The 2002 Purple Prose Parody Contest

July 15, 2002:

Congratulations to Cheryl Sneed and Sherry Thomas. Out of 15 entries in this year’s PPP Contest, they tied to win. Both received AAR Bookbags signed by authors who attended RWA’s national conference in Denver. You can read analysis of the contest, along with reader comments, in the July 15th At the Back Fence. For access to the entries themselves, click here.

Cheryl on her win:

“My goodness! What a hoot. Well, though I’ve always enjoyed the Purple Prose contest, I’ve never entered. But as I read Stephanie Laurens’ On a Wild Night, I was struck by how her writing quirks and idiosyncrasies were more pronounced than usual (the Laurens buzz words, the sentence fragments!), and I thought to myself, “I could write a Purple Prose Parody in her style.” When the contest was announced, I remembered my stray thought and decided to give it a shot. I am a great fan of the Cynsters’ series and so know the stories and the style so well that the parody practically wrote itself. It was great fun. My thanks to all the other entrants for the pleasure of reading their parodies, and to AAR.”

Sherry on her win:

“This is so cool! Ah, it’s so nice. My piece was in part inspired by Mrs. Giggles’ rants against stupid heroines and their Daddy complexes. And partly because I’ve never understood the romancedom thing about innocents reforming rakes.”

Entries for this year’s contest were limited to 1,500 words – a word limit slightly longer than last year’s limit of 1,200 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=”To Refuse a Reprobate by Cheryl S” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Cheryl S as an homage to Stephanie Laurens:

To Refuse a Reprobate

Aloysius Fitz-Cynster, known far and wide as “Imp” (Damn his third cousin four times removed Devil and his first cousins for taking all the good demonic names anyway!) prowled around the fringes of the ballroom like an ocelot.

He knew she was here. Knew he could smell her. Knew he would find her. Knew he would have her.

Knew he was getting hard. Knew he’d better find her quickly before he embarrassed himself.

There she was. Hectate Higston-Houghton. Spinster. Bluestocking. Itch under his skin. Burr under his saddle.

Their eyes met. Hers wide. Startled. His predatory. Focused.

He quickly closed the gap between them as she turned to avoid him. Too late. He grabbed her wrist in his implacable grip and purred, “We have unfinished business.”

She tossed her head. “Humph! We have no business. Release me.”

Hiding their entwined hands in the folds of her gown, he brought them to his crotch. Her eyes widened even as they took on a lambent hue as she outlined his erection with her fingers.

Imp sucked in a quick breath. “Oh yes, we have unfinished business, and you’re going to help me finish.”

“Humph!”

He resumed his ocelot-like stride, pulling her in his wake. She heard him mutter, “Where’s the conservatory? There’s always a conservatory. Ah!”

He pulled her into the darkened, humid room, latching the door behind him.

Hectate sputtered. “What is the meaning of this? I told you I would not marry you and I meant it. What part of ‘No’ do you not understand?”

“I am a Fitz-Cynster. We never take no for an answer. Especially when that bitch Fate decrees we marry. Especially when I’ve already had you. Had your tongue in my mouth. Had your breasts in my hands. Had your hands on my flesh. Had your innocence for my own.”

As he spoke, Hectate felt her body react. Felt her flesh quiver. Felt her nipples ruche. Felt her most secret place become moist with wanting.

“No!” she hissed. “I will never marry you!”

Imp growled as he picked her up in his arms and resumed his ocelot prowl through the conservatory, eyes examining his surroundings.

Fountain? Been done. Swing? No. Bench? Too easy. Cactus-filled planter? Ah yes! Now there’s a challenge worthy of a Fitz-Cynster!

As he made his way to the planter Hectate tried to twist out of his arms. Imp stilled her with a kiss.

A kiss that overpowered her. A kiss that silenced her protests. A kiss that gentled as he explored his mouth with his tongue. Ran it over her teeth. Nipped at her lips. Delved back in to stroke the roof of her mouth. Coaxed a response from her as she gasped and began to suck on his tongue.

Arriving at the planter, Imp gingerly sat on the rim, still devouring her with his mouth. A cactus spine invaded his breeches. He inhaled sharply. Moved a bit to the left. Never broke the kiss.

He held her in his lap. Her arms wrapped around his neck. He moved his mouth down the white column of her throat, sucked at the hollow at the base while his hands undid the buttons at her back. He pulled down the shoulders of her gown, exposing her divine breasts, nipples already ruched and waiting for his mouth.

He kissed a path from her neck to her breast, murmuring against her skin “Marry me.”

“No!” The word ended on a groan as his mouth closed over her nipple. Tongue laving. Teeth nipping. Fingers stealing under dress. Moving up her leg. Stroking the inside of her thigh. Teasing the curly hairs at the apex. Dipping inside to stroke.

“Marry me!”

“Humph!” she said on a gasp.

Suddenly he shifted her. Moved her so her delectable derriere was nestled against his pulsating rod. He quickly flipped the back of her gown up, adjusted her legs to straddle his as he released his throbbing desire. It reared up between her legs. Nestled against her wetness.

She tightened her thighs around his staff. She nearly swooned from the pleasure. From her need for him. From the scent of their arousal in the air. She gave a half-hearted “Humph!” as she guided the tip of him into her portal.

Imp caressed the twin globes of her derriere, gripped her hips and thrust up as he pulled her down, impaling her with his erection.

“Marry me!” he ground out.

“No!” she whimpered as he set an excruciatingly slow tempo. His hands moved up to capture her breasts and he kneaded them in time to his thrusts.

“Marry me and we can do this all the time,” he coaxed as his lips nuzzled her nape.

“But, we do this all the time now,” she got out on a ragged breath. “Why get married?”

“Do not argue with Fate. I will have you for my wife!” His voice was raw. His breath labored.

He moved one hand down under her skirt to where they were joined. He caressed the center of her pleasure. Circled it. Stroked it. Pinched it. Soothed it. Pulled it. Pressed it.

She burst into flames. Her keening cries filling the room. He gave one more savage thrust and joined her in oblivious bliss.

“Marry me,” he rasped.

“No,” she sighed.

He quickly put their clothing to rights, extracted the cactus spine from his buttock and led her to the door.

“The Featherstonaugh ball tomorrow night?” he asked.

“I don’t think they have a conservatory,” she mused. “But I do believe there is a gazebo.”

Gazebo, he thought. Hmmm….

“I’ll see you there, and this time you will say yes!”

“Humph!” she said, tossing her head and she strode past him and back into the ballroom.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Epilogue by Blythe Barnhill” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Blythe Barnhill as an homage to Mary Jo Putney, Jo Beverley, and Stephanie Laurens:

Epilogue by Mary-Beverly Lauren

“Darling,” Samantha purred, “I am just so blissfully happy. I never dreamed that a poor governess like myself would marry a handsome, brooding earl and provide him with twin boys, all within a year.” She nestled further into the covers and stroked her beloved husband, Rex, on his hindquarters.

“Ah, I’m not brooding anymore, love. I’ve finally realized that my evil first wife didn’t typify all women, and I’ve even managed to forget all those men who died under my command during the Peninsular War. And to think all I needed was great sex. Who knew?”

“Now darling, don’t forget our long conversations and our stimulating chess games. It’s not all sex. And we can look forward to a lifetime of blissful happiness in each other’s arms. There’s only one problem – the readers. I just feel so sorry for them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Samantha explained, “Here we sit in spectacular connubial bliss, and after they heard our long and exciting love story they don’t really get to enjoy it, or even see us again. How will they know that we still love each other when we’re fifty and have ten strapping boys?”

Rex chuckled. “Samantha, I thought you knew! They’ll see us again and again. And again and again. Always blissfully happy, always expecting another child. Haven’t you noticed my six friends? The author still has six more books to write, and we’ll appear in all of them. Your job is to give future heroines advice about how to get a confirmed rake to commit, and my job is to listen while my friends get drunk off their butts at Whites because they can’t face the fact they’re falling in love. We also get to show up at the nick of time when they couple du jour is in danger. It’ll be fun!”

“But Rex! Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Only if the author is Marsha Canham. Our authors just trot us out for show. No one seriously believes anyone good will get hurt.”

“Oh, I think I get it. You and your friends will come in and save the day while the evil villain is taking the time to explain his plot and reasons for wanting to kill the couple! That’s what happened with us. I have to admit I was wondering why seven muscular men were needed to stop one effeminate villain.”

Rex gave Samantha’s rear end a little pat. “Well, that’s how the reader gets to know all the Hounds and get excited about hearing all of their stories.”

“Er…Hounds?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, love? My friends and I all met at Harrow. We were all rich noblemen who felt sorry for ourselves for some reason, so we formed a tight-knit group and bonded for life. We called ourselves the Harrowing Hounds of Hell. I would die for any of them, but I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“But…Hounds?”

Rex barked playfully. “That’s because our names all sound like dogs, sweeting. There’s me, Rex, of course, and Benjamin “Benji,” Earl of Arfington, Wolf St. Bernard, Skip (Sir Fido), and Phillip “Spot” Dalmashon.”

“But what about your other friend Michael? The one who is so urbane and conniving? I can’t wait to meet the woman who can teach him some new tricks.”

“Oh, Michael is the Duke of Ruffgar. Everyone is waiting for Ruffgar.”

Samantha rose from bed and put on her wrapper. “Well, I guess this explains why all of you have little black ears sewn onto the back of your capes. But don’t you think it’s a little silly for grown men to have a club with a name like that?”

Rex glanced at Samantha, his confusion evident in his eyes. “Well honey, you have to join a club like that when you go to school. If you aren’t a Rogue or a Fallen Angel or part of the Bar Cynster, then you’d better be a Harrowing Hound, Flying Baboon, or Cock of the Walk. Otherwise you’ll get your butt kicked by the T-Birds, Panthers, or Slithering Serpents of Perdition. I’m surprised you didn’t have clubs like this at Miss Sally’s School for Attractive Governesses.”

Smiling fondly, Samantha stroked Rex’s head. “It must be a guy thing, darling. I guess I can live with it. I do have one suggestion, though.” Samantha blushed prettily, whispered into Rex’s ear, and climbed back into their imposing bed.

Rex growled as he arose from the bed. His splendidly naked form was already in a state of rampant arousal. His black-eared cloak was right where he had left it, and he grinned with a canine leer as he put the hood over his head. He let out a “Rrrruff!” – and pounced on the bed.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Intervention with the Vampire by Rachel Potter” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Rachel Potter as an homage to Laurell K Hamilton:

Intervention with the Vampire

The phone rang. I raised my battered head off the pillow and squinted at the clock. 8 PM. Damn. I was late. The ringing continued. I picked up my cell phone. “Annika Black here,” I said, my voice still rough from all the screaming I’d done the night before. I cleared my throat.

