Monday, 21 July 2014

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment. Today's excerpt is a special guest snippet from the redoubtable billierosie.  Warning - billierosie writes erotic stories and thoughtful blog-posts that are transgressive and challenging - this excerpt is consensual but, in the genre parlance, "nasty": First of all I'll let her introduce it herself:


"I am so pleased and happy to announce that my new book is out! Fetish Transcendence; the dark side of desire. The new collection of erotica from billierosie. Twelve stories; each story celebrating the magical, mystical diversity of human sexual experience. Those secrets and lies that we keep well hidden; that we dare not admit to ourselves, but make their presence felt through our fantasies and dreams. Dark desires that arouse in the heat of the night when our darker side cannot help but give in.
    There’s a potpourri of fetish within these pages; it’s a collection that will impress the connoisseur of erotic fiction and the new reader, whose only experience of erotica is Fifty Shades of Grey…You’ll find Dominants and their submissives in strange, unexpected places in Fetish Transcendence. The opening tale tells of Freddie, the security guard in an exclusive London store, who has a very creative way of dealing with shoplifters..." 
  


Freddie grinned down at the elegantly dressed lady kneeling between his big, polished shoes. Her previously perfectly coiffed ash blonde hair was sticky with his spunk. Spunk drooled from between her lips mingling with the tears and snot that messed up what had been, a perfectly made up face, glowing with expensive cosmetics. Rivulets of brown mascara ran down her cheeks. Her pink lipstick was smudged beyond the exquisitely drawn line of her lip giving her a slutty appearance. Freddie glanced down at his softening cock, at the ring of pink pearlescent lipstick that encircled what had been an impressive erection.

And what a spectacle it had been. Her upper class lips stretched around his cock as he jammed it into her throat. His big hands gripping either side of her head as he fucked her face. His fingertips digging into her scalp. Freddie knew he was hurting her. He didn’t care. The little gurgling, choking sounds that she had made had been a bonus. He should have picked up his mobile phone and photographed the event: he would next time.


She pushed her large tits back inside her brassiere. Freddie had ordered her to display them before deciding whether to masturbate on them or to use her mouth. He had chosen her mouth. He wondered if she had ever deep throated a guy before. The way she gagged and spluttered as his large cock had raped her throat made him think that it was her first time. Freddie loved it when that happened. A virgin throat. He felt an unexpected tenderness. But only briefly. Freddie pulled out in time to splatter her tits, hair and face as well. She buttoned up her cream silk blouse with trembling immaculately manicured fingers.

Freddie needed to piss and he aimed his cock to splatter her face as he emptied his bladder. He wiped his cock on her hair before zipping up.

Her humiliation was complete. He had used her mouth as a receptacle for his spunk, with no more attention to her than if she had been a basin or a bucket for his ejaculation. He’d used her expensive face as a urinal. She stank like a urinal too. Served her right, thought Freddie.

He wondered if shoplifting had been on her agenda when she’d left her home that morning. Probably not. The attempted theft of the beautiful silk Paisley scarf: the exotic design for which Freddie’s store was so famous, had the feel of an impulsive action. She had simply draped it casually around her slender shoulders thinking that it would not be noticed. The vibrant exotic purples and greens had been set off perfectly by the elegant simplicity of her navy blue Chanel suit and certainly, Freddie wouldn’t have realised the theft had he not watched her do it.

He kicked her growling at her to get up and she yelped as he ordered her out of his office. He was finished using her and her hiccupping sobbing was beginning to get on his nerves. Her shoes had fallen off in her eager scramble to get to his thick cock. Once she had realised that the opportunity of redemption was at hand, there had been no stopping her and she had gobbled and slurped him into her mouth.

She had begged him not to call the police, pleading with him in her cut glass accent, that she would do anything, anything at all. She was meeting her husband for a luncheon appointment: she mustn’t be late.

 Her posh voice grated on his ears. And as if her upper class, well-bred accent hadn’t been enough to irritate him, the fact that she’d called it “luncheon” infuriated him. Posh bitch. Posh snivelling bitch. But Freddie loved her pleading it made his huge cock harder than ever and he had strung out her begging long enough for her to approach hysteria.

