Laine Williams

Playing on the Torquere LJ

2009-03-27T10:22:46Z

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!

In which Laine's brain gets bitten by a random bunny while she's watching TV and play WoW.

2008-10-02T08:18:01Z

(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!

2008-09-01T14:34:48Z

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 Nope, seemingly not. Maybe you should try nursecutie.livejournal.com/

Competition!

2008-08-31T16:04:38Z

CHOCOLATE STARFISH

2008-08-10T08:37:43Z

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."

Waffling randomly while I write (and procrastinate)

2008-07-15T10:20:56Z

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!

2008-07-14T11:39:05Z

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 . . .

2008-06-29T12:06:58Z

. . . 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!).

“Well, Detective,” the Master’s tone was pleased. “Surprise though it may have been, it seems your boy agrees with his birthday present. His form isn’t bad either. You didn’t tell me he’d received prior training.”

“I-I didn’t know he had,” Keith admitted, turning to frankly stare at his lover.

“Well, boy? Have you been keeping secrets from your master? You may answer.”

“Yes and no, Master,” Mark replied quietly, his eyes downcast.

“Yes and no? I very much dislike boys who try to dissemble.”

Wot Laine is writing today.

2008-06-14T07:59:23Z

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 . . .

2008-05-04T08:12:56Z

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.

The editing process.

2008-05-03T07:16:06Z

I've finally gotten around to editing the short story I was working on last weekend - I sent it off to my faithful beta, and she sweated blood and tears over if for me and sent it back, and now I'm going through making the changes I agree with, ignoring the ones I don't, and swearing at her under my breath when she disses some particularly marvelous piece of ~~purple~~ prose. (She also reads this journal, so you know the next time she proofs for me she's so going to pwn me. It's true, I am her beyotch.) So I give you the editing process.

1. Play WoW for most of the day.
2. Plant some lettuces in pot plants even though it's nearly the begining of winter.
3. Reread Lainey Cairo's Fand for about the fourth time (seriously, if you're looking for something nummy to read, I would reccomend any of Lainey's works - also availalbe from Torquere.)
4. Finally sit down and open up the Word document.
5. Switch from using OpenOffice to Word because Word has a spellcheck (Open Office probably does too, but I haven't figured it out yet).
6. Get up and let the cat out. Cat refuses to go out because it's raining. Get up and let second cat out. Second cat refuses to go out because it's raining. Repeat this four times. Throw both cats out forcibly.
7. FINALLY get around to actually changing things in the document. So, here we have the process.

We go from this, my original paragraph:

Mark was bone-weary that night when he got home, two hours after his shift had officially ended. His evening had gone from bad to worse, with the young gay man he'd sent home battered and bruised arriving back in short order, this time unconscious and in an ambulance. He'd barely gotten home, it seemed, when his boyfriend had laid into him again for some imagined indiscretion, and this time he hadn't stopped until the police arrived to pull him off. The young man was currently in the intensive care unit being nursed one on one, after the surgeons had finished wiring the bones in his face back together. If the swelling in his brain went down soon enough, he might even get back to normal some day.

To this, with the lovely betaress' (Is that a word) comment in bold:

Mark was bone-weary that night when he got home, two hours after his shift had officially ended. His evening had gone from bad to worse, with the young gay man he'd sent home battered and bruised arriving back in short order, (three-pronged sentence again! I’d probably kill it here, and then say: This time it was unconscious and in an ambulance.) He'd barely gotten home, it seemed, when his boyfriend had laid into him again for some imagined indiscretion, and this time he hadn't stopped until the police arrived to pull him off. (Long sentence again. I’d break it.) The young man was currently in the intensive care unit being nursed one on one, after the surgeons had finished wiring the bones in his face back together. If the swelling in his brain went down soon enough, he might even get back to normal some day.

