Come on in here, and bring your best "Unhand me, you Ruffian!" scenes.
Rules are: Keep it PG. Keep it relatively short.
Ralphie started us off, I'll repost her scenes from the Recruiting Squad thread for us to keep it going.
Dirk knew he should resist Lissande. She was not right for him - she was the daughter of the only man he had sworn to kill, the spawn of his enemy. But after saving her from a fate worse than death, drowning in the Atlantic like so much kelp, and being forced to live with each other the on same ship - Dirk's ship, his first love - he could not stop thinking about her long brown hair and melting eyes. If only he could stop. If only she would not appear before him every time he close his eyelids at night. If only the very thought of her soft skin and full breasts did not cause him to break out in a cold sweat. If only...
But some cruel twist of Fate had brought her here. He could not deny it. Standing on the bow of the ship, his rough hands caressing the ship's wheel while his bulging muscles almost unconsciously tamed the wildness of the ocean, his eyes followed her as she walked across the wooden boards, seeming like an ethereal creature. He had to know, once and for all. He had to know.
"Smitty!" Dirk snarled, and handed the wheel over to his first mate. Smitty didn't need to ask what Dirk was up to. He already knew.
Following Lissande into the cabin, Dirk waited for the right opportunity to have her alone. Lissande crossed the dining area and then went into the hall. As soon as she almost to her room a hand caught her upper arm and swung her around. Then two, well-toned arms pinned her against the wall. Feeling like a trapped bird, she gathered her courage and looked straight into the eyes of her captor. Straight into the eyes of her father's nemesis. Straight into the eyes of Dirk...
"Lissande," Dirk whispered into her ear, his mouth mere inches from her own. "Where were you going?"
"That is none of your concern!" she said, all of her passion manifesting itself into anger.
"I think I know," he responded with a devilish grin. He then grabbed her shoulders and, after handling her roughly while opening her cabin door, forced her in with him.
"Unhand me, you ruffian!" she nearly shreiked. "Unhand me! I..." but Lissande could not finish for sobbing.
Dirk then gently gathered to him. He then knew how hard it was for her. Living on the ship of her father's enemy, never knowing what was to become of her, feeling the same tension he had been experiencing...
"Lissa, Lissa," Dirk whispered, again and again. "I just need to know. I need to know what you would do if I did this..."
And then Lissa looked up into his eyes. His eyes like fire, smoldering and piercing her. Paralyzing her were she stood.
Dirk looked down and saw the sweet swell of her breasts pushed up again his chest. He knew he could never let her go, even if he tried. His lips descended and all at once found hers...
*twitch*
She looked over the rolling hills of her beloved Scotland, knowing it was the last time she'd see her homeland. How does a woman endure something like this, Belle asked herself. How does a woman leave something like the love of her land to marry the cold and unyielding form of the English?
She thought of the man she was to marry. As cold as his culture, as refined as his station. Tall and devilish and hard. But she thought she had seen a bit of softness...
Belle allowed her mind to float back to the night of the masquerade ball. The night she let herself slip out of her small station and into the life of nobility. That was the night that everything came crashing down. But it was also the night she met her raven...
Tall, like her new husband, with jet-black hair and a similar devilish grin. Belle remembered how he had led her out of the ballroom into an antechamber. With the music still flowing the background he had take her to him. He had pinned her to the wall, letting his mouth search her's out. Letting his tongue plummet to the depths of her soul. And she had let him. Oh, had she let him! He had only said one thing that night, after the torrid moment where his mouth had sucked her will to live without anything but him, after his hand had wantonly explored the mounds of flesh flowing from her bodice. "Bella..." he had whispered in her ear. Had he known who she was? Was it simply a term of endearment in an unknown language? Or, was it the words of a man who would one day come for her? A man who would be her's...
Suddenly, it hit her. The same height, the same hair, the same devilish grin. Could this be the same man as her soon-to-be-husband? Had the man she could not know as anything but harsh and unyielding be the same man that had melted her own iron steel into the rippling pools of desire upon the antechamber's floor?
Could he be the man that Belle knew she could love? She thought once more of that kiss, and the familiar stirring in her loins flared up once more...
You know, I think it's the elipses that make a truly good romance story.
Oh, and Leonide - You're next, baby.
What would it be like, she wondered. How much would she have to give up? There would be sacrifices, but would there be pain? Was she even ready?
Even as she considered turning back, it was upon her. As before, she could offer no resistance, was swept up in the irresistible tide even as her conscious mind, struggling to hold itself together, began to boil away in the heat of her spasming passion.
Edited for Ralphie:
And even as she split into two identical cells, that wild part of her -- the part she had so long denied -- was indeed left unsatisfied, still intrigued by the dark and forbidden call of legendary meiosis.
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited February 25, 2003).]
Leonide felt the eyes of Jordan on her. Though there were over twenty people at the dining at the table, the familiar sensation of his eyes roving her face and body could not be mistaken. She did not want to look back, but it was as if he had strings attached to her, controlling every move. She turned her head to face him, to communicate her contempt for him with all the expression she could muster, when their eyes locked. The deep blue of his, the drowning green of hers. Everything he felt, everything she had been surpressing, was translated in that one single locking of eyes. That's when they both knew. They knew they could not deny their passion any longer using a false screen of station and contempt.
Then, as soon as it happened, it was over. Jordan's face turned back to the conversation he was having at the head of the table with the sycophantic lord, and Leonide's face turned back to plate, flushing.
It was too much, oh how it was too much! She could not accept this situation any longer. She had to escape. She had to have a moment for herself. She turned to the guests sitting to each side of her and excused herself. Not even to the exit and she was already running. Running to her gardens, to her sanctuary.
She sat on the fountain's concrete edge, letting the gentle splash of reality wash over her. She closed her eyes and faced the full moon. How could it have become so complicated, so soon? How could it have become so passionate, so hot, in such a short amount of time? Why could she not stop thinking of him...
"I thought I'd find you here," Jordan's silky voice washed over her.
Leonide's eyes snapped open. Jordan was but inches from her face, having knelt down on the ground in front of her.
"We cannot deny this any longer, Leonide," he said. "I fought it. Lord knows I fought it, but I cannot deny it. And neither can you."
"No," she whispered. "I cannot."
"Then let us stop..." he said, trailing off into an embrace that left her breathless. His mouth came down to gently kiss her neck, her ear, her cheek, and then her lips. She unconsciously swelled towards him, wrapping her arms around his velvet coat, feeling the muscles underneath that no Duke should have, feeling that familiar stirring in the pit of her stomach, the need to have all of him, all the sensations of the outside garden in that one embrace...
But it could not be. Her face suddenly turned away from his. "We cannot-" she choked out.
He looked at her under the moonlight, her porcelain skin and red hair shining like beacons to his soul. He turned away from her to catch his composure, and then looked at her again and nodded.
"I shall... I shall go back," he informed her, and stood up. "I shall go back and face the room without you, but I my heart shall be here with you in the garden, under the moonlight, and my soul shall be within you."
He turned and walked away, and Leonide felt a part of her die within her...
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 25, 2003).]
Patrick slammed his hand down on the table.
God but that woman was infuriating! So opinionated, so stubborn, so…beautiful. Try as he might, he couldn’t erase from his mind the image of her icy blue eyes flashing in anger and her blonde hair framing that lovely face. Even in her fury, she possessed a beauty that stabbed at his heart. No, especially in her fury.
When she was angry she was so full of life, so animated, so captivating. He could never get angry back at her in turn, because he wanted nothing more than to stare at her and get lost in the fire of those enchanting eyes.
He slumped down in the chair and rested his head on his hands. What was he going to do? She refused to stay behind, safe amidst the walls of the Mackillian lands, while her father and brothers and uncles went off to war. He had to stop her from riding off to join them, but how? Could he bring himself to physically restrain her? Could he afford not to?
There was nothing more but to face her, try to make her see reason. Try to convince her how important it was that she stay safe, here.
He drew slowly to his feet, took a deep breath, and set out to find her.
****
He found her in the stables, saddling Bronte, her older brother’s prized bay stallion.
“Jamie, I can’t let you go,” he said softly into the quiet air of the stable.
She turned, no anger in her eyes this time. Just steely determination.
“I don’t think I see how it is you intend to stop me,” she said coolly.
“I’m your Father’s kinsman, in his absence he has asked you to obey me,” he reminded her.
“You are kinsman of my mother’s husband, my father is dead. There is no tie of blood between us,” she answered defiantly.
He closed the distance between them in a few strides, until he stood not an inch from her. Patrick leaned in, careful not to touch her, just getting as close as he dared.
“For that fact, I am immensely grateful,” he murmured.
Her blue eyes widened, and he saw the beginning of fear in her face. Gently, he placed his hand against her bosom, and felt her heart pounding as a frightened rabbit’s. With his other hand he raised hers, and placed it against his own chest so she could feel his heartbeat as well.
“Jamie, please don’t go” he murmured, and then leaned down. She met him, face upturned as face to face, and hand to heart, their lips joined……
do me, do me!
heh, ew.
you know what i meant.
all i ask if the guy be exotic or dark or something. from a far away land and all that rot.
[This message has been edited by porcelain girl (edited February 25, 2003).]
You're supposed to just get swept up in the emotion of it all!
also, i love the generous usage of the words swell, swells, swelling, and swelled.
I HAVE to show Patrick. HAHAHAHAHA
Stephan's grip tightened on Sara's shoulders as his feelings for her flowed through the muscles in his forearms. If only she knew he was not a stableboy. If only she knew that he was the wealthy son of a Viscount, with his own titles to be had. If only she knew he was on the hunt for his brother's murderer and this was his only way...
Sara mustered together all the hautiness her station had trained her to have. "Unhand me, Stableboy, or this will be your last position on this earth." Her melting eyes narrowed and she pursed her rose-pedal lips.
That was too much for Stephan. He pushed his flowing blond locks out of his eyes and leaned in closer, his aquiline nose hovering only inches from her pert one. "Are you sure you want me to let you go? I think you want me to hold you," he said, then giving a small grin. "Forever..." he let the word trail off as he pulled her closer to him.
Sara could not fight the desire that had been welling up inside her. It burst forth like a geyser, filling every part of her body and leaving a hunger only Stephan could sate.
"I... I can't... I..." and then her hand grabbed the back of his hair and pulled him down to her.
The sensation of their lips finding each other was more than either of them could handle. They fell upon the hay-splattered ground of the stable, locked in an embrace that only fueled each of them farther, and hotter.
Sara was not going to allow this stableboy to get the better of her. She pushed him down as best one of her small frame could. But all of his over-six-foot body felt her command and submitted. Her small hands pinned his shoulders to the ground and she sat up a little. "I should have done this ages ago," she said, driving his mind to distraction and causing his eyes to glaze in passion.
Their kiss was one of ultimate desire, setting both of them on fire and threatening to send them over an edge they could not recover from. Her hands had a permanent grip on his shoulders and hair, while his explored the curves that had driven him crazy from the moment he set eyes on her.
It was then that they heard the voice of her father...
Did you know my name is Sara, too? And I had a crush on a Steve back in junior high...
Really good brain sex, by the way. It is the key to romance writing.
Don't come around for a few days, you expect to miss a few things. But I come back here and...
You guys are killing me!
Olivet, who is reading Drums of Autumn at the moment (Jamie just killed a bear. *giggles*)
edit: Wow, that sounds terrible. I mean "I'm a naturally talented hack romance novelist."
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 26, 2003).]
It caused me to develop a distaste for the scent of lilac, though, on behalf of Jamie. Funny how reality mingles with what you read.
j/kOutlander was my first romance novel, ever (not counting a Grace Livingston Hill thing that was forced down my throat in Christian school. Funny, my sister writes inspirational (read:religious) romances, and I pretty much universally despise the genre. She's not bad, though.)
Suddenly I'm really, really glad she doesn't have internet access at the moment.
Ni!
Only when sheer exhaustion had overcome her did she collapse. “No more, I can go no further,” she sobbed. As she crumpled to the ground, she felt the weariness infuse her entire body, into every bone, muscle, sinew. She was spent, there was no strength left in her to continue running. Whatever fate awaited her, it would find her here, in this sun-dappled forest glade.
Darkness washed over her and claimed her consciousness before her head even struck the carpet of leaves and moss that covered the floor of the glade. Riding the wave of darkness, her mind returned to the events of the days before….
