Here is my first story:
http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=286206
I did it ages and ages ago, and got some nice feedback about paragraph length, but a new job started, and my fledgling interest in writing had to take a backseat.
Finding myself with an hour train journey today, a laptop, and nothing to do, I wrote another extract, which I've pasted below. Sorry if this is against protocol by the way, I am a newbie-noob. Also, I'd like to sort my problems out before I carry on.
My issue comes when I'm writing, in that I feel I write with a very passive voice, it's reflective when I don't really want it to be. Actually, I don't know if this is all in my head or not. I leave it to you guys - what is it that's bothering my about my writing? Any stylistic or other tips you may have are also very welcome.
Big love to everyone.
==paste==
Steven woke with a gasp. Before even coming to, he was reaching for the glass of water standing, full almost to the brim, on his bedside chest of drawers. Drinking deep from the wide bottomed pint pot – chosen due to its resistance to being upset by a nocturnal arm – his conscious vision swam into focus.
As well as the usual sand-dry throat, he felt the unpleasant sweatiness and discomfort of his hangover. Not pain, not headache, it was a sense of awkward unease in his own body, as if his brain no longer wanted to stay inside his skull. Next to him, at an angle so redolent that it seemed impossible to match with the contours of the body under the duvet, a nest of black hair was asleep on the pillow. Gawping with confusion, Steven leaned over to find the face that must lie within. A mouth, nose, and one eye could be seen facing away from him, rising above the downy white softness and still cocooned in what he now realised was an extraordinary amount of jet black hair, spread hapzard, as if it were a liquid poured onto his bed from a bucket held above by some practical joker.
An urgent need making itself known – the only-when-drunk, oh-so-contradictory desperation to urinate coupled with a scratching, mucus-ridden thirst – he stumbled naked out of bed and went to the bathroom. Lifting the seat, he unleashed a loud torrent of amber-yellow piss into the bowl. Slightly sickened by such potency, Steven then noticed his penis bore the morning residue of sexual activity, and tried to piece back together the elusive shards of sound, sight and touch. Slaking his thirst from the cold tap, and taking account of his blood-shot eyes in the mirror, he padded back to his room, his bafflement beginning to give way to a propriety that quietened him, so as not to wake the creature asleep in his room.
He need not have worried. She was no longer half a face and bucket of hair on his pillow; she was a real person, stood with her back to the door pulling on some jeans. She turned and saw him, and boldly she reached over her head to slide a black t-shirt over her naked chest. Steven had a fleeting view of her breasts as she did so, small but well shaped against a slim muscular torso, pink nipples exploding outrageously from their centres. He was suddenly embarrassed that he was looking; despite what had obviously taken place his own nakedness, and the brief glimpse of hers, seemed to violate them both somehow, as if burglars caught red-handed stealing from their most intimate places. Reaching for his tatty dressing gown from the hook behind him, in a hurry, Steven concealed himself and said “Morning!” with a cheeriness that was as insincere a mask as it was convincing. She smiled at him, his sudden stiffness and formality fuel for and in contrast to the languid amusement curling the corner of her mouth.
She sat down, ignoring him as she retrieved her shoes from under the bed. He stood, unable to think of anything to say. How old was she? 21? 22? Younger than him at any rate. She stood up, fully clothed now, facing him. Standing close in front of him, she put her face into his. It was, he thought, an attractive face. She had the look of some models had – strong cheekbones and chin, the whole face and bottom lip protruding forward in such a way that she looked, to Steven at any rate, as if passion were all she knew. If any of those strong features a few millimetres displaced, she would be ugly. Instead, Steven’s mind was flooded with images of her, coming towards him on the dancefloor, his awkward conversation and her indulgent laugh, her seriousness as they kissed out on the street, her sighs as he fucked her.
“Thank you, I had fun” she said, low, her eyes six inches from his. Steven simply replied “Me too,” and was about to embark on a serious of “erms” that would have eventually settled into conversation, when she tilted her head to the right, and kissed his mouth. It was a slow, careful kiss, her thick lips moving against Steven’s. He didn’t resist or return it, his dimmed awareness only having time to comprehend what was happening before she had already moved away. The kind but gently mocking smile returned to her lips. She moved past him, and it seemed that her walk down the hall, and out of the front door, took no time at all.
http://www.literotica.com/stories/showstory.php?id=286206
I did it ages and ages ago, and got some nice feedback about paragraph length, but a new job started, and my fledgling interest in writing had to take a backseat.
