The 2000
Purple Prose Parody Contest

July 23, 2000:
The winner of our fourth annual Purple Prose Parody Contest is Tina Engler. For her terrific effort, she's chosen Julia Garwood's Ransom and Patricia Cabot's An Improper Proposal as her prize. When notified of her win, Tina had this to say, "This is great news! I'd like to thank everyone who voted for me. I'm definitely putting the Y2K PPP award on my resume. (Though in a completely different genre from my entry, I'm amongst the ranks of those writers of romantic comedies still trying to get published). Thanks for letting me enter your contest...this news couldn't have come on a better day!" Further comments on this year's contest, as well as which parodies came in second and third place can be found here.

Over the next several pages you will find all the parodies submitted in our fourth annual Purple Prose Parody Contest. Proceed with caution - if you read these parodies when you are not alone, others will likely look at you oddly - people don't usually scream with laughter while looking at their computers.

Purple Prose as written by Tina Engler as an homage to Robin Schone (Tina "adored" The Lady's Tutor and The Lover):

The Spinster's Tutor
A purple parody that can only be appreciated by fans of Robin Schone

Virginia Holmes gazed across the dance floor and into the eyes of Lord Harrow. Her pulse beat accelerated as she remembered the indecent proposition the profligate rake had made last evening.

No spinster should consider it.

No 40-year-old virgin with threads of silver streaking her dull, mousy brown hair should desire it.

No female with small breasts and a pouch belly should dream of it.

No woman who wore spectacles, was a survivor of a smallpox endemic, and wobbled around on a gimp leg should want it.

He was a rake.

A rogue.

A profligate bastard.

A half-Arab former prostitute who dreamed of death and destruction, dabbled in commerce, and knew too well the art of the duel.

Virginia watched, spellbound, as Lord Harrow made his way across the ballroom toward her. His gaze was hypnotic. His stride was long and panther-like. His erect manhood, clearly delineated through the tight fit of his buckskin breeches, pulsed with every beat of her racing heart.

Pulsed like the swell at the juncture of her matron’s virgin thighs.

Pulsed like the pouch of her spinster stomach she could no longer hope to conceal.


And pulsed.

Virginia clutched tightly the glass of wine she drank from. Clutched it as she knew her spinster center would clutch his engorged manhood.

Clutched it.

And clutched it.

He would take her. This Virginia knew.

Lord Harrow stopped directly in front of her, an engaging dark eyebrow lifted slightly. He was close. So close. She could feel the pressure of his aroused penis against her matron’s stomach. She gripped her wineglass as her breathing grew increasingly labored.

The wineglass tumbled to the floor.

It was the color red.

The color of spilled virgin blood.

A spinster’s blood.

It screamed of death and destruction.

Lord Harrow knew without asking that her answer was yes. He would take her. Ravish her. Make her beg. Make her plead. AllahGod.


Lord Harrow gently placed his hand, a hand that had known too many duels, too much death, on Virginia’s elbow. He led her from the glittering, superficial ballroom of the ton and toward his awaiting carriage.

Virginia wobbled behind him eagerly. Wantonly. The streaks of silver in her hair and the pock marks on her face were highlighted by the night moon looming menacingly overhead.

She was a spinster.

He was the half-Arab rake who would take her virginity.

Lord Harrow lifted Virginia into his arms and carried her quickly to his carriage. After giving the driver strict instructions to take the long way back to his country estate, he joined Virginia inside the padded equipage.

It was padded like her virgin walls.

Padded like her pouchy stomach.

Padded like the inside of a lunatic’s cell.

It was death and destruction.


Lord Harrow lit a cheroot, his eyes never leaving Virginia’s spinster face. The smoke billowed around him, giving him a dangerous, avenging quality. The silver tendrils wafted through the air like the strands of silver in Virginia’s hair wafted in the night breeze.

She was a spinster.

He was the half-Arab rogue who would take her virginity.