Freddie imagined her trembling and quivering through her luncheon appointment. He hoped that her husband would appreciate the carefully aimed stains and the stink. When he had first collared her she had smelled expensive. Now he’d shot his load over her she smelled of expensive perfume mingled with Freddie’s spunk and piss.

Yes Freddie loved shoplifters. He wasn’t fussy if they were male or female. If anything the men were more fun because they showed greater resistance to Freddie’s extreme version of redemption. But they always capitulated in the end. Never once had a male shoplifter demanded that Freddie call the police to arrest him. Sucking on Freddie’s big cock was preferable to a night in the cells, and an appearance in Court the next morning. So Freddie’s cock got a lot of male attention these days. But it was the humiliation that Freddie loved most of all. To say that the men especially were totally out of their comfort zone was an understatement of astronomical proportions. Freddie never analysed his predilection. Why would he bother?

It was always a bit of a disappointment to Freddie when he discovered that one of his detainees was gay. He didn't think that a gay guy would find sucking cock much of a challenge. He felt that the blow job lacked a certain frisson. But a blow job though was still a blow job.



Where can billierosie take you from there? Well ...
"Lovers, Allen and Clara elope, but there are dangers on the road to the little church where they can legally marry. In Fruits de Mer you’ll learn of Josiah’s exotic, erotic taste for les moules, while in Sherlock Holmes and the Curse of the Moonstone, Sherlock Holmes and Watson solve yet another intriguing mystery through the powerful force of outrageous sex.
    One dirty phone call precipitates another in Touch, while in Body Swap, Simon and Clarice turn their unique, extrasensory gift to their advantage; love and lust carries them through the generations. They have no fear of the tomb; they have defeated death itself.
     The rocky road to attaining sanctity is told through a terrible, sacrilegious confession to Father Abraham. It’s a confession of an abomination; an unspeakable sexual perversion that threatens the immortal soul.
    The heat of the crowd generates its own dark mood of erotica. There’s hardly any room to breathe let alone move. It’s hot and sweaty. Someone presses up close behind you; too close. You know exactly what is going on but you are powerless to stop it; to do anything about it. You can’t even turn around to confront your violator. Poor Julia! Will she ever get over the humiliation?
    And there’s a holiday romance; a romance with a difference for this submissive male and the Dominant woman who knows how he can achieve real pleasure.
    The two final tales tell of Anastasia; the lucky lady who inherits millions. You’d think she would be happy, but there is Marcus whom she adores, but who doesn’t want her. And driving the narrative there is a diary. A piece of pornography that teaches Anastasia about a long ago sexual awakening – an awakening worthy of the Marquis de Sade himself."
Fetish Transcendence is available an e-read at Amazon UK : Amazon US

Sunday, 20 July 2014

Bearded Lady Pt. 2


My second home-made beard this year. It's getting to be a habit.
The woolly beard was WAY more comfortable, btw - because it wasn't glued on. It's made of a piece of open-weave fabric with two colours of wool threaded through, held up by elastic and a stretchy hairband. And my ears.


I do like the Full Moon of Durin over my shoulder. Presumably it's shining on the secret door into the Lonely Mountain!

Friday, 18 July 2014

Melusine - the spoilers



I posted an excerpt from my latest published story Melusine on Monday ... but I will readily admit it's really not clear that this is definitely a paranormal story. In fact the only clue is the name in the title, which you may or may not know, gentle reader.

The tale is medieval, and European rather than British.


I was only only vaguely aware of the Melusine fairy tale myself, until my flying day-trip to Luxembourg in 2012 - because there she is counted as a (pseudo)historical figure, the wife of the reputably historic Count Siegfried (922-998 CE), and is credited with magically creating the Bock castle overnight.

Still standing, in portions


It is said that Melusine can still sometimes be spotted swimming about in the river, in either human or serpent form.



