Friday, 17 November 2017

INCOMING!!! Cover reveals!


WAAAAH! I thought it would take months, but things are moving fast on the re-release front all of a sudden! The old Sweetmeats versions of Named and Shamed and Fierce Enchantments are coming down, which means the new, revamped Sinful Press versions can go up on sale VERY soon - in fact probably next week 😲💖💕💝

So here's the new cover for Named and Shamed, my no-holes-barred romp through fairy lore:

"A chili pepper rating of 10. I’m tempted to add a kink rating just for this book and would put this at 6 out of 5 (and no that wasn’t a typo)" - Books, Books and More Books

And this is the new cover for Fierce Enchantments, my third short-story collection:

"There’s something for everyone in this wondrously abundant, cerebrally and erotically stimulating, perpetually entertaining collection.” – Erotica for the Big Brain

Aren't they beautiful? I'm so grateful to Sinful Press and the talented Emmy at Studioenp!😊

Wednesday, 15 November 2017

Trolled and sold

Kay Nielsen: The Troll was quite willing... (1914)
More hoorays!

I've now signed a contract with Rose Caraway for my story Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera  - which is all about trolls and their human pets. It's pretty long (10,000 words) for a short story, and believe me I needed every inch of my allowance - and then a bit more - in order to squeeze all that filthy, filthy sex in 😈😈😈

In fact squeezing things into an inadequately-sized vessel is a bit of a theme in that story... 😛

Want to read a tiny snippet?

“You are looking to tighten the bloodline, or to breed out?” the old troll males ask him.
Their lips writhe back from their long saurian jaws as they grin hungrily at you, baring teeth like flint knives. This makes you nervous, even though you know they’d never hurt you in Papa Xanto’s presence. They thrust their snouts into your crotch and snuffle loudly, their breath hot and wet. They lift you up and open your legs and probe your cunt with their bifurcated tongues, assessing your readiness from the gush of your juices. You can’t help but respond to being handled like that, even though you’re frightened of their teeth and ashamed by your own reaction to strangers. Shouldn’t you only have eyes for your papa?


The title, btw, comes from very ancient shepherding words for counting sheep, in which 10 is "dick" and 15 is "bumfit". It could hardly be more appropriate.

More details of the collection I'm to be part of, and publication dates, when they are available!

Monday, 13 November 2017

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today we go WAY WAY BACK in time to 1998 and the VERY FIRST EROTIC STORY I had published: Party Piece, which is set on a posh galleon during a prince's birthday celebration, and is perhaps surprisingly (for me) femdom, with an older military woman and the younger, callow nobleman who catches her eye.



"If my presence makes you feel tense then I must make amends. Drink this, for a start." She handed him the small glass and he reached for it, not because he desired the liqueur but because he longed to touch those velvet-clad fingers once more. But as their hands met the glass slipped; he grabbed for it and stopped it falling to the deck, but could not prevent the contents slopping out upon her bare thigh.

"That's cold," Allisandra said.

Leander bit his lip and stared down at the wet splash staining her leg. He felt light-headed; his limbs seemed to throb and buzz as if they were ready to explode. This felt worse than the moment before the cavalry charge at Moriens. There was only one cure, and that was action.

"Duchess," he said formally, "allow me." Without hesitation he slid to his knees on the deck and pressed his lips to her thigh. He heard the soft intake of her breath over the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears. Her flesh was satin-smooth and incredibly warm and he could smell her secret musky perfume. He kissed the sticky moisture from her skin, gentle as the breath of spring, using his tongue to lap up the bitter spirit. He moved without haste, and it seemed as dreamlike and terrible to him as that first charge into battle.

When every last trickle of the pungent liquid had been erased, he rose before her again, his colour high, his jaw set. She gazed up at him; her eyes were bright and her lips softly parted.

"How gallant," she purred.

He found that he was still holding the useless glass. He tossed it over her shoulder into the sea.

"My pleasure, Duchess," he said, almost with a groan. His scrotum was as tight as a clenched fist and his stones felt as if they were burning.

