Sunday 1 November 2009

Writing BDSM

As everyone knows, I write erotic romance and erotica. I write a little bondage and spanking, handcuffs here and there. Just wrote my first menage actually and it included male/male. So as a writer, I try to work it bayyybeeee! lol

So what am I getting at here? The way some writers can get into the heads of their characters. And for this discussion, characters in sexual situations involving the practice of BDSM. The fact is you don't always need to experience something to write it well. That's where the author's imagination and good research comes in. Well, we writers don't always tout the genius of others, although we can be quite complimentary and supportive, but I just had to say something about a new author.

Sarah Masters.

This author knows how to get into the head of her characters without a doubt. I'm published with Freya's Bower and I saw this new title on their home page. The cover pretty much drew me in. Very dark, sexy. The title of this story is Dominatrix.
At $1.25 it's a real bargain, so I made the purchase. To be honest, I'd never read an erotic romance or work of erotica that portrayed a female Dom. Everything I'd ever read had used the big alpha male. So this quickie of Ms. Master's really intrigued me.

Photobucket

She gave the reader insight that I'd never seen portrayed before. The emotions of her leading lady as she went about her work rang so true. Imagine a woman wielding a whip to a man who has paid her to do so. Then imagine this same woman showing her vulnerability, just opening up her soul and spitting out everything she had to the reader. The entire story, while depicting her at work, focused on Mistress Shadow's internal conflict. The emotions her submissive brought out in her.

During a recent discussion among some writers about writing BDSM, Ms. Master's book was touted by several who had read it. One writer said it all quite succinctly when he expressed the only negative about this book. It was too short--he wanted more. And I so agree. As I understand it, there will be a series of ten from Sarah Masters and I encourage everyone to sample her incredibly well-written work.

To pick up a copy here's the link: http://www.freyasbower.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=5&products_id=165

Oh, and I just found out she has a new title available on January 13th entitled "Trussed". Don't forget to check her out.

On another note, my highly romantic erotic novella, His Sweet Obsession, will release on January 15th from Whiskey Creek Press Torrid. Stop by my website and read an excerpt. http://tessmackall.literalseduction.com/my-books and if you like it, stop by Whiskey Creek Press Torrid on January 15th and pick up a copy. http://www.whiskeycreekpress.com/torrid

Saturday 27 June 2009

Holiday Snaps

For the past week we’ve been on holiday at my MIL’s. It was good to get away. I really needed the break, as did Hubby and the kids. I didn’t miss my computer for writing or editing aspects at all, and I was able to contact my best buds via email whenever we were in towns (the Internet connection disappeared at MIL’s due to her being in a remote area). I realised I could quite happily live without my computer and anything to do with it. Sobering, but at the same time a relief. In the past, the thought of not having a computer near me freaked me silly, but I’ve come to the conclusion that there is more to life than what appears on my monitor screen. I feel so much better for that knowledge.

Anyway, for those who are interested in what the UK looks like where we went, here are some pictures.


This is a figure made out of recycled stuff at a place we visited called The Eden Project. I thought of Faith and her books as soon as I saw it.



Taken while driving to the coast. I missed the more spectacular views by fannying about trying to get my camera out of my bag!




A stony beach. Picture taken on the only chilly evening. At one time I wouldn't have been able to get close to that wall and take the picture because the sea has always freaked me stupid. I'm slowly getting over my many insane phobias, and this time I even managed to pet a horse without too much of a problem (another phobia!).





Needs no explanation.




I love this picture. Taken around 9 p.m. My boys on the beach. I bought a picture frame for this one.



Saturday 30 May 2009

The Scare

Some of you know about the copperhead that my oldest dau and I discovered in the basement. Turns out that a tree we cut down for firewood and tossed into the basement must've had it in it.
Regardless, I have been terrified of going into the basement. Our shower cubicle is in the basement, so you can see what a dilemma this presents. I had the hubby sit on the stairs and watch the floor as I showered. Well...he said he was watching the floor, but somehow I don't believe him.

Even my kids will go downstairs and shower, but not me. Nope. Not unless someone perches on the stairs with a .22. I'd rather take a ricochet bullet than to deal with an accidental "tourist" snake in my basement, especially in my shower cubicle.

Finally, I got enough ass behind me {looks behind self...yup, there's enough there} to wash clothes. I took the oldest dau downstairs and we began the arduous task of fighting with the wringer washer. I looked over and spotted the biggest damn spider I've seen in a long, long time.

