Over The Edge - The Second Excerpt: The Nurturing Forces

It's Time To Share Again!

Several weeks ago, I posted the opening pages of my work in progress. I'm now ready to share another excerpt, this time from further into the book. Over the Edge is an erotic horror novel destined for the Shivers line at Ellora's Cave (my publisher).

Over the Edge: The Blurb

Dahlia, a novice Healer, is accepted into a mysterious school in Seattle that teaches Curative Touch - only to realize too late that she is in grave danger. She and the other students are being used as a Guinea Pigs for newly-adult Sex Demons in training in the usage of their own powers. But Dahlia has done the forbidden: She's fallen in love with her Demon instructor and unearthed the truth.

The Excerpt:

(The setting for this excerpt: It is the first day of lessons at the Institute. Dahlia and her classmates are learning the first exciting steps of Curative Touch, as taught by ... Demons.)

     Professor Abiba turned to his audience. "And now I shall conduct a little exercise, to get us started. Put your hands together. Like this." He clasped his hands in a prayerful sort of way and held them out for all to see.

     We copied him, a room full of pious students.

     "Now give your hands to the person sitting next to you. One of you will put your hands over the other person's hands. Gently, now." 

     I turned to Coralee. She took my hands in hers, and her skin felt warm and dry. We smiled shyly at each other at this intimate, unexpected contact. On my other side, Ellen moved a few seats over so she could give her hands to Preston.

     Professor Abiba's voice turned soothing. "This is your first official lesson at the Institute. A momentous occasion, to be sure." He waited until the last student pairing was settled, and then continued. "Rule Number One. Always ask for permission before you start a healing. Always. Without fail. Even if the person has requested your help. Even if you are only doing a practicum with your Model. It is an enormous breach of trust to not do so."

     I sat with my hands embraced by Coralee's, pondering his words and wondering—had I asked permission before touching people during my painful years of stumbling in the dark trying to help people? Always and without fail?

     I knew I hadn't.

     Sometimes—most times—I had, but not always. Perhaps I didn't have explicit permission, but I always had implicit permission. I always knew that what I had to give was something they wanted.

Professor Abiba cleared his throat. "But once isn't enough. Asking permission is a two-part process because we believe that asking once isn't sufficient. We must let patients know exactly what we want to do. But fear not, my earnest pupils, for I shall teach you the verbiage." He nodded sagely. He raised a lone finger as emphasis. "First, acknowledge your patient's suffering. Use their name if you can. Now listen closely. These are the exact words—except for the name—that you must memorize and take to heart." He cleared his throat, looked at his wife, and then spoke in a theatrical-sounding voice. "Zettia, you are suffering. May I put my hands on you?"

     Mistress Anjoli inclined her head.

     He turned back to us. "Now you do it. Go ahead. Say the words to the person whose hands you hold."

     Coralee and I shared an excited little smile.

     I took the plunge. "Coralee, you are suffering. May I put my hands on you?"

     Her eyes shone. "And I see that you are suffering too, Dahlia. May I put my hands on you?"

     The same thing was echoed all around us, with minor variations.

     Professor Abiba nodded. "Well done. Now for the second part. May I conduct a healing for you?"

     I turned back to Coralee. "May I conduct a healing for you?"

     Coralee said the words back to me.

     We squeezed each other's hands, a silent yes. Then I thought about Gage, about how he'd put his hands on me yesterday, about how he'd said these very words. He'd even used my name.

     It made me shiver.

     Professor Abiba was speaking again. "The words I just taught you will become so familiar that you will be able to say them in your sleep. They are words that will stay with you for the rest of your lives. They are potent words which will settle you into the proper frame of mind to unlock your Curative Energy."

     They'd certainly been potent when Gage had said them to me.

     Professor Abiba waited an extra moment before continuing. "But even that is not enough. You are not yet ready to begin a healing. You must obtain assent." He moved to the edge of the platform. "The assent doesn't need to be verbal, because sometimes a patient may not be able to speak, but it must be clearly given. Why do we need assent? Why can't we heal a person just because we can, because we have the knowledge and the ability, and because we wish to help those in pain?" He left the stage, taking his robes in his hands and raising them to knee height before letting them drop again after he stepped down to the lower level. He was wearing loose ankle-length white pants underneath. "Why do we wait for assent? Because the nature of what we do demands it."

