Friday, 18 August 2017

Smut Leeds

I'm all tied up with one thing and another at the moment...

But I managed a lovely day out at Smut in the City: Leeds last weekend!

I went there with Jennifer Denys - here she is being tied up by Zak Jane Kier:

It's research!
Zak did a fab "Diceman" workshop on using random factors which gave me a WHOLE new idea for a short story 😈😈😈 - now I just wish she'd write a book of random lists!

And Jennifer gave us a really interesting workshop on "What Shape of Writer Are You?" (More details here) I turned out to be a rectangle, to my surprise.

Rectangle: the flexible writer

  • Open-minded
  • Inquisitive
  • Courageous 
  • Growing

Sounds great, eh? Sadly us rectangles are easily distracted by real life and prone to being disheartened. I need to be more obsessive and sure of myself ;-)

To round off the day I ended up in Stephanie Robb's hogties.

A huge thanks is due of course to Victoria and Kev Blisse for working so hard to organise and host Smut: Leeds - there are lots more pics over on their Smut Website πŸ’–

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Out now: Dirty 30 Vol. 2

I'm over the moon! The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 Vol. 2  is available on Kindle NOW!

Amazon US
Amazon UK

The Sexy Librarian, Rose Caraway returns with another Library of Erotica, just for you. From Torrid Literature to BDSM, Fairy Tales to Orgies, Clandestine Military Adventures to Bi-Curious Rendezvous, this adventurous, and fantasy-filled collection is here to turn you on. So grab your partner and peruse the card catalog and see which sexy story catches your interest first. This is your very own, hand-held library! Explore this volume of Erotica to your libido's content.

There will be both print and audio versions out in due course, but in the meantime here's the opening of my own Viking story, Sweet Hel Below:

My brother killed me.

He didn’t mean to, of course. He only wanted to join in with all the other laughing, beer-giddy gods as they took it in turns to attack me and watch their weapons bounce off without even making contact. So when Loki sidled up to him, pressed the mistletoe dart into his hand and said “Here, I’ll guide your throw,” blind and trusting Hodur let him. The magical dart, sharp as iron, pierced my left eye and buried itself to the tip in my brain.

That is a story everyone knows. I’m telling a different one here.

They burnt me on a ship-pyre. The black smoke rose up and I blew away as soot. Then rain caught me and washed me down into the leaves of the World Tree, down the silvery bark to its roots, past mortal lands and the realms of fire and ice to the very lowest of the Nine Worlds. To Helheim.

Where else is there for a dead god to go?

I found myself facing a ravine full of raging water and churning sword blades. How wide that gulf stretched it was hard to tell; to my dismay the sight in my left eye had not returned to me. I walked the bank, stumbling sometimes, until I found a bridge with a roof of golden thatch. Guarding it was a blonde and lovely giantess almost twice my height, armed with shield and spear.

“What’s your name, traveler?” She grinned at me, looking me up and down in a way I’m quite familiar with.

“Baldur, Odin’s Son.”

“Baldur the Golden?” Her face fell a little. “I heard the news from Asgard. You may pass.”
I tried a smile. “I don’t have to fight you?”

“I am here to stop people getting out of Helheim,” she answered gently. “Follow the road north and downhill to find the Lady’s hall. But first, kiss me. Dead or not, I would have it said that Modgud was once kissed by Baldur the Beautiful.”

She knelt so that I could kiss her, though I fear my lips felt cold because her own felt so warm to me. I stroked her breasts until she began to sigh, feeling her big nipples rise to the kiss of my cool fingers and the heat thrum beneath her skin. Her heart beat harder. But then, with a sad laugh, she pushed me away.

“No more, alas, Odinsson. The Dead and the Living may not lie together.”

Amazon US
Amazon UK

Monday, 14 August 2017

Blue Monday: Oleander Plume guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Oleander Plume with an excerpt from her new book, Horatio Slice: Guitar Slayer of the Universe.

She says:
When Janine told me she needed an excerpt that was “The ruder the better!”, I rubbed my filthy hands together and laughed like a villain in a super hero movie. Here’s the thing, my book is not short on sex, in fact, it’s filled to the brim with it. Which made picking a scene kind of difficult. In the end, I chose this, which is a favorite of my editor, Jacob Louder. In this scene, Snake (space pirate/vampire) meets a werewolf sentry named Grif and a game of seduction begins…

Horatio Slice is NOT dead.
Gunner Wilkes knows a secret. Heartthrob rock star Horatio Slice is not dead. Sure, Gunner may turn heads with his big brain, good looks, and gym-built body, but his mind is on one thing only: returning his all-time favorite rocker and secret fanboy crush to Earth. 

Yes, there are VAMPIRE PIRATES
Fame and stardom were starting to wear thin for Horatio Slice, but when he was sucked through a magical portal while on stage at Madison Square Garden into a jail cell in a strange dimension called Merona, his confusion quickly cleared upon meeting his sexy, dark-haired cellmate, a vampire pirate named Snake Vinter, who filled Horatio in about life in the universe, jumping from dimension to dimension, and craftily avoiding the wrath of gnarly-mask-wearing leather queen King Meridian—a guy nobody wants to cross.

All the zany magical comedy of Mel Brooks, an adventure not dissimilar to Indiana Jones meets Barbarella, and men, men, horny men, of all shapes and sizes, Horatio Slice, Guitar Slayer of the Universe is wild, fun, pornographic fiction for anyone who loves the masculine, the feminine, and all identities in between. Even more so, it’s for cravers—for aficionados—of big, hard, pounding cock, and anyone who can handle laughs that won't stop coming.

Snake checked on Sugar and Canis, who were dead to the world. After putting on pants, he crept to the kitchen, pausing to throw a blanket over Horatio and Gunner before grabbing two beers and heading outside. The sentry turned out to be an auburn-haired hunk of a werewolf named Grif, who had a bushy tail that reached his ankles and a firm handshake. They drank their beers and shared small talk while leaning against the ship, gradually moving closer together. Grif was a mature wolf with a more powerful musk than Canis. Snake grew weak in the knees.

“Sexy tats, Snake. Sexy body, too.” Grif stared at Snake’s chest and used a finger to trace a tattoo.

“What does this one signify?”

“Sugar, my lover. Funny thing, they all say Sugar. Each tattoo spells out his name in different languages and symbols.”

“Sugar must be one hell of a mate. Tell me about him.”

“Let’s see, how do I describe Sugar?” Snake panted as Grif sucked his left nipple. “He’s a beautiful badass … yeah, suck my tits … keeps his lip gloss in the same holster that he keeps his gun.”

“What color are his eyes?” Grif licked a trail from Snake’s left nipple to his right.

“Green.” Snake groaned as Grif switched from tongue to teeth. “I’m fairly certain they can … stare a hole through steel.”

“And his body?” Grif pinched both of Snake’s tits while nibbling along his collar bone.