Color Splash Comic Pictures, Images and PhotosNow, mind you I'm not afraid of bugs...well, save for bees because I'm allergic to them, but spiders, freaky looking things with antenna and so on don't bother me (unless they look slithery, then I squeal). Jade, on the other hand will poke a snake but shoot to the moon over a spider. {heh, what can I say, we're a neurotic family} I point out the spider and she---

FREAKS!

Uhm, okay, I'll kill it.

So, I take off one of my hubby's big steel-toed boots... All right, wait a minute. I have to paint this picture for you: Daisy Duke shorts, oversized tee shirt, and huge black boots that lace up but aren't laced that feel like they weigh 20 pounds apiece. Hey, what can I say. I was prepared for something creepy-crawly on the floor, not something with eight legs with fuzz wearing a spiked collar that said: Don’t Mess with the Arachnid Bitch.

Anyway, I raise the boot, and as I do so, I take a closer look at the spider.

Hold the phone. That sucker's got a body. No, I mean a REAL body. One with meat and taters on its bones.

"Here, Jade. You kill it." And I walk away.

"WHAT???"

"I don't do meat and taters. That sucker might slap me back."

I gotta say the girl's got gonads. She takes my boot and aims...aims...aims again, hesitates, aims....

"Oh hell, Jade. Just whack the shit outta it."

She then starts laughing. "You're telling me to whack the shit out of it and you chickened out?"

"Damn straight. I'm a coward—and I admit it."

She hands me the boot, walks across the basement to the woodstove and picks up the ash shovel. She returns and whacks the hell out of the wall. Not the spider. The wall.

"You missed."

"I got it!"

"You missed that sucker."

"I saw legs go squish!"

I shook my head. "Nope. You missed."

"I didn't...I hit it!"

I crossed my arms. "Well, then wedge your ass in between the wall and the washer and produce a corpse."

She starts feeding clothes into the rinse tub, and I return to feeding clothes through the press, reaching into the water for more clothes, and produce a broken, wriggly rubber band.

I went apeshit.

After I stopped screeching, Jade looks at me and says, "Only you, Mom, and over a stupid rubber band."

"Hey, I'm still traumatized."

Wednesday 27 May 2009

A Visit from Elizabeth Walker


Nice Boots!
by Elizabeth Walker

So, I had this pair of boots when I was a kid. They were tall – really tall, and they were ugly – really ugly. Certainly not a pair that you would be proud to wear with a skirt. Not at first anyway. I call them my muckin’ boots. Boots that were made especially for wading through s%#t. I am a firm believer that we were all born with a pair. It’s just that some of us get them out of the closet more often than others.

When I was a young girl my dad died a long and painful death. I was six when his illness began, I was eight when his illness took him. That is when I first discovered that I owned a pair, but I resented having to put them on.

Unfortunately, I didn’t even have time to take the ugly things off before I was handed a new pile to muck through. I became the object of my stepfather’s affections – I’m certain you know what I mean. Only a few more miles down the road, those boots stomped with me to the place where my mother left, with my abuser, to a different country and left me in this one. Those boots grew with me and when I first took them off at around 18, I swore that if I never saw those stinkin’ boots again it would be too soon. I stashed them away in the back of my closet and moved swiftly on with my life, pretending – for a time - that I had never needed them at all.

When I was 28 years old with four children and 10 years of marriage under my belt, I found myself face to face with another steaming heap. This one threatened to swallow my children whole, as my husband was four years and head over heels into a cocaine addiction that was devouring every hope that I had for a future for my sons. I had to make a decision. Was I willing to sacrifice their safety, their childhood, the way that mine had been, in order to continue my futile attempt to save my husband? No! I reluctantly but purposefully reached into that old closet (my heart) and pulled out those ugly old boots (my will to fight circumstance) and slid them back on to my trembling feet. Thing is, once I got those boots back on me I felt strong! Like in them, remained the strength that I had earned during my own childhood. I picked up my babies, told them to hang on tight, and I began my second march in those stinkin’ boots. Funny thing is (if there is anything funny about it) I hadn’t realized until the second journey that those boots were the most comfortable pair I had ever put on.

That last march began almost 7 years ago. Oh my sons and I have been through it, believe me – but that’s the point isn’t it? We’ve been through it! We aren’t in it anymore, and we are together.

So, things are different for them then they were for me. Things are different for me. And, I have this pair of boots. I’m a boots kind of girl. I wear them all the time – even when I wear a skirt. I earned the honor to show them off. Most people don’t notice right away because they’ve been modified slightly and the 3” heel tends to throw them off, but make no mistake, they’re muckin’ boots alright. These boots and I have been through it before, likely we’ll be through it again. But for those of you that have seen them, now you understand why I giggle when you tell me, “nice boots”. If only you could see where they’ve been!

