Photo of a neon cocktails sign against black sky

Friday Flash Fiction: “The Wait”

She waits for him outside the bar. It feels longer this time, a slow crawl up a steeper slope. Above her, the neon sign glows like a halo she doesn’t deserve—an interrogation lamp under which she omits something, as easily as “Cocktails” flickers on, off, on… It’s a faint buzz trying to be there, but not quite. Another man asks her for a smoke; she shakes her head, because she can hardly see him.

It’s hard to see anything when she waits for him.

Photo of a neon cocktails sign against black sky

The bouncer nods at her, mouths, Coming in? She isn’t ready. Not yet. They’ve been here one thousand times before. Everybody knows them, their laughs together. They talk secrets of the world, and anecdotes from here to the galaxy over so many drinks and smiles. Those smiles she always sees: in her dreams, in the songs she writes. In her heart.

She can’t quite get him out of her heart.

This, she knows, is the problem. It’s the reason she stands here now, though there’s so much more to it—the way he speaks to her, often, or answers the phone to be sure she’s all right. It’s how he looks at her like she’s his comfort and the answer at the end of a hard day. Like she’s the one he’s been waiting for this long.

Too long.

The air feels colder tonight, but it often does before he comes. It’s not right that he can warm her through with the sound of his laugh, or the bite of his lip while he ponders a response to some moralistic question in the middle of their third round. She thinks of this now, the bite of the lip, how he does it without realizing the catch of her breath, and she crosses her arms over her stomach, waiting. Waiting. Why is nothing more important than him?

“Hey.”

He’s behind her, fingers sliding through the strands of her hair in a gentle caress over her neck. She wonders if he sees the flutter of her eyes when his skin meets hers, if he hears her sharp inhalation as he leans into her ear. His is an aura of confidence and love, and that scent he always wears, making her wish she could tilt her nose against his chin to breathe him in, feel the stroke of his fingertips up her thighs or over her naked back like she used to. His body is firm and protective. Close—before he remembers maybe he’s not supposed to touch her like this. His fingers slip from her skin, taking with them everything that makes her heart skip.

The “Cocktails” sign flashes on again. It lights their faces, and the ring on a finger almost tucked in his pocket when he comes around to face her.

“Have you been waiting long?” He gestures toward the door, and she shakes her head.

“Nope. Not long.” She smiles. He smiles.

Bites his lip.

Once they go inside, their bodies are close.

*

The above flash story was inspired by lovely F. Leonora Solomon’s “Friday Flash—Cocktails” meme. Click on the badge below to read other stories inspired by her fabulous photo!

Friday Flash meme image

Picture of panties around red shoes

Elust #81 is Here – All the Sexy News in One Place!

Hyacinth foe Elust 81
Photo courtesy of A Dissolute Life Means

Welcome to Elust #81

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #82 Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Who Are You Calling Crazy Cat Lady?

Stranger on a Train

Taking Emilia

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Sign
Everyday sexism

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

The Best Sex
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Erotic Fiction

Fist
Johnny on the Spot
Wierd
Caught Watching
A is for the ache I feel…
OVER THE EDGE – but softly
This is Love

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

The NiteFlirt-Twitter Findom-Shout Complex
Donald Trump: Feminist

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Do What You Want
Setting expectations
Control
Held Captive

Erotic Non-Fiction

My Rope Life Rebooted
I Needed my Fix
Beautiful, Loving, Surprise Birthday Blowjob!
Mind and Body
Bukkake, Babe, that’s me! Or is it?
Jun 2014 Session – Mistress Claire & Robynn
Don’t Just Fuck Her!
Mid Week Fantasizing — The 3some
I told him I’m Hy.

Writing About Writing

Captive Audience: Dubious Consent Fantasy

Poetry

He is Risen! A Lusty Limerick
Thin – an erotic poem

Blogging

The illusion of familiarity…

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Be A Better Lover
trust
Who Owns My Sexual Agency?

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Boobs on my Mind
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Image of woman playing with panties over fishnets

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

We called her the Panty Princess.

