Carys Weldon Blog

Thursday, August 12, 2010


I've been working on poetry all summer long. It's something I can do anywhere I go, or wherever I sit. Are you into poetry? I like to write poetry that resonates with "regular people." Occasionally, I try my hand at high brow stuff, but I prefer poetry that you can pick up and identify with.

Of course, I have the poetry book Caresses Well Done which is fantasy and sexy poetry (which goes to vulgar). I wrote several pieces in that collection about movie stars I find attractive. If you're interested in poetry you can read with your significant other as a turn on, you might check that out at

This week, I've been critiquing/editing a friend's poetry collection before it goes to print. I think she will be self-publishing, so I won't mention her name, since you won't be able to get it unless you're in my area.

I want to encourage you poets to write your poetry down and make a collection. Poetry tells the stories of our lives, and how we see things going on around us. It can also help you work through issues, and who doesn't need to work through a few of those?

Here's a piece from my Caresses Well Done:


Every woman wants whispers of desire
Tantalizing touches that set her on fire
The teases that make her panties wet
As many practiced kisses as she can get
In her dreams, a lover
Lives to please her
Loves with raves about
The sweet taste of her
Nectared lips, giving
Attention with tiny nips
And chest rumbles of desire
unleashed, devouring
Her greedily with succulent savoring
Telling her how he craves her flavoring
How it haunts him when
they’re apart, how he thirsts and hungers
after her every attention and in his
whispered amour, he mentions how her lips
wrap around him
driving his fantasies

Labels: , , ,

Posted by CarysWeldonblog :: 7:13 AM :: 0 Comments:

Post a Comment


Post a Comment


Tuesday, August 10, 2010

New Blog Start

Hi, friends.

I'm back in my computer seat, pulling myself together, hoping to become professional again. Hopefully, I'll be posting to this blog more regularly.

I hope you're doing well. Please post and let me know what you're up to.

While I wait for a crowd to gather, I'd like to point you to where many of my books have been recently released or re-released.

A new one that you might have heard much about is TO CLAIM A QUEEN, a historical erotic romance. It's a short novella.

Here's the prologue:

(Be warned, graphic sex coming next)

Prince Kayler, of Dungreddin, leaned back, letting his mind wander and his eyes close—despite the fact that he dallied, mid-romp, with one of his father’s chambermaids. Vaguely, he wondered how many times he’d done that very thing. It appeared to be his greatest habit, and he well knew it.

He had no remorse in letting her do all the work. After all, she’d begged for the tumble—like they all did. A chance at getting with royal child—securing a place within the keep forever? A play with the massive tool? Idly, he questioned himself on what her particular desire leaned toward, but he didn’t think too hard on it, for she sat astride him, high volume moans of pleasure gasping from her lips, working them both up to yet another release.

He didn’t bother to peek at her.

It wasn’t that she was uncomely. On the contrary, the girl had quite pleasant features—else he would not have bedded her in the first place—no matter how much she pleaded. Nay, it was the mere fact that they all bored him—every last wench in his father’s kingdom. Nothing but prattle and begging, preening and fawning, pleasantries and puffed up compliments. Even their moans sounded the same.

As if he needed any of that.

The girl squirmed, readjusted, groaned and collapsed atop him—that made Kayler open his eyes, buck beneath her a few times, and finish his own business in short order.

Like a blanket, she sprawled across him, worn out from all her hard work. He, on the other hand, had barely managed a sweat—was more likely to draw one with her prone over him. He lay with his gaze going over the room, searching first the rafters, and then the walls—spying cobwebs and niches.

Dark and heavy velvet drapes blocked the high daylight and all sense of time-keeping in his tower chamber. Candles melted to nubs on the candelabras. He kicked his right foot a smidge to rid himself of the tangled bedding there.

A few minutes later, the girl sighed, pressed her lips to his chest and whispered, “Ready to go again, my lord?”

Kayler laughed outright, glad that she’d sensed his lack of fulfillment, and rolled her to her back, saying exuberantly, “Yes!” Unequivocally, he could go again. Harder, rougher.

She squealed with delight, hung on for all she was worth, and Kayler put it to her, giving her grunt-for-push.

“My good lord!” His nasally, young, runner, Tonnin, burst into the private chamber with no heed to decorum, nor respect for the private act Kayler and his latest lady friend were in the middle of. Rushing to the edge of the bed, he queried, “Morning’s come and gone, and you’re still a-bed?”

Kayler spared him a glance. “Of course.” He kept on pumping.
His gaze darting over the wench, spying close enough to see who she was, the boy announced, “Oh! It’s a bad day to stay in the sheets!”

“Nay. It’s starting well enough for me.” Kayler kept up his pounding, asking the girl beneath him, “What say you, wench?”
In between thrusts, she said, “It—seems—fair-enough—for me.”

“Fair?” He quirked a brow.

She grinned. “Ah. Did I—say—fair?”

Before she could elaborate on the fine night and morning he’d given her, the runner interrupted. “The king has sent for you.”

That effectively ceased any fun Kayler had been engaged in. With a quick and final plunge—a holding second of release—and a playful slap and hearty squeeze—and a firm, “Leave me, woman,” Kayler leaped to his feet and spied the runner with intense disbelief. “Why?”

A rapping knock at the door followed with a loud, “Sir! The king requests your presence! Are you up, sir?”

Kayler let his head swing in the direction of the door. “Aye! Of course I’m up! Tell him I’m coming.”

There was a cough outside the door and a tentative, “Yes, I know you have company, but—”

Shaking his head, rolling his eyes, Kayler bellowed, “Tell my father I’ll be on my knees in no time.”

Again, a cough sounded and the messenger asked, “Yes, but—”
“On my knees in the throne room. Be gone!”

