Tag Archives: fiction

In Pursuit of Mr. Sands: Part 2 of a KDG Consortium Story

Happy Monday, my Lovelies! Last week I began a brand new tale for your Monday morning reading pleasure.  As I said,  I’ve been in pursuit of Mr. Sands for quite some time now, and somehow he always manages to elude me. And surprise me. Just recently he made another titillating appearance, only to lead me on a merry chase. I lost him in North Africa somewhere and ended up recovering in Delphi, where I met up with some unexpected acquaintances. (More on that to come. )Never mind. There are worse places to end up, and I’m sure Mr. Sands will raise his oh so fascinating head again when I least expect him.

But for now, let’s return to the inflight meal service on Mr. Sands’ redeye flight form JFK. This is the story of my first vicarious encounter with Mr. Sands. It is also an introduction to the equally intriguing PI, Elise North. I hope you enjoy her account.

If you missed the last instalment of Mr. Sands, catch up with this link.

 

 

In Pursuit of Mr. Sands Part 2: PTSD

There was no lingering over dinner in first class. Everyone fell asleep almost immediately after they’d eaten, and the attendants made themselves scarce. What I hadn’t expected was that as soon as everyone was asleep, Mr. Sands rose from his seat and walked among the passengers touching each of them lovingly. My plan had been to discretely remove myself to the lavatory as soon as dinner was over hoping that he’d think perhaps I had a friend or family member back in economy class and had gone back for a chat. I knew incubi liked to linger over their meals, but it wasn’t expressly necessary. At least that was what all the texts in the archives said. Since this was a transatlantic flight, Mr. Sands had plenty of time to enjoy his inflight dinner service. It was my plan to watch from just beyond the curtain. But when his tender ministrations, which had begun almost immediately, were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of the blonde flight attendant, I knew I’d have to go for plan B.

“Oh you’ve begun already.” The attendant’s voice was a squeaky whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

His response was to take her face in his hands and kiss her. I’ve felt the magic of seduction many times, from demigods, vampires, even demons, and it always slides right over me like oil over water. Mr. Sands’ magic was no different. I could feel it swirling around me unable to touch me. So I can only attribute the arousal I was feeling to his genuine skill as a lover well versed in the art of seduction, which was something different altogether wasn’t it?

He didn’t simply take what he wanted and send her away. He tasted and tested and teased her mouth like she was the best dessert he’d ever had, and she responded as though the kiss was the best fuck she’d ever had. With a deep intake of breath, he released her. She gave a little sigh then turned and walked away shutting the curtain behind her as though nothing had happened. The whole act had taken only seconds, and yet within those few seconds, Mr. Sands had somehow woven a complete, sizzling night of sex. I was intrigued. Perhaps shocked would be a better word. I realized I would have to guard myself carefully because sex, even ordinary sex, is its own magic, magic I thought I’d been immune to. Since Dru’s death, even the thought of sex ended with me shivering on the floor and whimpering. PTSD is a bastard. Well, any shivering I was doing now had nothing to do with PTSD or demons. I was definitely feeling the love, and while my therapist would have called it a major breakthrough to feel any kind of arousal, now was not exactly the best time.

Not only was I still in danger of being found out, but I was in danger of falling victim to my own arousal and becoming distracted, something I promised Magda Gardener would not be a problem for me. All I could do was pretend to be asleep and watch through a sliver of vision while one by one he kissed each person in first class, as though he sought something out. Each one of them writhed and moaned and sighed in his kiss as though they desperately hoped he’d find that something in them. Still, I sensed that same hint of fear I had with the attendants. The mix of fear and lust is such an intriguing blend. I slammed that door shut in my head immediately. I wanted no fear with my lust. I wanted neither. I wanted simply to watch objectively and when the time came return my report to Magda Gardener and collect my paycheck.

When he came to me, I felt that cold clench of terror, laughing demon eyes burning into me, eyes that had been Dru’s, eyes I loved. It took all the control I had not to shove up from my seat and lock myself in the bathroom in a wave of nausea and clammy sweat. I was on a job, for fuck sake! I was no coward. I could do this. I forced down the nausea. There was nothing I could do about the cold sweat, but I did my best to pretend to be asleep. Meditation technics! I tried to remember the meditation technics that my therapist had taught me when I needed to work through a panic attack, but nothing. I could think of nothing other than the incubus whose feet made a soft schuss schuss on the carpet.

