Friday, 22 July 2016

Contractual obligations

OMG - 
I've decided I have to take my giant unsorted pile of contracts and put them in publisher order in a nice filing box. Because it takes me forever to look up an old contract.

I think I'm going to need more than one box ... :O

Wednesday, 20 July 2016

Monday, 18 July 2016

Blue Monday: review of Cautionary Tales

Something different today, as instead of an excerpt, I give you my review of Cautionary Tales by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

First, a disclaimer.
I made a decision when I started writing never to review other authors' erotica, for several reasons:
  • I'm hella difficult to please with erotica, which is quite frankly why I write it. My tastes are idiosyncratic and my standards both harsh and subjective.
  • I'm not terribly articulate about why I like books. I'm much better at dissecting the things I don't like.
  • I really don't have that much time set aside for reading.
  • In this small, friendly and supportive community of writers, I don't want to upset colleagues by giving anyone a bad review (see above) - or even a "Meh, TL:DR," which is only too likely, sorry everyone. Just because I'm not enthused by a book doesn't mean it's bad, or that it won't be a runaway bestseller, so I see no value in inflicting my opinion on any author.

BUT I'm breaking my promise and making an exception here for Cautionary Tales because although Emmanuelle is a fellow smutwriter, THIS BOOK IS NOT EROTICA.

Not as the rest of the genre recognises it, anyway. It's Faux Folk-story. A set of twelve shorts based on pagan Slavonic traditions, simply and lyrically told. You could totally believe they were collected in the eighteenth century from gnarled and filthy-minded old peasant women sitting in huts at the edge of wolf-haunted forests.

That's not to say these stories aren't bawdy. There's lots of sex in them:

The mystery guest surveyed the circle of inviting rumps. He'd sample them all, but where to begin?
Here was one, skirts raised the highest, and bending over eagerly. Pretending to adjust her garter, he could just glimpse her cunt dew-slick: plump pillows waiting for his head, Hands upon her ample hips, the demon nudged its nose between her cheeks, and snuffed at her mackerel slit.
"Fish for feasting," it declared, and began its supper, breath hot upon those fleshy gates.
"Oh my grandmother's teeth!" cried out the girl. The creature's agile tongue slid within, And what a tongue! As thick as a man's member and so very long, each delving slurp near knocked her off her feet.

But unlike the standard erotica genre, the tone of these stories is not sex-positive. This book does what it says on the tin. These are good old-fashioned tales of transgression, and the horrendous supernatural punishment meted out to those guilty of indulging such vices as laziness, deceit and greed. In fact each separate tale is explicitly present as a warning: "... Against Envy" or "... Against Lechery" etc. The conceit that holds the collection together is that these stories are narrated by the disembodied Dead, watching the wicked ways of the living and finding fault in us all. The collective narrative voice is embittered, judgemental and yes, salacious - dwelling on the bawdy detail but only to condemn it.

It's deliciously dark and misanthropic, closer to horror than modern erotica. Sinners frequently get gobbled up in all senses of the phrase :-) Of course, these dire warnings and over-the-top punishments serve only to heighten the reader's pleasure in the transgressions depicted, because this is not fiction where you are supposed to identify with the characters, this is storytelling in the old sense where you never quite forget that you are listening to a story, and you enjoy it all the more for your sense of safe distance.

Or at least you think you are safe, until you walk away from the firelight...

The traditional Russian / Slavonic setting - with frequent nods to the food, festive calendar and supernatural terrors thereof - is worked in extremely well, creating a sense of human civilisation as an outpost of light and order at the margins of an illimitable ancient forest of chaos and danger. The stories are both satisfyingly familiar (as fairy stories should be) and unsettlingly strange. They are cruel. They are nihilistic. They cut no slack for human failings or human nature:

"A moment's temptation takes us on a wrong path.
On that path may lurk foul fiends
inhuman, yet feeding, needing
all our weaknesses"

say the narrator ghosts, yet they offer no glimpse of a hopeful alternative to lust and greed and selfishness. They might be able to see the hell lurking around us, but they have no glimpse of heaven.