Elizabeth Walker is the author of the memoir, The Tablet of My Heart. You can visit her website at http://www.tabletofmyheart.net/. To read an extended bio, click here!


Wednesday 20 May 2009

Pending Today

Hello everyone!

My latest author newsletter will be released today. I've included my info for meetings at the Lori Foster Convention as well as giving away a previously published title of mine--a sizzling-hot one that has two stories tied together--and a nice li'l contest.

If you're not a subscriber, what I'm doing now (Yahell has ticked me off one too many times) is send a PDF of my newsletter as well as a normal one through my newsletter group. Starting with this edition, you can also access newsletters on the group in the FILES section.

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/bickbrownZHnewsletter

Friday 10 April 2009

Coming Soon to FSW!

Join Elizabeth Walker, author of the memoir, The Tablet of My Heart, (Xulon Press), as she virtually tours the blogosphere in May on her first virtual book tour with Pump Up Your Book Promotion!

About the Author

Elizabeth Walker is the author of the memoir, The Tablet of My Heart. You can visit her website at www.tabletofmyheart.net. To read an extended bio, click here!

About the Book

The world turns upside down for a young girl when her father begins a fatal battle with the merciless affliction cancer. Before his illness finishes it’s devastating rampage through her adolescence, she is confronted by a new demon. She falls victim, by the hands of a trusted adult, to sexual abuse. The devastation of these events causes her to question God’s role in her life, and whether He ever loved her at all. The Tablet of My Heart is a collection of Poetry from the journal of that young girl. It is narrated by the author of the journal herself, who paints a portrait of words illustrating her emotional journey from hopelessness to healing. It is dedicated to victims of abuse; to bring to them the realization of hope that there is a light at the end of the silence.

Excerpt:

My dad had been sick, very sick, for two years of my life now. My mother’s energy was consumed by his sickness. My brothers had their own agendas. One of them was farther away than I could imagine, and the other two . . . let’s be honest . . . what big brother wants his baby sister tagging along for anything? It was a perfectly natural relationship, I assure you.

Unfortunately, Doyle saw it as a perfectly inviting opportunity to gain my trust and friendship. I was alone inside my head. As I said before, I wasn’t really used to someone giving me all his attention. When I was in Doyle’s presence, he paid all sorts of attention to me. He loved my company, he loved to make me smile, and casually he began to love to have me sit on his lap.

Contrary to a mind’s projection of what a child molester should look like, Doyle did not appear to be a monster at all. As a matter of fact, he appeared to be a hero of sorts.

Here was my mother, grieving over the certain death of her husband and father of her children. There with her were the four of us kids, bound to be fatherless. Desperate, sad, and struggling for hope, we were sinking. Then came Doyle, offering a life raft in the midst of troubled waters. He reached out to my mother and supplied her with shelter when she desperately needed it. He gave her a shoulder to cry on in her weakness. He read the loneliness written on my face and responded with friendship. He let us stay in his tiny apartment on the weekends, even though we nearly crowded him out of it. A pillar of a man, people must have thought—certainly not a monster.

Into the Darkness

Sometimes darkness falls so quickly
You barely know it’s there,
Before it finds the warmth inside your soul
And buries itself there.
If you’re lucky maybe embers
Can survive the dying flames,
Smothered by the lifeless dark
That snuffed them when it came.
Once the blackness enters,
Does it ever leave?
Will it stay until it suffocates
The light entirely?
The darkness speaks and hisses
Ugly little things
That mock you every time you pray,
“He’s not lis-s-s-s-s-s-tening.”

Thursday 9 April 2009

WIP with a Wibble

I’ve just been telling myself to write, but my mind isn’t playing. I have three WIPs on the go—rare for me as I usually concentrate on one thing at a time. One is nearly finished, but I can’t be bothered to go in and tie the big shiny bow on the end. Another is just at the start, as is one more, a YA I began the other day then lost the urge.

I’m one of those writers who can write huge amounts when the mood strikes me, but nothing for months in between. I tried the Stephen King suggestion of training myself to write every day for a certain amount of time, but it isn’t working. Why write forced when I know I’m going to scrap it afterwards? Waste of time.

So, for your perusal, is the bare bones (I always add to it as I go along) start of my YA. All I know is it’s about a girl who loves a boy. I write ‘blind’ the majority of the time. Sit down, write, see what happens. My one time writing a novel with a plan drove me mad. I’m contemplating making it into a pdf and giving the bugger away for free.

Anyway, before I put my gumph up, how do you write? Blind? Mapped out? Can you write every day, or, like me, do you have a block for too long to mention?


