The 2000 Purple Prose Parody Contest

July 23, 2000:
The winner of our fourth annual Purple Prose Parody Contest is Tina Engler. For her terrific effort, she’s chosen Julia Garwood’s Ransom and Patricia Cabot’sAn Improper Proposal as her prize. When notified of her win, Tina had this to say, “This is great news! I’d like to thank everyone who voted for me. I’m definitely putting the Y2K PPP award on my resume. (Though in a completely different genre from my entry, I’m amongst the ranks of those writers of romantic comedies still trying to get published). Thanks for letting me enter your contest…this news couldn’t have come on a better day!” Further comments on this year’s contest, as well as which parodies came in second and third place can be found here.

Over the next several pages you will find all the parodies submitted in our fourth annual Purple Prose Parody Contest. Proceed with caution – if you read these parodies when you are not alone, others will likely look at you oddly – people don’t usually scream with laughter while looking at their computers.

Purple Prose as written by Tina Engler as an homage to Robin Schone (Tina “adored” The Lady’s Tutor and The Lover):

The Spinster’s Tutor
A purple parody that can only be appreciated by fans of Robin Schone

Virginia Holmes gazed across the dance floor and into the eyes of Lord Harrow. Her pulse beat accelerated as she remembered the indecent proposition the profligate rake had made last evening.

No spinster should consider it.

No 40-year-old virgin with threads of silver streaking her dull, mousy brown hair should desire it.

No female with small breasts and a pouch belly should dream of it.

No woman who wore spectacles, was a survivor of a smallpox endemic, and wobbled around on a gimp leg should want it.

He was a rake.

A rogue.

A profligate bastard.

A half-Arab former prostitute who dreamed of death and destruction, dabbled in commerce, and knew too well the art of the duel.

Virginia watched, spellbound, as Lord Harrow made his way across the ballroom toward her. His gaze was hypnotic. His stride was long and panther-like. His erect manhood, clearly delineated through the tight fit of his buckskin breeches, pulsed with every beat of her racing heart.

Pulsed like the swell at the juncture of her matron’s virgin thighs.

Pulsed like the pouch of her spinster stomach she could no longer hope to conceal.

Pulsed.

And pulsed.

Virginia clutched tightly the glass of wine she drank from. Clutched it as she knew her spinster center would clutch his engorged manhood.

Clutched it.

And clutched it.

He would take her. This Virginia knew.

Lord Harrow stopped directly in front of her, an engaging dark eyebrow lifted slightly. He was close. So close. She could feel the pressure of his aroused penis against her matron’s stomach. She gripped her wineglass as her breathing grew increasingly labored.

The wineglass tumbled to the floor.

It was the color red.

The color of spilled virgin blood.

A spinster’s blood.

It screamed of death and destruction.

Lord Harrow knew without asking that her answer was yes. He would take her. Ravish her. Make her beg. Make her plead. Allah—God.

Yes.

Lord Harrow gently placed his hand, a hand that had known too many duels, too much death, on Virginia’s elbow. He led her from the glittering, superficial ballroom of the ton and toward his awaiting carriage.

Virginia wobbled behind him eagerly. Wantonly. The streaks of silver in her hair and the pock marks on her face were highlighted by the night moon looming menacingly overhead.

She was a spinster.

He was the half-Arab rake who would take her virginity.

Lord Harrow lifted Virginia into his arms and carried her quickly to his carriage. After giving the driver strict instructions to take the long way back to his country estate, he joined Virginia inside the padded equipage.

It was padded like her virgin walls.

Padded like her pouchy stomach.

Padded like the inside of a lunatic’s cell.

It was death and destruction.

Allah—God.

Lord Harrow lit a cheroot, his eyes never leaving Virginia’s spinster face. The smoke billowed around him, giving him a dangerous, avenging quality. The silver tendrils wafted through the air like the strands of silver in Virginia’s hair wafted in the night breeze.

She was a spinster.

He was the half-Arab rogue who would take her virginity.

Lord Harrow put out the cheroot and considered Virginia. One corner of his mouth lifted upward in a sly smile.

He was a half-Arab bastard.

He would take her virginity.

“There is no going back now, Miss Holmes. We are here. Together. We will pleasure each other.”

Virginia closed her eyes briefly at his words. She was a spinster. No spinster should want this.

Virginia inhaled his rich, masculine scent. He smelled of sandalwood and pinecones. Her mind was made up. “I have no wish to go back, Lord Harrow.”

He raised a dangerous brow. “Do you realize what you are asking for, Miss Holmes?”

Death.

Destruction.

“Yes, Lord Harrow, I understand the implications of my indiscretion.”

“Very well, Miss Holmes.”

Virginia tore her gaze away from Lord Harrow’s arresting face as he shed his clothes. She studied the bulge that torpedoed out from his belly. It was a beast of prey rising up from its nest of dark curls, gaining in length and breadth as every pulse beat passed between them. It was like a serpent. A demon come to claim her.

It screamed of death and destruction.

Virginia slowly lifted her skirts to find the French lettres she had concealed in her stockings. They were the stockings of a spinster. The stockings that hid her gimp leg.

A gimp leg that no 40-year-old aging governess should bare to a gentleman.

A gimp leg that screamed of death.

Of destruction.

Allah—God.

Virginia looked away, unable to hold the gaze of the one-eyed beast that would take her virginity. She quietly removed her clothes, her womb contracting with her heartbeat.

A virgin’s womb.

A spinster’s womb.

The womb of a matron governess with silver threads in her hair and a pouch belly.

The womb of a woman with a gimp leg.

The womb.

Lord Harrow donned the French lettre she bequeathed to him with the same proficiency he used in dueling. He was accounted an excellent marksman. Virginia’s maidenhead was his target.

“The lettre is a tight fit, Miss Holmes. But your woman’s valley will be tighter.”

Virginia swallowed nervously. Her eyes bulged out from behind her spectacles. “Will I be able to take you inside of my valley, Lord Harrow?”

“Yes, Miss Holmes. You will. You will welcome my penis inside of you many times this night.”

Virginia squeezed her legs together at his words. She was a spinster. A virgin. An unwed matron with silver threads in her hair and a gimp leg.

He would cleave her into halves.

Demolish her.

Destroy her.

She shouldn’t want this.

He was the half-Arab rake who would sever her maidenhead.

Virginia’s heart pounded in time with her hymen. She could feel her virgin’s blood pulsating, coursing through her woman’s hollow. Coursing through it as Lord Harrow’s seed would if he weren’t sporting a lettre.

“Come to me, Miss Holmes. By Allah and God it is time!”

Virginia pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and nodded. She settled herself on his lap and pressed the small, dewy opening of her woman’s heat against the tip of his avenging, one-eyed god. “I am here, Lord Harrow. Rip through my maidenhead and show me what it is I’ve missed all these years. Show me the things no spinster should know.”

Lord Harrow’s erect penis grew another six inches at her words.

Virginia’s maidenhead was severed instantly.

She was a spinster—no more.

A virgin—no more.

She was breached.

Death.

Destruction.

Instinctively, she knew to move on him.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Like an executioner’s hatchet.

Death.

Destruction.

Lord Harrow gritted his teeth as Virginia rode him like an animal at Tattersalls. “Allah—God.” He gripped her hips and sheathed himself fully.

He speared her, over and over.

Speared her like a felled opponent at the end of his blade.

Speared her like an avenging god.

Speared her like the half-Arab rake that he was.

Virginia felt the pulsings of her first climax rip through her.

Ripped as her maidenhead had ripped.

Ripped as the muscles in her gimp leg had ripped during that fatal carriage accident so many years past.

Ripped as Lord Harrow’s soul had been ripped from one too many duels.

Death.

Destruction.

Allah—God.

Purple Prose as written by AAR Reviewer Jennifer Keirans:

There was a loud click. Pansy and Brent turned and saw that the heavy metal door of the walk-in freezer had swung shut.

“Oh, great!” Pansy snapped, hugging herself for warmth and glancing nervously at the frozen meat that hung on hooks all around them. The cold in the freezer made her nipples stand to attention like tiny, alert soldiers, skirmishing with the clinging material of her sports bra. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“Me?” Brent swung on her. His eyes, normally the dark, rich color of deep feelings, burst into flame like forth-of-July sparklers. Pansy couldn’t help but notice that his nipples, too, were erect, like those tiny thermometers that come in turkeys, declaring that the bird is ready to go.

His voice was as rough as a rock grinder when he accused, “If you hadn’t been so suspicious of me, you would have been outside, holding the door open! This is your fault!”

How dared Brent blame her for their predicament? Pansy’s eyes widened like opening, uh, pansies. She stood toe-to-toe with him, her chin thrust forward like a jouster’s lance, ready to do battle. “Well, if you hadn’t lied to me about Daddy’s will, I would have trusted you, so it’s your fault!”

Brent’s angry body radiated heat like an oven. His hands, broad and sinewy as steel traps, hauled her up on her toes so that her oh-so-sensitive breasts were flattened against his chest like Twinkies against a brick wall. “And if you hadn’t tried to convince your Daddy that you had become a Las Vegas stripper, I wouldn’t have lied to you about the will!”

Pansy struggled wildly, her lipstick-red curls flying about her piquant face, her hands fluttering against his grip like caged birds. “If you weren’t such a bad influence on Daddy, I wouldn’t have lied to him! So this is your fault.” She punctuated her last two words by jabbing her French-manicured forefinger into his chest, which was as meaty and hard as the frozen sides of beef that hung, unnoticed, all around them.

Brent shook Pansy until her teeth rattled like dice in a Yatzee game. “If you weren’t such a lousy daughter, he would never have turned to me, so it’s your fault!”

“Ooooh!” Pansy’s hand flashed through the air between them and smacked across his face with a sound like a rubber glove snapped onto a nurse’s hand. “I hate you!” she shrieked.

“Not as much as I hate you,” he panted, and then his mouth latched onto hers.

“Rrmph,” Pansy dissented. But then desire bubbled up inside her like maple syrup microwaved too long, foamy and sweet and hot. She sucked on his mouth greedily, like an opossum sucking the meat from an egg. His tongue jabbed into her mouth like a striking serpent and she nursed it like a hungry infant, unconsciously rubbing her needy body against his. He was as hard as Michaelangelo’s statue of David, which is made of marble, but much, much hotter. His broad hands gripped the cheeks of her bottom and kneaded them like bread dough. She felt the thick length of him, hard as a lug wrench, pressed against her quivering belly.

He broke the kiss with a sound like Velcro being pulled apart, and backed her up against a frost-encrusted metal butcher’s table. “Now,” he declared huskily, tearing at the zipper of his jeans, “I’m going to give you what you’ve been asking for!”

There a whirlwind of flying hands and frenzied caresses, and suddenly Pansy’s clothes and his were gone, and she was lying spread-eagled on the icy stainless steel table, body eagerly open and waiting for his manly insertion into her molten core. Brent’s fingers were virtuosos; he plucked her nipples like the strings of a guitar. She bucked like an unbroken filly when she felt him invade her like a triumphant conquering army.

He was man: hard, penetrating, dominating. And she was woman, his woman! “Yes, deeper!” she cried as his piercing rod stretched and widened the juicy doors to her most secret chamber. Her thick wetness lubricated each of his savage, grunting thrusts exactly the way motor oil lubricates the pistons of an internal combustion engine.

“Is this how you like it, little liar?” he panted as he pounded her like surf crashing on a beach, his sweat falling down on her, drenching her like scalding hot rain.

“Yes, yes!” screamed Pansy, thrashing like a beached fish, biting like a wildcat, clawing and pinching like a she-crab as she felt the pleasure growing inside her like a fetus, swelling bigger and bigger and bigger, until she knew she had to birth a climax like none she’d ever experienced before!

Suddenly Pansy’s body and soul shattered, and all the little bits and pieces of her shot off in all directions, glowing and arcing through the stratosphere. She heard his bitten-off groan and felt his explosion, and then all the little bits and pieces of her were joined by the bits and pieces of him. Their bits and pieces, shining, flying, mingled with each other, and for a perfect moment they were as one. Then, slowly, Pansy became aware of discomfort. Brent lay heavily upon her, warming her front like a huge hot-water-bottle, but her back and bottom felt cold! She tried to move, and a mouse-like squeak of pain escaped her.

“Sweet little lying cheat,” Brent murmured, nuzzling her tender breasts with his sandpapery stubble.

“Brent?” Pansy peeped, still trying to move. “Something’s wrong! Brent!”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “Why, sweetheart,” he drawled, his eyes glowing with male amusement. “You’re frozen to the table.”

“I’m frozen?” she squealed. “Brent, help me! How am I going to get loose?”

He chuckled heartily at her feminine helplessness. “I think,” he murmured, “I’ll just have to lick you free.”

Pansy’s body gave a jolted start, as though she had just touched an electric fence. “Lick … me free?” she repeated, weak as a half-drowned kitten, but oh, so much more eager.

“Like this,” he beamed, and bent his head to the task.

There was a long moment of stillness. Then Pansy whispered, “Brent? Is something wrong?”

From low beneath her trembling thighs, she heard his muffled voice.

“I think my tung’th thtuck.”