Her laughter was like the jingle of spurs. "And so charming! You are wasted amongst rough soldiers, Leander. Did you come here with a companion? No? I think I ought to find you a paramour tonight. It should not be difficult, with so many fine ladies here to choose from. It is such a beautiful night ... and you are so very handsome."

"Allisandra," he grunted. His member had risen up and was rearing from between his legs like a war-stallion, straining its long neck against the curb.

"Yes." She began to play with one of the silver buttons on his open jacket, the one directly over his left nipple. Leander shut his eyes for a moment. "You are a very handsome, lovely boy."

His hand snapped shut around her wrist. "Don't mock me, madame," he said, eyes narrowed. "I am no boy, for you to tease; I am a man."

"Prove that," she whispered, her lips describing brush-strokes of provocation.

He no longer cared for decorum. He took her captive hand and laid it over the hard mound of his erection, and it leapt beneath her touch, stamping and bucking with an impatience that threatened to damage the fine doeskin of his breeches. Her eyelashes fluttered and her palm and fingers moved to clasp his bellicose flesh.

"Oh," she breathed. "Now you are teasing me, my Leander. Such a great promise cannot be made, if it is not to be fulfilled."

"I would fulfill it this instant, Madame," he growled, bending to her neck. He took her earlobe between his teeth and she shuddered with pleasure; the response nearly drove him to insanity.

"Is there a cabin nearby?" she asked, her voice low.

He could not think properly. "The forecastle... There is to be some entertainment there later," he grunted, stretching his memory. "There are seats, and mummers' props laid out. But it was empty. Come now."

He led her back up the length of the deck, and she clung to his arm as if she could not bear to release him from her embrace. They reached the small deck before the forecastle cabin and found it as he had half-remembered: set out with cushions and padded benches and musicians instruments, but empty of people. In front of the steps to the cabin was a tall screen, contrived so that players would be able to exit from the makeshift stage without being watched. He pulled her behind this and towards the stairs, but she slipped from his grasp and, when he turned, laughed and set her back to the mast there.

"No further, my gallant, " she said, holding out her arms to him. "I would have you keep your promise right now."

"Here? Leander was surprised. They were concealed behind the screen, but it was the flimsiest of shields, and there was no surface on which to lie.

"Here," she commanded.

He grinned suddenly and went to her, pulling her into his arms. They kissed for the first time. Her tongue was savage and she bit his lips, but he pinned her by the throat and returned stroke for stroke. He could feel the blood racing through her jugular. They grew gentle then, exploring each other's hot mouths with all the murderous delicacy of jungle cats. She smelt of vanilla. He ran his fingers through her lustrous hair and chased the outline of her cleavage with his tongue.

"Take off your harness," she hissed, digging her nails into the nape of his neck. He obeyed her, tearing off his brocade jacket and dropping it to the floor.She forced her hands up under his white shirt and he discarded that too.

"Beautiful," she moaned, drawing her velvet palms across the smooth wall of his chest. "Oh, you are beautiful." She nuzzled the flat brown discs of his nipples and seduced them into erection with tongue and teeth. Leander had to brace one hand against the mast to keep his balance. Then she slid to her knees before him and rubbed her face against the soft leather that covered his tumescent crotch, and he thought he would faint with anticipation.

"Yes," she murmured, more to his imprisoned member than to him. "Oh yes; right now, my lovely one. Let's see you now." She unclasped his belt and pulled it open, then eased the tight breeches down over his narrow hips and tight, muscular arse. His shaft, released from all constraint, sprang into the light. Allisandra hissed with pleasure and caught it in one hand, drawing back the tender foreskin. Her grip was firm. The smooth helmet danced in her black velvet-gloved palm, thrusting out between her finders and thumb as she slid her hand up and down.

"Oh, you must have lied to me, Leander," she chided. "You are no duke's son; you have the parts of a cart-horse colt! I've never seen a noble youth endowed like this!" So saying, she gripped the fingertips of her left glove between her teeth and tore the garment off, allowing her to cup his balls with her bare hand.

