#ComingSoon to #Audible!
It’s something that’s particularly important to me as a writer, reader, editor, and narrator. When I received Terrance Aldon Shaw‘s submission, Making Hay, I was quickly enthralled by his seemingly effortless use of dialogue and wanted his story to be a part of the, For The Men And The Women Who Love Them project. In addition to his rich scenery, and of course, Making Hay’s splendid plot, Terrance’s characters felt…real. They stood before me as living beings because they conversed. The natural, realistic aspect of dialogue is what makes, Making Hay feel truly genuine to me. There is no clunkiness, nothing is muddy, there aren’t any unnecessary utterances of breath, anywhere. I can’t tell you how exhilarating it is to witness dialogue that enriches a story. I believe that Terrance’s advice; LISTEN, really ought to be listened to. Dialogue isn’t easy, I know. But, we can all get better at writing it. If we spent a little less time worrying about silly periphery things, and instead, considered what our characters wanted/needed to say, our dialogue skills would automatically become better. Lately, I’ve noticed that too much dialogue is sadly being forced. It comes off as nonsensical, juvenile (yikes!), even uncharacteristic of the character. To be honest, shit shouldn’t be what’s coming out of our character’s mouths. If we honestly want to tell a good story–if we genuinely want our story to impact readers, we’ve got to be mindful of our characters and let them speak, thoughtfully. I commend Author Terrance Aldon Shaw for his lovely, heedful writing hand.
by Terrance Aldon Shaw
I love writing dialogue; it’s my favorite part of storytelling. Because I hear dialogue in my head the way composers hear music in their imaginations, conversation has always been one of the easiest paths into the world of story for me. But that doesn’t mean dialogue is always the easiest thing to write: often, the most natural-sounding dialogue is the end-product of a long, intense process of revising, editing, polishing, refining, and, most of all, listening.
If I were to offer a set of guidelines for writing good dialogue, the first four would be: (1) Listen. (2) Listen. (3) Listen. (4) Listen.
First: Listen for, and learn to appreciate the music of speech, its melodies and its rhythms, those tiny, almost imperceptible variations of inflection, pitch, tempo. You can always tell when somebody has a tin ear for dialogue; it falls flat, stilted, lifeless, artificial, like a robot singing a single note perpetually off-key. Good, pitch-perfect dialogue has a vibrancy about it—a sense of style, euphony, and flow.
Second: Listen not only to what’s being said, but, more importantly, to how it’s being said. It’s no longer fashionable simply to tack an adverb onto a dialogue attribution “he said sarcastically”; a writer needs to convey mood and emotion in the dialogue itself: “Oh really?” he said, “I never would’ve guessed.” (I’m not against the occasional adverb if context calls for it.) In the end, dialogue isn’t about dumping freight-loads of plot information in the reader’s lap; it’s about gradually, subtly revealing unique individual characters.
Third: Listen for things that are out of the ordinary, the idiosyncrasies and quirks of conversation: the way people sometimes talk past each other, the way they interrupt or overrun each other’s words. The way they’re not always talking about the same things at the same time. The way they never tell you everything all at once—the way they often never speak in complete sentences. Listen, especially, to the significant silences between words—the pauses: it’s this space between the characters’ words where deeper meanings often emerge.
by Terrance Aldon Shaw
Her brothers called me Blindy because of the patch over where my left eye used to be. Little berserkers were always pestering me, following me around the farm like month-old puppies chasing their own tails, watching without lending a hand, leaning on the fence-rail as I cleaned out the hog pens or tinkered with one piece of machinery or another.
“Blindy’s sweet on Gunni!” The oldest made kissing noises, and the other two joined in on the chorus, trying to get a rise out of me.
“Your sister’s one mighty fine filly,” I allowed. “Don’t know how she ended up being related to you homely little mouth-breathers.”
“Told ya he was sweet on ‘er!”
“Yeah! When’s the weddin’ gonna be, Blindy?”
“Who needs a wedding?” I pitched a shovelful of muck in their direction just to keep them on their toes. “Besides, a good little worker like Gunni could do herself a lot better’n some old one-eyed rambler.”
“So how’d you lose that eye anyway?” the youngest brother piped up.
“What else?” I said. “Got into a fight over a woman.”
“Bull! That’s not what you told us last time!”
“Oh? And what did I tell you?”
“Said a crow come and ate it right out o’ your head—”
“‘Nother time you told us you lost it in a dice game—”
“Other fellow cheated,” I said, half under my breath.
“—time ‘fore that you said it got shot out in the war—”
“Naw! I swear fellas, this time, I’m tellin’ ya true. It was in a knock-down drag-out over the finest pair o’ jugs anybody ever saw.” Except maybe for your sister’s, I thought.
“Oh boy! For real, Blindy?”
“Would I go pullin’ your legs now, fellas?”
“Were they nice big ‘uns?”
“Sure were! Like this—” I moved my hands apart to show them. “Good two or three mouthfuls apiece, all sweet and firm like juicy apples in the fall.”
