Monday, 24 October 2016

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.


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
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
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Sonni de Soto's Website

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