Monday, 26 September 2016

Blue Monday: Jay Willowbay guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest, Jay Willowbay, brings us something new for this blogspot - an entire short story: Massaging the Mistress.



I walk in to find you naked, lying on your front. Needless to say, I’m naked too, as I have always been in your presence since you claimed me. I harden instantly, and enjoy an all too brief moment of drinking in your beautiful body, memorising every curve before you issue your command.

“I need to relax,” you say, “relax me, slave.”

Distracted by the exquisite vision before me, it takes me a little while to realise that you want, no, demand a massage. You don’t like to be kept waiting, and tut at me. It shakes me from my dreamlike reverie, and I fear that you will remember this mistake and punish me for it. Not the spanking or pegging ‘punishments’ that you know I crave, but the far worse censure of denial, or exclusion, or being ignored. But I push that thought out of my head: right now I have a chance to touch you, to feel you, and I hope, impress you enough not to banish me.

I place my hands on the small of your back, and gasp my appreciation at the divine softness of your skin. I start to knead my palms into your yielding flesh there, but my eyes are fixed just below, on the luscious curves and contours of your bare ass. I see movement there, twerking – for me! – and lose myself in that hypnotic rhythm before resuming the task in hand. Even I couldn’t miss that hint. 

So I cup that ripe, juicy peach, one smooth, soft cheek in each grateful hand, and resume that kneading motion. I push the cheeks together and pull them apart, all the while working in each finger, and probing with my thumbs. I see the bottle of baby oil you’ve laid out alongside you; it’s new and completely full, so I don’t need to be sparing with it.

I raise it high to tip it over above you, so the oil cascades down and splashes on your bare exposed backside, and from the way you writhe and moan under the stream, it’s clearly a pleasurable sensation. I rub it in, working it with my fingers, while the thumbs one by one, accidentally on purpose, just push a little teasing way into your asshole. You moan again, and this time gasp my name. Not my title, not ‘slave’, but my actual name. My cock, already achingly hard, bobs wildly in appreciation, and my helmet pulsates wishfully.

I reluctantly move my oily hands from your butt, but I have a plan in mind. I drizzle a long, thick line from your butt crack all the way up to the back of your neck, and then slowly follow it up with my hands, rubbing the oil around, into your skin, relaxing the muscles.

By the time I reach your shoulders I am leaning over you at such an angle that my chest has picked up a slick sheen of the oil, the wisps of hair flattened down to glide smoothly over your back. Down below, my cock is also glistening with oil, and perhaps a little pre-cum where it’s been rubbing teasingly over your butt cheeks. Oh god, I can’t take it anymore, I need you so fucking much!

I’m taking such a risk that I’m trembling with fear as much as desire, but I’m too lost in you to stop myself. I hold the throbbing head of my cock against your hole and push; gently, but enough to make my intentions perfectly clear. I expect a furious reaction, but instead you moan lightly and push back against me and I am in.

It feels like I am home, that I’ve finally found the place I truly belong. I start to push, so very gently, tentatively. “Don’t fucking tease me, slave,” you say, “And don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Responding to your words, I push again, working up a good rhythm; harder, faster, thrusting from my hips and muscular thighs and reaching deep inside you.

“Ohhhh, fuck, that’s good,” you purr, “But don’t you dare cum until I have!”

I try to reply that I promise I won’t, but all that comes out is a frantic, garbled gasp. I so desperately want to cum, and you know it so well. You must want an excuse to punish me, because you start to work and twerk at me, your ass gripping and releasing, teasing me in a way that takes me right to the edge in seconds. And then you tell me how much I love this, and how badly I ache and yearn to shoot my load. I already know this, but you telling me so brings it even closer.

This is the sweetest, most exquisite, most agonising torture I have ever known. But I push back harder and faster, racing to the line and trying so hard to take you with me. And I know I’ve found somewhere in you that really works, because your tormenting words have given way to a succession of short, fast panting, and I know you’re close.

But oh fuck, so am I. Every fibre of my being wants to propel my seed into you, to give myself to you even more completely than I already have. But I fight it, oh so hard, for now at least. Every muscle in my body is tensed, teeth grinding, eyes bulging. A shudder sets in and wracks through my whole body, and you feel it too. Only knowing how close you are gives me the determination not to give into the feeling just yet.

I push and push, on and on. I close my eyes and see swirls and colours in my mind, and your moans and gasps of pleasure are the sweetest music I have ever heard. “Ohh,” you murmur, “Oh fuck I’m gonna cum!”

Your volume increases, I luxuriate in in it. “Oh yeah, slave! Oh shit … oh … oh fuck, so close! Oh! Yes! Now, slave! Cum for me, cum, cum!”

You don’t need to tell me three times. I give into that carnal need, that ultimate desire, with a release I feel throughout my entire body. All that I am is here to pump into you, reaching so deep within to fill you up as we both soar on the ecstatic wave of mutual orgasm, and ride the ripples of continuing after-pleasure, before we both sink back, sated and soaked, into your luxurious feather bed.

I lay a gentle kiss on your neck. “Thank you Mistress – are you relaxed enough now?”



Jay Willowbay is an erotic author and occasional poet, writing mostly, but not entirely, in female domination /
male submission. 

His debut novella Shagnasty is due for release this autumn, he is a newly appointed resident reviewer for BDSM Book Reviews  and he blogs too infrequently at https://jaywillowbay.wordpress.com/


Jay on Facebook 

Thursday, 22 September 2016

Book launch this weekend!

cover art by Christopher Shy

From the wastes of the sea to the shadows of our own cities, we are not alone. But what happens where the human world touches the domain of races ancient and alien? Museum curators, surveyors, police officers, archaeologists, mathematicians; from derelict buildings to country houses to the London Underground, another world is just a breath away, around the corner, watching and waiting for you to step into its power. The Private Life of Elder Things is a collection of new Lovecraftian fiction about confronting, discovering and living alongside the creatures of the Mythos.

