continued from previous page
Purple Prose as written by Camilla Rayne:
Embers of Surrender
Domina Whippy, now Lady Domina Dresher, sat in her new husband's bedroom awaiting his pleasure. From the tales her spinster aunt was currently dispensing, it would indeed be only Sir Cross's pleasure tonight.
"And if he starts bemoaning that you lie there stiff and submissive, sneeze a few times and mayhap he shall be fooled and fall asleep after thoroughly ploughing and planting his seed in the furrowed fields below, for hours and hours," at this, she rubbed her hands together as if cold, "and be patient with his beastly attentions for your own parents took up prostitution to pay for your dowry and the wedding; aye they lie beneath animals of men all night now-"
The nubile young bride had to wonder what the beastly men had done to her dear Aunt Notty Seacretly that she would go on in that vein until her voice was hoarse and she trembled.
Domina's thoughts turned to her husband's ancestral castle. Three decades of unbridled bachelor life was a terrible sight: holes in the roof, insolent servants, the rats having long since overwhelmed the cats and now they swarmed without fear ... Sir Cross didn't notice or care; he was so busy harassing local wenches and bloodily crushing uprisings that he was hardly ever at home.
A drunken roar echoed down the hallway. It was the man-at-arms, her new husband's compatriot in crime, Luud Groper. "I was very disappointed in the Saucy Wench!"
Sir Cross agreed. "Who could have guessed it was a restaurant owned by women, and not a tavern of ill repute?" He kicked in the door and stumbled inside, only the grip of his man-at-arms keeping him upright. He leered at Domina. "Ah, the manly stallion sees his quivering mare!"
Domina's spinster aunt gave her a look of prim commiseration before hurrying out. The man-at-arms pursued, his eyes fixed upon the buttocks swaying beneath the woman's threadbare gown. Strangely enough, Aunt Notty tossed him a tiny smile before trotting down the hallway.
Sir Cross set down his unfinished flagon of strong wine and tried to set the door to rights. He had reduced it to a shambles when kicking it in. The burly knight finally settled for leaning what was left of the door against the frame. There was quite a gap around it, and a draft invaded the bedroom.
"Now, wench, I will fill your velvety sheath with my sword!" He laughed and flexed his hands, advancing on her. There was a pleasing bulk of muscles beneath his tunic, but his smell made Domina tear up. She backed away from him, only to fall across the bed. Sir Cross was inflamed when she sprawled out. He bellowed and rushed at her. Domina dodged and he crashed headfirst onto the bed, breaking the headboard in twain. After so many cranial cracks during bloody battles, this barely gave him pause.
Then the rats attacked. Sir Cross howled in frustrated lust, and a bit of pain because the little bites stung. He drew his sword and ran the mattress through in several places, causing his new bride to gasp and flush in what was surely the most sensitive virginal shock. The squeaking died away. But his delicate bride would not lie on the bed until he had shaken the rat bodies out.
He swept her onto her back and stared deeply into her ice-blue eyes. "Finally we can-"
"What's that smell?"
"It is my manly musk which, though different from your floral aroma, is something you will eventually crave-"
Domina rolled her eyes. "Other than that."
"Oh. Hrm." He looked around. "Aha! That's the work of my manly tomcat."
"The one who ignores all these rats?"
"The one and same. I see that he has marked these sheets as his own."
A hardened knight like Sir Cross, who in his day had slept atop Saracen skeletons as well as the cobblestoned streets outside his favorite taverns, was undisturbed by the damp yellow puddles. His Lady, however, insisted that this situation was unacceptable. He grumbled and stripped off the bedding.
Now the wench was content to lie upon the torn mattress, on the cracked bed. Stabbing the mattress had released its stuffing of deer fur, which Sir Cross hoped would feel intriguing against bare skin. Coincidentally, he felt the urgent need to remove some clothes. He pawed brazenly at his wife's dress. It was a baffling contraption involving a complicated set of disguised lacings and some pointy bits jabbing at him from somewhere.
"You are a rose beginning to blossom," he muttered as he struggled, "and I wish to worship every inch of you - with my tongue." He was squinting at her neckline in the dark and missed Domina rolling her eyes. A rougher tug disturbed enough cloth that he could see the tops of her breasts. His mind clouded even more. "Eve's apples," he muttered hoarsely. "Luring my snake ... let me displace your fig leaves!"
He stuck his hands inside her bodice; her moan was swallowed by the sound of ripping cloth.
Domina had a well-developed set of lungs and her scream, emitted mere inches from the knight's ear, was enough to knock him from the bed.