The only possible criticism of this book I can imagine is that the stories all have a very repetitive rural setting and pace - they're all very similar to each other. There are no broader horizons, no palaces or Tsarinas or quests. But this claustrophobia is also a part of the collection's strength. Any story too different and it would dilute both the dread and the sense of illicit, queasy pleasure. This book sets out to taint and contaminate the reader, and I do mean that in a good way. And goodness me, is it well-written! I love the umbrella conceit, and the way the prose-poem of the restless dead at the start is threaded back into the narration of the individual stories. This works brilliantly.

Five thumbs up to Emmanuelle and her incredibly original and creepy collection:

Amazon UK :: Amazon US

Sunday, 17 July 2016

Genius Loci

Guardian spirits. Divine presences. Demonic powers. Ghosts. The concept of "genius loci" is indeed an ancient one, found in nearly every human mythology. "Genius Loci" is a huge anthology of 31 all-new fantasy and science fiction stories drawing on the rich tradition of place-as-person. Within its pages, the authors present stories of sentient deserts, beneficent forests, lonely shrubs, and protective planetary spirits, highlighted by the fantastic art of Lisa A. Grabenstetter and Evan M. Jensen., and edited by Jaym Gates.

Following on from yesterday's post, it turns out I've got another horror story in print - my story "The Sleck" appears in Genius Loci: tales of the spirit of place (ed. Jaym Gates). It's the tale of a man who goes back to visit the muddy pond where his little daughter drowned ...

It's currently available in paperback, an e-version to follow soon we hope:

Amazon US :: Amazon UK

Friday, 15 July 2016

Two sides to every story

Woohoo! Hear my dulcet tones!

I've come out of the closet this last couple of years as a writer of horror fiction - and here on 'Breaking the Glass Slipper' (a podcast blog focusing on women and genre fiction) I'm being interviewed by Charlotte Bond about porn, Lovecraft's racism and other completely safe and non-contentious topics, with sundry background grumbles from my opinionated greyhound Caspian :-)

Wednesday, 13 July 2016

Crash landing

A nice bit of writers' serendipity here.

I've been sorting through all my old pictures of Ethiopia and I came across this one - a wall poster in a juice bar in the one-horse-town of Wukro. Apologies for the poor definition - there wasn't much light - but though I've no idea what it is advertising, it seems pretty pertinent to my writing! It depicts, I'm guessing, a Titan thrown down to earth during the battle with the gods.

What it's doing in a bar in Africa I've no idea, but I know what it's doing in my book :-)

UPDATE: a quick search with Google Images suggests that it's based on street art by Kurt Wenner, which is well worth checking out.

Here's his website

Monday, 11 July 2016

Blue Monday: Siri Ousdahl guests

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Siri Ousdahl, who is leading the charge (along with previous guest L N Bey) for smart and very transgressive erotica at Visconti Press. This excerpt is from her new novel Constraint.

Ten years ago, Alex Baine fell in love with Linnea Marr, a struggling young artist in a doomed BDSM relationship. Now he’s a very different man--rich, powerful, and someone who knows what he wants-- and when he he meets her again, he knows he wants her. But Linnea has changed, too: a successful sculptor, strong-willed, and solitary.

He kidnaps her and takes her to his remote mountain home, but taming her is more difficult -- and satisfying -- than he ever imagined. As Alex and Linnea battle their way through pain and desire, the war between their bodies transmutes into something even more dangerous. Elegant, brutal, passionate, romantic,
Constraint is a dark love story for the ages.

Linnea is standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee and looking out the high clerestory windows at a cumulus cloud that has turned the color of honey in the afternoon sun, and they are kissing, Alex catching her wrist and pulling her close, his mouth hard on hers, tongue deep. “Fuck,” he says hoarsely when she pulls her face away, a single thread of saliva between them, thin as spiderweb breaking. She feels his cock crushed against her mound, until he spins her again and tips her over the kitchen island, breasts and cheek against the cold steel. She bucks up, and he pushes her face back down, snagging his fingers in her hair so she can’t move.