***


Untitled YA. Copyright M.E. Ellis


There’s this lad at school, right, and he is soooo nice. I blush every time I see him. I’m sure he knows I like him. You know when you stutter and your palms sweat? Well, that’s me whenever he comes near. Like, even when he’s over the other side of the gym or at the far end of the football pitch.

That got me thinking. Do I have an internal radar that picks up on him or something? Does my body know he’s around before my eyes and nose do? I mean, there was this one time I sat at my desk in my bedroom to do my homework and my stomach fluttered. I just knew he was close by. And guess what? I looked out the window, and he stood in my street, talking with my older brother.

That’s how I first met Scott. He’s been my brother’s friend for aaaaaaaages, but I didn’t fancy him until recently. Our science teacher, Mrs. Fletcher, taught us all about hormones and stuff the other week, and I put two and two together and realised that’s why I like Scott in that way now. Hmmm.

But he’s older than me. Okay, only by about a year or so, but older, and Mum and Dad wouldn’t like that. No, they’d say he was after something and wonder why a bigger lad wanted to go out with me. Spoil sports.

Anyway, he doesn’t notice me like that. He’s always got that Vi Chalmers on his arm. She’s the kind of girl you want to pinch. On the cheeks. Hard. I dream about doing that, you know, and wake up smiling. In my dreams, all her makeup comes off on my pointer finger and thumb, leaving two smudges on her cheeks. Yeah, and acne shows through, which tells me just how much foundation she uses to make her face look so fresh and lovely and…argh! I hate her.

And she’s blonde, blue-eyed. Yeah, definitely a girl you could pinch. While I’m…well, let’s just say I’ve got greasy black hair no matter how often I wash it and my face resembles a pepperoni pizza. Go on, laugh. Everyone else does.

Being a teenager is so tough. It sucks. It smells like fresh dog turd on a summer’s day.

It hurts.

But being in love hurts more.


***


I’m not at all sure I like the squiffy business that goes on down below. Mrs. Fletcher said it’s normal, but it doesn’t feel normal. If Scott’s in the vicinity or I think about him, my mini—you know, my bits—get tingly and I have to squeeze my legs together to make it go away. I end up jigging and looking really weird, like some imbecilic freak.

Once, my best friend, Sally, glanced aside at me and asked, “Do you need a wee or something?”

Of course, I nodded and bolted to the girls' toilets, but I couldn’t wee for the life of me. It seems my cheeks are forever doomed to being red and hot, my tummy always gripped with spasms, and my mini, well, doing what minis do when you’re sixteen and over.

And then I let my thoughts follow the forbidden trail. You know the one. The path that leads to the question at the end of the track that no kid wants answered. Do my parents do it?

I don’t want to know, yet I always wonder. I watch them sometimes to see if they act like the kids at school, all sloppy kisses and hand holding, but Mum and Dad just seem normal. Like two pals.

Maybe they wait until darkness comes to do…that.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

I’d talk to Sally about my mini and its antics, but I’m not sure how she’d react. Maybe she’d think I was a pervert or whatever. Maybe she’d never want to speak to me again. I mean, who wants a friend whose bits keep doing that thing? Or maybe hers do the same, and then I’d get the ugh factor about that, the way I do about Mum and Dad.

I need to talk to someone, though.

But who?


***


School is a bummer. It’s boring. I’m learning the same stuff as I did last year. The only reason I don’t skive off is because I come here to see Scott. Oh my God, he’s there on the playing field. He’s coming over. He’s walking towards me while I’m by myself and he’s by himself and we’ll be all alone and….

“Hey,” he says.

Helloooooooo says my mini.

“Um, hi,” says me.

Sweat breaks out on not only my palms, but under my arms. Great. My white school shirt will sport wet rings now. I’ll have to remember to clamp my arms by my sides for the rest of the day. He stands with his hands on his hips, and I peek at his armpits. No damp whatsoever. And his arms, all tanned and showing signs of being hairy like a man…. Ooooh, I could just snog his face off.

“Seen Luke anywhere?” he asks.

Wonderful. I should have known he hadn’t come over to speak to me. He wants my brother. Sometimes I could strangle Luke. The urge to do so now beats the time when he stole my massive gobstopper and sucked on it until it had reduced in size. Man, I wanted to kill him then, especially when he dried it and offered it back.

Uh, yeah? Like I’m going to put it in my mouth after it had been in his?

Not likely.

I blink and return my attention to Scott, who waits with a frown and taps his Nikes on the grass. I’m bugging him, I know it. I’m bugging him and making him go off me. What am I talking about? He didn’t go on me in the first place.

That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean…oh, never mind.

“Umm, no,” I say and fiddle with my bag strap. What a complete plonker I must look.

