Cover Reveal!

Look at my brilliant cover for my upcoming release, Linda Mercury's Naughty Notes! This collection is oddly mostly heterosexual, but later releases will be more diverse.

I will share the link when it is ready for pre-order.

Writing Prompt #5: Tiny stories

What the heck is this thing?

It was an old-fashioned card case. Inside was a red OPA token, a faded photograph of a handsome army officer. On the back of the photograph, an inscription read, "10/10. Full and satisfied."

Patty stared at the treasure in her hand. "What the hell is an OPA?" She opened her phone and looked it up.

Huh. The US Office of Prince Administration used them to freeze prices during World War II. The tokens were used for rationing. The red ones were mostly used for meats. Cool.

The black and white photograph revealed the eagle on his epaulets. Again, Wikipedia to the rescue. Colonel. Nice.

She sat down on an overturned milk crate amidst the dust and silence of her great-grandmother's attic. Several months after the funeral, only a smattering of boxes remained in storage. The downstairs furniture had already been distributed to the extended family. Here, in this third to last box, was a collection of card cases and notebooks.

Patty flicked open the next case. This picture was off a...hmm...three bars up, one down. According to her research, a staff Sargent. On the back was "5/10" but there were ten blue tokens.

She flipped open a random yellowed notebook. "Nice cock, but much too fast." The phrase caught her eye. Patty giggled. "Maman, you minx!" A box full of souvenirs  and ratings on old lovers. Oh, this find was hers and hers alone. For years, Patty had been been the black sheep of their family with her free-love attitude. Nice to know she came from *somewhere* along the family tree. No one else was in the attic with her. She slid the old box into a new one, taped it shut, pulled the cap off a Sharpie and wrote, "Recycling" on the side.

Soft-footed, she tip-toed down the stairs, took the box directly to her car, put it in the truck, covered it with a blanket. She and great-grandmother were going to have a good sharing of secrets tonight!

The Pleasure Center: A little schoolteacher smut for your day.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

For Dr. Dad: The story about clowns.

Dr. Dad loves to suggest that I use clowns in my writing. The thing is, I tried

My beautiful late mother

once, back when I thought I would be the next Jayne Ann Krentz (witty, snappy dialogue, nifty corporate espionage plots).

Unfortunately, I was really, really bad at it. I was obsessed with the standard "rich&handsome executive meets regular gal" plot. I had no idea how conflict worked. I was sadly addicted to adverbs. But to prove that I tried, here's the first page of this not-really-funny story that I called, "Funny."

***

“Oh, heavens, it feels good to take off my nose.”

David Exings stopped dead in the doorway of his office.  He still had to be on the plane and dreaming – that was the only explanation of this surreality. There was a pair of huge green and white shoes by his sofa, a bright green puff actually on the sofa, and garishly colored clothing strewn over the floor of his office. The bathroom door was open and the light was on.

“Hello?”

“Uhhh, hi.” The woman’s voice was rich but just as confused as he was. That was nice, he thought. He didn’t like to be alone in his confusion. “Who’s there?” she continued. 

 “David Exings.”

“Oh, dear.” A pause. “Um, Mr. Exings, could you hand me that black leather bag that’s by the sofa? I’ll change and take off my face and be right out of here.”

Your author and Dr. Sister in their misspent youth.

“Ah.” What did that mean? “Certainly. Here it is.” He found the bag (oddly restrained compared to the rest of the office) and handed it around the corner. A woman’s hand reached around the corner of the bathroom door and snatched the bag. Her voice came to him, over the sound of running water. 

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry to be using your bathroom, Mr. Exings, but you weren’t expected back until tomorrow  - I even double checked your flight.  I was just cleaning myself up after the picnic.  And I know that the manual says it is ok to use the bathroom for events, but most of us don’t use it. I hope you understand. ” She sounded nervous.

Ah. Today was the day of the company picnic and he had missed it.  He was supposed to be there for his niece, but had been trapped due to the bad weather in Chicago and had been delayed two days. Since it was so late and his niece would be in bed anyway, he came by the office first to drop off his paperwork and interrupted an entertainer, obviously.  A clown, he deduced, from the shoes.    

David cleared his throat. “Really, it is not a problem. It is certainly all right for you to use the bathroom. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss…”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”  A woman popped out of the bathroom, her scrubbed face shining and her long brown hair slicked back wetly.  She wore jeans and a T-shirt with The Phantom on it. “I apologize for my appearance.” She held out her hand. “I’m Natalie Clare. I’m the consultant you hired to be the acting head of security for your computing division.  I was the clown for the company picnic.” 

David smiled internally, grateful his logic was still working.   

“Once everyone found out this was how I earned my way through college, they were ruthless about getting me to do this.”  He gravely shook her hand and looked her up and down. He was charmed by her silver toenails and green toe ring. She even had a delicate chain leading from the toe ring to an anklet.

She flushed under his scrutiny and pushed at her hair. “I’ll be right out of here.” She turned to pack up her costume. David discovered that the green puff was a wig, and the shoes were much more substantial that he had imagined.  

