Rewriting The Paper Orgasm

Literotica? Really? Aren’t you supposed to be writing thrillers Michael?

Yes and yes. I write tease. Tease is transient. Sex, life, death — all can be written with tease. Tease is entertaining. It’s titillating. The trick is blending them the right way and making it work.

Murder narratives often contain sex. Kissing is part of sex. Hugs are in there too. Leg-twitching, shudder-shaking bedroom action raises the tension. I include all of them… with rising-tension murder too. They go together well.

Lori Beeton (a huge Dean Koontz fan) said my literotica was unusually feminine. She says I take my time and don’t rush the sex.

I guess she’s right. I favour growing the tension between lovers. I let it build and swirl as though I’m writing an erotic-specific piece.

Eyes that shift, breathing that falters, secret desires which are revealed one touch at a time, makes for a better read.

Good sex is all about negotiating those ‘unspoken words’. I like the anticipation, the doubt, the uncertain outcome of what may take place after the first kiss happens. How we communicate desire and make contact is what it’s all about baby!

Savour that feeling!

Read about it in my books!

Michael

“Forman’s writing style is artful, with the protagonist Mitchell’s warped thought processes masterfully exposed. The author has a powerful and vivid command of language and his word pictures are stark and disturbingly real.”

– Linda J Bettenay, author of ‘Secrets Mothers Keep’ and ‘Wishes For Starlight’.

Tombstone Muses and Island Kinkiness For Erotic Times Between Sexy Mitchell and Nina

“They actually make love to each other standing-up, and then he takes her foot and places it on one of the other gravestones. That’s when things get really interesting.”

Fiction author Michael Forman is set to launch his third and most bizarre Noirotic novel to date. By replacing a bed with a gravesite, he’s taking a couple’s sexual adventures to a whole new level.

His yet untitled novel will include historic content from the infamous St Helena Convict Settlement found on St Helena Island. It’s an isolated plot of land located in the middle of Moreton Bay, east of Brisbane. Forman, who’s no stranger to the darker side of fiction, is currently researching the island’s history and investigating the details of two cemeteries located on Queensland’s prisoner island.

“I’ve visited St Helena several times and taken many photographs of it. I’m now interested in measuring how long it takes to sail a yacht across Moreton Bay to get to the island, and the distance between the two cemeteries. One is for convicts, the other is for wardens, staff, and their families. My amorous couple will discover these cemeteries and hatch a new sexual fantasy that incorporates both of them. “

According to Forman, St Helena’s graveyard is: “To become the site of some seriously kinky sexual activity.”

Michael Forman

Forman says that what makes the two St Helena‘s graveyards appealing is that both are located on an island and are reachable by a half-hour boat ride. It’s rarely accessed at night. No one lives on the island.

“My highly sexed couple will take a moonlight cruise across the bay. They’ll drop their anchor and go ashore to explore the site and, of course, each other. The island’s isolation will give my enthusiastic lovers the perfect opportunity to express their desires among those, they believe, who knew true naughtiness and punishment. They’ll consider what they do as paying homage to the dead. It’ll raise their stimulation to new levels and, as it peaks, my protagonist will do something that’ll alter the mood. He will take his lover’s foot off one of the convict’s headstones, and then place it on top of one of the civilian’s. It’ll be a shock to find out who that headstone belongs to. Was it done on purpose or by mistake?”

St Helena's Graveyard
Convict Tombstones, St Helena

The St Helena penal settlement was all but abandoned in 1932. During it’s sixty-five years of service, approximately fifty convicts died on the tiny island. The convict’s tombstones are marked with a number, but civilian graves include names, dates, and a brief cause-of-death on them.

The graveyards are fenced but access is available to those who are part of a tour group. Commercial charter operators offer daily trips from the mainland to the island, to see the historic grave sites and the prison ruins which are located nearby.

“I’ve had the benefit of seeing the graveyards after sunset. Under a moonlit night, their tombstones take on a surrealistic, supernatural feel. I give my couple, and readers of adult fiction, a creepy lovemaking adventure they’ll never expect.”