The page grinned. “You cannot blame him for his questions. You are renowned, my lord.” And often slow to answer the king’s summons. It went unsaid between them.

“Yes, well.” While the wench searched for her clothes behind his back, Kayler stood in his all his manly glory, squeezing himself clean, demanding, “What else do you know?”

Gasping a little for breath, the page wheezed, “Filaban has offered a truce, of sorts. A daughter for a son. A blood tie to be made within the fortnight—or war upon our heads.”

“Now why would he do that?” Kayler spit out an oath, adding without a doubt, “It’s a trick! He already prepares for war. Our spies tell us that.” He glanced around for his breeches, frowned at the girl who had yet to leave and asked the air, “What treacherous bastard would involve his daughter in games of war? Or is she so ugly she can’t get a husband another way?” His ire landed another gaze on his play-partner.

She apologized profusely, bowing in panic—as if caught in her own game, “My lord, I cannot find my chemise.” Her other things clutched to her bosom, she swiped the sheeting on the bed, looking for the missing garment, stammering a mumbled, “You are quite a catch, my lord—perhaps she has heard of you and requested you a-purpose—over all the other princes.”

The page made a face, pointing upward. “There!”

Her chemise had somehow landed on the bedpost high above their heads. Kayler snatched it from its perch, pushed it into her arms and said, “Good romp. And thanks. Perhaps we’ll do it again.”

“Yes, m’lord.” The girl ducked her head and scuttled from the room.

Kayler spared her naked backside a once over and clicked regret inside his jaw—sure he could’ve done the deed again, if he’d just turned her over one more time. He snagged his hose from under the edge of the bed and began to pull it on, going back to his commentary on the king’s messenger. “It is really none of his business what I am up to. Or how quickly I jump to my father’s summons.”

“Except he must report.” Tonnin hopped from foot to foot. “The king gets cranky, you know.”

“Are you anxious, Tonnin? Or do you need to go to the pissery?”

The dancing ceased immediately. “I’m worried, sir.”

“About what?” It took Kayler a minute to organize his hosiery in a straight-forward manner. Holding it up in front of him, he pulled the knots from them.

His personal page, the messenger-come-runner boy, brought Kayler’s boots to him, explaining, “I should tell you, you are the sacrificial son. I heard it myself.”

That brought Kayler’s attention around. “Who used that term? And why me? Did they say?”

The boy chewed his lip. “Melicor is helping in the decision. He said you were the likely one.”

His oldest brother. Nemesis. The bane of his existence. It came as no surprise that he held the sword at his back. “I should’ve guessed.”

“They are worried. Filaban gives his daughter right of refusal. But you are the only one that could sway her, they think. Your father would rather not send you. He thinks you are an unfaithful sort.” The boy sheepishly turned red.

“Oh. Is that it—and all?” Kayler drew his clothing on, one layer at a time, in haste—hose, breeches, boots, balloon-sleeved blouse, blackened leather lord’s coat—buckling the stays on the front of it with a practiced single hand while reaching for his hardened, matching cuffs.

“Your brothers do not have the same way with the ladies as you do, my lord. That is a known fact.”

Kayler rolled his eyes. “So the war is upon my head. Great.”

“It seems so, my lord.”

“War is inevitable, you know.” Reaching for his sword belt, Kaylor strapped it to his hips. “And I will be the first casualty. Killed in Filaban’s courtyard, most likely.” Striding from his chamber with the page at his heels, Kayler went on with his reasoned rage, “Melicor has likely plotted this from my birth.”

In truth, he had convinced himself that Melicor had manipulated the relationship with Filaban to the point of anger, but he had no way to prove it.

“Can I go with you, my lord? Perhaps I could help—to remind you in being faithful. Or to be your look-out.”

Kayler hesitated in his stomp toward the royal court, pausing to frown at his little squire. “Did you not listen to a word I said? I’m likely going to my death—if I’m to be sent to Filaban’s keep. The man is our sworn enemy.”

“I have faith in you, my lord. You will charm his daughter, and she will love you. We will have peace, and it will be at your hands.”

Kayler took in the boy’s sincerity, the wide-saucered black of the page’s eyes in a well-tanned but gaunt face. He kept the boy running, that was for sure—evident by the scrawny, wiry-muscled build before him. Roughing his page’s hair, he grinned, “What would we do without each other, aye? You’d be stuck with my brothers. And what would they teach you?”

“Certainly nothing important, my lord.”

Chucking him on the chin, Kayler laughed outright. “Certainly not the same pursuits I have. Perhaps you would be more well-rounded if you worked your days for one of them.”

“Indeed, sir. They are layabouts. You—I have to keep up with. It is much more fun.”

“I fear our fun is over, Tonnin.”

“Nay, sir. We are about to start an adventure. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Well, then. Let’s see if your bones tell the truth.” He didn’t need to say it, but he reminded the boy, “Stay out of sight. It bears us no good if they realize you are hiding.”

Saying quickly, “Of course!” Tonnin raced off to the back entrance of the throne room, to the other side of the curtain, behind which all the mutterings and counseling could be heard.

Kayler silently thanked God for the boy’s loyalty and stealth. Tonnin had a perfect recall, an attention to detail that simply amazed Kayler—and was the very reason for his placement in service. Before Kayler had met Tonnin, he’d ne’er used a runner, a page, a squire, or a valet of any sort, but the boy had proved himself invaluable.

Minutes later, they entered the main chamber of the royal court. As required in formal presentation, Kayler waited to be announced, then strode swift and sure to the spot below his father’s throne—kneeling in obeisance, saying, “You summoned me?”

Labels: ,

Posted by CarysWeldonblog :: 7:24 AM :: 0 Comments:

Post a Comment


Post a Comment