Well, I don't usually bang on much on this blog about my Secret Other Life as a horror writer, but this is an exception. At noon on Saturday, at Fantasycon UK in Scarborough, we are launching a collaborative anthology from The Alchemy Press which features Lovecraftian Mythos tales by myself, Arthur C Clarke Award-winning SF/F author Adrian Tchaikovsky, and veteran Pelgrane Press gaming-writer Adam Gauntlett.
 
Not a sanity point left between us
For those of you coming to Scarborough, Adrian and I will be there signing copies and looking into the void of madness that awaits all who delve too deeply into the occult mysteries. I'll be the one without the beard, and Adam will be the one still at home in Bermuda drinking rum swizzles.

Scarborough, not Bermuda


I have three chunky stories in the collection :

The Play's the Thing - a period King in Yellow creeper about a huge house that doesn't obey the laws of physics, and the agent sent to track down its missing rooms before reality collapses entirely.

Devo Nodenti -  a Dreamlands story about an aged ex-archeologist with a guilty secret and a very uncanny housepet.

Special Needs Child - which is about an adopted ghoul child, and just happens to contain the most morally repugnant sex scene I have ever written. Which is going some, I'm sure you'll agree!

I'm really proud of this collection, which the Rising Shadow reviewer says:

 "…belongs to the bookshelf of everyone who is fascinated by Lovecraftian weird fiction. It’s one of the best weird fiction collections of the year and deserves to be read by ardent and enthusiastic fans of the genre. Weird fiction doesn’t get more entertaining than this, so please invest a bit of time into reading this marvellous collection. Highly recommended!"

So come and see us! There will be WINE! (And I'll answer to "Janine" too.)



You can already buy The Private Life of Elder Things at:
Amazon UK - Kindle and paperback
Amazon US - Kindle and paperback

Monday, 19 September 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

The nights are drawing in so I'm posting excerpts from my creepy, cruel erotic horror novel, Red Grow the Roses in the run-up to Hallowe'en. Vampires are the stars of each of the 11 short stories that make up this mosaic novel.

This story,  Nine for the Nine Bright Shiners, is told by a man who is desperately trying to help his wife conceive, whilst being horribly distracted by a vampire that appears out of mirrors...



I step out of the bath and towel myself down as the water drains. Somehow I manage to catch my own eye in the mirror. I’ve been a bit wary of mirrors since seeing that wraith-woman, but there’s been no sign of her since that first night and I’m feeling reasonably secure here. I’m at home for the weekend and it’s daylight, even if it is a watery winter light. It was probably all a figment of my imagination anyway, I know. If you’re awake and working for twenty hours in a day it’s no wonder that you start dreaming on your feet.

    The bathroom’s tiled and accessorised in black and white and the towels match; my body is the only object in the mirror with any colour to. I look at myself critically, but I’m pretty pleased, let’s face it. I look fit. I’ve kept the stomach bulge and man-boobs at bay. I’ve still got a full head of hair, cut in a style that says prime and not middle-aged. My cock and balls look just fine. I focus on the latter, hanging low in their sling of flesh, a bit struck all of a sudden by the magical potential of their bag of tricks. Whole new lives nestle in those spheres. Million of potential futures. If I was the last man alive I could repopulate the whole country, the whole world, given enough women and enough time to fuck them all. The thought makes Mr Dick swell a little, and I cup my balls encouragingly. ‘Come on Boys,’ I whisper, giving them a little squeeze. ‘You can do it.’

    It’s my day off: we’ve not had sex this morning. And now I want to stroke off, but it’s not allowed. I lift my cock away from my scrotum, feeling the slight pull as the damp skin separates. My cock responds to the touch by filling up a little, bobbing free of gravity. I shift my hips, restless. My scrotum is gathering to wrinkles. I want to jack off. Just solo, with no expectations and no consequences. A nice leisurely wank without the weight of Penny’s need. But I feel guilty; she wouldn’t know of course, but I’d still be letting her down. I stroke the long curve of flesh and feel the swell surge down to the head. Aw hell. Now it really is a semi.

    ‘Richard! I’m off!’

    Wrapping the black towel about my hips, I exit the bathroom. In the hallway Penny is making last-minute adjustments to her makeup in front of the narrow wall mirror. ‘How do I look?’ she asks as I approach.

    She looks great. She always looks great. Even in her winter clothes she’s sexy: she’s wearing burning red lipstick and a trench coat number that just screams of Forties repression and daring, and patterned stockings under that. Well, they might be tights but I can’t help seeing them as stockings. I embrace her from behind, my cock pressing with incorrigible hope into her through layers of towel and clothing. ‘You look lovely.’

    Penny sighs slightly. ‘Save it for later, tiger. I’ve got a train to catch.’ It might be a weekend but she’s got an exhibition to attend and a stall to run.

    I’ll be quick, I want to tell her, but I know better than to argue. It would just upset her schedule. I content myself with a goodbye grope and kiss before seeing her off and locking the front door. Then I look in the mirror, shaking my head at myself with blokish sympathy. I can see the bulge Mr Dick is making under the towel.

    I need a wank. I mean I really need a wank. It makes me feel irritable and bold. I drop the towel on the laminate beech floorboards and strum my cock with slow, defiant strokes.

    "You going to show up then, ghost-girl?"

    Nothing stirs in the reflection behind me. Of course not. It’s broad daylight and I’m safe in my own home. I begin to stroke in earnest. God this is good. My cock is growing stiff and straight and tall, pointing at the glass. My balls are bunching to a fat mass like a fist. I put my hand on the wall and rise up on my toes a little, enjoying the clench of muscles that seems to focus my whole body’s attention at my groin. My eyes are open but I’m not really seeing. Instead I picture Ruth, the grumpy clerical secretary at work. I imagine her walking around as we sit in a focus group circle, circulating the handouts. She wears her blonde hair in a chignon and skirts that are tight on her big thighs: in my fantasy she’s wearing seamed stockings too. She gets to my place, walking inside the circle of chairs, and as she turns from me I stick my foot out and trip her up. Down she goes on her hands and knees, files scattered everywhere, her head ending up nearly in my lap. She’s so surprised she doesn’t even get angry; she just stares at me with her eyes wide and her mouth set in a luscious O. I take advantage of the moment to whip out my thick cock and stuff it between her lips, so deep that for a moment she chokes. I grab her hair and use it to pump her head up and down on my huge length, and after a moment’s resistance she crumbles and begins to suck obediently. Everyone else seated round the circle makes gasps of lecherous appreciation; it’s such a fine sight and we’ve all fantasised about what that big surly mouth could do if put to proper use. They’re getting out their own cocks too; they mean to follow my example and take their own turns once I’ve come. And I’m going to come right now. ‘Take it,’ I grunt, spurting into Ruth’s mouth, down her eager, gobbling throat.