“Ho boy!” They imagined it the way young whelps always will. I was doing some imagining of my own.
“So, d’you win the fight, Blindy?” the middle one wanted to know. “D’you get the girl?”
“Yeah,” the eldest wondered, “you get to suck on them tits?”
“What do you think?” I laughed at their foolishness as I turned back to my work.
“Was it worth it?” the youngest one asked.
“Oh ja.” I was serious for a moment. “One good eye’s a small price to pay for knowin’ better. Talkin’ ‘bout that, ain’t you monkeys got chores to finish?”
* * *
Gunni’s pa had a still hidden in the middle of the ash grove out back behind the house. “Sure would like me a taste,” I’d tease her when we were working together, detasseling corn, milking the cows, or putting up bales in the haymow.
“I ain’t supposed to talk about that.” Gunni’d blush, and I’d give her a wink with my one good eye—like maybe I wasn’t just talking about the moonshine. It got to be a friendly sort of joke between the two of us—our own little secret on top of the one she was keeping for the old man.
Every day about noon, Gunni would walk down the lane past my shack to the mailbox beside the road. She’d bring me my mail on her way back to the house. A few auction fliers, a parts catalog or two, some magazines in plain brown wrappers—I could tell she was curious about those.
“F. Jon Geldnir—that your name?” she’d asked me that first time.
“People in these parts can’t say my real name right,” I told her. “Fjölnir’s a tad much to get the tongue around. Just thought I’d make it easy on folks.”
“Where you from—I mean, originally—Jon?”
“Long ways away from here, honey, that’s for sure.”
“Where? Like Chicago? Where the music comes from at night?”
“Ever been there?”
“Oh, gods, no!” Gunni got a faraway look in her lovely blue eyes—dreamy and sad all at the same time. “Hardly ever been off the farm. Even then, never much further than the county seat.”
“You ought to venture out and see the world,” I told her. “The world would surely appreciate the sight of your pretty little seat.”
“Now you’re bein’ silly, F. Jon Geldnir.” She pretended to be outraged as if I’d sullied her virtue or called the family honor into question. But that day and from then on, Gunni always gave me a nod and a sly hint of a smile from over her shoulder as she started back up the lane.
I never got tired of watching her walk away. I may only have one good eye, but I know what I like. And Gunni had it all, like a beautiful Viking princess in one of the old stories. She was well-formed, tall and graceful, not fat by any stretch of the imagination, nor what most would consider lean or skinny, but just enough of something in-between to make the mouth water. From the fetchingly decisive set of her jaw to those strong, gorgeously arcing shoulders and everything below, all the way to the prettiest, most pertly-girlish pair of feet I’d ever laid that one good eye upon.
I’d admired her strength right from the beginning, her subtly muscled limbs grown taut and capable from years of good hard work. She could’ve arm wrestled any city boy twice her size and taken him—easy. But I liked her soft, girly side, too, the way she always went bare-legged on the hottest days, her fine long gams, tanned every inch of the way before disappearing into a pair of short cut-off jeans, shamelessly revealing the shape of that roundly scrumptious rump.
And her hair! Such a sight to behold, falling down her back in a long braid like a golden windrow. At night I’d dream of how it would look if she ever let it loose, spreading out all fine and free. Oh! The visions I had of plunging my cock into that sweet maelstrom, wrapping those soft strands around my girth like dripping honey on a stick.
I’d wanted the farmer’s daughter from the moment I saw her, furtively taking her in from head to toe as I nodded in greeting. Since then, the thought of her had kept me awake on many a night. The vision of her naked body all spread out beneath me, jiggling, bouncing, and squirming in time to my amorous tune. Her coos and sighs and whimpers, and all the other sounds of rising delight before the full-throated howls and hollers of release. I like a mortal woman who’s not afraid to make some noise—if only to praise my name ever so often. Even a god needs a bit of encouragement from time to time.
#ComingSoon to #Audible!
Today, the one and only, Tamsin Flowers visits to share a little Writerly Wisdom for those who want to know, and of course we’ve got a very Sexy Snippet too!
Tamsin Flowers is what you would call a proficient writer. She’s able to put her characters into seemingly any environment. Tamsin has contributed to many of our anthologies, including these titles; The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 Vol.1, Libidinous Zombie, Tonight She’s Yours, and most recently, For The Men.
She’s also written a dreamy, erotic Cephalopod tale just for Lurid Listeners of The Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast, she’s even shared her thrilling, Red Hot Zombie Cock on the show as well. Rose Caraway interviewed the lovely Tamsin, over at The Sexy Librarian’s Blog-cast. It is with great pride that we present yet another finely written, erotic tale by Tamsin Flowers. But, first, here is a bit of Writerly Wisdom…
“Get A Lay Of The Land”
by Tamsin Flowers
“Cally Carson, you really don’t know, do you?” he said, as he finally got me naked.
“What?” I whimpered, hardly coherent.