     He walked back and forth, so tall that he towered above us. Coralee and I, still holding hands, craned our heads when he came our direction. Then he turned around and walked the other way.

     "You see," he said, "our art works best if a patient is complicit in their own healing."

     Oh! I hadn't known that. I wished my hands were free so I could write it down.

     "A willing patient will open themselves to you. A willing patient will be relaxed. He or she will respond to your touch. He or she will offer their energy to you, even if they do not realize what they are doing." He stopped in front of me and Coralee. "Take these lovely young ladies in the first row. Our Dahlia will utilize Coralee's energy alongside her own to do her healing work. Two streams of energy are stronger than one. Understand?"

     "Yes," I whispered. Because I did understand, and it was beautiful. It was simple. And it was so obvious, although I hadn't seen it until Professor Abiba had shown me.

     I stared up at him, transfixed.

     And then I wondered how he'd known our names.

     He moved away. "Good. My job is to teach you to direct the flow of energy. To use it for a specific purpose, targeted toward one part of the body. And to direct your patient's energy alongside your own. It's more complicated than that, of course, but that right there is the basis of Curative Touch as we understand it." He stepped back up onto the podium. "You're still connected with your patient, still holding hands. You've asked for permission. Twice. You've obtained assent. Now it's time for the next step. Ask your patient to close his or her eyes."

     I asked Coralee to close her eyes. And then I closed mine.

     His voice came out of the darkness, silky and warm. "Now we're starting the simulated healing. Keep hold of your partner's hands. Take your time. Be gentle but firm. Be mindful." He waited a good minute or two. "Your hands should be feeling heavier. And getting warmer."

     I sucked in my breath. My hands were getting warmer, just as he'd said. And they felt like they weighed twenty pounds. I wondered if Coralee's hands felt like that too. I noticed that we'd allowed our joined hands to fall to the arm rest that separated our seats. I breathed in, out. In, out. Taking my time.

Finally, he spoke again. "This is a simulation. We're not going to do any healing this time. All I want is for you to know what it will feel like when we actually do get to that point." He paused between each instruction. "Feel your partner's skin…feel your own skin…feel where your fingertips meet…feel your partner's warmth…take it in…share your own warmth with your partner. Feel it. Don't think of anything else—just feel."

     Institute Time was a funny thing.

     It seemed to stand still, waiting, poised, full of potential.

     And then, without warning, something wonderful happened. Color! Fiery vermillion! A shocking burst of brilliant red that flooded my awareness and left me dumbstruck. Even though my eyes were closed, I saw color all around, so much so that it crowded out everything else. I became a ball of pure red light with the name Dahlia attached to it, and it was the most marvelous thing that had ever happened to me.

     I made some sort of sound.

     "Ah," said Professor Abiba.

     I opened my eyes to find him standing right in front of me.

     "Tell me, my dear—what just happened?"

     "Color!" I gasped. "I see red!"

     He regarded me, looking rather proud. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he said to my fellow students as he gently parted my hands from Coralee's. "Something momentous has just happened here. A benchmark. And it happened well before anticipated. We don't usually see this occur for days yet." He tugged lightly on my arm, urging me to stand next to him. Which I did, still seeing the world tinged in that delicious vermillion. "Our Dahlia has accessed the Nurturing Forces! Let us give her a round of applause!"

     They clapped for me, all of them, as I stood dazed and happy next to my professor.

     The Nurturing Forces.

     Who knew they were red?

***

(End of Excerpt)

Working on 'Over the Edge'

Thank you for reading! I'm still hard at work on Over the Edge - I'm currently just over 40,000 words into the novel, almost halfway through. I plan to post more excerpts occasionally, so please do check back.

What I Overheard - Back by Popular Demand

The Intrepid Eavesdropper

(Number Two)

***

I'm at it again. Listening in on conversations. But it's okay because it's in the pursuit of a greater good - right? Improving my storytelling and dialogue skills is a viable excuse - right? Of course it is. So, without further ado, here is round two of the fascinating snippets I overheard last week in two of my favorite coffee shops. Today, I'll start with short and sweet and move to longer and more involved.

***

It's not wrong if I have a good reason.