    All over the mirror.

    Afterwards I go into the kitchen and find a jay-cloth and some glass cleaner under the sink. But when I get back into the hall there’s no spunk on the mirror at all. Not a drop. Just the mothprint of a pair of lips, halfway down the glass as if someone had knelt there and kissed the hard surface. It’s almost invisible unless you’re looking for something. I spray the smudge and rub hard with the cloth but it’s no good: the kiss is on the other side of the glass.



Saturday, 17 September 2016

Screw you, "Show Don't Tell"

Time for a wee rant.


If you even dip casually into writing sites, you'll find stuff like this all over the internet. "Show Don't Tell!" they insist.


Now, obviously if you are at the stage of your writing career where you are inclined to type something like "A man went into a bar. He ordered a drink. A stranger walked up to him and started an argument..." then this is a poke in the right direction. And God knows that in the romance genre (especially paranormal romance for some reason) there are entire series that could be cut down to pamphlet size if some editor just went in and took out all the expository internal dialogue.

But I want to have a good old tantrum about SDT because I think that as a dogma it's - wait for it - ableist and exclusionary. Specifically, it alienates me as a reader, which pisses me off.

Take a look at these examples:

"Resist the urge to explain"! Because you don't want to make things easy for your reader, for fuckssake.

Tell: Jessica was so scared she just wanted to run away.
Show: Jessica felt the blood drain out of her face. Her breath seemed to freeze in her throat.

Now I'm setting aside the fact that this sort of writing turns everything into melodrama (if you are writing a 100,000 word book where poor ol' Jessica is in regular peril, you are going to be bogged down in sweat springing out on her brow, ice-water running through her veins, lurching stomachs, thumping hearts, etc etc until you have worked through every medical condition/cliche in the lexicon or just given up and started repeating yourself). Melodrama is fine - nay, compulsory - if you are writing romance. But...

1) SDT assumes a high emotional intelligence in the reader.

Personally I am not empathetic. I don't read people's expressions particularly well. I don't "feel" their emotions if I am in conversation with them. I do not notice if they avoid certain words or topics. I do not instinctively know what they expect from me in response to their conversational revelations. How I manage is by extrapolating from the overt evidence, based on experience and what I have been taught by people who put in the actual effort to tell me things overtly.

So as far as I'm concerned, every SDT scene is a procession of characters doing and saying random things, followed by me trying to work out why.


"Tell" clues REALLY HELP ME in subtle situations. If you just show Jessica leaving the room in a cold sweat,  I have to mentally pause and scratch my head and go, "She seems to be very upset or scared, I wonder why," (assuming there is no obvious threat like an axe-murderer or a giant spider or whatever in the room). This is no goddamn fun for me as a reader.

I want to be told; "Jessica felt scared; this man with his creepy smile and his laughter in all the wrong places made her feel like she needed to wash herself with carbolic soap." I need some level of explanation.

2) SDT assumes your reader has the same cultural touchstones as you the writer, which is frankly arrogant. It excludes readers of other cultures.

I can't tell what signals consumer choices send, because I'm not into fashion or consumer culture. I can't interpret "coded Jewishness". I can't tell if one character is subtly, cruelly taking the piss out of another unless it is within my age group and peculiar British sub-culture. Which is pretty fucking tiny subset of fiction. 
This is bad enough as a mainstream British reader of mainstream American authors. God knows what it's like for people trying to read across more disparate cultural gaps. It's why we need emoticons.

Here's Giles Coren reviewing Here I Am (which he loved):
"For me it had everything ... But will it also work for you? Is this a great, great novel, or is its greatness only visible to other deracinated Jewish writers with complex sexual needs and a firstborn son named Sam? I can't tell."

Seriously, I read Brigit Jones and didn't get it. That is not my world. Any book that is "closely observed dissection" of anything might as well be in Greek as far as I'm concerned, because all it does is show, not tell.

Look, telling me that a character wears expensive designer shoes and is pharmacalogically dependent conveys information to me. Casually mentioning her slipping off Jimmy Choos and necking Quaaludes does not. (Well, obviously it does now or else I couldn't use the example, BUT ONLY BECAUSE I LOOKED UP EVERY OTHER NOUN when I read Tales of the City.)


3) What makes SDT worse is combining it with other shitty fashionable writers' "rules":

"You're a big shot now,"  she observed disdainfully. - Hey, it may not be the best sentence in the language but it conveys information to me that I do not have to guess.

But no - writing gurus say we must give up all dialogue tags except Said! You can't growl, stammer, laugh or inquire.
And we must cull our adverbs!
Dialogue must speak for itself!

"You're a big shot now," she said, flipping her hair.

No, this is  just doesn't work. Just tell me what is happening, pleeeeeeease.  FICTION IS NOT A GODDAMN COMPREHENSION EXERCISE SET BY THE AUTHOR TO TEST THE READER'S PERSPICUITY.

For my sake - Show all you like, but please please Tell too...

... she pleaded. :-)

Wednesday, 14 September 2016

Picture this ... no, please don't.


Oh the glamour of writing!

It's a good job you can't see me this week, because that meme is almost literally true. We're having a late-summer heatwave here so I am hunched in front of the PC, editing, in a stained dressing gown. I don't manage lunch until 3pm. I don't manage to get dressed or even brush my teeth until 7pm some days.

It's a good job Mr Ashbless is working from home because the sum total of my interaction with the household is to slouch downstairs and stare balefully into the fridge. The dogs are wondering why I don't love them anymore...

