Congratulations to Amanda Grange and Blythe Barnhill. Out of 14 entries in this year’s PPP Contest, they tied to win.
Timeless Message donated one of their elegant messages in a bottle for Amanda to send to someone she loves. Her message was sent in a gorgeous European crafted bottle of her choice within a wooden crate designed to give a Renaissance feeling. Renaissance feeling.
As Blythe is one of AAR’s staff, she is ineligible for a prize, but after submitting six entries in seven years, her hard, creative, and inspired spoofing gives her the well-deserved title as co-winner in the 2003 Purple Prose Parody Contest.
Analysis of the contest can be found in the August 1st At the Back Fence. Here are comments from both winners as well as some reader comments collected during the polling process, followed by the entries themselves:
Amanda on her win:
“I’m amazed to have won. It’s great! Mind you, I think I owe my success to Jane Austen – if she was alive, I’d buy her a drink The other entries made me LOL, so thanks for organising the PPP. Long may it continue!”
Blythe on her win:
“I’m thrilled and honored to win. It’s actually been my secret, burning ambition for years; I’ve entered every contest but one, so I was gradually honing my purple prose craft. I also have to say that I’m a huge Balogh fan, even if I couldn’t resist the opportunity to poke fun at her penchant for prostitute heroines.”
Regarding Amanda’s P&P parody, The Pitch:
I thought this was a great idea and Jane Austen must be turning over in her grave I can just see poor Jane Austen sitting in front of an Avon editor, her heart beating rapidly as she realizes that the pinnacle of her ambitions, the culmination of all her dreams, a place at the top of the mountain, is within her grasp…a spot on The Avon Ladies Website! When I, a couple of women friends, and our significant others sat down to watch A&E’s Pride and Prejudice,all of the men said ‘Too much talking. Not enough action. Where’s the sex?’ This parody was a exact reflection of their reaction to the story.
Can you imagine a sexed up P&P, especially one with Darcy’s internal monologue detailing how much he’d like to have Lizzy in his bed, or behind a potted palm, etc?! And the titles of the inevitable sequels – beautifully trite and repetitious.
Regarding Blythe’s Balogh parody, Once a Ho:
Even though I was in on the premise (daughter paying for father’s debts) I could not predict where the story was going. I thought it was cute how the heroine was so TSTL she didn’t know she only had to wait until Thursday. I liked how Blythe incorporated other people with such a small word count and got the point across with the use of Thursday. Worthy of Julie Garwood herself when she was on her game. Once a Ho had me laughing out loud in the middle of my office. Amelia was every wannabe martyr heroine rolled into one. I laughed all the way through. TSTL as an artform. My vote has to go to Blythe Barnhill for Once a Ho. “I. Was. Coming. Home. THURSDAY!” I absolutely died laughing all the way through it. She nailed it.
Well the obvious choice is Blythe’s “Once a Ho.” It was hilarious.
Comments about some of the other entries:
The Virgin Widow Sex Kitten by Cheryl Sneed. I can’t help but thinking that Cheryl is too clever for her own good and I just love reading what she writes. She always nails the cliches and does it with such wit. Charity J’s Dark Parody made me collapse with laughter from that first line: “You are beautiful. Your amber eyes, your creamy breasts, your silky red hair.” Embarrassed, she looked down at herself. Yes, as she’d feared, she was lactating again. Her breasts were creamy. My favorite PPP entry was the DEAR AUTHOR, by Margeurite Kraft. After I saw at my computer, dying laughing, my husband was glancing over cusiourly. So I started reading it aloud, and we both had to wipe tears from our eyes afterwards. A DAY IN THE LIFE OF ANITA BLAKE, VAMPIRE HUMPER, by Holly. He style is somewhat relentless and the humor hits your hard and fast. I like her style as well, and the bold scenes. The doorknob made me pee my pants. Well, almost. Everyone did a marvelous job. Thanks for the laughs. But Holly managed to nail the painful turn of the Anita Blake series and turn it into something longtime fans can laugh about as opposed to lamenting. The Audition by Rachel Potter – Hilarious take all sorts of writer/writing issues. Especially loved the alpha/possessive/obsessive male (hero or villain? sometimes difficult to tell), and the appearance of Clayton Westmoreland as a villain.
I am casting my vote for Love’s Burning Itch by Jenny Evans. The Duke of Slut has always irritated me, the way he cats around and manages to remain disease free, then meets The One Who Ruins Him for Any Other. I always feel bad for her, with her slut husband, thinking that one day, he’ll slip up and she’ll get the pox.
Entries for this year’s contest were limited to 1,500 words. When this contest first began in 1997, all the parodies were of love scenes. We’ve expanded that concept over the years to keep things fresh and encourage the parody of other romance novel scenes, including: epilogues; Regency Romance ball scenes; the first meeting in a “love at first sight” romance; the Big Mis; the Big Secret; the “morning after” scene; the prologue of a romantic suspense novel; a skanky sex scene between villains; or a draft proposal of a category romance publisher featuring things such as secret babies, cowboys, virgins, amnesiacs, virginal sex therapists, etc. We also encourage homages to favorite romance authors as well as the “merge-matic” concept we some years ago. We still haven’t received a parody entitled Whitney, My Savage Love, but we can always hope!
[fusion_accordion divider_line=”no” class=”” id=””][fusion_toggle title=” The TSTL Story by author Lynne Connolly (et al) ” open=”no”]
Purple Prose as written by author Lynne Connolly, a synopsis for a romance:
The TSTL Story
Lady Sharon Gracehurst, daughter and heir (despite an older brother) of Lord Gracehurst, is a Titan haired, green eyed beauty with a fiesty temperament. Ranch Merlin, Duke of Devilsham, usually addressed as ‘my lord,’ with the nickname (bet you can’t guess) ‘Devil’, engages himself to marry Honoria Boring, a childhood friend who is either prosy, plain and boring, or beautiful and stupid (take your pick).
When Sharon’s father loses all his money at the gaming table (at a hell, not at White’s, though in reality most money was lost at White’s) Lord Gracehurst puts his daughter up as a stake. Devil accepts. Sharon knows Devil, and has danced with him at Almacks although he has ignored her because she was dressed in white muslin, which didn’t suit her. She admires him from afar, although when her father tells her about the wager she flies into a rage and says she won’t marry him.
Sharon steals her brother’s clothes and, dressed as a boy, runs away at the dead of night. Into the arms of Devil, who is drunk. He takes her away, and tells her she can be his page. He is on his way to a country house party, and, thinking she is a boy they share a bed at a country inn. When they wake up he realises she is a girl, and she tells him who she is.
Still disguised, he takes her to the country house where nobody recognises her, despite her being out in society for the last two years. In the middle of the night she can’t sleep, so she goes down to the library, barefoot in her night rail, despite it being January with ice on the inside of the windows. She goes to stand in front of the fire. Devil is there getting drunk. He sees her legs through her nightie, gets uncontrollably carried away and they have a snog and a grope, but don’t go All The Way. (Here’s where you can tell what kind of Regency this. If he sees a patch through her nightrail, that makes it a historical. If his gaze strays no higher than her thighs, it’s a trad).
Sharon realises she loves Devil. A malicious ex-mistress tells her that the hero is interested in her only as another notch in his 800-year-old bedpost (the bed came into his family as a gift from a grateful monarch) and has an entry in the betting book at White’s about his successful seduction of her. She believes it, of course.
Because she loves him, she runs away again (TSTL heroines always run away once they realise it is True Love). He realises he loves Sharon, so he goes to spend some time with his fiancee, never trying to explain to poor Honoria why he has turned so cold.
With the whole of England to choose from, Sharon and Devil meet up. She is pretending to be a highwayman and holds up his coach. He takes her to an inn, and they go at it like rabbits. She says she can’t marry him, not because she will make Honoria unhappy, because they both despise her, but because she wants to be independent and she won’t kow tow to a man. She wants to be an actress.
Sharon runs away (again) to London where she easily gets a part with a theatre company (parade of colourful characters) and is a sensation. Nobody recognises her. Devil is unbearably rude to Honoria because he is unhappy. She, a good woman at heart, finally gets the message and lets him go.
The dastardly manager of the theatre company drugs the heroine out of her mind with the villain (naturally he is the hero’s cousin and is trying to keep him from marrying so that he can inherit) taking her via coach to his little hideaway away from the city—and his plans to seduce her.
There are pirates in the play. One of them is an actual criminal running away from his crimes [forced into them by necessity of course], but who has a heart of gold. He is Devil’s long-lost [illegitimate?] brother. Devil is an illegitimate son of the old duke, willed his title on the old man’s deathbed, despite the existence of a large and legitimate family.
Joyfully Devil rushes off to London, drags Sharon off the stage and marries her. He has a Special Licence in his pocket, just in case. In his spare time, Devil also races his phaeton to Bath, breaking the record, and then is asked by Prinny to break up the French Spy ring that is working out of the Foreign Office and the Horse Guards. He glances at the encoded message and immediately solves it, catching all the spies. After another seduction scene in the library–he’s only on the third bottle of the four a day he normally drinks, he then goes to Belgium and gives Wellington invaluable advice so that the Battle of Waterloo is won.
He and Sharon have seven children and settle down to wedded bliss. The sequel features Boring Honoria and the pirate.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Dark Parody by Charity J ” open=”no”]
Purple Prose as written by Charity J, a parody of Christine Feehan’s Dark series:
“You are beautiful. Your amber eyes, your creamy breasts, your silky red hair.” Embarrassed, she looked down at herself. Yes, as she’d feared, she was lactating again. Her breasts were creamy.
“There is no need to be embarrassed.” Baldric, an ancient Carpathian male, bent down and licked at the drops of milk wending their way down the fatty mountains which sat atop his lifemate’s precious human chest. “I cannot allow it. I can do no other than make you happy always.”