“What you do to men, Cally. What you do to me.”
“Untie me, Ray.”
Ray pulled me up into a sitting position and did as I asked. It was my turn to rip open the press studs on his shirt. He shrugged it off and between us we got rid of his boots and pants. I laughed—even his shorts were black. But my laughter died in my throat as my hands reached out to touch his chest. His skin was warm and tanned, and amid the sprinkling of black, there were one or two gray hairs. Ray Jackson was a man with experience. However, his muscles were as hard and lean as those of a younger man. On one side of his rib cage, I traced a faded white scar with my finger.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A present from the first calf I roped,” he said. “But no other calf since ever managed to get a hoof on me. I learned a lot from that critter.”
His weight drove me back against the straw, and his mouth ground down on mine. Fireworks went off deep inside, and a charge buzzed between my legs. I groaned as his fingers pinched and twisted my nipples. His cock rest against my thigh and I reached down and took hold of it. It bucked in my hand, and I tightened my grasp on it. It was hot and hard, and I needed to get it inside me.
“You got a jacket for this thing?” I whispered in his ear.
“Sure,” he said.
He leaned away from me and reached for his jeans, pulling a small rectangular package from one of the pockets. He ripped it open, and I raised my head to get a better view. Yes, of course, it had to be—the condom he rolled down his beautiful cock was black. I reached out and finished the job for him and a second later I pulled him down onto me and guided him inside.
“Oh, Cally,” he sighed with the first thrust.
I echoed him with a short, sharp gasp and hitched my legs up around his waist. He was big, and as he pushed down into me, I could feel myself stretching to accommodate him. It was a pain that hurt so good. My hips pushed up against his. I wanted him to go further, deeper inside me than any man had been before. I let myself open up for him and, with my arms and my legs, I clung to him as he drove me hard against the straw-covered floor.
It was fast and rough with Ray Jackson. The way I liked it. He took his pleasure and came with a loud yell but, as he did, he thrust a hand down between us and worked my clit until he carried me over the brink as well. He pushed in hard as he climaxed and my muscles clenched around him. My orgasm came in like a wildfire, wave after wave of heat flashing through me.
We were sweaty and the straw stuck to us, and when he pulled off the condom, it stuck even more. I had scratches on my back, and Ray’s knees were grazed, but he kissed me again and plunged me straight back into the zone. My breath grew short, so he sat back against the wooden wall of the stable and swung me across his lap. He used one arm to hold me against his chest and with his other hand, pushed my legs apart.
“Look at you, beautiful,” he whispered.
I closed my eyes, and he laughed. Gently, and slowly at first, he stroked my inner thighs and the rise of flesh below my belly. His fingers traced a path down one side of my labia and up the other; he teased me until I was panting for him. My hips pushed down against his naked lap and I nuzzled at his neck with my mouth. And as he explored me with eager fingers, I was rewarded with the feel of his cock getting hard again underneath me.
“Will you let me take you out riding and make love to you in the forest?”
“Will you let me eat your pussy in the back of my truck?”
“Will you let me tie you up again, Cally?”
“Will you let me tame you, wildcat?”
“No. Never that, Ray.”
He laughed again.
Nothing feels so good as the first push of a cock forging into you. I arched back against him, and he dropped his head down to suck one of my breasts into his mouth. He bit me hard, and it made me come, and this time it lasted longer. The spasm of my muscles around him returned the favor and his hips bucked beneath me as he climaxed, withdrawing at the last moment because this time, he didn’t have a condom on.
We were both spent. We sat together in the warm, dark stable for I don’t know how long, listening to the horses fidget as they flicked their tails at imaginary flies and blew raspberries at one another. And after a time, Ray helped me get dressed and took me back to my motel. Up in my room, he drew me a bath and washed away the straw and the muck from the stable, and the sweat from a hard day’s riding and a hard night’s fucking. He kissed me and tucked me into my bed and then vanished into the darkness. The next afternoon, I went to the arena and watched him being crowned champion calf roper for another year.
So, sure, I picked up a bad case of rope burn at Fort Madison last September. But I know someone who got it just as bad as me. And his name is Ray Jackson.
It is SO great to be back!! It has been a while, but, The Sexy Librarian Blog-cast returns with Rose Caraway interviewing author, Dr. David Ley. They discuss, cuckolding, sex today, the power of fantasy & communication.
Dr. David Ley is a clinical psychologist. He’s earned his Bachelor’s degree in Philosophy, and his Master’s and Doctoral degrees in clinical psychology from the University of New Mexico. He is the Executive Director of New Mexico Solutions–an outpatient mental health and substance abuse program in Albuquerque, NM.
That distance within second-person narratives allows the story to shift responsibility. When Rob tells his story this way, he isn’t doing these things; you are. Not just you specifically as the reader, but also in English’s funny way of creating a general, almost universal you. The tale then hovers in this odd, discomforting space where this deeply personal story becomes all of ours. A strange collective experience of this one man’s moment in time.