Anyways, this is how primary editing of The Valleys of the Earth goes:

  1. 1st draft finished!
  2. Insert scenes and bits thought of since writing "THE END". This takes longer than you think.
  3. Re-read the first book in the trilogy, make notes on everything from eye-colour thru individual character vocabulary.
  4. Lie awake at night worrying that the 2nd book is not actually as good as the 1st, but that I can't see where it all went wrong, because author myopia. 
  5. First edit, with special attention to spelling, pacing and sex-scenes. I've a tendency to be too terse near the end, so will probably need to include more descriptive detail in the final chapter. Discover I've added about 3K words to the text :-O
  6. Re-format to a lean mean Times New Roman machine, getting rid of all the damn tabs 'n' double spaces 'n' shit. Ellipses and hyphens.
  7. Lie awake at night worrying that my hero is too dominant, my heroine too annoying, and that I am heinously guilty of cultural appropriation and will be burnt in effigy by my readers, should I ever find any.
  8. Second edit, preferably read out loud to make sure of sentence flow. EVERY. GODDAMN. WORD
  9. Attempt third edit, realise I've actually gone blind and am no longer capable of reading anything at all.
  10. Give up and, weeping with despair, send book into publisher.
  11. Drink. Await criticism, instructions to rewrite, and the start of line edits

Monday, 12 September 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your pleasure!

Since the nights are drawing in and Hallowe'en is on the horizon, I thought I'd showcase some stories from my erotic vampire novel Red Grow the Roses.

Short stories?! Isn't it a novel? Well yes, but it's a mosaic novel, made up of stand-alone shorts in different styles and voices. This excerpt is from Chapter/Story 1: Ten for the Ten Commandments

Blood lust and sexual desire; for vampires the two are inseparable.
 
There are six vampires in the city. Ageless, terrifyingly beautiful and always hungry - not just for blood but for the other pleasures the human body offers. Sadistic chanteuse Estelle; feckless Ben; Roisin, the mirror-ghost; Wakefield, haunted by his own damnation; Naylor, the most feral of them all. And Reynauld is the Good Shepherd, the one who holds them all in check. But his grip on his own humanity is fading, and when Wakefield accidentally kills a woman and Naylor gets the blame, a power-struggle erupts between the city's immortal undead.


Prepare to devour Red Grow the Roses, an explicit vampire erotica novel with plenty of bite.


 ‘You’re up for this, aren’t you?’ Naylor asked, dipping the neck of his bottle into the cleft of her cleavage and rubbing the glass suggestively from swell to swell of her breasts. His lips were parted and shiny. ‘You’re game for it, I can tell.’

     ‘Mm,’ she whimpered, nodding.

     ‘Told you you’d get everything you wanted, love,’ Ben said hoarsely. ‘Everything and more.’ He nuzzled at her ear and took the lobe between his lips, nipping softly.

    ‘Ben...’

    Her head seemed to swim. Naylor had set the beers aside and was stripping off his clothes now. He shed his T-shirt and kicked his trousers off, revealing a slim smooth body, the only visible hair a black nest at his crotch that climbed in a narrow line to his navel. His beautiful smooth cock was already stiffly erect and nodding in the free air: it had a slight curve back toward his stomach and looked almost out of proportion to his delicate frame, so engorged was it. He stroked it like it was a hunting-dog waiting to be unleashed, as he stalked back to her and looked down into her face.

    ‘This is what you were hoping for, wasn’t it doll?’ he asked taking her hand and rubbing it over his cock. It seemed to pulse against her, its sticky mouth kissing her palm. ‘A bit of fun?’

    Sophie nodded.

     ‘It’s going to get a bit messy.’ His gaze lifted to Ben over her shoulder. ‘Clothes off, I guess.’

    They stripped her of everything: the purse hanging from her shoulder, the cherry-coloured dress from the boutique she couldn’t really afford on her wage, the lacy bra she’d bought only last week. All but her high-heeled shoes. Everything was tossed aside in a heap. Her boobs bounced free as Ben whipped the bra off and her nipples stiffened in the cool air of the church. She didn’t seemed to be required to do anything but accept their hands and the liberties they took groping her as they pulled at her clothes, playing with her tits and ass and pussy, pinching slyly between caresses until she squirmed. Ben pushed her into Naylor’s grasp as he wrenched off his own clothes, clearly impatient now. She caught a flash of his body, golden fuzz marching up his stomach and down his legs, before another shove landed her back in his embrace. He caught her wrists and pulled them to the small of her back, guiding her hands to the vertical staff of his cock.

    ‘Hold this,’ he said: ‘That’s right.’ Then his own hands went back round her, holding her under the jaw and around her waist.

    She wasn’t quite sure she liked that. Without the use of her hands to fend anyone off, she felt strangely vulnerable, and she whimpered when Naylor patted her breasts back and forth with stinging force.

    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said; ‘does that hurt? Kiss it better.’ Falling to a crouch he caught her right nipple in his lips and sucked it long and slow and expertly. Pleasure crackled through her nerves, and she squeezed Ben’s cock hard in her hands. But it lasted all too brief a moment before Naylor lifted his mouth away and grinned. She saw his teeth, cruelly pointed fangs, just before he stooped back down on her breast and sank them in.

    It wouldn’t be quite true to say she was surprised, not really. She’d known, after all, from the beginning; she’d just avoided thinking about it. But she tried to scream anyway, except that Ben’s broad hand clamped over her mouth and the sound was trapped in her heaving chest. There was no outlet for the pain, the searing hot cut of his fangs puncturing her skin.

    Then the pain was gone, and something entirely different took its place. Sophie, pinned and thrashing, took a long time to grasp what it was, as it flowed through her right breast like melted sugar fizzing in every capillary - like worms of sparkling fire – like a hundred tiny meteors circling the burning sun of her nipple. She stopped fighting and sagged back against Ben, only half-aware that her hands were still clenched, sweating, around his erect cock, that Naylor was nursing on her tit, his throat working as he swallowed.

    Slowly, Ben slid his grip from her mouth to her lower jaw so that she could breath. She whimpered ‘Oh fuck, oh fuck,’ her panic now swamped in the glorious sensation of the suckling, but horror making her pant.   