“You can do no other than read my mind all the time, apparently. How about a little privacy here?” Secretly, she enjoyed having him snoop through every petty thought she had. She found it strangely irresistible that he could see beyond her polite attempts at deception. He knew when the fungus growing on his toenails disgusted her and when the queasy look on her face meant she’d eaten some bad Chinese food. There could be no secrets between them.
“You are my lifemate. We can hide nothing from each other,” Baldric confirmed. “We must share our minds, bodies, and blood on a regular basis, or I will be consumed by the darkness within me, and you will not be able to tolerate the pain of the separation. I can do no other than force my will on this issue, since it is for your own safety.”
Although she found him secretly thrilling, she knew she couldn’t allow him to have his way on every issue. After all, she didn’t think she could tolerate the pain of spending every second with him, either. “You’d better be able to do other, because I’m not going to drink your blood or spend my days buried six feet under just to be near you. Ok, you want to share everything? Tell me the truth about that sweet old Mr. Jones. Did he really have a spontaneous conjoined brain aneurism, heart attack, and collapsed wind pipe, or did you do something to him?”
“He tried to hold your hand. It is the Carpathian male way. I cannot allow any other male to come near you.” Oh dear, she’d so hoped that it had been a strange coincidence.
“He was shaking my hand. You’ve never heard of hand shaking?”
“You will not do this hand-shaking with any man. It is too dangerous.” His eyes glowed red. “It will only incite my wrath. Remember, the beast within me is close to the surface.” Although he was just confirming her belief that he was a domineering, throwback, murdering chauvinist, she couldn’t help but be attracted to these very qualities about him.
He kissed her fiercely, and made the rest of her clothes disappear with a brush of his mind. Since they were standing in the middle of a crowded bar in New Orleans, she was a little put out by the situation. She wasn’t embarrassed just because of her lactating breasts.
“Hush, little one. I have cloaked us from their eyes. They will see nothing.”
He pushed her against a wall and ravenously kissed her. The mood was spoiled when she noticed a skinny, pimply college aged kid staring at her with popping eyes.
She grabbed Baldric by the chest hairs and pulled. “If you don’t get me out of here pronto, I’m going to be able to do no other than . . . make you wish you’d never been born!” She couldn’t actually think of a good threat to make against a man with his powers (she’d seen him turn into an earthworm in the blink of an eye), so she yanked even harder.
“Ouch!” Within a few seconds, he’d whisked her back to his cave at the edge of town. He looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, ma petite, but that boy must have the ability to see past my illusions.”
“And here I thought you were an all-powerful ancient. You didn’t kill him, did you?” she asked suspiciously.
“Why would I do that?” He seemed affronted. She decided not to bring up Mr. Jones again. He’d killed someone for shaking her hand, but had no problem stripping all of her clothes off of her, without warning, in a public place. Naturally, this irrational Carpathian behavior set her loins aflame.
Baldric resumed where he’d left off, and they had some hot sex for a long time. There were advantages to Carpathian males. This one was very old, and apparently, after a thousand years or so, men learned to slow down the pace. During the middle of it, however, he started drinking her blood. Although she’d been close to a hot orgasm, she missed it because she passed out from blood loss. Again. She’d never actually stayed conscious long enough to have an orgasm. Sometimes she thought that only sexual frustration kept her with him. If she could just have the damned orgasm, then she was sure she could break if off with him and go back to her ordinary life.
“Never. Do not even think it. You were meant to be with me for all time, bebecakes, as I was meant to be with you. You are the light to my darkness, the other half of my soul. I can do no other than keep you safe with me at all times.” She decided it was a waste of time to keep lecturing him about reading her mind. She also wondered if he remembered her name, since he never used it. Of course, if he forgot, he could just look in her mind and see that she was named Drizzle. She was a little defensive about the name, so she went by the nickname Rustynails.
“Look, Baldric . . .” She’d been avoiding having this particular conversation with him, hoping she could have the hot orgasm before she had to break it off. “You’re a nice guy and all, but I’m not sure I’m ready for this kind of commitment. I’ve got a whole soul of my own, and I like it that way. I’m not ready to give half of it to you.”
“Do not be foolish. You are my lifemate. We must be together always. I can do no other than ensure that this is so, for your safety, as well as the safety of the entire universe, which I will rip apart with the power of my thought alone should you ever leave me.”
“But I barely know you. What about getting to know each other? What if we don’t like each other?”
“We are made for each other. Neither of us is complete without the other.”
She thought this was a crummy way to avoid having to romance your date. Just jump straight into the permanent commitment without any intermediary stage. She had to stand up to him, even though her breasts tingled and her clit twitched whenever she thought of the fact that at twelve hundred years old, he should have long ago been rotting in his grave.
“Ok, how about this. No. It was a fun ride while it lasted, but I’m getting off of this train right here.” He smiled, either because she’d used the phrase I’m getting off, or because of her foolish attempt to assert her independence. Of course, he could not allow either one. He would get her off, and she would learn to obey his every command.
“I cannot allow this foolishness,” he intoned. “You are the light to my -”
“Darkness, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the spiel.” He looked pleased, and she was pretty sure that it was because he thought she was finally able to read his mind. Truthfully, she’d just heard this “you are the light to my darkness” speech many, many times. Along with a few other Carpathian how-to-get-laid-by-your-lifemate-fast speeches.
She tried to get up to go, but the blood loss kept her too weak to leave. Damn it. She almost thought he kept sucking too much blood on purpose. She suspected that while she slept, he turned himself into a leech and sucked on her neck all night. The thought made her shiver with desire. In any case, she didn’t have the energy to fight him, and besides, she’d not yet managed to have the orgasm that she was sure would allow her to finish things off with Baldric. Always leave the customer wanting more, right? She definitely wanted more. Tired of fighting, she lay back down. What the hell. Maybe someday she’d get that orgasm, and it would all be worth it. Right now, she could do no other than lay back and recover from the blood loss. She realized that she was starting to think like him.
“Honeypot,” he murmured softly in her ear. “How about one more time?”
And, probably because of the limited amount of blood circulating through her brain, she couldn’t think of a single reason to say no.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Debut Author by Maxine Misso ” open=”no”]
Zane stood outside Jane’s bedroom door. He’d tried to sleep on her couch, but God, he could hear her breathing all the way down the hall and into the living room (maybe a sinus problem), which was why he was now standing here, in his bare feet with his jeans buttoned and his shirt hanging open. He raked one long-fingered hand through his thick wavy hair, as gold as the sunrise and with red highlights as fiery as the sunset. He took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock. Just before his hand made contact the door suddenly opened and there stood Jane, her usual alabaster skin flushed from sleep, her eyes, normally so wide, so innocent, heavy with slumber, and he wondered if she would look like that after his glorious, stupendous, lovemaking (no to be confused with plain stupid).
Zane drew in a long slow breath. How he wanted to lay her down and thrust himself into her soft, warm, wet, silky, creamy, tight (can’t forget that one!) sheath. Even though there was a perfectly good bed behind her, he was going for style. Jane gazed at Zane, surprised to see him standing there – so tall, so strong, so silent, with clenched fists and flared nostrils, and who could overlook that heaving manly chest? He made a noise deep in his throat. Either he was so taken by the sheer loveliness that stood before him, or he was going to throw up all over the place. Jane took a hasty step back, but then he made that noise again, and this time his eyes – those eyes of sparkling emeralds – devoured her, yep it was she er her well whatever, he was overcome with lust for her, who would have thought it?
They’d been friends ever since kindergarten, when he’d wandered over and peed on her sand castle. Now twenty years later all her dreams were about to come true. Zane stared at the vision of loveliness before him, her hair as black as night, her eyes as blue, as beautiful as the most brilliant sapphires, and her body so small, so perfect, dressed in an almost see-through night gown, sleeveless with a dozen mother of pearl buttons, all undone. If he just moved over to the left a little he was sure he could make out one perky little nipple. He was truly overcome with desire, longing, love (and good old fashioned lust). His breathing was rapid, his nostrils flared, and the buttons on his jeans were at the bursting point, thanks to his erection – which even if he did say so himself was quite magnificent. Jane glanced down and got an eyeful of that erection. She quickly looked up and met his storm-tossed eyes, and felt herself blush. She also felt her nipples harden into tight little pebbles.
Zane reached out to gently take Jane by the arms… he was about to ease her back into the bedroom… it was time to finish what they had both started… and then suddenly everything went black.
Zane took a deep breath and gave a little chuckle; he could just barely make out Jane’s beloved face. “Hey, don’t worry baby, it’s just a fuse – we’ll be up and running in no time”.
Jane looked at Zane through a mist of tears, “Oh Zane, you poor foolish man, don’t you see what’s happened here? Take a good look around and listen very carefully. Now tell me, what do you hear?
Zane did as she asked, he listened and he frowned, and he listened some more… nothing, nada, zilch. He looked back at Jane through the murky darkness that surrounded them. “OH GOD, oh no, please tell me I’m wrong Jane, please it can’t be, it just can’t be!
Jane gave a watery sniff, “It’s true Zane – she’s gone”.
Zane let out a roar of filthy swear words, “what by all that’s holy do you mean SHE’S GONE??.
Jane was only the heroine, it’s true, but she was getting a little annoyed with Zane’s bad humor. She stood tall and tried to look him in the eye, even though the darkness made it almost impossible. “I told you, she’s gone for the night. She’ll resume at 8:15 tomorrow morning.”
Zane just glared.
“Look Zane, she has a husband waiting upstairs for her, she’s done for the day. She’ll be back tomorrow as soon as the kids are off to school”.
Zane was quiet for a moment,”what am I suppose to do with this erection, flared nostrils,and heaving chest?”
Jane was getting a little miffed herself right about now. “Will you shut up with your bellyaching, it’s all about you, isn’t it, well what about me? I’ve got to go through the whole night with pebbled nipples while I freeze my buns off in this see-through number!!”