Purple Prose as written by Carrie Lynn as “An Ode to the Women of the AAR Message Boards”:

A Devil in Heaven

She was just plain bored. Nothing interesting on any of the message boards, no new reviews to read of recently released romance novels. Bored. So when she saw the link that blinked “Click Here for Fun”, she didn’t think anything of it. She thought it would be just a contest or maybe a game. She was wrong.

The computer seemed to flicker, then her vision flickered. All of a sudden everything went dark. She blinked her eyes and she was no longer in front of her computer, but was sitting, really more reclining, on a grassy knoll. With a man on top of her, stroking the back of her neck with one hand and rubbing his thumb back and forth across her lip with the other. She hated that.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She demanded.

“Little Darlin’, I’m just making you mine. Your lips are ripe and juicy with my kisses. Your body is limned with the light of the setting sun. And I am limp with love. Be mine, Darlin’.” He looked at her with concern and a not a little lust shining in his eyes.

“I know I’ve been given your guardianship, that you’re betrothed to my beloved brother, that I am a bedamned bastard, and that I have this staggeringly sickening scar on my face, but I beseech you, no I beg of you, to see the man inside.” He looked deeply into her eyes. Her pulsing purple eyes gleamed with lust. Or maybe they were violently violet? No… longingly lavender. He knew that his love, the hellcat that she was, would not willingly enter into an unholy union with a marred man like himself. Her claws were currently concealed but he knew they could be unsheathed at any moment should her temperament change. He intended to display cunning cock to his clever kitten and convince her to be his. And if that didn’t work, well, there was always ravishment.

“What the hell is your name? Get off me!” This was certainly more fun than she’d expected from a stupid website.

“As if you don’t know,” he responded. “But I’ll humor you you little she-wolf. You know full well that I am Rafael Sebastien . . . Rafe for short . . . but you have called me Devil since first we met . . . so I expect that you may continue to . . . do so as I will wreak sin as you have never known . . . upon your . . . luscious lady’s body.” He saw anxiety flitter across her fabulously feminine face and peppered her with his love bites. “Darlin’, if you would allow me . . . to . . . further . . . explore your crushingly curvaceous body . . . which even now . . . calls out for me, through its puckered . . . pert . . . pebbled . . . nubile nipples that, even as I speak, seek my chivalrous chest, and its . . . swollen . . .sweet spot that even now is engorged with excitement, I will make you mine.”

“First, I am not a cat, a feline of any kind, or a wolf. Second, my name is Julie, not Darlin’, so stop calling me that. Third, could you please finish a Goddamn sentence without pausing all the freaking the time? Finally, my nipples are not pert or puckered for you – it’s friggin’ cold out here you moron. And stop talking in those annoying alliterations!” She accented her commands with a series of shoves at his rock-solid chest with both of her hands, then tried to scramble away. She stopped immediately when she looked up at a noise and saw a wolf grinning at her, and she noticed its enormous teeth, saliva dripping from its rabid mouth. Devil grabbed her by the thigh with one hand and held her still.

“Darlin’ she’s nothing to worry about. You know I like my women willing, and she’s no different. Alas, Lobo will not hurt you, she just wants you to pet her. As you did I not a few moments ago.”

Julie held very still, noticing that one strong, lean-fingered, sun-tanned hand was slowly inching up her shivering thigh to her womanly parts. “You have a pet wolf.”

“A lone man like myself must have a lonely beast as its companion, think you not?” he responded.

“Of course.” It figured. “Where am I?” she asked Devil.

“Darlin’, this is Heaven, Texas. Surely you have not forgotten that when your sickly father passed on to the world beyond that he gave you over as my ward and that you moved from your childhood home in Boston to the wilds of the west. You have been my care nigh these eight years. You have blossomed and flowered into a woman under my care like the camellia in bloom that you are while I fought for our beloved Confederacy in the War Between the States. My beloved brother has claimed you as his own, but my heart speaks to me in my dreams and in its infinite wisdom it tells me that I must succumb to my baser instincts and make you mine own -”

“I don’t think that’s your heart talking, you idiot.”

He flushed and his scarred face turned a florid red. “My wild woman, you will be the death of me. I will tame you yet!” With that his callused coarse fingers reached her weeping woman’s apex and he stroked her secret self. “You may turn away from my horrendously hideous face that has been scarred by my efforts in the war, but you will not turn from my body which yearns for you as sunset yearns for the coming of the night.”

She admitted it, she probably did writhe at that point. She arched up into the air, her legs splayed, her upper body forming a perfect rainbow. Julie had shared intimacies for the first time with her last boyfriend, but never before had she felt this deep driving need building inside her. Oh she had listened intently as her friends discussed the pleasures of their jaunts into carnality, but she had known carnal pleasures were not to be for her. She was frigid as the glacial snowcaps in winter in Antarctica and she knew it. Alas, she had been wrong and Devil was to be the composer and conductor of her opus of copious passion.

She felt Devil’s demonic digits stroke her love nubbin and bit her lip until it bled, feeling as though her body contained each of the colors of the rainbow. The prismed colors pulsed within her as Devil’s abrasive fingers pierced her womanly petals and she felt his tongue lapping her labia, sucking the liquid leaking from her body. She then felt a cool breeze waft over her wanton womanliness and looked down.

Devil took a momentary pause and looked up at his little hellcat while the seeping sap of her self dripped deliciously from his dangerous chin. “Easy, Darlin’, we have all night.” He reached up and wiped the remnants of her joy from his face, smiled a wolfish grin, and went back to the task of bringing the night stars to her. When she throbbed with thrilling ecstasy, he impishly implored, “Are you having fun yet?” She was deaf to his words, and felt only the reverberations of his voice as they pulsed within her womb like miniature sonic earthquakes. Suddenly she was cataclysmically catapulted her over the edge of joy and into the netherworld of pleasure/pain. She hurtled through the stars and it was as though her body no longer existed – she was yet another star blissfully hovering in the heavens. La petite morte.

She blinked. Her vision flickered. The computer screen flickered. Her body hummed. The website that she had linked to asked, “Are you having fun yet?”

Purple Prose as written by Kathleen Panov:

“Halloo!” Perdita Poorwhit crept slowly up the darkened steps to the room at the top of the stairs, intent on at last determining the identity of the mysterious stranger who had stolen her virginity and worse, murdered her father in cold-blood at the very stroke of midnight on her seventeenth birthday. She patted the knife she had sheathed between her pert breasts, feeling the cold steel rub sensuously against her bare flesh. Tonight, revenge would be hers.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, the mighty crash echoing in the tower, SLAMSLAMslamslamslam. . . and he appeared. Like the devil himself he stood before her, his face as tan as roughened cowhide, his teeth flashing white, his shirt and breeches black as an abyss of darkness. His shadow loomed forever downwards, drawing her into hell.

She felt for the security of the knife, but instead, it was the hard, pebble-like betrayal of her nipples that her fingers found. Dear God, had she been raised by her mad aunt in the convent, only to find herself forsaken by her traitorous desire for the one man who had ruined her life?

Like the Poorwhit wanton the nuns had always called her, she drew forward, a throaty moan escaping her full lips, her heart waltzing in four-four time. Sweat beaded on her forehead, down her back, between her breasts, until her clothes were dripping wet and clinging to her body, her every curve and crevice exposed to his heated gaze.

He held out his hand, an invitation to ruination, and like a fool, like generations of Poorwhit women before her, she answered his call.

“I knew you would come.” His voice was low, rough, as if he had just quit smoking.

His vanity peeved her. “I come for no man.”

“You will come for me.”

His long, brown fingers ripped her dress asunder, leaving her bare to his gaze, her knife balanced precariously between her firm, uptilted breasts. “You brought a weapon? My weapon is the only one you’ll need.”

“Ha!” She grasped the knife firmly, did a double flip, and then pirouetted to a perfect temps d’interception, her feet balanced lightly, her angle precise, just as the nuns had taught her in school. She raked the blade down his chest, his silken shirt parting like the Red Sea, a line of crimson forming in the wake. “Your weapon is weak. Mine can draw blood.”

“As I drew yours before.”

Angered because he was correct, that she could not forget the night he brought her to ecstasy seventeen times before they both succumbed to an exhausted slumber, she stamped her foot, her porcelain orbs heaving with indignation. “I’ll see you in hell first.”

“I will have you.” He took a step closer, touching a tender hand to her cheek.

She worried her lip, his words twisting inside her, melting, dripping, dropping, zipping, zopping, chipping, chopping, lopping, popping, pounding, mounding, each one grounding, stripping away the steel codpiece that she had worn over her heart for so long. “Not.” She turned her face into his palm.

“Will.” He pressed his body against hers, until she felt the hard length of the Eveready flashlight he carried in his pocket.

“Not,” she whimpered, her convictions fluttering away like the leaf that floated through the air in the cool autumn breeze, swaying this way and that, skimming along the surface of the stone walls before finally coming to rest on her toe. She stared at the leaf and suddenly everything became clear. She realized how fragile life really was, how short, and how foolish she would be to walk away from love. He was her oak tree, her touchstone, her knight in shining armor ready to slay her dragons as easily as he slew her father.

And tonight he would be hers.

When she raised her mouth for his kiss, he could see the answer shining in her eyes.

He had never known such happiness as what she brought him. Never seen such a fine example of innocence and beauty. But her beauty was deeper than her pouty lips or sultry eyes, or the cute way she smiled when she nervous. No, her beauty ran deep below her epidermis, below her dermis, through her follicles, and down to the very heart of her soul.

His jaw dropped as the weight of his need feel upon his shoulders like Atlas. Helplessly he shrugged and dropped to one knee, pressing feverish lips to her hand. “I will always be yours, Perdita. Be mine as well. Let me worship at the temple of your thighs, let me lick you until your cries of desire echo like the wolf that bays at the moon.”

His fingers, his sweet, savage fingers crept inside her, causing her to sway and shimmy like a snake to the charmer. Each time she rose higher, and fell further, until finally, overwrought with her passion, she staggered to her knees and they tumbled to the floor, entwined in each other’s arms.

She ripped, he tore, she gasped, he moaned, he bit, she licked, he wept, she screamed. Finally, when he reached the highest peak of pleasure, when he knew he had found the piece that completed him completely, he gazed into her innocent blue eyes, wanting her to see his heart. Tortured tears fell down her cheeks as the last tremors shook her body. She could never forgive him, even though her body would always be his. However, her heart was not so easily fooled.

Still, she had to ask. Had to know. “Why did you kill Papa?”

He rested his forehead against her own, his body still shaking as if he had finished first in a 5K run. The truth was so ugly, he had thought to shelter her from it. But it was not to be, and his heart shattered into a million, tiny pieces. In his mind, the sound echoed over and over and over. CRASHCRASHcrashcrashcrash. “Your father tried to sell you to the slave-traders. He was a drunken sot who only wanted money to buy more gin. I tried to talk him out of his plan, but he stood firm. I saw no choice. I would not have him prostitute you, Perdita. You belong to me, no one else.”

“Oh, Norman, I had no idea. Forgive me?”

“Consider it forgotten,” he answered with wicked purpose. His flesh hardened once more, and he began to move inside her again.

And as the sun rose the next morning, they were still at it, like rabbits who had been deprived of all contact with other rabbits until they were frantic with desire, their little paws clawing at the cage.

Finally, hand in hand, they came down the stairs, his knees wobbling and bruised from beating against the stone floor, and her legs bowed from much use.

Together, their wounds would heal. After all, love could mend hearts, buy forgiveness, treat infections, cure the common cold, and solve the petty squabbling in the Middle East.

And for Norman and Perdita, that would be enough.

THE END

Purple Prose as written by Sherry Thomas:

High Pluto Orbit 2060 AD

The view beyond the transparent forward hull of The Steadfast was breathtaking: abyss-black nothingness studded with countless distant stars, their brilliance true and unwavering in the nearly absolute vacuum.

Maya was oblivious to the magnificence of the universe, separated from her only by one meter’s thickness of titanium-reinforced glass. She had also lost that slightly terrified awe of the yawning, bottomless void which surrounded her. After five solitary months in the far reaches of the solar system, part of every space cadet’s training requirement, she was more than anything else, bored.

Bored out of her mind. Bored stiff. Bored to death, on one side, by that insignificant piece of rock Pluto which somehow elevated itself into a planet, and on the other side, by the starscape that changed too little to capture her interest anymore.

Frankly, she would have requested recall after two month – and therefore failing to ever qualify for deep-space assignments – if it hadn’t been for a box of curiosity she had smuggled on board when she first arrived.

The box had belonged to Maya’s great-grandmother, who sadly passed away the previous year at the still-prime age of 100. It was found, stashed under Great-grandmother’s bed, secured by the most advanced prime number combinatorial lock. What could it have contained? Classified documents? State secrets?

Everyone held his/her breath when the lock was finally decoded and the lid lifted to reveal – what?! Old paperback tomes from Gran-gran’s youth back in the ‘70s and ‘80s of the previous century. And not even anything that could be properly labeled reading material. They were romances, good grief, well-preservedromances, with cover pictures of massive, menacing men whose bulging muscles were supposed to imply similar endowment below waist and melting, draping, sleepy-eyed females with spilling silicon breasts and pouty collagen lips.

Oh, the laughing, wheezing, chortling and snickering that followed. Father nearly collapsed with mirth. No wonder poor old Gran-gran had to go to such length to keep the content under lock. Egad, could you imagine the field day the comedians would have had if it had been exposed during her eighteen laudable years in the senate and two superb terms in the White House that the first ever female majority leader and Commander-in-Chief had been a devotee of such pulp fiction!