***
She grabbed at his arm, pulling, pleading. “No, it’s not true! Say it’s not true, Gideon!” He could not be leaving! He’d been fostered here at Huntington Hall his entire life, as part of the treaty alliance between their fathers. And now, over one disagreement, he was being banished from their lands? Without giving them a chance to speak to one another in private? Without giving her an opportunity to say all the things she had meant to say for so many years?
“I’m sorry, Fael,” he said sadly. “I wish….” He stopped and ran his hands through his dark hair, anguish apparent on his face, pain shining through those brown eyes so dark and mysterious she could get lost in them. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
And then, in a thunder of horsebeats, he was gone.
***
Fael woke, her face wet with tears. How could her father send Gideon away? He’d raised him as a son! Given him every privilege, treated him like family.
But he hadn’t been family, not really. Everyone knew that. With his dark, brooding good looks, his muscular frame, and his intensity in battle, he had far outclassed her own slender-boned, fair-haired brothers when they practiced arms. For how many years had she taunted him? Teased him for his looks, for being so clumsy as a boy…who knew what type of man he was going to be? When had she begun to notice? When had she seen that hulking, awkward boy turn into the man that made her knees weak when he smiled at her?
And now he was gone, forever. The only good thing to come of it, was the realization of what type of man her father was. So cruel, so unfeeling. His banishment of Gideon was too much to take, she had to run away.
The tears started again, and soon progressed to sobs, as she remembered the look of pain on his face as he was forced to turn and ride away. Was he sad at leaving the only home he’d ever known? Or dared she hope there was something more that stirred his heart to sadness?
“Fael?” The tremulous voice broke into her reverie. It couldn’t be, but she would recognize that voice anywhere.
“G-Gideon? Is that you?” She opened her eyes. “No, you’re a dream, you cannot be real.”
He knelt in the glade beside her. “No dream, beloved. It is I. I came back to find you, I tried to leave but I knew I could not bear never seeing you again. Your brother’s told me you had gone, your father blamed me. I’m sorry, I had to fight my way out, but I did my best to spare them injury.”
“You fought my father and brothers for me?” Her mouth uttered the question but her head was already reeling with the knowledge that he had called her Beloved. Could Gideon feel the same way about her as she did him?
“I would have fought my way through every army that has ever been to get to you, Fael. I love you, I always have.”
With a sob she reached for him, her hands buried in his hair her lips seeking his. He wrapped her in his arms and whispered “I love, I love you” into her hair. In the sanctuary of a moss-carpeted forest glade they melted into each other, bodies, hearts, souls becoming one, finally quenching the fire of desire that had been burning between them for years….
Lance had not wanted to take on this position. The renowned fencing master had better things to do with his time than to pander to the petty whims of a rich man and his boyish daughter. Though teaching was an integral part of him, he did not enjoy teaching for the spoilt and the wealthy were almost invariable that. But he had needed the money, and quickly, and so he took the position, albeit unwillingly.
And then he had met the rich man and his daughter, and everything had changed.
Sara's mother had been assaulted and her father made damn sure that was never going to happen to Sara. She had been trained in many of the fighting arts, but had been sorely lacking in her skills with the rapier. Lance was to change all that, and he had never seen a more rapt and talented student. But that was before. That was when she was but a child. And now she was growing up before his eyes.
In the four years that he had begun training her, the tunic she wore during lessons had begun to fill out. Sara was no longer the shapeless, boyish child she had been, but a young lady of enviable proportions. Full, firm breasts flowed down to a nipped waist. Hips that made a man's fingers itch led into long, shapely legs. And her hair... her hair...
He chastised himself for imaging the things he wanted to do with her, but then he'd let himself think them all over again. The way he'd pull her head back and plunge into the recesses of her mouth, the way his hands would move all over the curves that made him perspire in the night and feel like a dirty old man in the morning. The way he would bury himself in her, and then hold her to him afterwards like a man clinging to a plank in an unforgiving ocean after a shipwreck. The way he would make Sara his own.
His mind said it was wrong, but it felt so right. And when she would walk in every morning for her lesson, when she would stray in and use her new, burgeoning talent of flirtation on him, his mind shut off. He had to find a way to have. He had to...
"Well, good morning," Sara said, swaying in and abruptly interrupting his thoughts. "Shall we have a go at it, then?" she ask, pulling a rapier from the wall displays and testing it's metal by slashing the air. Then she looked up at him with her drowning brown eyes and put her lips together to ask, almost seductively, "Shall we have a go at it now?"
Lance watched her graceful movements and thought, Oh, yes. We will have a go at it. Maybe not now, but we most certainly will...
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 25, 2003).]
quote:
With a sob she reached for him, her hands buried in his hair her lips seeking his. He wrapped her in his arms and whispered “I love, I love you” into her hair. In the sanctuary of a moss-carpeted forest glade they melted into each other, bodies, hearts, souls becoming one, finally quenching the fire of desire that had been burning between them for years….
Oh, Belle. That's classic.
Your female heroines have a saucy side to them. Thanks. I agree, this is getting a little frightening, isn't it?
It's just too easy.
[This message has been edited by Belle (edited February 25, 2003).]
I love you guys.
He couldn’t be here…not now. Literally, as he was killed by the Mafia last June. How, then, was he walking up her front path, unwittingly about to unearth everything she had worked so hard to forget?
Ralphie met him at the door, pausing for a few seconds before she could even force out a word in greeting.
“Hello,” she finally stammered, “I think we should talk.”
Without a word, Pat slipped his arm around her waist and pressed his body against her ample rack.
“I have just returned from what feels like the longest journey of my life. Can we not talk after our first desires have been met? I have lon-“
Ralphie pushed away and whispered, “Pat…I can’t. I’m…”
“Scared? I know. But I assure you that I am no ghost. I’ve been under the care of a doctor for the last eleven months. The Mafia was less than thorough.”
“No,” she croaked, tears in her eyes, “it’s not that.” After a quick glance back into the house, she continued, “Pat…I thought you were gone for good.”
He stepped back, as if repulsed. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
“Well, not exactly someone else…”
Before she could find tender words to explain her situation, the doorway behind her was suddenly filled with the bodies of three naked men.
“Ralphie, you couldn’t be!“
“Pat, you never realized how much lovin’ you were giving me. It was always so much…and when you left, I-“
“Can you handle one more?” He was eyeing the tight, well made bodies of the three men behind her. “I think I’m through with booze and whores.”
To be continued…
How's this...
The voices blended into one another until Jane only heard two words over and over: husband, wife, wife, husband. She looked with disgust at the man who had come to make the offer to Father. A little horseshoe of wiry black hairs fringed the back of his head, but the top was as smooth and bright as a riverstone. He stood precariously on two fat legs, and his girth flowed over his gaudy belt. He smiled at her through all of the negotiations, his wide lips and rotting teeth making her want to hide her face. But Jane was her father's eighth daughter, not the first, and Father had supported her long enough. He would accept this suiter--her first--and Jane would have no choice but to accept as well.
Jane dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to keep a humble, pretty smile on her face. If only the suitor would give her one night, one night to run away. Then she and Gareth, her Gareth, could run away together and...
The thought of nightfall made Jane's smile almost genuine for a few moments. That was when Gareth walked by, a slaughtered hog slung over his shoulders: a feast in honor of the suiter. His brown muscles rippled in the bright sunlight, shiny with the honest sweat of labor. His green eyes told her he was thinking of her, and a silly grin flashed across his face.
Oh, to be in his arms! To hear him profess his love to her in public, honorably proposing marriage to Father, and to be accepted! Jane knew this would never be, but she lived it so often in her dreams that it seemed absurd that it hadn't happened yet. The secret moments of hot kisses, the strength of Gareth's embrace, the smell of his hair...
She was truly already his husband in her heart. Husband, wife, wife, husband. Not this suitor's, Gareth's. Gareth's little wife. Jane thrilled at the thought.
***
At last it was over, and the wedding set for tomorrow. Jane almost felt sorry for a moment for the shame she would bring to Father when he would have to go tell the suitor she was gone. But the thought of finally becoming Gareth's--completely--prevented her from any feeling other than bliss.
The feast was not nearly so elaborate as Katherine's had been, but it was enough for the marriage of a nobleman's daughter. There was dancing minstrels and ale and plenty of food. The only thing that would have made it perfect would have been Gareth's presence there as the groom-to-be. Jane even had the heart to dance with the suitor, and despite his size, found him to be a good dancer.
And then, when everyone had gone to bed, Jane slipped out to Gareth's stall. The world was silent, and Jane shivered with excitement and nervousness. Only a few moments, and she would be with him, never again to be separated...
The little hut was locked and dark when she came to it. She knocked and knocked, as she had so many times before, but this time no one answered.
"Go to bed, child; he's gone," a voice said. Jane turned to see one of the working women, dressed in nightclothes, standing behind her.
"Gone!" Jane's head was swimming, her heart sinking slowly into her belly.
"He left today, upon word of your upcoming marriage," the woman continued.
"Which way did he go?" Jane asked frantically. Her soul, her body ached for him. She would follow him, find him wherever he was.
"I don't know, lady. Go back to bed. You're to be married in the morning."
[This message has been edited by Diosmel Duda (edited February 25, 2003).]
quote:
Shall we have a go at it, then?" she ask, pulling a rapier from the wall displays and testing it's metal by slashing the air.
You rock, Ralphie!
quote:
But after saving her from a fate worse than death, drowning in the Atlantic like so much kelp,
I'm still laughing at this! LOL!
You guys are scary.
I'm disturbing the poor micro class in here. *LOL* So great.
-pH
quote:...is the classic line I had totally forgotten about. It's perfect.
Jane dug her fingernails into her palms.
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 25, 2003).]
Now, who's next?
edit: I'm guessing you can figure out my tastes.
Ni!
[This message has been edited by knightswhosayni! (edited February 25, 2003).]
Is it also Sara?What DO you like? I mean, besides the tight leather pants. Name a man-meat, baby.
Pearce likes Vin. Yup. I likes 'em bald, muscley, and charismatic.
Hehehehe. *wanders off to watch David Draiman flail about on the Disturbed video*
-pH
edit: Maybe two men could duel over me? And I don't like my real name. It's not romance-novelly, anyway.
[This message has been edited by Ophelia (edited February 25, 2003).]
Becky crumpled to the ground and felt the agony of being totally alone in her soul. A whicker from behind reminded her she wasn’t physically alone. Cherokee pushed his head against her, and she patted him, smiling through her tears.
“You’re a good horse, Cherokee, “ she said affectionately. The plains stretched out in front of her for miles, as far as she could see. She was free to go wherever she wished, except for the one place her heart longed to go.
The wind picked up her hair, and whipped it around her face, drying her tears and reminding her that the world had not stopped simply because her heart was broken. She rose, and gave Cherokee a quick inspection to make certain there were no stones lodged in his hoofs or anything else that would hinder their progress. “I guess it’s time to go, boy,” she sighed reluctantly.
Springing onto his back with the ease that came from years of practice, she nudged him toward the desolate plains ahead. Whatever future awaited her, she would have to find it out there. Away from the ranch. And away from Ken.
The sound of thundering hoofbeats from behind made Becky whirl. Her eyes widened as the image came charging down on her. It couldn’t be! But there was no mistaking what she saw.
Only one horse existed with the power and beauty of the black stallion bearing down on her position. Only one with that exquisite sheen on his coat, with that head held high in the breeze. It was Rapier, and there was only one man who could tame and ride him.
In moments he was there, swinging off Rapier’s back and rushing to her side. She threw herself off Cherokee’s back and into his arms. Was it real? Was she imagining this embrace? How could they be here in this moment, together?
“Ken! What are you doing here?” she cried.
“What I want to do, what I’ve been longing to do since the moment I first saw you. Hold you, kiss you, tell you that you’re mine. For you are mine, Becky. Mine forever. I won’t let anything stand in the way of our love for each other.”
“But your father,” she protested, “your marriage to Elsa! Today’s your wedding day!”
“My father be damned, and Elsa too. He can give her the ranch too I don’t want it. I don’t anything but you. Today is my wedding day, but I’ll have no bride but you, Becky.”
Then he was on his knees before her, holding out a ring. Not the one he proffered Elsa, but his grandmother’s silver ring. Elsa had turned her nose up at it, but Becky had always loved it’s elegance and the love it represented.
“Becky, under this sky, with God and our horses as witnesses, will you marry me?” he asked as the ring slid onto her finger. It was a perfect fit, and it already felt as if she’d worn it all her life.