“Perfect. All muscle.” Snake put his palms against the ship, fingers spread, in the hopes of grounding himself. Grif’s seduction made him dizzy. “Soft skin that always smells sweet.”

Grif crouched and tugged down the front of Snake’s pants, kissing the spot where pubic hair would grow if he had any. “Tell me about his dick.”

“Big. Thick. Pink and kind of shimmery.”

Grif stood and reached behind Snake, sliding one finger down the back of his pants until it teased the top of Snake’s crack. “Do you let him bend you over and put that shimmery dick up this ass? Does he fuck you good?” he said, right against Snake’s ear.

“Really good,” Snake said, eyes shut tight. “Really fucking good.”

Grif said, “He won’t object if I play with you?”

“No,” Snake said. “If he were awake, he’d want to watch.”

“Bet you already fucked him to sleep,” Grif said, kneading Snake’s ass while keeping his eyes averted. Snake buzzed with excitement. He’d played wolf games before and understood their tactics. Grif would use his scent to ensnare Snake’s senses, all the while avoiding Snake’s vampire gaze. “You smell like sex,” Grif murmured against Snake’s neck. His tongue slithered along Snake’s jawline. “Taste like it, too.”

Snake kept his breath shallow so he wouldn’t inhale as much wolf perfume. The game was heady enough. A battle of will and lust, Snake fought hard to emerge the victor, but Grif proved to be a cunning adversary. The wolf had a sixth sense of what turned Snake on: dirty talk, nipple sucking, and slow teasing. Winning would require cheating, a tactic Snake wasn’t above using on occasion.

Grif cupped Snakes bulge. “Lot of meat in here.”

Snake noticed Grif’s cock twitch. He knew the wolf was using extreme control to keep himself from getting a hard-on. “Maybe you want this meat inside you?”

Grif smirked, still staring down. “You’ll be taking mine,” he said. “Might as well give in, vamp.”

Snake snickered. “Let me see those eyes of yours, wolf.” Grif shook his head. “You’re not playing fair.” Snake put his fingers under Grif’s chin and forced him to look up. A millisecond of eye contact, and Snake had him under control. “You do have pretty eyes, pet, as golden as the sun.”

Grif wore a goofy grin. “You win vampire,” he said. “Bend me over.”

“I’d rather you fucked me,” Snake said, stroking Grif’s hard cock.

Grif said, “But you won fair and square, so you get to be alpha. Those are the rules.”

Snake reached lower and fondled Grif’s balls. “But I cheated, so I’m relinquishing the role of alpha to you, and I expect the full treatment.”

Grif licked his lips. “I’ve never fucked a vamp before.”

“Oddly enough, I’ve fucked a few of your cousins,” Snake said.

“Loup Garous?” Grif’s nostrils flared and his voice grew harsh. “They’re vile.”

“Yeah, but they don’t look so bad bent over.”

Grif chuckled. “I like you, vampire. Want my dick?”

Snake rubbed his face against Grif’s furred chest and took a long inhale, allowing the buzz to sink into his guts.

“That’s it,” Grif said. “Drink me in. Let me take over.” He grabbed Snake by the hair. “Now get on your knees and suck me.”

Snake complied, then opened his throat and let Grif fuck his face. It seemed fitting that he should be taken by this wild creature outside, under a brilliant moon, with the odor of crushed grass wafting up from beneath his knees. Grif put both hands on the back of Snake’s head and ground against his face.

“I’m ready for your ass to swallow me now,” Grif said, pushing Snake face down onto the ground and lowering Snake’s pants just enough for access. He mounted Snake, holding him in place with one strong arm while the other gripped a wad of hair. Snake emitted a guttural cry when Grif’s fat dick speared his eager hole. Grif fucked him with the fervor of a dog in heat, slamming hard, causing Snake’s cock to rub against the soft ground.

Grif said, “You want a wolf bite, vamp?”

“Fuck, yeah. Do it,” Snake moaned.

“Tell me when.”

“Now.” Right before Snake came, Grif bit into the back of his neck, paralyzing him and ratcheting up the pleasure one-thousand percent. Snake heard a keening moan split the night and realized that he was the moaner, howling as he created a puddle on the grass.

Buy Horatio Slice: Guitar Slayer of the Universe at:
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Go Deeper Press

Oleander Plume writes (mostly gay) erotica while sipping martinis, and, yes, they are dirty martinis.
She lives in Chicago.

Amazon Page

Saturday, 12 August 2017

I'm off smutting!

It's Smut: Leeds today!

I shall be riding the omnibus to that fair city with one of the stars, Jennifer Denys, very shortly 😊

Thursday, 10 August 2017

You wouldn't believe me

So, the fabulous Sexy Librarian, Rose Caraway, is ramping up for the release of Dirty Thirty vol.2, which features my story Sweet Hel Below along with 29 other filthy gems.

"She is SO close to publication, I can taste it. In just a few days, The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30, Vol.2 will be available on Kindle. Print is coming too, and, of course, so is the audiobook. There are many FIRSTS with this project that I seriously can't wait to reveal. This D30v2 has had more moving parts than any other project I've put together thus far. In all honesty, we aimed pretty high and, well, I think we hit a new sexy bullseye. #BookPrideMotherfuckers.

I can't wait to reveal my absolute favorite first. (There I go teasing again.) This is Stupid Fish Productions' very 1st Series!!! Which I hope to expand for as long as is possible. Yes, a new #CallForSubmissions is in the works, so stay tuned for that."
Rose's posting a series of guestspots by her authors, and after flattering the hell out of me ("She’s clever, she’s witty, and she’s an incredible storyteller who’s turned me on and even made me laugh a time or two") she asked me to give some very brief writing tips on building believable characters.

Which I, perversely, refused to do.

"Hold on… Why would I want to write “believable” erotica characters? Aren’t we in the business of giving people fantasies? Aren’t we trying to get them off? Who wants an erotic story where the guy comes too soon and leaves in embarrassment, or the heroine accidentally farts mid-anal? We’re looking for ideals when we go to read one-handed fiction, aren’t we?"

Sorry, Rose, lol!

Anyway, you can read my full attempt to wriggle out of my task over at the Stupid Fish blog. πŸ˜‰

And I genuinely can't wait to see the collection - it's going to be AWESOME!

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

Blue Monday (a tad late)

Argh - I was so busy binge-watching Game of Thrones that I didn't post on Monday! So today's excerpt is extra-length and has a Bonus Hungarian Cover to make up for it...

It comes from Thrones of Desire (there's some theme going on on my blog this week, it's hard to say what) which has my FAVE EVER ANTHOLOGY COVER. My story, Of High Renown, is a romance and therefore everyone is of course conflicted and miserable.

She remembered how she had misused him.

