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I have "known" Chris Curtis for over a year, now. I first met him on the Write List, and was thrilled when he joined the New Writers' List. Why? Because Chris is one of the most genuinely nice people I have ever met. Every one who comes in contact with him, soon grows to admire and respect him as a writer, and more so as a person.
He made me feel special from the first "hello"... even though he took one of my "great works" and tore it apart with the eye of a discerning artist. But Chris, in typical "Chris fashion", went one step further--he took the time to sit down and outline in detail exactly what he meant by his critique of my work. We've been friends ever since. I've even repaid the "favor" a time or two, and provided him with an equally tough, detailed crit of his work. I've watched as he offers respect, kindness, and the benefit of his writing skills, and himself to others on the New Writers' List. He is not a shy person, but he is a humble man, loyal to his friends and co-members, encouraging us and challenging us to never settle for less than the best we can be. Chris Curtis is a wonderful person and a brilliant writer, one the New Writer members and I will always be glad we've had the opportunity to meet.
How Do You Find Time To Write? Start the Twilight Zone music... At the moment I’m between careers, so far in fact I appear to be in a tunnel beneath the Alps where I can’t see either end. This leaves me plenty of time to write and experiment with different genres. How Long Have You Been Writing? For about two years now. I wrote my first full length novel without any idea of how to go about devising a plot, creating characters with depth, or the basic requirements on how to write dialogue. I then joined a correspondence course for writers, quickly followed by an adult education course on creative writing. I still keep that first novel in all its ghastly glory, just to remind me on how far I have come. When Did You First Know You Wanted To Write? My English teacher at school, way back in the early seventies, set the class an exercise called Heaven and Hell. After some thought, and a slight change to the title, I wrote a thirty-two page essay about my first kiss called, ‘She was Heaven and Hell’. That story not only earned me an, ‘A’, my very first, Mr George went on to encourage me to write more descriptive works for future exercises. Was There Any Particular Person Or Thing That Inspired You To Be A Writer? As mentioned above, Mr George took great delight in reading my exercises. He encouraged me to write about not only true events, but to explore my imagination and write about fictitious characters. He also introduced me to the library as a source of reference, and not just a place to escape the rain, or bunk off certain lessons. Who Are Some Of Your Favorite Authors? Why? As a child I never really read the ‘normal’ stuff one reads, I seemed to jump a few years in the reading material suggested for my age. This of course meant, with a young boy’s active imagination, I started to read thrillers, spy stories and the such. All of which have stayed with me until the present day -- once a boy always a boy. What I like to do is second-guess the author, to try and see if I can work out who the villain is, or how the hero will save the day before I reach the end. If I can, the book’s a let down, if not I admire the writer. Needless to say, my favourite published authors are: John le Carre, Robert Ludlum, Tom Clancy, Sue Grafton and a newly acquired interest in Patricia Cornwell. Now, I did say published above, but I also see more and more pieces of work on this list which I find are sometimes far better than some of the so-called published work I’ve read. The problem is I think, is what people consider to be ‘published’ material. The person who writes with a passion born from the love of the written word, who may only see their work on a web page, or in a free newsletter, or in an anthology of new work, is in my view worthy of the praise of being ‘published’, as much as their counterpart who stock the shelves of bookstores. The advent of the smaller presses do their best to bring these people into the public eye, and until they can be recognised under the banner of the ‘Arts’ they will still loose out on grants and subsidies. Tell Us Something Of Your Publication History, If Any I’ve only one publication, per se, in my portfolio, a short story, which was asked for, rather than having to be sent off somewhere for consideration. The story started off as an exercise to describe a colour, or colours, to a blind person. I took the easy way out and chose to write about the spectrum. The story, I Can Sense A Rainbow, is included in my selection of works. What Are Your Goals As A Writer? Real, or imaginary? I suppose this all comes down to the fact of what drives me to write in the first place. If I thought I was doing it because I can see it as a way to make a lot of money with a novel published and a possible film made from the story, then I would not be too surprised to see failure in the future. This would come under the banner of dreams, rather than goals. What really drives me to write is a burning ambition to produce the perfect story. A story where I can safely say, without fear of second thoughts, I have done this to the best of my ability, I have honed and polished it so that the reader will have no doubt as to what the characters look like, what drives them, and that I’ve left no room for anyone to say: “I don’t get this?”