“Annika, where are you? We were supposed to meet at sundown.” It was Jean-Fraude, my sometime vampire lover and one-third of our triumverate of power. He sounded annoyed, and that was strange. Usually his voice was slow and husky, as if he were perpetually on the verge of orgasm.

“Still at home,” I said. “I’m leaving now, though. Give me a half hour.”

“Good,” he said. “We have a problem, and we need to talk about it.”

“I’ll be there,” I said and hung up.

I staggered to the bathroom. I’d been beaten to a pulp last night in a confrontation with a group of local poltergeists. They were damn hard to fight, refusing to take a form as they did. But once I told them I had a gun and was serious about using it, they backed right down. Well, that and also because I’d forced their leader into submission with a bit of supernatural foreplay. Men: they were all the same. It didn’t matter what species they were: human, vampire, werewolf, weregiraffe, selkie, fruit fly. Give them a little sex, and they forgot to complain about anything else.

In the shower I glanced down at myself and winced. The whole lower part of my body was black and blue, three toes were half-severed, my abdomen had been eviscerated, and part of my small intestine was sticking out. I pushed that back in with my thumb and washed my hair. Sure, it all hurt, but it wouldn’t last long. These days I was a fast healer.

Driving over to Jean-Fraude’s newest business, the health spa for the undead, Sexual Healing, I wondered what he wanted. He’d been harping on me to meet with him for months, but I’d resisted. I knew we couldn’t be in the same room without him trying to jump me, and so I’d avoided him to give us both some space. But there had been something urgent in his call yesterday that made my resolve weaken. Something was up. It was probably the werebunnies again. They always had their cottontails in a knot about something, and they were fractious; there was always infighting in the warrens when they weren’t busy humping each other to the point of exhaustion.

As soon as Jean-Fraude opened the door, I knew something was wrong. He’d answered the door himself, and he wasn’t wearing his customary sexy, peek-a-boo clothing. Instead he had on a pair of newish 501’s and a lime green oxford button-down shirt. He was wearing Birkenstocks, and, as he led the way to his study, they clop-clopped against the soles of his feet. An ominous sound. He opened the study door and gestured for me to sit down in one of the wing chairs by the fireplace. As I settled into one, I froze. Seated across from me was Dick, my sometime lover and the final third of our triumverate. I hadn’t seen him for months either. He wanted me, wanted me to the point of madness, but we were over, and there was no point in torturing him with that knowledge, so for that reason I’d avoided him. That and the fact that he was kind of whiny sometimes.

Jean-Fraude sat down and faced me with a very serious look on his face. “Annika,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“If it’s about the werebunnies,” I said, “I think I can handle them-”

“It’s not about the werebunnies,” Dick said.

I raised my eyebrow at him. It was obvious that he wasn’t over me yet. Our breakup had been ugly. He’d shapeshifted on top of me during sex-which was freaky enough in itself-but added to that, the resulting differences in his chemical makeup had given me a nasty yeast infection. I’d decided I really didn’t need any more of that, thank you very much. There were plenty of werefish in the sea.

“It’s about you,” Jean-Fraude said.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Both Dick and I feel, and, ah, this is hard to say…We feel that it’s time you got yourself some help.”

I had no idea what he was getting at. “Help? I don’t need help. Now that the marks are married, I’m invincible. I mean, we’re invincible. Why would I need help?”

Jean-Fraude just shook his head and looked at Dick, “See what I mean?” he asked. Dick nodded. “Annika,” he said. “We don’t mean help with werebunnies, or fairies or demented trolls. We mean personal help.” He looked at me meaningfully.

“We think you should see a therapist,” Jean-Fraude said.

“A therapist?” I shrieked, and all of my previous unease came back to me. What was going on here? What was wrong with Jean-Fraude? Why did he look and act so strange? I pulled out my gun and leapt from the chair. “What’s gotten into you?” I stared at him hard. “The real Jean-Fraude would never talk to me that way. Has this got something to do with the poltergeists? Have they possessed you?”

Jean-Fraude put up both of his hands. “Calm down, Annika, and put away the gun. There’s nothing wrong with me. Everything’s fine. I’ve been doing a little self-examination, in fact.”

“Self-examination? Jean-Fraude, you’re a vampire.”

“So what. Vampires can’t be screwed up? Look, Annika, I loathed myself for hundreds of years, hating the beast that I was. You don’t know even 1/257th of all the things that I’ve done in my lifetime of death. But now that’s all over. I’ve been seeing a therapist, and Dr. Kevorkian has helped me to see that that kind of thinking can only lead to poor self-esteem. Furthermore, I’ve become aware that my sexual behavior patterns aren’t simply the result of normal vampire hormones, or even the so-called ardeur I’ve always blamed it on. No, my screwing everything in sight was sexual addiction, pure and simple.” He smiled ironically, “Or, rather, impure and very complicated.” He stood and put a hand on my arm. “We think you might also benefit from a little psychological analysis.”

“Recognition is the first step to recovery,” Dick said, eyeing the gun.

I began backing away from the pair of them. “You think I don’t understand myself? You think I don’t understand what I’ve become? I know it’s been fast, this change from fairly ordinary human being to supernatural omnipotent goddess-just 10 books-but I think I’ve handled it pretty well.”

“That’s just it, Annika, you’re not omnipotent. It’s all in your head,” Jean-Fraude said softly.

“In my head? You mean to tell me that all of this…the vampires, the werewolves, the werechickens…all of it, I’ve made it up? That none of you are real?”

“Oh, we’re real,” Dick said. “I’m sure as hell a werewolf, and Jean-Fraude here’s a blood sucker, all right, it’s you who…”

“Who what?”

“Who’ve imagined it all,” Dick finished lamely. “All this ranting and raving you’ve been doing about the marks and the merging of power and the “triumverate.” I don’t know where you’re getting it from, but it’s just not true.”

“It’s not true? What do you mean it’s not true? I’m a necromancer extraordinaire!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dick said. “A necromancer. What is a necromancer anyway? Heck if we know. Annika, you’ve got to get a grip on yourself. You’re delusional.”

Jean-Fraude nodded urgently. “Please listen to us. This’s very important. I want to make sure you get the help you need before I leave town.”

My jaw dropped in astonishment despite my anger. “You’re leaving? But, Jean-Fraude, you’re the vampire master of the city!”

“I know it,” he said. “I’m tired of it. One evening, after a particularly grueling therapy session, I woke up and thought, ‘I’ve got plenty of money and plenty of time. I don’t even need that much blood any more. Why am I still here dealing with all this petty infighting and monster politics? Fuck it. I don’t need this kind of stress.’ So I got this book from the library.” He held up a paperback entitled Voluntary Simplicity: Is It for You?. “I’ve decided to scale way back. I’m going to hang where there aren’t so many crazies for a while. Maybe Alaska.”

I just stared at him. The room felt like it was closing in on me.

“Annika,” Jean-Fraude said softly, “there are medications available that can help you. We think you should listen to us because we both care about you and no one else will tell you the truth. You need to face it: you’re just an ordinary human being. Feisty, yes. Supernatural, no.”

But I was no longer listening. All this time the two of them had been lying to me. They didn’t believe in me. They were trying to undermine my powers! There were others who did believe in me, who did want me. Tom and Frank and Bob and the other werewolves and the wereleopards and…

I turned on my heel and left the room without saying another word.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Rude Awakening by Ann Davie” open=”no”]

An homage to Brit Chick Lit as written by Ann Davie:

Rude Awakening

Damn! I hate it when I wake up and my bra is on upside down. My attempts at recalling the tangled mess of the night before was almost as frustrating as unhooking myself from the two underfilled slingshots that passed for lingerie. What possessed me to shell out over fifty quid for a bra that purported to give me what Mother Nature so offensively forgot to provide me? The freakin’ thing never stayed in place.

I basked in the shaft of light streaming through my flat windows. Stretching, I sat up and realised that I was on the floor next to my bed, my feet underneath, probably being stripped of flesh by dust bunnies. I tried to stand up, but the pounding in my head forbade it. That and I realised that my stockings were twisted around one of the legs of the bed. The fact that I was still wearing them made it impossible to move.

The last thing I remembered from the night before was a table full of empty shot glasses and a stud with a pair of lecherous eyes. Mmmm…he was gorgeous. I wonder if we exchanged numbers. Oh yeah. That was my boss. Erk!

I was half an hour late already. I thought that I might be able to skip the shower and just take a bath in eau de cologne. I looked in the mirror. It could have been worse, but not much. Cigarette ash was scattered through my hair, my lipstick was smudged to my nostrils. My mascara…oh wait, I hadn’t been wearing any. How did I get that black eye? That’s right. My best friend, Celia, was slagging Robert, my boss, for about the millionth time. And I recalled that I was sufficiently pissed off to put a stop to it once and for all.

From the depths of my tequila-soaked memory came flashes of chairs and crashing glasses. I was sure Celia’s parents would never invite me for a roast dinner again. There went any hopes of vegetables in my diet for the near future.

Maybe I could just call in and take a sickie. I mean, I wasn’t in the best of shape; certainly I was in no fit form to undertake anything that required more than brain stem activity.

I punched the numbers on the penis shaped telephone that Celia had given me for my last birthday. What was it that she’d said…something like, “You’re thirty now, you might as well know what one of these looks like.” I mentally noted that Celia probably wasn’t best friend material after all. Not that it mattered anymore.

The phone line crackled…no wait, that was my teeth grinding. My finger poised on the receiver button under the testicles ready to disconnect if I panicked at the last minute. I pondered the prospect of meeting Robert face to face. No doubt he’d be showered and shaved, those dark blue eyes of his sparkling. What did he see in me? More importantly, if he did see anything, it was likely to be unrecognisable this morning. I made up my mind. Lying is always reliable in situations like this.

“Manchester Airport, Control Tower, Elaine speaking.”

“Hi, Elaine. Fi, here.” Wait…I had to get the croaky, pathetically sick sounding voice happening.

“Fiona, you sound horrible.”

I must be a natural.

“Yeah. I think it’s that bug going around. Is Robert in?”

“Hold on, I’ll get him.”

OK. I had to decide on what story to use. What kind of flu – stomach or sniffily variety? When did I get it? I mean, he must have been the reason my bra was on upside down, so he must have been around last night. Stomach flu it was.

