Major apologies!

Due to a very recent and extremely close tragedy in my family, I have been unable to ensure this week's Author Chat Friday, as well as organising a Promo Monday for the Monday just passed. However I do have a Promo post for the coming two Mondays, and Author Chat Fridays will be back on track as of next week. 
Once again, my sincerest apologies but I have had extremely important things on my mind lately that, unfortunately, has trumped everything else in necessity. 

Author Chat Friday with Karenna Colcroft on writing

Stubborn

In writing, a certain amount of stubbornness is necessary. Some may call it persistence, but I prefer saying stubborn because I feel it more that way. If that makes any sense.

You have to be stubborn to keep plugging away even when your stories are rejected by 
publishers, or when readers and reviewers slam a story you were proud of. If you let them get to you and give up, you aren’t going to get anywhere.

Sometimes stubbornness is needed to get through obstacles to your writing as well. I’ve been finding that a lot in the past several months. My personal life has often interfered with my attempts to write. It’s hard to be excited about writing romance when you’re trying to sort out problems with your spouse. It’s even harder to write about happy, positive things when you’re watching your teenager struggle with mental illness. 

And when your own physical and mental health worsens, it can be almost impossible to keep going. I have fibromyalgia and migraines, which sometimes causes me to be in so much pain I can barely think or move. I also have post-traumatic stress disorder from past abuse, and if something triggers me, it’s all I can do to hold myself together to get through the day, let alone actually write anything. And unfortunately, PTSD issues sometimes feed the fibromyalgia and migraines, which are aggravated by any type of stress.

But I am nothing if not stubborn, and although my writing has taken a back seat over the past few months to dealing with my personal life and my health, I have written. And I continue to write. My marriage is fine, for those who may have wondered, and now that my teenager has graduated and has turned eighteen and sees that her world hasn’t collapsed, she’s doing much better and doesn’t need as much of my support. The fibromyalgia, migraines, and PTSD continue to occasionally kick my ass, so I give myself permission to rest and relax when they kick in. 

I am writing, and I’m stubborn enough to keep doing it.

Inspiring, Karenna. I know, myself, there are things that I have to battle through to get to my writing. A few times I've almost given up, even after having made my debut back in January. Being an author isn't all glitz and glam as we like to think it is. But it is worth the battle to get the words on the pages when you get fan mail from readers telling you how much they loved your story. And it's worth it when you write The End for a particular set of characters, and can sit back in the satisfaction that you've been able to tell their tale. Stubbornness is one of the most valuable traits an author can have. 

Author Chat Friday with Phoenix Johnson

No, I'm not back yet, unfortunately, but it shouldn't be much longer before I do return to The Naughty Pages. 

Our beautiful view a couple months back sitting at The Spit

Sitting here pre-scheduling posts from other authors, I was unsure what to write about for this Author Chat. So, looking out the window over the computer for one of the last times before we move, I've decided to write about how much we take things for granted. 
For almost 3 years we've had (mostly) beautiful blue skies and tall palm trees outside of our windows. Although it's the same sky that will be over us once we move, it feels different. The air feels different. For those nigh-on 3 years, we've taken it all for granted; our drives along the water, the peaceful quiet at The Spit*, the beauty of lights over the canals at night. It's all just been there for us to take in. But not for much longer. Oh, we'll be able to drive down for the day here and there, maybe even spend the weekend in a hotel to be able to catch those lights over the water again, but it's not the same as living so close. 
So I'm taking this time to remind you all that things are fleeting; nothing lasts. So if there is a beautiful spot you like to relax in, take as many opportunities to do as such as you can. Take plenty of photos. And take the time to take in all that is around you. The world is constantly changing, and we don't know how long anything will last anymore. So make the most of everything and everyone around you while you can. Visit and talk to friends and family, share some laughs and memories, and capture those moments. There may always be a tomorrow; but why wait? Enjoy life now!

*For those unfamiliar with The Gold Coast, The Spit is an iconic area, great for viewing Southport across canals, or surfing out to sea. 

Author Chat Friday with Karenna Colcroft

When I See You Smile

Folks who know me and my writing know that usually I have a new book release at least once a month. Back in June, I had two. The first one, I blogged about here last month. The second one released June 28, two days before my birthday, so I wanted to share. 

When I See You Smile is part of MLR Press’s Mixed Tape anthology series of stories based on songs from the 1980s and 1990s. I chose a song that meant a lot to me in those days, but then needed a plot to go with it. Fortunately, MLR’s editor goddess Kris Jacen had, not too long before, issued a challenge for scenes with musicians. I decided the scene I wrote in response to that challenge would be a good place to start for my Mixed Tape series.

This story marks my first attempt at an actual BDSM romance, as opposed to a story with characters who dabble a bit into Dominance and submission. Hopefully readers enjoy it and like rocker Kieran West and his lover/submissive Deacon Shea as much as I do. Here’s the blurb and a short excerpt, and you can find the book at http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=KC_WISYS:

Although rocker Kieran West is openly gay, only a handful of people know about his relationship with his lover--and submissive--Deacon Shea. Although he knows the BDSM part of their relationship must remain a secret, Kieran wants the world to know that he and Deke are in love, and he wants to make Deke a permanent part of his life.

EXCERPT:
Hands reached up from the front row, and he grinned down at the little beauties who would 
probably kill for a night in his bed. That was the biggest rush. They didn’t only want his music. They wanted him. When he’d first started out, he’d been stunned at how many women had not only begged but practically ordered him to fuck them. A tiny brush with fame consisting of a suck job in a darkened hall, or a fast, hard fuck against the wall in an alley after he exited the stage door. 

He’d taken full advantage in the early years. Before Deacon had entered his life. 