I'd been waiting to write about her ever since that day. And when the call popped up to write a long short story for Sweetmeats Press with the theme "drenched" ... well, that was my chance!


The story in its simplest form is that a nobleman marries a beautiful fairy maiden, but she agrees only on condition that she gets to spend one day of the week on her own. He must not intrude on her solitude that day, nor must he ever ask her what she's up to.


Of course, many years (and several children) later, curiosity gets the better of him and everything goes to pieces. It always does in stories - see Cupid and Psyche, or Bluebeard, for example.


It was an chance for me to write a rare female-dominant story and, even rarer, one about a married couple with a full - and filthy - relationship.



















 Melusine is available NOW as an e-book

Amazon US : Amazon UK

It is part of the collection Drenched from Sweetmeats Press, also available in e-form and soon to be released in paperback:
Amazon UK


Wednesday, 16 July 2014

Sale - Lovers' Wheel

News news news!


My pagan-magic-erotica series The Wheel of the Year has been renamed Lovers' Wheel and has been bought by Ellora's Cave!

EC, of course, have previously published my short story  In Appreciation of Their Cox and my fantasy romance novella The King's Viper - Which is, by the way, currently discounted to $0.99 as an e-book for two weeks only at the EC site :-)
 (all books available on Amazon too)

Lover's Wheel will be released in 4 novella-sized chunks that add up to a BIG novel:
  1. Summer Seduction
  2. Falling Deep
  3. When Winter Comes
  4. Joys of Spring

(D'you see what I did there? Suggestive puns are now compulsory.)

I'm enjoying writing this so much! Even the astrology bits ;-) It's what my whole Phenology thing has been about. As I type this, Summer Seduction has gone off for editing and a cover, and I'm at home kicking Autumn into shape: scary harvest festivals, savage unicorns (!) and a crash-course in submission and BDSM for my somewhat nervous heroine.

She has no idea what awaits her...

Monday, 14 July 2014

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a rude bit from one of my stories, for your entertainment.


Today's snippet is from my (longish) short story Melusine. It's a supernatural fem-dominant tale, based on a medieval legend, with a modern setting. 
In this scene, uptight accountant Martin is sitting on a sun-lounger by a pool, trying to pretend he isn't secretly gawking at Lucy as she swims.

 


The open pages on his lap were a blur. He’d never read another word again, he knew. There was nothing in his head but this Lucy’s divine body; half-seen, half-mystery. Wholly bewitching. Then he heard her light footfalls and saw a blur of tan skin and unnatural green, and he knew she was standing in front of him.

Martin raised his gaze and, with immense effort, looked her in the face.

No sunglasses now. Her eyes weren’t blue, as he’d imagined, but olive green, and her long dark lashes were starred by pool-water. Her face … she was just as beautiful as he’d hoped, but he was also relieved to see that she wasn’t as young as her body had suggested; her face had the planed look of a woman well out of her first youth, all angles and cheekbones. Except for her lips, which were full and curved in an asymmetric half-smile.

Martin could feel his heart hammering.

She was looking at him. Not just his face, either. She looked him up and down, as if assessing him, and he felt heat charge up to his face and down to his crotch. Did she see a respectable trim man in casual clothes—or a furtive, middle-aged lecher? He knew he couldn’t possibly leave now, because if he stood up she’d see he had a hard-on. Quite possibly that was obvious already, but he didn’t dare check. Her coolly judging expression made him squirm inside with shame, but it did nothing to quell his surging erection.

Without a word, she lifted her towel and ran it across her wet hair. Tarnished darker by water, a few strands were already turning back to gold—but that wasn’t what registered. What mattered to Martin was that in attending to her body right there in front of him, she had somehow granted permission to look. So he did.

Dear God.

Was she even human, to look like that? He was a Londoner; he’d married an English girl, he was used to English bodies—pale, fleshy, buttery-soft, sweetly imperfect, and always slightly self-doubting. Not this golden-tan litheness, this confidence, this taut athletic ideal. Lucy had the body of an Olympic gymnast and the assurance of a supermodel. The inner slopes of her delectable breasts—not huge, not small, just utterly perfect, like some impossible lycra-wrapped treasure—were jewelled with water droplets that shivered and ran and begged to be touched, and her waist was so slender that his hands ached to circle it. Those long long legs rose to a tilted pelvic girdle, one hip cocked, the twin ties of her bikini bottom dripping diamonds and tantalisingly vulnerable.
   
