After last week’s seriously nitty-gritty editing post—which, in all truth, resulted in me realizing it was time to take a break from the book and pass it on to betas…now…before I start going nuts—I’ve decided to lighten things up a bit over here.
Occasionally, I like to share a picture. I’m a pretty visual person—both in bed and out—but photos usually don’t do much for me. There’s a very large group of writers who use images as inspiration, and while I don’t seem to have the capacity to do that, I enjoy a good image purely for its own value. Take the image I previously posted of the beautiful built man searching the sand for who knows what or the fabulous ass of the gentleman about to get it on with the Lady of the Perfectly Arched Feet—I could look at these over and over, and while they won’t inspire any words beyond “DAMN” and “HOT,” they still look deliciously good to me.
So today, I’m turning the tables around. Let’s play a little game, shall we? I will post a picture, and I want YOU to tell me what comes to mind. Call it research. Or fun. Or just that I enjoy seeing how different people respond to images. I’m not even about to blast you with a super NSFW image, either; this one is really pretty tame. With images, I think it’s often about the hint of something to come, the promise of what could be. I still haven’t figured out exactly what in this one speaks to me (might be the lean?), but it’s what I’ve got my eye on today.
Does it grab you?
I do hope you’ll play with me—I’m totally inviting you to talk dirty to me! Caption away, or share your thoughts. What do you see here? What does this image inspire in you?
A few weeks ago, the charming Jane Gilbert shared a hilarious post on erotic euphemisms. We’ve all read them—and I’m sure we can all agree they’re positively terrible. They tend to do a fine job of turning the reader off while simultaneously detracting from the story, because things such as coffee beans, spongy stems, and turgid manhoods are probably best left for comedy.
Which is why, I suspect, dear Jane came up with a fabulous new meme—it’s called the #EuphOff, and it’s been circulating for a little bit now. I’ve been slow to join in due to all the stuff, but with the challenge of writing a 500-word story using as many euphemisms for sex and body parts as possible, how could I pass this up?
(You’ve been warned.)
Purple prose is definitely not my thing, so a giant thank you to Jane for the challenge as I actually found this really fucking hard (and not in a good way). 😉
But, after you’ve read through to the end—if you can make it to the end—please be sure to jam your clicker on the coffee bean to enjoy more trembling oysters and vibrating sabers from other writers! Believe me, there were some fantastic entries.
Now, without further ado:
For the Love of a Stable Boy
Princess Abigail jumped when Donnie emerged from the shadows, her lush orbs rising and falling as his bare feet crunched across the woodsy floor. Under the cascade of light blessing them from the moon above, she made out the hunger in his eyes. His was unrestrained lust, the natural state of a man come to implant her with his seed.
“Abigail,” he said, his voice a throttled cry slicing through the chilly night, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Abigail’s cherry-tips hardened, and a thick syrup brimmed in the marshmallow cavern between her thighs. They’d spent years playing at the river’s edge when they were young, despite her father’s repeated warnings that he was just a lowly stable boy—but having spied him bathing at the edge of the pond, caressing the dagger between his legs so that it grew into a swollen beast desperate to plunge into her darkest cave, she knew he was nothing the term boy could properly fit. Now, the steel-cut landscape of his chest glittered in the moonlight with a fine layer of velvet moss, and beneath his abs there jutted the one-eyed snake that dwells between a man’s hips, a fleshy sword ready to spear her inner path to take from her the maidenhead she could only give but once.
Before Abigail moved, Donnie pressed his tumescent rod against her. She gasped, but he swept her in his arms as her head fell back in a whinny.
Could he read her impure thoughts? Did he know her marital hopes?
Could he smell in the air the ripe scent of nectar that circled in her lady passage like the love that swarmed her heaving bosom?
“Donnie,” she whispered, “do you mean it?” She gnashed her teeth despite her hands swift to roam the ridges of his chest, then grazing the hollow of a belly meant to flatten against hers when he would impale her with his love stick.
“Oh Abigail,” he said. “You are the maiden pure as the driven snow, sweet as the taste of honey, and curved like a cello I’ve longed to play.”
He smothered her in a tender kiss, then, his hands gripping the sweet round of her bottom and raising up the folds of her skirt. What could she possibly do? A tide of desire surged her love haven, and as his heat-seeking protuberance snuck against the bare, ivory skin of her quivering thigh, she muttered, “But I’m a princess. My sacred pearl can only be given once—”
“Then let your maidenhead be mine, my darling,” he said. “I am the one for you. I promise.”
Abigail did not protest as Donnie laid her down and lifted her skirt above her head, burying his puckered lips between the rippling wings of her butterfly. She bleated in longing as his tongue drilled into her seeping cavern, and when she began to seize, Donnie rose up on his knees, grasping his baton. “Let me pollinate you with love fluid to show my honor for you, Princess.”
At this, Abigail surrendered. Donnie pierced her with his stem, stinging her with the repeated seesaw of his hips. Pleasure permeated her once-sealed tunnel, and as Donnie bucked like a wild stallion and exploded with cannon fire deep within her silk canal, she knew.
