The Sex Chronicles: Training Dani
The first installment of The XXX Diaries (Currently a working Title, so don't get too attached.) is complete. It features a rich and famous, extremely beautiful porn star named Jessa Blaze and her mousy personal assistant Danielle Montgomery. Jessa is overbearing and oversexed while Dani is having trouble finding her place in the big city after her move from Detroit to Los Angeles.
Dani dreams of a career as a prominent Hollywood screen writer, but she's having trouble getting noticed and putting her manuscripts in the right hands. As a last ditch effort, she applies to Jessa's adult film production company, Salacious Entertainment. Instead of landing a role in one of Jessa's hot skin flicks, she lands an even better-paying position as her personal assistant! Even though Dani's forced to watch Jessa with her secret crush and fellow porn star, Neil Strongcock, she's satisfied with her entertaining but professionally-stale life. Or is she?
Jessa has taken an interest in Dani- a very special interest indeed. She adores her charm and passion. She buys her lavish gifts, Dani refuses them. She tries to give her sex advice, Dani blushes. She confides in her as much as she dares, Dani doesn't reciprocate. What's a girl who's used to getting whomever and whatever she wants supposed to do?
Jessa offers Dani a deal of a lifetime. She offers to help Dani get the career, lifestyle, and man of her dreams. All she has to say is yes!
Dani dreams of a career as a prominent Hollywood screen writer, but she's having trouble getting noticed and putting her manuscripts in the right hands. As a last ditch effort, she applies to Jessa's adult film production company, Salacious Entertainment. Instead of landing a role in one of Jessa's hot skin flicks, she lands an even better-paying position as her personal assistant! Even though Dani's forced to watch Jessa with her secret crush and fellow porn star, Neil Strongcock, she's satisfied with her entertaining but professionally-stale life. Or is she?
Jessa has taken an interest in Dani- a very special interest indeed. She adores her charm and passion. She buys her lavish gifts, Dani refuses them. She tries to give her sex advice, Dani blushes. She confides in her as much as she dares, Dani doesn't reciprocate. What's a girl who's used to getting whomever and whatever she wants supposed to do?
Jessa offers Dani a deal of a lifetime. She offers to help Dani get the career, lifestyle, and man of her dreams. All she has to say is yes!
The Sex Chronicles Diaries II: Mistress Jessa
Writing has already begun on part two. Once again, XXX Diaries is a working title. I will update everyone on the actual title along with an updated synopsis as soon as I can!
In The Works-
Currently named Untitled with Seven Chapters completed!
***Excerpt from Chapter One***
I hear the rhythmic sound of water seconds before I actually see it. I open my eyes and breathe deeply, the salty, moist air invading my nostrils. It weighs heavily in my lungs, briny tentacles filling me up until I'm close to bursting and I'm forced to exhale. It's beautiful here at the precipice of the world. I imagine the continent stretching out behind me as I gaze out over a very small portion of the Atlantic. I think of all of the people, memories, and places at my back and I step forward until waves bubble up around my ankles and then my calves. I'm tempted to keep walking, submerge myself completely in the cool water. Could I escape myself out there?
I lift my hand, it feels like lead and it takes a Herculean effort, but the sun is so bright here. Too bright for nighttime. My brain is trying to communicate something to me. Why do I think it's supposed to be dark? I shade my eyes from the glinting water and watch the waves, my heart thumping in time to its lazy rhythm as I imagine how deep the water really is out there in the murky, mysterious depths. I think it would be quite peaceful to drown out there.
“Drowning is not so pitiful As the Attempt to rise.
Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever To that abhorred abode,
Where hope and he part company-
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker's cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit,
Like an adversity.”
I recognize the words and her voice, her beautiful, sweet voice and suddenly I'm crying like a lost child. I didn't hear her approach, immersed in her words as I was. Mom loved that poem. With her vigorous lust for life, I never could understand her kindred spirit with Emily Dickenson.
She smiles and runs her fingers through my long, black hair- ever the patient caregiver. Her muddy brown eyes mirror mine, everyone says we look alike but I don't see it. She's so beautiful and lithe. I'm more lanky and clumsy.
“Why are you here Kassie? Don't you have things you should be doing?” She's scolding me, making me uncomfortable in my own skin beneath her watchful stare. Nothing escapes her notice.
“I don't want to do anything at all. I want to enjoy the day with you,” I plead, reminding myself of someone much younger than my twenty-three years.