Lord Harrow put out the cheroot and considered Virginia. One corner of his mouth lifted upward in a sly smile.

He was a half-Arab bastard.

He would take her virginity.

"There is no going back now, Miss Holmes. We are here. Together. We will pleasure each other."

Virginia closed her eyes briefly at his words. She was a spinster. No spinster should want this.

Virginia inhaled his rich, masculine scent. He smelled of sandalwood and pinecones. Her mind was made up. "I have no wish to go back, Lord Harrow."

He raised a dangerous brow. "Do you realize what you are asking for, Miss Holmes?"



"Yes, Lord Harrow, I understand the implications of my indiscretion."

"Very well, Miss Holmes."

Virginia tore her gaze away from Lord Harrow’s arresting face as he shed his clothes. She studied the bulge that torpedoed out from his belly. It was a beast of prey rising up from its nest of dark curls, gaining in length and breadth as every pulse beat passed between them. It was like a serpent. A demon come to claim her.

It screamed of death and destruction.

Virginia slowly lifted her skirts to find the French lettres she had concealed in her stockings. They were the stockings of a spinster. The stockings that hid her gimp leg.

A gimp leg that no 40-year-old aging governess should bare to a gentleman.

A gimp leg that screamed of death.

Of destruction.


Virginia looked away, unable to hold the gaze of the one-eyed beast that would take her virginity. She quietly removed her clothes, her womb contracting with her heartbeat.

A virgin’s womb.

A spinster’s womb.

The womb of a matron governess with silver threads in her hair and a pouch belly.

The womb of a woman with a gimp leg.

The womb.

Lord Harrow donned the French lettre she bequeathed to him with the same proficiency he used in dueling. He was accounted an excellent marksman. Virginia’s maidenhead was his target.

"The lettre is a tight fit, Miss Holmes. But your woman’s valley will be tighter."

Virginia swallowed nervously. Her eyes bulged out from behind her spectacles. "Will I be able to take you inside of my valley, Lord Harrow?"

"Yes, Miss Holmes. You will. You will welcome my penis inside of you many times this night."

Virginia squeezed her legs together at his words. She was a spinster. A virgin. An unwed matron with silver threads in her hair and a gimp leg.

He would cleave her into halves.

Demolish her.

Destroy her.

She shouldn’t want this.

He was the half-Arab rake who would sever her maidenhead.

Virginia’s heart pounded in time with her hymen. She could feel her virgin’s blood pulsating, coursing through her woman’s hollow. Coursing through it as Lord Harrow’s seed would if he weren’t sporting a lettre.

"Come to me, Miss Holmes. By Allah and God it is time!"

Virginia pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and nodded. She settled herself on his lap and pressed the small, dewy opening of her woman’s heat against the tip of his avenging, one-eyed god. "I am here, Lord Harrow. Rip through my maidenhead and show me what it is I’ve missed all these years. Show me the things no spinster should know."

Lord Harrow’s erect penis grew another six inches at her words.

Virginia’s maidenhead was severed instantly.

She was a spinster—no more.

A virgin—no more.

She was breached.



Instinctively, she knew to move on him.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Like an executioner’s hatchet.



Lord Harrow gritted his teeth as Virginia rode him like an animal at Tattersalls. "AllahGod." He gripped her hips and sheathed himself fully.

He speared her, over and over.

Speared her like a felled opponent at the end of his blade.

Speared her like an avenging god.

Speared her like the half-Arab rake that he was.

Virginia felt the pulsings of her first climax rip through her.

Ripped as her maidenhead had ripped.

Ripped as the muscles in her gimp leg had ripped during that fatal carriage accident so many years past.

Ripped as Lord Harrow’s soul had been ripped from one too many duels.




Purple Prose as written by AAR Reviewer Jennifer Keirans:

There was a loud click. Pansy and Brent turned and saw that the heavy metal door of the walk-in freezer had swung shut.