Leander groaned, his head spinning. He could she her carnelian-painted nails; the twin hands, one black and one white, vying for his swollen genitals; her tongue slipping out to lap at the shiny head of his lance. Tension was building in the puckered bag of his stones. From his toes to the tip of his cock was one line of rigid muscle, strained to breaking point.

"I'm about to let slip," he warned her through clenched teeth.

"Oh? You told me you were a man, not a boy," she said cruelly, and probed the slit of his knob with her darting tongue-tip. "Can't you hold it?"


You can still buy Sugar and Spice Vol.2 at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK

Friday, 10 November 2017

Publication news

It's never over...

Hurray! Some news!

First, my short story Nine Portraits of the Empress Danrin has been chosen for inclusion in horror anthology Her Dark Voice vol. 2, edited by Theresa Derwin. Set in 1919 in an influenza hospital, this story is about sex ... a lot of sex ... but it's not erotica, it's horror, so be warned (or intrigued) 😈😈😈


You can read my post about the legend of the Empress Danrin HERE -  it's relevant but tangential to the story plot.




The second wonderful bit of news is that I have just signed contracts with Sinful Press (publishers of my angelic Book of the Watchers trilogy) to re-release two reverted titles from Sweetmeats Press - to whit Named and Shamed - my outrageous XXX fairy-tale wherein I let loose the filthiest things in my imagination - and Fierce Enchantments, my third short-story collection.💖💖💖

They'll have spanking new covers and hopefully should be out in 2018. Things are looking up again!

Wednesday, 8 November 2017

All out of spoons


Normal service will be resumed when something goes right for a change...

Monday, 6 November 2017

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is my internet-twin Samantha MacLeod, back here with her new Viking Gods story Claiming Thor's Hammer.


All of Asgard depends on Thor, and his legendary hammer Mjölnir, to protect them from their foes. So when Thor returns one night without his hammer, refusing to say how it was lost or where it may be, all of Asgard is at risk. Loki tracks Mjölnir to the muscular arms of the fearsome warlord Thrym, who reluctantly agrees to a deal: Thrym will return Thor’s hammer in exchange for Freyja, the most beautiful woman in Asgard.

There’s only one problem with Loki’s plan. Freyja refuses to marry the ruthlessly handsome Thrym. Low on options, Loki insists he can still retrieve the hammer. All it takes is wrapping Thor in a wedding dress obnoxious enough to allow him to pass for Freyja.

Once inside the dark confines of Thrym’s castle, however, things take an erotic turn not even Loki the Trickster could have predicted…


I took a deep breath. In a Jötunn wedding, the bride swears fealty to her husband by placing her hands on his most valued possession. Thrym’s most valued possession, now, had to be Mjölnir. At least, I hoped so.

If everything went according to my plan, this was when Thrym would bring out Mjölnir and all but dump it in Thor’s lap. Thor would then rip off his dress, bash some heads, and go back to Asgard, Mjölnir in hand, leaving me with the mental image of Thor the Thunderer in a puffy white dress to savor until Ragnarök.

“This is it,” I whispered to Thor. “Get ready.”

Thor pushed me out of the way and stood up.

He left the room.

I blinked as his impressive shoulders, sparkling in beaded ivory cloth, vanished through a door behind the great fireplace. What in the actual fuck?

“You too, pretty little thing,” Thrym hissed in my ear, grabbing my arm and pulling me after Thor.

The crowd roared their approval as we pushed our way to the door. Someone splashed mead down the front of my dress, and I almost broke the arm of the asshole who tried to grab my tits. Thrym shoved me through the door behind the fireplace and into a quiet hallway.

“Are we going to get Mjölnir?” I asked, as innocently as I could manage.

Thrym just chuckled. “Come on,” he said.

I followed him through the hall, trying to calculate how totally fucked we were. Thor and I couldn’t take on this many Jötunn, especially without Mjölnir, but I could probably get us back to Asgard unharmed. Humiliated, but unharmed.

I shuddered. Humiliation was worse than harm.

Thrym pushed open a door and we entered a luxurious bedchamber. Thor stood at the foot of an enormous four-poster bed like a white-clad mountain.

