Sunday, November 18, 2012

Sawdust and Comfort ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday

Six more from Incidental Contact.

Snorting aloud, Amy rose on her toes and tossed the huge towel over the top of the rail holding the shower curtain before adjusting the water temperature. As though every woman in town hadn't tried to 'comfort' Eric De Marco? Now that Daniel and Colton were off the relationship market, competition was sure to increase for the last unattached De Marco brother. This year would likely be a banner one for adding new notches to his bedpost. Assuming he had any bedposts left. Rumor had it the man was a sex machine. If he actually carved notches in his bedposts, he probably had to suck up the sawdust with a Dyson and buy a new bed every six months. 
Thanks for dropping in. please visit the original Six Sentence Sunday blog to find more six sentence excerpts from other authors.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Barter ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday

Six more from Incidental Contact

"Lila said not to expect cash for rent," he informed her, his sexy grin seeming to grow hotter. "Maybe we can work out some kind of barter."
Amy's normally agile mind went completely blank. An image of the frozen doe she'd dodged when driving down the remote private road leading to the cabin the night before morphed into her head.
"I… um… I suck at c-c-ooking," she finally stammered.

Thanks for dropping in. Have a great week! 

Friday, November 9, 2012

When a Soldier Cries ~ Men of the Military Giveaway Hop


 The winner of a copy of Wildly Inappropriate is: Catherine Lee!
Link to drawing result:

Men of the Military Giveaway Hop

I wrote a story with a military hero. In fact, of everything I've written to date, that story is my favorite It's called When a Soldier Cries and when I joined this hop, I expected it would be released by now. I parted ways with the publisher who had accepted it, and it will be 2013 before that story makes it to press. To stay informed on the story's status, you can join the blog, sign up for e-mail updates, join my Facebook page, or add me on Twitter.

(unedited excerpt)

Sure, steady movements of his wonderful fingers had chills chasing hot flashes up her torso as her back began to bow. She teetered on the edge of something dark and wonderful, but scary in its unfamiliarity. Anthony had never spent much time touching her this way. By now he’d be ordering her to turn over, just as it was starting to feel good, but a part of her feared what she’d never felt before. What was he doing to her? Strong sensations began to resonate in her pussy as she began to squirm, instinctively trying to hold onto her self-control, yet wanting more. “Don’t stop.”
 Which one of them was she talking to? 
He didn’t stop. Time disappeared. All there was to her world was his mouth and his hand and the pleasure they evoked as she writhed, instinctively still trying to escape, but he wasn’t letting her go. His fingers sped up, driving her toward some dark and unknown place.
She wanted more. She wanted less. She didn’t know what she wanted, but whatever it was, she sensed he knew, and he was about to give it to her. She grabbed onto the sheets with both hands. She had to hold onto something or she else she was going to spin off into space, but who was that shrieking ‘ohmigodohmigodohmiGOD’?  Tori didn’t know, couldn’t care, then lost her ability to hear at all as the darkness exploded into bright, vivid shards of red and blue and green while sharp waves of pleasure detonated inside her. Ruthless, diabolical,wonderful man that he was, he didn’t let her catch her breath before she felt one large finger slide through the wetness of her slit, both heightening and relieving the blissful ache that had settled there. Her hips instinctively pushed toward the invasion, needing something inside her with a desperation she’d never felt, and a frustrated cry escaped as he held back, refusing to push into her.
He raised his head. She cried aloud at the loss of his mouth on her nipple. The expression of male pride on his face made the forfeit bearable as he gazed at her, his expression every bit as heated as the slickened muscles she was tightening inside her core, silently urging him to give her what she needed as she pushed herself toward his hand. His finger retreated, and he chuckled at the exasperated sound she made.
“How long, peaches?  How long has it been for you, Tori?” His finger circled her opening slowly. Tease.
She wasn’t sure which of two possible questions he was asking. Intense feelings of gratitude and need swept over her, and in their wake, she blurted out the shameful truth. “Three years. Never. Never like that.”
Tanner studied her from her flushed face to the pale curls covering her mound as he began to work his finger inside her. She was unbelievably snug, yet the tightness of her flesh around his invading finger bore out her shocking statement. Three years?  His cock was a column of agony, but he’d be damned if he was going to try entering her until he’d stretched her a bit. Hell if he’d hurt her.
He’d never felt humbled by the gift of a woman’s body before, but he knew that was what this was, a gift he hadn’t earned, and that feeling of awe kept rolling through him. The most important thing to him now became giving her the most possible pleasure; he’d get his. Rotating his wrist, he pushed deeper as he felt along her upper wall for the spongy bit that some women had, grinning again when he felt hers. Slowly stroking it, he watched her intently, adding a second finger when she was writhing beside him, tearing at her abused sheets again.
The sexy sight of her, off-balance and completely under his control detonated heavy throbs in his cock, demanding he fuck her, but her confession challenged him to give her more, tempted him to see how high he could make her fly. He was never going to forget her, so goddammit, she wasn’t gonna forget him either.
Semper fucking Fi, he thought with a tight grin, assigning himself a brand-new mission. He’d never in a million years have guessed the cool little doc was a screamer, but he was a long damn way from having heard enough of her cries. If he’d ever met a woman who downright needed to lose control, it was Tori.

