Monday, 13 August 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

And since we're on the theme of Greek myth... Here's a clip from my short story Three Legs in the Evening:

In ancient Greece, disgraced and blinded King Oedipus is confessing his life story to a mysterious woman:

 “I want to know,” she said, “about Phix.”

 He went very still. “How do you know her name?”

 “I’m the one who asked for a story. And I want to hear the things you don’t tell other people.”

 “Really.” His neck was taut and now his hand curled, almost to a clench. He was taller than her, and if he had been sighted she would have been within easy snatching distance. Respectable women never came this close to a strange man, not on their own. Certainly not when the man had such an obscene reputation. “The things I don’t tell other people?” he wondered. “That won’t be hard. They’re only interested in the end of the tale.”

“But everybody knows how it ended. I didn’t have to come find you, to hear that bit of the story.”

“Hhh. Well. If you like, then. You’re not frightened of a story from a man’s point of view?”

All stories are told from a man’s point of view,” she sighed.

“I meant...”

 “I know what you meant. Go ahead. I want to hear.”

He nodded, and moistened his dry lips. “Very well. Not the end, then. The beginning. You have to understand it from the beginning, or you’ll not believe.” He leaned back against the sarcophagus. “I was brought up as a prince of the palace of Corinth. Son, so far as I knew, of the king and queen there. Ignorant that I was a foundling, adopted—because everyone who remembered had been instructed to keep silent upon the subject. And there was a girl there—Is this the beginning? I’m not used to telling this part—There was a servant girl there in the palace…a Libyan…who had the most beautiful breasts.”

He paused, and tilted his head back, as if seeing the long-lost girl with his empty eyes.

“She was older than me, of course. I used to follow her around the palace when I was a youth, just to stare at those breasts. They were the color of pine honey, deep-clefted and firm and big, you understand, really big, swelling against her dress. And I wanted nothing in all the world so much as to lift those ample globes in my hands and suck upon her nipples and bury my head between them and suffocate there.” He smiled wistfully. “Don’t get me wrong—she was pretty too, with a big smile and a waist like so—” he shaped it, tiny beneath his masculine hands “—and a fine rump as round as the full moon, that waggled when she walked. I liked all of her, but oh…her breasts had me in thrall.

“You know, even if I weren’t blind, I don’t think I’d ever see a pair so perfect again.

“All the servants sniggered at me. ‘Here comes your puppy-dog again, Clio,’ they would tell her: ‘wagging his little tail as he follows you.’ And she laughed at me too, but gently. She liked me. The day she caught me by the hand and pulled me into a storeroom and said, ‘Time to do more than just stare at my tits, Prince Oedipus,’ as she pulled open her clothes and laid my hands upon her…I think that was the happiest moment of my life. I felt like a man must feel touching a goddess. I felt like I was holding the sun and the moon in my hands. I felt like all the mysteries and treasures of the earth hand been given to me.

“You know what the greatest wonder was? Her nipples stiffened as I touched them. They rose up, and their areolae puckered to the drag of my fingers, and she sighed and giggled. Her parts reacted to me—and I knew for the first time that a woman’s body felt pleasure just as my own did. Nobody had ever told me that. She loved me touching her.”

Oedipus shook his head in reminiscence. “Her tits. That’s what she called them. A low word for such glorious things. ‘Tits’ and ‘cunny’ and ‘ass’ and ‘clit’, those were the words she used, and she taught me all about them, over many months.

“And I was a diligent scholar, keen to master every lesson and put my learning to the test. I prided myself on the skills I developed under her tutelage. When, for the first time, Clio straddled me nose-to-tail and said, ‘Make me fall first, Prince Oedipus, and I’ll suck your cock until you spurt down my throat,’ I made her come three times before I let her finish me off.

