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Playing on the Torquere LJ

Oh HAI!!

I'm playing over on the Torquere Livejournal today (torquere_social) so come join me and help me come up that unique brand of Torquere nuttiness. Will have snippets and prizes and randomness and best of all, pimping of my new release which comes out on Saturday!
(I introduce to you Damian Keith Carrick, Keith's son from his first marriage. This is set about . . oh, I don't know . . . 10-12 years after my initial Mark and Keith stuff, and alludes to a lot of backstory that I haven't even mentioned so far and that I'm not going to tell you just yet. But for the record, Rachel is Keith's daughter, also from his first marriage, and she's maybe four or so years older than Dami. And dang, I really like Dami and the plot bunnies are starting to nibble at my brain, fuck it)

"Thanks Dad."

Keith looked up from the case notes he was pouring over to see his 14 year old son, Damian, standing in the doorway to his office. He smiled at his son, unable to help the slight tinge of pride that always wrapped itself around his heart when he saw his tall, goodlooking, athletic boy.

"You're welcome, Dami, but what are you thanking me for?"

Damian grinned and waved the pile of luridly colored magazines he was holding in his hand.

"Oh . . . those," Keith felt himself blushing a bit. Well, he'd wanted to make sure the boy was . . . well-educated . . . but wasn't sure how to broach the subject. Most of the time Damian was a loving, openly affectionate son, quite happy to display his love for both his fathers in public, but on certain subjects he was fairly reticent. Not suprising, given that he was both a teenager and a child with two fathers and a long dead mother.

"Yeah, those," Damian smiled broadly. "I especially liked the fact that you put in a selection of both straight and gay porno mags. Although that picture in the last one - do you and Mark *really* do stuff like that."

Keith blushed deeply at that and chose not to reply to his son's blatant needling. "I just wanted you to know it was . . . okay, you know? Whether you're gay or straight." And then he grinned just as widely as his son. "I'm not going to be disappointed if you come out as hetrosexual, son."

Damian kept on smiling and just shook his head. "I told you - I'll let you know as soon as I know." Keith had a feeling Damian was pretty much kidding him on that point. Sure, Keith himself hadn't really admitted to himself that he was gay until he was in his thirties with a young daughter and a divorce under his belt. But, when he thought about it, he'd probably known much younger than that. Mark claimed to have known he preferred men from a very young age, even if he'd spent years hating himself for it.

"Did you do the same thing for Rachel? A mix of straight and lesbian mags left in an obvious place for her to find?"

Cheeky brat. Damian was going to get teasing material out of this for weeks if not months.

"Um . . . no. I set Mark on to her when she was quite a bit younger - had to, what with girls getting periods earlier and all."

Damian wrinkled his nose up at the mention of his sister's menstrual cycle. Rachel had grown up in a household full of men, but thanks to Mark's open and informative attitude towards sex and puberty - and in large part, thanks to Rachel's confident and outgoing nature itself - she had absolutely no 'too much information' filter when it came to sharing the details of her reproductive cycle with her brother and fathers. And even if she hadn't told them, the fact that she turned into the Uber Bitch Princess (Bitch Queen was reserved for their cranky, aging tabby cat) once a month would have told them to duck for cover.

Of course, Keith could see right through Damian's supposed disgust. Dami was the first one to take his sister ibuprofen and a hot water bottle and sit with her rubbing her back for endless hours when she was suffering through one of her more horrific periods.

"Yeah, well, sorry Dad - Mark got to me first too. About a year ago actually." Dami walked futher into the room and propped his hip on the edge of the desk, briefly scanning the top for material he shouldn't look at, then quickly glancing away so Keith had a chance to shuffle things back into the file.

"What? Bloody nurses!" Keith exclaimed. "What did he tell you?"

Damian stuck his tongue out. "It's not his fault you're a coward. And he told me less that what's in some of these magazines for one thing."

Keith's anxiety eased a little - Mark had about as much of a 'tmi' filter as Rachel did.

"Coward? You're calling your father - a dedicated and decorated officer of the law - a coward?"

"I just calls them as I see them." Damian deadpanned.

At that Keith pulled his son off the desk and down into his lap, and began tickling the teen mercilessly. Dami responded by laughing and squealing and wriggling like a five year old, but didn't make much attempt to get away. Keith loved that about his son - so far, despite a lot of the usual male teenage attitude, Damian hadn't gotten too old to fool around with his dad. Finally stopping when Dami was out of breath, with tears running down his face, and pleading iminent danger of peeing himself, Keith dropped a kiss on the boy's forehead and slapped his butt. "Go hide those magazines under your mattress like a proper teenage son. If Mark finds them, don't tell him I had anything to do with them."

