The 1998 Purple Prose Parody Contest

July 15, 1998:

Voting is now complete for this year’s Purple Prose Parody. This year’s winner is. . . Doris Riley for her entry The Queen & her Knight. Each of this year’s submission can be found below. For details on the voting, and reader responses, please click here for Issue #55 of Laurie’s News & Views.

I first conducted the Purple Prose Parody Contest last year. It was such fun that AAR did it again. But it was bigger and better this year, and not only because of the free magazine subscription Barb Kelderman won for being the fifth entrant! Doris Riley received her choice of Rejar, Petals on the River, or Dream Lover(Rejar “won” for Purple-est Prose in the 1998 All About Romance Reader Awards while the other two titles “won” dis-honorable mention).

And now, on to the good stuff!

[fusion_accordion divider_line=”no” class=”” id=””][fusion_toggle title=”Purple Prose as Written by Kate Smith” open=”no”]Purple Prose as Written by Kate Smith:

Angelica felt heat blossoming deep within the core of her femininity as Raphael’s sensual lips slanted firmly over hers. His hot tongue invaded the moist recesses of her mouth and she moaned in pleasure.

Through the thin silk of her gown she felt the evidence of his arousal hard and capacious against her belly and a slow ache began to build deep within her.

His work roughened fingers tangled in the mass of honey blonde hair that cascaded down her back in thick, satiny waves. She pressed herself against him, acting on pure instinct.

His mouth left hers to burn a trail of fiery kisses down the slender column of her flushed throat. She almost passed out from sheer desire as yanked the neckline of her gown aside to bare her firm, round breasts. He cupped one milky globe and brought it to his lips, the dusky pink peak puckered prettily under his intense gaze and seemed to visibly swell as her wanting for him grew.

Raphael suckled greedily, drawing whimpers of cat like pleasure from her bruised and passion swollen lips. Sweet Jesus, but he wanted to bury his shaft inside her moist womanly wetness.

Angelica felt as if her entire body was on fire. Her breasts were hot and swollen; each ivory orb craved the touch of his callused hands and hot, wet lips. Impatiently, she shoved her hands inside his shirt, reveling in the feel of crisp black hair against her palms as she stroked his chest. Her fingertips sought and found his flat male nipple, and she pinched it gently, drawing a gasp of surprised pleasure from his sensuous lips.

Raphael could not take much more. He felt as randy as a schoolboy. His manhood was heavy with need for her. That she had been with no other man was kindling to the fires of desire that burned within him. The fact that she reacted to him with all the passion and skill of a common whore did not surprise him, after all, he knew how to pleasure a woman.

He ran his hands through her hair, up her thighs, along the soles of her feet. His tongue plunged the sweet recesses of her mouth, tasting her until he felt drunk from the honeyed wine of her lips.

Her gown and chemise came apart with one vicious rip, baring her exquisite, virgin’s body to his roguish eye. Never before had he seen a woman as perfect as she. From the heady fullness of her ripe breasts to the downy thatch of fleece at the juncture of her milky thighs, she was incredible.

He nudged her alabaster thighs apart with his massive knee and settled between them, his member turgid and pulsating like a divining rod over water. His fingers probed the silky flesh of her woman hood. She was hot and wet. Gently, he massaged the little nubbin of flesh that hid just inside her plump folds. She squealed with delight, bathing his fingers with her warm juices. “You’re ready for me,” he told her huskily.

“Oh, yes,” she cried. “Please Raphael, please.”

He told himself he would go slow, but the merest touch of her pink virginal flesh against his throbbing manroot sent all of his restraint to the four winds and he plunged himself into the tight, wet passage, delighting in the feeling of her maidenhead rending beneath his assault.

Angelica felt the barest bit of discomfort before being overcome by the most intense feelings of pleasure she had ever experienced in all her seventeen years. Surely, this was what being a woman was all about!

On and on it went. She lifted her slender hips to meet his every savage thrust, her eyes lolling back in her head as his engorged wand of passion parted her untried flesh, only to withdraw and slide forward again. The coil of desire within the pit of her belly began to wind tighter and tighter. She wound her long, slender legs around his muscular hips, drawing him closer to her. Her fingernails raked the bulging muscles of his broad back and shoulders. Cat-like whimpers of pleasure and frustration escaped her pink, cupid’s bow lips.