He wanted to lick those water drops. He wanted to touch those breasts and feel their softness and their weight. He wanted to put his hands on those hips and feel the movement of her frame, the way they rolled, as if mere engineering would make her real somehow, make her a thing of earthly possibility. Make her comprehensible to his English sensibilities.

His cheeks burned as he met her gaze again.

Coming to some private decision, this vision flung her towel down across his lap. “Oil me,” she commanded.

“Huh?”

“Oil me.” Her voice had a husky edge, a slight European accent. She tossed the bottle of sun-oil from her other hand onto the towel and Martin gasped as it smacked right on his burgeoning cock. But the blow did not register as pain; he was beyond that now. He grabbed at the bottle automatically. He was not, however, swift enough to react before Lucy moved in on him, swinging round to present her back and ass and sinking down to straddle his thighs.

He had just enough self control not to swear with shock and delight. He couldn’t stop the noise, half earthy grunt and half groan, that escaped his throat, though. And he heard her laugh softly.

Jesus. This can’t be real.

She smelled of chlorinated pool water. Most of it was going on the towel, but she was dripping on his papers and his trousers and his shirt. He found he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the fact that she was sitting astride him, her spread bum-cheeks nestling on his crotch, her strong, slender back presented for his touch. He could see the drops running down the declivity of her spine, right there in front of him, an inch from his raised hands.
   
This is crazy. Holy hell Martin, don’t mess this up! He couldn’t imagine what had he done to deserve this, in this life or any other, but he had no intention of rejecting this gift from the gods. Carpe diem, you idiot!
    
So he flipped the lid of the bottle and squirted sun-oil over her shoulders, though when it came to laying a hand on her he actually held his breath, as if she were some dream bubble who might burst and vanish. But her back was solid and smooth beneath his palm, and not even cool from the pool but warm with her body heat.
   
He began to stroke the oil across her skin.

“Mmm,” she purred, arching her spine.

“Okay?” he stammered.

“Oh yes. Nice.” She wriggled under his grasp, thrusting her bum out a little more, with consequences beneath the draped towel that Martin did not dare think about. His brain had locked down to a tiny circle of focus: her body, alive and lithe under his hands, and the slick slide of skin on skin. The concave of her waist, the flare of her hips, the ripe peachy curves of her ass, unconcealed by the string of her thong … Not that he dared touch those. He caressed the oil into her back for as long as he could, dizzy with the scent of sun-lotion.

“Shoulders?” he asked. His mouth was so dry the word sounded woolly.

“Shoulders. Legs. Everywhere,” she answered, grabbing the bottle from where it rested at his hip and squirting a line of oil down her thigh.

“Uh. Right.” He felt drunk, and clumsy, and unreal. He smoothed his hands down her thighs as far as he could reach toward her knees, leaning into her. Down, and then back up again, smooth as cream—and as he reached her hips she lifted herself a little, raising the perfect heart-shape of her bottom clear of the towel to allow those hands easy access below. “Oh God,” he breathed, cupping her butt like he was holding the world in either hand.

“Don’t talk.”

He nodded frantically, though she couldn’t see him. He would have done anything she demanded, so long as he could go on touching that incredible body. Legs, bum, hips—and then, under her guiding hands, round to the front, up from her hips to her waist, over her stomach, back down to her inner thighs, up again, down again. He could hear her sighs of pleasure, feel the heave of her ribs and the press of her groin upon his. His cock was like an iron bar now beneath the damp towel, his hands were thrumming with warmth, and his head was full of the scent of her—chlorine and sun-screen, like the incense of some pagan goddess, making his heart pound. Breathing deeply, he shut his eyes, pouring all his concentration into his hands and his crotch. She writhed back against him, squirming her hips deliciously.

