Friday, 30 October 2015

Dr Coloury



Hahah! Look what I've got to use my Dr Sketchy prize pencils on!

Hmm ... may need more red. Lots more red...

Wednesday, 28 October 2015

Smut Manchester 2015


Well, what a day! The best Smut event to date, IMHO, even if the journey back from Rainy City was ... ahem ... somewhat eventful. Still, it's all grist to the writing mill...

No gain without pain, eh? Cara Sutra administers a good thrashing. And no, this was not faked for the camera!

Victoria and Kev Blisse were the perpetrators of the event, of course, and are to be applauded for creating a terrific lineup of stalls, kink, smut, art and networking (read: chat). Here's the Victoria-eye view of how it went, with rather better pictures (from DN Photography Manchester) than me :-)

The main event was held in the Bangkok Bar which was dark (particularly if you were trying to find the loos) and cosy and full of wonderful glittery things...



Nippleicious

... Including a full-on BDSM dungeon ... which as you can see from my pic above we smutters made good use of :-D


Speaking of hands-on experiences, there was also a stall by the very wonderful Kink Craft where many of us had a go at making out own mini-floggers.

Kink Craft do kits and online craft videos for the Martha Stewarts among us :-)
I was very pleased with mine :-)

There were smut-slam readings, of course. I read my poem On Erotic Vocabulary, forthcoming in Ashley Lister's collection Coming Together: in Verse:

Photo by D N Photography Manchester via Victoria Blisse


There were excellent writing workshops on Public Speaking and World Building - but I was particularly impressed by Kay Jaybee's ability to make us find the erotic potential in everyday objects. Supermarket shopping will never be the same again!


After the daytime events, impresario Jay Coates led us in a crocodile to Chapter One, the bookshop (good call that - we'd have never all got there on our own):

It's gorgeous. AND THEY SERVE TEA AND CAKES!

There we took part in an amazing Dr Sketchy session. Yes, an art-class! Two fabulous performers from Monster Cirque took it in turn to do their wonderful thing on the stage, then pose for five minutes while the audience sketched like crazy...

The breathtaking Bea Noir not holding still at all

Ah, that's better!
Photo by Darren McGinn at Dr Sketchy


I managed to solve the shaky hands problem with video, so here's the gorgeous Kitty Monster belly-dancing for us:

video

If that wasn't enough to make me very very happy (and it was, frankly) - I also won a prize for one of my sketches!

Two of us are overdressed!
Photo by Darren McGinn

What a great day! Thank you Victoria and Kev and Jay for organizing everything! I am all overcome!

Monday, 26 October 2015

Blue Monday: Jean Roberta guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Jean Roberta, whose bawdy period novella The Flight of the Black Swan is a delicious riff on a classic tale...


Imagine an upper class English girl kidnapped by pirates when she was eleven, and eventually returned to her family. If this sounds familiar, you've probably either read the classic book A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes, or seen the movie. Whatever you may imagine, Jean Roberta has taken the grown-up Emily far beyond your--or the younger Emily's--wildest speculations. This is, indeed, a ''Bawdy Novella,'' but there is more to it than that. Emily is a smart, spirited heroine, adventurous enough to see the bright side of the unspoken (and unfounded) assumption that she must be ''damaged goods.'' When her romantic affair at a girls' school is abruptly ended because of her lover's cowardice, Emily tosses off the constraints of 19th century English society and returns to the sea on a more-or-less pirate ship, the Black Swan, manned by gay fugitives from the British Navy.



Here Emily, on board the Black Swan and headed for America in the 1860s, consummates her marriage-of-convenience to Roger, the Captain, and his First Mate, Martin:

My heart filled with affection for both my unlikely suitors. I realized then that love exists in as many different types and degrees as there are colors in the sky and the sea. “You’re both generous,” I told them, smiling. “And honestly, I’m starved for it.”