The once dilapidated site is now maintained by local government so all can see a part of Australia’s convict history up close and personal.

Forman says that his new book will be released soon. Readers will be informed on his official site when it’s ready for download. SEETHINGS, his first successful dark fiction novel, is now available on Smashwords for free. Visit here to download and read it immediately.


“Forman’s writing style is artful, with the protagonist Mitchell’s warped thought processes masterfully exposed. The author has a powerful and vivid command of language and his word pictures are stark and disturbingly real.”

– Linda J Bettenay, author of ‘Secrets Mothers Keep’ and ‘Wishes For Starlight’.

Sex And An Intimate Choke On A Stormy Evening

Sexual attraction is primeval. So are the emotions felt when a thunderstorm brews and unleashes hell. Both activate something deep within — at least it does for me. When the two of them meet, it’s more than I can stand. That’s why I love doing it in a storm. That’s my true kink. There’s something powerful and aggressive about nature’s wild side uniting with my wild thing. It stirs my inner-animal and makes the sex that much better.

Don’t misunderstand me, storms have an aggressive element, but I’m not an aggressive lover. That’s not me. I know aggression is used to lift some lovers to new heights of euphoria, but it’s still not my thing. Euphoria can be obtained without it.

Similarly, I don’t reach out and choke my lovers during sex. I’m more a meat and potatoes kind of lover. Biting, slapping, whipping and choking aren’t part of my sexual appetites… but making love under a tropical thunderstorm is. I like how it makes me feel. It activates something inside. HE comes from another place of my psyche. HE feels things in ways I can’t. This is another layer of my sexuality hidden beyond the civilised one I usually present to most lovers.

That first crack of lightning is enough to activate it. First, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and then the rest of it follows. The sensation penetrates deep beyond my upper sensibilities and finds that mysterious level of sexual subconsciousness I need to cross over. I’m like a wild beast with a veracious new energy when the storm rages around me!

But I’m not a choker! Definitely not! Remember that when I tell you the next part of my story. It’s important to keep it in mind. I don’t choke. Here I go. Now take a deep breath, Mitchell. Make sure you get this right.

Last night, I held Nina down. That part is in no way extraordinary. Our sexual synergy took us outdoors. It was actually her idea. “Let’s try something different,” she said.

I was on top, so of course I held her body in place. It was missionary. Simple. Meat and potato love in the privacy of the backyard. Her knees were pointed towards the night sky, and I was facing her, enjoying the moment. No one was being hurt. It was perfect. Nice. Things were orderly.

And then that small storm cell presented itself and covered the stars. It came out of nowhere and it moved fast.

There was a flash of light, a crack, and then a deep rumble which shook the ground. None of it was forecast. I know this because I made damn sure of it before setting up our date. It wasn’t meant to happen. I save that for others.

As expected, my neck reacted to the sound in an instant. Just like before, I couldn’t stop the sensations once they started. This time, an intense pain struck me right between the eyes. After it subsided and the fog it created had lifted, I saw a stranger’s hands appear from nowhere and slide around Nina’s neck. I felt my hips move much faster — and my sex reached a new level of hardness. Those hands clamped down tight, her eyes popped open, she gurgled and then struggled to get herself free of their grip. These are the last few things I remember as the rain began to fall. The rest of it fades into a blur.

A gentle hum of rubber on a dry road coaxed me back to reality. The bristles on my neck had subsided. Nina and the storm cell was gone. At some point, I must’ve dressed, left her place and got myself behind the wheel of my car. I should’ve been confused by this strange shift in memory, but I wasn’t. I was profoundly satisfied instead. Never before have I experienced such a sense of inner peace as I did last night.

That’s not the end of it. There’s a little more.

As I slipped into bed, Samantha woke, rolled over and whispered, ‘How was it, dear? Did you get everything done that you needed to?’

“Yes. All of it.”

“Oh, that’s good. Well, g’night. See you in the morning.”

