Tuesday, December 1, 2009

My NaNo2009 experience in a nutshell

What prompted this post is an email I read this afternoon. It's time stamped two days ago (I haven't really had time to READ my mail, just skim through every few days for important notices & such) and tells me, at length, how pathetic and what a loser I am for not completing NaNo again this year.

Awesome. Good to hear from you. *delete*

How that email came about is that sometime in the later half of November (I don't remember the date, exactly, and not in a place where I could look it up right now) I got into a very short but heated argument with an author I'm acquainted with online. She's the published author of a couple of e-books and, if I'm not mistaken, at least one story in print. I only know her online, and don't even know that much about her. At best, we're acquaintances. At worst, we're strangers that occasionally bump into one another in writing communities online.

She caught me online one night and chastised me for not updating my NaNo word count. I explained that it hadn't been updated because I hadn't written anything beyond where it was at that time, that life had gotten more than a little hectic and I just hadn't had the time. And, without warning, that's when she took me to the mat. She told me that I was making excuses again, that other people manage to juggle life and writing, and that in the time she's known me (not quite 3 years) all I ever did was make excuses for why I didn't write.

I sat staring at the messages popping up on my screen, just one thought my mind. "What. The. Fuck." I didn't respond right away, very simply because I didn't know what to say. She, however, had plenty to say.

There were a lot of short, rapid-fire messages from her and, to sum it up, she went on to tell me that she no longer wanted to hear from me because I obviously wasn't serious about writing and she didn't have time for pretenders. She let me know that I would never be published, that I would never be successful, and that I should stop wasting people's time by bothering them when I had no intention of actively pursuing a writing career. She told me that I had to be willing to make the hard choices and make the sacrifices and do whatever it takes to make time to write because nothing was more important than that.

And that's about when I snapped. I wasn't nice in my response. I was downright bitchy. I basically told her to go her merry way, told where she could stick her judgments of me, and gave some explicit instructions on how to use them. I signed off without waiting for a response and cried myself to sleep.

Ok, so maybe it wasn't really an ARGUMENT so much as a verbal whipping and some heated lashing back and virtual stomping off. Still...

I know that I should be ashamed for my behaviour that night, but in all honesty, I'm not. I can't bring myself to be. I'm not sure yet how I feel about that, but now that the chaos in my life is starting to settle (or maybe I'm just juggling betting these days), I'll have some time to think about it.

What I do know is that NaNo is supposed to be fun. FUN. It's not some writer's rite of passage. It's not mandatory for publication. It's not even mandatory participation. It's voluntary, and it's supposed to be fun. It's about the companionship of getting together with local writers you didn't know existed. It's about meeting people. It's about sharing the experience.

Unfortunately, November is a REALLY bad month for me to try to add social activities AND extra word count to my calendar. It's hard enough trying to add just one of those to my calendar in the last three months of the year. My life starts exploding into flurries of chaos right around the middle of October every year and doesn't stop until mid-January. It's been like that for the past 20 years and this year was even worse.

I went into NaNo 2009 knowing that I needed to be done by the 21st, or at the very least be within 8k of being done by that day. Pure and simple. I HAD to be done by then in order to set up and cook for Thanksgiving. There would be no writing on the days immediately preceding Thanksgiving because I'd be shopping and cooking and generally preparing for the gathering of family. There was also my birthday to deal with and, thanks to my husband's travel plans in December, I had to jump on Christmas preparations before Thanksgiving even arrived. I had it all worked out. I started planning everything back in October.

What I didn't expect was that during the second week of November, my 91-year-old grandfather would be diagnosed with cancer (again) and told he had to start treatment right away because it was already so dangerously progressed. My mother couldn't take the time off from work to take him to the 32 daily radiation therapy sessions the doctor said my grandfather needed. My aunt (the one that lives with my grandparents) couldn't... wouldn't... whatever... do it. My other aunt lives in another city. There is no one else.

When presented with the options of letting the side of my 91-year-old grandfather's face and jaw be, literally, eaten by cancer or writing, it wasn't even a hard choice. There ARE some things more important than writing, and anyone that says otherwise is a damned fool.