"My gown!" she hysterically railed at the stunned knight. "It was the most expensive thing I've ever owned. Ever! You ripped it off me, you beast!" She slapped him. "You've torn off the pearl beading! Where have they rolled?" She kicked him in the ribs, surprisingly hard, and scrambled off the bed in search of the pearls.
The knight was sure no man could resist those temptingly raised buttocks. His loins burned like they'd been dusted with imported pepper. With the roar of an asthmatic lion he shouted, "Prepare your innocent eyes, woman!"
He tore his shirt and pants off and posed, proudly displaying his awe-inspiring manhood.
His wife seemed singularly unimpressed. Sir Cross glanced down and quickly covered himself. "Er- there's a draft here." He hurried to stoke the fire. But the pitiful flames were vanquished by the chilly air in the stone room. His manroot wilted even more.
"My loins might freeze! Where are my garments?"
A sadistic smile crossed Domina's face. "You ripped them apart," she purred.
"As my wife, would you not - er - use the warmth of your mouth to revive my fallen stallion?"
He expected to soothe away her maidenly horror. Instead Domina ran a speculative look over his hunched, blue-tinged form as she ran her fingers over a loose strand of pearl beading. Sir Cross's blood began to pound in an ancient rhythm.
"When was the last time you bathed?"
The knight thought back. "Christmas or the one before, I suppose."
Domina winced. "Not even in your dreams would I caress your filthy self."
Enraged, he roared again, though his voice definitely showed signs of strain. He dragged off Domina's nightrail and tossed her to the bed. She shivered from the chill.
"This shall heat your blood." He covered her body with his own. For a moment he remembered his liege making a similar promise as they fought the Saracens. He felt inexplicably rejuvenated.
His new woman was certainly energetic. Ah, how curious she was about his body, probing all his places. Ah, how sweetly possessive she was, seizing his manroot with a grip that caused him to flinch away, cracking the headboard in a second place. His battered skull began to throb thickly. He crouched, dazed, as Domina whispered in his ear,
"You dirty boy ..." Her mouth curled up. "Kneel before me!" She shoved him off the bed to ensure his obedience and struck his broad chest with the string of pearls.
He jerked, knocking over the flagon of wine. The pool swept toward the fire. The air became pleasantly warm as the boudoir started to burn to its beams. Domina wrapped the stained sheet on the floor about herself and shuffled frantically toward the door.
Sir Cross could hear servants coming. He glanced down and realized that he could not be seen like this! His reputation would be ruined! Unfortunately, the only garment not in rags was his wife's nightrail.
He threw it on, tossed his wife over his shoulder, and roared in a piteous, cracked way as he charged the door that threatened to make their love lair a burning pit of despair. Alas, he forgot he had already broken the door down. He hit it with too much force, tripped through it, and fell badly because of his wife's weight.
The next day, the two scullery maids were gossiping as the cleaned up after the wedding feast.
"Poor Cross Dresher ... his wife made him shout so boldly he's lost his voice, and she did something to pull his groin muscle. The Leech told me he won't be able to perform for a fortnight."
"At least he's married so there's someone to handle the estate. Lady Domina seemed eager to take control of the castle. She's buying a whip right now, to keep discipline here."
Purple Prose as written by Astrid Chronopolis writing as Jane Doe:
Universe Enough and Time
One moment Len had been all alone in her apartment cleaning her miniscule bathroom on a Friday night, and the next an achingly gorgeous man appeared standing in her tub.
"Miss Ellen Van Allen?" he asked in an accent which reminisced of a Hungarian émigré to Australia possibly via Cancun.
Grabbing the nearest thing to a weapon she could reach, Len brandished her toilet brush in as threatening manner as one could brandish a toilet brush. Not that it could do the stranger much harm except for possibly grossing him out.
"Who are you? How do you know my name?" She punctuated each question with a jab of her cleaning tool. "And that I'm not married?" She was rather miffed about that. Was she wearing a sign or something?
She thought of trying to make a run for it out the front door into the busy street, but the man had a holster around his hips which held a weapon undoubtedly more dangerous than her own. Yet her feet wouldn't take her a single step. She was entranced by the stranger's flowing locks which danced in a mysterious breeze although her bathroom had never been known for its air circulation even with the window open. She wondered only half in jest whether he'd brought the breeze with him.
The tall foreigner was considering the toilet brush with care, as if it really might be a weapon. Perhaps it was time for Len to change her toilet duck. He didn't attempt to step out of the tub.