“‘Lo, Fi. What’s up?”

He didn’t sound hung over, the bastard. Some of those shots must have ended up in him.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to come in today. Have some sort of tummy bug. Fever, chills…the whole thing.” From the depths of my tar-congealed lungs came a cough that would have done any miner in the north proud.

“My god. Are you contagious? Maybe you should see a doctor about that.”

“You’re sweet to worry.” I purred with delight at Robert’s concern. No wait…that was my lungs rattling.

“You sound awful.”

“I’ll be fine. Umm…Robert, about last night.”

“What about it?”

How could he be so cavalier? Didn’t he know that moments of intimacy like last night don’t happen every day? He must have felt something. I saw it in his eyes, blue hot flames of desire, and dare I admit it, the wakening embers of love. OK, so I might not be able to remember some of the details. But the heat, the passion…it was all there. His touch had left me burning. And if I had to admit it, a bit itchy, too. Hmm…

“You mean you don’t remember either?” A mixture of relief and anguish washed over me.

“What are you talking about? I left you and Louis at the bar at 9. What’s there to remember?”

Louis. Oh yeah. I was feeling horny, so sue me.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The SEAL Mercenary by Alicia Myers” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Alicia Myers, who loves Suzanne Brockmann’s SEALS and Lindsay McKenna’s Mercenaries:

The SEAL Mercenary

Absalom “Wolfman” Johnson threw his AK-47 and its ammunition into the corner of the room. He followed that quickly with his sweaty black sleeveless t-shirt,standard issue black combat boots, dusty black jeans, 3 boot knives, 7 throwing knives, 4 pistols, the belt knife, 5 hand grenades, 58 boxes of ammunition, 15 listening devices,2 bazookas, a grenade launcher, the sunday edition of the local paper, 10 packs of chewing gum, 37 condoms and finally his grimy, hole laden socks. He threw a quick glance at his companion before grabbing a condom and falling quickly onto the waiting hotel bed.

Muffy Von Trampen quickly threw off her $1500 De La Renta pink silk micro-mini dress along with her pink silk thong panties with matching bra and garter belt. She kicked off her 6 inch spike heels before rolling down here pure silk stockings. She walked slowly to the bed, not wanting him to know how eager she was for his touch. She had never experienced the sheer volume of orgasms that this man could give her.

“Well, are you getting in bed, or do I have to force you?” Wolfman asked huskily, all the while looking her up and down.

” Oh, please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you ask. I owe you so much after all that you’ve done for me. I don’t know what I’d do without your help. If it wasn’t for you, the terrorists would surely have killed my grandmother’s uncle’s cousin’s sister’s brother’s twice removed nephew. ” Muffy said as she crawled onto the bed.

“You’ll do anything I ask, huh? Well, this could get real interesting. Why don’t you start by having wild sex on the bed here, then we’ll move into the bathroom where we will christen the shower, toilet and sink. Just for good measure, we better do it on the balcony, that small table over there and how about the desk too.” Wolfman said, deep in thought. “After that, we could probably hop onto a renegade helicopter and do it like wild bunnies as I try to fly us deep into the jungle where we will crash. Once we’ve crashed, we’ll have sex again just to affirm that we are both still alive. We will then hear the terrorists firing at us, so we will run deeper into the jungle, stopping every so often to have sex again. We’ll hide in the bushes, and we’ll have sex with you on my lap so I can see the enemy as they walk by. At that moment, you will have the biggest orgasm of your life and I’ll have to cover your mouth with my hand. Later, we’ll meet up with some friends who will smuggle us out of the jungle, and we

“Okay, sounds good.” Muffy replied. “When do we start?”[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Review of Formulania Wryter’s She Ran Calling Wildfire by Rachel Lowder” open=”no”]

Purple Prose Parody as written by Rachel Lowder :

Review of She Ran Calling Wildfire

By Formulania Wrytyer, So-So-Wet Intimate Momentum, 2002

Grade: A+ +++++!
Sensuality: Hot, hot, hot! Boy, ya better have an oven mitt just to pick it up!

Wow. I have to say this book has Everything. And I do mean everything! When I buy books, I don’t like to actually have to think about which authors I’ve enjoyed in the past, or even read an honest review. Nope – I find it much simpler to just pick something out of So-So-Wet’s New “Favorite Cliches” line, each with it’s own unique logo on the front! And they’re so cute, too! A stork for a baby plot, a crown for royalty, a cute little badge for a cop, the Village People for Navy SEALS, a stetson for a cowboy, a leaking condom for the one-night-lost-virginity-and-brats-on-the way, a brain-in-a-jar for amnesia, a chastity belt for virgins, and a tiny burka for their sheikh line! It’s so clever, I don’t know how they come up with them!

But sometimes, deep in my heart of hearts, I wished I could just have it all. But it’s kind of like Santa – it can never be….

But yes! It can! Miss Furmulania Wrytyr, So-So-Wet’s newest writer, has broken new ground in the pulpmills of romance production with her wonder book “She Ran Calling Wildfire”. It’s just the greatest book ever people, and believe me – I’m not just saying that because she’s promised me 10% of her profits too.

This wonderful story is set in the fairytale land of Plano, Texas – a God’s country of endless money, unselfishness, and perfect taste. Ashlay Meandra (known to her debutante friends as “Lay Me”) is my favorite kind of heroine – feisty and impulsive. Her spontaneity leads her into all kinds of exciting adventures, the most important one being when she accidently calls a bunch of swarthy gentleman discussing murder, extortion, kidnapping, and L.A. contracting – “a bunch of ugly thugs.”

For some reason, the ugly thugs pursue Lay Me and try to hurt her, but not before the next impulsive (my sister said “stupid” was a better word – the nerve of that Phillistine!) adventure. Lay Me realizes that she’s almost 22 and still has not children (that pesky biological clock, ya know!), yet can’t bear to leave her father to marry, and is saving her virginity for a Harvard Man. So it’s off to the Fertility Clinic. But as she exits Breeders, Inc. – the ugly thugs descend, capture her, and dump the frightened (but only lightly bruised) princess off on a ranch outside Plano.

And that’s where the real fun begins! Our hero, Dumas A. Boxarox owns the ranch that Lay Me has landed upon! What a surprising plot twist, and one that I only grasped an inkling of, due to the ten logos on the front cover (listed in order below)

  • Texans
  • Plano Taste
  • SEALS
  • Virgins
  • Storks R. Us
  • Royally Lost
  • Cowboy Cuddlin’
  • I Can’t Recall
  • SheikhHerding Love (very popular with New Zealand audiences)
  • No Brainer (specially IQ’ed Heroines)

Dumas is actually the son of the youngest princess of the realm of Chlamydia and Sheikh Udai of Babylon of Unusual Evilness. But that’s not all! He’s also has his own ranch, The Boxaroxosa, which he inherited from his adoptive cowboy father, and is the sheriff of the quaint little town, since he retired from his Secret Agent SEAL job when he was wounded by a stray memorandum. I just can’t recommend this book enough!

When Dumas finds her lying in a field, her long golden locks being munched on by the cows, he instantly realizes that she is the woman for him. Manfully refraining from taking her right there, though – he first brings her to the local hospital, where a small bandage is applied to her forehead, her amnesia is quickly (and magically, in less than a day!) determined to be induced by shock, rather than any nasty wounds or blood or anything yucky requiring shaving or anything. Plus they find out she is a pregnant virgin – which, naturally makes Dumas even hotter!

“Nothing a little TLC won’t cure”, the kindly, white-haired Dr. Kevarkian said. “Eat healthy, get plenty of rest. Some hot sex wouldn’t hurt either – it’s been known to cure near everything as far as I’m concerned. You young folks run along now – I’ve got to look into a couple of my more recent lawsuits.”

Lay Me is, of course, concerned that she has no identity or charge cards, but Dumas kindly takes her home. His house is a beautiful and really, really big, and really, really fancy, reflecting the great Plano taste I just adore – but somehow they both end up in his bedroom and spend most of the book there. They do it pretty much every way there is, and 245 pages later, my husband is still gasping in exhaustion after the attack I launched upon him. I’d say it was definitely $4.50 well spent. And, well, that’s about it for the plot. The plot devices, er, ugly thugs – they never come back. And after plenty of hot sex – well, Lay Me’s memory comes back too!

But the best thing about this book is that there is a sequel on the way by Miss Wrytyr! She will be writing the love story of Dumas’s half-sister and half-brother. Evidently she’s got some college loans to pay off, plus the other son of the “Sheikh Udai of Babylon of Unusual Evilness” just “begs to be told.” And I guess the youngest princess of Chlamydia has a feisty daughter that just happens to end up kidnapped by him! I just can’t wait to read their story, and I know you’ll want to too! The logos for the sequel will be:

  • Virgins
  • Storks R. Us
  • Royally Lost
  • I Can’t Recall
  • SheikhHerding Love (very popular with New Zealand audiences)
  • No Brainer (specially IQ’ed Heroines)
  • Cavity-Inducing Child Characters
  • Sand-Free Desert Love
  • Burka Boinking
  • Tiara Tantrums
[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”How to Snag a Gazillionaire by Carol Irvin” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Carol Irvin (former Covers Covered by Carol columnist):

How to Snag a Gazillionaire

 

Chapter One

He was an alpha male, one whose ancestors were the champions of the medieval age, cosseted by kings and loved (i could use another word but my editor says no “f” word allowed) by ALL the ladies of the realm.  In regency England, his had been the bluest of bloodlines, harkening back to the earliest days when dukedoms had been created for England’s mightiest sword.  Now he was the sole survivor, of that illustrious line, a captain of industry, the richest man in America.  He was the owner of MicroLimp, the giant of the computer software industry, and he was damned if he was going to waste any time marrying anyone and exposing his fortune to risk.  That was why he had an appointment today with Dr. Wilhelmina Teasetop, who owned Babies On Demand, a business he was thinking of acquiring if it worked as well as he thought it might.  It was a sperm bank-egg depository where he could make an heir without even needing to meetan actual woman.

He was shown into the doctor’s inner sanctum and his heart stood still as she stood to greet him.  He, a man who had dated movie stars and super models, was moved as he’d never been moved before.  Standing before him was a woman who looked as he would look if he were a woman.  Madonna, as she’d looked when he’d dated in her pre Guy Ritchie post Sean Penn days, ceased to exist in his memory.  He expelled her as if she were a scratched CD. (He had a scratch proof CD in development.)

