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.


“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.


“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


Jeremy Edwards said...

Well, the coffee didn't fully wake me up this morning. But this did.

And I think this excerpt could be used as a textbook example of how to deftly integrate plenty of precise, descriptive detail so that it enriches rather than encumbers a scene.

Janine Ashbless said...

Why, thank you Jeremy! :-D I take compliments from you seriously!

(*except the punny ones, of course)

Jo said...



I have to dismally confess that I was sorta hoping for a happier ending. You know, a lesson in body acceptance and so on.

Janine Ashbless said...

Folklore is a harsh mistress :-(

But remember, the deal-breaker in the original fairy story (as in my version) is that he can't keep his word and respect her privacy - nothing to do with revulsion/fear at what he sees.