The horror, the horror

I occasionally get to blog about my activities whilst wearing my Horror Hat. This is a BIGGIE and I am just SO thrilled!

My short story The Coat Off His Back has been chosen by legendary anthologist Ellen Datlow for The Best Horror of the Year vol. Seven (due out in August).

Pre-order at Amazon US : Amazon UK

It was originally published in Terror Tales of Yorkshire (ed. Paul Finch). Writing it involved a lot of research into highwayman Dick Turpin and some very careful stitching together of genuine historical facts. It's a nasty little story and I am quite proud of it!

TToY at Amazon US : Amazon UK

Yes, I saw the bloody movie

And yes I know I said I wasn't interested. It wasn't my fault - Jennifer Denys dragged me along. "No Jennifer, please!" I cried. "Shuddup, bitch," she told me, "or it's off the the Red Room of Pain with you."

So it's NOT MY FAULT.

Okay, I suppose there are some positives. I now know the plot of the book without having to wade through eight billion pages of ditzy present-tense internal monologue (a literary style I tire of particularly swiftly), inner goddesses dancing in hula skirts, and lines like this:

"In the elevator" is a new one on me...

So here goes, if anyone cares. [SPOILERS ... though, like, it's not like you're going to be surprised by anything]

For a movie aimed at women, there's an amazing amount of her naked flesh and remarkably little of his...

Okay, first of all, I'm not the target audience for this movie. That's because

• I don't find billionaires sexy
• I don't find BDSM scary or shocking
• I don't find Jamie Dornan even slightly visually interesting

No, seriously. There are a number of men in the film. They are ALL better looking than the black-hole-of-charisma that is Christian Grey.
 

The chauffeur: definitely fuckable

Christian Grey's twink younger brother. Oh yes.

Hell, I'd do Ana's-mother's-fourth-husband in a flash!

But that's okay, I can accept that Ana finds him sexy. In fact from the second she slaps eyes on him it is so clear that she is throbbing with lust, that you can practically hear her squelch as she walks.

Dakota Johnson is pretty, perfectly-cast and acts a lot

For all the BDSM/abuse hoo-hah, this isn't actually a movie about sex. There's really not that much sex! It's a romance, in the style of made-for-TV movies, only with less plot and better cinematography. In fact, it's the slightness of the plot that's most noticeable - despite a largish cast, the only inter-character tension or conflict is between the two leads. Ana has a flatmate, who is nice. And friends, who are nice. She has a family, who are nice. Christian Grey has a family who are nice. EVERYONE IS FUCKING NICE. No drama of any sort occurs except between Ana and Christian, and that drama is hugely padded out with pretty scenery. We could have lost about forty minutes, especially of the pointless meet-the-relatives sequences (and "Oh Christ, not another scene where he takes her flying!") without it making the slightest difference to anything except my poor aching back.

All the sex is consensual. The BDSM is scrupulously consensual, with safewords and everything. Even in the final scene where Christian goes too far, it's because Ana has instructed him to. No wonder the poor ickle billionaire looks confused when she stomps off in a hissy fit.

This movie sponsored by the Acme Elevator Company

Actually, I thought the ending, with its clever reprise of an earlier scene's dialogue, was great. Possibly the best bit of the movie. But it might have just been the relief of being able to stand up and stretch my back AT LAST.

The tension between the two romantic characters is not really down to his kinkiness vs her stupifying ignorance. It's his emotional unavailability that drives her up the wall (e.g. he won't let her touch him spontaneously, whilst she is a walking bag of Feels). Christian Grey is indeed "fifty shades of fucked-up" and it's clearly not a healthy relationship, but I think - and I have read a great number of articles about how abusive he is and how bad this is for the collective psyche of women everywhere - that it is abundantly clear in the movie that he is a mess, and that he needs to overcome all this. He's a romantic icon despite his flaws, not because of them. It's that struggle and the emotional journey toward redemption that fans like.

So overall: Not nearly as bad as I feared, but a bit dull really and way too long. Nine and a Half Weeks was dirtier.

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week, in view of certain news I've received (but may not yet announce), I'm going with a horror theme and taking another look at The Blood of the Martyrs, which I think was my first ever vampire story. Set in modern-day Venice, it features a medieval vampire who has somehow been venerated as a Catholic saint. That doesn't stop him wanting blood... 

