Blue Monday: Kay Jaybee guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week's guest is the totally awesome Kay Jaybee, named Best Erotica Writer of the Year 2015 at the ETO Awards. And she has an excerpt for us from her novel Knowing Her Place, which won her an honourable mention for excellence in BDSM writing from the National Leather Association (USA)!

Knowing Her Place is the third novel in the Perfect Submissive Trilogy (The Perfect Submissive, The Retreat, Knowing Her Place).

With her head full of unanswered questions, exhausted from her fairytale experience at the hands of Dr Ewen, Lady Tia, and the staff of the adult entertainment service provided by The Retreat, Jess Sanders is desperate to leave Scotland, and return to her usual submissive position at the exclusive Fables Hotel in Oxford.

Having been thwarted in his plans to keep Jess at The Retreat permanently, its owner David Proctor isn’t willing to let Jess go back to her dominatrix, Miss Sarah, and her employer, Mrs Peters, without sending her on one final mission. Only if she succeeds in her task, will Proctor remove the collar of servitude he has locked around Jess’s neck.

With a list of five unknown addresses in her hand, Jess Sanders is placed in a car and driven from The Retreat towards England. With no idea what or who awaits her at the first stop, all Jess can hope for is that her journey will eventually take her back to where she belongs. 

To the Fables Hotel, where Jess Sanders truly knows her place.

(This extract is from the first address on Jess’s list, where she meets a security guard who has a very odd obsession....)

---

 She perched on a grey metal chair opposite the table, upon which the webcam was in full operation. Jess’s back and thighs were sticky against the smooth surface. Her hands were cupping her breasts as per Shaun’s instructions, and her legs were clasped firmly together.

‘You look delightful, Miss Sanders.’

Jess didn’t reply. She couldn’t. An accidental moan of pleasure as Shaun’s fingers had brushed her nipples through her bra when he’d stripped off her jacket, jumper, and blouse, had given him the excuse she knew he’d been hoping for to gag her. A scrap of grey material was wrapped tightly around her head and between her lips. The sound of Jess breathing through her nose rippled across its taut surface.

‘Perhaps I will tell you about myself afterwards. Maybe I won’t. In the meantime, Miss Sanders –’ Shaun squeezed her hands again, so she was kneading her own tits ‘– I think we should begin.’

Levering his guest up, Shaun kicked the chair vigorously to one side of the storeroom. He yanked Jess forward, so that her chest was crushed against his. His eyes were so close to hers that she felt as if he was boring them deep inside her.

Then, with no warning, he turned away.

Instantly, Jess closed her eyes in relief. It was a mistake. The slap that crossed the top of her left thigh burnt on contact, and Jess’s eyelids flew wide open.

‘Do not close them again.’ The words were not shouted – in fact, they were barely mouthed, yet they contained a promise of menace Jess didn’t want to think about.

If she’d been able to speak, she would have said sorry, but all she could do was offer a silent apology as sincerely as she could, pleading with her eyes.

Having regained his composure, Shaun nodded in acknowledgement of her obedience, and pointed to the floor. ‘Shall we begin?’

Deciding the best plan would be to do what was required as quickly as possible, Jess took off her bra and panties. Lying on her back as instructed, she parted her legs, bent her knees, and placed her hands behind her head. All the time her eyes were locked on Shaun’s who, wherever he moved, kept his eyeline fixed on Jess’s expression. He opened another of the crates without looking at it, and pulled out a roll of grey towels.

‘I think they’ll make a comfortable enough cushion, and should raise your head enough so that you can always see my face and, more importantly, I can always see your eyes.’

The beat of the opera vibrated through Jess’s back as she repositioned her head so her neck was lifted slightly. Then, as she watched, the security guard swept a hand toward the row of sex toys. Without moving the direction of his gaze from her, Shaun took the first and smallest dildo from the shelf and weighed it in his palm.

‘See here, Jess, isn’t this a beauty?’

Her throat was so dry it felt as if it was closing in on itself. Jess peered up at him, and hoped that her eyes appeared as if they were agreeing with him.

‘Grey chrome. Five inches long and three-quarters of an inch wide, but a sturdy beast nonetheless. I think you’ll appreciate its weight.’

Jess steeled herself. This was nothing. She could easily accommodate that, and knew her treacherously sex-dependent body was already wet enough for the first toy to slip easily into her. It was with some surprise, then, that she saw Shaun put down the metal dildo and pick up the next one.

‘This baby is, as you can see, rather wider and longer than its colleague.’ He ran a finger lovingly down its side, before quickly replacing it with the toy he’d referred to as The Cactus.

