Check it out! I'm guest blogging with Nine Naughty Novelists today. Come learn about my writing process--or lack of one! ;-D I'll be checking in throughout the day to answer any questions folks might have, so do stop by and say hello.
Guest Blogger Maia Strong - Symbiosis
26 July 2011
22 July 2011
Officially Official!
I am happy to officially announce that Torquere Press will be publishing my m/m/f fantasy novel Rose & Thorn! This book just happens to be the second NaNoWriMo novel that I wrote (the first being The Ballad of Jimothy Redwing) and I am so happy that it has at last found a home!
What a great way to start the weekend!
What a great way to start the weekend!
20 July 2011
New sale!
I finally sold my m/m/f fantasy novel! I don't have the
contract in-hand yet, but they offered, and I accepted. More details to
follow once it's all signed and official.
08 July 2011
Maia Strong Now on Facebook
Stop the presses! It's true. I have created an author page on Facebook. Maia Strong, Author. I'd put a fancy "Like" button on my website, but hell if I can figure out how. I keep hitting "get code" and I get nothing that I can see. I'm not a technidiot, but clearly I'm out of the loop on this one. If I figure it out, I'll let you know, although by then I hope you'll already have followed that handy link I put in right up there ::points:: and already "Liked" the page. :-)
01 July 2011
Holmes/Watson fanfic? FTW!?
Yes. I have indulged in some fanfic. In a universe I've never ficced in before. I have a reason. My friend methylviolet10b wrote a wonderful Holmes/Watson (ACD-verse) fic as a part of the Holmestice Fic Exchange. Her fic, Doors, can be found at this link. It involves closets. And an orgy. And stuff. It's very good and if you have any interest at all in Holmes/Watson fanfic, you should go read it. And her other stuff. (There's a multi-part fic that has quite the delicious baddy in it. I can't recommend it highly enough. It's called Transposition.)
My point? She asked me to write a follow-up fic. Specifically, she asked for Victorian closet smut. (I'll give you a moment to ponder. Done?) I had to oblige. No, really. I had to. How could I resist a request like that? Simple: I couldn't. So now that the authors of the Holmestic fics have been revealed, I can post the follow-up. I hope you like it.
My point? She asked me to write a follow-up fic. Specifically, she asked for Victorian closet smut. (I'll give you a moment to ponder. Done?) I had to oblige. No, really. I had to. How could I resist a request like that? Simple: I couldn't. So now that the authors of the Holmestic fics have been revealed, I can post the follow-up. I hope you like it.
The Request: Holmes/Watson
Victorian Closet Smut; ACD -verse
Mild spoilers: Doors by methylviolet10b
Rating: NC-17
for Victorian m/m sex
Beta’d by the
recipient, methylviolet10b. (Which seems unfair, but at least she didn’t have
to work very hard at it.)
Warnings: 1) It’s
been years since I read any ACD canon. 2) Any other warning is implicit in the
rating. ;-)
Length: 1400
Closets
by Maia Strong
In this private journal, I have already noted the details of two
particular cases which had little in common on the surface. I refer, of course,
to the Adventure of the Amateur Mendicant Society and the Affair of
Ex-President Murillo’s Papers. More particularly, I refer to those cases’
closets.
It is not unusual, in the course of our working
together, that Holmes and I are required to travel. Moreover, it is a not
infrequent occurrence on those occasions that we share overnight lodgings. It
is only fiscally practical to share a single room at any given hotel or inn. It
is a rare treat, however, when such accommodation affords the luxury of a built-in
closet. Aside from being a conveniently out-of-the way place to store extra
bedding and to properly hang one’s attire at the end of a long and busy day,
they have the additional benefit of being far sturdier and more practicable
than an armoire.
I was not born an aficionado of cupboards, wardrobes,
and other forms of cabinetry. However, those two aforementioned cases,
coinciding as they did with such notable shifts in the relationship between
Holmes and myself, have caused me to become something of a connoisseur.
Upon the occasion of which I write now, Holmes and I
were staying in a largish country hotel of modern construction. The architect was
clearly influenced by the style of Inigo Jones and felt the need, therefore,
for theatrical touches such spiralling staircases, white-railed balconies, and
Ionic columns. For reasons less apparent but in my opinion more pleasing, he
designed inset closets in even the smallest of guest rooms—for surely the one
Holmes and I occupied on that particular occasion could not have been smaller
without being considered a closet in its own right.
I examined the closet in our room as I unpacked my bag
and Holmes’. Holmes was impatient to get onto the case and went ahead to meet
with local constabulary. Scotland Yard had alerted them to our impending
arrival, and Holmes went to confirm it. I need not go into specifics on either
the closet or the case. Suffice to say, the former was sturdily built and
comfortable enough for my intended purposes. I smiled to myself and went to
join Holmes and attend to the latter.
