My Autumnal Delights

As sure as the nights get colder and the shadows lengthen, autumn is upon us. You can hear an urgency to the sound of the crickets and cries of the birds in the morning, just a little louder, faster as winter approaches. Living in Ohio, we enjoy every season, and I adore all of them for their own unique charm. As much as I love tending my vegetable garden, cultivating and harvesting, autumn marks an end to the busy late summer canning I do. If you are a follower of mine on Facebook, then you know how much canning I do to preserve food for my family all year. I still have produce growing, but with the shorter days and cooler nights it is looking a little paltry. We aren’t expecting frost for a couple of weeks and the sun is shining bright during the day so my tomatoes are still holding on strong. I find myself scouring the green bean bushes (the ones my cocker spaniels haven't eaten) hoping to find one more green bean and being excited when I find three. The corn the farmer planted behind my house has turned golden and papery, fluttering in the crisp breeze, it’s color matching the fur of my two little dogs as they run the fence line, smelling and searching for something. Who only knows what that might be?

Fall is a magical time of year. It provides a reason for me to get out one of my cute hats or cardigans, and pull out a pair of boots that hasn’t seen light of day in six months. Maybe get out some new lipstick, oranges or autumnal browns. And I get to use my favorite word “autumnal”—my customers in the salon know that they're not allowed to ask for a “fallish” nail polish LOL.

While many people fixate on the spookiness of the season, for me, autumn is more than the days centered on Halloween. It's a beautiful three months of the world getting ready for bed. And right now it's still twilight, and winter is a long way off. My vegetables are still growing, albeit slowly, and I can still get away with the flip-flops. Though now when I go out into the garden in the morning, the ground stays damp longer and the dew is icy and wet between my toes—I kinda love it. The coffee taste better too, don't you think? It's warmer, sweeter and so much more satisfying with a dash of pumpkin spice cream and a cool nip in the air. Autumn beckons you to cuddle up in the morning with a good book, to pick apples or just to go for one more long walk as the leaves fall around you.
What is your favorite thing about autumn? 

Maybe curling up with a good book?

How about a sexy version of THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW?   Right now you can get a copy of my retelling and two other erotic fairy tales of mine on Amazon for only .99. My Sleepy Hollow is sexy twist on the old classic tale. A perfect autumn story, complete with lots of autumnal pastimes, just a little spook, and of course hot sex—this is me we're talking about LOL ~Deanna THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW Blurb:

Ichabod Crane, town schoolmaster and self-proclaimed supernatural expert, wants to better his situation by marrying the wealthy Katrina Van Tassel. But, there is a rival for her attentions. Local hero, Brom Bones. Brom lives to torment and tease Ichabod, leaving the schoolmaster wondering if he is more interested in besting his rival than winning Katrina’s hand. Especially when each time Ichabod goes into the backroom of his favorite tavern – a place men can be men –his imagination conjures Brom's face on every lover. Late one night, Ichabod is chased by the legendary Headless Horseman. Terrified the ghost wants his head, he tries to outrun the specter. To his horror, he is taken captive by the evil spirit. Ichabod awakens, naked and tied to a bed, only to discover the Headless Horseman is none other than his rival Brom Bones! Brom confesses that Ichabod has been haunting his own fantasies and he vows to make Ichabod Crane his in every way. Ichabod wants to believe the pleasure Brom offers comes from his heart, but he is afraid it is another one of Brom’s tricks. Though surely an enemy's touch has never felt like this... ~Excerpt~ Squinting into the dark room, Ichabod’s vision began to cooperate and he soon could make out shapes in the dark. He was not alone. With him was a tall figure in a long black cape the proportions of which were surely made for a giant. A choked whimper escaped him. The Headless Horseman had taken him prisoner! “What is it that you want with me?” Ichabod demanded, unable to disguise the tremor in his voice. There was no answer. However the air crackled with the menace of what might come. Or perhaps the threat was insinuated by the fact Ichabod was tied naked to a bed. Such was not a customary welcome in these parts, nor did it bode well for the intent of his captor. The ghost stirred on the other side of the room and the hairs on Ichabod’s scalp and neck rose to sharp attention when he heard the scraping sound of a knife. His eyes, still accustomed to the dark, struggled to work in the sudden glittering orange light which now filled the room. Surely that glow must have come from the pits of Hell itself! Ichabod thrashed against his restraints, convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that the Hessian was sharpening a butcher knife over a flame to ease with the task of removing Ichabod’s head from his body. But, struggle as he might, he could not loosen the ropes. Collapsing in defeat, he fought to swallow his rising alarm. Dread coiled like a scaly constrictor around his insides and tears began to pour down his face. He could not stop them nor could he contain the trembling of his body. Seeing no means of escape, he began to plead, “Do not take my head, Hessian, please.” There was an answering chuckle that registered somewhere in the lucid recesses of Ichabod’s mind. “What use would I have for your head when I have my own?” Racing along with the sheer panic and dismay, a spark of familiarity ignited in Ichabod and he ceased to cry. He repeated the sound of that voice in his mind, wondering if his ears had deceived him, like his eyes. His altered perception was not unexpected, what with being naked and bound to a bed. Yet, now that he looked more closely he saw that the monstrous being before him was in full possession of its own head and, therefore, did not have a use for Ichabod’s own cranium. Nor was the masked specter honing a blade with Hellfire. His captor had simply lit a lone candle and that sharp sound had been the match striking the wall. When the specter turned and pulled off its mask, black corkscrew curls stretched, then sprang back into shape. Ichabod gasped in surprise. Why, the head atop the Horseman’s neck belonged to none other than Brom Bones! His fright and terror were replaced with new emotions at the speed of an advancing legion of demons. Anger and rage filled the mild mannered schoolteacher. He fought the bindings furiously. “What is the meaning of this, Brom Bones?” The man said nothing as he unclasped his long cloak and draped it across the chair. He tossed the mask aside, too. Ichabod now realized the black mask was how this dastardly man had camouflaged the existence of his head as he chased him through the black night. He must have known Ichabod's wild imagination would allow the shadows to render his cranium invisible and turn that blasted pumpkin on the pommel of the horse into the Hessian’s missing head! Thoughts raged in Ichabod’s mind like a swarm of molested bees and he tried to gather them up and make sense of them. For everything there was a likely explanation and he could think of only one reason Brom Bones had taken him captive. “You believe doing this to me will help you win Katrina Van Tassel?” Ichabod cried, his muscles bulging as he strained to break the ropes once more. “Is it not bad enough you have broken into my schoolhouse with your gang and left the place in complete disrepair? Is it not enough that you mock me for being tall and thin? Now you should tie me naked to this bed in order to humiliate me? Is there no honor in you at all?” Ichabod had worked himself into a hysterical state of agitation and Brom Bones did not seem surprised as he calmly took a seat on the chair. “It is for none of these reasons you speak of that I do this.” His pulse roared in his ears and he wrestled with the restraints, hating that his nudity was laid bare to his enemy and that he was so utterly helplessness. “Release me!” “No, not until I have my way.”

