Writing books is an absolute pain in the ass sometimes. Or at least it is when I make it be that way.
I gave out beta copies last month and promised myself I wouldn’t touch this draft until I get the copies back (which will be by the time this post goes live). That way, I could do one last run-through of the story from beginning to end before getting it ready to send off to agents and seeing where it sticks–if anywhere.
I. Promised.
Instead, the hell do I do? I add another almost 5k words in the name of fleshing things out further.
To be clear, I’m not one of those people who writes way too much and has to cut it down. I am guilty of writing too little, so that it’s barely even a draft and not just an outline, and then expanding from there so I can get all my thoughts down before they float away into the abyss. And to be even more fair, I went from having one stupidly long dark romance to wanting to break it up into three decent-sized books–namely so I would have the ability to expand enough to make it the story I want it to be.
I could have spent my time working on drafting the second book (which I have definitely done some of), but the ridiculous amount of sense of sheer wrongness won’t let me dive head first until book one is 100% good to go. Basically I don’t want my notes to mix in my notebook, and I don’t want to use a different notebook until this one is full. I don’t know, man, it’s a lot of excuses, but it’s fine.
So anyway, I guess my point is that the copy I sent out for beta is not the most current. Whoops.
I guess I just wanted to check in to say that work is being done, and I am nervous to send it out, namely because dark romance is more niche than I would have thought. There’s a billion agents taking romance, but like five who might maybe consider dark romance. At least ones I’m finding on QT.
Anyway, I’m a failure, but I’m also feeling pretty good about being a failure. š
Vincent Blaire, world-renowned masked magician and Illusionist from Hell, carries his eccentricities with him everywhere he goes, both on stage and off. No one has ever seen him without his trademark mask and gloves, not even the love of his life. He keeps a cool distance, and while he would give her the world if sheād ask for it, he is always careful to never lay a hand on her.
Vincent is a master of avoidance, whether it be direct answers to questions or accepting his own emotions. He drowns himself in a cocktail of bourbon and opium whenever he feels the world crashing down around him, content to lean back and notice the beauty in the way it crumbles. When he loves, he’s unapologetically loyal, putting them upon a pedestal where they can do no wrong and nothing can touch them.
Vincent is as pale as he is tall (very). Though he enjoys the thrill of having all eyes on him on stage, he enjoys his privacy more. His favorite place to be is home, preferably with his wife breathing the same air as him, but lately those terms seem to be happening less and less.
Vivian Blaire, former prostitute with a fiery temper, has everything sheās ever wanted, but that doesnāt stop her from craving more. While she is married to the man of her dreams, the man she fell in love with behind a television screen, itās not all she hoped it would be. When she canāt get him to meet her needs, she decides to sneak out to sleep with the very man who trafficked her.
Vivian’s mind is a mess at the best of times. She’s prone to full-on meltdowns where she will shatter everything in her path. Her favorite way to deal with past trauma is to rationalize it, jumping through hoops and leaps of logic with ease so long as she can bury it back down. She doesn’t see the trafficking she was subjected to as a bad thing necessarily–rather, it was her choice to get into the lifestyle. She was never looking to be saved.
Vivian is mixed race (Latina and white, if she had to guess), petite in height, midsize in stature. Her favorite place to be is a toss up between the kitchen (snacks are bae), the den (movies and trashy tv let her mind shut down), and her room (no boys allowed or something like that); though she will often find a reason to leave the manor for hours at a time to get her kicks.
The wedding is over, life is starting to slow down, and words are being written. I put off working on any projects for a good three months to get everything together, and just like when I stopped to move, the time away from my laptop was killing me. But now, I’m back, and more motivated than ever.
I still have some queueing up to do over here and on the socials, but while I’m padding time, I wanted to leave you something to sit and salivate over: my Pinterest mood board for my next (and, in my ever so humble opinion, greatest) work. I left you with a rough first chapter last time, and a playlist a couple times before that, so I think in a roundabout way I’m aiming to hit all the senses, but I honestly don’t know how to do touch and taste. Yet. I’ll figure it out.