. What Do You Most Enjoy Writing? Why? The short story is I feel the best vehicle for my writing, although I have tried several novels. The content doesn’t seem to matter too much as I have to rely on the exercises to give me the springboard to start a story, of which this list provides a varied content. Although most How To books describe the short story as probably the most difficult to get across, it is this area where the new writer can at least find a market. I go with the saying that a short story should be a complete entity on it’s own, that if expanded to a novella would mean it was never a short story in the first place, but merely an extract; the beginning, middle and end must be there with the same gradual rise to the conflict and final resolution that the novel entwines, although in a smaller version. The beauty of the short story is that you often only concentrate on one conflict with as few characters as possible. This gives you the advantage of not having to worry about other conflicts and resolutions, and simply stick to the point at hand. The disadvantage of this is that every word needs to be economical, you have no room to paint a scene with as many colours as you can in a novel; only one or two will suffice if you are to keep inside the word count. What Do You Find Most Difficult To Write? Why? This has to be the romance. Whenever I try to write a romantic story they always turn into another genre -- SciFi, Political Thriller, or whatever. At first I assumed it may be because of the amount of erotic stories I had written in the past, so I made a concerted effort to ‘keep it clean’ so-to-speak. In the end the story turned into a comedy which I then converted into a radio play: “Current Affairs”. This soon got dropped when a programme of the same name appeared on the television. On one occasion I recorded all the romantic songs I had onto a cassette in the vain hope of some inspiration. All that achieved was to bring back memories of lovers from long ago -- and I don’t intend to write about them, save I should inadvertently write a kiss and tell story. What Do Your Friends And Family Think About You Being A Writer? Not a lot actually. Far from the maddening crowd springs to mind, because I can treat the fantasy world I create as something tangible, more so than the humdrum existence of real life. So in that respect I keep my writing to myself and do not look for the slap on the back from friends or relatives. As far as they know, ‘I play on my computer’. Do You Have A ‘Passion’ Besides Your Writing? Nope,unless you count my cats.
What Kind Of Advice Would You Offer A New Writer? I suppose this all depends upon what you want to write. If you want to write non-fiction, then research your intended publication and get your material firsthand, for fiction, read, read and then read some more. And most of all do not give up the day job. Who said a Writing Tip can’t be funny? Read on. First and foremost, join a writer’s group, or a writer’s list such as this; writing is a lonely enterprise for anyone to take up. Second, don’t go out and buy all the ‘How to’ books you come across. Ask the people who write what books inspired them, or the ones they found to be most useful, and still use; you wouldn’t buy a CD without knowing what type of music it contained, who the singer was, and then hear people say, ‘I told you so’, when you moan about it afterwards. The next thing would be to take your favourite author, one of the books you know quite well, and read it from cover to cover to see how they employ all the tips from your How To books. i.e. what Point of View do they use? How do they use dialogue? The list is endless, but those first two points are often the hardest to learn for any writer, and in every book I’ve seen, these questions always pop-up. Obviously, once you’ve written your first story you’ll think it’s better than Dickens -- I know I did -- and you’ll persuade Uncle Tom Cobbly and all to read it. Don’t. It’s a sure-fire way to lull you into a false sense of security. Take your finished work and put it away somewhere for a week or two, and get back down to writing your next story. This not only teaches you one way to overcome writer’s block, it’s also a good way for self-discipline -- and I don’t mean whacking yourself