“Up.”

“What?” he whispered, his lips in her wet and tangled hair.

“Up here.” Pulling down the stretchy fabric of one bra cup, she directed a squirt of oil over her left breast.

Oh God what if someone comes up and sees? flitted through his accountant’s mind, half a breath before Martin let out a guttural noise entirely beyond his control and ran his hand in, taking possession of the orb, squeezing and smoothing and stroking. Lucy whimpered, but it was no protest. Her nipple, refusing to be soothed by his caresses, rose up hard and stiff beneath his warm palm, its halo puckered. He didn’t wait for an invitation to find its twin; he had both breasts now, both breasts, and this incredible golden nymph was gasping and writhing in his lap, and it was like he had won the lottery and gone to heaven and been crowned king of the universe. And he still couldn’t believe it.

“Oh yes.” Lucy reached down to the arms of the sun-lounger, grabbed and jerked. That was when the cushioned back collapsed away behind him; a shove of her ass in his midriff sent him off-balance. Instantly his deference reasserted itself; the panicked thought that he’d done something wrong, that he was going to have to pay for his trespass. He felt those fabulous tits slip from his grasp as she rose up, wriggling into a new position and pressing him down. Somehow he found himself flat on his back, with her bum above him dark against the brilliant sky.
   
Her ass, cheeks parted and thighs bracketing his head, her sex covered only by the narrowest strip of wet day-glo green.
   
If anyone walks by now -
   
She put her head down onto the towel and rubbed her face over the mound of his erect cock.




Melusine is available NOW as an e-book

Amazon US : Amazon UK

It is part of the collection Drenched from Sweetmeats Press, also available in e-form and soon to be released in paperback:
Amazon UK

Friday, 11 July 2014

Sonisphere

Look at all those tall people heading toward Stage 1. Grrrr...

Well, since I spent two days at the Sonisphere metal festival this week (I slept through most of Sunday, I admit!),  I thought I'd post some pics.

"I don't normally drink this much beer, you understand?"

Sonisphere (a.k.a. Knebworth) is a lot of fun provided you can manage the 45minute hike from the carpark to the arena. There was much beer in cunning carriers:


There was much food:

Massive carbohydrate blow-out! YAY!!
There was crumpet:

Hahaha! Hey - it was served by very nice ladies in corsets.


 There were WW1 dogfights:

And if you are taller than approx 5'8" - which I am not - there were also apparently some live bands playing!

"Is something happening up there?"

Actually, I could see the big screens most of the time, which helped a lot. THEY SHOULD BUILD STAGES HIGHER UP.
I enjoyed Limp Bizkit best, but also the reinvented re-metalled Gary Numan:

HE STILL HAS HAIR!
And Iron Maiden:


And - to my surprise - Babymetal, who are insanely energetic and truly impressive as a live act.

They don't sound as screechy, either
But rest assured I am old enough that I still thought The Prodigy were overrated rubbish ("All their songs sound the same!")  and I went off for a wee and a nice cup of tea mid-set instead :-)

Wednesday, 9 July 2014

Love Lies Bleeding


Hooray, hooray!
I love a bit of gardening, I do, and of course I love writing smut, so what finer combination can there be for me than an anthology of gardening erotica? Greenwoman Publishing - who produce the literary gardening periodical Greenwoman Magazine - are putting together their first anthology of erotica, Fifty Shades of Green (teehee!), edited by secret erotica writer Cheri Colburn.
"It's going to be our feminist/gardener/literary answer to that . . . other book. And it is going to be hotter than the hottest pepper on the Scoville index of heat. And smart, not smutty. Well, maybe a little smutty."

And my supernatural story Love Lies Bleeding has been accepted!  And I know Nano Vaslen is in there too :-)
Publication is sometime this year, and I'll let you know more as soon as I do.


BTW - this is what "love-lies-bleeding" looks like:


Monday, 7 July 2014

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a rude bit from one of my stories, for your entertainment.