Every party we held, she’d show up with that huge smile on her face, wearing an adorable little frock that skimmed the tops of her thighs. She was a costuming fiend, really, because Laney loved any opportunity to dress up. And whenever she had the chance, she’d flash us the panties she’d made that afternoon, or the weekend before, or any old time—she had a gift with lace and bows, satin and cotton.

I know everyone else loved her attendance at our costume parties for her sweet words and the quick glimpse beneath her skirt, her sex adorned so tastefully by her latest creation. No one noticed the marvelous thighs and hips she had around that panty peek, nor the way she dressed them beneath the black strip of velvet draped over her nakedness, or the pink swatch of silk clothing her mound. But for me, that was the true show. She bundled herself in two layers of tights, the bottom one nude and constricting, and the top a coarse fishnet mesh that hugged her legs. Along the trim of her panties, the tights teased me, taunted me, and every time she’d lift her skirt and show us her ingenuity, I’d feel a rush of arousal claiming my groin.

Laney knew this too, I think, her smile greeting each of our friends at our monthly club gatherings in the woods before she settled her gaze on me.

“Do you like them, Archer?” she’d ask.Image of woman playing with panties over fishnets

Our friends were generally too busy commenting on her masterful use of thread to notice that, or the fact that she always wore her panties on top of her tights to better showcase them.

“You’re such a Panty Princess, Laney!”

“How do you make all of these?”

“Make some for me!”

“And me!”

But her eyes were locked with mine, always, with mine.

“All of it,” I said, my voice a hiss broken by the surge of longing that swarmed my limbs, “is lovely.”

And Jesus, it was. She was.

Tonight’s party had gotten a bit rambunctious—twenty of us frolicking and dancing, drinking like the idiots we were to celebrate nothing in particular except our hedonistic desire to run about the woods. The crisp night air bit at me, urging me, and Laney twirled around with all of our friends, her skirt lifting to show the crescent of an ass cheek.

They loved the panties she flashed, but I couldn’t stop staring at those fishnets.

Eventually, the wind shifted. Laney paused her dancing to grab a beer from one of the coolers, and I spun to watch her go. She didn’t stop at the cooler. Instead, she grinned back at me and lifted the edge of her skirt. She was forever the tease—no one to my knowledge had ever taken her out here, only gossiped like schoolboys and girls over the endless flashes of those panties and how good she would feel beneath one of us some night—so I held firm in my stance.

But then she beckoned me with her finger. Her coquettish grin turned higher, and she lifted her skirt to reveal the top of one round, perfect ass cheek held firm beneath a layer of tights and fucking fishnets.

“Come play,” she mouthed.

There are moments in your life when you’re faced with a split second decision, the outcome of which you may remember forever.

This was mine.

I followed Laney into the woods, leaving the wild calls and frenetic dancing of our group behind. The moonlight was dim enough that I could only make out her shape—the short dress curving along her body, then flapping over her ass. All I really saw were her legs cupped in tights and fishnets. Each time she wore this same combination, the tiniest mesh weave in the darkest nude, kissing every inch of her thighs and knees before disappearing into her knee-high, lace-up boots.

“Hi,” she said. The word was a gasp of air as she fell back against a tree. One single word of invitation, and in the darkness I made out the gleam in her eyes.

She fingered the hem of her skirt. Lifted it. My breath lodged in my throat. I eyed the v that covered her tights before focusing on the stretch of fishnet from her hips down her supple, curvy legs.

“Is this an invitation?” I asked. Two years of watching her, of ogling those fishnets, of seeing the smile on her face when I stuttered.

Laney swayed her knee back and forth. She hooked a thumb under the top of the panties, pulling them down a few inches on the side to reveal she wore nothing but tights beneath. Tights that rested directly against her cunt, which I wanted to bury my fingers in.

She raised her eyes as the panties fell to the ground.

“What do you think?”

The fabric mashed her lips, the tights and fishnets clutching her pussy.

I might have been panting.

I put my hands on her thighs, the rough threads grating like sandpaper. Laney nodded as I ran my palms up to her hip, then back down, over and over again.

“You like the fishnets.”

“They’re so rough.”