Suddenly, the spring within her sprung and wave after wave of the most profound pleasure washed over her, radiating from the very center of her being. She felt her muscles convulse around Raphael’s hardness and felt him stiffen above her. He growled in satisfaction as he released his seed deep within her.

Angelica felt warmth fill her and knew that she had pleased him. Her hands stroked his back. She felt him grow hard again inside her and giggled in delight.

They made love fourteen times before the sun rose. When Angelica awoke, he was already gone. The small smudge of virgin’s blood on the pristine white sheet was the only evidence of their lovemaking. She stood and gingerly made her way to the washbasin. She was only a little tender. She hoped he would come to her again that night.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”“Do not think you can escape me now, my lovely!”” open=”no”]Purple Prose as Written by Lynnmarie Kill:

“Do not think you can escape me now, my lovely!”

Richard Headstrong, Lord of Hardrock Manor, snarled his threat in a low, guttural voice, the coiled ends of his handlebar mustache lifting as he flashed an evil grin.

Virginia Wunnsanite turned swiftly and darted angry blue crystalline eyes at this man she despised; the man who had dishonored her father, dueled her brother, and reduced her mother to a withering heap of synaptic dysfunction, requiring her to be carted away ignominiously to the local asylum.

“Remove your fingers from my arm, my Lord,” she hissed, staring pointedly at the large, hook-like hand that dug into the soft, pliable flesh above her elbow.

Richard laughed, and swiftly brought his other arm to rest beside her shoulder, pinning her to the wall. She felt the air leave her lungs in a rush as his narrow hips and tensile thighs pressed provocatively against the softness beneath her carmine silk gown.

“Not until I’ve drunk from the nectar of your sweet berry lips,” he replied. Then, more swiftly than angels departing hell, he captured her mouth in a possessive kiss that tasted of wine and stale tobacco, an intriguing mix that made Virginia’s breath catch in her throat.

Inclined, at first, to struggle, she found herself collapsing into a dark tunnel of heated desire, powerless to thwart Headstrong’s oral assault. A curious tingle invaded her nether regions, reminiscent of warmed bath water and the slick bar of soap she used for cleansing.

Richard laved her lips with an eager tongue, thrusting, reaching, then finally, parting their plumpness with an insistence that caused a small moan to escape her mouth as she opened to him. He entered her recess, stroking the softness of her inner cheeks. A deep groan issued from his throat as Virginia returned his ministrations with timid thrusts of her own.

Entwined as such, in passions grip, Virginia could scarce think that what she was doing was a betrayal of all she’d fought so hard to resist. This man, in all his masculine magnificence, had made his desires known from the start. He’d allowed nothing to stand in his way; not her father, her brother, her mother, or the faultless reputation she’d worked so hard to achieve among the glittered ton. All her earlier denials had brought her to this, and she knew the moment his lips enslaved hers, that she wanted him, propriety be damned!

“My God!” she thought, as her hips ground into his, “he is my alpha, my omega, and all that is in between!”

And knowing thus, she conceded to his demand, and her resolve melted away like butter in a hot sun.

Richard lifted his head, and stared through slitted eyes at the lovely countenance before him. Virginia’s lids were closed, her head thrown back in ecstasy, poised on the brink of discovery. The long, slender column of her throat gleamed like pearls in firelight, and the steady throb of her pulse quickened as his hand closed over one mounded breast. A momentary twinge of guilt twisted his heart, and he paused. Was this truly what he wanted? To take her here, on the floor of the hall, without benefit of bed, wine, roses and seclusion? The gentleman in him screamed “No, NO!” and he balanced on the edge of conscience.

Yet, to do less would be to taint the Headstrong name, and all that it stood for. Generations of Richards would haunt his dreams forevermore, taunting him for his lack of courage and momentary weakness in the face of indecision.

“I AM the alpha and the Omega,” he thought, as his fingers crushed Virginia’s breast in a death-like grip. “On my father’s honor, I must be true to myself and my nature!”

Firm in his renewed resolve, Richard swept Virginia into his arms and lowered her to the floor.

With a swift, downward jerk, he rent the bodice of her garment, revealing two soft orbs of gleaming porcelain, juxtaposed and pointed in all their perky glory to the heavens. Round, pink circlets of raised flesh invited his exploration, and he dived headfirst into twin peaks that pillowed his unshaven cheeks. First the left, then the right, he suckled like a famished infant, teasing and taunting the elongated nipples until they crested to the hardness of a diamond.

