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. 😉

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!