I wondered which was worse; lying to a saint, or lying to a vampire. The visions had shaken me, moved me, filled me with heat and awe, but they had not convinced me. These days we no longer believe that spiritual enlightenment can be found in hallucinogens

‘Your blood, though…’ His fingers were gentle on my throat, stroking the pulse, even as the lift of his lips betrayed the tips of his teeth. ‘Tithe me a little, Emily. I have starved for nine centuries.’

My eyes widened.

‘I will not hurt you.’

Yes, I thought: like an alcoholic will stop at only one glass. But I couldn’t resist his need, and not just because he was physically so much stronger. The charged particles of the vision were still pouring through my body. My limbs felt heavy, my heart pounded thick and fast, my skin fizzed with the chemical memory. And he was holding me still, close against him. My unhinged mind could not respond to something so overwhelming, so my body was left to its own instinctive responses: terror and submission. I lifted my chin.

Gratitude lit his eyes, momentarily holding hunger at bay. He shook his head. ‘Too much.’ He slipped the buttons of my pyjama top instead, one at a time like a lover, until he was able to bare my shoulder. ‘Here.’

I nodded, certain he did not need my permission. He stooped to my shoulder. His mouth was hot.

The first wave was sharp, pure pain, the second euphoria. It was like when the Professor laid me over his knee and smacked my bare cheeks as hard as he could, until bottom and hand alike were burning with heat. It was pain, but it was good pain. It made my heart race. It made me soar. It made me open up like a blossom of sensation. I suddenly realised that my panties were sopping wet and had been since I came round from my visionary journey, that my sex was heavy and hot and my breasts tingling with need. I groaned out loud.

Aronne’s hands tightened on my hips. I pushed up into him. And again I felt the insistent jut of his erection.

Slowly he withdrew his mouth so he could look me in the eye. His lips were dark with blood.

Holding his gaze, I reached between my breasts and slipped the remaining buttons, opening the pyjama top, revealing my flushed breasts. My nipples were engorged and hard. Paolo had enjoyed putting sprung paper-clips on those deceptively fragile points, then playing with them until I begged for release. ‘Bite those,’ I whispered, shaking. Aronne’s eyes widened.

‘I remember this…’ He shook his head slightly. ‘His memories of you are very strong. He was obsessed with you.’ His gaze burned. ‘Your breasts, still so young and perfect. ’ He touched them, just with the very tips of his fingers, and I shook with fear and pleasure. Then he turned me, rolling me to face the ornate bars and pulling down my pyjama bottoms. I felt the cold church air on my skin. His voice was almost dreamy as he caressed me. ‘Your sweet round bottom, that rolls so temptingly as you walk.’ His hot hands cupped and stroked my bum-cheeks, sending aching messages through to my clit and belly. ‘Your hot wet fica, hidden from sight yet always there for him to touch,’ he growled, finding it with his fingers, delving deep. ‘The perfume of your body lingering on his hands and face, tasted secretly while he lectured or wrote notes or attended meetings.’

My pussy was all juice and plump, swollen flesh. He painted me wet up the entire length of my crack, right to my puckered hole, and I gripped the metal until my knuckles went white. But then he turned me back to face him again, his nails light yet threatening on my skin, scoring faint pink trails down my flanks. I knew they were longing to find the blood beneath, that he was barely restraining himself.

‘The look in your eyes when he gave you an order and you obeyed so gratefully ... Oh, he adored that. He needed that.’ He shivered, his eyes hooded. ‘Whatever he asked of you, Emily, you would do it. You would submit to every one of his deepest and most unthinkable desires. You knelt down in that church, Emily, and sucked his cock like an angel worshipping at the Throne of God. That was his memory.’

I wet my lips and he caught his breath.

‘Let me live to remember him,’ I whispered. ‘Please.’

---

Amazon US : Amazon UK

9 out of 10 dragons recommend it!

I've seen it in the flesh - the paperback version of Fierce Enchantments is out at last and available for sale RIGHT NOW!