“This is the secret I learned from her: a woman’s pleasure does not come, as almost every man thinks, from her being filled and stretched and pounded by the biggest cock possible, like a pestle banging away in a mortar. Oh, it’s far more subtle than that. And far more complex. A woman’s body is a labyrinth to be solved.

“I took the skills my Clio taught me, and practiced upon other women. Bee-keepers and dancing-girls and weavers and potters…My reputation spread through Corinth like spilt wine, and couldn’t be stopped. Through giggled confidences, they learned from one another. They came to my chamber by night and lured me into barns by day. They wanted to know if I was all I was rumored to be, and I delighted in confirming the tales. That was my pleasure—my obsession if you like, for it became like a yearning for wine or opium. I lusted to make women come. My own fist upon my cock was good enough for me, though I’d no objection to the hotter embrace of a mouth or cunny. But what I really wanted, what I could do for hour after hour, was to lap the nectar between a woman’s legs, and make her arch and swear and blaspheme. To take the shy and gentle maid and make of her a raving maenad. To have the lissome creature astride my face beg for more and more and more, and then weep with joy and thank me and kiss my cock like it was a god. I took delight in pushing a woman to so many climaxes that she would beg me for mercy out of sheer exhaustion.”   

“And were you merciful?”

Oedipus smiled. “Oh, eventually.”

She bit her lip and was glad he couldn’t see her flushed cheeks.

 “It became a point of pride for me that no woman was immune to pleasure, under my hands. I would rise to any challenge: young or old, fair or plain. An ambassador of the Amazons, corded with muscle and scar-tissue, who had never had any use for a man, laughed at my reputation—but she’d changed her mind by the next morning and confessed publicly, blushing, that I had proved her wrong.

“After that I trod closer to the edge of propriety. I took two priestesses of Artemis to my bed and sent them away the next morning reeling and wide-eyed and debauched—but still technically virgins despite the throb of their licked and well-fingered winks and the taste of my semen in their mouths. Married women threw themselves in my path—but who could make an accusation of adultery, when my cock never went near the forbidden shrine of their marriage? My preferred site of oblation was across the pillowy expanses of their tits.”

He smiled, fondly, then shook his head as if he were waking from a dream. “Eventually I provoked too many complaints from confused and outfaced men. To get me out of Corinth and give the pot a chance to stop boiling, the king sent me on a mission to the Oracle at Delphi. Some question about the siting of a new temple. So I went, with a dozen companions.”

His smile had gone now. His mouth was a hard line. “There, in the dark of the cave, the Pythia breathed in the fumes from that crack in the floor that leads to the Underworld, and then slipped from her high stool into the priests’ waiting arms, thrashing and gibbering. All very holy. It made my skin crawl, if I am honest. They carried her forward to where I waited, and she looked straight at me with pupils wildly dilated. And then she said it…You know that bit. Everyone knows that bit.”

 “You will kill your father and marry your mother."

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Friday, 10 August 2018


My current researches have led me to bump tangentially against the legend of Calypso. A minor Greek goddess...

Henri Lehmann: Calypso (1869)
 ... she's most famous for rescuing Odysseus from yet another ruddy shipwreck...

Cornelis van Poelenburgh - The Goddess Calypso Rescues Ulysses (1630)

  and then keeping him prisoner on her island of Ogygia for seven years as her sex-toy.

Newell Convers Wyeth: Ulysses and Calypso (1929)
She only let him go after the other gods sent their messenger Hermes to order his release.

Most accounts have Odysseus gloomily staring out to sea and sighing for his wife back home:

Odysseus and Calypso - Arnold_Böcklin (1883)
 That's presumably because there was nothing else to Ogygia but beach:

Herbert James Draper: Calypso's Isle (1897)
He even refused her offer of immortality - there's only so much sex and sand a man can take, clearly...