My mom fought me on my choice at first. She said I shouldn't have to drive in to take him to the doctor. No, I shouldn't. But since no one else could or would, I would. And I do. Daily. Well, almost daily. Mom takes one day off a week and she takes him on those days, and she has vacation coming up.

It's a minimum 40 minute drive from my apartment to my grandfather's house. One way. In the morning, depending on the traffic and weather conditions, it's closer to 65 minutes. It's roughly an hour for my grandfather's appointment, including the travel time from his house to the radiation center and back. Most days it doesn't take quite that long. Some days it takes longer. Then I have the drive home.

That three hours or so I'm using to take my grandfather to get his face cooked is all of my allotted writing time in a day. And that's if... IF... I don't actually spend any time with my grandparents. If I just pick them up, go to the radiation center, then drop them back off at their house. If I actually spend any time with them, I pretty much don't get anything else done for the day. And, in all honesty, I have to say it's worth it, even on bad days when my grandmother can't remember what was said three minutes prior and is being verbally abusive and generally nasty to everyone around her. It won't be too much longer before she doesn't even know who I am or before they're both dead. Not many 40-year-olds can say they still have grandparents who are alive.

I also didn't expect my cousin's troubles to eat up more than a few hours of my time, and I'm not even directly involved in that chaos. Yet. The whole mess is still eating up my mother's weekends. And I can't even start thinking about what it will bring in the next 5 months or the 9 or so months after that. My head will explode.

I didn't expect a lot of the chaos that happened in November. Maybe I should have.

But then again, maybe not. I'm only human.

And, apparently, a pretty pathetic and useless one at that. Because I only wrote 11k and change this year for NaNoWriMo.

Awesome. Just... fucking awesome.

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3<3

Friday, June 26, 2009

snippet #003

The prompt was “Then, hand in hand, they went out onto the balcony to meet the dawn.” for the #Journaling Game.

With summer chaos in full-swing, I didn't have much time to dedicate to this one, but I'm happy with the way it came out. It's very raw, very rough, so very first draft quality. Eventually I'll polish it and expand it. When I do, it'll probably end up on the blue (non-sex/YA/safe-for-my-child-to-read) side of my writing.

Also, I don't normally do vampire stories, but the prompt just begged for it.

=========

"I can't kill you, Nadia. I mean, I could, but I don't want to."

Nadia quirked her lips into a hint of a smile and whispered, "Ditto, Lea."

Leander shook his head and chuckled. "After one hundred and ninety-four ye--"

"Seven," Nadia interjected.

"Seven?"

Nadia nodded. "One hundred and ninety-seven years."

Leander frowned. "Are you sure?"

It was Nadia's turn to chuckle. "Yeah, I'm sure. You turned me outside of Petrograd in the spring of 1812."

He frowned deeper, calculating in his head. "One hundred and ninety-four."

Nadia shook her head and sighed. "You never could count. Trust me on this one, my love, it's one-hundred and ninety-seven." She flashed him a charming smile. "A girl may lie about how old she is, but she never forgets."

"Ok, ok. So one hundred and ninety-seven years together, and this is what it comes to." He tipped his head thoughtfully. "What did they offer you?"

Nadia laid her sword on the coffee table and curled into her favorite chair. “If I kill you, I get to live.”

Leander nodded and tossed his machete on the table, dropping onto the couch. “Ditto.” He sighed and ran a hand over his bare scalp. “So, what do we do, Nadia?”

“I don’t know, my love. There aren’t many options open to us, are there?”

“Not really.”

Nadia bowed her head and listened to the minutes tick before uncurling herself from her chair. "If we run, they'll hunt us." She eased on the couch next to him.

Leander wrapped an arm around Nadia and cuddled her close to his side. “They will.”

Snuggling into his embrace, Nadia laid her head on his shoulder. “They want one of us dead.”

“Or both of us.”

Nadia sat still and silent for several minutes before she whispered in agreement, “Or both of us.”

Leander nodded and nuzzled into her hair, murmuring, “Truth be told, my sweet, I’d rather die than continue without you.”

Nadia nodded gently. “Ditto, my love.”

The pair sat holding each other in silence for half an hour before Leander sighed. “Is that the answer then?”