They both took a deep cleansing breath, they looked at each other as best they could in the darkness and each gave the other a smile of understanding. Zane held Jane’s hand and gave it a small squeeze.
“Well” he said “you know what this means don’t you?”
Once again she gave him a small smile. “Yes, my love, once we finish this book we never work for a debut author again.”
Zane heaved a heavy sigh, “God protect us from newbie authors.”[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Audition by Rachel Potter” open=”no”]
At 7:55 the room was already full, and still people were filing in. It was a motley group, but the majority of them were attractive and fit. A blonde, exceedingly attractive woman sat filing her nails in one corner. Next to her a Jeremy Northam look-alike sat reading a John Grisham novel. An older man lugged in a set of golf clubs and sat down. The clock on the wall ticked slowly past 8:00 and then 8:15.
At 8:22, the door opened, and a woman entered. Under normal circumstances, rested and made up, she might have been attractive, even pretty. At the moment however, she was wearing a gray sweat suit with brown stains down the front. Her strawberry blonde hair – in desperate need of a touch up – was pulled into a lopsided pony tail by a scrunchie that had all but lost its elastic. She carried a clipboard with a yellow legal pad and a Diet Coke.
“Okay, then,” she said, smiling in a harassed sort of way. “I’m Annie Author, and I’m working on my sixth book for Bard Books. Appreciate you coming on a Saturday morning.” She took a deep breath. “Here’s the situation. I’m in a major crunch. I’ve got a deadline of a week from next Thursday, and I’ve got to punch this manuscript into something workable by then. I thought I had it all under control. This was supposed to be straightforward plot. I’ve got an adult-ed. teacher heroine, a real do- gooder, and an ex-con survivor of childhood abuse who wanted to learn to read. Heather was supposed to be nurturing, to understand all the immense suffering Brandon’d been through. She was supposed to heal his wounds. But on page 150, my sweet, biddable heroine decided she’d had enough and told Brandon to ‘Cut it the hell out. If you don’t quit your whining,’ she said, ‘I’m outta here. I don’t have to take this. I’m not your mother.’
“I wanted to make Brandon go out and sleep with another woman out of bitterness, but he’d thought it over and decided that Heather was pretty, smart, and gainfully employed. No student loans. He’d be a fool to throw her away.
“So here I am on page 150 with no conflict.” She ran her fingers through her hair. The scrunchie fell out. “This is where you come in. I’ve got to have a villain to shake things up a bit, but I’m not sure exactly what approach to use.” She surveyed the room. “I don’t have time for full auditions, so just give me your name and tell me a little bit about yourself.” She took a quick swig out of the Diet Coke and then pointed to a man in the middle of the room. The man was pleasant looking except for some severe acne scarring. “Name?” Annie asked.
“Yura Badeigh,” he said.
“And what do you specialize in, Mr. Badeigh?”
“Kidnappings,” he said. “I’m the guy who drags the heroine off in the last fifty pages, so the hero can rescue her. I’m flexible as to location. I keep my travel papers current. And I’m fully bonded.”
Annie made a note on the clipboard. Then she pointed to the beautiful women who’d been filing her nails. “And you are?”
“I’m Evie L. Beech,” she said.
“And what would you do to break up my characters?” Annie asked. Evie looked blank. “Do?” she asked. “Yes, do?” Annie said impatiently. “Are you going to pull a gun on Brandon in a jealous rage? Fill Heather’s shampoo bottle with bleach? Boil a bunny?”
“Oh, no,” said Evie. “I don’t really have to do anything. I just have to be younger and more beautiful than the heroine and have a better sex life. Put me in a couple of skanky sex scenes and I’ll be established as the villain. Piece of cake.”
Annie frowned. “I’m not sure that’s going to work. She pointed to the nondescript woman next to Mr. Badeigh. “Who are you?”
“Imiz Eckswife,” the woman said eagerly. “I get to cause all kinds of emotional distress, especially in the backstory. If you want I can tell Heather that Brandon made me abort his baby because he hated children. That ought to do you for conflict.” Her eyes were shining.
Annie toyed with her pen. “Yeah,” she said. “If I wanted to write a 1,000 page soap opera. Next.” She pulled a linty Snickers bar out of the pocket of her sweat pants and chomped it.
The man with the golf clubs was a serial killer. He described at length various methods of capture and torture. All of them had set fee schedules. After him was a dark, sexually magnetic man named Raven. “My heart has been broken by a bad woman, and that is why I must have Heather. I will capture her and force her to love me. Even though I hate all women.”
Annie frowned. “Uh, Raven,” she said. “Are you sure you’re at the right audition? I’ve already got my hero. This is for villains.” Raven looked peeved, but he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and consulted it. “Oh,” he said. “Right. Sorry.” He exited the room.
The cheating husband, Dick Head, offered the interesting suggestion of giving Heather a social disease – passed along of course, from his slut girlfriend, Mystee. “Lots of conflict there,” he said.
“Hmmmm,” Annie said. “I don’t think my readers would think a visit to the gynecologist’s office is escapist reading. But you never know. I’ll get back to you.”
Hezekiah Wormwood, the religious fanatic, had to be woken up to give his input. He gave an apathetic rant about “the evils of mankind, the final days, thecoming judgment,” and then sat down again, plucking at his long beard. Annie frowned. “What religion are you, Mr. Wormwood?” Mr. Wormwood frowned back. “Does it matter?” he asked. “I’m religious. That’s good enough for most readers!”
The Jeremy Northam look-alike had finished his book and was waiting patiently. He really was a stunner – dark hair, intense blue eyes, slight beard shadow on his cheeks even thought it was still early morning. He was dressed nattily in a charcoal suit, and his shirt and tie were light gray. A rakish scar ran across one eyebrow. He started to speak when Annie said, “Don’t tell me. Gay, right?” He nodded, looking slightly surprised. “Figures,” Annie said.
Almost everyone in the room had introduced themselves. Annie stared at her clipboard in disbelief. She started tapping it sharply with her pen. “Let me see,” she said, “Stalker, dog kicker, insane loser who was ignored all through high school.” Her voice raised sharply and she tossed the clipboard aside. “You’re allcliché! I’ve got nothing, absolutely nothing, original here! How am I supposed to make my book work with this?”
Several of the assembled villains looked stunned at her outburst and then angry. Mr. Badeigh stood up. “Look, lady,” he said. “You asked us to come. And now we’re not good for you? Well, we won’t beg you for work. If you can’t tell, it’s not like any of us are hurting. We get used all the time.” Ms. Beech and Mr. Head nodded in agreement. “When was the last time you read a character-driven romance?” Mr. Badeigh asked. “Plot-driven romance is what’s now, and if you want that, you need one of us.” He folded his arms. “I’m just here because Lou, your agent, called in a favor. But I think I’ll be going.” He left, and most of the others filed out after him. Finally, there was only one other man in the room. He was tall and good- looking in an arrogant sort of way.
“So,” Annie asked tiredly, “what do you do?”
The man smiled. “I morph into the hero’s form in the last half of the book. No one can tell it’s me, the villain, and so I can do whatever I want to the heroine – rape her, smack her, spank her, berate her, mistrust her, whatever. This generates plenty of conflict and can keep the book going well past the point of natural ending. In case you need the page count,” he finished.
Annie squinted at him. “What your name?” she asked. “You look very familiar.”
“Clayton Westmoreland,” he said.
Annie’s eyes widened. “Clayton! Wow! It’s nice to see you again. You were certainly a very.memorable.character. How’ve you been? Are you still with Whitney?”
Clayton shook his head sadly. “No, we broke up. We just couldn’t seem to communicate. And I’ve been out of work for awhile. Characters like mine just aren’t used that much any more. So what do you say? You want me for your book?”
“Well,” Annie said, “that’s a pretty lame conflict, but your book did make a lot of money and I am in a tight spot…” She nodded once decisively. “Okay. You’re hired!”[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=” A Ballroom Encounter by (author) Alissa and Tessa Baxter” open=”no”]
She was seated behind the plastic potted palm in Almack’s. The op-art black and white design of the palm container, matched the marble chess-board type tiles where the dancing couples moved slowly to the beat of the drums. Macy waved her fan, glancing briefly at her the neat swatch on her arm. Yo! Man would she be a wallflower for ever, would no gentleman ask her to dance? She knew she could excel at the Roger de Coverley, at the waltz and even better, she could do a mean tango and show Fred and Gene a step or two.
Then he approached, Hunt Beveldom the Third, the third son of the Earl of Boredom. He would inherit the castle and all the wealth. She would be Lady Beveldom. Her heart beat in her bosom, the rhythm faster than a Pacemaker. Would Hunt ask her to dance? She lifted up her eyes, oh! darn her contact had fallen to the side, his broad shoulders looked lopsided, his crooked grin now appeared straight. Was that a lump in his trousers? Everything was askew.
She managed to put her contact back in her eye, and smiled coyly at Hunt as he strode up to her. His deliciously crooked grin did strange things to her stomach as he said in his deep, velvety voice, which reminded her of Cary Grant’s, “Would you care to tango, Miss Carrington-Smythe?”
Her eyelids fluttered, and she realised he had given new meaning to that age-old expression. “My lord,” she murmured. “I must accept – it takes two to tango after all.”
He bowed over her outstretched hand, admiring her French manicure, but the hand he held captured in his, suddenly fluttered like a dove, then flew up to her cheek. “Oh, my lord,” she said in dismay, “Have you requested permission for our tango from one of the Patronesses of Almack’s?”
“I do not care for their good opinion,” Hunt said loftily. “They are like a group of Nazis. I will not be controlled by them…” And dragging her into his arms, he swept her around the room, the rhythm of the steel band matching the beating of their pounding hearts. “Oh, my lord,” she exclaimed. “Lady Jersey is bearing down upon us… what are we to do?”