"Miss Van Allen, be assured that I mean you no harm. None at all," he hastened to add as Len gave the toilet brush an extra waggle. He cleared his throat. "You couldn't put that away, could you?"
"Not a chance, Hotshot."
"Right." He gave a toss of his exuberantly waved hair, blacker than Len thought black could possibly be. With his open-necked, billowing, white shirt; high brown boots polished to a spectacular gloss; and tight trousers--so tight that he could have posed for a life-drawing class without taking them off--tucked in to said boots, he had a sort of romantic poet look going.
He intoned, "I am Prince Wil of the House N'Dowd of Mylaria, a planet far distant from here. I have come across the galaxy to seek your help on behalf of my people."
"Me? Why me?" She narrowed her gaze, keep her toilet brush on full alert.
"You are the only one who can save my home world from destruction. Your sar, and yours alone, can lead me to the Artifact, placed on Earth millions of years ago by the enigmatic Old Ones. With the power of the Artifact, Mylaria can defeat our enemy the planet Kwi-9 which seeks to destroy us."
"Sar? Never heard of it, Your Highness."
He smiled with the slightest quirk of an eyebrow that set Len's insides to rearranging themselves. "You may call me Wil, seeing as how we'll be working together intimately on this mission."
"I don't have this sar you mention, so you can just--"
"But you do," he reassured her in what seemed all sincerity. "All sentient beings in the universe have sar, or sarcasm potential, but that of some--such as yourself--works better with assistance. Yours is precisely the right frequency that, once run through me as a Focus, will lead us to the Artifact which will save my planet."
"Sarcasm will save your planet? Yeah, right. I'm not that sarcastic. You must have the wrong Ellen Van Allen," she sniffed. "I can't even take down the office snob with a well-aimed insult at five paces."
"Ah, but use my egotism as Focus, and you'll be parrying her snotty remarks with ease. Your sar will be in full flower."
The tip of Len's toilet brush drooped. "Huh?"
"Allow me to demonstrate." Wil leaned against the Pepto-pink tile wall in an inimitable pose of self-satisfaction which he must have practiced hours each day to achieve such perfection. "I, as Prince of Mylaria, have been named in a recent poll one of the 10,000 most intriguing beings in the galaxy."
Len choked on her laughter. "Congratulations. I can't wait to meet the other 9,999!" She rolled her eyes, then gasped. "You're right! I am more sarcastic! But how can sarcasm help you find your artifact?"
"Artifact," he emphasized, "with a capital A." He levered himself back upright. "Did I mention the Old Ones were enigmatic?"
"Well there you are, then. No one understands how sar works, but I can testify to its awesome power," and he snatched the toilet brush out of Len's hands with ease while he'd distracted her.
Prince Wil tucked it under his arm, no doubt to keep Len from getting her hands on such a dangerous object. She wondered how long it would take the guys back in the lab on Mylaria to figure out how it worked.
"This can't be real." She crossed her arms. "How did you get in here, anyway? Is there a ship up there that beamed you down?" She peered up though she couldn't see through her ceiling.
He chuckled. "How quaint you primitives are. We don't use ships. We use the Network--an interconnected maze of space-time continuum used for travel."
"Network with a capital N?"
"Of course," she mumbled.
"You have a portal right here." Wil stuck his hand right through the pink tile wall and pulled it back out again with no apparent ill effect to his hand or her tile.
"How ... But ..." It was a full minute before she managed to assemble a passably coherent sentence. "I think I would have noticed a space-time portal. In in my bathtub. Wouldn't I?"
There was that superior alien attitude again. She could feel her sar growing stronger by the minute. Could it be he wasn't lying after all?
"You have to have a key." Prince Wil took something out of his belt resembling a small, electric toothbrush to show her. "You didn't, so you couldn't fall through. It's fool proof. We can't have just anyone mucking through space and time. Especially time."
"Time?" That sounded ominous. "Does this mission of yours involve time travel?"
"Yes. Did I mention the Old Ones hid the Artifact here millions of years ago?"
He had. She nodded.
"The Artifact could have been destroyed by now, so we may have to go back to a time before that happened." Wil tossed her a charming smile as if flipping a coin to a beggar on the street.
And Len found herself eager for his charm. It had been six months since her ex decided to leave the city to raise llamas in Saskatchewan.
"What do you say?" he prodded. "Help out a few billion souls on Mylaria. It would be terrific PR for your planet. Did I mention there's an excellent chance you'll end up a Princess at the end of all this?" He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her into his muscular embrace, and kissed her.
