Write a (mercifully) short love scene for a romance novel, using the most absurd, unusual or out-in-left-field metaphors you can possibly conjure, particularly for the euphemisms relating to the act of love (if you dare to take it that far). Let your imagination fly...

Stand back, everybody. I have a premonition that this is gonna be messy.

Reader Discretion is Advised

Deb didn't remember when he had undressed; it seemed like everything between their flesh just...disappeared. Maybe to the same place where a sword goes when it isn't needed? Her own robe was still in place, and he made a slow, purposeful act out of slipping it off her shoulders. She felt the soft fabric sliding down her arms, flowing smoothly down her back. She arched her body, helping the process along.

Lovemaking on a couch, especially an unfamiliar couch, was often an awkward affair at best, but Immortals swiftly learned an almost instinctive awareness of body position. Love, like combat, is a kind of dance, where both partners move in synergy. Bodies slid past each other gracefully, flesh on flesh. Somehow, she ended up on top of the peak again; what better way to explore The Highlands? Her hands slid down between his thunder thighs, kneading his dough ball, her nails lightly scratching the sensitive skin beneath. One hand continued to fondle his yarn balls like a cat's favourite toy, while the other slid up to check the size and condition of his weapon...

Such a long, strong thrusting weapon, a true Scots claymore. She flashed her teeth in a wild feral grin; "Is this for me, my Dark One?" she half-purred. His flesh twitched once in invitation, a move she thought of as the tail wagging the dog. She waited for the words-- "I am yours, my Lady... ". She slid onto him like skating on ice, in one smooth move, as graceful as slipping into a well-worn saddle. Her eyes widened and a shivering moan escaped from her lips as he filled her to the very core.

She closed her eyes, arching further and further back until she gripped his ankles with both hands. She held this strange, impossible position for as long as possible, holding him in the deepest part of her. Duncan lifted his hips, and with a gasping moan she discovered new depths to her being.

She pulled herself out of her yoga position, settling back into the saddle again. She thoroughly enjoyed this style, being in complete control of speed and depth and rhythm. She rode her steed with confidence, putting him through all his paces, from trot to canter to full rolling gallop. His hands were not idle, stroking thighs and hips and stomach; stimulating her hard little pearl. Their moans harmonized like eerie, primal music.

Sometime during this intense ride, Deb had reached back, roughly tearing at her own hair, freeing it from its restraining tie. She shook her head until she felt her wild mane streaming down her back. Something burst from her throat, an animal howl that rose from the deepest part of her soul. As if waiting for that moment, the Highlander burst as well, a warm flood of his essence within her.


I have a terrible confession to make; or maybe it's not so terrible. The truth is, this is just a sanitized version of something much more naughty. I admit it--for a short period of time, I wrote Highlander smut-fiction. An e-friend of mine from California and I would stay up all night composing naughty stories via Instant Messenger. I usually tried to impose *some* sort of storyline, but mostly they were Plot, What Plot? "stories" of the worst kind; involving her and Methos, and Duncan and myself. They were intended for no one's entertainment but our own, but eventually I persuaded Linda to allow this scene to be cleaned up and used for the MWC. She even helped me with some of the Romance Novel imagery and corny metaphors.
 
 
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