Friday, 18 May 2018

The Domino effect


I watched Deadpool 2 yesterday. Don't worry, no spoilers, but I thought it was loads of clever, violent fun. And now I am drooling over super-cool Domino, played by Zazie Beetz.


You know how I like kick-ass women ... I mean, 😍😍😍


Wednesday, 16 May 2018

Sexy Trees


I have joined a very silly Facebook group called SEXY TREES. It was actually inspired by this rather nice article ... but fundamentally is for people who are childishly amused by pics like this one I took in Peru a few years back:


I mean, who doesn't love that?

Monday, 14 May 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's snippet is from my recently re-released Arabian Nights novel Heart of Flame. It's a romance novel, mind, so don't go expecting chapter upon chapter of rumpy-pumpy, but it does feature TWO passionate and troublesome romantic relationships, so there's a lot of angst going around. The main story is that of Taqla and Rafiq, who are charging back and forth across the Middle East on a magic horse, trying to rescue the Amir of Damascus' daughter from the djinni who's kidnapped her. Since this is taking some time, poor abducted Ahleme is having to deal with the djinni Yazid herself...


He circled the pillar until he was almost on top of her. “You humans must be miserable all your short lives,” he growled. "Living without love."

She averted her face, pivoting on her trapped ankle to turn her back on him. “Maybe we are. It isn’t important.” She rested one flank against the pillar, feeling the cool glass against her thigh and left breast.

“How can you say that?” He was standing right over her now. She could feel his breath on her hair when he spoke. “I would make you happy, Ahleme, if you’d let me.”

“You’d make me your slave,” she whispered.

“I would set you free.” His hand descended on her thick braid at the nape of her neck and she jerked.

“No!” she warned. Yazid hissed and withdrew his hand.

“Don’t—I’m not going to hurt you. Not even touch you. Just your hair, Ahleme. Let me stroke your hair.”

She pressed her face to the pillar, gathering her will to repel him. Then he laid his hand on her head gently and ran it down her braided hair, and she nearly whimpered.

“There. There. It’s not hurting you, is it?”

He wasn’t hurting her. Her resistance wavered.

“You’ve beautiful hair, like darkest honey.” His voice was a low murmur, and Ahleme felt her bones turn to water at its purr. She was tired and scared and she dreaded the thought of mutilating herself once more—every part of her recoiled from that thought—but she would do it to stop his assault, she was ready for that if she must. If he did. If he didn’t just stand there stroking her hair, twining the long tail of her braid with his fingertip, dipping his face to the top of her head to breathe the scent of the rosewater she’d washed her hair with. She shut her eyes. He wasn’t hurting her. It didn’t feel bad. It even felt good, this slow caress, because it had been so long since she’d been touched or embraced or comforted by anyone she knew. She was accustomed to physical contact every day with her women, and she’d missed those soothing fingers massaging or anointing or combing out her hair. It was good now just to feel the contact, the rhythm of his stroking hand, the warmth radiating from his skin, the brush of his fingers on her spine…

She shivered.

“Oh… Your skin is so soft.” Yazid traced the line of her backbone, from the cloth stretched across her shoulder blades all the way down to the hem of her skirt just above the cleft of her bottom, exploring each dimple of her spine. He was very gentle and she couldn’t feel even the tip of his claw. She wanted to feel angry but she couldn’t. It would have been so much easier if he’d made her angry. She couldn’t even feel scared now, not really, although in one way she was as dizzy with terror as if she were back outside standing on that high arch. Yet it wasn’t a fear that made her recoil or fight. It made her press herself to the glass, aware of every inch of her skin as he repeated the motion. Her scalp pricked and shivers chased the length of her back, raising gooseflesh, which he soothed away with the warm sweep of his palm. “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered.

She was frightened. And yet she wasn’t, not at all. She didn’t understand how she was feeling, only that that there wasn’t room to step back and analyse it, only to react to that gentle, searing touch. One way or the other.

“Let me just stroke you.” Yazid’s spread hand nearly encompassed the whole width of her waist. “You’re so beautiful. I just want to…” His hand slid over one firm cheek of her bottom.

