Take me away – to the Snowy Mountains

By Desiree Holt

People dream about places they want to go, places they want to see. Things they’d like to do. Experiences they want to have. For my books I have daydreamed and researched myself into the jungles of Peru and Mexico, Caribbean islands, the countries of Europe and the Middle East. I have imagined myself in the strong arms of my heroes being rescued…or as in the case of Jungle Inferno, doing the rescuing.

Hold on, Mark. We’re here. We’re here.

As the man in grey slacks approached the helicopter at a dead run, Faith heard the whistling sound of what she later learned was a rocket propelled grenade and the ’copter exploded in a bright fireball. The man in grey fell back, pushed to the ground by the force of the explosion.

“Oh my God,” Faith screamed, forgetting the order for silence in the shock of the explosion.

“La senora!”

She heard the voice from below her and looked down to see a man raising his rifle toward her. She reacted automatically, barely taking time to think, all those hours on the range paying off. Before the man could fire she aimed the Glock at him and emptied the clip into him. He fell back, his face and chest covered in blood, his finger tightening on the trigger one last time in death, the rifle spraying bullets into the air.

Her heart was racing so fast she was sure it would explode any minute.

Think of him as a paper target. Don’t think of him as a person.

But she suddenly remembered her promise—I’ll get you out even if I have to kill someone. She hadn’t expected it to come to that but she realized with a shock that she’d do it again if need be.

But as much as I like the soothing blanket of heat and the lure of exotic places, I have always wanted to see the Snow Mountains in Australia. Why, you might ask? Because years ago I saw a movie, The Man From Snowy River, and I fell in love.

With the story, the scenery, the people. I wanted to ride a horse down the mountainside the way Tom Burleson did, cracking that long whip of his. I wanted to campy in the snow of the mountains, boiling the pure crystals for water and watching the sun cast its blinding light on it.

When I wrote about Reece Halliday in Crack the Whip, it was Tom Burleson I saw, naked in the snow on the mountains, the very essence of masculinity.

Crack!

The sound echoed in the room. India jerked even though he hadn’t touched her yet, simply cracked the whip in the air. But the sound was arousing to her. And to him.

Crack!

This time he applied it to her flesh and the tail left a satisfyingly red stripe on India’s ass. One of those delicious little sounds he loved rolled from her throat, diffused by the fake cock in her mouth.

And as I wrote this scene I could just imagine my naked hero, standing in the snow rather than in a heated room, naked beneath the sun. The fabled horses of the mountains thundering around him.

I play the theme from the movie very often when I’m writing because that image inspires me.  Check it out on iTunes. I bet it will inspire you.

It's all a dream...or is it?

Ghost of a Chance

By Jude Mason
ISBN: 978-1-906811-06-8
Contains: m/m, paranormal
Publisher: Total E-Bound
Publisher URL: http://www.total-e-bound.com/

When a ghost appears in his dreams and gives Robert Haskins the blow job of his life, it also drops him into a forty-year-old mystery that he's determined to solve.

Opening scene

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?”
---

Okay, this may not be exactly what Lisabet meant when she came up with this weeks topic, but this opening came to mind right away.

Do I remember my dreams? Do they play a part in my work?

I have a notepad and pen beside my bed at all times. I don't remember many of my dreams but I can't even begin to count how many times I've woken up with a book completely formed in my thoughts. Not just a little flash of an idea, but the entire thing laid out and ready to go. I rarely manage to get it all down before it fades away. My first book was one of those dreams.

Mostly though, I'll answer questions or fix mistakes I'm making with characters in my sleep. What I mean is, a character, like any person, have things about them that are a given. If I write something that simply wouldn't fit the character, I've dreamed about it, them complaining, telling me I'm full of it for having them do whatever. I've been woken in the middle of the night to go fix these things.

Ya know, it's not just sleep type dreams that bring stories. Daydreaming is almost as productive. Possibly even more so because I don't have to spend time trying to wake up enough to find the damn pen. LOL I can be sitting looking out the window, mind wandering, and an idea, or a complete story will happen.

So, yup, dreams really do become part of my writing. Not always, because I've had some spooky dreams, but enough so I do keep that notepad handy.

What do you think about his topic? Do you remember your dreams well enough to write them down, or somehow use them?