“Oh, well….”

He gazes behind me—can’t even bear to look at my manky face I expect—then stares back at me. His eyes, they’re so…beautiful. And his eyelashes. I wish mine were like that, all long and pretty. Even his eyebrows look shaped.

“D’you pluck your eyebrows?” I ask before I can stop myself.

His face morphs into a horror-struck expression—you know, a sneer on the lips, eyes wide, brow furrowed—and I know I’ve made the biggest mistake ever. He’s really going to like me now. Not.

“Huh?”

“Umm, sorry,” I say and step to the side to walk away, out of his personal space, his life…. Oh, woe is me, and all that business.

“Listen,” he says and grips my arm.

I turn to face him, shame burning my cheeks. “Hmmm?”

“D’you wanna share a soda?”

What? What did he just say? Like, he doesn’t mind sharing a soda with me? Ohmigod, that means he’ll touch the can with his lips and I can touch the same place and he doesn’t mind spit transference and….

“Uh, okay. Yeah. That would be great. I’m thirsty. Yeah, well thirsty, what with it being so hot and everything. Yeah, what shall we have? Coke? Sprite? What? What d’you fancy,” shut the hell up, Daisy, shut the hell up, “because I don’t mind. I like all sodas. Yeah, umm, yeah….”

His expression stops my waffle. His animated expression. Brows raised, mouth a beaming smile, eyes sparkling. I’m seeing things, surely.

He laughs and releases my arm. “You’re freakin’ nuts!” He puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me towards the cafeteria.

Did you hear what I said? He put. His arm. Around my. Shoulder.

Mini with the wibbles, anyone?


***

Of course, heads turn upon our entrance. Well, they would, wouldn’t they? Who would ever have thought Scott Turner would stroll into the cafeteria with me, Daisy Welland, by his side. Let’s be honest, if anyone had ever thought about it, they’d have laughed. Scott Turner doesn’t hang out with dorks like me.

Until now, apparently.

At the counter, he takes his arm away. Cool air swoops onto the place his arm had been, and a shiver wends down my spine at the loss of contact. He may never touch me again, so I’d better savour what the weight of him felt like, remember the heat from his skin.

Mini! Stop it!

“What shall we have?” he asks and laughs.

He’s obviously recalled my insane monologue about me not minding what soda we have. Stupid, stupid cow! I move to run my fingers through my hair but remember my sweaty pits. I’d ask the floor to open up and swallow me, but I don’t want to miss out on my lips touching that can rim.


“Whatever,” I say and flick my head to the side to shift a stray lock that hung over my eye.
We wait in line, the silence between us uncomfortable, similar to when Mum bites my behind after she’s discovered I didn’t do my chores. I clutch my bag strap and dance from foot to foot.

“D’you need the toilet or something?” a girl’s voice asks.

Oh no. That’s all I need. Sally busting in on my private time with Scott.

I turn and face her. I love her and everything, but her timing is way off. I widen my eyes to let her know she needs to move along, get lost.

“What’s up with your eyes?” she asks and smirks.

Scrub what I just said. I don’t love her anymore.

“Nothing,” I say and narrow them. “I thought you had a lunchtime detention?”

“I did, but Mr. Holbart got a phone call, so I skipped out of the classroom.”

I gasped. “You’ll so get done for that.”

Sally shrugs, and her brown ponytail sways from side to side. “Nah. He’ll be gone ages. Won’t be back until the end of lunch, I’ll bet. He’s probably talking to his lover.”

Despite Sally’s disastrous interruption, I smile. We’d seen Mr. Holbart in town once, his hands all over some woman who looked too pretty to be with the likes of him. I mean, he’s old and grey and smells like cigars and dried sweat.

Which reminds me….

“Do you have any deodorant in your bag?” I whisper.

“Deodorant?” Sally yells. “What d’you want that for? Got sweaty pits?”

I blush—and no, I definitely don’t love her anymore—and fight the urge to stamp my foot on her toes. Why is she being such a…a…cowbag?

I swivel round and present my back to her. I don’t want to see her face right now. I don’t want her near me. She taps my shoulder, and I stay my position.

“Sorry,” she whispers, her breath hot on my neck. “I was only messing.”

I shuffle along and catch up with Scott, who stands at the head of the queue paying for a Coke. Sally’s sigh reaches me, and I don’t feel an ounce of guilt.

Saturday 14 March 2009

Killer Birds, Insane Cats, and a Flying Dog



After today I am nuts.

