Monday, November 07, 2011

Author David Russell - Part II

Today we bring you the inspiration behind David Russell's next two books.
My Dream of Madonna/An Ecstatic Rendezvous  and Therapy Rapture. For more information and buy links to these books just click on their titles. 

For more about David Russell, please visit his pages:

Don't forget to comment all to begin the drawing for the Amazon cards. :
  **Disclaimer: Work was broken into paragraphs for easier reading**
Therapy Rapture

Inspiration (Excerpt)

A breeze smiled on me, soothing the migraine of the day's travelling. Rowena, my therapist, was so soothing. Her almond eyes were a warm synthesis of liquidity and matured resin, her lips verging on purple. She was dark, sultry, feline, laid back, reserved, accommodating, but with such potential for elusiveness! Her low velvet voice melted my reserve and made me ache, my fingers poised to do that touch talk. She had a hold on me, so tender, so yielding but so firm; I had some token resistance, some caution, but I wanted that, I arranged it; but I did not know what to do about it. I'd been in my self-protective shell for so long, and always tended to put others down for being conned. Good that I finally got out of that job – where I had had to stretch my upper lip near snapping point – what I felt about my supervisor; that good lump of severance pay will give me time so sort myself out. But I had committed myself to what I had decided was essential treatment. 

She had to bring me out, and it would be a sustained operation – as she outlined to me, there was a multitude of blocks. We had been consulting together for several months, and at the mental level had melted quite a lot of defensive barriers. How often had our breath felt like a string, pulling us closer to that introductory caress, how often had I felt we nearly touched each other as we delicately paced our minds through those depth confessions! (Or how good she was at covering up a possible web of stresses and tensions which was strictly her private area!) What traumas must she have experienced to get that delicious equipoise which now faced me, defined me, challenged me, the positives balancing the rejection taboos of my past? 

Her body language rippled and throbbed; the way she controlled the crossing and uncrossing of her legs, they way she wore skirts of just the right length, or jeans just loose enough to ripple – knowing how to caress herself, knowing how to make her clothes caress her. Rowena just had to get really turned on by her favourite, delicate fabrics. She certainly showed me a wide variety of outfits at our various consultations. My wishful thinking simmered; perhaps there was a coded message underneath her assured professional front. My eyes alternated between her body and her file, between the hand controlling her pen and the eyes, brain and body controlling me. I had laid myself open to her by consulting her . . . there is always two-way potential 

My Dream of Madonna/An Ecstatic Rendezvous

Inspiration (Excerpt)

I was tossing and turning, half-dreaming my way into wakefulness. The telephone rang. Before it had finished its third ring, I picked up the receiver.

"Hello honey, you got through."

I sensed the voice with an ethereal shudder. It was hers and no other's. It must have been that chain letter, or that very special message on the Contact Line. "We've got to meet. Midnight at the Imperial Palace. Look your best; be your best."

So it was all going to happen, Madonna would approve me, fulfill me. I was all atremble. I hurriedly shaved, showered and dressed. I looked intellectually smart-casual in dark brown cords? What the hell? Whatever fashion I chose, Madonna was sure to do some really imaginative permutations.

I went down to the vestibule, meaning to call a cab. There, waiting for me, were her bodyguards—about five foot eight. They were wearing white silk robes with pink sashes. They beckoned me to kneel at the altar, and then to stand. The lights dimmed. Then, from the rear, Madonna entered. She looked exquisite in a purple velvet ball gown, glittering with a handful of jewels flashing all the colors of the rainbow, revealing her shoulders, so wonderfully toned by all that sensual exercise. Her hair was now black and straight, her complexion fresh, without make-up. She stood between the two rows of girls, and then she smiled at me. 

"You're looking great," she said, "I must see more."

"Hi! We've come to collect you. This is your honor and ours."They ushered me into a plush Chevrolet. The engine purred. The upholstery was resilient and pliant, in time, in tune with my quivering anticipation. I was going to be a
sex-object for Madonna. 

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