Happy holidays everyone! Are you resting after the big blowout, or exhausted by thrashing your way through the Boxing Day sales? Or peacefully above the whole thing?
If you want a playful bit of Christmas kink and haven’t read As She’s Told, there’s a link to an excerpt here that you might enjoy.
I’ve been focusing on family and friends for the past couple of weeks, with no time for writing or even thinking about it. And frankly, I write so little that I worry that this blog is keeping me from getting anything done on Book Three. So, following up to that testing-the-waters fantasy of my last post, let’s see if I can come up with a scene while you watch. I’ll give you commentary on my process (how navel-gazing is that?) If I like it enough, it might even end up in the book in some form or other.
Okay, I’m digging around in my fantasy furniture warehouse… Edging, denial… My mind jumps to a Fetlife group called “Tantalism” and an exchange of posts about the apparently illogical love of teasing and denial. What I threw in was, “What teasing and denial do is prolong the whole experience. Sexual episodes aren't so much episodic as continuous. Orgasm tends to wrap things up and you move on to doing the dishes, you know? But constant arousal sexualizes everything. Even dishwashing.” (One person wanted to make a wall quote out if it.)
Shall I write a dishwashing scene, then? Why not? I’ll go ahead and see where it leads me.
Rachel leaned her belly against the sink and wrestled with a recalcitrant pot, feeling a warm splash soak her shirt and creep its way downward. Grumbling, she shifted her hips. A quick indrawn breath was followed by no movement at all. Hands still in the soapy water, eyes gazing blankly at nothing. All her attention was inward. Transfixed by a fine core of sensation, a stretched cord suddenly plucked.
I’ve been interrupted about ten times by my offspring. So you might as well suffer along with me. Where was I? Isn’t it odd how I keep writing about sensation lately, with almost no visuals?
She wrapped her perceptions around that small nerve bundle. Muscles drew in without volition and squeezed tight, Her eyelids drooped. The touch she wanted was almost palpable.
He liked to tease her. And he could keep it up for hours. It was well into the second day now. Her dreams had been painfully arousing. And chores had never been so erotic.
A step behind her gave a moment’s warning before hands slid past her ribs and over her breasts. She sucked in another fast breath. A couple of deft buttons, and there were fingers tweaking her nipples while a voice whispered in her ear. “Are you washing dishes or giving your hands a bath?”
She sucked in a tiny series of breaths. His own warm breath in her ear made her shudder. Nipples pulsed urgent new messages to Arousal Central. Her head sagged back against the shoulder behind her. She felt teeth at her neck, her earlobe.
“Do the dishes, babe,” he whispered. Slowly her hands took hold again and blindly scrubbed. One of his hands travelled slowly down, slipped inside her jeans and gently circled her public bone. Helplessly her pelvis pressed forward.
“Ah-ah. No you don’t.” The hand slid out from the tight squeeze between her and the sink, and helped the other one do up the shirt buttons.
A protesting whimper escaped from her, and she tried to turn around. His hands held her where she was.
“Be a good girl, now. Or I’ll have to spank you. And you know that just makes you hornier.”
“Finish up here. Just think of all the vacuuming there is to do.”
Less process than I expected, once I got going. What gives me pause is whether I’ve made the language flow, and that’s easier to go over and fix than to write about. It has to sound right to me, or I’ll just keep editing.
Okay, that’s it. Back to the eggnog. Happy New Year, all!