AND it comes in a strangely satiny feel-good cover designed to appeal to dragons of all kinds! I have caressed it with mine own fair hands :-)

Amazon US : Amazon UK

Munich: dragons, demons and death

I spent Valentine's weekend in Munich, southern Germany, where we yomped around as many art galleries and churches as our poor feet could cope with. And yes, we found a Sanctified Corpse. No holiday would be complete without one :-)

Paying my respects before the "Altar to Sin" at the Villa Stuck. I do not make this stuff up, guys!

Here are some of the artistic highlights...

Dragons:

St Margaret's

St George's

On the corner of the new Town Hall

Demons and Devils:

The Devil's footprint ("Teufelstritt") in the Frauenkirche. He's a size 9, FYI.

Detail of St Gudula - the teeny devil is trying to blow out her lantern so she can't get to church

St Anthony is being tempted by a pair of "beautiful ladies" ... BUT WAIT - Why have they got horns and claws?!

St Anthony's demons resort to more direct methods

Judgement Day ... The thongs were visibly a later addition, btw

Death:

No grave is complete without toads, snakes, lizards and a crayfish (!)

I think this is Salome dancing (with Death) for the head of St John the baptist

The veiled skull of St Honoratus

And yes - here she is: the bejeweled skeleton of St Munditia in Old Peter's church! She has staring glass eyes... (at least I hope they are glass) ...

... and a spare head up top

Dominion

The Archangel Michael: he can row my boat ashore anytime he likes

I've been watching Syfi series Dominion, because it came out shortly after Cover Him with Darkness was published and I was all "Argh, it's about warring angels - I have to know the angel zeitgeist so I can't be accused of copying!" (Copying from centuries-old sources like the Bible counts as research, not plagiarism, lol).

Dominion is set after a war between angels and humanity which humanity has comprehensively lost. The last major population centre exists only under the protection of the Archangel Michael, who has decided they shouldn't really go extinct ... for reasons that may or may not be altruistic.

It's surprisingly good, IMO. The visuals are a bit too American-TV-squeaky-clean, but it has a bunch of neat ideas - like that the remnant of US civilisation, being based amidst the ex-casinos of Las Vegas, has adopted the kitsch faux-historic setting as part of its culture. Which is a clever use of pre-existing sets.

The plot is VERY political, quite gritty, and the writers seem to delight in subverting your expectations of who is "good" and who is "bad". Also there are a several important female characters who do not fit into neat virgin/whore boxes but are genuine political playas. This is SO obviously post-Game-of-Thrones as a piece of writing, and that is no bad thing.

Also Anthony Head makes my skin crawl :-)

Best character though is the angel Michael, not just because he is very very pretty and WAY cool as a warrior, but because the actor manages to convey an air of detachment from normal human emotions that is actually pretty unsettling. He's saved humanity (this time round, anyway), but everyone hates and fears him. He's charismatic but all but impossible to read, rather like a sexy Vorlon.



"Don't be afraid." Yeah, right.

This is a series that definitely deserves a chance, and I'm glad I came across it.

Blue Monday - Oleander Plume guests

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Oh my inner goddess

 I understand there is some movie or other out this weekend?

No, I haven't read it.
And though I hear the movie is better than the book, I think I'll stick to ...

Take Me to Church

1) This is a disturbing and topical video
2) I love the song, which is a total earworm with powerful lyrics
3) Hozier himself is pretty cute :-)

Pietà

Mr Ashbless is no longer working in Bologna, so it is with some regret that I realise I'm never likely to return to a city whose history, cuisine, and art are nothing short of sublime. I had some wonderful times there.

Here's one last hit of Bologna: an extraordinary work of religious art like nothing else I've ever seen in my life, tucked away to the side in the otherwise unremarkable church of Santa Maria della Vita. I think it's the best piece of devotional sculpture in the whole world ... though you'll never have heard of it.

The Lamentation Over the Dead Christ by Niccolò dell’Arca is a group of seven lifesized terracotta figures dating from the 1460s. This is a fragile medium, so even its survival in this condition is impressive, but what the sculptor has managed to depict in dynamic action is just incredible:

And the expressions captured in clay, of the most uncontrolled grief and anguish, are heart-rending:

This is what grief feels like.

I wish I could have taken more photos, but snapping even these few was a bit dodgy.  If you ever go to Bologna, it's well worth visiting in person. I went back several times, and it never lost its distressing power.

