cutcrystal
New
- Joined
- Dec 21, 2021
- Posts
- 756
Hello Lit writers and readers
I have written an erotica story around the adventures of a London private investigator. She's a feisty, attractive woman. She needs a lot of sex. She finds non-consensual, kinks and BDSM hot, and loves helping wounded people heal.
Below is a section from her adventures. She is searching for a missing novelist on behalf of a client, an agent.
I invite anyone old or new to writing and/or writing erotica to write and post what they think would happen next based on the scene that follows... It could be fun...
Here is the extract...
At the tower, in front of the door, on the leeward side to the prevailing wind and rain, and sheltered, Tara grinned. She rummaged tools from her Barbour pocket, picked the lock, part opened the door, slinked in, and pushed it closed behind her.
Someone was home. The place had lived in man chaos. The clutter and disarray would not concern a driven creative man such as Aaron Scrivener. Diffused light from an arched window shone onto a rustic table beneath. Vapour twisted upwards from a bowl of soup on the timber.
Besides a soup kettle, bowls and an ashtray, a tub of American Prince Albert pipe tobacco, lighters and a Petersons of Dublin Standard briar pipe also littered the table.
Class.
And the aroma of the soup rolled her eyes. Tara flopped onto a chair, fumbled a bowl from the top of a stack of three, ladled two measures in, grabbed a spoon and sampled.
“Mmm…”
She jumped at the voice behind her. “How do you like my leek and potato, Goldilocks?”
The gravel voice sounded like that of a mature older man. Thrills tracked across her skin and ran through her. She shivered with tingling electricity.
Tara hauled herself off the chair, twirled, smiling, fished a card from her rucksack and handed it to the owner of the voice which had just sent her.
He read the card, raised an eyebrow.
“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have made more of an effort.”
“And why’s that, Mr. Scrivener senior?”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling.
“You saved my idiot son’s arse. And… I see he was right about you. I hoped he’d invite you here sometime, so I could check you out myself.”
“And what do you make of me?”
“You’re stunning!”
Tara pouted. “And a brunette – not golden-locked!”
The man was an older, slimmer version of Aaron Scrivener. The same height, six feet, he had similar facial features, hawk nose and identical blue/green eyes. Another James Herbert lookalike, the sole difference to his son was the white hair hanging in a ponytail between his shoulder blades.
He eyed the card again. “Times New Roman doesn’t do you justice.”
Tara purred. “Ooh… I love a man who has taste.”
She slipped out of her jacket, dropped it on a chair. In jeans, panties, singlet, and mohair jumper she didn’t look at her dazzling best. She stalked up to Scrivener senior, catlike, ran her arms around his neck, looked up, searching his eyes.
“What brings you here, Miss Wright?”
“Tara… My client is worried about Aaron, she hired me to find him.”
Scrivener senior laughed. “Ah… that would be Emily Chanter. She’s like a pecking mother hen.”
Tara laughed. “Right in one. And… where is your son?”
“Researching for a steamy tale of pirates and smuggling, whilst also drafting the book that Emily’s raving about. She’s sold it, and the publisher wants the goods, pronto.”
“OK… Is Aaron safe?”
“Aye, I think so.”
“Is he productive?”
“Oh, aye. I’m re-editing four chapters after his first edit, and proofreading, before I send them to Emily from Aaron’s business email account.”
“OK, Mr. Scrivener Senior… How soon will you send those chapters? I need to feed Emily Chanter something…”
“Another four, tomorrow. And… before you ask, Aaron is sending three more to me in four days’ time, on Saturday.”
“Thanks! I’ll pass that on to the mother hen. And don’t worry, I’ll be telling her nothing that either you or Aaron don’t want her knowing. Need to know only.”
“Ah, thank you. Aaron wouldn’t give me an exact location. All he said was he’d be staying in caves along the Southwest coast.”
“That’s hundreds of miles of coastline, around three bloody counties!”
“Alas! Break bread with me, Miss Wright? Finish your soup? Indulge a lonely old man?”
“Why, Mr. Scrivener Senior, you make it difficult for a girl to refuse! I’d love to, darling.”
“My name’s Brendon, after the village on Exmoor where my late Irish ma and late Cornish old man conceived me.”
“Devon wilds… A lovely place to start a family…”
“Aye, magical… Elf and pixie land… If you’re to believe the legends… Thank you from me for getting Aaron out of the shit. He’s happier, in the zone, firing out manuscript. And what he’s writing is better. You were a win-win for him.”
