Who is your muse?

Thoughts, Writing

I write for you, muse.

Play on, invisible harps, play on in my heart

Please visit me muse, ache of love.

I cannot go on without you,

Do not die, my unrequited muse

Dante Alighieri & Beatrice di Folco Portinari

Do not leave me muse and come back

Elizabeth Taylor & Richard Burton

Do not love the image of us, the muse, more than the reality

Jean-Luc Godard & Anna Karina

You, my wonder wild we kiss

Sweetheart, I come.

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XXX from Possessing Wilde

books, Writing

Clarence

A sliver of light streams out as the door begins to open. I push through the opening and lock the door behind me. 

“What do you think you’re—”

I maneuver Adele against the wall, my hips pinning her there. She tries to move me away, but I push my weight harder against her.

“I don’t even know you,” she says in a quiet, almost mistrusting tone, just as a lone hitchhiker would sound like when sliding onto the passenger seat next to a stranger in a truck. 

Initially I was afraid that she would either scold me on my stupid attempt at this game of pretend, admit that she didn’t understand what I was doing, or declare that I was shit crazy; but as I secretly watched her watching me from behind the bookcases, I knew that she wanted to play. 

“All the better.” 

I lift her light body off the floor and slide her along the white tiled wall in-between the toilet and sink. 

She bites at my lips before we have a chance to kiss. I allow her to nibble and taste the skin, devouring my lower lip as if it were a succulent fruit. She sucks on it just the way she uses her mouth on my cock. 

Now it is time I have my way with her: I crush my lips onto hers and thrust my tongue into her mouth. She moves her head to the side so that her teeth sink into my neck.

La putain,” I say into her ear. She moans in response, though I know she doesn’t know what I said; she moans for my accent. “Whore.” 

“Fuck you.” Her hand lightly slaps my face, but hard enough so that I feel a burning sensation. It is thrilling to feel the pain in contrast to the pleasure of holding her and kissing. 

Va te faire foutre? Basie moi.”

Her hands dig in my hair. I pull the ends of hers lightly at first, then a harder tug after she commands for me to keep speaking. 

Je vais te baiser si fort que tu crieras dans cette salle de bain.”

I lift her dress from the hem, and spank one of the sides of her bare buttocks. Her skin is hot and sweaty; I’d want it no other way. 

Pas de culotte? Le scandale.”

Her fingers attempt to unzip me while she grinds her hips against mine. I take her trembling hand and place it inside my pants so that she can feel for herself how big and firm I am; how only she can make me this way. 

Sens moi.” 

Her hand automatically strokes it—but ah! I am more than ready to come. I must hold on. 

Je suis ton élève—apprends moi.” 

My sexual hunger rises, blinding me. I am unable to wait for more strokes and more kisses. I must feel the inside of her sex, to consume her inside and out.

She kisses me as if drinking my mouth, my tongue, my throat—drinking me alive! My hands press marks into the tops of her thighs and the sides of her buttocks, mauling them, mimicking what my mouth would be doing if she were sitting on top of my face. 

I scramble to get my cock out from the top of my undone pants. I lead it to Adele’s wet yearning pussy, which drips onto the tip, enveloping like honey. I push the entirety of my member inside, and a tiny yelp of pain escapes from her parted lips. She hugs herself closer into my body, forcing my cock to brush against her womb. I look down at the light tan color of my cock pulling out of her snow white pussy. Her breath hastens as I push back in; I pull out right away, only to hear her little pleas and cries for it to come back. Tiny sucking sounds expel between my cock and her pussy as I pump. The little hard button of her clit rubs into my pubic hair and against my skin.

A rapping on the door. 

WHAPWHAP—WHAP!

“Fuck,” Adele breathes out. “Someone’s out there.” 

“Be out,” I start saying, then quickly becoming distracted as I pound Adele’s pussy much harder than before, “… in a minute.” 