Dami stood up and heaved a mock sigh. "Dad, you know if Mark finds them he's more likely to want to sit down with me and get my opinion on which cock is biggest and best . . ."

Keith growled. "Don't say things like that - that's my boyfriend you're talking about." He shuddered and swatted Damian's backside again.

Dami stuck his tonuge out and danced out of range as he headed towards the door. "You're just jealous - you want him to think yours is the biggest in the world."

Keith almost howled at his son for that - bad thoughts in his head, bad thoughts. . . but the boy was racing down the hallway laughing his head off, and hopefully going to torment his other father or sister for a while.

Heaving a sigh of his own, and shaking his head, Keith sorted the case file out again and settled back down to work.

Bumping this up, just cos I caaaaan!

It's Torquere Press' fifth anniversary, and amongst other birthday celebrations, Torquere is holding a Scavenger Hunt. Find the Scavenger Hunt 'button' somewhere on my livejournal, make note of the URL, then collect the buttons from other participating authors. Submit all the links to Torquere Press, and you could win a Kindle E-book reader loaded with Torquere Press books!

The official information for the contest can be found here: http://www.torquerepress.com/contest/scavengerhunt.html along with a copy of the button you're hunting for, and a list of the author sites you need to visit.

As for where the graphic is is, could it be under Here?Collapse )


It's Torquere Press' fifth anniversary, and amongst other birthday celebrations, Torquere is holding a Scavenger Hunt. Find the Scavenger Hunt 'button' somewhere on my livejournal, make note of the URL, then collect the buttons from other participating authors. Submit all the links to Torquere Press, and you could win a Kindle E-book reader loaded with Torquere Press books!

The official information for the contest can be found here: http://www.torquerepress.com/contest/scavengerhunt.html along with a copy of the button you're hunting for, and a list of the author sites you need to visit.

As for where the graphic is is, could it be under Here?Collapse )


Those of you with cats will know the significance of the title. Hehehe.

The author (ocassionally known as Laine) is sitting here looking like a monster. I went to town today for my weekend cheezburger fix (not such a good idea as it turns out, given that my meds ran out on Thursday and I haven't refilled the script) and in the process of obtaining said cheezburger, I also bought a rather expenisive, mineral clay face masque (because my boys refuse to come out to play unless I'm looking my best. It's bad enough, they say, having to perform in front of a woman, without the additional distraction of a woman with large pores and blackheads. Therefore, regular facials). It was $34 (NZ) which is more than I'd usually ever pay for anything merely for my face. But I'd budgeted some money for frivolities this week (given that I worked extra last week and spent three hours FILING) and so I thought eh, why not. And it was from the Body Shop, and usually I can't even afford to walk in the door there, let alone buy anything. Usually I walk in, smell everything, avoid the shop assistant, and walk out. This time I was a *real* customer and got helped and *everything*. So yeah, a beautiful, good quality face masque, and whoah, was the money worth it. ::smears it on face:: Oh lordy, that feels gooood.

Nothing like a touch of luxury (and a dose of monthly hormones) to get the writing juices flowing.

All of which is meant to tell you that I wrote today. Well, actually, *Laine* didn't write today. Her more mundane alter ego wrote today. Unfortunately, she wrote non-Laine stuff. Some of you, on the non-Laine flist, will get to read it anyway. But the rest of you miss out, boohoo. But I'm not totally mean, so I'll post a snippet here. If you *really* want to read the rest you'll have to convince Laine's alter ego to friend you. Hehehe.

Then I'm off to rinse of the face masque, have a shower, and write more of the naughty pawn.

Oh, and y'all remember I have a Chaser series coming out in the New Year, right? Put it on your to be bought list! Or no more naughty pawn for you!

(My cat his hicupping on me. I hope this isn't a prelude to puking on me.)

Heh, and just as an aside - I went to town wearing my "Property of Dr. Fell t-shirt". I was so proud to be owned. ::grins::

Yeah, yeah, you want the pawn.

Cuddling closer to Isaac's big body, Ten arched his neck to allow better access to the hot, questing mouth, and moaned as Isaac's rough hands slid up under the satin of the chemise, sliding, just as he'd imagined, on the smooth, hairless skin of his thighs. Ten grinned as Isaac paused in suprise as he registered the absence of the light scattering of soft hair that usually dusted Ten's thighs. The big man looked up, catching Ten's gaze in question. "Ten . . . ?" Ten just wriggled in answer. Deliberately, Isaac let his hands caress further up, calluses biting on tender skin as he dipped between Ten's thighs and pushed them apart. A questing hand slowly groped around Ten's throbbing cock, rolling baby smooth balls, and exploring his hairless pubic mound. Then he dipped further, behind Ten's nut sac, slipping along his perineum - also freshly waxed - and into his crack. His fingers immediately encountered the liberal coating of oil Ten had smeared around and in his anus, and then nudged firmly against the slender plug. Ten hissed and squirmed, grinding his bottom down on Isaac's bulging groin as he did so.