“No!” she groaned, stiffening instantly. No—that was too far, she knew that. That crossed the line. Yazid removed his hand.

“All right. It’s all right. Just your back. You don’t mind me touching your back, do you?”

How could she say no, when she’d let him already? When he went back to stroking her back it was such a relief, and such pleasure. Even when he hooked a finger under the stretched cloth of her top and the fabric turned to dust that fell shimmering down her smooth skin like sprinkles of gold.

Ahleme gasped and pressed her bare breasts to the glass, her breath fogging the blue surface. Yazid laid his hand flat between her shoulder blades, on the bit that always itched, rubbing in slow circles.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re beautiful, my Jewel of the Earth.” His voice was the growl of a lion, but so quiet, so very quiet that he had to lower his mouth to her temple and utter the words with his lips brushing her ear, something that sent shivers prickling all over her skin. He sensed the movement and scratched her gently between the shoulder blades, which made her gasp with gratitude. Then he ran his claws down her back, tenderly, all the way to the rising sweep of her rump, and that made her groan out loud. “Oh yes,” he breathed.

Dimly she realized she wasn’t thinking straight anymore, that somewhere along the line sensation had become too important, that her body was overriding her better judgment. Somewhere in her head she was still scared and outraged by the djinni, but not enough to drive him off. Not even when he buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply the scent there, not even when his bare chest brushed against her bare back, his heat making up for the cold of the glass he was pushing her up against, the cold that was pinching her nipples to stiff points. Not even when he stopped talking and just breathed hard and quick.



Buy Heart of Flame from your seller of choice HERE



A romantic Arabian Nights adventure

The most beautiful woman in all Arabia has been abducted by a djinni - and only forbidden magic can bring about her rescue.

Taqla the sorceress lives in comfortable secrecy, until she agrees to help the handsome traveller Rafiq find the kidnapped daughter of the Amir. They set off together on a journey fraught with magic and peril, though a landscape of ancient desert ruins, terrible monsters and deception. With so many secrets to keep, Taqla cannot afford to trust Rafiq – and yet she must, with her life.
In the meantime, the captive Ahleme must try to fend off the attentions of the terrifying djinni who wishes to father upon her a new saviour of the Djinn race. Can Ahleme survive her imprisonment? Can Taqla really bring herself to help Rafiq win Ahleme back, when she is hopelessly in love with him herself? Can she trust him not to betray her, when sorcery is a crime punishable by death?  Passion may yet betray them all.

Sunday, 13 May 2018

That's my excuse

... and I'm sticking to it ;-)

If you go over to the original SMBC strip you can click on the red button for bonus stimulation

Friday, 11 May 2018

Heart of Flame is on sale!


I got buy-links!

Well, one actually - here's the UNIVERSAL BUY LINK that takes you to the shop of your choice - more are still being added but Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Apple are up there already.
A romantic Arabian Nights adventure

The most beautiful woman in all Arabia has been abducted by a djinni - and only forbidden magic can bring about her rescue.

Taqla the sorceress lives in comfortable secrecy, until she agrees to help the handsome traveller Rafiq find the kidnapped daughter of the Amir. They set off together on a journey fraught with magic and peril, though a landscape of ancient desert ruins, terrible monsters and deception. With so many secrets to keep, Taqla cannot afford to trust Rafiq – and yet she must, with her life.

In the meantime, the captive Ahleme must try to fend off the attentions of the terrifying djinni who wishes to father upon her a new saviour of the Djinn race. Can Ahleme survive her imprisonment? Can Taqla really bring herself to help Rafiq win Ahleme back, when she is hopelessly in love with him herself? Can she trust him not to betray her, when sorcery is a crime punishable by death?  Passion may yet betray them all.