            With his free hand, he pulls her skirt up; she feels the silk light on her back. He’s pinning her with his hand in her hair, and his thighs holding hers immobilized against the table. She feels movement, hears sound: he unbuttons his jeans, and she feels the hot heavy weight of his cock against her bare skin. He spits in his hand, and rubs the moisture on, in, her ass.

            She bucks harder, tries to scratch or punch, but behind her back she can’t reach much. He bends over, and pins her with his weight. His chest even through his shirt is hot, his hand forcing her face down is hot, his breath in her ear is hot. Only the steel counter is cold, that and the moisture cooling on her skin.     

            His breath: he murmurs in her ear, the little endearments of fucking, the obscenities of love. His free hand plunges palm-deep into her cunt, drawing the fluids out, sliding them into her ass.

            She snarls without words, immobilized by his body but fighting anyway. Even his fingers are large, and she knows how big his cock is, she feels it against her skin, in his hand now. He’s sliding it between her thighs, gathering more wetness (because she’s wet, always, oh yes). And his fingers in her ass again, the pressure of his cock’s tip there, and he slides into her, and she cries aloud, in genuine pain.

            He stops immediately, still embedded. “Easy, sweetheart, easy.” His mouth on her neck, voice in her ear. “Here.” His hands fumbling behind her, and he’s holding a vial by her nose. He cracks it, and her nostrils fill with gas, and somehow, everything relaxes. She gives a little sob, and her eyes close. “That’s right,” he whispers.

            He spits into his hand again, and rubs the saliva over the exposed flesh of his cock, sliding a wet finger inside her cunt for more moisture, and moves farther into her, slowly. She feels so good, so fucking hot and tight, and she’s his, and he slides in until the base of his cock is against her buttocks, his balls against her cunt lips. And he moves out slowly, and then, carefully, back in. So hot, so tight. Tears leak from her closed eyes, but she’s moaning now, the little whimper she gives when her body is aflame. His.

            And then he stops worrying about being gentle, stops thinking about anything at all. He is in her, and she is his, beautiful in her tears against the steel, and the tension in his cock and balls is going to kill him, and he shouts aloud and dies, deep inside her ass, the release sweet as honey and death.

Buy Constraint at 
Amazon US :: Amazon UK

Siri Ousdahl is the pseudonym of an award-winning writer of short and long fiction. She lives in the midwest.

Visconti Press

Sunday, 10 July 2016

Riddle Me Good and Hard

Facsimile of the Exeter Book, 10th century
The dirty joke has a very long history in literature. The 10th Century Exeter Book is a collection of poetry which contains, among other things, ninety riddles - and some of these riddle are VERY RUDE - the joke being of course, that once the dirty solution has got into your head, you can't think of the "true" one, and the riddlemaster can look all innocent and tell you that you just have a mucky mind :-)

Here are some of the riddles...

"A splendid thing hangs near a man's thigh,
Under his cloak. It is stiff, strong,
Bold, brassy, and pierced in front.
When a young lord lifts his tunic
Over his knees, he wants to greet
With the hard head of this hanging creature
The familiar hole it has long come to fill."

Answer: A key
"I am a wonderful thing, a joy to women,
Useful to all neighbours. I harm
No citizen except my slayer.
Rooted I stand up high and steep over the bed.
I am shaggy below. Sometimes the beautiful
Peasant's daughter, an eager-armed,
Proud woman grabs my body,
Rushes my red skin, holds me hard,
Claims my head. The curly-haired
Woman who catches me fast will feel
Our meeting. Her eye will be wet."

Answer: an onion
"I heard of something rising in a corner,
Swelling and standing up, lifting its cover.
The proud-hearted woman grabbed at that boneless
Wonder with her hands; the prince's daughter
Covered that swelling thing with a swirl of cloth."

Answer: dough

"Sometimes a lady, comely and proud,
Locks me up, boxes me tight -
Sometimes draws me out on demand
And hands me over to her fine lord
Who shoves his hard head in my hole,
Slides up from below while I slip down -
A tight squeeze. If the man who seizes me
Presses with strength, something shaggy
Will fill me up, muscle me out--
Guess what I mean."

