Boo Monday: Halloween flash!

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment! Since today is Halloween I wrote a special little piece of flash fiction...

 

Frank Bernard Dicksee - Romeo and Juliet (1894)

I Cannot Sleep

by Janine Ashbless

I lie in my bed, thinking of you in yours. I cannot sleep tonight. Tomorrow’s dawn is the very one we have been waiting for, the time of our promise. As the church bells ring for Lauds over the city squares, and the pigeons descend to bathe in the fountains in the first golden light of morning, we are to meet at the back door of the inn. I have already paid off the ostler and he will have two horses waiting for us.

I picture you lying in bed, your dark hair tumbled all around you upon the pillows. Your nightgown is loose and very thin, for I have seen the candle-light shine through its fine weave when you made your way up the stairs to your chamber, lingering to sweep the room with your eyes, searching me out for one last glimpse. I imagine it crumpled between your parted thighs, damp with the heat of your body, barely covering that precious mound of sweet dark curls where your fingertips linger. I imagine the silken weave puckered by the stiff points of your breasts and rising with each heave of breath, each stifled cry. You are impatient for our nuptials, my love, I know that. In the midst of all our secrets—our clandestine meetings in corridors and under stairways, our fortuitous attendances at feasts and masses together, the  surreptitious dropping of notes and flowers—in the midst of all those, you never made any secret to me of your passion.

When we kissed, your fingers would graze across the tight fabric of my hose, seeking out the stiffening flesh and provoking it to indignities. You’d seize my hand and, tugging open the stiff cordage at your bosom, press my fingers to the hot soft breasts beneath your shift, until it seemed I would catch fire from sheer joy. Once, indeed, you knelt and let me rub my hard cock in the sweet cleft between those two pillowy delights, encouraging me with kisses until I flooded forth on their heavenly spheres. Then, giggling, you laced up your linens and your wools over the dew I’d shed, letting it run down the vale of your cleavage. And I knew that all day you would carry me around with you like a secret kiss, my scent imprinted on your flesh.

Do you remember the day I came into the room while you were sitting on the windowsill conversing with your cousins in the courtyard below? You gestured me to your side, and as you bent over the deep stone sill, your arms braced—even as you laughed and chattered with your cousins—I knelt in the shadows, out of sight of the window, and ran my hand up the inside of your thighs all the way to the sacred cleft at their head. I stroked your puss, the softest and sleepiest of small animals, until it woke in my hand and sucked my fingers into its wetness. There are no words for how hot and tight and sweet that creature was, nor how wet it ran at my caresses, until your words and your laughter grew breathless and I think even your bone-headed cousins must have wondered at the little squeaks and sighs you made, and the sudden thrilling yelp that you blamed upon your kitten clawing your ankle.

The memories, and the thought of you now, have made sleep impossible for me. It is still dark, but my cock stands in premature salute of a dawn that has not yet come.  I want to run to you now my love—your balcony is not so very high, and the climb not so very difficult; I’ve considered it often and often. I want to steal you away, but first I want to find you in your bed, muzzy-headed with sleep and appetite, and I want to kiss your plump lips and part your soft thighs and put the my iron-hard share to the furrow between them—then plough you until we both cry out.

I can’t sleep. It is still dark, but I can’t wait. So I will get up from my bed and come to you. From this muddy ditch behind the tower where your cousins threw me after they cut my throat. From my bed, my grave—to find you, and to keep my promise.

Oh, What's That in the Hollow? - Edward Robert Hughes (1851-1914)

Samhain

Because the pagan/natural cycles are woven into my Lovers' Wheel series, I'm taking a look in 2016

at the four great Celtic fire festivals, the most important points of the neo-pagan year. I've covered Imbolc,  Beltane and Lammas previously, so now we've got to the end of the autumn with the most famous pagan festival of the lot.

SAMHAIN (meaning "summer's end" and pronounced "SOW-in") is celebrated from sunset on the 31st October through to sunset on the 1st November - in more modern parlance, it's Hallowe'en. It's the festival that welcomes the dark days of Winter. It is a time to retreat to the fireside, hide away from the dark, and give thought to the dead who have gone before us. And maybe to welcome those ancestors back into our homes for a little while....

Caspar David Friedrich: The Cemetery Entrance, 1825

It is however, at root an agricultural festival (as are all the others). Samhain marks the end of the harvest, just as Lammas marks its beginning. There's little left to gather in now except the last apples (see below), so TBH that's it folks. If you haven't already grown and stored enough crops to tide you through the winter AND for next year's planting, then you are facing not just winter's punishing cold but also slow, inevitable starvation. In older days, this was the time of year to bring the animals down out of the far/high pastures and slaughter the majority of them for salting and smoking, because you just haven't got enough hay to keep them all alive. So Samhain ushers in November: Blotmonath in Old English: the "month of blood" or "slaughter month".

Several Irish legends suggest human slaughter at Samhain in the legendary past - sacrifices to dark powers, and the fated death of kings.