Even more than first-person, this 2nd person POV thrusts you, as the reader, into that character’s experiences by changing the game from the normal declarative, this-happens-then-this-
Which, I think—I hope—makes the story’s resolution that much more rewarding because you—we—will have gone through something that, if not scares–challenges us.
Hello, and Welcome to the Stupid Fish Productions official website and our very first newsletter! We’ve got new publications, incredible giveaways, and exciting interviews to announce.
First up, our latest Erotica anthology titled, FOR THE MEN AND THE WOMEN WHO LOVE THEM is now available in e-book format and soon to be release in the audiobook format as well. You can purchase your copy of For The Men at; Amazon, iTunes, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble. Also, the For The Men blog tour is in full swing! We’ve already highlighted authors; Allen Dusk, Jade A. Waters, Landon Dixon and Adrea Kore, so head over to our Blog to get their featured #SexySnippets and #WriterlyWisdoms.
Stupid Fish Productions has a new Call For Submissions posted! Editor Rose Caraway is ready to put together another steamy library of Erotica in; The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 Vol.2! If you are interested in submitting a short story for this call, check out the guidelines for more details. Submission deadline is February 28th, 2016.
Over at The Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast, Editor Rachel Kramer Bussel and Narrator Rose Caraway are kicking off their latest audiobook release; Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica with special KMQ episodes and super hot giveaways! Contributing authors, Malin James and Jillian Boyd have their titles; The Prototype and Dare You To up over at the KMQ just for your aural pleasure. The Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica audiobook is available right now in Audible and iTunes! If you would like to enter the Come Again giveaway to win either an autographed copy of the book or a copy of the audiobook, just email Rose Caraway at: thekissmequicks (at) gmail (dot) com. Deadline to enter the giveaway is October 24th.
Editor, podcaster, and Anais Nin expert, Paul Herron of Sky Blue Press invited an entire panel of guests including; Lana Fox of Go Deeper Press, women’s sexuality expert Anain Bjorkquist, Nin scholar Jessica Gilbey, and Rose Caraway to join him in a discussion about the latest publication of two of Anais Nin’s lost works; Life In Provincetown and Marcel. These two books are now officially published in one incredible book; Auletris. Paul Herron is literally the Indiana Jones of all things Anais Nin. When he also discovered a certain postcard, the cover of Auletris was decided. There is only one Matron of Erotica and that is, Anais Nin. Auletris is now available in print for all Anais Nin fans. To listen to Rose Caraway narrate a passage from the book Marcel and to hear the panel discussion on the Anais Nin Podcast, click here: Lost Anais Nin Erotica.
For The Men’s contributing author, Erin Pim invited Rose Caraway as a featured guest over at her The Bed Post Podcast! You can catch that interview in iTunes or click here: The Bed Post Podcast.
As this 2016 year comes to it’s wintery end, Rose Caraway will be in her sexy studio narrating full-steamy-ahead. She certainly will have no trouble keeping warm this holiday season. Here are the audiobooks that Rose is working on right now. By Allen Dusk, Rachel Kramer Bussel & Cleis Press…
Today’s #WriterlyWisdom features lovely contributing author, Adrea Kore. She’s here to elaborate on her inspiration and erotic intent behind her story, Dance For Me as featured in For The Men And The Women Who Love Them. AND following that, we’ve also got one steamy, #SexySnippet! Enjoy!
“Exploration, Inspiration & Intent”
with Adrea Kore
In Dance for Me, I’m exploring the “dance” between two intimately linked states – the desire to be seen and displayed as a sexually desirable being, and the desire to see, be seduced and be the recipient of that performance. I sometimes begin writing with a particular idea or premise in mind and continue writing to more deeply discover the layers and intricacies of the idea. What if? This makes me sound plot-driven, but often the idea is located in a character’s sexual or emotional psychology.
The words “exhibitionism” and “voyeurism” are thrown about – but they actually describe pathological conditions. Yet these desires – to watch, or be watched – exist on a spectrum in the sexual psyche naturally for almost everyone. And can be explored as both metaphor and a narrative of experiencing desire and desirability.
The trope of humiliation holds very little charge for me – it doesn’t arouse me sexually, and also I see it over-used and depicted in clichéd ways in erotic fiction exploring BDSM. However, I realise I do sometimes sexually humiliate my male characters. (Is that the Femme-dom in me showing itself?)
My stories aren’t always based on my own experiences – but this one is. I have a background in theatre, but have also studied and performed as a dancer, and have revelled in dancing – from clubs to outdoor raves to Burlesque classes – all my life. The first half of this story re-visits my second night out at a kink club. I was provocatively dressed for my date, and ended up in a cage, dancing for the pleasure of the man I was with, who identified as a Dom. I don’t particularly identify as a sub, but I enjoyed dancing for him immensely, with the internal fantasy that I absolutely had to wow him, or he wouldn’t release me. It certainly upped the stakes for my “performance”.