Jan Styka: The Goddess Calypso Promises Immortality to Odysseus (1901)
Although he gave the titty-fondling a good go for seven years:

Jan Brueghel the Elder - Odysseus and Calypso (1616)
There are a LOT of depictions of this legend out there, most of them a bit bland and Baroque. But I was delighted to discover William Russell Flint's 1924 illustrations of The Odyssey, which are just full of nipples, nudity and lust:

In fact I'm now rather obsessed with Mr Flint's work!

Wednesday, 8 August 2018

Dark Voices - out now!

It's out! Dark Voices, a charity horror story anthology from Lycan valley Press, is on sale NOW, with 100% of profits going to Breast Cancer organisations

Voices are meant to be heard. Darkness amplifies sound. And Dark Voices cannot be silenced. You won’t find pages filled with sunshine and lollipops or rose glass filtered landscapes. Instead, gloom and evil lurks, monsters and despair prevail. As you read these 38 women of horror, sci-fi and dark fiction, their voices will linger in your mind and infiltrate your soul. Their voices are loud. Their voices are strong. Their voices are dark.

My own story, Nine Portraits of the Empress Danrin, is set in 1919 during the great Spanish Flu pandemic - and here's a little excerpt:

It has occurred to me that there is as yet no proper, scientific record of the processes of decay in the human cadaver. We are surrounded by death in this generation, but we have not learned to read the words it inscribes. Imagine the mercy to the relatives of those lost on the battlefield, and the boon to the forces of law and order, if we could look at a human body and state with confidence how long it has been deceased, of what cause, and - in the case of those found nameless and misplaced - if we could discover from its mortal remains its history, its living appearance and perhaps even its identity.

I am setting myself the task of making a meticulous photographic record of the process of post mortem dissolution. Such a thing has never been attempted before, to my knowledge, although I know of some rare artists who have flirted with the theme. Whilst I was at Oxford a friend took me behind the scenes at the Bodleian Library and showed me a scroll from old Japan that illustrated the body of an empress in the nine stage of decay, from death to bare bones. Despite the graphic and gruesome nature of the paintings (which were clearly rendered from reality, if greatly stylized in manner), I found the story curiously moving. The Empress Danrin, renowned for her great loveliness, wished to demonstrate to her subjects and admirers the illusory nature of human beauty and the foolishness of attachment to such transient flesh. She ordered that upon her death her body was to be exposed by the roadside, so that all might see the truth of The Buddha's teachings upon impermanence. Her parable in the flesh, as it were, inspired many Japanese artists to depict the subject.

I have set myself to creating a modern version of this record, on a purely scientific footing.
* * *

[Portrait Two: the lady's fresh corpse lies abandoned among the weeds, her robe open to expose her pale breasts. There are as yet no external signs of decay.]

Cadavers are easy to come by, in my position. After death, patients are washed down by the nurses and then laid out quickly in pine coffins in the mortuary. Our hospital is of course chronically understaffed, such is the fear of the flu and the attrition rate among young employees. It's simple enough, if one works late at night as I do, to surreptitiously replace the body in the box with sandbags from the yard, and remove the corpse via the lift apparatus to the top floor of the building. I believe that these ranks of small rooms were quarters for servants back when this place was originally built, but they are currently unused and I have forbidden access to all medical staff.

I can run many experiments concurrently.

Monday, 6 August 2018

Blue Monday: Lily Harlem guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Lily Harlem with her new book His Vampire Harem

He's special. He just doesn't know it yet.

Darius Linnet has it all. He's a top male model, he's traveled the world, and everyone wants to either be him or be with him.

But would they really want to walk in his shoes? Because when emotions consume him, heated sparks fly. When he sleeps, his dreams take on an other-worldly twist. And his perfect body—sometimes it doesn't even feel like his own.

Until, that is, he meets a group of sexy, mysterious men who claim they've been searching for him for centuries. He's their savior, apparently, the key to their release from eternal damnation. They love him and they want to show him the pleasure he's been denying himself. There's only one problem: Darius's demon father has other ideas.