Daniel MacleseL Snap-Apple Night (1833)

Apples feature hugely in Hallowe'e'n folklore, because they are available in abundance at this time of year, and because in Celtic mythology they are associated with the Otherworld (and they are also associated in Christian and Classical mythology with immortality, temptation and women). Apples, among other objects, were used in the many rites of magical divination practiced on Samhain (mostly by young women, as ever):

"Peel an apple in one long strip, then throw this over your shoulder: when you look at the fallen peel it will spell out the initials of your future husband."


Just as on May Eve, its counterpart, Samhain is a night when the walls between the worlds grow thin and things can move between this world and the next. May Eve, however, is primarily associated with Fairy visitation, whereas Samhain is strongly associated with the human Dead. For ancestor-worshippers, communing with the dead might be disturbing, but it made sense. Your relatives still took an interest in you even when they were in the grave, so you'd set a place for them at the table, light them home with candles, and generally be ready to chat.

John Everett Millais: "Speak! Speak!" : The Apparition

 For Christianity, all this necromancy was a bit more problematic. Who were you were communing with, if all the dead were safely penned up in Hell, Heaven or Purgatory? They gamely tried, in 835AD, to nullify all the uncanniness by renaming Samhain day (1st November) All Saints - or All Hallows - Day ... hence the word Hallowe'en ("All Hallows Evening"). The emphasis officially switched to praying for the souls of the departed. No spooky stuff allowed.

Yeah, that worked...

It fell about the Martinmas
The nights were long and dark
Three sons came home to Ushers Well
Their hats were made of bark
That neither grew in forest green
Nor on any wooded rise,
But from the north side of the tree
That grows in Paradise.

...
Then up and crowed the blood red cock
And up and crowed the grey.
The oldest to the youngest said
"It's time we were away;
For the crow does crow and the day doth show
And the channerin worm doth chide
And we must go from Ushers Well
To the gates of Paradise."

(The Wife of Usher's Well, Child Ballad 79)

Arthur Rackham: Ghosts at Cock-crow

The well-known modern link between Hallowe'en and Witches is actually less genuinely traditional than is the link with the Dead (May Eve was the real witchy festival in most of Europe). But there's strong evidence of some sort of Winter Goddess in Celtic areas - the Cailleach Bheur or Hag - so this point on the wheel of the year would be when the world enters the Hag's domain.

William Blake: Triple Hecate (1795)

Remember that the feminine avatars of the other festivals are the girl-child in white (Imbolc), the sexually alluring young woman (Beltane) and the sacrificial mother (Lughnasadh)? So it makes sense that this festival is symbolised by the figure of an aged woman full of dangerous - even forbidden - knowledge. 

Edward Frederick Brewtnall: Visit to the witch (1882)

The Lesson before the Sabbath (1880); Louis-Maurice Boutet de Monvel

For Neopagans, Samhain is when the Great Goddess puts on her Hag aspect, personifying wisdom, endurance and death. The God, her son/consort, has vanished from the earth and will not be reborn until Midwinter; they will not be reunited as lovers until Spring. Some pagans count it as the last day of the year.

Halloween has become a commercialised festival in the USA now, with the happy addition of pumpkins and spice, and the retailers are doing their best to spread the custom to the rest of the world via the viral medium of small children wanting sweets.  But just remember when you go out trick-or-treating, you are taking part in a spiritual ritual older than the USA, older than England ... and that you might be stirring up things you cannot handle...

Bat-Woman by Albert-Joseph Penot, circa 1890 .

:-D

"Go read this. Now."

My poor Orphan Books are getting some more love!

There's a review of Summer Seduction gone up today on the Caldwell Publishing blog -  and it starts:

 "Holy moly ravioli! I’m not sure how this book isn’t on everybody’s bookshelf already. I don’t even know where to begin ... Mystery, suspense, history, myth—it’s all there. I sat down and read this in one sitting because I was just so into it. "

Full review here

Meantime, Samantha MacLeod has gone on to review the second book in the Lovers' Wheel series. She loved Summer Seduction - what did she think of Falling Deep?

"Falling Deep basically takes everything I liked about Summer Seduction and turns it up to 11 ... The world gets more interesting, the threats intensify, and the characters become darker and complicated. All I can say now is: BRING ON WINTER!"

 Full review here

 THANK YOU, Caldwell Books and Samantha MacLeod! XXX
(and yes, *Yorkshire accent*: "WINTER IS COMING" ... just not very quickly. It'll have to wait  for those pesky fallen angels, lol)

Blue Monday: Sonni de Soto guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Sonni de Soto, whose story Odd Man appears in brand-new anthology For the Men.

The Sexy Librarian, Rose Caraway presents an anthology intended for the fellas and the women who have an appetite for bold, adventurous erotic storytelling. Escape into the fantastic, the outlandish, and the literary. Get ready for; a space pirate, a cowgirl, an anxious odd man out, an undercover agent, lonely ghosts, a taxi driver with an unexpected topsy-turvy fare, a burly biker who just wants to be cuddled, a bride-to-be with one last oat to sow, The Devil offers a golden deal, a mysterious hitchhiker, strangers and a spontaneous three-way, and a reluctant hitman. You will find these and many more audacious characters playing out intense encounters.