To this, which at first glance seems to be okay:

Mark was bone-weary that night when he got home, two hours after his shift had officially ended. His evening had gone from bad to worse. The young gay man he'd sent home battered and bruised came back in short order, this time unconscious and in an ambulance. He'd barely gotten home when his boyfriend had laid into him again for some imagined indiscretion. This time he hadn't stopped until the police arrived to pull him off. The young man was currently in the intensive care unit being nursed one on one, after the surgeons had finished wiring the bones in his face back together. If the swelling in his brain went down soon enough, he might even get back to normal some day.

Then we reread it a while later, realise some words are repeated and one of the sentences is to short and not descriptive enough, and we get this, which (as we're sick of this paragraph and ready to drown it) will probably be sent off as the final version:

Mark was bone-weary that night when he got home, two hours after his shift had officially ended. His evening had rapidly gone from bad to worse. The young gay man he'd sent home battered and bruised came back in short order, unconscious and in an ambulance. He'd barely gotten home when his boyfriend had laid into him again for some imagined indiscretion. This time he hadn't stopped until the police arrived to pull him off. The young man was currently in the intensive care unit being nursed one on one, after the surgeons had finished wiring the bones in his face back together. If the swelling in his brain went down soon enough, he might even get back to normal some day.

The changes are subtle but important, and I'm finding that I'm actually enjoying the editorial process and learning a lot at the same time. I never used to bother with getting people to edit things for me when I posted them for free, and I guess I had a bit of an Ann Rice complex and thought everything I wrote was *wonderful*. I liked it, after all, and it gave me a warm fuzzy to reread it. When I got back my first piece from the editor at Torquere, I was horrified to discover just how often I used ellipses (the three dots) - in my mind it was a way of introducing pauses and breathing and drama. To the editor's mind it was just a way of interupting the story and throwing people out of the narrative flow. I sulked for a day or so and then went back and had another look and realised - OMG, the editor is right! At which point I went back through the story and took out *all* the ellipses that had been highlighted except, I think, two instances, where I felt justified using them for stylistic reasons. I know that by the end of the exercise I was thoroughly sick of removing those damned little dots (so I can only imagine how exhausted the editor was), and with this story, they made far fewer appearances. When I did my own first edit, I then went through and removed most of the instances did occur, and was thoroughly proud of my self and had a little image of a happy, relieve editor sat there thinking "Thank God, no dots!"

So I learned, even from that one instance of editorial input. You'll notice that my beta this time has mentioned my 'three pronged sentences', long sentences with three distinct sub-clauses. Er, yeah - I tend to do that a lot too . . . . as my beta has repeatedly told me. I also tend to do a lot of run on sentences - seriously, some of them are four or five line long monsters. Something else to work on I guess.

Of course, the above paragraph is actually one of the ones with the least number of betatorial comments in them - sometimes the commentary is longer than the paragraph it's critiquing ::grins evilly at beta:: But the lovely beta in question is always good humoured about it, so I end up with comments like this, which at least make the editing process amusing:

"Oh yeah, gorgeous, I like what I see, (.) (…yeah, I’m going to be bugging you about this unto pretty much forever…JUST BECAUSE I CARE, DAMMIT!)" Mark moved to the bed, sitting on its edge and reaching for his 'welcome home' kiss. He got it, and more, (here I’d probably use a colon HA HA HA BAD PUN, i.e. “…and more: Keith’s mouth was gentle but firm…”)

Seriously, she needs to give up her day job (which is boring) and go into ~~stand up comedy~~ editing full time.

And the last step in the editorial process? Go and let the damned cats back in before the scratch the door down.

Essential Tools for writers.

2008-04-28T12:01:38Z

Unsuprisingly, I didn't do any writing today. This is often the case when I've just finished something and am waiting to get it back from my lovely beta. I'm just still so wound up with the story I've finished that I can't get into the next thing. And at the moment I can't even decide what that next thing will be. In this vein, there are some essential tools for writers - especially when procrastinating.

