I’m very Serial About Demon Interrupted

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Thanks you so much for hosting me, Cecile, as I celebrate the launch of Demon Interrupted, the fourth of the Lakeland Witches novels with a yummy giveaway and a few titillating words. It’s a pleasure to be here

When I wrote Demon Interrupted I was following in the footsteps of Charles Dickens, Herman Melville, Henry James, Alexander Dumas, Arthur Conan Doyle and Stephen King. No, they didn’t all write about demons and witches, but they did write stories in serial format.

Demon Interrupted started out as an experimental serialization because I wanted to try something different, I wanted a different, but creative way to engage readers of my blog and maybe showcase my skills as a storyteller. On top of that, I was incredibly curious to uncover all of Ferris Ryder’s secrets. For those of you who haven’t read any of the Lakeland novels, Ferris Ryder is a secondary character who had no memory of his past before going to work as caretaker and glorified PA for succubus, Cassandra Larkin. Ferris has a special gift of making himself almost invisible – unnoticed in a crowded room, and he also knows more than a fair bit of very powerful magic. How could I not wonder how he got these gifts and just who the hell he was? SO I went to work, letting an episode of his story unfold every three weeks on my blog. Once it was finished and Ferris’ story was told, Xcite Books decided to publish it as the fourth book in the Lakeland Witches Series.

And just like that, I was hooked on serials. Here’s a quickie primmer on serials from the old reliable, Wikipedia. With the growth of moveable type in the 17^th century, the serial became popular because books were very expensive and putting out a story in small installments on a weekly basis made it affordable and accessible to a much larger audience.

I remember as a kid my mother used to read stories in the GRIT newspaper that were in serial format. Some magazines she read, as well as some present day ones still do serials. In 1984 Tom Wolfe ran Bonfire of the Vanities in Rolling Stone. Stephen King, Michel Faber and lots of others have experimented with serialization. With the internet and the rise of successful and respectable self-publishing along with the advent of the eReader and eBook format, the serial is becoming even more popular. Add to that the sudden attention gained for fan fiction through Fifty Shades of Grey and sites like Wattpad, which are places strictly for writers to serialize and share their stories with readers, and the serial is having a wonderful resurgence.

After Demon Interrupted, I got bold and brassy and decided to do In the Flesh, in weekly episodes. I wanted a chance to expand upon what was originally a short story called God’s Wife. After almost a year of weekly episodes of what I expected to be a novella at best, I had a 94K word novel.

I discovered that writing a weekly serial for my blog freed me up to write for no other reason than for the sheer pleasure of writing a story. It was such a freeing and, at the same time, intimidating experience to have to produce a 2.5k continuation of a story, clean it up, and put it on my blog every week. And I loved it! It was a change of pace and it was a way to write some of those stories I’ve been wanting to write for ages, but just never had time. Since the commitment was only a couple thousand words, or a chapter a week, it was something I could slot in easily with bigger projects and at the end of nine months or so, voila! When it’s finished, it’s already a clean manuscript, which needs very little change before being published in other formats – Like Demon Interrupted. And readers who have missed the series or parts of it, or readers who just want it all together in one piece, can go to their favorite eBook seller and download the whole thing.

I’ve discovered that a serial on my blog is one of the very best ways to let the characters take control of the story and then I can enjoy, right along with my readers, the wild path they lead me on. Plus there’s always that added adrenaline rush of wondering if I’m going to be able to pull off yet another week’s episode, and just how the hell my characters are going to get out of the mess I left them in last Friday! In the serial’s immediacy, there’s a discipline involved and a rhythm that’s been good for my writing and my creative process.

I totally love that the weekly episode is something I can give my readers, a little guilty pleasure every weekend, sort of a literary nooner. It’s almost like readers are looking over my shoulder as the story unfolds, and that’s a very exciting, very immediate, way — not only to write, but to bond with readers while I completely let the Muse lead me on a weekly roller coaster ride.

I’m elated that Demon Interrupted will now have a larger audience with formatting that works for more people. It’s exciting to see how a few thousand words a week can add up to something a whole lot bigger.

Thanks for having me over, Cecile.

Ferris Ryder has a choice to make. He can reclaim the past, which he now consciously keeps from his memories, or he can let all that he fears to remember destroy the present and the Elemental Coven he has come to love. Has the mysterious Elaine come into his life to be his guiding angel or will she tear his world apart, along with that of his coven family?

At first he believed his surge in libido was because Elemental Cottage was long steeped in the sex magic of its residents, and his body responded to that magic. But he quickly discovered that it mattered not where he was, his desires did not diminish, and the stroking and caressing his of cock simply because it felt good to him had become a part of his routine. It was coven practice that the pleasures of the flesh were pleasures one should share generously with oneself, as well as with others, and they were indeed pleasures in which he took delight.

He opened his trousers and lifted his erection free from his boxers sucking his bottom teeth in a tight gasp as engorged flesh came in contact with the heat of his palm. He shifted his buttocks forward and scooped his balls free with his other hand. Then he took a moment to look down at himself, distended and pale against his black trousers. The housekeeper now lived in the gamekeeper’s cottage. She had left hours ago. He was alone in the big house and it was a long time till morning. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the leather chair, stroking and cupping. Sometimes he thought about the sex he’d had at Elemental Cottage, sometimes he fantasized about situations that were not a part of the experience of which he had memory and wondered if they were experiences from his past. And sometimes he just lost himself in the feel of his own body, the sheathing stroke of his fist, the cup and fondle of his balls.