It was love at first sight.  No matter that her breasts were as flat as a floppy disc or a CD.  No matter that her body was shaped like an Epson commercial printer.  No matter that her blonde hair had a green cast to it like his default screen saver.  It was himself in the full flower of womanhood, right down to the identical set of eyeglasses on someone else who probably had been called “four eyes” on the playground.  He, William “the Conqueror” Bates, was finally in love.

Bill had never been one to pussyfoot around when he was prime for an acquisition and now was no exception.

“Merge with me, Doctor Teasetop,” he said, swinging her into his arms instead of taking her outstretched hand.

His mouth crashed down onto hers at the same moment that their glasses collided.  Both sets of glasses went flying in the awkwardness of his advance and her equally clumsy parry.

“She’s perfect,” Bill thought triumphantly.

“Unhand me, Mr. Bates!” she cried indignantly.

Anachronistic too!  Better and better!

“You are the ideal woman to rule at my side and produce my heirs,” Bill said fervently into her backside as she bent down to retrieve their glasses.

He had to help her up cause she got stuck down there owing to her great girth but that only added to her charms.  (No one knew that he’d been called “lardass” as a kid too.  The world at large had only seen him in his lean and mean mode.)

“Mr. Bates, I am a scientist.  I do not merge.  I do not romance.  I am a serious businesswoman and research scientist.”

She delivered this with all the pomposity that he was famous for utilizing when defending his latest act of high seas piracy in running MicroLimp.  He’d had a privateer in the family tree too, someone he revered more than the old duke.

“Ten million,” he said instantly.

She didn’t pretend not to understand; god, he loved that in a woman.

“Babies On Demand is not for sale,” she countered.

“That was for you, what I’ll give you upfront in the prenup.  Toss in the company and I’ll make it twenty mil.”

“One hundred million,” she said, “and upfront in cash, not refundable if we split up.”

She drove a hard bargain.  He gave her another notch on his scale of women.

“Who gets the kids if we split?” he said, thinking quickly, not wasting time on arguing over his spare change.

“We’re going to clone our kids.  They won’t need anyone.  They’ll be us from day one.”

“You mean I’ll have myself to hand over the business to?”

“And myself from my clone.”

“My God, Wilhelmina, they could marry one another too.  This could go on forever!”

She frowned and ventured tentatively, “That could be illegal.”

Bill laughed uproariously, “What are they going to do, send the Justice Department or the FBI after me?  Again?”

Wilhelmina studied him quietly for a moment, “Bill, are you planning on being faithful to me?  You have a reputation as the rake hound from hell along with every male in your family tree.”

“Haven’t you heard that rakes make the best husbands?”

“I have read that.  Do you mean its true?”

“No, it means I own 75% of the romance publishing imprints and that old chestnut goes into all of my books.”

“I don’t read romance novels,” Wilhemina sniffed.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Bill said, “with your using words like rakehell and phrases like ‘unhand me’.”

“Well, maybe I’ve read one or two…”

“You’ll get free ARCs* for every romance novel on the market as my wife and partner.”

Wilhelmina punched her intercom, “Traci, get my sister in here to run this place.  I need to free up some time to mer—er, get married.”

“A sister?” Bill asked from behind her, his brain spinning anew with feverish erotic possibilities.

“My identical twin…we’re the same in every way.”

“A twin! Yes!  Thank you, God!” Bill exulted.

Two for the price of one.  Bloody hell, as his noble ancestors would say, how he loved a bargain.

 

*ARC=Advance Reviewer Copy[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Sheik’s Seduction by Ivanna Scribble” open=”no”]Purple Prose as written by Ivanna Scribble (and dedicated to fellow AAR Reviewer Robin Nixon Uncapher):

Sheik’s Seduction

“Ahmad, I’m so glad to be here at last!” Tracie shrugged off the head-to-toe black outer garment she’d worn as a favor to her new husband on the limousine ride from the airport to his palace home – now her home as well, she realized with a small thrill of wonder. Had it really only been twelve days since they’d met? she asked herself, looking for a chair or table to place the voluminous robe on. She had to settle for draping it over one of the myriad jewel-colored pillows scattered about on the floor.

“As am I, my darling treasure. Now, what would you like to do first – er, besides the obvious, of course?” His Ultimate Highness Prince Ahmad bin Ahmad al-Ahmad, Supreme Leader of the Principality of Az-Uz-Kanistan,a tiny and obscenely wealthy Gulf State, leered suggestively and tugged his bride closer, allowing her to feel the obvious through both his white linen robes and the silk of her new designer slacks.

“Well, when do I get to meet the rest of your family?”

“Hmm…let’s see…” Taking his willowy wife by the hand, Ahmad crossed the priceless Persian carpet that covered the vast expanse of the high-ceilinged room to a computer terminal. He typed in several commands and pulled up a database that, to Tracie’s eyes, appeared to be some sort of roster of names and locations. “The four oldest brothers of my father’s third wife have gone to Paris for the weekend, but their wives and children are at home – you’ll like Rashid’s second wife – she’s American like you. She can help you adjust to your new life here. But stay away from Aliyah – she’s his head wife and is very jealous of blondes.” He grinned and tugged at a lock of Tracie’s golden tresses, ignoring the little frown that creased his wife’s alabaster complexion, then turned back to the monitor.

“My sister Ullama – she’s my father’s fourth wife’s favorite, and mine too, I must confess – should be at home.”

Tracie giggled. “Gosh, has everybody in your family been married so many times?”

“Of course. Most Az-Uz-Kanistani men take several wives.”

“That must cost them a fortune in alimony,” Tracie observed.

“Oh, there’s no question of alimony,” Ahmad replied casually, “since most men have several wives at once. But never worry, my pet,” he assured Tracie quickly. “For you I will break tradition. I will never take another wife. As a matter of fact, I have every intention of telling my first…” He broke off mid-sentence, frowning, but his brow cleared quickly and he continued, “We were speaking of Ullama – we might invite her over for the afternoon,” he suggested. But Tracie detected a note of hesitation in Ahmad’s voice.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing…it’s just that…Ullama’s husband doesn’t like for her to leave the house without him, and he’s away in London for the week,” Ahmad explained.

“Can’t we go to see her?”

“Oh, no.” Regret tinged Ahmad’s deep voice and he flipped the edge of his checkered headscarf over his shoulder. “I am afraid I must spend some time today immersed in the boring world of high finance and economics.”

Tracie brightened. “Well, that’s something we can do together! After all, I do have an MBA from Wharton and a PhD in Middle Eastern petro-economics from Stanford, don’t I?”

“Oh, no, I could never allow a wife of mine to work!” Ahmad seemed truly aghast at the very idea.

Allow? Tracie let that one slide, for the moment. “But sweetie,” she pointed out, “we met at a global economics conference where I was the keynote speaker,” Tracie pointed out.

“Yes,” Ahmad agreed, “but you must admit that as soon as you met me, all thoughts of numbers and economic policy flew out of that gorgeous head of yours, and we did nothing but concentrate on our private version of mergers and acquisitions, didn’t we?” He bent, nuzzling the satin skin just under her ear; his tongue, that tongue that had performed unspeakably exquisite miracles on every inch of her body, traced a lazy path to her collarbone. Tracie’s breath hitched as a low moan escaped the back of her throat.

“Okay,” she concede on a breathy whisper, “you stay here and make oodles and boodles of money for us, and I can drive over to see your sister.”

Ahmad straightened and bit his full upper lip. “I am afraid that will be impossible,” he said stiffly, moving away to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that comprised an entire wall of the spacious room. “There is not a male family member available to escort you, so I can’t even let one of the chauffeurs drive you there.”

“Well, just give me a map, tell me the way, and I’ll take myself,” Tracie offered.

“I wish it were that easy,” Ahmad replied. “In our country, women are not allowed to drive.” He crossed his arms and regarded her with an air of rocklike authority.

“Why…that’s barbaric…medieval…antediluvian!” Tracie expostulated. She could feel a crimson blush of anger stain her highly photogenic cheekbones. “Why do women put up with such a system?”

“Because it is the way of our people – of your people, now that you have married me,” Ahmad explained with exaggerated patience. He returned to her side and began running his hands up and down her arms. “The place of a woman is in her husband’s home, in his arms, raising his children, running his household, leaving the tedious business of running the world to him and his male colleagues,” he purred in to her ear. His voice was as soft and seductive as the caresses he was lavishing on her, as enticing as the kisses he trailed along the line from her ear to her collarbone.

Tracie shivered and looked deep into his heavily lashed eyes. As always, she felt the pull of their golden depths. Being in Ahmad’s arms had the same effect on her that it always did: he made her forget who she was, what she had accomplished, made her want the one thing that only he could give her.

She was unaware that he had unbuttoned her slacks until she felt the pleasant slight chill of an air-conditioned breeze on the backs of her thighs, immediately replaced by the singeing heat of Ahmad’s fingers as they trailed up her legs and buttocks to the elastic top of her lacy black thong. He pushed it down to her knees and knelt before her, dropping soft, wet kisses on her navel. His head came up and he gazed at her, his desire for her blazing in his eyes.

“Now is not the time for a discussion of the rights of Az-Uz-Kanistani women – unless we are speaking of the right of a particular woman to the loving ministrations of her bridegroom,” he growled. Rising to his feet, Ahmad slipped his hands under Tracie’s blouse and with a sudden yank pulled the garment from her shoulders. Buttons flew in every direction, and she stood before him as naked as the first time they’d made love, back in the penthouse pool at that hotel.

With a graceful shrug Ahmad divested himself of his linen robe. It pooled at his feet; a glance downward convinced Tracie that her desire for him was definitely matched by his for hers. She marveled yet again at the realization that within moments her body would take him in, all of him, all that rampant glorious maleness.

And yet…

A tiny voice at the back of her mind, the voice that spoke of common sense and practical thoughts, the voice she had tried so hard in the last twelve days to shut the hell up, insisted on being heard one last time. It asked some very hard questions.

Could she throw aside years of intellectual struggle and study, toss aside her hard-won academic degrees, for the demands this man was making on her body? Could she really give up all her rights, the rights that generations of women had fought to gain, in return for the promise of a lifetime of mind-blowing sex with the most devastatingly handsome man on the planet?

As Ahmad continued his tender, unrelenting assault on her every nerve and pore, Tracie thought back to her undergraduate days and the dismissive words uttered by her roommate Madge, who had disapproved of the selfish men Tracie had been dating. After one of them had treated her like absolute dirt before he dumped her and she’d begged and pleaded with him to take her back, Madge had scolded Tracie for letting a guy push her around so much. “Honey,” she’d drawled in her Texas twang, “ain’t no dick that good.”