Nadia whispered, “As much as I hate to admit it, yeah, I think so. We either take the matter into our own hands or wait for them to find us.”

“If we make them hunt us, they won’t end it quickly. They’ll take some fun out of us before they kill us.”

Nadia shuddered, her whisper little more than a growl. “I’d rather not give them the satisfaction.”

“Ditto," Leander muttered, pulling her closer to his side.


***


Leander caressed Nadia's cheek and whispered, "It's time, my sweet."

Nadia squinted at the light of the morning sun coming through the open french doors. Barely nodding, she whispered with a tremor in her voice. "I'm scared."

Leander wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close, brushing his lips across her forehead. "I know."

"There's no other way..."

He shook his head. "There's no other way." Turning her face toward him with a finger on her chin, he looked into the watery dark eyes that had captivated him nearly two hundred years earlier. "I wish there were. I promised you eternity. I'm sorry I wasn't able to give it to you."

A tear slipped from each eye when Nadia blinked. "Oh, no, Leander, don't be." She reached up to cup his stubbled jaw in her hand. "You gave me more years than I could have hoped for."

Leander leaned close and savored a tender taste of her lips, then wrapped her in his arms. The little kiss bloomed, growing deeper but remaining slow and tender, until it became what it was intended to be: one last kiss.

Tears streaked Nadia's cheeks when they pulled apart and laced their fingers together. Then, hand in hand, they went out onto the balcony to meet the dawn.


=========
Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3<3

Thursday, June 11, 2009

snippet #002

The prompt was “The empty spaces within her ached to be filled.” for the Return of the #Journalling #Journaling Game

Naturally, my Muse went to a dark place. No clue where this was going, or where it came even from. Though, I do know that there's a Lila...somewhere... in the story. Somewhere... not... here.

So totally first draft.

Comments welcomed.

=========

"Everything would be ok if he were dead."

Charlotte hugged herself and pressed her forehead against the window with a faint sigh. She was too ashamed to admit she'd thought the same thing for years, and there was Brock putting voice to her thoughts. Again.

"Charlie, you're not focusing," Brock chided gently.

Not focusing, Charlotte thought, on killing my husband. Right. She shivered against a cold chill spreading through her body and wondered briefly if the conversation or the contact with the glass caused it.

"Charlie," Brock paused then sighed audibly and started again with a hint of frustration in his voice. "Honey, I know this is hard, but we gotta figure out what you're going to do."

Charlotte resisted the urge to turn and scream at her long-time friend, taking out all her frustrations, anger, and fears on him. It would do her no good and he didn't deserve the hysterics or the shrewish lashing. He was only trying to help. Instead, she watched her two children dashing through the snow, hurling snowballs at each other. They deserved better, too.

Behind her, a chair scraped across the floor and she tensed. Please don't go. Please don't go. Please don't go.

"Charlie, look at me."

Charlotte didn't turn. She couldn't. She couldn't look at Brock and see the pity swelling in his chocolate brown eyes when he looked at her bruised and battered face, couldn't handle disgust that flickered across the surface. Again.

"Charlie."

She felt the warmth of his chest pressed to her back, felt the strength of his embrace, felt the brush of his breath on her battered cheek. She closed her eyes against the swell of emotions making her chest tight.

"You keep telling me it's getting better, but it's not, honey. It's getting worse and I'm afraid Kevin's going to either kill you or turn on the kids one of these days."

Fear surged up Charlotte's spine and her eyes snapped open. Her gaze darted in search for her children in the snow-covered yard and she breathed a sigh of relief only after she found them. She leaned back against Brock a little. She missed being touched, missed talking, missed sharing. The empty spaces within her ached to be filled - physically, mentally, and emotionally.

"Charlie, honey," Brock whispered, his voice strained with what sounded almost like fear, "look at them. Look at James. He's growing up, Charlie. He was so angry when he called me this time, and feeling guilty, too. He sees what's happening. He's been seeing it all along. 'I shoulda been here, Uncle Brock. I shoulda been here to stop him.' That's what he told me. What happens if he's here the next time and does try to step in? What happens then, Charlie?"