It was an unending struggle to keep him alive. The venom in his blood seemed to have destroyed his body’s sense of equilibrium, and threw him between burning fever and frigid tremors every few hours. Emlhi cleaned and bandaged the deep puncture wounds in his shoulder, but after that she simply tried to keep his temperature on an even keel—stopping the fever boiling his brains at one moment, piling blankets over him to maintain some vestiges of warmth the next. She fed and watered him, cut fresh bracken every morning for his mattress and, when she was not watching over him, tried to keep up the work of her smallholding. She snatched her own sleep during his chills.

Between fire and ice, the knight would have passages where he seemed to be lucid but completely exhausted. Then as the fever flared up afresh he’d begin to talk, and sometimes try to rise from his bed. He stared at the ceiling and spoke to people who weren’t there. He raved about battles and campaigns and the horrors he’d witnessed, until Emlhi wanted to stop her ears for sorrow. Sometimes his hallucinations grew worse and in terror or fury he would lash out at her. If he hadn’t been so weakened by his illness, he might have been really dangerous.

It went on for days, and there were times she couldn’t understand why he did not die. She might have called in an older female relative to share the labor of care, but she guarded her sole right to Gareth possessively. Exhausted, she took strength from his stubbornness.

And she took more than strength.

The first time, it wasn’t her doing. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, tending him as he burned. She’d been wiping his face and chest with a damp cloth, dipping it in fresh water every few minutes and waving it about to cool it. He was twisting in discomfort, tossing in a delirious dream, his hands scrabbling convulsively across his belly. When she touched his cheek with the cloth he would turn his face toward it, like a baby seeking the teat. She ran it down the midline of his torso and he grabbed her hand, knotting his fingers around hers. Gently she freed the cloth with her other hand and continued to bathe him. He kept his grip on her. His head was thrown back, his larynx working. Then he pushed her hand into his crotch.

Until now she’d kept his hose on, unwilling to steal the last shreds of his dignity. It was a mistake, she realized; the fabric was sodden with sweat - and beneath it his cock was engorged, as hot and solid as the rest of him. He wrapped her hand around the thick length and squeezed hard, and, as Emlhi felt a blush flood her face, a great sigh of relief escaped his taut throat. Then he began to rub her hand up and down. She squirmed with shame but she didn’t pull away. His cock grew harder beneath her imprisoned grasp, lengthening as it filled. She was clumsy, passive, too inexperienced to know what to do. He masturbated with her hand until he spasmed—and then he relaxed, falling almost instantly into a dreamless sleep.

Emlhi, trembling, pulled her cramped fingers away and plunged them into the bowl of water.

That was the first time; it wasn’t the last. She began coming to him when he burned, the sheets thrown aside and his body—fully naked now, and cleaner and cooler for it—sprawled out across her bed. Then she would take his cock in her hand and stroke its velvet length, squeezing him gently at first and then with more firmness, her face rapt, her breath shallow in her throat, her pulse pounding in her breast and her groin. She thrilled at the catch in his breath and the wet kisses of his foreskin and the noises of his pleasure. She delighted to see him stretch and shudder at her touch, to see his balls tighten and jettison their burden in spurts across his belly. She loved the peace that came across his features when it was done. She would sit and watch him even when he slept, enchanted by the simple rise and fall of his chest.

Because, if she could make herself overlook his suffering, he was beautiful. The heat had melted any fat from his body, stripping him down to muscle. His shoulders were broad, his hips tight, his thighs long and slab-hard. His nipples responded to the cold cloth by turning into little brown berries. Emlhi loved to touch him.

She knew what she did was shameful, but she couldn’t stop herself.

* * * * * * * *

One night she’d checked on him and found him curled in a fetal ball on the bed, with the blankets piled like fallen enemies on the floorboards. She put the candle down and touched his shoulder, finding his skin icy. He shook beneath her hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she gasped and grabbed up the blankets. He didn’t seem to notice; he was whimpering very softly under his breath, like a dog in pain. Quickly Emlhi slid into the bed at his back. She was wearing only her shift, because she’d been ready for bed herself. She pressed her warm belly to his spine and felt the chill of his flesh soak into her own. She ran her hand down his ribs and hips and rubbed the rough hair of his thigh.

“Hush,” she whispered, kneading the knotted muscles of his neck with her other hand, pressing her face to his shoulder blade. “You’re alright. You’re alright.” She rubbed her thighs against his, willing the warmth into him. By tiny increments he relaxed, the shuddering soothed away as the covers trapped the heat. His limbs unknotted enough to allow her to slip her hand round his waist, right into the pit of his belly where his pubic hair tickled her fingers. It took a long time, though, and she was tired by the day’s work. Gradually she fell into a doze.

Emlhi awoke when Gareth pulled the blanket aside. Sleepily she protested at the draft, then realized that the man in her bed was no longer cold. He’d stretched out and turned to press against her and he was hot, his skin burning on hers. He put his hand on her thigh, and even through the rucked linen of her shift it felt like he was branding her. Emlhi surged into wakefulness. He wasn’t just uncoiled—he boasted an erection that was pressed into her hip.

He’s sick, she thought. And weak as a kitten. If I want to stop him, I can.

Moonlight through the window revealed little, only his bare calf, his knee pushing between hers. Higher up, their bodies were drowned in shadow. The guttering stub of the candle outlined only the peak of his shoulder. His head was on her pillow and he was panting. Emlhi put her hand up and felt his face; the rasp of stubble, the smear of sweat from his temple, the loose locks of his hair. His breathing was faster than any healthy man’s and he was leaving a wet patch on her throat.

“Sir knight,” she whispered. The pulse in her belly began to beat. He can’t make me, she told herself. He can only do what I let him.

Pulling up the last span of her skirt, he ran his hand up the inside of her thigh and pressed it into her delta. “Hsgood,” he slurred.

Emlhi juddered beneath him.

His fingers probed deep into her slit, seeking her moisture. She whimpered, feeling his heat catch in her sex, flaring up thorough her belly. He parted her folds and dabbled his fingertips within, while his palm and thumb stirred her mound and caressed the rough hair. Her wetness was growing more marked by the heartbeat. She felt completely helpless, suffused by the ancient imperative to yield, to melt, to submit to him. She parted her thighs and he slid his hand up and down the length of her slot, drawing the juices up to the bud of her clit. She moved under him, pushing up to meet him, her shallow little gasps drowned by his fevered panting. The shadows shook against the wall. His thigh was growing heavier and heavier on hers. She slid her own hand across her belly, under his arm, and took hold of his shaft. It jerked in her hand.

Then without warning, just as she was rising to her crisis, he pulled from her grasp and shifted his weight, heaving on top of her. The black silhouette of his head and shoulders loomed over her. Bereft, she caught her breath but spread her thighs willingly, thinking that she knew what must happen next—but she was completely unprepared.

Buy Thrones of Desire at:
Amazon US: Amazon UK

Sunday, 6 August 2017

Butts are coming

Hooray! I'm binge-watching the new season of Game of Thrones this weekend!

Friday, 4 August 2017

Shame! Shame! Shame!