Ahmad’s mouth found the crest of a pert breast and he pushed himself into her welcoming moisture. Tracie’s back arched as her body gave out an involuntary shudder. Her lips curved in a secret smile. “Oh, yes, it is,” she said to herself, and opened her legs even wider.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Virgin Supermodel and the Lonely Rancher by Candice Small” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Candice Small:

The Virgin Supermodel and the Lonely Rancher

“Bonnie, don’t go!”

Bonita shielded her emerald green eyes against the hot Texas sun and peered up the road. As Rattlesnake Junction was little more than a wide spot in said road, it was not hard for her to see little Jeffy running ahead of his dad towards her. She was happy to see Jeffy, but not his father. How dare he show his face after all he’d put her through!

When the two reached her, she hugged the little boy to her slim, willowy but not scrawny body and glared at Suede. “What do you want?” she hissed, her emerald green eyes narrowing into slits.

Suede raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Jeffy wanted to say goodbye. Glad we got here before Greyhound did.” He glanced up the street at Lou’s Diner. “Looks like some more people want to see you off, too.”

Bonita hid the hurt his words inflicted upon her; how dare he be so calm and uncaring? But she turned her emerald green gaze towards the townspeople who soon surrounded her in front of Bud’s Drugstore. “It’s so nice of you to come say farewell,” she said, recognizing the faces of people she’d only met a week ago, but loved more than she did her own family.

“Tarnation, girl, you can’t leave,” snapped Granny Smeed. “As soon as we saw you we knew you’d be the perfect mother to Jeffy and wife to Suede.”

“Wh-what?” stammered Bonita, her emerald green eyes with shock. “But I’m a city girl- I’d never even been on a horse until a few days ago- and Suede had to rescue me when it took off!”

Granny harrumphed. “Don’t be talkin’ no nonsense. You’ll learn how to sit a horse. Besides, we had Skinny Pullam scare the horse a-purpose to see if Suede liked you. If he’d let you break your neck, we’d know he didn’t care. But he chased after you like a dog on a coon!”

Bonita looked back at Suede. Could it be true? Had it not been a mistake to give him her innocence after all? She’d been so sure after their night of passion, where he brought her to rapture more times than she could count, that he loved her, but that was before she’d found out the truth.

“Why would you want me to stay when Lucy is marrying Suede?” Bonita noticed Lucy in the crowd and had to fight the nausea. The people around her began to laugh. “Suede marry Lucy?”

Lucy grabbed Bonita’s arm. “I’m sorry Bonita, but we had to be sure that you weren’t just toying with Suede’s affections. When I saw how jealous you became, I knew you really did care.”

“And you all really want me to stay?” Bonita couldn’t believe it.

Mary Lou Dobbins nodded her head. “As soon as Hiram announced he had a live one down at his garage, we hoped. We’ve been looking for a proper woman for Suede for forever- ever since his no-good wife left him after refusing to have any more babies and then having the nerve to ask him to move to Chicago! So Hiram broke off a widget in your car so you’d have to hang around and wait for parts.”

“Your car just needed some water before that,” admitted Hiram. “But we should be getting that new radiator and transmission any day now.”

“And then Rufus Terwilliger stole your purse when you weren’t looking so you’d have to take that housekeeping position at Suede’s ranch,” Mary Lou continued. “But just about everyone helped!”

“I made the brownies with Ex-Lax so you could show your caring side and help take care of the ranch hands,” said Granny Smeed.

“And I left my baby on the front steps of the ranch house so that you could find her and indulge your maternal side,” said Debbie Pickles. “I should go and get her later.”

“And me!” said Jeffy. “Remember how I messed up the house so that Bonnie would have lots to clean? It was fun having the pigs in the living room!”

Bonita’s emerald green eyes filled with tears. “You did all of that for me?” No one had ever cared that much about her! Back in LA, people often said they cared about her, but that was so they could say they were friends with a super model. This was pure love. But speaking of love…

“But, Suede…I thought you wanted me to go.”

Suede stepped up and swept Bonita into his hair-covered but not so much as to be hairy arms. “I thought you were using me; you know how all women are evil bitches- except for my mother and sisters, and the women in town, and now you, sugar button.” Bonita trembled to hear him call her by the pet name he’d given her that night of shared passion, and to feel his hard thighs against her once more. She pressed tighter to him, nearly overcome by memories and desire and…

“Hey, you’re squishing me!” complained Jeffy, wriggling out from between his father and nanny/housekeeper. He straightened his little cowboy hat and looked up at Bonita. “So will you stay? Please, Bonnie?”

Suede looked deep into Bonita’s emerald green orbs. “My little bon-bon, I love you more than anything. Well, except for Jeffy, of course, and my ranch, and I’m awful fond of my horse. I know I’ve spent the past week telling you how much I detested city folk and belittling you, but that just proves how hard I fought against loving you. And it didn’t work. What better way is there to start a marriage?”

The townspeople sighed. Tears welled in Bonita’s emerald green eyes. “Oh, Suede. Of course I’ll marry you!”

As the townspeople gathered around the kissing couple, Granny Smeed eyed Lucy carefully, especially her skull. It was a shame to have such a pretty young girl be single; there was a handsome unmarried doctor in the next county. A little tap on Lucy’s head should induce some handy amnesia to bring those two together. Granny Smeed smiled, content that she had more cupid work ahead of her![/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Duke by Sherry Thomas” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Sherry Thomas:

The Duke

“Please, your grace, I will do anything to save my father. Anything.” Annabel’s enormous, lushly lashed blue eyes filled with tears, as her grip on his grace’s sleeve tightened. He must, must help her.

The Duke of Fienworth, Fenwick Fiennes, Fiend to his friends (of course), looked down at the girl in her threadbare gown that hugged every outline of her temptingly curvaceous torso. “Anything?”

“Anything.” Annabel licked her lips. She was so nervous.

“Even being my love toy for seven entire nights?” Fiend whispered suggestively.

Annabel could barely keep herself upright. Her head was spinning. Her heart pounded. Her breath came in short. “Yes, even that.” She whispered back.

“What’s the matter with her dad?” Victor asked, leaning over Sue Ellen’s shoulder to read the small type on the laptop screen.

“He’s going to rot in debtor’s prison if Fiend, the duke, doesn’t cancel a gaming debt he owes.”

“How did Pops accumulate those debts?”

“He’s an inveterate gambler.”

“What the heck is she doing then? If she rescues him, he’d only gamble some more and get more indebted. Is she going to sleep with every one he owes money to?”

“Of course not!” Sue Ellen shot back indignantly. “She’s a good daughter, that’s all!”

“So she’ll do this only once, only with this Fiend guy.”

“Yeah.”

“She must be hot for him, huh? Using her old man just as an excuse.”

“Oh, Victor, get out of my hair! Go water the lawn or something.”

“Okay, okay, Ms. Writer.”

His tongue laved over the rosy aureoles. She moaned. She had never felt anything quite like it. His hand moved lower, to the junction between her legs, and covered her, his fingers teasing the petals of her womanhood.

“You are inundated with pearly nectar.” He murmured, as he positioned the rod of his manhood to take her, at last.

“Can’t he just say ‘Your pussy is soaking wet, babe’? What kind of man calls it pearly nectar anyway? The Snapple guy?”

“Victor! I already told you that romance readers don’t like words like that.”

“You are a romance reader and you love it when I tell you your pussy is soaking wet.”

“That’s different.” Sue Ellen blushed, she did like it when he talked dirty in bed.

“Next time I’m going to talk like your duke and see if you don’t puke.”

“Oh go away. Wash your car.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The world exploded around her. She felt herself lift off the bed and float away on soft clouds, at one with the cosmos. Stars drifted by her, rainbows opened up before her, flower petals, a million of them, fell gently around her

“Ecstasy?” Victor was back and reading over her shoulder again.

“Yep.”

“I didn’t know they did drugs back in Regency.”

“She doesn’t do drugs!”

“Then why is she hallucinating?”

“She just had an orgasm!”

“Sheesh. Why don’t you just say ‘she came her brains out’?”

Sue Ellen thought about it. “Jennifer Crusie already used that one.”

“Wait, wait. Did you say she just had an orgasm?”

“Yeah.”

“And this is the first time she had sex?”

“Uh huh.”

“But I thought you said you never had an orgasm until like five years after you started doing it.”

“I don’t know.” She too, felt a bit ambivalent about it. “The heroines always climax on their first time with the heroes. Everybody does it. It’d seem odd if mine doesn’t.”

“And let me guess. That hero of yours can make even a refrigerator come its brains out.”

“You got it, wise guy. Weren’t you going to wash the car?”

“Just grabbing a t-shirt, babe.”

Fiend couldn’t sleep. He was troubled. He couldn’t understand it. In his lifetime he had bedded innumerable women, from barmaids to courtesans, Italian countesses to Russian princesses-a true profligate he was. Yet none of them had given him such pleasure, such satisfaction, such–

“What? She’s the only one who’d let him do it up her ass?” Victor walked by with the t-shirt. “I hope he doesn’t give her syphilis.”

“Oh will you please just let me finished the goddamned scene already!”

“Going, going, gone, babe.”

All right, where the hell was she?

The sharp, fantastic lightning writhed the night sky, skewering the storm clouds with its jagged electric fingers. Fierce wind battered the house, hurtling rain and angry debris against its shuttered windows.

The Duke of Fienworth sipped his warm brandy before a lively fire, enjoying the tempest, enjoying himself, and enjoying the sight of his newly arrived guest, a hooded and cloaked figure dripping puddles of water on his very expensive Turkish rug.

“Do sit down, Miss Blake.”

The hooded cloak dropped to the floor. Annabel Blake strode forward and took a chair by his side. The fringes of her hair clung damply to her face. Her eyes were more brilliant than the lightning. They gleamed deviously, dangerously.

“So, the old man is at King’s Bench, cursing Fate.”

“He was taken there just this afternoon. No more worrying that he’d sell me to the highest bidder.” Her eyes dimmed a bit. “At least for a while.”

“Congratulations.” The duke said softly. “And you’ve come, honorably, to thank me for my part in getting your sire committed.”

“My debts of gratitude can never be repaid, so I didn’t come to do that.” The duke raised one eyebrow. Miss Blake smiled and continued. “I came to have a tumble with you, your grace, before I board the ship for America, as a small reward for myself.”