Virginia trembled, and her arms and legs alike reached up to encircle Richard’s muscular torso. Tight and firm, his body reminded her of a tree she had once hugged; unrelenting and strong, yet very much alive beneath her touch.

“Richard, Oh, Richard, ” she sighed, and arched her bosom higher, begging him to fulfill a need she’d yet to understand. “I want, I want, I want—!”

“Patience, Virginia,” he whispered. “One must clip the blooming rose carefully, else the vine will wither and die.” He traced a line of hot, wet kisses down the center of her belly, gently tugging at the fabric of her dress as he descended.

Tongues of fire burst in the wake of his lips and rushed like an incendiary device to the very root of her need. Liquid heat raged in the core of her being, that secret junction at the top of her thighs. A curious wetness anointed the petals of her feminine mystique like raindrops on roses, and she yearned for his touch.

And then, as if he’d heard her fervent wish, Richard reached probing fingers beneath yards of stiff crinoline and stroked the apex of her geometrical wedge of desire with a restive thumb. A sobbing exclamation, redolent with pleasure, issued from Virginia’s lips, and Richard smiled, feeling the tremors of her longing undulate beneath his hand. He allowed a decidedly dedicated index finger to part the soft folds of her woman-lips, then entered the slick tunnel, feeling the sweet, buttery walls enfold him in a grip that brought a rush of heat to his own turgid member. A yielding resistance, the fragile web of her maidenhead, arrested his upward movement. He must cause her pain, he knew, and gritting his teeth, he impaled her membrane with a swift, rendering stroke.

Virginia gasped, and felt an uncontrollable shudder course through her slender frame.

Was this heaven or hell? She knew not, nor cared not which. Angel or devil, Richard Headstrong suffused her soul with such longing, she realized that even confession couldn’t save her now. She writhed wantonly, and gripped his chiseled face with warm hands, reaching upwards to kiss him with eager lips. Once again, their tongues met, but this was no cautious exploration! Emboldened by her new experience, Virginia turned the tables and invaded Richard’s mouth mercilessly, crumpling him to his knees as passion’s bonfire held him in its fiery grip.

Dear God, he’d never felt this rush, this loss of control, with any other woman in his life! The heaving tumescence within his trouser flap took on a life of its own, enlarging to monstrous proportions in a matter of seconds. Blood coursed thickly into his male entity, and with a cry, he reached down and freed the wild beast!

It bobbed and angled upward, like a hound seeking the scent. Virginia’s eyes widened, fear suddenly replacing ardor.

“Richard!” she exclaimed, and her voice cracked. “What manliness! What absolute hugeness! It’s as massive as the pistons in the movie Titanic we saw last week!”

Poised above her, Richard paused. His black eyes gleamed like sun-drenched obsidian and he seared her face with a look of such commanding passion, it stilled her writhing for one breathless second.

“Then it is good that you are well-oiled, my darling,” he whispered, and plunged his throbbing wildebeest into her voluptuous depths.

If Virginia was the carnal core of passion’s inferno, then Richard was the wood that fed it. He knelt before her altar of love, thrusting with a power heretofore unknown to him. He became a glowing ember within her hearth, hot, then hotter still as the fire consumed him. He barely heard her wild screams of delight, but joined her nonetheless with a basso profundo of his own.

The floor of the hallway trembled and the pictures of long-dead Headstrongs swayed precariously on their moorings as the writhing pair coupled in a rhythm as old as time. Virginia rocked her bountiful hips against Richard’s narrow ones, grasping his muscled haunches with steeled fingers, pulling him into her deep, deeper, until suddenly, sweet convulsions ripped through her belly as wave after wave of sheer pleasure seized her in an unrelenting grip.

Like a drowning man thrown a rope, Richard joyously allowed himself to be dragged into Virginia’s orgiastic release. A victorious roar burst from his mouth as his shaft bucked uncontrollably, imprisoned within the confines of her dewy center. With one last, long propulsive lunge, he drove to culmination, his seed spilling with a heated rush into sanctuary.

An alien tenderness wrapped its fingers around Richard’s jaded heart, and he gently caressed Virginia’s lips with his own. Looking happily into her languid eyes, he suddenly knew what he must do. At least, what was proper.

“Marry me, Virginia,” he begged.

Pensive now, the object of his affection smiled wryly. A mischievous gleam winked at him from her sparkling blue irises. She looked, for all intents and purposes, like a sated woman, her body soft and satisfied beneath his.