“My bride!” Thrym roared. “I hear you want to see my hammer?”

I couldn’t see his face under the bridal veil, but I would have sworn Thor smiled.

Thrym clucked and waved his finger. “I want something from you first,” he said.

He leaned back and unhooked his massive belt buckle, pushing his pants down. I couldn’t help but stare; the cock that sprang from those pants was damned impressive. Thrym was enormous, thick, and very, very hard.

“Just look what you’ve done to me already,” Thrym said, fixing his eyes on Thor. “You want to see Mjölnir? Well, I want you to suck me.”

I forced myself to tear my eyes away from Thrym’s impressive endowment. “Uh, Master Thrym, my lady Freyja—“

My words died in my throat. Thor fell to his knees in front of Thrym, tore off his veil, and licked the entire length of Thrym’s massive cock.

Oh, damn. That was hot. I flushed with heat under my mead-soaked dress. Thor closed his eyes, running his tongue over the head of Thrym’s cock. By the Nine Realms, he was enjoying it. Thor was sucking a cock, and he was enjoying it.

The slick green silk of my dress suddenly felt too tight as my nipples hardened. I slipped a hand under the folds of fabric at my waist, sliding my fingers up the inside of my thighs and along the wet slit of my cunt. Thor kissed the length of Thrym’s cock, his tongue teasing the head. I pressed my clit, sending jolts of sexual energy through my body as Thor wrapped his lips around the head. Thor moved his mouth over Thrym’s cock, taking much more than I would have imagined possible. I pressed harder. My hips swayed forward, and I clamped my lips together, trying not to moan out loud.

“You little slut,” Thrym growled, sinking his hands into Thor’s hair and pushing the bridal crown off his head. “You’re enjoying this, you whore.”

Thor growled, pulling back to suck just the head of Thrym’s cock. Thrym gasped, his hips thrusting against Thor’s mouth. My finger moved faster, rocking my body with pleasure. Thrym screamed, his entire body tensing as he came in Thor’s mouth. I came a second later, sighing as the oblivion of orgasm crashed through me.

Ah, yes!

I allowed myself a moment to bask in the velvet glow of my climax. Now I’d have to plan, to come up with some brilliant way to get us both out of here alive, but damn. How many times would I get to make myself come watching Thor suck a cock?


Buy Claiming Thor's Hammer at

Amazon US
Amazon UK

Born and raised in Colorado, Samantha MacLeod has lived in every time zone in the US, and London. She has a bachelor’s degree from Colby College and an M.A. from the University of Chicago; yes, the U. of C. really is where fun comes to die.

Samantha lives with her husband and two small children in the woods of southern Maine. 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’s Blog
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Friday, 3 November 2017

Night visitors


We've been testing out the new stealth camera in our wood!

We pointed it at the badger sett, but didn't get the badger footage we'd hoped for. Instead...


Based on the palmate(ish) antlers we think they're fallow deer in their dark winter coats - possibly even melanistic variations on the species.



We aim to get better at pointing the camera!

Tuesday, 31 October 2017

Ride that broom, baby

Preparation for the Witches' Sabbath - French School, 1800s
Happy Hallowe'en!

Witches everywhere will be dusting off their faithful brooms and preparing to ride the autumnal skies tonight. In 'Fine Art', of course, all witches are either young and incredibly sexy or aged and incredibly repulsive ...(which makes you wonder what happens to the ones in between - presumably they're too busy holding down jobs and families to spend time gallivanting about with satanic goats or whatever).

So here are some sexy ones, mostly engaged in the 19th Century equivalent of pole-dancing:

Departure for the Sabbath, by Albert Joseph Pénot, 1910

Riding Witches by Otto Goetze, 1924

Walpurgis Night, by Lovis Corinth ,1893
Muse of the Night by Luis Ricardo Falero, 1880

Photo from the series: Witches’ Sabbat in Paris, 1910
Photo from the series: Witches’ Sabbat in Paris, 1910

Sabbat de Sorcières, Adolf Munzier,1909
Jan Frans De Boever (1872 - 1949)
The Apotheosis of a Witch, by Clara Siewert (1862-1945)
Marguerite au Sabbat, by Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret, 1911.