About three nights a week I work at a local mom-and-pop carryout and closing time is 1 A.M. I'm constantly moving, lifting heavy boxes of glass beer bottles, slinging pizzas, etc. When I get home, I'm beat, but I'm usually too wired to go right to bed so often it's often 3 A.M. and I sleep in, especially if I have back-to-back shifts.

Only someone ALWAYS must call me at 8 A.M. or so and wake me up. I'm serious. It never fails. So, the hubby unplugged the phone because he had to work today and said for me to sleep in.

And so I'm snoozing away....

BAM! CRASH! BANG!

Thump, thump, thump, thump.... {sounded like a mini football team careening through the house.}

Eh...the three cats are playing. Rolls over and closes eyes.

CCCRRRRAASSSSSHHHH!

Shit!

I flung back the covers and leapt out of bed. Oh, wait. Must find robe. I padded out into the living room and kitchen, looked around, saw nothing. Cussing, I crawled back into bed.

BANG! CRASH! Flap-flap!

My eyes popped open. Flap-flap? Oh, shit that means only one thing!

I leapt out of bed--remembering my robe this time since I knew I was about to go into battle--and as I stumbled out into the living room again, something big and black dived at my head.

Hit the deck!

Swoosh! Flap-flap, flappity-flap!

A big blackbird was in the house. I finally cornered the darn thing in the kitchen window where it was bashing its wings like mad and beating it's head on the Plexiglass until it saw li'l Tweety birds encircling its skull. Finally getting it wrapped in a towel, I took it to the mudroom door and let it out.

On my way back into the kitchen--in coming! {Insert the sound of a fast and low flying airplane} Faith hit the deck again.

The cats roared their approval and gave chase. Buzz, my brown tabby, raced like a cheetah on crack. I could almost hear him shouting, "Gang way, get the hell out of my way. It's a bird! A big, fat bird and it's all mine! Mine I say! Move it or lose it Jersey (that's our chocolate labrador), that chickie baby's got my name on it!"

Buzz leapt through the air and moments before he made contact with the bird, the bird moved and Buzz's nose smashed against the picture window where he spun and shot like a rocket from the chair back through the--

Oh, shit! I dived to the side, the bird swooped through, and Buzz flies by, his paws a blur. "Mine! My bird! Touch my bird and die! Mine...!"

Grabbing my towel, I corralled bird #2 against the kitchen window and let it out.

Meanwhile, Shades, the black brother kitty on the block who wears a pink bling-bling collar pads out of the shower room. "Bro, what the hell's--"

SWOOSH!

Shade leapts onto the curtain in the hallway that keeps the cold air out of the kitchen. "BIRD!!! Dude, look at the bird! Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Gotta have bird!"

Buzz: "OH HELL NO! Mom's got the last two. Dat bird's mine!"

Faith: Shit, oh, shit, shit, shit...!"

Finally, I managed to catch bird #3.

Sigh....

About an hour later I'm sitting at my desk typing away and...{Insert low flying plane noise}

AARRGGHHH!!! I pushed back from my chair and hit the deck.

The bird hid. My girls and I looked for it for over and hour. Later, after a quick trip uptown, I stepped into my office only to have my hair skimmed by the blackbird. It swooped into the living room where Jersey, the chocolate lab, saw it. Well, being the bird dog that she is....

Oh! Bird! My bird! Mine, mine I say.

By this time, Radar, the third cat was into the picture. I grabbed a broom. The bird grabbed one of my champagne flutes and pitched it off the top video shelf.

That did it.

"Jersey! Get the bird!"

Ever see a big dog pretend it's a cat trying to catch a bird? Lemme tell ya, it's not a pretty sight, especially with two girls screaming, my four year old shouting and tripping me, me falling over the coffee table, and the dog trying to fly so it can catch the bird that by this time is contemplating a suicide mission into the picture window just to end the horror and drama.

I caught the bird.

Four down and how many to go? Lord help me!

Wednesday 18 February 2009

Feeling Poop


You can't stand yourself? I mean, it's not like you can walk away from you, or tell you to get lost, or tell yourself to give you five minutes then come back. You are always with you. Sleep may be the only escape, but what if you dream about you?
Jesus.
I get like this every so often. Down. Depressed. Tiredness doesn't help. Neither does being due on the, uh, you know what.
What do you do to get yourself out of this mode?
:o)

Thursday 5 February 2009

Britain Grinds to a Halt

Oh my, poop a pebble, Britain has snow. Everyone, quick, crap your pants! We had some on Monday, a couple of inches, and the country went into panic mode. Last night we got some more. Maybe four or five inches where I am. I know down south it’s a lot worse. MIL was snowed in for two days, and M. King has had sufficient snowfall to warrant getting worried. But really, I think we Brits are more astounded that we actually have snow (we rarely get any—only the poor old Scots get anything like bad snow), so when it appears, the whole country goes to pot. I mean, come on, does the picture below look like a lot of snow to you? (That’s London on Monday.)


