Dylan Bolin

Lady Catherine pulled her brush through her hair feeling the tug against her scalp.  While staring in the mirror, she felt the tug from her heart.  Sometimes she feared her heart would leap from her chest, take her place at the breakfast table and betray her lustful yearnings to her husband, Lord Horatio Hotchkiss.  She supposed that their relationship was built on love, if love was little more than an efficient partnership, but what it displayed in efficiency, it sorely lacked in passion.  Lovemaking with Lord Horatio was like lying beneath a pasty scarecrow.  His effort was anemic and his touch was like that of a blind man trying to read Braille while wearing mittens.

She took her place at the table where her eggs, sunny side up, were getting cold.  Across from her was her husband, reading the newspaper and slurping his coffee.  She gently traced the yolks with her fork.  Beneath a thin, cooked membrane, the yolks seemed to undulate, anticipating their long-awaited forking. 

Lady Catherine picked up a sausage link and, with it, gently tapped her bulbous eggs.  Finally, the sausage broke through, and the grateful yolk coated it completely.  Lady Catherine let the two foods revel in the moment, but the moment could never last.  The eggs and sausage were just too incompatible, and before their yolky afterglow could congeal, Lady Catherine preserved the moment by devouring them both.  Now they could be together forever.

“I’m going for a walk,” said Lady Catherine.  Her husband grunted behind his paper.

To be continued…

-Dylan

Morning broke early on the Hotchkiss Estate.  The fog lingered over the rolling pasture, and the hills broke through the mist like a heaving bosom straining against a nightgown.  The horses had already been put out to pasture, and Lady Catherine Hotchkiss watched them through her second-story, chamber window.  Their powerful haunches writhed beneath wiry coats mottled in black, white and brown, but one handsome stud stood head and shoulders above them.  His name was Thor, and his mighty seed had sired more champions than Lady Catherine could count. 

What struck her, though, was not the power with which he mated, (and his strength was undeniable) but the tenderness; his playful nipping and nuzzling, followed by meaningful eye contact.  And many was the time that, post-Equus coitus, he would stand shoulder to shoulder with the lucky mare all day instead of sneaking out of the stable while she slept and frolicking with the young colts, snorting tales of his conquest like so many of the other stallions would.  However, with no mares in season, Thor had not mated in months, and the steam from his boiling desire was visible. 

Today, he was mounted by the Chief Stableman, Fernando, who was running off Thor’s frustration.  Like Thor, Fernando’s body was that of Greek sculpture, and, as the late summer sun began to caress the countryside, his threadbare, denim shirt was stowed away in a saddlebag.  His olive skin sweated virgin oil that pooled into his navel like honey.  His thick mane of hair would occasionally fall rakishly over his eyes, and, with a flick of his elegant neck, would fall back to his collar (which today was nothing more than a damp bandana).

As they galloped together in their perfect syncopation, Fernando gracefully rocking and bucking atop his steed, for a moment they became a mythical Centaur and she was Hippodamia, bride of Pirithous, King of the Lapiths.  (Why on Earth did she know that, let alone mentally reference it?)  He was coming to abduct her, and she would have no choice but to go with him.  She would struggle, but eventually, he would take her.  Her chest and cheeks flushed.

“Lady Catherine,” called her maid from downstairs, “breakfast!”

“Coming,” said Lady Catherine without irony.

To Be Continued…

-Dylan

Who doesn’t love a good bodice-ripping romance novel.  God knows I do.  I read them all the time; at the laundromat, on the bus, in the lunch room at work and even at home before Family Feud.  Why, then, do they always leave me feeling so unfulfilled?  Well, better to light a match than curse the darkness, I always say, so I decided to write one.  The following excerpt is from “Chapter V:  Fernando on the Balcony.”  This is just a taste, friends.  With any luck, I’ll soon be the next Sophie Jordan.  Please to enjoy a passage from my new novel:  Yearning by Moonlight:  The Seduction of Lady Catherine©.

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In the moonlight, Fernando’s body seemed to be chiseled out of turkey meat with one notable exception; this turkey had nipples, and they were rigid with longing.  As he walked towards Lady Catherine’s canopy bed, his buttocks jostled like a pair of puppies playing under a Speedo blanket, and he was momentarily silhouetted against the window.  The curtains billowed around him.

Soon, his shadow joined the darkness and Lady Catherine might have thought she was again alone but for the scent of his man sweat lingering like ozone after a passionate thunderstorm.  While her eyes probed the darkness, she suddenly felt his heat.  He was hovering over her.  As he lowered his face towards hers, his pectorals flexed in time with her racing heart.  She felt his brown, flowing mane tickle her forehead, and the stubble on his perfect jaw rasped her velvet cheek; prickling, tickling.  She drew a breath in spite of herself at the strange combination of pain and pleasure.

His lips were nearly upon hers, and they parted slightly with a moist slurp.  She writhed beneath him.  She could brook no more of this smoking smolder like that of damp firewood.  Lacing her fingers in the hair on the back of his head, she pulled his mouth to hers.  His tongue was flat and thick, and it explored her mouth like a curious boy in a confectioner’s shoppe; rushing first to her cheeks, then behind her teeth and finally deep down her throat.  She gagged with longing for him. 

His nose whistled its dragon steam as her loins’ tinder began to flame.  He pulled away and her breath hitched in fits and starts.  His massive tongue pushed out betwixt his lips, and he began to lick her face.  His moist, powerful tongue was like a twelve-ounce rib eye steak being dragged across a mewling, newborn babe.  Her back arched.

Suddenly, she felt his lips around her nose.  At first the sucking was gentle and experimental, but soon enough, the vacuum in his mouth intensified and he sucked it like a triple-thick milkshake through a cocktail straw.  She felt years of repressed desire flow through her nasal passages and out of her nostrils.  The room began to spin, and she felt her consciousness being sucked into him as well.  Without warning she succumbed to the sweet, sweet darkness.

The next morning, she awoke with a new-found vigor and an amazingly clear head.  She folded back the blankets and walked to the window.  Outside was her midnight caller.  In his hand was his trusty shovel and the sun was just beginning to bronze his powerful shoulders.  He lifted his head towards her window and she pressed her hand against the glass.  With a nod, he was off to muck out the stalls of the Estate’s Palominos.  This would be an interesting breakfast indeed.

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More to come…

-Dylan