La_SorcièreMartin van Maele, 1911
The Young Sorceress, by Antoine Wiertz, 1857
The Departure of the Witches, by Luis Ricardo Falero, 1878
Happy Hallowe'en!

Monday, 30 October 2017

Blue Monday: Morgan Elektra guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today, a second treat from new paranormal gay anthology Myths, Moons and Mayhem. This excerpt is from the short story The Endless Knot, by Morgan Elektra.



The Endless Knot: Vampire Jackson and werewolf Rafael couldn’t keep their fiery relationship from burning itself to the ground. A human named Beau shows them how to rekindle it to a steady flame.


“Now, now, gentlemen. No need for enmity.” Beau’s voice is low, breathy, full of need. Jackson wants to fulfill it. From the heat in Rafael’s gaze and the way he strokes the back of Beau’s hand, Jackson knows his ex-lover is equally as eager.

Jackson’s gut tightens with possessiveness. He pictures them on their knees before him, tongues tangling around the head of his prick, and the image almost fells him. He is far from cold now.

Rafael growls low, his scent growing stronger in the warm night air.

“I’m sure we can find some mmmmm…”—Beau sighs, hands trailing down their abdomens—“... common ground.”

Beau hooks his fingers into their waistbands. The heat of Beau’s palm seeps into Jackson’s skin, separated only by thin layers of fabric. He rocks his hips, pressing his cock against Beau’s hand. Across from him, Rafael does the same.

“Jesus fuck.” Beau directs his next words up at the inky sky, a trembling laugh on his lips. “I am the luckiest man alive.”

One of Rafael’s big, work-roughened hands curls around the back of Beau’s neck. With his eyes on Jackson, he bends to brush his mouth over Beau’s.

It begins as a taunt, but Rafael’s lids shut as Beau’s tongue slides along his lower lip, deepening the kiss. The Wolf’s free hand comes up and grips Jackson’s shoulder, steadying himself.

Below Jackson’s belt, Beau’s stroking hand falters only briefly before gripping him tighter.

Witnessing the passionate kiss—Rafael’s neatly trimmed beard a stark contrast to the smooth, pale perfection of Beau’s epicene beauty—sends desire coursing through him. Their hands on him, their scents blooming around him, drag a groan from Jackson’s throat.

Beau pulls back, his mouth swollen and glistening. He licks at his lips, like he wants every last bit of the Wolf’s taste. Jackson can’t blame him. He can still remember the flavor of Rafael on his tongue. It tingles now in memory of the other man’s powerful kiss.

“You got a mouth on you, bébé.” Rafael’s grin is slow, sensual, and smeared with Beau’s lipstick.

Beau winks, the quick dip of his lashes saucy and playful. “You have no idea, Rafe. But you will. Both of you.”

Jackson isn’t at all surprised to hear Rafael’s nickname roll of Beau’s tongue, as natural as his next breath. Beau turns his glittering blue gaze on Jackson and the corners of his mouth curl up. He stands on tiptoe, but still can’t quite reach Jackson’s lips. Undeterred, he kisses the tense line of his jaw instead.

Jackson tries to read Rafael’s expression, but for once he is unable. His thoughts are too scattered, lust a drumbeat in his head, drowning everything else out.

When Beau’s fingers grip his chin, Jackson lets the human pull his mouth down into the kiss he has been imagining since the first moment he glimpsed Beau’s crimson pout.

In his long lifetime, Jackson has experienced many kisses, and yet none of them affected him the way this one does. Only one other man ever came close. And he can taste Rafael on Beau’s tongue.