His gaze trailed down my body, then back up again. “Okay, press play.”

I did as he’d asked, then silently removed my t-shirt. If I was lucky enough to get close to him I didn’t want clothing in the way.

I guessed the on-screen guys had only just started. They were still in jeans and were kissing, their hands roaming over each other’s toned upper bodies.

I moved closer to Darius.

“You ever done it outside?” he asked as the men undid each other’s pants and shoved at them.


“You like it?”

I grinned. “I like sex no matter where I do it.”

“Oh, I see.”

“You’ll love it too,” I reached for his hand, tugging it from its tight clasp on his other one. “When you’re ready.”

“I hope that will be soon.” He tipped his chin, his attention firmly on the screen.

Two cocks were out now. Each big and hard and glossy in true porn-star style.

The men were moaning, their kisses noisy, as they worked each other’s shafts.

For a few minutes we watched in silence as the camera panned around them, giving views of their cocks, butts and faces.

When one man sank to his knees, I moved closer still to Darius. My arm brushed his, so did my leg. Being so near to him thrilled me, as did the solid wedge of flesh tenting his sweats. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes.” His voice was breathy.

“Me too. The one on the right has a great cock, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” He swallowed.

“And it’s about to get sucked.”

He glanced at me, then turned back to the screen. He swiped his tongue over his bottom lip.

The urge to kiss him, hold him, bring him pleasure and taste his blood was almost overwhelming. I reined myself in. “Would you like me to suck your cock?”

He hitched in a breath and his eyes widened as the onscreen cock disappeared into a willing mouth.

“You’ll know what it feels like then, Darius. You won’t have to imagine.”

“You want to…do that to me?”

“Hell yeah.” I ran my hand down his warm arm, across his belly, then to his cock. “I can think of nothing I’d rather do.” I leaned closer and pressed my lips to the ball of his shoulder.

“Rhys…” He looked at me and touched my cheek.

“No strings,” I said. “Just a bit of fun.” I paused. “An experience I’d be honored to give you."

His eyes flashed and he rubbed his fingertips together. I wondered if heat was growing inside him, a heat that would result in sparks; I hoped so, I wanted to see them.

“Okay,” he said. “I mean, yes please. If you don’t mind, I mean—”

I chuckled and brushed my lips over his. “You’re the hottest guy I’ve seen in a long time, and me and you, we’ll be good together.” Pushing to the edge of the sofa, I then sank to my knees between his legs. I looked up at him as I curled my hands into the waistband of his sweats. “Keep watching the TV and relax. Let me do this. I consider it somewhat of a speciality of mine.”

He lifted his hips, allowing me to pull his sweats to his thighs.

His cock sprung free and a wild rage of excitement went through me. This was the man we’d been waiting for, and now I had him. He was mine, for now at least.

I gripped his shaft.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, my hands are cold.”

“It’s not that, it’s…”


“Just having you touch me. Rhys, I…” He rested his hands on my head.

“I told you, relax, and come when you want to.” I leaned forward and swiped my tongue over the tip of his glans, gathering up a tiny leak of pre-cum. I moaned and closed my eyes, he tasted divine.

His thighs tensed around me and he gripped my hair.

I opened my mouth wide, forming an ‘o’ with my lips, and sank onto him.

The noise that peeled from his throat was long and guttural and vibrated through me.

I tipped farther forward, cupping his balls with my free hand and taking him as deep as I could. Once there, I paused.

The sounds coming from the television were sexy as fuck—moans, groans, gasps and unholy praises to God.

I wanted to hear Darius making those noises, so I lifted up and started on a steady rhythm, using my hands, fingers, lips and tongue.

This man is everything I need and more.

“Rhys, fuck, I can’t last long.” His cock twitched, more pre-cum slid onto my tongue.

I didn’t answer, instead I upped the pace, making sure I lodged him against my throat on each downward plunge.