Meanwhile, I'm giving away a copy of my current release, Wildly Inappropriate, to a random commenter. You must leave a valid e-mail address in order to be entered into the drawing. Thanks for dropping in! 

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Pierced ~ Six Sentence Sunday #SixSunday

Six more from Incidental Contact.

Working toward her mouth with his lips, he eased the palm of his other hand down her spine, over the curve of her ass, seeking her slit. With his middle finger, he pierced her slick little cunt roughly. At the same time, he pushed past her lips. He thrilled at the vibration of her moan against his invading tongue; his heart soared at the way she pushed back onto his hand. Her pussy was so tight he could barely get a finger inside her. 

Thanks for dropping in. Don't forget to return to the main Six Sentence Sunday blog for more six sentence excerpts from other authors. Have a great week!

Saturday, November 3, 2012

What to Do With a Two-Timing Muse #nanowrimo

Wouldn't you know it? Just about the time I had a good start on Carmine Club Chronicles, my muse starts blathering about an interracial menage that's been circling in my belfry for a while.

Here's the start. Hopefully, this will shut her up enough to let me finish up the last chapter of Incidental Contact later today, then get back to finding out what Cam does at the auction about to take place at Carmine House.

Honeysuckle and Vellum

Chapter One

(unedited and subject to deletion) 
Seated in Gracie's section, I frowned at the woman who wasn't Gracie when she heated my coffee. Gracie Rogers was the only reason I came to this diner-slash-convenience store combo right off the interstate.  Lush figure. Long brown hair.  Eyes the color of cinnamon, as soft-looking as the rest of her.  My father wouldn't dirty his tongue by saying  her name. I knew that was a large part of my attraction to her.

People say a man can't outrun his father. I'd spent the last ten years trying, and hadn't yet given up. My old man's a vulture. Oh, he dresses in fine suits and his shirts are always starched, but his puffed-up chest is lined with dark feathers and the heart beating inside is that of a carrion bird's. Not an eagle, as he might have people believe. An eagle will attack live prey. A vulture waits till his prey is disabled or dead. My father is a torts attorney. In layman's terms, he's an ambulance chaser, and he excels at his job.

Me? I graduated law school a few months back. Whenever people ask me when I plan to start practicing law, I tell 'em I'm waiting to hear back from my application to med school. They laugh, but it's the truth.

For the last two weeks, the uppermost thing on my mind had been Gracie. I heard her childish voice in my sleep. Dreamed about settling in between her round thighs for a long, slow fuck. Imagined her full breasts in my hands while I sucked on her nipples. Saw her generous ass turned up and waiting for my cock.

I had it bad for Gracie. Tonight—or rather, in the morning when she got off shift— I planned to go home with her and fuck her right off my mind. My plan wasn't elegant. I was gonna sit here all night, just talking and flirting till she got off, just before sunrise.

I figured there was only one obstacle to the success of my plan, and he was just comin' through the door. The small restaurant section was full. Virgil Tate surveyed each booth. Better to keep your enemies close, my father said. I stood, indicating the unoccupied seat across the table. When he saw me, his white teeth flashed in a sardonic smile and he strolled down the aisle, headed my way.

He moved like a panther, all sinew and muscle. He'd had those muscles before he spent three years in Cross Anchor Correctional.  Momentarily forgetting Gracie, I recalled cheering for Virgil when he caught touchdown passes at the university that had recently handed me my law degree.