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

"Janine and Dan Savage sitting in a tree, K. I. S. S. ... er no, maybe not..."

Well, given the fabby fabby podcast release of The Ingénue this week gone, what else shall I excerpt for Blue Monday but this ... and if you like it you can listen to the whole story, read by the délicieuse Rose Caraway, for free here

---

“Take a look.” When she did not obey, he added, “Are you afraid? How can you be afraid of me, Zephine?”

How could she be? Her pride prickled. He was bound, spread-eagled - helpless. He could not be more vulnerable, nor less of a threat to her. Why then, was she feeling like this? 

Clumsily, she pulled aside the flaps of silk. They clung to him a little, as if his skin was damp, and she felt against her hand the impatient nudge of what lay beneath. Then the cloth was gone, and she could see.

He was nothing like a statue from the Louvre. He was flushed dark, hairy - and erect. His phallus stood out at an impossible angle, to what seemed like a monstrous size. It looked like a weapon.
    
“Now touch it.” They was no mistaking the authority in his voice. And Zephine had run dry of protest or questions--of any words at all. She looked once into his eyes and then obeyed, running her fingers down its shaft. It kicked against her as if in irritation and she jumped.
    
“Take it in your hand. How does it feel?”
   
 Her fingers barely circled its girth. “Hot,” she whispered. “Hard.” There was a peculiar satisfaction to its bulk and strength too, though she couldn’t put that into words.
    
“Do you like it?” His voice was a murmur now. “It likes you, Zephine - very much.”
    
She didn’t know if she liked it. She just knew that this made her feel as if nothing else in her life had ever mattered, in comparison. “My aunt will be so angry,” she said, with wonder. To her surprise a surge ran through the flesh in her grasp and it grew even harder.
     
“Yes.” His eyes were darker now, the pupils dilated. “She will beat me.”
     
Zephine’s own eyes, which had been strangely heavy, shot open. “Surely not!”
    
“She will. With a riding crop, or a garden cane, or a leather strap.”
   
“She can’t do that to you!” Doubt crept in then: “Can she?”
    
“She’s done it before, Zephine. She left me covered in broken welts, all across my chest and my thighs and my derrière.”
   
 “What for?” In her shock, Zephine could not help thinking of the flagellation of Christ. In the church at her school the Stations of the Cross were depicted with wax models of startling realism. One in particular--the whipped and bloody body of Christ, kneeling in his agony--always drew her, horrified and fascinated and full of pity. She feared it, but she’d spent hours gazing at it.   She wondered if Piotr would resemble that, if he were to be horse-whipped.  
    
“For her pleasure.”
    
She swallowed. “I will let you go.” Yet her hand did not desert its post gripping his thick meat. He shook his head, just a twitch.
    
“I don’t want you to, Zephine.”
    
“But it will hurt!”
    
“Very much so.”
   
 “Aren’t you frightened?”
   
 “I’m sick with fear.” His lip crooked in a thin smile. “You’re my only comfort, ma chérie. Move your hand, Zephine; move it up and down my cock.” 
    
 “I...I don’t think I should.”
    
“But you must. And if you do, I will tell you what else happens at these parties your aunt throws.”
    
Zephine bit her lip, but her resistance was only momentary. She wanted to know; indeed she felt she had to, now. Her hand began to slide up his shaft, stroking the hot flesh.
    
“Good girl. A little firmer. Oh...yes, that’s right. ” He cleared his throat and blinked, his eyes starting to lose focus. “Tonight...Oh, there’ll be so many people here tonight, Zephine, after you are tucked safe in your virgin bed. People from the highest and most respectable echelons of society; and from the lowest, though the poor must be very beautiful to be invited inside these walls--or prodigiously talented. In the twilight the torches will be lit, musicians will play, and all the food and drink you might ever want will be laid out upon the tables. Our salvers will be the bare bodies of young women and men, their nipples garnished with cream and gold leaf, their open thighs displaying the most delectable of banquets. A bath will be filled with champagne, and in it will lie a young beauty, offering her cup for anyone to drink from. From under the trees, in the dark, will come soft cries of pleasure and sharper gasps of pain.
    