He was shaking, his body tensed to granite. His hips were rising to meet my mouth and he was yanking at my hair following the rhythm.

And then it was there.

He held his breath, froze, and hot cum shot from his cock. His shaft throbbed and his balls contracted.

I swallowed and didn’t let up.

He cried out, a long wail of release I knew I’d never forget.

The men on the screen were going for it, flesh-on-flesh slaps filling my ears as they pounded.

Darius yanked at my hair, pulling my mouth from him.

I caught his shaft in my palm and set my thumb over his slit.

He was breathing hard, his face was flushed and his pupils wide. He held his hands out to the sides, fingers splayed on the sofa.

“How was that?” I asked, wiping at a drip of saliva trickling down my chin.

“That was…damn, I should have lasted longer but it felt so good.”

“It wasn’t a test, it was an experience. You came when you wanted, what’s wrong with that?”

He wiped his forearm over his brow then glanced at the TV. “Where’s the remote?” As he’d spoken he’d picked it up and turned it off.

“You weren’t enjoying it?”

“I’ve got the real thing, why would I need that?” He smiled. A lovely wide grin that melted my heart all the more for him.

I love him so much.

I studied his groin and traced my fingertip over a vein leading from his abdomen to his right thigh. It was a delicate shade of lilac and combined with the pulse I could feel in his shaft, I had a desperate urge to taste him.

“Just here,” I said, looking up at him. “Can I bite you?”

“Bite me?” He laughed, though he was still out of breath and currently studying the ends of his fingers. “What, like a hickey?”

“Yeah, something like that.” My fangs were tingling in my gums. “I want to taste you here.” I placed the tip of my tongue on the vein. So damn good, so damn close.

Buy His Vampire Harem at Amazon

Lily Harlem's sexy romance novels are highly praised and frequently hit bestseller lists. She lives in the UK and since giving up a career in nursing spends her days penning steamy novels and enjoying a view over the beautiful Welsh countryside. She has a passion for animals and can’t help adopting any waif and stray that comes along, much to Mr Harlem’s despair (he actually doesn’t mind in the least!).

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Saturday, 4 August 2018

Full set

Getting excited now!

Will I hit my writing deadline before we fly, that's the question...

Wednesday, 1 August 2018

The Scent of Tears - cover reveal!

It's official now! With a gorgeous wrap-around cover by Jon Sullivan -

For the first time in print, Adrian Tchaikovsky has opened up the realm of the Apt, as featured in his best-selling Shadow of the Apt decalogy, to a carefully selected cast of fellow writers, inviting them to do their best and their worst within the world he has created.  

They have done just that. Topped and tailed by two new stories form Adrian himself, some of the finest imaginations in fantasy, including winners of the David Gemmell Award, the Costa Book Award and British Fantasy Award, have combined to produce a stunning collection of tales that examine fresh aspects of the Apt world and its people. 

There I am (in my KM guise), honoured to be nestled next a whole bunch of prize-winners! Out in October!

Pre-order available

Monday, 30 July 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today, because we've finally been able to switch from grumbling about the heat to grumbling about the rain here in the UK, I've picked an excerpt from my soggiest story to date: At Usher's Well.

My Mistress is wrestling with God, and will not give an inch.

I watch her from the floor of her chamber, as I squat over the fireplace trying to get the logs to blaze properly. We’re using birch because it’s the only thing that’ll catch when wet, but it burns through so fast, and with so little heat, that I’m forever traipsing up and down the stairs with the log-basket on my back. She’s wrapped in a fur-lined pelisse to make up for my lack of success. Her face, thinner now after all these weeks of half-starving herself, catches the grey light along her cheek bone.

Oh Lord, but she looks like Finlay from that angle. My heart clenches inside me, a spasm of loss.