There was a brief ensuing debate over whether the books should be turned over to Gran-gran’s presidential library. Mother put her foot down and said she wouldn’t allow Gran-gran’s ridiculous little secret to ruin her own chances at senatorial re-election. And that was that. The books were to be demolished and the knowledge was to go no further than the present company.

But something happened to Maya when she first laid eyes on the sinuously intertwined figures of warriors and maidens, sheiks and desert roses, pirates and their swooning preys. A little thump of the heart she experienced, perhaps a little brightening of awareness. The blatantly lascivious eyes of the oversexed and underdressed men seemed to be looking at her directly, challenging her, inviting her. Come and read for yourself what we are about to perpetrate in these pages, they communicated, we really are every bit as sinewy, powerful, and overwhelming as our portraits suggest.

In the end, without really knowing why, Maya volunteered for the demolishing chore. And then, instead of dutifully disposing of the torrid books, she took the box back to the Academy and slapped a label of “Training Run Logs” on the outside so her roommates would not bother to open them.

There had been no spare hours for any extracurricular reading for the remainder of the semester. But boy oh boy, was there plenty of time to kill aboard the very staid Steadfast with nothing much to do and no holovision signals from Earth strong enough to gel into /wp-content/uploads/oldsiteimages and sounds.

So she had cracked the box open a few centimeters, and giggling to herself as she did so, grabbed the first book that floated out in the zero-g environment. A harem story. With on the cover a dark sleek pasha and a slave girl garbed only in an implausibly long tumble of platinum blond hair.

Maya had taken a few courses in middle-eastern history and had even visited a preserved harem on a tour to Istanbul. What a wretched place it was. Completely sealed from the outside world, with nothing to do all day for the women who once lived there but bath, gossip, eat sweets, and grow obese while waiting for the whim of the master. A certain sultan even had his entire harem drowned so he could start anew.

But the hero of this particular Arabian tale was – gasp – three quarters European! How that came about Maya could not fathom. But it scarcely mattered as the story already had her in its thrall. A nearly white pasha, and a completely white slave, he horny as a tomcat, needing the service of two women every night and conversant in every conceivable and inconceivable vice, she innocent as a new-born lamb, with no idea at all that what she had between her legs was good for anything except certain unmentionable functions in the lavatory.

How could the girl possibly survive, let alone prosper? Yet prosper she did. For once his ramming rod breached the flimsy defense of her virginity – huh? oh, oh, meaning once they had screwed for the first time – she instantly changed from a dowdy to a foxy. Maya marveled at the heroine’s metamorphosis. She herself had been laid a reasonable number of times, but she was nowhere near as bold now as that little ex-virgin who until the previous scene had been totally ignorant of her own internally plumbing.

And the language, good God. Why was it never simply and straightforwardly “his hard penis entered her wet vagina” but always “his throbbingly turgid masculine sword slid into her lushly flooded feminine sheath” or “his engorged, swollen shaft of desire cleaved into her wantonly inundated love canal?”

Maya had to scratch her head at first in an effort to decipher this complex code that seemed part and parcel of the books, but soon she became fluent in their secret terminology. It was a language for only the sisterhood of the initiated. And two months into her lone sojourn far from civilization, she had become more than an initiate. She was, to put it bluntly, hooked. Ah, the rippling muscles, the heaving breasts, the hot cylinders of male arousal, the dewy petals of female flowers. She could not get enough of the fervid embraces, the roaring spats, the shrill “sszzzz” of silks, and satins, and linens torn asunder by large arrogant hands and the “tump tump” of buttons splattered everywhere in the wake of every mass destruction of historical undergarments.

Sadly, the supply of romances was limited. After five months in space, even with most careful rationing, Maya was down to one last unread volume, one that proclaimed itself on the front cover, the back cover, and the spine to be sizzling, dazzling, nuclear meltdown hot, one that warned its readers to have a glass of ice water and a fire extinguisher standing by in case the book should suddenly combust spontaneously and consume both itself and the engrossed reader in leaping tongues of flames.

She strapped herself in the commander’s seat in the hull – she was commander, pilot, liaison, maintenance, in short, the entire crew – so that she would not float away and bump her head during this final thrilling adventure. Then with the book wide open, its anatomically improbable couple on the cover visible for hundreds of kilometers to anyone who had a toy telescope – but there’s no one within millions of kilometers and the next supply ship was not due to arrive for a month – Maya began her reading.

He had not anticipated coming across a Candidate so far out on the fringes of the human sphere. He thought he had billions of more kilometers to go before encountering any earthlings, let alone one who seemed primed for Change.

A stubborn race, these earthlings. The entire planet had been Dusted some one hundred earth years ago, after the race had shown itself capable of space flights and therefore, ready for Contact. Alas, the chemical Agent of Change proved insufficient, as subsequent endo-atmospheric checks sadly confirmed.

The earthlings squabbled over their sightings of the surveillance flights. One unfortunate crash in particular sent them into a frenzy of debate. The sensible ones pointed to the incidents as irrefutable evidence of extraterrestrial life forms. The skeptical ones asked why then, those highly intelligent otherworldly beings had not bothered to Contact them?

Why? He mumbled to himself as he adhered his non-physical form to outside of the transparent hull. Idiots. How can we Contact you before you have Changed your speech patterns? The Universal Translator would be ineffectual unless the users are all fluent in the Official Speech Pattern of the Alliance. What would we have to say to you after we have shown you our right triangle and demonstrated our understanding of a2+b2=C2?

So now things had to be done in the old-fashioned way – transmitting the Change physically, one by one if necessary. But to do that, he needed first to locate some receptive Candidates. It would have been a daunting task. The only subset of earthlings who had been at all affected by the Agent of Change Dusted yesteryear, it seemed, was a segment of the female population who wrote and/or read certain books of love stories. The most exceptional of these writers exhibited a style of writing surprisingly similar to the venerated Official Speech Pattern.

Unhappily, those writers were roundly ridiculed for being ahead of their time, their devoted readers were shamed into never daring to display their books in public, and their lyrical, intricate, hyperbolic usage of language had to bear that dreaded, humiliating label: Purple Prose. How ironic, when that was precisely how the Official Speech Pattern was affectionately referred to within the Alliance, given that purple was the Alliance’s signature color.

He had steeled himself for a grueling search. Purple Prose on earth died out about fifty years ago, the prophetic books probably all met their ignominious end being recycled to make toilet paper. Devotees would be few and difficult to locate.

But as luck would have it. He found one without even looking. There she was, on the other side of the glass wall, her face nearly buried in the pages, completely absorbed. He knew the content of the book by its cover. Why was it that the closer the writing in a book came to the Official Speech Pattern, the more lurid the picture on the cover must be? He could only imagine the earthlings’ reaction if they were to read an official Alliance communiqué now. Well, what could one say about those literarily still primitive people. . . .

He banished that depressing thought and focused on the bright hope in front of him. Yes, she was ready. And he was ready to Change her. Forever.

Very carefully, he permeated through the titanium-reinforced glass, until he was inside the vessel, and took on physical form. He willed her, with his considerable power, to look up at him, and not be frightened or shocked, but merely a little dazed.

Maya looked up.

She saw a man, an extraordinary man. He was tall, a full head taller than her and she was as tall as most men. He was big. His shoulders were as wide as a small car, his arms thicker than her thighs, and his legs the size of tree trunks. His long hair, golden as the light of a G-type star, brushed the nape of his bare neck. And his neck wasn’t the only part of his anatomy that was bare. He was naked from the waist up, with only a wide belt below his navel and a pair of tight, revealing trousers.

And this giant with his granite-hard muscled physique had a chiseled face to match. He had deep-set icy blue eyes, a conqueror of a nose, and sensual, yet slightly cruel lips. Maya stared at him for one more minute. Then she looked down at her book and flipped it so she could see the cover.

Identical!

She looked up again. “Rorik? Rorik the Viking who has slain hundreds and raped thousands?” She whispered.

“Fear not, fair maiden.” The giant answered, his voice deep, gravelly, and smooth all at once. Amazing. “I have no intention of raping you. I only wish to share the pleasure so unique to the joining of a man and a woman.”

“And you talk just like him too.” Maya marveled aloud.

“As soon you shall too, my little one. Soon you shall too, when I have demonstrated to you all that is possible between a virile man and a willing woman.” He advanced a step, his eyes smoldering.

“Thank you for…uh…the offer.” Maya stammered a little. His presence was so…so…unbelievably unsettling. He made her feel small – of course – and soft and feminine. “Though I don’t believe you can demonstrate to me anything I don’t already know. You see, I worked as a sex-ed instructor for three summers and I have done a good bit of everything too.” His lips sneered in disdain. “Sex? Sex is for those of no refinement. We will possess each other. Have you done a good bit of thattoo?”

She had to shake her head in honesty. Possess each other? He did speak just like Rorik.

He was now just in front of her. “Disrobe for me, my vixenish wench. Astound me with the spectacle of your mammary convexity, and arouse me with the voluptuous concavity of your womanhood.”

Maya almost scratched her head, puzzling over his words. They were even more arcane than the language in the romances. If she had not been reading Gran-gran’s books, she wouldn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about. “Oh, you mean you want to see my T&A?”

Again he frowned in distaste and mumbled something about the atrocious human tendency to shorten everything. Not bothering to give an affirmation, he simply passed his enormous hands nimbly over the force field snaps on her space cadet uniform. Maya had a momentary regret that in this advanced day and age, there were no more primitive textiles for impatient males to rend. Her uniform fell apart without a sound, and she stood as naked as the day she was born in front of a complete stranger who had leapt off a cover of romance book.

As she watched, mesmerized by something beyond her control, he passed his callused fingers over her skin, over her chest, and slinked beneath one breast to test its weight. “Such rondure, such sphericality.” He murmured.

Such geometrical terms. She supposed he approved.

Breathlessly, she waited, biting her lip, as his hand slid lower, lower, past her belly, to linger between her legs.

“The vale of pleasure, the dell of delight, nature’s most wondrous hollow, galaxy’s greatest grotto.” He pronounced.

She should laugh, really. She should fall to the floor, convulse and howl. All that elaborate metaphor for a simple vagina, for a few inches of narrow space from labia to uterus? But for some reason she did not feel the desire to laugh. His eyes held her, they compelled her, they etched those seemingly ridiculous words on her brain, until she accepted them without question.

“Let me see the instrument of your spermary delivery.” She heard herself say.

He smiled for the first time. “Not bad, Candidate.”

Then he showed her what he had in his trousers. By all the kilometers from Pluto to Earth, it matched his size inch for inch and pound for pound.

She gasped. She nearly fainted. “All that potent Herculean brawny length for my dainty, minuscule recess?”

Her reaction, or perhaps her words, pleased him. He grew even more.

He unstrapped her from the commander’s seat, and they floated, literally. “I will assault you with my lips.” He promised velvetily. “I will consume you marble smooth skin, I will worship your twin mounds that are as high and proud as Mt. Olympus, I will sample your coral-pink aureoles as if they dispensed ambrosia and nectar, I will circumnavigate your portals to heaven and enter your paradise.”

She couldn’t get enough of his eloquent verbosity and his passionate euphemisms. “Oh, do possess me, my demigod, drown me in the flood of your fervent words.”

They clawed at each other – not as easy a task as might be supposed, since without the force of gravity, they were in constant danger of spinning apart. Until finally, he had her against the glass wall, and by some secret mechanism she was never to learn, anchored himself to the wall, and sank the solid pillar of his raging lust deep into the deluged softness of her silken dale. “Occupy me!” She cried. “Intrude, invade, trespass, overrun me! Pummel me with your thick staff, shred my soul to pieces with your lovemaking!”

“I will do precisely that.” He seemed to have no problem talking. “I will flood you with my essence and you will be Changed forever!”

One last audacious upward plunge, and Maya went over the edge.

She passed out.

The huge Norseman disentangled himself from her. He waited until his physical form dissipated. Then he passed through the titanium-reinforced window and resumed his free-fall along the space-time curvature towards Earth.

He knew his luck wouldn’t always hold thus. Nothing but hard work awaited him ahead. But his gratification was immense. He had Changed someone personally just now. That was a task he hadn’t performed in years. Now he knew he still had what it took.

Furthermore, the former Candidate, presently a new Agent of Change, would be effective as soon as she set out to work. Earthlings who spends more than one cumulative hour in conversation with her would have their speech pattern modified for a year. If they made love to anyone, the recipient of their amorous affection would undergo a similar alteration. If she made love to anyone from now on, that person would be Changed forever, just like she was.

Every one of his energy nodules quivered in satisfaction of a job well-done. He looked ahead and allowed himself to fantasize about a whole new planet of people speaking, writing, and communicating in the exquisitely longwinded fashion of the Official Speech Pattern.

Maya awoke slowly. She wasn’t sure what had come over her, but there she was, sprawled naked as a jay bird, floating in the transparent hull of the Steadfast like an exhibitionist. Thank goodness there were no other eyes for millions of kilometers and the supply ship that would take her back to Earth wouldn’t arrive for a month.