“Dancer’s tights,” she said. She closed her eyes as I slid my hand to her crevice. The fabric was soaked there. I followed the curve of her mound, front to back, the pads of my fingertips rolling over the rope-like fishnets and the slick, gritty tights beneath. My cock lurched in my jeans.

I hooked a finger in the netting and yanked, and Laney’s eyes popped open.

“I paid a fortune for these.”

I slipped the fingers of both hands between her thighs, ripping the hole wider. Rubbing against the wet gusset of her under tights. Laney moaned and tilted her head back against the bark. I could have kissed her then, but we both knew what I was after.

I dropped to my knees. I tore a hole in the bottom layer of tights, exposing her to the air. She smelled of roses and musk. I curled my hands around her thighs again, savoring the friction of the tights. I ran my tongue up her left thigh, then her right, and I groaned at the numbing, chafing fabric. Then I stared at the hole I’d made at her crotch. The edges of the fishnets were like a broken grate, no longer shielding her from me. Runs split the tights beneath and stretched down her thighs in long, jagged streaks.

“You owe me twenty-five bucks, Archer,” was the last thing I heard her murmur when I snaked my tongue between her legs to taste her swollen, sweet clit. I kept my hands gripped tight on those fishnets, caressing the fabric while I delved my tongue inside her, then back up to her clit. Soft whimpers spilled from her throat and her torn fishnets grazed my cheeks.

In the distance, our friends danced around the woods, their voices traveling on the breeze while Laney clutched my head and drew me closer. Her moans became cries as I lapped at her, my hands fondling her thighs, numb from the rub of those fishnets. And when Laney came for me, she blinked with the most startled of expressions on her face.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

She was the Panty Princess no longer.

She was my Fishnet Queen.

Wicked Wednesday Badge

capturingthemoment_800

The Marriage of Music and Story – With a Special Guest!

Hi everyone! I’m delighted to be hosting the lovely Delilah Night today, whose newest novella, Capturing the Momentis now available with Totally Bound. And, I’m honored not only to be featuring an excerpt of Delilah’s words—but to be hosting a contest. That’s right…I said contest!

Before it’s time to play, please read on to find out some of Delilah’s inspiration involving the merging of music and story. It’s good stuff!

Take it away, Delilah!

The Marriage of Music and Story

Thank you for the opportunity, Jade. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you over the past year, and I’m eagerly awaiting your novel! I hope you and your readers enjoy this look at the making of my novella, Capturing the Moment. Please stick around for the giveaway!

***

Music was one of my earliest loves. I remember the excitement of buying Madonna’s True Blue on cassette at the age of seven in 1986. I’d sing True Blue, Where’s the Party, La Isla Bonita and the rest as I swung back and forth on the swings in my local park. Thirty years later, I still know all the words to every song on that tape.

I joined my school’s chorus in sixth grade, and despite switching schools a number of times, music was the constant in my life. When I started a new school, my first (sometimes only) friends were ones I made in chorus, band, show choir, acapella chorus, or pep band.

Music is such a constant that I almost always write with my earbuds in. Sometimes I have specialized playlists for stories, but for the most part, I shuffle through music from every genre.

Capturing the Moment began with a moment—Meg turning to see that RJ has showed up, unwanted, at the ancient temple of Angkor Wat in Cambodia, and anger flooding her body. Why? What was their history?

I was fumbling my way through variations on the opening chapters of the story when the song Teardrops on My Guitar by Taylor Swift began to play.

Teardrops on my guitar pic

That lyric unlocked the story for me.

The story became so much easier to write after that (at least the first draft). I wrote the story of what happens after that moment in Cambodia. As I did, I also wrote the story of what had happened in the years before. I learned that Meg and RJ had been engaged, but that the engagement had been called off, and realized that they’d have to deal with their past if they were to have a chance at a future. However, my realization didn’t mean that my characters wanted to deal with their past.

Angkor Wat with Monks

Exclusive Excerpt

(Context—RJ has asked Meg to spend the day with him. She’s always been susceptible to his dimples.)

Meg took several deep breaths. “Ground rules.”

“Do tell.”

“Rule Number One is no sex.”

He smirked. “You’re awfully obsessed by the idea of having sex with me, Megan.”

Her clit swelled in response.

You have no idea.