---

Take a drink. A deep one. Maybe two.

You’ll feel every eye on you as you enter the room. The collective turn of their heads will sound deafening to you. You’ll curse every Norwegian gene in your body that makes you flush choir-boy red. You’ll think you hear snickers—some sniggering gossip being spouted behind you as you move.

You’ll see them together, sitting as they wait for an open space. She’ll wave at you—wave you over.

Your brain will stall. Your lip will curl as your body literally revolts at the thought of sitting there while you all wait, the weight of your discomfort and the suffocatingly crowded space pressing all three of you tightly together.

Take another sip. Then suck it up and sit with them.

But you won’t. And you know it. Instead, with a casualness that fools only you, you’ll shake your head and stand far off.

She’ll frown again—her lips better suited for a smile or a kiss will wilt. You’ll wonder how to fix this.

But then he’ll whisper in her ear and make her smile again.

Problem fixed.

Take a drink.

The booze will buzz you enough to not notice as they step up to an open space. Even though nothing can dull the sound of her laughter—like bubbling joy—as he leads her forward.

The room will glow red as you see his hands on her as he pushes her—practically shoves her—down onto the kneeling bench, her slim, willowy waist connecting hard against the edge—stealing her breath.

About to step in, you’ll stop as her gaze—direct and denying—hits yours, her head shaking as her glorious curls shudder with the slight shake of her head. You’ll step back, even though it feels wrong.

You’ll do it because you love her.

Remember. You love her.

You’ll force your stiff muscles to stand down. You’ll force your ready feet to be still. You’ll tell your eyes that they’re seeing lies, watching a game—talked about and agreed upon. You’ll try to tell your heart and head that this is what she wants.

He will strip her. In a humiliating fashion, he’ll rip, rend and ruin her clothes from her, bare her beauty like trash to the room full of spectators. You’ll grimace as she’s roughly handled. Grabbed at with careless, hard paws that bruise and batter.

You’ll think it impossible that someone—anyone—could look at the goddess before them and abuse her.

But you’d be wrong.

He will strike her. Her shoulders. Her back. Her ass. Her legs. He’ll use his hands—those calloused and hardened slabs of meat—a long-tailed beast of a whip that bites at her beautiful skin, a long wooden paddle that mars the golden sheen of her flesh.

All the while, you’ll hear her cries. Her sobs. Her pleas. And, feeling bound, trapped, tied to the wall, you won’t be able to help her, held still by your word. You’ll see her tears and feel your own threaten behind unblinking eyes. You’ll peer closer, worried that things have gone too far—farther than you should have let them ever go.

You will regret this.

The telltale signs—the sighs that escape her Cupid’s bow lips, the heated flush of her flesh, the arch and curve of her body as it stretches for ecstasy—will all be there. Plain, as if on display.

All the show of struggle and the play of pain will vanish—melt under the light of your scrutiny. Her breasts—heavy and full—will thrust out, begging for a touch that he’ll give—stinging as it pinches—that you never gave and you’re not sure you ever could. Your eyes will try to deny—seek to blind themselves to the fact—that there between her tense and taut thighs will be a peek of wetness gathered along the impossibly soft skin.

Your heart—and cock—will twitch.

She’ll scream, the sound agonized and orgasmic, a familiar, undeniable sound. You’ll feel it like a slice to the heart as that seductive sound reaches out to stroke the men in the room. The knife you feel chest-deep will twist as her body tenses under Rand’s rough contact so different from your own careful, meticulous touch.

Brace yourself for the betrayal. It will hurt.

But not nearly as hard as the need burning involuntary inside. A Pavlovian reaction to the sight and sound of her pleasure. A Pantalone violation, your own body’s added element—the very last, damning ingredient—to your public humiliation.

The same scorch of desire incinerating you will light with lust in the eyes of the crowd as they watch her naked form twist and thrust mindlessly, helplessly against Rand’s relentless hands. Your eyes won’t be able to ignore as men touch and adjust and appease erections rising as she pants and pleads. Your dry eyes will tear as you feel their need like your own as you listen to her beg for release.

Leave.

Please. Get up and leave the room.

Exit the club, if you can.

If not, get another drink. Get two more. Bathe your blood in it so that, maybe when she finds you at the bar, you won’t feel her disappointment and fury like daggers at your back.

When she turns to apologize to Rand with a kind, consolatory hand to his shoulder as he frowns with disappointment, try not to look too proud at the bright idea that wasn’t exactly yours. No one likes a gloater.

And it will just make you feel worse when you see them share a long, lingering, goodbye kiss. Their lips and tongues—their hands and bodies—will touch. Your hand will clench at glass as he touches her hair, his fingers tangling in the voluminous curls. You’ll watch his other hand—the massive mitt—cup her cheek possessively. As if she’s his. You’ll choke on dregs as her hand touches his chest—a mirrored touch that burns like a memory over your own heart.