Originally published by the late-lamented Samhain Books, this re-worked version of the novel comes with lovely reviews:

“This lush fantasy will bring to mind the tales of the Arabian Nights. With sorcery, djinnis and a seemingly never-ending list of tasks that leads heroine Taqla and Rafiq, the object of her affections, through the desert, Heart of Flame is a book you can’t put down. The two burgeoning relationships in the book are achingly perfect in their development, as each completed task brings both Taqla and Rafiq — and the amir’s daughter and her djinni — closer to their ultimate meeting. Even when you think you know how the story will end, Ashbless keeps the surprises coming” – 4.5 STARS - RT Book Reviews

“With so many elements mixed together it’s a fantastic read for any genre lover. Heart of Flame gets better and better as the tension builds page after page.” - Sizzling Hot Book Reviews

"What a tale it is, with twists and turns and adventures galore. There were times when I honestly had no idea of what would come next and instances when I gnashed my teeth at whatever it was that interrupted me from reading the next page. Had I gotten off my duff and read it last year when I got the book, it would definitely have landed on my top ten list for the year." A- RECOMMENDED READ - Dear Author

Monday, 7 May 2018

Blue Monday: Kay Jaybee guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Last year Kay Jaybee was my guest with The Fifth Floor, the first in The Perfect Submissive trilogy. Now here's an excerpt from book two, The Retreat.

Just as Jess Sanders is adjusting to her new life as the submissive in residence on the fifth floor of The Fables Hotel, her employer, Mrs Peters, makes a startling announcement. She has agreed to loan Jess, and her dominatrix Miss Sarah, to one of their most demanding clients; Mr David Proctor.

Whisked away by the mysterious Kane to The Retreat, a house hidden in a remote part of Scotland, Jess and Miss Sarah find themselves teaching a new submissive how to meet Proctor’s exacting rules.

As Jess comes to terms with the techniques of The Retreat’s overpowering dominatrix, Lady Tia, she discovers that Proctor’s motives may not be all they seem. Just who or what is Fairtasia? And why does Jess feel like she’s walked into a warped fairy tale?

In order to get back to the fifth floor, Jess is going to have to be far more than just a perfect submissive...



...As the level of tension, sexual and malevolent, rebounded around the turret room, Jess was reminded of two lionesses pacing it out, sizing each other up, before their fight for the territory truly began.

Her colossal chest giving the impression that it was going to burst free from its harness all on its own, Lady Tia abruptly swung around and slapped Jess across both breasts.

The shock of the unexpected smack sent a whistled howl from Jess’s lips, causing her to shuffle on her seat. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of her thighs to prevent herself from moving further.
Without stopping to admonish Jess again, Lady Tia took the cold metal end of the tape measure, and pressed it against Miss Sarah’s right nipple. Jess stared in horror as, with that one simple move, Miss Sarah was reduced from controlled dominatrix to a woman panting sharply through pursed lips, having difficulty remaining static against the mirror.

White now, rather than merely pale, Miss Sarah spluttered as Lady Tia swapped sides, torturing the left nipple in the same way. Her hands, which had been hanging at her sides, now gripped the edges of the mirror’s frame, her toes curled into clenched balls.

‘The question is –’ Lady Tia didn’t release any pressure as she bought the clawed fingertips of her free hand down sharply against Jess’s chest, leaving a graze which stung like a paper cut ‘– which of you am I going to satisfy, and which will I forbid to climax?’

Letting go of Miss Sarah’s breasts, she smiled at the inflamed crimson tips. ‘As I seem to have found your weak spot very quickly, I’m trying to decide if it should be Miss Sanders or you I should torture with a withheld orgasm? Although I suppose that would be unfair, really, as you’ve already had one climax from me tonight, whereas your toy’s body couldn’t be more blatantly desperate for a fuck if it tried.’

Jess had been referred to as a toy by many people and on many occasions, but there was something about the way Lady Tia said it that frightened her. After all, when toys were worn out or finished with, they got thrown away …

Unrolling the tape measure, Lady Tia hung it around her rival’s neck. Taking hold of both ends, she crossed the fabric strip so it formed a yellow X between Miss Sarah’s tits. Jerking the tape taut, she ordered her rival to lean forward, before tucking the free ends behind her, so it was trapped between her bare back and the mirror.

‘I bet you can imagine how good this is going to feel, Miss Sanders.’ Lady Tia taunted Jess as she lapped an agile tongue around the edges of the tape cross, where the fabric touched Miss Sarah’s abused and sensitive skin.

