July 29, 2015

"The meter is ticking..."

Wednesday seems to be the day to share more of "Figment." I am pleased with this project now. After years of struggling. I'm sharing the story out of order, but that's the type of story this is. Hopefully, I'll have the book finished by the end of August. Not exactly sure how I plan to publish. But I'm thrilled with the way this is going. After writing for so long, it's dazzling to be working on something that feels so new. Surreal. Meta. Mysterious.

Previous posts:

When I wake, there’s a bottle of tequila on my nightstand and a notepad filled with my own messy handwriting. I have no recollection of writing the words. But I feel as if I know where I’m going, and I can relax and take a breath. Plotting never works for me. I fall backwards into the stories. No, that’s not right either. I sit in the backseat and let the characters drive.

It’s like taking a taxi but not telling the cabbie where you want to go.

The meter is ticking.
I hear the knob turn.


When Rick broke up with her, Maggie wasn’t just bitter. She was out for blood. She didn’t even realize that at first. She put up a wall around herself, invisible but firm, and she dared anyone to scale it. To knock it down. She knew what that would take.

She continued to make her dresses, and for that season, she only used black. Usually, she created ethereal designs, flowing, wistful. But not that year. She used black and darker black. She couldn’t help herself. Her friends tried to tell her to add a pop of color. A little red, maybe? Not everyone wanted to look like a Sicilian widow in mourning. She didn’t care.

She and Rick were supposed to be together. She’d talked to a psychic. She knew they were destined.

But he hadn’t agreed, somehow, some way, and she’d ended up in a penthouse studio, sewing and drinking.

When she met the trucker, she’d let down her guard. She knew better. She fucking knew better. But she ran out one night late, wanting a beer more than anything, and they’d met in the liquor section of the grocery store, both admiring the sixpacks.

He’d complimented her dress. He hadn’t said Where’s the funeral? He hadn’t been afraid to talk to her. They’d ended up splitting the sixpack and bringing it to the pier, drinking with a stranger—it was so satisfying. She was tired of cowtowing to the rich women and sorry of missing Rick.

She’d let the trucker love her. It was easy. She was beautiful, prettier than any woman he’d dated. She wasn’t in this for the money or prestige. She’d never been. She had her own money. And prestige was over rated. What she wanted was a nice guy—and he was nice. What she wanted was someone who would never break her heart. And she found that in him.

And she broke his instead.

He bends me over the desk in the morning. He greases up a butt plug and lets me see the toy before he screws the thing into my ass. He wants me to write while I have that beast in me? I don’t try to protest. There’s no use.

He doesn’t ask me how I feel to have that toy in my ass. He knows because he spins me around and spreads my pussy lips wide open. He crests his thumb over my swollen clit in a way that is rough and gentle simultaneously. I keen low under my breath and he says, 

“Don’t you dare.”

I won’t. I won’t come without his permission. That’s a lesson I mastered with tears.

“Write me a story,” he says.

I wait for it.

“Two guys,” he tells me. “Two guys out together. Where are they? Why are they there? That plug is motivation. You like that in your ass. You like being filled.” And he’s gone. I’m in that empty white room feeling the stretch of the toy in me. My typewriter is waiting for me to tell it a story.


They hated each other. Love at first sight? Not with these two. There was an instant competition. A battle of the wits, then of wills, and finally of fists. Jan didn’t know how it started even. Who threw the first punch. It was like they’d always been fighting, or about to fight. Now here they were, in the alley behind Vernon’s, pounding into each other.

And Jan realized he wanted something else. He back against the bricks. His mouth was bleeding. But his cock was hard.


So there's the installment for today. I'm hoping to have another post up for my Rebel Rule Breaker guide tomorrow. (I'm having so much fun writing it. The things I'm planning to confess are comical.)


P.S. Authors, if you're waiting for word for me, please understand that I'm waiting for word, too. I have heard nothing. I'm not being coy or playing hard to get. I have no news.


Alana Noel Voth said...

More Jan! XO.

Brigit Delaney said...

Sounds like an interesting read. I'm looking forward to it. Just finishing the third book in your "story of submission" series. In love. Really in love. Or maybe it's lust. Doesn't really matter - I'm a happy reader, thanks to you.

Miz Angell said...

I cannot express how in love with this concept and story I am. (are those in the right order? I can't tell). It's brilliant, and I wish I'd thought of it. :P

Please mistress, I want some more.