Come in, and let me tell you a Story A Day, all May long…
In June and July, I’ll be drafting two new Kifo Island novels. I know something about 5 of the 6 point of view characters, and I’ve got a sketchy idea of the plots – but I need to learn more about these people and their stories.
So, in May, I explore. Every day, I’ll follow the prompts in A Month of Writing Prompts 2016. I’ll play while moving through my planning efforts. Some of these stories may become part of the eventual novels, but my goal is to invite these characters to show me who they are and what they want – and how their lives fit together to make a novel.
Yup, I got behind again. Not with the writing, but with the posting. Life happened, in the form of plans with my daughter, an exceedingly hot weekend, a devastating migraine, and just all the other things I’ve been up to.
It’s now the final day of the challenge, though, and I’m determined to get all the back posts up by midnight – so off we go to May 28, and the daily prompt, “Go At Your Own Pace.” We’re back to Yvette today, in a story that takes place between my May 3 story, “Chance Encounter”, and my May 10 story, “De Rien?”
Week Four’s theme is Strengths – an opportunity to focus more intensely on what’s been working so far.
Warning: This story is rated R.
Probably NSFW, for adult themes.
A Tiny Little Rebellion
Yvette made a cup of tea, resisting the part of her that wanted to rush over to the little box she’d set on her side table.
No, she was going to relax and savor this moment, and the memories that flowed slow and steady through her mind, making her aware of her body in a way she hadn’t been in too many years. She did a little pirouette in the middle of the kitchen while she waited for her tea to brew, the way she’d done when she was just a little girl.
Mon dieu, she felt like giggling!
Oh, that boy! That sweet, sultry, innocent, beautiful boy!
Yvette placed a hand over her skipping, leaping, dancing heart, and laughed – not a girlish giggle, but the throaty proclamation of womanly desire. Her hand strayed over her breast, and she was surprised by the way her nipple contracted as a tingling started – the excited, slightly illicit way she’d felt when she was a teenager just learning the ways of self-pleasuring.
She wanted to touch herself there, now – but she wouldn’t. No. She was going to have the boy; give herself to him. That was the promise they’d made each other, with their bodies, while he stood up there on the stage, funnier than any comic she’d ever seen on television, and totally unappreciated by anyone else in his drunken audience.
But she’d appreciated, it, and taken him away at the end of the show, and they’d walked without saying a word, until they came to a dance club with a throbbing salsa beat that sent intense messages through their bodies, and they’d repeated the promise with the way they pressed and rubbed together, moved with the rhythm, and he was hard, so hard that she wanted to unzip him, hitch up her skirt, and impale herself on that hungry hardness.
She hadn’t. And she didn’t touch herself now. She put the tea bag into her cup with a trembling hand, then went to the table and opened the box. She ran her fingers over the little tubes of paints and the tiny terra cotta pots. The soil and seed packets made her smile, but it was the pots that made her happiest.
It was a tiny little rebellion, and, in a way, it was also foreplay.