This time, Jess knew that her eyes had given more of her rising fearful excitement away than she’d intended for him to see. Her circumstances had made her so aware of her own pupils that she was sure she could actually feel them dilate.

‘Good girl. That is the reaction I was hoping for. Quiet awe, I think we should call the shine in your eyes right now. I’m sure your irises have taken on a darker hue. Most fascinating.’

Jess might not have been permitted to shift her gaze from his face, but the simultaneous dilation of Shaun’s pupils in line with her own told her he was finally getting turned on as he held up the fearsome-looking toy. Three inches wide, with additional rubber nodules sticking out at irregular angles that increased its girth by at least half an inch, it made Jess’s vaginal walls throb in pre-emptive sympathy. Her hair was starting to feel tacky beneath her palms, and the initial cool of the floor tiles against her naked body had been replaced by a claustrophobic heat.

Working without removing Jess from the centre of his visual attention, Shaun stood between her open legs, picked the laptop up and, manoeuvring rather awkwardly so he didn’t miss a second of his guest’s excited discomfort, angled the webcam so that it was focused on her exposed mound.

Focusing her mind on how important it was not to disappoint the first visitor on Proctor’s list, wishing the collar didn’t dig into her throat quite so much when she lay down, Jess kept her eyes on his face. It was very difficult not to dip them towards his cock.

‘I have a confession to make,’ he said. Jess felt her stomach flip as she stared up at him. ‘I have led you into a false assumption.’ Shaun picked up The Cactus.

Jess guessed what he was about to say, as he had tilted the tool so she could see that, unlike the first toy he’d shown her, it was hollow.

‘Ah! I see from your eyes that I don’t have to explain myself. You are indeed as bright as Proctor led me to believe. That’s two things he has told me about you that have turned out to be true. You do respond well to pain, and you are clever. I wonder if you’ll prove him right on the third claim as well. We shall soon see.’
 
With a care boarding on reverence, he crouched down, and, without even peeping at the V of her wet pussy, lowered the spiked dildo to her mound, and rolled its side over her clit.

Jess’s reaction was instant. Her body leapt a little against the floor. Her mind had already filled with images of how the forthcoming invasion, and now the nodules were being rubbed against her; she knew her imagination hadn’t tricked her into how difficult this was going to be. Liquid burst from her clit as it was scraped by the hollow rubber.

Timing his jerky movements to the music, Shaun dragged the unwieldy sheath away from Jess, making her groan into her gag as she watched him pull it over his solid shaft. This she hadn’t been expecting; she’d thought he was going to push the dildos inside her one at a time; starting with the smallest, and working his way up, opening her slowly.

Once again she’d read the security guard wrong.

Jess was finding it unbelievably tough to not to glance at his dick. She needed to see what was about to be pushed inside her, as much as she didn’t want to know what it looked like. There was no chance of peeping at his crotch covertly, however, for not once did Shaun divert his vigilant leer from her face.

She began to be thankful for the material binding her mouth, for Jess wasn’t sure she’d have been able to prevent herself from pleading with him to hurry up if she’d been able to speak. Hanging on for something to happen was becoming almost as big a deal as the ordeal she was about to face. And all the time, a voice at the back of her head kept asking Jess what the brutal phallus would feel like when it was within her, how wonderful it could feel, and how painful, and telling her over and over again that she wouldn’t be free of the collar without finding out. She had to take everything Shaun was about to throw at her.

---

Knowing Her Place at Amazon US : Amazon UK

Kay Jaybee was named Best Erotica Writer of 2015 by the ETO
Kay was also nominated as the Best Erotica Writer in 2013 and 2014.
Kay wrote the The Perfect Submissive Trilogy, (Xcite, 2011-14), Making Him Wait, (Sweetmeats Press, 2012), The Voyeur (Xcite, 2012), as well as the novellas, Not Her Type: Erotic Adventures With A Delivery Man (2nd ed. 1001 NightsPress, 2013), Digging Deep (Xcite, 2013), A Sticky Situation, (Xcite, 2012), and The Circus, (Sweetmeats Press). She has also written the anthologies The Collector (Austin & Macauley, 2012 & 2008), The Best of Kay Jaybee (Xcite, 2012), Tied to the Kitchen Sink, Equipment, (All Romance, 2012), Yes Ma’am (Xcite e-books, 2011), Quick Kink One and Quick Kink Two (Xcite e-books, 2010). Kay has had over 100 short stories published by Cleis Press, Black Lace, Mammoth, Xcite, Penguin, Seal, and Sweetmeats Press. 

Kay's blog
Facebook page
Goodreads page
at Brit Babes
and writing contemporary romance as Jenny Kane
You can find her on Twitter- kay_jaybee

TftD: Answers

When I was young I thought that the answers were there, if only others could see them as I did.