Buy Myths Moons and Mayhem:

Universal e-book link
Amazon paperback
Goodreads

Morgan Elektra is author of A Single Heartbeat, A Kiss in Brimstone, and Big Teeth. She discovered her passion for writing at a young age, penning stories of witches, vampires, and monsters at the dining room table. After years working day jobs and moonlighting as a reviewer for popular horror website Dread Central, Morgan left the comfort of an office to follow her dreams of writing fiction. You can like her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter or her website

Friday, 27 October 2017

Filthless Friday

Since this isn't a Blue Monday - here's a plotty bit from near the start of The King's Viper (recently re-released) which I hugely enjoyed writing because it is perfectly accurate but as misleading as hell. And you have to read the whole story of Eloise and Severin to discover the true picture.



On her wedding night, Eloise waited in her chamber. Not her old familiar bedroom, but a grand chamber that had been specially prepared for the nuptials of the heir of Venn—the curtains dusted, the mattress on the four-poster bed beaten and aired and covered in fresh linens.

She was led into the chamber by her maids. On the far side of the bed the chamberlain and his men waited to do their duty. The womenfolk cast them scolding glances and held up sheets to protect her from their prurient eyes as they disrobed her down to a close-fitting shift of very white, very fine silk. They pulled all the curtains about the bed, holding open only one gap for Eloise to enter.

“Make no sound, no matter how it hurts,” urged one of the senior ladies in her ear. “If you cry out in weakness, then your firstborn will be a girl.”

Eloise climbed onto the mattress and the gap vanished, leaving her enclosed in a fabric chamber all her own. Firelight glowed on one curtain, lighting the inner sanctum dimly. She sat up, hugging one knee and chewing a fingernail.

Severin de Meynard had said hardly a word to her throughout the ceremony and the meal afterward—a wedding breakfast she’d scarcely touched because her stomach was clenched with tension. His gaze had slid over her as smoothly as black fur. And she hadn’t dared sneak more than a few glances at him. There was too much between them; a history of terror. He’d changed the style of his narrow beard though, she’d noticed. Now it ran the length of his jaw. The bruises she’d seen on his face at their last meeting had long gone of course, but nothing could heal the missing fingers on his right hand. And he looked older. There were gray hairs among the black on his chin.

His left hand had been cool upon hers as they exchanged vows, his voice emotionless, his expression unreadable.

The officials and the maids talked together in low voices and laughed. Her nervousness turned to hot rage. None of this was about her, only about her descendants. Before the wedding she’d been thrashed with a sheaf of wheat, had her breasts anointed with ewes’ milk and had a boy baby passed between her thighs, everything designed to encourage her to bear healthy heirs. Even the white silk kerchief, wedged in the carved headboard, was intended to capture for public display the tokens of her ruptured virginity. Nobody cared if she was happy or unhappy, whether he was tender or cruel to her, whether they took joy in one another or co-existed in loathing. The only matters of significance were that she came to the marriage a maiden, and that she be fertile thereafter.

I could have been Queen of Ystria, she thought. And exactly the same would have been true then.

The chamber door creaked open and closed. He was here. For a moment the official witnesses fell silent. Then someone spoke—the chamberlain almost certainly—and though Eloise could not hear all the words of his elaborate pleasantry she knew from his tone that it was ribald.

The joke fell flat, as Severin made no response. The silence stretched to an uncomfortable length until the chamberlain coughed nervously. Eloise smiled despite herself, though it was a warped and grim smile. Severin de Meynard had a way of killing foolish humor. He could look right through you as if judging your innermost weaknesses, without passion and without mercy.

The curtain of her chamber-within-a-chamber twitched aside, and the King’s Viper looked in on her. He didn’t smile.

“Good even, my lady wife.”

“My lord husband.” The words came out falteringly. She wondered if she should have arranged it so that his first glimpse of her was not like this, hunched up on the bed like a child afraid of the dark. But it was too late for that. He turned away, speaking to the others in an undertone, then climbed onto the bed. A small leather flask, the sort used to hold strong liquor, swung by its thong from his hand.

“It’s been—” she whispered, but he cut her off, placing a finger against her lips for silence. The reproof made her quail.

He made sure the curtains were drawn tight and nothing could be glimpsed of them from without. He was wearing only woolen hose, hitched loosely about his hips now that they were not laced to a doublet. His chest—with its compact, hard muscle and its dark flare of hair—was bare. She saw unfamiliar scars, still shiny and fresh, laced across his ribs.