"Oh, Lord." Isaac's face was a picture in suprise and arousal. He swallowed convulsively. "Oh, Lord God, Ten."
I've written five hundred words tonight . . . it was a stuggle but I need at least 500 to 1000 more (my current daily word count goal is 1500 - it's a modest goal but fits my current life circumstances and mood state.) I suppose part of the problem is that I keep letting myself get side tracked by other things (like this post). Earlier I wiled away time trying to come up with a name for my professional dominant (He ended up as Master Alban, although I'm not sure I really like that. It'll do for now I guess) and now I'm designing his bathroom - well, not *his* bathroom, but the one he uses with or for clients. And as I think about it, I wonder - what *would* a professional dominant have in his bathroom. Especially as presumable the normal functions of getting oneself clean and performing one's necessary bodily functions are actually secondary considerations. A large shower would be a necessity - one with lots of room for at least two, and probably more, people to move. Big enough, perhaps, for an entire orgy of soapy, wet, nekkid submissives to slip and slide around in. More than one shower head. Handy hooks and rings for restraining one's sub so one can bathe him or her at your leisure . . . and possibly use the water to taunt or to tease. A big, luxurious tub, of course - one with a spa function just because (you could do breath control play in a nice big tub). Toilet and handbasin (it is a bathroom after all). Plenty of cupboards and storage space for towels, lubricants, massage oils, paddles . . floggers . . . waterwings . . (okay, kidding about the water wings). A massage table that can double as a range of things (so restraints, or at least the fastenings for them, are a must). And everything would have to be finished in a completely waterproof and disinfectable surface, so quite possibly tiled from floor to ceiling. Non direction inset lighting that can range from very subdued to BRIGHT BRIGHT BRIGHT. A big mirror so the sub can see himself being tied and gagged and plugged . . . The color of the tile I'm not sure of . . . something simple but elegant and easy to clean . . . white is too stark and bright, black too macabre and cliched (and doesn't show up the blood properly anyway, should that be your thing) . . . A soft dove gray perhaps? I don't see Master Alban as a pastel kind of man . .

I guess I'll waste a bit more time on the interwebs looking for more ideas.

Edit to Add: Got my word count for tonight. But OMGOSH am I writing drivel. ::sighs:: Hopefully some of it will be retrievable. Maybe I need to rethink this and make some radical changes. I think the idea is sound, but I don't like the way I'm executing it. But here, have a snippet from today's word count.

"If Keith was quite honest with himself, he realised that he never would have thought of beginning the night like this if Master Alban hadn’t listed it amongst the services he offered. But Keith had been intrigued by the idea, and Master Alban had quickly realised Keith’s interest (damned the man and his keen intuition). After discussing it further, Keith realised he was more than intrigued, he was down right turned on, and even if Mark didn’t find it arousing, for some reason, Keith knew he would."

Exciting news!

I'm quite excited today - I had a short story (novelette length) accepted by Torquere as a Single Shot. Which is exciting enough, but then it occured to me that as I was already writing another short story using the same characters and dealing with similar themes, and had an idea for a third one pinging about my head, well, why not ask if I could make it a Chaser series (that's three novelette length stories that are released two months apart . . . I'm currently waiting for the third one in Lee Benoit's Servants of the Season series and dying from the anticipation). And the nice editor agreed that it could be a Chaser series. Which maybe suprised me a little bit because I really didn't think anyone in their right mind would actually contract something from *me* that I hadn't written yet! ::ponders this:: I'd better not say that maybe the editor *isn't* in her right mind, at least not until the contract is signed.

But yes . . . THREE new releases coming out from moi, although quite a distance into the future. The series will be called "Lessons in Mastery" (catchy huh?). The first one is "Under Control", the second one is currently called "Under Duress" although I'm not sure I like that so much or if it conveys what the story is about, but the third one will almost certainly be called "Under Fire". Number one will be released in March 09 (I KNOW - long time away!), Two will be May 09 and three will be July 09 - that's a WHOLE YEAR AWAY!!! WOW! How will I contain my excitement that long. Oh yeah, but writing two and three. And finishing that novel I'm hoping they might just schedule if I'm lucky and cross all my digits.

Anyway, in celebration have a very rough, raw snippet of what I wrote tonight - accompanied, somewhat appropriately by "Mercy" by Duffy on the MP3 player doohickey.

"Lessons in Mastery - Under Duress" by Laine Williams (hey, that's me!)

Mark closed his eyes, his face turning even further into Keith’s hand as if he craved the contact. “Tell me who I belong to. Tell me who’s boy I am.”

The relief almost took Keith’s breath away. “Mine. You’re my boy. My boy, and my boy only.”

