One of the primary questions I am asked in interviews is “Do you have any writing rituals?” or “Is there anything you need before you start writing?”
I always have an image of crimson candles and pentagrams, my two cats circling as a rhythmic chant fills the smoky air. Oh, how much more interesting interviews would be if I gave that as an answer. It would certainly liven up the house if I did that every morning.
Sadly, the answer I usually give is much more mundane. I need to get dressed before I start writing. Despite the oft-repeated benefit that a writer can do her work while wearing pyjamas and slippers, I can’t – if I’m in my dressing gown I will sit and surf all day. So weekends spent in the altogether are out of the question, unless I want to spend all my time on Slush Pile Hell.
A connected question is “Do you drink while you write?” I’m told the standard answer to this is “Yes, coffee.” Nope. It is one of the banes of my life that I don’t like coffee; it makes trips to Starbucks extremely dull for a start, as the wonders of a gingerbread latte are forever forbidden to me. I will admit, though, that I like to write with a glass of wine or a can of Strongbow. I am the kind of person who could sit and stare at a paragraph all day; after a glass of wine I find it much easier to get the words flowing.
And finally, I am often asked if I can write amid distractions.
Frankly, I have to. I have a husband who will probably have “Sons of Guns” on in the background, neighbours who like to have screaming arguments followed by screaming sex, and two cats who like to wrestle with each other before coming to me with demands to be petted. Fortunately I can type with one hand, because the other is generally occupied placating a mewing feline while the other tries to barge its way in.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte & Tanitha Davenport
**Author Note- has a spanking scene
He was already in the room when I entered. I felt his hands rest on my shoulders from behind and he gave a low chuckle at my gasp of surprise. I was in my nightgown—Rachel had helped me disrobe before retiring herself—and his breath heated the nape of my neck as he teased his fingers along the silk edging. I had chosen the material deliberately. It clung to my body, the sheen of the fabric highlighting every curve.
“Would you like me to undress, Arthur?” I asked.
“No, Helen,” he answered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder and sending a chill along my spine. “I want to undress you myself.”
My heart quickened, but I held myself still as slowly he slid the gown from my shoulders. The cool air on my skin made me shiver, my nipples hardening as the soft material dropped past my waist to land lightly around my feet, exposing my naked body to his gaze. I closed my eyes, feeling conscious of my bare skin, the curls at my quim, the growing wetness inside me.
“Don’t move,” he commanded, and with his fingers he began a slow, tortuous glide along the curve of my spine. I felt one hand slide around my ribs to cup my breast, his thumb brushing against my nipple, and I was unable to suppress a moan as sparks of pleasure radiated from that tender spot. Instantly the movement was repeated, his other hand mirroring the motion until I cried out, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sensation.
“I love that this is all so new to you, my Helen,” Arthur whispered in my ear as I let my head fall back onto his shoulder, my body weakening as he continued his sweet assault on my breasts. My knees began to tremble. I clenched my fingers tightly, aching for his hands to move lower, to touch me where I had touched myself so often while thinking of him, but afraid he would think me too wanton if I asked. So new to me, indeed! What would he think if I touched myself in front of him? Would he be surprised? No—he would not, I was sure. But he might insist on pleasuring me himself, and my clit pulsed at the thought, imagining myself on the edge of ecstasy, him removing my hands and holding them until I begged him to bring me to completion.
He slid his hands down to my hips, leaving me moaning at the loss, and turned me to face him. Before I could stop myself, I reached my hand out to touch his swollen member, which jutted towards me, almost brushing against my stomach. He groaned as I closed my hand around the tip, which was glistening and sticky with moisture, hardening farther under my touch.
How strange it was to know that I had such power, that I could bring him such pleasure with only a simple touch! I tightened my grip, feeling the skin move as I tugged, but before I could continue he had caught both my hands in his and was holding them at my waist.
“My darling,” he said, with a smile, manoeuvring me backwards as he spoke until my calves hit the edge of the bed. “If I let you do that, I shall lose all control, and that will never do. Lie back for me—let me see you waiting for me.”
Trembling, I lay back on the bed, my breath coming faster as he stood watching me, his casual gaze lowering to rest at my quim. Instinctively I parted my legs, blushing as I felt the moisture seep from inside me and dampen my folds.
The smile on his face took on a possessive, lascivious quality.
“How beautiful you are,” he whispered. Slowly he placed one knee then the other on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moved towards me. He laid one hand on my breast, my heart beating rapidly beneath.
“Arthur,” I gasped.
He lowered his head and kissed my nipple, laving it with his tongue, then trailed more kisses down my body—my ribs, my stomach, my hips—until I was trembling with anticipation. His breath rushed over my quim, and for a moment I thought he would kiss me there—oh! How I wanted that!—but instead he paused, watching me with desirous eyes, and slowly slid one finger inside me to the second knuckle.
“So pure,” he whispered, caressing me as I moaned. He reached forward with his thumb and swept it back and forth over my clit. I cried out at the sensation, my body convulsing. It was so much sweeter, so much more pleasurable than when I had touched myself, and I longed for him to continue.
“Helen,” he growled, “tell me you want this.” I recognised the words from our first kiss, and felt my heart bound and my quim tighten at the knowledge that now I could be truthful. Now I could tell him what I wanted.
“I want this, Arthur.”
“Tell me how much you want this.”
“I want this more than anything,” I moaned. His finger was still moving inside me, his thumb still applying delicious pressure, and my wetness was leaking onto his hand and the bed.
“How long have you wanted this, Helen?”
Oh, he was torturing me! “Since I first met you,” I whispered, shifting my hips to match his touch. He smiled and crooked his finger inside me, touching a spot that made me clap a hand over my mouth and shriek—the pleasure was exquisite, and I was on the verge of begging him to take me.
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”
I arched my back, aching for him. “Please, Arthur, take me.”
About the Author
Tanith Davenport began writing erotica at the age of 27 by way of the Romantic Novelists’ Association New Writers’ Scheme. Her debut novel “The Hand He Dealt” was released by Total-e-Bound in June 2011 and was shortlisted for the Joan Hessayon Award for 2012.
Tanith has had short stories published by Naughty Nights Press and House of Erotica. She loves to travel and dreams of one day taking a driving tour of the United States, preferably in a classic 1950s pink Cadillac Eldorado.
Tanith’s idea of heaven is an Indian head massage with a Mojito at her side.