Answer: a nice clean shirt
Heh heh heh!

Thursday, 7 July 2016

Author guilt

Lucifer, by Franz Stuck, 1890
I'm at 50K in writing The Valleys of the Earth, and feeling guilty.

Chapters 8-11 are set in Ethiopia. Logically there's no reason angelic activity be confined to Europe and America, of course.  From the very first conception of this trilogy I wanted to move the action to Ethiopia at some point, because it's one of the oldest Christian nations in the world and it has the distinction of keeping The Book of Enoch as part of its Biblical canon even when the rest of the world lost all copies of that text (though it gets a namecheck when quoted in the Epistle of Jude, for example).

And the angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation, He hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of the great day.

That's the entire reason I visited Ethiopia a couple of years back, and chapters 7-8 are based pretty much word for word on my diaries, photos and memories. (After that I go seriously off-piste, I admit.)

So what I've done is sent my characters there on a MISSION and they end up killing a whole bunch of Ethiopian priests, not entirely surprisingly, because angels are ruthless douches. And I do feel a bit shit about this, because nowadays the racial-political subtext in genre fiction has become ... "problematic"*

Now, generally I regard this as a Good Thing to be aware of. It is  - as a friend suggested yesterday - a sign of growing emotional intelligence in our culture. "It's not just about us anymore, guys! Other people have voices and points of view too!" And certainly Avatar made me roll my eyes and feel slightly pissed off.

But I'm telling a story. It can't logically or dramatically be confined to characters doing nice things to other people, or even characters doing nasty things only to whitish people.

(My "hero" characters in this case consist - for the record - of 1) A Balkan Montenegrin of Serbian Orthodox background, 2) a Iraqi, and 3) an angel of no human ethnicity... so I'm guilty of cultural appropriation before I even start, yay...)

In the end, I'm going to have to just go for it. Story comes first. Readers have a choice to read or not, or to go look for some other storyteller. We are, after all, grown-ups. I can only continue to try and write as fairly as I can, within the story's limits (it cannot represent all POVs equally, some characters are just there to die horribly for the sake of the plot, some characters really are just wallpaper).

Feeling a bit guilty is, well ... part of life.

Thank you RG, I needed this!

*There's a poisonous weasel-word for you :/ Problematic should mean "a: posing a problem : difficult to solve or decide b : not definite or settled : uncertain  c : open to question or debate : questionable" ... whereas is is commonly used as shorthand for "YOU HAVE SAID THE BAD THING SO WE MUST NOT READ OR WATCH  OR ENJOY THIS"

Monday, 4 July 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's piece is in honour of some very happy Lovecraftian news I have to announce (later). Here's a tentacle-porn scene I wrote in my big, mad, bad, XXX, fairy-story novel Named and Shamed:

“Tansy!” squeaked Gail.

I turned just in time to see her pitch flat on her face. I was still wondering how she’d tripped over from a standing start when I saw her hauled backward several metres through the weeds, clutching vainly at the long stems, her mouth wide with shock.

I tried to lunge after her, but my feet wouldn’t move and I tipped forward onto my hands and knees. A glance at my ankle told me the worst — there was a ropey grey thing coiled around my boot. Both boots. It flexed visibly. I just had time to phrase the word tentacle when another thrust out of the ground and whipped around my right forearm.

Where it touched, sensation blossomed under the skin, like flowers bursting open.

“What the -?” Vince yelped, his arms flailing.