But this was no ordinary kiss. While their lips, hands, and bodies touched, so did their minds. Len discovered she could "see" the beauty of this far-off world and the danger the people of Mylaria faced from their enemies ... not to mention the wealth of the House N'Dowd and the fact Wil had learned English by watching PBS programs carried on old television signals still coursing through space.
Dizzy with the intensity of the contact, she asked, "How did you do that?"
"Did I mention I'm telepathic?"
Len bristled, "You most definitely did not!"
"Beg your pardon. Telepathy in our race takes close physical contact, the more intimate the better. It was the best way to show you our plight."
She sighed. So a prince from across the galaxy needed her help, and hers alone, to save his world by using sarcasm to find an ancient Artifact. What could be more ridiculous? Not much. "All right, you're on. I've got nothing else planned this week." Len climbed into the bathtub with him. It was pleasantly crowded.
"On behalf of the people of Mylaria, I thank you. Now let's go. I'll work the key; just walk on through. The information booth is to your left."
"Thanks ." She paused. "This isn't one of those time travel things where I
become my own great-grandmother or anything, is it?"
He shook his head.
"Good." And Len stepped through her bathroom wall into the Network.
"Your great-grandfather, actually," Wil chuckled. "Did I mention we're going to a parallel universe where everything's opposite?" And he disappeared after her.
Purple Prose as written by Laura Cain:
Tempted by Sweet Savage Love
Amelie stood before the great oak door, her heart pounding fiercely with trepidation. This is madness, she thought. Visiting the Earl of Wroth unchaperoned, at this scandalous hour of the night, in his bedroom, no less!
She pushed a silvery strand of hair from her face and, taking a breath, entered the room. "My Lord," she said, "I've come as you've requested." With the words, her choice was made and her velvet cloak fell soundlessly to the floor, revealing a pale blue gown that clung recklessly to her lush figure.
Her voice stirred the man seated before a roaring fire. A bottle of champagne and two flutes were set out on a side table, and next to them a plate of ripe red strawberries. He rose from the massive leather armchair, his presence filling the dark, paneled room. "As you can see, I've been waiting for you." He smiled and sipped at a glass of amber liquid, Cognac perhaps? Or brandy? and gestured to the champagne.
Amelie shivered. Could she do this? She must remain strong. Everything depended upon her. Her eyes, brilliant aquamarines, filled with radiance and with a boldness she did not feel, replied, "No, my Lord, it is I who have been waiting."
A hint of surprise entered the Earl's face. He lifted one elegant eyebrow and took a second look at this beauty who has entranced him. A seduction had never gone so well. Sinclair Wrede, Sin to his friends, had planned many in his long and dissolute life but never had such a timid creature turned bold overnight.
With three steps he was across the room and she was in his arms. Powerful hands unbuttoned her gown with infinite delicacy while his lips tantalized, hinting at things to come. "You're so beautiful," he whispered tenderly.
Amelie pulled back suddenly. "Begging your pardon my Lord, but isn't this a bit slow and tender for a ravishing?"
Sin was taken aback. "Ravishing? I thought it was supposed to a seduction. I'm sure that was on the schedule. Let me check my book." With brisk efficiency, he pulled out a small black leather-bound book from his desk and began flipping through the pages.
"I'm quite sure it was a ravishing. I called this afternoon to check." Sin had found the page. "Ah, here we go. Emily, gold hair, sapphire eyes, seduction, 11 pm."
She sighed and began the difficult process of rebuttoning the dress. "That's all well and good, but it seems that the time is the only thing you have right. I'm Amelie with flaxen hair, aquamarine eyes, and I scheduled for a ravishing. For Sweet Love, Savage Love?"
Sin sighed and then took a peak at his pocketwatch. "My goodness but this is embarrassing. You were early so it wasn't apparent. There seems to have been a mixup with my secretary. Now we've still got ten minutes, so why not have a seat on the bed and I'll see what we can work out before Emily gets here." He gestured absently to the fourposter that had hitherto been hidden from sight and went to open the champagne.
"Naturally I feel awful about this," he said, pouring the champagne, "and I'd like to make it up to you. I'd hate to send you home after you took the trouble you took to get here." He handed her a glass. "There's a few options open. I'm not sure about you but I think Emily might be open to a threesome. She's open to just about anything as long as the language remains at least lavender, if not purple. I only charge half price. What do you think?"
