So I wrote something kinda purely for fun today and not for (eventual) profit. I’m gonna have to spend part of the weekend thinking which sexy piece I’m writing next, or what the “plot” of my next, written-from-scratch smut piece is going to be. I’m open to suggestions, if you have them! 

I did write 1600 words today, which is good. Voice-practice with my bff’s character, Devin. She dubs him her “problem character.” Don’t know why, he always wants to work with me, whenever I write him. =p Then again, I write him smut a lot of the time, anyway. First person and I don’t really get along. I like my characters to have distinct, very them voices — and Devin’s is actually really easy to imitate. I can always hear his voice really strongly in my head.

Ah, the joys of being a writer. I get to hear things but not get diagnosed as crazy, either. Truly a blessing. 😉

But yes, smut/erotica plot suggestions! I am open to them. ❤

The whole piece I wrote today, if you’re curious:

***

Can still feel Brendan’s hands around my neck as I stumble out of that room, pushing past Calla and her concern. Can feel something else, soft and inexorable. Other hands. Hands I’ve long since forgotten about. Hands that Randall fucking took me away from. 

Don’t wanna think about that. Don’t wanna think about anything as the bile climbs up my throat, threatening to fucking escape before I even make it to the bathroom. Don’t wanna remember anything. Wanna forget, stamp it out of my mind and pretend the things I’m seeing now aren’t fucking real. Can’t be fucking real. 

Almost don’t make it to the bathroom in time, my throat burning both on the outside and the inside as what little I fucking ate today makes a return visit. Focus on the pain. Let it fill me. Let it do more than that as it wipes out that softness still leaving trails all over my body. Don’t even remember who. Or when. 

That’s a tall accusation, Number Seven….

Randall’s fucking voice. Don’t know what to make of it. Clean myself up. Strip out of my clothes. Blast the fucking hot water as high as it can go, hoping that it’ll take those fingers and those lips and stop them from moving all over me. That it’ll take the feel of me pressing myself against Brendan, doing to him what someone else has done to me. 

Almost make myself sick again. What the fuck was I thinking? Fucking inexcusable, what I did to him. Deserved those hands around my neck. Fucking deserved much worse for even thinking of doing what I did. Don’t wanna think about that, either. Don’t wanna think about how Calla’ll just hate me worse. How I make everything worse. 

The water can only burn for so long before it turns to ice, freezing those unwanted sensations to my skin. Try and brush them off with a towel, but it’s fucking useless.

Brinkley. The bastard’s name was Brinkley. Don’t remember anything fucking else. Keep trying to forget as it is. Don’t know what I’m doing as I pull my clothes back on and slink out of the bathroom, hoping no one notices me as I move towards my room. My room. Where it’s fucking safe. Where I don’t have to see anyone or do anything and it doesn’t fucking glow that horrifying blue. 

Don’t know where that thought came from. Don’t want to try and figure out where, either. Except when the door to my room shut behinds me, everything else becomes a fucking blur. See the glow out of the corner of my eye; still feel ghosts of fingers and lips all over me, some in me, making my stomach twist all over again. 

Don’t know how long it is before I realize I’m standing in front of my closet, the doors thrown open and my own clothes piling up at my feet. Don’t know what I’m looking for. All I know is that I need to find it as if my life fucking depended on it. 

A box. Size of a shoe box. Maybe even is a shoe box, but it’s pretty fucking small. Doesn’t fucking belong. Not like the rest of my things — however few I have. Beat up. Hidden away. Not in the fucking closet, either.

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