, our readers, into the story. We're like any other fiction authors. We do our research, spend hours even days finding out all the details of how to become a cop, what it's like to drink the blood of a mortal, how the body would move as it became the cougar/wolf/animal changeling, or a thousand other things. Languages, customs, slang, terminology for a dozen, or more, scenarios our stories need.
Yes, we love our jobs. To me, sinking into what I call my writing mode, is so much a part of me I can't honestly imaging what it would be not to do it. It's work, sometimes damn hard work, but I adore it all. Submerging the ordinary Jude into, Johan, a raunchy, bisexual vampire in Night Games who's on the hunt for his female lover's kidnapper is one hell of a high. Of course, the girl has a job, so that took a little checking on. The vamps male lover, he needed to be completely in the picture, his story merged with the main character's... and he needed his backstory as well. It's not just a simple task of sitting down and off you go. If it were that simple, anyone could do this job.
The difficult ones are often the most rewarding. Awhile ago, I did a story called, Roses Have Thorns. Here's the blurb I use:
Roses Have Thorns - What happens when a hooker picks the wrong john? What happens when, a few months later, it happens again, but with a difference? The whores body becomes a vessel for revenge. Their names were Rose. And Rose is angry.
Warning: This book is classed as Erotic Horror, not for the faint of heart
Now, Rose is actually two 'women' and both of them are killed by the same man. The first ghostly Rose takes over the second woman's just as #2 is dying. Simply getting that little bit right was a challenge. About the only easy part was I'm female and so are my Rose's. The horror aspect was such an intense thing it took me weeks to get the work done. A story that would normally take me a few days to put together actually took much, much longer. Oh, by the way, this one is definitely not for the faint of heart, really! It's erotic horror at it's darkest.
Going from that to and creating something soft and sensual was a huge leap. Yet, it's what we all live for. We people our stories with characters who may be close to ourselves in some ways, but that's not what our readers want. They want fantasy and excitement, escapism and that's what we strive to give them.
There's Ambassador Sloan, the man chosen to meet the alien menace and save the known universe. The Shoon, not what the bureaucracy had thought of when they thought at all. Shoon Joining, could take humanity into completely uncharted territory, if only they're brave enough. Oh and the sex...that's where we all seem to get into trouble, isn't it?
It seems we're all fine as long as we close those damn bedroom doors. Once they're open though, we're targets for pretty much everyone. As a romance and erotic romance author, hell might as well stick in simple erotica author, I've been asked by dozens, if not hundreds of people, why I don't step into mainstream, do some real writing. There are dozens of answers, I suppose. But the real reason for me is, I adore my work. Sinking into a character and not closing those bedroom doors, allows me to share all of them with you, the readers.
Would you dream of asking Stephan King why he doesn't go into some other genre? I mean horror is just so, well horrible. He's got to be some kind of perverted serial killer to have written all those nasty books. Right?
Probably not. He's got one hell of an imagination, sort of like me, only his gets more attention and he's paid much much better. He researches his subjects. He makes notes and creates his characters the same as I do. He makes plot lines, rough drafts, re-writes and all the same things I do. But, as Stephan King, he closes the bedroom door.
I sneak in and tell it all. Jamie did the same thing and unfortunately paid a price - a price that I doubt I'll ever be able to fully comprehend. And all because of that damn bedroom door. It's all right to take your readers into the depths of some psycho's dreams of carnage, but, don't you dare delve into the loving, sexual side of a couple's relationship. Yes, some of these 'couples' have unusual relationships, but that very difference is what makes the world go around.
Perhaps one day, the people who can't abide our chosen genres will be brave enough to admit we're not as different as they are. A little empathy, a lot of imagination, some great people and voila, you have the makings for some hot reading. Sex, we all do it. Let's allow those who desire to read it the opportunity to do so, in peace. And, let's also encourage those who write it, to do so to the best of their abilities.