No. To me it looks like normal snow. Snow we had as kids, where we trudged to school regardless. Where the heating still worked and didn’t break down. And what’s that all about anyway? School heating these days seems to break down at the slightest hint of a cold snap, yet large business buildings manage to keep their places heated. The road workers are panicking because they are running low on grit and salt. Public transport has been stopped. Schools have closed—great for the kids, they get to play outside in the white stuff—but is the amount we have really something to s**t yourself about?

This is bad snow.

If we had this, then I’d understand the kerfuffle.

Grump over.

Ok, so maybe a panic attack will be in order by this time tomorrow. I just looked out of the window. Blizzard ahoy!

I wanna go and play in it!

Friday 30 January 2009

Bug-eyed Cat



I have four cats. Mother Cat, Eldest Son Cat, Youngest Son Cat, and Daughter Cat.

Daughter cat is a little ‘special’. She isn’t ‘all there’. She has massive ears and eyes and skitters about as though frightened. I think this is just her weird behaviour. So, when I want to put her outside, she runs around to get away from me. You would think, like her mother and brothers, that she’d realise that I always catch her in the end. But no, she runs every time.

Today she ran into our coat cupboard. This really gets on my nerves. I don’t want cat hairs on our coats. Inside the cupboard sits a large chest—the shoe box, as we call it. So, determined now out of anger to catch the cat, I get down on hands and knees, hang my torso over the chest, and pat around at the back for the cat, all the while ranting, “I’ll bloody find you, you know. Out! Come on, bloody get OUT!”

The cupboard doors are slim. One is always shut, so I’d squeezed into the space created by one door being open. Dark as feck in that cupboard. I batted around hoping to find fur and pick her up. As she doesn’t have a bell on her collar like the other cats (it drove her mad, and she kept trying to bite it off. I told you she’s weird), I couldn’t hear when she moved. But I felt her. Oh yes. The little cow had been sitting at the other end of the shoe box all along. She brushed past me and the closed door. More angry now at being thwarted, I backed out of the cupboard.

Got my arse stuck.

Lovely.

After getting hot and bothered and managing to free myself as well as realising I need to go on yet another diet, I followed Weird Cat, who sauntered with smugness, into the living room. I closed the living room door so she couldn’t return to the cupboard and spent a couple of minutes chasing her around. She must be special, because she didn’t think to hide behind the sofa.

Anyway. I got hold of her, put her outside, and plan to ignore her bug-eyed silent pleas to return inside as she stares at me when I go out for my cigarette.

Yeah. No cat forces me to accept my arse is too big and gets away with it.

Tuesday 27 January 2009

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http://groups.yahoo.com/group/midnightseductions

Monday 12 January 2009

Writing and a Review

As everyone knows, I write erotic romance and erotica. I write a little bondage and spanking, handcuffs here and there. Just wrote my first menage actually and it included male/male. So as a writer, I try to work it bayyybeeee! lol

So what am I getting at here? The way some writers can get into the heads of their characters. And for this discussion, characters in sexual situations involving the practice of BDSM. The fact is you don't always need to experience something to write it well. That's where the author's imagination and good research comes in. Well, we writers don't always tout the genius of others, although we can be quite complimentary and supportive, but I just had to say something about a new author.

Sarah Masters.

This author knows how to get into the head of her characters without a doubt. I'm published with Freya's Bower and I saw this new title on their home page. The cover pretty much drew me in. Very dark, sexy. The title of this story is Dominatrix.
At $1.25 it's a real bargain, so I made the purchase. To be honest, I'd never read an erotic romance or work of erotica that portrayed a female Dom. Everything I'd ever read had used the big alpha male. So this quickie of Ms. Master's really intrigued me.

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She gave the reader insight that I'd never seen portrayed before. The emotions of her leading lady as she went about her work rang so true. Imagine a woman wielding a whip to a man who has paid her to do so. Then imagine this same woman showing her vulnerability, just opening up her soul and spitting out everything she had to the reader. The entire story, while depicting her at work, focused on Mistress Shadow's internal conflict. The emotions her submissive brought out in her.

During a recent discussion among some writers about writing BDSM, Ms. Master's book was touted by several who had read it. One writer said it all quite succinctly when he expressed the only negative about this book. It was too short--he wanted more. And I so agree. As I understand it, there will be a series of ten from Sarah Masters and I encourage everyone to sample her incredibly well-written work.