Tears welled up in Charlotte's eyes, the image of her 13-year-old son playing in the snow with his little sister growing blurry. His gangly body was only just starting to fill out. He wouldn't be a match for his father.

"And look at Marie," Brock whispered roughly against her ear. "She's already starting to change. How much longer before she's full on into puberty, Charlie? What happens when Kevin notices?"

Charlotte stiffened against Brock. Oh, no, she thought. Kevin would never do something so horrific... Her gaze shifted from Marie to her own reflection in the window. Lifting a hand to her face, she brushed her fingertips across the split not yet scabbing on her swollen lower lip, moved them over the tender cheekbone, then up to the dark purple and murky blue skin that covered her swollen left eye. Oh, God. Is that me? Oh, God, he would. He has.

Charlotte shifted her gaze to her children, back to her reflection in the window, then back to her children again. She lingered against Brock for a moment longer, savoring the closeness that didn't come with verbal or physical abuse, then stiffed her spine and pulled away. "Brock," Charlotte whispered hoarsely, "please go tell my children to come inside and pack what they can't live without. We're leaving."

=========

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3<3

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Trailer for Agent: Demystified

I don't usually do this -- hell, I don't usually update my blog -- but it should be shared.

Enjoy.




The Authoress can be found at http://authoresspress.com/.

Her book can be bought through her post here.

Though I rarely never participate in her contests (really, what could I possibly offer?) I do make sure that I read through everything at least once or twice a week. She's got a wealth of information over there.

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3<3

Monday, March 30, 2009

Public responses to criticisms I've gotten lately.

Being up several hours before dawn was even a consideration, I wanted to spend some time working on Dream Weaver while everyone still slept and the world was still quiet. Things didn't work out that way, though. My brain got a little scrambledy while I was catching up on email over tea and cinnamon toast.

It wasn't too long ago that I got some rather hate-filled emails and comments on my blogs. At first, I thought everything was from one person, but after several weeks of consideration, I'm not so sure. A large portion of the hatred and anger aimed at me does seem to be the work of the same person, but there are certain messages that... well, they seem too logical and coherent and far less abusive to be from the woman I originally thought they were from. And that's had me thinking; maybe some of these issues need to be addressed by me.

One theme that several of the more coherent/less abusive communications had was that I'm a fraud. A phony. A fake. Why? Well, because the writer(s) had ferreted out that Rubi Jayne is not my given, married, or legal name. This was "discovered" after "alot of investigation".

I have... two... primary reactions to this topic. (1) "Why the hell is someone investigating me so bloody thoroughly??" and (2) "Well, duh, never said it was."

The first reaction is a defensive instinct that stems from having had bad experiences with people I've met on the internet who were more than just a little bat-shit crazy and who ended up with my home address and way too much information about/access to my kid. (Which, you know, also explains a fair amount of the "why do I use a pseudonym" question.)

The second reaction is, well, from the more smart-ass side of my personality. I mean, did these people read ANY of my Rubi Jayne bios/blurbs at all? My twitter bio reads:
I write erotica (maybe even a bit of erotic romance) under the name Rubi Jayne when I'm not doing mom things. Sometimes even when I am.
My bio/blurb most everywhere else reads:
Rubi Jayne is the provocative secret identity of a quiet wife and mother that writes steamy sex-filled stories. In the true nature of secret identities she has been honing her skills in private for almost a decade while pretending to plan the weekly menu or balance the household budget.

The woman sometimes known as Rubi Jayne lives in Florida with her husband, child, and two cats. She enjoys making chain maille, taking pictures, doing jigsaw puzzles, and confusing people when she's not writing or cleaning up after her family. She's also convinced that if she weren't married, she would be a secret agent having all sorts of exotic adventures and wild sex all over the world.
Gee, ya think somebody might be using a pseudonym?

Unlike a lot of writers that use pseudonyms for whatever reason they have, I'm admitting it right up front. In fact, I admit that I use two. I write erotic romance, romance, and pure erotica under Rubi Jayne. Anything associated with the Rubi Jayne persona/name is some shade of pink. I write fantasy, action/thrillers, and young adult under another name. Anything associated with that name is some shade of blue. It makes it simple for my daughter: anything that's pink, she isn't allowed to read until she's 18; anything in blue, she's allowed to read now. It also makes it easy to step away from more adult genres when I need to.