~~~
The fire was in Holmes’ eye. I’ve seen it often over
our years together, whether in the course of a particularly compelling case or
in our private doings. Now, the former bled into the latter. The excitement of
the chase and subsequent capture of our target had set both our hearts racing.
Indeed, I could see the pulse pounding in his neck even at the distance from
which I now regarded him. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as well; the chase
had been quite literal and had required a good deal of swift footwork and
physical exertion to conclude.
I had another sort of physical exertion on my mind as
we returned to our hotel in the darkest hours of the night, and I could see
from the glance Holmes shot me on our way up one of those spiralling staircases
that his mind was on similar thoughts.
I have known Holmes go without speaking for days at a
time when absorbed by a particularly puzzling case. It is my belief that his
mind becomes so full of activity that words become an unnecessary distraction
to him. Such it was with our love-making on many occasions, including the night
in question.
Once the door to our little room was locked behind us,
all decorum vanished in a heartbeat. His hands were on my shoulders, slipping
my overcoat from my shoulders and dropping it to the floor. The room itself
afforded minimal space for manoeuvring, and yet it felt too big to me. I wanted
no space between or around Holmes and myself and it seemed even in the confines
of that hotel room that there was too much. I tugged him towards the closet
that I had inspected earlier even as I unbuttoned his waistcoat and proceeded
to work my way down the buttons of his shirt.
Holmes did not protest, following willingly to my
chosen location for our coupling. We shed our clothing in the short distance. Then
I pulled him into the narrow closet and closed the slatted folding door behind
us.
The darkness within was nearly absolute, but neither
of us needed light to find our way around one another’s bodies. Holmes’ lips
were upon mine in the moment the door was shut, his kisses hard and urgent. I
returned them with ardour, my hands reaching up to lace into his hair. I
grasped the fine strands and held him tight against me.
I could feel the heat and hardness of his passion,
equal to my own, where our bodies pressed together along their length. I rolled
my hips against it. A muffled sound of pleasure escaped between our mouths, but
I could not tell you which of us made the noise.
His hands, that had until that moment grasped me so
tightly at the shoulders, slipped downward to cup my buttocks. His fingers were
long, lithe, and strong and they dug into my flesh with great skill. The sound
that escaped this time was definitely drawn from my throat.
I felt Holmes chuckle deep in his narrow chest and
brought my arms around him. I ran my hands down his sides and around his back. I
shifted my kisses from his lips to his jaw, rough and unshaven at such a late
hour, and then to his trapezius and supraclavicular fossa. He tilted his head
back and to the side, affording me greater access to what I knew to be a
particularly susceptible area. He shivered under my touch and suddenly pressed
his hips so hard against my own that I was forced back against the wall. I was
barely aware of the hard plaster against my back, so overwhelmed was I by the
feel of Holmes’ body pinning me there.
We moved against one another and I became glad of the
architectural support as my climax neared. Blood rushed in my ears, drowning
out the soft sounds of pleasure now emanating from us both. Holmes still
kneaded my gluteal muscles, fingers honed by years of violin digging in more
powerfully than any Turkish bath’s masseur. And when one of those lissom fingers
pressed against my anus, I could not hold back another moment.
My body stiffened in the moment before release took me
and shook me to my core. I felt the pulse of Holmes’ orgasm even while in the
haze of my own. His hands ceased their movements, as did mine, and we simply
grasped one another’s posteriors and pressed our erections together. A tiny
shift of Holmes’ shaft against mine sent shockwaves through my already
heightened senses, and I gasped his name. I was barely aware of his gentle
shushing as the last of my orgasm slowly ebbed and sense returned to my addled
brain.
As I returned to coherence, I was again glad of the
wall at my back and the support of Holmes’ hands holding me tightly, as I
believe my legs would not have held me on their own. I felt the wetness between
our bellies, slick and warm proof of our mutual spent passions. I
opened eyes that I was unaware I had shut and met Holmes’ penetrating gaze mere
inches from my own. My pupils had adjusted and I found there was just enough
light to see his eyes clearly. There was warmth in their depths, and mirth, and
more than anything there was love. I hoped my own returned the same. I felt
that surely, with as much deep affection as I felt for him, it must show
plainly to the man who was both my lover and the keenest detective in London. Society forced us
to keep so much hidden, but in these most personal and private moments, all our
masks were obliterated. I smiled and saw a mirroring expression on his face.
Still without a word between us, he opened the closet
door and, taking my hand in his, led me out of that deep darkness into a dim,
predawn light that seemed to me like the warmest sun of summer.
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