Victorian art lovers were always up for a good bit of slut-shaming:

Augustus Egg: Past and Present no.1: Misfortune (1858)
In the very famous painting above, the wife's adulterous letter has been intercepted by her husband and she's about to reap the whirlwind. In fact the other two painting in the tryptich go on to show the children abandoned in a garret years later, and the destitute adultress dying under a bridge near the Thames.

But hey! Since you - as an upright Victorian - don't approve of women being naughty, you get to enjoy pictures of them being shamed for it! In fact there is a loooooong artistic history of depiction of Christ and the Woman Caught in Adultery (John 8), in which she can be seen looking suitably disheveled, frightened and penitent.

Giuseppe Sciuti. The Adulteress (1906)
Here's an obscure Arthurian legend illustrated by, you'll note, a female artist:

Isobel Gloag: The Magic Mantle (1898)
In the story, a boy comes to court with three magic items; a mantle that conceals nothing if the woman wearing it has ever been unfaithful, and a knife and a drinking horn that can only be used by a man who is not a cuckold. Queen Guinevere tries on the dress with disastrous results and has to flee in shame from the court.

In fact, you didn't even have to have been shagging about to be publicly stripped and leered at. Here's Eleanor, Duchess of Gloucester in a historical incident in which she has to do the Walk of Shame for consulting with a witch-woman about the possible future date of the King's death:

Edwin Austin Abbey: The Penance of Eleanor (1900)

She addresses her husband in the crowd thus, according to Shakespeare:

Methinks I should not thus be led along,
 Mail'd up in shame, with papers on my back,
 And followed with a rabble that rejoice
 To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans.
 The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet,
 And when I start, the envious people laugh
 And bid me be advised how I tread.
 Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke?
 (Henry VI, Part 2)

But don't fret; occasionally the guy gets equal artistic treatment too:

Jules Arsène Garnier: The Punishment of the Adulterers (1876)
Altogether now: "Shame!"

Wednesday, 2 August 2017


I have a new writing mug! It's not the one I really wanted, but I can't afford the customs charges from the US for that, lol.

And sadly it's not accurate at the moment. It's been ages since I wrote anything new! This week has been dedicated to

  • Writing a guest blogpost
  • My tax form, which is frankly not worth HMRC's effort to process
  • Avoiding Game of Thrones spoilers 
  • Cleaning the house
  • Wishing someone would buy the bloody house so I can stop cleaning it

 I have stripped all the lovely postcard-collages off my doors now, and left them boring white - Boooo!

Monday, 31 July 2017

Blue Monday: Malin James guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Malin James, who has out a new collection of erotic short stories: Roadhouse Blues. This excerpt is from Krystal's Revenge Fuck.

Welcome to Styx—a blue-collar, American town where people can do whatever they like, so long as they don’t advertise. From a 1950s diner to the back of a rocking Camaro, the stories in Roadhouse Blues reveal sex that is by turns romantic, raw, triumphant, and desperate. Meet two women grieving the same man, a bartender looking for anything but love, and a hot, brash newlywed who knows she married a cheat. The local garage is run by a kick-ass woman who gives as fierce as she gets, and the strip club is a place full of whiskey and smoke, where memories are exposed as easily as skin.

“In the end,” writes author Malin James, “sex is about people, and people have motivations, and sometimes those motivations surprise them.”

This is Roadhouse Blues. Surprise is just the beginning.

Barefoot, Krystal stood a couple inches taller than Jack, which meant that his mouth was conveniently close to her tits. Jack pulled her close and fondled them through her robe. She tried not to melt. She loved the way he touched her tits. Thank God, she hadn’t gotten that reduction.

“Man,” he said, kissing her neck. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, baby.”

The robe fell to the ground, revealing her Deluxe Pro tan and a pair of sheer, lace panties that showed off her Brazilian. She wiggled and bounced her tits. Jack caught one in his mouth.

“Fuck, you’re already wet,” he mumbled, rubbing her through the lace.

She was always wet for Jack. That fucker…. Her hips forgot the plan and shoved her cunt against his hand.

“Fucking day,” he murmured, kissing her neck. “Greyhound full of assholes sending food back. You’re the best thing a man could come home to.”

“Aw, baby…,” she purred. Goddamn, she had to focus. Once a cheater, always a cheater. Fuck him. FUCK HIM. But all she wanted to do was fuck him. She gave in and kissed him back, inhaling his scent—sweat, food, and sex…. Krystal frowned and inhaled again. Why would he smell like sex? They hadn’t fucked since that morning.

Jack pulled back. “Sorry, babe. I’m rank. Let me grab a shower.”

He wanted to wash the waitress off. No way was she gonna let him destroy the evidence. Krystal forced a smile. “It’s okay, baby. You know I love it when you smell all manly. Come on into the bedroom. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Jack yawned. “A surprise? Really? What for?”

Krystal ruffled his sandy hair. “Just for being you.”

“Aw, baby. You’re the sweetest. You’re the best. Just let me grab a shower—”


When they got to the bedroom, Krystal flicked on a light. Jack looked at the rope, suddenly interested. He grinned. “You gonna get all Fifty Shades for me?”

“No, baby. You’re gonna get all Fifty Shades for me. Strip and lie down.”

Jack’s eyes widened. Krystal grinned. He looked like Bambi’s mama right before she gets shot.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she said, letting her hand drift down to the bulge in his pants. “It’s gonna feel real good. I promise. But you have to trust me. You trust me, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I trust you.”

“Good. Then trust me and strip.”

Slowly, Jack worked his way out of his sweat-stained T-shirt. Krystal’s mouth watered. He was still sexy as hell, even after three months of marriage. He looked just like the guy in that movie—the one where shit blew up. She loved it when shit blew up…. Jack paused at his belt.

“C’mon, cowboy,” she said. “Or you won’t get your surprise….” She gave him a fuzzy-kitten smile. Jack relaxed. He even did a little booty dance before taking off his pants.

“Good,” she said, sweet with a cherry on top. “Now, lie down.”

Jack laid down in the middle of the bed. He’d lost his hard-on somewhere between groping her and lying down, but Krystal wasn’t worried. She’d get it back.

“Arms up,” she crooned.

Jack stretched up his arms, fidgeting while Krystal worked through Sissy’s knot. It was trickier than she’d thought. “There,” she said, looping the rope over the headboard. “Almost done.” She yanked.


“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “You’re making me kind of nervous, looking at me like that. How ‘bout we put the blindfold on?”

Jack gulped. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a cartoon’s. “Wait….”


“It’s just…are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Krystal breathed in, looking for her Zen, but the scent of sex came off him, strong as a slap.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Krystal slipped the mask over his head. Once he couldn’t watch her, she did the other wrist twice as fast as the first. Then she rummaged in a drawer.

“Hey, sexy man,” she called out. “How you doing over there?”

“Okay. I guess.”

“Good,” she sang. “Don’t move!”

