Day Eight #nanowrimo

Day eightWords for the day: 4578 (target was 2K-4.5K)
T-shirt: NaNoWriMo 2010 Winner
Best song vibe: Everything by the Preatures

When the chips are down you pull out all stops to try to bring things back to some kind of equilibrium. Today I drew on the things that I know work:

  • Putting on a t-shirt that says ‘Fake it until you make it’ – in this case it was the 2010 Winners t-shirt.
  • Pulling out the aromatherapy. I had a tissue with Focus oil tucked into my t-shirt sleeve and while it didn’t clear my head it definitely stopped it from getting cluttered.
  • New music… this is where I love the randomness of life. I stumbled onto The Preatures on the emergency dash to the supermarket for tomorrow’s Girls Afternoon In. The Preatures are now on speed rotate.
  • Minimising the distractions – that meant sitting down toe write ASAP this morning because my easiest writing happens in the morning. It may not necessarily be the best but it requires a smaller vein to be opened
  • Maximising head space – with Dave away the domestic side of things has been pretty lax. I took the washing off the line, cleaned up the kitchen, did the dishes and also took the dog for a walk. All a chance to just relax the brain and let it hiccup/spit up the next scene.
  • Found writing friends – I’ve been really lucky in as much as every call out on Facebook for writing companions has netted at least one person. Sometimes, like today, an accidental mob.

The upshot of all of this is I sign off with 25K. I think the narrative is about to hit another lull. A chance to go in and add some stuff to the existing scenes and make them zing. And, I remember now, back at the start of the day, there may have been a bit of nakedness.

What would a bunch of NaNo extracts be without a touch of erotica (ironically it was the erotica I posted up two years go that it my second biggest hitting post!) I’ve included the entire scene (all in awesome raw 1st draft scrappiness).

* * *

It was not the couch in his office, nor the kitchen bench with the breakfast dishes pushed to one end to accommodate them. It was not the floor beside the claw-foot bath with him between her legs in an act of speed or the shower downstairs with them pressed against the glass recess joking about that scene from St Elmo’s Fire. And he knew as soon as his fingers brushed her warm, smooth cheek that he wouldn’t fuck her. It was more shocking to him, more than everything about the house and its ability to move through time. It was the slap of realisation that every fantasy he had ever played out had been about fucking her. Each private film played out for his own gratification. All about the urgency of relief after they’ve said good night and disappeared within their respective houses, to their families and the lives where neither of them existed.

Holding her, one hand beneath the bulky hoodie and her thin t-shirt her, caressing the dip at the base of her spine, he didn’t want to move. Standing with her pressed to him, her breath against his neck, the thump of his heart was more real than it had been in a decade. And all he wanted was for it to last as long as possible.

They didn’t have to rush. No one would walk in on them; no one needed to go to bed in preparation for an early alarm. There was nothing but them and he knew, as he ran his fingers up the bumps of her back, that the argument in the café, the heated discussion out on the footpath an hour ago and his denial on the stairs was all about the fear of this moment, of losing himself totally to her.

Every time his fingers touch her bare skin, she shuddered and he was afraid if he moved too fast, or too hard, she would break and fall to the ground as dust. He leaned in to kiss her neck knowing he’d been losing himself to her, piece by piece, for months now and fighting it, packaging it up as nothing more than lust, avoiding being alone with her in person, not because he’d give into lust… okay he would give in to the rampant red-blooded desire but it would mean giving the rest of himself to her. And he fought to protect himself from that. And protect her too, because it could only end badly. But in here with the world beyond gone, with her already broken, he only had her to lose.

He lifted the hoodie  over her head and then t-shit, forcing himself to slow down when she flinched.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked and she turned to show him the dark holes of bruises on her pale skin.

On his knees, he gently pressed his lips to the damage, wanting to skim his fingers over them and like an eraser take way the colour, the pain, the abuse. She trembled at this touch and he stopped.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice thick with tears he guessed wet her cheeks but he didn’t stand and wipe them away.

“You always want to fix it.” Helena’s stock attack whenever he wanted to help her. Talk about whatever was bothering her. Even back in the beginning when neither of them really had much to lose by being honest. “Some things just can’t be fixed.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said and pressed his cheek to the soft convex of her stomach, kissing it once and turning his check back to it.

Her fingers sunk into his hair and stayed like that, fingers massaging his scalp, his arms between her legs, wrapped around one thigh. A bell sounded shattering the quiet solidarity.

“Get undressed,” she said, pulling away from him, unbuttoning her jeans and peeling them down her leg. She laughed when she realised she still had her boots on.

The flurry of activity bewildered him.

“Hurry,” she said, towing him awkwardly toward the bed, her jeans still around her ankles. “The lights are about to go out.” And as she said it the bell sounded a second time. The flame in the lamps stuttered and extinguished.

“Sit down,” she said and held tight to his hand in the dark. “The rooms going to –”

And before she finished the sentence the floor shuddered and he dropped down to his knees with her, pulling her into his arms. Somewhere in the dark, the grind and clunk of machinery sounded. A frigid breeze stole in around them bringing with it the smell of storms and emptiness.

“We’re slipping,” she said, glad she wasn’t on the chair like she was last time.

As quickly as it started it was over. The room enveloped them in a stillness, like the wet, newness after a storm.

“Shit! There’s no candle this time.” If she wasn’t caught up in his arms, it would have been a disembodied voice.

“Leaves it all to the imagination,” he said and she laughed, moving out of his arms.