This Monday I really am being naughty as technically I didn't write
In the Crowd under my Janine Ashbless name. It was one of a number of stories I did for the Nexus "Confessions" series, which were all anonymous pieces. But In the Crowd is my rock-chick "confession," and since I spent this last weekend at the Sonisphere festival, it seems the only appropriate thing to post...




There was no chance of keeping a discreet distance from people in that press, of course. We were all bumping arms and shoulders, all hot and sticky with excitement. It took a while for me to notice that there was someone getting just that little bit too close. He was directly behind me, and though I didn’t look I knew it was a man because he was brushing up against my bum repeatedly, and he was hard. I mean it, he had a stiff one. I could feel it jabbing at the soft curve of my bottom. His chest brushed my back too. He had broader shoulders than me; that was all I could tell without turning round.

Dirty bastard.

Don’t think I’d put up with that sort of thing normally. This was a total stranger taking advantage of the crowd for a bit of filthy fun, and I’m no slag. I don’t like guys who get too pushy and take stuff for granted. But somehow this was different. I was high on the pounding music. I was delirious with adrenaline. I wasn’t me for the moment, not properly. So I didn’t pull away. I understood why he was hard; if I’d been a bloke I’d have been standing proud too, throbbing with the beat. As it was my knickers were damp, my pussy all swollen. I stood my ground and let him press up against me and then withdraw. There was a rush of heat to my sex. It just seemed part of the heady experience we were all caught up in.

I didn’t turn round.

After the first couple of brushes, he knew I was aware of him, knew I was letting him get away with it. He got bolder. He put his hands on the back of my hips, lightly, and brushed up against the whole line of my body. I kept my eyes on the stage. As the crowd swayed he pressed closer into me. I could feel the hard ridge of his concealed cock sliding across the leather of my skirt. I felt him put one hand on my bum cheek and squeeze, enjoying the firm flesh. Testing me, I guess. Then he began to rub my butt with his open palm.

I wriggled against him.

God, this was weird. Half my attention was on the stage, half on what was happening to my body. Despite the muggy heat my nipples were tightening to points, sticking out through my cotton top. I felt dizzy, not sure how this could be happening to me, how I could be permitting it.

The lead singer was crouched, hammering on his thigh as he roared into the microphone.

The guy behind me dipped his hand to the edge of my skirt, and when he swept it up again he came up under the leather, skin on skin, his palm on my bare cheek. He had dry, hard hands. He found the edge of my knickers and slid his fingers under the trim. I felt his nails on my skin.

I looked to either side then, trying to be casual. None of my neighbours seemed to be taking any notice of what was going on in the shadows below head-level. Down there a finger slid up and down the cleft of my bum. His other hand had vanished from my hip; all I had was that tickling tease of a finger. It almost hypnotised me - until he pulled my skirt right up and pressed something hot to the cool flesh of my bottom. I nearly fell into the people in front of me, only he grabbed me by the waist in time. He had his cock out in public, for Chrissake! And was rubbing it against me under my skirt! That thick hot cylinder nearly freaked me out. To be touched by a totally anonymous cock, one I hadn’t even seen…

To be used for my arse, by this nameless meat. 

I could feel the teeth of his fly zip. I could feel wisps of his hair. I looked down and saw his fingers where he held me. Ringless, anonymous hands too, with blunt, clean nails. He was wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt too, so I couldn’t see what his arms were like. He held me firmly against him, and his cock twitched impatiently as I caught my breath again.

Back and forth he rolled his cock across my bottom, from cheek to cheek, rubbing it against me. Rubbing it into the dip between the swells of flesh. It felt smooth and warm and hard enough to send a tingle right through me, imagining what he could do with that hard tool. Then, pushing it firmly down, he slid it along the gusset of my knickers. They were soaking wet by now - and not just from the heat either. He had to flex his legs to get down there, pushing hard into the slot between thighs and pussy lips. I wasn’t making it easy for him. I was keeping it tight.

I could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck.

There was too much friction against the lace, I guess. So he used his fingertips to pull my knickers down, baring my bottom properly. Just as far as my thighs, though. I could feel the straining elastic biting into me. I could feel how damp the cloth was on the inside of my leg. I could feel how juicy my pussy was, now that it was bare, and heat rushed up my whole body.