“Didn’t give me much choice,” he said, sorta laughing, sorta not.

Krystal smirked. Then she knelt between his legs and did what she did best. He was soft when she took his dick in her mouth, but he was hard in seconds once she got going. “Oh fuck, babe….”

Krystal smiled around his cock. “Told you to trust me,” she said, tonguing his balls. His balls definitely smelled like sex. Krystal’s stomach turned. She’s always loved that smell, but she fucking hated it now. She gave his cock a last, brutal suck before letting it pop out of her mouth. Then she buckled up the strap-on.

Having a cock felt weird…and hot. Really fucking hot, she thought, as she looked past her massive tits, down the tight, little slope of her belly, to the hot pink dildo she’d fit into the harness. She took the dildo in her hand and thrust her hips, turned on in a way that surprised her. It was different than anything she’d ever felt. It felt…naughty. Goddamn. Now, that was a fucking novelty.

They’d never tried pegging, but they’d talked about it, so she figured it wouldn’t come totally out of the blue. Krystal coated the dildo with more lube that he deserved, and slipped the tip into his ass.

“Babe, what are you—ungh.”

“What, baby?” she asked, like he’d asked her to pass another Eggo.

“Never mind,” he murmured, holding very still.

“Just say stop if you want me to stop…blah, blah, blah,” she said, under her breath.

Jack bore down on the silicon cock. “Jesus Christ, don’t stop.”

She thrust a little more. That got a nice, whiny whimper out of him. Then she really started to work him.

Buy Roadhouse Blues at:
Go Deeper Press
Amazon US :: Amazon UK

Malin James is an essayist, blogger, and short story writer. Her work has appeared in Electric Literature, Bust, MUTHA, Queen Mob’s Tea House and Medium, as well as in podcasts and anthologies for Cleis Press, Sweetmeats Press and Stupid Fish Productions. Her first collection, Roadhouse Blues, is now available from Go Deeper Press.


Friday, 28 July 2017


If you are a reader or writer of smart, literate erotica or erotic romance (and if you aren't, what are you doing on this blog, HEY MUM?) ... you might like a look at a new site called Cleverotic / Cleverotica, which is trying to set up a readers' database of such books:

If you like a little protein with your escapist cotton candy; if you think smart is sexy and brawn needs a brain, sate your psyche and your senses by delving into the literary offerings showcased here. is for lovers of intelligent, steamy romance and scorching-hot, smart literature.
Owner Evelyn Bliss is asking for people to nominate books they've enjoyed reading, or have written, so do go contribute.

And of course if you are a fan of erotica that titillates the brain as well as the naughty bits - it's always a good idea to check out Erotica for the Big Brain's annual best-of lists.

Happy one-handed reading! 😁😈😍

Wednesday, 26 July 2017

"SO complex and absolutely amazing"

A lovely new 5 STAR review of In Bonds of the Earth has been posted by Punya Reviews:

I have no idea where to start, seriously! The Book of the Watchers series by Janine Ashbless is SO complex and absolutely amazing that I’m just....... speechless really. This series is rich in story telling with a great research and a marvelous writing style where the author blends many dimensions of facts and fictions together in such a way that the only thing I can say for this series is WOW!
Fortunately Punya recovers from speechlessness to give a long recount of both IBotE and its prequel, Cover Him With Darkness, with great enthusiasm 😊, concluding:

I seriously have no idea what’s going to happen in the next installment but I do plan to find out in The Prison of Angels. Eagerly waiting for its release now! 5 stars and color me impressed!! Highly recommended.
You can read the whole review HERE (but watch out for lots of plot spoilers).


Monday, 24 July 2017

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's excerpt is from my short story The High Ground, which appeared in the Black Lace anthology The Affair.

Jill thinks her husband Dan is carrying on with her friend Fiona. So she goes and confides in Fiona's husband Miles, who is a cold 'n' scary lawyer and a fellow runner. The two hatch a plot to catch Dan and Fiona in flagrante. But things don't go quite as Jill expects...

‘I love Dan,’ I said. ‘He’s my husband. I want to keep it that way.’

‘And he loves you. I promise you that. I know him, Jill.’

‘Then how could he do this?’ I demanded, the confusion bubbling up in my breast. ‘How is it that I’m not enough – that everything we have isn’t good enough for him?’

Miles shifted in his seat to face me. ‘Well,’ he said, so softly that if you didn’t know him you might even mistake it for gentleness; ‘I can understand, I guess.’

‘That’s horrible!’

‘I mean, I love Fiona, but that doesn’t mean that when I’m with you, Jill, I don’t feel the need – the very strong need - to wrap you around my cock.’

A jolt went through me, like electricity. ‘This is so not a good time,’ I whispered.

‘No?’ He lifted his fingers to my face, stroking my temple and the line of my cheek, brushing my lips softly with a touch like the feather of a fallen angel. I trembled under his caress as his fingertips dipped to my throat. Oh, I could so easily see him as an angel of sin: he was all cold fire and magnetic superiority. His voice was low and hypnotic. ‘Then when would be a good time for me to do this?’ he asked, leaning from his seat to kiss me.

Our lips were warm together. It was the Christmas kiss all over again, though inside me now as then the effect was rather more like Bonfire Night. For a moment it was almost chaste – then his tongue was on mine and everything was all heat and melting and yielding; my mouth opening to his, my breast quivering under the sweep of his fingers as he sought beneath the claret coloured fabric of my blouse for my heartbeat. A little whimper escaped my lips as he released me to draw breath. It was a helpless animal noise, the sort that cannot help but provoke the predator. He smiled.

‘I love Dan,’ I breathed. It was my mantra.

‘I know.’ His fingers deftly slipped the top button of my fitted grey waistcoat, the main barrier between him and my nipple; I wasn’t wearing a bra beneath that red blouse. ‘You love him, and you want to fuck me.’

‘Oh God, Miles -’

‘It’s all right Jill: I understand. I know.’ He kissed me again as he captured the plump berry of my flesh through the silky fabric. I groaned as pleasure danced across my skin, shooting like fireworks through my pulse and my sex.

‘We can’t.’ My voice sounded faint.

‘Nevertheless,’ said he, licking my throat, biting my earlobe, ‘we’re going to.’ His hand fell from my breast to my inner knee. It was summer and I had no tights on, just smooth skin under his strong grasp. ‘Open your legs.’

‘Not here.’ I was grasping at excuses: the fact that we were out in public, in his car and only a few hundred yards from his house, was a hook to hang my terror on.

‘Yes. Here. Open your legs for me, Jill.’

I parted my thighs and he ran his hand up beneath my best work skirt, over my skin, to the tight silky fabric stretched over the hot mound of my pussy. I writhed in my seat, burning with arousal and shame. I put one hand on his arm as if I was going to fend him off, and felt the hard muscle work under my palm. In the secret place beneath my skirt he found lace; an edge; hair; folds.