To pick up a copy here's the link: http://www.freyasbower.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=5&products_id=165

Oh, and I just found out she has a new title available on January 13th entitled "Trussed". Don't forget to check her out.

On another note, my highly romantic erotic novella, His Sweet Obsession, will release on January 15th from Whiskey Creek Press Torrid. Stop by my website and read an excerpt. http://tessmackall.literalseduction.com/my-books and if you like it, stop by Whiskey Creek Press Torrid on January 15th and pick up a copy. http://www.whiskeycreekpress.com/torrid

Monday 5 January 2009

For the Love of Reading...And Love!

I've been bugging two of my favorite readers to write something about how they read erotic romance together. How it has changed their marriage. A lot of you have probably chatted with Deb and Bob on groups. Deb recently started her own review site~ MoonDancer Reviews. http://debsbook.wordpress.com You can also find her reviews at myspace.com/moondance_reviews Deb loves romance and enjoys asking authors all sorts of questions about their work.

Husband Bob owns his own construction business and reads right along with Deb. He also enjoys restoring his 1962 Harley. VROOOM VROOOM!!


Let's see what the happy couple think about what we write.


Deb's Take:

As a married couple life for us was going along smoothly or so we thought.

Bob and I found that we were in a rut. Having no time as a couple, between kids, work, traveling. One night I was sitting reading and Bob came up behind me, he started reading then asked if he could sit down and read along with me. That is how it started. As time went on we broadened our reading together.

Next it was Bob and myself reading bits out loud. After that we started just reading out loud all together. Now once a month we get away one night to a hotel, cabin, even our home when the kids are gone, cuddle up and read out loud to each. It has brought us closer, helped us see that even an old married couple can learn something new. It has added to our bedroom play as well.

As long as we both agree to it, we experiment in love play. It has brought back the fire we had when our lives were simpler.

BOB here:

On my end of this marriage I knew we needed something to change.


Imagine being a man and thinking you were losing your wife whom you'd loved for 20 years. It is a wake up call I hope no one has to experience.

I am not ashamed to say that we were not happy as a couple in and out of bed. The passion we had was lost to everyday life. We loved to experiment sexually and were quite passionate about it. When the day went by to where we air kissed each other in passing I knew I wanted my wife back.

I never knew that there was such pleasure in holding my wife and reading with her. It is a pleasure that I will never lose again.

We have had people criticize us, even friends saying “They could not believe the extreme we were going to, to save what we have.”
To them I say, “Wait till you are in my shoes.”

It is not that I need to read everything my wife does, because I don't. I do have books I will not read with her. I don't feel the need to read with her everyday.
I like that we do our own thing as well.

We do not read the books to get ideas for sexual play, I will put that out there now. We read for the pleasure of reading together.
There are times we get curious as to how to do things then we turn to books to help.
Spanking, bondage, oral play was something we lost, that we both loved rediscovering. There are things even an old couple like ourselves can learn.

Karma Sutra products have become our favorites. I purchased us a sensual massage basket as a gift for Christmas. The book is amazing. I never knew there were so many facets to a woman's body. The Book is “Sensual Massage by : Susan Mumford” I also put in the basket “The Joy of Erotic Massage” DVD



This book is one we bought, It is not for the faint of heart..

Try this book.
SWEET HEAT, EROTICA FOR COUPLES
By Violet Blue
Sweet, hot and irresistibly delicious. Who can resist temptation? Certainly not the thirteen couples that dial in each other’s number-one sexual fantasies and can’t keep their hands off each other in the short stories collected in Sweet Heat: Explicit Erotica For Couples edited by Violet Blue.


Thirteen stories feature no-holds-barred, sometimes lightly kinky erotica from bestselling erotica authors Alison Tyler, Saskia Walker, Emilie Paris and N.T. Morley, while a bevy of newcomers showcase fine-tuned erotic lit skills.
Each story is hand-selected by Violet Blue in easy-to-use, shareable e book files. Let the witty and provocative editing of Violet Blue, best-selling writer, sex columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle and editor of the award-winning Best Women’s Erotica series lead you into some of the hottest, juiciest sexual adventures two lovers can share.

Fun things to do as a couple that we now do..
1- Go out on dates
2-Read together
3-Pretend to be tourist for a day, explore.
4- Explore each other


There is a lot of information out there to help a couple, but you have to do what you and your partner feel comfortable with. What fits your life style.

The whole thing in a nutshell is listen to what you are saying to each other. That is the #1 most important thing, even if the words are not there the actions could be.

We would Love to hear your comments..
With Love and Sass..
Bob and Deb

Many thanks to Bob and Deb for sharing their insights. What a fabulous couple!