Today there's an interview with me up at Justine Elyot's blog. Oh dear - she asked some questions that made me say a little more than I should have, perhaps ...
Since I may have insulted the hell out of every Shifter fan out there, here in recompense is an excerpt from my own medieval werewolf story Renaissance. It appeared in my very first short story collection, Cruel Enchantment.
Annette spun in the night; luminous, beautiful. She was a goddess, the idol of countless prayers, her supplicants kneeling in turn to worship her. Her flesh was the recipient of a thousand kisses, a thousand heartfelt groans, a thousand caresses. Oblations were poured out before her and upon her, the scent of their liquid offerings perfuming the temple of her body. She shone. She received them all, turning none away.
They filled her, in every orifice. They soaked her in semen and sex-juices, pouring themselves one after another into and onto her. Her cunt was so filled with jusm that it ran down her thighs and arse in silvery streams and her pubic hair was wringing wet, twisting into little curls. Her mouth grew bruised and slack with accepting their rigid cocks. Her breasts and belly were coated with a sheen of drying semen. One man wrapped her long hair around his penis and jerked off, clotting her scalp with pale droplets.
She came, over and over. she thought she would grow numb or start to hurt, but instead waxed drunk upon pleasure and shuddered into climax after climax.
Gaspard was one of the first to mount her, crushing her buttocks flat against the rough blankets, biting at her lips and moulding her breasts in his greedy hands. He was unsubtle and unimaginative, but he was huge and he rode her as if he wanted to break her. She screamed, clawed and struck at him, took everything he had to give and sobbed in frustration when he left. The Chatelaine silenced her tears by sinking down on her face, smothering her cries. Annette had never tasted a woman before, and drank in her wetness with desperation, her tongue lost amongst formless folds of smooth flesh and wiry hair, almost choking on the sweet, musky juices that flowed as Marguerite bounched and wriggled into ecstacy. And Annette learned the taste of another dozen women before the hour was past.
When they had finished with her, the participants turned to each other for further play, rutting and writhing at the edge of her limited field of view. It seemed to Annette at one point that there were more wolves now than there had been to start with, but she was distracted by a human couple who straddled her head and fucked like dogs an inch from her face. Annette could see the thick root of the man's cock sliding in and out of the impossibly stretched hole of the woman, her juices coating his shaft, his balls hanging down like ripe fruit and brushing her own forehead and nose. She stretched her head up to lick the woman's exposed clitoris, felt her start to spasm, kissed and licked her way from that burning point up along the slithering ridge of the penis and to the wrinkled, tight pouch of the bollocks and back again. The woman climaxed loudly and the man followed in an instant, slamming into her split lips and then withdrawing to let the last jets of his come splatter down on Annette's face. The woman finished by sitting back on Annette, anointing her with a heady mixture of her and her lover's fluids. Annette drank it like wine.
As soon as she was released this time, Michel rolled her onto her front. Someone took her from behind, quick and slippery and panting, his balls slapping audibly against her pussy, and after he had finished another mounted her. Her first thought was that this man had an extraordinarily hairy chest and thighs - and then her second thought was a white streak of incredulity, but Michel held her down hard so that she couldn't wriggle round and look behind her. She buried her face in his thigh, half laughing and half sobbing, and pure shock wrenched another orgasm from her.
It was not enough. She kept climaxing, but each peak left her unsatisfied. Something knotted in her chest, a fist of frustration. If, she thought, if only she could come hard enough...
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I was actually thinking about this story this morning. It's just so... excellent. Raw and bloody and fierce. And it has that eerie, not for humans quality good werewolf stories should have. Imagine walking in upon this scene, innocent human!
ReplyDeleteOh hell Jo - thank you!
ReplyDeleteIt's such an old story of mine, one of my first: I'm touched that anyone but me remembers it!