Amelie considered for a moment. "No, I'm really not a Bertrice Small kind of girl. Just a good old fashioned ravishing. Besides, I'm dressed for it. You didn't notice but the dress is designed to be ripped off, and the corset is a break-away. I brought the cloak so that I had something to sneak home in. It's sweltering outside."
"Indeed." he murmured, admiring her ingenuity and thoughtfulness. "Pity about the threesome. We'll stick to a nice early eighties Johanna Lindsay, okay?" She nodded her approval. His eyes skimmed the pages of his black book. "Here's the ticket! I've got the next slot free. I was planning a secret meeting with some fellow members of Parliament but I'm sure that can wait. Why don't you go ahead and wait in the armoire over there." He gesture to a bulky piece of furniture behind her on the opposite side of the bed.
"The armoire, my Lord?"
"Yes," he said. "It's perfect. Emily will arrive, ready for the next scene in Tempted, on time like the adorably punctual creature she is. We'll have just broken from a passionate embrace interrupted by the knock on the door. I seduce her as scheduled while you observe from this knot," he pointed out the conveniently placed flaw in the wood, "here. She leaves, flushed, happy, thoroughly sated. You erupt from the armoire, aroused by the display of lovemaking, enraged at my infidelity, tortured by the display of my naked physique. Before you can flee, I grab you masterfully and trail hot brutal kisses down your creamy throat. You struggle but can resist the onslaught. I tear off you dress and corset, bringing my attention to those lovely perfect breasts. You moan at your body's betrayal but give in and we make hot and passionate love in the still warm sheets for approximately an hour and a half with, say, three orgasms. You're thoroughly ravished and both stories have a new plot device."
Amelie smiled in approval. "It's much better than the original plot, my Lord. And when Emily discovers she was watched, her book ought to get at least fifty more pages and perhaps a scene with some exhibitionism."
"I was thinking Vauxhall Gardens," Sin replied. "But back to you. I think I can take off 15% percent for the wait but I expect royalties for my contribution to plot development." He reached into the armoire for fresh glasses and a new bottle of champagne.
"Make it twenty and we have a deal." Amelie picked her cloak off of the floor and hung it up neatly inside the armoire.
"Done." Sin offered his hand to seal the bargain. "And now," he said, leaving his business-like manner behind, "where were we?"
Amelie sunk into his strong arms, savoring the warmth, the power. His lips burned on her skin. The kisses trailed lower, lower to the indecent neckline of her gown, lower until she felt as if she would burst into flames. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. "The servants!" she exclaimed (forgetting one had shown her the way up, "No one must know I am here!"
Sin pointed her to a massive piece of furniture next to the impressive four-poster bed. "The armoire, my dear. No one will think to look for you there." He kissed her one more time, drinking deeply, and then saw her safely into the armoire before going to answer the door...
An homage to Suzanne Brockmann as written by Theresa Luke:
The Miata sputtered one last raspberry as Sandra eased the car into the nearest parking lot. Under the neon sign for the Butterfly Bar, she fumbled for her cell phone and auto club card. Sandra persistently waited 30 minutes on hold and punched her way through five branches of the phone tree to learn that the tow truck would arrive in "only" 5 hours. Berating the salesman who sold her the car and the entire auto club, she staggered into the bar and ordered a Stinger.
Bob watched the luscious brunette stalk into the room and his heart tripped a beat. Her highlighted hair reminded him of the desert camouflage he wore while on assignment in Itstinksistan. Her Guinness colored eyes brought to mind his favorite adult beverage. His senses flared on full alert as he noted she was alone, obviously depressed and being serenaded by a drunk with a microphone. That flyboy would lose more than a loving feeling soon if he didn't get away from Bob's woman. "My woman?" shuddered Bob. "Where did that thought come from?" he asked himself even as he realized that he had found his perfect mate.
Sandra headed for the ladies room. Now was Bob's chance to find out what had put the adorable wrinkle between her brows. Sandra whipped out her keys as Bob ghosted right in front of her. "Get out of my way or I'll unlock your family jewels," she threatened as he blocked her from the door. "It's all right," he soothed, "I'm here to help." "Are you from the auto club?" she asked hopefully. "No," Bob confessed. "My name is Bob Cubeslax. My friends call me 'Sponge' because I absorb problems around me. I'm from SEAL Team 69 and it's our job to save women in trouble."
