SORI Snippets. Enjoy!

Greetings, One and All.

This week took me by storm and allowed me not the necessary time to elaborate on my soon to be released, “Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity”. Therefore, today I have decided to share mini-excerpts with you in the hopes that it might entice your imagination and prompt you to possibly pick up a copy of “S.O.R.I” which is due for release tomorrow, July 7th, 2017.

Enjoy!

Blurb:

Winter Sensations …

Spring Overtures …

Summer Ruminations …

Fall Inhibitions …

The Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity is four seasons of discovery, lust, love and eroticism. A compilation of short stories that are sure to make you swoon in delight. Through a collection of erotic shorts drenched in whimsical prose, Adonis Mann takes us on a trip through a thrilling and provocative year. Stimulating the reader with stories like “Tyronian Rapture”, “Prismatic Slumber” and “Metamorphoses”, Mr. Mann brings sensual delight to every season. A jewel of an anthology for the LGBTQIA community, Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity is a must read for the lover of Erotica. Covering winter, spring, summer and fall, with one story for every month, Adonis gives you the gift of powerful diction and titillating tales. Come, sink in to SORI.

 

 

 

Excerpt: Wanton Wonderland

The air was cold and damp. The snow seemed to flow from right to left, instead of from top to bottom. The breeze made it so. Tiny, a not so tiny man slowly but surely made his way to the rented log cabin, he’d leased for the weekend for he and his lady love. A curvy girl, by the name of Raquel. This weekend Tiny and Raquel had ventured to try something new. Something they’d never tried before.

Sharing.

Excerpt: Prismatic Slumber

I dream in color. Like a vivid, luminescent prism, everything comes to thriving life, and then there he is with me.

Sleigh bells dangling from the edge of the bed jingle whenever I slide deep inside of his scrumptious cleft.

Silver tinsel, tangled around our feet.

How did it get there? When did we play with it? It doesn’t matter.

Only partially covered by a Santa Claus fleece blanket, our skin touches underneath—intense heat emanating from it. In the background Bobby Helms “Jingle Bell Rock” plays, only loud enough to drown our elate moaning.

Excerpt: Jet Tresses and Snow

Long, black hair that grazed my face as he swayed atop me. It smelled of shampoo and sweat—a sweet combination. His arms wrapped tightly around me, and all I could hear was his breath, my moans and his sighs as he pulsed inside me.

Unable to contain myself, I grabbed a fist full of his hair, tugging it ever so softly—just enough to make him groan in delight. Pulling his head back, my lips and tongue devoured the curvature of his neck, inhaling his scent.

 

 

 

Excerpt: Shy Torrents

Supple, soft skin glided under my fingers. Speckled with downy like hairs which electrified whenever my hand’s heat swept over them. My body heat was a magnet. A magnet which had the power to beckon wantonness and yearning. Shy shivered, unable to contain the reaction. I smirked.

Shy lay there, belly down, arms tucked under his chin and completely undressed. I thought of how much I wanted to take my finger, which traced his form, and insert it directly to his tight opening. I yielded the desire because my biggest wish was to savor this moment. This moment right here.

Excerpt: Metamorphosis

I am a butterfly.

The beauty of life is found in the mundane matters of evolution. Therefore, I am a butterfly.

When I was an egg, the shell kept me from breaking free. It prohibited me from being whom I was meant to be. Yet, there was a miraculous event occurring; I was developing. Readying for the inevitable exodus which was about to transpire.

I suppose the world was not ready for me then. Perhaps, preparing for the spectacular event which was about to unfold.

Excerpt: … and she: The Short Story of Constance McBride

He shared me, my Ronin. Yes, he did. That much is true. Withal, I minded not. I’d learned to appreciate the wonders of two men and I. It was a pleasantry that not all knew of.

Many speculate on my consent of being divvied between two.

So, I ask that you allow me a moment to share my story—my truth.

I am Constance McBride.

I was brought up with hard-handed structure and unwavering beliefs. My father, a Baptist Preacher. My mother, the epitome of a Preacher’s Wife—contrite, obedient and supportive.

I never fit in. I never could.

 

 

 

Excerpt: Timeless Daze; Reimagined

Footprints on golden sand lined the expanse, perfectly positioned, making a lovely pattern down the shore—some being washed away by the waves. The tawny hue of the sun bounced off the waterfront creating currents of various yellow pigments, drenching the entire domain in the same colorant.

It was a sight to behold. A beautiful, wonderful vision. And with all of its wonderment, the one thing that held my attention the most, was the individual making the impressions. His tall, strong fame, blotted out the brilliance of the seascape wherever he stood and created a silhouette of gray.

Excerpt: Mystical Nights

A gust of wind caused the white, sheer curtain on the only window in my room to dance. The light from the new moon permeated the room causing blue-gray rays to cross its expanse. Yet, there she was. A phantom. A phantasm of desire and wantonness. Real and surreal. A combination, though inexplicable, also intoxicating. The way she swayed her hips. The way she used her hands to lift the thick tresses of her hair just enough to allow her figure to come into focus. Black against pale gray. The rhythm of her movement seemed natural yet mystical. A temptress, a jezebel.

Excerpt: Tyronian Rapture

I was captured by my dear Regina’s beauty. Her full lips longed to be licked, while I imagined that her smooth skin and voluptuous curves yearned to be caressed.

From a distance, I basked in her allurement, secretly—watching as she picked the wild flowers from the field in order to prepare a centerpiece for our dinner table for tea. If I could walk through the window ajar as a phantom, then as a phantom I would delight in her existence.

The impasse, my predilection. The penchant to fancy the reprobate. And, whilst my heart and mind remained enthralled by my point of desire, my body lay captive inside of this wretched place.