***

Snippet Number Four:  "Making It Better"

At the Starbucks in the hospital lobby, on a Tuesday morning. It's raining outside. A man is washing the windows with large sweeping motions. It's quiet in the coffee shop. All I can hear is the clicking of my laptop's keys and the swish-swish of the squeegee. There is a break between customers, and one barista is talking quietly to another. She puts her hand on her friend's arm and says this beautiful, heartfelt line: 

"You're less bubbly and happy than usual and I just want to make it better."

friends

***

Snippet Number Five:  "You're Having A Fucking Boy"

This is about as different as you can get. It's about half an hour later, and I'm still at the Starbucks in the hospital lobby, across from the Ultrasound Unit. A woman is on a cell phone, leaning against the shop's condiment bar. She's got the phone propped between her ear and her shoulder, and is shaking cinnamon and cocoa into her coffee as she talks. She stirs the coffee with quick, angry motions. To me, she seems more interested in her coffee than in the conversation.

She shouts into the phone.

"Guess what you're having?"

She listens to the person on the other end of the line, but only for a second.

"A boy. You're having a boy."

She makes a snorting noise.

"Another fucking boy."

She slaps a lid on her coffee.

"Yeah. It is."

She slurps her coffee, then stalks out the door.

***

This one still bothers me. There are so many questions that I will never know the answers to! Is this woman pregnant? She didn't look pregnant. Why is she annoyed that it's a boy? Does she already have five of them at home or something? Is she talking to the baby's father? She doesn't say "we're having a boy", she says "you're having a boy". Something seemed so wrong about this conversation.

All I can think is: That poor baby boy.

***

Snippet Number Six:  "Give Them Candy"

I am at my other favorite coffee shop, Zoka. I'm grumpy. I don't have my favorite table - I'm at the breezy table right in front of the door because that was all there was. But I'm coping. Not long after I arrive, two men pull out chairs from a large table clear across the room. One of the men - he's perhaps twenty-five years old and has the loudest voice I've ever heard - seems to be training the younger man (he's college-age) to teach an all-day-long SAT prep class. For over two hours, they discuss how to teach different sections of the exam to high school seniors - math, English, history.

"Essays," says the older man. "Some of them go on and on and on. Like this one."

The instructor flips open a four-inch-tall three ring binder, looking for a particular essay. He finds what he's looking for, then jabs the page with his finger. "You have to consider the voice. Is it too self-conscious? Too full of themselves? Look at this girl's essay." He turns a few pages. "Look at this part. She's inserting too much of herself here. Right there. See that?"

"Yes."

"And grammar. Identify the rules of grammar. Make sure they have a command of it - but then let them run with it and make it their own."

"Okay."

"That's the hard part. To know when they've gone too far."

The younger man nods and looks dubiously at the gigantic binder.

"Make a list," suggests the older man. "Put the most common things that give them problems up on the wall. Have conversations with them. Make them talk. Make them do worksheets, and then discuss them. Worksheets are good."

The younger man is scribbling notes. I think he looks flustered.

The older man leans back in his seat. "The best advice? They get tired around three o'clock. I say get some sugar into them."

"Really?"

"Always give them candy at the break."

I stop listening at this point - the minutia is mind-numbing. But as I go back to my own work, I can't help but think how lucky I am to be privy to this moment, and remember when my own children took the (very expensive) classes these men are discussing. I also know this: I would never have come up with this scene on my own. Never in a thousand years.

It really was this big.

***

Snippet Number Seven:  "You Just Have To Keep Going" 

The following snippet also took place at Zoka. It was the next day. Two men, dressed in slacks and collared, button-down shirts are sitting at the table next to me. No fancy lattes or mochas, just black coffee. Older man does almost all of the talking. He has a deeply lined face, a chipped front tooth, and steel gray crew-cut hair. He is constantly tapping his foot.

"I tell people to look at my hands." The older man holds out his hands. The nails are short and somewhat ragged, but clean. "I work with my hands. All my life, I've worked with my hands." Turns them over, shoves them in front of the younger man.

The younger man obviously knows what's expected of him and takes a good long look. "You work hard. You've done well."

Older man slurps his coffee. "Yeah. I have my guys. They go out there. Thirty years, they do their work. And people come to us."

"I've heard good things about your place."

"It's job satisfaction, that's what it is. I run a tight ship. Everything kept clean. Lots of light. No yelling at people. It's safer that way."

"Yeah."

A pause, while they both take a drink of their coffee.

"I keep the radio on to fifties type music," says the older man. "People ask me, why do you listen to that old stuff?"

"Well, why?"