Then I got a bit older, and thought that answers were there if only we could all stop and talk to each other, and try to find the answers together.

Then I stopped believing in answers.

Perversion in the Library

Heh heh! I've just been sent the new Japanese cover for my story Issues and Returns (which originally appeared in the Exposure anthology from Mischief.)

In Japanese the story title is  Toshokan no Shizukana Tōsaku - which translates as Perversion in the Library.

Well, I guess it does what it says on the tin, lol!

In memoriam: Palmyra

In 2008 I had a wonderful holiday in Syria, including a visit to the ruined city of Palmyra.

In the last couple of months ISIL seized Palmyra and have begun blowing all the pagan ruins up.

There is nothing I can do or say, except to post some of my pictures to show what is being lost to the barbarian hordes of our age.

This is the Great Temple of Bel (or Ba'al).  His symbol, the eagle, is found on the lintels. Bel just means "lord" (the feminine version is Belit) and often gets affixed to other names and regional variants with different portfolios - fertility, the sun, thunder, etc.

 The interior of the inner temple:

The niche at rear was presumably for a statue

Winged female figure, one breast bared:

 Mysterious totally veiled figures:

Our guide described this as "Tiamat, goddess of catastrophe" (note snake legs)

First century tower- tomb:

It would contain many wrapped bodies:

Monumental gateway:

The Great Tetrapylon:

The inscription of Julius Aurelius Zenobius:

The theatre:

Now I'm going to go have a bit of a cry.

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I've found out this week that three-novella collection Magic and Desire is getting a re-release with a snazzy new cover, here's an excerpt from my story The House of Dust.

3000 B.C: Ishara, priestess of the great sex-goddess Innana, invokes the goddess into her own flesh and opens the doors to the Land of the Dead. She must descend through all Seven Gates to rescue the murdered king Tamuz.

---

‘The Lady Inanna will submit herself,’ the gatekeeper says softly, his hands descending on my shoulders. ‘The Lady Inanna will be humbled before the Great Below.’

I understand, though my heart catches in my breast. He does not wait for my acquiescence, however. Smiling, he draws aside the folds of his kilt even as he reaches for my hair with his other hand. My face is at the level of his groin; I see clearly that he is perfectly shaved, even his soft and rather pendulous stones. And he is already erect, as white and hard as caked salt. The effect is strange but not displeasing to the eye and I am stung to feel Inanna’s interest quicken within me. He pulls my face to his thigh and I do not resist. But he doesn’t want my mouth. Not even my co-operation is required; he wraps my thick dark tresses about his jutting member and caresses himself with the hair.

‘Let me fill your dark night full of stars,’ he mocks.

This is an exercise in humiliation, I realise. I have to kneel before him and listen to the small wet noises of his hand upon his member, to the rising tempo of his breath and the gasps he makes as he pumps himself. He works with fervid concentration. My breasts brush his thighs but I cannot see anything except his hip and his flat belly. He tugs my hair, gathering handfuls to rub over his cock, bringing tears to my eyes. I only know he is done when he grunts and shudders against me.

When it is over he wipes his phallus clean on my scalp. He lets me stand, at last. ‘Follow,’ he orders, and leads me through the First Gate.

Beyond that portal is an absolute darkness through which stairs descend, a narrowing ribbon of rock flanked to either side by a gulf. Within a few steps the way is no wider than my own shoulders. I balk at the path presented, trying to peer into the blackness. The air is cool but dry. There is no sound except those we make ourselves, no draft, no scent except the musk of my befouled hair. The only illumination comes from Neti himself, who gives off a pallid gleam like marsh-light. There is nothing else but the void.  As he slips past me and starts down I realise that I must keep up with him or be marooned in the darkness, unable to take a single step and forced to crawl on hands and knees.

I follow in his wake down the irregularly hewn steps, sick with vertigo. It’s impossible to tell if our path is held up by solid rock or by pillars or by nothing at all: it seems to curve gently to the left but no glimpse can be caught of anything but the worn steps directly beneath our feet. I follow until I lose count of their number, until my thighs ache from the descent and my hips feel jarred from their sockets. He does not flag, and as he pulls further ahead it becomes harder for me to see where I am walking. Suddenly I misstep: my foot slides on the edge of the path and I pitch forward with a cry.

Neti is there, faster than thought; he catches me by my tangled hair as my knee bangs off the stone, and wrenches me back onto the path. My fingers claw at the rock.

‘You must stay on the path,’ he says with satisfaction. ‘The dead fall - but they cannot take harm from the drop.’

‘Wait. Let me rest,’ I beg.

