 |
| John Duncan: Heptu Bidding Farewell to the City of Obb, 1909 |
HSBC hates me and I hate it back.
Wednesday, 27 September 2017
Running away!
HSBC hates me and I hate it back.
Monday, 25 September 2017
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!
Today's excerpt is from my short story, Wet, which appeared in I is for Indecent - an anthology of taboo erotica. You have been warned...
We made it across the final road to the block concealing the multi-storey car park. There were stairs up to the entrance and a wheelchair ramp and both looked equally impassable to me. I stopped.
‘I not sure I’m going to make it.’
Terry turned to face me and pushed his hand between my legs to take a firm grip, making me moan with equal parts shock and gratitude.
‘Get a room,’ suggested a passer-by cheerily but Terry ignored him.
‘Hold it in,’ he ordered, rubbing my clit. ‘You’re going to get there. Just hold it in.’
Gasping, I nodded. My cheeks were flaming. At any other time it would have been with excitement at his daring.
‘Do you want me to carry you?’
I shook my head and saw he understood; one squeeze and it would all be over.
‘Okay.’ He coaxed me up the stairs one at a time, holding tight to my hand, and we passed into the ground-floor interior of the building. This was a shopping arcade too, but a cheaper one. The stores sold tupperware and greetings cards and food you had to weigh out of tubs and everything-for-£1. They were shuttered but the concourse remained open all night because people were parked upstairs. They drifted through on their way back from pubs and restaurants and cinemas. It wasn’t the sort of place I’d want to be on my own in the small hours.
‘Oh God,’ I whimpered under my breath.
‘I’ll go check the toilets are open.’ Terry dropped my hand and trotted off before I could think to protest. I shuffled forward like a shopping-mall zombie, my thighs clenched and both fists balled at my hips. I felt like I had a fever; I was flushed with heat but plumes of chill kept washing up my spine. The shop fronts and the few passers-by were a blur at the periphery of my vision.
Then came the first little sensation of warmth and I realised I was leaking. I stopped, legs pressed together as if I could hold my urethra closed by brute force, unable to take another step, utterly frantic. There were beads of sweat on my upper lip. ‘Terry!’ I whimpered like a little lost girl.
And there he was, hurrying back to me, his face alight; nodding.
‘Help me,’ I begged him, writhing: ‘Oh please, Terry.’ Then my muscles finally gave way before the inevitable and suddenly there was hot wetness all down my legs and I was pissing as I stood there on the tiled floor. The relief was indescribable, the agony transformed in a second into bliss, but the shame was indescribable too. Tears ran down my face. I was shaking. Some part of me thought to try and save my new shoes so I opened my legs and let my water flood out. Other people were staring at me but I could hardly tell. I had eyes only for Terry who’d stopped a few paces off, transfixed. His pale eyes were wide like he’d never blink again as he watched me pee, staring at my crotch and my spread legs and the pool growing between my feet. I couldn’t look down at myself but I could see his face, his expression of horror and awe.
Slowly, after an interminable period over which I had no control, the soft splashing grew still. I was empty. I shut my eyes. I felt Terry take my hands in his.
‘Come on love,’ he whispered. And he led me away in my wet knickers and stockings. He took me to the enclosed concrete stairwell that we’d descended earlier in the evening. I felt light-headed, almost drunk, with release. I thought we were going up to the car but he pulled me into the short corridor beneath the stairs, his grip on my wrist so tight it was uncomfortable. He pulled up my spattered skirt. ‘Get these off.’
His hands tugged at my panties. Shuddering, I let him draw them down over my bum and my thighs and then I pulled the horrible reeking things off in a twisted wet knot. Terry flung them aside, then shoved me up against the cement wall. He was breathing hard.
‘Dirty girl,’ he breathed. He grabbed my hand hard and forced it against his crotch, letting me find out for myself that he was so erect that he was nudging out of the waistband of his trousers. Shaken and reeling, I was in no shape to do anything about it. He had to release it himself, with desperate clumsy movements. I stared aghast into his face; it was set and feral and almost unrecognisable. Then he pressed me back against the cold wall and hoiked up my skirt even higher, pushing my feet apart with his own. His hand groped for my sex. It found pubic hair in wet ringlets and, deeper in, a hotter more viscid wetness that’d been in readiness for hours. Where his fingers went the blunt head of his cock followed, and without ceremony he was suddenly inside me, nailing me to the wall.
Anyone could have come in and found us. Anyone could have glanced over the railings and watched.