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A retelling of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”

This time of year people ARE always fascinated with the classic story written by Nathaniel Hawthorne, THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. Disney did a fun cartoon version of it, Johnny Depp starred as Ichabod Crane and now there is a new TV show Sleepy Hollow, starring the sexy Tom Mison on Fox. It’s an autumnal favorite, and no Halloween is complete without it.

Over the years there have been many retellings of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and many are   not familiar with the original version. In the original story Ichabod Crane is a stuffy, arrogant and stern schoolmaster living in the Colonial American town of Tarrytown, New York. He has a rival named Brom Bones, a big, strapping prankster who rides around on a giant black horse named Daredevil. Both men are vying for the hand of the beautiful Katrina Van Tassel, the prettiest and richest girl in town. Though the two men are rivals for Katrina’s attention, it's very apparent that Ichabod is more interested in her orchards and properties than any other “fruits” that she has to offer. Brom Bones does his best to humiliate Ichabod and embarrassed him at every turn, which isn't that difficult considering Ichabod offers him a lot of material to work with. The poor sod has no chance of winning Katrina’s hand, but Brom is determined to make sure that never happens.

Now the Headless Horseman is a local legend about a Hession soldier whose head got chopped off during the American Revolutionary War and he haunts the area known as Sleepy Hollow. On the night of a quilting frolic at the Van Tassel Estate, Ichabod is not only bested with wits and storytelling by Brom Bones, but he is also rejected by Katrina. Dejected, Ichabod returns home only to lose control of his bedraggled horse, Gunpowder. The horse leads him into the ghostly Sleepy Hollow, a place Ichabod is terrified of. Here he is chased by the Headless Horseman in the exciting chase we all know and love.

The catch is that there was never a ghost chasing Ichabod Crane!

All the while, the specter was Brom Bones. He dressed up as the Headless Horseman to scare Ichabod Crane so much that the other man would disappear, and he could have Katrina Van Tassel all to himself—a plan which works out perfectly because Brom and Katrina do get married and no one hears from the poor schoolmaster again.

When the idea originally came to me to turn this classic American story into an erotic tale, my first thought was a ménage between Brom, Ichabod and Katrina where I would follow a version of the same ending and Ichabod would be run out of town and humiliated. But then I thought it would be very unfair to do that to poor Icky, and frankly the ménage idea seemed the most obvious.

So I decided that Brom Bones had a different reason for tormenting and teasing Ichabod Crane than vying for the hand of some girl. Maybe Brom masqueraded as the Headless Horseman because he had something naughtier up his sleeve involving the uptight schoolmaster. I don’t think Mr. Hawthorne intended anyone to be doing the nasty in his tale, but what I came up with doesn’t deviate too much from the original narrative.....well that is until somebody wakes up naked and tied to a bed!!!

Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from my version of THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. I don't think you'll ever think of Ichabod Crane the same again :-)

EXCERPT:

Brom was mounted on his favorite steed, Daredevil, a creature like himself, full of spit and vinegar, and no one could ride but him. He was known to prefer vicious animals, which kept the rider in constant risk of breaking their neck. “Tell me, Ichabod, did you receive a personal invitation from the young Miss Van Tassel or the one the little houseboy delivered?”

Ichabod shifted in the saddle, for he had received a visit from the houseboy, and if one were to judge by the self-satisfied grin Brom wore, he had received the former of the two invitations. Ichabod fussed irritably with the reins and Gunpowder lurched as if given instruction to run. Ichabod may have done something to confuse the horse, but he was seeing far too much red to accept such a possibility. He was convinced the horse was friends with Brom Bones and the two conspirators only wished to make him a fool.

After containing the beast and reseating himself in a wholly ungraceful fashion, Ichabod replied, “And of what business is that of yours?”

“I shall take that to mean Katrina did not call on you?” the dark haired man deduced, and his wretched companions laughed again. The man seemed to find a perverse joy in tormenting Ichabod. His black gaze skimmed him from head to foot in a very unsettling manner and his cocksure grin slanted to the left when he smiled. “Surely, she would have paid you a call had you been wearing this, your best rusty black suit. You make quite the impression.”

Ichabod longed to make an impression of his fist on Brom’s unusually clean-shaven face. Ichabod hated himself for even noting such a detail or that his rival was dressed in his finest, his white shirt roguishly open at the collar and indecently exposing his throat and a hint of chest hairs. Brom was striking atop his devilish steed. Meanwhile, Ichabod imagined he must look like a tall, skinny clown atop a squat, haggard gelding with a rusted bridle.

Oh, should Death come swift to save me now, he thought wildly.

“I see you have even combed and styled your pretty hair, as well,” Brom went on as if with genuine approval of Ichabod’s appearance.

There was a resounding rumble of laughter and Ichabod wished he could disappear like the ghosts which haunted the hollow that vanished at the first sign of daybreak. However, now that his vicious mount had chosen to peacefully munch on the grass littering the side of the road, Ichabod felt dignified enough to rejoin with, “And I see you must have had your annual bath.”

Brom threw back his head and roared with laughter at Ichabod’s impertinent reply. “Aye,” he agreed with a wink, which discombobulated Ichabod as always. “Many thanks for noticing.”

Ichabod could not think of a reply. He usually prepared witty rejoinders and clever recitals to flaunt his vastly superior intellect over Brom. However, none of his practiced retorts were applicable at the moment, which might be for the best. For after those, albeit rare, moments when Ichabod bested his opponent, Brom Bones would retaliate the only way he could. With practical jokes.

This endless battle, which to the casual observer was carried out in pursuit of Katrina’s hand, had quickly become a fight to discover which man could come out on top. For the more Brom Bones made Ichabod the focus of his energies, the more, in turn, the schoolmaster became obsessed with besting him. The burly man consumed all his waking thoughts and also occupied a foremost place in Ichabod’s dreams. But he cared not to dwell upon that.

“Do you ever let your hair down, Schoolmaster?” Brom asked suddenly.

As always, Ichabod’s blond locks were tied at his nape by a leather thong. Such a bizarre question baffled him. “What are you asking, Brom Bones?”

He often called him that, as schoolteachers enjoyed calling students by two names.

“Do you know how to have fun,” he clarified. “You are always so dignified and reserved. I often wonder if you can drop such a façade and actually have fun. You know? Run about and howl into the night.”

At this, several of his companions proceeded to howl like wild wolves.

Ichabod made a huffing sound. “Really, Brom Bones,” he said, “only one such as yourself would find gentlemanly behavior offensive. Perhaps you should try not behaving like a wild hooligan.”

Brom laughed. The sound resonated inside Ichabod’s bones and somewhere else he wished it did not. “Spoken like the stern schoolmaster that you are.”

Ichabod firmly believed in the notion “spare the rod and spoil the child,” and his students were seldom spoiled. If only he were given a chance to use that same rod on Brom Bones. See if he liked that! But immediately upon that notion, Ichabod was assaulted with the reverse image, of being bent over Brom’s knee and paddled repeatedly. Blood and heat suffused his groin and he covered it up with much fussing with his jacket.

“Tell me, Schoolmaster,” Brom began, his dark brows low over eyes as black as his heart. “If I were one of your students, would you dare to take me over your knee until I behaved in a manner pleasing to you?”

“There is doubtless nothing in existence which could render one such as yourself pleasing to me,” Ichabod rejoined, hating how the other man seemed to be able to read him as if he were a book.

Once more, Brom threw back his head with a mighty laugh, his black curls bobbing and his eyes dancing mischievously. “Oh, we shall have to disagree on that for now, Schoolmaster.”

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