over the back with birch twigs. After your two weeks are up, take your story down and read it again. You’ll be surprised at all the errors you never saw first time round. And I don’t mean punctuation or just grammar. Emily might become Jeanette because you forgot to change all the references to the previous name you changed, or the housewife with auburn hair suddenly looks like Monroe, with three kids on tow instead of two. You need to do this with every piece of work you write, as it will instil in you the ability to self-critique your work. A, ‘That’s nice dear,’ from Grandma is all well and good if you’re a puppy who’s learnt to piddle outside, the last thing you want is an editor piddling on it from afar -- well it made me chuckle. Now you’ve checked it over and corrected your masterpiece you can take it along for your peers to read. They will give you: “The truth, the truth, and nothing but the truth, My Lord.” Now you can cry. It will hurt, you can bet your bottom dollar it will bloody well hurt. And your next baddie who gets thrown under a bus, shot a trillion times and then hanged, drawn and quartered, will have an uncanny resemblance to the writer who gave you the worst critique. But it sure does make you chuckle when you write them into your next story. After all, you can go back and change their names. You can’t do that from the Dock after you’ve been charged with assault with a deadly weapon -- your manuscript -- after you beat the seven bells of crap out of them. With the written word you can bring them back to life and kill them all over again to release your pent up emotions. Ahh, that magic word, emotions! These are what you’ll use to turn your two-dimensional character into flesh and bones, a character that will leap out of the page and smack a big wet sloppy kiss on the readers' lips. Help! I hear you scream. Where do I get these emotions? From within you. You take those little index cards you can buy and write down all the emotions you can think of at the top of each one. Then, underneath, write down when you last felt these, and what occurred to make you feel this way, and how you over came this emotion. Then go back over them and delete every ‘feel’ and every ‘felt’ you wrote down, because you will not use those two words to describe an emotional upsurge ever again. Promise me. It’s a sure-fire way for rejection from any editor. When these How To books talk about your emotions, it’s not those two words, or the tingle in your tummy, it’s the circumstances that led up to that emotional upsurge that counts, and how you reacted, and how those around you reacted, and the consequences of both. I mean, you didn’t just feel sad when your best friend pinched your husband did you? You scratched the bitch’s eyes out didn’t you, and threw up all over the policeman’s trousers when he gave you your horrible fat and greasy breakfast in the cell the next morning, not to mention the two fingered salute you gave the Judge when he sentenced you to a hundred hours community service.... at HER house! Now that’s revenge. Enjoying the story so far? If you are, then pick up a pen or start typing away and tell me what happened next....
I CAN SENSE A RAINBOW “Why are you crying, child?” Sally sniffed and wiped her nose with the cuff of her blouse. “Who’s there?” she asked. She felt someone sit beside her on the park bench. Instinctively she shuffled away. “Don’t be afraid little one,” said the male voice. “My mother told me never to talk to strangers,” replied Sally. “And very wise words they are,” he said. “So where is your mother?” “Don’t know. I ran away.” “Oh, I see.” “Then you’re lucky,” moaned Sally. “I can’t see nothing. I’m blind.” She heard him chuckle. “It’s not funny,” snapped at him. “I have to paint a picture of my mother for school! How can I, when all I see is black?” “What’s the opposite of black?” asked the man suddenly. “White,” she replied just as quick. “I’m not stupid. I know the colours of the rainbow, just never seen one,” and she rattled of the colours of the spectrum. “Very good. It took me years to learn those. All you have to do now is to learn what the colours are.” Sally moved closer towards the man and reached for his face to probe his features with her fingers. “You’re old.” She smiled. “Your face is like my grandfather’s.” “And what is his favourite colour?” “Blue,” she said definitely. “He tells me the sky and sea are blue, but I -” “Can’t touch or feel blue?” finished the man for her. “It’s just a name,” she sniffed. “Like all the others … just names.” “So you’re feeling blue,” he chuckled. Sally stopped wrangling her fingers. “But I’m unhappy … how can that be blue?” “Blue can be sad.