Jess could imagine all too well. Never had she felt so jealous of an object. She wanted to be wrapped around her mistress’s torso, wanted it to be her tongue that attended to the burning chest, to kiss better the sore patches that were already beginning to bruise around her nipples.

Grasping her own legs harder, Jess felt the trickle of juice escaping her pussy. The woman she’d forever think of as the Wicked Queen had barely touched her, yet it was as if she was experiencing every touch to Miss Sarah’s flesh upon her own.

Only when Lady Tia’s mouth had journeyed over each edge of the cross did she stand back, and wallow in the sight of Miss Sarah, who was clinging onto her composure, but only just.

The Retreat’s dominatrix grinned; the breathing of the submissive behind her was more laboured than that of her mistress, even though nothing had happened to her … yet.


With a rough tug, Lady Tia grabbed the centre of the tape measure cross, and snatched it from Miss Sarah’s flesh. The burn of the fabric as it was ripped away caused Miss Sarah to emit a sharp yell. Her knuckles whitened further as she held the mirror harder.

Lady Tia’s eyes bored into Miss Sarah’s gaze, daring her to blink as she rolled the tape measure into a tight coil. ‘Miss Sanders, stand up. Turn around. Lean over the chair so that your butt is presented to me. Spread your legs.’

Bracing herself for the beating she’d expected from the moment she’d been bustled out of Fables, Jess knew Mrs Peters would not have been pleased with her performance so far, and she was determined to do better. She’d survived so many erotically charged spankings over the last six months she was sure that, if she kept control of herself, this was one area where she could impress the bigger woman.

It was with considerable shock, therefore, that Jess felt Lady Tia’s thick fingers come to her pussy. Spreading her labia with one hand, she stuffed the coiled measure inside Jess with the other, letting about six centimetres of its length hang from her body like a misplaced tail.

Gasping at the blissfully unusual intrusion, Jess fought to stem the climax which wanted to race through her stomach and down her throat at the same time.

Ignoring her struggle, Lady Tia barked, ‘Stand up, Miss Sanders, and go to your partner.’

As Jess shuffled her feet across the stone floor, Lady Tia issued another order. ‘Miss Sarah, step away from the mirror and come here.’

As Miss Sarah obeyed, Lady Tia smiled at the mirror. ‘What a nice smeared outline you have left.’
Jess stared at the mirror; it had indeed temporarily captured the outline of her superior.

‘You can even see where your buttocks have been, and where your liquid has escaped and made a mess against the glass.

‘On your knees, Miss Sanders. I have no doubt you enjoy licking your mistress. Now you can, or at least, the remains of her reflection.’

The measure was beginning to feel awkward within her. The strip hanging free tickled her thighs, and sent shocks of longing to her pussy as Jess shuffled closer to the mirror. Lowering herself to her hands and knees, very conscious that the tape could fall out at any moment, Jess ran her tongue over the sweat marks left by Miss Sarah. With every creamy lick, her mistress’s liquid tasting as though it had been sprinkled with dust, Jess’s muscles cramped with tension as she tried to guess what Lady Tia was doing behind her back.

Jess didn’t have to guess for long. Two hands came to her rump, smoothing and probing every section of her buttocks, before initiating a crescendo of slaps against her rounded arse. With her face pressed against the heated glass, Jess closed her eyes so she didn’t have to witness the grotesqueness of her squashed reflection.

As the slaps she’d both dreaded and longed for built in power, Jess felt a hand move with catlike speed. A strangled scream shot like a bullet from her throat, as Lady Tia yanked the tape measure from her sodden channel. The top of Jess’s head was sent banging into the mirror as a climax ricocheted through every part of her, and her exhausted body flopped helplessly to the ground...


You can buy The Retreat from all good retailers including -
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Barnes and Noble
iBooks UK
iBooks US
Kobo
Smashwords

(The Perfect Submissive Trilogy does not have to be read in order, but you will get more out of Jess’s story if you read The Fifth Floor before The Retreat)

Kay Jaybee was named Best Erotica Writer of 2015 by the ETO
Kay received an honouree mention at the NLA Awards 2015 for excellence in BDSM writing.