"OK Sponge. Here's the deal. My name is Sandra Beach. My friends call me 'Sandy'. My car broke down and the auto club won't be here for 5 hours. I want to go to home. I spent all day in contract negotiations for my international cosmetics company. I have to piss like a racehorse and you're blocking the door." she spewed out as she crossed her legs. Bob countered, "Just a minute and I'll clear the bathroom for you. Then, I'll get on the line to call in some favors from Team 69." Bob slammed the door to the ladies room open and yelled, "Get out now, while you still can." Five women exploded from the room trailing lipstick, perfume and toilet paper. "After you," Bob gestured. "Um, thanks," mumbled Sandy as she dove for the nearest stall.
Sponge pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed fellow SEAL Stain Washyershortz. "Stain, I'm sorry for calling but I need your help. This is off the record so if you won't help me I understand," whispered Sponge. "We're a team," answered Stain, "You need it, you got it." Sponge quickly explained the situation and Stain formulated a plan. "Here's how it will go down," Stain ordered. "Get Joker to hack into the auto club computer system. Have Magnum negotiate for a tow truck and tell them we needed it here yesterday. Have Ken Spaghetti guard the car while Blues and Gull provide a distraction. Brian Brigadoon will escort Miss Beach to her home. You will recon and secure her home prior to the rendezvous." instructed Stain. "Great plan. I'm initiating my three way calling feature and putting this puppy into action," answered Sponge.
Sandy emerged from the stall looking much more relaxed. "What is this guy up to?" she mused as she washed her hands. While Sponge spoke animatedly into his phone, Sandy took a long, hard look at him. He held himself straight and tall. Muscles bunched and bulged under his tight, worn tee shirt. Jeans cupped an ass she would love to bounce quarters off. "Maybe this night is looking up," Sandy mused. Then she glanced in the mirror to find his sea blue eyes locked on her and her heart flooded with the tsunami of love at first sight.
Turning to meet her eyes head on, Sponge briefed Sandy on the plan. "What is up with these guys' names?" questioned Sandy. "SEALs love to use nicknames," explained Sponge. "Korny Komedy is a real card so we call him 'Joker.' He plays the computer like a hot crustacean band. Mac Beale once put a navy shirt in with his whites so we call him 'Blues'. Ringo's name is a little more complicated. Ringo Starfish sounds like Ringo Starr. He acted with Barbara Bach in the movie 'Caveman'. Barbara Bach reminded us of Richard Bach. Richard Bach wrote 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull' and we shortened that to 'Gull'," expounded Sponge. "Now, we wait for the distraction by Blues and Gull and you hotfoot it out of here with Brian Brigadoon. He looks like Richie Cunningham and makes Opie look like a delinquent. You can trust him," Sponge promised. "What about my car?" wailed Sandy. Sponge reassured her that Joker and Magnum were handling everything as a small explosion filled the bar with a foul smoke. "Stink bomb!" yelled the bartender, "Everybody out."
The extraction went off as promised and Sandy soon found herself at her own front door. "Thank Team 69 for me and thank you for your help, Brian," said Sandy. Blushing, Brian shuffled his feet and mumbled "Aw shucks. It was our pleasure Ma'am." The front door burst open and a worried Sponge grabbed Sandy and shooed Brian away. "Your residence is secure," announced Sponge, "And you've secured my heart too. Please let me show you how I feel." With a terrible evening behind her and Sponge's terrific behind in front of her, Sandy succumbed to his charms. The heat from their lip lock could have fueled a Trident submarine. Clothes began to fly as the sexual tension mounted. Suddenly Sandy screamed, "There's a strange man in my living room!" "It's OK. That's Bernard 'Bernie' Clairveaux. He was my swimmers' buddy during BUD/S training." The barrel chested man with the saddest looking brown eyes Sandy had ever seen removed several packets from the keg shaped container strapped to his chest. Sponge accepted them gratefully and explained "These are special rubbers made just for SEALs. They inflate to 12 instead of the standard 6 used by the rest of the Navy." Sandy swooned and gave herself fully to Sponge as Bernie slipped out the back door. All night long Sponge sank his flesh torpedo into Sandy's broadside. He pounded her in waves until they both lay heaving like beached whales.
The next morning Sandy could hardly move she was so sated and sore. She was thankful that Bernie was so generous with the rubbers and that Sponge was so, well, generous. Heart wrenching sobs emanated from the foot of the bed. Sponge held his head in his hands, howling as though a shark were chewing off his leg. Horrified, Sandy pleaded with him to tell her what was wrong. Sponge sniffled, "I love you and I just can't bear to leave you." "Where are you going?" asked Sandy. "Team 69 has a training op. I don't know when I'll be back. I can't say more. But, it doesn't have anything to do with the lingerie shortage in Itstinksistan," he explained. He hefted his huge sack and strode out the door.