Hugs
After Jamie's horrendous post and the upheaval it's had in her life, both online and off, the post I had planned seems so trivial. Yes, we as authors of fantasy strive to immerse ourselves into our characters. Yes, we spend hours finding just the right words to take you, our readers, into the story. We're like any other fiction authors. We do our research, spend hours even days finding out all the details of how to become a cop, what it's like to drink the blood of a mortal, how the body would move as it became the cougar/wolf/animal changeling, or a thousand other things. Languages, customs, slang, terminology for a dozen, or more, scenarios our stories need.
Yes, we love our jobs. To me, sinking into what I call my writing mode, is so much a part of me I can't honestly imaging what it would be not to do it. It's work, sometimes damn hard work, but I adore it all. Submerging the ordinary Jude into, Johan, a raunchy, bisexual vampire in Night Games who's on the hunt for his female lover's kidnapper is one hell of a high. Of course, the girl has a job, so that took a little checking on. The vamps male lover, he needed to be completely in the picture, his story merged with the main character's... and he needed his backstory as well. It's not just a simple task of sitting down and off you go. If it were that simple, anyone could do this job.
The difficult ones are often the most rewarding. Awhile ago, I did a story called, Roses Have Thorns. Here's the blurb I use:
Roses Have Thorns - What happens when a hooker picks the wrong john? What happens when, a few months later, it happens again, but with a difference? The whores body becomes a vessel for revenge. Their names were Rose. And Rose is angry.
Warning: This book is classed as Erotic Horror, not for the faint of heart
Now, Rose is actually two 'women' and both of them are killed by the same man. The first ghostly Rose takes over the second woman's just as #2 is dying. Simply getting that little bit right was a challenge. About the only easy part was I'm female and so are my Rose's. The horror aspect was such an intense thing it took me weeks to get the work done. A story that would normally take me a few days to put together actually took much, much longer. Oh, by the way, this one is definitely not for the faint of heart, really! It's erotic horror at it's darkest.
Going from that to and creating something soft and sensual was a huge leap. Yet, it's what we all live for. We people our stories with characters who may be close to ourselves in some ways, but that's not what our readers want. They want fantasy and excitement, escapism and that's what we strive to give them.
There's Ambassador Sloan, the man chosen to meet the alien menace and save the known universe. The Shoon, not what the bureaucracy had thought of when they thought at all. Shoon Joining, could take humanity into completely uncharted territory, if only they're brave enough. Oh and the sex...that's where we all seem to get into trouble, isn't it?
It seems we're all fine as long as we close those damn bedroom doors. Once they're open though, we're targets for pretty much everyone. As a romance and erotic romance author, hell might as well stick in simple erotica author, I've been asked by dozens, if not hundreds of people, why I don't step into mainstream, do some real writing. There are dozens of answers, I suppose. But the real reason for me is, I adore my work. Sinking into a character and not closing those bedroom doors, allows me to share all of them with you, the readers.
Would you dream of asking Stephan King why he doesn't go into some other genre? I mean horror is just so, well horrible. He's got to be some kind of perverted serial killer to have written all those nasty books. Right?
Probably not. He's got one hell of an imagination, sort of like me, only his gets more attention and he's paid much much better. He researches his subjects. He makes notes and creates his characters the same as I do. He makes plot lines, rough drafts, re-writes and all the same things I do. But, as Stephan King, he closes the bedroom door.
I sneak in and tell it all. Jamie did the same thing and unfortunately paid a price - a price that I doubt I'll ever be able to fully comprehend. And all because of that damn bedroom door. It's all right to take your readers into the depths of some psycho's dreams of carnage, but, don't you dare delve into the loving, sexual side of a couple's relationship. Yes, some of these 'couples' have unusual relationships, but that very difference is what makes the world go around.
Perhaps one day, the people who can't abide our chosen genres will be brave enough to admit we're not as different as they are. A little empathy, a lot of imagination, some great people and voila, you have the makings for some hot reading. Sex, we all do it. Let's allow those who desire to read it the opportunity to do so, in peace. And, let's also encourage those who write it, to do so to the best of their abilities.