“But do not worry Zephine: on a night such as this the pain is only part of the pleasure. The world is turned upside down in this place and the ancient iron-clad laws of civilisation are dissolved. Men are used as women; women rule as men. The rich bow before the poor, and the great beg indulgences of the lowly. Tonight, were you to mingle with the guests, you might see a bishop on his hands and knees, a bridle about his head and a bit in his mouth, being ridden by a fair whore clad only in spurs, while another jade plunges a huge horsetail plug between his willing cheeks. You might see a general of the army spread-eagled upon the lawn, and a queue of matrons taking it in turn to straddle him and lift their skirts so that they might relieve themselves upon his face. You might, if you were inclined, seek me out here among the roses.”
    
Beneath her hot, tightly corseted dress Zephine was melting, her body dissolving into trembling boneless weakness, her long drawers clinging to her moist skin and growing sodden with the flow of her sex. She felt almost as if she would faint, and it was all she could do to cling to the great solid stake in her hand. “And what ...what will they be doing to you?” she asked.
    
“They will do anything they like."

---

Prefer to read the print version?

All the Kiss Me Quick podcasts are available as free iTunes downloads
Best Bondage Erotica 2011 at Amazon US : Amazon UK 

John Barleycorn

The theme tune for this week's writing ...

Cider insider 1:01

There was a young lady from Ryde,

Who ate some green apples and died;

The apples fermented

Inside the lamented,

And made cider inside her inside!

British cider - carbonated, looks like pee, gets teenagers shitfaced

It's been a learning curve this week!

My current work-in-progress Lovers' Wheel mentions cider a LOT - it's set in a magical corner of the English West Country and there is apple-picking, wassailing and drinking a-plenty going on. I didn't however realise until this last week that there may be a communication gap between me as writer, and my US readers.

Here in the UK, cider is a cheap, fizzy ALCOHOLIC drink - usually 5% or so ABV, but there are stronger ones. Until the advent of alcopops it was the gateway drink for teenagers, fufilling that vital role of giving them something to dull the taste of their cigarettes as they sit round for interminable hours in council playing fields, in the drizzle, scowling at everyone. Cider is bloody horrible, and I speak as someone who used to drink it ... and can't go near the stuff any more.

My stomach is having nightmare flashbacks RIGHT NOW

There are variants on the theme. In the West Country you can get scrumpy, which is roughly speaking home-brewed cider that is distributed or sold illicitly and is usually rumoured to be flavoured with dead rats. It's stronger than commercial varieties and not carbonated.

There are draft ciders, which are posh versions of scrumpy. They are more fashionable these last few years.

It tastes like rotting apples ... and you'll think you are stone cold sober until you try to stand up.

BUT, this week I was researching the process of cider pressing, and to my amazement found that in America, cider is not even alcoholic. They have "cider" and "hard cider". So-called "cider" or "soft cider" is in fact - according to my awesome network of informants on Facebook - fresh apple juice.

WHY DON'T YOU JUST CALL IT JUICE, GUYS?



Which, at any rate, finally explained my US editor's confusion when this happened in Summer Seduction:

She opened her mouth to say something, though she hadn’t yet lined up what it was going to be—and at that moment, one of the young guys Shane had introduced her to previously bundled into the group. He was sweating and flushed, and very clearly a bit the worse for the cheap cider .

Davie looked around grinning at everyone, fixed his gaze on Liz’s breasts and announced, “Fuck me, you’ve got great tits!”
 
Then he put out both hands and grabbed them.
 
Shane, without hesitation, swung a fist in a haymaker that knocked Davie off his feet and straight into the people behind. He went down flat in a confusion of staggering drinkers, slopped cider and aggrieved shouts.
 
Liz stared, mouth open, as Shane stomped forward to stand over the fallen man with fists bunched. She hadn’t been offended by the sudden grope—she hadn’t had time to get offended. This was so far outside her usual experience that she was in shock.
 
“What the fuck!” roared a big ugly guy who’d lost his own pint over his girlfriend  in the sudden ruckus.
 

“You want some?” Shane demanded gleefully. There was a joyous grin on his face. “You want some too?”