You’ll hear your wife—your love, your life—laugh softly, conspiringly, sure it’s at your expense, as you wait for her to finally return to you.

When she does, relinquish your keys readily—it is her car too and, while not drunk—you’re not drunk—you won’t be able to safely say you could get home in one piece. Or at least, not pulled over. You don’t need a ticket to top off the night.

---

Buy For the Men at
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iTunes

Sonni de Soto's Website
Facebook
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Lucky for some

It's my 13th Wedding Anniversary this weekend!
(We've actually been a couple since 1988, but it took us a long time to get married because we are really lazy).

The fab fantasy portrait above of Mr Ashbless and me was painted by our very talented friend the Nibjockey - who can also be found fronting for his muse/alter ego the Monkey Ghost over on FB. Thank you Matt!

Now I'm going to be busy for a few days celebrating. Back Monday :-)

Dream a little dream

Kacziány Aladár (1887-1978): A Dream

Back in the Olden Days, when I first started writing for Black Lace, they had a set of instructions for novels that specifically told you not to use dream sequences because erotica was already a fantasy, and they didn't want a fantasy-within-a-fantasy.

Naturally I ignored this rule.

In fact, if anyone ever does a college course on The Writings of Janine Ashbless, at some point in the utopian future, there's probably a whole essay in unraveling my use of dreams.

From the get-go I have used dreams in my novels, for many different reasons - as an inciting incident, to establish character, to foreshadow events, to reveal psychological truths, and (within supernatural fiction) as a sort of alternative reality that allows the characters to interact with each other.

In my very first novel, Divine Torment, our warrior-hero General Veraine has a dirty dream about the high priestess after meeting her for the first time (and being intrigued, but not overly so). That dream sparks a sexual obsession that drives the whole book, and then its sequel.

My novel Wildwood opens with a dream-sequence, because the editor asked for prologue which throws the reader into the thick of the action. I gave him a bonkers Arthur-Rackhamesque scene of fairies and woodland sex, during which lovers Avril and Ash are attacked by the malevolent Michael. Then Avril wakes up in Michael's bed - next to him and his fairy lover - and stares out of the window wondering where Ash is. That scene, which is actually a flash-forward to a pivotal episode later in the book, establishes the supernatural/fairy/woodland theme and the bitter love-triangle. All before the first chapter.

In The King's Viper (which is a non-supernatural romance) there is only one brief dream-sequence, but it is the first time that virginal Ella is shown to have some truly wild fantasies about the man she has a secret crush on. This is not just an innocent love!

I've already blogged about how the whole Lovers' Wheel Quartet was inspired by a dream I had years ago. Interspersed with the main narrative and its sexual and supernatural shenanigans, Liz is also carrying on a strange (and seemingly disconnected) affair in her dreams with a mysterious red-headed man who seems to be caught between life and death. In these books the dream-thread is a vital part of the plot and will have far-reaching, tragic consequences.

And in the Book of the Watchers trilogy, Milja has been at the mercy of demon-inspired sex-dreams throughout her life. Later on she finds that her developing powers as a witch allow her to create dreams which she can drag both angels and humans into at her whim - usually for sex with her Fallen Angel lover Azazel, but sometimes for more practical (and occasionally ruthless) purposes.

These dreams are not entirely under her control though. Sometimes they are prescient, offering clues to situations that are yet to arise, or places she has yet to visit. Sometimes she comes back from these "dreams" with mud on her feet. Dreamspace acts as an ambiguous spiritual world with its own rules and masters, and is never quite predictable.


Why am I so interested in dreams? I think it's because its the most powerful way we actually have, in this life, of escaping into fantasy realms just as we imagine doing in fiction. We take it for granted because we all do it all our lives, but when you stop to think about it, dreaming is REALLY REALLY WEIRD. It is conscious existence beyond the material realm, and that is just freaky.

Do I have naughty dreams myself? Of course I do - though not as often as I'd like ;-)

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

During October I've been showcasing bits from my vampire erotica novel Red Grow the Roses. Well today's excerpt is from the short story Amuse-Bouche, which can be read as a standalone but is also a sequel to that novel. It appeared in The Visitor; an anthology of vampire erotica

Rose, a teenaged hitch-hiker, has been picked up by a wealthy couple and taken to a very expensive hotel for the night...

---

  
She was combing out her wet hair when Amanda walked in.
  
'There,' she said, coming up behind Rose in the mirror. 'That colour suits you better than it does me. I just look so washed-out these days.' Without asking permission she adjusted the straps at Rose's shoulders and smoothed the silken slip over her waist and hips.

Rose was both flattered and irritated. She thought she looked better than Amanda too. Of course I do – I'm much younger for a start. 'You and Reynauld,' she said, pouting her lips and looking with satisfaction at her reflection. 'Is he your boyfriend then?'