Without waiting for her answer, Ken bent down to claim her mouth, and they kissed as the wind stirred around them, warmly caressing them as if God had indeed acknowledged and blessed their new union. Becky could feel her heart thumping in time with Ken’s, as she just melted into the kiss, their bodies pressing against each other with the urgency of passion, coupled with the tenderness of undying love.
They broke, long enough for her to whisper “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes…
Laying on the divan, languidly soaking up the spring's rare sunshine, Pearce closed her eyes and let her mind wander to where her eyes had just been. She had just asked the labourer's name a few days ago, Peter, and in the days since she hadn't allowed him to be out of her sight.
Oh, she knew she shouldn't follow him around the house and gardens, making up excuses and reasons to be in whatever part of the grounds he was at that moment, but she could not help herself. And it was in the gardens that the view was most rewarding. His chemise clung to his body as he shoveled the dirt to make room for a starter tree. Sweat ran down the engorged muslces of his arms, shoulders and back as he worked away while she comfortably watched. Another woman might have been put off by his bald pate, but it only added to Peter's malehood, if Pearce's opinion meant anything. And she hoped it did. She hoped it meant everthing...
She was not inexperienced. She had been married before, sold for money by her titled but poverty-stricken parents, to an old despot who had the good grace to die less than a year after their vows. Though her experience had been torturous, she knew by instinct that was not always the way of it. Mary, her maid, had explained the way of it before. And she wanted so much for Peter to show her the way...
She rose from her divan with the sleekness of a cat. Meandering her way around the rose bushes, the fountains and the statues, she finally found herself but a few feet from Peter.
"You're doing nice work here," she said, unsure of how to make him notice her as he never seemed to look in her direction.
But he did notice her. He noticed her all the time. He noticed her when she was laying languidly, he noticed her when she walked towards him. He noticed her as she all but seemed to follow him no matter where he went. He noticed all of her...
"My lady, you cannot keep following me like this," he burst out, surprised at his own frustration. The frustration she had caused him to feel, both mentally and in other ways he did not want to think about.
The outburst surprised her, too. But she could not stop herself, she could not prevent herself from staying and wanting to talk to him, to have him show her how it could be...
"I cannot leave, Peter. I cannot go without you. I cannot..." she trailed off. She struggled with a moment with herself, her position, her duties and responsibility. Her better judgement. And then desire won out, like clouds forming over the earth, heavy with rain and unable to stop their torrential downpour.
Pearce grabbed his soil-worked hand and, without a word, led him to the enclosed gazebo. She pushed in him, knowing all too well that his very size prevented him from doing anything he didn't want to do.
"I knew it. I knew it," she said, refering to his desire of her. "I knew you'd come with me."
His eyes showed the same self-doubt and inner struggle that she had felt only moments before. "God love me, but I cannot deny it. Pearce, I must... I must have you NOW," he barely managed to get out while he pulled her to him.
The room inside the gazebo was hot and sticky and sensual beyond their wildest dreams.
She backed up and, wanting to make this last forever, slowly began unlacing her velvet corset.
His eyes set on fire as he watched it inch off and slip down her perfect body...
quote:
“My father be damned, and Elsa too. He can give her the ranch too I don’t want it. I don’t anything but you. Today is my wedding day, but I’ll have no bride but you, Becky.”
AHHH! That's awesome!
I'm doing the bodice-rippers, Belle. You're not being as naughty as I am.
[This message has been edited by Deirdre (edited February 25, 2003).]
As far as i care, you can name horses whatever they'll respond to. But a STALLION named Gurtrude? eek.
Ni!
Anyone want to do mine?
Antonia stood as tall as her spare five foot frame could afford her and lifted her chin defiantly. "You are naught but foolish boys, and I'll have none of either of you," she said, spitting each word out with disdain. As a final punctuation on her rejection of the two suitors, she twirled in place, the golden velvet of her skirts flaring prettily from her hips, and stalked out of the room with a firm click-click of her booted heels.
The two men postured aggressively against each other. It was difficult to tell which was the brawnier of the two. One's jet black hair was smoothed back into a neat ponytail. The other's blond hair made an untidy nest around his face, roguishly completed with a tidy goatee. They both sported ice blue eyes.
The dark one spoke first. "Bien, perro, usted ahora lo ha hecho. Si usted hablara una lengua civilizada por lo menos ella todavía estaría hablando nosotros dos. "
The blond curled his lip and replied with a stecado that showed every one of his straight, pearly teeth. "Civilized! Cão! Como pode você dizer tais coisas? Se sua língua fosse um trifle civilized mais menos do que é afortunada ser, eu não poderia compreender seu drivel sem sentido.
"Garde do En! Extraia que o toothpick você chama uma espada e nos deixa duelar para seu favor. "
And with this, the two swordsmen drew, pacing each other on the slate floor....
***
Hours later, Antonia dropped her embroidery into her lap with an exasperated sigh. With eyes flashing, she addressed her nurse, Deirdre.
"Are they both dead yet?" Her breasts mounded up over her corseted bodice as she breathed heavily in anticipation of the answer.
"Not yet, but they're bleeding copiously on the floor. I'm so glad we took the carpets out this time. I do wish you would just send them away instead of this...this...wastefulness. I'm sure some other girl would have fancied them."
"Call it a service to womankind, dear Nurse."
***
Deckter carried the wood to milady's chamber with practiced precision. He had done it a thousand times before, loading the fireplace, each time anticipating a glimpse of her slender ankles, the gentle curve of her wrists, and the haughty angle of her chin. Once he'd been treated to the waves of her dark brown hair, highlighted in the sun streaming through her window as she dried it after her bath. It cascaded down from her shoulders and pooled on the floor as she sat languidly combing it. Such a sight no man had seen save him, yet any number of genteel fools had died trying for the privilege. Someday... someday....
No! Not someday, he thought to himself. Today! Now!
This time as Deckter strode confidently into her chamber, milady was startled by the way he met her eyes and held them. He broke the gaze only to drop the wood and brush the bark and wood dust from his glistening arms. When he straightened, Antonia's chin was again at her accustomed angle.
"No, Lady. You will hear me. You are mine and there will be no more dueling nonsense." His voice was firm, deep and rich. She'd never heard him speak before. Truly, she'd never noticed him before. He was as invisible as all the other servants. Until today...
Yet, his haughty manner! How dare he! She stood to sweep her hand against his brazen countenance.
He caught her blow before it landed, and used the grip on her wrist to pull her tight against him. The smell of his manly sweat mingled with the more delicate fragrance of rosewater dabbed on her breast.
At last, a true man...one who knew that her bravado was all a sham. She melted into his kiss in one final surrender...
Ni!
--Pop
“We shall see about that!” Roth snapped. Then he bowed, and saluted her. Ophelia turned her back, not refusing to give him her favor.
How did it come to this? How could she be here, in this situation? Betrothed to the man she loathed more than anything in the world, and her only protector, her only hope a young man she had only just met?
And yet, and yet…his eyes, so full of compassion as she sobbed out her story. His insistence that he would protect her. Did she really just meet him? Because if felt as if she’d known him all her life. She felt safe with him.
What ever had led her to trust this mysterious dark stranger? Fate had brought them together, when she ran blindly from Roth the night before, he had caught her, stopping her from flinging herself off the cliffs to her death. Death would be preferable to a lifetime chained to Roth. Only when he grabbed her wrists and said “Don’t be a fool!” did she begin to feel a little hope.
But now, she could feel that hope receding. Roth was a master swordsman, how could this stranger stand against him? He did not even possess a sword, Roth had been forced to procure him one so the duel could be fought fairly! Who was he, that he would foolishly throw his life away for a woman he didn’t know?
Roth advanced toward the stranger, an evil smirk on his face. No doubt he intended to prolong it, to make a sport of it, and force the young man to suffer before he ended it.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let him die for her. It wasn’t worth it.
“Roth! Roth! Stop this. I will marry you, don’t kill this man!” she cried. Her heart closed up in agony, but there was no escaping it. Better to live her life chained to this evil man than allow this dark stranger to die for her sake.
Roth merely laughed, and continued his advance toward the man. He was going to kill him anyway! To spite her!
What happened next was almost too quick to process. With a few startling moves the stranger leapt forward, parrying every stroke of Roth’s and advancing ground, driving Roth backwards in a defensive posture. Suddenly it was over. Roth lay crumpled to the ground, a dark stain spreading underneath him.
The stranger sheathed his borrowed sword and walked toward her. “Valiant of you, Milady. Valiant, though unnecessary. He shall trouble you no more.”
“I owe you my life,” she said breathily.
“I don’t wish for that sort of payment, Milady. Keep your life, grant me but a kiss.”
With that he pulled her to him, crushing her mouth beneath his. Ophelia couldn’t pull away, she felt her heart pound in his embrace, as the ice around her heart melted and she became bathed in the warmth of passion. A kiss was all he asked, but she knew the real payment he had received was her heart and soul.
*applauds*
Nice job, Jeniwren. I totally dug my foreign suiters.
Wow...
*runs off into the glade looking for Gideon*
The only thing Michael knew for certain was that he needed Connie in his arms. She was his entire life from the first moment he laid eyes on her. She would remain his whole life forever.
But she was gone. Fate had dealt them a cruel hand, and Michael had naught but to play it out. Connie was gone. Gone. Gone forever like some phantasm that had been with him for but a moment, only to disappear into the clouds and vanish forever. How could he live without her? How could deal with the thought that she was gone, fallen into the cracks of the chasm beyond the manor grounds? The last moments of their love were still fresh upon his mind. The last moments of his inability to keep a hold of her hand as she slipped from his grasp into the darkness below.
He hurled the crystal glass full of wine against the cold, hard stone wall. It shattered in a million pieces, signifying his broken heart. The red fluid ran down from the stone and filled the cracks on the floor, signifying his tortured and aimless soul.
"Connie... CONNIE!" he screamed into the indifferent night. If only he could touch her one more time. If only he could taste her sweet lips. If only...
The door to his room slowly swung open, and a figure moved into the firelight.
"Connie?" he asked with surprise and an insane, hopeful lust.
"Michael, I'm home."
But Michael couldn't trust himself. Could his great sadness have finally turned to insanity? He shook his head and then took a step towards her...
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 25, 2003).]
Katelyn opened the door just a crack. One of her dark eyes peered out into the corridor.
"Katelyn…" Jerome began, and heard her quick intake of breath. "Your name is Katelyn," he whispered. He bit his lip and glanced down the corridor. Then he placed his right hand softly on the door and leaned inward.
"But…no…you can’t…"
"Quickly. Before they see me." His strength was gentle but firm, and at last Katelyn’s resistance melted.
Her room was dark, and as he closed the door he inhaled the scent of rose tea. He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes.
"Why have you come here?" she breathed.
He opened his eyes slowly, letting in the vision of her before him. Katelyn! Her dark hair turned to rich mahogany as it caught the glow of the sun behind the drawn curtains; her deep brown eyes, wide now in fear; her small, haunting form wrapped in a soft black shawl. Had it been…how many years since he had last beheld her? A bed in a room with white walls. After a journey through an endless, throbbing blackness he had finally opened his eyes….
His hands trembled; his mouth could not form the words he longed to say. "Tea," he mumbled instead. "You’re…making tea."
She turned her head slightly toward the hot plate set on her nightstand. Then she returned her gaze to him, her lips parting a little.
"May I…taste? It’s been so long."
For a moment that lasted an eternity, she stared at him. Then she turned and stepped softly to the cupboard where she kept a few of her possessions. From it she extracted two cups made of china, chipped about the rim. She faced him again.
"Please…sit." There was a single wooden chair against the wall, and she placed her small hand upon it.
He walked slowly across the room toward her. She watched him come, glancing into his eyes and letting her gaze travel around his face. She did not move as he reached the chair; only when he began to sit and let forth an involuntary hiss of pain did she let her hand come to her mouth.
"Oh! The bullet! The wound has not healed!"
"No!" Jerome held his side with his hand. "No," he said, softly but intensely. "It has never given me trouble." He staggered a bit as he straightened, and she put out her hands to steady him. He caught his footing and paused, and his sharp breath stirred her hair. He felt his heart thudding through the pressure of her hands on his chest.
Then his own hands were holding her, and his mouth was seeking hers, and she shivered as their lips met.
[This message has been edited by advice for robots (edited February 25, 2003).]
quote:
After a journey through an endless, throbbing blackness
The chains that bound Kathryn to the stone wall were merciless. Her wrists chaffed and bleeding, she tried to work her hands free using the slickness of the thick, red liquid that drained from her veins. If she could just get her hands free. If she could just work it a little more...