Hugs
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
With a little help.. or hindrance... from my friends
"Sammy, shush, I've already told your story. Yes, I know it wasn't a long story and you have more to say. Patience my pet." Gazing at the blank screen, I knew I had to write something, and soon.
'Write about me,' Sam mutters quietly into my ear.
"No, I can't write about you. It's got to be a paranormal this time." I admonished the purple clad character. "Why don't you go and see if Cyn needs anything."
'She doesn't. She at home with that man of hers.'
"Well, you should be with yours. I'm sure Greg would love the company." Greg was Sammy's fella. They'd moved in together and that was the story Sammy wanted me to write. Ugh!
'What about me,' grumbled Rose, her scarred fingers pointing towards herself. 'I definitely have more story to tell. It's been months, Hell, years since you worked with me.'
"Yes, sweetie, I know and I definitely want to get to you, very soon. But, I really have to--"
'Have to what? Create new characters, new stories, new plots and scenarios? But, you have more to say about me...us!'
Rose was definitely pissed, as she should be. It had been way too long since I spent any time with her.
I read the call for submissions again, and wondered why I'd volunteered to write for this one. I knew nothing about the seamier side of San Francisco. I'd only been there for part of one day.
'I've been there,' yelled Amber, yet one more character who thought needed more story time. 'That's where that bastard Tony snagged me.'
"That wasn't San Francisco," I glared at...nothing and cringed. Bugger, I was beginning to fall into these conversations a little too easily of late.
I left the computer room and went for more coffee. Maybe I needed to get out for awhile. It'd been weeks since I just walked the beach or even watched an entire movie without letting 'those guys' distract me.
Today was like any other. I got up, did my morning routine, fed the birds and took Meg, my sister in laws dog out for her morning pee. Played with her for a little bit then got the computer going. Coffee in hand, I went through the usual avalanche of email and messages.
After yacking with my writing partner about some FANTASTIC news we got earlier, it was time to get busy. That's pretty much how most of my mornings go. Okay, Meg doesn't live here, but the rest is fairly typical. It's that blank page that intimidates me. I have ideas enough to fill a truck, but how to begin is always daunting. That first sentence. Does it work? Add another and read them. Delete words, add others. Save. Add another sentence or two, three, a paragraph, a page.
Going back to the beginning, time after time, re-writing, trashing, slashing, wondering if I really have a clue what Im doing. Doubting it, myself. What the HELL do I think I'm doing?
The idea forms, solidifies. Time to actually come up with a rough draft, a concept of where this stinking story is going. I'm liable to wind up in the bay diving for some treasure that's not there. Synapsis, yeah, that's it. Do a synopsis so I can follow it and actually write the thing. Chapter by chapter, that's how I like to do these. I keep it flexible, but it gives me the direction.
That first page might work. Might not. Hate the names, but I'll change those until they fit. Characters have to fit their names you know. Ask Sammy, his name changed a dozen times before I liked it, and he wasn't even the main character.
'Yeah, I thought Cyn was going to strangle you,' he piped up from behind me.
"Yeah well, I had no idea you were going to be so damn pushy either. I thought you were a whishy washy type."
'Me? Do I look like the wishy washy type?' He prances around to the center of the room and strikes a pose. Purple suit, ruffles at collar and cuff.
I peered at him and smiled. "Sammy, you look like a queer with a penchants for flamboyance. Nothing wishy washy about you."
'Which is exactly me.'
"Go see Greg, would you? I really need to get busy here."
Poof, and Sammy is gone, for now.
See, this is how things happen for me. I'd like to think I was organized. Sometimes I am, just not about writing. I do like to get some form of outline done for longer works. I have a lousy memory for eye colors, furniture placement and such. I have been known to keep a spread sheet going for that kind of thing. It helps. When you add the number of characters I've helped create over the years, I find it next to impossible to keep them all straight. Yet, I often remember things about them and wonder how their lives are going. Are Sammy and Greg really as happy as I left them. Did Rose find peace? Are the changelings all right. Jamie, do they bother you like they do me?
