L.K. Lynch, Sean O’Toole and I are all working on separate things. The two of them sent me cute vignettes this week. Since you will have to wait for another book, I thought it would be nice to share their pieces with you now.
L.K. Lynch’s birthday was last week. I posted a birthday message in bdsmlr. It also promised a paragraph or two from L.K. about self-spanking should the post receive the required number of likes and reblogs.
It exceeded the requirement.
As challenged, L.K. offered this:
My refusal to submit to self-administered birthday spankings drew the ire of Mistress B.J.
Unbeknownst to me, she mobilized a force of Dommes, developed across the world from her vast fan base, to deal with such insolence.
The bar that I had strolled into was uncharacteristically dark in the strange Caribbean town where I had stopped to re-provision the boat. The bartender, a young, tall and thin native woman, dressed in all black would get to me on ‘island time’; as in no hurry.
Usually I’m more observant than this; however, the clientele–all locals–had slowly risen and collected behind me while I’d sat there in ignorant bliss.
The women of the assemblage had all been cut from the cloth of the bartender–young, black women, attractive, well-toned, and muscular.
Their men–some black, some white–remained sullenly in their seats, as if chained.
Finally, the bartender approached with my refreshment, a concoction known locally as a *painkiller*.
Setting it on the bar in front of me, I felt her penetrating stare as she tersely spoke in a thick island accent, “This is from B.J.”
A chill ran down my spine as I processed her statement and reached for the glass. How did she know…
Before I could grab it, a woman behind me thrust her hand on my wrist and, holding it down, said, “Before you can have your painkiller, THERE MUST BE PAIN!”
B.J.’s posse was on top of me before I knew it, and they tore off my clothes. My head was turned and my cheek slammed to the top of the bar as the women pressed the back of my neck.
In a panic, I thought to call out, but, from the corner of my eye, I saw the men. They remained silent and obedient in their seats, staring downward, and I knew any cries for help would go unnoticed.
With my clothes shredded and on the floor, I heard the leader say to the bartender, “This dog turns fifty-nine today. Do you have the candles?”
“The wax of fifty-nine candles shall leave quite a mark, no?”
Her comment was directed towards me. Before I could plead my case, an excited murmur ran through the crowd.
“She’s here. She is here!”
“I’ve never seen her before!”
My legs shook. Dealing with the assembled gang was one thing, but, oh god, please don’t let it be…
Through a beaded divider, B.J. Frazier entered the room.
A snippet of brilliance from L.K. Delve into his kinky Camelot, “Three Favors”.
Sean O’Toole had to deal with real-life issues which kept him from his creative space. To jump start him back into action, he sent me the following.
The following is a work of fiction and is no way meant to represent how anyone would behave in real life…
I was still sleepy as I stepped into the shower this morning. One cup of coffee wasn’t nearly enough to compensate for the sleep I’d lost last night. But it was worth it.
Let me explain.
I’m a writer. Like all writers, I occasionally experience (well, more than occasionally) writer’s block. Mental constipation. Failure to launch. Call it what you will, but I was going through a dry spell of biblical proportions. My publisher was hounding me for new content. I’d gone through all of the little rituals that I’d invented over the years to breach the creative dam. Nada.
It’s nearly impossible to make a living writing erotica. One reason being there’s so much out there for free that no one wants to pay for it even if the quality of the material is (if I may say so) considerably higher than that on offer for nothing.
But I digress.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. In this case that meant going for a really long walk through my city on a wet and foggy night. NO, I did NOT say “dark and stormy” — give me some credit.
Name a city without panhandlers. Seriously. Name one. Right. You can’t. They’ve become ubiquitous and increasingly aggressive. On this particular evening, the weather seemed to be keeping a lot of them off the street or at least off the streets where I walked. But there was one. He confronted me, stepping out of the shadows, projecting a fug of stale sweat, piss and booze.
“I have something for you,” he said.
“I have nothing for you,” I replied, attempting to step around him.