Seeing those hands, hearing the cries of, “Kieran! Yes, yes, Kieran!” from the audience, turned him on so goddamn much he could barely finish the last song. He wouldn’t be choosing a woman, though. Deke was waiting for him backstage. And that knowledge spiked Kieran’s arousal so much he could have come on the spot. Deacon’s perfect mouth 
and tight little ass had filled more of Kieran’s dreams and fantasies than any ever had. And the reality, having those lush lips around his cock or seeing Deke’s hands cuffed above his head, his ass cheeks turning red as Kieran flogged him, was better than any fantasy. 

He finished the song and called out to the crowd. “Thank you—” 

He glanced at his guitarist, who mouthed, “Philly.”

“Thank you, Philadelphia!” Kieran raised his guitar above his head, and the crowd’s cheers grew deafening. “You guys are awesome! Keep partying!” 

They yelled for an encore. For more Kieran West. For a moment, Kieran was ready to give it to them. He could do this all fucking night. They would stay. They would do anything for Kieran West.

The guitarist shook his head and tapped his wrist. Time to go. The song they’d just done had been an encore. Kieran had forgotten. 

Hazy from the afterglow—playing and singing was almost as good as sex—Kieran waved to the crowd, blew a kiss which elicited more screams, and hurried backstage.

He handed his guitar to someone. He didn’t see who, and it didn’t matter. His crew would take good care of the instrument. And Deke was standing right in front of him, waiting to take care of a completely different instrument.

Kieran threw his arms around the man and dragged him backward. “Fuck me.”

“Kieran, man, people want to talk to you,” Deke protested, though he didn’t try to stop him. He’d learned not to mess with Kieran when he was in this kind of shape. Kieran had trained him well. He hadn’t used the word which would have signaled Deacon that it was time to submit, but Deke knew who was in charge here. Especially after a concert.

“Fuck ’em.” Kieran stopped long enough to nip at his lover’s earlobe. Deke whimpered but didn’t make any louder sound. “Scratch that. Fuck you. Fuck me. Don’t goddamn care. Just fuck.”

Deke laughed and took control of their movement. Kieran allowed it because he knew what 
waited at the end of their little trip. Deacon pulled Kieran through an open door and slammed it closed. A second later, a dim bulb lit above them. “Scoped this out before the show. I know how you get.”

“Oh?” He loved the way Deke always thought ahead. On fire now, Kieran yanked down the zipper on his tight jeans and shoved them to his thighs. He was naked and hard beneath them. Underwear just got in the way. “And how is that?”

“Horny as hell.” 

Deke dropped to his knees and engulfed Kieran’s raging cock with his warm, wet mouth. Kieran threw his head back and tried not to scream. He was so fucking hard, and the sensations from Deke’s lips and tongue had him at the edge within seconds. So much pleasure, such intense feelings running through over his skin. So goddamn hot seeing Deke on his knees, taking whatever Kieran wanted to give him and giving everything back. Such a good boy. 

“Going to come,” he grunted.

Deke looked up at him and grinned around Kieran’s shaft. And that was all it took. The sight of the man he loved so happy about sucking his dick was better than a million fans. 

Kieran exploded, and now it was Deacon’s name being screamed. Deacon made him feel better than any concert, any award. Anything in the fucking universe.

It was Deacon. Only him.

Author Chat Friday with Alysha Ellis and a tempting tale...

A surprise short story from the delightful mind of Alysha Ellis... Because we like to keep you guessing ;)

Chance Encounter

Celia sat at the bar in the five star hotel and cursed herself silently. When her mother told her she’d set up a blind date for her,—“With my friend Tessa’s son. He’s a lovely boy. Such a sweet personality,” any normal woman would have reminded her that the last five dates she’d gone on to please her had been disasters. Celia loved her mother, but the woman was determined to see her daughter married. No matter how often Celia tried to tell her she didn’t need her help, her mother kept on trying. Stubborn didn’t begin to describe her. But Celia had had enough. This blind date was the last one she’d ever go on. No matter what her mother did, she’d just say no and keep on saying it.

She’d chosen a seat with a clear view across the lobby to the coffee shop where she was supposed to meet her blind date. If Johnson Bartholomew Winthrop was as pompous and stuffy as his name, she could make her escape without ever speaking to the man.

She ordered a large glass of wine and took a sip. The sip turned into a gulp when a man about thirty years old and thirty pounds overweight, dressed in dark conservative pants and a knit polo shirt that did nothing to hide his paunch, walked up to the coffee shop, cast a quick look around the lobby and scurried inside. Celia swallowed the rest of the wine and stood.

“You’re not leaving are you?”

She turned to see who’d spoken and her heart did a triple somersault. Beside her sat a vision of masculine perfection. Golden blond hair, clear blue eyes and a luscious mouth. His black t-shirt draped over a muscled chest. Blue jeans covered lean, powerful legs. His booted feet hooked over the rungs of the barstool. Her conservative, socialite mother would hate him.

Celia sat back down.

He shifted his stool closer to hers. “Buy you another drink?”

She nodded and her head swam a little. When the wine he ordered arrived, she sipped slowly.

“You staying at the hotel?” His voice had a husky rasp that made Celia’s toes curl.

“I just came to meet someone.”

His lips curled into a delicious smile. “I’m someone.”

Heat burned through Celia’s body. Just once she wanted to rebel, to do something wild and wanton, to show her family she was more than a pawn to be moved into the correct school, the correct college, the correct job and worst of all the correct relationship.

She got to her feet, swayed a little then stood firm. “Do you have a room?”

He straightened. “Honey, are you sure?” He cast a glance at the wine glass in front of her. “Maybe it’s the alcohol talking.”

She grabbed his hand. “I know what I’m doing. I want you. Now.”

He got to his feet, towering five or six inches above her own five foot nine. He put his hand on her shoulders and leaned in close. “If you’re certain this is what you want, I’d love to.”

He pulled her close and the rigid cylinder of his erection pushed against her hip. She clenched her hands to keep from grabbing it right there in the bar, and gasped out through her tight throat. “Come on.”