“Is this,” she asked, waving a hand to indicate their entwined limbs, “what I can expect if I married you, my Lord? Whenever I wish it?”

“Yes, My Lady,” he murmured and bent his head to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “Whenever, wherever and as often as you desire!”

Virginia Wunnsanite, the future Lady of Hardrock Manor, sighed happily. “Good!” she said, planting a return peck on Richard’s ruggedly handsome cheek. “Because once a night will never be enough!”[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”A Science Fiction Romance by Catherine Asaro” open=”no”]Purple Prose as Written by Science Fiction Author Catherine Assaro:

Insert graphic of large, bare-chested man with flowing locks engaged in anatomically impossible clinch with swooning woman, ie, the romance novel equivalent of that science fiction classic, the babe in the bronze bra being carried off by sentient sushi waving tentacles and eyes stalks.

The Tale of RoboRock and Sweet Blossom
A Science Fiction Romance by Catherine Asaro

RoboRock threw the beauteous Blossom down on the bed. “My processors are lusting mightily for you,” he rumbled. At least, he attempted a rumble. It had been a while since his bio-augmented series Q vocal cords had been serviced, so his Zeus like voice lacked its usual thunder. At any rate, today the human-computer-technogadget-screwdriver-hunk had a different type of servicing on his mind.

RoboRock, you see, stood six foot six, with a bod like you wouldn’t believe. Then again, maybe you would, if you read romance novels. Anyway, the studly sir had a few minor oddities, such as not being human, but nothing drastic. Besides, said oddities weren’t obvious to the naked eye. Or the naked heroine. Except she wasn’t naked yet.

“Oh, no!” cried Blossom. “Don’t rectify my resistance with your robust resonance.”

RoboRock blinked. “What?”

“It’s a metaphor, Robo.”

He pinned her arms to the bed. “I’ll mix your metaphors, my dear.” Robo lowered his ever so virile cyberself onto her ever so comely curves and smothered her swollen lips with kisses. Technically, of course, her lips shouldn’t swell until after the osculation activities, but hey, who cares?

Finally he lifted his head, which was a good thing because the breathless Blossom was close to asphyxiation. His eyes lingered on her body. Then he picked them up and put them back in their sockets.

“Good grief,” Blossom said.

“Darn,” Robo said. “I thought I got that fixed.” He let go of her hands and grasped her bodice-encased bosom, which promptly heaved out of his grip. However, the ring he was wearing caught on her neckline and ripped open the front of her dress, which allowed the author to do bodice-ripping events in a politically correct manner.

The de-bodiced Blossom gasped as a chill breathed across her bodacious bounty of bosomy behemoths. Robo lowered his head and laved her levs with lusto gusto. (You know. He partook of her lacy pink confections.)

“Oh, my,” said Blossom. She would have swooned a great deal more, with gasps, moans, back arches, and so on, except that she was a copy-editor in her other life, when she wasn’t having her circuits coupled, so she blue-penciled the purple prose.

We thus come to the moment when the hero tears the heroine’s clothes to shreds, unable to control his passion.

Oh, sorry. Blossom says she shops at Saks even though she can’t afford it and that if Robo rips up her clothes she won’t have anything to wear. So we have to cancel the shred-producing activities.

Anyway, Robo stripped off her clothes and tossed them on the floor. Then he straightened up, kneeling over her, and took off his bursting-at-the-seams shirt. We’re talking cyberbabe deluxe here. His bronzed, powerful body defied all literary adjectives created to extol the beauty of the male form, or at least those literary forms in genres where writers aren’t supposed to lust over male hunkitude. The muscles of his chest rippled, as do all muscles of strong and aggressive yet at the same time gently sensitive alpha-beta-gamma-deltoid men. If you like your men with hairy chests, well hey, he had a carpet of curly dark hair that almost but not quite covered his sensuous nipples and then descended to his waist in a V that disappeared under his belt, evoking /wp-content/uploads/oldsiteimages requiring words such as turgid and engorged, not to mention every synonym for “implement” ever created. Next he zapped the zip, rigged the mast, tattled the tail, viced the versa, and otherwise revealed the mixing his aforementioned metaphor.

At this point, I had all sorts of delectable prose about how the beguiled Blossom bloomed. However, a problem arose. When Robo lowered himself onto the sweet Blossom, he froze.