“Is that so?” His surprise could not be concealed.

“That is so.” She leaned closer. “Shall we get started?”

Victor whistled. “Now that’s a girl I could go for.”

“You think so?” Sue Ellen beamed at him.

“Oh, yes. Whatever happened to the other story, that scene you were trying to finish?”

“That? Well, I thought about it. You were right. It was ridiculous, not to mention done to death. I’m going to send it to the Purple Prose Parody Contest at the All About Romance site instead.”

“Cool! Wanna take a break and come see your car? I waxed it too.”

“Sure. Let’s go for a spin and make out in the back seat.”

“You are not a virgin.” The duke said.

Miss Blake gasped. “No! Are you?”

He laughed. “I think I like you very well indeed, Miss Blake.”

[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Dora’s Ladies by Leigh Davis” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Leigh Davis as an homage to Nora Roberts:

Dora’s Ladies

Holding one hand on the torn edges of her teddy with her left hand, she rapped firmly on the door with the wrench that she grasped with her right. Suddenly she was pushed from behind, causing her to hit her elbow against the door.

Quickly turning with the wrench held high, she turned to face the threat. Three women, all holding torn teddies were grouped behind her.

“Oh, it’s you guys. Quit pushing. Can’t you see that I am here first,” Digley fumed. “And I am going to have my say.”

“Well, don’t you realize that you can’t go first? You are always second” Nargo retaliated.

“I might always be the second book released, but I am not waiting another minute. I am going to have it out with Dora.”

“Oh, bite me” the woman called Ava exclaimed. “What do you have to complain about? At least you get to have babies. How many have you had now seven, eight?”

“Give it a break. That is all you complain about. Babies, babies. Labor is no piece of cake. And you have Doarke.”

“Oh, right, Doarke. Yeah, he is a barrow of laughs. That man doesn’t give me a moment of peace. Who knew that he was the togetherness type? You would think that since he owns every company there is that at least he would spend some time at the office. You don’t have to live with someone that always sticks his nose in your business. Dora has just got to give me one case that I solve by myself. Send him off planet or something.”

“Old poor you. Married to Mister Money bags,” the gorgeous vision, named Nargo replied in her low lovely voice.

“Bite me!”

“Girls, you shouldn’t be fighting this way. We are friends/sisters/cousins. One for all and all for one,” Eleanor, looking as much like the girl next door can in a torn teddy, replied as she opened her purse,and retrieved a bundle of safety pins.

“Shut up.” two voices replied in unison, along with the lone bite me!

“At least he doesn’t beat you, or verbally abuse you or steal money from his own kids. And you know that you will never get a divorce”, Eleanor pinning her hot pink teddy together with safety pins replied, tears forming in her eyes, that she bravely held back.

“How can he steal from my kids, when Dora won’t give us any. I was hoping that once we had kids, that Doarke would be distracted by them and let me work in peace. Pass me some pins”.

“Like you guys have a lot to complain about,” Digley seethed. “Look at these hands,” she griped, as she displayed greasy cuticles. “Do you have any idea of much it cost me to get a manicure after my story is over. Or how long it takes me to grow my hair back. I would like to see you guys do a third of the things that she has me do. Working on cars, building things, or even carrying a gun. And there is no way that I am able to get rid of the calluses. ”

“At least you get to be something besides beautiful. Do you realize how boring it gets having men go bookers with just one look. I am so bored. And I never get to be anything exciting. Hand me some of those pins too.”

“Sure, like being a world famous artist or model is not exciting,” Eleanor replied bitterly. “You have even been a social worker. And at least you have had some fun, had sex with more than one person! And even have had a potty mouth. Me, I always have to so lady like. Or the strong silent type. How many times have you had to let a man walk away from you? No, you get to yell, throw things, and act like a bitch.”

“Hi ladies, greeted Dora as she walked up to her door. Puzzled she looked at their torn teddies.” “Oh, I did that didn’t I,” she chuckled. “Hmmmmmm, I wonder if I need to change my love scenes around a little. Have I had your panties torn? I have? How about your bras? That too. I have it. Slacks. In the next book, I have the hero tear your slacks. And come on in. You are going to love the next trilogy. Nargo, I am going to have you as a rock star. Well not really a rock star. More like Cher except of course you will have excellent taste in clothes. And I will have you listen to the cutting edge musicians like Chicago, Don Henley. Hey that is great idea. A duet with Don. And Digley, hope you have been working out dear, because musical equipment is so hard to set up, and take down. And Eleanor, you are going to love how you get away from your husband. From all appearances, he looks like the perfect talent agent, but you and I know difference . . . ”

Ava, dear, I sorry I can’t include you in this meeting but we will get together soon. I know that you have been hearing rumors again that you are going to have a child. Not a chance. Doarke and you need quality time together. . . .[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Eyes Have It by Leslie Lawrence” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Leslie Lawrence:

The Eyes Have It
He’d known she was going to be a hot cookie under the covers the moment he laid eyes on her. Bound to be sexually repressed. Begging to be sexually possessed. It was the gold-rimmed eyeglass frames that tipped him off.

He’d had them all: long-limbed office workers, taut aerobics instructors, curvaceous flight attendants. But only he had discovered the real secret to a great lay: pay attention to a girl with glasses and she’d be so grateful she’d do anything to express her appreciation.

And this one had that tight-laced, auditing-is-my-life accountant look written all over her. The sensible flat-heeled shoes, hair pulled into a tight bun low on her shapely skull, pert nipples peaking beneath her tight sweater, the long, narrow skirt with a peekaboo slit in the side. His loins grew heavy in anticipation of the great sex he knew was only minutes away.

Hot.

Wild.

Kinky.

He sidled up to her at the coffee bar.

“Hey, babe, could I tempt you into trying a foaming-hot espresso?” he murmured into the tight little whorls of her delicate ear.

Startled, she whipped her head around to peer myopically into his leering eyes. The pencil tucked behind her ear flew out and nicked his sculpted jaw. “Oooh, I am so sorry,” she said in her throaty contralto. “Whatever can I do to make it up to you? Does it ache frightfully?” She licked her forefinger with her small, moist tongue and raised it to soothe the tiny wound.

He pulled her slender hand down and silently urged her to cup his raging tumescence. “Oh, it does, it does,” he responded hoarsely. “My apartment’s right around the corner, but I may need some help getting there.”

As her sensitive hand explored the rigid length behind his zipper, she hesitated. She didn’t even know him. A smart girl never went off with a total stranger. Even one who was rubbing his granite-hard erection into her soft palm. But she had wounded him ever-so-slightly and owed him for that. “Oh, I want to help but….”

Then he did something that reassured her beyond words. He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer, took out his heavy-rimmed glasses, and settled them on his nose. Her doubts evaporated. A fellow eyeglass wearer! He probably read poetry while listening to recordings of string quartets and sipping expensive cognac and hardly ever went out. He’d be pathetically grateful for her least attention. It was a well-known truism: guys with glasses hardly ever got lasses on their asses.

She squeezed gently, her thumb drawing a small circle on the blunt head. “Wherever you go, I’ll come.”

He led her up the narrow steps and into his apartment. Closing the door behind her, he braced an arm against the door, trapping her voluptuous body with his. He lowered his head and began dropping kisses on her arching neck. “Oh, baby, it’s going to be so good!”

She grabbed his beard-roughened cheeks between her heated palms. “Kiss me, you four-eyed sex machine!” she demanded.

The corners of their eyeglass frames collided, and they both chuckled huskily. “We could take them off,” she suggested softly.

“Oh, no, my hot little pussycat. I want to see you. All of you.” He raised her pink angora sweater and let his eyes feast on the bountiful breasts exposed beneath. “And all of you is as perfect as 20/20 vision.”

Swiftly, eagerly, they stripped off their clothes and fell on the bed. His hands sought soft, dark, wet, sultry petals of sensation. Her hands cupped hard, sweaty, throbbing globes of passion.

Realization struck both of them.

He’d been right! She was as primed as a firecracker. All he’d had to do was flick his finger over her sensitive little nubbin, and she was oozing the silken moisture of her desire. This was going to be so good!

She’d been right! The poor fellow obviously hadn’t gotten laid very often because he thought foreplay was going for the main goodies right from the get-go. A creamy pearl of anticipation glimmered on the satiny head of his pulsating shaft. This was going to be so good if he could last longer than a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am!

He raised himself above her, examining every inch of her quivering flesh. A finger tilted his glasses to ogle her swollen, heaving breasts. “Oh, yeah, baby. I’ve got what you need!” He lowered his head to press a wet, open-mouth kiss on her ruby lips. Rubbing from side to side, their noses pressed against lenses like kids’ noses on the Christmas display windows at F.A.O. Schwartz. “Yeah, let me show you how good it’s going to be.” His fingers plucked a pouting nipple.

Sensations coursed through her body.

Yearning.

Aching.

Reaching.

Feverishly, she thrashed her head from side to side against the rumpled pillow bending both eyeglass temples and pressing indelible dents into the sides of her nose with the nosepads.

“Ouch!” she exclaimed. “Those designer frames set me back 300 bucks!” He gave a hoarse cry of rapturous completion and collapsed on her naked frame. “With some practice you might turn into a real stud, but I wouldn’t rank this bout above $200.” Her insistent hand shoved him off.

“Two hundred?” he demanded, plainly insulted. “I wouldn’t give you $100!” Straightening the smudged glasses on the bridge of his nose, he reared up and hastily departed the passion-tousled bed. “Not a penny over $50, “ he added snidely, as the noseprints on his lenses rendered him completely blind and he ran headlong into the wall.

She eased her languid body from the bed and stood over his unconscious form prone on the floor. She removed her glasses and inspected the ruined frames ruefully. “I’ve got to make that appointment to get contact lenses,” she thought. “Keeping up a regular sex life is getting way too expensive.”[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Breasts in the Wind by Carrie Hines” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Carrie Hines:

Breasts in the Wind
Millie Talleywacker struggled to button her white velvet jacket over her heaving, enormous globes as she stepped out of her adorable, quaint little cottage. The breeze fluttered the wisps of hair on her neck. Millie cast a fretful gaze about her, noticing that the wind was picking up. She crossed her arms over her enormous bosom, but the wind was too fierce. The wind found her zeppelin-like breasts, and the contact lifted Millie from her feet and cast her into the arms of the storm.