It was at the moment of her near triumph that "Slash" walked in. Though a man not painted by evil on the outside, his heart ran foul and loathesome and his Machiavellian nature pierced all from his cauliflower blue eyes.
"Almost freed yourself, my little bird?" he asked, using a twisted grin to convey his contempt and desire. "You will not leave this cell, not until you agree to do my bidding."
"Die!" Kathryn spat at him, her eyes almost wild with loathing. "I will not take your evil upon me this day, or tomorrow, or ever!"
"Oh, I think you will," Slash countered. "You see these?" he asked, pointing to the slashing scars across his cheeks which both scarred and named him. "I did not come across these without a fight. I always win, even if it hurts." Then he came closer, leaving no air between them. "In fact, I like it better when it hurts."
Then he turned away and walked to the cell door. "You will be here until you agree to my demands. You will be fed, but not well and you will continue to use a clay vessel to piss in. You will not be given a mattress for sleeping, nor a blanket."
Then he turned back to stab her with his eyes. "You will come to me." With that, he left.
Kathryn let her body collapse within the cell walls. She could only think of Michael, her Michael. Would he not come? Were all his promises but pretty words? She could not believe it. She held onto his promises as if she was gripping them in her delicate hands. Like a rope off a cavern, like your last piece of food in a famine, like the words of hope from your only true love...
As Kathryn let herself be taken over by thoughts of hope, she heard the piercing scream of a guard come from atop the basement's steps. Then another, and another. Could this be Michael and his men? Could this be the hope she was silently praying for?
She heard the sounds of heavy feet run down those steps, but it was not Michael. It was Slash, and he had a look of hatred, fury and panic in his eyes. "He will not take you!" he screamed and, after opening the cell door, grabbed her. He forced her past the cells leading to the hidden exit, and pushed her ahead of him.
But Michael had already anticipated this. He was there to meet them as they exited, and he had an arrow cocked and ready to meet Slash's blackened heart.
"Recover from this, you slimy piece of sheep dung!" he yelled as he let the arrow fly.
It met Slash's heart dead center, and the tip could be seen pushing the fabric of his chemise from the back. A single drop of blood ran from his surprised mouth, and he slumped without being able to say a word.
Slash's evil was over.
Michael grabbed Kathryn and held her close to him. "Now, to see about you," he said, with a glint in his eye.
Kathryn could but think, My hope was not in vain, nor shall it be ever...
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 26, 2003).]
I particularly like the bloody parts....and the single drop of blood at the end. *applause*
::should really shut up before she scares people::
Ni!
quote:
you slimy piece of sheep dung!
LOL very nice
quote:
He turned and walked away, and Leonide felt a part of her die within her...
No happy ending for the Leonide...but suddenly i *really* want to have red hair again...
***
Tom sat in the park deliberately avoiding the appearance of staring at the sweet maid sitting in the grass eating her sandwich. Her skirts pooled around her as she leaned back against the rough bark of the old oak that anchored the small park. He had come initially to the park to people-watch, one of his most favorite occupations. But as the gentle summer skies had ripened this temperate season, week after week, he began to notice her. That sweet face, so good, so innocent. Yes, he could admit it -- she was cute. He hated the word as it was so overused, but it was only the truth. From the slender fingers that held the sandwich to her delicate little toes in the verdant blades of grass, to the heart shape of her face, she was the personification of cute. He would never use the word for any other purpose again, save to describe this dear creature.
***
As the summer waned and the green growth of the park prepared for its long winter slumber, both lovers despaired that they should ever meet, never knowing that the one secretly longed for the other.
***
"Christi, I'd like you to meet my friend Tom. He's a great guy and I think you two would really like each other." Christi's best friend was forever setting her up on blind dates, and they were always disasters.
The two friends were meeting for lunch at the deli down the street instead of at the park, as the weather had turned too chill for such outings now. Her friend held the door for her as she entered. "Hey, Chris, I got us a table in the back. Tom is meeting us here. Hope you don't mind."
Mind? Mind?! Christi groaned inwardly and steeled herself for the trial. It's only an hour. I can take an hour of one of these silly match-ups, she thought to herself. Then, I'll kill her later.
She smoothed her skirt and strode toward the back of the deli where the best seating was. The smells of fresh baked bread, bubbling soup and spicy meat hung heavy in the air. She turned the corner to the reserved booth, and there he was. Him. From the park.
"Oh!" she squeaked quietly. "It's you!"
He stood and held his hand out to her. "It's you." His gentle voice was everything she imagined it to be.
She slid her slender fingers into his hand and met his eyes shyly. Yes, he was everything she imagined him to be...
I was going to shut up, wasn't I?
Ni!
quote:
Pearce grabbed his soil-worked hand and, without a word, led him to the enclosed gazebo. She pushed in him, knowing all too well that his very size prevented him from doing anything he didn't want to do.
And, yeah. "Almost" was a poor choice of words. Heh.
Don't worry, kwsni. I'm with you on the 'sweet' and the 'bloody' ones, two.
I am sort of wondering if Slash knows he's been made a villian in a bloody romance.
If I could get AIM to work, I'd ask him.
Poor Dierdre and Michael, little do they realize that I am not that easy to kill. I show up again as the surprise ending to book two, and am finally killed at the end of book three, after having caused a lot more mischief.
I really dug the writing, but I don't think the story was very realistic. If I was going to chain up a women and force her to my will, I don't think it would be Katie (as much as I like her), and I also doubt that Mike could take me out like that in real life.
Ah well, the liberties taken by fiction.
edit: See?
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 25, 2003).]
If only I didn't have a midterm tomorrow...
John looked deep into the night from his balcony. The shimmery stars seemed as a veil for the endless midnight blue of the sky. He swirled his wine in it's pewter goblet, allowing the aroma to reach his nose and play with his senses.
But it wasn't wine that intoxicated him tonight. It was the woman lying peacefully in his bed.
Isadora... Sweet, sweet Isadora. Tonight had been like the first time. How could such a woman make a man like him, known far and wide for his rakish exploits, to feel inexperienced and eager? It humbled him. It humbled him as nothing had before.
He turned back to look at his sweet Isadora through the gauzy canopy of his bed. Her breath caught a little as she slept, and her long frame shifted so that she lay on her side, facing him. He saw the eyelids flutter, the chest rise and fall ever so delicately and her lips curl into a smile. He hoped she dreamt of him.
He turned back to the night, knowing he had to make a decision. Knowing that his beautiful Isadora's family was but on the other side of the fief border, waiting for his attack. Building their defenses, awaiting their doom. No one had successfully defended against John's army. No one ever could...
But now he had to make heavy decisions. One that would affect his life with Isadora. He could not imagine his life without her. His men would never understand how their valiant, and often harsh lord, could have become bewitched by a mere woman. But how could he face another day without the sweet touch of her graceful hands upon his body? How could he live without the feel of her underneath him, aglow with anticipation.
His loins stirred with the mere thought.
John set down his goblet and untied his robe. It slid down the expanse of well-muscled manhood, and ended as a pool on the floor. His eyes became dark with the thought of having his sweet Isadora again. He slipped into the bed and turned her sleeping body toward him. She awoke with a kiss and instantly felt his longing, because she felt it, too.
As he trailed kisses down her succulent body, he knew he could never let this woman go...
Jeff had always had to hunt for his food. Having been raised by neither family nor fortune, he had used his senses and his instincts to become part of the forest. The trees were his ceiling, the ground his floor. The shrubbery partitioning the rooms of his castle. He was Lord here.
Having made his kill and dined on it, Jeff trailed his way to the pond at the edge of the forest for a bathe. It was a hot and sticky summer evening, and in this weather a swim was his greatest joy.
The pond was but one mile from where he generally lay his head, and he claimed it as his own. He knew this forest was not his property, but rather like he had a living relationship with it. It sheltered and fed him, and he kept it free of riff-raff. However, the pond he had always thought of as his own.
But as he turned the corner of the second oak tree, he discovered it was occupied already. Feeling a little invaded and not a little apprehensive at this turn of events, he silently circled the pool. Stealthily peaking through the low bushes he saw a small pink figure pop up from the water. As Jeff watched, the figure swam to the shallow end, surfaced and then walked out of the pond.
Jeff stared speechless. Water droplets ran down what was surely the most beautiful naked creature he had ever beheld. Masses of chestnut hair were piled up using only a few pins. Wet tendrils clung to the sides of her face and her graceful neck. She walked towards a napsack that was hanging on a low branch and removed a small, oval, beige substance. She went back to the pool and submerged the oval into the water which was brought back up foaming. Then she began to lather her body with it.
Jeff could not stop watching, paralyzed by the intoxicating sight. He unconsciously stepped forward and, as if it were somewhere else completely, heard the sound of a twig snap.
The girl looked up with frightened eyes and spotted Jeff standing there, looking at her aghast. With a small squeal, she gave one panicked glance around her and then finally dove straight into the water.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said, as soon as the water hid her nakedness. "I didn't know anyone else came out here!"
Jeff simply looked at her in astonishment. Words were often difficult for him, as he had such little human contact, but he imagined even the most eloquent man would have trouble articulating in this circumstance.
"I was... I was just going to go for a swim," he said, lamely.
The girl looked at him with more than a little speculation in her eyes. "Would you mind throwing me that over there?" she asked, pointing at her chemise.
Jeff stared blankly for a moment and then did as she requested. He motioned throwing it at her in the water and she nodded. She put it on while still in the pool and then re-emerged. The chemise was nearly transparent soaking wet, but it offered at least the illusion of cover.
But it seemed to not matter in the girl's mind, now. She approached Jeff, her hair now falling down around her wet shoulders from the weight of the water. She cocked her head to one side and said, "I'm Ophelia. I'm a water nymph." Then she grinned as if it was a joke she had with herself. "I'm from the manor house. I've never seen you before."
Regaining his composure, Jeff nodded and said, "I don't see many people."
She seemed to understand. "What is your name?"
Jeff shrugged. "I think it's 'Jeff'."
Ophelia laughed. "You 'think'?"
He nodded. "I'm pretty certain."
Through an amused look, Ophelia asked, "Where do you live?"
Jeff responsed, "The forest is my home. I live here. You were in my pond." Then he blushed for the accusatory sound in his voice.
Ophelia grinned again. "Perhaps you could show me the rest of the forest," she said and then grabbed his hand.
In that moment a spark of electricity seemed to shoot through the bodies of both of them. They looked at each other in surprise, and then Ophelia's eyes darkened. She stood on the tips of her toes and kissed Jeff's eyes, one at time, ever-so-gently.
"I think you can show many things..."
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 25, 2003).]
Good job, fellow romance hack!
Tonight I must rest, and regain my strength, as I have of late been ill.
*blows everyone a goodnight kiss*
Which Jeff am I being paired up with here? 
[This message has been edited by Ophelia (edited February 25, 2003).]
I love yall! Could someone do me? please? *giggles*
Toretha - Name your man-meat, baby.
Chenoa and Lander raced across the moor, but Marlon and his guards were on horseback, they were gaining, and fast. Chenoa’s dress was already ripped, she finally tore it in half to keep from tripping over the hem. She mourned the loss of such a beautiful garment, but she would mourn Lander more, if she lost him. Having grown up on the moor, Lander was sure footed, his feet stayed where he planted them. Chenoa was not so lucky. Her every step slipped in an unanticipated direction, making her lurch along behind him. She’d lost her slippers long ago, she ran barefoot.
Chenoa’s foot caught on a mound of turf, and she fell face down into the mud. Lander was three strides ahead of her before he noticed that her hand had slipped from his.
“Go!” She begged him. “He only wants me! Run, and you can get away.” Lander bounded back to her, his hands firm and gentle as he helped her from the bog.
“I’ll not leave you.” The horsemen had surrounded them as they spoke, and Marlon, on his jet black horse, forced his way through the circle of swords. Lander put himself between Chenoa and Marlon, she could feel the muscles in his back tense as he yelled to his brother.
“Go ahead, Marlon. Kill me and take her.” Chenoa clung to Lander’s back, if Marlon killed him, she wanted the chance to have him impale her, too. Life without Lander would be no life at all.
Marlon laughed that sinister laugh. “Oh, I don’t need to do that, brother.” He motioned to a guard, and Chenoa’s world went black.