 

 

Excerpt: Her Seductions

Silence is suffocating. Dense, even. Yet, it is in the silence of the night when my true love comes to me. She whispers in my ear that she loves me, running fingers through my long blonde locks. The effect is a rush which causes my hairs to stand on end and my femininity to pulse with desire.

The arid autumn air squeezes through a tiny sliver in the window ajar. The small attic apartment window, scarcely patulous, does little to cool the ardent vapors of our combines bodies. Nor does it quell our thirst for one another.

Heat rises; silence falls.

Excerpt: He & She

Her reflection was a stranger, always had been. Looking at her mirror image, Yehanna considered that she’d been born with the wrong face. Perhaps the Fates had misrepresented what she was really supposed to look like—gotten it wrong somehow. She was a foreigner to herself, usurped the body of another, or at least that’s what Yehanna told herself on a daily basis.

Grazing her finger across one check in the dimly lit bathroom of a tattered old apartment, which was falling apart at the seams, Yehanna moved her face from left to right, then back again.

Excerpt: Reckless Abandon

Convinced that life had to be grander at some scale, I threw carefulness to the waste side and opted to live life as I would have it, and not as others would impose. What good were people’s opinions anyway? Look where they’d gotten me. Having recently lost my job to a series of unfortunate events, I knew that it was now or never to take the proverbial bull by the horns and do with my life as I wanted. With reckless abandon, I would enthrall my every emotion and thought, not to be withheld by naysayers.

That was it. My mind was made up. Now, if I only knew how to accomplish said feat.

There you have it, my esteemed followers.

To obtain your copy of “Syncopation of Ravishing Intensity” visit:

Thank you again for visiting. And, once more, I am highly grateful for your unending support.

May blessings rain upon you all.

Thinking About Short Stories

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What is the most beautiful thing in life?

The ability to have freedom of thought.

One’s mind is the most treasured element in the universe. Why? Because it creates ideas, implements those ideas, and then if need be, alters them in order to provide a more elaborate idea or a more fundamental truth.

What was born from the gift of the human psyche? Everything that we know and love today. It was our ever expanding minds that gave us a more profound understanding of the universe. It was our ability to analyze and learn which provided the pathway to whatever truths we know today.

Had it not been for our ability to think, discover, understand and process information we would not have half as much knowledge as we do in this day and time.

When you add to this mathematical equation the gift of free will, we find an innumerable amount of conjunctures and hypotheses undiscovered, merely waiting to be ascertained.

I love the human mind. It fascinated me. I find that personal perception is a galaxy of possibilities all sitting tightly inside of the cerebral cortex. Alive and tangible, if not to others, at the very least to that person.

brainYou’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with the title of this blog post.

Well, in all actuality, everything.

I have had the immense blessing of learning quite a few things on my venture in this industry.

I’ve learned that not everything is as it seems. That one truth has laid the foundation to a vast amount of different suppositions which have altered my viewpoints in a great many ways.

Please grant me the benefit of your time and I will enlighten you with the understanding that I have obtained.

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The Mind is an Ever Expanding Labyrinth

When I first started my walk in the Literary Industry, I had a set concept of what things should be and why they should be that way.

Perhaps, to a certain extent, I was putting myself in a box. Although, I hate to think of it that way. Mostly, because I am the first person to testify that I am an open minded individual. In having implemented a previously decided group of speculations to my frame of thought, I was admittedly limiting my own understanding.

That being said, I am grateful that I opened my eyes and was able to see things in a different light.

different light

Among those things was the opinion of Short Stories.

I like to think of short stories as “my thing“, if you will. By “my thing” I mean to say, my forte and/or my strong point.

Truthfully, I love the art of storytelling. I feel that it’s such an enormous part of me. A part that goes far beyond a mere hobby or simple practice for entertainment.

If I wanted to be entertained, I’d turn on the television.

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Yet, for me, storytelling is an extension of who I am. It is, in every meaning of the term, a little piece of my soul. Therefore, I take great pride in the material I deliver. I want my readers to see my aptitude therein in the best light possible.

I found that in short story writing I was able to deliver the greatest kick with the least fuss. With short stories, I felt that I could easily tell an entire tale in just a few well placed and well selected words.

I do, methinks.

however...

I had the common misconception that all short stories should be constructed just as any full length novel. That is to say, with a “beginning, middle and end”. Now, by “end”, I meant that the tale should not leave room for question and that all threads must be tied by the last page.

Perhaps, I was tainted by the running trend of readers and writers misconstruing short stories with full length stories.

What do I mean by this?

Well, I’ve come to see that many a time readers and writers expect the short story to read just like a full length story. Moreover, they are absolutely fine when a full length story is incomplete.

The latter boggles me, to be sure. I can openly say that this was never something I believed.

Nevertheless, I do think that I was highly affected and corrupted by the misconception that short stories had to be “this way” and “not that“.

i_was_wrong_by_misterjamez-d465clrHere are some things that I’ve learned since.

  1. First and mostly importantly; short stories are a form of art and must be appreciated as such. Some would argue that point, I’m certain.
  2. They are not incomplete if the message has been delivered.
  3. I’ve particularly come to enjoy the open ended short story. Perhaps it is my theory on introspection and belief in theoretical consideration. I cannot say for certain. What I can say is that the open ended story always allows me to ponder on the story for a longer amount of time. It gives me the ability to consider what could have happened next. To me, this provides hours of entertainment. LOL. 😀

While some might believe that my newly acquired knowledge is inapplicable to them, I find that this should be a universal concept. Why? Well, because I trust that if people opened their minds to those possibilities they might learn how to love the short story again.

Thanks for reading and until next time.

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