To the sane, non-noveling types, that means turkey and preparations for Christmas. To me, it means something else entirely, or it has for the last four years.
Time once again for Nanowrimo. Never heard of it? Affectionately shortened to Nano, the event is simply an agreement among the thousands of us who sign up annually to try to write a 50K word story during November. That's not quite seventeen hundred words a day. There's a handy-dandy little thingamabob posted on the top right of my blog so you (and I!) can track my progress.
Last year I wrote Wildly Inappropriate. The year before I penned When a Soldier Cries, which has been pulled back from the publisher that accepted it. I plan to rewrite and resubmit elsewhere in December. The year before that, I wrote Soft Sounds of Pleasure. This year, I'm writing a novel titled The Carmine Club Chronicles. Tentative plans exist for this story to be offered by Silver Publishing, beginning in January or February as a serial novel, with each episode consisting of around 10K words. New episodes would be published monthly thereafter for twelve months. If all goes according to plan, by month's end, I should have half the novel written.
The story explores female sex fantasies through the experiences of Cameron Calloway. Cam's a motivated younger man, determined to get ahead in his job for an emerging southern corporate baron, Scott Declan. Cam's Recruitment, a brief introductory background story, is available free from Silver Publishing here. I solemnly promise to explore the top female sexual fantasies throughout this story. I might also deviate into some transgressional erotica territory.
I thought I'd share the words written today.
(unedited and subject to deletion)
The Carmine Club Chronicles
For a club whose sole purpose was stated to be the satisfaction of female sexual fantasies, there wasn't a woman in sight. Even the bartender was male. Cameron Calloway tried not to stare. How the man could casually mix drinks with his cock on display was something Cam couldn't quite wrap his head around. The attendant's scarlet cutaway jacket was worn over a bare chest, the color made brighter by the long mahogany bar he labored behind. An ebony bowtie, much like Cam's, was fastened around the young man's bare throat, giving him a look of exposure Cam found disconcerting. But not as disconcerting as he found the young man's pants. Suspenders held up black trousers that had more in common with chaps, exposing his cock and balls, and when he turned to grab a new bottle of seltzer, his ass. A wide cock ring made of what appeared to be a flat band of rubber matching his jacket constricted the base of a decent-sized shaft. Golden C's interlocked on top of the servant's flushed organ.
Cam's cock reacted to the painful-looking image, threatening to harden. He realized he was staring again. Brushing his tuxedo sleeve back from his watch, more in hopes his boss might notice the timepiece than to check the hour, he wished for the hundredth time the ballroom doors would open. He was ready for the auction to get underway. He hadn't endured the myriad blood tests and online video psychological profiling session required to gain his temporary membership card just to talk shop with the handful of Declan employees littering the well-groomed crowd of men. He didn’t know anyone else.
His boss's back remained turned toward Cam while he held court with his employees. Cam didn't believe kissing Scott's ass was the right move tonight. Scott had subtly demanded he be here. Cam was present. He eyed his watch yet again. The visible movement filling the square rose gold case on his wrist proved the used Cartier Santos-Dumont skeleton was running, though the blued-steel hands had barely moved since he last time he'd checked. It was still five minutes to nine. Cam suppressed an impatient sigh.
He'd be bidding, of course. Scott would never promote an associate who sat on the sidelines and watched. At the beginning of the week, Scott handed Cam a shot at the keys to the Promised Land—a chance at a coveted position inside Declan Corporation—along with an order to join his 'club'. Being a southern gentleman, Scott Declan always couched his orders as invitations. Cam rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass and recalled his boss' exact words.
The ultimate high any man can achieve is gratifyin' a woman sexual desires, whatever they may be. Knowing you can satisfy any woman, anytime, anywhere, no matter what she needs, is a power trip unlike any other. Face it, Cam, we both know it's not that hard to get a man off, but a woman… ah, they're marvelously complex little things. Any man who knows he can do that will exhibit that confidence in his day-to-day tasks, I believe. Carmine House provides the ideal place for learning what makes women tick."
There was no fee to join, Scott promised, leaving Cam to ponder what the real cost of Carmine Club might be. Silver spoon frat boy types like his boss might be used to scraping the cream off life, but Cam had grown up waking at four in the morning to milk the cows, figuratively speaking. He'd checked into the antebellum mansion a couple of hours earlier, making the long drive to the coast in record time after working three-quarters of the day. So far, the only women he'd seen had been fully dressed.
The mellow voice of the blues singer vibrating through the well-concealed sound system pulsed with the kind of longing Cam felt. Not the basic longing of his stirring cock. Longing to fit in, to have these affable southern boys do more than tolerate him. He didn't desire to walk among them as an equal. He'd learned better than to want that. They'd never accept one not native to their magnolia-and-moonlight-studded land, unless they had no other choice, a lesson Cam learned at The University of Georgia during his undergraduate days. That was fine. What these privileged sons of Dixie respected was power, same as anywhere else. Cam planned on obtaining that power. First, through the work he did for Scott at Declan Corporation, negotiating whatever Scott needed negotiated. Second, by proving his mastery of the club's raison d'être, the satisfaction of females in the bedroom. Cam was determined to dominate both arenas. Then Scott would have no choice but to award him the coveted office in the executive suite of company's new headquarters slated to be built in the upper part of the state. Fresh off a successful week persuading reluctant building owners to sell their holding in the four-city-block area Scott had picked out in Sparta, South Carolina, Cam was more than ready to celebrate by getting laid. Restlessly, he selected an hors d'oeuvre pick from a crystal cup and skewered another marinated oyster from the narrow china tray lined with romaine lettuce.