‘We are here.’ He sweeps me with a triumphant smile. ‘Behold the Second Gate.’

Before and below us is a patch of red light, hanging in the darkness. I try to nod, but he still has a hold of my hair. He pulls me to my feet by it and leads me the rest of the way bent double in his wake, gasping, his fingers knotted in my locks. There is no chance of me falling now. He leads me onto an island of stone that floats in the void. It is pillared with painted columns and furnished with mounded cushions. The gate in the far wall is of red bronze with two leaves; barred on this side. I realise for the first time that the gates are not there to keep intruders out of the Underworld; they are there to bar the way from below. There is a figure between us and that door and my sickened heart clenches.

‘This is the Great Lady Inanna, Queen of Heaven,’ says Netu, pushing me forward onto my knees upon a rich rug. I am grateful just to be still for a moment.

‘She smells like a gutter slut,’ observes the Keeper of the Second Gate, who gives light to this place. He is taller than any man and built like a warrior. His skin is scarlet and flames burn about his head where hair should be.

Neti laughs. ‘She seeks to pass the Second Gate while still living.’

‘Then she must surrender her earrings.’ He closes until he is standing right before me, his feet nearly touching my splayed knees.  I look up mutely, in dismay. His eyes are crimson.

‘Must I?’ When we write, the word for ear is the same as that for mind.

‘The laws of the Underworld are perfect, Inanna. Do not question them.’

‘As you command,’ I say. He unhooks the heavy gold clusters from my ears and they turn to water in his palms and run away over his wrists. I bow my head.

I will do this, I tell myself, for the sake of my king, for the sake of my vengeance; I will do whatever it takes. And Inanna is with me. I feel her move more strongly than ever in the heat in my blood, in the pulse that beats at my sex.

Thoughtfully, the Keeper of the Second Gate hooks his bare foot under my skirt. His foot nudges up against my mound and I gasp at the heat of his skin as he plays roughly with the folds below. He does not find me dry.  ‘So the Lady Inanna is humbled before the Great Below,’ he rumbles.

‘Yes,’ I whisper.

‘Yes,’ gloats Neti. ‘Do with her as you wish. As I did.’

‘Do you suck cock, Queen of Heaven?’

‘Yes.’ I can’t keep my voice calm.

‘I would have you suck this, little queen.’ He opens his kilt. My eyes widen involuntarily: given his body size I should expect a daunting length and girth – but this is a monster. It lolls and drools like a drunk between his thighs. The gatekeeper takes hold of me and rubs my face in his groin, forcing me mouth-to-cock, marking me with the scent of his crotch. The scarlet bludgeon kicks eagerly against my jaw. His skin is hot – not so hot as to burn but uncomfortable on my tongue. It is all I can do to stretch my mouth around his turgid glans. I tongue the slit, tasting his readiness and finding it both smoky and sharp.

‘Good,’ he says, surprised. ‘You are well trained, for a queen.’

Rebellion kicks under my ribs and my eyes flash.

‘Thank him,’ instructs Neti dryly. ‘He has complimented you.’

I pull my lips from his cock, leaving sticky saliva trails. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

Laughing, the gatekeeper turns his back on me. ‘Stay,’ he orders, and I do not move as he goes to sit upon a mound of cushions. He spreads his knees, opening his kilt so that I can see his huge, ruddy erection. Lovingly he strokes it up and down, hefts his balls and preens himself. ‘Now come here.’

I gather myself.

‘On your knees.’

I flush. Nobody has ever treated me with such contempt. Not even the usurper Nergal has dared do that to me. He knows I am a goddess. And Inanna…

Inanna loves this. My vulva is soft and wet and swollen.

Hitching up my skirt I crawl slowly over to the Keeper of the Second Gate on my hands and knees and look up from between his splayed thighs. He pats my head and strokes my face.

‘Lick my cock.’

I lick the hot, throbbing column, kissing the pronounced underside ridge all the way to his juicy plum.

‘Lick my balls.’

I roll his stones with my tongue, sucking them into my mouth.

He sighs and leans back in the cushions. ‘Now lick my hole, Queen of Heaven.’

---

Pre-order paperback at Amazon US :  Amazon UK
Buy the vintage Kindle version right now  at Amazon US :  Amazon UK

So that's where it went

My inner cavewoman

THAT BOOK gets everywhere!

I spent last weekend supposedly getting in touch with nature at the Wilderness Gathering 2015. It's a camping event for people interested in bushcraft - surviving/living in the wild - and featured many stalls ...

Ironically, shopping for kit is a HUGE part of the hobby

and demonstrations and workshops, like this one on how to skin a rabbit:

I'm a veggie, okay. But this sort of info is USEFUL. I might have to write about it!