What I also like to uncover in my writing is what makes a sexual dynamic unique; in this story the submissive feels moments of enormous power, just as the Dom feels vulnerability.
“I’m in the cage, but he’s the one ensnared.”
The sexual charge for the female character comes not only from being exposed, but in a way that “plugs in” to her own long-held fantasies. This Dom has taken the time to know her – to know she loves to dance. The eroticism for her, comes from being both exposed and framed (by the ornate cage, and later by her Dom’s body) as a highly desirable woman; even an object of desire. For him, and for the admiration of strangers. Her Dom expands her limits around what she believes she’d feel comfortable doing publicly in terms of sexual display. She has moments of shyness, but her Dom enables her confidence and her pleasure.
For him, the charge comes from orchestrating and then receiving her dance as a gift, and a seduction.
I’ve always been interested in the inherent theatricality in sex. To truly see or be seen in a heightened moment – don’t we all desire this?
“Dance For Me”
by Adrea Kore
So this is what he meant by a challenge of submission.
I’m standing in this cage. In the center of a fetish club dance floor. In a leopard-skin corselet. It could look like I planned this, but I didn’t. It’s my first time here, my first play session with this dark-suited Dom, after several intense online interactions. The decisive click of his handcuffs securing the cage door. Ensnaring me in his scene of submission. Arms folded, smiling at my indignation.
“Dance for me.”
I look around at the club full of diversely dressed and undressed people. Bodies poured into and spilling out of latex, leather and fishnets. Unexpected revelations of flesh, piercings and tattoos. Some have stopped their conversations or caresses or are looking over their drinks, surveying my predicament with interest.
“Please me, and I shall ensure your…release…in more ways than one.”
Cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, I try to focus on the music, washing over me in waves. Try to focus on his beguiling promise of release. The effect this has on my body. This slow burn, beginning already in my clitoris.
“Disappoint me, and I might make you spend the evening in there.” He kisses my hand, wound around the elegantly-crafted iron bars, and closer to me, whispers, “But I doubt you’ll disappoint.” He steps back, swirls his scotch, withdraws to a velvet couch at the dance floor’s edge. Best seat in the house, I think.
I feel too exposed, like a naked mannequin in a shop window. But my hips are swaying in spite of myself. Vulnerability and arousal pair in a double trapeze act, somersaulting through my stomach. Eyes closed, I begin to breathe in the seductive trance-like music, weaving my body into the melody. Flashes of memory and fantasy flicker through my mind.
Aged nineteen. My fantasy of being a striptease dancer at a men’s club. At twenty-four. Memories of dancing on a podium at a nightclub, feisty-hipped and pouty-lipped. Twenty-eight. Burlesque dance classes, learning the art of tease. And as the lights strobe through my eyelids, flash-images of the numerous men I had smoothly seduced from dance-floor to bedroom—via a lewdly-named cocktail or four. To create some cock tales of my own…
I can do this.
So I commit to my role. This cage is my stage. This leopard-skin corselet hugging every curve of me, my costume. Like a courtesan from another era, I must dance for the pleasure of my Dom. Dance for his pleasure and his favour.
Eyes on him, I move my hands down the sides of my body, watching him take in my long legs in dark stockings, garters accentuating my thighs. I realize he’s never seen me this exposed. The music courses through me as I widen my legs in a defiant stance, then writhe down into a feline crouch, feeling his eyes on my breasts, cupped firmly by the corselet. I prowl back up the bars, holding his eyes with mine, and cat-hiss at him, scarlet-nailed, clawing through the bars. Then I do it again.
No longer reclining back on the couch, he’s leaning forward. Glass empty, he’s drinking me in.
Just breathe in the music.
Yellow glow of the spotlight turns my skin into warm pelt. I’m a restless cat in a cage. Tossing my mane of tawny hair, the sensual layers of rhythms are fusing with my limbs, my hips. My dance becomes part of the music. Sure now of my movements, I throw myself lightly from side to side of the cage, writhing down and up, sometimes facing my Dom, mock-imploring him for my release. Sometimes I show him my back, the curves of my ass emphasized by black garters; teasing him with a coquettish glance over one shoulder. At one point, I suspend myself from above, using one hand to take most of my weight, weaving my torso to and fro with languorous, feline movements. I use the cage bars to propel me, turning on one leg in tight circles, freezing at certain moments like an animal caught in headlights, then whirling in the opposite direction. A man in a black leather vest eyes me hungrily over his drink.
I turn my attention to my Dom again. He’s mesmerized as I hook a high heel up to the bar, exposing black satin panties, the soft underside of my thigh. I start to rotate my hips, imagining I’m reeling him in with the desire emanating from my sex.
I’m in the cage, but he’s the one ensnared.