1. A cat. I know it's a cliche, but truly, a cat is an invaluable tool for a writer. For one thing, when you're marvelling over your absolutely magnificant prose, they're completely unimpressed. They don't care if you've come up with a brand new, non-corny, completely erotic and original word for penis. They just want you to get the gooshy food out of the fridge. They also aid with procrastination in a number of ways. They demand constant petting, thus limiting your ability to touch type. They sit on the top of your laptop so you can't even open the lid. And, most importantly, they eat any and all food scraps that might be hanging around on the table, thus mitigating your guilt over eating when you should have been writing. Because they are so indispensible, I have three, although I only use two (the third is more likely to bite you than write with you, and she spends most of her day at the neighbours aiding the older gentleman with his TV watching). I imagine I would do much more writing if I could actually get the computer open.

2. World of Warcraft. Many a writing hour has been spent running around this rather large, online, multiuser game. One of it's predecessors, Diablo II, was directly responsible for my undergraduate honors thesis being handed in three months late. Enuff said.

3. Other people's writing - I spend possibly ten times the amount of time reading as I do writing. I blame all the excellent m/m authors out there. It's all your fault that I don't write more.

Today at work my workmate was telling me about a blog he stumbled across. It was the blog of a writer, who just happened to be gay, who had realised that he could make much more money writing the 'gay equivalent of Mills and Boon'. My workmate was quite incredulous that such a genre existed. And all the while, I was sat there, biting hard down on my tongue to prevent myself from blurting out "You don't have to tell me - I *publish* in that genre." ::grins:: I suppose I could have 'outed' myself at work, but given that I work for a Child Protection Service I decided that it might not be wise. It was extremely funny though. But now I'm curious - who is this publisher that's publishing, in print, the gay equivalent of Mills and Boon, and why haven't I heard of them? Have I heard of them and not known about it? He couldn't remember the author or name of the blog, and I probably shouldn't push him for it.

Tomorrow - hopefully I'll either do some work on a new piece, or, at the very least, get the one I've just finished back from my beta and start rewriting as per her suggestions (she's hell on my sentence construction).

And finished!

2008-04-27T06:59:41Z

Yay, finished the short story I'm working on. It has a name now - "Out of Control", and is 10,000 words long. Because I've been working on it for a while, some parts are betaed, but the stuff I wrote yesterday and today need polishing (of course). I have an unfortunate tendency to include corn with my porn, and also the less sexy or romantic sides of sex (hey, sex is messy and awkward, right). So I decided that, in celebration, you could have one of the aforementioned completely unsexy parts of the sex scene I've just finished. You lucky peeps you!

The head of Mark's cock popped through the ring of muscle protecting Keith's rectum and his lover hissed. Mark stilled instantly, alarm lurching in the pit of his stomach. “Keith? Okay?” His voice wavered a little, both from worry and from the strain of not continuing to move forward.

Keith's eyes fluttered open, and he smiled almost beatifically. “Yeah, yeah, lover, I'm fine, it's fine.”

“I didn't hurt you?”

“No, no – keep going, God, keep going, please? It just feels weird, you know, like . . . uh . . .” A light stain flushed his face and spread down onto his chest. Yeah, actually, Mark did know.

“It feels like you need to take a dump, yeah?”

Keith snorted, blush darkening and spreading further down his body. “Yeah. Sexy, huh?”

Mark grinned. “Oh yeah, very sexy. But very true. And to take it further, when I start moving again, push out as I push in like you were . . .”

“I know – taking a dump. Just, fuck, keep going, would you? I don't care what it's like – it feels good.”

I'm thinking . . .

2008-04-27T02:43:59Z

. . . . that if I try and post a short paragraph each day of what I'm working on, then that means, by extension, that I actually have to *write* something each day, right?

I'll kick it off by cheating and post a bit I wrote last night, but promise that by the end of tonight I'll post a second sentence or paragraph from what I write tonight. Right now, though, Laine has a headache and is going to take some neurofen (please don't tell Laine's kidney doctor, because Laine isn't allowed to take antiinflammatories due to diabetic kidney damage.) and have a Sunday afternoon nanna nap in an effort to take away the pain. Laine is a big believer in nanna naps, yes she is.