‘Dirty girl!’ he repeated with a groan, his backside plunging under my hands. My wet hold-up stockings embraced his thighs. ‘What do you think you are? Wetting yourself in public!’
Buy I is for Indecent at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Today's excerpt is from my short story, Wet, which appeared in I is for Indecent - an anthology of taboo erotica. You have been warned...
We made it across the final road to the block concealing the multi-storey car park. There were stairs up to the entrance and a wheelchair ramp and both looked equally impassable to me. I stopped.
‘I not sure I’m going to make it.’
Terry turned to face me and pushed his hand between my legs to take a firm grip, making me moan with equal parts shock and gratitude.
‘Get a room,’ suggested a passer-by cheerily but Terry ignored him.
‘Hold it in,’ he ordered, rubbing my clit. ‘You’re going to get there. Just hold it in.’
Gasping, I nodded. My cheeks were flaming. At any other time it would have been with excitement at his daring.
‘Do you want me to carry you?’
I shook my head and saw he understood; one squeeze and it would all be over.
‘Okay.’ He coaxed me up the stairs one at a time, holding tight to my hand, and we passed into the ground-floor interior of the building. This was a shopping arcade too, but a cheaper one. The stores sold tupperware and greetings cards and food you had to weigh out of tubs and everything-for-£1. They were shuttered but the concourse remained open all night because people were parked upstairs. They drifted through on their way back from pubs and restaurants and cinemas. It wasn’t the sort of place I’d want to be on my own in the small hours.
‘Oh God,’ I whimpered under my breath.
‘I’ll go check the toilets are open.’ Terry dropped my hand and trotted off before I could think to protest. I shuffled forward like a shopping-mall zombie, my thighs clenched and both fists balled at my hips. I felt like I had a fever; I was flushed with heat but plumes of chill kept washing up my spine. The shop fronts and the few passers-by were a blur at the periphery of my vision.
Then came the first little sensation of warmth and I realised I was leaking. I stopped, legs pressed together as if I could hold my urethra closed by brute force, unable to take another step, utterly frantic. There were beads of sweat on my upper lip. ‘Terry!’ I whimpered like a little lost girl.
And there he was, hurrying back to me, his face alight; nodding.
‘Help me,’ I begged him, writhing: ‘Oh please, Terry.’ Then my muscles finally gave way before the inevitable and suddenly there was hot wetness all down my legs and I was pissing as I stood there on the tiled floor. The relief was indescribable, the agony transformed in a second into bliss, but the shame was indescribable too. Tears ran down my face. I was shaking. Some part of me thought to try and save my new shoes so I opened my legs and let my water flood out. Other people were staring at me but I could hardly tell. I had eyes only for Terry who’d stopped a few paces off, transfixed. His pale eyes were wide like he’d never blink again as he watched me pee, staring at my crotch and my spread legs and the pool growing between my feet. I couldn’t look down at myself but I could see his face, his expression of horror and awe.
Slowly, after an interminable period over which I had no control, the soft splashing grew still. I was empty. I shut my eyes. I felt Terry take my hands in his.
‘Come on love,’ he whispered. And he led me away in my wet knickers and stockings. He took me to the enclosed concrete stairwell that we’d descended earlier in the evening. I felt light-headed, almost drunk, with release. I thought we were going up to the car but he pulled me into the short corridor beneath the stairs, his grip on my wrist so tight it was uncomfortable. He pulled up my spattered skirt. ‘Get these off.’
His hands tugged at my panties. Shuddering, I let him draw them down over my bum and my thighs and then I pulled the horrible reeking things off in a twisted wet knot. Terry flung them aside, then shoved me up against the cement wall. He was breathing hard.
‘Dirty girl,’ he breathed. He grabbed my hand hard and forced it against his crotch, letting me find out for myself that he was so erect that he was nudging out of the waistband of his trousers. Shaken and reeling, I was in no shape to do anything about it. He had to release it himself, with desperate clumsy movements. I stared aghast into his face; it was set and feral and almost unrecognisable. Then he pressed me back against the cold wall and hoiked up my skirt even higher, pushing my feet apart with his own. His hand groped for my sex. It found pubic hair in wet ringlets and, deeper in, a hotter more viscid wetness that’d been in readiness for hours. Where his fingers went the blunt head of his cock followed, and without ceremony he was suddenly inside me, nailing me to the wall.
Anyone could have come in and found us. Anyone could have glanced over the railings and watched.