“I’ve had a enough of imagining it. I would’ve thought –” The sentence finished with his lips on hers.

“No clash of teeth,” she joked when they came up for air.

“Doesn’t mean all the right parts will make it into all the right slots the first time.”

And it occurred to him, in the endless blackness it was a different kind of virtual experience where he could smell and touch and hear her. Taste her even, but she was lost to him. Like a blind man making love to the woman in his mind.

“Get undressed. It’s going to be a long night and I don’t know what comes next.”

“You don’t know what comes next.” His hands ran down the curve of her shoulders and across her back to the clasp of her bra. “I’m open to all suggestions.”

“I thought you were taking your clothes off.”

“All in good time.”

She wiggled away from him, the breath catching in her throat and he guessed she’d moved in some way that hurt her ribs. He’d never thought of the sound of laces unknotting and the smooth movement of leather over cotton as the sweetest sound track to precede making love, but there it was.

“I guess I don’t get to seduce you with my guitar,” he said, stripping naked, grateful for the mask of the dark on a body gone to rot by ambivalence, bad food, good alcohol and too many hours sitting behind a desk and on the couch.

“If you think you can—”

And he found her again in the dark.

“The bed or the floor,” he asked, his hands cupping her breasts and all thought of being slow and gentle was consumed by the need to be with her now, just not on his knees.

“How about the kitchen bench,” she joked and moved out of his reach again. Her knees clicked. “There’s a bed here –” and there was a muttered swear when she hit something. “Found it. Shame not to use it. It’s one of those four-posters with thick red curtains.”

The bed was deep and soft and endless without the ability to sight the edges. The heavy curtains brushed against his skin and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything.

Beneath his hands and fingers, his lips and tongue she opened like a lotus flower, cooing and moaning quietly until he told her there was no shame in vocalising her enjoyment. The sound of her pleasure was a crescendo that mirrored, step by step, the speed of his tongue on her clitoris, guided by everything she’d told him she wanted and never got, and a certain amount of trial and error, until she screamed out in raw ecstasy, once and a second time when he decided to see how far he could push her over the edge.

“So… I… take… it…” he said, each word intersecting a kiss placed in a line up over her pubic mound and up onto her stomach twitching and heaving as she tried to catch her breathe. “That you –”

She slid out from beneath him and the jerk of breath in the bottom of her throat snagged on him. She pushed him onto his back, her hand pushed against his chest. “Stop talking,” she panted and straddled him, the inside of her thighs slick with sweat. “Time doesn’t stand still in here and I’m impatient.”

“I thought –”

“Stop thinking,” she said and slid down onto him with a sigh that rose goosebumps over his body. And he trusted she wouldn’t do anything that hurt the bit of her already in pain.

Later, when their bodies gave out before their desire she lay in his arms. Her fingers twisted in and out of his chest hair and he stroked the back of her hand.

“You have beautiful fingers,” she said.

“Better in person.”

“You are better in person. Though it’s like braille. Feeling but not being able to see you.”

“You don’t want to see me naked,” he joked and he felt her shift and from the feel of her breath guessed she was directly above him. “If I can’t pay out on my body you can’t. I thought we agreed on that months ago.”

“That was until I took my clothes off.”

“You are beautiful,” she said and her lips found the hollow in his chest where the bone of his sternum was hard beneath her flips. She trailed up to his collar bone and her hand crept lower..

“I can’t,” he said, pulling her back down beside him. “I’m barely awake. And I’m exhausted. We should have done this when we were twenty.”

She nestled back into the grotto of his arm and torso and took one hand in hers again.

“These are hands that make dreams into reality.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said.

“I’m not talking about that.” She nudged her shoulder into his ribs.

She ran two fingers down the sides of his middle finger, her thumb caressed his palm. “These hands mould dreams of the impossible, into tangible things.”

“And what do you think you do with words. Jean Jeanie.”

‘Mangle them.”

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re here, aren’t you? Someone other than me thinks you have talent too.”

He yawned and stroked her arm. The pull of sleep was zero gravity that cut him loose from her and he tried to hang on.

“The walls are glowing,” she said, in a voice that came from a long way off. “They didn’t do that the last time I was here.”

“Flashing neon.”

“You’re asleep.”

“No I’m not,” he said and was gone before she had extracted herself from the tangle of arms.

Pulling a quilt from the bed, she got her bearings using the low light from the walls to find her was to the edge of the room. There was the subtle jolt of static electricity when she reached a finger out to it and the hairs on her arms rose up.

The wall was warm. She pressed her cheek against it and looking across, she saw small flickers on the uneven surface, like wild electricity.

“You’re glowing,” Christian mumbled.

“The wall is electric,.”

“Come to bed,” he mumbled. “I miss you already.”

The bed shifted and she moulded herself to him.

“Thank you for coming with me,” she whispered into his shoulder, her arm snaking up over his chest to play with his chest hair again.

“Mutual orgasm… always… best,” he joked beneath the yoke of sleep.

“I mean here.”

“I’ll still be here when you wake up,” he said, voice trailing off as his fingers wound in hers. “So go to sleep.”

 

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2 thoughts on “Day Eight #nanowrimo

    • I am a bit like a woman possessed Rick. I went into NaNo with the intention of ending it with a completed manuscript. Then the story maxed out from novella size to novel size, but I didn’t downgrade my expectations. At this rate I’ll be able to finish it all by the end, if I keep up the word count. I can see December being a month of utter exhaustion.

      Thanks for stopping in to have a read!

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