“Oh, great!” Pansy snapped, hugging herself for warmth and glancing nervously at the frozen meat that hung on hooks all around them. The cold in the freezer made her nipples stand to attention like tiny, alert soldiers, skirmishing with the clinging material of her sports bra. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“Me?” Brent swung on her. His eyes, normally the dark, rich color of deep feelings, burst into flame like forth-of-July sparklers. Pansy couldn’t help but notice that his nipples, too, were erect, like those tiny thermometers that come in turkeys, declaring that the bird is ready to go.

His voice was as rough as a rock grinder when he accused, “If you hadn’t been so suspicious of me, you would have been outside, holding the door open! This is your fault!”

How dared Brent blame her for their predicament? Pansy’s eyes widened like opening, uh, pansies. She stood toe-to-toe with him, her chin thrust forward like a jouster’s lance, ready to do battle. “Well, if you hadn’t lied to me about Daddy’s will, I would have trusted you, so it’s your fault!”

Brent’s angry body radiated heat like an oven. His hands, broad and sinewy as steel traps, hauled her up on her toes so that her oh-so-sensitive breasts were flattened against his chest like Twinkies against a brick wall. “And if you hadn’t tried to convince your Daddy that you had become a Las Vegas stripper, I wouldn’t have lied to you about the will!”

Pansy struggled wildly, her lipstick-red curls flying about her piquant face, her hands fluttering against his grip like caged birds. “If you weren’t such a bad influence on Daddy, I wouldn’t have lied to him! So this is your fault.” She punctuated her last two words by jabbing her French-manicured forefinger into his chest, which was as meaty and hard as the frozen sides of beef that hung, unnoticed, all around them.

Brent shook Pansy until her teeth rattled like dice in a Yatzee game. “If you weren’t such a lousy daughter, he would never have turned to me, so it’s your fault!”

“Ooooh!” Pansy’s hand flashed through the air between them and smacked across his face with a sound like a rubber glove snapped onto a nurse’s hand. “I hate you!” she shrieked.

“Not as much as I hate you,” he panted, and then his mouth latched onto hers.

“Rrmph,” Pansy dissented. But then desire bubbled up inside her like maple syrup microwaved too long, foamy and sweet and hot. She sucked on his mouth greedily, like an opossum sucking the meat from an egg. His tongue jabbed into her mouth like a striking serpent and she nursed it like a hungry infant, unconsciously rubbing her needy body against his. He was as hard as Michaelangelo’s statue of David, which is made of marble, but much, much hotter. His broad hands gripped the cheeks of her bottom and kneaded them like bread dough. She felt the thick length of him, hard as a lug wrench, pressed against her quivering belly.

He broke the kiss with a sound like Velcro being pulled apart, and backed her up against a frost-encrusted metal butcher’s table. “Now,” he declared huskily, tearing at the zipper of his jeans, “I’m going to give you what you’ve been asking for!”

There a whirlwind of flying hands and frenzied caresses, and suddenly Pansy’s clothes and his were gone, and she was lying spread-eagled on the icy stainless steel table, body eagerly open and waiting for his manly insertion into her molten core. Brent’s fingers were virtuosos; he plucked her nipples like the strings of a guitar. She bucked like an unbroken filly when she felt him invade her like a triumphant conquering army.

He was man: hard, penetrating, dominating. And she was woman, his woman! “Yes, deeper!” she cried as his piercing rod stretched and widened the juicy doors to her most secret chamber. Her thick wetness lubricated each of his savage, grunting thrusts exactly the way motor oil lubricates the pistons of an internal combustion engine.

“Is this how you like it, little liar?” he panted as he pounded her like surf crashing on a beach, his sweat falling down on her, drenching her like scalding hot rain.

“Yes, yes!” screamed Pansy, thrashing like a beached fish, biting like a wildcat, clawing and pinching like a she-crab as she felt the pleasure growing inside her like a fetus, swelling bigger and bigger and bigger, until she knew she had to birth a climax like none she’d ever experienced before!