‘Dirty girl!’ he repeated with a groan, his backside plunging under my hands. My wet hold-up stockings embraced his thighs. ‘What do you think you are? Wetting yourself in public!’
Buy I is for Indecent at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Saturday, 23 September 2017
End of an era
Today we sold our vinyl at last...
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| Farewell, both copies of Queen's Greatest Hits |
Took all the annuals to Oxfam...
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| No one has heard of "Project Sword" |
And boxed up the *ahem* "toys" so the removal guys wouldn't find them...
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| It required a larger box than I expected 3:) |
We're getting there.
Friday, 22 September 2017
I feel like a Nu man...
I got tickets for the Gary Numan tour! And I wasn't even a big fan back in the 80s, lol
Wednesday, 20 September 2017
Wood acid
Until we bought our wood I had no idea that rural life is one long low-level battle against the forces of crime and anarchy. Country people are dodgy as f*ck, frankly. There's the fly-tipping, of course - I was expecting that:
But not just by individuals, oh no. The bloody public services are just as happy to leave their old crap in my wood:
In fact some bugger decided to trench through my land and lay a utility pipe without asking permission:
I'm constantly worried that I have badger diggers - though it's possible this poor chap died of natural causes; certainly the sett still seems to be active.
And this week I found a seriously suspicious-looking CONTAINER OF HYDROCHLORIC ACID left inside my gate.
I reported it to the police, because acid-attacks are a Thing now in the UK. They called in the fire brigade to dispose of it, but it's too hazardous so the fire brigade aren't allowed to (and nor am I) so they've called the local council.
Guess who gets to foot the bill?
But not just by individuals, oh no. The bloody public services are just as happy to leave their old crap in my wood:
In fact some bugger decided to trench through my land and lay a utility pipe without asking permission:
I'm constantly worried that I have badger diggers - though it's possible this poor chap died of natural causes; certainly the sett still seems to be active.
And this week I found a seriously suspicious-looking CONTAINER OF HYDROCHLORIC ACID left inside my gate.
I reported it to the police, because acid-attacks are a Thing now in the UK. They called in the fire brigade to dispose of it, but it's too hazardous so the fire brigade aren't allowed to (and nor am I) so they've called the local council.
Guess who gets to foot the bill?
Monday, 18 September 2017
Blue Monday: Harley Easton guests
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
Today's guest is Harley Easton with an excerpt from her story Love Thy Neighbor, in the new anthology Getting It: a femdom anthology
Getting It – A Femdom Anthology is comprised of thirteen sexy stories ranging from the sweet, new Domme finding her footing to the young man discovering that pain doesn’t have to be self-inflicted.
Whether French cuisine tickles your tongue, pain twists into pleasure, or rape fantasies occupy your dreams, this delicious collection is for you. Mild dominance and hardcore BDSM entwine in Getting It, pushing characters and readers to embrace their innermost sensational desires in healthy, consensual ways.
Authors: Jordan Monroe, T.C. Mill, Nanisi Barrett D'Arnuk, Ralph Greco, Jr., Kiki DeLovely, Harley Easton, VK Foxe, Megan Jennifer, Arden de Winter, Jean Roberta, Betina Cipher, and Sienna Saint-Cyr.
Maggie pulled the purse strap off her shoulders then reached down to unzip the bag. Deftly, she dropped the keys in and retrieved a foil packet which she held between her fingers to display. “Take me up to the choir loft. I expect you to make me sing.” The statement was punctuated by the thud of her purse landing on the seat of the front pew.
The thought of taking her up to the rafters and to hearing her cries of ecstasy echo through the building completely undid him. Micha stood rooted to the spot, blinking at her like an idiot. Maggie nodded as if used to this type of reaction.
“Then again, maybe you don’t really want to fuck me? Like I said, I don’t make assumptions.” She turned as if to put the condom packet back in your purse.
“No!” he yelled, as he regained his senses. The sound reverberated through the otherwise silent church, which seemed to be waiting to see what he would do. Maggie casually spun to face him, eying him teasingly as she flicked the packet back and forth. “I want to fuck you,” he panted. “Dear God, I want to please you in every way possible, but I’m not going to make it up to that loft.” He nodded toward his pants where his swollen penis was ready to burst from the confines of his zipper. Even the thought of walking up the winding back stairs to the loft was torture.
“Hmmm, well then. Perhaps on second thought,” she purred, took his hand, opened it, and placed the condom packet inside. As his fingers closed around the foil, she wrapped her tiny hand around his wrist. He didn't fight as she pulled him toward the pulpit.