 'My employer. And yes. We are lovers.'
    
Ugh. She's got to be at least forty. What does he see in her? And what a snotty way she has of talking, likes she thinks she's the Queen or something. 'Aren't you, like, a bit old for him?'
  
Amanda didn't answer for a moment and Rose, looking at her narrowed eyes, had time to wonder if maybe she'd been a bit rude, before the other woman said softly, 'He's older than he looks.'
  
 'What does he do, then?'
  
Amanda blinked and dropped her gaze. 'He used to work in the City. We're ... currently relocating.'
 
Banker, said Rose to herself: Boring. 'Are we going to eat, then?'
 
 'Yes. We're going to eat. Come on through.'
  
Amanda held the door and Rose preceded her into the bedroom. Half-a-dozen steps in, the girl realised that Reynauld was there, sitting on the bed with his hands at his side, waiting for them. Rose stopped dead, shock rippling across her skin. Against the crimson bedspread he looked as dark as a clot of congealed blood. His black shirt was open down the front so she could see his bare chest, and there was a look of patient anticipation on his face.
  
As Amanda's hands descended on her shoulders once more, cold and implacable, Rose felt all the air leave her lungs and her brain solidify into a solid useless mass. She couldn’t stop looking at Reynauld's torso. He had black hair etched across his chest and his flat hard stomach – not at all like Kyle, whose lithe body was smooth like polished wood, or like a girl's. There was nothing remotely feminine about this man, and Rose found herself appalled.
 
'Come here,' he said. His voice was soft and deep, like the voice of darkness itself. But not cool like Amanda's: warm with pleasure instead. His black eyes drank her in, as if he were sucking the light from her. Rose felt the hands at her shoulders push her forward. Her heart was rocketing with dread and with realisation: that this was what it had all been about, that this was what they had been planning since they stopped to give her lift. And though she felt sick with fear and raw with betrayal, at exactly the same time she knew a flush of wet and terrible heat between her legs, as if this was what she had been waiting for too.
 
'What do you think?' asked Amanda.
  
Very nice,' he answered. 'Show me her breasts.'
  
Deftly Amanda swept the thin straps off Rose's shoulders and reached round to heft her breasts from the fallen silk. Rose's nipples swelled to hard puckers of protest under the brush of her chill fingertips, and her thighs squirmed, trying to staunch the moisture welling there.
  
'Please,' she said breathlessly, lifting her hands. Amanda batted them away and cupped her breasts, pressing into her from behind with her own body. She was surprisingly strong. Rose found herself pushed forward almost into Reynauld's reach.
  
'Small tits,' said Amanda apologetically.
  
'Beautiful,' answered Reynauld. Lust was like a thick black tide brimming in his eyes and his voice. Rose could feel it sucking at her, and she knew that if he touched her she'd be pulled under and drowned. 'Rose,' he murmured, 'thank you for this.'
  
In addressing her, it was as if he gave her permission to emerge from her blank white shock and find words. 'You can't do this,' she said, her voice shaky. Then; 'I've got a boyfriend, you know.'
  
It was the stupidest of excuses and she saw amusement crease the corners of his eyes. 'Don't worry,' he promised; 'It'll be our little secret.' He didn't bother to hide the mockery as his lip curled and revealed an eye-tooth like a knife-point.
  
'Oh Christ,' she moaned.
  
Reynauld lifted a brow as if in mild disapproval of her blasphemy. 'Tell me about Kyle,' he said, his gaze enveloping hers. 'Tell me what you like to do with him.'
  
She couldn't. As she looked into the black depths of his gaze the warm darkness in him flowed into her, and she couldn't remember Kyle. Not his face or his voice or anything she thought about him. There was only this man, Reynauld.
  
'Do you enjoy making love together?'
  
'Yes.' She knew it was true, though she could recall no loving emotion. Just the lust. There was nothing else when she looked into Reynauld's eyes except lust – and surrender. She could feel the hot gather of her juices overflowing their cup and slicking her labia.
  
'Which position, Rose?'
  
'All of them.'
  
'Do you like to suck his cock?'
 
'Yes.'
  
'What about when he eats you?'
  
'Yes,' she answered, though she knew she was only gifting him the cruellest of punchlines.
  
He beckoned her with a crooked finger, and as she stepped unresisting between his knees he laid his hands upon her waist, caressing the smooth lines there. His fingers were cold too, but there was a perfect certainty in them. 'Do you like it,' he murmured, his lips parted hungrily, 'when Kyle sucks your breasts?'
 
'Yes,' she said, trembling in his grasp. She felt Amanda's hands close around her wrists and draw them back - the grip was not cruel, but it was unbreakable and she knew what it meant. And with her final admission, as if she no longer had any excuse or defence, his mouth closed upon her right nipple.
  