“It's so dark out here,” she lets go of my hair and looks out over the black, menacing ocean. My hand drops uselessly against my side as I mimic her pose. She's right. The sun is gone and I step back into dry sand, suddenly afraid of the water. There it is again, the changing of light and the tugging in my mind. There's something I need to be aware of.
“Don't be so frightened. It's not so bad,” she smiles, but it's weak. Her once healthy skin is suddenly stretched taught over her bones and her eyes, alive with love for me only moments ago are dull and glassy.
I dash forward, my movements much slower than I thought they were, weighed down by the sand. I catch her, easing her onto the cold, wet sand. It's my turn to smooth her hair with my hand and I attempt to hide my fear as clumps of it fill my palm and then fall uselessly beside her. “Oh Mom, I'm so sorry,” I'm sobbing, but somehow my words are still strong, much stronger than I am.
“Be happy Kassie,” her words echo in the stifling breeze and she's gone. My fingers grab for her in the dirty sand and broken shells. I have to find her. I have to know she's okay. I search for her, rubbing my palms and fingertips raw on the abrasive sand. Not even her hair remains.
I scream and I can't stop. Grief is a living, breathing, thing clawing my insides and the salty air only adds to my agony, filling the empty spaces and making my blood burn.
Grade "A" Affair: Short story project about a college Senior and her Philosophy professor. Erotica.
***Excerpt from Chapter One***
I hear the rhythmic sound of water seconds before I actually see it. I open my eyes and breathe deeply, the salty, moist air invading my nostrils. It weighs heavily in my lungs, briny tentacles filling me up until I'm close to bursting and I'm forced to exhale. It's beautiful here at the precipice of the world. I imagine the continent stretching out behind me as I gaze out over a very small portion of the Atlantic. I think of all of the people, memories, and places at my back and I step forward until waves bubble up around my ankles and then my calves. I'm tempted to keep walking, submerge myself completely in the cool water. Could I escape myself out there?
I lift my hand, it feels like lead and it takes a Herculean effort, but the sun is so bright here. Too bright for nighttime. My brain is trying to communicate something to me. Why do I think it's supposed to be dark? I shade my eyes from the glinting water and watch the waves, my heart thumping in time to its lazy rhythm as I imagine how deep the water really is out there in the murky, mysterious depths. I think it would be quite peaceful to drown out there.
“Drowning is not so pitiful As the Attempt to rise.
Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever To that abhorred abode,
Where hope and he part company-
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker's cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit,
Like an adversity.”
I recognize the words and her voice, her beautiful, sweet voice and suddenly I'm crying like a lost child. I didn't hear her approach, immersed in her words as I was. Mom loved that poem. With her vigorous lust for life, I never could understand her kindred spirit with Emily Dickenson.
She smiles and runs her fingers through my long, black hair- ever the patient caregiver. Her muddy brown eyes mirror mine, everyone says we look alike but I don't see it. She's so beautiful and lithe. I'm more lanky and clumsy.
“Why are you here Kassie? Don't you have things you should be doing?” She's scolding me, making me uncomfortable in my own skin beneath her watchful stare. Nothing escapes her notice.
“I don't want to do anything at all. I want to enjoy the day with you,” I plead, reminding myself of someone much younger than my twenty-three years.
“It's so dark out here,” she lets go of my hair and looks out over the black, menacing ocean. My hand drops uselessly against my side as I mimic her pose. She's right. The sun is gone and I step back into dry sand, suddenly afraid of the water. There it is again, the changing of light and the tugging in my mind. There's something I need to be aware of.
“Don't be so frightened. It's not so bad,” she smiles, but it's weak. Her once healthy skin is suddenly stretched taught over her bones and her eyes, alive with love for me only moments ago are dull and glassy.
I dash forward, my movements much slower than I thought they were, weighed down by the sand. I catch her, easing her onto the cold, wet sand. It's my turn to smooth her hair with my hand and I attempt to hide my fear as clumps of it fill my palm and then fall uselessly beside her. “Oh Mom, I'm so sorry,” I'm sobbing, but somehow my words are still strong, much stronger than I am.
“Be happy Kassie,” her words echo in the stifling breeze and she's gone. My fingers grab for her in the dirty sand and broken shells. I have to find her. I have to know she's okay. I search for her, rubbing my palms and fingertips raw on the abrasive sand. Not even her hair remains.
I scream and I can't stop. Grief is a living, breathing, thing clawing my insides and the salty air only adds to my agony, filling the empty spaces and making my blood burn.
Grade "A" Affair: Short story project about a college Senior and her Philosophy professor. Erotica.