They shared the elevator with other people, but when they reached his room he pushed her inside, spun her around and body slammed her up against the door. He bent his head and covered her lips with his mouth.

His tongue thrust in and out and hips ground against hers. Moisture flooded her, warm and ready. She reached out and undid the snap of his jeans. The harsh rush of air in and out of fevered lungs drowned out rasp of the zip.  She shoved her hands inside and whimpered in delight.  He wore no underwear.

Her hands closed around his hot, smooth cock.

 He shoved his pants down to his ankles, pausing only to extract a foil packet from the front pocket, then he hiked her dress up to her waist, ripped her thong panties away, covered himself and thrust inside.  She opened her legs wide, aching to take him.

He angled his body and lifted so she sank down on his shaft. The deep penetration forced a gasp of pleasure from her. He gripped her hips and lifted her, then let her slide down until she pressed against the root of his cock. She writhed and twisted, wanting the unbearable tension to snap and push her over the edge and at the same time wanting more, more, more.

Her legs collapsed, but he held her upright, her back pressed against the wall—her hips slamming against it with each thrust.

He groaned and her muscles tensed. The tension coiled higher and higher. Just when she was certain she could take no more he reached down between them with two fingers and pulsed them hard and fast against her clit.

She screamed and her body dissolved into waves of orgasm. Through the roaring of blood in her ears she heard him groan, felt his cock pumping as he came.

After a moment he straightened and gently withdrew. Celia sank towards the floor. He caught her in his arms, carried her to the bed, settled her on top of the covers and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Celia heard the snick of the bathroom door open and closing but she lay there, too exhausted and far too satisfied to move.

When he returned, he’d removed the condom and his clothes. Celia couldn’t stop her appreciative grin. He looked just as good without clothes as he did with them. Better. His golden skin stretched across a firm body. She gasped.  On his hip, low and to the centre, he had a small tattoo of a dragon. Her tongue sneaked out to moisten her lips. She wanted to take a long, loving bite of that.

He sat on the side of the bed. “You gonna pull that dress back down and go?”

She lifted her head and looked down at the black material still bunched around her waist. “Do you want me to?”

His eyes grew heavy. “I want you to stay.”

She pulled the dress over her head and flung it aside. “I want that too.”

He lay down beside her. She ran her hands idly over his stomach. He grinned at her. “I’m glad I decided to go into the bar instead of doing what my mother wanted.”

Celia swallowed. “What your mother wanted?”

He shrugged. “She set me up with a blind date with the daughter of some friend of hers. I decided not to go through with it so I went to the bar instead.”

Celia grabbed his hand and held it tight. “What’s your name?”

“Call me J. B.” He looked sheepish. “Who’d want to answer to a name like Johnson Bartholomew Winthrop?”

Author Chat Friday with Phoenix Johnson

Yes, things are a bit hiccupy right now, and it's supposed to be Alysha this week but due to  some circumstances, for this month we've traded places. So instead she'll be Chatting next Friday. 
Being that I'm posting a week earlier than normal, I hadn't quite gotten my post together, so I'm going to wing it, and talk about something that most people go through, authors in particular, and a few ways to hopefully tackle it. 
I'm talking about stress from overloading oneself. I am guilty of doing that quite a lot. See, I get bored and fidgety rather easily, so am always having to do something of some sort. That is why I'm studying full time, writing, had been proof-reading for Secret Cravings as well as being a stay at home mother (about to be to two!). I need to have something to keep my mind busy at all times otherwise I just grow bored and irritable. However it had begun to catch up on me, as it will eventually catch up to anyone who tries to juggle too much. I was battling anxiety and depression and still trying to take on more which only made things worse; I was caught in a vicious cycle. 
So what did I do to change? I asked my doctor for help, because that's always a good first step. Ask for help.Suck up that ego, and reach out. 
I started seeing someone to help me manage it once every two weeks. Not too long later, she was happy enough to extend time between appointments, and now I've got it mostly under control; I'm lucky enough it's only taken about 7-8 months. Some people take a lot longer. 
For those who aren't yet ready to admit they need help, or for those who just need a little bit of management advice for their stress, I want to share a few tips that I have picked up.
ASK. It's not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength to admit you need help. 
BREATHE. When you feel things are starting to overwhelm you, take a minute, take 5. Hell, take an hour or two if you need it. Use that time to sit back, close your eyes, take deep breaths and let yourself relax. Let your mind wonder. And don't feel guilty about taking the time. We are humans, not machines. We need down time. 
TALK. Find someone you can talk to when things are getting too much. Maybe just a friend over a coffee, or a Skype chat with a friend or family member overseas. It doesn't matter who; just find that support and know when to use it. Get those frustrations out. 

LISTEN. A good support person listens to you talk, but you also need to listen to them. Maybe they have some invaluable advice or fresh ideas on how to tackle whatever is that's bothering you. 
WRITE. Now, this doesn't just apply to authors. Anyone can find therapy in writing. It doesn't matter if it's just a scrap of paper on which you write out your frustrations, to then scrunch it up and throw it out. (Burning the paper is quite a symbolic gesture, as well. Just obviously take care when dealing with flames!) It's the act of getting your frustrations, your anger etc out in some form. And it doesn't just apply to writing. Paint, draw, jog your frustrations out. Scream in to a pillow. Find how best to vent your frustrations etc and when they're creeping up, let them out!

These are just some basic suggestions. Simple, and obvious, but often they are things we don't do, even though they are some of the most effective ways to relieve stress. What is most important is that you keep aware of your stress levels and find ways to keep in under control. Always be conscious of what is going on in your mind, and with your emotions because no matter how much you try to deny it, you are a sensitive being, and can only ignore stress for so long before it knocks you out!

Author Chat Friday with Karenna Colcroft, proving that inspiration comes from everywhere!