“It's hard for you, isn't it?” Keith commented, nestling himself back comfortably into the pillows as Mark pulled out of his body and rolled to the side.

“Not anymore,” Mark snickered, hand going to cradled Keith's sticky, spent cock gently. Keith gasped a little – it felt good to be caressed, even if he still felt like he'd just shot his brains out through his balls – but his shaft didn't so much as twitch.

What Laine is currently writing . . .

2008-04-26T09:55:48Z

Procrastination mostly!

I figured it was time to try and make semi-regular posts to this journal - and decided to do so tonight because if I do that, I don't have to actually write! It's a constant battle I wage with myself - the desire to write versus the desire not to. Often, the desire not to wins!

At the moment, my intentions are to firstly, finish the short story I'm writing and submit it. I'm hoping to have that done this weekend. Then I have two shorts and a novel to work on, although I'm not sure in which order I'll work on them in. One is a Christmas short, called "On the First Day of Christmas". One is a . . . well . . . futuristic urban fantasy thing called "The Devil May Care." The novel is a contemporary urban fantasy (although light on the fantasy aspect) called "Coming to Rest." None of these are contracted at the moment, although I have high hopes.

Presuming the procrasination doesn't eat me. (Can't write, clowns will get me).

On the problematic list is a ?novel called "Out of the Ordinary" which is difficult because the laws here are different to the laws in the US, but because the publisher is in the US I have to abide by their guidelines. Which makes it tricky, because the hole set up for the novel revolves around underage prostituation (Interesting facts: The age of consent in New Zealand is sixteen. Prostitution in New Zealand is legal, and the legal age for working as a sex worker is 18. These things are vital to the novel's context).

But noone came here to listen to me ramble - you all want snippets, don't you. Oh, okay then! Here, have a few snippets.

From the as yet unnamed short story I'm working on this weekend, which features my characters, Mark and Keith, from my first Torquere Sip, "Mark's Toy Box" available at www.torquerebooks.com (gotta work on my link inserting skillz!). In this short, Mark finds himself in an interesting situation:

"Tease," Keith growled, finally opening his eyes and looking downwards to meet Mark's mischevious gaze. "Suck me, damn it."

Mark's grin grew even more wicked. "Oh, so that's how you want it, huh? Me, down on my knees, servicing you like some sweet little filly." Another lick to his lover's cock, this time down the other side, finishing with a firm press of tongue to the lightly-furred sack, his eyes never leaving Keith's.

Keith's expression grew quizzical at that - then thoughtful. "Service me?" He said slowly, the words carefully considered. "Well now, seems there's a little something wrong with that."

"Oh?" Mark raised an eyebrow, his hand never stopping the gentle stroking of Keith's balls.

"Yeah – there's no way you're a filly, not with that beautiful prick you've got hanging between your legs." Keith gave him a grin and a wink at that.

“Hey!” Mark pretended a huff. “That is not a little anything!” Then he grinned and Keith gasped, as Mark's fingers wandered backwards and pressed against his perineum.

“Yeah?” Keith managed to rasp out, injecting a note of suprise into his voice. “In that case, perhaps I'd better be the filly.” And with that, much to Mark's shock, Keith stood up, dropped his boxer-briefs onto the floor, turned himself around and went to his hands and knees on the bed, bare-assed naked, his legs spread wide, his asshole clearly visible and presented for Mark's 'servicing'.

From "The Devil May Care":

The blond-haired man slouched casually on a stool at the bar was tiny, and, I thought, trying not to lick my lips in predatory anticipation, just my type. Small and lithe, lean muscles rounded gently under his clothes when he moved. His face was pretty, almost feminine, dominated by the bright blue eyes that surveyed and analysed the people around him alertly. There was no doubt he was part faery, and from the looks of him, that part was pixie, his size alone giving his origins away even without the luminous eyes and the silky-slick hair. No other male – be they human or sidhe – could be that small yet still look so . . . well . . . *human*.