Bare-arsed in a crowd of thousands…

He ran his fingers down my secret slash, stroking my sensitive bum-hole, my fuzz of hair, my swollen pussy-lips. He found how slippery I was, how sticky and eager for his touch. He made me squirm for him. Then where his fingers had gone, his cock followed.

He couldn’t shove it inside me, not without bending me right forward; the angle was all wrong. So he just stroked back and forth along my slot, between my thighs, in the wet and the heat.

‘Ich will,’ thundered the lead singer onstage: I want.



Nexus Confessions 4 at Amazon UK : Amazon US

Friday, 4 July 2014

I have the Power(point)

I made these!


I have been taking my first tentative steps with Powerpoint this week, just because it's an easy tool for adding text to images.


It's a start, anyway :-)
You can see one in all-flippy action up at Blissekiss.

Wednesday, 2 July 2014

Line up, line up!

Woot woot!
Wanna see a BRAND NEW cover?


Drenched: an anthology of wet 'n' wild erotica is a collection of long short stories with a water theme, out from Sweetmeats Press very soon. Here's the table of contents:

Melusine by Janine Ashbless
Every Friday for ten years, Martin’s beautiful wife has left their home to spend the night somewhere else. Now, Martin can bear it no longer, and he is out to uncover the mind-blowing truth…no matter what the cost.
The Pool Party by Primula Bond
In the hills of southern France, an empty villa and luxurious pool provide two friends with unforeseen temptations...
Naiad by Justine Elyot
Told in the style of a modern myth, Naiad is a wet and wild tale of an urban nymph returning to her element.
Hard to Swallow by Lisette Ashton
A radio station's ambitious receptionist is enthralled by the voluptuous bottles of mineral water carried by all the DJs. There’s nothing like cool water for a dry throat, but it takes more than water to quench a burning lust!
A Divine Solution by Vina Green
In the midst of the worst drought in decades, a young wife bursts the dam of her desire and, in doing so, discovers that she might just save her whole community...

I'm very excited about this - not just because I adore Sweetmeats' books and production values, but because it looks like the stories will work very well together! Justine and I were clearly sharing psychic wavelengths, and part of my story features a French villa with a pool too ;-)

Drenched is out this month, on the 15th:
Amazon US : Amazon UK



And here's the full line-up for The Sexy Librarian's Big Book of Erotica, too:
 
  • Bix Warden - Foreword 
  • Rachel Kramer Bussel - Book Swap
  • Lillian Douglas - Sensate Silicone
  • Janine Ashbless - Three Legs In The Evening
  • Michael Lewis - The Contest
  • Chase Morgan - The Secret Game
  • Tamsin Flowers - POW! It's Shibari Girl!
  • Kristina Wright - Vivi and the Magic Man
  • Heidi Champa - Second Look
  • Kay Jaybee - Taped
  • D.L. King - Lauren's Journey
  • Emily Bingham - A Perverted Fairy Tale
  • Kate Maxwell - The Skilled Technician
  • Allen Dusk - Shades of Desire
  • Salome Wilde - Moonshine Ballad
  • KD Grace - Cherries In Season
  • Olivia Archer - The Perfect Massage
  • Lynn Townsend - Full Frontal Neighbor
  • Katya Harris - The Whole of Me
  • Kelly Maher - Notes On A Scandal
  • Sommer Marsden - Appetizer
  • Angela Caperton - Mikhael
  • Rose Caraway - The Mating Chamber
It's out on August 12th.
Look out for news of blog tours and podcasts :-) 2014 is shaping up to be a busy year for me ... oh boy!

Amazon US : Amazon UK

Monday, 30 June 2014

Blue Monday

Now that the much-loved (by me) Eyecandy Mondays are no more, I will be using Mondays to post a naughty bit from one of my stories, each week. 