… Touch the railing behind you, and tell me what you feel?” With her hands she searched behind her and found the iron bars. “They are cold. Are they blue?” she asked. “No, my child. What you can feel is another colour of blue. Cold, like the deep blue depths of an ocean.” Sally thought for a moment and then looked up towards the sky. “Can blue be warm, like the heat from the sky?” Again the man laughed, and Sally stopped smiling. “Are you mucking me about? I know the sky is blue. My mother told me.” “But that’s the sun you feel. The sun is yellow. It warms and comforts you.” Blue, and yellow, she thought. How can they be both warm and cold at the same time? “Which is the strongest?” “They can both be either strong, or weak. It depends on the temperature, my child … wave your hand in the air, and tell me what you feel while the sun warms you.” Sally did as she was told and then smiled. “I feel the sky!” she cried. “I feel the cold blue.” “Good. Now we can paint the sun and the sky. All we have to do now is paint and feel the ground … the colour green.” “That’s easy. I can feel the grass with it’s lush, wet blades through my toes when I walk,” she said, and wiggled her toes on the grass. “See!” “It feels good, doesn’t it,” he said. “And it’s right in the middle of your spectrum of colours, a nice colour that is neither hot nor cold.” I’ve got you, she thought. “But red is the opposite of blue. If yellow is warm like the sun, what is red?” “Tell me,” he said. “When you are naughty, and your mummy smacks you, does it hurt?” Sally rubbed her cheek. Her mummy had smacked her earlier for throwing a tantrum, which is why she ran away. “Yes, it hurts. My cheek goes all flushed, and it stings.” “Now we have found the colour red. I like reds,” he said. “They are pretty colours.” Sally slapped the bench with her palms. She was now confused. How can there be more than one red! “Red is red,” she almost shouted at him. “Touch your face now.” About to say no, she obliged him and then swallowed hard. It didn’t feel as red as when she got slapped, but there was a warmth there. “Could this be a faint red?” she asked, and ran her hands all over her face. “Sort of, but it’s more pink than red. The stronger the red the hotter it is, like a fire.” “Know what you mean,” nodded Sally. “I burnt my hand last year … it was so painful.” “Well, at least you know what to avoid now. Very bright reds are danger. What have we left?” “Orange,” grinned Sally. “I like oranges. They are sticky and sweet.” “Like a sunset,” said the man, “dropping from the sky in a blaze of glory. Orange can be so thought provoking.” Sally curled her bottom lip in deep thought. What can be orange? she mused. “I’ve got it! Tibetan Monks wear orange robes! My teacher told me! … I love this game, Mr er...” “My name is Mr Plum, and purple is a mixture of red and blue.” Sally felt her chest go tight. Surely a mixture of hot and cold would be warm, like the colour green. “You’ve lost me. Got me all confused again.” “Forget the colour spectrum for a moment, think of purple, with it’s association of grandness, and nobility. A plum’s texture is like nothing else.” Sally brought her hand to her mouth. She could just about remember the smooth texture of a plum and its sweet taste. She could even remember the hard nut inside when she’d nearly cracked her tooth. “The nut came as a surprise,” she said. “Purple has its own core of knowledge. Which is why great statesmen wear the colour.” “Hmm,” replied Sally, and counted the colours off on her fingers. “What about brown?” she asked. “I’ve heard there are different colours of brown.” “When you hear the squirrel ferreting around for nuts, what time of year is that?” “Autumn. I can hear the leaves crackle beneath my feet. Are those brown? I always thought they were green.” “The leaves contain energy, which they leave in the soil when they decompose. Before they go all crackly they turn to wonderful shades of brown. The rich smell of the autumn are your browns.” Sally giggled to herself. “All that is left is white.” “The purest colour of all,” he said, “full of all your senses and colours. White is birth, white is clean and fresh.” “Like my mummy’s washing? That smells clean and fresh.” “Now you’ve got it. Now you can paint your mummy.” “Sally! Sally!” “That’s my mum,” groaned Sally. “She hates me going in the park on my own.” “So what colour do you think your mummy is?” asked the man. Sally sniggered at her new found knowledge. “Definitely red.” Her mother’s breathing sounded short and ragged. Sally knew she must have ran across the park. “Hello, Mum, this is Mr Plum.” “Did he touch you? Did he -” Sally reached out to touch the old man, but she sat alone. Turning her head she heard something tapping on the pavement. “What’s that sound, Mummy?” “The old man is tapping the pavement with his cane, Sally. He’s blind.” “Oh no he’s not,” said Sally proudly. “Mr Plum can sense all the colours of the rainbow.” Copyright 1999 by Chris Curtis. All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced, copied, distributed, published, quoted or used in any form for commercial gain without the express written permission of the author.