“Silence, my dear – I will defend your honour…”
“Who spoke my name?” Lady Jersey said coldly. “And why are you dancing without permission. Miss Carrington-Smythe? You have disgraced yourself!”
“Do you choose pistols or swords, Sally Jersey?” Hunt said in an icy voice. “How dare you insult the fair name of my partner?”
“Of course I choose pistols,” Lady Jersey said. “I have been shooting clay pigeons since I was in my teens. I am a crack shot, you know. Lady Sefton will act as my second. She will call on your second tomorrow morning.”
Hunt bowed stiffly, and Lady Jersey turned on her heel and strode away. Miss Carrington-Smythe swooned in his arms. Taking his cell phone out of his evening jacket, which anyone could see had been designed by Weston, Hunt called 911.
Hunt took her to an antechamber, and lowered her tenderly onto a conveniently placed chaise-longue. Her saviour departed the room, then, to await the ambulance, and Macy gradually recovered from her swoon. And then he was there again! Her knight errant, the love of her life, the man who made her heart pump lumpy custard. She blinked up at him as he strode into the room, and raised a trembling hand to her forehead, “Oh my lord, you have returned!”
Unbeknownst to her, however, Hunt’s evil twin, Chase, had seen his brother depart, and had come to see Macy in the hope of causing mischief for his brother. He was Chase Beveldom the Fourth, the fourth son of the Earl of Boredom, and he believed he and his twin had been switched at birth and that he was in fact the third son, who should inherit the castle and all the wealth. “Miss Carrington-Smythe,” he said in an evil voice. “I have you alone at last! I can have my wicked way with you now. Heee Heee…”
Macy looked at him doubtfully, “Hunt? My darling Hunt. The gentleman who has captured my heart…like Heath Ledger in A Knight’s Tale…”
Chase advanced into the room, and dragged Macy off the chaise-longue into his arms. “I have you where I want you, Miss Carrington-Smythe. Heee Heee.”
“Hunt – oh Hunt, what are you doing?”
At that moment, the door of the antechamber swung open and Beau Brummell stood on the threshold, dressed in an immaculate Savile Row suit. He raised his binoculars to his eyes, and said in a bored voice. “It is as I expected… Hunt Beveldom – you are a cad. However, I will not deign to rescue you Miss Carrington-Smythe – it would require far too much effort and I do not wish to rumple my clothes – however I will whisper in Prinny’s ears that he should change the law so that Chase Beveldom inherits the castle and all the wealth. You do not deserve it, Hunt.” Lowering the binoculars, he let them hang on the elegant riband around his neck, and strolled negligently from the room.
Chase dropped Macy onto the chaise-longue. Rubbing his hands gleefully together, he sped from the room, bumping into Hunt and the paramedics on his way out. He smiled evilly at his brother, and said, “Heee heee”.
Hunt, knowing that wicked laugh of old, looked anxiously at his love, who was lying prostrate on the chaise-longue. She sat up, suddenly, and glared at him. “How could, you Hunt? How could you? Beau Brummell has seen me in a compromising situation, now, and will make me a laughing-stock. And he is going to ensure that Chase becomes the Earl of Boredom.
Hunt glowered. “You are mistaken, my love – Chase was in the room before me. He tricked you into believing that it was me!” “I do not believe you ! I trusted you, and you have betrayed my trust.”
“No – no it is a Big Misunderstanding!”
Macy opened her Chanel handbag, and withdrew some tissues from it. She blew her pretty nose, and looked tragically up at Hunt. “I will never forgive you, Hunt. Never!”
She ran from the room, leaving Hunt staring sadly after her. He got out his cell phone and called his mother. She would understand….[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”A Day in the Life of Anita Blake, Vampire Humper by Holly ” open=”no”]
An homage to LKH’s Cerulean Sins as written by Holly:
A Day in the Life of Anita Blake, Vampire Humper
It was Jason’s turn to spend the night with me. He said something about drawing the short straw. Guess that’s how they determine the winner. I took a shower so that I could be fresh for him. Of course, it took 3 hours as I kept getting distracted by the soap on a rope and the way the water spilled across my skin. As I walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, I spotted Jason. He must have let himself in through the revolving door I had installed last week.
As I looked at him I could feel the passion of the ardeur spill over my body. I dropped the towel. As it spilled from my shoulders, I could see Jason’s desire rising up to meet my own. I could see the desire spilling over his boyish face. I started crawling across the floor toward him, which excited him so that he had 12 orgasms before I could even reach him. Finally I was kneeling in front of him. Since I knew he was into the kinky stuff, I started to suck his big toe. The ardeur became almost overwhelming as it crashed and spilled all over my entire being. Who knew that toe jam could be so sexy? My beast roiled within me, his beast roiled within him. As our eyes met, we both knew it was mating season.
]]>Support our sponsors I could stand it no longer. I told him to take me, take me as I had never been took before. He carried me over to the bed where we made red hot monkey love all night long, until he pleaded for mercy and lapsed into unconsciousness. I knew it was the power of my allure that made him comatose now. I must have really been incredible! We slept the sleep of the tired and satiated. When I awoke in the morning, I saw him lying beside me, his hair spilling across the pillowcase. Once again the ardeur began to rise, filling me, spilling me with uncontrollable urges. I ran my hand across the smoothness of his chest. He awoke and told me that he was too sore from our hot monkey love the night before and would be unable to perform. I glanced down at his crotch. His member was all red, and chafed and .swollen. I knew I could wait no longer, and I told him what he needed was some sexual healing.
He protested, but I could tell what he really wanted. As I leaned over his crotch my hair spilled onto his pubic area. He gasped and let out a groan. Then my lips spilled over his huge, swollen organ. Then my drool spilled onto him, as drool is want to do. As I took the fullness of him into my mouth, he let out a scream. He insisted that it wasn’t a scream of pleasure, but I knew he was just being coy. I could tell how much he was enjoying it by the way his eyes were rolling back into his head. I took him again and again, until I ran out of time. I knew I needed to leave him as I would barely have time to get to work without being late. Well, maybe I would have time to drop by Micah’s place for 5 or 6 quickies first. I told Jason I had to leave. He was so upset by my departure that he rolled himself into a ball, and lay there crying and whimpering. I felt so powerful in that moment. I had been so good that I actually brought a man to tears! I knew I had reached a new height in my sexual expertise. As I said goodbye, I thought I heard him mumble something about ointment. I guess he wants to be prepared for our next encounter.
I stopped by Micah’s place and was greeted at the door by his enormous member. Of course, Micah himself was still in the bedroom. So I yelled to him that I had arrived, and he replied, “Come”. Those were exactly the words I longed to hear. I leapt upon his huge throbbing hunk of meat. I felt him enter me inch by inch. I could feel the hard fullness of him filling me, filling me to the brim, filling me as only a man the size of a minivan could. When it came time to leave, I tried to kiss him goodbye, but I couldn’t reach his mouth with his enormous dick in the way.
When I got to work, Bert came into my office to chide me for being late. I could tell what he really wanted, the words he didn’t dare to say out loud. So I told him that I felt we should really keep our relationship professional with him being my boss and all. His lips said no, but his eyes said yes as I could see what he really wanted was to take me and have sex like crazed weasels. He stomped out disgustedly. I knew he was disgusted with himself for having so little self control in my presence.
I received a call from Richard that morning telling me that I had given him an STD and should really see a doctor before spreading it to anyone else. So I made an appointment for the next week. I set aside a whole afternoon knowing that the doctor would undoubtedly want me just as much as every other man on the planet. I managed to make it through the day with only humping 3 customers and a zombie. It was a slow day at the office. (I know what you’re thinking about the zombie, but I just couldn’t help myself. The vacant stare from it’s dead eyes was such a turn-on. Plus it was very good at following instructions) . I had a date with Jean Claude that evening after work. As I walked down to my car, I could have sworn I saw Damien, but he turned and ducked around the corner so fast, I couldn’t be sure. That’s been happening a lot lately. The guys must be planning some big surprise in my honor no doubt.
As I arrived at Jean Claude’s residence, I saw that he had prepared a candlelight dinner for two. He normally can’t eat regular food, but the power of my mere presence is enough to negate that little problem. We sat down at the carefully prepared table. I reached for my wine glass to make a toast to our eternal lust, but I accidentally knocked over the glass spilling its contents onto the table. Since I hate to see perfectly good wine go to waste, I started to lick and suck it up right off the table making loud slurping noises, which excited Jean Claude so much that he came 3 times. I rushed into his arms and felt our passion and desire start to overwhelm us. I heard him mumble something that sounded like, “Dammit Anita, you ruined my best tablecloth.” I knew that I obviously misheard that and what he really said was, “Dammit Anita, I want to take you now, right here on the tablecloth.” So I reached behind me to spill the dishes onto the floor. They landed with a loud crash that washed over us both. I paused as I reached toward the candlestick. It was so long, and red, and .waxy. It was an enormous candlestick, the biggest candlestick I had ever seen! I could tell by the way it flirtatiously flickered at me that it returned my passion. Sometimes a candlestick wants what a candlestick wants. As it’s flame burned higher and higher, I brought myself back to the situation at hand. Obviously I must take care of Jean Claude first, since he did actually buy the food and wine and went to all the trouble of setting things up for me. It’s never good to piss off a master vampire.
I took him by the hand and started leading him toward the bedroom. I noticed he had installed a brand new brass doorknob on his bedroom door. I could tell by its metallic gleam that it too wanted me. I felt it grow harder in my hard as I turned it to enter the room. I made a mental note to get back to doorknob later, and led Jean Claude to the bed. I rode him all night long. At daybreak, he said, “Not now, Anita, I’m about to turn into a corpse”. As I felt the life force leaving his body a thought occurred to me. He’s a corpse now, a.stiff.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Dear Author by Marguerite Kraft ” open=”no”]
Thank you very much for your submission (scribbled in by hand: PAIN AND PLEASURE) to our new erotica line, HOT NIGHTS. Unfortunately, your work does not meet our needs at this time. Thanks for thinking of us!