"It doesn't get the customers riled up, you know? Not like that modern stuff." He talks about that horrible modern stuff for a while, then he moves on. "The most important thing is to keep the place safe. And clean. But you have to be careful. I tell my guys to be careful." He holds out his hands again. "Cause look what can happen. Look at that." He holds out his thumb. "I cut my thumb clean off! A short saw. They put it back on again."

The younger man gawks.

"See?" says the older man. "You can see where they did the surgery. The color is different."

Then was a long discourse about bone grafts, and skin grafts, and hundreds of stitches, and bandages that bled all over the place. The younger man looks kind of yellow by the time the older one is finished describing every little detail of his ordeal.

"Well. It doesn't look that good, but it works," says the older man, grabbing his coffee with the hand in question. "You just have to keep going."

The color is different all right!

***

And that's all for this time! I'll just keep going. I'll continue listening and gathering overheard dialogues and eventually I'll have enough for Intrepid Eavesdropper Number Three.

Thanks for reading!

***

My Editor Speaks

Rebecca's Moment in the Sun

A big welcome to my editor at Ellora's Cave. Rebecca is the person who keeps me in line, who helps me whip my stories into shape, who chases down stray exclamation points and italics, who lets me be inventive with dashes because I'm not allowed to use semi-colons. She is my cheerleader in the scary big world of publishing, and I am so very lucky to have her. 

I am thrilled to have her visit my blog today.

Rebecca

Thanks to Gail for hosting me on her blog! My name is Rebecca Hill, and I’m an editor for Ellora’s Cave, the premier erotic romance publisher.

Gail caught my attention from the outset as an author who obviously has new, fresh and exciting ideas, but she really revved my engines when she submitted Inn On the Edge, an erotic horror novel for EC’s “Shivers” line. I adore horror stories and I really want to see more women writing in horror, as well as a marriage between the visceral reactions of fear and arousal, so erotic horror is a genre I’m wildly enthusiastic about.

Why should Stephen King have all the fun? We know that a natural reaction to fear is sexual desire, so the two genres are a match made in heaven.

Many people think of romance as a “throw-away” genre, but in my opinion, entertaining fiction engages the emotions. Good fiction engages the mind. And great fiction does both. If a story captures me both intellectually and emotionally, I’d be a fool to care where it’s shelved. That’s why I edit for EC, and why I’m so delighted to work with ground-breaking authors like Gail.

In my opinion, Gail’s at the cutting edge of the next big thing. Her work in progress, Over the Edge, set in the same universe, promises to be just as gripping.

I’ll be back for a guest post in the near future to talk about my editing methods – but don’t believe her when she says that’s a horror story all on its own!

Thank you Rebecca! 

What Rebecca hasn't mentioned is that not only is she a talented editor who works with a large stable of prolific authors, she is an author herself. She is the co-author of the erotic horror novella, "Smoke and Mirrors". I am thrilled to share this amazing book, which is available at Totally Bound.

Purchase Link for "Smoke and Mirrors" - https://www.totallybound.com/smoke-and-mirrors

Blurb for "Smoke and Mirrors"

Max has always been able to see things that aren't there…or perhaps his visions show people's true natures, in their reflections.

When he visits the circus one night, the last thing he expects is to fall in lust with the sexy knife-thrower, Lady Stiletto. But when he follows her into the funhouse — and into the hall of mirrors — they are both sucked into a warped and twisted world where time moves differently and nothing is what it seems…

Can Max find Lady Stiletto and save her from the madness of the mirror world? Or will he find only an echo, driven mad by the carnival of horrors they've been plunged into?

Reader Advisory: This story contains scenes of dubious consent, and mirror-world lovers who aren't all they seem.

Over the Edge - The First Excerpt

To my dear blog followers:

The time has arrived! 

I am ready to share the first few sneak peeks of my work-in-progress, Over the Edge. It is erotic horror, bound for the Ellora's Cave "Shivers" line. This full-length novel takes place in the same exotic world I created for Inn on the Edge and features the same manipulative sex demons. The setting is completely new - and it's deliciously chilling.

The Blurb:

Dahlia is a novice Healer who is accepted into a mysterious school in Seattle that teaches Curative Touch - only to realize too late that she and the other students are being used as a Guinea Pigs for newly-adult Sex Demons in training in the usage of their own powers. But Dahlia has done the forbidden: She's fallen in love with her Demon instructor and unearthed the truth.

Over the Edge - The First Excerpt 

(the opening two pages of the book):

     I stopped in front of a door painted in darkest, richest green.