I do keep a schedule of sorts so I don't volunteer for two things that need to be done at the same time. Other than that, I panic a lot. The actual process is different each time. Different characters bother me, different scenarios present themselves. It's always new. Always fresh, and I love every moment of it.
I had a teacher in high school tell me that all serious writers are crazy. I wonder if he's right? What do you think?
'Write about me,' Sam mutters quietly into my ear.
"No, I can't write about you. It's got to be a paranormal this time." I admonished the purple clad character. "Why don't you go and see if Cyn needs anything."
'She doesn't. She at home with that man of hers.'
"Well, you should be with yours. I'm sure Greg would love the company." Greg was Sammy's fella. They'd moved in together and that was the story Sammy wanted me to write. Ugh!
'What about me,' grumbled Rose, her scarred fingers pointing towards herself. 'I definitely have more story to tell. It's been months, Hell, years since you worked with me.'
"Yes, sweetie, I know and I definitely want to get to you, very soon. But, I really have to--"
'Have to what? Create new characters, new stories, new plots and scenarios? But, you have more to say about me...us!'
Rose was definitely pissed, as she should be. It had been way too long since I spent any time with her.
I read the call for submissions again, and wondered why I'd volunteered to write for this one. I knew nothing about the seamier side of San Francisco. I'd only been there for part of one day.
'I've been there,' yelled Amber, yet one more character who thought needed more story time. 'That's where that bastard Tony snagged me.'
"That wasn't San Francisco," I glared at...nothing and cringed. Bugger, I was beginning to fall into these conversations a little too easily of late.
I left the computer room and went for more coffee. Maybe I needed to get out for awhile. It'd been weeks since I just walked the beach or even watched an entire movie without letting 'those guys' distract me.
Today was like any other. I got up, did my morning routine, fed the birds and took Meg, my sister in laws dog out for her morning pee. Played with her for a little bit then got the computer going. Coffee in hand, I went through the usual avalanche of email and messages.
After yacking with my writing partner about some FANTASTIC news we got earlier, it was time to get busy. That's pretty much how most of my mornings go. Okay, Meg doesn't live here, but the rest is fairly typical. It's that blank page that intimidates me. I have ideas enough to fill a truck, but how to begin is always daunting. That first sentence. Does it work? Add another and read them. Delete words, add others. Save. Add another sentence or two, three, a paragraph, a page.
Going back to the beginning, time after time, re-writing, trashing, slashing, wondering if I really have a clue what Im doing. Doubting it, myself. What the HELL do I think I'm doing?
The idea forms, solidifies. Time to actually come up with a rough draft, a concept of where this stinking story is going. I'm liable to wind up in the bay diving for some treasure that's not there. Synapsis, yeah, that's it. Do a synopsis so I can follow it and actually write the thing. Chapter by chapter, that's how I like to do these. I keep it flexible, but it gives me the direction.
That first page might work. Might not. Hate the names, but I'll change those until they fit. Characters have to fit their names you know. Ask Sammy, his name changed a dozen times before I liked it, and he wasn't even the main character.
'Yeah, I thought Cyn was going to strangle you,' he piped up from behind me.
"Yeah well, I had no idea you were going to be so damn pushy either. I thought you were a whishy washy type."
'Me? Do I look like the wishy washy type?' He prances around to the center of the room and strikes a pose. Purple suit, ruffles at collar and cuff.
I peered at him and smiled. "Sammy, you look like a queer with a penchants for flamboyance. Nothing wishy washy about you."
'Which is exactly me.'
"Go see Greg, would you? I really need to get busy here."
Poof, and Sammy is gone, for now.