March 2, 2002
Attn: Ms. Flame O’Malley
Dear Ms. O’Malley:
Thanks very much for the opportunity to reread your rewritten manuscript, PAIN AND PLEASURE. I admire your persistence and your willingness to refine your work. Your writing style is very clear, and your characters are quite endearing. Unfortunately, your love scenes simply aren’t strong enough for our HOT NIGHTS line. There are only four love scenes in the novel, and they are all frankly too plain vanilla for this line. Sex scenes in ordinary, everyday settings such as beds simply don’t titillate our readers enough. But I’m sure another publishing house will think differently. Best of luck finding a home for this!
PS- Excise the words “throbbing manhood” from your vocabulary. Please.
May 15, 2002
Dear Ms. O’Malley,
Thanks for giving me another opportunity to look at your further rewrites to PAIN AND PLEASURE. Although I deeply appreciate the fact that you removed all references to throbbing manhoods, as you pointed out in your cover letter, I still feel that your writing suffers from an overreliance on euphemism. A good example of this problem is the scene in which the hero thrusts his “love banana” into the heroine’s “warm melted marshmallow,” or the scene with the hero’s “massive stone pestle grinding relentlessly” into the heroine’s “wet, soft mortar.” Our readers prefer blunt, contemporary language. If you’ll rewrite, I’d be willing to take another look.
July 23, 2002
Thanks for letting me look over your rewrites again. PAIN AND PLEASURE is much improved, thanks to the hard work you’ve put into it. However, I continue to have problems with some of your metaphors. The depiction of the hero’s penis as a rigid wooden spoon stirring the heroine’s “creamy alfredo sauce,” while vivid, doesn’t work for me. The scene in which the heroine experiences orgasm as “a wondrous sparkling display of blue, red, and gold fireworks, shimmering against a glittering backdrop of silvery stars” may also be just a bit too overwrought. Feel free to send it in again when you’ve reworked it!
September 8, 2002
Thanks for letting me take another look at your rewrites to PAIN AND PLEASURE. Your love scenes are much improved. I was most impressed by the juxtaposition of Tantric techniques and yoga positions, although the vibrator, dildo, and inflatable doll certainly added a great deal to the love story as well. The sexy scene where the hero was handcuffed to a Dumpster vividly underscored the emotional attachment between your hero and heroine and was incredibly moving. I’d like to see still more love scenes, however, as there are still only ten. If you could heat up the book some more, I’d be happy to take another look.
November 19, 2002
Wow! Your revisions to PAIN AND PLEASURE are simply incredible. From the very beginning of the book your hero and heroine seem inexhaustibly inventive. The love scene on top of Mount Rushmore was terrific. I’ve never before imagined a kiwi fruit being used in such a fashion, but now I’m sure I’ll never eat another one without thinking of your book. And the surprising use of 5W30 motor oil made the scene even hotter!
Unfortunately, although your sex scenes are remarkable, the plot seems to have faltered a bit. I wonder if you’d be willing to rewrite so that the reader gets a stronger sense of the love between your hero and heroine. There is too much sex here, and not enough emotion. You’ve written fourteen sex scenes, which seems like overkill in a book of this length. Also, your language is a little too blunt. It isn’t necessary to be crude to be sexy– in fact, our readers prefer euphemism to excessively blunt language. Perhaps if you were to remove a few of the sex scenes and add some euphemisms, the book would be stronger.
I’d be happy to look at your revisions.
January 12, 2003
Thank you very much for your submission (scribbled in by hand: PAIN AND PLEASURE) to our new erotica line, HOT NIGHTS. Unfortunately, we are no longer publishing this particular line. Thank you for thinking of us![/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Once a Ho by Blythe Barnhill” open=”no”]
Amelia trembled as she approached the minister and saw Roderick waiting for her, love shining in his eyes. She knew she loved him, and if she could just manage to get through this ceremony, she could explain the truth. But when the minister said the fatal words, “Speak now, or forever hold your peace,” she knew she just couldn’t go through with it.
“Roddy,” she whispered brokenly, “I can’t marry you. I don’t deserve you. You must find someone better.”
“But, Amelia -”
“I’m not a virgin!” The words echoed through the church, and Roderick’s face crumpled in pain and disbelief.
“I’m so sorry, Roddy. I didn’t have a choice.”
Roderick’s rage was instantaneous. “Someone forced you? Who is the bastard? I’ll kill him!”
“Oh Roddy, you can’t do that. He didn’t force me exactly. It was just.well, Papa’s debts.I’m sorry. We were out of money and I had to sell myself. It was j-just the one time!” She sobbed.
“Oh honey, I’m sorry I didn’t realize your father was so-but wait? When did this happen?”
“T-Tuesday!” Amelia wailed.
“But Amelia,” Roderick said, “I was only gone for a fortnight. I was coming home Thursday. I could have given you the money then.”
“Oh, I couldn’t have asked you, Roddy. It would have been so dishonorable. Papa’s debts-”
Amelia’s father, Sir Stepplethwaite, came forward. “Amelia, what on earth are you talking of? I didn’t have any debts. And I was coming home Thursday!”
“Papa,” Amelia sniffed, “It was the butcher. You owed him f-five p-pounds. There wasn’t any money, we were out of bacon, and I’d spent my quarterly allowance. And the s-servants had to be paid.”
“Beggin’ you pardon, miss, but we’re paid on Thursdays,” supplied a housemaid. “But if it came to that, we’d work for free. We’ve loved you since you were a sweet, tender-hearted girl. We would’ve waited.”
Sir Stepplethwaite and Roderick turned in unison to the butcher. “Ted Dobson!” bellowed Sir Stepplethwaite, “How could you frighten my daughter? Haven’t I always paid my bills on time? Were you the vile cad who traded Amelia’s maidenhead for a rasher of bacon?”
“I’ll kill you!” shouted Roderirck.
“It wasn’t me!” squealed a panicked Ted. “I told her she could pay me back any time! I said Thursday or Friday would be fine. She, uh, kinda scared me when she knocked on my door with the money at 10:30 Tuesday night. And I never touched her, sir, I swear.”
“I was coming home Thursday,” muttered Roderick.
“She didn’t have to pay me yet,” said the housemaid.
“And I think we still had some bacon in the smokehouse, for all that, the poor sweet lamb,” sighed the cook.
“Argh!” Roderick paced the length of the church, “If Ted didn’t have her, who did? Who took advantage of Amelia’s stupidi–, er, innocence?”
The local dancing master timidly raised his hand. “Look, sir, I didn’t really know her that well, but she said she needed five pounds and was prepared to make ‘the ultimate sacrifice.’ I offered to just give her the money, but-”
“Oh Roddy, don’t you see?” Amelia pleaded. “It would have been dishonorable. I had no choice! The butcher-”
“I. Was. Coming. Home. THURSDAY!” said Roddy through clenched teeth.
“She didn’t have to pay me yet,” the housemaid and butcher chorused in unison.
“I really don’t think we were out of bacon, actually,” said the cook.
“I have never been in debt in my life, and I was coming home Thursday,” sneered Sir Stepplethwaite.
“Roderick, Papa, I’m sorry,” Amelia sniffed. “I thought I had no choice, you see. Roderick, you must find a wife more worthy of you.”
Roderick’s fist hit the pulpit with a resounding crash. “I was fucking coming home THURSDAY!”
“I’m sorry, Roddy. I really thought it couldn’t wait. You should find someone else to marry, someone more worthy.” Amelia gazed at him fearfully, her eyes limpid blue pools of anguish.
Privately, Roddy was inclined to agree. Though Amelia was technically a diamond of the first water, he’d known since he first started courting her that she wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. Fortunately, her ample bosom and sweet, self-sacrificing nature usually made up for the fact that she was two bays short of a matched pair. Still, he thought with a pang of Melissande, his former mistress, who not only gave the world’s best blow jobs, but was completely conversant in enlightenment thinkers. “Say, Amelia,” he asked, “Do you know who Voltaire is?
Amelia concentrated, and a hush fell over the assembled guests, who could almost smell the wood burning. “A-a-a mantua maker?” she supplied hopefully.
Roddy winced. Well, clearly someone had to take care of this girl and keep her away from pointy objects and complicated machinery. Or, he thought darkly, her dangerous propensity to prostitute herself whenever there was a perceived shortage in the pantry. Surely the women at the lower end of the intelligence bell curve deserved love too, and he was a little sick of bluestockings anyway. And no one could deny she had a self-sacrificing nature, whereas Melissande was really just a mercenary slut.
“Honey, it’s okay,” he said gently. “We all make stupid mistakes sometimes. Well, okay, maybe not this stupid, but you meant well.”
He was rewarded with a watery smile. “Oh thank you, Roddy! I swear I’ll never do anything so stupid again.” As they finished the ceremony and exited the church to the enthusiastic accolades of the townspeople, Amanda winced as she cut her foot on a rock. Roderick looked down and noticed she’d forgotten to wear her shoes. Again. Well, Amelia might be too stupid to live, but with him by her side she’d probably make it for an extra ten years, at least.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Pandora’s Button by Nancy Carrigan ” open=”no”]
As a god, Aries knew that he could protect the humans. The problem was he didn’t want to. Well, he wanted to protect one human, but that was just so he could keep her naked and in his bed. But if he had to protect all the other humans too, he wasn’t sure if sex with her was worth the effort.
“Aries”, his pet turtle, Rufus, called from his tank.
“Aries! You must take the quest that the Elder’s have set for you! All of MANkind depends on you finding Pandora’s Button!”
Now, when Rufus put it THAT way, maybe this little quest was worth it.