    ‘“Oh Fuck No” or “Oh Fuck Yes”?’ murmured Ben. ‘Sounds like an “Oh Fuck Yes” to me, love.’ Lifting her left arm he sank his teeth into the fleshy bulge of her bicep.

    Again – a white flash of pain, a wave of coruscating pleasure.

    Then Naylor stopped feeding and lifted his mouth. There was surprisingly little mess on her breast, only two puckered puncture marks over her enflamed and aching nipple, each filled with a little ruby bead. No blood ran. But when Naylor licked his lips his mouth was red and wet.

    ‘Oh please,’ she moaned. All her will seemed to have faded away as the wild chemistry of their saliva ran riot in her body tissues. Her right breast pulsed with the hungry need for Naylor to latch on again and her left breast ached to join it, even though her stomach recoiled from what it meant that their mouths were that colour.

    ‘You like that?’ he asked with a mocking scarlet smile.

    ‘It feels ... nice,’ she whispered. She felt drunk with shock and her voice broke on the last word into a strange giggle she had no control over.

    ‘You do like it, don’t you?’ He pressed against her, grinning. ‘Naughty girl.’ His fingers slipped up between her thighs and paddled in the ooze of her sex juices. ‘Dirty fucking little girl.
’     
    ‘Look at this,’ chuckled Ben, brushing her turgid right nipple with his thumb; it was as swollen as if it’d been stung by a bee, and so sensitive that she gasped. ‘Just bursting with juicy goodness, aren’t you love?’

    ‘Want another kiss, don’t you?’ Naylor lapped teasingly at her breast. ‘Let’s try something a bit different, heh?’ Then he sat back on his heels, took her thighs in his hands and spread them, lifting one to drape over his shoulder. He and Ben took her weight easily, as she was pulled onto the kneeling man’s mouth and he buried his face in her crotch.

    ‘Oh!’ she wailed reflexively, as his tongue broke the split of her sex, as he lapped and sucked at the juices welling there. She tried half-heartedly to struggle but her body wasn’t co-operating, and even if it had the two men were far too strong. For a long moment the sensation of his mouth was just one of simple pleasure and she stopped twisting altogether. That was when he bit down, and his fangs pierced the mound of her pubis either side of her clit. She spasmed once - and that was the last time, the last vestige of any resistance that night.



Saturday, 10 September 2016

The Open-Arse Tree

Y'all know how fond I am of trees. Well here's my new favourite: the Open-Arse.

Can you see where it got its name? Picture from Wikipedia

Technically it's the Medlar (Mespilus germanica), which ticks every box for being a European native with a long British history, a  really weird fruit tree, and possessing a filthy folklore. "Open-arse" was its original folk name.

It was really common and really popular back in the Middle Ages, as medlar fruits were some of the few available to consume during winter. That's because you can eat them only after they've started to decay.

Yummy! (pic from Wikipedia)
They'll rot on the branches, after the first frost (it's called "bletting") or you can store them in straw and let them rot at their leisure.

Due to its strange appearance and pungent squishiness, medlar fruit was associated with the female genitals - and also became a metaphor for premature decay, as in the Prologue of Chaucer's The Reeve's Tale:

But if I fare as dooth an open-ers --
That ilke fruyt is ever lenger the wers,
Til it be roten in mullok or in stree.
We olde men, I drede, so fare we:
Til we be roten, kan we nat be rype
                   
(Unless I fare as does the fruit of the medlar --
That same fruit continually grows worse,  
Until it is rotten in rubbish or in straw.
We old men, I fear, fare like that:
Until we are rotten, we can not be ripe)

Shakespeare uses the fruit's repulsive/bawdy connotation:

 Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.
O Romeo, that she were, O that she were
An open-arse and thou a pop'rin pear!  
(Romeo and Juliet)


By his time the word "Medlar" had become specifically a symbol and slang term for a prostitute: sweet and desirable but 'rotten on the inside' and old before her time. 
Lucio.   I was once before him for getting a wench with child.
Duke.   Did you such a thing?
Lucio.   Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to forswear it: they would else have married me to the rotten medlar.
(Measure for Measure)

The misogyny reaches its succinct apex in The Honest Whore by Thomas Dekker:

"Women are like medlars, no sooner ripe but rotten"


I feel an overpowering urge to plant some :-)

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

Jennifer is 5!


Sci-Fi kinkster and high queen of the bunnies Jennifer Denys is celebrating her 5th birthday as an author of erotic romance" - with a special post about the smutwriters she's met, carshared with and bedded(!).

I'm up there, first on the list!
It's an amazing, cool feeling to have helped inspire someone to start their own writing career. Damnit, I should have demanded a cut!

There's also a daily prize competition for blogreaders all this week, so GO FOR IT!

Monday, 5 September 2016

Blue Monday: Ian Smith guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment. Today we have a bonus mini-interview with today's guest Ian Smith too!

He brought us an excerpt from his first book in the Merely Players erotic romance series a while back, and now the second,
The King's Captain, is out and available to buy. Ian says: "At the end of the first story, Knights Errant, Paul and Hayley become lovers. The storyline is continued in The King’s Captain, which I tried to make as stand-alone as possible."




Where did the idea for the Merely Players series come from?

It's a messy sort of mix of ideas! I started with a few ideas for flash fiction stories involving two lovers working together on TV shows. I developed these ideas into some "supporting cast" characters in a draft novel, and then used one of the scenes they filmed as a setting for part of the story.

I'm sure I wouldn't know where to start writing this series! - Did it involve much research?


I'd seen a couple of jousting shows and thought I could plausibly use a team in my story. I also had a day's training with a stunt group as a "Red Letter Day", doing jousting and combat. I've been riding for years, which is why I wanted his horse to have a real personality. All the TV stuff is purely from my imagination, at least partly inspired by  the filming techniques used in 24 Hours in A&E, Air Ambulance and some of the emergency service TV series. A lot of the TV shows they'll work on are pretty obviously based on hit films and shows, but I thought making them for a family audience (eg 6pm at the weekend) would allow lots of leeway and fun.

What do you have in mind for your next writing project?


My next publication will be a story in an anthology called “Love and Lust in Space”. This is being edited by Jennifer Denys and will be published by Sexy Little Pages.