All around us through the grass, great grey-green ropes were rising like shoots reaching for the light. There was a wet glisten to them that was more fungal than floral, though, and they were as slippery as eels. I’ve no idea if they were all limbs of one great underground creature or many small separate ones. I don’t suppose it matters. In moments the three of us were caught and bound by several tentacles each. They slithered bonelessly up my thighs and arms, feeling their way along the skin and under my clothes, to furl around my torso. They were, I discovered as I thrashed in vain, trying to tear myself free, horribly flexible — and far, far too strong.  
They hoisted Gail. I saw her lifted high above the grass, on her back but held aloft by a dozen tendrils. One gripped each of her legs to haul her thighs apart. An appendage as thick as a python emerged obscenely from the waistband of her jeans and flexed. With a sharp ripping sound the cloth gave way and shredded. Her bright pink panties lasted less than a second — and I just had time to think That’s deliberate! before a tapered tentacle oozed up between her thighs right into her splayed sex.
“Nooooo!” squealed Gail, sounding outraged.
“No!” roared Vince. He was still on his feet but faring no better, his clothes literally torn off him as I watched. Then I stopped looking, stopped paying attention to anything going on elsewhere, because I felt the first slippery invader probing from behind me, up between my own sex lips and muscling into my cunt. It was neither warm like a mammal nor cold like the squid it resembled most, but tepid and slippery and full of purpose. In seconds it filled me and I felt it flexing. For a moment I struggled wildly, in blind terror. It did me no good at all. All my thrashing did was open the iris of my ass to another questing tendril.
“No! Oh fuck no!” Gail’s scream was less outrage now and more hysterical panic, and I knew just how she felt.

I nearly dislocated my wrists wrenching at my living bonds. Looking down between my thighs I saw a great muscular ripple run up the tentacle that violated me. And then I felt it — the bulge forcing its way into my sex, opening me up then filling me. Another bulge, another pulse. Meanwhile, the one insinuating itself into my anus slipped past the portal of clenched muscle and filled my ass.
The slime tingled on my inner membranes, like arousal in alchemical form.
I felt myself hoisted off the ground, face down and legs spread wide, my ass and pussy stuffed with writhing, oozing appendages like the trunks of elephants. They weren’t just filling me — they were fucking me, their waves of stretching and contracting muscle working me like I was a sex doll. And, of course, my body responded. I felt myself opening in welcome, felt my own hot juices mingling with the creatures’ tepid slime. I started to pant and squeal, my fear turning to excitement, my excitement becoming an overwhelming imperative.
“Stop this!” Vince cried. “How do we stop th — Ahhhh . . . !”
That’s what the men saw when they burst through the orchard gate: the three of us stark naked, trapped and bound and despoiled. Gail was stretched out on her back, her tits barely visible between the coils wrapped around her chest, her pussy impaled by something resembling an anaconda. I didn’t even get that much dignity. My ass was in the air, my legs wide apart, and I was suffering a full-on double penetration. Vince was held with his toes off the floor, like a chrome hood ornament, his spine bent like a bow and a tentacle rummaging around in his back passage. I don’t know if he’d ever taken it up the rear before, but his eyes were wide and there were little explosive grunts bursting out of his throat — uh-uh-uh-uh. His cock stuck out from his torso at full erection, a whip-thin tendril wrapped tight around it, stroking and milking it with rhythmic squeezes.
I reckon that was the sight that stopped the men coming any closer.
To be honest, I barely registered that we had an audience, I was so busy wrestling with my orgasm. I came first, of course. I was already fired up before the ravishing started, and I screamed as I climaxed, half in release and half in terror. But from the sounds Gail was making, she was on her way too. I tossed my head, my hair flailing in my eyes. As I blinked myself back into lucidity my gaze fell on the puffball I’d kicked through the grass. Its empty sockets stared up at me.
It wasn’t a fungus at all. It was a skull. Human. The implications fought their way through my mind even as the relentless plunging between my legs caused my body to gather toward another orgasm.
“Awwwwahhhhh . . . !” cried Vince, and I looked up in time to see him ejaculate heavily, white spurts arcing from his cock and splashing onto the writhing grey ropes.
Would it be quick or slow? I wondered. Would they hold us here, fucking us, until we died of exhaustion? Or kill us swiftly, and feed off our bodies just as eagerly?
A tentacle coiled up around Vince’s straining throat.
 Quick, I thought, dazed.
“Tansy!” he yelled, his voice already strangled. “Do something!”
I had no idea what to do. I’d never heard of any Good Neighbour like this. But as a slick tongue of living tendril lapped at my face, searching out any orifice to penetrate, my blurred gaze finally registered the blobs of white flowers on the elder scrub.
And I remembered that somebody owed me.