     It wasn't the same entrance I'd been to before. The door before me was on a busier, wider, noisier street than the one around the corner that I was already familiar with. This door stood out from the others surrounding it—for one thing, it was enormous. Three people could pass through it side by side and not touch the doorsills, not even close. For another thing, the door itself was heavy and official-looking, as if it had been lifted from some building back in the old country and installed in this busy street in Seattle, with no care of how out-of-place it looked.

     Or maybe it gave the exact impression the Institute was going for?

     On either side of the door were other businesses. A restaurant on one side. A gift shop on the other. Beyond that, a second-hand clothing boutique. Further down the street, a pet shop. They all had signage and windows and crisp awnings—normal-looking entrances, all of them.

     Unlike mine.

     For months I'd been wondering about this strange place, this Institute. It had suddenly appeared without warning or fanfare in a downtown neighborhood I frequently passed through—I remember well the Friday afternoon I'd first seen this green door. I'd stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk, wondering where it had come from, wondering what lay behind it, curious to know what sorts of mysterious things went on in a place called the Institute of Curative Touch.

     And wondering if I'd ever work up the nerve to study there.

     Well, I did work up the courage. I went on-line. Found their website. Discovered to my joy that the Institute would be running an intensive eight-week Curative Touch session that summer. The students—only twelve would be selected—would stay in the Institute's living quarters, eat the Institute's food, have limited contact with the outside world, and would attend daily lectures, practicums, and healing demonstrations. The website warned that students were expected to "live and breathe" Curative Touch so they could participate in a "rigorous learning experience like no other".

     It sounded like heaven.

     I studied the website for hours, feeling like it was written with me in mind. Do you gravitate to people in pain? Lord help me, but I did. Do your hands itch to touch people? Yes! Sometimes I had to sit on my hands to keep them from roaming. Do you long to harness your inborn healing talent? Do you desire to be effective in your healing efforts? Are you willing to learn from those who have vast experience in the healing arts? Yes! Yes! And yes.

     Jumping-up-and-down-yes.

     Best of all, I could afford it.

     It wouldn't be difficult to schedule a hiatus from my freelance journalist work—I was my own boss and I was long overdue for a vacation. I checked with myself, and of course I said yes. Besides, I might write an article about my experiences at the Institute—it was bound to be interesting. I set up a tour, as requested of all potential students. On the appointed day, a delightful fellow named Jobeem met me at the side entrance. He led me through the main lecture hall, several classrooms, and a library.

     I approved.

     The next day I filled out the Institute's registration form and wrote three get-to-know-me essays—The First Time I Thought I Had Healing Touch, The first Time I Knew I Had Healing Touch, and The First Time I Was Shunned For My Healing Touch. The instructions had been to write a page or more about any three topics. Prospective students were urged to be as honest as possible, to delve deep, and to explore their feelings because everything would percolate to the surface when the coursework started and there was no sense hiding anything. So I told them everything. I put everything I had into those essays, even the thing about my grandmother who also had healing touch, and her mother, and hers, and so on.

     I bit my nails.

     Four months ago I received my acceptance letter and immediately sent a rather hefty deposit.

     I gushed about my summer plans to anyone who would listen.

     And it didn't even bother me much when people said I was crazy.

     Two weeks ago a stack of handouts arrived in the mail—among them, What Should You Pack?, What to Expect While You're With Us, The History of Curative Touch, and How Much Can a Touch Healer Accomplish in Today's High-Tech World?

     I devoured them.

     Yesterday, I took Pretty Kitty—my cat—to stay with my grandmother.

     All of which led me here, today, to this green door and to the new-student orientation. My adventure was about to begin.

     I tucked my hair behind my ear and took a calming breath, wishing I'd taken the time to eat something before coming here, wishing I had my camera, wishing that someone could take a picture of me by this antique door, all daring and poised on the threshold of my new life. As soon as I went in, I'd begin transforming into a newer, better version of myself. I'd be Dahlia Rehnquist, future healer. But I didn't have a camera. It hadn't been on the packing list.

     I was about to go in when a man came from behind me and reached for the doorknob, startling me.

     "Oh! I'm sorry—I didn't mean to make you jump," he said.

     I stepped aside. "It's okay."

     He looked at his watch, then at me. He didn't say anything.

