I’ve decided after a lot of consideration that I’m going to take a new direction with my blog. I’ve never truly been real with you about this, but the fact is I am hopelessly, helplessly and insatiably a romantic. There is nothing I like better than having a special lady in my apartment for a quiet candlelight dinner in which I have, with my masculine, culinary hands baked for her a fancy bird that is neither a chicken nor a turkey. We sip wine as the music plays. Then lost in the feeling we thought we’d never find, we hold each other close, tightly to our arms as the needle glides over the record. “Slow dancin’, swayin to the music. Slow dancin’ just me and my girl.” I press her hands softly against me as we lay down to share ourselves in love’s mystery. Afterwards, I want nothing more than cuddling together with no clothes on underneath a snug blanket in front of the fireplace. I have no fireplace as my apartment is central air and heating and to be honest, I don’t have a wood floor, but let’s pretend I do.
Obviously, I’m a hopeless romantic and going forward, my blog will feature romance writing in the tradition of Nora Roberts, Nicholas Sparks or, hell, maybe a torrid, historical bodice ripper. I will now grace you with a dose of romantic fiction I have written if you don’t mind.
Sitting as regally as the epaulets descending like meaty links from his military coat, the young lieutenant guided the horses leading the carriage, with all the robust authority of a soldier who had commanded men on the field of battle and set his booted feet about half the world. Safe in the sphere of his powerful frame, the virgin Janastasia Steel sat close by on the daintiness of her young, pure bottom, smoothly guarded by the hoop skirt which covered the corset that bound her fragile body and accentuated the feminine curves undulating about milky white skin only to be seen by her future husband.
Lt. Gray Christensen was in a rush as he had been summoned by the brigadier general to to transport his daughter from her women’s college in the Northeast to the Officers Ball where the lovely Janastasia would accompany her betrothed, First Lt. Bartholomew Darling. Brigadier Gen. Steel would act as chaperone.
As the horses took a modest trot along the country road, winding between tall rows of trees that stood tall as a guard tower at a military prison, the whitish clouds darkened overhead and a pluvial scent filtered about the autumn air.
“A hard rain is imminent,” Christensen said.
“Oh my stars,” Janstasia replied. “How shall we make it to the ball before the rains fall?”
At that moment, as if it were the product of a grand cosmic timing, a black cloud circled above them gave way to an unforgiving rain. Christensen, valiant and as a soldier always prepared for such moments, hoisted an umbrella above the fair lady’s head, upon which was a bonnet, while his other hand held the horses’ reins. Thunder erupted like a war machine of the gods and lightning flashed like a mighty fire in the sky. Their only course was to take shelter in the nearest town, approximately 10 minutes away.
As the parties made their way into a small hamlet, Christensen looked through sheets of rain at hazy images of town villages in search of an inn where they could stay and ride out the storm. He was able to make out the structure of a lodging house. The brave man ushered the virginal young woman through the inn doors and rushed out briefly to secure his horses. Splats of rain had dampened Janastasia’s dress. It was not the only part of her that would be wet that night.
Christensen entered into the vestibule and asked the kindly innkeeper behind the oak desk for accommodations for himself and the fair lady. The innkeeper informed the young army officer that there was only one vacant room in the establishment. Christensen and Janastasia looked helplessly at each other, their faces tacitly communicating the fears of inviting reproach and scandal. But it was useless. The two, man and woman, were at the mercy of their circumstances.
“We’ll have to get you out of those wet clothes,” the innkeeper said.
Upstairs, the dashing lieutenant glanced for a second at the door lock and thrust the key into the hole. They were in a room, providing warmth and succor. To their horror, the pair noticed only one bed.
“I will sleep in the bath,” Christensen heroically and with chivalry. Janastasia nodded her head lightly, a mild trace of hesitation and disappointment in her eyes. Christensen, too, gave way to pause, involuntarily drawing closer to the irresistible vision of woman. The stirring, the hungering torment swelling within like the rocket’s red glare. The woman. A hot urging moistening within that part of her, most identifiable of womankind. Bodies drawn so close she could feel the hotness of his breath and the touch of something below and not spoken of. “Ummm, you can have the bed” --- he thrust his mouth upon her hot red lips, her insides reciprocating, tongue in a spasm as if she’d been making love for 20 years of her life.
Clothing came off. Epaulets dropped to the floor. He furiously untied the back of her corset so as not to delay like the modern placing on of the latex upon hardwood manhood, frittering away the nano-seconds. They fell to the bed, the woman underneath the man as he kissed her heretofore unseen breasts, her hair falling wildly over soft shoulders. The powerful shaft at the end of his maleness tickled the bristly blonde hairs upon the mound from which they curtained off that part of her she most wanted to give away, then rubbed against the little red jewel that holds a billion particles of heaven for women, thinly between the embers of hell.
“Please put it in!”
And he pushed inside, his protuberant python of passion and he squeezed up the sides of her luscious round bottom as he guided his manliness up, down and deep within the wet, sticky walls of her canal of enchantment. Penetrating deeper and harder.
“Oh my god. Don’t stop.” Her nude legs wrapped around his...and...indivisible with justice for all…”oh oh oh” as a religious fury -- “Holy Christ! Christensen!” and their love became a funeral pyre and they were naked, the man and the woman and they were not ashamed and, and, and…”I love you,” he exclaimed. “Oh oh oh.” A gushing forth of love like wet lava inside the deflowered woman, a sticky warm discharge running down her leg. Catch my breath. Their oneness born in the passions of love. He reached for her tender body. They laid side by side. “Thanks babe,” he said, slapping her on the butt and rolling over to smoke a cigarette.
Well that’s it. Show’s over, folks. I ain’t no romance writer, I was just fuck’n with you.
April Fool.
"Almost Hear You Sigh" -- The Rolling Stones