“Bour Tree!” I screamed. “Elder Lady! You gave me a wish! Save us! Save-”

Then the tentacle spilled in over my lips and silenced me. I couldn’t stop cumming even then. That thick member filled my throat like a cock, and though it cut off my airway its touch was pure bliss. I was still cumming as I blacked out.

Saturday, 2 July 2016

Getting Stoned in Brittany

Brittany is massively famous for its ROCKS ... partly thanks to Obelix and his menhir fixation of course.

He's been busy

But the megaliths are actually Neolithic - dating to approximately the 5th millennium BCE. The most famous area for Big Stones is the village of Carnac, which has over 3000 of the things in loooooooong long rows:

Srsly, Obelix - what were you thinking of?
The equally mysterious cairns

and dolmens

 are in some ways more fun though ...

Many have strange carving on the interior rock-faces:

This is supposedly a goddess-figure (I'm not sure how they decided that):

They've been the object of eager tourists for thousands of years...

So rock on, Brittany - Rock ON :-)

Wednesday, 29 June 2016

130 Authors

Emanuelle de Maupassant has done something pretty damn amazing. She sent out a huge detailed questionnaire to writers of erotica, and 130 authors - a 50:80 male:female split in case you wondered - have replied to talk about their motivation, inspiration and their craft - including such luminaries as Patrick Califia, and "Huh ... wot?" dumbasses like me.

Emmanuelle's been writing a series of articles on her blog, sifting the responses. There are tons of thoughtful insights picked out and a few surprises (20% of erotica writers also write in the horror genre; a third have studied literature in higher education) Here's the list of posts so far:

Men writing erotic fiction
Men reading erotic fiction

130 authors of erotic fiction
First inspirations
Why write erotic fiction?
Dancing the line: fantasy and realism in erotic fiction

Monday, 27 June 2016

Blue Monday: Jennifer Denys guests

Every Monday I post a hot excerpt for you to enjoy!

My guest today is Jennifer Denys with her brand-new-just-out-this week-short Dark Captive.

Laura has been kidnapped. She is bound, gagged and cannot see, and taken to a strange building. All her other senses, smell, taste, touch and hearing, come into play in determining where she is and who has taken her.

Her captor, Todd, is a Dominant, who relishes his role. And Laura is special. He loves having submissives who challenge him and punishes Laura for trying to escape and cares for her when she stumbles—unable to see where she is going—in equal measures
As the evening progresses, Todd keeps her off balance giving her out-of-this-world experiences, always making sure she climaxes. On the one hand, he caresses her and the next he slaps her. Being into BDSM, Laura finds it very arousing, but that goes against everything her head is telling her. She shouldn’t enjoy it—should she?

As he moved to untie her feet, Laura’s mind started racing. Her freedom was intoxicating.

Her captor chuckled. “Put those thoughts out of your head, my dear. You cannot escape. The door is locked.”

Damn. But maybe if she got that far she could bang on it and raise attention. However, although her arms were unbound and her legs were free, her trousers still were around her ankles.

Not for long—the man was removing them, pulling her shoes off, caressing her calves as he did. The tingling up her legs sending electrical impulses to her pussy so surprised her she forgot to sprint to the door as soon as he finished.

Instead, he held her upper arms tightly in his grasp as he pulled her to stand and swiftly dragged her shirt off before she could stop him.

Laura hadn’t been expecting that and gasped in shock.

“That’s how I like my women—naked.” There was a salacious tone to his voice that was very unnerving.

Feeling self-conscious, Laura crossed her arms over her chest.

“Uh-uh. Drop them.”

She refused to obey.

“Laura! Do it now.”

His tone brooked no refusal, and she reluctantly did as he instructed, trembling when he stepped closer. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek. Her shivering intensified as she waited to see what he would do next. It was unsettling. His touch, when it came, was gentle—a whisper of a caress down her arm, a stroke of his hand over her stomach, the back of his fingers over her nipple.

Her calm crashed with his next statement. “These would look magnificent squeezed tightly in clamps.”

Was he really going to do that? She trembled violently and stepped back involuntarily, needing to distance herself.