Tilting my head and hair back, I let the bars take my body weight, as I arch into a deep backbend. Swaying there, I imagine my Dom has me around my waist, pulling my hips to his, running his hands over my breasts. A delicious heat ebbs through my cunt, and I can almost feel the solidity of his erection against me. As I pull myself up again, he is suddenly there, in front of me. Breath quickening, I reach my hands through to touch him, stroking down his chest. His face draws nearer, and we are kissing through the bars of the cage, his tongue attempting to delve deeper into my mouth. I pull away subtly, pretending it’s the steel bars that hinder him from getting closer.
“Something getting in the way of what you want, Sir?”
The amount of writerly talent out there is immeasurable. With an endless sea of writers, each bringing with them their own individual styles and personalities, I was particularly struck by Landon Dixon’s…unusual language. His contributing tale, Breasted made me laugh until my face cracked. (I may have even cackled.) Today, I want to highlight Landon Dixon’s ability to make me laugh, snort, and smile ridiculously big as he clearly revels in disrupting the literary norm with his use of elaborate, artistic, knee-slapping erotic prose. I hope you enjoy today’s #SexySnippet, and this dab of #WriterlyWisdom by Landon Dixon.
“Make A List”
by Landon Dixon
This is how I always write, and talk, and act.
Just kidding. Breasted was originally written for a magazine that specialized in women’s large breasts; but, unfortunately, they’d stopped using fiction by the time I sent in the story. Since I’d sold other stories to this magazine, and other bra-busters like it, I’d, yes, actually compiled a three-page list of synonyms for breasts, about 100 or more in total; everything from ‘lung warts’ to ‘laden saddlebags’. The style of story-telling reflects my love of pulp magazines and paperback hardboiled crime fiction, as well, and the prose used therein. Frankly, I enjoy writing in this style, with a tongue-in-cheek (and between bazongas) humorous slant, and find it very easy to do so.
by Landon Dixon
I clutched Samantha’s huge, creamy-white tits. Squeezed them. Kneaded them. Sucked on the rigidly pointing pink nipples—filled my hands and my face. The babe was stretched flat on her back, on the bed—me on top of her, all over her tits. I’ve got a raging penchant for stacked broads, and this one was double-decker material.
“Fuck me, Jake!” she pleaded, writhing her blonde head around on the pillow. “Please, stick your cock inside me and fuck me!”
We were both naked, my molten rod branding her sodden pussy fur. “Not yet, baby!” I gritted. “Not ‘til I’ve worked over your luscious boobs to my heart’s content.”
I’ve been a breast man since my days back in the orphanage with the volunteer wet nurses, and Samantha had two of the biggest, boldest, firmest jugs I’d ever laid eyes or hands or lips on.
I slammed Samantha’s knockers together so that her chest and the bed shook. Then I splayed my tongue across both of her rubbery jutters at once, clenching the meat and teasing the tips.
She moaned, squirmed. Her giant breasts were sensitive as I dug my fingernails into the thick, hot masses and sucked on the pressurized caps—mouthing one nipple and tugging the other. They tasted just as delicious as they looked, I realized then that the woman’s pink pebbled areolas spanned as wide as my four fingers.
Her eyelids fluttered and her mouth gaped open. “Please, Jake! Fuck my pussy!”
My dick was more than willing and able. But it needed a little more greasing than the grinding her moist, matted pussy fur was providing. I jumped up onto my knees, straddled her heaving, heaped chest and sat down on her wet, handled tits. I rode high, soft and hot, teetering as she sucked air into her overdeveloped lungs in large gasps. Then I tilted downwards and stuck my cock into her mouth.
Samantha’s squirming red lips sealed tight around my swollen veined shaft quickly, and she started sucking. She eagerly bobbed her beautiful head forward, gobbling up more of my prong. I was stretched out and pointed downward, throbbing to my full length, and she fully consumed me with an appetite as big as her jugs.
I reveled in the wanton wet heat of her mouth and throat for a while, staring down at her bulged cheeks and flared nostrils, the wild look in her eyes. Then I pulled out. “Easy, baby,” I said, dripping into her canyonesque cleavage. “Give me a chance to get a good seat on your knockers.”
Angry impatience, rapacious hunger filled her glaring blue eyes. As I adjusted my bare butt on her more than ample chest cushions, wholly enjoying the velvety feel of the rounded smooth jug skins against my bristled buttocks, her over-engorged nipples tickled against my big, hairy, hanging balls. I found the sweet prop spot, settled in, riding high on her hooters, cock pronging skyward.
“Back in the saddle,” I sang. Then angled my thick rope of dick downward again, reentering the plush, heated confines of the babe’s mouth.
She instantly sucked, ravenously, wet-vaccing my dong like she’d bite it off if I dared try to jerk it out of her mouth again. I thrust my hips back and forth, helping her take me still deeper, along her wet, budded tongue and down past her fat tonsils. I grabbed onto her hair to steady myself, riding her tits at a trot, canting cock down her throat, using her silky blonde strands as a bridle.
She urgently sucked forward and back, shoved her mountainous mambas together so that I shot up still higher, her ultra-stiff nipples pressing into either side of my sack. I bucked, yelped, flung my head back, riding roughshod.