“Good.” The word was barely audible, said more or less to himself as Mark gave a firm little nod and turned his attention back to the Master standing patiently behind them, watching.

“Yes, I consent.”

“Agreed and witnessed,” The Master responded. “Boys?” The last was directed towards the two young men sat on the other side of the room, more or less forgotten.

“Witnessed.” They replied.

(I'm such a tease).

Why is it . . .

. . . that despite having a list of stories to write, in the order you want to write them, your brain gets hijacked and you end up starting something different all together! It even has a title, which means it must be written, because usually I have trouble with titles.

So, current writing order is:

1. Lessons in Mastery (bwahaha)
2. Tattoo Guy
3. The First Day of Christmas
4. Coming to Rest

then in no particular order

5. The Devil May Care
6. Committed.
7. Bite of the Winter Wolf
8. Soldier guy

Most of which mean nothing to any of you. Hehehe. But it's a good way of me keeping track of the ideas in my head.

Anyway, today's writing was bought to you courtesy of my friend, Kirst. She lives at the other end of the country, but we spend a lot of time playing World of Warcraft together and chatting while we do. Today when I logged on I discovered she was in a 'getting things done' kind of mood, so, to make herself do something productive, she'd game for a bit, then go do half an hour of housework or something. So we did this on and off most of the late afternoon and evening, then, just as we were settling in for a good run with our characters, and talking about how I'd write and she'd draw tomorrow, for sure, she said "Well, why don't we just go and do that for an hour NOW! And then come back and tell each other what we've done." So that's what we did. I wrote for an hour, she drew for an hour, and beneath is a short snippet from what I wrote on a new short (well, hopefully it will be short!).

Snippet hot off the presses. SFW. I think.Collapse )

Wot Laine is writing today.

Yes, I am writing - miracle of miracles! Have an entirely boring completely work safe snippet (I haven't gotten to the good stuff yet).

The photo album was older than Mark was. Old-fashioned and bound with leather, the pages were thick, black card with tiny slits cut into them for the photos to slot into. Mark remembered his mother sitting with the album late at night, often after his father had gotten into one of his rages and stormed out of the house. He never talked to her when he found her sitting at the table, sorting out the family photos and carefully placing them in the album as she wept silent tears onto the tablecloth. If she’d known he was there, she would have been angry and whatever pain his father had inflicted on him would have been followed up by his mother’s own weaker version of it.

Well, who knew . . .

I know very little about alcohol because I don't drink. Not at all. Well, okay, I will admit to the very occasional bottle of vodka being downed over the space of a weekend. But only when I can't get hold of prescription benzos ::straight face:: My point is then when it came time to figure out just what my characters were going to drink while sat in the bar they were in, I didn't have a clue. What do tough guys drink? What do pretty little fairies (literally and figuratively) drink? So I picked bourban for the tough guy - pretty safe with prime American whiskey for a tough guy who doesn't feel like a beer, right? But what about my pretty boy? Well, Long Island Iced Tea sounds good . . . who knew it has no tea in it? ::grins:: Who knew it's made up of vodka, gin, tequila and rum among other things. Problem is my pretty little fairy boy doesn't drink. So I had a good laugh at myself and stopped trying to be fancy, and just changed it to plain old iced tea. Maybe with a splash of lemon juice. Ah, the life of a writer - one day you're learning about alcoholic cocktails, the next you're researching the breeding cycle of the New Zealand fur seal.

All of which leads to the point of this post, which is to brag that I actually wrote something today and post a short piece of it. None of the things I'm working on really grabbed me today (although I did have a short menage piece pop into my head while I was driving - I hate that!), so I decided to *make* myself work on "The Devil May Care". I posted the rough as boots first bit of this a week or so ago, but the tone was off for the narrator, so I've revised what I've got so far extensively so the narrator is more of an arsehole ::grins:: But anyways, here, have a short bit from today's effort:

“Please remove your hand from my arm.”

My face twisted up into a smirk. He was feisty, no doubting it. I liked feisty, and my I could feel my cock start to throb at the thought of taming him in bed.

“Now, why would I want to do that?” I drawled, squeezing his wrist firmly to demonstrate my strength. Not all of faery-kind could out-muscle humans, and, as far as I knew, pixies were one of the breeds that couldn’t.

His gaze stay fastened on my hand, and I let the offending appendage drift down to caress his fingers, my own digits stroking up and down the slender, delicate length of his. I could do gentle when the need arose.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll snap it off.” He replied, smiling sweetly. I started to laugh at the threat in his voice and the fire in his eyes, but quick as a flash his other hand darted out to clamp cruelly on my wrist. I heard bones crunch, a sharp stab of pain following hot on the heels of the sound as he tore my hand off his arm.