The baritone buzz of conversation fell silent. The void was punctuated by the ringing sound of stilettos striking a wooden floor. There was carpet beneath Cam's highly polished black leather shoes, so the sound had to be coming from behind the sealed pair of ten-foot doors. The doors swung open. Cam strained to see above the sea of dark-clad shoulders, discarding the ivory-tinted pick in a discrete waste bin half-hidden behind a lush green plant.
"Welcome to Carmine Club's January event, gentlemen. The auction begins in thirty-five minutes. Please come in."
Scott turned from the group he'd been talking with since Cam had stepped into the room. "That's Willa Seachrist. She owns Carmine House. I'll introduce you."
She was blonde. Long bangs swept to one side of a flawless oval face reminiscent of the porcelain figurines in the glass fronted mahogany bookcases scattered along the public areas of the resort. He doubted the smooth river of golden hair falling to her shoulders was natural, but the effect was nice. She studied him with blue eyes that didn't match the smile on her painted lips. Those eyes did, however, match the sequined dress flowing over her elegant figure. To Cam, the high scooped neckline and elbow-length sleeves said 'look but don’t touch', despite the fact it rode high on her long thighs. To an ear such as Cam's, attuned to discerning the unspoken though tiny inflections, Scott's voice betrayed his boss' desire to do more than touch Willa Seachrist when he made the introductions.
Cam supposed banging the sex club's owner would be considered a trophy fuck. The river of diamonds cascading from her ears underscored the woman's high maintenance message.
"Welcome to Carmine Club, Cameron. I trust Mr. Declan has filled you in on how our little auction works?" She tilted her head, offering her cheek for Scott to kiss. To Cam's eye, Scott lingered overlong with his lips pressed to the powdered perfection.
Declan had explained the procedure briefly Mostly, his boss merely dangled this carrot in front of Cam's nose before diverting the discussion to business matters. Unwilling to appear a complete novice, Cam nodded confidently, once. "A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Seachrist." The only thing remotely naked about the plantation's owner was her left ring finger.
She traced the studs down his snowy shirtfront with a long fingertip lacquered in rose. Each tiny click of her nail across his onyx shirt studs sounded to Cam as though she counted his assets. "Willa, darlin'. Call me Willa." Her voice flowed much like her dress. Silhouetted against the stark white walls of the antebellum mansion's massive ballroom, she looked to Cam like a column of dark ice, the kind people don’t see on highways, making them lose control.
Scott gripped Cam's elbow, walking him past Willa so others could enter. "The auction's very simple, really." He gestured toward the long room and stepped back. Cam blinked. The large brass luggage carts seen dotting the property during his arrival had been pressed into double-duty. On the red carpet lining each stand a naked woman knelt, arms raised above her head. Silver metal handcuffs glittered like diamonds against the mellow brass of each service cart. "You were given a marble, right?"
Cam slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers, fingering the red glass sphere embellished with his name in gold. So much like a personalized golf ball, he'd had to laugh when he'd opened the leather case he'd been given at check-in. "Yes."
Cam surveyed the long line of carts, mentally reciting the number defining how high he could afford to go. Would three grand be enough? He could manage four, even five grand, he supposed, but going into debt for pussy would derail his other plans.
The row of masked eyes and rosy, outthrust nipples made it hard to think about mundane things like real estate. The carpeted carts, the masks, and the women's bare skin were the only color in the room, save for the gilded mirrors and the similarly toned frames on the French loveseats scattered about that looked too delicate to support a man's frame. One mirror soaring nearly to the ceiling he calculated to be sixteen feet. Positioned at the end of the room, it reflected a long row of curvy bottoms resting upon folded legs.
Pounding feet made him turn his head. A line of men dressed like the bartender ran into the room. Their outstretched cocks bounced with every step. One man stopped by each cart. They snapped into a position of attention, hands clasped behind their backs to stand motionless. Willa Seachrist valued obedience along with money, Cam decided. He couldn't help holding his breath. His heart thundered beneath the fine cotton pin tucks covering his chest.
"Prepare them." The honeyed drawl came from their hostess. The liveried attendants moved into action. Hands were raised, falling on bare breasts and asses. Innocent nipples were given hard tweaks. Small cries of outrage joined the percussion of skin against skin. The melody made Cam's cock start to harden. As the blows fell, the attendants turned the carts, giving the male club members a good look at the occupants.
"Like I told you, you have to bid to make book. Not every female member puts a fantasy in the books every time. There can be up to six winning bidders for one woman. A winning bid gives you the right to drop your ball. Willa won’t allow the bidding to go crazy. When she decides the price is sufficient, she stops the bidding."
From the corner of his eye, Cam saw Scott's gesture. Tearing his gaze away from the spectacle, he noticed the white-draped table positioned in front of the marble fireplace for the first time. A small wooden box rested on top. The handle protruding from the side of the box made it resemble an antique coffee grinder.
"The winning bidders drop their ball into the top of the box. Willa turns the crank and pulls out the drawer. The ball in the tray decides which bidder will provide the fantasy."
A show of money and the element of chance. Willa might look like a porcelain doll, but the woman's mind—assuming she'd come up with this scenario—worked as elegantly as Cam's watch.
Good luck to all of my friends participating in Nano 2012! Feel free to harass me if you see me noodling about on Facebook this month without posting my word count for the day. ;-)