I take precautions to guard my real identity, and probably will for at least another six years. After that, who knows. And in case you're wondering "why six years?", that's when my child turns eighteen.

Another theme that was present focused on my lack of regular updating, whether it be on twitter or on my blogs.

Ok, so I suck at blogging. I've blogged about how much I suck at blogging. Truth is, I just don't have a lot to say that anyone would want to hear/read. I'm not an expert on writing. I'm not an expert on socializing. I'm not an expert on anything. I don't maintain my personal life blog any better than I do my writing blogs. I mean, really, who wants to see my weekly menu or read about how my cat puked in my husband's shoe or anything else from my very normal, very mundane life?

As for twitter, well, I take days off. If I'm not at my computer, chances are I'm not going to be updating too much, if at all. If I'm deeply engrossed in what I'm writing, my twitter feed will be very quiet. Then there are times when I just have nothing to say and enjoy watching what everyone else is doing/saying. Or maybe I'm engaged in one of my other interests.

Which brings me to something else that was brought up to me recently: the amount of time I spend writing, or rather, the amount of time I don't spend writing or "networking" on the internet. It seems that my taking weekends and various days/nights "off" to spend with my only child and husband (and, on occasion, extended members of my family)... offends... some people. Or maybe it's just that I'm open about it. I don't know. Anyway, the predominant line of thinking, from what I've gathered and been told, is that I'm not a "real writer" because I choose to spend some days not writing or editing and, in fact, don't think about writing at all. I'll "never be successful" because I'm not "interacting with [my] fans" on a daily basis. ( o.O I have fans? Really?!) I really have to bite my tongue on this one because what I want to say isn't polite. In fact, it's downright rude. But then, a little voice in the back of my head reminds me, so is telling me that I'm not a real writer and will never be successful because I put my family ahead of my writing.

Yes, I complain about my family eating up a lot of my writing time, but they're still in the process of learning that mom (that's me) needs personal time and time to do things she wants. I have dedicated and devoted my life to them for years. I gave up a promising career when my child was born so I could stay at home to raise her. I took temporary jobs whenever finances dictated and I happily gave them up once things stabilized, for the good of my family. I have, for more than a decade, neglected my advanced education... MY life... so that I could focus on taking care of my family. It was a choice that I made, and I have no regrets.

I know there are women out there that manage to hold jobs, take care of family, and have a personal social life all at the same time. I'm happy for them. I really am. More power to them. I'm not one of them. Me? I'm not Wonder Woman. First of all, I'm not that skinny. Secondly, I don't have those kick ass bullet-reflecting bracelets or that ever-so-cool Lasso of Truth. But in all seriousness, I'm not one of those women that wants to "have it all". Except for my constant computer usage and love of heavy metal music, I'm not so much a "modern woman". Oh, and AC. I love my air conditioner. And my freezer. And my jeans. But anyway, I made a choice to focus my full energy and attention on my family for a time. That's a choice I made, based on beliefs and values that I have, and because I (and my husband) believed it was the best thing for our family. Living in America, I have that freedom. I don't expect anyone else to understand, and I certainly don't judge anyone else for making the choices they've made.

It's only been in the last few years that my family has needed me less than they did before and, as my daughter grows older, I expect to have more time on my hands. It makes sense to me, then, that I start gradually doing more "me" things. I'm in the process of registering for college. I wander out once in a while and do whatever. And I write. But when my child is here and wants my company and/or attention, I still give it. Because pretty soon, my now-12-year-old daughter isn't going to want to curl up on the couch with me to cuddle and watch a movie. Before too much longer my baby will be exerting massive amounts of independence and asking to borrow my car. It won't be long at all before she's graduated high school and is moving out to be on her own. And the way I see it, these days are precious and I'll have time to spare in spades once she's moved out and no longer leaving messes all over my home.

But that's me.