I hung back a bit in the crowd, waiting my chance, and finally the man on the stool next to him vacated his seat, leaving a gap that was ripe for me to fill. I sauntered up quietly, knowing he’d be aware of my approach, but that there was nothing in my actions that would warn him that I wanted anything more than a place to sit. At least until I had settled beside him and place a firm hand on his arm. “Buy you a drink?” I rumbled, letting the heat in my eyes show as his startled gaze snapped to my face. I let my own gaze rake him from top to toe appreciatively, and my expression as I finished made it obvious I was interested in more than just a drink. I was amused to find, as I finished my examination of him, that he was returning the favour, his eyes sliding over me slowly, intimately, no inch of me – from the top of my military buzz cut to the tippy toes of my well-worn combat boots – went untouched. Finished, he ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them, and I hoped that was a sign that he’d liked what he’d seen. But then his eyes focused in on the hand on my arm, and his voice was cold when he finally spoke.

“Please remove your hand from my arm.”

I complied immediately, snatching the offending appendage away like it had been scolded, startled by my immediate response to his command. He nodded slightly to himself as I fumbled my hand into a pocket, not sure what to do with it now I’d retrieved it, flustered out of my usual charming façade and uncertain as to how to retrieve the situation.

“Uh . . . sorry . . .” I stuttered, then winced at the submission/obescience in my voice.

“No problem,” he replied, his body relaxing a little. “I’m Rubie, what’s your name?”

It took me a moment to process his question, fixated as I was on the slight adjustments he’d made to his posture, the smooth slide of muscle under clothing and skin.

“Um . . Gray . . my name’s Gray,” It wasn’t Gray, not really . . . . but as the only other appellation I could rightly lay claim too was a number, Gray served just as well as anything.

“Gray . . . hmmm,” He mused, that moist pink tongue darting out from between his lips again, captivating the logical, rational parts of my brain and turning them to mush. “Gray . . Grayfield’s Mercy Home for Boys . . . you’re crèche bred?”

I nodded shortly, uncomfortable with both the topic, and the fact that he’d picked up on it so easily. “Yeah . . yeah, I am . . . “ I shifted on my stool, body giving away my discomfort, and asked “Rubie . . . that’s kind of an unusual name, isn’t it? Why not Sapphire, with eyes like yours . . . “

He grinned, and suddenly there was a hum in the air, a sizzle of electric power along my skin, a feel I’d long since come to recognize as faery magic at play, and suddenly the eyes flashing so brightly at me from his pert oval face were no longer a bright startling blue, but a deep, vibrant red, the color of freshly spill blood, the thick circle of it ringing a depthless black pupil.

Once again, he’d taken me by surprise, and I stammered and fumbled for words as his magic spilled along my skin once again as he renewed the glamour on his eyes. “Um . . er . . isn’t that a strange color for a . . . “ Too late I realized I was about to give offence by broaching the subject of his parentage without his permission. Smooth, Gray, real smooth.

I was lucky, and he didn’t seem to mind. “For a pixie?” He finished for me, and shook that long, silky blond hair back from his face, revealing the small tips to his ears. Then he smiled, and with it came a flash of equally tiny fangs. “Yes, definitely strange for a pixie . . . but then pixie and human aren’t the only kinds of blood running in my veins.”

He didn’t say anymore, and my curiosity flared to live – a puzzle, he’d presented me with a puzzle, and I loved trying to figure such mysteries out.

From "Coming to Rest" which I hope to have finished soon - only a few chapters and one sex scene to go!

Type y

The almost-hour long drive to the aquarium was silent and uncomfortable, Brodie refusing to disturb the quiet that Ronan so obviously desired. He didn’t speak until they were pulling up outside the huge glass doors of the Marine Studies Centre, truck tyres crunching loudly on the dry, dusty gravel of the car park.

