Yes, I know it’s Saturday, but that loses not only the alliteration but also the link with my name 🙂 Anyway, I thought I’d post one of my earliest stories, just as a sort of celebration of a decade of writing. I like to think I write even better now, but it’s not bad…
It’s also NOT SUITABLE FOR UNDER 18s.
The SSS celebrates six things that have gone well, or at least okay, in the past week. It is the creation of Terry Egan, who is all things wonderful.
Author’s Note: (a) Please note this excerpt is only suitable for over 18s. (b) This is an extract from the first Regency story I ever wrote, published by Xcite in the anthology ‘Ultimate Sins’ in 2007.
Beautiful Sin
Elizabeth dragged off her petticoat, which rustled sulkily as it dropped from her body. Lizzie’s fingers were already fighting the stay laces. The time for slowness had passed; they were both too impatient, too frustrated, too needy. Skin against skin against skin; the chemise was ruthlessly tugged away and Lizzie collapsed onto the bed with Catherine, legs tangling suggestively; hands pulling in Catherine’s hair; mouth warm and wet on her neck. Catherine arched her back, pushing her small, high breasts against Elizabeth, moaning at the delicious friction.
“Kate – Kate!”
Lizzie was humming a continuous note of pleasure against Catherine’s neck, the sound sending shivers through her. Catherine ran desperate, longing hands down Elizabeth’s back, cupping her bottom and pulling her closer, always closer.
“I want all of you – all of you,” she murmured huskily, rubbing up against Lizzie in every possible place.
There was a thin sheen of sweat covering both girls, and their bodies slid against each other. Catherine dug her nails into Lizzie, marking her in places no one else would ever see; and Lizzie bucked against her as the pleasure-pain hit. Then Catherine’s hand moved round between them, slipping between Elizabeth’s thighs and shifting back and forth, feeling the dampness within and knowing without words what Lizzie liked. Her fingers teased and twisted, finding the spots that pleased Elizabeth most; and Elizabeth squirmed in pleasure, her breathing accelerating, her hands still twisted through Catherine’s hair.
“There – oh yes, darling.”
Someone Loves You
It came through the post. An envelope, her name and address neatly typed. When Jenna opened it, there was a postcard with a picture of Monet’s Waterlilies. Beautiful. She turned the card over, to find three words written on the back.
A Trip To The Hereafter
It’s not such a bad thing, you know, dying. I should know – death and me hang around together quite a lot, and he’s always good for a pint of beer and cadging a few fags. Sorry, I’m being frivolous, and it looks like you’re not in the mood. Can’t help it: I’m always a bit like this. Anyway, would it really be better if I came into people’s rooms and sang sad songs for thirty minutes before I killed them? I mean, would that really cheer you up? I don’t think so, somehow. You wouldn’t, either, if you’d heard me trying to sing… Back on the jokes again, sorry.
But seriously – dying isn’t that terrible. What do you mean “like you’d know”? I’ve died, haven’t I? Well, yes, okay, granted I rose again and became undead, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t die. I’ve died just as much as the next vampire. Or man. Or, indeed, as you are so quick to point out, woman. And no, you are not going to rise from the dead and kick my sorry little arse, thank you. And it’s quite inappropriate to want to be undead, anyway. We’re the dregs of society – didn’t you tell me that yourself not five minutes ago when I first appeared? Oh, compared to dying it’s looking like quite a good plan, I see. But I’ve told you twice, dying isn’t anything like it’s cracked up to be. A quick nibble, a nice long kiss to the neck and you’ll be floating away in some beautiful dream.
Well, no, you won’t be coming back from the beautiful dream, I admit, but as ways to die go, I think this is really about the best you could hope for. I mean, I’m not going to kill you slowly using only a bowl of water and a piece of string. I’m not going to let you linger on in pain for years and years when you and your relatives all wish you’d just hurry up and die. One little nip and it all goes cloudy.
Well! Of all the ungrateful victims I’ve come across, you’re the worst. Here am I, offering you a nice, warm trip to the Hereafter – single journey only, no returns – you should be biting my hand off with eagerness! No, not such a good metaphor really, in the circumstances, you’re quite right. But you should be at least considering my nice nature. Have I flown in on you unexpectedly, jumped on you in the dark and started savaging you to bits? I have not. I have sat down on your bed and had this lovely chat – and I’ve let you finish your drink, which I think was very tolerant of me, considering that I can’t join you – and am waiting for you to be calm and content before we move onto the next phase.
Which is, yes, your death, and I’m terribly sorry you feel like this about it, but really I can’t see what else I could do. I mean, I can go and hide in your cupboard for a while and wait till you’re asleep… You don’t think that’d work now you’ve met me? Perhaps you’re right…
Well look, here’s my final offer. I’ll read you a bedtime story, tuck you up nicely and then just slide in beside you in the bed and suck gently on your blood. Still not happy?
Some humans. Just don’t appreciate a good offer when they hear it.
penelopefriday 