Roger wrapped me in his arms, and gave me a gentle kiss that carried a hint of fire. I immediately felt like a match that has been struck. “Oh,” I gasped, pulling away, “but I really don’t want to become a mother. Not yet. I hope you don’t—”

“Emily,” smiled Roger, “we understand you, and we quite agree. No offense taken. We have too  much in hand to invite more difficulty into our lives. Never fear, dear.” He winked. “We know how to give you all the pleasure you can bear with no distressing consequences.”

“If you wish,” muttered Martin. He cleared his throat. “Emily, we shall both close our eyes whilst you undress.”

“Don’t be silly, Martin,” I told him. I couldn’t help feeling amused at his discomfort. “If we’re going to do this at all, we must do it properly. We must have no secrets from each other.” I began to unbutton my shirt, holding his gaze with mine.

Dear Reader, please don’t judge me for surrendering what was left of my virtue for the sake of friendship. I did not love my husband or his lover in the way that good women in our time were expected to love men—more than life itself!—but then little about my marriage satisfied the requirements of Society.

I handed my mannish garments to Martin, one at a time, and he occupied himself by folding them carefully. I soon stood barefooted and as naked as Eve on the slippery wooden deck, watching my two suitors studying my form in the flickering light from a lantern. I could feel the vibrations of the ship in my legs and even in my small, sensitive breasts.

I didn’t need to ask which man would be my first. “Emily, darling,” said Roger, approaching me with arms outspread. He scooped me into his embrace and lifted me off my feet. He raised me until my face was even with his, then he kissed me with all the restrained passion that any female lover of novels might hope for.

Laying me in his hammock, Roger smiled at Martin, who still stood with my clothes in his arms like a laundress. “Come on, man,” said my husband. “Don’t deprive her of your favors.”

As Roger left burning kisses down my throat to my breasts, holding me close, I felt Martin stroking my legs, moving higher up my thighs until his fingers were in the curly hair that barely covered my moistening cleft. Seemingly on impulse, Martin pushed his nose right into my wetness as though my nectar were as necessary to him as milk to a baby. “Don’t be afraid, dear,” he told me, although he had no reason to think me reluctant.

Roger stroked my hair while nuzzling my breasts. Martin grasped my buttocks in both hands like a jolly sailor with a woman on the town, and lapped at my wet folds with a broad tongue until I squirmed under him in almost unbearable ecstasy. Both men seemed delighted with my responses. Roger squeezed each of my breasts in turn, and stroked my nipples until I could feel them harden. I struggled to get enough air into my lungs. I could feel my pulse beating time in my puckered nubs, and Roger sucked them into his mouth as though to give them relief.

I was on the point of spending, but I controlled my feelings until I could determine whether Roger, my bridegroom, would really deflower me—assuming that neither Lucy nor I had done this already. My guess was well-founded. Martin spread my thighs apart, then backed away as Roger placed himself over me, one hand on his red prick to guide it into my waiting cunny. He was as much a gentleman as I could reasonably expect, but before I could fully accept his large sword in my scabbard, I felt such a burning pain inside that I instinctively jerked upward, further impaling myself.

 “Oh!” I heard myself shout.

“Shh!” replied both men at once. They were clearly more conscious of an unseen audience of listening ears than I was.

“Easy, dear,” Roger told me. His voice in my ear sounded sympathetic, but with a note of masculine pride as well. “I’m all the way in. I won’t be long.”

I thought him altogether too long and too thick, but soon the pain inside me mellowed into a heat that heightened my excitement.

“Ahh,” breathed Roger, jerking his prick out of me with rude haste. A fountain of white spunk erupted from the tiny slit in the prick’s head like champagne bursting from its bottle, and baptized my belly. “Thank God,” he swore. “That was close. I’m sorry, Emily, but you cast a spell on me. I could hardly control myself.”

Roger’s prick softened to a less intimidating size, but it still bore streaks of red. I knew that my maidenhead must be well and truly gone.

Had I ever really hoped to live the life of a respectable woman? At that point, I couldn’t be sure. I reminded myself that no one could ever blame me for submitting to my bridegroom on our honeymoon. No one.

Looking over Roger’s shoulder, I saw Martin standing upright against the wall, wearing a forlorn expression.