Suddenly Pansy’s body and soul shattered, and all the little bits and pieces of her shot off in all directions, glowing and arcing through the stratosphere. She heard his bitten-off groan and felt his explosion, and then all the little bits and pieces of her were joined by the bits and pieces of him. Their bits and pieces, shining, flying, mingled with each other, and for a perfect moment they were as one. Then, slowly, Pansy became aware of discomfort. Brent lay heavily upon her, warming her front like a huge hot-water-bottle, but her back and bottom felt cold! She tried to move, and a mouse-like squeak of pain escaped her.

“Sweet little lying cheat,” Brent murmured, nuzzling her tender breasts with his sandpapery stubble.

“Brent?” Pansy peeped, still trying to move. “Something’s wrong! Brent!”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “Why, sweetheart,” he drawled, his eyes glowing with male amusement. “You’re frozen to the table.”

“I’m frozen?” she squealed. “Brent, help me! How am I going to get loose?”

He chuckled heartily at her feminine helplessness. “I think,” he murmured, “I’ll just have to lick you free.”

Pansy’s body gave a jolted start, as though she had just touched an electric fence. “Lick … me free?” she repeated, weak as a half-drowned kitten, but oh, so much more eager.

“Like this,” he beamed, and bent his head to the task.

There was a long moment of stillness. Then Pansy whispered, “Brent? Is something wrong?”

From low beneath her trembling thighs, she heard his muffled voice.

“I think my tung’th thtuck.”

Purple Prose as written by Carrie Lynn as "An Ode to the Women of the AAR Message Boards":

A Devil in Heaven

She was just plain bored. Nothing interesting on any of the message boards, no new reviews to read of recently released romance novels. Bored. So when she saw the link that blinked “Click Here for Fun”, she didn’t think anything of it. She thought it would be just a contest or maybe a game. She was wrong.

The computer seemed to flicker, then her vision flickered. All of a sudden everything went dark. She blinked her eyes and she was no longer in front of her computer, but was sitting, really more reclining, on a grassy knoll. With a man on top of her, stroking the back of her neck with one hand and rubbing his thumb back and forth across her lip with the other. She hated that.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She demanded.

“Little Darlin’, I’m just making you mine. Your lips are ripe and juicy with my kisses. Your body is limned with the light of the setting sun. And I am limp with love. Be mine, Darlin’.” He looked at her with concern and a not a little lust shining in his eyes.

“I know I’ve been given your guardianship, that you’re betrothed to my beloved brother, that I am a bedamned bastard, and that I have this staggeringly sickening scar on my face, but I beseech you, no I beg of you, to see the man inside.” He looked deeply into her eyes. Her pulsing purple eyes gleamed with lust. Or maybe they were violently violet? No… longingly lavender. He knew that his love, the hellcat that she was, would not willingly enter into an unholy union with a marred man like himself. Her claws were currently concealed but he knew they could be unsheathed at any moment should her temperament change. He intended to display cunning cock to his clever kitten and convince her to be his. And if that didn’t work, well, there was always ravishment.

“What the hell is your name? Get off me!” This was certainly more fun than she’d expected from a stupid website.

“As if you don’t know,” he responded. “But I’ll humor you you little she-wolf. You know full well that I am Rafael Sebastien . . . Rafe for short . . . but you have called me Devil since first we met . . . so I expect that you may continue to . . . do so as I will wreak sin as you have never known . . . upon your . . . luscious lady’s body.” He saw anxiety flitter across her fabulously feminine face and peppered her with his love bites. “Darlin’, if you would allow me . . . to . . . further . . . explore your crushingly curvaceous body . . . which even now . . . calls out for me, through its puckered . . . pert . . . pebbled . . . nubile nipples that, even as I speak, seek my chivalrous chest, and its . . . swollen . . .sweet spot that even now is engorged with excitement, I will make you mine.”