Sandy hobbled gingerly to the kitchen where a group of women sat at her table. "Who are you and did you leave me any coffee?" demanded Sandy. "We're the sweeties of the SEALs you met last night. We all hang together except for Gull's ex, Mary Sue. Nobody wants to hear about Mary Sue," said a perky blond. "I'm Barbie and I'm with Ken. This is Veldt, June, Pteri and Felicia or 'Fleas' for short," introduced the blond. "I'm an OB/GYN and we're here to help you out. I know you can hardly walk and we all feel your pain," continued Barbie. "I dropped my position at Mt. Sinai like a hot potato and moved to California to be with Ken. But before I would marry him, I had to find a cure for the pain. I developed special cream making it possible for women to continue their relationships with insatiable SEALs," smiled Barbie. "I'm here to present you with your own tube of 'Naval Jelly'," she announced.
Purple Prose as written by Twinkie Brite:
"Why Charlotte, I can hardly believe it!" sighed Mari-Ann, looking down at the dainty diamond he had placed on her finger. "Tomorrow is my wedding day - tomorrow I'll marry Zachery-Zach. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you drove all the way down here to be at my wedding! It's clear now that all my education, hard won achievements and business success were just a way to pass the time, merely a meaningless prelude to what I really wanted - marriage to a widowed police chief in a quaint, unsophisticated and insular little Southern town."
"Tell me again why he has two names?" Charlotte demanded, leaning forward so she could peel her blouse away from her perspiration-soaked back.
"Like I told you, he's named after his daddy and granddaddy. His granddaddy is Zachery, that cantankerous, slightly crazy, but underneath-it-all wise and lovable old coot who shot at your car on the road into town, and his dear dead daddy was Zach, the brutually and mysteriously murdered former police chief. So that makes him Zachery-Zach. It's just the way they do things down here in Kudzu Corners," explained Mari-Ann taking a sip of the lemonade she had hand-squeezed while standing in front of the gingham-curtained kitchen window.
"So, they haven't heard of using Junior or the Third?" Charlotte said, surreptitiously pouring gin into her cloyingly sweet lemonade.
"Oh, no, that's too citified and uppity for Miz Sadie-Mabelle, Zachery-Zach's momma who is such a dear, revered by the entire town - although she was a trifle cool to me before she realized I was the very best thing that could ever happen to her dear boy."
"Hmmm, probably didn't take her long to realize you were the perfect dope to take raising those four grandchildren off her hands so she could hit the casinos," muttered Charlotte under her breath.
"Why Charlotte, I just know that marrying Zachery-Zach is my destiny, I can feel it down to the marrow of my bones. I look back on those long years I spent slaving away in college, then graduate school and finally getting my advanced degrees (all by the age of 25), as so much wasted time. I mean really, how important is it to have been the youngest woman in the history of State U to receive a joint nuclear physics/biochemistry doctorate and then to go on to head the research department at Noble-Cause Cosmetics, the most prestigious beauty products company in the United States. Why, it was just so much wasted time when you compare it to being the loving, but firm, stepmother to Zachery-Zach's brood of unruly rapscallions and having a whole houseful of babies, starting no later than exactly nine months after the wedding ceremony." sighed Mari-Ann, gazing off at the town's sole stoplight where even now, Lumpy Lumpkin, Zachery-Zach's sort-of dim, but colorful comic relief deputy was parked in his squad car to nab red-light runners and jaywalkers.
"And you're sure that after living in New York you can be happy here?" Charlotte persisted.
Mari-Ann smoothed her hands down the skirt of her crisp cotton sundress, fluffing the ruffle at the bottom. How could she explain it to Charlotte. Why, the whole town had welcomed her so warmly, even though she was a complete stranger who spoke without a picturesque regional accent and who could only guess at what some of their strange, yet colorful sayings meant (was calling her "Cute as a gobbler's wattle" an insult or a compliment?). How could she make Charlotte understand that no one seemed to resent, even the tiniest bit, that only a year after Susie-Sue's (yep, no citified notions for her family either) death, she, a total stranger, would be taking her place. Zachery-Zach's dead wife had been his high-school sweetheart, homecoming queen, Sunday School teacher and the best durn cookie baker in town and then poor Susie-Sue had died needlessly, making reckless efforts to save her four children from their burning house - a house that had been set alight by Bubba-Joe, Zachery-Zach's old rival from the football team who had let the festering resentment of Zachery-Zach's winning touchdown at the homecoming game grow for years, all through the time Zachery-Zach was away performing dangerous missions for a super-secret branch of the army (until he nobly cut short his beloved military career to come home to help support his widowed mother). And, the precious children, Zach-Zachery, Tiffany, Bucky and Miranda - why they would become her whole life. Who needed a career, someone else could complete her research for the perfect concealer. Why even, Adelaide, Zachery-Zach's late wife's cousin who had been cooking and cleaning for him and who, everyone knew, was just waiting for Zachery-Zach to realize how wonderful she was and make her the new mother for his children, had welcomed her with open arms and gracefully withdrawn from competition for Zachery-Zach's affections. Adelaide had even promised to take her mushrooming in the spring and point out which were safe and which were poisonous.