“Help me, Martin.” I begged, wanting to give him as much comfort as I hoped he would give me. “I need your tongue.”

Roger moved aside, allowing Martin to take his place. Martin showed his skill at soothing my tender slit with his tongue, and he seemed sincerely interested in my female parts. I surmised that he had sailed in such waters before.




The Flight of the Black Swan is available in paperback, e-book and audio from
Amazon US :: Amazon UK

 Jean Roberta lives on the Canadian prairies, where the vastness of the land and the sky encourage daydreaming. She has taught English at the local university for over twenty-five years, and now teaches creative writing there as well. Her diverse short stories (mostly erotic) have appeared in print anthologies from both sides of the Atlantic, and in several sadly-missed journals and websites that
have disappeared since 2000. Her eclectic story collection, Obsession, is still available, as is The Princess and the Outlaw: Tales of the Torrid Past, and The Flight of the Black Swan: A Bawdy Novella. The opinion pieces she wrote for a monthly column, Sex Is All Metaphors (based on a line in a poem by Dylan Thomas), are available as an e-book by that title from Coming Together, which raises money for various good causes. (Writers donate their work.) She recently co-edited Heiresses of Russ, a year’s-best anthology of lesbian speculative fiction (forthcoming from Lethe Press).

Jean Roberta's:
Amazon author page 
Website


Friday, 23 October 2015

Sidney Sime

A postscript to my blogging upon the art of nightmares and sleep paralysis - this subtle incubus is a creature of pure formless darkness:

Sidney Sime: The Incubus (1899)
Sidney Sime is one of my absolute favourite artists at the moment. He worked mostly in black-and-white, for magazines and for illustrations to the fantasy tales of Lord Dunsany (coincidentally one of my favourite authors!).

The City of Never

I find his visions incredibly evocative and thrilling and creepy ... however sadly for this blog it must be admitted they are largely lacking in sexuality, except when he's deliberately copying Beardsley's style. I've fished around for the few exceptions...



This is the centaur Shepperalk indulging in some typically centaurish behaviour:

He galloped with half-shut eyes up the temple-steps, and, only seeing dimly through his lashes, seized Sombelenë by the hair, undazzled as yet by her beauty, and so haled her away; and, leaping with her over the floorless chasm where the waters of the lake fall unremembered away into a hole in the world, took her we know not where, to be her slave for all centuries that are allowed to his race.

The Bride of the Man-Horse

 The goddess Inzana (the Dawn) calls up the Thunder:

A Legend of the Dawn

I've no idea what this one is about, but it's dated 1904:


And this beauty is possibly Sime's masterpiece:

Romance Comes Down out of Hilly Woodlands

If you want to see more Sime, you might start with Monsterbrains :-)

Wednesday, 21 October 2015

Sommer says

Mikhail Vrubel, The Demon and Tamara (1890)
Sommer Marsden recently posted the most fabulous 5-Star review of Cover Him with Darkness online.

on September 9, 2015
I can’t tell you too much about this book because…spoilers! I can say this: It has two scorching heroes (one fallen, one a mystery), a smart and tenacious heroine, and a rocking good plot. And have I mentioned steamy with a capital HOT? The entire book speeds along, angels, watchers, intrigue. It’s like a Bond movie but with the supernatural and religious undermining replacing the explosions. I was hooked from the first page and rocketed through at a pretty fast pace given severely limited reading time. I found that my ‘internet breaks’ were replaced by Cover Him with Darkness breaks. I read any chance I got until I reached the end. And then I was sad. Very sad. I am utterly ready for the second installment of Janine Ashbless’s smart-smart erotic romance tale. It was damn near perfect. And I only say ‘damn near’ because I never label anything perfect. If you like fallen angels, well written plots, intelligent story lines, twists and turns, and a heroine that stands on her own as a bad ass…well, you’d better get reading.

When she asked for an excerpt for her blog, I was only too delighted to say YES - and it's an exclusive excerpt not posted elsewhere!

THANK YOU SOMMER!