Finlay. Sweet Finlay with the curly brown hair and the fluff of beard on his lean cheeks. Finlay who would follow me into the dairy and press me against the shelves and call me his sweet Meg, his pretty Margaret, his windflower and his kitten and his little white dove. Who’d kiss my hands and my lips and hold me close, nuzzling my hair. Who swore he loved me, even when I laughed him off and pushed him away.

Gently. I was gentle with him. I didnae want to hurt his feelings. He said he loved me and would marry me and we would have beautiful bairns together, three of each, and the lassies would look like me and the lads would look like him.

It was all lies of course—no, not lies, but thistledown dreams. He was the smart one, the son who had learned his letters. He was destined for Oxford University far away down south, and so to take Holy Orders. He would never marry anyone. Besides, my Mistress would never countenance any one of her sons marrying a mere serving maid. Marriage is for equals, and I’d never be theirs’.

That hadnae stopped Finlay’s older brother Rory tumbling me of course—and taking my maidenhead, in fact. Rory was a big, straightforward fellow with a boisterous, ever-eager cock. He rummaged his way through every wench of beddable age in the household, but I doubt that anyone resented him for it, for he was always generous with his coins, and an easygoing master who often intervened with his mother to make sure there were extra portions at dinner for the servants, or to turn away her wrath at some domestic transgressor. Unlike my Mistress, Rory never complained that I was late lighting his fire in the morning, or slow serving at the table. He would only wink and smile at me and pat my rump, and when he came upon me in private he’d pull up my skirts and bend me over a press and slip me his length, strong and easy. On feast days he’d dance me on his broad lap until his prick was as hard as a pole and I was red and flustered, and then he’d touch me secretly under my skirts until I was running as wet and slick as a crock of butter left too close to the oven, and ready to do anything he wanted. That was how he had me, the first time.

Henry Matthew Brock, 1934

‘Are you a woman, yet, Meg?’ he’d murmured in my ear as he dandled me. He could have shouted it and no one would have heard over the ruckus.

‘No, Master Rory,’ I’d said, blushing, feeling my blood soar and my skin flame and my bones loosen.

‘Are you ready for me to make you one?’ His fingertips had stroked my purse until it gaped, begging for him to steal what lay within.

I’d moaned then, and shuddered on his lap.

‘Och, this medlar is ripe, I think,’ he’d said. His other arm was around me, his other hand stroking and squeezing my maiden breasts through my bodice. I was losing all sense; nothing in all the world mattered as much as that devastating tease between my thighs.

‘Aye,’ I’d whimpered. And as that wicked fingertip had circled the plump little pip of my medlar, I’d said ‘Aye!’ again and shut my eyes and pressed my face to his neck as I’d slithered helplessly over into paradise—right there in front of the whole household, his brothers and his mother and all the guests. I didnae cry out, but I heard the catch of Rory’s breath and then his long exhalation. I dinnae ken if anyone paid any attention. Well—I know that my Mistress saw, because she shot me a narrow-eyed glare as Rory eased me from his lap, patted my rear, and pushed me out of the hall in front of him.

It was the Midsummer feast. Rory led me out into the unmown hayfield and laid me down in the long grass, lifting my skirts. His length looked smooth as wood in the moonlight. He wet his thumb in my juices and placed it over my pip, and he kept that there, pressing and stirring, as he laid his cock to my gates and broke them down.

He was heavy, and the smell of wine and crushed grass made my head spin. I wondered why anyone did anything else but this all their lives.

My poor Mistress at the window there disnae look like Rory, and never has. I suppose he takes after his father, who was dead before I came to this place. Certainly he’s her favoured son.

Was her favoured son. It’s hard sometimes to remember that he’s dead, she denies it so adamantly. They’re all dead, drowned in the deep.

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Sunday, 29 July 2018

Bunk up

We spent the weekend in a family-friendly bunkhouse in the Lake District. This was written on the wall over our beds.

Er ... is it just me or is that a bit rude?

Friday, 27 July 2018

Sneaky cover preview!