“First, I am not a cat, a feline of any kind, or a wolf. Second, my name is Julie, not Darlin’, so stop calling me that. Third, could you please finish a Goddamn sentence without pausing all the freaking the time? Finally, my nipples are not pert or puckered for you - it’s friggin’ cold out here you moron. And stop talking in those annoying alliterations!” She accented her commands with a series of shoves at his rock-solid chest with both of her hands, then tried to scramble away. She stopped immediately when she looked up at a noise and saw a wolf grinning at her, and she noticed its enormous teeth, saliva dripping from its rabid mouth. Devil grabbed her by the thigh with one hand and held her still.

“Darlin’ she’s nothing to worry about. You know I like my women willing, and she’s no different. Alas, Lobo will not hurt you, she just wants you to pet her. As you did I not a few moments ago.”

Julie held very still, noticing that one strong, lean-fingered, sun-tanned hand was slowly inching up her shivering thigh to her womanly parts. “You have a pet wolf.”

“A lone man like myself must have a lonely beast as its companion, think you not?” he responded.

“Of course.” It figured. “Where am I?” she asked Devil.

“Darlin’, this is Heaven, Texas. Surely you have not forgotten that when your sickly father passed on to the world beyond that he gave you over as my ward and that you moved from your childhood home in Boston to the wilds of the west. You have been my care nigh these eight years. You have blossomed and flowered into a woman under my care like the camellia in bloom that you are while I fought for our beloved Confederacy in the War Between the States. My beloved brother has claimed you as his own, but my heart speaks to me in my dreams and in its infinite wisdom it tells me that I must succumb to my baser instincts and make you mine own -”

“I don’t think that’s your heart talking, you idiot.”

He flushed and his scarred face turned a florid red. “My wild woman, you will be the death of me. I will tame you yet!” With that his callused coarse fingers reached her weeping woman’s apex and he stroked her secret self. “You may turn away from my horrendously hideous face that has been scarred by my efforts in the war, but you will not turn from my body which yearns for you as sunset yearns for the coming of the night.”

She admitted it, she probably did writhe at that point. She arched up into the air, her legs splayed, her upper body forming a perfect rainbow. Julie had shared intimacies for the first time with her last boyfriend, but never before had she felt this deep driving need building inside her. Oh she had listened intently as her friends discussed the pleasures of their jaunts into carnality, but she had known carnal pleasures were not to be for her. She was frigid as the glacial snowcaps in winter in Antarctica and she knew it. Alas, she had been wrong and Devil was to be the composer and conductor of her opus of copious passion.

She felt Devil’s demonic digits stroke her love nubbin and bit her lip until it bled, feeling as though her body contained each of the colors of the rainbow. The prismed colors pulsed within her as Devil’s abrasive fingers pierced her womanly petals and she felt his tongue lapping her labia, sucking the liquid leaking from her body. She then felt a cool breeze waft over her wanton womanliness and looked down.

Devil took a momentary pause and looked up at his little hellcat while the seeping sap of her self dripped deliciously from his dangerous chin. “Easy, Darlin’, we have all night.” He reached up and wiped the remnants of her joy from his face, smiled a wolfish grin, and went back to the task of bringing the night stars to her. When she throbbed with thrilling ecstasy, he impishly implored, “Are you having fun yet?” She was deaf to his words, and felt only the reverberations of his voice as they pulsed within her womb like miniature sonic earthquakes. Suddenly she was cataclysmically catapulted her over the edge of joy and into the netherworld of pleasure/pain. She hurtled through the stars and it was as though her body no longer existed - she was yet another star blissfully hovering in the heavens. La petite morte.

She blinked. Her vision flickered. The computer screen flickered. Her body hummed. The website that she had linked to asked, “Are you having fun yet?”

Continue to next page

Issue #99 of At the Back Fence - details of the contest's outcome and reader response

Index for Laurie's News & Views (Check the index for "silly sex"/"purple prose")
Ferri Tales - There's plenty of purple prose here! (And a return link to the PPP section as well)

If you liked this parody,

try this one!