It's always a pleasure to welcome Karenna to The Naughty Pages, so let's see what she has in store for us today...

Inspiring Flight

In October 2012, I was able to attend the GayRomLit convention in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I really wanted to go to it, to network with readers and other authors and see who and what else was out there.

The only problem was that going required flying. I live in Massachusetts. I could have gotten to Albuquerque by bus or train, but it would have taken days, and I didn’t have days. I have kids. So flying was the only reasonable option, but I hadn’t been on a plane since 1989. Understandably, I was a little scared.

The flight to Albuquerque was okay. The flight crew was nice, and when I let them know I had some anxiety about flying, they checked in with me off and on to make sure I was handling it. The fun part came on the flight back.

The first leg of my flight was from Albuquerque to Chicago. I boarded the plane worried about the takeoff and the landing at the other end, and hoping I wouldn’t be quite as anxious this time since I’d been through it once already. And then one of the flight attendants, a tall, blond guy on the skinny side, took the mike for the pre-flight instructions and said, “Hi, I’m Chris, your flight attendant. There are others, but their names don’t matter.”

Those may not have been his exact words, but they’re close enough. And the rest of his instructions to the passengers continued in the same vein. I felt like I was at a comedy show, not waiting for a plane to take off. And I felt much more at ease.

I told Chris the flight attendant that he might show up in one of my books someday, and he did. My M/M contemporary novella Changing Planes released on June 4 from Loose Id (http://www.looseid.com/changing-planes.html), and the love interest, a flight attendant named Colin Traynor, is modeled on Chris, including using the pre-flight speech as close to word-to-word as I could remember. The book has gotten mixed reviews so far; some people feel like Oliver Sheehan, the main character, falls for Colin too quickly, and others are annoyed by the fact that Oliver is bisexual and, at the beginning of the story, is engaged to a woman. (Note for those who dislike these things: There is an almost-sex scene between 
Oliver and his female fiancée in the story, but then they break up.)

Here’s the blurb and a short excerpt from the novella:

Oliver Sheehan is on his way from Boston to California to marry his fiancée and start a new 
life, but he isn't sure Sophia and Sacramento are what he truly wants. On the second leg of his flight, Oliver meets Colin Traynor, a flight attendant with a wicked sense of humor and smile to match, and the attraction is immediate. It isn't the first time Oliver's been interested in a guy, but it's definitely the most intense.

Even after he arrives in Sacramento, Oliver can't quite put Colin out of his mind, and when his engagement to Sophia unravels in the wake of her confession that she's fallen in love with a woman, Oliver turns to Colin for friendship and comfort. Although Colin refuses to start a relationship with Oliver so soon after the break-up, they can't keep their hands to themselves when Oliver crashes in Colin's hotel room for the night. Following that, a month of texting and video chats--not entirely G-rated--leads to a hot weekend at Oliver's new apartment back in Boston to make up for lost time. In bed and out, Oliver knows he wants Colin in his life; he just hopes Colin wants the same.

EXCERPT:

The plane took off, and Oliver closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The plane would go up, level out, and stay in the air all the way to California. It would probably hit some turbulence, which was nothing more dangerous than a bumpy road. He would be just fine.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard flight three-seventy-five, Chicago, Illinois to Sacramento, California. I’m Colin, and I’ll be one of your flight attendants today. The others don’t matter.”

Startled, Oliver opened his eyes as the passengers around him laughed uncertainly. Colin stood at the front of the cabin, grinning broadly. “We’ll be serving snacks and drinks a bit later. I promise they aren’t poisoned, though they might taste like it.”

More laughter this time. Oliver joined in. Colin’s humor put him at ease, which was almost certainly Colin’s intention. He’d probably dealt with tons of nervous passengers. Or maybe he’d just gotten bored giving the same spiel over and over.

“In the event of an emergency, an oxygen mask may drop from the compartment above you,” Colin said. “If it hits you in the head, it will hurt like hell.” More laughter as Colin took a demonstration mask out of  the cupboard beside him. “Secure it this way, and don’t worry about how you look in it. We won’t take pictures.”

He put the mask on and took it off again. “If you’re traveling with a small child or someone who needs assistance, secure your mask before theirs. You won’t be a whole lot of help if you’re gasping like a fish on the floor.”

Oliver was laughing harder than the comments actually warranted, and he knew it was partly due to anxiety. But the guy was also just plain funny. He should have been on a stand-up comedy stage instead of wasting his talent on this plane.

“If we crash over water, your seat cushion will double as a flotation device,” Colin said. “If we crash over land, you’ll be pretty much screwed.”

At that, the passengers laughed so loudly Colin had to stop talking. He just smiled until the noise subsided, then went on to talk about seat belts, flight magazines, and the location of the restrooms. At the end, the passengers applauded. Definitely not the usual reaction to flight instructions. Then again, Colin obviously wasn’t the usual flight attendant.

“The captain’s telling the flight crew to sit down for a few minutes because we’re about to hit some turbulence,” Colin said. “Not to worry. He knows what he’s doing. We hope.”

The laughter this time wasn’t quite as loud, though Colin was still clearly joking. He smiled and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, time to be serious. Thanks, folks. You’ve been a lovely audience. Please make sure your seat belts remain fastened until the light goes out, and as soon as the captain gives us the go-ahead, we’ll come around to take your drink orders.”

The flight crew took their seats near the cockpit entrance, and the passengers turned back to their distractions, though there was a hum of conversation that hadn’t been present before. Colin’s comedy routine had put everyone in a better mood. Even Oliver, who now wished he could fly again just to listen to Colin more.

If Books Were Real with Alysha Ellis

Inspiration isn’t always divine.