"Oh Charlotte, I've realized what is really important are community picnics and church suppers with marshmallows in all the salads and having as many babies as I can as quickly as possible."
"Uh huh," Charlotte murmured, adding more gin, "and what about those four children he already has?"
"Oh, they-re just darling. Why already, ZZZ (not even Mis Sadie-Mabelle could force people to call him Zachery-Zach-Zach) is becoming less sullen and hostile, not dressing all in black and his grades have gone up. Tiffany has stopped shoplifting and dressing like a cheap hooker and has joined the church youth group. Little Bucky hardly ever plays with matches anymore, and yesterday, precious Miranda, the baby of the family, called me 'Mama.' Why, I who has never so much as owned a pet and know nothing about children, in only a month have healed the deep psychological scars all four had as a result of watching their mother go up in flames. I just know that when I have that first baby (or better yet, twins!) exactly nine months after the wedding, they'll all be perfect older siblings, helpful, cheerful and without any resentment at all. And they'll welcome each and every other baby I'll birth at regular two year intervals."
"You're sure this is a good idea - I mean, it's all a really big change," challenged Charlotte.
"Oh, I know what people say," admitted Mari-Ann, with a tiny frown puckering the flawless alabaster skin between her perfectly arched brows. "Marriage is a huge step and so is having children - not to mention taking on four stepchildren, especially when I'm only 15 years older than the eldest. I know the experts say maybe it's a good idea to just be married for a while before adding the stress of a baby, but that never makes any difference in any of the other books, so I don't see why it would for me."
"OK," said Charlotte, adding yet more gin, "How is he in bed?" Charlotte had seen Zachery-Zach in his body-hugging shiny polyester uniform with his belt full of law-enforcement gear and it had been hard to pick out which bulged more, his flashlight or his manhood.
"Oh Charlotte," blushed Mari-Ann, "You know I never had a social life in college or since, that all I've ever done is work, work, work. I was a 30 year-old virgin just waiting for Zachery-Zach. So of course, even though I had no experience at all, the sex has been fantastic, or so Zachery-Zach tells me."
"You're sure you won't miss all the restaurants and plays and concerts?" persisted Charlotte, dragging Mari-Ann from her blissful reverie. "I mean, there's not even an art film house here and probably no sushi for a hundred miles. Just remember Mari-Ann, this means no more Starbucks, Chinese take-out, really good pizza, delis, first-run movies, Broadway plays, Sax, Bloomingdales. . . ."
Mari-Ann fell silent, twisting her small, but perfect, diamond ring and gazing at the sign for Cooter's Café, where everything was fried, breaded, sugared and artificially colored. Suddenly, she threw the ring down onto the twig table (lovingly handcrafted by Grandpa Zachery), bolted upsight and exclaimed "Charlotte, you're right, go get your car and I'll grab my things. By this time tomorrow, we'll be so far away, Zachery-Zack will never catch me. I'll go back to Noble-Cause Cosmetics and kick my career into high gear." promised Mari-Ann.
"But what about Zachery-Zach, the four kids and the great sex?" queried Charlotte.
"Oh heck, Adelaide can have him and the four holy terrors. As for the sex, it probably wasn't that good anyway, I just didn't have anybody to compare him with. Besides, it's time I took advantage of my position as head of research. Remember, Noble-Cause Cosmetics is owned by the broodingly handsome, reclusive billionaire Derek Derekson. It's high time I employ a flimsy business-related pretext to barge into his lavishly decorated but impersonal, without a woman's touch penthouse, and catch him with a towel draped around his lean hips. Then, we can fight over something inconsequential and fall into bed." cried Mari-Ann.
"Wait a minute, isn't that another book?" demanded Charlotte.
"Yes," exclaimed Mari-Ann, "and one in which I'll be much more comfortable and better dressed!"
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