“No!” She cried, the sight of her familiar little, old-maid cottage growing faint as she wafted in the air. Everyday, the wind lifted her tiny body with her incongruously large breasts from terra firma. And of course, it would never occur to Millie to get a breast reduction surgery.

“There goes Millie,” she heard the drunken groundskeeper say. She hoped he wasn’t trying to sneak a glimpse of her bare bottom beneath her flowing white dress. The drunken groundskeeper would probably be a villain, guilty of atrocities such as taking away Millie’s birthday, but in this 1500-word parody his character remains undeveloped.

Millie would have to do what she normally did to combat the fierce wind. She would have to unbraid her virginal white knee-length hair. She tugged on the ribbons and shook out her hair. The unbound tresses acted as a parachute, allowing the slight Millie to descend back to earth.

To her dismay, she landed not on the ground, on her feet, but in the arms of a cruelly handsome man.

“Well, I say,” The cowboy Navy SEAL pirate drawled, his muscular, seventy-two inch chest heaving at the wondrous beauty he held in his arms.

“Ouch,” Millie said, squirming to avoid the blows of his quivering pectorals.

“Oh, sorry, m’lady,” He placed her on her feet, but her traitorous breasts threatened to lift her off of the ground, so he settled two beefy, hammy hamfists on her shoulders to keep in place. “It seems, my love, that your body is a bit aerodynamic,” he drawled, his Texas twang warring with military gruffness for supremacy. “Argh,” his pirate persona growled. “Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson at your service, my saucy wench.” He dipped into an awkward bow, his prosthetic leg skidding on the concrete. He grasped her huge breasts to remain upright, and Millie emitted a shocked gasp.

“How dare you!” She sputtered. “I am a thirty-year-old maiden, for heaven’s sake, an intact, pure-bred virgin!” Her bosom filled with hot air in affronted rage, yet she ranted on, unaware that her feet had once again left the ground. “I am not some tart that you can just manhandle.” She grew aware that once again she was floating in mid-air. “Oh dear. Here we go again.”

“Not to worry, pretty sister,” Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson said, his face twisting in a pirate’s leer. He grasped a hold of the delicate, dainty slipper laced about her slender, curvaceous ankles.

Jackie Gunnerson managed to yank his eyes away from her straining, heaving bosom. His eyes fell on her lovely, delicate, patrician, perfect Albino face. The blinding white of her skin, the innocent curve of her rosebud mouth, and her startling eyes, framed by thick white lashes…mesmerizing.

“You have the loveliest pink eyes I’ve ever seen,” Jackie said.

Millie’s white lashes, two-inches long, swept downward, covering her eyes in modest embarrassment. A colorless blush infused her white cheeks. “Thank you,” she stammered. “It’s embarrassing having pink eyes. They’re so common.”

“Ah, but yours are uncommonly lovely. Argh. They evoke the essence of cotton candy, rosy palms, Barbie-doll corvettes…not that I know about these things, considering that I am a manly man, full of machismo, and well-endowed.”

Her eyes flew open. Startled, they sought his face. But to her dismay, he continued talking in the same vein.

“And your lovely white lashes, they remind me of ermine caterpillars.”

“They’re so long and heavy, I have a hard time keeping my eyes open.” To prove her point, Millie’s delicate lids drooped, downed by the weight of her lashes.

“I am long and heavy, too, my sweet. Come aboard.” With a show of strength, Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson swept Millie into his arms. “I will take you to my headquarters. The author insists on being vague on exactly where we are, in both time and place, but suffice it to say that my headquarters are lavish—and I long to have my wicked way with you.” He added, “argh.”

He stumped to his headquarters, and Millie’s delicious scent filled his head. She smelled like orchids and cat food, an intoxicating combination. He longed to drink in her smell.

Once inside Jackie’s headquarters, he released her. Millie floated about the room. Her head banged into the ceiling a couple of times.

“Are you going to deflower me?” She asked, her eyes hidden by heavy white lashes.

“You will enjoy it,” the cowboy Navy SEAL pirate said. “Take off your clothes.”

Millie released one little button, and her elaborate white dress fell away effortlessly. She floated, nude.

At the sight of her naked white beauty, Jackie’s wooden stump shot off his leg and circled the room, richocheting off the walls before catching Millie in the solar plexus and sending her crashing to the bed. “Oof,” she said.

Jackie hopped on one foot to the foot of the bed and parted the curtains. The sight of Millie on the bed, her enormous breasts reaching for him, her creamy thighs parted, and anchored by the phallic shape of his prosthetic leg, was too much for the manly Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson, cowboy Navy SEAL pirate. His eyes popped out.

“Here,” Millie said, handing his eyes back to him.

“I long to be inside you.” Jackie released one little button, and his cowboy Navy SEAL pirate uniform, khaki trousers with billowing white blouse, fell away effortlessly. “Argh,” he said, proudly struggling on one naked leg to maintain his glorious nude balance.

Millie’s innocent, inexperienced, virginal pink eyes flew open at the sight of his magnificent body. His dark, tanned chest heaved beneath her gaze. His pectorals quivered. Her eyes traveled his length, from his eighty-inch shoulders to his seventy-two inch chest, before tapering to his forty-inch, rippled abdomen and dipping to his fifteen-inch manroot. His cockle quivered magnificently.

“Oh,” Millie emitted an innocent, virginal gasp. “However will I accommodate you?” She wondered.

“Like this,” he said, and fell on top of her.

“Whoa, wait a second, buster!” Millie struggled beneath his massive, manly weight. “I may be an innocent, naïve virgin, but I know a little something about foreplay. I’ve been waiting for years for the perfect man, a cowboy Navy SEAL pirate, saving my hymen for him. I want it done right.”

“Argh. We don’t have much time. We’re at 1300 words as it is, and this essay has a limit of 1500 words. There are thousands of euphemisms for the act of sex, and the author wants to be able to use them all.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have wasted so much time talking about my tits. Drop or I’m flying away.”

“Okay, okay.” He whined. “Do I have to?” At her nod, he slithered down her body. “But I’m scared to eat the Fish Taco.” He gazed at the lovely thatch of thick, springy white hair at the juncture of her thighs. It reminded him of that scratchy angel shit his mom put out at Christmas. Wasn’t that stuff poisonous, as poisonous as the juices dripping from Millie’s body? He was a romantic hero, used to just jacking away, not performing cunnilingus.

He pulled a comb out from nowhere and parted the magnificent, white pubic hair. Closing his eyes and grimacing, he reached out a tentative tongue to the hidden love button nestled between her thighs. He licked. And suckled.

“Hey!” He exclaimed excitedly. “It tastes like chicken!” He dove back into the Colonel’s bucket.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Millie screamed out, the orgasm exploding from her body, and she flopped around on the massive bed like a fish out of water, like a chicken with it’s head cut off.

“Now?” Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson asked, posing his fifteen-inch manhood at Millie’s portal. “Now can we do the wild thing? The naughty naughty?” He wiped Millie’s juices off of his chin and spit out a white pubic hair.

Millie nodded. Jackie, the cowboy Navy SEAL pirate thrust, stretching Millie.

“Ouch!” Millie shrieked. She turned her head away from the sight of Jackie’s pistoning hips. “Hey,” she said to the reader. “This little parody might be completely unbelievable, but no way in hell am I going to act like a typical romance virgin heroin who enjoys her deflowering. This hurts like a mother–”

THE END[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”Dark Putz by Christina Zeeman” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Christina Zeeman as an an homage to Christina Feehan:

Dark Putz
Nikhail Duh-brinksy, dark prince of the Appalachians, frowned as his life-mate’s distressed thoughts beat against his mind. This would not do. It was the way of Appalachian males to see to the health and happiness of their life-mates. He could do no other.

“What troubles you, my darling?” he asked. Even if he could not read her mind, know it as intimately as he knew his own, he could see her inner turmoil on her expressive beautiful face.

After a millennia of being stuck in an emotionless void and being colorblind, Crow Witless had come to him in his bleakest hour and restored that which he had thought lost to him and rescued him from the fate of succumbing to madness. She took his breathe away. She was tall and elegantly thin like the rare female Appalachians. Her ribcage was pleasingly narrow, her arms and legs stick-like and boney in their slimness. Her hair, black as the crow she’d been named for, was silky and smooth. It had a bunch of split ends but that was nothing a good daytime snooze under the healing soil of the Appalachian Mountains wouldn’t fix.

Crow sighed. “It’s this whole ‘life-mate’ thing, Nikhail. I only came to the backwaters of Pennsylvania to take a brake from using my awesome telepathic skills to help the FBI track down serial cattle rustlers. This is only a vacation! I have a life and I’m going back to it. You can’t act like this is permanent. We’re oil and water! We come from two different worlds! You’re too arrogant and overbearing while I’m independent!”

“You know I cannot let you leave me, Crow,” he said, his voice soft and calm. “You are my life-mate. Your mind craves my mind to invade your privacy. Our bodies demand that we have wild monkey sex and suck each other’s blood every night. Your health and safety must be put above my own at all times. If I were to lose you I would surely go mad and join the ranks of the Undead who slaughter my people and humans alike.

“Would you do that to me, Crow? Leave me to the fate of becoming an wholly evil, second rate, ineffectual villian?”

“No!” Crow wailed. “But that’s beside the point! I’m making some very valid points about the future of our relationship, but instead of working it out, whenever I bring it up you give me that same old spiel! What we have here is a failure to communicate!”

Nothing Crow had said had even swayed Nikhail from what he knew his course of action must be. Even if Crow could not see how paramount her safety was, he must hold firm to his resolve. It was for her own good that he protect and cherish her like the treasure a female Appalachian life-mate was. After all he was an Appalachian super-alpha-male; therefore, he could do no other.

“Without you I am colorblind and emotionless. I can feel no love nor laughter nor desire, and I titter on the brink of madness with my only options to be destroyed by the dawn or join with the ranks of the Undead who prey on my people and humans alike. You are the light to my darkness, the yin to my yang, the…. You get the point! Without you, my life-mate, I am lost, and there is no way in hell I’m letting Grebori, the Stupid One, become prince o’ these mountains!”

“Most popular character my ass,” he grumbled to himself.

Crow had to work to stop herself from screaming loud enough to be heard in Paris. A pickax was gouging furiously at the place behind her eyes, her teeth were grinding together, and her fist was curled around a hank of hair she had ripped from her scalp. And that jerk wondered about her split ends! Hah! This mental connection thing worked both ways.