Pandora Tightbox was bored. Another day just like all the rest. What she wouldn’t give for a change. Any change. Suddenly, she felt a tingle start climbing up her spine. Wait, that tingle started in the front! From the lowest button on her jeans! The one that always gave her a shiver when she buttoned her jeans up. For weeks now, she had been trying to figure out why the fourth button gave her an almost orgasmic feeling. She hadn’t yet tried rubbing the button, although she’d been thinking about it a lot lately.
Since she was home and bored, it was time to test out that button. Slowly, her fingers moved to her jean buttons. First button opened. nothing. Second button opened. nada. Third button opened. zip. Fourth button. Holy Hannah!
With a gasp, Pandora threw herself down onto the couch, never taking her fingers off of her fourth button.
Watching her from the corner of her living room was an invisible Aries. He had been trying to figure out how to get Pandora’s Button without her knowing. But, it seems he was too late. With a sigh, he moved closer to watch Pandora. With any luck, she’ll never figure out how it works, he thought.
Pandora continued to stroke her button. The feelings were more intense than anything she’d ever felt before. Writhing and bathed in sweat, she yearned for something. then suddenly, suddenly, there it was. “Ah! Ah!” she moaned.
Damn, thought Aries. If this gets out, women everywhere will figure out their own buttons, and then where will that get us men? I must quickly remove the memory of this and replace it with one of me giving her this pleasure.
Pandora sat up and looked around her living room. She sensed that someone was there, well, actually, she smelled something. something bad. Maybe, wet leather? No, no, it’s worse than that. B.O. It’s B.O. There’s something that smells like B.O. in my house!
Leaping from the couch, Pandora ran to the door, only to run smack dab into that B.O. smell. Suddenly right in front of her was a man, and one that smelled. But, oh goodness, he was gorgeous. Well, gorgeous and smelly. But, how often did she get gorgeous men in her house. As she was pondering what to do, Aires grabbed her and held her tight to his body.
“I am Aries. I am here to give you pleasure. More pleasure than you will ever know”.
“Ah, right, ah, Aries? Um, listen, you are gorgeous, but you smell. Plus, there’s this whole button theory I need to work on.”
“Smell? Woman, I am Aries, a Greek God. Every woman wants me! My job is to pleasure you, but I also do it because I want you.”
“Um, sure, whatever there, Archie. I mean Aries. Listen, I need to make a call. My friend Meghan had this weird feeling about her button the other day and I need to tell her what I found out. So, if you could just, like, go back to Greece or wherever, that’d be great”.
Aries, because he was not wanted by Pandora and so failed his job, was turned into stone, right in her living room. Pandora, pausing to pat her new stone statute on the butt, picked up the phone to call her friend Meghan; they had a lot to talk about! This whole button thing was unbelievable. Excited as she was, Pandora wondered how long it would take for the B.O. smell to leave her small house.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Across the Room by Margaret Murray-Evans” open=”no”]
Across the room they eyed each other. Blue eyes stared at brown. .. or were they black, or were they green? It was hard to tell without her glasses. So she decided to put them on. Ah! That’s more like it! He really was amazing to look at. Short and dumpy with a small tuft of hair he had allowed to grow long enough to tie with a black ribbon. He wore a puce green jacket with a yellow shirt. His pants were navy blue. His neckcloth was tied so tightly, you could tell he could barely breath. He made her heart sing. The quizzing glass over one eye was all the thing. It made his one eye so much larger than the rest. Why, the one larger eye was brown, but the smaller eye was black. She was startled when someone came up from her blind side. He was tall and very muscular, with a strong handsome face. He asked her to dance, but she would have nothing to do with him. So she turned her head to give him the cut direct. She ached to gaze back at her beloved (already she thought of him this way) across the crowded room. But the handsome faced rogue (weren’t the handsome ones always a rogue) would not let her turn away. Instead he parked himself in front of her and grabbed her around the waist and kissed her in front of everyone in the assembly. He kissed her till she lost her breath. He kissed her till she felt his member swell and swell and swell . Until he jerked and jerked and jerked…and she felt her dress grow wet. Ha! How disgusting she though as he let her go. She walked off with the smell of sex on her dress to her true love…who smelled more and more of onions and garlic as she walked across the room.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Virgin Widow Sex Kitten by Cheryl Sneed” open=”no”]
Drake positioned his stiff, throbbing manhood at the portal to Penelope’s dripping sheath. Finally. Finally he was to possess the enigmatic, widowed Lady Handsworth. He had been dreaming of this moment since the night he met her in Vauxhall and managed to steal a kiss on the Dark Walk. She had reeled him in like a seasoned, widow-on-the-town, brushing provocatively against him at Venetian Breakfasts, granting passionate kisses in theatre alcoves with the seemingly untutored air that drove him mad. Now. Now, he would make her his.
He slid further into her tight tunnel, so incredibly tight it was an effort not to embarrass himself by coming too soon. She moaned beneath him. Unable to wait any longer, he gave a cry and buried himself to the hilt as she shouted in pain. It was unmistakable. He had felt the barrier rip before his onslaught. She was a virgin!
He quickly withdrew from her, his manhood no longer a mighty sword, but shocked into regressing to its flaccid, though still impressive, state.
“Ow!” squeaked Penelope. “That hurt!”
“You’re a virgin?” Drake asked accusingly. “A damned virgin!”
]]>Support our sponsors “Well, yes. Is that a problem?”
“Is that a problem?!” Drake lunged from the bed, grabbed his dressing gown and impatiently tied it around his waist. He filled a large glass with brandy and threw himself into the low chair before the fire with a snort of disgust.
Penelope sat up in the bed, drawing the sheet up to cover her beautifully formed breasts. “Is that it? Is that the finish? That last part hurt, but I enjoyed everything that came before.”
Drake snorted into his glass and took another long swallow.
“What? What is it? Why are you angry? I’m sorry I screamed, but you surprised me, you know. How was I to know that – – that thing would hurt so much? I’ll try to be quieter next time.”
“Next time?!” Drake’s head snapped up. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a damned virgin?”
“I didn’t think it was important. Is it?”
“Penelope,” Drake strove for a calm tone, “how long were you married to Lord Handsworth?”
“Ten years. Why?”
“And in all those years, he never.. took you to his bed?”
“Oh yes, of course he did. We would sit in bed together and he’d have me read to him. His favorite was Tom Jones.”
“Is that all you did in bed – read? You didn’t.. do what we were doing? I know he was old, but surely he must have tried to.”
“Oh no!” Penelope blushed. “Though he did look at me once or twice and say ‘I wish.’ but he never said what it was he wished. I do wish he had told me what it was, for I would certainly have given it to him. He was so very kind to me.”
Drake shook his head in bemused wonder. How could she be so naïve? He could have sworn she had been sending out lures to him for weeks now.
“That kiss at Vauxhall..”
Penelope lowered her eyes. “That was my first kiss, and it was a wondrous thing!”
“Your first..?” Drake shook his head. “But how does a virgin experiencing her first kiss know to thrust her tongue down a man’s mouth?”
“Oh, that was an accident! I didn’t mean to! I tasted a bit of strawberry on your lips, and I couldn’t help myself. I love strawberries and so I.. I licked it off. You didn’t seem to mind then, why do you now?”
“And at the Venetian Breakfast when you brushed against me and fondled my..”
“Oh! That!” Penelope lowered her eyes again. “You had muffin crumbs on your waistcoat and I brushed them away, but they fell down toward your breeches and so I followed them…”
Drake laughed ruefully and shook his head. What he had taken for arts and allurements had been nothing more than stupidity combined with innocence, a potent combination, it would seem.
“Drake, ” Penelope said softly, “can we not continue? Does this mean you don’t want me anymore?” She scooted to the edge of the bed, the sheet falling away from her luscious breasts.
Drake sat up stiffly in his chair. “Well, it does change things. You are – were – a virgin and there are rules about such things.”
“But, none but we two know that I was innocent before tonight.” She stood, allowing the sheet to slide sensuously down her lush body. “I won’t tell, if you won’t.” She began to walk sinuously toward him, her hands running over her own body from her breasts, down her ribs and over her hips.
Something else of Drake’s sat up stiffly in his chair. “What are you doing? How do you know to do that?”
Penelope shook out her long, glistening hair, allowing it to fall behind her shoulders, her abundant, coral-tipped breasts bobbing tantalizingly before him. He swallowed. Hard.
“I don’t know. Maybe it was finally losing that pesky maidenhead, but I feel so free, so natural, so… hot.” She gave him a smoldering look as she dropped to her knees before him. She placed her hands on his knees and slid the silky fabric of his dressing gown up his rock-hard thighs.
“You will tell me if I do anything wrong, won’t you? I don’t really know what I’m doing, but feel compelled to do this.” Her hands reached the tie of his gown and slowly undid it to part the fabric, exposing his erection to her greedy eyes.
“No, no.” Drake’s voice was raspy. He cleared his throat. “No, you’re doing fine.”
Penelope smiled at him as she ran her fingers through the pelt of hair on his chest. She leaned forward and kissed each nipple, swirling her tongue over one, nipping the other with her small, white teeth. Drake groaned his approval.
“Ooh!” Penelope looked down to see his manhood nestled between her breasts. She brought her hands to either side her breasts and squeezed him between them, undulating in a circular pattern.
“Oh my god!” Drake was panting now.
“Is that not right? Can I do that? It feels good, but if you don’t like it.” Penelope said hesitantly.
“Oh no! It’s. it’s fine. Keep going.” Drake managed to say between pants.
“Oh then. how about this? Is this allowed?” and Penelope bent her head down toward the shiny, smooth head of his manhood peeking up between her firm globes, where a pearly drop of his essence had appeared. Her tongue flickered over it, lapping him, circling him, taking him into her mouth where she sucked with reckless abandon.
“Where – what – how – – how do you know to do that?!” Drake gasped. “I’ve had experienced whores who didn’t do that as well.”