***
Chenoa was woken from her stupor by a scream. She was somewhere dark. Dark and damp. It was Lander screaming. He hung half naked in chains from a wall in the tiny cell. Chenoa got up, her muddy dress clinging to her body. Marlon’s dark form moved between her and Lander, Chenoa couldn’t see what he did, but it elicited another scream from Lander. Marlon finished his torture, Chenoa watched the blood drip from the dagger in his hand. He turned to sneer at Chenoa.
“See? This is where love gets you. No where.” He buried the dagger in Lander’s muscular upper arm.
Chenoa faced Marlon defiantly. “You’ll never get away with this. My father—”
“Your father has already promised me your hand in marriage!” Marlon roared. “Do not presume to threaten me!” His hand flew, and impacted the side of Chenoa’s face. She stumbled back as Marlon left, locking the door behind him.
“Did he hurt you?” Lander groaned, from behind her.
“No, darling.” Chenoa turned to look at him. Blood was seeping down his arms from his wrists, which were chafed and raw from the shackles, and bubbling from the wound in his bicep. The side of his face was also slick with blood, Chenoa saw there were small cuts on his ear. “Oh, Lander…”
“Hush, love. I want you to accept him. I’m not worth it. He’ll torture you, too, until he gets what he wants. I couldn’t bear it if he hurt you. He’ll be good to you once I’m out of the way.” Lander’s dark eyes begged her to obey him. She couldn’t, though… to marry the man who would kill her true love? Chenoa would rather die first. She pressed herself against his bare chest.
“And I couldn’t bear to marry the man who killed you. Don’t speak so. We will find some way out.” Lander kissed the top of her head. Chenoa clung to him as he hung there, and let her tears wet his chest.
Yeah, bloody.
Edited cause Becky can't type.
Ni!
[This message has been edited by knightswhosayni! (edited February 25, 2003).]
thanks*bounces happily*
Ni!
It didn't wake up any until I realized that the guys had to be brothers.
Ni!
I miss you, Becky. We have to make sure to get to WenchCon II, if nothing sooner.
Definitely. Maybe Andrea's Mayday party.
Ni!
(A contemporary one!)
Growing up poverty-stricken had given Eddie the determination to have all that he desired. At first that was expensive cars, fast women and all the pleasures that money can buy. But Eddie had tired of his fast-paced, millionare playboy lifestyle. He had quenched all of his physical thirsts, and then some. At one point he had thought about the things he was missing, like a family. Like love...
But turning his attention to love had been nothing but misery. Nothing but misery, until she walked into his life...
Women had thrown themselves at Eddie for as long as he had become successful. Oh, sure - he wasn't sore on the eyes. With his lean, 6'2" frame and the smoldering eyes of his Italian heritage, Eddie was in no way devoid of his own charms. But the supermodels and starlets he had dated seemed to be after only two things: prestige and money. Eddie had all but resigned himself to this, all but given up hope of a relationship built on less superficial foundations. Of a love with someone like...
...someone like Alexa. He had met her in the most inconspicuous of places, simply getting morning coffee at the nearest Cafe. She hadn't seen him pull up in his Viper, and he hadn't seen her run in to the cafe after hopping off the bus. He had given her first place in line, and she had thanked him so sincerely, looked so warm, that he had given her his number. It seemed a crazy thing to do, now. But she had called, and it had set everything in place...
Now, knowing he had to tell her who he was, what he represented, what he owned and what he was worth was too much. If she knew he was Big Money, would she still want him? Would she suddenly look like the other women he had dated, who just wanted to get their hooks into his well-muscled body? Or, worse yet, would she mask the fact that she already knew...
He walked back into her bedroom, where she was tucking the shirt that had gotten rumpled in their loving into her jeans. So fresh-faced, so potentially deadly.
"Alexa, I... I have something I need to say to you," he began.
Alexa looked up knowingly. Knowingly, because she knew what he was going to say. How could she let him know that she knew? How could she have let this charade go for so long?
"Yes?" she said, looking for a stall.
"I'm a wealthy man, Alexa. I own much of this town, and a good chunk of property downtown New York."
Alexa briefly considered playing along, briefly considered acting as if she didn't know. But she could not. She could not continue the charade.
"I... I know," she said, defeated.
Anger pierced through Eddie's body, and it shot straight out of his eyes. "You knew!?" he asked like a man gone mad. "So, this HAS all been about money!"
"No! NO!" Alexa cried out, anguish throbbing her fragile body. "No! It hasn't! I've loved you from the moment in the coffee shop, from the moment you gave me your number. I didn't know, I swear!" She ran at him and beat on his chest to beg for an embrace.
Eddie looked down at the woman he wanted to someday marry. He looked down at the face of innocence, of guilelessness... of deceit. He pushed Alexa aside and began to walk out the bedroom door.
"I thought I loved you, Alexa. But I'm glad I found out. I'm glad I found out what you were really after," Eddie finished, and slammed the front door on his way out of her house.
Alexa crumbled to the floor, tears streaming down her cherubic face. She would make it up to him, she would have him back. Otherwise, what good would life be without him...
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 26, 2003).]
*serious Ralphie-fanning
And, yes CT. Taking care of people's medical problems and caring for the ill is but dung before writing hack romance excerpts.
I think I may have laughed to hard.
Oh man, I really got into those stories. Bravo Ralphie, Belle, Becky, Porce and Dismal!
Very Exorcistish.
Ralphie, I do a very few things pretty well, and the rest of my life is, er, chaotic and stunted. You, on the other hand, do everything well that you turn your hand to, and you do it with such style.
Yeah, I wanna be Ralphie when I grow up.
Oh, jeez, that is SO funny! Tom - how did you find out about my conversation with Celia?!?!
Shannon pulled herself up onto an uneven rock ledge stood at her full five feet seven inches. She hooked her thumbs through the straps of her knapsack and surveyed her surroundings. Shaking her sandy blonde ponytail away from her damp neck, she breathed deeply of the fresh mountain air. The freedom she felt from being so far away from it all was in sharp contrast to the harshness of just a few days before.
She had come hiking to forget about him. She wiped her palms on the seat of her jeans and kicked a pebble off the ledge. It bounced down the mountain, hitting dry, cracked stone and finally coming to rest in a clump of grass. “Like that pebble,” she thought to herself, “he kicked me aside like I didn’t matter.” Her expression crumpled into a visage of utter sadness. A few slow tears mingled with the sweat of her face and stained the bosom of her thin cotton t-shirt. She pulled the hem up to wipe her face, exposing a smooth, tanned stomach and the pink lace of her bra.
“Will he always haunt me? Can I never be alone?” Shannon thought back to her days in the office this past year. He had come to visit so often, brought a treat or taken her to lunch, called without a reason. She relished the distraction from the never-ending mound of case files. During dull meetings she had held his face in her mind’s eye so many times, dreaming of his clean-cut features and trimmed, stylish appearance. She had imagined peeling his adorable wire-rimmed glasses away from the black pools of his eyes with one hand and pulling his body to hers with the other. Then he would reach around to caress her skin beneath her tailored silk blouse and plant smouldering kisses on her glossed lips as she in turn would embed her fingers in his smooth, jet black hair. She had felt naughty and excited at the thought and, smiling, drew arrows through hearts on her jotter. The feelings she had had then were utterly the same and completely the opposite of her present ones: that she would never have to be alone, that everywhere she turned he would be there, because his face was permanently fixed in her mind. “How can I ever escape?” she said aloud to the sky.
Turning on her heel, she reached for a hold on the roots clinging to the rock face above and to the side of her. Suddenly her feet began to slip on the pebble-strewn ledge and her heart raced as she felt the muscles of her arms jerk in immediate reaction, clinging tighter to the root system. Her feet scrambled for purchase and she gasped as suddenly the roots began to break free. Dirt and grass descended on her as she felt herself being swung further off the ledge. Shannon blinked with pain as specks of dust fell into her eyes, blurring her vision. Finally she found a shallow foothold with the toe of one boot. She reached up for a better grip and nearly screamed when something gripped her.
Shannon felt herself lifted by an unseen force quickly and steadily upward, as though she weighed no more than a dried leaf. She blinked and coughed as her writhing body dislodged more dirt and debris on its way up. She shielded her face with her free arm and desperately rubbed her eyelids with her sleeve, not noticing when she stopped moving upward and merely dangled by her wrist.
“Well, well, well. What have we here,” a deep voice murmured. Shannon blotted the last of the dirt from her eyes and stared into the face of the man who held her by the wrist. A quiet mass of curls framed a strong face with the shadow of a beard. Striking grey eyes danced with laughter, and Shannon could see a boyish dimple appear on his rugged cheek, though it was clear he was attempting to maintain a straight face. He swung her toward him and dropped her to her feet. When her boots finally found the ground, she was amazed to look up at his face and see only sky behind his head. He was huge! He had to be at least a foot taller than she, and with shoulders and arms to match his proportion. “Got in a little over your head, did you?” he queried with that hint of a smile. She stood breathless as she watched him lean to peer over the cliff he had just rescued her from. “You ought to know it’s dangerous using trails past your own ability.” His bicep stretched the sleeve of his black ribbed t-shirt as he reached up to rub the back of his neck.
Shannon’s face flushed crimson as she stammered an apology. She moved away from the edge and peeled off her knapsack before sinking to the grass. She felt her heartbeat racing with adrenaline once again in the shadow of this handsome giant. She tried to calm her mind, and suddenly remembered herself. “Thank you,” she said huskily, “for saving my life.”
Most throwaway romances are unreadable, granted, but I have a short list of awesome writers with plot twists, character development, and neat info like netsuke and the songs of Charles Aznavour (two things to which I was introduced by the inimitable Anne Weale, the only Harlequin author worth a dime).
So, yep, guilty as charged.
When I was a young teen I spent a lot of time at my grandparents house (aka next door to Fael's). When I wasn't borrowing SF from Fael, the only thing my grandmother had to read was Harlequin romances. So, yeah - I've read a bunch, just not for a while.
Scary thing is, were we to go and submit these for critique to some romance writer's groups, I have a sneaky suspicion they would get rave reviews.
But then so do baby showers. I'm just a tomboy. These are hilarious, though. I like Ralphie's best. I like something more along the lines of Dostoevsky's White Nights, which is really in the same genre. Or Anna Karenina. War and Peace is a little too soapy for me. <grins> But I totally agree that great books are written in all genres. And I have a number of authors that I read just for light entertainment. I didn't mean that was a bad thing. I just had to tease y'all cause you could never be this good at writing this stuff if you hadn't read some!
I first read romance at a very very young age (actually, the local library called my mother because I was reading Guy de Maupassant in kindergarten -- it was a cute little pink book of short stories, and well ... but I think it was Henry Miller that finally pushed the librarian over the edge. *grin My mother of course said that her children could read any book in the library, and that was the first scandal. ) When I'd stay with aunts and uncles while my father was hospitalized and my mother working, there was little but Harlequin and Good Housekeeping magazines. And I'd read anything, even shampoo bottles in a pinch.
Getting older my tastes changed, and I never did appreciate stories where the people treated each other awfully and then "fell in love" (or, treated each other awfully because they were in love). But the subtle dance of glance and breath, attraction that grows over time and struggles to be restrained, wellll ...
... my husband and I courted across continents by writing each other short story romance and erotica, as well as poetry. Mmmm, love that man.
I guess Leto and Poly aren't meant to be after all...
Mine was lovely too, btw.
Ni!
All of these snippets are killer, though.
*claps for kwsni*
But if you write THIS will I ever get to find out what happens to poor branded Adrean? (aside: I actually had a guy branded on the face in one of my stories, too. Frightening, how similarly twisted minds think alike.)
Edit for spelling
[This message has been edited by Olivet (edited February 26, 2003).]
Ni!
[This message has been edited by mackillian (edited February 26, 2003).]
Ni!
If anyone's up for it, I'd love to be in one.
Disturbing fact about "Women's Fiction": It makes up for 60% of all publishing. That's just wrong.
quote:
Just write it with a generic name like "Bill"
I think I would prefer not to see a bodice ripper about Leto and my husband!
Never before had winning a fight meant so much to Jonathon. Ever since the English had killed his beloved Jeanette, Jonathon had cared for nothing, no one. He had taken to jousting and fencing to make enough money to drink himself silly, only to move on to the next city. Until this moment, he had thought that Jeanette had been the only good thing in the world. And now this Siren, this Venus, was tempting him to love again. Pain and life flowed into his veins. His mount could feel the energy, and it became anxious under him.
