Sunday, September 23, 2007
From my first memoir...
For those of you who aren't personally acquainted with my writings, I thought I'd post a short excerpt from my first memoir: Brandi Whyne and Her Incredibly Erotic Adventures: Chapter 1--Captured by Space Pirates! Enjoy.
From Brandi Whyne and Her Incredibly Erotic Adventures with Robin Manhood and His Totally Sexed-Out Space Pirates
a serialized novel available from eXtasy Books (http://www.extasybooks.com)
(Copyright 2006 Celine Chatillon, all rights reserved)
(Editor's note: This excerpt is an edited “PG-13” version. I didn’t want to offend too many readers off the bat. If you want to read all the good and naughty bits—then buy the bloody book! --Brandi)
It’s difficult to know where to begin my tale—so fantastic an adventure it is, and oh, so incredibly erotic. I suppose the best place to start would be at the very beginning.
Not at my beginning. To go that far back would simply bore you to tears. I know it would bore me, so let’s not go there at all. Agreed? I really should have phrased that first sentence better.
Allow me to start again.
The best place to start is when I first met the space pirates. Or to put it even more accurately, Robin Manhood and his totally sexed-out space pirates.
I know what you’re thinking now “What does she mean by ‘totally sexed-out space pirates’?” It’s a valid question. But if I told you everything at the start of this saga, it would take away from the suspense, now wouldn’t it? Besides, it will become obvious in a few pages what I mean about the space pirates and their sexual appetites. Can you hang on until then? You can? Thanks.
Okay, now that we’ve settled that point, I’ll start my story on the day I, Brandi Whyne, met Captain Robin Manhood and his so-called band of Merry Men, Women, and Aliens-Whose-Genders-Are-Still-Under-Consideration.
Got that? Good—because I’m not repeating it.
I was twenty-two years old and working that day—strike that, slaving is a more accurate term for what I did—at the Black Whole, a smoky, seedy spaceport bar owned and operated by my aunt, Cruilla DeVino on the planet Proxima Centauri Five.
I use the term ‘aunt’ somewhat loosely to describe dear Cruilla, for I was never certain of our family relationship. With her toothless grin, greasy, matted gray hair, two meter height, one-hundred kilogram weight and her constant chuma leaf chewing and spitting, she bore little resemblance to me—a petite yet curvy, auburn-haired, freckled-face girl with all my teeth.
All I really knew about Cruilla was that after both my parents died in a crash landing of a top secret, experimental spacecraft on the other side of the planet (when I was a mere twelve years old) I was sent off to slave alongside Cruilla at the Black Whole. And I can honestly say that there has never been a more educational apprenticeship experienced by an impressionable young girl in the known history of the universe.
“Bring us more ale,” the old space dogs would bark at me from their sticky barstools from sundown to sun-up. “And bring us another bowl of those little salty peanuts so we can get eat them and get even more dehydrated than we do while consuming large quantities of alcohol so we can consume even more alcohol…” or some such nonsense. The Black Whole wasn’t famous for its intelligent clientele by any means.
Fetching mugs of space ale, delivering bowls of peanuts and wiping off sticky barstools was the whole of my existence until about my sixteenth birthday… And then our patrons’ jeering took on a more lascivious tone. But I soon discovered a way to keep the lusty louts’ hands off my curves. By the time Robin Manhood arrived on the scene, I had polished my comeback lines so well they had become true performance art.
“Hey, Brandi,” one particularly thickheaded gentleman missing half his teeth and all of his wits, charm and pocket change called out. His drinking buddies laughed and punched him on the arm. “Pull down that blouse of yours and let us see something. Flip up that skirt and show us that curvy backside of yours up close and personal, sweetheart.”
What can I say? Their manners were appalling. That’s the Black Whole’s clientele for you. It was time to teach these scumbags a lesson.
“Oh, what an eloquent pick-up line. To have this innate ability to wax poetic… Ah! It makes me my heart sing... Your mother must be very proud of you and your lyrical abilities.”
“Eh?” The cretin cocked an eyebrow and stared at me, drool pooling in the corner of his crooked mouth. “You sayin’ you really wanna do it with me?”
I batted my thick, curly eyelashes, smiled coyly and leaned in for the kill. “Why, kind sir, how can I refuse? You are a true master of romance.”
His eyes were practically on stalks now. “Say wha…?”