They’d punished him cruelly for what he’d done to her.

Eloise dug her fingers into her shin. Do I really know this man?

She had seen for herself that he was a killer. Had he ever been truly kind to her? Hadn’t he systematically stripped her of all hope and abandoned her to her pain? Hadn’t he taken everything from her?

Everything, she realized, except that which he was about to claim now, by right of marriage.

In a moment the whole edifice of her memory crumbled into doubt. A visceral terror made her wonder if she had made an awful mistake—if in fact she had been mistaken all along. Perhaps she had deceived herself. Perhaps he had deliberately deceived her.

As he knelt before her with his thighs spread, and laid his right hand along her cheek, she trembled.


Universal buy-link for THE KING'S VIPER

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

Bare breasts


My bedroom window has claimed the life of another kamikaze pigeon.


I might be a vegetarian, but I don't waste meat!


Lucky dogs!

Monday, 23 October 2017

Blue Monday: Dale Cameron Lowry guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Dale Cameron Lowry with an excerpt from their story The Cave, which appears in Myths, Moons and Mayhem: paranormal gay menage and erotic romance


Myths, moons, and mayhem make the perfect threesome—and so do the men in this anthology.

Enjoy nine erotic stories of paranormal ménages a trois fueled by lust and magic, where mystical forces collide with the everyday world and even monsters have their own demons to conquer.

A werewolf gets a lust-fueled lesson on fitting in with the pack, a professor unlocks ancient secrets and two men’s hearts, and a pair of supernaturals find themselves at the erotic mercy of a remarkable human. Ghosts, fairies, aliens, and mere mortals test the boundaries of their desires, creating magic of their own.

Penned by favorite authors such as Rob Rosen and Clare London, as well as by newcomers to the genre, Myths, Moons & Mayhem is an eclectic mix of paranormal lust and polymythic beings that will spark your fantasies and fuel your bonfires.



About “The Cave”: Losing sleep to the sounds of his tent-neighbors’ nightly lovemaking has nature photographer Ethan at his wit’s end. What kind of magic can convince the two men he should join them?

This scene takes place when Ethan is alone by the campfire, when the other campers are in their tents. He’s been listening to his tent neighbors, Mendrika and Joseph, have sex. Mendrika is a common man’s name in Malagasy, the national language of Madagascar. His husband, Joseph, is French.


In addition to being a photographer, Ethan is a light mage. Arousal makes his magic stronger.





I take a handful of dirt and sprinkle it over the coals, trying to snuff out the embers. A few extinguish, but most continue to coil and writhe. The low, dancing light of a fire usually reminds me of snakes, but tonight the flames are lovers, wrapping over and around each other, twisting together, merging into a larger light.

I feel their reach as strings against my skin, but they aren’t the neatly spaced guitar strings of the afternoon. Now they’re a thick, dense tangle of spider silk, wrapped around my body, running through me. I barely have to move to send a vibration to the heart of the web—the embers at the bottom of the campfire. If my heart picks up, so does the flame. If my cock swells, so does the light.

There’s no control here. Only connection. I am connected to the light the way Mendrika and Joseph are connected, deep at the center of my being.

Which one of them cried out earlier, Mendrika or Joseph? Was it the same man each time, or one after the other? And who’s making those other sounds now—the murmuring and the soft, plaintive moans I might confuse for the nearby stream if I didn’t know any better?

I picture them in my mind’s eye: naked, cock to cock, kissing and necking as they rub together, each movement awaking another frisson of heat deep in their balls.

Or maybe Mendrika’s lying on his back, exhausted and sore from the day’s ordeal, but eager for the mouth of his lover, for Joseph’s lips on him, for the comfort and agony of Joseph’s wet, hungry mouth on his dick.

Or is Joseph the one on his back, legs splayed apart, baring a hole as pink and round as his lips when he pronounces the letter u, begging Mendrika to enter?