I observed an on-line conversation recently about the writer’s source of inspiration.  People spoke seriously and sincerely about the nobility and purity of their calling.  I didn’t  contribute a thing. How could I? I don’t have a gracious lady wafting grand ideas into my subconscious mind. I have a bimbo in red stiletto heeled boots whispering smutty suggestions into  my ear. Others have a muse...I have an inner tart.

My inner tart is prepared to use anything for inspiration...and I do mean anything,  including the weirdness of some internet users. A little while ago I received an email from a fan.  This is a big deal for me. Fans are golden and must be treated as such. I was a little confused  when he (and yes, that was surprising in itself) said he loved how beautiful I was. 

At first I thought he meant I was a beautiful person, which is an odd conclusion to come  to from reading my books. A wicked person, a depraved woman, an irreverent trouble-maker: 
that would be understandable  -  but beautiful?  It turned out he thought the cover model on one  of my books was me and he had fallen in love. Actually, that would be lust, because he sent me a  detailed and somewhat icky description of exactly what he felt when he looked at the cover...and  I mean felt quite literally. Felt, stroked, squeezed...you get the picture.

Before I pressed the block user button, I sat back and had a think. What kind of person is  so inexperienced, so naive that they think the authors of books are the cover models? 

Or is it that we are so used to people making up avatars and images on the net, that we  now believe what we want to believe…and bugger reality? And if our interactions become more  and more virtual, maybe that’s the way we’ll go.

Maybe one day virtual reality will be indistinguishable from for want of a better word— real reality. So here’s a question for you. If you could step inside a fictional world, and live it as 
if it were real, what would you choose to do?

The answer to my own question—which book would I choose to live in? I’d never settle  for one. 

I’d start with Pride and Prejudice—which would immediately move to the crime fiction  genre because Eliza Bennett has to go. I’m not having any competition for Mr Darcy.

I’d almost certainly have a stay in my own book, Submitting to Him because I write the  kind of heroes I want. So if I get the chance to have them, no way would I turn it down. I want a  hot, dominant, modern Greek god, thank you very much.

And my absolute favourite hero, the one I MUST have is Dominique, Vidal from  Georgette Heyer’s Devil’s Cub.

So where are you going to dive in, and more importantly, with whom?

I must say that would have been an interesting piece of fan mail to get. Good point though, we're living our lives so much in the virtual now, it's easy to get confused between fiction and reality. 

A hiccup on the network

So yesterday I was unable to get online, due to issues with our internet connection. We had about 3 minutes of connection yesterday morning, and then 5 minutes of connection last night. The rest of the day, the modem was just flickering and flashing, and not doing anything useful. Have contacted our provider, and hoping to get it sorted ASAP, so please bare with me for any possible missed posts. Yesterday's promo for Gemma Parkes had been rescheduled for the 19th, so thankfully I didn't have to worry about that (though silly me forgot about the re-sched and panicked!). Author Chat Friday should be able to go ahead however, and we should hopefully be back on track. 
I'll hopefully have some fantastic news to share soon, besides the fact that Persephone, the novel that I have been working on since November for NaNoWriMo last year, is finished and has now been submitted to Naughty Nights Press. Jeannie's Cowboys, erotic m/f/m short, is not far behind, so I'll be able to get back to Acapello's Lady, The Coven, The Crypt and The Lover's Lovers in between study and moving, thankfully. Very relieved. I have a potential new novel to start as well, but I won't give details until a little later. However, like I said, I should have some fantastic news to share soon, so stay tuned!

Special Guest and Important Message - Author Chat Friday

This, the fifth Friday of May, is a special Author Chat. I'm delighted to welcome special guest Angelica Dawson to The Naughty Pages with a very special message, a very important message for everyone; not just those who live the Naughty life. 

Trust and BDSM

Jocelyn, the protagonist of Kitten, was a victim of gang rape. That event is never described in detail, but  rather in bursts and flashes of memory. After the revelation, she is still handled roughly by men in the  book, however, none of them rape her.

A line in BDSM, that is often drawn with smudging, is consent. She has given herself to me so I can do  whatever I want with her. It’s a scary thought. It puts women back into a position they held years ago  where they were victims of men, unable to stand up for themselves with any expectation of being respected in her wishes. 

Done properly, a Master knows his partner’s limits and may press them but not pass them. It isn’t fair  to take someone’s trust and betray it before they can have a chance to say no. Jocelyn comes to trust  Will despite his violent nature and degrading language. It is made apparent to her that it is a game. He  can say anything without really meaning it. He spreads his violence out, letting punishments be titillating  instead of painful. Most importantly, when helping her move beyond her rape fears, he moves slowly. 

He lets her know up front where it is headed and what she will do, “All of your holes can take me,” but  he goes slow, using first fingers, then smaller men, and finally himself. 

Jocelyn informs the vampires on her first encounter that she isn’t interested in rape play. She say, “I  might be willing to be hurt, but I won’t be raped again.” This is a perfect instance of not establishing the  trust and ground rules up front. Terrance, her first partner in Blue Moon House, isn’t playing hard, he  isn’t going for broke, but even so, he discovers where her limits are and what is out of bounds. 

I don’t claim my book is an excellent primer on BDSM. I know it’s not. However, I do hope to faithfully  respect the wishes of my characters and portray a safe environment. There is another scene where  Jocelyn thinks perhaps she has misplaced her trust and the thought is echoed by one of the vampires. 

“You cannot truly be a part of this house unless you trust your master. We have no place for you  otherwise.”

To completely surrender to another requires trust. I hate to think of that trust being betrayed by  someone who selfishly seeks their own pleasure and assumes they know what is best for their partner. 

Communication is the key to any relationship, and the reason why the vampires reveal themselves  immediately after such trust is established. They are in as much danger as their partners. If they are  discovered they risk being hunted and killed. The stakes for them are easily as high as the human  partners who surrender to their bites as well as canes, paddles, chains and any other implements used  to combine pain and pleasure. 

Trust is the bottom line in Blue Moon House, and Kitten is no exception.