Now over to anyone who fancies writing something...
I have written an erotica story around the adventures of a London private investigator. She's a feisty, attractive woman. She needs a lot of sex. She finds non-consensual, kinks and BDSM hot, and loves helping wounded people heal.
Below is a section from her adventures. She is searching for a missing novelist on behalf of a client, an agent.
I invite anyone old or new to writing and/or writing erotica to write and post what they think would happen next based on the scene that follows... It could be fun...
Here is the extract...
At the tower, in front of the door, on the leeward side to the prevailing wind and rain, and sheltered, Tara grinned. She rummaged tools from her Barbour pocket, picked the lock, part opened the door, slinked in, and pushed it closed behind her.
Someone was home. The place had lived in man chaos. The clutter and disarray would not concern a driven creative man such as Aaron Scrivener. Diffused light from an arched window shone onto a rustic table beneath. Vapour twisted upwards from a bowl of soup on the timber.
Besides a soup kettle, bowls and an ashtray, a tub of American Prince Albert pipe tobacco, lighters and a Petersons of Dublin Standard briar pipe also littered the table.
Class.
And the aroma of the soup rolled her eyes. Tara flopped onto a chair, fumbled a bowl from the top of a stack of three, ladled two measures in, grabbed a spoon and sampled.
“Mmm…”
She jumped at the voice behind her. “How do you like my leek and potato, Goldilocks?”
The gravel voice sounded like that of a mature older man. Thrills tracked across her skin and ran through her. She shivered with tingling electricity.
Tara hauled herself off the chair, twirled, smiling, fished a card from her rucksack and handed it to the owner of the voice which had just sent her.
He read the card, raised an eyebrow.
“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have made more of an effort.”
“And why’s that, Mr. Scrivener senior?”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling.
“You saved my idiot son’s arse. And… I see he was right about you. I hoped he’d invite you here sometime, so I could check you out myself.”
“And what do you make of me?”
“You’re stunning!”
Tara pouted. “And a brunette – not golden-locked!”
The man was an older, slimmer version of Aaron Scrivener. The same height, six feet, he had similar facial features, hawk nose and identical blue/green eyes. Another James Herbert lookalike, the sole difference to his son was the white hair hanging in a ponytail between his shoulder blades.
He eyed the card again. “Times New Roman doesn’t do you justice.”
Tara purred. “Ooh… I love a man who has taste.”
She slipped out of her jacket, dropped it on a chair. In jeans, panties, singlet, and mohair jumper she didn’t look at her dazzling best. She stalked up to Scrivener senior, catlike, ran her arms around his neck, looked up, searching his eyes.
“What brings you here, Miss Wright?”
“Tara… My client is worried about Aaron, she hired me to find him.”
Scrivener senior laughed. “Ah… that would be Emily Chanter. She’s like a pecking mother hen.”
Tara laughed. “Right in one. And… where is your son?”
“Researching for a steamy tale of pirates and smuggling, whilst also drafting the book that Emily’s raving about. She’s sold it, and the publisher wants the goods, pronto.”
“OK… Is Aaron safe?”
“Aye, I think so.”
“Is he productive?”
“Oh, aye. I’m re-editing four chapters after his first edit, and proofreading, before I send them to Emily from Aaron’s business email account.”
“OK, Mr. Scrivener Senior… How soon will you send those chapters? I need to feed Emily Chanter something…”
“Another four, tomorrow. And… before you ask, Aaron is sending three more to me in four days’ time, on Saturday.”
“Thanks! I’ll pass that on to the mother hen. And don’t worry, I’ll be telling her nothing that either you or Aaron don’t want her knowing. Need to know only.”
“Ah, thank you. Aaron wouldn’t give me an exact location. All he said was he’d be staying in caves along the Southwest coast.”
“That’s hundreds of miles of coastline, around three bloody counties!”
“Alas! Break bread with me, Miss Wright? Finish your soup? Indulge a lonely old man?”
“Why, Mr. Scrivener Senior, you make it difficult for a girl to refuse! I’d love to, darling.”
“My name’s Brendon, after the village on Exmoor where my late Irish ma and late Cornish old man conceived me.”
“Devon wilds… A lovely place to start a family…”
“Aye, magical… Elf and pixie land… If you’re to believe the legends… Thank you from me for getting Aaron out of the shit. He’s happier, in the zone, firing out manuscript. And what he’s writing is better. You were a win-win for him.”
Now over to anyone who fancies writing something...