The journey down from Cumbria was a long one, and he had forced himself to wait, feeling the uncomfortable surging and swelling and tightening in his cock as he travelled the motorway, anticipating the relief that was always welcome at the end of the journey. And even then he had held himself, held the weight of his need close to his body, felt it tug at him while he inspected the gardens, while he balanced the books, while he paid the bills. And now after the meal and the wine, now it was time. As he stroked, he thought of the deep valley between Fiori’s breast, the way she cupped them around his cock as he thrust; he thought of watching Skye’s skilled tongue snake up over Alice’s splay while she sat on the kitchen counter bathed in afternoon sunlight, skirt hiked, panties kicked to the floor. Fiori’d had every intention of chasing them out that day so she could begin dinner. Instead she had joined them. He had watched her ease three fingers into Skye’s wet slit from where she bent over. He watched until he could take no more, then he’d opened his fly and entered Fiori from behind. Dinner was late that night, but no one had minded.

As he stroked and thrust into his hand and ground his buttocks into the leather chair, his mind was a whir of memories of sex at Elemental Cottage. How could he live among them and not constantly be aroused, and not constantly long to connect. Thrust … stroke … cup … His body knew the rhythm so well now, and it would settle for nothing less. Thrust … stroke … cup … It was as if a whole new world had opened up to him, a world of pleasure and sensuality, of colour and texture. Thrust … stroke … cup … Outside a tawny owl trilled. Inside the pipes rattled as the heater kicked on just before his breathing drowned out all other sound. Thrust … stroke … cup …

How he hadn’t seen her in the corner, he couldn’t imagine. He didn’t know how long she’d been sitting quietly on the sofa in the shadow watching him, but it was the tight whimper and the nervous clearing of her throat as she came forward into the honeyed pool of light from the crook necked lamp that got his attention. Before he could do more than blink his surprise, she dropped to her knees in front of him, shoved his hands away and took his cock into her mouth, deep into her mouth, keeping wide eyes that were nearly black in the dim light focused on his face.

Because he didn’t dream, she was not an apparition from the Dreamscape, and there was no doubting her flesh and blood solidity. She had no scent, therefore she must be a ghost, though how it was that she had flesh, he didn’t know, and any thoughts he had of who she was or why she was kneeling in front of him with his cock in her mouth did not linger as she tongued the underside of him and cupped his buttocks to draw him deeper into the tight tug of her cheeks. Motion became frenzied and desperate as he curled his fingers in her tumble of dark hair in an effort to either regain the control she had taken from him or lose it more completely. Either would do nicely, he thought.

It was only as she lifted the skirt of her black gown and moved to straddle him he became fully aware that her clothing was not of this era, though he could not say from which. Her eyes watered from the effort to accommodate his heft, an effort made by one whose arousal was not yet at the level of his own. But she thwarted his attempt at foreplay, pushed his hands away and persevered. Her tight struggle down onto him made him cry out and breathe in shallow gasps to control himself, holding the soft swell of her hips beneath the taffeta of the gown to aid in her struggle.

And when she had fully sheathed him, with a quick swipe of one hand, she wiped away the tears from her cheeks, bit her lower lip, caught the breath she clearly didn’t need and began to shift and undulate. She rode him with her arms around his neck and her soft breasts swaying beneath the deep plunge of the bodice. She rode him with her lips pressed to his ear, whispering frantic words he could not make out as his breathing crescendoed to a roar, then a harsh grunt as he convulsed his release in hard, desperate shudders. It was a release he had not yet expected, one he would have never permitted until he had first satisfied her, but as he reached for her to return the favour, she shook her head wildly and shoved off his lap, stumbling backward onto the floor as she did so.

‘Don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me! I thought you wanted me. I thought you wanted me to do … my duty.’

It was only as she regained her footing and backed away from him that he noticed the rope around her neck. How in goddess’ name could he not notice a rope around her neck? For a charged moment, she stood gazing at him, one hand pressed to her chest, the other holding the looped hemp. Then, before he could speak, before he could calm her, reassure her that he would never harm her, she turned quickly and disappeared through the wall of books at the back of the study leaving him stunned and shaken, but there was no denying that he was wide awake, and his cock was wet from sex.

Voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes, K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about?

When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked Coast to Coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She also enjoys martial arts, reading, watching the birds and anything that gets her outdoors.

KD has erotica published with SourceBooks, Xcite Books, Harper Collins Mischief Books, Mammoth, Cleis Press, Black Lace,Sweetmeats Press and others.

K D’s critically acclaimed erotic romance novels include, The Initiation of Ms Holly, Fulfilling the Contract, To Rome with Lust, and The Pet Shop. Her paranormal erotic novel, Body Temperature and Rising, the first book of her Lakeland Witches trilogy, was listed as honorable mention on Violet Blue’s Top 12 Sex Books for 2011. Books two and three, Riding the Ether, and Elemental Fire, are now also available.

K D Grace also writes hot romance as Grace Marshall. An Executive Decision, Identity Crisis, The Exhibition, Interviewing Wade are all available.

Find K D Here:

Websites: http://kdgrace.co.uk/

http://www.thebritbabes.co.uk

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/KDGraceAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/KD_Grace

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/kdgraceauthor/

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