Here's a VERY sneaky peek at an upcoming anthology I'm included in. This advert was on the back of one of the pamphlets at EdgeLit, so it's public domain, I guess. If you squint hard you can see an anthology called The Scent of Tears, which is a Tales of the Apt collection set in Adrian Tchaikovsky's fantasy universe. Included in that is my eponymous story The Scent of Tears.

I can't show you the cover in detail until it has had its official reveal, but rest assured that I am pretty damn excited!

Launching at Fantasycon in October!

Wednesday, 25 July 2018

On target

Ludvig Abelin Schou: Chione Slain by Diana (1866)

Apologies; I took an unannounced break off my blog for a week. I went to EdgeLit for the launch of Dark Voices ...

... but since then I've mostly been writing horror scenarios (one for a publisher, one LARP) and making endless cups of sugary tea for builders. Oh yes - and I did THIS INTERVIEW for Fiona McVie:

"Fiona: You only have 24 hours to live how would you spend that time?

Having sex!"
EdgeLit was fab, by the way. My next convention is going to be FantasyCon in Chester ... this is after me saying I wouldn't do any conventions this year!

Monday, 16 July 2018

Blue Monday: Ellie Barker guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

A few weeks ago I featured Ellie Barker's LGBT novel Secrets and Spies. Well it was the first of an innovative cross-genre trilogy, Undercover Lovers, from my favourite Sinful Press, and the second is out now too - In Bed with the Enemy:

Nikolas Jinsen, police mole and mafia odd-job man, is given an ultimatum; stop seeing his girlfriend, or lose his job. When a hasty attempt to keep both goes wrong, he does the only thing he can think of: he lies. But with his new roommate a member of the elite gang that Nikolas has been tasked to look into, and his assignations with his girlfriend constantly interrupted by calls on his services as a lover, Nikolas finds that work isn't all fun and games.

In Bed with the Enemy continues the story of Nikolas, a bisexual police mole, and Sky, a transgender thief, as they work to infiltrate the local crime syndicate. Ellie Barker has created a fast paced and highly entertaining trilogy, with a diverse range of characters, various sexual encounters, and unconventional romance.

I finished the last of my half-pint, and gestured at his crotch. “So what’s next?”

He put his own glass down. “I want to see you.” He sounded almost shy, nervous. “I want to fuck you.”


“The sofa’s had worse.”

I don’t usually bottom, but that’s because Sky loves it—and I like making her happy. But I’m definitely not averse to it. I pulled my t-shirt over my head while Bear undid my jeans, and then we squirmed and wriggled and I was naked on his sofa, the leather cushions under me and Bear’s weight on top, horny as hell. All he had to do was lower his head and I was kissing him, our legs tangled together and his beard rubbing against my face, his tongue pushing between my lips in a way that was making my hips thrust. I pulled away, panting, and found him almost as breathless as I was.

“You,” I told him and began to undo the rest of his shirt buttons. He helped, revealing a chest covered in the same reddish-brown hair as his face, and then pulled his still-undone trousers down. I just watched, leaning up on my elbows, my body bare and smooth in the golden lighting and my cock showing just how badly I wanted the man now naked in front of me.

He caught me watching, and smiled. “So?”

His chest-hair continued down across his stomach and joined with the mass of curls around his cock. I looked him down, and then back up, and caught his eye.

“I want you to fuck me,” I told him. “I want you to come inside me.”

His cock jerked, and I could see the desire overtaking his nerves. He pulled a condom out of the box and rolled it on, his fingers shaking slightly, and then grabbed the lube and knelt down between my legs.

“I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Then go slow.” I turned myself over, pushing my ass up towards him, and felt the cool drizzle of lube go down my crack. After the warmth of the sofa it was a shock, but a good one; and my cock was now against the warm material, smooth and silky.

Bear’s finger slid in, and I gasped.