Halfway there he moved in to kiss her deeply as they fumbled up the few steps to the raised lectern. The sunlight shifted again, it’s beams spotlighting them as Maggie reached for Micha’s pants. He was already thick and pulsing with need. She cooed as he sprang forth, then grasped him, stroking his penis firmly and making him groan. “Mmm, you’re much longer than those pants gave you credit for.”
Ripping open the condom, he sheathed himself. “I don’t know how long I’ll last,” he admitted.
“You’ll last until I’m satisfied,” she growled as the tips of her fingers tickled his balls. She spun around, pressing the material of her skirt against him as she gripped the reading stand for purchase. He fought not to grind against her ass as the skirt rose, exposing more of her leg. “I'm a hard and fast girl, so that better be how I get it.”
Maggie wiggled her hips, almost taunting him as he raced to raise the fabric of her skirt. Micha grinned when he found her deliciously devoid of undergarments. Her tan skin glowed in the tinted sunlight and the air felt charged as he reached between her legs. She was dripping. He could baptize himself in her juices.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. Her wicked smile had returned. “Take me now, Micha, or I’ll masturbate instead and make you watch.”
Micha responded by driving into her from behind and leaning forward to bite her almost bare shoulder. Slipping his hand over the dress, he kneaded her breasts as he began thrusting. He loved the way she pushed back to take him deeper.
“Fuck, yes,” she moaned, and the filthy words echoed like a sweet hymn through the open space of the empty church. Her knuckles were white as she clung to the book rest; her head dipped back in ecstasy. The entire building seemed to quiet itself to watch her exquisite beauty.
As he’d warned her, it didn't last long, but as she’d warned him, she took her satisfaction. The crush of her walls as she clenched around him had Micha grunting like an animal. As he got close, Maggie egged him on with filthy suggestions about how she was in charge and planned to milk his cock for every last drop. Her own running commentary was making her so hot, it was impossible for Micha not to be aroused as well. He couldn’t help it, he exploded inside her.
Maggie whipped a hand off the podium and reached around, grasping at his hips. “I’m not done with you yet. Don’t you dare move,” she demanded, keeping his softening cock inside her as she pulled up the front of her skirt and fingered her clit until she screamed out her own orgasm. Micha groaned as she clenched around him again. He was finally allowed to pull out when she slumped over the pulpit, breathing hard. The sounds of the church settling suddenly became audible again, the wood of the pulpit creaking in what almost sounded like approval. That was when Maggie started laughing.
“What?” Micha asked as he pulled off the condom and stuffed himself back in his pants.
“I’m pretty sure this isn’t what the Bible meant by ‘love thy neighbor.’”
Buy Getting It at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Harley Easton is a Renaissance woman dabbling in everything life offers. She's worked at a major theme park, found expert witnesses for legal cases, been a guest lecturer at a well known national museum, and worked with medical students. Putting experience and insanity to good use, she's become an author specializing in erotic, romantic, and speculative fiction. See what Harley is up to at www.harleyeaston.com
or on Facebook
Today's guest is Harley Easton with an excerpt from her story Love Thy Neighbor, in the new anthology Getting It: a femdom anthology
Getting It – A Femdom Anthology is comprised of thirteen sexy stories ranging from the sweet, new Domme finding her footing to the young man discovering that pain doesn’t have to be self-inflicted.
Whether French cuisine tickles your tongue, pain twists into pleasure, or rape fantasies occupy your dreams, this delicious collection is for you. Mild dominance and hardcore BDSM entwine in Getting It, pushing characters and readers to embrace their innermost sensational desires in healthy, consensual ways.
Authors: Jordan Monroe, T.C. Mill, Nanisi Barrett D'Arnuk, Ralph Greco, Jr., Kiki DeLovely, Harley Easton, VK Foxe, Megan Jennifer, Arden de Winter, Jean Roberta, Betina Cipher, and Sienna Saint-Cyr.
Maggie pulled the purse strap off her shoulders then reached down to unzip the bag. Deftly, she dropped the keys in and retrieved a foil packet which she held between her fingers to display. “Take me up to the choir loft. I expect you to make me sing.” The statement was punctuated by the thud of her purse landing on the seat of the front pew.
The thought of taking her up to the rafters and to hearing her cries of ecstasy echo through the building completely undid him. Micha stood rooted to the spot, blinking at her like an idiot. Maggie nodded as if used to this type of reaction.
“Then again, maybe you don’t really want to fuck me? Like I said, I don’t make assumptions.” She turned as if to put the condom packet back in your purse.