I’ve finished the first draft of the third novella in the “Merely Players” series, which now needs revision. The next one I send to my publishers will almost certainly be a “spin-off” novel about Paul’s friends Mark and Maggie, currently being tweaked. I’ve got ideas for three more novellas in this series and perhaps another spin-off. And there are three other substantial ideas rattling around in my mind, nagging me to write them. I keep getting ideas, most of which I develop as a piece of flash fiction in the hope they give me a memory jog some other day.


Have you ever had a character just “do their own thing?” 


Yes, and it was a weird feeling when it happened! I was working on a draft novel and an incident occured to me, which seemed perfectly logical and plausible, but how to develop from that stumped me for ages. I’ve got some ideas now, and can use this incident as a source of tension in the relationship between the two characters in the second part of the story.


What’s your writer’s routine? Are you a plotter or do you just write and see where it goes?

I write as and when I can find time and the mental energy. It tends to be weekends at the moment, with a couple of hours on the odd weekday evening. I’ve always had a vague idea of the overall storyline, but for some reason I never want to write this out. I’ve almost always had some key scenes in mind, and have written some of these first to provide me with “way-markers”.

Now here's the excerpt:




Paul is Hayley's lover and now her leading man. But acting and portraying a hero on a period TV show takes far more than a suit of armour. He's totally out of his depth, personally and professionally.

Help arrives with dramatic lessons in leadership and courage, when strange events put him and his friends in harm's way.

Hayley's happy when her best friend Becky books hotel rooms with a bed big enough for three, which confuses Paul. Sorting out their relationships is even scarier than acting, jousting, and stunt fighting in front of the camera.

Life doesn't imitate art. Life shoulders art out of the way. Discovering a secret threatens Paul's trust in Hayley and Becky, and forces him to face his doubts and fears. He must decide if it's braver to walk away, or ask for honest answers. Even if they may break his heart.


I slid my hands under her tee shirt and managed to undo her bra fairly slickly. Well, for me. She sat up, wriggled, and somehow removed her bra through one sleeve without lifting her top. She threw the bra aside, took my hands and placed them on her breasts. Through her soft cotton top, they felt lovely in my hands and her nipples were firm little buds. She looked down at me with something approaching open lust as I fondled her breasts. And she shifted her hips around, teasing my constrained erection.

"Can't decide whether I want to take you, or have you take me," she murmured.

"Suppose I get all overenthusiastic? You know, forceful and pushy."

She grinned at me. "You? Mister gentle and thoughtful?"

I pulled her down onto me and rolled us over so I was on top. I straddled her thighs and pinned her hands on either side of her head. "So? Who says I can't be thoughtfully pushy, too?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Prove it, big boy."

I pulled her arms up and held both her wrists with one hand, then tugged her tee shirt up. She wriggled to help me pull it over her head, but I left her arms in it, not quite trapped, but restricted. While she giggled and struggled with that, I unfastened her jeans and tugged them down to the top of her panties, then I rolled to one side and pulled her clothing down as far as I could.

"You're cheating," she grumbled, throwing her tee shirt to the floor.

"How am I cheating?"

"I can't put up a decent fight, but I want you be all forceful and overpower me. And I'm half-naked but you're still fully dressed."

"Well, let's sort that out." I jumped up and stripped quickly.

Hayley got into her bed and grabbed the duvet to stop me getting in with her. But she didn't try all that hard, and squealed when I won and threw the duvet back. We cuddled and giggled, then she stroked my face tenderly.

"Paul, I know you're very conscious of being a lot bigger and stronger than me, and I love it that you try to be gentle. And you're probably trying to avoid me feeling too dominated. But sometimes I want you to be a bit rougher. Like we were in that feed room last night. I know you won't hurt me and if I want to give in to you, that's not you dominating me." She kissed me gently and ran her fingers through my hair, all the way from my forehead to where it was spread across my shoulders. "Sometimes, I just want to feel that you're completely hugging me, every little bit of me."

I took both her hands in one of mine, stretched her arms up above her head and kissed her slowly and deeply. "Yellow and red, okay?"

She nodded and smiled shyly.

I rolled her onto her tummy, eased her legs apart and knelt between them. Once I'd got myself balanced, I slid a fingertip along the cleft of her pussy, which immediately opened for me. She was deliciously hot, slick, and very tempting. I teased her entrance and spread her wetness over her lips until I thought she was really ready. Then I moved and stroked her pussy with the tip of my cock. She gasped quietly and raised her hips. I took the hint and slid into her. She was so wet and open that I filled her after a couple of gentle thrusts. I screwed her slowly, pulling as far back as I could each time, then sliding as deep into her as I could.

She twisted her head and kissed me roughly. Her eyes were bright with desire and mischief. "Go on, have me."

I went faster, but still pulled almost out before sliding back deep into her. Hayley closed her eyes and relaxed completely. She made a sound like a cross between a gasp and a moan each time I slid into her.
I remembered her comment about being hugged completely and had an idea. I stopped for a few seconds and put my legs outside hers. She got the idea and moved her legs together. My cock still slid in and out easily, with my balls touching her thighs each time I thrust into her. She arched her hips up off the bed, making it easier for me to pump in and out of her. Her gasping got louder and we soon had a film of sweat over us. She climaxed loudly and suddenly, almost pulling me over the edge with her.

"You okay?" I murmured.

"Green, go for it." She gasped. "Don't stop now."

I let my self-control go. My world was entirely centred around my cock sliding into the wet, soft core of the lithe, firm body beneath mine. Her gasps grew louder and she slipped her hands out of my grasp, pressing them on the bed. She pushed back against my thrusts. "Green, green, green," she whispered, then her whole body tensed as she found another climax. That one was too much for me, and I released inside her, pulse after pulse of hot need washed through my cock to fill her.

We rolled onto one side and snuggled together; hot, sweaty, breathless and bathed in the unmistakable aroma of vigorous sex.

Hayley stroked the arm I had around her tummy. "That was rather fun," she murmured.

"Bloody amazing," I said. "Remind me to let go and be rough more often."