“So that’s it, that’s all I get? You won’t talk to me, won’t even tell me why you won’t talk to me? It’s over and I get nothing?” Brodie’s voice was low and pleading as he pulled on the truck’s handbrake and turned off the engine. He turned to face Ronan and found he was talking to the back of the man’s head, the other already reaching for his brief case and opening the truck door.

Movement stilled briefly at the sound of Brodie’s voice, and the reply was as pleading as the question had been. “What do you want me to say, Brodie? I don’t know what you want from me.”

Brodie reached a hand out and daringly, urgently, placed it on Ronan’s shoulder. “I want you to tell me that I was nothing more to you than a random fuck you picked up for a night of fun. Tell me that, and I promise you’ll never see me again.”

Silence.

“You can’t, can you?” Brodie continued. “You can’t tell me that what we shared meant nothing.”

His hand was shrugged off abruptly and Ronan almost ran from the truck and dove through the glass doors, the truck door slamming shut behind him. Brodie swore viciously and started to open his own door to follow, but a delivery truck behind him began sounding its horn impatiently. He swore again, pulled his door shut, and started the four-wheel drive, slamming it into gear and pulling away jaggedly to search for a park.

Ronan had made it all the way to the other side of the reception area by the time Brodie parked the truck and managed to follow him into the building. He was stood by the reception desk surrounded by what looked to be three of his students, his body stiff with tension and impatience as he dealt brusquely with whatever queries they were making. Brodie had almost reached him, when the widened eyes of the female student betrayed his approach and Ronan whirled to face him.

Brodie spoke before the other could. “I won’t leave it this way, Ronan. You asked me what I wanted from you – all I want is a chance. Have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

He could see indecision flicker in Ronan’s eyes, knew there was a possibility that the man would agree. Brodie reached out to him, laying his hand along Ronan’s jaw, pulling his face nearer to his own. He tilted his head slightly, and pressed his lips against Ronan’s, the pressure insistent, hard, as he forced his tongue into Ronan’s mouth. There was nothing of tenderness in this kiss, and much of dominance, as he made sure that Ronan knew he was serious. He ravaged the other’s mouth, his tongue fighting and subduing the one he found there, his hands spanning Ronan’s waist, pulling him closer, forcing their hips to grind together as he stretched his body against the warm, lean length of his lover. Ronan’s arms snaked around his neck as the other man began to respond to the kiss, Ronan’s tongue fighting back, darting along his lips to tease at the corners of Brodie’s mouth, before pushing inside to explore his tongue and inner cheeks. Reluctant though he was to do so, Brodie broke the kiss before he was fully ready, the tiny part of his brain still working realizing that both his cock and Ronan’s were beginning to stiffen and it might not be such a good idea to commit sodomy in the reception area of Ronan’s place of work.

Ronan leaned his forehead against Brodie’s shoulder as they pulled apart, small puffs of air caressing the skin of Brodie’s neck as he breathed heavily. Brodie rested his chin against the top of Ronan’s head and kissed the soft, dark hair tenderly. He grinned through the fine silk at the stunned faces of the three students behind them, before moving his hand under Ronan’s jaw and tilting his head up so he could look into the large, sable eyes.

“A chance, Ronan. A chance is all I’m asking.”

“Yes.” It was whispered, barely heard as Ronan pulled himself out of Brodie’s arms and fled into the deeper recesses of the aquarium.

our cut contents here.

And finally, from "Out of the Ordinary", my problematic orphan child:

Ten lay swaddled in a post anaesthetic haze of morphine and crisp hospital linens. He was warm, he reckoned, cotton blanket comfortably heavy on his body, and pillow soft and firm all at the same time under his head, the plastic under the painfully clean pillow case creaking a little as he moved. The sides of his bed were still up, although he didn’t know why – he wasn’t going anywhere, was, in fact, almost certain that his legs had been removed during the surgery along with the damaged part of his rectum. Or did they stitch his shredded shit hole up like a bizarre fleshy zipper and hope it didn’t come adrift next time he took a crap? He wasn’t sure – the specifics began to get a little hazy once they’d sedated him. Anyway, his legs, yes – they were probably still there, he just couldn’t feel them, and where the hell would he go anyway with a complex tangle of tubes leading into his arms – fluids and antibiotics and the precious patient controlled analgesia (he was holding the button to that very tightly) – and the catheter in his dick and the surgical drains leading from his arse and his intestines still threatening to fall out if he so much as farted in the wrong direction?