“No!” he yelled, as he regained his senses. The sound reverberated through the otherwise silent church, which seemed to be waiting to see what he would do. Maggie casually spun to face him, eying him teasingly as she flicked the packet back and forth. “I want to fuck you,” he panted. “Dear God, I want to please you in every way possible, but I’m not going to make it up to that loft.” He nodded toward his pants where his swollen penis was ready to burst from the confines of his zipper. Even the thought of walking up the winding back stairs to the loft was torture.
“Hmmm, well then. Perhaps on second thought,” she purred, took his hand, opened it, and placed the condom packet inside. As his fingers closed around the foil, she wrapped her tiny hand around his wrist. He didn't fight as she pulled him toward the pulpit.
Halfway there he moved in to kiss her deeply as they fumbled up the few steps to the raised lectern. The sunlight shifted again, it’s beams spotlighting them as Maggie reached for Micha’s pants. He was already thick and pulsing with need. She cooed as he sprang forth, then grasped him, stroking his penis firmly and making him groan. “Mmm, you’re much longer than those pants gave you credit for.”
Ripping open the condom, he sheathed himself. “I don’t know how long I’ll last,” he admitted.
“You’ll last until I’m satisfied,” she growled as the tips of her fingers tickled his balls. She spun around, pressing the material of her skirt against him as she gripped the reading stand for purchase. He fought not to grind against her ass as the skirt rose, exposing more of her leg. “I'm a hard and fast girl, so that better be how I get it.”
Maggie wiggled her hips, almost taunting him as he raced to raise the fabric of her skirt. Micha grinned when he found her deliciously devoid of undergarments. Her tan skin glowed in the tinted sunlight and the air felt charged as he reached between her legs. She was dripping. He could baptize himself in her juices.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. Her wicked smile had returned. “Take me now, Micha, or I’ll masturbate instead and make you watch.”
Micha responded by driving into her from behind and leaning forward to bite her almost bare shoulder. Slipping his hand over the dress, he kneaded her breasts as he began thrusting. He loved the way she pushed back to take him deeper.
“Fuck, yes,” she moaned, and the filthy words echoed like a sweet hymn through the open space of the empty church. Her knuckles were white as she clung to the book rest; her head dipped back in ecstasy. The entire building seemed to quiet itself to watch her exquisite beauty.
As he’d warned her, it didn't last long, but as she’d warned him, she took her satisfaction. The crush of her walls as she clenched around him had Micha grunting like an animal. As he got close, Maggie egged him on with filthy suggestions about how she was in charge and planned to milk his cock for every last drop. Her own running commentary was making her so hot, it was impossible for Micha not to be aroused as well. He couldn’t help it, he exploded inside her.
Maggie whipped a hand off the podium and reached around, grasping at his hips. “I’m not done with you yet. Don’t you dare move,” she demanded, keeping his softening cock inside her as she pulled up the front of her skirt and fingered her clit until she screamed out her own orgasm. Micha groaned as she clenched around him again. He was finally allowed to pull out when she slumped over the pulpit, breathing hard. The sounds of the church settling suddenly became audible again, the wood of the pulpit creaking in what almost sounded like approval. That was when Maggie started laughing.
“What?” Micha asked as he pulled off the condom and stuffed himself back in his pants.
“I’m pretty sure this isn’t what the Bible meant by ‘love thy neighbor.’”
Buy Getting It at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Harley Easton is a Renaissance woman dabbling in everything life offers. She's worked at a major theme park, found expert witnesses for legal cases, been a guest lecturer at a well known national museum, and worked with medical students. Putting experience and insanity to good use, she's become an author specializing in erotic, romantic, and speculative fiction. See what Harley is up to at www.harleyeaston.com
or on Facebook
Sunday, 17 September 2017
I've been on the road this week, visiting family among other things, so I've had nothing to offer my blog except this small moment of domestic goddessness: I've been collecting windfalls and have made fresh apple juice (that's cider for you Americans, lol) for the first time:
It tastes like nectar - and nothing like cartoned apple juice!
The foam must be full of natural pectin because it sets so solid it can be eaten with a spoon:
Wednesday, 13 September 2017
Janine encounters ... the Robo-Toilet!
Tech-fans rejoice, for I bring you my review of the ROBO-LOO. Or to be precise, the Uspa Electronic Bidet Seat. No longer just a terrifying Japanese travel-tale, interactive lavvies are now available in the comfort of your own home! And I was privileged to be the first Ladybits Owner to try this particular one out:
It looks like an ordinary toilet crossed with a duck, but it comes complete with a whole new level of Disconcerting. For a start, when you sit down, THE SEAT IS PRE-WARMED.