 All taking place on a rather beautiful bison farm

We were not allowed to hunt the bison. Spoilsports.

 I had a fab time, despite my crippling lack of camo clothing ... (aficionados don't call it camo, btw, they call it DPM)

If you are not wearing at least one knife they throw you off site ;-)

for various reasons...

BEHOLD MY NEMESIS

Bushcraft in the UK is a strange beast, with several subcultures that really might seem mutually incompatible. It could be seen to be just a grown-up version of boy-scouting - "let's go into the woods and build a den and sit round a fire eating food we gathered!" and that thread is about adventure and fun and feeling independent.

A sub-portion of it is deeply deeply into the traditional British handicrafts like walking-stick carving (which gets more technical than you would ever believe) and basket-weaving
 

and attracts the kind of hippies who enthuse about pole-lathes. Certainly, enthusiasm for individual handcrafted work-of-goddamn-art knives at over £1000 apiece approaches a kind of fetishism.

On the other side from the retro-hippies, some bushcraft enthusiasts are intensely practical - they want army recon/infiltration gear and the latest technology that'll allow them to survive even the worst conditions you could encounter in Britain (like oh, I dunno - breaking down on the M4 or your post not arriving for a few days). This is sort of close to those fucking nutjobs American Prepping culture - except that we can't take prepping very seriously in this country since we just don't have anywhere remote to go and hide out from the zombies/proletariat/big government. This aspect seems to boil down to Men Like to Go Shopping.

In direct contrast, there is also a large streak of LARP/re-enactment going on in there. These kind are appalled by the thought of lighting a fire with matches or a zippo, and insist on doing it with flint they've hand-knapped themselves, or a fire-bow made with deer sinew cordage (... they are very big on cordage. And flint. And whittling spoons.). They literally want to play at being stone-age hunter-gatherers, and are super-interested in indigenous populations around the world that still know how to do that kind of stuff.

Somehow, all these different sorts of bushcrafter seem able to rub along for a weekend in an amiable manner, which is lovely.

And you'll be glad to know that my personal food-gathering went well and that we did not starve over the weekend :-)

Humanely trapped and dispatched, I promise

Magic redux

OOH - look! In November Black Lace are re-releasing Magic and Desire (a "Black Lace Classic") with a snazzy new cover! The supposed Sylvia Day connection is marketing BS, but Portia has done very well since 50 Shades (she has been writing much better billionaire BDSM stuff for decades) - and I have no problem at all riding on her coat-tales :-D

The "classic" edition

My novella, The House of Dust, is of course nothing remotely like E L James / Sylvia Day. It's set several millennia BC and is about a priestess of the great goddess Ishtar descending into the Land of the Dead to rescue her murdered lover. I'd like to see Anastasia Steele try that one ...

Pre-order paperback at Amazon US :  Amazon UK
Buy the vintage Kindle version right now  at Amazon US :  Amazon UK

Eyecandy Monday - Sallyanne Rogers guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week's excerpt is from Spring in My Step, by Sallyanne Rogers. Don't say we're not cutting edge here in Eroticaland - this novel may be the first time the erotic romance genre has ever been combined with Morris dancing!

When Cath meets Robbie for the first time, she decides to hold back on telling him she’s a Morris dancer who’s about to be featured in a TV programme about contemporary British culture. She’s not expecting more than a one night stand in the first place, so there’s no need to complicate things. However, what started out as a bit of fun looks like it could turn into something more, as the two of them find their mutual attraction too strong to resist.The documentary crew are on the hunt for juicy controversies in the run up to the May Day festival at Waterleigh Bridge, and it seems that Robbie has a secret of his own. If he and Cath find out the truth about one another, will it bring them closer or tear them apart?

---

‘It’s all right, Cath. I don’t want anything – well, not a drink, anyway. Or are you having one?’

I shook my head. It suddenly occurred to me that, after all the dancing and the excitement, I could actually do with a shower before bed, and I had a sudden mental image of us showering together, so naturally, I shared it with him.

‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘I’ll wash your back and you can wash… any bit of me you like.’ Once again he was coming out with comments that would have sounded either cheesy or crass from anyone else, and I felt that hot, deep flexing inside my quim again.

‘Come on, then,’ I said and led him through to the bathroom.

Because my flat’s quite small and the bathroom’s very small, I only have a shower: no bathtub. But that does mean it’s quite a big shower, so there was room for both of us, without any uncomfortable bumping of knees and elbows against the door or soap dish catching anyone in the small of the back.

