This post was originally published at Novelicious.com and is now at WritingTipsOasis.com. WritingTipsOasis.com acquired Novelicious.com in June 2022.
Hello and welcome to another Writer's Tuesday and another excerpt from an (as yet) unpublished writer. This week's fantastic excerpt comes from Caroline Frear. Enjoy!
About me! Well, I'm 31, massively in love and I wile away my daylight hours working as a Recruitment Consultant in the City which is a thankless and horrible profession at the moment but it provides me with lots of material! Being paid to interview people for a living certainly helps the budding writer! I started writing in earnest earlier this year when I suddenly hit on the idea that if I left one recruitment firm and went to a competitor, I'd immediately be put on 6 weeks garden leave and that would give me enough time to at least start the story that's been living in my head for the past 18 months. I definitely broke the back of it in those 6 weeks and also developed a physical dependancy on Loose Women so strong that shock of going back to work nearly killed me! So I'm back at the grindstone now and hoping for a bout of swine flu so I can lay low at home for another while and carry on with the writing.
I'm having a ball with the story and I'm following the advice of all the good'uns to write what I'd like to read and therefore my heroine/s eat scotch eggs and pork scratchings, pick their toenails in the bath and depsite their best attempts not to, resent their friends successes and good fortune.
My skin is as thick as it is pale so I invite everyone to do their worst, hold no punches and criticise away! I haven't shown anyone yet, absolutely no one, so it would be fab just to know that it's basically ok (although I'd much prefer you say it's 'fabulous', 'ground-breaking' , ' awe-inspiring'…..yeah well, you gotta have a dream 🙂
EXCERPT OF REAL WILD ONE BY CAROLINE FREEAR
It’s quite fitting that Aiden and I began our unholy alliance on St Paddy’s Day. A day traditionally associated with decadence, silliness and much, much booze has spawned a relationship that seems to be following along a very similar vein.
It took just 45 minutes to get from the initial ‘How do you do?’ to the more honest ‘How do you want me?’ – a question that Aiden expertly answered by bending me over the fire stairs at the back of The Merry Kerryman.
I’m not exactly proud of my behaviour but neither am I ashamed. It wasn’t sordid or seedy. It was just two people instantly recognising that they could mercifully skip all that courting malarkey, the bit where you dance around each other like two Mills & Boon protagonists desperately trying to prove your honourable intentions while your loins are screaming at you to get a bloody wriggle on. Aiden and I, being possessed of horny bodies and sound minds, cut quickly to the chase as it just seemed like the most natural and normal thing to do. This randy lunatic is my soulmate, I’m sure of it.
Quite simply, I am demented with lust. Absolutely demented. Beside myself with longing. Driven mad with the unflinching need to feel his flesh against mine. It never goes away, not even when I sleep. It ferments in my stomach like a late night curry, waking me during the night and leaving me queasy and exhausted the next day. In the same way that grief or shock can sucker-punch you to the point that you can’t even remember your own name, as a woman in lust, I’m not fairing much better. I feel permanently drained and yet never more alive, totally numb but sensitive to every colour and sound that surrounds me. I’m a walking contradiction and a walking hard-on and quite frankly I’m finding this physical epiphany really quite knackering. I’m totally worn out from shagging, screwing, spooning, sucking, screaming, squatting, swallowing and a whole host of other ‘ings’ that I could think of if I wasn’t so dog-tired.
I ‘m neither use nor ornament to anyone. I can’t even cope with the most basic of tasks. Paying credit card bills, peeling carrots, painting toenails, checking lottery numbers, you name it, if it doesn’t involve a partially clothed Aiden Costello then I have no inclination or motivation to involve myself. In the past two weeks, I’ve forgotten Christy’s birthday (which may be reluctantly forgiven but never forgotten), I’ve gone nearly 24hrs without eating a morsel of food – this from a woman who was once the scourge of the ‘all you can eat buffet’ and last night, I didn’t even flare up at the words ‘replacement bus service’ when I stumbled, delirious and intimately bruised into Waterloo station. It’s like I’m incapable of feeling any emotion, good or bad, unless he’s near me. Unless he’s inside me.
By day, I stalk the corridors of Carlton Waveley LLP, leering at the new graduate population and surreptiously rubbing the crotch seam of my suit trousers against my groin in a vain attempt to pacify the constant twitch between my legs. By night, if I’m not otherwise…….ahem…tied up, I prowl South West London like a sex-crazed zombie, gurning at passers-by and grinning at horny dogs having their dirty doggy way on the Common.
Aiden Costello is the root cause of all this and thankfully the blessed solution. I think even he’s a bit stunned at what he’s unleashed. Truth be told, I’ve always been a bit of a filthy minx in my head but I’d held it all in until now, until the Master teased it out of me. I’ve been a locked storage cupboard bursting with taboo fantasies and ‘nearly-there’ orgasms and as soon he unlocked the door, I came spilling out all over the place with Aiden only too happy to deal with the mess. Pardon all the metaphorical stuff, I’m a little other-worldly at the moment.
Just the thought of that 360 degree twisty thing he does with his fingers is enough to trigger a startling physical reaction in me. Immediately my back stiffens. My breasts elevate two inches off my ribcage, my lips swell up and my eye-lashes curl to Cheryl Cole proportions. I morph into a Stepford-Wife-Gone-Bad, a lusty Fembot with faulty wiring as soon as I hear the sound of his car being locked outside. That sound alone stops me in my tracks when I’m out and about in public. My Pavlovian response is to look around expectant and horny, waiting for someone to reveal themselves to me with their cock in their hand and their tongue primed for action only to find that it’s a middle-aged woman with the same make of car as Aiden wondering why I’m gawping at her as she loads her shopping into the boot.
Mind you, even her with her stout walking shoes and sensible anorak isn’t entirely safe from my debauched mind . In my new world order, everything and everyone is sexual. My urges transcend age, class and social acceptability. I’m starting to see my mate’s boyfriends in new lights (always dangerous). I no longer think a fat beer-belly is a turn-off but I ogle sturdy builders and ponder the sheer force of the fuck the excess weight might produce and I finally concur with every fat man’s claim that “There’s more to push it in with, love.” Everyone is a fantasy fuck at the moment – fat men, skinny men, young men, old men, black studs, white trash, married men, gay men. Fat women, skinny women, young women……..I won’t repeat myself, you catch my drift I think.
I want an Oxbridge intellectual to describe what he’ll do to me in words that I don’t understand. I want to be banged into next week by an Adonis so stupid that his knuckles drag on the floor. I want to drop to my knees and service the stressed looking commuter sitting opposite me on the tube. I want a silver-haired sixty-something gent to teach me that many a tune can be played on an old fiddle.
I am delighted and disgusted with myself in equal measures. I ache for Aiden and I see his strutting maleness in every man I encounter. He makes me feel totally sexy, not beautiful with its slightly pure and good connotations, but like a bad-ass-cock- slut-from-hell…….and it feels like a role I was born to play.