"D" Today is not a good day. Once again I’m depressed at how I’ve treated my best friend...my buddy. For all the love, understanding and self-help he gives me, D, is sulking in the shadows at my lack of trust in our friendship. For over ten years we have lived together — more than that, I realise as I wake him from his slumber. At first he was a small child, a lonely heart who knew nothing of my ways, and often hated my carefree attitude. He was like a child with sudden tantrums that would bring me back to reality, as children do. It took time, many years in fact to set up the rapport we now share. I would listen, try to understand his needs, and in return he would give me the joy of life, and show me exactly what I could do … if I tried. Last year, against his wishes I ignored medical advice to be inoculated against the flu virus that attacked in various strains each winter. I paid the price heavily, and spent ten days shaking, vomiting, sweating and downright feeling ill. But, as true a friend as any, D stood beside me and helped me overcome the error of my ways, to draw upon my last reserves of energy. In turn it also helped D, and our bond became stronger; of which my doctor soon commented: “You two are now one. What you do affects....” He didn’t need to leave the words unfinished, I now knew my responsibilities. Life is a hard teacher. There were times though, when D would raise an eyebrow, or gently whisper to me to take things easy. I’d laugh, tell a few jokes, but Christmas time and birthdays are there to be enjoyed, and I’d silently request him to leave me alone — just for a day, you see. To enjoy the moment. The next day, feeling a little worse for wear, I’d religiously sit there at the table and listen to what D would have to say, sometimes surprising myself when I realised how he had taken care of me while I partied the night away — we had reached a point where he could manage my little bursts of decadence. Last night though I ignored him completely. I left him at home all alone. So now I sit here with my head hung low. Not one to rant and rage, D just sits there, waiting for me to extend my hand of friendship. When I do, as always, he embraces me, but not without a stark reminder of my folly. After all, isn’t that what friends are for? To not only enjoy life together, but to point out when you are on dangerous stony, ground? Today I will promise him, from now on I’ll take him with me everywhere I go, and hope that the wonderful gift of life he gives me will shine again. Who is D, I hear you ask? D is my diabetes. My buddy. Copyright January, 1999 by Chris Curtis. All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced, copied, distributed, published, quoted or used in any form for commercial gain without the express written permission of the author.
ROCK A BYE BABY PG: Strong Sexual Content There it was again. That rocking sound. Debbie switched on her bedside light and looked across at the old rocking-chair in the corner of the bedroom. It wasn’t moving, but the sound had definitely come from over there. She curled her knees up to her chest, and stared at it, half-hoping, and yet half afraid it might move. Ever since she’d found it in the cellar and lovingly restored its neglected state — remedied by a brisk rubdown and a few coats of varnish — she’d heard the strange rocking sound. It hadn’t happened at first, though, it had started the night she hung the erotic paintings in her bedroom. They had been quite a shock finding them hidden away behind the old tarpaulin. The childhood memories she had of the water-colours her deceased Aunt Mildred painted were nothing compared to the sensuous oil paintings that depicted such erotic passion. To hang them in her bedroom had seemed the natural place to display them. Where else should she display erotica works of art? Certainly not in the dining room or lounge, especially as they depicted her Aunt in some rather lewd positions. She soon discovered where they used to hang, and matching them up to the discoloured rectangles on the dark mahogany panels in her bedroom had taken her most of the first night in the house her Aunt had bequeathed to her. Debbie chewed her fingernail. The shadows produced by her lamp gave the paintings an almost surreal appearance in this strange masculine room with its feminine four-poster bed and white lace drapes. And yet the paintings seemed to combine the two qualities, to produce an intimacy of man and woman. So why had her Aunt always kept this room locked, she mused? Even as a child she had no recollection of anyone venturing forth in here. Rock, rock. Still no movement. Debbie slid from between her sheets and mopped her brow. Tonight was going to be a sleepless night with or without the strange sound. With a long drawn out sigh she walked to the large open window to breathe in the night air. She stood there and looked down at the street while the net curtains billowed around her naked body like a clammy veil. On the wind the smell of cherry blossoms drifted up from the mews below, and Debbie took in the pleasant scent to clear her mind. The one condition of her Aunt’s Will had been most explicit. She must never open the cellar door. She should leave it locked forever. Debbie shook her head. She hadn’t thought the warning would be meant for her, after all, didn’t she have the same gift as Aunt Mildred? A thin smile creased her lips. A golden child with hair to match, her Aunt used to call her. A child with the all seeing third eye. Rock, rock. Debbie pushed the sound from her mind and watched a