As soon as I crossed the railroad tracks, I saw that the only working phone booth between my house and the diner was occupied. I couldn't go to work without making the phone call. I knew I'd never be able to focus. When I didn't focus, my tips were bad. I needed to make decent money tonight. My power bill was overdue. Downtown had been closed for hours so I had no trouble parking along the street. The air conditioning didn't work in my old Grand Am. Not much on the dash worked, actually, including the clock. I picked up my cell phone, just to check the time.  Nine minutes after eight. Time to spare.

To my right, on the other side of the tracks, the elegant steeple of the First Baptist church pierced the setting sun. Sweat dampened the band of my bra, making it bite into my flesh. Reaching into the low neckline of my uniform, I eased my finger beneath one strap, caressing the permanent and tender ditch on one shoulder. The gesture only made the strap seem to dig in more. Sweat trickled between my breasts. My pantyhose felt like medieval armor.

It wasn't a whole phone booth with folding glass doors, but rather one of those half-booths that hung from a post. The kid on the phone reminded me of one of my favorite customers at the diner. It must've been the color of his skin, because when he glanced over his shoulder, the boy looked nothing like Virgil Tate. For one thing, Virgil had stunning light green eyes. They looked like jade, though I’d only seen jade in magazines. 

The brown-eyed kid flashed me the peace sign, then turned his back. Lifting a glass Dr. Pepper bottle off the ledge beneath the drug store window, he took a long swallow. The machine inside the drug store still sold soft drinks in glass bottles. They were a real treat on a hot day and they were only fifty cents.

Maybe sixteen, I decided. He had the arrogant stance of a grown man, the smooth, hairless skin of a child, and his pants threatened to fall down any minute. He turned around again, moving his feet this time so I saw more of him. Heavy gold chains dangled over his sleeveless white T-shirt. The charms proclaimed his interests. A Mercedes symbol. A handgun. A bulldog. The car he wanted to drive, the life he pretended to lead, and his high school mascot, I guessed. He didn't look like a thug. He just looked like a kid wanting to fit in.

I wasn't afraid of him. I'd learned it was the men I knew that I needed to fear. Not strangers. He wasn't talking. Over the ticking motor of the Grand Am, I heard nothing. He kept glancing around, as though I bothered him. Thumping bass made him turn in the opposite direction. I looked up, too.

Coming over the hill beside the railroad tracks, the front end of a small pickup truck caught the setting sun, momentarily blinding me. A grinding sound worthy of my old junker rent the peaceful dusk. I recognized the sound made by bad brakes. The driver was slowing, I guessed, for the lower speed limit through downtown. This was prime time for getting a speeding ticket. One of the town's two patrol cars was sure to be close by. My vision cleared. The truck lurched. I saw an elbow sticking out of the window. I wasn't the only one without air conditioning, looked like. The metallic paint on the truck matched Virgil's eyes.

That notion made my heart speed up.

Heads popped up above the cab of the truck. Four, I thought I counted. Something arced through the air. I physically flinched.

The truck stop served fresh vegetables that weren't cooked to mush. I never knew how much I liked my vegetables fresh until I had to eat the shitty, overcooked ones they serve in prison. When they bother to serve 'em at all.

Working late to finish and deliver a couch so I could pick up the money, I'd managed to end up here at what appeared to be prime time. Every booth was occupied. Faces looked up at me, all colors of faces. For one painful moment, I recalled a sea of faces in the stands, first on Friday nights back in high school, when I knew I'd have my choice of pussy after the game, win or lose. Then on Saturdays in college, bigger crowds, but not as big as the ones I lusted to see.

Since I'd played in my first pee wee football game at the age of five, I'd dreamed of little else but going pro.

I almost made it.

I took deep breaths and refused to let my sore hands curl into fists, remembering.  Agents and recruiters were always in the stands my junior year at the University of South Carolina, watching me. Evaluating me, just as the upturned faces in this place evaluated me. One by one, these faces looked away, same as them recruiters turned away. 

Now, instead of running passing routes, I ran a sewing machine. I forced covered buttons through stiff leather instead of forcing my way through linesmen. People didn’t stand in line to see me play nowadays. Folks didn’t move over in their booths, waving for me to come sit beside 'em, competing for the contact celebrity being seen with me brought. No one used my name as a hashtag on Twitter any more, unless the post made liberal use of the word 'loser'. The unkind ones used the word 'rapist', though I'd never forced a woman in my life. Looking for their own kind of celebrity, I reckon. Didn't make it any easier to take.