Monday, 19 October 2015

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today, something a bit different. I suddenly randomly remembered this scene from my swords-n-sandals novel Divine Torment, published way back in the days before Black Lace got all nervous about M/M and their heroes doing Teh Gay on the side. So I thought I'd dig it out and see if it was as dodgy and non-consensual as I recalled. In this scene my hero General Veraine is getting a massage from his aide. He's under a ton of strain and, I regret to say, he's about to lose his composure, bigtime...


'You know, sir,' Arioc ventured, after he had loosened the cords of the Achilles tendons and slid cupped hands right up the length of Veraine's legs, from rough-textured calves to the soft skin at the small of the spine; 'your back's like a board. You're too tense. If I might say so, sir, you could do with a bloody good fuck.'

'And you're offering, are you, Arioc?' Veraine grunted to the linen sheet under his face.

'No, sir. You're not my type. I 'd suggest you go back to that silk-house though.'

'The silk-house just about threw me out last time,' Veraine growled. Then he added, 'What do you mean, I'm not your type? Don't tell me you do prefer pussy to arse, Arioc; four thousand men can't have all got it wrong.'

'Four thousand men are under the impression that I'm your mattress,' Arioc pointed out, digging into his ribs perhaps a shade too hard.

'Oh, great. Just great.' Veraine was not really surprised; he supposed he should have expected it.

 'I do screw arse, sir,' Arioc continued conversationally, adding an extra drizzle of oil between the shoulder blades and running it out to the triceps. 'But you're not the kind I prefer. You're …'

'What?'

'You're a general, sir. You walk and act and think like a noble. You smell like a noble. You're rational, self-disciplined and courteous. Mostly,' he added as an afterthought. 'And that's not what I'm interested in.'

'You like something a bit less bland, I gather?'

'I can appreciate a good man, sir. It just doesn't get me hard.'

'So you fuck footsoldiers. Well, I can see why your family might want to keep that quiet.'

'Oh, you don’t know the half of it, sir.' There was a clink as Arioc picked up the strigil he had prepared. He touched the bronze scraper firmly to Veraine's neck and the general jumped at the coldness of the metal.

'Go on; shock me,' he said grimly.

Arioc began to run the strigil across his body, bringing off a layer of oil, sweat and dirty skin, which he wiped off the bronze onto a handcloth. 'I fuck footsoldiers,' he said as he scraped Veraine clean. 'I take cock. I like it hard and nasty. I like it from a group of men. One isn't enough. I like it when they slap me about, and when they piss on me, and when they make me crawl. It's hard to keep that discrete. I've tried to tone it down, to make do with the lighter stuff. But it doesn't give me a rush the way being cluster-fucked in a latrine does.'

Veraine's eyes were suddenly wide open, though he said nothing.

'There was this time. This was the best time I ever had; I still think about it. Though it left me terrified for weeks. I was in barracks at Antoth. It was late at night, and I was out in the city, just going from tavern to tavern, looking for action. I was crossing the road when I saw a soldier coming out of a wine-house, fumbling with himself. He was a big, rough looking bloke, with a broken nose and scars all down one side of his face. He had an ear missing too. I didn't recognise him; he must have been from a different host. He caught sight of me and looked me over, long enough for me to be sure, then he stared right past me like I wasn't there. He turned away down an alley and I followed him. He went behind the tavern into what must have been a potter's yard; there were broken pots all over the floor and the ground was all dug up into humps of kilns. He stopped against the nearest one and lifted his tunic. I came in a little closer, and suddenly he turned round and glared at me, asked me why I'd been following him. He had his cock out in his hand and I couldn't stop staring at it. It was thick and knobbly and misshapen, just like him, with thick veins like snakes twined about it. I told him I wanted to watch him piss. He didn't say a thing, but he suddenly rushed at me and knocked me flat, then grabbed hold of my tunic and held me up as he straddled me, his legs set either side of my shoulders, my face stuck against his crotch. Then he lifted his tunic again and slapped his cock into my face and he pissed all over me, up my nose and in my eyes, and he stuffed it in my mouth and just kept pissing. I nearly drowned. He was snarling something about if I wanted to see it, here it was, but I couldn't really hear, I was so busy trying to swallow and breathe at the same time.