I saw his pupils dilate, his pale eyes darkening. I was slippery with juice already, wet from his kisses, his touch, his voice. Whatever I said, however I tried to prevaricate, my sex was in thrall to him. My body had already surrendered.

His fingers felt cool in my hot liquid slash. Delicately he took the wet to my clit and circled the sensitive nub. I spasmed, arching, biting back a cry as my arousal hit flashpoint, and that wave of heat and need was liberating. It was an immense relief not to have to think any more; I had been doing far too much thinking for the past fortnight. I let the tsunami wash over my guilt and my terror and my loss, and drown them. I sank one hand in Miles’ hair and pulled his face to mine, biting his lips. Suddenly we were kissing again - but fiercely this time, scrabbling at each other’s clothes, stealing the breath from each other as we gasped for air. He wrestled off my panties and threw them aside, and then he hauled me over into his lap.

It wasn’t exactly graceful. I had one leg either side of the gear-stick and it wasn’t really clear whether I was supposed to be sitting with my back to him or side-on, and we were cramped behind the steering wheel and the windows were steaming up. But he managed to lift me clear enough of his crotch to yank my skirt up to my hips and release his cock from the confines of his trousers before it burst his fly. I didn’t even get to see his cock – but I felt it go in. Fuck, did I ever feel it. Three strong thrusts sank him to the root in my wet pussy. My eyes watered. His arms encircled me. One hand burrowed inside my disordered blouse to knead my left breast and pinch my nipple. The other sought my sex, at the place we were joined. With it he could feel his shaft filling and stretching my hole. He rolled my clit between his fingertips.

‘You want me to fuck you, Jill?’ he whispered fiercely in my ear, thighs and pelvis heaving me up and down on his lap and his impaling length.

I grabbed his thigh and sank my nails into it through his expensive suit.

‘You want me to come inside you – deep, deep inside?’ His voice was hoarse and uneven. He had to take long pauses between phrases; spaces filled with the sound of my gasping and the creak of the car springs. ‘Want me to stick my big cock in your mouth and fuck your throat until you choke down my spunk?’

I started to groan breathily..

‘Want me to tie you down and spray my cream on your pretty little tits?’ He tugged cruelly on one of those pretty little tits and I squealed, lifting myself up and writhing down on his cock. ‘Want me to spank your bottom until it’s bright red and then ride your dirty ass and come inside it?’

I think I tried to say Yes but it just came out as an incoherent wail as I slammed through the barrier into orgasm. Miles, lifting me bodily and pumping me down on his cock, followed suit seconds later. He made no sound at all, but his grip was like iron and his whole frame shook.

I collapsed back against his chest, staring at the fogged windscreen. Outside it was growing dark. My heart was pounding harder than it ever did when I was running cross-country.

‘That was ... That was very good.’ Miles nuzzled at my neck, his tongue testing my pulse. He didn’t seem particularly inclined to let go of me.

But the confusion I thought I’d drowned was waiting for me as my pleasure ebbed, stronger than ever. When my pulse had stopped rocketing I slipped from him and back into the passenger seat, tugging awkwardly at my clothes, fumbling at buttons. I couldn’t find my knickers in the footwell; I wondered if they had gone under a seat. My faces was flushed and I tried not look at the man I’d just had sex with.

‘So, are you wildly in love with me then?’ he asked, with the special flippant smirk he reserves for really caustic jokes.


‘The Defence rests, m’lud.’

Buy The Affair at:
Amazon US :: Amazon UK

Sunday, 23 July 2017


There are several reasons you should watch this video RIGHT NOW:
  1. If you are a Game of Thrones fan, it is extremely funny. Yes, that is the same Septa.
  2. It's an advert for Sodastream, but the message is right on point.
  3. The Advertising Standards Authority/Facebook/Youtube banned it for use of the word "fuck," so it keeps being removed from t'Internet.
  4. The International Bottled Water Association is taking Sodastream to court to stop them saying that plastic bottle waste is bad for the environment. Fuck them.

Friday, 21 July 2017

I'm just trolling

See this?

Look at them, Mother Troll said. Look at my sons! You won't find more beautiful trolls on this side of the moon! (1915)
That could basically be *the* illustration for a story I just wrote: Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera.

It's by John Bauer, a Swedish artist best known for his illustrations for an annual fairy-tale series called Among Gnomes and Trolls.

He was the absolute master of visualizing trolls, and he liked best to contrast their huge, lumpen, ugly forms with tiny delicate humans - often children or princesses - in a spectacular show of vulnerability and barely-concealed menace.

I like to think I just went that one step further. That one step too far, if you like πŸ˜‰

Because this is a story in which I don't hold back...

I'll let you know whether it meets editorial approval!

Wednesday, 19 July 2017

Just to say

Demon by Mihaly Von Zichy (1878)
... that I've handed the edited manuscript of The Prison of the Angels back to Sinful Press. Things are moving, behind the scenes!

Oh, and it's over 100,000 words.

And it's got way dirtier sex scenes than the previous two volumes in the trilogy.

And if it doesn't make you cry at the end, you are harder-hearted than my editor ;-)

Monday, 17 July 2017

Blue Monday: S Nano guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is the notorious gentleman-adventurer, S. Nano, with an excerpt from his comedic steampunk novel, Mistress of the Air:

Lady Sally Rudston-Chichester owns a brass mine in Zanzibar, a Lapsang Souchong tea plantation in China, a rubber tree farm in Malaysia, trunk loads of corsetry, and the country’s largest collection of antique whips and floggers.

Larger than life, and itching to find new and inventive ways to punish her submissive gentlemen, the Edwardian dominatrix has a vision. Embracing the spirit of the new age of aviation, she embarks on a series of adventures on her own airship, The Corseted Domme, with her transvestite maid, Victoria, her airship pilot, Captain Wyndham, and her automaton sex toy, Borghild. 

A select group of submissive gentlemen, consisting of a duke, bishop, lawyer and banker, is invited to join Lady Sally so she can try out her new dastardly devices and sex toys on them. She whips, spanks and punishes her way across the Empires of Europe, dropping off to visit her aristocratic relatives and friends for afternoon tea. 

But Lady Sally’s journey is not uneventful. War is threatening to break out and the Ministry of Aviation want to commandeer her airship for the war effort. And when The Corseted Domme has a crash landing, Lady Sally realises there is a stowaway on board intent on sabotaging her airship.

There will be wild escapades, kinky BDSM, dastardly devices, explosions and nice cups of tea.

For the rest of the day Lady’s Sally’s playroom was a maelstrom of activity. The sounds of the different devices filled the room. The electro-vibrator purred with an electric hum, the steam-powered pumping phallus thumped and hissed, the electric masturbating machine buzzed, whilst the steam-powered spanking device pumped and slapped. All of this, along with the gasps, groans, squeals and screams of pain and pleasure created a cacophony of noise which ebbed and flowed during the morning as the activity reached a series of crescendos. At the centre was Lady Sally like the conductor of an orchestra.