The woman’s maw was wet wanton heaven, her tongue a smooth sliding snake. My nipple-teased balls boiled with tension.
#ComingSoon to #Audible!
Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel
Narrated by Rose Caraway
We are celebrating the release of our latest audiobook!
Rachel Kramer Bussel’s, “Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica“. There’s a new episode up on the podcast. Malin James returns to the KMQ with her contributing story, “The Prototype”.
Come Again #Giveaway
If you want to enter the drawing to win either a copy of the “Come Again” anthology, autographed by editor Rachel Kramer Bussel, or the audiobook, narrated by me, just email me at: thekissmequicks (at) gmail (dot) com. Type ‘Come Again Giveaway‘ in the subject line, and let us know which you’d like to win! *This giveaway ends October 24th.
One of my favorite parts in curating anthologies is offering up a few #SexySnippets so that readers can get a sense of what to expect from a book. This time around, I’d also like to share a few #WriterlyWisdoms along the way. I find that getting extra sneak-peeks inside erotic author’s brains is like getting a little extra candy. And, perhaps, one could argue, that it fulfills my own voyeuristic side…
of Tension & Desire
by Jade A. Waters
I love palpable desire. I want to read it coming through the page at such extreme levels that I can picture moments I’ve had in real life where the desire was oh so insane it almost hurt, if that makes sense. That’s exactly what I want to bring out in my stories—when I imagine a character (or at least, when I put myself in the mind of a character), I try to wrap myself up in a similar mental cocoon of moments I’ve experienced that have felt that intense. I want my characters’ lust and/or lusty love to burn so brightly it’s virtually all-consuming. Of course, there will be a plot to whatever they’re working through, but I envision them having ached for this for so very long, that the joining of their two (or three, or whatever) bodies is the inherent need for everyone involved.
To be clear, it can’t just be that they’re out for any old sex, either. I don’t
care what people say; sex is not like pizza—not all sex is good. So, in my head, my characters are after the supreme, blow-your-mind-because-nothing-else-compares kind of sex. They are so in need of it that when they appear on the page, they’re caught up in that specific moment of connectivity because they instinctually know it will lead to phenomenal sex with one another. Sometimes, it’s because of the level of feelings between them; other times, it’s simply the heat of the moment/heat of the situation (like in “73A”). We as writers tend to work in conflict and consequence—the character is trapped in this overwhelming consequence, and if they don’t overcome it, there will be consequences. I guess in that simplistic way, I imagine it as “If the character doesn’t have this amazing sex, the character will die!” They can’t just have a bad day, or stub her toe, or be mopey over missing out on the imagined sex; it’s got to be life or death. I want my readers to be just as on edge in the matter, rooting for these characters to have their primal urges satisfied.
Finally, it doesn’t hurt that I often write situations that are either turn-on’s
for me, that have been past turn-ons for me, or that are tangents/revisits/twists/extensions of moments I’ve experienced in real life. This isn’t all the time, but it certainly helps. When it isn’t the case, I go the “method writing” route and pretend it is. Hopefully, in doing so, I’m able to layer the intensity I’m after over whatever is happening between my characters on the page.
by Jade A. Waters
You’re working on my fence right now, and all I can think about is sucking your cock. It’s a startling urge, seeing as how I’ve known you as long as you’ve been working on my patio fence—two days. Plus the last three hours you’ve been squatting and bending, rolling that brush over the slats as deliberately as I want you to spread your hands over my body—but once you turn and smile at me through the glass door, it’s settled.
I check out your buddies, confirming both of them are hard at work, huffing and grunting at the far end of the enclosure. You gave one of them grief yesterday for not making enough love to his wife. Your logic was sound, and exactly the reason I called in sick today.
Well, it’s only half the reason. The rest is that I’ve realized watching you and thinking all these aching thoughts has left a wet spot on my couch.
I get up to change, and you notice. You pause midway through your roller stroke, a coat of white over the top of the slat but a dejected shade of primer on the bottom. You peer through the glass like you’re probably not supposed to do while on the job, but I don’t mind. Your eyebrows weave together, curious, so I dip my shoulder and wave with only my fingers. Once out of view I strip off my clothes, swapping my bra for one with little coverage and extra lace, then I cover it with a half-buttoned blouse. My damp yoga pants are replaced with a short skirt, and I decide panties are useless before heading back to my seat on the couch.
The wet spot there is somehow exhilarating, and I add to it a pussy already drenched in longing for what you might do if I invite you in.
You’ve gotten distracted by the other two men in my absence, but I’m ready now. I slide my legs apart a few inches, providing you a clear view should you turn around and pay attention again. I lower my hand, caressing the short fuzz that covers my outer folds before circling my clit with my fingertips.
You laugh at your partners, then check on me. The smile you had when you turned falters—not in any sort of frown, but in a particular state of confusion. This makes me excited, and I nudge my legs farther apart so you can watch.
