Sunday, June 16, 2013

Sitting here, staring at words on a screen

Not happy with them, struggling to make them better. Fighting off one of those "who the heck am I fooling thinking I can do this" moods. When an email appeared in my inbox, from someone I'd recently started following on Twitter, otherwise a stranger to me. It seems she'd followed the link here from my Twitter profile, read my Kinky States of Mind post from last year, and been moved to comment on it. When Blogger got ornery about allowing her to comment on that post, she went even further out of her way to email me a note saying how much she'd enjoyed it. To which I can only say a warm and hearty thank you. You have no idea how much encouragement that provided me, right at a moment when I needed it.

Anyway, I've been promising for some time to post more of my words here. Some of you know I've been taking part in Alison Tyler's Smut Marathon. This was my entry for Round 1, in which I took first place in the voting. These words are not new. If you've read the Smut Marathon entries on Alison Tyler's blog—which you should totally be reading—you've seen them already. But for now they'll have to do.

Here was the assignment from Ms. Tyler:

Please pen me a 200-word (maximum) description of your ideal setting for an erotic story.

That's it. Ta da! Do not go over the word count.

And here's what I wrote in response:

The Lake House Den

The sweet dawn light poured through the floor to ceiling windows of the lake house den, basking the room in soft pastels, attempting to probe its night secrets.

The removable wall panel on which the dartboard hung remained secret-agent silent about the St. Andrew's cross concealed behind.

The whips, canes, rope, clamps, dildos, vibrators, plugs, lube, and other pervertibles hid from the sunlight, tucked away in the armoire against the far wall.

The exposed ceiling beams gave no hint about being structural, such that a suspension ring lashed to them with a leather strap might create the perfect anchor point to fly her from.

So what if the round table in the corner was a good height and diameter to bind her atop, her head hanging off one end and her ass perched at the other, to present her holes perfectly for fucking? Such thoughts surely had no place in the innocence of morning.

If the tatami mats seemed well suited for relieving the stress of time on her knees, and the candles on the mantel burned at the ideal temperature for drizzling on delicate body parts, that was just coincidence, right?

Nothing to see here. Move along.

As always, thank you for reading.

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