She saw the book she had been reading. Those romance novels. Was that what they did to an addict? Something triggered in the bank of her mind, she tried to latch onto that fleeting bit of memory but it evaded her and disappeared. Oh, well, nothing bad happened to her. In fact, she was feeling better than ever.

She felt ready to Change the world.

The End

Purple Prose as written by Oliver Klosov, who says, “its only goal is to be turgid”:

Loveshine

Brick’s lush curls, evidence of his high testosterone levels, caught the golden light of the square, slightly convex sunroof set about six feet over their heads in the attic room and softly, like the halo of a Renaissance angel, one of the androgynous to masculine ones of course, or perhaps a warm pat of butter at the table served at a wedding brunch, gleamed yellowly, begging the touch of Bellissississimma’s perfectly manicured, muscular from her previous career as a wild animal trainer, yet elegant hand. But the thought of a pat of butter had reminded her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and she decided to go and hunt up some really hot sausage and boiled eggs to be sandwiched between cold toast.

Purple Prose as written by Oliver Klosov:

Floorswept “I will have you now, Lunaria!” Mambo growled, laying her perfectly rounded body on the dusty floor of the lonely barn. Soon it would be lonely no more, filled with love like that which his parent had felt when they had conceived him in the hayloft above thirty-four years ago.

“I see a dust bunny,” Lunaria said fretfully, blinking her large purple eyes. “But I don’t care! Ravish me, my lusty farmer!” She arched her back, her lush bosom straining at the front of her chic Guess overalls, which she had purchased to impress him on a secret outing with Mambo’s good-natured sister Samba and even more good-natured birdlike and perky Aunt Tango. They had been thrilled with her tour of the designer shops, and she had been warmed deep inside by their easy, lower-class acceptance of her regardless of her fashion-model looks and lack of personality. Their friendship had done much towards her realization of her true and abiding love for Mambo Dirtboy.

Lunaria came out of her musings and realized she was now completely naked and had a splinter in her butt. Mambo looked so studly, however, that she forebore to comment, contenting herself with stroking his molded and mildewed biceps.

“Yes!” Mambo panted. “You are an internationally known supermodel, but I, I am a farmer! And to prove it, we will couple like beasts!” Flipping her over with effortless strength, his mighty oak tree penetrated her warm, wet evening purse. “Moo!” he groaned.

Because she loved him, Lunaria said, “Moo!” until they reached glorious completion.

The end

Purple Prose as written by At the Back Fence co-columnist Robin Nixon Uncapher, who poses the following question: Ever imagine what a mail order story would be like if the bride were the customer?

Mail Order Groom

Jebadiah looked down at his hands and tried to ignore the slight tremble. “Miz Mae,” he said, “I is your new husband, come all the way from St. Louie.” He handed her his treasured copy of the newspaper advertisement. “I know I don’t seem like much, but I am strong and will’n to work hard.”

Mae folded her arms over he worn blue calico dress, “I reckon you’ll do,” she grunted. “You is the only one showed up. We’ll say our vows right here. She handed him a prayer book and they said the words.

When they were done, Mae said, “You go milk the cows, fill the woodbox, rake the yard and curry the horses.” She turned away and began to walk into the battered farm house.

“Yes’um. . . Ma’am?”

She turned. He saw that she was a tall woman, not pretty but handsome in a rugged sort of way. Somehow the sight of her frightened him. “What?”

“Ma’am we ain’t talked about the marriage. I mean, well, this is embarrass’in to ask but is this to be a “marriage in name only?’

“What in thunderation is a ‘marriage in name only?’

“Well Ma’am I read about it in a book. Its kinda a marriage where the husband and wife – well they live together like brother and sister.”

For the first time a smile passed her lips. “No Jebadiah, I didn’t pay twelve dollars and eighty-seven cents to buy me a brother.”

A thrill went up his spine. What could she mean?

“Jebediah, go do your chores. I’ve got to go work on my quilt.”

Jebadiah milked the cows, filled the woodbox, raked the yard and curried the horses. When he came in Mae gave him some beans and corn mean mush. “Don’t expect this kind of eat’en every night Jebadiah,” said Mae. This here is your weddin supper.

They ate in silence. Finally Jebediah asked. “You been married afore Miz Mae?”

Mae nodded, “Yep. I guess I’m what you’d call a tortured woman. Hector and I was married for a year before he died in the buffalo stampeed. It was my fault. I’ll always love Hector. I’ll never love you. Now you run along to bed and git read fore the wedd’in night.”

Jebediah went into the bedroom. There was only one bed! Where would Mae sleep? Behind him he heard Mae grunt. “Shy, huh? Well, Jebediah you is my husband now and I have needs. That why I spent the twelve-eight-seven.”

Jebadiah was silent. He walked to the window and looked out. Mae came up behind him. “Its okay, Jebediah. You a virgin?”

He nodded. Mae grunted, “Nothin to it. Git in the bed.” Jebediah blanched.

“Oh, okay I’ll go in the other room so you can git ready.”

Jebidiah got out of his cloths and into his nightshirt, hopped under the quilt and pulled it to his neck.

Mae came into the room. Jebediah watched with amazement as she pulled off her clothes. She was so big, so tall. The sight of her beautiful body made him feel peculiar. He averted his eyes.

His heart was beating fast as she raised the quilt and exposed his lower parts. “Lordy, Jebadiah you is built like a good husband. Too bad I can only love Hector and never love you.”

Before he knew what she was about she had mounted him. She was like a furnace and her breathing came fast. He held tightly to her, frightened at the new feelings. Something in him was building. Something was going to happen! Suddenly Mae reared up, arching her back and crying out.

With a sigh she rolled off him and gave him a light kiss on his curls. Jebadiah stared at her. He was hard as a rock, trembling with excitement.

“Jebediah, you’d best git some sleep. Milkin time comes early.” She rolled over and soon he heard her rhythmic snores.

Jebediah rolled and considered his swollen manhood. No doubt about it. He was in love.

Purple Prose as written by AAR Managing Editor Blythe Barnhill:

Shelby’s trip back in time had not happened by chance. She had long been obsessed with eighteenth century Scotland, ever since she read Outlander. Somewhere there had to be a hot-blooded Scotsman just waiting for her. So she started in the obvious places – Stonehenge on Midsummer’s Eve, quirky antique shops with mysterious rings and hatpins. To her great surprise, she discovered that her portal to the past was her grandmother’s macramé owl; one twist of its beaded eye and she was zapped back to 1743.

She was well-prepared and dressed appropriately in period clothing. And she saw him almost immediately. He was tall, red-haired, and kilted, and she knew it was love.

“Are ye lost then, lassie?”

The thrill of being called a “lassie” almost undid her right there. Shelby gulped and approached him. To overcome with emotion to speak, she kissed his chiseled lips.

“Aye, lassie,” he groaned. “I reckon you are found now.” He reached for her long ebony hair and plundered her lips. Their tongues mated enthusiastically, and his sporran brushed against her thighs with blatant eroticism.

“What’s your name?,” she gasped when she came up for air.

“Tavish McAvoy,” he answered as his mammoth hand reached for her downy breast. “I ken we’ve met before…once upon a dream, perhaps?” Tavish reached for her bodice, which Shelby promptly opened to allow him greater access. He nuzzled her scarlet nipples, and Shelby’s limbs grew heavy with desire.

“Tavish,” she murmured, drinking him all in. What could be more perfect? He was part Jamie Fraser look-alike, and part Disney character. She found his flat, male nipples and returned his bold caresses.

“That’s it, lassie,” Tavish groaned. “Ye’re so bonny.” He laid his plaid down and settled her between his tree-trunk-like thighs. The coarse wool of the McAvoy plaid chafed at Shelby’s legs, sending little frissons of pleasure and anticipation straight to her womanly core.

“Enough with the preliminaries, Kilt Man. Show me your broadsword!” Giggling nervously at her own boldness, she reached for the most blatantly masculine part of him.

“Have ye been wonderin’ what’s under me kilt, then, lassie?” Tavish leered suggestively and bared himself.

Shelby stared in awe.

He was so big.

He was so masculine.

He was so wonderfully different from her feminine self. His body seemed to be composed of hard planes and angles, sculpted like fine marble. Shelby tenderly petted his turgid masculinity, which, like most turgid masculinities, felt like steel encased in satin.

“Och, lass! You – er, ye’ll unman me then!” Rather than risk that indignity, Tavish deftly positioned himself at the portal of her womanhood, and entered her in one smooth, bold, savage, orgasm-inducing stroke. His seed burst forth in an intrepid splash.

“That was great, baby,” Tavish said as he continued to kiss her desire-swollen lips.

“Oh, Tavish,” she sighed. “Your masculinity is so bold and turgid.”

“I know. I mean, I ken.”

“And your plaid is so Scottish!”

“It is that, isn’t is lassie?” He winked suggestively, and his red hair shimmered in the sunlight.

“And your accent is so….”

“Aye, lassie?”

“Fake!” Shelby shouted. “Just who the hell are you?”

“I told you! I mean ye! I told ye! Oh aye, lassie, I’m Tavish Mc–Ow!”

Shelby whacked him in the shoulder with his discarded sporran. “Oh, give it up, you phony!”

“Okay, okay! I’m really Ted Grubowski, and I’m from the year 2000 like y–Ow! Would you leave off with the sporran already? It’s not the author’s fault that my accent’s so bad. She’s never been to Scotland; she just read Outlander and rented a couple of Mike Meyers movies. She really wants to write contemporaries but her agent told her that Scottish historicals are the only thing readers are buying right now.”

“Do you think I care?” Shelby threw the sporran at his face and kicked his kilt in irritation. “You ruined my fantasy, you jerk! Just take your kilt and your broadsword and your stupid sporran and go home. You’re nothing but a charlatan, an idiotic, artificial–”

“I’m a navy SEAL,” Ted said hopefully.

“You’re a sham,” Shelby continued. “A fake, imitation, pho–did you say Navy SEAL?”

Purple Prose as written by Chris Nistler as an homage to her favorite romance author, Virginia Henley, although Dream Lover is not her favorite Henley

Cream Lover

As Geneveive glared at the man with the hard pewter eyes who dared to lay hands upon her person, she became aware of a supreme rage welling up inside from the core of her soul and she slapped him with all her might. “How dare you accost me Royce!, I’ve told you a hundred times, it is over between us. I beg you to forget me, please leave me alone.” Royce gave off a low, deep growl as he pulled her roughly up against his chest then ran his hands down the contours of her hips to grip her buttocks and grind his groin into her soft, supple womanliness. “I don’t know why I bother with you Geneveive, you have brought me nothing but misery.”

Geneveive became alarmed as she realized the consequences of their close proximity. She felt Royce lengthen and grow through her burgundy evening gown and the heat emanating through it made her feel faint. Geneveive gasped as Royce groaned her name and buried his face in her heaving bosom anointing her full, firm mounds with his lips and tongue. He stole her senses with his raw uncontained lust. All she could see, feel and smell was Royce, he was all male musk and brandy. She forced herself out of her stupor, gathered her wits about her, and pushed him away with all her might. He stood as if in a trance, eyes black with passion, his breathing heavy and his fists clenched. She could feel his caged fury, and was more frightened than ever before.

Geneveive took that as her queue to leave. She turned toward the entrance of the chateau and started to flee, the next thing she knew, she was being swept up into strong muscular arms. Royce was all male dominance as he strode with cruel determination toward the velvet covered staircase. “Royce NO!” Geneveive screamed. as she beat at him like a hellcat with her small fists. She may as well have been beating on a rock wall. Royce did not even flinch, he just continued up the staircase and down the long corridor toward the west wing of the manor. “Royce please! What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

He stopped in front of a large wooden door and kicked it open. He stepped across the threshold, turned and threw the bolt into place. “Let it be Gen. You are mine. Your heart is mine. Your soul is mine and soon your body will be mine. “Royce, No! Pleeeeease.” He looked down into her pleading emerald eyes. “Gen, this is meant to be. You know it and I know it. I’m taking what I want Geneveive, I’ve wanted to take you from the first moment I set eyes upon your beautiful body, now I’m going to make it happen.” He set her from him and she ran across the bedchamber. He proceeded to undo the buttons of his white dress shirt one by one all the while stalking her like prey.

She let out a sob as she bolted past him toward the door. Royce reached Geneveive at the same moment she reached the door. His hands slammed against it on either side of her shoulders. She turned and tried to strike him, he grabbed hold of her wrists and forced them above her head against the door. He buried his lips against the column of her throat to drink in her taste and scent. She smelled of wild jasmine and his senses were reeling as his arms and heart were filled with the irresistible woman inside them. “My God, Geneveive, how I’ve dreamed of this moment. How I’ve starved for the taste of you.”

Geneveive struggled against him. “Royce, Stop!” she shouted, feeling a blistering fever bloom within her as the blaze from the fire in the hearth made heat leap from her already flushed skin. She started to panic and when he loosened one of her wrists, she broke her arm free of his hold and raked her nails down the side of his face. The rage she saw rising to his eyes set her to trembling. Royce swept Geneveive’s feet out from beneath her and her glorious chestnut locks came loose from her chignon and tumbled down to her waist in tousled disarray. He lifted her high in his arms and walked purposely toward the huge mahogany bed that dominated the chamber. He grazed her ear with his teeth and whispered, “your going to regret that Gen, I’m going to make you beg me to take you and then make you beg me for mercy.”