I push Adele’s wrists above her head, pinning them to the wall while holding on to one side of her hip. 

“Moan for me, Adele,” I say in a hoarse, crazed manner that is unlike my normal voice. 

“But they—”

“Never mind them. Come on me.”

She closes her eyes and I quicken my thrusting.

The sound that I’ve come to love and need—her moaning—fills the room as I feel her pussy spasming on my cock. Her orgasm is surely heard by all standing outside of this tiny bathroom, and quite possibly by all in the bookshop.  

My orgasm is so very strong that I feel as though I’ll go insane—that I will crumple to the floor any second now. I continue pumping my cum into her long after we’ve both finished. 

Finally, but most unfortunately, my softened, spent cock slides out from her. My hand lightly touches her slick pussy—the wettest I have ever felt—which I never knew until now that there could be such a state of being. 

I take her body away from the wall, and she remains attached to my hips. We melt as our tongues meet for the ending of this overture.

toi

Writing

The root behind muses

creation of sweet nothings

taste of licorice dimple candy striped

mocha in the morning, your

essence wakes every part

meet me for coffee

morning at dawn

I long to cook meals hip-to-hip

always

trembling, an ache for the touch of your smile, grazing ankles

in bed

can we live forever in bed?

Inside looks, inside jokes, insides stories, inside

kisses

you care. A single care.

Amongst countless beings,

all distant pasts.

what makes my panties wet

books, Thoughts, Writing

Don’t get me wrong, I hold great respect for romance writers, and needless to say, all writers no matter the genre–especially self-published (how many hats do we take on?) I love the passion of readers, and I also know how difficult it is to publish prolifically like many authors I’ve seen consistently pull off week after week, month after month, year after year. You (author) are SO inspiring to me! You help me to aspire to work even harder at my craft (alongside the inspiration and genius of the literary greats, but that’s another blog post).

Specifically in the romance/erotic romance genre, I’ve noticed a trend that I don’t exactly understand what the mass appeal of it is (and I can only assume it started with books featuring Fabio on the cover, and a certain number of Shades of you know which color) …

The trend is: alpha male (dominant man who knows how to get what he wants, is outspoken, confident, generally non-emotional, usually is a CEO with a billion dollars, and after much contention with his machismo inner turmoil, only melts at the knees of the woman he has conquered), and his submissive female counterpart (there’s never a female billionaire CEO, usually she isn’t that interesting, and if she isn’t completely submissive, it is made clear that she is definitely more meek in comparison to the man, made most apparently by her following his lead).

I get it. Write for your audience, right? Why change what works, especially in such a defined genre? I understand that a large number of readers of this genre read this particular genre to ESCAPE (I mean, why else is a HEA even a thing?) And that’s fine–again, I get it. Hey! I like happy endings. I also like endings that make sense, be it happy or not. I also understand that sometimes The Sound and the Fury just isn’t good airplane or bedtime reading material.

But as writers, why can’t we occasionally–if not usually–challenge ourselves and our readers by defying stereotypes in order to pave a path for new stories, characters, and tropes?

Here’s a question: am I the only one who gets wet over a sensitive, intelligent, shy, and physically imperfect (not made of muscles and/or no perfectly sculpted mountain man beard), yet cute, man? Or how about a confident, smart, headstrong, beautiful (still not physically perfect), well-read woman who has a potty mouth and enjoys a good fuck?

When I wrote Taking Wilde, my goal was to satisfy what romance/erotic romance readers expect, while also (hopefully) defying expectations and transcending what it means to escape into a world of relationships, love, work, drama, and sex (within the context of a slightly absurd premise). I wrote a novella that I would be interested in reading; I love reading about SEX, I love LOVE, and I really enjoy REAL PEOPLE.