“No sex,” she repeated.

“I’ll cry manly tears into my pillow tonight, but fine. No sex.” He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. They were big, beautiful hands graced with dexterous fingers. Twelve years of piano lessons had given RJ magic hands. Meg remembered, vividly, what they felt like on her body.

“Secondly, I don’t want to talk about the break-up. This is about not ruining my one day in Siem Reap. Not ‘Let’s talk about our feelings.’”

“At least let me apolo—”

She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her arm.

“You win. I won’t bring it up,” he said, obviously frustrated.

“Third, you carry everything. I might as well get a free pack mule out of this.”

“Sure.” He picked up her equipment and she could read the relief on his face.

“Finally, Rule Number Four is that we follow my agenda. No hijacking my game plan.”

“I’ve been here a few days already. I can indulge you”—his eyes took a long, lingering inventory of her body—“in any manner you see fit.”

capturingthemoment_800

You never forget your first love…

Meg and RJ were passionately in love. But that was six years and a broken engagement ago.

Meg has only one day in Siem Reap, Cambodia, before she must leave for her sister’s wedding in Bali. She fulfills her dream of taking a photograph of the sun rising behind Angkor Wat, one of the oldest temples in the world. But her joy is short-lived when she turns around to see RJ standing behind her.

RJ threw himself into work after Meg ended their relationship. He’s built a successful business, but it’s a hollow victory. He’s come to Siem Reap to win back the woman he’s never stopped loving. But first he has to convince her to spend the day with him.

Meg is as physically attracted to RJ as she ever was. Maybe the secret to finally getting over him is a one day only, no strings attached fling.

Can RJ win Meg back, or will she love him and leave him?

Capturing the Moment is now on sale exclusively at Totally Bound through April 26

Also available for Pre-Order at:
About Delilah Night…

After 30 years of snowy New England winters, Delilah Night moved to steamy southeast Asia. While she doesn’t miss shovelling snow, she does miss shopping for bargains at Target.

In 2014, Delilah visited Cambodia for the first time and fell in love with Siem Reap. Many of her misadventures from that vacation (including the one with the monkey) made their way into this story.

Connect with Delilah on her blog (delilahnight.com), Twitter, or Facebook.

Contest—Win a free copy of Capturing the Moment!

What song has spoken to you when writing a story? Leave a comment and I’ll pick a winner at random on Wednesday, April 13, 2016. Don’t forget to leave your email so I can contact you.

 

Couple holding each other as morning light streams in window

Erotic Fiction: This is Love

I can remember, sometimes, how we used to kiss. The look in your eyes when you stared down at me, your fingertips sliding around my neck, and up into my hair. Pulling. That I remember well. There was a tension at the base of my skull, almost as hot and heavy as the pound of my heart, the throb of my cunt. Then the way you’d pitch toward me—slow, slow, tiny, quiet ticks of the clock passing by faster than we ever could, because all that mattered to us was this. The weight of the air around us, the press of our lips to come. Sometimes, you whispered my name. Others, you held me, still. But always, I felt it: me, bound to you. Then. Now. Forever.

It felt like this because I loved you.

Couple holding each other as morning light streams in windowWhen we moved together, it was the shock of waves, tectonic plates shifting in violent bursts, ruining the surface of everything around us. We were the only force that mattered. We were the lightning, the storm, the crest of fire blazing across the distant horizon.

We were one.

Mouth to mouth, we lingered. Breathing fast. Bodies close. When our lips parted, I let you in, let your tongue find mine, dance with me. And we swayed like this, hungry and lost, but as easily found in that electricity between us, in the clutch of our bodies, in the gentle hum bursting out to silence anything, everything.

Everything that wasn’t us.

I’d say it was longing, but it wouldn’t be enough. If I called it lust, that wouldn’t be right, either. We were the joining of cells, the collision of atoms, the combustion of two solutions that never quite fit. We were amazing, too. Planets, stars, comets, sun—we were all of it, a galaxy of feeling swirling round us, enveloping us in the way we kissed. In the hold of you to me, and me to you, chests heaving in the blackest night before the rustle of morning wind blew us all apart.

But I know why.

And so do you.

