I’m preparing to start a new story, but can’t decide what to start! I’ll post the beginnings of a few different stories. I’d love it if you let me know which story you’d rather read!
Option #1 Contemporary
He leaned in hard, something in her back popped, and she’d had enough.
“Get off me.”
The grunting sweaty male who was currently dislocating my lower vertebrae, muttered,
“Just stop moving, I’m almost there.”
Lifting her face from where it had been squished into the carpet, Ayla turned, and slapped at her date du jour, who, in contradiction to her orders, was still pumping away while leaning hard on the small of her back as Ayla knelt on the floor, shoulders and face pressed into the carpet.
The position was neither sexy nor comfortable, but the date du jour hadn’t been able to get off in any of the 10 positions they’d tried on the bed. He’d suggested getting down on the floor, which she agreed to.
The surprise had come when he’d pushed her chest down into the carpet, forced her knees apart wider than they wanted to go, and planted his hand on her back, leaning his upper body weight into her to “hold her still.”
There was nothing sexier than being turned into an uncomfortable immobile object while a small dicked putz sweated on you.
“Seriously, get off.” He finally pulled out. Ayla gingerly pusher herself up to hand and knees and then inched her knees together, her thigh muscles screaming from trying to brace her still while being spread so far apart.
“What’s your problem? I was almost there.”
“You’re leaning on my back!”
“Just to keep you still.”
“Why do I need to be still?”
“That’s the way I like it.”
“Why don’t you go fuck a dead girl then? That hurt, and I’ve never been further from orgasm.”
“Oh, so I’m just supposed to be uncomfortable while you get off, with no promise of orgasm for me.”
“Most girls come just from the penetration.”
“No they don’t, you dumb fuck.”
“My last girlfriend did.”
“News flash, she was faking. Get out.”
“Asshole.” Ayla stormed into the bathroom, closing and locking the door until she heard the front door slam. Expelling a deep sigh, she turned to look in the mirror. There was rug burn on her face. Great.
Her mad lasted through finding a robe, slipping it on, and scooping icecream into a bowl. Curled up on the second hand couch staring at the carpet pattern still pressed into her red knees, Ayla’s mad dissolved and she burst into tears.
And it was only Monday.
Like a moth to flame, Ayla stupidly kept her Tuesday night date with a guy she’d met on one of the 9 on-line dating services she belonged to. When asked why she was a member of so many, Ayla always responded with “You have to kiss a lot of frogs!”
Sadly, despite it all, Ayla still believe there was a Prince out there for her.
This date went less badly than the disaster sex of the night before, but she knew it was doomed when the date du jour picked her up for their 7 p.m. date and took her right to a bar, stating: “I ate before I left, I hope you weren’t hungry.”
Staring at her cosmo didn’t turn it into a piece of pizza, no matter how hard she tried.
Tired, and more than a little drunk from two cosmos on an empty stomach, Ayla took the cowards way out and simply walked out of the bar while he was in the bathroom.
Not knowing where she was, but not wanting to repeat last night’s crying and ice-cream binge, Ayla wandered aimlessly down the tree lined street.
When the lifeless withered body fell out of the tree, landing in her path, she didn’t react, save for a long slow blink.
When she looked again, the sidewalk was empty.
“Great. He slipped me something. Just what the evening needed.”
Ayla went to lean against the tree, fumbling in her bag for her purse, now ready to get a cab and get home. Better pathetic and wearing PJs eating ice-cream than dead.
Ayla scream, dropped her phone, and toppled sideways off her too-high heels.
Sitting on her butt on the sidewalk, she looked up, into the branches of the tree. At first all she could see was a wide white grin, like that of a Cheshire cat.
“Oh crap, I’m hallucinating, like Alice.” Janice Joplin started playing in her head.
The smiled moved, coming lower. A tall, dark man dropped out of the tree. He wore a pair of jeans and nothing else, his stomach like finely chiseled marble, his body so perfect and muscled he made statues of Hercules look like the Venus de Milo.
“Hello,” he repeated.
Option #2 Fantasy
“Do not ask this of me.”
“It is my life.”
“You will make a new one, there, with him.”
“No,” but the voice wavered with tears, more plea the strong denial.
“You must be brave, to set an example for your sisters.”
“What bravery is it that would make me smile at being sent out like this, gifted like a fine piece of cloth, to a barbarian?”
“They are not barbarians.”
“They are not refined.”
“There is savage beauty in the destructive force of the storm; you must find that same beauty in your new home.”
“Will I ever see my home, my sisters, or you, again?”
“No.” This time his voice broke, the crack of a man asked to give up something more dear than he own life.
“Father,” She ran to him, throwing herself down onto the dais, burying her head against her father’s knee. His hands, wrinkled but still strong, stroked her dark head, soothing her as she sobbed against him.
“Why, why?” She asked again and again, the word broken and torturous between her gasping sobs.
“They need you, and we need them.”
The warrior knelt, scarcely noticing the cold. It had been winter all of his life. This plant had forgotten spring before he was born. But there was hope, a chance at bringing spring, and all it meant, back to them.
It dependent on a single woman, a Princess from the highest of world.
A woman whom he would marry.
The warrior looked down at his strong hands, rough from gripping a sword, then to the dark mail which draped him head to toe. He new nothing of softness, nothing of the ways of a Princess.
It was hopeless, madness.
Kneeling there, before the long forgotten goddess of spring, the warrior prayed for guidance, for understanding. He needed this woman; she was the last hope of a world, a beautiful gift from an Emperor so powerful many regarded him as a God made flesh, his nine daughters Princess-Goddesses.
When his prayers were complete, the warrior kissed the bare, frigid toes of the lifeless statue, and rose. The sound of construction danced across the fields, the preparations for her arrival were underway.
He’d never had a home, preferring to sleep with his men, suffer as they did in the bitter cold, but he could not bring a Princess to such a place. He’d never been off-world, but he’d seen pictures, drawings so lifelike he feared the images would come to life, of other worlds and their marvels. Once he’d even see a picture of the Garden Palace, the home of his future bride.
Even if he’d wanted to buy such marvels, he could not, for Laws prevented the other worlds from giving his plant, technology they had not yet developed themselves, and speeding their evolution. His hand curled in angry fists.
They were dying, starving and freezing in the ever long winter, and still the other worlds, which had plentiful food and technology that could have saved them, held back, bound by the sacred Laws. But the gift of the Princess, given through the loop-hole of a marriage-treaty, would save them. All he had to worry about was pleasing her. And the first step was the construction of the stone keep, a house not fit for a Princess, but the best he had to offer.