After waiting a moment, she said, “Robo?”

“404 Not Found,” Robo said. “The requested URL was not found on this server: Please return to the referring document and note the hypertext link that led you here.”

It seems Robo had forgotten to update his web links.

The End (Well, not really. But they turned out the light.)

About the author: Catherine Asaro writes romantic science fiction. Samples chapters from her novels can be found through her web page, at

With thanks to Deb Stover for the phrase “anatomically impossible clinch.”

Purple Prose as Written by Blythe Barnhill:

Magnolia tried to fade into the moonlight, but she soon felt the intense penetration of Slade’s sapphire eyes. Arms of iron gripped her and pulled her from the underbrush.

“You little fool!” he spat furiously. “You could get yourself killed!”

“You need not concern yourself, Captain. My efforts on behalf of the Southern Cause are none of your concern. What right do you—”

The rest of her words were swallowed by his punishing kiss. He pulled her against his chest of steel and plundered her sweet mouth. Valiantly she tried to seal her lips against the tenacious assault. She tried to think of her cause, and of the beautiful plantation home that bore her name, Magnolia Hill. But all too soon her vain protests became eager participation. His onslaught would brook no retreat. His firm lips and tongue became deadly weapons of desire. Their tongues intermingled in a passionate mating dance, a mimicry of what their loins would do if given free rein.

Thrust…parry…thrust…parry…meanwhile his own epee was rising to the occasion.

“En Garde,” she thought. Still she could not resist when he deepened the kiss. He divested himself of his shirt in one swift motion while his lips never left hers. Then one hand slid down her creamy shoulder to the fastening of her gown. Her bounteous breasts strained against the silken material, yearning for his touch. Before she knew it, her hoops and gown were pooled at her feet. With practiced ease, he removed her corset; and then she was naked before him.

“You beautiful vixen,” he whispered tortuously. Then his hands found her heaving breasts. They took on a life of their own, bouncing gloriously as he caressed them. The magnolia orbs glowed divinely in the moonlight as her azalea pink nipples surrendered themselves to his expert laving. Quickly they became hard as rubies.

His body slanted against hers, and she felt the abundant evidence of his desire. His erection, as titanic as the ship that would sink fifty years hence, strained prodigiously against his woolen uniform trousers. The turgid tumescence pulsated with unfulfilled need. He ground his hips into hers with a rhythm not unlike the war drums his men marched to by day.

“Magnolia,” he moaned, “Please surrender to me. If not in battle, than in love.”

All she could do was nod distractedly as Slade’s commanding hands received new marching orders and lowered themselves to the dew-drenched portal of her womanhood. Slade caressed the most womanly part of her as the perfumed musk of her desire wafted through the air.

“Please, Slade,” Magnolia whispered, “Conquer me.”

His manhood sprang forth, rigid and unyielding as the marble pillars supporting Magnolia Hill. Boldly he breached the sentinel of her desire, bivouacked between the dewy folds of her womanhood. After stroking the proud little nubbin, his fingers entered her love tunnel to check her readiness. Satisfied with his reconnaissance, he prepared for the charge.

As she eyed his immense rod, realization dawned. She recalled the activities of the animals of Magnolia Hill and her brow furrowed with concern.

Slade paused at the entrance to ecstasy, groaning with the effort. Correctly interpreting the cause of her concern, he chuckled suggestively. “Don’t worry, Sweeting. Although you are barely 5’1” and I am a strapping 6’5″, nature has made you for me.”

With expert quickness, he impaled her on his love rod. Magnolia gasped at the pain, but it quickly changed to pleasure. Her hips surged toward his in an instinctive rocking motion. Pleasure stampeded through her with the abandon of a cavalry charge. She strained toward an elusive precipice. Then Slade shouted her name as him seed spurted forth and charged womb-ward. Her passion exploded in a gigantic magical cataclysm. Navy and gray joined together, their partisan passions united to became a sweet cadet blue.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Purple Prose as Written by Barbara Kelderman” open=”no”]Purple Prose as Written by Barbara Kelderman:

Mary Ann could feel the heat of his gaze, as he moved his eyes over her heated skin. She despised him, he was after all filthy carpetbagging scum, but her virginal body was betraying her. His proposition was hanging in the air between them. She could save her beloved home if only she would become his mistress.