You’re caught; you look back at them to check if they can see this, but the boys are preoccupied. Immediately, your eyes are on me. I sink into the couch, guiding my fingers over the pool of wetness between my thighs. I’m breathing heavy already, exhaling ragged sighs that I want you to amplify with your touch, but you can’t hear me with the door closed. You can only watch as I flick my index finger over my clit a few times, ratcheting the quivering of my pussy up to a tremendous ache. With my other hand, I slip inside, fucking myself with one finger as I imagine what you’d feel like plunging into me.
You’ve frozen, roller in hand. The only movement you make is a coy and upward tilt of your lips, and a slight nod of your head. I’ve begun to moan, shoving my fingers deep to ease the rising pleasure within me. You use your other hand to adjust your canvas pants, and though I can’t tell what you’re hiding inside them, I know the thought of that secret pounding me, fucking me until I scream, is making the slickness between my legs difficult to keep under control.
They say people see stars when they come—I’m beyond them, comets, asteroids, and planets rushing through my vision and colliding in a black expanse of universe-shattering ecstasy. I jam my fingers as high as I can, my legs wide for you as I give my swollen clit a few more hard swipes and grit my teeth at the intensity pouring over me, drowning me in a gush of overwhelming lust. When it passes, it leaves a wake of hunger throughout my limbs.
I may be finished, but now I need you inside me.
#ComingSoon to #Audible!
The Sexy Librarian, Rose Caraway presents an anthology intended for the fellas and the women who have an appetite for bold, adventurous erotic storytelling. Escape into the fantastic, the outlandish, and the literary. Get ready for; a space pirate, a cowgirl, an anxious odd man out, an undercover agent, lonely ghosts, a taxi driver with an unexpected topsy-turvy fare, a burly biker who just wants to be cuddled, a bride-to-be with one last oat to sow, The Devil offering a golden deal, a mysterious hitchhiker, strangers and a spontaneous three-way, and a reluctant hitman. You will find these and many more audacious characters playing out intense encounters.
Featured stories by: Allen Dusk, Jade A. Waters, Terrance Aldon Shaw, Tamsin Flowers, Landon Dixon, Sonnie de Soto, Adrea Kore, D. Lovejoy, Erin Pim, J.T. Seate, Spencer Dryden, Winter Blair, Simon Drax, Lynn Lake, Chase Morgan, Charlie Powell, Josie Jordan, Daily Hollow, Marc Angel, Rachel de Vine, D.L. King, Dorothy Freed, Rachel Kramer Bussel, T.J. Christian, and Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Click on any of the links below and enjoy!
Barnes & Noble – September 30th!
Call for Submissions
Title: The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30, Vol. 2
Editor: Rose Caraway
Publisher: Stupid Fish Productions
Submission Deadline: February 28th, 2017
Payment: $50.00 ($US) and 1 copy of the book (90 days after publication)
Contract: Non-Exclusive Rights
*Please note that Publisher, (Stupid Fish Productions) has the final right of refusal on all submissions. No simultaneous submissions. Please do not submit a story that is being considered elsewhere.
Stupid Fish Productions is seeking to create another “Library” of stories that represent the best in highly-erotic storytelling/scene. The Elements Of Focus should be; Plot. Character. Tone. Setting. Conflict.
From the literary to the contemporary, writers are expected to intelligently maintain and balance the Main Focus of Erotica: eroticism. Be creative. Make sure that your characters, narrative, and dialog are energetic, distinct, and push the story forward. Rose Caraway is seeking compelling tales that are designed to entertain! A good story is a good story is a good story.
While the targeted audience is hetero, the editor is interested in stories featuring f/f, m/m, etc., involvements. No matter the gender, believable engagement must occur between characters. As always, all kinks & fetishes are welcome and encouraged. This book’s aim is to be a library of sharp, skillfully-written, profound erotica that features stories from all of the following sub-genres: HORROR, MYSTERY, SUSPENSE, PULP FICTION, ROMANCE, SCIENCE FICTION, FANTASY, WESTERN, PARANORMAL, TALL TALE, MYTHICAL, COMEDY, TRAGEDY, ACTION-ADVENTURE, FOLKLORE, and HISTORICAL.
*Writers are highly encouraged to seek Beta Readers before submitting.
Check out The Slush Pile: https://www.facebook.com/groups/theslushpile/
The Editor will not accept Stories featuring: Pedophilia or Scat.
How to Submit: ONE SUBMISSION PER AUTHOR
To: Rose Caraway
Subject: Dirty 30 Submission
Please submit your FINAL work as follows:
For PayPal, provide appropriate PAYPAL email address.
For Check, indicate “who” to make check out to.
FINAL SUBMISSION FORMAT:
*Confirmation emails will be sent out approximately within 72 hours
after receiving your submission.
*Authors will be notified of official inclusion/exclusion of their manuscript from the publisher within approximately 30 days AFTER official SUBMISSION DEADLINE, via email.