'Just as he finished a bunch of other men came up to us. Three men. His friends. They asked what the fuck was going on, and he told them he had found this little bitch-dog that was following him around. He whipped his belt off and looped it round my neck, then dragged me back and forth across the ground in front of his mates. They were laughing like they were going to burst. They made me bark and whimper, and then lick their feet. They liked the whimpering. Then one of them said he thought the bitch was on heat because she was flashing her ass for everyone to see. He pulled out his tackle and asked me if I wanted to lick at that. So I did, and he held me by the hair and fucked my throat. Then while I crouched on hands and knees, they took it in turn to bugger me while their friends had their cocks sucked at the other end. They stank of alcohol and piss, and they were so fucking strong and brutal - I had a hard-on every moment of the ordeal. They laughed at that. They threatened to cut it off, because a bitch shouldn't have a pizzle. They stood round me when they had finished and made me bring myself off, and then eat my spunk off my hands. I was nearly shitting myself in fear. They all had knives.

'Finally they tied my wrists to my knees and left me crouched there in the potter's yard, unable to move. I was one huge bruise from head to foot. My commanding officer had to send a team of stretcher-bearers to get me back to barracks the next day. But I still had a hard-on. Turn over, sir.'

Without thinking, Veraine rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. Arioc had set down the strigil and his hands were cupped full of oil. He looked down at Veraine's body. Veraine followed the line of his gaze.

Arioc raised his eyebrows.

Veraine looked uneasily at the tumescent length of his half-erect cock, stirring on his belly. As they watched a surge ran up it, and it visibly thickened.

His smile illuminated Arioc's beautiful features like a light. 'I told you, you were tense,' he murmured. Oil dripped from his long fingers. He reached out to touch the general's member.

'No,' said Veraine, very clearly.

The smile became mocking. 'Don't tell me you've never fucked a man, sir?'

'Not recently.'

'I didn't think you could be the only virgin in the Eighth Host.'

'I prefer women,' said Veraine through bared teeth.

'That's alright. I don't like officers.' Arioc looked down at his own quite obvious bulge. 'We can be flexible.'

Veraine sat bolt upright, trying to parry the reaching hand, but he was far too slow. And as Arioc's oiled fingers closed around his aching length, he forgot why he had any objections. A groan escaped from his throat. The muscles of his stomach clenched and jumped.

'That's better, sir,' Arioc said, kneeling up beside him to get both hands engaged. His grip was firm and knowing, as efficient as his massage. One slim patrician hand worked up and down the shaft, while the other cupped and flexed his scrotum. Veraine imagined hot lead had been poured into his balls; they felt heavy and fit to burst. Unhurriedly, Arioc worked his foreskin back down from the head of his cock, revealing the flushed and angry dome and the slitted eye from which milky fluid was already seeping. And Veraine, who had never intended or anticipated this, could only be grateful that somebody - anybody - was taking in hand the demanding, raging beast that jerked and danced between his legs. He leaned back against his braced arms, eyes closed, feeling the blood begin to boil in his veins.

'You're gagging for it,' Arioc observed.

Veraine forced his eyes open. The young man's head was bowed reverentially over his toil, his hand alternating between a blur of movement and slow, masterful strokes that made the general bite his lip in frustration. Arioc's glossy black curls quivered to the rhythm of his pumping muscles. Veraine struggled for speech.

'That's enough,' he managed to say.

Arioc looked up at him sharply and shook his head, the quirk of his lips expressing sheer wickedness.

'That's enough, soldier!' Veraine rasped, and this time his voice held the bite of command. 'Up against the wall!'

Arioc released him, crossed the room in two long strides and slapped his hands hard against the plaster, head bowed. Veraine rolled off the table to his feet, glanced around the room and found what he wanted; a short-bladed knife on the pile of linen to be used for rags. He walked up behind Arioc,  surveyed the young man's back for a moment, then hitched the knee-length tunic up and cut through the cords of the loin-cloth beneath. He was sloppy with the knife, nicking Arioc's skin over the hip. The young man shuddered like a horse on the battlefield.