---

You learn something new every day ... ;-)

Podcastaway - it's The Ingenue

Woohoo! It looks like my new album cover, doesn't it?  (Prog-rock, I hope, lol)

Well, that's not quite what it is - but it is the cover pic for the very first Kiss Me Quick podcast of 2015, which includes the whole of my story The Ingenue read out in Rose Caraway's gorgeous sexy voice :-)  She even triumphantly masters the French pronunciation which I would dread to tackle! You can hear it all here, for free! (Just click on the POD button)

Rose is also the editor of The Sexy Librarian's Big Book of Erotica (which contains another of my stories, Three Legs in the Evening), and is the most lovely and incredibly hard-working person. You can get all 11 hours of that book beautifully narrated on Audible (but listen to the podcast first and you'll find out how to do it at bargain rates).
You can access all the KMQ podcasts and their erotic stories here.

The Ingenue is a BDSM story about the corruption of innocence. A man is tied to a cross in the garden of a French villa, but when young Zephine goes to investigate, she finds herself wildly out of her depth. The Ingenue first appeared in Best Bondage Erotica 2011

Blue Monday - Lynn Townsend guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week my guest is Lynn Townsend, with a delectable slice from her new supernatural/steampunk novel  London Steam.

"Duncan Farnsworth discovers being a vampire has not improved his social life, his chances of finding love, continuing the family line, or getting a bite to eat. Maneuvering his way around a sarcastic butler, his spinster sister, a run-in with an amorous werewolf, and a confrontation with a dead soldier and a French airship captain, Duncan finally finds exactly what he is thirsting for. "

Duncan grinned, his glorious, red mouth turning up in a sly smirk. He squeezed Nigel's cock, nearly bringing the airshipman to orgasm right there. "Did you want me to stop?"

"No!" End this? Never. Nigel would surrender his throat willingly, desperately. Even if he died again in this moment, it would be glorious.

"I savor what you feel," Duncan whispered, intent. His hand moved eagerly, lazily, inside Nigel's trousers, caressing, stroking. Another pair of hands, smaller, more delicate, moved along his bare chest, stripping him down. Nigel found his mouth on Agnes's breast, the nipple sweet and hard against his tongue. She arched backward, her other breast covered by Duncan's free hand. A spare moment of clarity and Nigel wondered how they had not all three ended up spilled across the plank floor. "I can taste it. It scents the air around you, courses through your veins, spices your blood. It is the aroma of warm buttered bread, the most delicious hint of lemon on fresh-caught trout. You delight me... make me hungry, a starving creature, although I have already fed."

"Anything you want," Nigel whispered, licking, nuzzling at Agnes's soft breast. She moaned, writhed.

"Oui, mon Dieu!" Agnes agreed, turning in his arms to embrace Duncan, her fingers busy with his coat buttons. It took longer to strip Duncan out of his formal dinnerware, but each revealing inch of pale flesh was worth it. Never had Nigel seen anyone so beautiful. Perfect marble skin covered lean muscles, wide shoulders and narrow hips. The darker member thrusting upward from a tangle of blond curls was thick, eager. Agnes knelt, one hand on each of them, her strokes tangling with Duncan's fingers against Nigel's hot, eager cock. Nigel reached, found the smooth, cool flesh, the heavy balls underneath, touching, caressing. He gripped Duncan's length, felt Agnes's hand dip below his own, tickling the vampire's sack. Duncan gasped, his luminous eyes wide.

Agnes and Duncan gave Nigel's cock and balls the same teasing, torturous treatment; one satin hand rubbing up and down, the second, smaller, beneath. He grew harder, enough so that he entertained a brief fancy of splitting out of his own skin, like a plant, reaching for the sun, splitting the earth asunder and striving toward the skies.

Vampires are renowned for their incredible strength and speed. Perhaps that was why Nigel barely noticed when Duncan moved them all to the bed with as much ease as a maid tossing over a basket of laundry. The sheets and pillows of the captain's bed were soft, warm, welcoming. Agnes squealed with delight as Duncan ran a hand down her lithe, nude body and found that center of her pleasure. She writhed against Duncan's teasing fingers, her body wiggling and lush against Nigel's, their legs intertwined.

It was difficult to tell where one body stopped and another started. Nigel was kissing, kissing someone. A slick tongue darted in and out of his mouth, his hands curled in a tangle of golden curls, hands roaming, seeking, finding. The two men spread Agnes's legs wide, each teasing her moist folds, slipping into wet depths until she was shrieking with pleasure, shuddering all over. She shivered with delight, her thighs quivering as she surrendered to the sensual onslaught.