Saturday, 5 May 2018

Heart of Flame re-release

Ludwig Deutsch: The Scribe (1896)
I've done it!

Sorry to have neglected my blog for a week, but I've been re-editing Heart of Flame from scratch and have finally self-published it via Draft 2 Digital -- yay!

Buy-links will be available once it has reached all distributors in the next few days. In the meanwhile, here's the new cover:

(Blue cover = romance, not erotica)

Monday, 30 April 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a hot excerpt for your entertainment!

As I'm back on the Djinn again - re-editing old novel Heart of Flame - here's an excerpt from another short story of mineChimaera, which is set in modern-day Turkey, where a tourist is stalked by a fiery stranger all the way to Istanbul:



Still he doesn’t smile. He reaches out and lays his hand on the railing of the building at his right, and the iron gate swings open soundlessly at his touch. Let me get this straight: he doesn’t push the gate, but still it moves. I am distracted enough to glance at the structure beyond the rails. It’s the ruin of some traditional looking building, not too big. You see them around in the city, usually mosques that have for some reason fallen into neglect. This one doesn’t have a visible minaret though it does have a dome, so I assume it is a bath-house. Grey swathes of plaster hang from the stonework. The crumbling walls are overgrown with some sort of creeper that has withered to dried sticks in the Turkish summer. Back home kids would take one look and deliver the verdict Haunted.

He lifts his hand in a gesture of invitation.

I must be out of my mind. I must be begging for trouble. I walk past him through the gate, under the archway of the outer wall, into the derelict hamam. I hear him follow me, his feet quieter on the rubble than mine. We pass through an antechamber. We’re inside a room that must have been domed and tiled once, but is now open to the sky. Most of the tiles have fallen and are loose underfoot. It is absolutely silent in here too. My heart is in my throat as I turn to look at him.

He moves upon me with grace but with a terrible eagerness, gripping my arms and pressing me back against a pillar so he can kiss me. He tastes of cardamom. He tastes of sin. He’s more beautiful than I have words for, and my guilt is no more than paper in the flame of my hunger for this man, burnt to ashes. His body presses against me, just at the groin so that there is no mistaking his intentions, and I feel like I’m going to melt or explode or both. His hands find my breasts, pushing up under my respectable long-sleeved blouse, fingers closing over the nipples jutting through the rough lace of my bra. I moan into his mouth, covering his hands with mine to make him squeeze me harder. He pulls from my lips so he can look down at me, his eyes alight with pleasure. We’re both panting.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

He nuzzles my ear, licking the lobe, teeth teasing my skin. ‘Ifrit,’ he breathes.

It doesn’t occur to me that this is not a name.

I don’t have time to think about it, anyway: he pulls me away from the pillar, scoops me up bodily and plants my bum on the top of a block of masonry. I’m almost at eye-level with him now. My feet dangle.

Now he can afford to draw breath. He stills me with a touch to my cheek, then unpicks the buttons down my blouse, his big hands incongruously delicate, just far enough to reveal my bra. He scoops my breasts out of their cups so they lie displayed on the taut fabric, pouting at him. I think my nipples look ridiculously pink against his brown hands, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He plays with them until I gasp and wriggle, drawing them out to stiff points then punishing their temerity with obvious delight.

‘Harder,’ I moan. ‘Please.’

His eyebrows rise but he obliges with a long, cruelly judged pinch that has me seeing stars. Then he arches me over backward, supporting my spine so he can get his head down and suck my nipples, biting me softly. I hang in space, trusting myself to his hands and his teeth, tears burning in my eyes, feeling and hearing his hot sucking kisses. I must be mad, I think, but my thighs are apart and he’s standing between my knees and his free hand is pushing my full skirt right up, it’s warm on the smoothness of my thighs, it’s probing into the moist flesh between them.

I gasp: “Yes! Oh yes!’