Veraine threw both blade and shredded cloth to the floor and placed both hands on the other man's arse, feeling the muscle hard under the sculpted planes of the skin.

'Spread your legs,' he growled. Arioc jerked his feet apart on the flagstones. Veraine slid his thumbs into the cleft of his buttocks, finding tight, shiny skin and wiry hairs and - very quickly - the clenched muscular ring of his anus. He guided the head of his own cock to that aperture and without pause or warning shoved nearly the full length of his member hard into it.

It was a good job that Arioc had slathered him in oil, because that orifice was far drier and tighter than a woman's sex. The chariot-driver jerked beneath him and made a noise that might have been a sob, but did not cry out. Veraine rested for a moment against his back, bemused temporarily by its muscularity, by the narrowness of the hips under his hands. He laid his cheek against the youth's raven-black locks. 'Comfortable?' he asked sarcastically.

Arioc made a whining noise in his throat.

Veraine considered abusing him verbally, but impatience got the better of him. Though the young man would probably appreciate it, Veraine was not interested in giving a performance or indulging the other's tastes. He wanted to come. He wanted to shoot his load into that tight grip and fill the man's arrogant arse with his jism and that was all.

He reached round and found the other man's erection, proud as a battle-standard. He slapped it once, stingingly, with his flat palm and then let it fall back to rest there. It felt surprisingly good. Arioc's cock, like Arioc, was slim and elegant. Veraine gripped it firmly, knotted his other arm around the other man's belly and began to fuck him strong and hard. Arioc groaned, spread his legs wider and opened up to him, taking it to the hilt. The grip on Veraine's cock pulsed and clenched and new spaces unfurled about it, the incredible heat and softness and yielding caress of that interior world sending bolts of fire up the invading member and into his spine. He thrust pitilessly and came at last with a snarl, barely conscious of the alien prick spasming under his hand.

He pulled out after only a moment's rest, before his tumescence had subsided, and stood panting, surprised at the effort the act had wrung from his body. Arioc leaned against the wall, wiping the sweat from his face. Snail-trails glistened beside him on the plaster, where his own ejaculate had bespattered the wall.

'Well, I do feel better for a good fuck, you were right,' Veraine nodded, trying to calm his ragged breathing. 'But if you ever disobey an order again like that, soldier, I will have the chariot-pole rammed up your insubordinate arse. Understand?'

'Yes sir,' said Arioc meekly.

Sunday, 18 October 2015

And breathe...


So I finished my tax form late last night and had a giddy 45 seconds :-)

Then I remembered I have a short horror story, the Falling Deep novella, and the sequel to Cover Him with Darkness to finish. NOW.

Gaaaah...


Friday, 16 October 2015

Nightmare art

Nicolai Abildgaard: Nightmare (1800)

Coincidentally, two stories I've worked on this month - The Sorcerer's Apprentice and a Lovecraftian horror I'm doing under my other alias - have themes that overlap. Both are concerned with the folklore of sleep and nightmares.


There is a well-known phenomenon called sleep paralysis, that has - all over the world - given rise to legends of monsters. Basically, when you are asleep your body becomes partially paralysed to stop you sleepwalking, talking out loud or otherwise acting out your dreams. Some people partially wake up while still in this state, and find they can't move or speak. What's more there is often the sensation of pressure on their chests (because they can't control their breathing muscles) and a sense of danger in the immediate vicinity. Dream imagery can continue even when the mind thinks it is wide awake, resulting in visual hallucinations of ghosts, demons or aliens looming over you, or even sitting on your chest.

Or face...


The most famous depiction in Western art of this is by Henry Fuseli:

The Nightmare (1781)

It was such a masshoosively successful painting that he painted several different versions, with increasing floppy and bare-breasted women, to increase sales:

The Nightmare (1790)

The demon on the woman's chest is derived not only from actual anecdotes of sleep paralysis, but also via medieval lore of the Incubus (from the Latin "to lie upon") which is a demon that sexually molests women in the night. The female equivalent (or form) - responsible for erotic dreams and nocturnal hard-ons even among the most chaste of monks and saints - is the Succubus ("to lie under").