I got the water running before stripping off, to give the slightly moody boiler time to get going, but it didn’t seem very long before we were face to face under the spurting jets, kissing and running our hands over each other’s sleekly wet bodies. Robbie had been half-erect when he took his pants off, and it didn’t take more than a couple of kisses for his cock to be fully hard, rigid and jutting upwards, pushing against my stomach when I wrapped my arms around him. I wriggled gently to and fro, but I knew I wasn’t quite the right height for us to fuck each other standing up. Never mind, there were plenty of other things I could do.

I reached for the bottle of shower gel, hanging on its useful hook, and helped myself to a good dollop of the stuff. It was a citrus-and-something, not so flowery that it would raise eyebrows if the scent of it was still clinging to Robbie’s skin the next day.

‘Lean back,’ I whispered, gently pushing him against the wall and then licking and softly biting his nipples, which had stiffened almost as much as his cock. I rubbed the shaft of it with the shower gel, working up a little lather so my hand could slide easily up and down the length. He groaned, closing his eyes and bracing himself against the tiles. The water streamed and gently pounded over us as I wanked him, speeding up and slowing down, twisting my wrist a little, pumping up and down that hot, pulsing shaft, tense and straining upwards, the head of it bulbous and free of the foreskin.

‘Cath, oh Cath, love, you’re so good at it,’ Robbie gasped, and I worked him a little faster, leaning over to give his left nipple a firm suck, while I used one hand up and down his prick and the other to cup his balls, cradling them in their vulnerable sac of warm, wrinkled skin, feeling them tighten, listening to his ragged breathing.

‘If you don’t stop soon…I won’t be able to…’

‘That’s all right, that’s fine,’ I said, and it was. I wanted to make him come, I wanted him to lose control for me. I knew it wouldn’t be long; I looked up at his face, watched him throw his head back and cry out, and then his cock spasmed in my hand and let loose jet after jet of pearly white seed.

‘Oh, my god. Sorry, love, I just couldn’t hold it,’ he said, straightening up and pulling me against him. He kissed my temple, then put a finger under my chin and lifted my face so he could kiss my mouth, a quick, firm press of his lips to mine. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for days. Ever since last Friday. And I didn’t last two minutes.’

He glanced around for the shower control and switched it off. ‘Can we get into the bedroom and I’ll do something good for you?’

We towelled off quickly and I led him through to my bed, which was barely double-sized, but at that point I really didn’t care. I lay down, and he lay beside me, running one finger slowly over my skin, tracing circles round each of my breasts, working his way up to the tightly-crinkled peak of each nipple then outwards again. It was gorgeous, but torture as well; so tantalizing I could hardly bear it. I spread my legs, almost involuntarily, my hips beginning to push up and my pussy opening for him. He licked my nipples then, circling them with his tongue the way he had been doing with his fingers, and I dug my nails into the bed beneath me. I was so dripping wet now that I thought I must be dampening the sheet.

Robbie made his way down the bed, turning himself carefully until his face was between my thighs. He started to lick me then, his tongue flickering delicately over my clit, his breath hot on my mound. He said nothing more, just licked and licked, holding me open with his hands on my legs, tasting me, scenting me and the tip of his tongue keeping up the intensity of the stimulation. My stomach muscles were quivering, my heart beating so loud I thought the whole of the street could probably hear it, and still he kept on licking, nothing but those dainty little licks, focused entirely on the most sensitive spot, and then I grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face against my cunt and came and came and came.

---

Spring in My Step at
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Xcite Books

Sallyanne Rogers' blog

TED said

There are many wonderful TED talks, but this is one I found particularly full of ideas ready to go off Whizz Pop in the head. Enjoy :-)

Up yours, Freud!

Behold, there shall be no more penis envy! For I have bought a she-wee and no tree is safe!

I've been meaning to buy one for YEARS and finally the prospect of camping has forced my hand, as it were...

Soft plastic, emo colour. I approve.

I'll need to practise writing my name in the snow, mind...

The Chalice Well

During my trip to the West Country for Eroticon I took the opportunity to make a research visit to Glastonbury - in particular, to the Chalice Well Gardens, which features in my work-in-progress Falling Deep.

This site is a World Peace Garden (with the notable exception of when my nephew and niece are running around it ... sorry everyone....): sort of Interfaith with a tendency toward pagan, as far as I can tell.

 It's very pretty indeed!

See how the water is orangey-red? It contains a very high level of iron, which leaves a rusty deposit on the stones. Medieval Christian legend associates it with the Holy Grail that held Jesus' blood from the Crucifixion, said to have been brought here by Joseph of Arimathea.

You can drink the water, which is reputed to have healing properties:

Mind you, the water is also reputed to be warm like blood, and I can tell you from personal experience wading in bathing pool that this is SADLY NOT TRUE!