Anyway, without further bullshit, here’s that sweet, sweet link to some sweet, sweet pics (there is a preview below but the good stuff is in the full version here). I hope they tickle your fancy as much as they do mine.
We fucked. I wonāt waste my time lying to you, partially because Iāve never been one to paint myself in a favorable light, partially because Iām not great at lying. In all things, I find honest is the best policy, because if you get caught, the lie just makes the punishment that much worse. My shoulders and neck supported more of my weight than I wouldāve liked to admit, and my guts felt like they were slopping around inside me and squeezing the air out of my lungs. Overdramatic? Certainly, but that didnāt change the fact that having my legs slung over his shoulders while he rammed into me made my face turn several shades of purple while I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears.
We fucked, and it wasnāt beautiful. It was dirty and messy and rough. If my life were a movie, they wouldnāt include this scene. It would be a fade-to-black, and the audience would let their imaginations run wild, and every single one of them would have been wrong. If my life were a porno, this scene would only show up on the seedy websites that you had to trash your computer after you got off because there was no getting rid of the trojan that bust down the door to the hard drive. You would watch this while touching yourself and a part of yourself would wonder if the disclaimer at the beginning was true or if you were indeed watching someone be raped on camera. Was this video illegal? Would the cops come busting down your door? Just how old was this girl? It said barely legal, but she looks younger than that.
In another place, another time, I would have been younger than that, but it wouldnāt have been marketed as barely legal because thatās not what brings in the big bucks. But thatās neither here nor there. At the end of the day, there was no camera, I was of age, and nothing was being done to me that I didnāt already want. It was sick, but maybe I was a little bit sick, too.
He let me down to change positions, and even though I liked the guy, Iām confident it had very little to do with me having a hard time breathing and very much to do with my legs making his shoulders a little uncomfortable from the strain. With swift but clumsy hands, he spread my legs apart, then changed his grip so that my left leg stayed high in the air and my right was planted firmly into the stained hotel mattress. Another strain, but he didnāt push me hard enough for my muscles to tear. He was a bit of a sadist, but he was no monster. Each thrust was more violent than the last, too deep for my liking, but my cries of pain just egged him on. The tears rolling down my face could have been real or could have been part of the act. It was hard to tell sometimes.
āOh, Daddy, please no more,ā I moaned. Even though he was old enough to be my father, he wasnāt, and honestly, that kind of roleplay weirded me out. Not just the pet name, but the begging. Struggling I could do. Screaming, hell, I was among the best in a few underground BDSM scenes. I could take any pain that was dished out to me and still make it to work on time the next day. Begging thoughā¦ Begging just seemed too, well, intimate. Too real for my tastes.
But, ironically, beggers canāt be choosers and all that nonsense, so whatever Jonathan wanted Jonathan got.
āBaby Girl youāre doing so good for Daddy.ā
I tried not to listen to him. His voice was nice, but the words that came out of his mouth whenever we did this killed the mood for me. He lifted my left leg further up, apparently stuck in a delusion where Baby Girl was a fucking gymnast and not just his former employee taking on a fantasy for his benefit.
āFuck, Vivian, keep talking. God fucking damnit keep it up.ā
Well, money was money, right?
āNo please no more.ā
āLike you mean it or Iāll shove it in your ass I swear to fuck.ā
Motivation at its finest. I let what I wanted fall by the wayside, letting my emotions go with them. I did what I was known for back thenāputting on a real horrorshow. I ugly cried and struggled to get away, all while pushing myself against him, letting him so far in me it hurt. I called him whatever he wanted me to call him, I begged him to stop, I let him imagine I didnāt want this even though I could feel myself getting closer to that sweet release that I was almost ashamed of.