It was all because you loved me, too.

*

Picture of panties around red shoes

Elust #80: Something Meaningful, THE Process, and More!

Elust 80 Penny's Dirty Thoughts
Photo courtesy of Penny’s Dirty Thoughts

Welcome to Elust #80

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #81 Start with the rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Something Meaningful
The debate goes on
Trim

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

No Take Backsies: Sexual “Politeness”
THE Process

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

He’s not a Tumblr Dom
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Erotic Non-Fiction

She Strips The Boundaries Away The Black Bra
He enjoyed Playing with My Shoes
One… two… ménage à trois!
Doing Mt. Shasta
What’s Behind that First Strike…
Memories
How To Top Off Valentine Weekend Lovemaking
Watching Cunnilingus
Scened All Night
Spoiled in the Sun
The Tennent
01/14 Session With Mistress Claire & Others
THREESOME HEAVEN – extreme sensations
The neighbours don’t learn my name
home

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

I Don’t Date on the First Sex
Meat market

Erotic Fiction

Lines
Who’s the Boss? (She is)
A Little Distraction
Let Me Share
Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies…
a bit of filth
Original Sin
Watching

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

My Day of Punishments Part 1
Filthy girl
Kink Without Sex: What Happens After Orgasms
Dominant roots
Using Our D/s to Get Through Stress

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

First Times
The number of the beast…
Sometimes Love is Not a Pie
Bareback
Looking deep through reflection
Pussy Pics
So I Was Thinking

Events

A Night with Zombies – Cinema l’Amour
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Picture of feet sticking out of car window, parked to watch sunset

We [Were] On a Break!

I am the worst at taking a break. I’ve been this way my whole life—relaxation is a thing I enjoy, but most of the time, there has to be something else going on simultaneously. Hell, it wasn’t until recently that I took up watching some TV before bed while needing to talk myself into lying still on the couch (because, sadly, reading revs me up and makes it impossible to pass out). I have a friend who describes me as being incapable of slowing down, but I often correct him to say that I can, I just prefer to have my wheels spinning at all times, if not in person, then at least in the back of my head.

The slowing of the wheels is something I’m actively working on this year. I’ve been going through a lot that I’ve mentioned on the blog, but there’s been other off-site stuff, too, which has made my series-writing ride quite the adventure. Add to this that moderation is a concept lost on me (just give me a pile of candy and I’ll blow your mind, swear), and the fact that I’m still pretty good at pushing past pain…well, put all this together, and you’ve got a flashy sports car that eventually has a major break down and stops working.

Obviously, that, in the middle of a 3-book series, simply will not do.

Picture of feet sticking out of car window, parked to watch sunset

Chillin’.

Which is why I’ve set up various rewards to honor the need to slow my roll in this already unique process. Since I just typed “The End” and closed off the draft for The Discipline, book 2 in the Lessons in Control series, the one I greet you with today is a deal I made with myself long ago: two full weeks off! This is a time for me to not only not think about the book while it simmers, but to essentially take a mini-writing-pseudo-vacation. Yes, writing is my passion, my sustenance, my love—but revisit that moderation in all things clause, and eventually, one can overdose in love, too.

Plus, a “vacation” always brightens the landscape of pretty much anything, so here I am, taking one!

What does this mean? Save for the potential of my copy edits showing up during this rest time, I’m not doing a lick of writing beyond a blog post or two, and maybe even a little revise of a poem and a piece of flash I wrote a while back, since it’s high time I get some fiction up in this joint. But beyond that? I’m practicing chilling out interspersed with moments of handling a short To Do list I avoided while staying focused on the series. This last weekend, for example, I swapped between bills, taxes, and major social time with friends. I even kicked off Saturday morning with pancakes, bacon, and a coconut milk latte in front of a TV show while still in my robe. Guys, this sort of thing hasn’t happened in years. And you know what? It felt pretty good.