He stayed in front of me somehow. “I have something for you,” he repeated.
I just wanted to get away, so I replied, “Okay, you have something for me. What is it?”
He handed me a box and disappeared into the darkness, taking his nostril-burning odors with him.
There I stood holding the box. It wasn’t empty but I couldn’t tell what was in it just from the weight.
“Hey!” I called into the darkness. “What the fuck is this?”
No answer. I almost chucked it into a nearby trash bin but, in my semi-crazed state, I thought I should at least open it on the off chance that it might contain something to help me get over my block. Yeah, I was that desperate.
But I wasn’t going to open it here. I looked up to see where I was and realized that I’d walked several miles. I wasn’t willing to wait until I could retrace my steps back to my apartment, and I wanted some privacy. So I pulled out my phone and bought a ride home.
Once safely behind my own door, I shed my wet clothes and tossed everything but my raincoat and shoes in the laundry. Pulling on a comfy robe, I made a cup of decaf, added two fingers of Jameson, and sat down at my kitchen table with the box and a utility knife.
It was a fairly ordinary cardboard box except that there were no markings of any kind. Not even a box manufacturer’s logo. It was held together with string and tape, which I quickly removed. Inside I found some bubble wrap, tissue paper, a 3×5 card with some fancy writing on it, and a metal lamp. Yeah, that kind.
I set the lamp on the table, cleared away the box and the wrappings, and picked up the card. It had an almost calligraphic script which was, fortunately, in English. It read:
You are desperate. This will help.
Hold the lamp in both hands and
Chant the following three times:
Do this and your problem will be solved.
You, of course, will no doubt have spotted the joke here. If not, go back and read it again. I didn’t say it was a funny joke. It was just a joke. In my desperate state and feeling the effects of A) lack of sleep, and B) two large fingers of Jameson, I didn’t see the joke at first.
I picked up the lamp, a tarnished metal thing with a lot of curly cued scroll work on it, held it in both hands, and recited the words on the card.
“I’m an idiot,” I said.
Blue smoke spouted from the nozzle, and a shape formed. It was female, about a foot high, dressed in a black pencil skirt, white blouse, and sensible shoes. She wore glasses, her dark brown hair was in a rather severe bun, and she had a pencil behind one ear.
“I’m from Idiots-R-Us, and I’m here to help you,” she said.
I took a swig directly from the whiskey bottle before responding. “I’m an idiot all right. I’m also seeing things. Who and/or what are you?”
“I am an agent of narrative causality, and I can help you get past your block if you will allow it.”
Allow it? ALLOW IT? Christ on a pogo stick.
“Clearly you are a figment of my overtaxed imagination. Probably brought on by something I ate. Maybe I shouldn’t have put mustard on that beef. Perhaps I should have cooked the potatoes a bit longer. Fuck this. I’m going to bed.”
She stomped her foot. This had two effects. The first is it made her look completely adorable. The second was that I found myself completely unable to move.
“Were you not paying attention? Or are you just that stupid? You’re a writer having a terrible bout of writer’s block, are you not?”
I nodded having also been robbed of speech.
“I am offering to help you with that. Do you think that was an ordinary street bum who handed you the box? Well, it wasn’t. It was one of our agents. Without us, a lot of really great books would never have been written. We don’t generally do erotica but someone took pity on you, and here I am. Now, are you going to let me help you?”
I nodded again. What the hell. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose, I guess.
“That’s better,” she said.
“Well, aren’t you going to ask me something?” she asked, tapping her little foot.
“Ask you something?”
She sighed. It was an exasperated sigh. “Lamp? Puff of smoke? Magical figure appears? Hellllllloooooo, anybody home?”
“Okay, wait. I think I know this one. B.J. put you up to this, didn’t she?” I picked up the lamp and shook it, looking for some sort of holographic emitter.
“Hey! Watch it. That’s my home you’re shaking up! And who’s B.J.?”