And since angels and demons are on my mind this year, I'll kick off with an excerpt from The Temptation of Saint Gregory. Medieval Christian hermit Gregory, alone in his desert cell, is suffering from the determined attentions of a succubus ... but luckily he is sustained by visits from an angel.



"Gregory," she murmured in a voice of silk. He crossed himself and crouched before the altar as if defending it with his life's blood - a martyr out of the old days of persecution. His eyes sought the floor, but he could smell her; a warm, musky scent like that of crimson flowers opening under moonlight.

She was sexuality incarnate, everything that Gregory had forsworn and denied himself. She was an ancient goddess come to earth, but a goddess of night and mystery, not some bright Olympian deity. Her skin was copper, her hair copper made molten and poured over jet, coiling in serpentine ropes across her skin so that it concealed her ripe bare breasts, but only just; enough to hide nearly everything but suggest all, the nipples threatening to peek out from behind their curtain at every moment. The full curve of her hips, the firm rounded lines of her legs - all were visible. She wore nothing but a small kilt of bronze pieces that hung at her groin and clashed like the ringing of tiny cymbals at the gate to her sacred temple; that and the gold snakes that spiralled up her forearms and lower legs, their cunningly moulded coils clasping her limbs and striving ever-inward to her core.

She stepped across the room, moving like a dancer or a lioness. Her breasts swayed and bobbed under their own weight, hinting at dark nipples under the clinging fell of her hair. She trailed one hand across the top of the table, the better to emphasise the curves of her arm and her long fingers tipped with carnelian nails. She was a goddess; she was a harlot. Gregory felt his throat dry up and the blood surge to his loins. It was six years since he had lain upon a woman's flesh; almost four since he had seen a female face at all. The demoness clearly knew her business.

"Get out of here," he said in a low growl. "You  will not get what you want from me." He had tried exorcising her in the name of Christ upon her first visit, but she had merely smiled enigmatically and ignored the command.

"What I want? It is what you want that concerns me. I know exactly what that is, Gregory. And I am here to give you what you need," she added, looking at his lap.

The folds of his rough robe covered any betraying sign; she could not possibly see what struggled beneath, he thought.

"A thousand nights alone, Gregory, and I can smell your frustration on the wind from here to Alexandria. Your lying awake in the dark, unable to sleep, unable to pray, terrified to touch the serpent flesh in your own bed ... The hardness of the pallet beneath you, the serpent trapped between flesh and stone ... The orphaned memories of slave-girls and palace bedrooms that return to haunt you ... Your seed spilt while you are sleeping. Do you think all these things are secret?"

She rocked her hips. The little skirt of metal pieces clinked and shifted, revealing the flame-coloured fleece beneath. In two steps she was standing over him where he knelt.  Gregory shut his eyes as she took his head in her hands and pressed it against her raised thigh, so that his cheek and lips brushed her satiny skin. He did not struggle, but began the recite the Lord's Prayer rapidly under his breath, his lips tickling her soft flesh. The smell of her - perfume and musk, the rich hot scent of wanton woman - slipped down his throat.

"Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil..."

She released his head and he raised his face to heaven, eyes still closed, features tight with concentration. She bent over him, her hair brushing his face first and then his shoulders. She bent lower and the ripe globes of her breasts bumped softly against his brow, and trailed down over cheek and nose. Gregory stopped speaking. Her breasts - soft, firm, alive with sensation - were big enough to encompass the whole of his face. His nose had slipped into the warm cleft between them. he could not breathe without inhaling the sweet smell of her skin.

She drew back enough to drag the weight of each rounded breast from side to side across his face, and the stiff point of each puckered nipple across his mouth.  "Am I not what you desire above all else?" she murmured.



The Temptation of Saint Gregory appears in my very first short story collection, Cruel Enchantment, from way back in 2000. It was an early attempt to write a tale with a protagonist whose point of view I deeply disagreed with. I was going to draw out at length the deeper themes of self-deception and attitudes to carnality, but to be honest I think it all boils down to "Don't judge a book by its cover." 
:-D
Poor old Gregory. He gets everything that's coming to him ...

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Sunday, 29 June 2014