Charles Walker: The Incubus (1870)

Fuseli's Nightmare has become so iconic that it was ripped off by artists, contemporary political satirists and then early photographers:

Boobies! And a monkey!
There are still many versions being created even today - just Google it if you dare.


I suspect that it is also entirely Fuseli's fault that we connect the word "nightmare" with actual horses (thank you, Dungeons and Dragons, for that personal confusion). The "mare" bit actually derives from Mara, which is Old Norse name denoting that hag-like spirit who plagues people and livestock in the night. It has nothing to do with equines.


And yet there is Fuseli's horse sticking its nose in ... ! (Much play has been made by critics, btw, of the "phallic nature" of the horse's head, "thrusting through" the curtains. Because if a woman is having a bad dream then it must be about sex, I guess. Women in art have to be sexualised, because what else are they there for?)

Eugène Thivier: Le Cauchemar 1894
 Actually, it's pretty clear from another of Fuseli's pictures that the horse is there for the demon to make his getaway on:

 An Incubus Leaving Two Sleeping Women (1810)


(... and 1793) (Fuseli, btw, was perfectly capable of painting straight-up porn)

That sort of robs the little git of a lot of his menace, I feel - he can't even disappear back to Hell under his own power! Maybe he gave up his job in embarrassment and made way for this sexier, scarier version:

Fritz Schwimbeck - My Dream, My Bad Dream. (1915)

Wednesday, 14 October 2015

Seven G.I.s

Teehee! Another of my Japanese covers is revealed (hot on the heels of, ahem, Perversion in the Library). My short story Pussy Hunt which first appeared in greedy-girl collection My Boyfriend's Boy Friends has become Shichinin no G.I. - which translates as Seven G.I.s.

Shades of Seven Samurai? Fewer deaths and way more fucking, I promise!

Monday, 12 October 2015

Blue Monday: Lucy Felthouse guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week my guest is Lucy Felthouse, who must be one of the busiest people I know - writing, editing AND marketing other writers. I want some of what she is on! This excerpt is from her new novel Eyes Wide Open, which is a M/M/F BDSM erotic romance.


An ordinary girl catapulted into an extraordinary world meets two even more extraordinary men—but what will she do when she discovers their sexy secret?

Fiona Gillespie moved to London shortly after graduating to take advantage of the opportunities the capital could offer. But working at the Totally Five Star London is just the beginning. She adores the role and flourishes, impressing her bosses and making her increasingly determined to climb the career ladder.

While her career is flying, though, her love life is non-existent. She hasn’t even thought about men, never mind met or dated one for months, so when she bumps into two gorgeous businessmen in the hotel, she’s surprised to find her head has been well and truly turned. Even more surprisingly, they flirt with her—both of them! 

When a misunderstanding leads Fiona to James and Logan’s sumptuous top-floor suite, she has no idea what she’s about to uncover.



His hot mouth was just as skillful between her legs as it had been on her neck, shoulder and lips, and not being able to see what he was doing served only to heighten the sensations. With an enthusiasm that told her he enjoyed being with women just as much as men, he ran his tongue the length of her slick seam, delving deep. Murmuring contentedly, which caused little tremors to run across her swollen labia and clit, he parted her pussy lips with what she guessed were his thumbs, and gave a long, slow lick, before pulling away and blowing on the wet skin.

Chills skated across Fiona’s entire body, and her pussy clenched. Christ, but he knew how to tease! And she couldn’t even encourage, plead or beg, because her mouth was otherwise occupied. It was obvious to her that the two of them had done this before. It was a tried and tested method, one that left the lucky woman they were sharing in a position where she had to lie back and take it. But Fiona was most definitely not thinking of England. In fact, she could barely think at all. She was being bombarded by all these feelings and sensations, and she was sure that the moment James’ tongue touched her clit, she’d be spiraling into an orgasm that she felt she’d been building toward for hours.