Agnes pushed Nigel down onto the bed, crawling over her lover like a playful seal, planting kisses all over his body. Nigel relaxed under her care until her mouth came dangerously close to his throbbing cock and then he struggled, not wanting it to end, desperate to hold his passion. "Wait, wait," he gasped. He struggled to sit up, but Duncan held him down easily with one hand. The vampire lowered his head, kissed Agnes's cheek, licked at her full, red mouth, and the two of them kissed, mere inches from Nigel's quivering cock, their breath mingled over his hot, tense flesh.

She smiled around the kiss and, with deliberate, aching slowness, both of them lowered their flickering tongues to Nigel's cock; one hot and quick, the other cool and slow, they licked and lapped, teasing, drawing each sensation out over him like water. Nigel fisted the sheets, twisting his hips and bucking excitedly against the gratification, wanting, needing... they teased him together, his captain and the vampire, with some subtle magic, knowing, it seemed, when he was close to climax. Backing off time and again as he spiraled closer and closer, they taunted him with eager skill until he was mad with it, beyond endurance.

Agnes vanished, treating her lovers to a view of her rounded, nubile backside as she leaned over the side of the bed, one hand pressed against the floor for balance, the other digging in her airtrunk. With a triumphant wave, she gestured for Duncan to reel her back into bed.

Agnes held up the slender waxed paper package containing an "assurance cap," a length of sheep's intestine used to prevent pregnancy and diseases. "I do not know," she said, "if you are needing one of zees or not, my vampire." She glanced at Nigel.

Duncan shook his head. "I do not require such. I cannot sire a child, and the only disease I have is vampirism, and I am assured you can only catch that if I kill you."

"Le petite mort, she does not count to become a vampire, I hope. Else I am doomed," Agnes said. Her mouth curled up in that irresistible smile and Duncan did not resist. He touched her smiling lip, then kissed her, drawing out her tongue.

"I do, however," Nigel said, taking the folded paper from her. "No child deserves that sort of life; a walking deadman as a father?" Bitterness tainted the sweet course of emotion as the airman drew the cap over his erect member, then it faded entirely as Agnes threw one leg over Nigel's hips.

Facing away, raising her mouth to Duncan's kiss, she slid Nigel's cock into her hot depths. Duncan returned her kiss eagerly, his hands roaming down the lithe, nubile body. He found her center of pleasure and worked it, fingers wandering from that spot, down the base of Nigel's cock, and across his balls, teasing. Gently, Duncan slid that wandering finger against Nigel's puckered opening, rubbing, massaging.

Surrounded by sensation, Nigel raised his hips, pounding his cock into Agnes's slit, feeling the glory of her wet, hot flesh around him. With deliberate, careful grace, Duncan moved in, pressing his own cock, smooth, cool, solid, against Nigel's ass. It was a stretch, pain flared, then damped down again in erotic pleasure, until the three of them were joined together; Duncan to Nigel, Nigel to Agnes. They moved as one being, sliding, writhing, twisting against each other, straining. The strength of Nigel's climax was so great that spots of blackness and light burst against his eyelids. He shouted wordlessly, then collapsed against the bed, limp and drenched with sweat.

Duncan worked him a bit longer, sliding in and out, his hand awkwardly bent to find Agnes's clit and pleasure her as she twisted on Nigel's slowly deflating member. The quivering of her orgasm squeezed Nigel's oversensitive cock and he groaned. He couldn't pull out of her, trapped as he was under her weight and Duncan's expertly working cock. It was too much, too much, he couldn't, not yet, not again. His own cock twitched, stirred with a life of its own. Dear God, please, he was incoherent, pleading, praying. Duncan stiffened, and a jet of fluid, hot against the coolness of his flesh, spurted out of him as the vampire trembled.

---

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Lynn Townsend is a geek, a dreamer and an inveterate punster. When not reading, writing, or editing, she can usually be found drinking coffee or killing video game villains. Lynn's interests include filk music, romance novels, octopuses, and movies with more FX than plot.

Yes Nora!

Since she's written more than 209 romances, she certainly knows what she's talking about!
*impressedface*