See, this is how things happen for me. I'd like to think I was organized. Sometimes I am, just not about writing. I do like to get some form of outline done for longer works. I have a lousy memory for eye colors, furniture placement and such. I have been known to keep a spread sheet going for that kind of thing. It helps. When you add the number of characters I've helped create over the years, I find it next to impossible to keep them all straight. Yet, I often remember things about them and wonder how their lives are going. Are Sammy and Greg really as happy as I left them. Did Rose find peace? Are the changelings all right. Jamie, do they bother you like they do me?
I do keep a schedule of sorts so I don't volunteer for two things that need to be done at the same time. Other than that, I panic a lot. The actual process is different each time. Different characters bother me, different scenarios present themselves. It's always new. Always fresh, and I love every moment of it.
I had a teacher in high school tell me that all serious writers are crazy. I wonder if he's right? What do you think?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Love and Lust
by Jude Mason
A topic that had me thinking. There's a variety of the forms of love. You love your parents, you love your dog or cat, you love apples or asparagus, you love the town you live in, your country--yet each is different--feels different, means something different to you. They're love though, or I believe they are.
As an author, I've written dozens, if not hundreds of stories about love and what it means to the people who inhabit my books. Readers and publishers expect, and rightfully so, a story to go along with any lust these characters might feel for each other. You know, how they met, where they went, what they look like and why they were attracted to each other. Each of them has a different background and are looking for different things out of life. Some simply want to get free of the rat race, find a small corner of the world and someone to share it with. They want to 'fall in love' with the right person. That right person will be someone who compliments their kinks, foibles and attitude. A dominant man would perhaps be looking for a submissive woman:
From Selene's Awakening (Coming soon to Total E-Bound):
Holding her by one arm, he helped her to stand in front of him, facing him. The robe she had on hung open, her curves inches away. It was as if, suddenly, the angry, frustrated, spoiled bitch had vanished. She’d come to terms with her desires and with him and wanted to explore. Would she stay with him? Would she care for him?
He looked up into her eyes and smiled. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured in that sultry, sexy, voice he was growing to love. He wanted to hear more of it, and much more often.
“Slide the robe off, please.” He reached down and wound his fingers around the erection jutting from his groin.
Selene shrugged and his robe slipped off her shoulders, falling to the floor around her feet.
“Kneel in front of me, please,” David said in a soft, yet stern voice.
For an instant she stood looking down at him, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. She didn’t drop to her knees, but said, “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I want you. I…I.” She lowered her eyes. “I want you to control me.”
“I know, my sweet lady. I sensed it in you very soon after you awoke.”
Or, perhaps the decades old vampire seeking someone who would be more permanent than the fleeting morsels they fed on--someone who knew and understood the torment of being undead:
From Night Games (Coming soon to Total E-Bound):
“True.” Johan slipped his fingers around the swelling length of flesh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can though. Save this for me.”
Chuckling, Petre placed his hand over top of Johan’s and moved it up and down the shaft of his cock. “It’s yours. Always yours.”
Johan looked deeply into his lover’s eyes, and felt the bond they shared deepen. Lifeless, they cared more for each other than either had ever done when they were human.
Johan winked and pulled his hand free. “I wonder if we shouldn’t get some clothes on before we wake her?”
Glancing down at himself then back up, Petre smiled. “Yeah, we don’t want to look more like rapists than rescuers.”
“No shit. For all she knows, she’s gone from one bunch of hoods to another. Follow me.” Johan turned and headed for the bedroom, and the closet full of clothes. Opening the doors wide, he took two robes from the hooks, one black velvet, the other dark blue silk, and held them up. “Which one?”
Petre took the silk robe and slipped it on. Johan slid into the other, belting it at the waist. Pushing his feet into a pair of slip-ons, he turned and headed back to where the woman lay stretched out on the sofa. On the way, he reached down and grabbed a throw from the foot of the bed.