She was pretty, David noticed, startled. As she stuffed a pouch filled with brightly colored, empty balloons into her bag, he finally spoke again. 

“Miss Clare?”

“Yes?” She turned around, a resigned look on her face.

“How did my niece enjoy the party?”

Natalie smiled with remembered pleasure and some relief. “She had a very good time.  She was disappointed that you couldn’t make it, so I sent some extra balloons home with her for you.  I hope you like teddy bears. She said you would like those best.” Natalie started putting the balloons in her pack, and then glanced up. “She’s a charming child, Mr. Exings. You are doing a fine job.”  

“Would you be willing to make something for her from me? I was disappointed as well. I would have far preferred to be here than stuck in O’Hare for two days.”

“Why certainly, Mr. Exings.” She looked at her bag of balloons, considering. “How long until you see her?” 

“I’ll see her at breakfast tomorrow.”

“Ah, then we will need something sturdy. How does a turtle sound?”

“That sounds fine.”

Natalie selected a green balloon and blew it up a short way.  Her swift movements fascinated David as she tied it off, and began twisting.  She pulled a marker out of her bag, and, in a few economical strokes, put a smiling turtle face on the balloon. “Here you go.”

He considered the little happy face seriously. “Thank you, Miss Clare.”

***

At least I tried, Dr. Dad. :)

Flash Fiction!

I am participating in Baby Shoes: Celebrating Flash Fiction. And we have a Kickstarter!

What is this all about?

The Plan

The world needs more flash fiction anthologies, and we're here to do our little part to fill that need.

Our concept is simple: bring you 100 authors with 100 different voices in bites you can fully enjoy waiting in line, using the restroom or getting in a brief reading fix at the end of a busy and exhausting day. We're also hoping to introduce you to a writer or two you'll be happy to begin a lifelong relationship with.

Flash fiction is challenging, powerful and intense -- and underserved because it's a difficult business model to serve. That said, it's perfect for a crowdfunded project like this one.

The Money

We're looking for $1,800 to fully fund an e-book release.

• $900 for author payment and fulfillment
• $200 for cover art and design (we're getting a great deal from a pro we know)
• $300 for editing and publishing prep (again, we're getting a steal from a pro we know)
• $100 for promotion before and after the Kickstarter funds
• $100 for reward fulfillment (based on selling 100 copies)
• $200 for Amazon and Kickstarter fees (they take their bite)
• $150 for cost overruns (because $3,500 is a nice, round number)
  

Our stretch goal of $3,500 gives us enough money to produce a beautiful print copy of the book. Nearly all of that goes toward the cost of printing and shipping the physical tomes. 

Any money above our goal goes right into a profitable publishing venture -- and is shared with our authors.

The Promise

Our goal here is to celebrate flash fiction and the authors who create it. If we have to make a decision about the project, process or any money that comes with it, we will make that decision to serve the authors and story first.
For example, when our first Kickstarter campaign failed, we went to the authors and all voted on whether or not an e-release would be okay. That led to this e-release with a stretch goal model.

The dude even does push-ups for charity.

Risks and challenges

Jason Brick (Executive Editor) has published more than a half-dozen books on his own and advises others on the same. Before working as a writer, he ran brick-and-mortar businesses for almost 15 years. He has the project management chops to make this work.

By far the biggest risk is the number of moving parts: 100 authors and 100 stories leaves lots of room for stuff to go wrong. In fact, we're planning for late turn-ins, people flaking out and even plagiarism. Our timeline and budget leave room for those problems.

If things go badly wrong, we will find replacement authors and push back the release date. No matter what happens, there will be a book and you will get all the rewards you've been promised.

Donate here!

Hitting it, Minnesota style.

A friend of mine (yes, a Minnesotan) asked for some sexy times in a ice fishing hut. And this is what I came up with.

Ice hard

Minnesota in winter was a hard place.

But not nearly hard enough, Mrs. Bjorn Johnson concluded. That damn Bjorn, fishing addict he was, had been up in that there damn ice fishing hut for the entire weekend, tending to the entirely wrong set of holes.

How was a woman supposed to get any lovin’ this way? She’d even wore her sexiest nightie -the long insulated green one without any feet – to bed last night, but her beloved Big B merely gave her a wet smacking kiss on the cheek and rolled over.

Discouraged, she’d put her footie pajamas back on and spent the night coming up with her cunning plan. If Mohammad couldn’t come to the mountain….

Already dressed in her warmest garments, Julika, sturdy, independent woman she was, strode across the three foot thick ice and throw the blowing snow to Bjorn’s sizable ice-fishing hut.

Not even knocking, she flung open the door. “Hello, darling,” she sing songed, walking into the heated room.

“Holeee cannooooli, Julika, what are you doing here?” Bjorn’s arousing Minnesotan drawl tingled her neglected places as he leapt to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair he’d been perched on watching the black waters under the ice. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up, revealing strong forearms, just like Paul Bunyan. Julika pressed her thighs together at the sight.

“Why, can’t a devoted wife see to her husband’s comfort?” she purred, peeling off her thermal mittens, her scarf, ear muffs, and stocking cap with the panache and confident cocked hip of a showgirl.