The man quickly grabbed her arm, stopping her moving further. “As much as I want you flat on your back, if you go any further you’ll fall over the chair.”

She stopped rigidly. Afraid to move.

“But I’ve a better idea. Instead of you on your back, I’ll have you on your front. This way, my dear.”

What did he mean?

Laura soon found out as he pulled her forward, wrapping an arm around her waist, turning her so her back was against his chest. She could feel some furniture against her upper thighs.

“Bend forward. I want you to reach out with your hands to grip the other side of the table.”

When she failed to do as he demanded, her captor pushed firmly on her shoulder blades.

“Do it. Immediately!”

She hurriedly complied, scared by the harsh tone in his voice.

“That’s more like it. Now spread your legs.”

Oh God. She wanted to pee. Laura intuitively knew he was about to push himself into her vagina—or worse.

However, when he touched her again, it was to fondle her backside, soothingly. It lulled her into a false sense of security as he followed it up with a very sharp slap to her butt making her jump.

“Don’t let go of the table, whatever I do.”

Her heart got faster at that statement, the blood pounding in her ears almost deafening her to other sounds, like the faint traffic coming from what she guessed was a window in front of her.

Instead, her body was attuned to the sense of touch as she then felt something tickling her—a stem from a flower display, maybe. Her innate response, to try to recognize the smell, was cut short when he trailed the leaf up her leg, through the crease between her buttocks and she clenched her bottom. 

He stopped, and she waited for the next assault.

It was preceded by a whoosh of air.


She yelped as he hit her with something, the belt he had been promising, maybe. Whatever it was, it stung madly! Laura gritted her teeth, clinging onto the table as hard as she could as she felt herself squirting in reaction, as often happened during her experiences with sadomasochism. Her body relished it so much.

His fingers on her back passage made her nearly let go into shock as he probed, pressing a finger in.

Oh dear Lord!

She considered if she could struggle away but that idea was too late as he moved in close behind her, pushing his cock into the place his finger had just been. He was hard and slick—she guessed he had used lube from somewhere.

Whatever, it didn’t hurt as he went slowly—at first. When he pulled out and plunged in again fast, it did hurt, and she cried out.

He stopped, stroking her back. “Relax and breathe slowly or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Laura laughed inwardly in hysteria. Who is hurting whom here?

But the pain quickly diminished and his next thrusts were softer, but deeper. At that point, he hit her 
sensitive nerve endings, and she moaned out loud, before biting her lip. She didn’t want him to know she adored what he was doing.

It was too late. He chuckled wickedly. “I know you really like that, so it’s no good hiding it.”

She groaned as he plunged into her again. Each time he thrust she cried out, panting, her mouth dry, taste buds dulled. She clenched her fingers tightly around the edge of the table as he pulled her hair, but it wasn’t the reason. In fact, she hardly felt the tug on her scalp—it was in reaction to what he was doing to her backside, to her insides.

The noisy sounds of the city diminished. Even the smell of his scent dissipated. Every nerve ending, every sensation in her body coalesced on the inside of her ass as he plundered her over and over without surcease.

It was bliss.

Sheer and utter ecstasy.

Spine-tinglingly wonderful.

When he thrust again, harder, faster, and possibly deeper, she teetered on the brink. It was almost too much. The sensations were beginning to overwhelm her. She knew she shouldn't have another 
orgasm. It wasn’t necessary, she was already in heaven.

Death would almost be preferable. Too late, she was over the top.

Buy Dark Captive at

Jennifer Denys is a bestselling author in various genre (BDSM, contemporary, sci-fi, paranormal, with historical and fantasy in her works in progress) with several different publishers.

An Englishwoman through and through, she lives in a beautiful historical city and is game to try most things once. She’s had a tattoo done on her calf, flew down zip wires 100 feet up in the trees, and was photographed nude by a professional photographer. All of which have taken place since she turned 50!

Many of her experiences end up in her books… but you will have to read them to find out what!

Sunday, 26 June 2016

The Failure of Sir Lancelot

by Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898)
I've been feeling like this since the Brexit Referendum.

I don't have a lot of drive to write, I'm afraid.