So, yeah, guess what? Weekends? Chances are pretty high that you're not going to find me on the internet much. In fact, I can almost guarantee that three weekends out the month I won't be seen at all, with the exception of a few random thoughts I happen to remember to send to Twitter from my cell phone... if... IF... I happen to have my cell phone with me because, let's face it, I've stopped carrying my cell phone 24/7. Too many people have the number and think they can use it day and night to demand my near-constant attention no matter what I may be doing or who I'm with. Also? Trust me to be a bit snarlish if I get online after spending the day playing with my child and find an email complaining about how much time I'm NOT on the internet on the weekends and some weeknights. And believe me when I say that my child's orchestra competition/concert is more important to me than being online so that you can whine at me via the instant messaging service of your choice about how frustrated you are because you "only" wrote 5k words... per day... every day... for the last three weeks... and then have you criticize me and call me a "slacker" for "only" eking out 1,000 words for the entire month.

Yes, I AM a writer and, yes, I DO want to be published, but I don't have to do it by anyone's timetable but my own. And, right now, there are more important things to me than seeing anything I've written get published.

=========
I wrote the above very early yesterday morning and let it sit for, well, a full day and night. I got a little ranty towards the end (text messages before 9am on Sunday wanting to know why I'm not online already and if I'm ever going to bother showing up this weekend tend to piss me off, especially when we have had the same bloody conversation nearly every blessed Saturday and Sunday for months) and wanted to give myself some time to change my mind about what I'd said before I actually posted anything.

Turns out, I didn't want to change my mind.

Turns out, everything I said needs to be said... and I can only pray that I don't have to repeat myself for at least a year, because responding to the same issues and answering the same questions over and over and over and over again... from the exact same people? Not my idea of fun.

I shouldn't have to justify how much I did or didn't write and why to anyone except my agent, my editor, and my publisher. And I'm just not good enough for that. Yet. Since I have none of those people in my life right now, the only one that really needs to be concerned with the amount I write is, well, me. And, really? That's fine with me. For now. I'm still learning to write and someday, when I'm ready, I'll have those three people in my life and I'll be more focused on daily word/page count. And I will be published.

Someday.

When I'm ready.

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3<3

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Adventures in Parenting #12,452

So, with the child home from school today and doing that hibernating vampire thing she does, I decided to brave the perils of her room to check on her around noon. Nearing her coffi...er... bed, I reached out to feel her forehead for abnormal heat radiation when her eye popped open. Just the one eye. It's a little creepy when she does that, kind of like when the neurotic white feline sleeps with her eyes open. Keeping in mind that the child stayed home from school sick, I bit back my shriek of surprise and whispered, "How do you feel?"

"Like a princess," my little gothling murmured, still not entirely awake.

"Like... a princess?" Not entirely sure I understood her correctly and my concerns about high-grade fevers and brains boiling to the point of damage tripling, I pressed for clarification. "How so?" I tentatively touched her flushed forehead and exhaled a sigh of relief when my fingers didn't burst into flames.

"'cause my hair is down and my back hurts."

And people wonder why my brain is always melting. "And... that's like a princess... how?"

"'cause my hair is never down and..." Apparently at a loss for words she started writhing around and making hand gestures, the two most prominent being her forefinger and thumb held apart and her hand jerking around in the air.

My concerns about boiled brain-induced seizures surged. Taking a deep calming breath, I stretch my brain to its not quite furthest limits and grasped. "It feels like you have a pea under your mattress?"

"Yeah. Like that."

"Uh huh. Or maybe because you've been in bed for thirteen..." I paused and recalculated. "...almost fourteen hours?"

She pushed away her blanket and half-rolled away from me to pull a stuffed cat out from under the small of her back. She rolled to her back again and stretched, all the while looking at the stuffed feline like she'd never seen it before.

I bit the inside of my lower lip. She doesn't always appreciate it when I laugh at her. "Or maybe you were just lying on a cat..."

"Maybe." She stretched again and tossed the poor stuffed animal to the side. "Is it lunch time yet? I'm hungry."

---------
Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3<3

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

snippet #001

Sometimes I scare myself.

The prompt was "sultry, steamy night in New Orleans".

---------

"Do you think anyone will find the body?"

It took a few seconds for Jazzy's question to sink into Mac's brain. He looked down at Jazzy and wondered for the briefest moment what in the hell could be wrong with her. A tremor raced up his spine and he grunted, no longer caring, and closing his eyes again.