Penelope released him from her mouth with a popping sound. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling beneath her lashes. “Just a quick learner?”
She crawled up his body, shoving the dressing gown off his broad, muscular shoulders and straddling his lap. “Now, tell me if I’m doing this right.”
She grasped his throbbing manhood in her hand, guided it to her dewy opening and sat down upon it.
“Ahhhh..” She said on a sigh. “That didn’t hurt at all that time!” She smiled at Drake whose face was showing signs of strain. “But you look as if you are in pain. Shall I stop?”
“NO!” Drake shouted. “Don’t even think about stopping!”
“Good, because I don’t want to. Is it all right if I move? I feel as if I should move.”
Drake got out a strangled affirmative.
Penelope rose up on her knees and slowly slid down the length of him with a sigh of contentment. “Ooh! Look what I can do!” This time, as she rose up, her inner muscles tightened around him squeezing him with an almost painful pleasure. “Oh, I’m glad I found that. That is much better isn’t it?”
Drake was beyond coherent articulation. He managed a grunt of appreciation.
Penelope’s hands crept up to her breasts where she fondled them, plucking at the nipples as she undulated on him. “Oh, this is good, too” she said.
Drake’s control snapped as he pushed her hands away and attached his mouth to her breast, drawing on the nipple with fierce intensity as Penelope began to shudder, signaling the onset of her fulfillment. Drake released her breast, and brought her mouth to his where he captured her keening cries. He grabbed her hips and thrust strongly once, twice, a third time into her before crying out his own release.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, their racing hearts slowing, their breathing becoming less audible, Penelope raised her head. She reached up and licked his lips. “That was wonderful. Can we do it again? I have a few more ideas.”
Drake groaned and fell back into his chair. She was going to be the death of him. God save him from Virgin Widows.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=” Love’s Burning Itch by Jenny Evans” open=”no”]
Miss Letitia Bennett paused, her hand on the doorknob to her true love’s bedchamber. Her heart pounded in her chest as the enormity of what she was about to do sank in. Soon, too soon, she’d be forced to marry her despicable cousin Edmund. But before she settled for a lifetime of clammy, cousinly embraces, she was going to enjoy a single night of throbbing passion. Something to remember in the long, cold Yorkshire nights that lay ahead.
A groan sounded through the thick mahogany door and she knew it was her lover, moaning for her to come in and ease the torturous desire he’d felt for her ever since they’d met earlier that day.
“Don’t break the bed,” said the footman who’d led her to her true love’s bedchamber. She blushed fiercely, embarrassed that one of the servants knew what she was about to do, and pushed the door open.
“I’m here, your grace! Here to unite our bodies as one,” she trilled. She gasped as her eyes adjusted to the bright light of the room.
There, on a great four-poster bed, lay Roderick Horne, Duke of Lech. His family was illustrious, but he was so notorious that everyone in the ton called him The Lech. There was no other.
“Oh, hallo,” he called. On his left lay a busty blonde; on his right, a striking redhead. A mysterious brunette sprawled over his feet. “Care for a menage a cinq?” he asked.
Letitia could only shake her head, her mouth even more agape than it usually was. Being a true innocent, she was often surprised.
“Sevensies, then?” The Lech went on. “I’ve a couple of footmen undressing in the next room. I’ve only to call them in.”
“But we’re supposed to . by ourselves . my God, seven! That can’t be legal.”
The Lech sighed. “All right, girls, get out. Five minutes, please. Go have yourselves a spot to eat.”
The women – his doxies, Letitia belatedly realized – filed out of the room. Finally, she was alone with the only man who could ever teach her real passion.
The Lech stretched and pulled on a burgundy silk dressing gown. Its lime green lining and mink lapels would’ve looked froufrou on another man, but they only enhanced his raw masculinity. He stalked toward her, his gaze as predatory as a panther’s.
“Couch?” he asked, wiggling one coal-black brow. “Or floor? The bed’s a bit damp, I’m afraid.”
Letitia bit her lip. Her womanly chamber began to burn; she instinctively knew it was a hint of what he alone could give her. Lust mixed with trepidation warred for supremacy in her heart. Lust won.
“Oh, your grace,” she said. “I hardly know what to do.” “Not to worry,” he said with an oily leer. Seizing her in his arms, he slurped at the hollow at the base of her throat. His hands flew to cover her breasts, and he began to twist her nipples like a candy maker pulling taffy. “Letitia,” he breathed. “How I adore your Little-tit-i-as.” He chortled loudly at his own lame pun.
“Ow,” she moaned. “That’s too painful for words.” She smacked his hands away. “I’ve watched hundreds, perhaps thousands, of animals mating. But none of papa’s chickens ever did that.”
“The chambermaid seems to like it well enough,” he said. Hurt radiated from his eyes like heat from a radiator. She remembered all the pain he’d already suffered – not making the best cricket team at Eton; losing his favorite valet in a cholera epidemic.
“What else’ve you got?” she asked, her sugary voice sweeter than sugar. She suddenly yearned to please him and be pleased by him, if only for a night. Or in this case, she realized with a glance at the clock, for three and a half more minutes.
“Watch this,” he said, his voice seeming to lick all of her senses to life. “I shall mesmerize you into a state of lust with my man-cobra.”
He moved a few steps away and let his dressing gown fall open. Slowly, he jerked his hips to the left, then the right, then the front. His hips jerked faster and faster as he leapt toward her, as if drawn by an invisible string.
Letitia fought back horrified laughter. “Who taught you that?”
“Thought it up meself,” he said with a jaunty grin. “An opera dancer I had once said it was the most erotic thing she’d ever seen.”
“Really?” Letitia’s voice was tinged with doubt.
The Lech frowned. “Actually she called it the most bizarre thing, but her English was horrible. I knew what she meant.”
Letitia found her attention drawn to an ugly red sore on the side of his man-cobra. “You’re hurt,” she said softly, her eyes searching his. “Did you get wounded in the war?”
He snorted. “If by ‘wounded’ you mean ‘the clap’ and by ‘war’ you mean ‘East-end brothel,’ then yes. Yes, I did.”
“The clap?” She edged closer to the door.
He plopped onto a chair and took a swig out of a nearby brandy decanter. “Not to worry,” he said as he wiped his mouth. “The doctor said it was a healthy dose.”
“Oh,” she cried, stamping her foot, “it’s not supposed to be this way! We’re supposed to join body and soul in a glorious night of passion before I return to Yorkshire. You’ll be so entranced by my virginal charms that you’ll go after me and force me to marry you so that no other man can partake of my lovebox.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked. “You got tits made of gold or something?”
She shook her head. “Secret past as a sultan’s harem girl? Extraordinary skills with a whip?”
“N-n-n-not that I-I know of,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“In that case, I don’t think your plan will work. Honestly, my marrying a virgin is about as likely as someone paying me for sex.” He threw the brandy decanter into the fireplace and stared bitterly at his feet. “Nothing good like that ever happens to me,” he muttered.
“Goodbye, then,” she said, moving to the door. She cast one last look over her shoulder at the Lech, searching for some sign that he wanted her to stay. He was yelling out the window, asking a passing street vendor if she liked to party.
Letitia sighed, resigned to her fate. Perhaps someday she’d learn affection for cousin Edmund, something more than the pity mixed with contempt that she felt for him now. But she knew it would never compare to what she could have felt with The Lech. For he alone could have taught her true passion. And the value of penicillin.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Pitch by author Amanda Grange” open=”no”]
Purple Prose as written by author Amanda Grange in homage to Austen’s Pride & Prejudice:
‘I’ve never done a pitch before, but . . . ‘ The face on the other side of the desk was rapidly losing interest. Pulling herself together, she said, ‘I’ve written a wonderful book. The hero’s called Fitzwilliam -‘
The face grew even more bored.
‘ – I mean William -‘
‘ – that is to say, Wills . . der . . .’ she said, playing for time, ‘Will.’
‘Der . . . will?’ He frowned. ‘Ah, Devil! That’s a great accent you’ve got there, Miss Austen, but you’re going to have to work on it. OK, so the hero’s called Devil.’
She had his attention now. He had the name wrong, but it was a minor point and one she could sort out later.
‘Like all single men of good fortune, he was in want of -‘
‘A woman like no other,’ he said, nodding. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk.
‘I was going to say a wife,’ she faltered.
‘Yes, yes, at the end of the book,’ he said impatiently,’ but we haven’t got there yet. So tell me, Miss Austen, how do they meet?’
‘They meet at a ball. He -‘
‘ – drags her into the window embrasure, draws the curtains round them, then whilst the music plays and duchesses dance a few inches away, he ravishes her. She’s driven to ecstasy, a loud chord from the orchestra masks their cries, she straightens her dress, he reties his cravat, and they join the other dancers, waltzing together as though nothing has happened. I love it.’
‘ – says she’s not very beautiful,’ finished Miss Austen weakly. He looked startled. Then excited.
‘Yes, I see what you mean. They meet, he says she’s no beauty, she’s annoyed – a woman scorned. SHE drags HIM into the window embrasure and SHE teaches HIM the meaning of hot, naked lust. Go on!’ he said.
‘Well, her little sister teases his friend to give a ball -‘
‘Ah! A minx! Long legs, pert breasts. She teases the friend beyond endurance, he takes her -‘
‘No, no, no! He falls in love with her sister. Her other sister. Jane.’
He rubbed his hands together. ‘What, there are THREE of them?’
‘FIVE sisters. This is HOT. You’re going places, Austen. I can see the sequels already. So the minx teases the friend – what’s his name?’
‘Singley? Oh, Sinfully – it’s that accent again. So the minx – what’s her name?’
‘Litier? Ah, Lustier! So Lustier teases Sinfully beyond endurance. Jane – you’ll have to work on that name – Jane comes along, there’s a big misunderstanding -‘
‘What, no Big Mis?’