With a good strong pull he sets me upright in my seat again, breathless and wide-eyed. He needs both hands to help me wiggle out of my panties. My desire is laid bare. I blush, biting my lip, and crooking his own in a dark smile he wraps his arms around me, crosses my wrists at the small of my back and loops the elastic and lace of my panties over and over them, until I am bound with the evidence of my guilt.

Now I have to trust him. Now I’m helpless to catch myself if I overbalance. Now I can’t fend him off, even if I want to. He kisses me again, lingeringly, but it doesn’t work to distract me from the advance of his fingers up between my thighs, parting my inner lips, delving into my wet welcome. Like his kisses, his touch is expertly invasive. He works my wet flesh with every finger until I’m so slippery I feel I’m going to slide from my perch, until I’m flushed and gasping and splayed. Then he steps back just enough to be able to loosen his cotton trousers and scoop his cock and balls out over the waistband.

He’s both circumcised and shaven, which is a bit of a shock to my English sensibilities, his balls bulging in a smooth, loose scrotal sac. I strain against my bonds, wanting to touch them, but all I achieve is making my breasts jiggle. He slides his fingers deep into me again, then strokes my juices over his cock, working up a bead of his own lubrication. Then he picks up one of my feet and drapes it over his arm, holding me to stop me falling. His hand snakes around my waist as if we are about to dance – and it still feels like a strange waltz even when he shrugs my raised leg right up to his shoulder. He kisses me again, his mouth slow and hungry. He’s still kissing me when his big cock rampages up my slit and, discovering the gate it’s looking for, slides home.

God, he is big.

He stretches me to the limit. He fucks me slow and hard and deep. He knows what he’s doing. He knows what he wants, and I have no choice but to give it to him: in this waltz, he leads. And what he wants is to make me come, so I do it: on his pumping cock, on his wicked fingers. I shriek as I come, my voice echoing under the sundered dome.


Buy Dark Enchantment at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play
Apple iTunes

Sunday, 29 April 2018

Slave Market

My novel Heart of Flame (currently being revised for re-publication) has a Middle Eastern setting but it's a romance, and therefore quite restrained. I've treated my subjects and their setting with respect, I hope.

So I need to get this shameless Orientalist exploitation out of my system RIGHT NOW 😈😈😈

Jean-Léon Gérôme: The Slave Market (1866)

It's time for a trip to the 19th Century ARABIC SLAVE MARKET! (All pictures by amoral white guys, for pervy white guys, decrying the voluptuous, perverted wickedness of not-white-people in leering detail. 😛 )

Gérôme gets first billing of course, simply for quality of artwork and his tendency to genuine realism:

Selling Slaves in Cairo

But other artists lean further toward romanticism...

Fabio Fabbi (1861-1946): Her Master's Choice

 
The Slave Market

The Slave Market  (he was not hot on original titles, or composition)
Okay, we get it, Fabbi ... NEXT

Stanislaus Von Chlebowski (1835-1884): Appraisal

Ernest Normand: The Bitter Draught of Slavery (1885)

Francesco Gonin (1808-1889): At the Slave Market
Giulio Rosati (1858-1917): Inspecting New Arrivals

Luigi Crosio (1835-1915): At the Slave Market
Ettore Circone (1850-1901):  Examining slaves
Pierre Louis Cazaubon (1872-1950): The Slave Market
Henri Adrien Tanoux (1865-1923): Slave Market
Alfredo Valenzuela Puelma: The Merchant's Pearl (1884)
As you might be able to guess, I could probably go on for a hundred paintings - this was a HUGE theme for a lucrative artistic market. It allowed the Victorian and Edwardian painter to indulge not just his skill in depicting nude female flesh (under a mantle of respectability), but also complex fabrics, fabulous lighting, exotic locations, inherent drama/violence - and a subtext of implied racial superiority if the viewer so chose. It really was the genre which had everything.

I'll finish with some paintings from Otto Pilny (1866-1936), who managed to encapsulate the creepier end of the genre, with his grinning men and and his slave women who mysteriously manage to look rather like silent movie starlets:









Pilny's paintings, btw, found enormous favour among the Ottoman rulers of Egypt, who appointed him court painter. So it wasn't just Western male tastes he was catering to.