He thrust harder and faster into Jazzy's hot wet snatch, every panted breath he took making him drunker on the heady scent of Night Scented Jessamine that grew practically everywhere, with underlying traces of crawfish and tasso cooking somewhere nearby. Grooving strains of piano and trumpets drifted on the night air and filled his soul like nothing else ever did.

Except maybe killing.

Mac shifted above Jazzy and wrapped one hand around her throat, delighted by the gasp she made. He pressed harder, listening to her strained panting and squeals of protest. Jazzy thrashed beneath him and sweat beaded down his spine, his hips moving faster.

Getting close, he opened eyes to watch Jazzy. Her eyes bulged and the pale moonlight glowed against her face turning the deepest shade of red. She gurgled and clawed at his shoulder and arm... and he came. Hard.

Mac lingered in the bliss of his orgasm for what seemed like forever, his hand still wrapped around Jazzy's throat. Finally he rolled off her to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for the cigarettes on the nightstand. Twangy notes from a fiddle danced on a breeze, making his toes tap on the bare wood floor.

He glanced over his shoulder at the corpse of his most recent victim and his cell phone rang.

"Yeah?" Mac struck a match and brought the flame to the end of his cigarette. "Naw, no plans. Just another sultry, steamy night in New Orleans."

---------

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3

Friday, February 20, 2009

Random Fun

I have dragon eggs. DRAGONS!! *squee*

Adopt one today! * Adopt one today! * Adopt one today! * Adopt one today!


Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3

Monday, February 2, 2009

Purple Haze


The notorious BellaB. is correct that I -- the woman known far and wide as Rubi Jayne -- am down, but not for the count. I don’t kill that easily. No, I’m just down for an extended nap, courtesy of the charming walk-in clinic doctor that prescribed the cough syrup that’s an antihistamine/narcotic cough suppressant cocktail, the delightful pharmacist that filled the prescription, and the dutiful husband that administers it to me every twelve hours.

So, I’ve gone from being stoned on Sudafed to being stoned on The Good Stuff. Not that I’m complaining; I’m rather fond of breathing and The Good Stuff allows me to breathe without my chest whistling… always a bonus in my book. The down side, however, is that being as sensitive to drugs as I am, I have not quite three hours of rather strained coherency a day. Twice a day, for a little more than an hour before my “next hit”, I’m awake and marginally coherent. And coughing up my lungs (almost literally, which is as painful as you might imagine).

And in the midst of my plague, Miss BellaB. tells me (more or less) “Hey, you’re doing One Year One Novel. WHOOT!” and starts throwing links at me. (I think I was staring blankly and drooling on one of the cats at that point.)

Uh huh. I’m little more than Vegetable Girl for the next however many days I keep taking The Good Stuff and then however many days it takes to burn the drugs out of my system. I barely have the coherency to form complete sentences that make sense three hours a day, and the rest of the time I’m asleep or licking one of the cats. And the crazy woman wants me to agree to, well, something that I think involves writing.

At this point, I fall back to quoting one of the greatest minds in the world. “Purple haze all in my eyes. Don't know if it’s day or night. You got me blowin’, blowin’ my mind. Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?”

And with that, dear world, I give up my tremulous hold on coherency and sink blissfully into that dark oblivion where breathing comes free and easy, without pain, without coughing.

Now if I could just find a way to record all the antics of my characters while I’m sleeping…

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3

Sunday, January 11, 2009

untitled #0002


I woke up thinking about you this morning; it made me very horny.

Reaching under the covers, I brushed my fingers over my clit then lower across the slit in my shaved folds. Stretching slowly, I exhaled a faint moan and explored between my legs, shocked by how wet I was. My fingers slid easily through the evidence of my arousal when I teased myself like you would, caressing and stroking so slowly. Pleasure rippled through my body and my nipples begged for attention. Closing my eyes, I moaned and arched upward under a grazing of nails I laid across my achingly hard nipples. I wanted to go slow, wanted to make it last, but I knew from the jolt of electricity that connected my nipple and pussy that I wouldn't be able to hold out that long.