When he reached the bed, he flung her down upon it leaving her momentarily stunned. He then sat down on the edge and removed his hessian boots and tight skin colored breeches. Geneveive gasped as she realized what was happening and started to scramble off of the bed. As she reached the edge, her eyes came in contact with his rampant male appendage. She looked up in stark terror. “Don’t you dare to touch me” she said. “Oh, I’m going to do more than touch you Geneveive.” Royce replied. He grabbed her as she jumped off the bed and she sank her teeth into his forearm breaking the skin and drawing blood. He grit his teeth as the pain penetrated his senses.

Geneveive saw the compressed rage in Royce’s features and turned to flee. Royce wrapped his arm around her waist and spun her around. He threaded his hands through her hair and as he brought his head down to claim her mouth, thunder rumbled and lightning crackled as a fierce storm raged outside. A protest died as he whispered against her lips, “I want you Gen. I want you with a burning passion that consumes me. I want your long legs wrapped around me and I want to bury myself inside of your silken sheath until I touch your soul. I’m going to brand you as my woman. I would kill for your love.”

Geneveive was scandalized and at the same time mesmerized by his bawdy comments. “Royce please, I don’t trust myself with you” she told him. “Take your clothes off Gen”. “NO!” She backed away from him and he advanced on her. “You want me Geneveive, as much as I want you. I can feel it germinating within you”. “That’s a lie,” she screamed. “Take off your clothes Geneveive, I want to drown myself in you.” “No,” she whispered and reached for the door. In one swift motion, his hands flew to her bodice and he tore her gown and shift from the neckline down to her Venus mound. Her lush breasts burst out of their confinement and Royce’s heart and breath stopped as her coral peaks instantly puckered due to their combined sexual energy.

He looked his fill before he reached out to touch her. “Royce,” she breathed as one hand closed over her breast and began to knead it while the other snaked up her back to the nape of her neck. His mouth came down hard on hers. His tongue mated with her own and they moaned into each others mouths, her shredded gown slithered over her creamy bottom and down her slim thighs to puddle at her feet on the floor. Geneveive wrapped her arms round Royce’s neck as he sucked on her tongue drawing it further into the dark cavern of his mouth. Geneveive bit Royce’s bottom lip and then licked the pain away. She then sucked it and kissed it tenderly. He grabbed her buttocks then squeezed and massaged them. He pulled her hard against his fully engorged manhood, his need for her engulfing him and spinning him out of control. He then wrenched himself away from her, took her hands in his and placed them on his well defined chest. “Touch me Geneveive. I want to feel your hands on me as they burn my flesh”.

She moved her hands up to caress his chiseled face. He was all harsh planes and angles with aquiline features. He dripped male arrogance and she secretly worshiped him as one would a sculpted Greek God. Geneveive ran her hands through Royce’s silky blue-black hair. She then ran her hands down and over the bulging muscles of his chest kissing and nipping his body in several sensitized areas as she went. She moved behind him to trace the line of his back with her hands and lips. She grew bold cupping his tight buttocks, then ran her hands around his hips. His swift intake of breath told her of his intense longing. Royce then drew her hand down to his rigid phallus. He closed her hand around his hot steel length and said, “See what you’ve done to me Gen?, I’m so hard I’m going to shatter with this torment. I burn for you Gen, like a raging fire out of control”.

The storm raged outside as he led her out onto the balcony terrace. Rain poured down on them and their skin sizzled at the contact. Geneveive tipped her heart shaped face up and met his smoky eyes. Royce smiled down at her thinking her a magical fairy or a wood sprite with her slim upturned nose and stubborn chin framed by her dripping midnight tresses. He bent his head to take possession of her mouth and he kissed, nipped and licked her to oblivion. He crushed her breasts in each of his big hands. He squeezed and massaged them until she whimpered. He rolled her nipples between his thumb and finger and then pinched them cruelly. Geneveive cried out with pleasure pain as Royce dragged his mouth from hers to lave each of them with his tongue. He then took one of them into his mouth and sucked her greedily drawing hard upon one and then the other. The pouring rain dripped off of their bodies and Geneveive could feel an over abundance of silky wetness between the folds of her woman’s center.

Royce reached down to cup her, then run a finger along the crease of her scalding heat. “Royce please!” He pushed one finger up inside her then two, tormenting the bud of her womanhood in between motions. Geneveive was squirming now and she pulled his mouth to hers to drink his lips, her eyes heavy lidded and dark with her consuming desire. “Royce please I….”, “say it Gen”. “Royce I burn with a longing to have you inside me. Please Royce!” “Not yet Gen”. He silenced her protest with a torrid kiss of twining tongues until her lips felt bee stung and bruised. He then dropped to his knees, and took her foot into his hands. He worshiped her leg with his sensual lips and tongue from the arch of her foot, over the curve of her calf and up her creamy thigh. He placed her leg over his shoulder and looked up at her, his eyes consumed with raging passion. “I’m going to love you with my mouth and tongue Geneveive.”

Royce’s ribald words shocked her speechless. He separated her woman folds and ran his tongue up her center. He pushed it into her again and again and licked her senseless. “Royce, Royce” she moaned with exquisite pleasure as her hands gripped his head and held him to her. “Gen, you taste of tangy wild honey, I can’t get enough.” He licked and sucked her until she was mindless and she spiraled into sweet frenzied bliss. “Im going to give you what you want now Gen.” She pulled him to her and said, “Royce wait, I want to taste you. I want to give you the same erotic rapture. Let me take you into my mouth.” He held her in his powerful embrace and said, “No Geneveive, you will unman me. Later I will teach you all the carnal delights to be experienced between us. Right now all I want to do is bury my shaft deep in your honeyed depths. He then lifted her against him and said, “spread your legs wide and wrap them about me Gen.” She eagerly complied and whispered hotly into his ear. “Yes Royce, take me now please! Make me your woman. I want to belong to you body and soul.”

Her words inflamed him and he thrust boldly into her tight passage sinking in as far as he could go, her groan of ecstasy exciting him to a fever pitch. He was wound so tightly he felt like a bowstring and realized he could not wait long enough to walk inside to the bed. He backed her up against the mellowed pink brick and protecting her back with his arms and hands he began to drive his entire length into her again and again. Her head fell back to give his mouth access to her neck and throat, and she plunged her body down to meet his savage rhythmic thrusts, raking her nails along his shoulder blades and screaming her pleasure with complete and total abandon. He felt the muscles of her womanhood squeeze and tighten around him and he contain himself no longer. He felt her shudder and at that moment he filled her to overflowing with his hot love juice.

Geneveive slumped against him and began to tremble violently, tears flowing rivers down her stunning face. Royce became alarmed and he cradled her against his heart. “What’s wrong Gen? Your tearing me to pieces. Please don’t say you didn’t want this.” Geneveive looked up at him and caressed his rugged face. She kissed his lips sensually and replied “No Royce, I’ve wanted you forever and now your mine. I am overwhelmed with wanting. I need to be close to you.” She ran her hands up his back and bit his mouth. “Convince me that I’m yours.”

He picked her up and held her like a precious treasure carrying her to the bed. He placed her gently down upon it and covered her body with his own stroking and touching her everywhere. “My God Geneveive, I’ve lost myself in you.” He kissed and licked and grazed her breasts with his teeth, rubbing them and lavishing them with his tongue. He groaned deep in his throat as he sucked hungrily upon her. “Turn over and lay on your stomach Gen.” She rolled over to do his bidding and he proceeded to worship the nape of her neck sucking and biting as he went. He moved down the line of her graceful back and turned his attention to her buttocks, “You have the most tempting little derriere Gen.” and he rubbed and molded her twin moons in his hands.

“Mmmmmmm, Royce, don’t make me beg.” He placed his hands between her knees and spread her legs wide, then she felt the tip of his love shaft position itself at the entrance of her sweet, wet cavern to take her from behind. “God help me Gen, I can’t fight this raging desire,” and then he plunged violently into her. Her hands gripped and twisted the sheets and she moaned and whimpered his name. He twined his fingers with hers and continued to ram himself into her over and over going deeper each time. “Royce, pleeeeease!” she whimpered wantonly.

He stopped and gathered her in his arms. “All right Gen, You control it.” He lifted her and placed her atop him and said “Ride me.” with ragged breath. She stared at the pulsating length of his piercing desire. He held the sides of her face and said “Look at me Gen, I want to see your eyes fill with hot passion.” She then impaled herself upon him and began to move in blissful rhythm, their eyes never leaving each other. She drove herself down onto him and whispered, “deeper Royce, please.” He complied instantly unbridled and unrestrained until both of them burst in a scalding frenzy of satisfaction. Royce pulled Geneveive down to him leaving his masculinity buried inside her and folded her in his firm embrace. “That’s what I get for asking you to convince me” she said. She then tumbled into a sweet euphoric sleep a fully satisfied and branded woman. His Woman.

Purple Prose as written by Christine Peterson, who thanks the other participants for their inspiration.

(See if you can catch the deliberate errors many copy editors seem to miss):

Laney’s sensible shoes had never trod upon flawless Grecian marble before, and she felt intimidated and insignificant standing in front of the immense lacquered doors, painted a shade of red that brought to mind the lips of a 1940’s starlet. Her porcelain cheeks glowed a modest pink, as she tried to avoid staring at the exquisitely crafted bronze statues of bear breasted women that stood at both sides of the doorway.

With a determined look in her lagoon blue eyes, she extended her finger in a businesslike fashion to ring the doorbell. As she pressed the button lascivious female cries of “Yes! Yes! Yes” rang out into the still sultry afternoon air.

My goodness. Laney thought a trembling hand held to her pounding heart was that the doorbell? She had never heard anything like it in her life.

The door swung open and a unspeakably sexy man god appeared. Laney lowered her lush yet unmascaraed lashes in mortification at the awesome spectacle of his bare chest. It was a tanned brawny plain covered with majestic fields of golden hair, her fingers unaccustomed to male geography longed to explore the terrain. On his torso, plain denim cutoffs achieved greatness. Mustering all the pride her sainted penniless virtuous mother had instilled in her Laney spoke “I’m here to see Mr. Brute Masculaine.”

He looked her over. Laney knew as his eyes slid over her body she would never be the same. She felt her purity being stripped away as his bold intrusive gaze zeroed in on her breasts, protected by a wool jacket, starched blouse and sturdy bra. “Are you the stripper?” he asked.

“Certainly not!” she said her face turning a righteous shade of purple. “I’m from the IRS. I’m here for the audit.”

“What’s a tasty cream filled snack cake like you doing working for the IRS?” he asked, a dangerous leer lighting up his perfect craggy features “Should we start with my briefs? Not that I wear any.” How dare he! She thought with the indignation entitled to anyone who graduated third in her class at Harvard. She raised a trembling hand to slap him and he caught it a devilish gleam in his eye. “File this, Hot Stuff” he growled as he brusquely pulled her in until she collided with his chest and kissed her. His roguish tongue spelunking in the uncharted cavern of her mouth. She wanted to stop him, had to stop him but her body was limp as overcooked linguine.

How they made it into the house she would never know but she found herself on her back on a leopard print velour sofa. Her jacket was history, her pantyhose were tangled around her ankles and Brute was systematically biting the buttons of her blouse.

What was happening to her? She was not a harlot, a hussy , a woman of questionable morals. But this man made her feel like a sleazy, hot blooded whore with no dental plan.

“Oh Brute” she sighed as he cracked the code to release her bra clasp. His feel of his leathery hands on her lush ivory breasts was too much. She grabbed for his pants, and ripped the fly open, unleashing the awe inspiring spear of skin inside. With one hand he tore off her panties and sent them sailing into the fireplace.

His initial entry she felt a brief insignificant stab of pain, much like an inoculation. It was quickly doused by the wave upon wave of unbearable, immeasurable otherworldly pleasure. In mere seconds she was reaching a glorious, Everest like peak “Yes!” she shouted “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

He stopped and asked breathlessly “Was that you, or is someone at the door?”

Purple Prose as written by Shirley U. Gueste:

A Twist to the Tryst at the Twisted Trellis
or
Prelude to Mr. Right
Haywood lounged insolently, indifferently, and diffidently against the polished marble mantel of the fireplace, wondering why he agreed to the tedium of yet another social gathering of the ton. He’d had enough of their boring gossipy chatter and was contemplating leaving when he saw the beauteous blonde with the buxom bosoms, intermittently nibbling a raspberry tart and chatting with his jackass of a cousin, Duke Richard Kranium.

“That dastardly bastard,” Haywood muttered to the mantel.

He eyed Miss Buxom’s bazooms. They turned, as well as she, in his direction just as his head yearned in her direction. They caught each other staring. Their eyes locked. It was painful.

His breeches tightened, his sensual arsenal swelled, making his turgidity total. He tried to tamp down his growing arousal, but applying his own hand to the front of his shrinking breeches aroused him and threatened to cause a munitions explosion. “Damn whatever this short little military coat I’m wearing are called,” he muttered as he wondered how to go about hiding the burgeoning tumescence in his breeches.