Every so often each of the protagonists was untied and placed into a different predicament so that everybody experienced the full range of Lady Sally’s wicked devices.

Borghild’s glass eyes glinted with an expression which could only be described as satisfaction; now fully trained, she was an enthusiastic participant in the sadistic orgy her mistress orchestrated.

For Lady Sally, it was a most satisfying day, and the culmination of her travels as her dastardly toys were being put to full use. She was enjoying herself immensely. She climbed up on the rack and was crouching over the duke to penetrate him with her strap-on. Her arse, a magnificent mound of peachy flesh, thrust into the air as she probed the duke’s anal passage ready to penetrate him.

Lady Sally’s arse was a thing of wondrous beauty, an orb of deliciously soft voluptuousness, and a source of both admiration and arousal to her submissive gentlemen. Positioned as it was, it presented a marvellous target. It hovered in the air invitingly. Of course, however tempting, none of her guests dare touch it without permission. On a rare occasion she might invite a privileged slave to plant his lips on it as an act of submissive homage to his mistress.

Borghild’s eyes swivelled around. They alighted on Lady Sally’s posterior and lit up with a red glow. She had been trained to find arse… she had been trained to whip arse… and this was the most inviting arse she’d ever recorded in her photo-sensitive cells. It was there, suspended in the air in all its fleshy glory, just waiting to be beaten. What else could a well-trained automaton do?

Lady Sally’s eyes widened. It came as a shock, the slash of leather thongs against her backside… and with one of her own whips! She knew what it felt like to be whipped. Purely in the interests of research she was not averse to experiencing the treatments she meted out to her slaves. But this was a complete surprise. It was undoubtedly a hard stroke but its impact was not without pleasure as Lady Sally felt her flesh wobble with the impact, and the prickly pain fan out across her backside. She took a deep breath. She cocked her head to one side to see the culprit, Borghild, standing behind her, whip in hand, a look of what could only be described as pleasure in her glass eyes. A look that Lady Sally had seen many times reflected in the mirror whilst she punished her slaves. The look of a dominatrix enjoying herself.

She waited to see what the automaton would do next. She felt a cold, brass hand run its fingers across her bottom. Borghild had observed and learnt well. This was precisely Lady Sally’s art, alternating sensual play with severe hits. A second stroke came zipping onto her backside. The gentlemen, now aware of what was happening, gazed aghast upon their mistress receiving a whipping from her automaton.

A third stroke whipped with a loud smack. It was not unpleasant… quite the opposite, the glowing pain was rather nice. Lady Sally understood only too well the pleasure her slaves got from the administration of seductive pain inflicted by a skilful mistress. In different circumstances, she might have allowed Borghild to continue. Indeed, when she got home to Rudston Hall, she may well allow the automaton to play with her in such a way. But this was not the time. She could not allow an automaton to get the better of her, especially in front of the men. That would simply not do. Her automaton had to be brought under her control and disciplined like any other wilfully disobedient slave. She needed to be taught a lesson.

Furiously, Lady Sally swivelled around and jumped off the rack to confront Borghild. Could the automaton understand what she had done wrong? Seeing the fierce look and dominant posture her mistress assumed as she snatched the whip from her hands, the red glow in Borghild’s eyes dimmed.

“Your behaviour is completely unacceptable. You must be punished. Punished. Do you understand?”

Borghild hung her head in shame.

Luckily, the whipping bench was free. Lady Sally grabbed the automaton by her brass hand and dragged her over to it. She pushed her onto her knees on the bench and, in moments, had her wrists and ankles cuffed. She pulled her head back by the blonde wig, stuffed a ball-gag in her mouth and tightened the strap. Lady Sally realised it was entirely unnecessary, but it was, nonetheless, a means of enforcing upon the automaton who was in charge.

Lady Sally lifted up the red latex skirt. She couldn’t help but admire the shiny, golden curves of her backside. The artificers had done a wonderful job with the moulding, the shape of the mounds being remarkably lifelike even though they were fashioned from brass.

Lady Sally stood in front of the automaton, the leather tendrils of the whip dangling menacingly before her eyes. The men looked on in astonishment, none of them daring to comment on the bizarre spectacle of their mistress striding around the whipping bench to administer corporal punishment on a brass arse.

Lady Sally raised the whip high above her head and brought it slashing down on with a crack on the shiny metal. The automaton might not feel a thing but, nonetheless, she had acquired enough understanding from observing her mistress to know this was a punishment. Lady Sally felt it was imperative to establish her control to prevent any further disobedience from Borghild in the future. Lady Sally continued to thrash the automaton with her hardest strokes, beating her relentlessly with slash upon slash.

This was the scene the captain encountered when he entered the playroom to inform his mistress they were beginning their descent towards the airship station in Paris. He looked surprised, and not a little bemused, at the spectacle of Lady Sally delivering a vicious beating to a brass automaton.

“You many well wonder what has gone on, captain. All I will say is that it’s a poor do when one has to discipline one’s own automaton.”

 Buy Mistress of the Air at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK

S. Nano is an author of erotic stories with dark and exotic content in fantasy, paranormal or historical settings, often drawing on the themes of female supremacy, BDSM and fetish but with a seam of quirky humour running through them as well.

His first full-length erotic novel, ‘Adventures in Fetishland’, a BDSM/fetish re-invention of Alice in Wonderland, was published by Xcite Books. His short stories and novellas have been published by Xcite Books, House of Erotica, Forbidden Fiction, Coming Together and Greenwoman Publishing.

His second novel, ‘Mistress Of The Air’ was published by eXcessica on 21st April 2017.

Web site

Saturday, 15 July 2017

Quick - hide the porn

BEHOLD MY DESK! It has never before looked this tidy!

It took a week to clear down to visible desk-top, let me tell you

Because we're selling the house and the guy is turning up to take photos for Rightmove first thing on Monday morning (*muffled Ashbless sobs*) , I have been doing a WHOLE lot of tidying up. Mostly it has involved hiding shit in the loft, and throwing out computer games we have never played and can't even run on the PC now. In fact I was advised by a Facebook friend to hide "anything that might be off-putting - really stupid stuff like a candle with a pentacle on it, books with "offensive" covers (specifically erotica), even a scruffy dog bed".

Since 90% of our household goods consists of weird shit/books, erotica and dog-beds, this may not be possible...

 But we did chisel the Green Man off from next to the front door...

I just can't do anything about the 6ft god in the back garden!

And the Hammer Horror Library is a lost cause, dudes...

 I think our marketing strategy has to be "semi-detached house, would suit weirdos", lol


Thursday, 13 July 2017

"A relentless, orgiastic tour de force"

Woah - fabulous review of my dirtiest book ever!