He would pay the taxes and return the plantation to its former glory if she would surrender her body willingly to his manly pleasures. Something no decent woman would ever consider. So why had she not slapped his too handsome face before all the words had left his sensual mouth.

Because she was no longer a decent lady, the horrific war had drained all decency from her body and mind. Her breath quickened as he moved closer, her heartbeat was racing as though she had run for miles. He was inches away now, she had to look up to see his half closed smoky gray eyes. He reached for her slowly, this was her last chance to do the decent thing and still she could not. Her body frozen with a longing she did not understand. She felt the dampness gather in her most private place as he lowered his lips to hers.

“Do you accept my offer?” He stopped moving, his warm breath caressing her lips.

“I should not.” Mary Ann didn’t know where those words had come from. She had meant to say an unequivocal no.

“So you are still undecided. Maybe if you knew what you were giving up, the decision would be easier.” With that he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

None of her limited experience had prepared her for him. Where before she had been kissed by trembling boys, this man trembled nowhere. She felt his left hand curve around her bottom then he crushed her against his man’s rod. He put his right hand over her heaving bosom and was kneading it as she had seen the old cook kneading the bread dough before putting it in the oven.

Mary Ann felt as though she had been thrust into an over heated oven. His lips were moving over her own and she opened her mouth to protest. He immediately took advantage and thrust his tongue into her mouth. He explored her mouth as though it belonged to him.

She was trembling now. Her body on fire, a tingling she had never felt before was making her want more. She moved her arms up and around his neck. She had to get closer. She needed to be part of him. She heard a low moan and realized it had come from her.

He moved his hands to the center of her bodice, and she felt the old cotton give way as he pulled. When her breasts were free his mouth left hers. He was gazing down at the milky white flesh he had uncovered and as he watched, the rosy colored nipples puckered and became hard little nubs begging for attention. He put a hand on each and squeezed them together. Then he lowered his head and took one aching nub in his hot mouth.

She thought she would die from the pleasure as he gently nipped then laved the offended flesh with his tongue.

“Please, Oh god please!” she begged as the heated longing between her thighs became more than she could bear.

Before she knew what was happening he was gone. When she felt more able she opened her eyes and saw him standing on the other side of the room, looking totally unaffected by what had just happened.

“I’ll be back tomorrow for your answer.” then he was gone from the room.

Mary Ann sank slowly to her knees then pulled the torn edges of her dress together.

“Oh god, what will I do?”[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Queen & Her Knight” open=”no”]Purple Prose as Written by Doris Riley :

The Queen & Her Knight

The king was in the counting house, counting out his money,
The queen was in her parlor, counting all her honeys.
She singled out the only man in mail.
For it was he, she intended to nail.

“Steel,” she whispered in her honey silk voice. “Can you imagine what the thought of that does to me?” she asked as she gazed up into the dark eyes. The man did not reply. This was his queen, what could he do? His beautiful black eyes drifted down to the luscious creamy globes exposed by the low cut gown. He felt a stirring in his manly parts. She wasn’t so bad. Her teeth were good and her hair had not yet gone gray. So she was a bit plump? What of it?

“Leave me!” The queen demanded a delicate wave of her tiny white hand encompassing all the other knights. As the last knight closed the heavy ornate door, the queen reached up to the steel encased cheek and caressed it lovingly.

“Remove this!” She demanded cruelly.

The knight tugged the helmet off. He stared defiantly into her beautiful brown eyes. There were very few wrinkles around them. If he squinted… The aging queen gasped at the youthful beauty before her. His long dark hair fell around his broad shoulders like a gorgeous sable cloak. His skin was naturally tan; his beautiful black eyes were slightly tilted as if he had some strange gypsy blood in his veins.

“You are mine,” she uttered, her voice thickened by carnal desire.

“I belong to no woman,” he replied controversy. “I am here on a mission of purity and goodness and I shall not be led astray by a mere woman!”

“I am your Queen!” she returned, her pale face darkening to a rosy hue.
“You will do as I bid you!”

“OH?” he countered, arching a sardonic brow.
“A man can not be forced against his will.”

“No, perhaps not,” the queen spoke laconically as she tossed her jewel encrusted crown carelessly to the floor at his feet. Her own beautiful thick dark auburn hair swirled in soft dark curls about her shoulders. “But any man can be beheaded against his will.”

“Ah, well, in that case,” the young knight gulped, his face suddenly and unbecomingly, gone pale. “You must help me remove this armor.”