"HOOOOOLY ... springs!"

The actual Chalice Well looks like this:

What happens there in Falling Deep? You'll have to wait and see!

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

A total blast from the past this week - but keeping up with my Eroticon fantasy theme. Here's one of the least troubling scenes from Burning Bright, which is a swords 'n' sorcery fantasy with a sorta dark Bollywood vibe. I had to censor a LOT of this novel before publication - it was a bit much for Black Lace at the time...

I love the title font though

(All you need to know for this excerpt is that Veraine is suffering from serious amnesia ... and intermittent hallucinations)

---

There was a woman standing among the rocks downstream, cloaked in the shadow of the ferns.

Veraine’s irritation shifted into something else. For the briefest moment he hoped it was Teihli, because he was itching for some relief from his tension, but then he realised this was a stranger. She didn’t look startled by his presence; she looked as if she meant to be there. But she was naked from the hips up, clad only in a tight skirt of dull and mottled cloth. Her breasts were small and high and dark as if never hidden from the sun, providing a distracting backdrop to an elaborate gold collar that spread below her throat from shoulder to shoulder. She looked at him without a word, then raised one hand and beckoned.

Veraine stood, rather conscious of his wet clothes and wondering who she was. She didn’t look like one of the village women, who were inevitably modest in their dress and never wore jewellery so magnificent. He strode toward her slowly across the rocks, but when he’d closed half the distance he halted. Something within him was growing wary of her stillness and strangeness, and the knowledge that he’d left his falchion behind on a rock was preying on his mind for no reason that he could put his finger on. He sized her up. She was just a young woman, unarmed and very slight; she couldn’t possibly represent a threat – not in herself. Her skin had a glisten as if freshly oiled. Her hair was so short that on any other woman he’d have thought it ugly, but her bones were so fine that it seemed to suit her. He looked beyond her, checking for signs of an ambush. ‘What?’ he said softly. ‘What do you want?’

I have something to give you, she said. Her lips hadn’t moved: the voice was in his head, sibilant and cool. Veraine felt the water droplets on his spine turn icy. He took a step back as she came toward him, but he couldn’t retreat on ground this rough without turning and running, so he had to stand and watch her advance. His heart kicked in his chest. She did not walk across the boulders; she glided, her legs never moving though her hips undulated. Behind her something like a dress-train slipped among the rocks.

‘You’re not real,’ he whispered.

She smiled and clasped her hands at the back of her neck, weaving her torso from side to side as she closed on him, displaying her little breasts to their best effect. It was almost enough to distract him from that which, below her hips, was so terribly wrong. Almost. He finally realised that what he’d thought of as her skirt was not an item of clothing; from the hips down she was encased in mottled scaly skin, and there was no line of a human leg beneath it - neither legs nor feet. Instead she had the tail of a huge snake, as thick through as her torso and many times her body-length, its coils stirring lazily on the moss. The interlocking pattern on that snakeskin was echoed too in the arrangement of the tight, scalp-hugging knots of her short hair, and a fainter patina on her human skin. He thought he could discern a silvery etching like scales.

He grimaced and repeated louder, ‘You’re not real, are you?’

Not real? That from a man who doesn’t even know what he is?

Her words wiped the smile off his face. ‘You’re a figment from my mind,’ he said grimly. ‘The fight, the stress of battle, the heat of my blood … It’s gone and knocked something loose in my head again.’ His teeth were gritted. ‘You’re just a vision.’

Then what do you have to fear?

He couldn’t answer that. Her eyes were beautiful; huge black pupils surrounded by golden irises; eyes he felt he might fall into. There was something almost hypnotic about them. But she didn’t blink. She hadn’t blinked since he’d first seen her. ‘What do you want?’ he asked harshly. His mouth was dry. He wanted to reach out and grasp her, to prove to his hand that she was real enough to touch, but he dreaded the consequences too much.

I wish to make a bargain with you. I offer… She cocked her head. Understanding.

That sounded a little too equivocal. ‘Of what?’

Of yourself. Of the past you have lost.

His heart skipped a beat. ‘You know?’

The serpent of the mind represents wisdom, and I am nothing but a vision in your mind, am I not? What can I offer on my side but insight?

‘In exchange for…?’

For a little seed. Seed for my hatchlings. She looked pointedly down at the white cotton of his loincloth, still wringing wet; despite the folds of the loose cloth it was translucent where it clung to his thighs and crotch.