There are other cool things happening in this two-week break, too. One, I’ve got a slew of awesome social encounters I’ve delayed: karaoke, luncheons, dinners, happy hours, and, hell, I might even take myself dancing and then sleep in this weekend! Whoa! Also, I’m finally reading a book. I know this sounds like a no brainer—but between being all up in this series and not being able to read before bed lest it keep me awake, I’ve pretty much been catching only blog posts here and there, and thus haven’t touched a book since, oh, late August (shameful, I know, but it’s the truth). Oh and extra chill-worthy: I’m rewatching Fringe from start to finish. This is my favorite series of all time, right before the wicked tie for second between The Tudors, Dexter, Friends (bonus points if you caught the show reference in the title of this post), Grey’s Anatomy, and the first six seasons of The Vampire Diaries (don’t even talk to me about the current season). I have tons of other good things planned for this time, too, but let it be said: there will be some real relaxation for me. I’m excited!

On top of that, I’m not going to feel guilty. Not at all. I know my lovely little characters can wait for me, and everything—life, series, etc.—will return to normal when I’m back.

We are, after all, on a break. 🙂

XX,
Jade

B/W still vintage image of typewriter

THE Process

Okay, here’s the deal: I kept fooling myself into believing I have a systemized process, and it’s become abundantly clear I’m full of shit.

As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been fairly quiet on both this site and my poetry site. For the most part, I’ve had my head down working on the Lessons in Control series. I’m getting more and more excited to talk about it as we get closer to launch in December, but for now, I’m tied up (heh) in edits for The Assignment (book one), the drafting of The Discipline (book two)—and later down the line, the drafting of The Reward (book three).

The process has been thrilling, shocking, and terrifying, all at the same time. My editor, Rhonda Stapleton, has been a dream through the work we’re doing on book one—but alongside that, I’ve had a hell of a journey on book two. Whatever “process” I swore I had for writing books has been, well, doctored.

Let me give you a little background. The first real book I wrote (because I’m excluding the fictional biography I wrote at 11 as well the YA horror I wrote at 13) was a romantic fantasy that took me 17 years to complete, and at the end of it, I learned one very important thing: I’m neither a fantasy writer OR a strictly spec fic writer. I love sexual content, and I love dripping that all over the pages of whatever the hell I’m writing. So for my next book, I opted to write a comedic memoir about the year and a half I semi-intentionally stopped having sex. (True story!) Turned out, for a book about not having sex, it actually had a lot of sexual content—but it was also about healing from heartbreak, finding oneself, and a bit of ridiculousness that happened in that period, among other things. Honestly, I haven’t talked a ton about this thing since it’s shelved in lieu of what I currently love writing (that would be erotica in its various forms), but, the point is that it took me about three years to write, the end confirming that (1) I needed to write more because it was my life blood and (2) I was capable of finishing things faster than I thought.B/W still vintage image of typewriter

Next came a bunch of short stories. I had a spec fic writing mentor at the time who suggested what I needed was to start and stop over and over again, so I could feel more confident in the process before I took on another book. Whoa nelly, did that turn out to be a boon: I wrote something like two dozen short stories in a few months. Plus, I wrote them fast. 4-6k in a couple hours? No problem! I had become a binge writer who also learned the skill of drafting without backtracking, because one can always chop and revise later. I was pretty sure that nifty trick would carry with me for life.

Flash forward to the recent past, and there came The Assignment. I’d been plotting and stewing about how I might be able to write an erotica series for a couple months, and, meanwhile, had an extremely transformative relationship that sparked all sorts of ideas in my head. Then…we broke up. Okay, in actuality, I had to pry myself away because the entire thing was about to ruin me, but a well-timed vacation and a keen interest in the “do not disturb” function on my phone created utter magic. Even through my devastation, the plot of my story became clear and I proceeded to channel all that breakup energy into writing The Assignment. That book—which I am seriously excited for you to read when it comes out in December—took me a whopping week and a half to outline, and right around one month to draft.

For realsies.

And suddenly—I knew my process: outline, speed draft without editing, let it breathe, go in and proceed to smoothe. Check! Oh yeah. It was that simple, and it would be, forever. Right? So while the final version was off wandering the world for a home, I proceeded to start another book—but the entire time, I couldn’t figure out what had happened to my process because I seemed to be going in circles…for almost eight months.

I’d just upped my speed and written a book in a month. How on earth did this thing take so long?