Count backwards from ten. Finally the words from the meditation slammed into my brain. Breath in the fresh sea air, listen to the gulls calling overhead. And then I felt his closeness, felt the humidity of his breath against my lips. When he cupped my cheek with a large palm, when he mantled me with the heat of his body and all but pulled me into his arms, for a terrifying moment, I was sure if I opened my eyes, he would look back at me through a demon’s gaze. I might have whimpered and shivered, but then so did everyone. They were afraid too, I reminded myself.

Still, I was working, and I needed a clear head. As he leaned in so close I could taste the nutmeg and coffee of his breath, the kiss I expected didn’t come. Instead, his warm lips moved against my earlobe, his tongue snaking out to trace the seashell shape and he breathed into my ear. “Such a rare treasure you are.” Another kiss to my ear. “But sadly, one of no use to me right now. Too bad, really. You and I could have had such fun together.” His hand snaked down my neck, skimming my ribs to rest low on my hip, and just like that, my terror vanished. I opened my eyes to his stormy sea gaze. “I have no objection to a bit of exhibitionism. I promise I’ll make it good for you.” He bit my earlobe gently and gave it a tug between his teeth. “But don’t get in my way.” His last words the low warning growl of a predator.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed at knowing I was one appetizer he wouldn’t get. One of the downsides of my little gift is that I never actually experienced the magic that I can see and sense and watch going on all around me. Though to be honest, most of the time, that’s not a downside at all. Most of the time that saves my life. In this case, however, I was more of a voyeur than Mr. Sands knew, and my body was again assuring me that I would very much enjoy this show. He settled me back in my seat, blew me a kiss over his shoulder and walked away with a soft chortle, turning his attention to the blonde who was to be his main course.

My job often requires me to do unpleasant things. I do the work even the best PI wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. In fact, most would laugh my clients out the door if they were approached with such cases. It’s just as well really. It keeps them safe. Me, I don’t laugh. I never laugh. I know it’s no laughing matter. That’s why my rates are so high.

I took the job for Magda Gardener mostly out of curiosity. I expected it to be far more interesting than dangerous, and Magda Gardener paid on time, always with a bonus for work well done. I’d never encountered an incubus before, and while I knew they could be dangerous, I didn’t expect my presence would attract much attention since they could get nothing from me, and I was no threat to Mr. Sands’ little red-eye feast.

I’d had a proper invite to the show, so I watch unhindered. I observed what appeared to be nothing more than him laying one hand low on the woman’s belly while he breathed in her breath in a deep lingering kiss. But I knew by the mink and expensive whisky feel of magic swirling around me, it was so much more than that. No one else could have seen as I did. Anyone else would have been drawn into the experience, a vicarious little nibble on the side, if you will. Or, he could have simply rendered them oblivious, as the rest of first class now was. Me, I remained unaffected. At least by his magic. But I was well aware that Mr. Sands was not only getting what he needed, he was making sure I did too. Perhaps it was about more than just feeding for the man. As I struggled not to squirm in my seat, I couldn’t help wondering if he had any idea how happy he’d just made my therapist.

 

You Don’t ACT Like Someone Who Writes Erotica

Closely linked to the discussion of what erotica writers look like is the discussion of what erotica writers act like. Most of us don’t mind so much when people say we don’t look like erotica writers. What really bothers us is when people just assumed that we have DONE all the things we write about.

No one assumes Thomas Harris is a cannibalistic serial killer. No one assumes Anne Rice drinks blood and sleeps in a coffin. No one assumes Tom Clancy spent time being a terrorist. And yet, there are those who assume erotica writers have done everything we write about. For people who make that assumption, I have just one question; what part of the concept of FICTION don’t they get?

Fiction writers don’t have to experience what they write in order to write about it. In fact, that’s why it’s fiction. IT DIDN’T HAPPEN! At least not anywhere outside the fertile mind of the writer. Erotic fiction is no different.

Fiction allows the reader and the writer to experience safely situations and worlds that in reality would not be safe or even possible. In a world where safe sex has become a battle cry, even its own form of bondage, this is especially true with erotica. The erotica writer allows the reader to participate safely in a world that can be both very wonderful and very dangerous. It is no more necessary for erotica writers to have an orgy so they can write about one than it was for Thomas Harris to kill and eat a few folk before he could create Hannibal Lector.

Imagining an erotica writer who must experience firsthand her orgy, bondage, or sex in a bus before she writes about it adds another layer to the psycho-sexual fantasy. The fantasy may be very sexy indeed. But in reality, IT’S FICTION!