Wednesday, 25 April 2018

Dare to go bare


I came across this picture online the other day. It's a scene painted on a vase that's in the Harvard University Art Museum. The pottery dates from about 420 BCE and - though it may not be very clear unless you click through to the full-sized pics - it shows two women assiduously getting rid of their pubes.

It seems the process involves an oil lamp, so it's probably done via singeing (OUCH), and then plucking the stub (EXTRA OUCH)


The second woman is being helped out in her depilatory toilette by the god Eros himself, so one assumes that this is all in aid of an amorous night with their loved one(s):


If you're interested in the Ancient Greeks' relationship with pubic hair and gender roles there's an excellent and lively article here :-)

Monday, 23 April 2018

Blue Monday: Dorothy Freed guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's is something special - a NON-fiction excerpt from Dorothy Freed's brand-new memoir, Perfect Strangers:


PERFECT STRANGERS: A Memoir Of The Swinging Seventies is an upbeat, tongue-in-cheek account of becoming sexually liberated and personally empowered—via three-plus years of rampant promiscuity.

In 1974, I was twenty-nine and deeply frustrated by my inability to achieve orgasm during intercourse with my husband, Paul. When I found him, naked and on top of my best friend, Cassandra, it wasn’t the infidelity that hurt me the most—it was the sizzling sex they were engaged in that cut to my core. Damn, I thought, watching Cassandra come for what seemed like hours. Twelve years of marriage. We were never that hot! And with that, my life changed forever and my erotic journey began.

PERFECT STRANGERS documents my sexual coming-of-age as a divorced single mom, during a decade of unprecedented personal freedom. My adventures begin in an upstate New York suburb and transports me to the Land of Oz, otherwise known as mid-70s San Francisco—an era when casual sex seems a simple as a handshake—but for a woman to achieve orgasm, vaginal or otherwise, well good luck on that!


Jake:

A fine rain began falling as we left Broadway around midnight, after stopping in at a jazz club. We barely made it to Jake’s truck without getting wet. I said little during the ride back to Haight Street. I was so aroused I could hardly sit still. The air in the cab of the truck crackled with excitement and the rain pelted down.


“You were right,” I said later, back in my apartment. “Broadway is sleazy.”

“And you loved it, right?” he asked, like he knew it was so and laughed.

I blushed. “Not loved, exactly… Found interesting maybe… And well, yes… I loved it.”

Jake sat on the padded armchair in my bedroom, watching me. I stood near the window looking out at the rain and saw him reflected in the glass. Attempting to mask my sudden shyness, I fiddled with the stereo, while the man waited with his eyes hot on me, watching my every move.

He’s not real, I thought, I made him up in a fantasy, and now he’s arrived to act it out.

Ten feet away, Jake didn’t move a muscle, but I felt like he’d come closer—and the part of me that didn’t stiffen like a wary cat, welcomed him with open arms.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said. “Let me make you feel good.”

Jake stared intently into my eyes, willing me into his fantasy. Rising from his chair, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me to the bed. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he pulled my T-shirt up over my head, undressing me to the waist.

“A perfect handful, I knew they’d be,” he said, cupping my bared breasts in work-hardened hands. I drew my breath in sharply when he pinched my stiffened nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

“Lie back,” he said, smiling. “Let’s see what the rest of you looks like.”

Unzipping my jeans, he eased them down over my hips and legs. When I was naked, he pressed me back against the pillows, gazing at me for a long moment before proceeding to explore my body like it was uncharted territory.

“You’re such a beautiful woman,” he murmured, and firmly, with some underlying hint of roughness, parted my legs. Half smiling, he spat a glob of saliva onto his fingers and rubbed it deliberately over my swollen sex. Without any sense of haste, he stroked, teased, and delighted, sending hot jolts of arousal coursing through me. Jake slipped thick fingers inside me, moving them around, twisting, massaging, thrusting, and all the while attuning his attention to where my excitement lay.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m your seductor, but I’m also your slave. I’ll do anything to please you.

“There,” I whispered, gasping for breath, “Like that. Right there. Don’t stop!”