‘No! They go to the ball -‘
‘All five of them?’
‘Yes. Jane, Lizzy, Mary, Kitty and Lustier – I mean Lydia. Mary’s bookish. She plays the piano and wears glasses – ‘
‘Oho! THAT type! Still waters. Passion unleashed. Take off your glasses, let down your hair.’
‘NO, NO, NO!!! Lizzy’s in love with Devil . . . I mean Fitzwilliam . . . that is Darcy.’
‘Three of them at once! This girl’s a fast worker.’
‘She . . . is . . . in . . . love . . . with . . . Fitzwilliam . . . Darcy,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘He has ten thousand a year -‘
‘Ten THOUSAND? You’ve got to be kidding. He has TEN THOUSAND women a year? And viagra hadn’t even been invented then! What a stud.’
‘Ten thousand pounds,’ she said icily.
He frowned. ‘What’s that in dollars?’
‘Never mind. He’s rich. Very rich. And he’s sort of betrothed to the daughter of his mother’s friend.’
‘I see. His fiancée throws him over, he’s scarred for life – or so he thinks, until he meets Whatsername -‘
‘No, that isn’t it at all,’ she said.
‘OK, the fiancée’s a shrew. She’s determined to have him at all costs She’s not going to let anyone get in her way. She kidnaps Dizzy -‘
‘No one kidnaps anyone – unless you count Wickham eloping with Lydia.’
‘Dick ’em elopes with Lustier? They hide up in Birmingham, am I right?’
‘Where he ravishes her.’
‘I leave that to the readers’ imagination.’
‘Big mistake. The reader wants to know what happens. The reader has a right to know what happens. OK, so he ravishes her.’
‘Then Devil – Darcy turns up. He rescues Lustier – I mean Lydia.’
‘Before or after ravishing her?’
‘He doesn’t ravish her at all. He’s the HERO.’
‘Pity. It would have worked.’
‘And he makes Dick ’em – I mean Wickham – marry her. Lizzy is grateful to him for saving her sister’s reputation -‘ she said.
‘I see it all. She invites him for a moonlight swim. They slip naked beneath the waters. She thanks him with her body -‘
‘She says, Thank you, Mr Darcy -‘
‘What? He’s ravished her behind the curtains and in the lake, and she still calls him Mr Darcy?’
‘She starts to see she was wrong about him. Her aunt likes him -‘
‘Now that’s something new. Another sequel. Aunt’s Awakening. Thwarted love. The aunt’s twenty-five. Devil breaks her heart. She runs away. She meets an older man . . . or maybe a younger man . . . but that’s for later.’
‘Lizzy’s beginning to wish she hadn’t rejected Darcy,’ she said firmly. ‘She was wrong about him She believed Dick ’em – I mean Wickham – when he told lies about him.’
‘Ah! So that’s The Big Mis,’ he nodded.
‘So now she wants to make it up to him. I see candles, I see a bedroom. The aunt is out. Dizzy and Devil are alone -‘
‘His aunt hears of his attachment.’
‘HIS aunt. I thought it was HER aunt.’
‘They both have an aunt,’ she said quellingly. ‘His aunt hears of the attachment and tells her she can’t marry him. She says she’ll do as she likes -‘
‘And what she likes is to take him in the garden, on a stone bench, with the sun caressing her naked thighs -‘
‘He hears of it, and thinking it might mean she loves him, he goes to see her.’
‘She’s alone,’ he said. ‘The servants are out. He takes her on the sofa, with the firelight caressing her naked thighs -‘
‘He sits there without saying a word.’
‘Strong, silent, type. I get it. She has to make the first move.’
‘No one makes any moves. He goes.’
‘Without ravishing her?’
‘Without ravishing her.’
‘I thought he had ten thousand a year? Oh, I get it, he’s worn out. Who wouldn’t be? So she has to tempt him. I like it. I like it a lot.’
‘Her sister gets engaged,’ she told him forcefully. ‘Darcy goes to see her father and asks if he can marry her.’
‘Her FATHER? What does he have to do with anything.’
‘Darcy proposes, Lizzy says yes.’
‘OK, OK, you’re jumping ahead a bit, but I see it all. They marry, they have a boy and a girl, she bounces the baby on her knee, just as Lustier bursts in. She’s left Dick ’em. She’s tired of men. Until she sees the footman, with rippling muscles and long, flowing hair cascading around his smooth, tanned neck. Only he isn’t really a footman, but Seduction, 3rd earl of Manhood, who’s disguised himself as a footman in order to find the man who is blackmailing his sister -‘
‘No. That is THE END.’
‘But the sequels?’
‘There are no sequels. Lizzy meets Darcy at a ball. He’s rude, she stands up to him, he’s entranced. Wickham poisons her mind against him, then elopes with her sister. Darcy saves Lydia’s reputation, Lizzy realizes she was wrong about him, she’s relieved he’s still in love with her and they get married.’
‘It’s a pity. You almost had a great idea there, Austen, but you’ll have to put more action and sex in the thing it you want to get it published.’
‘Published?’ she breathed. The word rang like a silver bell in her ears. ‘Published?’ she whispered, entranced.
‘Yes, published. Just use the ideas we talked about, and you’re going into print.’
She should be true to her art, but oh! to be published . . .
‘It’s a deal, then,’ he said. ‘By the way, what do you call the thing?’
Oh, why not? she thought. ‘Prid – Sex and Sinfulness,’ she said.
‘Great. No we’ll want five sequels, one for each of the sisters, and one for the aunt. Titles?’
‘How about Sex and Sauciness, Sauce and Sexiness, Sin and Sex, and Sex and Sin?’ she said.
‘Great. And the last one?’
‘I’ve got it. Sense and Sensib – Sense and Sensuality.’
He grinned. ‘You’ll go far in this business, Austen. Welcome aboard.’[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Further Annotations of Lady Disallclown by Bina” open=”no”]
Purple Prose as written by Bina in homage to Julia Quinn and dedicated to the AAR staff (both past and present) in gratitude for many hours of entertainment:
The Further Annotations of Lady Disallclown
Ah.Gentle Readers. As summer hits its stride, those opposing ranks of Society once again wage full battle in what has oft been referred to in This Humble Column as the “wedding wars.” Indeed, the Ambitions Mamas seem more determined than ever to see their Darling Debutantes settled by capturing and conquering those ever-Determined Bachelors. But wait! A development of startling magnitude has been brought to This Author’s attention. Dapper Mr. Bert Spannerton of that prolific, alphabetical, look-alike Spannerton clan (and not to be confused with his elder brother, Viscount-I-Shoulda-Been-A-Duke Albert Spannerton) was overheard telling his younger sister Daffodil (fondly referred to as Daffy by her ubiquitous siblings) that the members of the elite Society of Men Who Are Cads (or SOMWAC) decided that the last man of said society to remain unmarried would be a rotten egg.
This Author is the first to admit amazement at the foibles of society (especially those of the male persuasion) but recognizes her duty to further examine this unexpected turn of events!
While This Author has never had the pleasure to set foot in that august, misogynistic establishment, Trite’s, rumor has it that the betting books are full of speculation as to who will be the rotten egg. Additionally, aspiration to avoid being the odiferous ovule can be the only justification for the recent influx of bachelors at the ever-tedious Dulmacks, an occurrence that has patroness Lady Rhode Island making certain additional stale cakes (Calvin Spannerton’s appetite being legendary) and warm lemonade be made available. So, too, is the increase in pretentious promenading along Jekyll Park’s Bottom Row thus explained.
And la, but what a to-do at Lady Bamburry’s ball Wednesday last. The appearance of no less than eight eligible Spannerton brothers (who have been otherwise known to avoid all such affairs with remarkable perseverance) had the direct effect of causing a lack of verticality in nearly every marriage-minded miss in attendance (in addition to causing general confusion since no one could tell them apart). One Spannerton sister (Flora? Lilac?) was overheard lamenting to another (Hydrangea?) their own lack of amorous alternatives being related to (and looking astonishingly like) the majority of available bachelors at the ball. Both sisters appeared determined not to end up being Mrs. Rotten Egg. It was furthermore whispered in This Author’s ear that Mrs. Plumesborogh was witnessed herding her own gaggle to yet another fitting for new dresses, most likely in the latest juicy-fruit colors and no doubt intended to be worn at next week’s latest episode in auditory anguish, the Pythe-Pith musicale. She was overheard quite loudly pronouncing her fondest wish to perhaps woo over one of the hundreds of eligible bachelors left lurking and in limbo from the hundreds of romances by Other Authors since no one in the series to which she belongs seem interested in her unfortunate daughters. She further contended to her unaccountably bosom friend, Viscountess Daisy Spannerton, (matron of aforementioned brood) that with enough class and capitol, even a villain would do. Said eligibles were observed diving back into their own pages wanting to avoid both the Plumesboroghs as well as being the rotten egg.
Indeed, Dear Reader, we none of us anticipate any of those oh-so-sparkling-darlings-of-the-ton Spannertons (excluding those too young to contemplate their nuptials, especially tiny Zinnia who is as yet just a zygote) to ever be the rotten egg though they have all evaded the marriage mart thus far (much to their mother’s distress). Titled or no, they are quite simply too spectacular and irresistible (though perhaps a bit overwhelming en masse) and one cannot help wondering if they will puff off alphabetically.. This Author anticipates eagerly all ensuing antics and presents the esteemed opinion that this Season will be the most connubial in recent history. Indeed, circulation of this wicked little column depends upon it! Can we expect a surfeit of invitations to attend hallowed ceremonies as summer wanes (those hastily procured special licenses so often necessary following parties of rustication notwithstanding)? Who will be the rotten egg? And whatever shall I do, Dear Reader, when those seemingly limitless Spannertons are finally all blissfully wedded?
LADY DISALLCLOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 15 JUNE 1813[/fusion_toggle][/fusion_accordion]