His batsman, Corporal Roddie Kleaver, would have admired the fit of his dress uniform this night. And Roddie, despite his low rank, was a high stickler. He both envied and admired the fact that Haywood was hung like the proverbial stallion. Haywood, however, worried that those who were unaware of his natural giftedness would gossip if they were to perchance notice the aroused condition of his manhood. He did not want to be the subject or object of unmerciful curiosity among the gossips of the idle rich. Jealous men would accuse him of being a vainglorious jackanape trying to enhance his pitiful masculinity by stuffing wads of socks down his pantaloons in an attempt to attract the ladies. The curiously loose languishing ladies of the ton would try to accost him to discover for themselves the validity of his virility.

Now was not the time to be upfront about his endowments Haywood decided, tucking his dress gloves neatly into the front of his waistband and folding them over his troublesome shaft. Confident that smoothing the gloves over the front of his breeches indeed disguised his condition, his eyes sought her out again.

He felt like an unsheathed sword as he followed her and her breasts with his eyes. He watched as the woman broke away from his gaze and said something to Richard. Then they both turned as one toward Haywood, the woman taking one last bite of her tart and disposing of the empty plate on the tray of a passing servant. Slowly, Richard and the woman, her hips undulating in rhythm with her bounteous mounds, began to walk towards him.

Haywood couldn’t keep his eyes off her abundant, round, creamy globes. They were coming in his direction. His manhood was fully erect, just looking at them. Even from a distance she felt it.

“And who is this attractive soldier who dares think to come at your soiree, Richard?” the woman asked his cousin once they were within hearing distance.

“No one you need know,” Richard sneered.

“Oh, Richard, how arrogantly rude,” she said hiding her embarrassment over his impolitic uncouthness behind a flirtatious laugh.

“That’s why we call him Dick,” Haywood replied.

She laughed in response, fussing with the tatted lace shawl grazing the tops of her tits. Her laugh rippled over Haywood and drew his attention once again to her creamy mounds, which he now noticed were lightly dusted with sugar and small delicate flakes of pastry from the tart she had just consumed. He’d like to consume her … And perhaps have her consume him with the same rapt attention she’d just given the tart

Her musical chortling choked him because it caused her voluptuous breasts to ripple provocatively. His eyes strayed to her twittering tits then strayed to her deep cleavage where they rested on a small dollop of raspberry jam. He vowed to that before the night was through he’d bury his tongue in her cleavage and lap at the tart’s jam.

Haywood took her proferred fingers in his palm. As he raised her hand to his lips, the woman curled her fingers around his digital members and squeezed them. He bent his head and kissed three buffed tips with curling lips, then paused to look at her with hooded eyes. “Haywood Jablowmi,” he whispered in a voice like whiskey soaked satin.

“We’ve just barely met,” she repeated softly. Her voice tightened him, like a velvet ribbon wrapping around the soft spheres of his gender, shrinking his breeches even more as he imagined the two of them barely meeting in one of the twisted trysting trellises scattered around his cousin’s estate.

“Dick?” he queried.

“Sure,” she replied coquettishly.

“No, I mean my cousin here, Duke Dick.”

“Oh, ” she demurred, embarrassed at her eager agreement to submit to his plundering perusal.

“Dick, why don’t you leave?”

“Am I being given the cut direct at my own soiree?” Dick retorted, unsightly malice dripping from his lips.

“Yes, Dick, I think so,” she said dismissing him with a fluttering hand.

“Wilhe Maakme…” Dick spluttered angrily, his distress over his loss for words apparent. .

Haywood, thinking Dick had questioned his manhood, his ability to assert his will, wanted to throw down his gauntlet, or at least slap his glove across Dick’s face in challenge. The problem was that his arousal had caused his breeches to tighten to such an extent it impossible to free the necessary glove. He rued tucking them into his tightening waistband to hide his standing member. He struggled with the glove and bit off a curse. He struggled some more and bit off a string of curses. He struggled again and practically bit off his tongue. Despite his curses, the cursed things would not spring free of his breeches.

The cause of Haywood’s difficulty did not escape Wilhe’s notice. What a truly amazing sight to her not quite innocent eyes to see a man struggle so with tightening breeches.

“This time it is you who has misunderstood. Dick is redressing me. Wilhe’s my nickname. I’m Wilhemina Maakeme.” She stayed his struggling hand with her own in an effort to keep Haywood from slapping dick in public and ruining the evening entirely.

At her movements, Dick turned on an angry red heel and left..

Haywood left his gloves where they were, fanned across the front of his pants like an angry cock’s ruffled comb, like some retro-fashion codpiece that wasn’t quite all the rage.

“Well, Wilhe Maakme, I’m a bit stiff. I was considering a walk about the gardens. Care to join me?”

“An injury from the Peninsular War?” she queried querulously.

“Sure, right. It’s a persistent condition, but a tryst… er twist…er turn in the garden should alleviate matters.”

“That sounds lovely.”

As Wilhe Maakeme allowed Haywood Jablowmi to lead her through the throng of ton to the garden terrace, she felt a moment’s hesitation. Parrying a strange man in a public ballroom was an innocent undertaking, accompanying him to a secluded garden would be a public confirmation of her reputed reputation. Unsure, her footsteps faltered but Haywood’s hand tightened and his eyes again were on her.

“Something wrong, my lady?” he asked in a voice as dark as the night beyond and as sensual as the fragrant flowers scenting the air with the promise of nature’s passion. The lady at his side was filling his senses, and making his troublesome trousers fill as well.

“No, my lord,” she stammered, then hesitated. “It is my lord, is it not?”

A slow, purely masculine grin curved his chiseled lips. “That it is, although I’ve gone by the title Major for these last few years.”

Wilhe blinked in surprise. No wonder the man appeared both fit and feral. He must have only recently returned from the Peninsular War. “You’re a soldier, sir?”

“Yes, as of tomorrow when I resign my commission. Then I am merely a veteran.”

Her uncertainty about him seeped away as she gazed at this magnificent specimen of British manhood, Wilhe smiled. “A veteran of many battles, I’d wager.”

His cocky grin grew, along with his cock. “A gentleman never brags, but I have enjoyed more than one skirmish.”

“Enjoyed, sir? And what of your – uh – opponents? Did they also enjoy?”

“I ‘m certain a few found adequate – uh – fulfillment.”

“I see, sir,” Wilhe replied. And she did see quite clearly just how magnificent the Major’s major weapon was.

“Please, my dear, do not call me ‘sir.’ That is reserved for those who serve under my command.”

Warmth heated the cheeks of Wilhe’s face as well as those of her nether regions. The idea of serving beneath him was not altogether displeasing. “What am I to call you then?”

“You must call me what my comrades do,” he suggested.

“Major?”

“I would that you call me by my given nickname – Woody.”

An unbidden giggle rose from Wilhe’s throat as her gaze moved to his fully erect member. “A Major Woody?” she wondered aloud, the pouting of her lips betraying her pondering, the heaving of her ponderous, petulant, pendulous breasts betraying her pouting nipples.

He chuckled again. “I would that you be the judge of that, my lady.”

Before Wilhe knew what he was about, the Major drew her small, soft hand against his arousal straining beneath the gloves he had foolishly thought would hide his penile thoughts. Some sound escaped her, then her fingers spread over the heated hardness with a possessiveness previously known to her on occasion.

“It seems as if I, who have led men into battle and commanded their movements, am now at your command. ‘

In that moment Wilhe knew her feminine power, and hoped he had command over himself. She had a firm grasp on the situation and could lead this man around by his manhood, which was at full attention.

“If I am to call you Woody, then you must call me what my many friends call me.”

“Which is?” he inquired inquisitively.

“Lucky,” she said with feigned shyness.

As in getting lucky? Woody mused to himself. So preoccupied with his effort to appear as if he were not descending from the terrace to the garden sporting a major woody, the major was inattentive to Wilhe’s continuing commentary on the gardens. He caught only the tail end of her rambling social intercourse.

“It is enchanting, like the garden of Eden without the fruit.”

“Oh, to my eyes there is an abundance of fruit ripe for the picking here.”

“Why I’ve missed the fruit entirely. Where is it?” she said, turning her head to see what fruits he’d seen. “Show me, please.”

“I will show you where the plucking of abundant fruit is routinely done,” he said, grasping her hand and hurrying her into a nearby twisted trellis for a tryst.

“I see no fruit here,” Wilhe whined.

“Oh, but it’s here,” he said, running the pads of the fingers of both hands across the exposed upper echelons of her plump breasts. “Here,” he repeated again in a husky whisper, “are some ripe succulent melons begging for the touch of my mouth, the kiss of my lips, the scrape of my teeth, the gliding swirl of my tongue.”

“Oh, honey, do,” she sighed breathlessly.

“I was thinking more along the lines of cantaloupe,” he muttered absently, brushing his lips across the heady tops of her melons.

Her breasts blushed and beckoned him to further his explorations. He complied. Brushing aside the tatted lace from her tits, he commenced to licking at the dollop of raspberry jam, burying his nose and chin in the crevice of her cleavage.

“Raspberry,” she heard a muffled masculine voice mumble.

Gasping for air he emerged from between her breasts and spied another dollop dangerously close to the edge of her gauzy bodice and decided to lick his way toward it. He placed his open mouth against the fragrantly flagrant flesh of her begging bosom, licking away the sweet confection dusting her quivering mounds, dispatching the errant flakes of pastry that clung lovingly to her lovely form, blowing raspberries against the soft flesh of each breast.

His disciplined tongue fought the urge to delve beneath the fabric of her frock in search of a pouting nipple and settled for the jam instead. It wasn’t until his lips closed around the sweet dollop that he realized he’d latched onto warm sweet flesh, her own sweet raspberry puckered in pleasured surprise. Remarkably, in the moonlight it had looked much like a tight ripe raspberry to his eyes. Had the tart sprung free, in part, from part of her bodice while still inside among the guests of the sorry soiree?

Haywood bit off a short string of curses as he bet himself that when he finally found her velvety portal he’d find her warm, wet and willing. He was not disappointed. Indeed, when his seeking fingers finally fumbled feebly into her feminine folds they found a warm, wet, Wilhe.

Wilhe closed her eyes and moaned in ecstatic ecstasy as she held Woody’s head to her heaving bosom. Wanting to reciprocate with equal pleasure, her tongue sought his ear. Wilhemina pushed her tongue into Haywood’s ear, along with a suggestive suggestion.

“Forget the fruit, Haywood. I like vegetables and minerals. How about a rock hard cucumber? Set free your little corporeal corporal, soldier. ”

Her words were either a curse or a blessing. Which, he did not know. The cuffs of his tightening trousers were now thigh high and he feared he’d choke himself, exploding his own arsenal. He drew her against his full arousal. “This is what my major solider has to offer my lady, an unsheathed sword in search of a warm scabbard.”

No doubt about it. This man had much to offer. No prosy old borish boor was he.

“Kiss me,” he ground out between teeth clenched with passion.

She kissed him fully and passionately, open mouthed with tangling tongue.

He drew back from her plundering mouth. “Oh, please, kiss me, please” he pleaded pathetically. Although he had not thought it possible, giving voice to his desire caused his breeches to tighten further. He indicated where he wanted Wilhe’s to plant a wet willie with a downward glance. As if on cue the excessive tightening of his trousers propelled him and his gloves from their confinement. He sprang free, in all his glory. Wilhe refused his request to kiss him and feigning a misunderstanding of his unsubtle hint, took his mouth again.

Could she really be an innocent tart? Could she have a cherry still ripe for the plucking? The mere thought made his male member ache for a thorough furrowing of her fertile fields. Made him ache to plow her and give her the liquid of his loins. For now, Major Woody was willing to simply make Wilhe Maakme and save explaining that kiss “me” meant kiss “him” for another time.

For now, he’d content himself with romancing this woman into the next millennium, or at least for the next couple of minutes. He only hoped he could maintain his control over his raging passions. Tragically, when he finally pushed himself and his manhood and his virility and his body into the heated core of her sex he failed to fully bury himself to the hilt of her fiery feminine furnace. His corporeal major, his little soldier, quickly expired with a sputter, apparently from heat exhaustion. His pants unfurled to their pretightened state, almost flaccid in their fit.

Wilhe groaned. She’d thought him a Major Woody worthy of the purple prose she’d read in novels from the lending library…scandalous novels about men and women and love. But once again, reading about it had proved much better than experiencing the lust of a real man. A ton of the ton and she chose Haywood Jablowmi to believe he had lured her into a dark garden for a tryst beneath a trellis of wildly exotic flowers. Why should she – once an innocent in the ways of love – still yearn? She knew not. She only knew that her most intimate place had yearned to be pierced by an unyielding mighty sword. Instead, she’d almost been pricked by a pocket knife.

Ha! He’d thought he’d found some innocent know nothing, a delicate English rose ready – even eager – to be deflowered.

Ha! He’d thought himself to be just the gardener to prune her feminine flower.

Ha! He’d thought himself capable of getting past the point where her hymen would have been had she still had a hymen. Never quite burying himself in the grasp of her welcoming warmth, he and his rod and his shaft and his entire body easily slipped – out of her. His head hung in shame over what he had just done.

Mayhap he hadn’t actually breached her maidenhead. After all, everything had happened rather quickly. Even so, perhaps he should at least make a clumsy attempt to do the honorable thing.

” You were an innocent. I apologize. I shall offer for you tomorrow.”

“No apology necessary,” she replied. “It was nothing major.”