Then came some real life chaos that fucked with me. It took a while for me to get a clue on how to handle it, but when I did, I opted for a book break. I spent a couple months writing shorts and reworking my confidence, so that when The Assignment found a home at Carina Press and they wanted the entire series, I was both giddy and ready to write book two. Except, not so much. I was still contending with the residual chaos that culminated in the attack of the chronic migraines while also struggling to realize this was in no uncertain terms affecting my process. I drafted about 30k. I got migraine sick. I drafted 10k. I was still migraine sick. I tore up 20k. Edits for book one came. I finished them and then drafted 20k. But again, I was really sick and had to straight up stop. When I was migraine-free and ready to go again, I not only cut out about 15k, but completely replotted the rest of the book.

Ha. Take that, process!

Oh, and my binge writing tendency in that entire time period? M.I.A. 1-2k became a good day! But I plodded along, accepting that I would produce, delete, rewrite, break, etc., until somewhere around December when—while setting my 2016 goals—I took a step back and thought, hmm, maybe I should just write the damn book however it comes out, and stop being an asshole to myself because the process happens to have changed from what it was before.

Amazing concept, right?

I have to say—since then, things have continued to be pretty good over here. I turned in another round of edits on book one, and when I sat down to begin the final chunk of the book two draft this last weekend, I didn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact that the first thing I did was replot the last 20k again.

Go figure.

So, ladies and gentlemen, it’s safe it say: I have discovered the real process! It’s good, and I’m going to share it with you. You should grab a pen. Go ahead, I will wait. *Taps foot.* I know you want the Secret to the Writing Universe I discovered over the last few months, and now, I’m going to give it to you!

Okay, you ready?

Here it is.

The official process is…

Whatever fucking works.

Yep. That’s it. (Did you write that down?) 🙂

I have no idea if my process is “no process” because of life things, or just because that’s the truth of the matter, but I’m pleased to have established this riveting…process. Also, I’m curious about everyone else—what’s your process? I’d love to hear in the comments.

For now, though, time for me to get back to work.

It’s a process. 😉

XX,
Jade

 

Picture of panties around red shoes

Elust #79: The Introduction, Words, and So Much More!

Elust 79 header
Photo courtesy of Marie Opens Up

Welcome to Elust #79

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #80? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

The Joy of Sucking Cock

Making Porn

My Valentine

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The One

Midweek Fantasizing – The Portrait

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Marionette
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A kiss is just a kiss
Turning Corners
Another Day, Another Planned Parenthood Visit
My first vanilla date
Want, Need the Power of your Masculinity!
I don’t know how to date.

Erotic Fiction

Soft Lips
The Introduction
Erotic Fiction: “Words”
Darkness and the Rose
Taste
THE SESSION THAT WENT WRONG
Be Careful What You Wish For
Motivation
porn
The Tube

Erotic Non-Fiction

For You, It’s Always Yes
Gawan: Intro to Flogging
The Talker: An Introduction
My wildest fantasy: Ship slut
Marionette
Time for something quick…
Spread Legs and Open Mouth
My Girl in Havana
Let’s Watch some Porn

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

An Artist’s Story: Tails and Portholes
Sleeping With Our Future President
To Dude Who Was Offended By Lack of Escort
Try Love, Not Anger
Risky Sex
Why Cosmo is the worst (again!)

Writing about Writing

Condoms: fictional contraceptive of choice
Writing Fat Characters In Erotica

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Masochistic Mastermind
Take me to where I need to be.

 

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B/W image of calligraphic pen resting on handwritten note

Erotic Fiction: “Words”

“Your personality is like a raging hill fire, swarming the skies in red-orange intensity as you barrel down to consume the valley below.”

This is what he says to me with a tremor in his voice, his eyes lit up with hope that I will approve.

It’s good, I admit, but I have to make him work harder for this. Always, always harder.

I drag the chair across the carpet, centering it in front of him. He’s on his knees, his cock grazing his belly since long before I bade him strip his clothes in the cold air of our bedroom. I told him to kneel, which he did promptly. I didn’t need to cuff him this time because immediately, his hands were behind his back, clutched together in his frenzy. I’d hit the record button on his phone right there in front of his eyes, reminding him in the gesture that I expected him to play all of this back later in preparation.