My cock surges. So do the flames. Nothing turns me on like a stocky, muscular guy getting pounded. I imagine Mendrika’s shaft as hard a tree trunk, swelling and twitching as its head pushes past Joseph’s clenching asshole, and Joseph biting his lower lip to keep from crying out. I can almost feel Mendrika’s cock inside me—a delicious, terrifying ache, too much and not enough, and in my mind’s eye Joseph starts rocking, rocking, making that sweet ache move deeper until it spears him at his core.

The cooking fire roars up like it’s been doused with gasoline.

Heather was right. As long as this ache lasts, I won’t be able to put out this fire.

A ravenala tree surrounded by shrubby undergrowth stands a few feet from Mendrika and Joseph’s tent. I slip into the center and hide among the leaves.

I can hear Joseph and Mendrika better from here. Smaller, more intimate sounds. Their sleeping bag shifting between their bodies and the ground. One of them whispering something, almost like a chant, a soft stream of words punctuated by rustling moans, so understated they might be the leaves of the ravenala shaking in the breeze.

I wipe my thumb over the head of my dick, spreading precome over my skin. I close my eyes and imagine Mendrika’s fingers on me instead, wrapping tight around my shaft, and Joseph’s tongue where my thumb is, lapping up my juice with wet, hungry licks.

Soft slapping sounds. Whispers turn into panting. I imagine the sleeping bag shifting under Mendrika’s knees, his balls smacking against Joseph’s ass with each thrust. Through the leaves, the campfire flares.

Though its light is almost too bright to bear, its tug is irresistible. Its visible portion skitters around the coals, rising higher into the air—one feet, two feet, three—until it’s almost as tall as a man.

No. Two men. Twin tongues of flame: one at the center, stolid and steady; the other winding around it in a graceful dance.

A grunt from the tent.

The flames take sharper form now, licking out to form limbs, then heads, then cocks. With each passing second, they become more detailed, like statues emerging from marble. Their hands develop distinct fingers. Their faces grow eyelashes and lips. A foreskin circles the head of one cock, and a circumcision scar appears on the other.

Have I lost my mind in a hallucinatory fever, or has my lust unlocked a new depth of light magic? When I lost my virginity, I set off a sky flare that local weather observers later reported was visible from miles away. But that’s as impressive as my powers get. Giving light shape and mass and life—it’s inconceivable.

And yet it’s happening, right before my eyes: Mendrika and Joseph, captured in light.

They’re gorgeous together. Legs tangled, fingers entwined. They settle down in the charcoals, Joseph straddling Mendrika’s waist, their faces radiating desire. Joseph grasps Mendrika’s dick in his
glowing hands, steadying it as he lines it up with his hole.

J'ai envie de toi,” I hear from the tent. I want you.

In the fire circle, two points of light meet. Mendrika’s radiant cock rises into Joseph’s flame.

A groan, deep and rib-shaking.

Flame Joseph’s back arches. I feel it arch, through the strings connecting me to the light. They tug at my dick, brush across my nipples, thread into my ass.

Encore.” Joseph’s plea, whispered but clear as day.

The strings of light coalesce into something denser, like flesh. My ass stretches open to accept them; they embrace my cock with sucking warmth.

Flame Joseph shifts his hips. The sleeping bag rustles. A stutter, a sigh.

Thump, thump, thump, against the earth.

And, oh. My. God. They’re fucking me. Or the light is. I can’t tell the difference, only the sensation: wanton, relentless, driving. In the tent, there’s panting. In the fire, thrusting. The light surges into me, deeper than any man has been, stretching my ring of muscle, pounding against my prostate. I’m going to come, I’m going to come, I’m going to—


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 Dale Cameron Lowry’s number one goal in life is getting the cat to stop eating dish towels; number two is to write things that bring people joy. Dale is the author of Falling Hard: Stories of Men in Love and a contributor to more than a dozen anthologies. Find out more at their:

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Sunday, 22 October 2017

That cobra though...



I came across this clip today - a jaw-dropping blend of sexy dance, Orientalism, and really bad puppetry - from a movie I've never seen BUT NOW MUST WATCH.

It looks truly epic: equal parts awful/highly entertaining ;-)