He balked. ‘Ah.’ If not truly erect he was pumped up and distended – partly the result of the fight, partly due to her proximity. Those bits of her that were not serpentine were powerfully attractive. She put her hand on his breastbone and he felt her warmth, like that of an iron blade left in the sun. She reminded him of a knife in many ways; slim and hard and deadly. Now he’d been given the proof of her solidity he’d desired, his skin shivered under her touch. ‘You want-?’ he whispered. She had no legs, no buttocks; he couldn’t even guess where her sexual opening might be located.

She smiled and slid in a circle around him, her hand trailing on his chest. He shuddered but stood still, like a horse too spooked to move, only his head turning. By the time she was behind him her hands were sliding round his waist. He felt the sinews of his legs and buttocks tighten and the skin up his bare back crawl in anticipation. She was looping his feet about with a great coil of her tail.

You fear my poison? She came back round his right shoulder; her palm was splayed across his stomach, pressing upon the hard abdominal muscle, smoothing her way down to the edge of wet cotton that was his only line of defence. She smiled, showing white teeth that seemed quite human, then stretched up to kiss his cheek briefly. You will take no harm from me.

He put his hand on her breast - just to be sure. Her skin was neither oily nor cold as he’d feared, but dry and very smooth. She isn’t real, he told himself, brushing her hard nipple, but his body believed otherwise and his penis kicked, finding instant comfort in the palm of her hand. There was a taunting glitter in her eyes. Only the twin tips of her pale, forked tongue spoiled the effect as they flickered into view across her lips. It was a narrow tongue no thicker than a finger, and entirely inhuman.

He clenched his teeth. ‘No.’ A woman could not be a snake; a snake could not be a woman. This was something from a forest legend and he did not have to believe it.

Don’t be afraid, she said and slid down before him. She didn’t drop to her knees because she had no knees; she simply lowered herself on her huge muscular tail. I will not bite. She nipped the skin of his chest between her teeth: No harder than this.

The breath caught in his throat. I don’t have to accept this, he told himself as she sucked his nipple and teased it to stiffness with that bestial tongue: I can stop her. But his resolve was weakening. When she slipped the knot of his loincloth and dropped a fold to uncover his cock he noted that it was already standing, swaying a little. The stream water had done nothing to cool his blood and his flesh looked very dark jutting out against the white cloth.

Oh yes, she said with satisfaction. Her mouth, when it descended, felt like pure liquid pleasure - and with that touch he was lost. No longer capable of resistance, Veraine let his head roll back as the sensation of physical relief washed over his senses. He felt her encompass his cock not just with her lips but also the paired tips of her coiling bifurcated tongue, her grip firm and sure. He surrendered to it completely; unreal or not, it didn’t matter in that moment. Above them the stone walls of the ravine seemed to lean in to watch. When he looked down again all he could see was the back of the snake-woman’s head rising and sinking as she sucked and licked. As he put his good hand on it and pulled her closer, feeling the hard ridges of her knotted hair beneath his palm, the first memory burst in his skull like a flash of lightning: a glimpse of a sun-drenched courtyard and young men in white tunics involved in some sort of skirmish, armed with dummy wooden swords. He gasped.

Then he shut his eyes the better to see, as flash after flash exploded in his skull.

---

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More Meat, More Music

Helen J Perry is at Broadstairs Folk Week and is been running interviews with the various contributors to Who Thrilled Cock Robin?

Including me!

Herm herm

Two of my favourite subjects come together today: art and naughty bits:

Roman windchime, British museum

You have to understand, in the Classical world, penuses peni the phallus was not just a symbol of manliness and/or sexy fun, it was a potent magical protection against bad luck, the evil eye and wicked spirits. (Talk about a phallocentric worldview!)

Taking them out for exercise was very time-consuming though.

For the public good, therefore, pillars were erected by the sides of roads, at market places, and in front of temples. They were rectangular in form with a depiction of a knob on:

In the Yorkshire Museum

... though not always as elaborate as this one from the island of Delos, which has a dong-headed chicken carved on the front as well as the eye-watering topper.

"It's a COCK, geddit?"

These pillars were called Herms - and in fact, that's where the god Hermes (patron of boundaries, crossings and travellers) got his name from.

(from Wikipedia, under creative commons license)

Eventually carved portraits of the great and good came to be substituted for the god himself, in a display of civic pride. Which leads to the frankly ridiculous situation that a orator like Demosthenes here is depicted as a head and a knob, and nothing else.

In the Munich Glyptothek

You've got to wonder whether he looked at that and thought, "Yeah, good likeness."

There is by the way a fable of Aesop's in which "A dog of a pious turn of mind salutes the god's herm, a statue of the kind used to mark boundaries and stages along a road. When the animal announces its intention to anoint him, the god hastily begs it not to and says he does not need to be honoured any further."

:-D