“You’re not listening me, Nikhail!” she started a little more shrilly than she had intended. “You do this to me every time I try to make some actual headway in resolving this conflict! You give me the same old speech and for the record, I got the importance of a life-mate the first fifty times!” she mocked. “Now let’s sit down, talk this out, and really listen to each other. Please,” Crow added more softly.

Nikhail was still stoney faced. His voice was still velvety and as calm as a windless night. He stared at her hard, his sexy dark eyes unreadable. His sensuous lips parts slowly.

Crow shivered in anticipation that he might actually say something rational. Sexy and dangerously handsome as he was, she was beginning to realize what a desirable trait communication skills were in a man. She really wanted to have this heart-to-heart to prove that her relationship with Nikhail Duh-brinsky was more than some preordained orgy of sex and blood drinking.

“I am Appalachian male and you are my life-mate. I can do no other than see to your health and happiness as is my right. If I were to lose you I’d join the ranks of the Undead who prey upon my kind …”

This time Crow did scream. Bats and birds were startled from the trees and flew up into the night sky. A pack of wolves began howling in empathy. “What it is it with you!” she sobbed in frustration. “Every time I try to talk seriously about our relationship, you put me off with either that damn stupid speech, a rollicking round of hot spontaneous sex,” she shivered at some of the heated memories that brought to mind. The man may be as unbending as a steel rod but he was as sexy as a pagan god. Hey.. steel rod.. heehee.. No Crow, you must not be swayed by sex. You will resolve this now if it takes all night. Keep thinking like that and you’ll become as irrational as he is. “Or you try to shove some nasty vegetable power drink down my throat,” she finished quickly.

She let out an exasperated puff of breath and stepped towards her life-mate. “Please, Nikhail,” she said with desperate earnesty shining from her eyes. ” Let’s discuss this like two rational adults. I’m independent woman who is used to running her own life. I’m not a baby and I don’t need to be dictated to.”

Nikhail studied her face. With his superior Appalachian night vision he could make out every detail of her visage perfectly.

“Crow…” he began softly, slowly.

She brightened, thinking at last this obstinate man would see reason.

“All that screaming has made you pale. Yelling at me is not good for your health, and as your life-mate I can do other than make sure you are healthy and happy as is my right.” He magically conjured a bottle of V-8 tomato juice into his right hand and advanced on his ‘sickly’ life-mate. “I can not abide losing you. I can’t go back to being emotionless and colorblind for I would surely join the ranks of the undead who prey on my kind and humans alike…”

This time, Crow let out scream so loud that the echo alone was enough to ring bells in Boston.[/fusion_toggle][fusion_toggle title=”The Happily Married Hero by Janet Mitchell” open=”no”]

Purple Prose as written by Janet Mitchell:

Happily Married Hero

Characters:
Lord Lance Hawkhurst A tortured rake
Ted Bransom Disposable secondary character
Felicity Truelove Beautiful anachronistic heroine and former doormat
The Wretched Self-Pity Party A group of rich, handsome, titled gentlemen
Setting:
Library of Hawkhurst manor

Lance (or is it Blake? Rafe? Oh hell, what’s the difference) sits in front of the fire, full brooding mode. His hard, chiseled lips are set in a pout. His dark, seductive eyes are gloomy. (well, you get the point. He is miserable. As usual)

Door opens, and Ted Bransom, (Nice Guy Who Never Gets the Girl) enters.

Ted: Lance, old fellow! I just came to see how you were, now that you and your beautiful, sensual, incredibly wealthy and intelligent wife Felicity Truelove have solved your troubles and reconciled. (Looks around) Where is she? Off delivering food to the slums? Teaching poor women how to plant corn at the women’s shelter she single-handedly built with her own trust fund at the age of fourteen? (Shakes his head with admiration) You know, not many women could do all that and attend Eton at sixteen by disguising herself as a man. (Muses) Strange that no one noticed that she was female. She only hid her glorious golden hair under a cap, and sheis a 38 D-cup.

Lance: (Mournfully) She’s out picketing for women’s suffrage with other fiery, beautiful, anachronistic heroines. (Gulps down half a glass of whisky in one swallow.)

Ted: What’s the problem, old bean? I say, if I didn’t know better, I would think that you are upset that the Big Misunderstanding between you and your beautiful, sensual, incredibly wealthy and intelligent wife has been solved and you are Happily Married.

Lance: (Groans) Nitwit! Don’t you get it? People… expect things of contented men. Now that I am a Happily Married Man, instead of a Tortured Hero, people expect things of me. Courtesy, kindness, sensitivity to the needs of others. Even… (Shudders) fidelity and loyalty. (Throws his glass into the fire) When I was a Tortured Hero, I had fun! I got drunk, insulted my well-meaning friends, seduced women, went to a different brothel every week, cheated on my wife and cuckolded my peers. I treated everyone around me like dirt, and everyone rushed to make excuses for me, because I was in such pain. I got away with murder then! All I had to do was remind them of my miserable childhood! Now that I am the Happily Married Hero, (sobs) I have to… (whimpers) face the consequences of my own actions! (collapses in heap in chair)

Ted: (With a touch of disapproval) Well, Lance, you are thirty-seven years old. Perhaps… well, perhaps it is time that you grew up. Come to think of it, you never did apologize for compromising Felicity when she was my fiancée to force her to marry you in order to get your inheritance, when there were other girls who would have been willing to cut a deal for the cash.
(Frowns) And come to think of it, you never said you were sorry for beating me up and slapping her around when your evil stepbrother lied and you decided that she was cheating on you.
(Deepening frown) Or for sleeping with two different women within a week of the wedding and telling her that you had a right to be unfaithful because she didn’t love you when you married her. After all, she did tell you, “No”. (Pauses) Repeatedly.

Lance: (tears of self-pity welling up in his eyes) You see! You see! It’s already starting! Now that I can no longer wallow in my own self-induced misery, I am supposed to care what my actions did to others. (Folds arms, perfectly chiseled lips in a pout) Why does everybody pick on me? First, my Evil Mother made my childhood a living hell. And now I that I am Happily Married, I can’t get away with my careless disregard for the feelings and emotions of others.

Ted: (Trying but failing to be sympathetic) Poor old bean. By the way, what did your Evil Mother do to you? You’ve never actually said.

Lance: She – she sent me to my room without dessert once! Slut! (Sobs) So, I spent the next twenty years jumping the bones of every woman I could to prove that all women were strumpets!

Ted: But – but sleeping with all those women just showed your lack of morality. If anything, you were the strumpet.

Lance: (Indignant) I can’t be a strumpet! I’m the Hero! (Shakes head) A Romantic Hero is allowed to boink like a bunny rabbit until he finds the Right Woman. Then he can continue to hump other women to show his inner conflict and mental anguish. As long as he is miserable and tortured, he can inflict pain on anyone. Especially his wife.

Ted: But you abused her for months! Refused to trust her! And decided that she was guilty of adultery and other crimes based on lies from a man you wouldn’t have trusted your horse with!

Lance: (uncomprehendingly) So, what’s your point?

(Ted stomps to the door and exits, slamming it.)

Lance: Ted? Where are you going? (shakes his head) Selfish man. Couldn’t he see that I hadn’t finished complaining about my boundless suffering? (pouts)

(another knock on door, and several well-dressed men enter)

Lance: (brightening up) It’s my friends from school, the Wretched Self-pity Party! Have you come to talk about me?

(Men look at each other, then one comes forward.)

Man: Look, Lance, we’ve been thinking and frankly, we’re all sick and tired of this whole thing. The readers are starting to abandon us. (looks around) I have to admit, I don’t blame them. Tortured Heroes have it pretty darn good. We’re rich, handsome, healthy, and somehow always manage to have a lot of loyal friends, in spite of the fact that our only topic of conversation is our poor, pitiful childhood and our Evil-Slutty-Bitch-First Wife/Lover.

Second Man: Instead of spending day after day agonizing over our poor, pitiful, tortured lives, we’ve decided that we should consider doing something constructive, instead of whoring, gambling, and ruining innocent women for our own amusement.

Third Man: (shakes head) Have you taken a look at the real world out there? Poverty, illness, starvation, unemployment… now, those are problems. Those are people with reasons to be miserable. And we’re supposed to feel sorry for ourselves because our mommies didn’t breast-feed us? I don’t think so.

Lance: Exactly what are you trying to tell me?

Man: Lance, it’s time to grow the hell up and get over yourself!!! There are millions of people in the world who’ve had unhappy lives! Only they have to struggle on in the world without money, houses, servants, and gorgeous sexy women throwing themselves at them.

Lance: (aghast) How dare you!? Get out of here! (Men troup out, shaking their heads) I can’t believe it! What is this world coming to, when a rich handsome Tortured Hero can’t get anyone to commiserate with him while he wallows in his wretchedness!

(Door opens. Felicity Truelove, impossibly beautiful and virtuous, and built like a brick house to boot, enters. She is wearing traveling clothes.)

Lance: Felicity! Thank God you’re here! I’m so miserable! (frowns) Why are you dressed for a trip? You know that I’m due for another nightmare about my miserable childhood. It’s been two whole days since the last one!

Felicity: I came to say “goodbye”, Lance.

Lance: (blankly) What – what do you mean?

Felicity: Lance, you are a bottomless pit of emotional need – and a rotten husband. I am sick of nurturing you. You’re good for an occasional roll in the hay, but otherwise… (shrugs)

Lance: (blankly) What – what are you trying to say?

Felicity: (leans over and speaks very slowly, as if to a two year old) I’m leaving you, you doofus. Mary Jo Putney, Taylor Chase, Judith Ivory, and Adele Ashworth are all holding Heroine auditions next week.

Lance: (outraged) B – but you can’t be a Heroine again! Heroines have to be virgins or victims! You’ve had sex! And what’s more, you enjoyed it!

Felicity: (rolls eyes) Lance, you are so out of date. Experienced heroines are in. The new Heroine is Woman With a Past. Besides, I’m also trying out for Other Woman. They have more fun than a lot of heroines. And they don’t have to die at the end of the book anymore. A lot of them end up having sweaty, skanky sex with a lot of other men.
(smiles) But don’t worry, Lance. I’ve got good news. I’ve embezzled most of your fortune – since you forced me to marry you, I decided that you owed me a little something for my misery. The creditors will be here to haul you off to prison for a few days.
(pats his cheek) Just think about it. Your wife abandons you to debtor’s prison – you can live off this for years!

(Exits)

And they all lived happily ever after. (except for Lance)[/fusion_toggle][/fusion_accordion]

histbutIssue #142 of At the Back Fence – details of the contest’s outcome and reader response