She gave me a peck on the cheek, rolled the other way and went back to sleep. Can you believe it?

Yep, that’s her way. She’s too nice a person to probe any further. My wife performs every obligatory nicety with trust and grace — even through disturbed drowsiness. Like I said, it’s her way.

Sam has many sides of that nice order of hers. She goes to bed early, so she can wake early. There’s much to be done and little time to waste. I won’t see her until dinner, and I won’t feel her again until we go to bed tomorrow night. That’s when she’ll kiss my cheek, roll away and sleep. It’s been like that for years. It’s why we don’t have children. She’s obsessed with every duty outside the bedroom — and sleeping whenever she’s inside it. This makes her happy. It makes me sad and frustrated.

Yes, you guessed it. Nina’s a more willing partner in that respect, but she’s a—

Nina? Oh, you want to know about what happened to her during the storm?

Oh, I don’t know. I’m too afraid to call her and find out if she’s still alive. Those two hands weren’t mine. I’m telling you, they didn’t belong to me. My orderly upper consciousness tells me that I couldn’t have hurt her. It’s not within me to choke — but I’m also aware that there’s another something hidden deep beneath layers of civility. I don’t know where that finishes.

It’s also why I’m afraid to watch today’s news.

-Mitchell

I Love Lightning. Watching Thunderstorms Is Better Than Watching TV.

I don’t watch movies in the Summer. My eyes devour storms instead. I prefer to sit on my porch and watch the thunderheads grow above the horizon and slide over my home. Each season, they form in the west, and then crawl towards the east. They growl and rumble while harassing the land with their sparks, wind and noise, threatening everything as they go. Their drama is way better than anything I can see on television.

There’s something exciting about storms that draws me in. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s visceral. Primeval. My body wakes when they’re near. I feel more alive when the sky swells with moisture laden air.

I’ll watch those columns of churning cloud rise into the night sky. I’ll stop everything I’m doing to turn off all my house lights, pull up a chair, and watch the sporadic flashes emanating from within them. When the lightning finally breaks through that wild Beast and then strikes the ground, my heart begins to race fast. A flush of heat rises to my skin. Goosebumps form. That familiar localised flash fills me with excitement, and the thumping air that follows it finishes me off.

I know thunderstorms well because I used to photograph them. I wrote about them several times. When it came time to writing about the best one of all, I drew from the deep, personal experiences I had with them. The sensations I got from watching tropical thunderstorms develop, move and deliver their lot, were placed directly into my book’s protagonist. What I saw with my eyes, he sees with his own. What I felt, he feels. Readers will enjoy his innermost sensations when he’s encountering the storm.

And now we must say something of sex. After all, I should connect the dots I laid down two paragraphs ago. Yes, let’s complete what I started.

As you may have guessed, storms and sex are intrinsically linked together — at least, they are for me. As a consequence, so too does the protagonist inside SEETHINGS. My part was to bring those two worlds together in the best possible way, so a reader could come along for the ride.

Yes, I revealed a part of myself on this very blog. I rarely do that.

Sex and storms. There, I said it.

There is the highly charged electricity, the anticipation, noise, frenzied activity, the explosive climax, and then the wetness that follows. These are the bones of my sexually-driven storm story, but it took eight years and thirteen re-writes to give it the proper flesh. Yes, it’s important to mention that too. SEETHINGS wasn’t a quick write. It was a thorough one.

And then there’s the serial killer I wove into the narrative — just to make things extra-interesting. Now you’ll want to see where this goes, right?

Michael

Another Lonely Christmas?

We’re a married couple but live without intimacy. In our thirties, our family and friends think we’ve chosen not to have children, but that’s far from the truth. It’s too cold and lonely a place for them. Last Christmas came and went without so much as a kiss, and I’m expecting the same to happen this Christmas. I nurtured the holiday season as good as I could, with optimistic energy but, like the year before it, it was all for nothing. New Year’s Day was just as lonely — and so were all the days that followed it. Sex, if it’s to happen before this year is out, will be nothing short of a miracle.