"Only a few moments more," Jonathon whispered to the horse. "Only a few moments before I can unhorse this knave and kiss those sweet, sweet lips."
The knave turned out to be a fool as well, and Jonathon had him on the ground within a few moments. He had fought better, more passionately, than he ever had. And now, his prize, a kiss from the lady, his sun-goddess.
She came to him with grace that a swan would envy, her red lips parted in a subtle, tempting smile. Her perfect shape drove Jonathon nearly crazy. She came to him, stood only a few inches from his face. Jonathon drowned in those deep, hazel eyes. One perfect white hand rested on his shoulder, the other pressed against his chest.
"My good sir knight," she whispered tantalizingly. "I have never before beheld one so valiant as you."
Jonathon couldn't restrain himself anymore; he kissed her with a furious passion. Their souls blended--
--no, she sucked his soul into hers, leaving him parched and empty. In a moment he fell, stunned and stupid, on the hard dirt of the ring. She was gone. That was the only thing he knew. As she commanded her guards to carry him away to the dungeons, his only regret was that the devilish kiss had ended. She had his soul--and while she held it, he had no live but eating and drinking and breathing.
***
Jonathon could hear the soft shuffling of footsteps approaching his cell. A face appeared before the barred window of the door, small and brown, with large black eyes. Dirt was smeared across the girl's nose, and Jonathon could see that her cheek was bleeding.
"How do you feel, Jon?" she asked softly. "Are you quite all right?"
"She...she is gone," was all that Jon could muster. The kiss burned as hot in his memory as if it had ended only seconds before.
"She is a demon, Jon. She has bewitched you. Please say you don't love her, Jon. Love me. Please. I have always loved you."
Jonathon looked at the girl's face, tried to remember her name. "Vana," he said. His childhood friend, never more than a companion. She had loved him? No, he could not let her distract him from the kiss...the kiss...
"Yes," Vana said. "I love you, Jon. Can't you try to love me back? It's the only way you'll ever be able to get your soul back from her, is to forget her, to love again."
"I'll never love any but her," Jonathon replied. "I don't even know her name."
"Her name is Vile," Vana insisted. "Kiss me, Jon. My lips burn for yours. Don't you see the love in my eyes? I will be your wife, your love forever. She does not love you. She never did--Oh, Jon!"
Slowly, deliberately, Jonathon came to his feet. Vana's teary eyes seemed to enchant him with their purity, their sincerity. Why had he never seen her before?
Time slowed as he came to the window, pushed his face against the bars, and met her lips in a holy kiss. They blended into one being--one stronger than any in the world. Jonathon felt his soul return to him, whole and white. With renewed strength, he kissed Vana again, and he longed to push his arms through the solid oak door, to envelop her with an embrace that would never end.
The only thing you're missing is some mixed metaphors and inaccurate details of history.
quote:
"Only a few moments more," Jonathon whispered to the horse. "Only a few moments before I can unhorse this knave and kiss those sweet, sweet lips."
"Put down the gun!" Dexter shouted, prepared to take down this two-bit criminal if he didn't drop his revolver.
The revolver made a clank as it dropped to the sidewalk of the Steel Bridge. Two arms slowly came up and the perp turned around with a combination of fear and fire in his eyes.
"Don't kill the messenger," he joked, lamely.
"Then the messenger shouldn't provoke me, eh?" Dex retorted. "Where is he? Where's the one who send you, 'Messenger'? Who are you errand-boying for, eh? EH?"
The sight of Dex's gun pointed straight at his heart made droplets of sweat pop up from the Messenger's forehead. The images of a thousand thoughts ran through his head, visible through the eyes that were windows in his mind.
It seemed the Messenger decided that death on the Steel Bridge was a better fate than to reveal who he was working for, and a sort of resolve and panic manifested itself on his face.
Through the fog that misted the night, the Messenger ran at Dex, barely making it to the single ray of light from the bridge's street lamp before Dex brought him down. The shot rang out like thunder, and fresh blood of the Messenger stained the concrete as he finally jerked to his death.
Dex blew the smoked out from the tip of his gun, then set it back into it's holster. He shook his head a little sadly, a little sagely.
"Don't come after men with loaded guns," he advised the Messenger, belatedly.
That was when he heard the clipping of high-heeled shoes in front of him. He looked up and instinctively went for his gun again. Walking into that ray of street-lamp illumination was Toretha, gliding in her usual sultry manner toward Dexter. She gave the man lying dead but a small glance as she made the distance between herself and Dexter obsolete. They were now mere inches from each other.
"Dex," she said, a gave him her heart-melting grin.
Dexter took in all of Toretha. Only a week before, he had never seen her. But now he couldn't imagine his life without her. Her rich chestnut hair, her chocolate brown eyes. The way that red dress hugged every aching curve on her sensuous body. First time he'd seen her he'd said, "Great stems." He still hadn't seen a pair of legs to match them...
As it always did, the need to take her in his arms preempted all other thought. He grabbed her and pulled her to him, pressing the length of their bodies together.
Before he could come down for a kiss she put a single gloved hand up to his mouth. "Not yet, Dexter." She pulled back and out of his grasp, then turned around to look at the dead Messenger.
She shook her head as if she was disappointed. "Good help is hard to find these days," she said, signficantly. Then she knelt down to the body, opened the coat jacket and pulled out an envelope from the inner pocket.
All at once it made sense to Dexter. The chance encounters they'd had, the information he couldn't figure out how she'd known, and now this...
But his mind rejected it.
After folding the envelope and placing it in her purse, she turned back to him.
"I know what you're thinking, Dex. I can see it in your eyes. I know it, because it's what I thought the first time I realized who YOU were." And then she came back to him. She came back to him, but didn't embrace. Her face hovered near his and she said in his ear, "But I've made it work this far. I've made it work with you, my sweet little detective. Can't you make it work with your sweet little Ring Leader?"
Dexter looked at her like she was mad. He pushed her away and staggered back a few feet. "No, no!" he said, his mind still trying to purge the information. "NO!"
Her face gave the most sincere expression of sadness he'd ever seen. A single tear ran down her face, and she nodded in acquiescence. "I understand.
"I have four men watching right now, all of them heavily armed. I'm not going to have them kill you. But if you try to shoot me, by the time your gun recoils you'll be on the ground next to me," she informed him. "So, this is our last goodbye.
"Shall we make it count?"
Toretha once again sidled up to Dexter. His mind swam with all this new information, but his body reaction with the old-familiarity of meeting her body. The last goodbye, the last time he'd have Toretha in his arms...
He grabbed her waist and pulled him to her. She buried her fingers in his hair and brought his head down. The two of them played mad passion with their lips as they said their final goodbyes. She kissed every inch of his face, he left a small red spot on her neck.
And, almost as quickly as it began, it ended. Toretha reached into his pocket and took out his cigarette case. She looked up at him and said, "Souvenier."
He nodded and then watched as she walked out of the light into the fog. Out of his life. Out of his world...
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 26, 2003).]
But I liked it so much because it wasn't as typical, and I was an innocent heroine, and a surprise. Very like me.
Ralphie, the Toretha one was great! I bet she loves it.
We're getting almost as popular as the ice cream personality profile!
Ni!
We have so many Hatrackers that are compatible with Ten Little Indians characters! *grins mischieviously*
May I make a suggestion?
Everyone participates by writing scenarios, but you must build on what other have written. For example, if one writer pairs up Leto and Vana, the next one can't have Leto with Ophelia unless the writer makes some reference to the fact that he's two-timing Vana.
Now, are you going to be allowed to write your own scenarios? Or should that be against the rules?
Perched on one of the stone benches in the manor's Roman style amphitheatre, Coriann allowed herself a moment of self-indulgence and reeled at the overwhelming details of her life. Her head bending over to be buried in her hands and she thought of recent events that would shape her life. Events that had already shaped her life forever...
From the manor house, Joseph caught a glimpse of the slight figure cradling her head in her hands. He watched as she pulled her legs up and wrapped her hands around them, looking contemplative and not a little sad.
Only a week ago Coriann had been a burst of sunshine in a darknened land. She had brought cheer and wit and sparkle into a house that had not seen such things for years. She had changed this house, she had changed the occupants, she had changed Joseph...
But what happiness she had brought into this house could not last. The curse of Lake Manor could not be thwarted, and rumors in the night had reached sweet Coriann's ears. Would she believe the rumors? Would she allow the poison that ran like blood in the walls of this house to remove the love she felt for him? Would she really believe he had killed his first wife?
Joseph resolved to talk to her, to let her know of his feelings for her. He had allowed her to brighten his life, but had he ever explained what she meant to him? He had not. And it was time.
Coriann heard the tap of shoes on the amphitheatre's steps descend towards her. She did not look back, but instinctively she knew it was Joseph. She could feel his soul calling to her, signaling her like a beacon.
"Coriann," Joseph began, saying her name softly.
Coriann then turned and looked into Joseph's eyes. She saw sadness and the beginnings of resignation. She opened to her mouth to speak, but then closed it again, unsure of what to say. Did she feel betrayed? Frightened? Or just lonely for the man she had grown to love?
Facing back to the amphitheatre stage, she said, "Does it ever seem to you that our lives are those of actors? We play our parts, well scripted, and then Fate throws us a character we had not studied the lines for. We flounder. We flounder in front of our audience.
"And sometimes I think that's what the audience wants the most."
"The servants-" Joseph began.
"Shhh," Coriann hushed him. "If I thought you had killed your wife, Joseph, I would have packed my bags and left you the moment I thought it. I am not a weak woman, and even if I had to scrap for my living I would rather do that than live with a man I could not respect, even despised. But you... You I cannot know how I feel. I do not think you have killed your wife, but there is something you are keeping from me. Something that makes me wonder just how... Just how you feel for me, Joseph."
Joseph's eyes filled with the glory of Coriann's. "Just how do you feel about me, my love?" she asked.
Joseph'as feelings suddenly choked him, and he felt such emotion that his face flushed. Could he explain in words how he felt for his goddess? His princess? His Coriann...
He took her in his arms and scoop her up from the bench. She was so small, so delicate, and yet the steel in her spirit could not be bent. He did not want to break that spirit, but to bind himself to it. He needed her strength. He needed her love...
Hot kisses were rained on with tears from each of their eyes as they proclaimed their love for each other right there, right in the amphitheatre. They could not let the other go, no, nor could they dream of it.
"Love me," said Joseph. "LOVE ME," he prayed to her in the night. "Love me, for I cannot but love you..."
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 26, 2003).]
You're being unfair, you're supposed to write skanky ones! No one will request me anymore.
Maybe I should make my one for ladyday really, really skanky just to show my versatility.
j/k
I was plugging in Hatrackers for the profiles provided at the beginning of my copy of "And Then There Were None" and then I was going to work from there...but you can do whatever...i think the more varied they are, the more fun!
Don't want to be pigeon-holed, you know. I want to be a diverse hack romance excerpt writer.
But you're right - skanky is more fun. Now that I've done a few non-skanky I'm most assuredly going to revert back.
Nick gazed on her with hooded eyes, his strong, supple hands working automatically as he stood at his station at the plant. She was new to the work line. It was obvious, not so much because the uniform, which fit to her fine form like a second skin, still showed its packing press marks, but because he'd never seen her before. They didn't call him Neverlate Nick for nothing. He never missed an opportunity to dip his hands into his life's passion, and so was always on time, never missing a day.
Yes, she was new. Her hair so cunningly caught up in the net, he was sure that let loose, it would cascade in long sweeping locks, like the lapping waves on the shore at low tide. He licked his lips in anticipation. Surely they would introduce her to everyone on the line, especially him, as the most experienced worker here.
She looked around her and seemed confused, as if she weren't quite sure how she came to be there. Nick wanted to slide his hands through his hair to make sure that he looked his best. It would not do to have such a creature as she see him even the slightest bit disheveled. But he dared not pull his hands from his work. He put his appearance out of his mind manfully.
When the trainer handed her the knife, Nick was captivated by the way her fingers curved around the handle. Long and thin yet strong and firm, he could see that with hands like those she would be a natural at this work. Blood didn't seem to bother her either, which held promise that she might last longer than the usual new recruit. Girls...no, by the way her breasts filled the slate colored uniform she wore, she was all woman and he would call her that, even in his mind... women, as new recruits usually were a bit green by the time they were handed the knife.
The trainer swept his hand down efficiently to demonstrate the technique, then handed the exquisite creature that had so thoroughly captivated Nick's attention her first victim.