“Oh, sorry. Um. B.J.’s my publisher. She’s been after me for weeks for something new, and I just haven’t been able to produce. She didn’t put you up to this, then?”
“Good grief. Don’t you have to pass some sort of I.Q. test to get published?” she asked.
“Have you actually read most of the stuff that gets published online? I mean, other than by B.J. Frazier, of course.”
“Okay, let me try this one more time. Lamp. Magical being appears from a cloud of smoke? Ring any bells?”
“Sorry, I’m more comfortable with techno-magic involving computers and stuff. Are you saying that you’re some sort of djinn? A genie?
“Took you long enough.”
“I get three wishes? That sort of thing?”
“No, you don’t get three wishes. You get wishes as long as you don’t lose the lamp. Possession being nine-tenths of the law and all that, you now own the lamp and its contents, i.e., ME. I am your servant for as long as you own the lamp. I do not, however, have unlimited magical powers, e.g. making you ruler of the planet, turning you into a super hero, etc.”
“What are you good for, then?”
“I am the Genie of Writer’s Block. I am here to inspire you to create erotic fiction, remove the obstacles your mind has thrown up, and help you meet your deadlines.”
“Sweet. How do we do this?” I asked.
“You have to ask me for specific help.”
I hadn’t eaten much for dinner, and whiskey on an empty stomach is not an aid to contemplation. But I knew I had to consider how to frame a question that would get me the answer I needed. I guessed, or inferred, that just saying ‘help me finish my book’ would get me nothing but more snark with a side of foot stomping.
“What’s the syntax? Is there a specific framing required for requests?”
“Well, you can’t just say ‘help me finish my book,’ if that’s what you were wondering,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
Did I mention that this Djinn was really cute? When she arched her eyebrow, my manhood responded in a rather embarrassing way.
“Really?” she asked.
“Sorry. I’m having a bit of a dry spell in more ways than one,” I responded sheepishly.
“I suppose I should be flattered. But we have bigger fish to fry. To make this easier for you, I’ll give you a few tips. I know you have experience with computers, so you know that if you don’t ask questions in the right way, you don’t get the answer you’re looking for. That’s how you have to think of me. I’m a sort of magical search engine, and I answer questions exactly how they are asked. I don’t interpret,” she explained.
Right about then I was really regretting the whiskey. Oh well. “Give me a moment. I need to think this through,” I said.
“Take your time,” she said.
A lot of writers say that their characters tell them what to write, and I think that’s true. Mine hadn’t been talking to me for quite a while. Perhaps I’d done something to offend them or maybe they were just on holiday. A thought occurred.
“Can you take me inside one of my stories so I can talk to the characters directly and find out why they aren’t talking to me anymore?”
“I’m impressed,” she said, smiling. “That’s a very good question.”
She snapped her fingers and suddenly a woman joined me at the kitchen table. I had no doubt who she was. It had to be Pamela Mainwaring. And she wasn’t happy, to judge by her expression.
“Got it in one,” she responded with the kind of sarcasm that seems to be bred into the English.
“You’re not happy with me,” I offered.
“Well spotted.” Her sarcasm font was locked on.
“And you’re not the only one, I’ll bet.”
I sighed. Just what I needed. A cast of characters who hated me. I looked for the Djinn but she had disappeared into her lamp. Coward.
“Well, out with it, then,” I said, a little peevishly. “Why’s everyone pissed at me?”
She opened her mouth to speak, and that’s when I woke up. There was no Djinn, no lamp, no Pamela Mainwaring sharing her thoughts about my blockage. I was in my recliner. My laptop had fallen to the floor (fortunately without breaking) at some point. Turns out I’d never gone for that walk; I’d just fallen asleep. But the dream had helped me. I thought I saw a way out of my predicament. And I began to write.
The first installment of Pamela Mainwaring’s tale can be found in Sean’s first book, “Three Erotic Tales in a Brown Paper Wrapper.”
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