She chuckled. "Only when it's the right moment. Your tender, gentle approach is pretty bloody mind-blowing, too."

She rolled onto her back and turned her face towards mine. Our noses were only millimetres apart. "And I know exactly where my g-spot is now."

"Oh?"

She nodded. "I felt it every single time you slid into me. And it was heavenly." She grinned and kissed me. "Thank you."

"Thank you," I said.

"No, thank you." She giggled, then put her fingers over my mouth. "Let me have the last word. You know it's less painful that way."

I rolled onto my back and stretched my legs, which meant my feet dangled over the end of the mattress. But at least the room was warm.

She snuggled up against me, enveloped by my arms. My woman. It's so good to know that feeling again.

Buy The King's Captain at:

Saturday, 3 September 2016

Don't say a word


... but I've been reading my copy of Silence is Golden to the new dog...

She says "Contemporary kink-inspired erotica at its best. Can I have that dog treat now?" ;-)

Thursday, 1 September 2016

The last battle

Gustave Dore, illustration for Paradise Lost

FINAL CHAPTER!!!

I WILL FINISH "THE VALLEYS OF THE EARTH" THIS WEEK

You are going to hate me ...
... cliffhanger ending


Monday, 29 August 2016

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a hot excerpt for you entertainment!

Today's guest is Samantha MacLeod with an excerpt from her new paranormal novel The Trickster's Lover, which is released on September 6th.


Surviving Graduate School ~ Falling in Love ~ Preventing Ragnarök

Graduate student Caroline Capello has always been more comfortable with books than people. She’s just moved to the University of Chicago to become the world’s foremost authority on Norse mythology, making her the only member of her family to leave San Diego, and the family business.

But she’s wondering if she’s just made the biggest mistake of her life.

When the enigmatic and irresistibly sexy Norse god Loki appears in her studio apartment, Caroline is forced to question everything she’s learned. Do the gods exist? Are the legends about Ragnarök, the apocalyptic battle that destroys the gods and ends the Nine Realms, actually true? Or is she losing her mind?



I felt him cut the drawstring on my sweatpants, and they fell to the floor. He touched my wrists, his hands cool and gentle, and my entire body trembled. He pulled my arms away from my breasts, exposing my nipples, my skin flushed with heat. His smell surrounded me; woodsmoke, salt spray. My body hummed under his touch. Loki stepped back, tilting his head to one side. And he stared at me, his eyes burning.

I’ve never been very happy with my body. I’m tall and awkward, I hate my nose, and my breasts are so small my mom keeps buying me bras with an inch of extra padding. But as I stood naked in front of a Norse god, and his eyes traveled the length of my body, devouring me with a hunger I’d never seen before, I flushed with heat and shivered with arousal, and I felt sexy.

I actually felt sexy.

I watched him as he stared at me. I could trace the lines of his muscles through his leather armor, and I wanted to touch them, wanted to run my hands up his arms, along his chest. I wanted to pull his face to mine, to sink my fingers into his hair, to again feel those cool hands on my skin.

“Yes, very nice,” he said. His voice was thicker this time.

I nodded and swallowed, hard. “Thanks,” I whispered, frantically trying to think of something clever I could say to him. You’re fucking hot as hell, I thought, and then I bit my lip again. Caroline, you cannot say that.

He took a step closer to me. I could feel his body, wrapped in leather, inches from my naked skin. I trembled; the inside of my thighs were wet. I hoped he couldn’t tell. I hoped he couldn’t hear the wild pounding of my heart.

His cool fingers wrapped around my upper arm, and he leaned close to me. I felt the whisper of his hair against my skin, the warmth of his breath on my neck.

“Mortal woman,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “I desire you.”

It was suddenly very difficult to breath. My head swam with his scent, my body buzzed with his nearness. His face fixed on mine, waiting. The earlier dancing amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by hunger and need.

I was not a virgin. I’d had sex with Doug, many times, and enjoyed it. But my body had never ached like this for Doug’s touch. I had never wanted anything as singularly, as fiercely, as I wanted this tall stranger. Now.

We were only half an inch apart; the space between us vibrated with energy.

I hesitated for another heartbeat before my hips rocked into his, my naked breasts pushed against his soft leather armor, my hands reaching up, plunging into his hair. I pulled his face to mine.

Our lips touched and electricity surged through my body. His mouth parted slightly, and I could taste salt on his soft lips. His tongue entered me and heat filled my body as he explored me, his cool hands running down my back, pressing my trembling body against his.

He laughed when we pulled apart, his eyes sparkling. “I must warn you,” he whispered in my ear, his voice now low and thick, “I’ll ruin you for all mortal men.”

“Oh, please,” I gasped. “Please ruin me.”

He laughed again, deep and wild, and his shirt disappeared. I pressed my body against his naked chest, my skin burning against him. I could feel the hard length of his cock inside the soft leather of his pants, throbbing against my inner thighs, and I moved my hips against his as he ran long, delicate fingers down my neck. He kissed and then gently bit my ear, and my entire body responded, trembling. I need him, I thought, my breath catching in my throat. I need to feel him -

He bit my neck, harder, and I cried out, aching for him. Then his pants vanished, and he grabbed me, lifting me by my thighs. He pushed my legs apart with his hips and my knee hit the chair, knocking it over. My head hit the wall, hard, as I arched my back, offering myself to him. He moaned softly as he entered me.

Relief and pleasure crashed through my body as I felt him inside me. I wrapped my legs around his hips. For a heartbeat we were still, my arms around his neck, my legs wrapped around his thighs, his breath fast and shallow on my neck.

Then he began to pull back and thrust against me, my hips banging into the wall, shaking the entire apartment. I clung to him, my body rocked with heat and ecstasy, moaning and gasping. He was inside me, fucking me, and still I wanted him, wanted more of him, wanted to destroy the distance between us, obliterate the distinction between our bodies. I arched my back against the wall, pushing him deeper as his slender hips crashed into me again and again.