Teeth punctured skin. The pain was as sharp and exquisite as orgasm and Rose arched, gasping aloud. She felt his hands slide up round her back. Then the searing pain became a pleasure just as keen, just as jagged, racing through her capillaries and flooding her senses. He breast felt as if it were swelling beneath his ravenous kiss, red hot against his cold tongue. He bit her over and over, lightly and almost tenderly, and then he shifted to her other breast and bestowed the same benison, tugging and sucking the swollen point.
 
Rose sobbed with every tug and every pulse, panting wildly. She looked down at herself. She saw his dark head and his black lashes. She saw his clothes fall away from his shoulders, disintegrating to wisps and then to nothing, as if they were only woven of smoke, so that without the least effort he was suddenly naked. She glimpsed the bright smear of crimson, and then she shut her eyes and took refuge from that sight in the sensations that coursed through her, overwhelming all other instincts - even fear.
  
'Now,' said Reynauld thickly. He shifted and turned her to face outward, pulling her down into his lap and spreading her legs. She felt his hard chest against her back, the rasp of his legs against her silk-clad thighs, and then the nudge of his erection between them in that soft wet open cleft. With one arm he held her, with the other hand he guided his cock to its target. She thought she was so slick she should have been able to take him easily, but his girth came as a shock and she gasped as it stretched her.
  
'My Amanda does not yet have her new teeth,' he said, his voice wet, working his way into Rose with consummate, implacable care, his fingers dancing on her clit now. 'So I must bite for her. But you will find her kisses just as sweet as mine.'

---

Buy The Visitor at
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Surprise!

Magnificent Seven - the best bits

I am not going to review The Magnificent Seven because it's a crap movie and I can't bear to waste my time enumerating its flaws right from (A) its evisceration of all depth and emotion from the originals, through to (Z) Vincent D'Onofrio's worst acting moment EVER: I've seen better rip-offs of Boromir's death scene on a LARP adventure.

Look, it was fluffy entertainment and looked pretty. And these are the pretty bits I really enjoyed:

You have to admit, actors in westerns are getting better-looking.

Denzil Washington of course, as leader Chisolm:

And Chris Pratt gets an honourable mention in passing:

But a big HEY! to Lee Byung-hun as Billy Rocks, the knifeman:

Oh oh oh

 And in case you wondered what he looked like out of his costume:

Hell, I might even watch G.I. Joe now

But winner of Most Beautiful Man in the Movie is Martin Sensmeier as Red Harvest.

Strike that - he might be the Most Beautiful Man in the World. HAVE YOU SEEN HIM WITH LONG HAIR?

Okay, that's it - I need a little lie-down now!
Then I'm off to play Deadlands.

A Sinful Welcome

Josef Arpád Koppay: Another Victory for the Forces of Darkness, 1894

It's official - Here's the Sinful Press post welcoming me to their publishing family! I'm looking forward to a long and fruitful working relationship with them :-)

And by the way, since I'm 13K into Book Three: The Prison of the Angels at this point ... this is what I'm researching:

The Catacombs of Callixtus, Rome

I feel another *ahem* research-trip coming on...

Blue Monday: K D Grace guests

Every Monday I post a hot excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest author is no stranger to this blog: it's K D Grace with an excerpt from her hot new supernatural publication In the Flesh:

(Release blitz hosted by Writer Marketing Services - and there is an associated Rafflecopter Giveaway for you to enter!)

When Susan Innes comes to visit her friend, Annie Rivers, in Chapel House, the deconsecrated church that Annie is renovating into a home, she discovers her outgoing friend changed, reclusive, secretive, and completely enthralled by a mysterious lover, whose presence is always felt, but never seen, a lover whom she claims is god. As her holiday turns into a nightmare, Susan must come to grips with the fact that her friend’s lover is neither imaginary nor is he human, and even worse, he’s turned his wandering eye on Susan, and he won’t be denied his prize. If Susan is to fight an inhuman stalker intent on having her as his own, she’ll need a little inhuman help.

---

I stretched up just enough to brush his lips with mine. My nipples grazed his chest, warm and still bare from his own shower. The tingle of flesh against flesh coursed through me. Michael wasn’t in my head, wasn’t in my imagination. I could see firelight dancing over the rise and fall of a masculine landscape. I could smell him, the clean shower scent mingling with the tang of body heat. I could smell the ozone and musk of his arousal, could almost taste the yeasty humid spiking of his desire at the back of my tongue. I nearly wept with the solid muscle and bone feel of him—the bulging of a bicep as he lifted his hand to curl fingers in my wet hair, the tensing of his thighs as he shifted beneath me, the straining against the soft denim of his jeans—the very solid promise that his need was at least as great as my own

His mouth was both hard and soft, yielding to mine, intuiting my every move, tongue and lips, teeth and jaw. Was it because he was an angel, I wondered? My insides knotted at the thought, ice blooming next to fire. Did he also have some way of manipulating my needs, kindling my lust until I felt like I would burn if I didn’t get relief? Did he also have some sinister purpose hidden from me? Had I not looked up at the cold stone of his image just before I was attacked?