My expectations are low but, unfortunately, I live with a tiny piece of hope inside me. It’s a horrible thing. Hope is like having a knife pointed at my chest but being told everything is fine. It’s a tormenting, torturous threat. In spite of our long history not having sex, a part of me still wishes for it. It kills me. What’s going to happen? Will this year finish the same way as last? Will that knife be plunged deep into my heart again?

Sexless Marriage Podcast

That’s why I’m dreading these upcoming holidays.

Birthdays, holidays, trips away, weekends — no time is a good time. My heart keeps breaking. I want to know what went wrong to deserve this sexless marriage. Did I say or do something wrong? I’d heard about married couples who went through inexplicable dry spells, but I thought that was a myth or fodder for comedians to use on stage.

Single people have a good reason to be alone. Married couples have no excuse. They can have sex anytime and anywhere. At least, that’s what I thought they could do. But we don’t, not ever.

Am I wrong to want? Do I expect too much?

How can we lay in the same bed and not want something more than just sleep? What are we supposed to be, only good friends?

It wasn’t always like this.

We used to have sex almost all the time. We couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. That doesn’t happen now. A whole year can pass by before one comes to touch me again. And, when it does, it pulls back far too soon.

I just finished reading this insightful book. I heard about it on this podcast. It’s about an extreme sexless marriage… and it’s just like mine. Damn! It could be about us!

It’s pitiful. My soul has all but evaporated.

If I’d read it five years ago, it wouldn’t have made sense, but not now. I totally get it.

Just how long is too long before I give up, scream or go mad?

-Angelwanderer

Breaking Up Could Be The Best Thing I’ll Ever Do

A fairy-tale is coming to an end. I can feel it. I say I love you, but something’s wrong. If I had to describe it accurately, parts of this relationship has become like a horror story. I mean, we’ve worked on fixing the problems — tried so very hard to make things right, but it hurts too much to keep doing it. I ache from aching. Losing you is wrong, but life should be easier to live than this. I’m losing my mind while hanging on to whatever fragments are left of this marriage.

Maybe Breaking Up Is Better

It’s not working. We aren’t working. You feel it too, don’t you? It can’t just be me. There’s something we haven’t tried. Breaking up. I’ve thought about it a few times. We should give it a go. I think we should try it one time. What do you think? Would you like to try it too?

One-sided mirror conversations are brilliant. Every word makes perfect sense. The mirror never argues. It listens and reflects empathy. That kind of support can’t be bought. But what happens when that mirror becomes a flesh and blood person? Those questions will affect someone, and I won’t know the reaction to them. I mean, I’ve never done this before. No one ever says how to break up or divorce now, do they? Sure, some think about it, jokes are sometimes passed between friends, but few of them are ever said or taken seriously. The truth is, once we’ve made a commitment to marry, it’s a one-way direction. We’re supposed to remain together forever.

Should the words, die trying, be included somewhere too?

Reaching the relationship Utopia known as, ’til death do us part, is easier said than done. Making it work every day for a lifetime is a whole different game of hearts. What if it doesn’t go the right way, and the journey has more than a few bumps along the way? What happens when it keeps on happening?

It’s no one’s fault. It’s everyone’s fault. Silence or bickering. Those are the options to those caught in this loop.

Is breaking up allowed?

It’s not romantic. There’s no romance here. It’s tragic. That’s what it is. Sad and disappointing. It’s like death. Something in us will die and it’ll never come back. So, the choice is that or accept ongoing torture. It is a fool who chooses this, but I’ve been foolish. I’ve accepted something I didn’t like and have allowed it each day. This is enabling. I let a bad habit take form in my life, and I don’t want any part of it anymore.

Yes, breaking up is allowed. Death is fine too. Let the relationship die. Kill and bury it. There’s nothing left to see here. It’s dead. Leave. Start walking. We can’t change the past, but we can leave and walk away from it today. Things won’t be the same again. It’s true.

That’s also the goddam point!