And then he pulled out of me and shoved his dick down my throat just before he came. Fuckingā¦ That wasnāt part of the deal, and if I could do anything but gag around his length, I would bite down just to make a point.
Fucking Jonathan.
āHoly fuck that was good,ā he gasped, making one final thrust against my face for good measure before pulling out of my mouth that I wished could turn into a Venus flytrap at just that moment to take the whole thing off. Instead, I wiped the slobber from my chin and glared at him.
āI told you. No ass. No mouth.ā
He had the audacity to smirk at me while he rolled off the bed to retrieve his clothes from the grimy floor. No apologies to be found, but if Iām being honest, I think I would be more concerned if he did. Jonathan was a long list of adjectives that I would gladly put into a giant spreadsheet if I had enough time, but asshole didnāt necessarily equate bad. Like I said, I liked the guy well enough. If I didnāt, I would have stopped coming a long time ago. We didnāt have an obligation anymore to do these sorts of things. That tie had severed.
āSame time next week?ā
I rolled my eyes and groaned as dramatically as I possibly could, pouting up at him as I reached blindly for my own clothing.
āCome on, Viv. You liked it.ā
I did. But I also didnāt. It was complicated.
āHey I gotta go. Text me when youāre free.ā
He kissed my forehead and was out the door before I had a chance to put my bra back on. He had to go. Sure he did. Always in such a rush conveniently after he got off. It wasnāt that I was jealous.
My phone pinged right on cue, the funds for the room transferred to my Venmo.
It wasnāt that I was jealous. It was just that he never took it upon himself to do the walk of shame to the front desk. Somewhere in history women took it upon themselves to demand equal rights and going dutch and paying for things themselves on behalf of all women without the courtesy of asking the rest of women everywhere if that was what they wanted. Lord knows I didnāt sign up for it. Not to mentionā
āOh fuck.ā
How could I forget?
I threw my clothes on and rushed out the door, not caring if it closed behind me or not. If a druggie took the opportunity to sneak in and shoot up before the poor excuse for cleaners made it to that sweltering sex hole, so be it. Not my problem.
The guy behind the counter (serious chi-mo vibes from the mustache) took his sweet ass time accepting the payment as if we hadnāt been down this road at least twelve dozen times before (yes you can take it from my phone sir you just have to hit the god damn button on your register and no I will not accept anything you are trying to offer me just cash me out and let me go), but thank heavens the transaction only took five minutes instead of the average eleven, but it was still too long for me to make any sort of much needed headway.
The black sedan was in my name, but it was far from mine. I donāt know if it felt that way because I hardly ever drove it or if it was because I didnāt pay for it with my own money. Maybe a little bit of both. Maybe thatās why I felt like there was a rock in my stomach despite everything. I jumped in and sped off, checking the time to see if I had enough of it to warrant stopping by somewhere to pick up something, anything, but I was already late and couldnāt afford to make it worse.
I sped down the backroads that would have taken anyone else longer to reach their destination, but my foot was lead against the pedal. It was just half past six and traffic on the main roads would still be a nightmare as people filtered out of their day jobs. A part of me envied them as I reached the city limits. What I wouldnāt give for their sense of normalcy. Of course, thatās how things always worked, wasnāt it? You get what you asked for, what you wanted at the time, and then you realize itās not what you wanted at all.
For a split second I fantasized losing control of the vehicle and rolling six times off the side of the road, only to be found a couple days later by a passing tourist who got lost on their way to one of those back door access only clubs that were super exclusive. Iād either be dead or be on my way there, but if I were on my way there, Iād only end up in the hospital and receive the best of the best care until I was well enough to go home. Or maybe, just maybe, something would go wrong while I was there, and the final thing I would hear would be the drone of the heart monitor just before I lost consciousness and took my last breath.
āWhat the fuck is wrong with me?ā
Your guess is as good as mine.
The driveway seemed longer and more ominous than I remembered, but I think that was less to do with the actual driveway and more to do with nerves. I cut the lights early out of habit, even though itās pointless. Thereās no hiding this.