As though he read my thoughts, he tightened his fist in my hair and bit my lip, making me shudder with as much pleasure as pain. Then he raked his teeth down over my jaw to kiss and nuzzle my nape. There, against the hammering of my pulse, he whispered, “there’s nothing supernatural happening here, Susan. I’m flesh and bone, just like you."

He trapped my palm low on his belly, and his gaze locked on mine as he guided my hand down inside his waistband, sucking a harsh breath as I wriggled and twisted my fingers until I found him, deliciously commando. He was heavy and warm and smooth against my touch, like steel sheathed in silk

Impatient as I was, I tore open his fly with an awkwardness worthy of a teenager, causing him to flinch and grind and lift his hips toward me, as though that might ease my clumsiness, as though that might end his denim imprisonment more quickly. And when he was free in my hand, he bucked upward, nearly landing me on the floor in his efforts to get his jeans down over his arse and kick them aside. Then, one hand still fisted in my hair as though he feared I might try to stop his mouth from gorging on mine, he tossed the forgotten towel across the room, cupped my buttocks and stood.

I gave a little yelp of surprise and wrapped my arms and legs around his body, now as naked as my own. It was only a couple of steps to the bed, and he lowered me onto it with incredible control, still strategically positioned between my thighs with me grinding and shifting in a battle to get him where I needed him most. But he resisted, holding me completely and totally at his mercy. He nibbled the hollow of my throat as though there was no hurry, as though he could take all of eternity to explore my body, and he absolutely would if he decided to. He cupped and kneaded each of my breasts in turn, stroking and tweaking until my nipples peaked and ached and tingled.

Ignoring my squirming, what little I could manage from beneath him, embraced and held captive as I was, he slid a splayed hand down my belly and in between us, opening me with thick, calloused fingers, finding my need, stoking the flames, teasing me. In desperation, I reached for his erection, but he slapped my hand away and nipped my throat. “Be patient, Susan. I’m not about to mount you like an animal in rut. I understand flesh and blood, the drive of its life force. And,” he dropped a kiss onto my sternum, “I understand the deceit of divinity to which we’re all vulnerable.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care, goddamnit.” My voice was rough and barely audible, my throat was dry and achy as my mouth formed the words, breathing them almost soundlessly into his mouth. “I’ve been waiting, needing, wanting since I got to Chapel House. Please don’t make me wait any longer.”

And just when I was certain I’d go insane if I couldn’t get him inside me, just when I’d all but clawed a raw strip down his back and buttocks in an effort to get him where I needed him, he pulled away, rose up on his knees and looked down at me, breathing like he’d been running hard. “I don’t have to control your mind to pleasure your flesh. Say you want me, Susan, and I’ll know if you’re lying. I won’t take you until it’s me that you want, and not him.”

“Bloody hell,” I gasped, writhing beneath him like a python over a flame. “I want you, Michael, you fucking know that I want you. Please, don’t make me wait.”

And he didn’t.

---

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Voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes, K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about?

When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked Coast to Coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She also enjoys martial arts, reading, watching the birds and anything that gets her outdoors.
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Publication and new title news: In Bonds of the Earth

Wladyslaw Theodore Benda (1873-1948): Woman and Angel

WONDERFUL news - I've now signed the contract for the second novel in my Book of the Watchers series!

In Bonds of the Earth

(yes, new title! forget that old Valleys one!) will be published by Sinful Press in e-format and paperback. I am over the moon!

Sinful Press (how apt is that name, heh?) is a newcomer on the erotica scene, but is already the home of Sonni de Soto's Show Me, Sir, which I rate highly, and specialises in offbeat, well-written erotic fiction that is something more than just the genre norm.

Well, if you've read Cover Him with Darkness you'll know it is NOT just an erotic romp - it's a religious conspiracy thriller driven by a passionate and very unwise love affair. So I hope Sinful's going to be the perfect home for the rest of the series :-)

Oh -  you're wondering where the new title comes from, it's a quote from the Book of Enoch:

"And from henceforth you shall not ascend into heaven unto all eternity, and in bonds of the earth the decree has gone forth, to bind you for all the days of the world"

Orphan books

Some good news and some bad...

The good news is this LOVELY, fun review of Summer Seduction over at Samantha MacLeod's blog. She totally gets the C.S Lewis angle I started from!

Liz doesn’t exactly find a magical passage to Narnia waiting for her in Enniswitrin House… but what she does find might be even better.

The magical world Ashbless creates in Summer Seduction is fascinating and believable, in the way that dark, old fairy tales and myths are believable. And this is some seriously fabulous erotica; these are the most exciting and imaginative sex scenes I’ve read.

Thank you Samantha!

The bad news is that publisher Ellora's Cave is officially closing down. Which means that Summer Seduction and its sequel Falling Deep are going to be removed from sale at the end of the year. As is my very first dark romance The King's Viper (available in paperback btw, so grab it before it goes up to insane out-of-print prices), and gangbang romp In Appreciation of Their Cox

I guess I'll look into self-publishing them, since all rights are going to be reverted. And I do intend to finish the Lovers' Wheel quartet! But it will take a while to get everything back up on Amazon...