Apparently, she wasn’t going to find out if she was right. Not just yet, anyway. James moved his mouth away, and his thick fingers entered her pussy, probing and stretching, though she was so wet that he could have penetrated her with his cock with no trouble at all. She’d have accommodated him easily and, more than anything, that was what she desperately wanted at that moment in time. There was a cock in her mouth, jerking away and continuing to lace her taste buds with salty pre-cum, and she wanted one in her pussy, too.

Digging her nails into Logan’s pert buttocks, humming around his shaft and tilting her hips in one movement, she hoped to spur the two men to some kind of action. She was suspended on the very edge of climax, and her arousal was rapidly turning to frustration. She just wanted to come, just once, then they could carry on doing whatever they wanted. But the pressure that built and raged inside her wanted out, and fast.

Bucking her hips again, and clawing at Logan’s buttocks, Fiona now grunted around the invasion between her lips. Come on! she screamed silently. For Christ’s sake, make me fucking come!

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Logan slowed his movements and let out a chuckle. “Seems we’ve got a little wildcat on our hands here, doesn’t it, mate?”

“It does,” came the reply. “She’s jerking against my face like she’s in a fucking rodeo or something. Think she wants to come?” He continued to finger-fuck her as he spoke, feeding more and more pleasure into her system, but just not quite enough to tip her over.

“I think she’d love to come,” Logan all but purred, pushing his cock deeper into her throat than he’d ventured before, making her fear for her gag reflex. But he was apparently a pro in that department, too, and didn’t go too far. “And you know what? I think she’s probably earned it, don’t you? Just one orgasm, to get her started.”

Get me started? Holy fuck, how long are these two planning to carry on for?

“All right,” James said amenably. Angling the tips of his fingers, he stroked and pressed at her G-spot, then took her clit between his lips and began sucking. Lightly at first, which fanned the embers of her climax and turned them into gently flickering flames. Then, satisfied that she was used to the sensation, he licked the aching bud, getting it plenty wet. Over and over he licked, before closing his lips around her again and sucking harder, increasing the pressure at the same time as he upped the speed with which he stimulated her G-spot.

The gently flickering flames grew higher, brighter, hotter, and Fiona sucked in shaky, hasty breaths through her nostrils as her chest heaved. She was hanging over the edge now, just the merest thread stopping her from plummeting into the abyss.

“She’s close,” James said, his voice husky, laden with his own arousal. “Really close.”

“Good,” Logan replied, his own voice a little shaky. “I am, too. I’m going to come between these sweet lips any second—” He stopped, let out a strangled sound. “Now!

Fiona’s world tilted on its axis. At the same time as her mouth was being filled by hot cum, her own climax ripped through her with a sudden, unexpected force that left her wildly grabbing for air. Black spots danced before her eyes as her abdomen undulated, her core clutching and spasming around James’ fingers and the flames now an inferno that raged along every nerve ending, leaving her completely burnt out.

“Shiiit,” James said, apparently the only one of them capable of speech. “If that’s the way she starts, I can’t wait to see how she carries on.”





Eyes Wide Open (Totally 5 Star London) is available in print from

Pride Publishing
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Barnes & Noble


Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of
subgenres and pairings, and has over 100 publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include several editions of Best Bondage Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica 2013 and Best Erotic Romance 2014. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies, and also edits for a small publishing house. She owns Erotica For All, is book editor for Cliterati, and is one eighth of The Brit Babes. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9

Sunday, 11 October 2015

Friday, 9 October 2015

The Sorcerer's Apprentice


Behold! - the artwork by Dayv Caraway for my very own story in the forthcoming Libidinous Zombie anthology. Isn't it cool? :-D

The Sorcerer's Apprentice starts with this line:
"Mr Deverick kept a woman in the penthouse suite. In a cage."
It's a story that's just a bit too mean and nasty for any normal collection. I should know; I wrote the earlier version for Fierce Enchantments and then had panicky second thoughts and held it back. But it is perfect for an erotic horror anthology. It's found its true home!

And I'm so looking forward to hearing it read aloud. Mwahahahahah!