Yet to his ears it sounded like, “It was nothing, Major.” Either way her meaning was unclear to him.

“Perhaps we should go back inside before we are missed,” she said somewhat impatiently.

“Yes, perhaps we should before the wagging tongues start,” he answered as he offered her his arm.

She took his proffered arm and patted it. “Yes, it is still early,” she replied trying to suppress the shivers a certain image of wagging tongues had conjured up within her.

Not yet willing to give up on her hopes, her dreams, she consoled herself with the fact that there were still tons of ton to try.

She sighed.

Perhaps, someday, my prince will come and he’ll be able to let me come with him, she mused to herself.

Purple Prose as written by Teresa Cooper:

Anger Lost, Passion Found

The door to the masculine study was thrown open with a resounding boom. Charlotte, obviously distressed, swept into the room. Her anger blatantly obvious with her color high, her magnificent bosom heaving, tinged with a delicate blush, threatening to spill from a tightly fitted fuschia bodice.

“You Bastard,” she shrieked. “How could you do this to me?”

Jeffery, who had looked up at her startling entrance, eyes drawn to the quivering breast. He was momentarily captivated by the sight of her high, firm breasts thrust into prominence by her tightly laced corset. Surfacing from his temporary breast induced stupor, he queried “Do what to you?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No, I haven’t an inkling to that which you refer,” he said arching a sardonic eyebrow, his interest once again straying to her bosom.

Charlotte strode angrily across the Persian Carpet to stand before his desk. “How could you,” she wailed heartbrokenly.

“I have no idea about what has so obviously upset you, but there is something here that is upsetting me.”

“And what pray tell would that be?”

“Do you honestly think I am going to permit you to leave this house with your bosom put on display, ripe for the plucking like a melon on a shelf?”

Permit Me,” she bellowed.

“Yes, permit. How well you know my feelings regarding your personal attributes. They belong to me and no one else.” Jeffery rose and walked around the ornate antique oak desk to stand in front of his wife. He placed his hands on her exposed breasts and said. “These are for me and me only to view and touch, is that understood?”

“You know perfectly well that this bodice is well within the fashion dictates of the ton

He then lowed his hands and grasped edge of her bodice and gave it a might yank nearly lifting Charlotte off her feet. As he did this he said, “I will determine how much of your dazzling breasts the public will see, not current fashion. Is that understood?”

Charlotte, incensed at the turn the argument had taken, reached down and patted the burgeoning bulge in his trousers and flippantly replied. “Then the same goes for you milord. What if I were to tell you that you were no longer permitted to wear these fashionably tight breeches to balls?”

“Oh? And what will you do if I continue to wear tight breeches to balls?”

Mirroring actions to words, Charlotte declared, “Why, I will simply interrupt any conversation you are having by reaching down, and grasping these perfectly matched jewels. Then I would inform whomever you are speaking with, that this is private property.” Squeezing gently, Charlotte continued, “And, as such, should not be on display like a cheap bauble in a shopkeeper’s window. We will then walk around hand to jewels, until we leave the ball.”

Before she finished speaking, the aforementioned jewels sprang to life, jutting into her hand. Arching her eyebrow, Charlotte slyly said, “I wish all my jewels would increase in size with such a simple touch.”

Reacting to her touch with an explosive passion, Jeffery grasped her shoulders and pulled her to him, molding his mouth and jewels to hers. This embrace caused her anger to quickly burst into passion.

Shrill voice transformed into the dulcet tones of a dove, Charlotte murmured, “I was angry with you, what was I angry about?”

“If you think I knew, and then would remind you of your anger, you are sadly mistaken. I have better things on which to concentrate.” Saying that, Jeffrey cleared a space on his desk with a sweep of his powerfully muscled arm, and proceeded to concentrate all his formidable attention to bringing them both to passion’s pinnacle.

Purple Prose as written by AAR Reviewer Candy Tan (Candy created this merge-matic parody combining the plotting and prose of that well-known author of Indian romances with the sentimentality of James Michael Pratt, author of The Lighthouse Keeper, the worst book she read this year. Grammer and spelling errors are, of course, purposeful):

Savage Lighthouse Keeper;
Or,
Last of the Shore Cherokees

Coast of Nantucket, August 31 1845

White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) peered cautiously at his beautiful, unconscious captive as she lay, supine, sleeping and slumbering on his bed, bathed sensuously in soft afternoon light. Never had he seen such loveliness! It had been… too long. Too long… since his self-imposed exile here on this erect, magnificent, upstanding lighthouse on the battering shores of Nantucket. For years now he had guided the astray ships, without the company of a pleasing woman’s soft body or the incomparable pleasures of pleasuring himself on the pleasurable curves of a beautiful woman!

But this woman now lying motionless in his bed was not just any woman! She was Brittney Sparrington, the daughter of Brett Sparrington, the man who had killed the entire noble tribe of Shore Cherokees, savagely murdered his noble, wise father, raped his beautiful mother and virgin sisters, and poisoned his belovedly brave doggie, Muffin. Now was his opportunity! To avenge! To avenge his dead tribe, his dead father, his dead mother, his dead sisters, his dead pet!

But ah, this woman was truly beautiful! Her soft white skin was perfect, unmarred like the soft, endless petals of a rose bedewed by the morning’s dew. Her lashes were as long as a giraffe’s, but not as stiff and bristly. Her lips looked like luscious cherries, eager to be plucked. Her beautiful golden hair looked like spun gold, soft and fluffy like cotton candy, only shiny like gold. The white mounds of her milky breasts pushed against the bodice of her white dress, almost spilling out in the ever-bountiful profusion. Narrow her waist, her hips flaired in a most pleasing shape, leading to long, luscious legs that were very shapely. White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) felt his manhood stiffening and pushing itself insistently against his loincloth. He cursed under his breath! He could not feel desire for his… enemy’s daughter. His heart fluttered like the wings of the albatross that was his namesake, every time he saw her, though. He did not know it, but he was falling into the enchanted spell of love woven by this beautiful woman, who was pure. She was not like her father, having inherited the gentle nature of her mother and nothing of her father but her captor had no way of knowing this useful fact….

As if Brittany sensed the stirring desires of his hot, blood, her eyelids fluttered slowly in awakening puzzlement and recognition. She blinked. Where was she? She remembered walking on the beach near the magnificently erect lighthouse, so pleasing to her eyes and so tingly to her senses. She had been enjoying the view of how the white column thrust itself boldly from among the mounds of trees and grass, when she had felt a bard blow on the back of her head, and the world had spun into black. However, this did not look like the beach, since there was a ceiling over her head and a pillow under her sore head. She puzzled over this slowly when she noticed a masculine, commanding presence by her side.

“Enough talk, white squaw woman!” barked White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get). “Your insolent chatter no save you! Nothing save you! You now at my mercy, but I show you no mercy!”

The magnificent swell of his manly pectorals distracted Britney from what the red savage was saying. The moonlight sculpted his muscles magnificently. He was tall, with thighs like trunks and smooth, hairless, shiny skin the color of mahogany. His black eyes were frowning at her thunderously, but they were beautiful and long-lashed. Like a giraffe, only less bristly! she thought dreamily. His long black hair was tied back with a leather thong. His abs bulged with a wonderful six pack of muscle. He wore nothing but an indecent loincloth…. Her virginal eyes wanted to stray towards a rather interesting bulge that was distorting the beadwork pattern of a village scene embroidered on the loincloth, but she blushed and stopped herself and made herself look upwards. Again she was distracted. Biceps the size of melons quivered bountifully, and small veins were popping up everywhere, making him look most manly and desirable! She had to quell a small sigh of feminine satisfaction. So different from the feminine, ineffectual men she knew….

“Damn you, she-devil, you give me no choice but to subdue you!” shouted White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get). How dare she try to seduce me by blinking at me and breathing! he fumed. I will show her the folly of trying to play with a full-blooded Shore Cherokee!. Before Brittaney knew what was happening, she was enveloped in hard, muscled arms, as sturdy it seemed as the lighthouse thrusting from between the trees that had been her last view before someone had hit her on the head and caused her to fall to unconsciousness. In fact, she must be inside the amazing erection, she deduced, because she could hear the waves crashing against the strong walls and she could also see the giant lamp, wick primed and ready to scatter its life-giving light to lost mariners, just a scant few feet from her.

The savage’s musky delightful smell enveloped her as he suddenly fell on top of her and crushed his sensually curved lips against hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips hungrily, as if she was Sprite and he had to obey his thirst. The white woman was making small moans in pleasure, White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) suddenly realized. For a second he’d thought his dog, Bob, needed to go out, but it was indeed the woman. This only aroused him the more. He plunged and licked his tongue insistently against her sweet, soft lips, until finally she hesitantly opened her mouth. His tongue dived in joyfully, which shocked Brittaney’s maidenly sensibilities. Why, he was… sucking on her tongue! His tongue tangled with hers in a dance as old as time, plunging in and out, simulating a rhythm that he ached to echo with his hips. “Damn you!” he rasped when he pulled away, eyes black with passion. She looked beautiful and sexily mussed, with her soft raspberry mouth beestung and softened with his passionate kiss.

“Damn you… I have never felt this way about a woman before, and yet…. I know I cannot do this. This cannot be! You have cast a spell on me, Woman-With-Hair-Like-Gold-Cotton-Candy!”

“I… I…” stammered Britney! His kisses had utterly beguiled her. Never had she felt such a lava torrent of passion stream from a man’s tongue straight into her veins. Her woman’s mound was feeling warm and decidedly excited. Her nipples had erected, becoming diamond-hard peaks of pulsating passion. She could hardly catch her breath!

“No, do not try to beguile me! It will not work!” exclaimed White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get). “I am White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get), son of a noble chieftain, a direct descendant of our most divine White Albatross Goddess, Ooogachakachoochoo, and the last of the Shore Cherokees. This lighthouse was a monument built with my grandfather’s bare hands, and now it is all that is left of my tribe, my culture! And it is because of your father that I am lost and rootless! It is because of you that this magnificent, pleasing, upright lighthouse is the only thing I’ll have to remember my tribe by! That and my father’s logbook of memories!”

Brittney had wondered about the buffalo hides decorating the wall and lining the bed, but before she could complete her thought… he was kissing her again. But White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) could not help himself. He was hard as iron, his steely rod ready to enter the essense of her womanhood. His hands ached to caress the gorgeous cones of flesh that pressed provocatively against his muscled chest. He thrust his tongue over and over again into the sweet cavern of her mouth and pressed his ever-ready hips against the warm, soft hillock between her thighs. He groaned in satisfaction when she moaned in pleasure…

He could wait no longer. He pushed his hand across her heaving bosom and pushed her bodice down, exposing her ripe, innocent body to his hungry gaze. Her nipples were like rubies, precious beyond price. The astoundingly sexy globes of quivering flesh that were her magnificent breasts pouted upwards as if begging for a kiss. He was only too glad to comply. His mouth descended feverishly on her nipples, tugging and suckling like a starving babe. Brittany felt like she had died and gone to heaven, the pleasure was so intense. She gave in to the spinning sensations overwhelming her body in an enveloping glow of pleasure. Her tiny, timid hands began to wander on his virile, muscular back. He tensed and groaned at her innocent touch. His sinewy hands wandered like erotic spiders down her chest, heading for her mount of venus. Once he reached her yielding feminine cleft, he stroked her softly through her muslin gown. His fingers were immediately drenched with her carnal dew, spilling across his palm with the delicious liquid.

White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) could not stand it any more. He had to make this woman his! He reached downwards and slowly pushed her dress up, graoning to feel her silken flesh quiver and jump against his fingers. Orbs of brilliant green stared boldly into spheres of black in eyeball-to-eyeball contact as his fingers finally reached her soaking wet grotto of desire and he plunged one… finger… in….

Britney gave a small squeak. “White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever…” she began to say.

“Hush, woman! Do you never shut up? Be quiescent and just feel the magic I spin over you. Can you not feel the prestidigitation nature is working on us, man and woman? ‘Tis meant to be, methinks. Your womanly cup overfloweth, and I have just the swizzle stick to stir your cocktail. My meaty sausage of passion hungers for your hot dog bun of love. Give in, my love, for I do love you. You are unlike any woman I have met before. I feel a connection between us, like that between two soul mates destined to meet. You are so beautiful, so sweet, so sensual, I feel my libido going into overdrive just looking at your fingernails-no, not even your fingernails; merely the tip of your pinkie is enough to drive me into a passionate frenzy. I feel like an animal in rut around you, my pretty filly. We are meant to be. Can you not feel the spirits whispering about our love around us, so, so, oh so tenderly? Darling, I love you, I love you, I love you!” But he resented this declaration as well, because he sensed that this woman, the daughter of his deadliest enemy, had captured his heart, as surely as two bunnies will produce 40 more bunnies in 40 days-and all against his will.

“I lo…” But before Brittany could complete, her mouth was smothered once again in a rapacious kiss. He was like a velociraptor of passion, this savage who had stolen her heart: relentless, and unafraid to use his teeth. He licked and suckled her all over, as he fiddled with his loincloth. Suddenly, she felt… a pressure, a strange pressing against the portals of her womanhood, her entrance to paradise. The burning pressure built and built… agony and ecstasy all at once… and then he was in! A strange popping sensation went off inside her then he was joined to her fully, natural and beautiful as God had surely meant it to be.