Kicking off the covers, I imagined you in a sadistic sort of mood and slid my fingers up to my clit to give it a rough pinch like you would, crying out as my body betrayed me and my pussy twitched to life. Digging my nails into the base of my erect nipple, I imagined your teeth and inhaled a strained cry then exhaled a low, lusty moan. I heard your voice in my mind, a whisper with a growlish undertone, telling me what a naughty girl I was and how I should be punished.

Engulfed by the fantasy, it was your hand that rose and fell between my legs with a sharp smack. I bit back a scream the first time, but not the second, or the third, or the fourth. Panting, I writhed under the fingers caressing my clit again. Lifting my hips wantonly, I moaned and ground myself against my hand while I stretched my breast out with a harsh grip on my nipple.

I wanted to cum so badly and was teetering on the brink when I heard your voice growl at me not to cum. A sob erupted in the midst of my moans and I whimpered, slowing my hips and hand. Another sob, one strained with arousal and desperate need, clawed its way out of my throat when I imagined your voice telling me not to stop but not to cum, either. Rubbing my clit harder and faster, I panted out ragged sobs. Hot tears escaped my closed eyes and rolled across my temples to the bed when I lifted the hand from my breast and brought it down on my sore nipple with two stinging blows. With the second smack came your voice telling me to cum.

And I did. Hard.

My fingers danced across my clit with a heavy touch and heartbeats later I tipped my head back and screamed for you. My pussy convulsed and pleasure consumed me. Still touching myself like the naughty girl you adore, I screamed out a second orgasm before the first one even had the chance to subside halfway and the force of the third so close to the second seared me to my soul. I gradually slowed my fingers and my hands fell away from my quivering body. Before my breathing had even steadied, I was asleep again.

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3

untitled #0001


God, I was so hot and wet last night.

I stripped out of my clothes and inhaled a hiss through my teeth when the chill of the night air surrounded me. Closing my eyes, I exhaled a faint moan. The cool air felt exquisite against my heated skin. I reached for my robe nonetheless and pulled it on, snuggling against the plush warmth that fought off the cold.

Sinking into my chair, I stretched out sideways, draping my legs over one arm while resting my shoulders against the other. I shivered in the dark when I spread my legs wide, the cool air once again licking at my skin... only this time it was hot, wet, and very sensitive skin. Tipping my head back, I closed my eyes, imagining your tongue when I reached between my legs to stroke my already swollen clit. Soft, low moans lingered on my lips, my mind filled with images of your tongue lapping teasingly wherever I brushed my fingertips.

Shifting my hips, I pulled my legs up and braced my feet against the arm of the chair. The cold night air nipped at the smoothly shaven folds between my legs and I slid my fingers over them, reveling in my own heat and wetness. Bucking up against my fingers, I pushed them past my folds and bit back a moan, imagining your long hard cock sliding into me so easily. Pulling my soaked fingers back out, I found my clit again. I couldn't have held back my moan even if I'd wanted to. Neither could I go as slow as I'd originally wanted to, either. I wanted to cum for you too much. Rubbing my clit harder... faster... I imagined you fucking me with wild abandon, your pelvic bone grinding against my clit, your fingers on my nipple, your mouth... your teeth... on my throat. I reached up with my other hand and abused my nipple like you would, pinching it hard and pulling out until whimpers tainted my lusty moans.

I didn't last long. I couldn't. The pleasure and the pain mingled together was too much. Together they pushed me over the edge and I screamed, raw and strained from panting in my excitement. My fingers continued to move with a mind of their own, prolonging my ecstasy, extending the waves of my orgasm. I whimpered faintly when my pussy convulsed around... nothing. I ached to have your cock filling me while I climaxed and rode out the crashing waves of gratification. I pinched my aching clit lightly and cried out when I came again. I continued to caress and pinch my clit, cumming several more times. I stopped counting after the third; my mind was clouding and I was lost in the bliss.

Eventually I stopped touching myself, stopped cumming so hard that I couldn't breathe, and I stretched out across my chair again, purring. I slept that way for a few hours, my robe parted and the cold night air lapping at my overheated body.

Love and bondage,
Rubi Jayne <3