It works every time, the queen thought, a smirk distorting her beautifully lush sensuous lips.

Working together the two of them had the armor off in mere minutes. He stood tall and proud before her wearing nothing but his naturally tanned skin. She glanced to his smooth unfurred chest and knew he was yet too young to have grown the pelt. Ah, she would have liked the feel of fur against her full lush naked breasts. But smooth was good too. She glanced downward to his salient manliness.

“Your age?” she required, rubbing her yet gowned body against his nakedness.

“Four and twenty,” he groaned as her tiny delicate hand reached for his turgid weeping tumescence.

“Ah! I perceived you to be younger,” she pouted. “A virgin, Perhaps?”

“If you so require, Madame.”

“I require only the truth,” she spouted angrily.

“Then pray tell, why was I asked to come in full armor? Why would I risk my life to defy you, by pretending I had no interest in your luscious buxom beauty?”

“You were asked to come?”

He smiled coldly, “As frequently as possible.” he countered.

“HUH?” The queen inquired eloquently.

“Forget it, you cruel merciless bitch and let’s get on with the game plan.”

He pushed her away enigmatically and further demanded, “Please remove your tiny delicate hand from my turgid manliness before I spill my wholesome manly seed all over your manicure.”

“Do what?” the beautiful queen gasped breathlessly. Her mind had gone blank. The hot steel erection in her lily, white hand was pulsating, throbbing, growing.

“Let go, or the game will be up before we even have a chance to play.”
He groaned and jerked her tiny hand from his throbbing masculine flesh. He reached for the bodice of her gown and ripped it violently from her heaving breasts. It pooled at her feet, showing that even an aging queen could have some desirable attributes. Her full white breasts sagged only slightly, the nipples hot pink coral tips of volcanic desire. Her tiny waist flowing gently outward to full lush hips and sensuous buttocks. The V of downy soft fur that covered the moist feminine receptacle for his throbbing turgid lust was as sweetly inviting as it had been 20 years before.

“Queenie,” the young knight gasped, lifting her into his steely strong arms.

“Steel” she returned softly, moving her delicate fingers over his rock like muscles. Their lust filled gazes met and she moaned hungrily as she covered his lush lips with her own hot wanton mouth.

Their tongues met, dueled as he lowered her gently to her bed. Groaning as if in pain he parted her slim youthful looking thighs and thrust deeply. “You’re as tight as a maiden,” he moaned. “So hot so sweet, so moist, so lush. So…ah, God Teeth! So good! So damned good!”

“And you are as turgid and swollen as a lusting youth with his first woman,” she returned gaspingly. “Your body is slick with manly sweat, the masculine odor filling my delicate nostrils with longing…With a desire like I have never before known. AH, STEEL! Hard, do it harder, faster. Push it in to the hilt! Never before have I known such a man. . .never!” She wrapped her lush creamy thighs about his body and shoved upward to meet his every strong lust engorged thrust.

“And you my queen, my beautiful lush queen of desire. You fulfill my every fantasy; my every lust crazed dream. You are all that I could ever want. ALL!” He moved swiftly in and out of her wanton, hotly moist body waiting only for the pulsing quivers that would signal he could release the hot manly stream of life into her tiny urn of love.

The raunchy queen shivered, “Steel!” She gasped his name and felt the earthquake size tremors of love wash over her beautifully aging body.

“Queenie!” he groaned with animalistic pain, his strong hands grasping her head as he held her face for a wanton tongue-thrusting kiss that matched the movements of his steely hard, handsome young body. He felt the torrents of love storm violently into her welcoming rain-barrel, groaned hoarsely and fell limp across her sweat covered body.

The queen whimpered with sweetly fulfilled satisfaction as she moved her tiny hands across his strong back. “Johnny?” she whispered into his ear.

“Hmmm?” he murmured, rolling to her side and pulling her onto her side to face him.

“Next time you be the lusting old king and I’ll be the sweet young upstairs maid? OK?”

“Sounds interesting,” he agreed. “That damned armor isn’t so easy to get out of.”

She smiled and kissed him gently. “You got that right…and another thing…”

“What love?” he kissed her in return.

“Next time wear the damned deodorant. All that strong manly sweat just about knocked me out.”