“Pretty good,” I say. “But you can do better.”

I plop down in the chair, naked save for my boots. I press my knees together. Randall is panting. The head of his shaft swells as I slide my hands down my thighs. I cock my head, then trail my fingers over my stomach and around my nipples.

“You may speak.”

He bites his lip, thinking. He’s so jumbled up in his head. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Eliot, Poe—masters of the language he’s studied for so long, intimidating him in his anticipation.

“Your body is a mystical ice storm, chilling and stunning, freezing me to the core in my—”

“Nope,” I say. I slip my fingertips between my knees, deliberately parting my legs. The vinyl of my boots has tacked together even in that short window of time, and it makes the sexiest unsticking sound as I spread myself in front of his face. Randall stares at my pussy. I am dripping onto the chair. “You just called me an ice queen. Does this look icy to you?”

His eyes widen. I can practically see the words assembling themselves in his mind. We’d scrimped for a while, sending him to retreats and conferences for almost a decade to study this stuff, and I know he has all the words he’s looking for despite his temporary block.

Randall hesitates.B/W image of calligraphic pen resting on handwritten note

I move both hands between my thighs, dragging my fingers along my folds. Swiping at my juices so we can both hear the squishing sound.

“Again, Randall.”

His cock leaps.

“Your sex,” he says, gathering steam, “is hot as the ash of a molten volcano.”

I nod. “Oh, I like that.” I glide a finger inside, pushing it all the way in. Randall shudders. I use my other hand to part my lips so he can see each thrust of my finger. When I slip in a second one, he gulps so hard his Adam’s apple bobs up like a flotation device from beneath the water.

I am close to coming, but I can’t tell him that.

I remove my fingers, then scissor them in the air between us. They shine with my dew under the lamplight of our bedroom.

I turn around. I keep close to his face, watching over my shoulder as the beads of sweat break along his hairline.

“Well?”

“Your cheeks are like two glowing orbs of—”

“Tsk. Cliché!” I crawl onto the chair and stick out my ass. The stiletto heels of my boots are less than an inch from his chin. He flinches as he stares at them, but he’s captivated as I grab onto the back of the chair to balance, then shove my finger in my mouth to suck it.

Randall has only two hours until his seminar.

I curve my hand over the round cheek of my ass, cupping it for him. He is mesmerized as I wedge my fingers into my crack, then push the wettest one against my tight opening.

“This?” I ask.

I loosen my muscles and sneak my finger inside. I don’t let him see my excitement, but it’s making it hard to keep a straight face.

In, out, in, out. I pulse my finger in my asshole and Randall squirms on his knees.

“Your ass is a sanctuary. Dark, hot, bliss.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Is it, now?” I waggle my hips, the strokes of my finger making my pussy impossibly wet. I get so into the motion that my breasts slap against the back of the chair.

Randall groans.

“Give me something really good, baby,” I growl. I pull my finger out, smacking my ass. His eyes flutter. My poet and his goddamn stage fright are so incredibly hot for me.

I switch hands to improve my balance on the chair. It’s sturdy, but I’m shaking hard enough I might fall off. I angle my fingers better and slide three of them inside. He stirs again, his dick swelling larger. I moan as I shift my fingers, banging them high and rubbing against my sweet spot so hard my climax is threatening to take over. Randall notices.

“Please, Emily. May I?”

“I’m still waiting,” I say. I clench my teeth. This has to wait.

He grumbles. He can do this. Over one hundred presentations of his award-winning poems and they want him all over the nation to teach his art.

He frees his tongue.

“My want for you is the silver-tipped crest of a tsunami’s wave, splashing over the world to drown everything out, away. Through this, I swim to you—my shoulders weak, my arms limp, my cock a titanium rod desperate to feel you inside.”

I break into laughter. This is good.

“You can fuck me now, Randall.”

He jumps up from his crouch, positioning himself behind my ass. His hands roam my hips like a whisper. When he guides himself against my slick, damp folds, both of us moan.

“Your cunt…” he mutters.

He plunges deep without finishing.

Because both of us know actions speak louder than words.

*