I checked my hair in the mirror before I got out. It looked a mess. So did my makeup. No time. All I could do was hope I didnāt walk in smelling like sex.
Not that he would know what that smelled like.
I take a deep breath before stepping out. In with the good, out with the bad. Itās colder outside here than in town. The sky always hangs low in the air, overcast without the promise of sun rays to break through the gloom and doom.
If I didnāt know better, I would be as bold to say it was something to do with him.
There was no quietly opening the arched front door. The solid metal trimmed wood was too heavy, the hinges too squeaky. This home was less mansion and more medieval castle, but less fairy tale and more gothic Dracula. The aesthetic was a little on the nose, but I just reminded myself that at one point in my life, this was exactly what I wanted.
āHey, sorry Iām late,ā I announced to the darkness within as I muscled the door closed. āTraffic was an absolute nightmare.ā
Silence answers me like an old friend. Maybe heās sleeping? Maybe he forgot, too?
āRush hour is something awful. Everyone all in a hurry to go nowhere,ā I reason with the quiet.
Shut up, Vivian, you already know you canāt lie for shit. Not to him.
The sconces on the walls sparked to life one by one, and at one point in my life, I would have been amazed at the magic show that was just for me. Donāt get me wrong, the effort was still novel, but a part of me only felt annoyance (and maybe a little bit of dread) as his footsteps echoed down the hall. The first thing the light caught was his suit, slim and trim and fashionable if you were into the gothic vampire look. He was all dark and eccentric; he was not a modern century man, but a Transylvanian prince frozen in time. Today he chose a full matte black mask that swallowed the light. I could barely see his eyes through the shadows.
He doesnāt say a word, not a single sound, as he stares down at me. I brace myself out of habit, not for anything heās ever said or done but for everything thatās ever happened before he ever knew I existed.
I try to meet his gaze, but ultimately fail. Just another thing to add to the list.
I hear him take a breath as if heās about to speak, but after a few seconds he flicks his wrist and the door opens behind me (never mind that I struggle with the damn thing every time I leave this house or mansion or castle or whatever itās supposed to be called). I sidestep out of his path, and he moves past me, closing the door behind him with such force (naturally without touching it) and the candles extinguish.
Iām left alone in the dark. I almost wish he were the type to lash out. Getting angry is more than what Iāve been getting. Getting angry at least would let me know that he cares, even a little.
I catch myself rolling my shoulders, back and forth, up and down, as if I can shrug all these feeling festering inside me away once and for all. Youād think Iād know better. Fuck, youād think Iād be used to it by now, or that if it bothered me so god damn bad that I would up and quit. One way or another, you would think Iād learn by now.
The only thing Iāve learned thus far in life is that Iām a fucking idiot.
I would send a passive aggressive text if he had a cell phone, but he doesnāt. Heās stuck in the 18th century. Iād have better luck reaching him by bird. A part of me wishes I had the know-howāI definitely have the pettiness!
I really love making playlists for books Iām working on, and I wanted to share the one for my current WIP. Iāve talked about it a little before, but the main thing you need to know is itās not like Zemblanity or Itsy Bitsy. This is new uncharted territory babyyy.
What Should Have Been Love is a dark romance about a former prostitute and an edgy magician. Toxic doesnāt even begin to describe their relationship.
Anyway, here is some music that is serving me some heavy doses of inspiration. I hope the songs stir something up in you, too. š
Hey there, Void. This title is misleading. It makes it sound like I’m going to put my own sex life on blast, which I’m not. No offense, but we barely know each other, and my mom reads these. Annyyywayyyyy… So I’m working on some preliminary stuff for another novel, and I had some music playing in the background, and I got inspired. I’m not ready to write this thing quite yet, but I typed out this little drabble. I can’t give you any background info or any sort of set up because I don’t have it yet. This is just a fleeting little scene. Let me know what you think! š
***
I have these times when Iām alone in the house (face it, girl, youāre alone in the house more than there is company over) where I wander the halls aimlessly. Itās never-ending. For the life of me, I havenāt the faintest idea why he chose this place to call home. Itās far too big for two people, let alone one person. Did he live here alone before he brought me along? I think he must have been. I donāt think this reclusive thing he has going on started with me. I think itās been a thing for a long time. Call it a hunch.