Angelica Dawson is the author of Blue Moon House, a vampire BDSM story, and its prequels. She’s  no stranger to blood sucking hoards, but in her day job as an environmental consultant, they tend  to be black flies and mosquitoes rather than vampires. She is constantly sharing flashfiction on her blog and can also be found on twitter  and Facebook. Her books, including the newly released Kitten, can be purchased from her publisher, Amazon and All Romance Ebooks.

Author Chat Friday with Karenna Colcroft

Something New
It’s time for my second monthly post here, and I have a new release to talk about. I’ll warn you, this will happen more months than not. I write a lot, and it seems like pretty much every month, I have at least  one release. But I promise to try not to be all advertisey (is that a word?) I’ll actually talk about things  related to the books.

This month’s release, In His Shirt, was a new experience for me writing-wise. I’ve been writing  heterosexual romance for Ellora’s Cave for a couple of years now, but in my writing life I’ve been moving  away from heterosexual stuff to doing more male/male. I seem to be better at writing the male/male  stuff, and it’s more in my comfort zone. I didn’t want to just plunge in with M/M for Ellora’s Cave,  though, so I decided to try writing a male/male/female ménage, that is, a threesome in which the men  are sexually involved with each other as well as with the woman.

In His Shirt was just released a week ago, so I haven’t gotten much feedback on it yet other than a 3.5  star review in which the reviewer said the story wasn’t long enough. I don’t know what readers are  going to think of the MMF aspect. Some readers of male/male romance get irked if a woman is included  in the mix; some readers of heterosexual romance are squicked out by guy-on-guy action. But at the end  of the day, I have to write the stories I want to write (and read) and hope for the best, and that’s what  I’ve done with this. 

In His Shirt is available from Ellora’s Cave. Here’s the  blurb and a short excerpt:

Marielle has had a thing for her friend Rory since they met, but has never acted on it. The morning after  Rory and his roommate Wayne save Marielle from a jerk at a club and bring her back to their place to  sleep it off, Marielle decides it’s time to let Rory know how much she wants him. She doesn’t expect  Wayne to walk in and join them—and she definitely doesn’t expect to discover Rory and Wayne have a  sexual relationship—and they want to make Marielle a permanent part of it.

EXCERPT:

The guys lived in a secure building which meant Marielle had to buzz to be let in. Her only moment of  hesitation came when she held her finger over the buzzer. Should I really do this now? Maybe they need  a little more time to get over me being a bitch about this. Maybe they don’t even want to see me.

She refused to let those thoughts stop her for long. She pressed the button.

Wayne responded almost immediately through the speaker. “Hello?”

“It’s me.” Marielle paused. “Marielle.”

“Did you forget something?” He sounded guarded.

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you something.”

He didn’t answer for several seconds, long enough for Marielle to wonder if he would reply at all. Then  the buzzer sounded and the door clicked.

She opened the door quickly and went up to the men’s apartment. Wayne already had their door open  though he stood in the opening as if blocking her from entering. “Didn’t you say everything you needed  to?”

“No.” Marielle took a deep breath. “First of all I need to say I’m sorry. Second, can I come in, please?”

“It depends on what you’re sorry for.” Wayne glanced over his shoulder. “Rory’s in his room. Asked me  to leave him alone after you stomped out of here. You really hurt him.”

“That’s what I’m sorry for.” Marielle’s heart ached. She’d known she had hurt the men. Hearing  someone else say she had was worse. “Please, Wayne. Let me in to apologize to him, at least. I wasn’t  exactly expecting you guys to ask me something like that and I acted like a jackass because I didn’t know  what else to say. I need to talk to both of you if you can forgive me enough to let me in.”

“This better be worth it.” Wayne stepped aside.

Marielle entered the apartment and he closed the door behind her. “It will be,” she said. “Come to  Rory’s room with me?”

“Yeah.”

He led her to Rory’s bedroom door and knocked. “Someone’s here to see you.”

“I don’t want to see anyone,” Rory said.

“Yeah you do.” Marielle turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Rory sat up quickly and stared at her. “What are you doing back here? Thought you needed time to  think.”

“I had enough time and some advice from a friend.” Marielle paused. She had an entire speech planned  but seeing the mingling of sadness and anger in Rory’s expression, she knew she needed something  more obvious than words.

Rory had told her to give back his shirt when she’d come to a decision. The best way to let him know  she’d had enough time was to do exactly that. She whipped off the shirt and approached the bed in her  bra and jeans. “Here. I need to give this back to you.”

His eyes widened. “You’re giving me…?”

“A yes.” She knelt on the bed beside him. “For one month, at least. I need to see if I can really handle it.  But yes, I want to be with you.” She looked back at Wayne. “Both of you.”

Author Chat Friday: A History Lesson with Alysha Ellis

The Scandals of our Past

“Do you recant your views?” The dean glared at the student who faced him across the desk.

“I stand by every word.” The boy, for at nineteen that’s all he was, stared back, defiance in his dark eyes. “The world is ready for atheism and men like me will help it spread.”

“Not in my college, at my university you won’t.” The dean pointed a finger to the door. “There is no place for you here.”

The student shrugged and strode out. He didn’t look back; he made no plea for clemency. Percy Bysshe Shelley had taken the first steps on a road that even one hundred and ninety eight years later in a far more hardened world, is scandalous.

Within four months he had eloped to Scotland with Harriet, a sixteen year old friend of his sister, not because he loved her but because she loved him and threatened to kill herself because she was so miserable at home.

Not surprisingly the marriage wasn’t entirely happy and Shelley abandoned Harriet and fell in love with Mary Godwin, daughter of the famous feminist and advocate of free love, Mary Wollstonecraft.

Mary Godwin had two half-sisters, Claire and Fanny. Claire had a liaison with Lord Byron.  Fanny fell in love with Shelley. Honestly, I don’t know what he had going for him but it must have been something pretty potent.