Johnny laughed lustily. “I warned you, my raunchy queen!”[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Purple Prose as Written by Mary Ann Lien” open=”no”]Purple Prose as Written by Mary Ann Lien:

Her need was rising like a spring tide. Desire was a hunger within her, gnawing her bones, eating at her very soul. She sat in the old armchair, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin upon them as she stared at the door. “Come on,” she whined to herself, “What is taking you so long?”

At last she heard his steps outside the door and his key in the lock. She sprang toward him as he stepped through the door, exultation coursing through her veins like electricity through wire as she lunged for the object of her desire.

“Hey,” he laughed, “At least let me get inside!”

“I’ve waited all day for this,” she panted. “I want it now!” At last, at last, she sang to herself, as she snatched the package from his hands, tearing without thought at all that separated her from glorious communion with her heart’s desire.

Writhing with anticipation, she gloried in the creamy globes of sweetness she uncovered, reveling in the textures, the potent scents that sent chills shuddering through her limbs. Her lips, her tongue, even her teeth became the instruments that poured music through her soul and stroked her nerves to the point of tormented rapture.

“Oh the taste . . . the smell . . . the feel of you,” she murmured as she closed her eyes, her tongue flicking over the petals of her lips, searching for missed pearls of nectar.

Too soon it was over, the vessel empty, her senses full and appetite sated. “Happy now?” he asked, shaking his head with a leer.

She winked at him as she opened the freezer door. “Ah, Haagen-Daz,” she sighed as she reverently placed the carton inside. “We’ll meet again soon!”[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Purple Prose as Written by Anthony Vasser” open=”no”]Purple Prose as Written by Anthony Vasser:

“Deputy Minister just came on-line,” he said, approaching her and moving with her into the living room. “There’s been a new offensive; the Shadai decimated our research installations on Mars…heavy casualties…near total destruction. I’ve been asked…to lead the counterstrike.”

Theresa stared into the man’s dark eyes with her own chocolate-brown orbs, and saw the regret and longing within them. “When…?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

“As soon as possible,” he replied, sighing again. She stood to her full five foot ten inch height, her eyes never leaving his as she loosened the straps of her night garment. It fell to the floor to land at her feet in a pool of silk and lace. Marcus’ eyes widened as he took in the raw, ethereal beauty of the woman standing before him; her slim neck leading to tapered shoulders…her high, full breasts…the flat stomach kept washboard smooth through rigorous exercise…the muscular, supple legs that could break a stallion – or a man – between them.

He allowed himself to be pulled standing & remained still as Theresa stripped him of his sleeping attire. His chest was lean & muscular, with peach-fuzz hairs at the crest of his ribcage. A long, reddish scar ran from his left nipple to the top of his right shoulder, ending in a small puncture wound which had already healed. Theresa planted lingering angel kisses along the upper line of the scar and, when she arrived at his nipple, she took it between her teeth & gently nibbled and suckled at it.

Theresa pushed Marcus down onto the couch again, then straddled him, her breasts just inches from his clean-shaven face. Marcus immersed his entire head between the soft, warm mounds and exhaled slowly, holding them with both hands and feeling her heartbeat against his skin. He circled the smoothness of her areolas with his tongue, and she purred as she descended upon his steel-hard length, absorbing all of it into the well of her being. She stopped moving completely, every part of him nestled within her, as their eyes locked once more.

They embraced passionately, wantonly, allowing the gentle ferocity of the moment to convey feelings that they could never express in words.

They moved as one, flowing into one another seamlessly, their desire for one another building moment by moment until they crossed the point of no return, holding one another tightly and shaking, riding the final moments of pleasure. When they finally returned to normalcy, there were tears in Theresa’s eyes. Marcus stood, her sweet limbs entwined about his waist & his manhood still buried deep in her center, and carried her into the nearby bathroom.

The door to the bridge of the warcruiser BLACKTHORN slid open with a hiss of compressed air. A lower officer heard the sound and snapped to attention, bringing his gloved fist to his temple in salute.

“Commander on the bridge!” he said, and everyone stood from their stations and saluted.

“As you were,” Marcus said, stepping further onto the bridge. He made his way to the command chair in the center and patted the leather material…like seeing an old friend after many years. There was a holovid-pak on the seat waiting for him but, before he could reach down to open to, the bridge doors opened once more…and Marcus found himself staring at a familiar pair of chocolate-brown eyes.

“First Officer reporting for duty, sir…”[/fusion_toggle][/fusion_accordion]

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Ferri Tales – There’s plenty of purple prose here! (And a return link to the PPP section as well)