I travel up and down the halls, through the maze of rooms, wandering while blasting music from the speakers in the living room. It used to be rock music, but lately, Iāve taken up classical. Iām not that kind of girl, even though Iām sure heād want me to be, but it fits the aesthetic he has going on so much better. It makes my time alone whimsical.
Iām always expecting to find something bad, like a dead body. The music shifted to something low and creepy. Instead of one dead body, I imagine hundreds, all spilling out from the floorboards. A guy in a mask has to have some skeletons in his closet, you know?
It always turns out that the more I look, the less frightened I am and the more excited I become. I donāt know if itās because I donāt expect to find anything sinister lurking in the shadows or if itās because if there were something, it would make sense. It would end this nagging feeling in the back of my mind.
Itās his house, but itās my house, too, and if I want to go body hunting, well fuck, itās my right to do so.
I never travel too far, though. Letās not get overzealous here. This house is like a castle, and while itās huge enough on the outside, itās even bigger on the inside. I have this reoccurring fear of getting lost on my way to the kitchen and starving to death before anyone can find me. Itās stupid, I know. Itās big, but itās not that big. Itās just a feeling, I guess.
Is it that weird to be afraid of a house?
Is it weirder to be afraid of my husband?
Heās never done a thing to me, and yetā¦
I donāt know. Iām being paranoid. Too much time alone in this Mall of America-sized living space has got me on edge.
This just isnāt at all what I had envisioned my life to be like, you know? I thought there would be way more glitz and glamor than there is. I stay home while he goes and makes women hot for him on stage. I know for a fact Iām not the only one who stared at his hands and wondered what they could do on someone like me. Thereās a whole reddit group dedicated to the manās fucking hands, for gods sake. He can do things beyond your wildest dreams, and still, he will not touch me.
Is it me?
Is he repulsed by me?
I can remember one time a few years back, it must have been a few days after we got married, and I was on his bed waiting for him. We hadnāt had sex yet. I thought he was trying to build up the sexual tension, and I got tired of waiting, so I took matters into my own hands. I sprawled out in lingerie and waited for him to come home. It was a look that won me a lot of favors with other men, lesser men than him, and when he walked in, I thought heād take me right then and there.
Instead, laid on the bed next to me, watching behind that mask of his, lips parted just enough. I reached out to kiss him, and he recoiled. Not a lot. He didnāt cause a scene, he just moved, just out of reach, and so I didnāt pursue. Since he wouldnāt let me touch him, I touched myself. He reached his hand out toward me, gloved, as always, and floated just above my skin. He never touched me once, but I could almost feel him all the same.
I rolled onto my back, really getting into it, and he scooted in closer to me. Never touching, but almost. His hand ghosted over my body, and I think he was hard, but I was too focused on me to take much notice. Now, of course, I wish I had looked. Maybe then I wouldnāt be doing this to myself.
āVivian,ā he purred in that deep voice of his. I love it when he says my name. āCome.ā
And I did. I gave it my all and came harder than I had in my entire sexual existence. You would probably think I was lying or overselling it, but I swear to you that Iām not. In two words, he made me come, and I reached out to him to cling on for dear life, to ride that final high, andā
He moved out of reach faster than I could grab, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. I clutched a pillow instead, rocking into it in time with my heartbeat, wiping my hand on the fabric and in one blissful moment not giving a single fuck about any of it.
I laid there, satisfied but empty, hollow. He bid me goodnight and turned away, closing the door behind him.
Manda Kay Writes 