Shelley took Mary and Claire with him to Switzerland, where Claire introduced them to Lord Byron. Fanny, in misery at being left at home, killed herself.

In the meantime, Percy’s wife, pregnant now to another man and mistakenly believing he’d left her, killed herself by drowning in the Serpentine River in London.

So why am I telling you all this? Because just recently I had a conversation with a conservative person who claimed that “The moral decay of the twenty-first century” was the forerunner of all sorts of doom and gloom. “Nothing good can come of this,” the woman claimed. Apparently I, and all the erotic romance writers of my ilk were at least partially responsible for all the ills of the world.

I have a few objections to this.

First of all, we didn’t invent sex, we didn’t invent different ways of living or scandalous lifestyles.

BDSM has been around a long time. Open marriages are not new. As many of you know, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries particularly, morality was seen as a middle class virtue. Different rules applied in the upper classes. Appearances mattered far more than behaviours. If you could keep it quiet, you could do what you liked. People like the Godwins, Wollstonecrafts and Shelleys weren’t necessarily behaving all that differently to many others in society, they were just more open about it. Living their lives, not in defiance of the ways other people of the aristocracy behaved, but in defiance of their hypocrisy.

I see the same criticisms being levelled today at people who want to live in situations that differ from the majority of people. There is the obvious, and hopefully diminishing, rejection of homosexuality. It has always existed, but we should reject the hypocrisy that makes us have to hide it or to deny its existence.

Whether it’s BDSM, slave/master, polyamory or any one of a myriad of arrangements that are possible between consenting adults, this is not new. We’re just finally being honest and admitting it happens, it has always happened. The more progressive amongst us realise that one person’s relationship need not diminish or impact on another’s.

So that’s my first objection. None of this is a twenty-first century problem, if it’s a problem at all.

My second objection is against the assertion that nothing good can come of this.

Mary Godwin, Percy’s sixteen-year-old wild child lover became Mary Shelley, and Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, an recognised part of the literary canon. It has inspired hundreds of writers, poets and film makers with its exploration of the relationship between man and creator and what it means to be human.

The Shelleys and their friends rejected conventionality, but embraced creativity. Percy Shelley wrote poetry, as did Byron.

 Great minds are not always bound by the rules of others The artist as radical became a pretty well-established concept.

So what has this to do with me? And how did I get into the argument with my conservative critic in the first place?

I wrote two historical, ménage novellas - The Gardener’s Sins and a Boudoir for Three. My critic mailed me with a complaint - such an arrangement would not have happened in the time period I wrote about.

My response? “Rubbish.”

It happened. And the Shelleys prove it. Like all fiction writers I write, not the truth, but a truth. I explore aspects of human nature and while monogamy and one-on-one relationships are certainly touted as the norm, there have always been exceptions and in the case of monogamy, the exceptions are more numerous that we often admit.

So if I want to write historical ménage - I will; secure in the knowledge that what I’m writing probably isn’t even half as scandalous as what actually happened.

Extract From A Boudoir for Three www.total-e-bound.com

The blood-red wine splashed a little, but Christophe’s hand steadied hers and lifted the heavy crystal to her mouth. She took a sip, then a large swallow, needing the added courage. One more gulp and the glass emptied and she held it out for more. A smile briefly curved Armand’s lips and he tilted the bottle.

The second glass disappeared almost as quickly. Angelique’s head felt light but her limbs grew heavy. Christophe’s face, surprisingly close, seemed soft around the edges. “More wine,” she murmured.

Christophe took a sip of his own wine and touched his mouth to hers. She gasped. The instant her mouth flew open, wine, warmed from Christophe’s mouth, trickled in. Her eyes widened. Astonishment held her motionless, then her throat moved and swallowed. Warmth spread throughout her body pooling in hot dampness at the juncture of her thighs.

Without raising his lips from hers, Christophe pushed her back against the padded side-rest of the couch. He lifted her legs and draped them over his thighs. Hands— Armand’s, her dazed mind assumed—unlaced her shoes and slipped them from her feet. She felt strong fingers caress her arches, then slide upwards, lingering briefly at the backs of her knees before inserting themselves under the tied ribbons to deftly slide her stockings down.

Her ruffled skirt and petticoats were pushed up and moist kisses pressed on the, as yet, untouched skin of her thighs. Again she gasped and Christophe’s tongue, flavoured with wine and some sweet musky essence of his own, thrust into her mouth.

Armand, kneeling beside the couch continued his exploration, sliding upwards, his teeth taking small, devastating little bites, until he came to the slit in her silk draws. He probed into the gap. Angelique’s hips surged involuntarily upwards, and Armand’s tongue made a long, leisured journey between her wet, pleated folds.

Christophe broke the connection of their mouths to turn his head to watch. His breath rushed in and out, the rise and fall making Angelique aware of the hard rod pressed against her hip where he leaned over her. When she had been forced to feel the Marquis D’Arly’s cock, revulsion had made her snatch her hand away. Now she lifted one heavy arm and delved into the tiny space between herself and Christophe. She curled her fingers around the rigid cylinder and Christophe’s shuddering breath hitched and restarted with the force of a bellows.

At this sign of her power, a small delicate flower of desire began to unfurl. The hot rasp of Armand’s tongue shocked her to the depths of her soul, but she didn’t want him to stop. Tendrils of excitement wound deep into her brain.

Armand found a hard point she had not even known existed and flicked it with his tongue. Her limbs melted, her thighs dropped apart and pleasure flooded her. He flicked again, over and over with a rapid pulsing rhythm, drawing her tighter and tighter.

Christophe’s hands rubbed her nipples through the dress and his tongue continued its sensual exploration of her mouth. The world shrank to nothing more than this couch and the hot, hard bodies of the two men caressing her into a state of abandon.