White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) gritted himself to stop from pumping his bountiful seed into her fertile flesh. Panting, he rested his forehead against hers, marveling at the beauty of this innocent who had stolen his heart in a scant 32 minutes. He slowly began pistoning his hips in and out of her glove of love, relishing the drag of delicious flesh against his quivering, straining manhood. He was not sure he could last very long; his desire and love for Brittny was such that he wasn’t sure he could last much longer.

Brittony, couldn’t believe the amazing sensations pouring through her! They radiated outward from the of core of her womanliness, and she found herself reaching for something… something… but she knew not what… but a bright light beckoned… and she found herself helplessly following… and suddenly she was there, surrounded by angel’s voices and light and the most delicious quivery sensations and, strangely enough, her pet hamster Jeeves, who had been eaten by a giant mastiff last summer. She was glad to see Jeeves, very happy, in fact, but it was just strange to see him here when she could have sworn…

White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) felt Britney’ s quivers of ecstasy, and with a moaned roar of anguished pleasure, he spilled his semen deep in her wet, warm depths, spewing himself deep into her womb. He panted, letting the aftershocks rumble through every inch of his sated but far from satisfied flesh. Even as he thought about the woman, who had now stilled after her enormous peak of pleasure, he felt himself growing hard again. He nuzzled Brittany, who must be sleeping very soundly indeed-he couldn’t even feel her chest move. Perhaps she had passed out. He felt a little bit of remorse about that; his amazing prowess as a lover was well-known, and he knew that a maiden’s first pleasuring could be unbearably intense. Her small smile on those delectable lips indicated that she was indeed a well-pleasured lady, and he was a well-favored gentleman.

“Woman-With-Hair-Like-Gold-Cotton-Candy,” he whispered, stirring against her and rubbing himself against her soft, pillowy voluptuousness. “Me want you now. Again. You tired? Me not tired yet. Me show you more about love.”

But her unnatural stillness did not change, and an awful fact dawned slowly on him, like the inevitable passing of the sun from sunrise to deepest night. He put fingers to her elegant neck, as snowy and graceful as a swan’ s, in an effort to feel her pulse-but in vain, all in vain. An anguished howl rose from him. “Nooooooooo!” he yelled, a primal scream. “Why, God, why? Why did you give me this being of beauty and light, only to snatch her from me?”

“Look in my logbook, my son.” The voice whispered from nowhere. It sounded uncannily like White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get)’s father, but the chief was dead, dead for over four years now, dead like everybody who had meant anything to him. White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) had never looked into the lighthouse logbook, certain that the pain caused by his father’s recordings about the weather and his innermost thoughts would overwhelm him sheerly.

“Look in the logbook, and all your pain will be explained,” whispered the voice again. White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) frowned, and stiffly erected himself, padding across the room to the desk that held the book. He opened it, and a piece of parchment fell out, fluttering onto the floor like a dying dove. He carefully unfolded the fragile paper, and read the words of his noble, wise father, and salt water began squirting from the sides of his eyes at the profound wisdom he found in there:

My beloved son,
Life is a vale of tears. But I love ya, and ya must know this. The lighthouse is my legacy. Keep the light burnin’, White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) my boy. It stands as a symbol of hope, a beacon in a time of darkness. But remember that there’s a bigger lighthouse keeper than all of us, and ‘tis He who will ease yer pain in times of tribulation. Look to Him, and fear no more, laddie. A better life awaits all of us in the great beyond. Live your life well, remember that it doesn’t matter whether you win or lose, but how you play the game. Never give up. Let the sunshine in, face it with a grin-smilers never lose and frowners never win. Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get, so just do it. ‘Tis as is in the beginnin’ and as it will be at the end.

Remember: you’re the wind beneath my wings, and when we are apart, I feel it too. Never let the shadows overtake yer soul, m’boy.

Love,

Yer ever-lovin’ father

White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) sobbed quietly. “I understand now, Da,” he wept. “I understand everything.”

Coast of Nantucket, 31 August 1912

White-Winged-Albatross-Sailing-Gracefully-O’ er-The-Ever-Eddying-Currents-Of-The-Eternal-Air-And-Sky-While-Looking-For-Di nner-(Most-Probably-Fish-Again-But-He’ll-Take-What-He-Can-Get) looked out at the stormy beloved coast. Though he was now an old man, bound to his wheelchair, every day he still thought of the beautiful woman who gave herself so freely and completely to him. Every day at sunset he watched the waves in the hopes of hearing her tinkling laugh, her enchanting voice, a sight of a stray golden gleam of her hair. Sometimes he could almost see her dancing on the sparkling sands below, but they were always tricks of light and shadow. But he kept the light in the lighthouse burning faithfully every day in her memory, and in memory of his father’s profound words.

Today he felt even more tired than usual, and he knew the end was near. Next to him was his faithful dog, Foofles. As his eyes blurred with the fatigue that was daily overtaking him in the constant race that was life against time, he thought he saw movement on the shore, a figure in white muslin dancing…. A strange… glow surrounded it. He squinted and got up shakily. “Brittany?” he quavered querulously. The figure waved gaily! Foofles gave a puzzled bark and looked quizzically at his master. Why was he acting so strange?

Then Foofles’ master was up and running like a young boy again, screaming joyfully. Foofles saw a bright light originating from a woman dressed in white; even a dog like Foofles could appreciate her uncommon beauty, her golden hair, creamy skin and large green eyes. No wonder his master was so excited! Just when Master reached her, he was enveloped by a flash of bright light, and Foofles had to blink to clear the spots from his vision. When he could see clearly again, there was no trace of his master. He went to the last spot where his master had been just minutes ago, sniffing mournfully, but there was no trace of the two of them… Except for a scrap of white muslin. As he nuzzled the scrap despondently, he heard a voice come from inside his head, a voice that sounded very much like his master’s:

Don’t mourn for me, lad. I’ve gone to a better place. Remember to keep the light burnin’ in your heart and have faith in the Lighthouse Keeper who lives there, and you’ll never stray.”

As he heard those words, Foofles wept. Everything was so clear now, everything made sense at last. He understood everything now….

Fin

Purple Prose as written by Catherine Witmer and Charlene Lokey, who wrote this merge-matic parody to be a Western Gothic. They write, “It grew out of a discussion about the cowboy/baby/bride books, and a twisted ‘What if…?'”:

The Rancher, the Redhead and the Rugrat
Some days, a man just couldn’t help wondering why life was so good, Cord Reese reflected, his intense blue gaze resting on the fair-haired toddler finally asleep in the old, hand-carved cradle Cord had fashioned for his sister Sarah when he was little more than a boy himself. He’d dreamed of watching his son sleep in it some day, and come to doubt that it would ever happen. Now it had.

The Almighty moved in mysterious ways, that was for sure. Little Buford wasn’t of Reese blood, but the tiny towhead was his all the same. Had been since Cord had found him three days ago in the barn, surrounded by carcasses of dead livestock. Strange thing, that, but Cord had been so busy caring for Buford since that he hadn’t given it much thought.

Absently fingering the scar on the heel of his hand, all that remained of a grievous chisel wound sustained during the creation of the crib, Cord quietly shut the door and headed back to his den, where a mountain of paperwork awaited. A humdinger of a storm was due in an hour or so, and for some reason he couldn’t understand, he had no desire to complete the work by candlelight.

The rain came suddenly, in the sharp teeth of an icy wind, and the lights flickered ominously. Cord glanced up briefly, at the photograph of his ex-wife on the corner of his desk. The one he’d never quite gotten around to getting rid of. Damn, he missed Maggie, the hot-tempered, red-haired she-cat that she was. Wherever she’d put down her head tonight, he hoped that she was warm and dry. More likely hot and wet, but that was no longer any concern of his.

Sighing, Cord gave his attention once more to the pile of unpaid bills in front of him. No point in wandering that lonely road again tonight. None at all.

Her new calling was going to kill her one of these days, Maggie told herself. Clutching the steering wheel with fingers so white-knuckled that they practically glowed in the dark, she peered ahead into the fog, which was so thick that her small car’s headlights barely made an impression.

Oh, to be back in Nepal, meditating with her yak, Peaches, instead of crawling along a pitch-black country road in the middle of nowhere, in search of a blood-sucking fiend. And why, oh why, did the trail of the beast have to lead her so close to the Bar C Ranch?

The thought of the spread’s owner, her former husband, brought a flush to her alabaster skin, a sparkle to her emerald eyes and a wry curl to her rosebud mouth. The memory of his whipcord-lean body and wicked kisses made her lonely heart beat faster. Had he ever forgiven her for leaving him? Would she ever get over him? And, more importantly, would she ever stop questioning everything under the sun?

Tossing her Titian curls, she lifted her impudent chin and glared at the windswept road ahead. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She’d found her niche in her new career as a hunter slash killer of the Undead, and her life with Cord was of necessity but a dim, halcyon memory. The Slayer travelled alone, and she preferred it that way.

The road dipped sharply, and one of her tires blew out on impact. Swearing, Maggie wrenched the wheel hard, barely avoiding ending up in the ditch. No spare in the trunk, no slicker to protect her from the elements, and no gas station for miles, but Maggie knew at once what she must do. The Bar C was only five miles away as the raven flew, and she was fairly sure that the creature was a few days ahead of her. It was an acceptable risk. She began her trek at once.

Finding herself at Cord’s back door had its possibilities, she decided. It might be her last chance to see the man that she’d once loved more than she now cared for the yak, Peaches. It was quite possible that she would not survive the final battle with the master vampire. Seeing Cord might strengthen her resolve for what was to come…and she wouldn’t die celibate after all. The Almighty worked in mysterious ways, that was for sure.

The knock at his kitchen door roused Cord just after midnight. He’d been asleep, his face stuck in a ledger, and red ink smudged his lean cheek and strong jaw. Bleary-eyed, he peered out the window at the bedraggled woman on the porch, and his heart leaped in his broad, hair-roughened chest. Was he imagining it? Dreaming? Or had his sweet Maggie come back to him?

“For God’s sake, Cord, open the damned door! I’m freezing my grits off out here!”

It was Maggie all right, as feisty and mouthy as ever. Cord shot the deadbolt and flung open the door, and then Maggie was in his arms, all wet fire-engine red curls and damp, dangerous curves with diamond-hard peaks. She smelled of wet wool and cow manure, doubtless a result of her trek across the pastureland between here and the main road, but it could have been Chanel No5 for all he cared. Maggie was home at last, and that was all that mattered.

Cord kissed her like a thirsty man given a tall glass of icy Evian; her tongue, quicksilver fast, darted at his. Cord moaned into her mouth and scooped her up in his arms; there was no need for words. He took the back stairs two at a time, and stumbled down the hall toward his bedroom, mindful that if not for the sleeping Buford, he’d have taken her against a wall, any wall. Just like old times.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I’ve been?” Maggie asked, her mouth pressed to his throat as he put her down on the big bed.

“Nope.” Greedily, he eyed her. She’d grown even more beautiful since she’d been gone. Or perhaps he’d had only cows for company for long enough.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Maggie panted, as he mounted her. “Oh, Cord…no one has ever made me feel this way except you…”

“Good,” Cord muttered. “I was a bit worried about the way you used to call me ‘Jake’ sometimes…”

“Jake was my, um…puppy…when I was a kid,” Maggie said, crossing her fingers behind his back. Idly, she stroked his silky black hair off his face. “You remind me of him…”

Cord flung back his head and began to ride her, hard and fast. A stallion to her mare. The fury of the elements was dwarfed by their shared passion; he could have sworn he actually felt the earth moving. “Say my name now, baby,” he begged. “Now…”

Maggie held on for dear life, clawed fingers clutching at his lean hips. Right on the edge, she caught sight of twin pinpoints of red light in the darkness beyond Cord’s shoulder. A shriek of pure terror rose in her throat, and she began to buck like an unbroken filly under him. “Spawn of hell!” she spat.

“That’s not what you said a minute ago,” Cord whispered. “Come on, baby…be nice.”

“Unclean spirit, hear my words,” Maggie singsonged, still trying to free herself from their clinch. “You are not welcome here…”

“Feels to me like I am,” Cord purred.

“Get off me, you oaf!” Maggie exclaimed, pushing at his chest with all her might.

“What the…?” Cord hollered, as he landed with a thump flat on his bare butt. “Be quiet, you loco female…you’ll wake the baby!”

“‘Baby’?” Maggie shrilled, fumbling for the lamp. “That’s not a baby…that’s Valerian, a 300-year-old vampire lord from Qansivalia!”

With a cry of triumph, she switched on the light, and Valerian was revealed in all his romper-suited glory. Suspended in mid-air, ruby eyes aglow, fangs bared and gleaming, he threw back his head and laughed.

“Daddeee….Maggieee…” he taunted.

Maggie didn’t think, she reacted. She grabbed the consecrated dagger strapped to her ankle and threw it with deadly precision. It lodged deep in Valerian’s chest. A look of mild surprise crossed his face, then he turned without further ado into a pile of smoking ash.

“I’ll be danged,” Cord mumbled.

“No, Valerian will,” Maggie said, winking at him. “What are you waiting for? Get over here. We’ve got some unfinished business, cowboy.”

histbutIssue #99 of At the Back Fence – details of the contest’s outcome and reader response