policeman with his white shirt plastered to his back from sweat monotonously check the cars in the mews below. He only had to turn and look up, to have his lonesome vigil rewarded with the sight of her naked body glistening in the moonlight. But it was not to be, and she felt the loneliness of the night surround her once again as he walked away to leave her to ponder...to decide what to do about the rocking-chair. Rock, rock. Her body tensed. With each passing night the sound had become more frequent. It was as if the rocking-chair was calling to her, enticing her to come over, but her Aunt’s warning was still there, like a message from beyond the grave. Ruffling her long blonde hair in frustration she walked over to her bedside table and picked up the pitcher of lemonade. The clink of ice cubes falling into the glass as she poured the lemonade made her smile. Aunt Mildred always had a plentiful supply of lemonade after her seances, often saying how it would quench the scared minds of her guests. It must have come as a great shock knowing, after all those years of trying to contact her dead lover, that all she had to do was nurture the gift within her flaxen-haired niece. Debbie sipped at her lemonade and walked towards the painting opposite the bed. “Is that why you locked yourself away in this house for all those years, Mildred? So you could paint your erotic pictures.” She touched the leathery brush strokes. All the pictures depicted her Aunt in her youth with her old lover. It had to be him, she mused, her mother had told her how he had died in the throes of passion whilst making love to Mildred. That was enough to make anyone become an old maid, she thought, and ran her hand over the textured surface. Who else would Aunt Mildred paint? Debbie almost giggled at the next painting. Her Aunt had her face in his groin, his cock nowhere to be seen; unless you spent hours looking at it as she had done the first night, and noticed the slight bulge in her throat. “Go for it, Aunt Mildred,” she toasted with a tilt of her glass. The clink of the ice cubes in her glass seemed to pull her from her thoughts. She looked inquisitively at the rocking-chair and then at the paintings one by one. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? The chair was in all of them, maybe not as prominent as the huge painting opposite her bed, or the one where her Aunt was giving a blow job to her lover, but it was there nonetheless. It was as if her Aunt had painted it in as an afterthought. Picking an ice cube from her drink she trailed it across the slope of her breasts. The trickle of cold water ran between them like rain down smooth glass to make her tummy tense until it finally settled within her sparse blonde bush. Rock, rock. Debbie shot her head round to look at the rocking-chair. Still no movement. The damned thing stood there like a sentinel, a steadfast reminder of her Aunt’s warning. She crossed the room and touched one of the arms. The finely carved intricate detail was testament to the craftsman’s skill long since gone. No one could reproduce this craftsmanship. Finishing her drink she placed the glass beside her and knelt down to look at the source of her concern. If this was a spirit trying to reach her, she could either attempt to make contact, or leave well alone. Rock, rock. Tussling her long blonde hair in frustration she suddenly stopped and frowned. Could it be Aunt Mildred trying to contact her? To tell her she was now at peace and with her lover? Yes! she thought. That had to be it. Why had she been so stupid not to realise it before? Taking a deep breath she placed her palms on the cold, hard, wooden seat and closed her eyes to open her mind to allow her gift to connect with the other side. She felt every bump and indentation as her fingers explored the chair, and only opened one eye to look around when it reminded her as if she were caressing a lover for the first time. She sighed in exasperation. Nothing. She couldn’t sense anything at all, there was — suddenly she stopped with her hands placed flat upon the seat. She could smell something, as if someone had sprayed a fine mist around her. Her nostrils filled with the scent of a man, the smell of his body fresh and clean from having just bathed. Debbie swallowed loudly. No stretch of her imagination could make her believe this was her Aunt. This was someone else, some other troubled spirit. The smell was now stronger and overpowered the scent from the cherry blossoms drifting on the night breeze. She breathed in deep and allowed the smell to wash over her, to bask in the erotic aroma. Suddenly the chair moved. Debbie felt the hackles on the back of her neck rise; not from the gentle rocking movement, but due to the light tingling sensation in her finger tips. In all her years as a clairvoyant she’d never experienced this before and removed her hands to clutch them to her sides, breaking whatever connection she’d made. Rock, rock. Debbie sat back on her haunches. Her inquisitive nature had now been pricked, and she knew it. Whoever it was, or whatever it was making the sound, desperately wanted to make contact. If she were to get any sleep in this room, she had to go through with this. The truth was though, her heart wanted to experience whatever it was behind the sound, but her mind kept telling her to be careful, to heed her Aunt’s warning. Rubbing the sweat from her hands on her thighs she glanced at one of the paintings and sighed loudly. “Indecision, always indecision,” she murmured. “You always told me to go with the