Bjorn gulped.

She unzipped her down coat, tooth by agonizing tooth, holding Bjorn’s gaze the entire time. He swallowed as she tossed it onto his small table, scattering fishing magazines and a lone copy of Maxim. She’d pin his ears back good about that later. Right now, this real life woman’s real life needs demanded attention. She was on a mission.

Her insulated vest went next. She peeled and tugged and unzipped and unbuttoned until she stood before him in her boots and clinging silk thermal long johns.

“Bjorn, I just had to know how your…pole…was doing.” Julika ran her hands up and down her torso and breasts just like she’d seen in the stripper aerobics tape Annika had snuck to her under the table at the last Church Ladies’ Social.

Her man’s blue eyes bugged out at her hard nipples and unbound hair. A gratifying lump appeared in his flannel lined jeans.

Leaning against the table, she spread her legs, letting him get a good look at her puffy hoo-ha pressed against her longies. Her fingers delved past the waist band of the drawers and stroked aching flesh.

“Now, you gonna provide for your woman, Bjorn Johnson, or am I going to have to become a DIY gal?”

****************************

What is your favorite "not the usual location" setting?

What else have I got in my bag of tricks?

How about a little...

 FOREPLAY

     Can I lose it with you?  We're kissing, hard, your tongue sliding around in my mouth, sucking on my lips.  I'm biting at you, nipping and sucking.  Your mouth is hot and wet, sweet with your spit and desire.  I start moaning and thrusting my hips at you.  You grab my ass and pull me in closer.  I wrap one leg around your hips and keep pumping against your jeans.  I'm losing it ‑ I'm clutching at your hair, biting at your neck and ears.  Will you let me go where I need to go?  Or will you stop me with a "Hey, that hurts."?  I suck your skin into my mouth, harder and harder.  I have to know ‑ will you stay with me, let me ride this heat until I can come?  Or will you chicken out before the sheer force of my need?  Or maybe I'll chicken out before you get where you need to be?  It's obvious this is not going to be some sweet, gentle session of lovemaking ‑ we both want it too much.

     You're biting my shoulder, ripping at my buttons.  We fall against the wall, thumping our bodies hard into each other.  You pull my hair, forcing my head back, not letting me escape your clever sharp mouth.  I feel my lips swell, my pussy growing slick with need.  I rub harder against you.  You bite harder, and grab my breast.  You squeeze, and push, and pinch.  I squeal, and I can feel my clit expand, my hood retracting.  I rip your shirt, and grab your nipples, hard.  I try to bend my head to bite them, but you still are holding my hair.  I groan protestingly, and you grin.  "You want something?" you tease me.  I growl and twist your nipples.

     "Give it up, give it to me," I snarl.

     "No."  You twist us, slamming me up against the wall.  You catch my hands with your one free hand and force them up under my chin.  You work your crotch into my spread legs.  I rub against your erection.  "No," you repeat, "you give it to me.  I'm not losing anything until you do.  I'm going to be here a nice long time." 

 You pull my hair harder, bumping my head into the wall.  I barely feel it.  You're kissing me again, not letting me take over.  I struggle, loving the feeling.  I adore it ‑ I can let go, lose control, take what I need and so can you.  We're feeding off of each other's slipping control.  Forced into taking what I need, instead of using the easy way out ‑ yeah, I've been wanting this for a long, long time.  Your hunger is just as greedy as mine ‑ you want a shivering, responsive partner ‑ not just one going through the motions.

     You bite my neck, hard.  I scream, my voice running up the scale of pleasure and excitement.  I buck my hips against you.  We're dryfucking, faster and faster.  We're moving fast and sloppy now, demanding as much sensation as we can milk out of each other.  I'm struggling to free my hands, wanting to rip your shirt to shreds, to feel your skin and mark you with my nails.  You force me back down. I refuse to relax and let you move me as you would.  You bite my cheek, my jaw.  I snarl again, snapping my jaws at you, trying to bite back.  You still have my hair in a fierce grip ‑ I'm not allowed to reach you.  I finally free a hand and I grab your hair, the long toffee colored strands tangling in my fingers.  I drag your head closer to mine.  Who gets to top?

     "Yeah, come on, give it to me," I whisper.  "I wanna fuck you."

     Your lips peel back from your teeth.  "Maybe I wanna fuck you,"  you hiss.  "Yeah, you're gonna be mine tonight."  

     I freeze and lick my lips.  The idea of you doing that to me delights me.  I shudder and my hidden lips spread wider.  My tongue snakes out, trying to touch yours.  You see my eyes soften and feel my body start to strain towards you instead of away.  You give my hair a yank.  "You gonna give it up that easy?" you growl.  "I thought you were gonna fuck me?"  Your lips curl in a sneer.

     My hand tightens up in your hair.  I yank you away from me.  My lips curl right back.  "I ain't giving anything away ‑ what you want, you're gonna have to take."  

     You grin wickedly.  I grin back.  I know what's in store for me.  

Tell me your favorite kiss!