Break-ups happen. They really do. They’re a natural part of life. If we’re to believe that existence’s rainbow is made up of a kaleidoscope of colours, we must be prepared to accept the darkest ones too. They’ll visit us from time to time. Break up is one of those horrible colours, but it’s just that, a colour.

So walk away. Lift your head. Prettier colours will return again. We should be allowed to embrace The End without guilt, and then look forward to seeing the golds and yellows when the future finally arrives.

SEETHINGS is about long-term love. It’s about two proud people who have loved well but became love-martyrs to sustain an endless ending. She is an educator. He is a photographer. They are being counselled by radio identity Tony Brindell. He’s trying to unravel their mess, but inadvertently uncovers some darker secrets.

Someone is about to be tortured. Someone will die for all the pain.

Enjoy your SEETHINGS journey. Like love, it has the potential to torment — but it certainly won’t disappoint.

– Michael (Author)

Five Random Victims
Summer Thunderstorms
Charm Bracelet
Author: M.Forman

“Forman’s writing style is artful, with the protagonist Mitchell’s warped thought processes masterfully exposed. The author has a powerful and vivid command of language, and his word pictures are stark and disturbingly real.”

– Linda J Bettenay, author of ‘Secrets Mothers Keep’ and ‘Wishes For Starlight’.

Love Gone Wrong Podcast

Brisbane: Photographer Hanged By Camera Strap

She died. I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. I just got off the phone with Sarah. Maxine and I were talking just yesterday. She never said she was going out with her camera. She was supposed to be at home all night.

It’s typical though. That explains why she was so nice to me. She pumped me for information on how to take lightning photos and listened to everything I said — so uncharacteristic for her.

That bloated, ungrateful and frequently belligerent bitch defied me and did something foolish. She’s always doing idiotic things. And now its effects are fatal. She’s accidentally hanged herself on her camera strap right beside the Story Bridge. What a stupid thing to do! Oh, Maxine!

I shouldn’t speak like that, after all, Maxine died in tragic circumstances. She’s worth more than that. Everyone is. When someone leaves this world, even enemies deserve respect. Okay, she wasn’t actually an enemy, just an acquaintance — more like a pain in-my-ass who happens to be in the same line of work as me. She often turned up at social events to get drunk and harass me.

She heard that my spare time was taken up trying to get the best lightning photo of all. I suppose she thought she could outdo me. Why? Weddings are her speciality, not storms. She did another irresponsible thing, and it didn’t work out this time. She died due to her boneheaded stupidity!

with lightning

Sure, she was due some karma, but not something as dire as that! No one should go this way — and to do it so public, too.

Yes, I think you’re a classless human being, Maxine, but you’re not a complete imbecile. Why would you scramble across the top of a cliff in the pouring rain, for God’s sake? You must’ve tried to get a better angle of that iconic bridge. What was the point? There was another way to get it without the danger.

But there’s no telling Fat Maxine what to do. When she gets an idea in her head, she won’t let it go. If wine’s involved, she’ll defy everyone to make a point. But how did she get past that fence? She’s too obese and unhealthy to climb it. Even top-class athletes would find it difficult to climb on a dry day. I don’t get it.

Police said that she was on the other side of it and then slipped on the mud. She fell a little way down the cliff-face when an exposed tree root caught hold of her camera strap. She was barely a few feet down and then dangled there until she passed. Some guy on the bridge saw her body when he was out for his morning jog. It was a shocking discovery.

What I don’t get is how the camera strap came to be around her neck in the first place. If she were using her tripod, she wouldn’t have had it around her neck at all.

Farewell Maxine. I know it’ll be a much quieter world without you and your drunken rants.

Pure Evil and Kindness

-Mitchell

(Read now: SEETHINGS.)

Five women’s bodies are discovered after the nights of thunderstorms. Their spouses are suspected of the crimes, but it becomes clear that someone else is responsible. There’s no blood and few clues. A storm photographer who specializes in taking pictures of lightning may be the only witness.

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