Yet, I can't ignore the feeling that lust has it's place and I'm drawn to exploring it in a variety of ways. You can lust after your wife/husband, you can feel lust for the woman or man you see in the street. There's no pleasantry, just the animal want.
There's also the lust for power, or revenge. The darker side of lust is as strong and compelling as the softer, more accepted side. Think of all the hookers, both male and female, who lust after the wealth and standings of those who buy their services. The buyer may lust, but what of the bought? Think of those poor souls who have nothing else but their lust to live, or their lust for revenge.
From Roses Have Thorns:
The room grew dim around them, as if the light couldn't permeate the dark misery transpiring. Clifford raised his head and watched her rifle through the assortment of leather and shiny metal lined up on the table. One hand searched, while the other wandered down her body, following a trail of scars. When her hand reached the soft fur covering her sex, her legs spread as if of their own volition. Her finger found its mark. Her clitoris was warped and torn, but the nerve endings had somehow survived enough to give pleasure. A harsh rub and she rode the wave, but stopped before she crested.
Feeling the sweet nearness of her climax, she gazed lustily at her prey. A glance at what her other hand had found, and she smiled. "This one I think." She lifted her hand and showed him a leather contraption of straps and buckles.
He nodded, solemnly, and didn't say a word. She took hold of his testicles with her dew covered fingers and pulled them away from his groin. One strap wound around the neck of his sack, separating the two round balls from his body. Rose jerked the straps tight then fastened the buckle and petted the lewdly presented jewels. Another strap circled the base of his prick, and she took great pleasure in pulling that one particularly snug while buckling it. The last strip of leather didn't have a buckle, but did have a clip at its end.
"Fun begins now, Clifford," Rose purred as she pulled the last strap to the end of the table and clipped it to a metal ring welded in place.
When Clifford's groan started, it was barely audible, but by the time she'd fastened the scrotum strap, the sound had risen to rumbling growl. The skin stretched paper thin over his balls. The tiny blue veins contrasted sharply to the white skin. Rose ran a finger over them, her nail lightly scraping the tight flesh.
"Yes!" he hissed and pushed his body toward her hand, as if seeking her pain-filled touch.
They lust for each other, for different reasons, but the feeling is undeniable.
Human emotions are amazing. I guess as writers it's up to us to draw the picture clearly and show the readers the love and lust of those we write about.
I'd love to hear what you all think about our topic this week. Love and Lust, such strong emotions with such wide variations of meaning.
A topic that had me thinking. There's a variety of the forms of love. You love your parents, you love your dog or cat, you love apples or asparagus, you love the town you live in, your country--yet each is different--feels different, means something different to you. They're love though, or I believe they are.
As an author, I've written dozens, if not hundreds of stories about love and what it means to the people who inhabit my books. Readers and publishers expect, and rightfully so, a story to go along with any lust these characters might feel for each other. You know, how they met, where they went, what they look like and why they were attracted to each other. Each of them has a different background and are looking for different things out of life. Some simply want to get free of the rat race, find a small corner of the world and someone to share it with. They want to 'fall in love' with the right person. That right person will be someone who compliments their kinks, foibles and attitude. A dominant man would perhaps be looking for a submissive woman:
From Selene's Awakening (Coming soon to Total E-Bound):
Holding her by one arm, he helped her to stand in front of him, facing him. The robe she had on hung open, her curves inches away. It was as if, suddenly, the angry, frustrated, spoiled bitch had vanished. She’d come to terms with her desires and with him and wanted to explore. Would she stay with him? Would she care for him?
He looked up into her eyes and smiled. “You’re gorgeous.”
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured in that sultry, sexy, voice he was growing to love. He wanted to hear more of it, and much more often.
“Slide the robe off, please.” He reached down and wound his fingers around the erection jutting from his groin.
Selene shrugged and his robe slipped off her shoulders, falling to the floor around her feet.
“Kneel in front of me, please,” David said in a soft, yet stern voice.