TAS at Erotica for the Big Brain has been reading three examples of "archectypal erotica":

Death and Beauty by Samantha MacLeod
Viking Thunder by Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Named and Shamed by Janine Ashbless

Samantha and Emmanuelle are no strangers to this blog, of course! We have in common a love of mythology, folklore, history, dark fantasy and writing stories that more than merely titillate, but re-imagine ancient tropes and poke around in the murky depths of their meaning.

And TAS has some awesome thing to say about all three of our books! For Named and Shamed his verdict is:
Janine Ashbless’ Named and Shamed is a relentless, orgiastic tour de force, a groaning board of pansexual delight unencumbered by the sort of repetition or slacking off in intensity that dooms so many full-length erotic novels. Drawing broad inspiration from Gaelic folklore and pagan myth... Sex of practically every variety and permutation is described in exuberant detail, whether with a group of horny auto mechanics in a greasy garage, or with just about every mythical creature populating the dark corners of the human imagination—a scene with a randy troll under a bridge is particularly memorable.
 Illustrated with a series of captivating line drawings by John LaChatte, Named and Shamed is an essential addition to any library of classic modern erotica.


You can read the whole review post HERE

And you can buy Named and Shamed at
Amazon US :: Amazon UK 
Google Play
for a limited time

Monday, 10 July 2017

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

I rediscovered this story of mine this week, while trying to find a standalone excerpt for a website. Honey Trap appeared in the Seduction anthology from Black Lace many moons ago...

“I could give you a head-rub if you like,” he offered. “I learned Indian massage a while back.”

“In an ashram?”

He handed me my drink. “In Canberra. There wasn’t a lot else to do.”

He wasn’t to know it, but he’d hit on my weakness. I love having my head massaged; it’s the next best thing to sex. So at his suggestion I sat down on the couch and he knelt up behind me to take my newly-washed head in his hands and rub it. And he was very good indeed – patient, firm and skilled. He eased all the tightness from the back of my neck and pressed smooth my forehead and scalp. He tucked his arms under mine, ordered me to relax and shut my eyes, then scrunched my shoulders until they unknotted. I lost all sense of time or thought under his kneading hands, dissolving into pleasure, as if he’d opened my skull and taken my brains out. More and more of my weight relaxed against him. His hands broke little murmurs of pleasure from my lips, and when he stroked my throat softly I groaned. His arms were around me gently, his firm body supporting me.

“That dress you wore last night,” he murmured in my ear, tracing my cheekbones with his fingertips.


“Did you know it went see-through against the floodlight? Did you know I could see all your body beneath it?”

I was almost too relaxed to speak. “That’s not true.”


“I think Rhys would have noticed.” I was faintly aware that I was using my husband’s name as a talisman, to ward him off. It didn’t work.

“What makes you think he didn’t want to show off the beautiful body of his wife, for me to see?”

I smiled.

“You were wearing very sexy red lace lingerie last night. Right now though,” Marcus whispered, “you’re not wearing either a bra or panties. I can feel your skin through this dress.” He brushed his hand across my hip to make his point and I forced my heavy lids open, trying to focus. “No,” he breathed, his voice tender and heavy: “keep them shut.”

His fingers stroked my lids and my lips and I obeyed with a sigh. Cradling me in one arm, he kissed my lips softly, seducing them open with his gentleness. I tasted the smokiness of the whisky on his tongue. His free hand caressed the tips of my breasts and I realized that the air-con had brought them to obvious points under the cotton. I moaned into his mouth.

“Now I’m going to touch your pussy, Astrid,” he said. “And you’re going to let me.” He put his hand on me through my skirt and he was right; I not only let him, I parted my thighs a little. “That’s right,” he sighed, stroking me. “Now. You lifted our skirt for me at the restaurant, didn’t you? You’re going to do that again. Slowly.”

Mesmerized by sensation I drew my skirt up my thighs, finger by finger. Cool air lapped at my damp skin. When I got to the hem he laid his hand on my bare mound, parting the swollen lips with a couple of fingers, delving between to find the syrupy slickness of my juices. When he traced the contours of my clit I writhed against him.

“Oh, honey, you’re ready for this, aren’t you?” His touch was like fire to my tinder: I felt flames rushing through my body. “All day you’ve wanted me to do this, haven’t you? And you’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do it. Look how sweet and wet and open this is for me.” His lips brushed away any objections that might have risen to mine. “Now unbutton your dress. I want to see that beautiful body, Astrid.”

I fumbled with the little buttons, unable to look because he was kissing me, and bared my breasts. He sighed with satisfaction.

“Now play with them, Astrid. Play with your breasts while I make you come.”

I cupped them, squeezing them together, fingering my nipples, but I couldn’t do it for long. “Oh—I’m coming now!” I gasped.

Marcus plunged his fingers into my slippery entrance, using his thumb on my clit. “Yes. You are: right now.”

“Make her come,” moaned the echo.

I opened my eyes as orgasm flooded through me. I saw Rhys standing against the kitchen bench, but it was too late and I couldn’t stop; I just stared and moaned and spasmed in pleasure.

“‘Oh God,” whispered Rhys, wide-eyed.

“Rhys?” I whimpered, when I could speak again. For a brief moment I tried to sit up straight but Marcus’ arms tightened around me in a hug.

“It’s all right, honey.” His voice was warm and sure.

“Rhys? What’re you doing here?” My voice came out husky.

“Oh God, you’re beautiful,” said Rhys. “So fucking hot and beautiful.”

“He’s not angry,” Marcus said.

I gaped. This felt wildly unreal. “What’s going on?”

“Astrid, I…”’ My husband looked shifty.

I jumped to the worst possible conclusion. “Did he pay you for this?”

“Far from it,” said Marcus smoothly. “Astrid, there is something you don’t know. Rhys and I met on the Net about six months back. On a cuckolding site.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that we both have certain specialist interests. My thing is married women—“

“Your thing?”

“‘My passion. My obsession: women who are faithfully, happily married, and just longing to be seduced all over again. And Rhys’ single greatest turn-on,” he added, his voice hardening; “the thing he fantasizes about constantly, is the thought of his beautiful wife being fucked by another man. Of her being so aroused by this stranger that she’ll do anything for his cock. Of him watching helplessly while she gets the shafting of her life, better than any he could ever give her, and she screams that other man’s name and begs like a slut for him to fuck her more.”

I was stunned. It all made sense now: the way Marcus knew exactly the right things to say, the way he knew what I liked and what I wanted. He’d certainly done his homework: he’d been perfect for me. I’d been played by both men, but it was impossible to take the high ground when I’d just been discovered by my husband with someone else’s fingers up my pussy. I couldn’t even feel indignant. I cleared my throat to ask, “Rhys told you everything, didn’t he?”

“Everything. He gave me copious notes … and photos. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.” Marcus stroked my damp hair from my face and kissed my cheek. “Now I’m going to fuck you, Astrid, in front of him. Just like he wants me to. Just like you want.”

Buy Seduction at
Amazon US :: Amazon UK