In one clean sweep, the object of Nick's everlasting love sliced the belly in a straight line, then pried open her cut to pull out the guts. Yes, oh yes, Nick exulted in his mind! She is The One! The One I have waited all my life for. In her first gutting, she cleaned that fish with such expertise, such grace, such efficiency, so thoroughly!
Forgetting himself, he threw down his own knife and ran to capture her in his arms.
She dropped the knife with a loud clatter and gazed up at him in wonder. Nick! The legend of Dutch Harbor! The greatest fish gutter this cannery had ever known had chosen her! Smiling broadly, she knew that she was forever his and together, they would write new myths and legends in an industry already rife with giants of celebrity...
It's Kathryn, not Katherine.
And you didn't even make me a buffoon!
And I'm so glad she never found out I really did—never mind.
Katie - I'm sorry. I'll go edit it.
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 26, 2003).]
Right, Kara, like they'd really write a bodice-ripper and NOT make the heroine gorgeous! Jean Paul turned to face the stranger, the mysterious lady who had captured his eye at the masquerade ball. They had danced the evening away, swirling and gliding into the ecstasy of new-found passion...even though neither had seen the others' face, their bodies had responded to each other as readily as if they were already lust-filled lovers.
She had whispered low and sweetly as the final gavotte neared its end; the feathers on her mask tickling his ear provocatively.
"Meet me in the Rose Garden"
He didn't think twice. And now, here he was, about to see this masked temptress face-to-face. His body was taut with anticipation, desire growing inside of him as the myriad of colors slid off her face.
And then...
Whoa. WHOA now! What the hell WAS that? Was that like ...a mole? Or her nose? Or...was her nose just naturally...like that? How was he supposed to...talk...or...or even THINK clearly with that thing...just...SITTING there...on her face...taunting him!?!?
"I am Esmerelda. I have been waiting for you all my life."
Well, the voice was nice...but GEE WHIZ!
"Um...Erm...I'm..uh...::cough:: Peter...yeah, Peter...um, I forgot I had to go...see to something in the...in the barn..um, yeah, well -- maybe I'll catch ya later, huh?"
And with that, he turned and faded into the darkness, out of her life forever, his black, caped visage melting into the ebony night.
[This message has been edited by Leonide (edited February 26, 2003).]
1. What color hair and eyes do you want?
2. Do you want a historical or modern-day setting? What country/fantasy world do you want?
3. Any physical characteristics or names you prefer for your man?
As for guys, tall, striking, the usual. Thanks
*bounces excitedly*
[This message has been edited by blacwolve (edited February 26, 2003).]
Once she had stood on this hill, looked out over the heather, and imagined that she could not possibly feel sad, not if she were here in her beloved Scotland. But the beautiful land could not longer fill the longing in her heart. Not it alone. The hole left by Duncan’s rejection of her profession of undying love was a wound that cut too deep.
“Billie?” A tremulous voice cut into her reverie.
No. How could he? Was he here to thrust the sword of bitter pain ever deeper into her heart? Had he not already devastated her completely?
She turned to face him, and as she did the wind picked up, lifting her hair and bringing with it the scent of the heather.
Her sharp retort stuck in her throat before it could be uttered. Duncan was standing there, in full clan regalia. The scarlet and black tartan of Clan Fraser was stunning on him, and it certainly made him look imposing. Any enemy of Scotland would hesitate in fear at sight of him. She was afraid too, but for much a different reason.
“Billie,” he said again as he began striding toward her.
“No,” she answered breathily. “Don’t say my name. Don’t say anything to me. If you will go, then go now! Have you not done enough? Or must you come here and plunge the dagger of your betrayal into my heart once more?”
That blow hit him close, she could tell. There was pain in those steely blue eyes. Good. He should hurt, too.
“Billie, please hear me,” he implored. She turned her back to him. He could talk if he wished, but she did not have to look at him. Didn’t have to let him see the pain in her eyes.
“I never meant to betray you. When I became promised to you, I dinna ken this war was coming. And I canna bear to go off to war, with the goodly chance I willna return and leave ye a widow! Rather you were free, so that ye can find yourself a good man, a man who deserves you.” He said the words in a rush, stumbling over them as if he must spill them out all at once or they would not be said at all.
Billie let the tears spill down her face. She turned then, to find the distance between them had closed, and he was close enough to reach out and touch a tear, then bring it to his lips. “So, the story about you and Elanna?” she asked, daring to hope.
“Ay,all a lie, beloved. I had to do something to make you hate me, I couldna bear the thought of it, but it was better that ye be free to make your own choices.”
“If I have a choice at all, I shall always choose you, Duncan. I love you and you alone.” She cried out with joy as she fell into his embrace.
“But Billie, what if I fall in this war? What I leave you and never return?” he asked as he crushed her to his chest. She could feel the coarseness of the wool of his plaid against her cheek.
“If you don’t return, then we will have had this moment, my Duncan. But you will return, our love will keep you safe.”
With those words, they fell to the ground, bodies joined. Underneath them, the scent of crushed heather wafted up, surrounding them, the very air of the Scottish highlands embraced them in an affirmation of their love for each other. Billie closed her eyes, letting the sounds and smells of her beloved land mingle with the sensation of being wrapped in the arms of her lover, Duncan. Hers forever, hearts joined, souls melded, never to be parted.
[This message has been edited by Belle (edited February 26, 2003).]
yay!
At some point the madness had to end. Loren knew the madness had to end. He could not continue this charade, this constant unfilled need that left him empty and aching.
The bell rang and his students streamed in through the class door, all searching for their favorite seat.
He tried not to look up to search for her face among them. Lord knows he tried. But an almost feverish need to see her again won out over his will and his head whipped up. His eyes found her almost instinctively as she set her books down on the desk and pushed her beautiful chestnut hair out of her face. The sight nearly broke his heart...
Tammy found her favorite seat. Fifth row, middle chair. With the advantage of stadium seating, it was the one place in the room that Mr. Higbee could not avoid looking at during lecture. His eyes automatically travelled to that spot, and she wanted to make sure they automatically travelled to her.
Loren bought all the time he could before beginning lecture, allowing his students to settle in. They were young adults, not teenagers, and so it didn't buy him as much time as he was hoping. He took a big breath and then stood to begin his lecture on representations of Byzantium in modern literature.
She was sitting in the middle seat, fifth row. Loren momentarily hated her. His eyes couldn't help but rest there. It was dead center of his vision, and no matter where he looked it was in his peripheral. And she was taking advantage of it. Oh, but was she taking advantage of it.
Tammy's face betrayed a wicked grin as her fingers twirled through a lock of her hair. The backlessness of the desks revealed her long legs crossing and uncrossing, miles of flesh meandering down from a wantonly short skirt. One finger traveling from the locks of her hair to play with her soft, swollen lips.
Sweat beads emerged all over Loren's body. He knew that Tammy was well aware of what she was doing, and it took him all of his determination to make it through the lecture.
The sound of the bell ringing was like a chorus of angels in his mind. This was the last class of the day, and he could escape to his car, to his home and back to reality.
As he gathered his text books and his coat and began closing up for the day he heard the sound of the last student leaving. A sigh of release escaped his lungs. It was going to be okay. He was going to make it through another day...
The lights of the room went out and he turned in time to see Tammy lock the class door and close the blinds on the door's window. She turned around and looked at him with mock innocence.
"Alone at last, Mr. Higbee," she purred.
"Tammy," Loren began, "you know we can't do this. We've talked about it. You know this isn't right."
Tammy nodded and gave him a look of total, mock sympathy. "Yes, it would be very wrong," she said, and then grinned like 'very wrong' was exactly what they both wanted.
It was. Oh god, it was...
"Oh, c'mon Loren. It's not like it's illegal. It's just unethical."
"I could get fired for this!" he said with intensity, hoping a little passion in his voice would cause her to understand his position.
Again, she nodded in sympathy. "Then, I suppose we're going to have to be very, very careful.
"Let's start now."
Tammy pulled him to her using his tie and their bodies slammed together. He had loved her from the very moment he had seen her, and they had built a relationship together before they ever realized the danger. From that moment they had made the decision that they would be only friends, but that was becoming increasingly more and more impossible.
Loren looked down to see the first sincere expression Tammy had managed this afternoon. "I'm sorry, Loren," Tammy said. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't wait any longer. Please forgive me." Then she pulled his head down and met his lips with her own.
Loren surrendered to Tammy, to her desires, and to his own. Please forgive me, Tammy had said. Please forgive me.
As Loren felt the last thread of his self-control slip all he could think was, I forgive you, my love. I forgive you...
[This message has been edited by Ralphie (edited February 26, 2003).]
And Ralphie... ...
....
....
Also, I hope you guys note how hard I worked on my metaphors and similes - getting them to express a common theme:
...a wound that cut too deep
...the sword of bitter pain ever deeper into her heart
...the dagger of your betrayal into my heart
And how I mentioned the highlands, and the heather at the beginning, and brought it all back around at the end? This is quality hack y'all. Most people have to pay for this stuff and you get it free. And personalized!
I'm tempted to request A Belle Original myself, but will wait my 2nd time around as well Did no one notice my Jean Paul story? I was quite proud of it, really
Your hack is very nice, dear.
Ni!
I think someone needs to write one about :Locke and Kama. That would amuse me to no end.
*wishes she could write these things*
*giggles at all the other ones*
I wonder if I begged my sister enough.....hmmm..SG-if you're reading this-if I buy you a new copy of speaker, would you write one to embarass Human?
[This message has been edited by Toretha (edited February 27, 2003).]
SG-nm-but I'll buy it for you if you'll just write one not about human...I'd love to see one you wrote
[This message has been edited by Toretha (edited February 27, 2003).]
That would have me out of my chair laughing.
You are so way cool!
I finally overcame my fear of even opening this particular thread and look what a gift I was given!
I'll sleep happy tonight!!!!
(By the way, Jamie fans - I just finished "The Fiery Cross" and Jamie is as hot as ever! Give me a man in a kilt any day . . . oh la la.)
It gives you food for thought.
Those are wonderfully awful!
I like the loin latte - Starbuck one myself.
This thread has grown so quickly, like his burgeoning...never mind. If you feel like writing another Belle, I could so enjoy being the heroine of a bodice-ripper scene right now...not having starred in one of those for a while. As for preferences in the guy, think uber cool vampire and you'll get the colouring/build/manner, etc, right.
I cannot stop blushing. All hail the grand Ralphie, master of all puppets. I really cannot speak. Ralphie has taken my breath. What, who, hu? Ralphie you shame Jackie Collins. I think I am going to have to walk this one off. I’ll be back later.
Geez.
This is a great thread. See what I miss by being out of the loop for three days! I can't believe I missed this.
Ralphie - you are a master. I am in awe. I LOVE dante and flibbles. That's amazing.
Dante: you have to show this to Michael. I don't think I can do it - but this canNOT be kept under a bushel.
I just thought he'd think it was funny.
quote:
...and then, as fluid as a fine imported transmission, she whipped out her man-organ and pissed away his dreams.
quote:
I like to speak softly and carry a big stick.
...in any thread, for that matter
Thank you Belle!
Lovely accents. And quite sweet story.
One of these days I'll finish one ::throws away Leto/Eddie::, but for some reason none of mine are turning out right...
Billie, I doubt anyone could capture our special relationship on paper.
I have Diosmel, coil, Mikey and Jennifer, and Frisco to write.
Did I miss anyone who had made a request?
Edit because I just realised I requested that from Belle. I had only read hers when I wrote that. But now I've read the whole thread, and I'd be more than happy with a scene from anyone...this is such a fun thread!
*decides to try writing one*
[This message has been edited by enjeeo (edited February 28, 2003).]
It's just been a HELLUVA day.
----
Dan knew when he stepped onto the ship that he was walking into his destiny. What that could be, he couldn’t begin to imagine. The sound of the waves lapping against the hull whispered to him of dreams he couldn’t quite remember, but he would follow nonetheless.
He never acquired his sea legs and the constant queasiness the rocking of the ship caused made him begin to question his resolution. Perhaps his mother was right, perhaps he should have married the Dukes homely daughter and lived the easy life she would inherit so soon. A life of dancing and sport with no work he would ever need to do. But that is not how a man lives. A man’s spirit is filled with the sweat and blood of his life’s work and nourished by the heated passions of a beautiful woman. Such thoughts had taken him to the docks and signed him up for a tour on this vessel, where he shed plenty of his own sweat and blood. His already lean body was now muscular and taught. Now he just needed to find that beautiful women.