He wasn’t even sure he’d consented for the surgery – maybe Isaac had, the pushy arsehole – and if he had he certainly hadn’t really understood what they were going to do. Didn’t really understand much past the first shot of morphine and the funny looks from the nurses as they’d packed his arse with gauze to try and stop the bleeding until they could get him up to the operating theatre for repairs. He supposed it'd had to be done; he couldn’t go around shitting out his belly button for the rest of his life, and at least they’d promised him he wouldn’t end up shitting into a plastic bag in the same vicinity. It was still Isaac’s fault though – had to blame someone, afterall, and laying here in a hospital bed, clean and warm and not in any pain yet, he figured Isaac was a safe target.

Ten shifted slightly in bed, succeeding only in sliding himself further down, rather than up and over a bit like he’d been aiming, and licked his lips, trying to moisten his mouth as he wished the nurse would come in and give him another ice chip. He could ring for her, he supposed, but he wasn’t that desperate yet, and finding the nurse call button would mean letting go of the analgesia button. Where was Isaac, anyway, the pushy bastard? He’d promised to be here when they let Ten out of recovery and took him up to the ward, and he wasn’t here yet, and it was Isaac’s fault he’d ended up in hospital anyway – well, not the injured and needing urgent emergency surgery (didn’t those two words mean the same thing?) part, that was Murphy’s fault – but at the hospital getting the attention he needed, and even more attention that he didn’t need, from the Police and some rape crisis counselor, and weren’t they supposed to just look after women and didn’t they know he was a prostitute and it wasn’t *really* rape afterall?

But yes, Isaac, where was the bastard? He’d almost carried Ten into his bedsit, depositing him gently on the bed, and gurgling inarticulately when he drew back his arms covered with blood from the back of Ten’s jeans. After that he’d given Ten a choice – a non-choice really – taxi or ambulance, but either way Ten was going to the Emergency Room. Ten had chosen an ambulance, figuring it was cheaper, what with the distinct possibility of bleeding all over the taxi’s upholstery. He’d almost regretted it when the paramedics arrived and Isaac explained what had happened, certain he could see the censure on their faces. And in the expressions of the nurses and the doctors, damned, probably the orderlies too for all he knew.

Isaac still wasn’t there, and Ten was getting restless, his eyes flicking around the hospital room – he was in a single for the moment – but finding nothing which caught his interest, and fuck, what was he going to do about Murphy? The police had asked, of course, if he knew who’d raped him, but he’d fobbed them off by describing some nameless, indiscriminate john, a compilation of every man he’d ever gone down on (the one’s who’d fucked him were harder to remember, given that he was usually facing away from them when they were balls deep in his arse, it was easier for him that way, not having to look at their eyes), figuring that once they knew his injuries had been sustained in the course of a . . . transaction . . . that they’d lose interest and leave him alone. He couldn’t tell them it was Murphy, not if he wanted to work the streets again; Murphy had been very clear on that fact – he either worked for the pimp, or he’d be in no state to work at all. No choice really, he had to eat, and that was they only way he could earn the money to do so, and maybe once Murphy realized how little Ten actually made most days he’d start ignoring him again.

Ten stifled a shudder, shifted in bed again, and pushed the button to send another shot of morphine flooding through his body. He didn’t really need it, but it was better than thinking about Murphy, the man’s visage still burned onto his eyeballs, and the searing pain as Murphy’s cock pounded into him (Murphy hadn’t done him the courtesy of fucking him from behind, and he’d had no choice but to see the sick glee on Murphy’s face as the man inflicted as much pain onto Ten’s flesh as he could) . . . better than thinking about how he was going to survive, where he was going to live, until he healed and could work again.