Jake found his mark. His knowing fingers and hot wet mouth pinched, licked, and sucked my clit. I moaned steadily, hands in his hair, back arching as he parted my asscheeks and inserted a finger and pushed me straight over the edge. Screaming, I exploded into a thousand tiny fragments of pleasured flesh.

When I opened my eyes, I saw he was watching me. There was no particular expression on his face, just a broad gleam of triumph in his eyes.

That wasn’t hard now was it? Just give in. Go with the pleasure.

He directed me to my knees for the next act of the fantasy.

“Suck my cock, woman,” he ordered, and I did so, my mouth filled with his hardness and salty taste, and I breathed in his heady aroma. I accepted him obediently, as I did in my fantasy, licking at his cock-head, lapping at it, teasing it with the warm wetness of my lips. I made him moan with pleasure by swiping his shaft with my tongue as I deep-throated him. My hands cupped his balls, which tightened with excitement, and my body responded with a non-stop, electric tingling between my thighs.

Jaws aching, I sucked for all I was worth—until he’d had enough.

Finally, heavily, he mounted me, plunging in with a moan of ecstasy, abandoning himself to pleasure with the ease of an animal. Thrusting, grinding, probing, he claimed me as his woman, seeking my excitement with his own.

“Yes!” I cried out, “Yes!” And moaning, I raised my hips to meet his thrusts, while his hands held mine above my head and pinned them to the mattress. Writhing beneath him, my breath came in gasps, and my excitement rose like mercury in a thermometer, as I groped for the unfamiliar wavelength of out-of-control.

Finally, his eyes glazed over with passion. “Oh my cock, my nuts!” he moaned, humping like a crazed animal. “I’m going to come now. Take my come woman. Take it!”


Buy Perfect Strangers at:
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At 73, Dorothy Freed claims to be the oldest, practicing erotica writer in the SF Bay Area. This may
or may not be true, but it’s her story and she’s sticking to it. Dorothy Freed is the pseudonym of a Bay Area writer, who lives with her husband, two senior rescue dogs, and a formerly, feral grand-cat in a coast-side community near San Francisco. She combines the roles of being a humane human, who stands up for animals and the natural world—with being a writer of sizzling hot, erotica. Her stories are memoir-based, inspired by her participation in the casual sex lifestyle, and later, the BDSM Scene.

Dorothy’s stories appear in numerous anthologies including: BEST WOMEN’S EROTICA OF THE YEAR VOL.1, FOR THE MEN AND THE WOMEN WHO LOVE THEM, DIRTY OLD WOMEN, DIRTY 30 ANTHOLOGY VOL.2, THE BIG BOOK OF SUBMISSION VOL.2, and now, PERFECT STRANGERS.

Dorothy’s website, DorothyFreedWrites contains her blog, SIXTY-NINE AND STILL SEXUAL.
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Friday, 20 April 2018

Spring, with boobs

A month late, Spring has finally arrived here with a brazen heatwave and an embarrassed rush of flowers.



And you know what Spring means to artists? Yes, pretty goddesses with their boobies out! Botticelli's Primavera is the most famous of these depictions, partly because it is layered with slightly obscure allegory:

c. 1470

But Flora the Roman goddess of flowers and springtide pops up (and out) in art throughout the ages. In this one her flesh is literally made out of flowers:

Arcimboldo: Flora Meretrix (c1590)
Her story is the usual Greek offhand misogyny: she starts off as the nymph Chloris ("green") but is transformed into Flora the goddess of spring after being abducted/raped/married by the West Wind.


William-Adolphe Bouguereau: Flora and Zephyrus (1875)
John William Waterhouse: Flora and the Zephyr (1898)
However, she certainly seems to have made the best of the situation:

Triumph Of Flora, by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (1743)

She's long been a popular subject for the classically inclined patron...

Portrait of a Courtesan as Flora by Bartolomeo Veneto, c. 1520
Romaine Brooks: Spring (1912)
George Wilson: The Spring Witch (1880)
Clearly, for artistic types, Spring is definitely when the sap starts rising!