He laughed at the thought. Here on the open sea, a woman?
The laughter was a bit too much for his stomach and soon enough he lost breakfast to the open sea. As he watched the bits of partially digested bread toss about he noticed that the waves seemed a little higher today. He looked up and saw that a great storm was brewing and heard the crew rushing about to prepare.
Hours later, only a few barrels and bits of wood remained. Days later, a chunk of the deck with Dan’s limp, drenched, barely breathing body washed ashore on the Island of Sacrifice.
He awoke shivering and aware that strong arms around his shoulders. He cautiously opened his eyes and found himself looking at the most beautiful face he had ever scene. Serene deep browns eyes looked into his cool green ones and he felt his pulse quicken. His return to the land of the living visibly brightened this strange creature and a dazzling smile played across her face. He felt his heart melt.
Soon he was standing, dazed, hungry and sore, but not caring at all. She stood as tall as he and stunning in the sun. The girl called to him in a strange tongue with a wave that said follow me. She walked inland with the wind playing in her short brown hair, the sun bringing out a hint of red. The scant bit of fabric that her garb comprised of did little to hide her gorgeous movements. The delicate curves of her tall strong body awakened desires stronger than he thought possible. He wondered if this was a dream. He hoped this one he would remember.
He caught up with her in a shady glade and tried to introduce himself. “Dan,” he said, pointing at himself. She replied, “Myrddin” and laughed. The gleeful sound shook her body, her trembling, bare shoulder shook his balance.
Their eyes met again and instantly they were in each other’s arms. They kissed and in that kiss was every reason Dan had fled his parents’ rule. His hands eagerly discovered what his eyes had been exploring already. He felt her lips play gently along his ears and the fingers of her right hand run through his hair. He felt the left brushing elsewhere. He cupped her firm breasts in his dry, work hardened hands as she pulled him to the ground. Clothing dissolved and hours of passion passed.
Lying with her asleep on his shoulder in the early morning, he watched the light of the setting moon play in the woods. This, he knew, is what he had been looking for. This woman who could match him for strength and passion and had the grace of a dancer and the beauty of all earth, she was his destiny. They would have days of finding food and shelter, living off their own labor and nights of sweet bliss, he thought to himself. So lost in his dreams, he did not notice the men that had arrived on the island until they had the couple surrounded.
Myrddin stirred softly against him, then jumped fully awake at the sight of those who were obviously her people. An argument in a language he could not follow began, but lasted only a few minutes before the men attacked. With her strong determination and his years of training, they were fierce opposition, but they were no match for the two dozen men. They were bound and dragged to a field with a stone altar.
She was again questioned and when her responses were answered with fierce blows, Dan shouted for them to stop. One of the men stepped forward and began to talk at him in broken English. Dan tried to follow the explanation. She was a sacrifice sent to this island to be purified before her blood was shed and he had defiled her. The gods would not accept a tainted sacrifice, but, decided the men, they might accept two.
Again her soft eyes met his and filled his heart. As one, they struggled against the bindings as they were lifted onto the altar. She twisted around and again their lips met in a kiss that lasted the rest of their lives.
[This message has been edited by celia60 (edited February 28, 2003).]
Myr's going to kill you, celia.
[This message has been edited by Mr. Flibble (edited February 28, 2003).]
And it is QUITE OBVIOUS from this thread that a LOT of people love reading them!!
-edit- though I'm still trying to figure out how clothes always "dissolve" when they're inconvenient. I gotta learn that trick.
[This message has been edited by coil (edited February 28, 2003).]
celia, I wanted to cry when I read that... so sad! (And don't worry, I have no plans to kill you anytime soon )
quote:Glad to hear it, Ty. But I’ll be keeping that mace in my purse all the same.
If I was going to chain up a women and force her to my will, I don't think it would be Katie
In reality, it was this post.
She saw him as she crawled into the bobble room. He was sitting against the mesh window holding a red baseball cap in his hands. The floor tilted a little his way. He didn’t look like he belonged in an XTreme Fun Center inflatable maze; the way he sat, the ripped Levis, and the blackness of his turtleneck told her that he’d rather be astride his Kawasaki. He had long slicked back black hair and Ray-Bans in his breast pocket. The stubble on his face looked as carefully groomed as his sideburns. He didn’t look like a jatraquero, at least not how she’d pictured one. But he was holding the red baseball cap.
"Frank6848?" she ventured.
His head whipped around. He pierced her with his dark eyes. "Yeah," he said in a quiet voice. "blacwolve?"
She smiled shyly, rolled her eyes, and shrugged. Now she wished she’d put on something a little more sexy, maybe something for a motorcycle ride. Her arms around that chest. Mmm. A strand of her long blonde hair fell over her eyes and she brushed it away.
She crawled over towards him. When she got past the center, the bobble room tilted, and she slid into him with a whoop of surprise. He caught her and helped her upright, laughing. Was that Polo?
He sighed and glanced around. "We the only ones?"
"I guess so."
"Let’s get out of here, blacwolve."
He led her out of the maze with the surety of a woodsman. She admired the smoothness of his steps, and the way he seemed to taste the air to determine which direction to go. Once, he stopped short, and, not paying attention, she walked into his hard, muscled back. "Here," he laughed, and took her hand.
Fifteen minutes later she was pinned beneath him, breathing hard.
"Had enough of this?" he said, grinning, his face inches away from hers.
"Uncle," she giggled. She liked the kind of man who didn’t let her win just because she was a girl. Truth to tell, she knew a little kung fu, but she had let her knees bend when he came at her. She wanted to know what a full body lunge would feel like.
He struggled to his feet and helped her up. Together, they began shedding their big padded sumo wrestler suits.
"Want to go on the Velcro wall?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.
An hour later, she was leaning into him, burying her face in his strong back, her arms wrapped around his chest in a thrill of motion as he accelerated his bike down State Street. It was everything she thought it would be.
*claps for afr*
I so happy now!
Could someone do one for me? Here is my picture. My hair is longer now, though not long enough for even a short ponytail, yet. I tend to prefer short brunettes with short hair. As for situations, office romance would be my preference, though I of course leave such things to the whims of the writer.
I feel silly, but the writing so far has been quite good, and quite funny, and I dont want to lose the chance to have a great conversation piece . Plus, Im a sucker for cool mementos of places I love.
edit: Doh! forgot my real name: Russell
[This message has been edited by fugu13 (edited March 03, 2003).]
.
If no one's picked up your gauntlet by tomorrow morning, I might try my hand at it. The thought of Beckett's gritty absurdism in a dimestore romance is just too much fun.
I have come to spend many of my days in the office lavatory, where I like to hide from my supervisor Maude and her oozing pimples. Crouching between urinals may not seem like a pleasant way to pass the time (and, indeed, it is not) but it does lend itself to contemplation. And contemplation is a pretty thing, especially when compared to Maude.
It was during one such session (yes, we’ll call them “sessions”) that I met her. (Not Maude, the other one.) I was checking my dark, wavy hair in the bathroom mirror when I first heard her voice.
Russell, she called. It was a blind woman, naked from the waist up. (And likely from the waist down, too, but, alas, I could not tell.) She seemed to be stuck in one of the urinals and was struggling to free herself. She said it again, Russell…
I frowned at my reflection, trying to decide if I should cut my hair or grow it long. What is it? I asked at last, annoyed by her persistence. Why do you keep saying that? Because it’s your name, she said. Is it? I asked. (You see, I had forgotten.) But she just clawed at the basin’s porcelain rim, moaning, Russell, help me...
You sure? I asked. Her clouded eyes roved back and forth, as though she did not understand. Sure that’s my name, I said. Russell. Doesn’t sound right to me at all. Sure it isn’t something more like Pleb? Crud? Or Booble?
Russell, please, she said. I turned to her with folded arms, a little exasperated by now. Come on, be serious. How do you know my name isn’t Booble? Her short dark hair tossed from side to side. It isn’t, she said. Yes, but how do you know? I asked. How can you be sure?
She stopped struggling and clutched her head in her hands. Because...because...my name is Booble.
I just had to laugh. Oh, right, I said. We can’t both have the same name now, can we? Her blind eyes rolled backward, and her mouth slackened to a gaping grin. “Russell, kiss me,” she sighed.
I leaned down, tumbling through the fog of her blue eyes, as her fingers slid through my hair like drowning eels, tangled in the seaweed of my soul…
I have never known such softness. It was like cotton, like roses crushed but not dried, like an algae-thickened pond. Almost too soft, I murmured…
By then it was too late. Already her eyes were moistened with decay. Her nose had softened, too, and began to spread like jelly to her melting cheeks.
Booble, no! I cried.
It was no use. She ran through my fingers and down the urinal, leaving nothing but her scent beneath my nails and an aching in my heart.
(I didn't get it.)
I think this will be saved on my computer, but under an innocuous sounding name.
I just knew my dislike of both Beckett and romance novels would someday come in handy.
[This message has been edited by Deirdre (edited March 04, 2003).]
![[Smile]](smile.gif)
![[Monkeys]](graemlins/monkeys.gif)
isn't it, I don't know what is.
![[Big Grin]](biggrin.gif)
![[ROFL]](graemlins/rofl.gif)
a lot*![[Wink]](wink.gif)
![[Cry]](graemlins/cry.gif)
You know the story.![[Razz]](tongue.gif)
quote:
a gentle rolling meadow, well into the woods along Lancaster, and marked only by a lonely oven of bricks.
![[Angst]](graemlins/angst.gif)
I would like to too, for that matter, but if you don't have time . . .![[Kiss]](graemlins/kiss.gif)
for good measure
![[Hat]](graemlins/hat.gif)
![[Hail]](graemlins/hail.gif)
Nice work.
That was beautiful celia.
nice
![[Frown]](frown.gif)
quote:It's, sigh, true love...
T_Smith: man, I need to find something to care about.
Lalo: Why Sweetcheeks, I thought you'd never propose.
T_Smith: Alas Eddie, if but our love were true and not a charade, perhaps things would be different between. But, as is our fate, we are doomed forever to be entangled in this sea of jokes and continuing laughs, never having any...
T_Smith: time to admit to ourselves, and I fear, each other, that there is nothing for us to thrive on
T_Smith: In otherwords, sure thing, Pimp Daddy
Lalo: Hush, darling, speak with the passion in your breast, not the caution in your mind. Our love transcends such mortal trivialities as race and class and creed.
T_Smith: What about car insurances?
Lalo: Our love is meant to surpass the length of time, our hearts meant to pour more passion than the capacity of the great lonely seas -- our eyes, once met, can never again turn from each other and call others by any other title but stranger. Sweet Sweetcheeks, forever I will love you from afar, longing only for the slightest whisper of your name on the wind so my heart's solitude will be reminded of our glorious passion and enrich my sorrow for your absence.
T_Smith: You come from a world of Geico, whereas I am but stuck upon the mortal coil of All State
T_Smith: ::blinks::
T_Smith: ::sigh::
T_Smith: Stop, for my heart can bear no more strain, listening to what once never was. Speak ye the desires taht I can not face? Nay, I say unto thee, for I live in the moment, surpassed by desire for love that shall never be, yet presents itself
Lalo: Your sweet babble is but indicative of the passion that garbles your speech and softens your wits, young Sweetcheeks. Never fear, I shall never leave you, nor shall our passion ever slacken or wither -- such a love as ours was never meant for lesser endings, but only a climax with the strength of toppling Olympus itself, my love.
T_Smith: Speak ye softly, for my good mother strains to stare into your heart, and deny our love.
Lalo: Tell thy mother that our love is pure, indeed, purer than the most virtuous maiden's heart and youngest babe's mind. And yet, also dirtier than a toilet after I've eaten Chinese food. Burp.
There's a double entendre if I've ever heard one! ![[Mad]](mad.gif)
![[Eek!]](eek.gif)
You crack me up, rivka!![[Blushing]](graemlins/blushing.gif)
How about the traditional tall dark and handsome dream man? Maybe he can even be a little Johnny Depp-esque? *swoons*
But even if it's romance, and I never read romance, it's good exercise for the creative chops. That would be fun, AFR. Yep, my name is Jennie (though it's spelled with an 'ie' not a 'y').
quote:Are you sure it was a psuedonym for Jaimie? I know that character from... somewhere.
and it's sort of odd that jebus decided to use Dawn as a pseudonym for Jamie
.