“Etienne?” The word was incredulous, hearing the name out loud for the first time in years a harsh jolt, but the voice sent a flood of relief chasing the morphine through Ten’s body.

Isaac.

“Your name is Etienne?” Still the incredulity.

Nosey asshole. Kept Ten waiting for *hours* and then makes fun of his name.

“Yeah, dickhead, that’s my name,” Ten growled, trying to move again on the mattress to find a position that didn’t leave a tube of some sort jabbing into him. “My mother fucked a Frenchman nine months before I was born – she didn’t think he was worth keeping, but the name was okay. Now don’t ever call me that again.”

Isaac grinned – the shit eater – and moved further into the room, depositing a small carry bag and a large bottle of water on the bedside cabinet, before returning to the door, removing the name tag from the holder, flipping it around, and writing ‘Ten’ on the back of it in big, bold, black letters, before replacing it, the ‘Etienne’ hidden from sight.

“Thanks,” Ten mumbled grudgingly, somewhat mollified but not wanting to admit it.

“Welcome,” Isaac replied cheerfully, walking back into the room and plonking himself into the armchair by Ten’s bed. “So,” he said thoughtfully after a pregnant pause that saw Ten pushing the analgesic button fruitlessly – it was time delayed so he couldn’t overdose. “How’s it hanging?”

Without warning, and much against his will, Ten burst into tears.

And don't forget, you *can* get my Sip from Torquere!

New Release!

2008-01-26T06:16:43Z

My Sip, Mark's Toy Box, is now available for purchase from Torquere Press! I'm very excited, because it's the first thing I've ever published! YAY! ::bounces::

Here, have a random paragraph

2008-01-16T01:08:27Z

I'm having a rare full day at work today (usually I work very limited hours; the rest of the time I practice insanity) and, of course, the plot bunnies are biting. I've been toying with a possible story for a Torquere anthology, and had some ideas of how it should start etc but as I was sat playing with my filing piles this morning the words started falling into place, and I ran to my work computer and started typing into an email to send home. Random bits have kept popping up as the day progresses and I'm still stuck filing, so here, have one of the random snippets. I don't have a title for this yet, but the guy who's getting tied up is called Gray, and the slightly wicked man doing the tying is Rubie.

<i>“Tell me now,” He whispered in my ear, one small, sharp fang grazing the rounded cartilage at the top. “Tell me now if you want to stop, because after this,” my hand hit the wall with a dull thunk as he lashed my wrist to a bar in his brass bedstead with a pure white strand of his magic “I won’t be stopping unless your life is threatened.”

I gasped as my other hand joined the first, arms stretched taut and painful above my head. “Is my life in danger?” I managed to rasp out.

He laughed at that, eyes flashing blood red as he let the glamour drop and his true nature shine through. “With me? Always. I told you – devils may have consciences, we just choose not to use them very often.”

Ahem. . . .

2007-12-30T02:17:42Z

Public Service Announcement:

::taps microphone:: ::cough cough::

Tomorrow (today? I don't know - never could work out time zones) is MY day on the Torquere Advent Calendar . . . there, should you choose to go click on the number 30, you shall find a rather hot (if I do say so myself) snippet featuring the boys from my as yet unscheduled but upcoming Sip - the snippet features Mark and Keith coping with the unique challenges presented by a New Zealand Christmas, while the blurb I wrote for the Sip goes thusly:

"Mark's Toy Box" focusses on Mark Laughlin, a 27 year old nurse, and his detective lover, Keith Carrick. Already in a committed, monogamous relationship, these two men find that their love for each other only brings them increasingly closer together, opening up avenues for a kind of relationship neither has experienced - and creates the opportunities for hot, and increasingly kinky sex along the way. The story deals both with Keith's unexpected discovery and exploration of Mark's chest full of adult toys, and an exploration of their developing relationship as they deal with the influences of the past. Theirs is not a random, fleeting encounter, but something that will endure for a lifetime.