As his brain was probably the size of his manhood—miniscule—I tried to make it easy for him. I spoke slowly and distinctly.
“Okay, I’m game, Romeo. Pull it out and show me what you got, big guy.”
Quite a large crowd gathered around us now, murmuring encouraging words. “Woo-hoo! You better show the little lady what she wants before she changes her mind.”
I held out a hand and cut off their banter. “But first, let me remind you all of one important thing…”
I leveled a stare at the entire assembly and lowered my voice to gain their utmost attention to the seriousness of what I was about to say.
“I have taken a sacred vow of celibacy at the Shrine of the Goddess of Fertility, Fun and Family Planning that I will never make love to a man unless he measures up to my intimate expectations.”
“Uh, you want me to pull my manhood out and lay it on the bar?” The imbecile hadn’t quite caught on yet and wanted me to spell it out to him. Meanwhile, his drunken companions howled with laughter at his expense. Foolishly, I egged him on.
“Of course. I must measure it. I’ve made a vow to the goddess. You don’t want me to go back on my vow, do you?”
“No, no, of course not. It’s just I…I…”
“He ain’t got one!” jeered one of his buddies.
“Hey, I got one and you know it! You take that back, Bernard.”
The entire bar was in on the joke now. Sniggering and chortling, back slapping and booze sputtering echoed from the top of the smoke-stained rafters down to the mud-encrusted tile of the floors.
Now, if I had been thinking at this point rather than enjoying a rather good laugh at a customer’s expense, I would have made good my escape to the back while Henry and Bernard’s buddies taunted them about their masculinity. But I didn’t. I joined in on the merrymaking, even reaching across the counter to retrieve my ruler…
“Gotcha.” Henry pinned my hand to the surface. “Get her other arm, Bernard. We’ll show Miss Brandi and our comrades here who’s a pansy and who isn’t.”
At this point I believe I should make mention that I had taken a vow at the Shrine of the Goddess of Fun, Fertility and Family Planning. It wasn’t quite the vow that I used to tease my customers. However, it was made along similar lines.
My vow was simply this: I would never give myself to a man until the goddess gave me a sign indicating that he was the right man for me. So allowing myself to get raped on a bar countertop—and a sticky, cigar ash and peanut-covered one at that—was right out of the picture.
“Aunt Cruilla!” I cried as the creeps crushed me to the bar spread-eagle. Even now Henry was fumbling with his belt buckle as Bernard reached under my full skirts... “I need a little assistance here!”
Cruilla sauntered out from the back office and clucked at me like she did when she wasn’t too happy. “Brandi, I told you a million times not to wipe off tables with your backside. Now, get your knickers back on and climb off that counter this instance before I dock your pay.”
Then my dear auntie disappeared into her cubbyhole once more.
Henry and Bernard weren’t about to let me go with so weak a protest on the owner’s part. And their buddies were all starting to drool and fumble with their belts as well… I opened my mouth to scream but found my own bar towel shoved inside, muffling my cries.
This was it. The end of my purity and perhaps my life. It was all I could do not to break into tears.
But then when all hope seemed lost, a commotion starting behind me shot a warm glimmer of hope through my anguished soul. A shadowy character from the last booth on the right emerged. I hadn’t paid much attention to him before, as he had pulled his hood low over his face and kept pretty much to himself all evening. But now the hum of a pocket-sized laser zap-knife and the cries of agony permeated the air along with the smoky-sweet stench of burning flesh.
“Eegads, no!” screamed many a drunken bar patron that night as he quickly zipped up his fly and made a made dash to the door. “Please, anything but that! My missus would never forgive me if I came home without my few inches!”
Within seconds, Henry and Bernard and their cronies were limping out the exit... I slowly pulled myself to a sitting position and flung the rag from my mouth, eager to thank my rescuer.
But he was gone.
“Brandi, get off the bar top,” Cruilla called out from her office. “How many times do I have to tell you, girl?”
“Sorry, Aunt Cruilla.”
I hopped down and rushed to the smudged front window. A towering figure dressed in a flowing, dark green, hooded cloak strode quickly away from the Black Whole.
My champion. My savior.
And he hadn’t even bothered to tell me his name.
Good, eh? Wanna read more? The links to buy this fantastic piece of comedy-erotic literature are above. Get your arse moving and click on them! --Brandi