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

I'm continuing with the scareotica from my vampire novel Red Grow the Roses in the run-up to Hallowe'en. This excerpt is from story #4: Seven for the Seven Stars in the Sky - in which Jaqueline watches her cage-fighter husband willingly take take a beating from vampire Estelle.

'You sure, hero?’

‘Yes,’ he said through set teeth.

She backhanded him on the other cheek: this one drew blood, because she was wearing heavy silver rings. ‘Really sure?’
   
The breath hitched in his throat, but his cock didn’t falter. ‘Yes.’
  
The Boss laughed, low and delicious. Then, stepping back, she untied the suede belt from about her hips, looped it round her hand and swished it through the air. Leon clenched his jaw. The lash whipped out and snapped at him, right across both nipples, with a crack like something breaking. His head jerked, but he didn’t utter a sound.

‘Good,’ said she, lifting the belt again.

She whipped him on the chest and the back and the thighs. She whipped his clenched ass cheeks. She whipped each of his outstretched arms as if trying to pull him down from an invisible cross. She shortened the strap and beat him on the face. She snapped the very tip of the leather across his penis. She was fast and accurate and incredibly strong: she beat him over and over and didn’t tire, didn’t get sloppy, didn’t miss. Not once. Leon began to groan with every strike and roll his eyes, but he didn’t protest or lower his arms or flinch. His erection sagged – but only to half-mast. Sweat rolled down his body in rivulets, but she didn’t even start to perspire. And Jacqueline’s world turned upside down and inside out as she watched, appalled. She didn’t recognise this Leon. Her husband was a man who took shit from no one: she didn’t understand why he was kneeling there and soaking up the pain and the humiliation like that. What sort of man was he?

Then she looked round the other faces at the wire and knew they were all that sort of man. They were watching in avid wide-eyed silence, quivering at every blow, every one of them wanting to be up on that stage. Imagining themselves in his place. There was a strange charisma to his suffering: a nobility even. And the women – did they see themselves in the role of the Boss, or were they picturing themselves being punished? She couldn’t tell. She just knew that they were pressed to the mesh, mesmerised by the spectacle of her husband’s pain. One woman had pulled down the top of her designer gown and thrust her small breasts into the diamond gaps between the wires and was plucking at her big dark nipples. Jacqueline’s own body felt like it didn’t belong to her, awash with sensation that made no sense, off-balance and trembling, her sex swollen like rising dough despite herself.

At last, when the scarlet welts on Leon’s torso had melded into one burning glow, the Boss halted. She took his jaw in her hand and lifted his face, then stooped to as if to kiss him – but she wasn’t kissing his lips and his cheeks and his forehead: she was licking him, mouth wide, sucking the salt of his pain and the ooze of the little cuts left by the fight and her own hand, mumbling greedily at every gash and bruise. The whole crowd groaned low at that.

‘Can you take more?’ she growled, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were flashing now, her voice suddenly laced with an accent that sounded French. Jacqueline had always thought dominatrices were supposed to be ice-queens: not this one. She was far more fire than ice.

‘Yes,’ he rasped.

She picked him up. Jacqueline’s eyes widened, but she had ceased to balk at anything now; the line between possible and impossible had dissolved in Leon’s sweat. The Boss hefted him to his feet one-handed, gripping him under the jaw, and flung him down on his back on the bench where she’d sat before. Then she straddled his belly – her incredible legs taut now and bare to the thigh - and raked her nails down his chest, hard enough to bring blood welling up in breadcrumbs trails. She bent to lick her way up each red path from belly to heart, while the audience murmured. Then she opened her mouth wide and sank her teeth into his chest, framing his left nipple. Leon arched and jerked his legs: his cock rose from where it bounced on his thigh and stuck straight up, jabbing the woman in the rump. She lifted her head, eyes feral, and lips now much more red than black. Her own arousal was more subtle than his but equally shameless. Adjusting the fall of white satin at her groin, she pulled his cock to the hidden cleft of her sex and sat back hard, engulfing him.   

Jacqueline took a broken breath. She felt with all the envy of memory that cock filling her own hole.

‘Give me your hurt, hero,’ the Boss crooned, sinking her nails into his skin and making him spasm. ‘That’s right: give it up. Give it up to me.’ She started to rising and fall on his cock, slamming her hips down, and as she rode him – as she fucked him, because there was no doubt about who was active and who was recipient here - she dug the nails of one hand into his flesh and struck him with the other, aiming at his face. The heave of her hard round ass over his thighs was dazzling. Little barks of pain escaped Leon’s chest with every blow, a mindless animal noise, but he didn’t struggle. And she didn’t take long: her orgasm was on her swiftly, making her shudder and hiss and lose all rhythm and finally arch her back and nearly fall forward over him.

There’s no difference in their reactions, thought Jacqueline. If you’re watching, not feeling it, pain looks just like pleasure. You can’t tell them apart.

---

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