For an instant she stood looking down at him, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. She didn’t drop to her knees, but said, “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I want you. I…I.” She lowered her eyes. “I want you to control me.”
“I know, my sweet lady. I sensed it in you very soon after you awoke.”
Or, perhaps the decades old vampire seeking someone who would be more permanent than the fleeting morsels they fed on--someone who knew and understood the torment of being undead:
From Night Games (Coming soon to Total E-Bound):
“True.” Johan slipped his fingers around the swelling length of flesh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can though. Save this for me.”
Chuckling, Petre placed his hand over top of Johan’s and moved it up and down the shaft of his cock. “It’s yours. Always yours.”
Johan looked deeply into his lover’s eyes, and felt the bond they shared deepen. Lifeless, they cared more for each other than either had ever done when they were human.
Johan winked and pulled his hand free. “I wonder if we shouldn’t get some clothes on before we wake her?”
Glancing down at himself then back up, Petre smiled. “Yeah, we don’t want to look more like rapists than rescuers.”
“No shit. For all she knows, she’s gone from one bunch of hoods to another. Follow me.” Johan turned and headed for the bedroom, and the closet full of clothes. Opening the doors wide, he took two robes from the hooks, one black velvet, the other dark blue silk, and held them up. “Which one?”
Petre took the silk robe and slipped it on. Johan slid into the other, belting it at the waist. Pushing his feet into a pair of slip-ons, he turned and headed back to where the woman lay stretched out on the sofa. On the way, he reached down and grabbed a throw from the foot of the bed.
Yet, I can't ignore the feeling that lust has it's place and I'm drawn to exploring it in a variety of ways. You can lust after your wife/husband, you can feel lust for the woman or man you see in the street. There's no pleasantry, just the animal want.
There's also the lust for power, or revenge. The darker side of lust is as strong and compelling as the softer, more accepted side. Think of all the hookers, both male and female, who lust after the wealth and standings of those who buy their services. The buyer may lust, but what of the bought? Think of those poor souls who have nothing else but their lust to live, or their lust for revenge.
From Roses Have Thorns:
The room grew dim around them, as if the light couldn't permeate the dark misery transpiring. Clifford raised his head and watched her rifle through the assortment of leather and shiny metal lined up on the table. One hand searched, while the other wandered down her body, following a trail of scars. When her hand reached the soft fur covering her sex, her legs spread as if of their own volition. Her finger found its mark. Her clitoris was warped and torn, but the nerve endings had somehow survived enough to give pleasure. A harsh rub and she rode the wave, but stopped before she crested.
Feeling the sweet nearness of her climax, she gazed lustily at her prey. A glance at what her other hand had found, and she smiled. "This one I think." She lifted her hand and showed him a leather contraption of straps and buckles.
He nodded, solemnly, and didn't say a word. She took hold of his testicles with her dew covered fingers and pulled them away from his groin. One strap wound around the neck of his sack, separating the two round balls from his body. Rose jerked the straps tight then fastened the buckle and petted the lewdly presented jewels. Another strap circled the base of his prick, and she took great pleasure in pulling that one particularly snug while buckling it. The last strip of leather didn't have a buckle, but did have a clip at its end.
"Fun begins now, Clifford," Rose purred as she pulled the last strap to the end of the table and clipped it to a metal ring welded in place.
When Clifford's groan started, it was barely audible, but by the time she'd fastened the scrotum strap, the sound had risen to rumbling growl. The skin stretched paper thin over his balls. The tiny blue veins contrasted sharply to the white skin. Rose ran a finger over them, her nail lightly scraping the tight flesh.
"Yes!" he hissed and pushed his body toward her hand, as if seeking her pain-filled touch.
They lust for each other, for different reasons, but the feeling is undeniable.
Human emotions are amazing. I guess as writers it's up to us to draw the picture clearly and show the readers the love and lust of those we write about.
I'd love to hear what you all think about our topic this week. Love and Lust, such strong emotions with such wide variations of meaning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)