“I’ll go slow,” the man murmured, and I spread my legs as he pulled me further onto his lap, lifting my hips and gently pushing his finger back in, opening me. I buried my face in the oiled pillows and let him tease me, pushing in and out, filling me and then withdrawing, pushing in again with another finger, spreading me wider and wider as he pushed in another and another—

And then I heard him groan by my shoulder, and his body was against mine, warm and rough, and his hips met my ass. “There…Nikolas. There.”

“Fuck me,” I told him.

“You…I don’t…I’m not hurting you?”

“No.” He filled me tighter than anyone ever had, but the slow build-up meant I didn’t hurt. I felt pinned, held in place by the tightness and pleasure mixing. “Just go slow.”

He was gentle, and he was slow—painfully, agonisingly slow, a tease and a torment that had me moaning into the cushions. And then he was tugging my elbow, and pushing my hand down to my own cock. “Finish yourself. I want you to come.”

“Your sofa…” I managed.

“It’ll clean.” He sounded hoarser, and I wondered how much self-control it was taking for him to go slowly. Had he ever been able to fuck any of his lovers without hurting them?

I began to stroke, and heard a deep groan from behind me. My ass had tightened around his cock and I was holding him, feeling every thrust and twitch of him inside me. He began to fuck me again, unable to hold back the lust. His hips slammed into mine again and again, pinning me against the leather, my cock clenched in my fist and my ass filled with him, pushing me so close with every stroke—

I came, gasping into the cushions, my whole body jerking. He was still thrusting into me and I could feel him getting closer, tense and urgent.

His fingers dug into my hips and he gave a queer little moan, almost hurt—and then pulsed once, twice, a long third stroke that started his legs shaking. And then he subsided against me, his head on my shoulder, pressing me down into the leather with a long, panting sigh.

We lay there for a long minute, me just cataloguing the aches and the pleasure, feeling his cock still twitching in my ass and his beard smooth against my shoulder. Then Bear stirred, and said, “Sorry, Nikolas, I’m squashing you.”

“Not to worry.” We got ourselves disentangled with a few smiles, and then Bear directed me to the bathroom to clean up. When I came out, the cat had woken up and come to investigate—and when Bear came out in turn, he found me butt-naked on the second sofa with a cat sitting on my clothes, purring madly.

“She obviously doesn’t want you to get dressed,” Bear joked, looking entirely at ease in a pair of boxers and nothing else.

“Obviously,” I said, and picked her up. “C’mon, sweetheart, I have to go and tell Sky what I’ve been up to.”

The Undercover Lovers trilogy is Amazon exclusive for a limited time before being released across all main platforms. It is available to read through Kindle Unlimited.

Buy In Bed with the Enemy : Amazon smartlink
Buy the Undercover Lovers trilogy (paperback) : Amazon smartlink

Ellie Barker mostly writes short'n'dirty flash fiction and short erotic fiction in any genre going. She prefers vampires over werewolves, and is always hot for a rainy night.

You can find out more about Ellie over at her website, or follow her on Twitter as @EllieBa3

Sunday, 15 July 2018


That's me marching in Leeds, in my 1989 "Desert of Desolation" T-shirt ;-)

I got a lot of love for my placard! Amazing how many gamers there are out there!

... and other nerds...

But my fave sign - and I'm sorry I didn't get a pic of it - said simply:

I bet he doesn't even like tea

Friday, 13 July 2018

Today I'm marching

Because I feel like the world is sliding into a nightmare from which we may never wake up.

Because I like to believe that if I'd been alive in the 1930s, I would have protested against the Fascists.

Because I read Eichmann in Jerusalem. According to Arendt, under Nazi occupation the numbers of Jews deported to the camps varied enormously from country to country in Europe. Three-quarters of Dutch Jews died under Nazi occupation. Yet not a single Bulgarian Jew was deported - and the difference was down to public compliance.

Because silence is not neutrality, it is siding with evil. Doing nothing is not a moral option.