     I gave him a sidelong look. I liked his eyes. He was a bit older than me, probably. He was tall, with wavy brown hair just long enough to brush his collar. He wore a dark jacket and had a sleek, many-pocketed backpack slung over his shoulder. He was handsome in a sandals-and-socks-in-winter athletic sort of way, a very Seattle look. A look that I'd always been partial to. Was he a student at the Institute, like me? Was he heading to the orientation?

     "No worries," I said, hoping.

     "Shall we?"

     I nodded.

     He opened the door and offered me a fleeting smile. "After you."

Thank you for reading. 
The Second Excerpt will come next week...

Adventures in Storyland

...And now, for something different!

I have a special treat today to celebrate the fifth day of Inn on the Edge. A romantic holiday letter, from Angie to Josh (the main characters of the novel), six months after their breathless escape from the Inn on the Edge Hotel and from the sex demon who held them captive there. Enjoy!

My Dearest Josh,

I've been in my studio trying to paint all morning, but I couldn't get anything done because I kept thinking about you. I miss you so much! I know you had to go to this training conference for your new job - but it's crazy hard to have you gone for two weeks. 

How can they DO this to people, scheduling the conference just before Christmas? Don't they know we're newlyweds and that this is our first Christmas together? Are they heartless?

Anyway, I wanted to tell you what I was daydreaming about when I should have been painting.

It's the Storybuilder. You never got to experience the magic Storybuilder necklaces with me when we were still at the Inn on the Edge, which breaks my heart. I know you've been reluctant to use them, but Josh - it's been months and months since we escaped the demon. We're safe now. We took care of Mr. Abiba! He's gone! We can play with the Storybuilder now. I know we can!

Still need convincing? Then let me tell you about my daydream.

Close the door to your office, my dear. Lower the lights, sit back in your swivel chair and make yourself comfortable ... prepare yourself for adventure!

First, we'll undress each other. We put Storybuilder Pendants over one another's shoulders. You arrange mine so that it falls perfectly between my breasts, and then you lean over and kiss me. (Like it so far?)

We say the magic words and the Storybuilder turns on. Colorful speckles of light scatter over our faces, our bodies, looking for all the world like miniature Christmas lights. Admiring the effect the light show has on our nakedness, we nestle closer to each other. Before long I'm settled on your lap. We kiss again, even though kissing isn't part of the formal script that activates the magic. (Now I KNOW you're liking it!)

The sparkling lights die down, signaling that the magic is ready. It's time to take turns building our Storyland. Quivering with anticipation - this is so fun! - I choose the setting: we're in a castle, a deserted castle in the middle of a dense forest.

We watch, wide-eyed, as real world of our bedroom fades away and is replaced with magic. Rough stone walls materialize around us. The ceiling is made of wide, hand-hewed beams. The flagstone floor is covered with a hand-knotted carpet. Amazingly, impossibly, we're inside a drafty, cool castle. It even smells old. (Did you expect it to look so REAL, Josh? I didn't, the first time!)

I decide the place should be decorated for Christmas, and more things appear: a fifteen-foot Christmas tree in the corner of the room, fat aromatic candles burning in a wide circle around us, bunting draped from the ceiling and doorways, and, permeating the air, the smell of cloves and cinnamon and eggnog. (Yes, that'll do nicely.)

Now it's your turn, Josh. You get to choose the characters we'll portray in our own private Story Land. You think about it for a moment while I gaze at your handsome flushed face - see? You're getting into this! - and then you smile and tell me that you are the Lord of the Forest, a rich and powerful man, who has had this charming wilderness castle built for one purpose only - to share with his secret love...the parlor maid.

(So I'm to be a PARLOR MAID? You funny, funny man.)

We watch as we're magically draped in rich velvets and supple leather (for the Lord of the Forest), and in a thin, ill-fitting frock (for the parlor maid.)

(Thank you very much, Josh. Would it have been so bad to let me have a ball gown?)

Then it's my turn to add to the Story again. I declare that we need a banquet table heaped with the best food and drink, fresh and savory and ready to eat. Because we're going to get hungry, after all I have planned for us.

Arching your eyebrow, you quickly add an enormous four-poster bed, complete with satin sheets and comforters and plenty of pillows.

I add a mirror over the bed. Why not?

You add a box of sex toys. Again, why not?

And there you have it, Josh. The beginning of a Story. The rest will have to wait until you are here, until we're together again. Until then, I'll be thinking of nothing else.

With all my love,

Your Little Parlor Maid