Cara Delevigne and David Kross were my muses for the two main characters in Taking Wilde. Delevingne and Kross are hot in my opinion, but not for the most obvious reason (physicality). There’s something strong, witty, and zero-fucks-given in Delevigne that is a turn on. And what isn’t adorable about Kross? His humble and seemingly shy demeanor alone makes me melt. Oh, do tell me you’ve seen/read The Reader.

Why can’t we all try it? Something new. Who knows … maybe one of these days I’ll take on the alpha male-submissive female challenge. Perhaps I was on my way to doing so with 40-Love.

Quick Thoughts on Bi-Sexuality

Thoughts, Writing

In my next book Possessing Wilde (now available to pre-order), subjects include bi-sexuality and a ménage à trois.

Personally, I identify as bi-sexual, and I fully realize the stigmas that occur when you even tell someone that you are bi (what, she’s so horny that she can’t just choose a gender and stick with it? Oh, this just must be a phase. (Trust me, I’ve heard both of those)).

Unfortunately, bi-sexuality (like any sexual orientation outside of heteronormativity) comes with many stereotypes, including (but certainly not limited to): promiscuity, fickleness, and indecisiveness.

I really am not PC, I just want my readers and any others who are reading this to know that it is not my intention to paint individuals who identify as bi as these sex-craved people who engage in a ménage à trois as regularly as drinking water. This event just happens to be a part of Possessing Wilde (I think it’s hot, sexy, and adds to the story).

My characters represent an assortment of sexual orientations: Clarence is heterosexual, Adele previously identified as heterosexual (after meeting Celine, she realizes she doesn’t really want to be labeled as anything), and Celine is bi-sexual.

Whatever you identify as–whether it be heterosexual, bi-sexual, homosexual, pansexual, a-sexual, sexual fluidity, and any other sexual orientations I am missing–it’s all good! Have fun, and be you.

40-Love is here!

books, Writing

40-Love, my new short & sexy book is officially released on Amazon. If you’d like a copy, click HERE.

Thank you so much for the support. Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you’d like to chat, or if you want me to review or feature your writing/book. Let’s all support each other!

As always, keep reading.

xo Elizabeth

40-Love Excerpt

In the grand scheme of things, is obsessing over Kasey actually wrong? We’re not related, but I still find myself feeling guilty when I masturbate thinking about her each night. 

What’s worse, is sometimes I get off even harder by repeating in my head over and over that she is my stepsister. 

Stepsister.

Down boy.

Kasey is stepping out of the pool, showing off the maddening fact that she is glistening wet and highlighted in all the right places (ala Phoebe Cates “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”). The guys glance back to me and laugh while I practically pant in lust from the deep end of the pool.

Stay down boy, stay down. 

I dunk under water to cool off. 

Sure, everyone’s checking out Kasey just as much as I am, but it’s perfectly fine for them to do it. 

Not me.

I can’t help myself. I try not to look, but she’s just … there.  

Kasey’s breasts are rounded and big—not too big—but big enough so that they bounce and jiggle with her every movement, tantalizing onlookers with the question of am I going to stay in my place? Or will I pop out?

remembrance, sex

Other Author's Writings, Writing

“I would ask myself what o’clock it could be; I could hear the whistling of trains, which, now nearer and now farther off, punctuating the distance like the note of a bird in a forest, shewed me in perspective the deserted countryside through which a traveller would be hurrying towards the nearest station: the path that he followed being fixed for ever in his memory by the general excitement due to being in a strange place, to doing unusual things, to the last words of conversation, to farewells exchanged beneath an unfamiliar lamp which echoed still in his ears amid the silence of the night; and to the delightful prospect of being once again at home.”

Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past: Swann’s Way

“He came. He left. Nothing else had changed. I had not changed. The world hadn’t changed. Yet nothing would be the same. All that remains is dreammaking and strange remembrance.” 

André Aciman, Call Me By Your Name

madeleine, macaron, peach

papillae faded, remembrance no more.

Tasted sweeter than above, I remember.

Below, the taste,

my dearest clit.

Tongue.