Finding myself with an hour train journey today, a laptop, and nothing to do, I wrote another extract, which I've pasted below. Sorry if this is against protocol by the way, I am a newbie-noob. Also, I'd like to sort my problems out before I carry on.
My issue comes when I'm writing, in that I feel I write with a very passive voice, it's reflective when I don't really want it to be. Actually, I don't know if this is all in my head or not. I leave it to you guys - what is it that's bothering my about my writing? Any stylistic or other tips you may have are also very welcome.
Big love to everyone.
==paste==
Steven woke with a gasp. Before even coming to, he was reaching for the glass of water standing, full almost to the brim, on his bedside chest of drawers. Drinking deep from the wide bottomed pint pot – chosen due to its resistance to being upset by a nocturnal arm – his conscious vision swam into focus.
As well as the usual sand-dry throat, he felt the unpleasant sweatiness and discomfort of his hangover. Not pain, not headache, it was a sense of awkward unease in his own body, as if his brain no longer wanted to stay inside his skull. Next to him, at an angle so redolent that it seemed impossible to match with the contours of the body under the duvet, a nest of black hair was asleep on the pillow. Gawping with confusion, Steven leaned over to find the face that must lie within. A mouth, nose, and one eye could be seen facing away from him, rising above the downy white softness and still cocooned in what he now realised was an extraordinary amount of jet black hair, spread hapzard, as if it were a liquid poured onto his bed from a bucket held above by some practical joker.
An urgent need making itself known – the only-when-drunk, oh-so-contradictory desperation to urinate coupled with a scratching, mucus-ridden thirst – he stumbled naked out of bed and went to the bathroom. Lifting the seat, he unleashed a loud torrent of amber-yellow piss into the bowl. Slightly sickened by such potency, Steven then noticed his penis bore the morning residue of sexual activity, and tried to piece back together the elusive shards of sound, sight and touch. Slaking his thirst from the cold tap, and taking account of his blood-shot eyes in the mirror, he padded back to his room, his bafflement beginning to give way to a propriety that quietened him, so as not to wake the creature asleep in his room.
He need not have worried. She was no longer half a face and bucket of hair on his pillow; she was a real person, stood with her back to the door pulling on some jeans. She turned and saw him, and boldly she reached over her head to slide a black t-shirt over her naked chest. Steven had a fleeting view of her breasts as she did so, small but well shaped against a slim muscular torso, pink nipples exploding outrageously from their centres. He was suddenly embarrassed that he was looking; despite what had obviously taken place his own nakedness, and the brief glimpse of hers, seemed to violate them both somehow, as if burglars caught red-handed stealing from their most intimate places. Reaching for his tatty dressing gown from the hook behind him, in a hurry, Steven concealed himself and said “Morning!” with a cheeriness that was as insincere a mask as it was convincing. She smiled at him, his sudden stiffness and formality fuel for and in contrast to the languid amusement curling the corner of her mouth.
She sat down, ignoring him as she retrieved her shoes from under the bed. He stood, unable to think of anything to say. How old was she? 21? 22? Younger than him at any rate. She stood up, fully clothed now, facing him. Standing close in front of him, she put her face into his. It was, he thought, an attractive face. She had the look of some models had – strong cheekbones and chin, the whole face and bottom lip protruding forward in such a way that she looked, to Steven at any rate, as if passion were all she knew. If any of those strong features a few millimetres displaced, she would be ugly. Instead, Steven’s mind was flooded with images of her, coming towards him on the dancefloor, his awkward conversation and her indulgent laugh, her seriousness as they kissed out on the street, her sighs as he fucked her.
“Thank you, I had fun” she said, low, her eyes six inches from his. Steven simply replied “Me too,” and was about to embark on a serious of “erms” that would have eventually settled into conversation, when she tilted her head to the right, and kissed his mouth. It was a slow, careful kiss, her thick lips moving against Steven’s. He didn’t resist or return it, his dimmed awareness only having time to comprehend what was happening before she had already moved away. The kind but gently mocking smile returned to her lips. She moved past him, and it seemed that her walk down the hall, and out of the front door, took no time at all.