flow, Mildred.” The touch of the cold seat against the skin of her bottom made her shudder, and every muscle seemed to tense as she lowered herself into the chair. When she learned back the instinct to get up and walk away became equally as strong as the need to explore… Indecision again. After five minutes Debbie felt cheated. Nothing had happened. All she was doing was sitting stark naked in a rocking-chair, in a room surrounded by erotic paintings. Had she imagined the whole thing? She couldn’t feel anything. The tingling sensation had gone, and the manly smell had deserted her. Dejected she looked at the largest painting. It depicted her Aunt straddled across her lover’s groin with her back to him while he held onto her voluptuous hips. Debbie relaxed and smiled. The look of pleasure on her Aunt’s face was pure ecstasy. She’d definitely caught the image in the throes of her orgasm with his cock half buried in her pussy. The way her back arched and pushed her breasts forward, and the way she had her head thrown back with her dark locks draping over his shoulder… it was so beautiful Debbie could almost feel the scream of passion building up in her throat to pass the choker of pearls set off so perfectly against her beautiful long neck. And Aunt Mildred’s hands. They gripped the arms of the rocking-chair so strong, her white knuckles contrasted against her dark, sun bronzed skin. It must have turned her on when she painted them, she thought, and giggled. “Did you masturbate at night when you looked at them, Aunt Mildred?” The truth be known, she had the first night she’d hung them up, and fantasised about how she could feel his cock stretching her, filling her with its hot seed as he came; much better than any erotic book at bedtime. Rock, rock. Debbie held her breath. Her heart now thumped away in her chest, and she gripped the arms of the chair with her hands. She hadn’t moved, but the rocking-chair had. This was definitely not her imagination. Rock, rock. What happens now, she thought, as the chair gently rocked her back and forth? Do I just sit here, or what? Where her hands gripped the arms of the chair she felt the same tingling sensation spread along her fingers. She breathed in deep as the smell was once again around her, like a slow rolling mist of sea spray infusing her nostrils. Her head was now swimming in the heavenly male scent as the chair slowly increased its pace. Allowing the chair to rock her, she lifted her feet from the floor and curled her toes onto the smooth wooden rails. The tingling spread up her arm, changing from the sensation of a fly crawling over her, to the feeling of fingernails dragging lightly over her skin. As the intensity increased Debbie became aware of fingers caressing her arm, then strong, callused hands stroking her shoulders. She tried to quell the rising panic within her and concentrated on the large painting of her Aunt. As she breathed in and out through her nose, in slow, measured breaths, her heart raced away inside her chest.... The rocking-chair had now increased its pace, but it wasn’t that which made all the moisture drain from her mouth. The seat was starting to change, starting to mould itself to her. No longer was it a smooth polished wooden seat, now it felt like something soft and warm, something like...Debbie dug her nails into the wooden ends of the arms of the chair. She could feel fleshy thighs beneath her, and coarse body hair tickling the smooth, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Her tummy tightened at the unexpected growth of manhood at the junction of his thighs. Before she could even glance between her legs there was a new feeling to worry about, as unseen hands started to slide around her chest to cup her breasts. When her breasts moved on their own her breathing stopped for an instant; it was if he was holding them away from her chest, weighing them in approval of her size. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even swallow, all she could was watch her breasts move up and down, and round and round. Every muscle wanted to tense, every nerve wanted to fire, but all she could achieve was a strangled cry erupting in a loud gasp as his thumbs flicked maddeningly over her leathery pink points. In what seemed like slow animation they engorged before her eyes to stand full and erect amidst their coral-coloured areolae. Then, between the cheeks of her bottom, she felt his manhood grow to snuggle between her honey smooth globes. The whole room was now awash with his smell, mixed with her own aroma as her body responded to his ghostly caress. At the valley of her thighs the heat of her pussy tortuously increased her desire to have her filled like her Aunt in the painting. She wanted to feel him impale her on his stiff cock now rubbing deliciously against her bottom as she squirmed against him. She stared down in shock as her breasts were raised further, until her pinkish-red nipples, nearly indistinguishable in the dim light from their coral-coloured, saucer-shaped areolae, slowly headed towards her mouth. Licking her dry lips she snaked her tongue out and flicked at each one in turn. The sensation was electric and her tummy fluttered from the delightful experience. The guiding hands forced them further upwards towards her red lips, massaging her tight breasts until she gratefully suckled and scraped her teeth across a stiffened nipple. When he lowered them and started to role his palms across her nipples she saw them shining in the light from her saliva as they twisted and turned from his invisible