Suddenly with the force of embers exploding into red hot shards in the fire, the tension snapped, burning through blood and bone and skin, leaving her gasping, shaken and quivering, seared with pleasure in a way she had never imagined. A misty cloud blurred her vision, and when it cleared she saw Armand nod, his chin and lips glistening, a measuring look in his eyes, as if confirming something to himself.

“Is that it?” she asked. “I am no longer a virgin?” It was easier and more enjoyable than she had been led to believe.

Author Chat Friday welcomes Karenna Colcroft

Please welcome a new addition to the roster, Karenna. She's been here with Promo Mondays, but now is your chance to actually get to know her a little better!

Ta-da! I’m here!

*Clears throat, looks around* Nice place you have here!

Oh, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Karenna Colcroft, and as of today, since 2009 I’ve had 40 romances published, including freebies and a few short stories in anthologies. I’ll tell you a little more about today’s release in a minute. I also write young adult fiction under the name Jo Ramsey, and soon my seventeenth YA will be released.

One of Karenna's romances. Looks
like lots of fun, going from the
cover!

I started writing erotic romance in 2006 when a friend, who had been informally counseling me as I tried to cope with some demons from my past, challenged me to put my writing skills to work and write something that showed “sex in a positive light.” He knew me well; I always take challenges as long as it doesn’t involve anything illegal or anyone being hurt. So I wrote a scene and was actually kind of impressed with it. I kept going.

Later that year, I left my first husband (long story, but he was a big part of the reason my friend was counseling me) and joined an online dating site. I didn’t get a lot of dates through it, but I had a few short relationships, including one to a man who challenged me in 2007—yep, another challenge—to start posting my erotic stories on a certain free story website. I took that challenge too, and that’s where I found my first publisher.

My first erotic romance e-book was released in March 2009. The numbers I mentioned above are all since then. It’s been one heck of a wild ride! I got my start writing heterosexual erotic romance; nowadays I write more male/male but still some hetero as well.

Today’s release, Beta Block, is one of my hetero romance novels. It’s paranormal; both hero, Carlos Garza, and heroine, Brianna Wright, are werewolves. Brianna has one hell of a horrible past; abuse, rape, and being thrown out of her previous pack. But with Carlos’s help, she can begin to rebuild her life. Beta Block is from Passion in Print Press, www.passioninprint.com, and I’ll be visiting Phoenix Johnson on Monday to share more about it.

Meanwhile, I’ll be here on the third Friday of every month, and I look forward to hanging around and getting to know you!

40 published romances, wow! Looking forward to having that much experience under my writing belt! Well done, Karenna, and welcome to Author Chat Fridays! Looking forward to your promo spot on Monday, and can't wait to see what you have in store for us next time on ACF!

Author Chat Friday with Phoenix - More Questions Authors Don't Like

So once again I'm back to discuss three more questions authors don't like being asked. These three questions are suggested by fellow author Dy. 

"You must be good at sex."
Obviously specific to romance and erotica authors, this question is extremely confronting. An author's ability and confidence to write hot sex scenes is no reflection on their skills in the bedroom, and in fact it's quite rude to ask. It's natural to wonder, of course. But to actually ask an author such a personal question, or make the statement, is a little bit more information than an author usually likes to provide about themselves. The fact that an author writes about steamy sex scenes doesn't mean that they're asking for such questions, either. Rule of thumb: if you wouldn't want people asking about your sex life, don't ask other's about theirs. Even if they are a writer of erotica and/or romance. 

"What does your mother think?"
There are a number of reasons why this question is a drag. Not every person knows their mother for one thing; you can't be sure the author hasn't lost their mother, or that they're in contact with their mother. 
Aside from that, this is a question that suggests writing certain genres is shameful. Many authors have open relationships with their mothers, and so their mother might fully support their son or daughter in the genre they write; or maybe it's a sore spot between author and mother. This is another question that, although is natural to be curious about, is one best left unasked. It's personal, and only between the author and their family. 

"Where do the ideas come from?"
I've been asked this in a few blog interviews, which I don't mind. But when you're asked by every fan you come across, it can quickly become a hated question. 
Ideas come from many places. Maybe the author sees something on the news and the mind goes in to overdrive, spinning out possible story lines to follow or lead up to that event. Or maybe an odd conversation with a friend or fan sparks a story. Let me list two different examples for where some of my ideas have come from.
The Wolf in the Neighborhood, for example. I was lying in bed, trying to drift off to sleep but my mind just wouldn't pipe down. A random scene (the opening scene, in fact) popped in to my head vividly; I could feel the satin dressing gown, the heat of the sun and the cool breeze. It started writing itself in my mind so I flipped over to my stomach, grabbed my phone and started typing away in Drafts. That little snippet, probably only about 150 words, sparked the entire story, which then sparked the two sequels.
Acapello's Lady is one that I always share for a laugh. I was dancing around to Zumba with guilty pleasure song Cotton Eyed Joe on repeat, blasting away. The idea began to tease me. After the zumba session, the song still on repeat, I jumped in to the cold shower and the idea started forming in to something solid. Allowing it to form a bit more, I hopped out, straight to the computer and started writing. I always shake my head and grin at how random that one came about! 

So while a newbie like myself might be happy sharing a story or two about how some of our ideas come about, not all authors like hearing that question. Sometimes the ideas just come out of thin air; there isn't an interesting story behind everything we write. So just keep it in mind next time. Just because we write interesting stories, doesn't mean we have something interesting behind them. 

And so ends another episode of "Questions authors don't like." To see what other questions I've discussed so far, you can view the previous blog posts here and here. For the next two Fridays, I have two new guests, Karenna Colcroft and Kharisma Rhayne will be joining the roster due to busier schedules of Liz and Delena. These two ladies are quite lovely and very interesting, so I hope you're looking forward to see what topics these saucy ladies come up with!