Excerpt from “40-Love”

Writing

Coming soon, my new short story that is a part of my short and sexy series of books!

JONNY

Kasey is in the stands, well, standing out. 

In a bloody hot way. 

What else is new? 

She’s wearing that short, almost see-through white dress that drives me nuts, topped with red blocky high-heels. Her long brownish-blonde hair drifts casually over her shoulders.

Really. Who looks like that at a tennis match? 

I wish she’d just pack up and leave. This is the match of a lifetime; the deciding factor between going to regionals, or not. The team is tied in won and lost matches—it’s up to me to pull off the victory. And here Kasey is distracting me with her cheers of encouragement and those bouncing, bountiful breasts. I can’t forget her smile and eyes, either. Despite what most may think, it was her emerald green eyes and perfectly kind smile with those peach-like lips that I couldn’t stop thinking about when I first met her. 

And to this day, I still can’t stop obsessing over. 

I know it’s wrong.

In all actuality, is it really? We’re not related, but I still find myself feeling guilty when I stroke my cock each night thinking about my stepsister. 

You’re going to get a boner right now if you don’t stop. 

Not only that, but she’s also my best friend—sort of my only friend. The guys on the team are like brothers to me, and sure, we hang out and have fun, but I’m not close to any of them like I am with Kasey. She gets every part of me, not just the tennis part. She knows what makes me tick, what I love, my fears, hopes, and favorite anything. She remembers what kind of coffee and cream I prefer, and can usually guess what I’ll order at a restaurant. 

It’s like we share the same mind. 

To top it all off, our conversation is so natural that I don’t even think about it as “conversing”. We simply talk and know what to talk about, though we’re just fine with sitting in silence, too. 

Kasey has this way of driving me to the brink. The way she teased me—pushed me—on purpose that day after she fell on the tennis court and drove me to do the unthinkable …

Excerpt #1 from “Taking Wilde”

Writing

“I’m trying to be good, Clarence,” I say, my voice pleading with him so that he’ll look at me. I can’t bear it when I don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling. 

“Well, don’t be.” Clarence says, turning his head completely toward me, holding my eyes with his. He doesn’t let me go—no, not that easily. We drink one another up. “Take a risk with me. Be bad, be good, whatever it is … just do it with me.” 

I am his. He is mine. 

“Adele,” he starts, then pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear, “in all the time I’ve known you, I haven’t once judged you. And as long as I keep knowing you, I never will.”

Just as I feel my lips turning upward into a smile, my eyes spring out tears. The more I try to stop the tears, the more they come out. I must look like a weepy mess. 

Clarence holds my body into his. 

My ear is pressed against his chest. I hear the rapid thudding of his heart. It quickens, matching the speed of mine. 

“Why are you crying?”

I open my mouth to speak, but instead, I heave. Clarence, thankfully, is quiet as he allows me to let out this emotional thing that has been pent up in me. His soft fingers twirl strands of my hair. His other hand rests on my back, assuring me that it’ll always be there no matter what. 

“Can I consider this our second date?” 

“What,” I start laughing through my tears, “dinner with your family?”

“I know, it’s a strange premise for a second date … you’ll have to let me take you on a proper one after this winter vacation, okay?” 

I think on what he says.

The taxi comes to a halt. I lift my head, feeling my hair sticking up and out. 

“Here,” the taxi driver says. 

“Okay, give us one minute,” Clarence says. He turns the overhead light on and looks at me, then giggles. 

“What?”  

“Here, let me fix you up. I personally think you look hot, but I’m sure you don’t want to walk in there looking like you have raccoon eyes.” 

“Like I’ve cried the whole way.”

Clarence shapes my hair. He dabs the end of his finger with his tongue, looks at his finger, then says, “Do you mind?” 

I shake my head ‘no’. He proceeds to wipe his wet finger underneath my eyes to smudge away my running mascara and eyeliner.