caress. Suddenly he started to tweak and pull at them, and Debbie gritted her teeth, not wanting to cry out from the pleasurable sensation should she destroy the intimacy of their silent lovemaking. When he released them her body fell back against the chair. But there were no wooden dowels to dig into her back, she could feel his little pointed nipples amidst the coarse hair of his chest press against her, and almost feel his heart pumping away as tender lips nuzzled her neck and planted butterfly kisses on her skin. When he probed her pussy she felt her beauty lips stretch to accommodate each inch of the ghostly intrusion. She rested her head against his shoulder and manoeuvred her hips to allow him to fully penetrate her hot moist cavern. When he filled her she looked at her Aunt in the painting. For some unknown reason her body seemed to be joined with hers, both enjoying his thick manhood spearing their excited bodies. She gripped his ghostly cock within her and focused on her Aunts black bush, with her deep red beauty lips embracing his shaft. Now Debbie understood. It must have been in this chair her lover had died all those years ago, died in his throes of orgasm with his cock buried to the hilt inside his lover. An arm came up to pull her to him, to hold her in a warm loving embrace, while the other trailed down over the velvety skin of her belly for his fingers to gently search through her blonde curls until he found her stiffened sex bud. She wouldn’t take long to orgasm, he only had to..."Aaahhh!!" she cried, and clenched her pussy muscles around his ghostly cock, holding onto him as the tidal wave of pleasure erupted from her sex. He nibbled at her ear and delicately nipped her tender flesh, while his finger rolled her sex bud round and round, to elicit sensation after delicious sensation from her young body. The pleasure was now more intense and her body teetered on the edge of another orgasm. But she wanted to feel him, she needed to milk him of his seed to feel that hot gush inside. She hooked her legs over the arms of the chair, lifted her hips and unashamedly started to grind herself against him to the sound of their sweat soaked skin smacking as loud as any mortal lovers. The rocking became faster as he pushed into her, and Debbie tried to match each thrust with vigour to keep the rhythm going; all that mattered was to reach the orgasm rapidly building up in her body and feel the hot rush of his seed. The room started to spin before her, with each painting merging with the next to become a kaleidoscope of rich colours. She could feel his chest rising and falling from his exertion, and his hot breath against the back of her neck producing a shiver down her back. Faster and faster she ground her hips down on him. twisting and turning to elicit the most from her ghostly invader. All the time his fingers rolled and pinched her sex bud making her gasp and whimper. His hand came up to knead her breasts, and, with a cry that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul, Debbie arched her back, leaned her head against his shoulder and gripped his cock so hard she thought she’d squeeze the very life out of him an orgasm, much stronger than before, exploded in her brain. As her scream reverberated around the room, and her body stiffened in almost a perfect arch she heard a soft whisper in her ear. “Sleep, my Angel. Come and join me.”
There it was again. That rocking sound. Karl Danforth switched on his bedside light and looked across at the rocking-chair in the corner of the bedroom. It wasn’t moving, but he was sure the sound had come from over there. He expected old houses to creak, but not make a rocking sound. He’d fallen in love with the old house as soon as he saw it advertised, even though the rumours were rife about it being haunted by the previous owner who had mysteriously vanished. He climbed out the four-poster bed and walked over towards the chair, and looked at it thoughtfully for a moment. He pushed it with his foot. “Definitely the same sound,” he said to himself. Tentatively he sat down in it and started to rock back and forth,. The muggy, humid nights were not to his taste, too close to embrace sleep. He glanced appreciatively at the huge picture opposite the four-poster bed. “Such passion. Captured right at the moment of orgasm,” he reflected with admiration. He started to caress his cock into an erection, wondering what the woman in the painting must have been thinking of to make her orgasm in such an intense way. She must have been in the throes of orgasm, he mused; the way her honey-coloured legs are splayed over the side of the rocking-chair, the way her back is arched with her long blonde hair cascading down over her large breasts. Suddenly he stopped masturbating. He was sure he could smell the scent of a woman. It was all around him. It was as if he’d been sprayed with the heavenly scent. The rich pungent aroma seemed to bathe him like fine rain. When the chair started to rock all on its own, he could swear he could feel a woman’s soft embrace, the fullness of her breasts squashed against his back and soft delicate kisses on his neck. When he felt an unseen hand wrap its fingers around his manhood, Karl leant back and relaxed.... Copyright 1999 by Chris Curtis. All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced, copied, distributed, published, quoted or used in any form for commercial gain without the express written permission of the author.
Don't Stop Now SILENTLY THEY WAITED
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November 1999