After the three hard years I served at Cross Anchor for a rape I never committed, I came out lookin' at men with the same interest as women. Hell, maybe I'd looked at men all along. Considering how much time I'd spent in the gym and bathing in locker rooms equipped with group showers, I'd seen more'n my share of cock. There was one guy lookin' at me still, a white dude. He didn’t look either friendly or unfriendly.  He just looked. Maybe I'd get laid tonight after all. No self-respecting white guy would cry rape. Not in this state. Not that I planned to rape the guy. I just wanted a place to sit down and eat. I could suppress my other hungers, same as I suppressed my rage. For now.

For now, I couldn’t afford to think about the way that lyin' bitch posted her apology on my social profile page, like the attention-whore she was. Couldn't think about the hole I'd punched through the wall after I read it, since that damn apology was why I was free now. Couldn't let myself feel the rage building up in me over the way people kept posting about what a great guy I was to accept her fuckin' apology.

Those people didn’t know about havin' no choice. I knew too damn much about it. That's why, most nights, when I woke from fitful sleep 'round three every morning, I came back here to chat with Gracie, because from listening to her talk and lookin' into her eyes, I knew she knew all about havin' no choice.
The lanky white guy stood up, gesturing to the empty seat on the opposite side of his booth. His blue eyes looked friendly enough. Pasting on a smile I didn't feel, I strolled down the aisle toward the booth.

I was hungry.

The plastic bottle was full. It skidded across my hood, spraying tan foam. The bottle rolled off and struck the sidewalk, spewing onto the jeans and stark tennis shoes worn by the kid on the phone.

"Motherfuckers!" He raised a single, defiant finger at the flashing tail lights I saw in my rear view. Through the laughing boys in the bed of the truck, I could see the rebel flag covering the back glass of the cab. I saw the patrol car coming up behind me, too. It passed the truck, cruising real slow. The officer behind the wheel never turned his head when he drove past us.

Twisting to reach into the basket of clean laundry in my back seat, I grabbed a folded bath towel. It was still warm. My dryer was as broke as I was. Throwing my weight into the driver's door that hadn't opened right since someone at the gas station had backed into it and left without a note, I tried to force the door open, waving the towel out the window. "How mean," I said, my outrage making me sweat more. "Here. Use this."

He snatched the towel from my grasp, using it to swipe at the brown splotches covering his white shirt. "Did you see that motherfucker just drive right on by?" Assuming he meant the cop, I nodded, managing to get the door to open. He sprang back before it clipped him in the knees. "Thanks, lady," he muttered, reinforcing my guess that he was no thug, just some mother's child, trying to look like all the rest, because being different cost more than that gold he wore.  He propped a shoe on the top of my front tire, rubbing briskly at the stains. I fished into my uniform pocket for the quarter and dime.

"Is it okay if I use the phone now?"

He glanced at me, dark brows rising over darker eyes. I winced. I had to learn to stop asking a man for permission to do a damn thing. I hurried to the phone booth. My hand trembled when I dropped the money into the slot. Punching the number I'd called every night for one hundred and sixty-five days, I fought to control my body's quaking.

The kid tossed the towel into my front seat and turned to walk down the sidewalk, just as the call was answered. "County Detention Center. Officer Jacobs speakin'."

My voice shook as much as my hand. "Can you tell me, please, Officer, if Crowder Watson's still an inmate?"

The sound of pages flipping filled the line. "Yes, he's still here, ma'am. Do you need instructions on how to post bail?"

I slammed down the phone, listening to the sound of my money dropping into the box and the roaring sound of my blood pounding in my head. I pictured the church steeple behind me, and yet again,I prayed no one would see fit to cough up bail  money for the bastard that had killed my child.

By the time my vision cleared of Crowder's hated face, the kid was nowhere in sight and I was late for work.

Yup. 2,238 words I can't count. Happy nano'ing. Opal, my darling muse, I hope you're satisfied now. 

Thursday, November 1, 2012

The Carmine Club Chronicles #nano

Ah, November.

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'ĂȘtre, 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. ;-)