My picture frames shattered as they fell from the trembling walls and hit the floor. I realized I was screaming his name, digging my nails into his back as our bodies came together, the space between us collapsing and exploding into fire. My entire body was aflame - it had never been like this before, never, it had never -

We came at the same time, like an explosion. The heat of my orgasm burned over me as his head arched back and he cried out, eyes shut, his pale face tilted to the ceiling. I felt his cock spasm inside me, and I pushed my hips into it, my entire body trembling and covered with sweat.

We pulled apart as my feet again found the floor. He brought his face to mine and
kissed me, a slow, gentle kiss, a kiss that felt like our bodies had known each other
forever.


Pre-order The Trickster's Lover at Amazon US :: Amazon UK 



Samantha MacLeod has lived in every time zone in the US, and London. She has an M.A. from the University of Chicago; yes, it really is where fun comes to die.


Samantha lives with her husband and two small children along the Niagara River just outside Buffalo, New York. When she’s not shoveling snow or writing steamy sex scenes, Samantha can be found teaching college composition and philosophy to undergraduates who have no idea she leads a double life as an erotica author.


Samantha MacLeod 's website
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Amazon author page.

Friday, 26 August 2016

Lammas

I AM SO SORRY. I have been remiss - Because the pagan/natural cycles are woven into my Lovers' Wheel series, I'm taking a look in 2016 at the four great Celtic festivals, the most important festivals of the neo-pagan year. I've covered Imbolc and Beltane previously, but I'm several weeks late for poor old Lammas!

LAMMAS ("loaf mass") is also known as LUGHNASADH, the assembly sacred to the god Lugh. It takes place on 31st July / 1st August. Like the others it is a fire-festival, and marks a turning point in the agricultural year: in this case the first harvest feast, and the start of Autumn.

This is triple-faced Lugh:


He's one of those multi-functional Irish warrior-gods of craft, law, battle, the sun, storms and generally strutting round being very manly. He also invented a boardgame, fidchell, which makes him a bit geeky.

Lugh's Enclosure (1912) by Ernest Wallcousins
The Lughnasadh festival was a specifically founded as funeral games for Lugh's foster-mother, Taillte, an agricultural goddess who cleared the whole Ireland for farming - and then died of exhaustion. (Remember, Imbolc features imagery of a pure young girl, Beltane a horny young maiden: Lughnasadh is founded on a sacrificial mother-goddess, even if she doesn't get the name credit).

Festivals took place on hilltops and included feasting, matchmaking, athletic contests, an offering of the first fruits of the year (bilberries and blackberries and apples), and a bull sacrifice. All these customs were kept on by the Christian Church, including making pilgrimage up hills and mountains. Though nowadays the name is mostly remembered for a very depressing movie, Dancing at Lughnasa:


Lughnasadh was also the occasion for "trial weddings" that lasted a year and day! Modern Wiccans and neo-pagans still favour it for handfasting ceremonies.

Edmund Blair Leighton, My Fair Lady (1914)

The Anglo-Saxons / English put more emphasis on Lammas ("hlaf-mas") being a festival to do with wheat - the bringing in and baking of the first sheaf, and its dedication in the local church. Cereal crops, of course, keep through winter in a way summer fruit don't.


With regard to the year's cycle, Lammas takes place when the slide from high Summer into the shorter darker days has become noticeable. If the year has gone well and the gods are kind, the harvest is bountiful. It is a time of comparative plenty and thankfulness, a huge amount of hard work in the fields, of reaping rewards but also preparing the community against the Winter to come - rejoicing that takes place under a shadow of encroaching hardship.

Lawrence Alma Tadema, A Harvest Festival, 1880
 This is the time of year that  John Barleycorn, spirit of the barley harvest and pseudo-god of Beer, is sacrificed, according to the folksong:

They hired men with the scythes so sharp
To cut him off down by the knee.
They rolled him and tied him around by the waist,
Served him most barbarously.
They hired men with the sharp pitchforks
Who pierced him to the heart.
But the loader, he served him far worse than that
For he bound him to the cart.
    
They rode him around and around the field
Till they came into a barn,
And there they made a solemn mow
Of poor John Barleycorn.
They hired men with the crab-tree sticks
Who cut him skin from bone
But the miller, he served him far worse than that
For he ground him between two stones.
   
Here's little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
And brandy in a glass.
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the stronger man at last.
For the hunter, he can't hunt the fox
Nor so loudly blow his horn,
And the tinker, he can't mend his kettles or his pots
Without a little bit of John Barleycorn.

Don't worry, he always comes back

Wednesday, 24 August 2016

The End is Nigh!

Paradise Lost by Emile Bernard, 1868 – 1941

I'm up to 77K on The Valleys of the Earth and about to launch into the final extended scene. Things may be about to get a teensy weensy bit violent, but I'm sure that's fine in a romance, ahem. At least I now know exactly how the novel ends! (I also know how the first three chapters of the sequel go, but that's just got to wait.)

So there are no more surprises awaiting me for this volume ... probably. My heroine Milja managed to broadside me this morning, mind...

It's repeatedly asserted in The Book of Enoch, my go-to sourcebook of angelic craziness, that those women who slept with the fallen angels were taught magic as a consequence and became "witches" or "sirens" (depending on translation). I've treated this as an organic bodily change wrought by angelic influence/body fluids, not learned spells. So Milja has been developing some interesting new abilities throughout the series...

Vol 1: Cover Him with Darkness
  • She finds it physically impossible to cry
  • Cats love her, dogs hate and fear her
  • She can see ghosts, sometimes
  • She can tweak chance to give herself unusually good luck (small magics)
  • She has vaguely prescient dreams
  • She can pull other sleeping people, and angels, into her dreams to interact with them

Vol 2: The Valleys of the Earth
  • During a sexual encounter she can speed-heal her own wounds, or her partner's
  • It's very possible she can reverse this to do harm through hate-sex, though she hasn't actually tried
  • She's immune to disease (which is very helpful when visiting Ethiopia, believe me)
  • She can see in the dark
  • She can order certain animals around ... or at least scare them away
I'm trying to keep her powers witchy and low-key, and not to just pull another one out of the hat whenever it's convenient for the plot. But given that she started off as an ordinary human and she's hanging out in the major league with the big angelic boys, it's nice to be able to redress the balance of power slightly and give her some more effective agency.