O.M.G.
And when your ass covers the sensor on the seat, A LITTLE FAN POWERS UP TO SUCK YOUR STINKS AWAY.
Then you get to play with the remote control:
Robo-Loo comes with two retractable and self-cleaning nozzles. Forgive me dear reader for ruffling your delicate sensibilities, but one of those nozzles squirts water at your asshole, and the other squirts it at your pussy, assuming you have one; if not, I guess ...
You can adjust water temperature, pressure, and position forward or back. THERE ARE OSCILLATING PROGRAMS.
Yes - not only is this device a boon for the hygiene-conscious vegetarian, say, but this toilet is designed for your aqua-based stimulation. Truly, what greater boon can civilisation offer than the gentle yet insistent pulse of a water jet about your throbbing sphincter?
I had to look up what a "Sitz bath" was, btw.
Finally, once you haveclimaxed contented yourself with sufficient waterplay, THERE IS A FAN (3 warmth settings) to tenderly air-dry your delicate flaps.
Those of you who know how long I spend on the toilet already, despair anew! I may never leave the bathroom now :-D
BONUS BATHROOM TECH:
It looks like an ordinary toilet crossed with a duck, but it comes complete with a whole new level of Disconcerting. For a start, when you sit down, THE SEAT IS PRE-WARMED.
O.M.G.
And when your ass covers the sensor on the seat, A LITTLE FAN POWERS UP TO SUCK YOUR STINKS AWAY.
Then you get to play with the remote control:
 |
| It goes BEEP every time, so don't imagine you're being subtle |
You can adjust water temperature, pressure, and position forward or back. THERE ARE OSCILLATING PROGRAMS.
Yes - not only is this device a boon for the hygiene-conscious vegetarian, say, but this toilet is designed for your aqua-based stimulation. Truly, what greater boon can civilisation offer than the gentle yet insistent pulse of a water jet about your throbbing sphincter?
[OFFSCREEN: "SqueeeeeEEEEE"]
 |
| (Demonstration with clingfilm) |
 |
| I'm not much the wiser, but it seems to be a shallow genital bath for which any medical claim is made. |
Finally, once you have
Those of you who know how long I spend on the toilet already, despair anew! I may never leave the bathroom now :-D
BONUS BATHROOM TECH:
 |
| The shower vacuum |
Monday, 11 September 2017
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
Here's a taste of an old fantasy novel of mine, Burning Bright. The excerpt is from near the beginning - our hero comes-to wounded, tied up and with no memory of who he is.
The drumbeat pounded in his head, the darkness spun in a circle around him - but when he opened his eyes again there was silence. He and the two women were alone in the room.
The witch came over and knelt by his pallet, her breasts till heaving from the exertion of her dance and little streaks of moisture tracked through the ash. Her nipples were hard under their grey dusting. She patted her thigh, signalling to the girl who laid aside her drum and joined her.
‘My spirits tell me,’ said the witch, ‘that the fever spirit is a red centipede. It must be sucked out of him. With his seed.’ She looked slyly at her companion. ‘They said that you should do it.’
The girl made an 'o' with her mouth and shook her head, her eyes suddenly unable to fix upon the supine body before her.
‘Tch,’ clicked the witch with her tongue; ‘you're too old to be afraid of men, Mehetchi. If you weren't my apprentice you'd have been married by now.’
‘I'm not afraid - I just don't want to,’ the girl said, wriggling. ‘He's a foreigner.’
‘A man is a man. There's no difference to speak of. Anyway; his hands are tied: what are you worried about?’
He then realised that the pressure he'd felt across his back was a length of cord attached to either wrist. A cold stab of fear ran up his belly.
The girl hissed between her teeth. ‘I don't … I’m not ready for this,’ she muttered.
‘Don't give me that, girl. You’re training to be a spirit-talker, so don't tell me you're squeamish. You do what the spirits instruct.’
The girl stuck out her lower lip but didn't reply. Her colour was high. He wasn’t capable of imagining what she was feeling, but he knew he didn't want this at all. He was too weak to protest, but his muscles clenched in painful cramp. This wasn’t how he wanted it; not tied down and helpless, picked over by two witches like a couple of vultures on a corpse. He tried to protest, but came out as a groan.
The witch poked his right nipple sharply. ‘Don't be impatient, you,’ she admonished. ‘Now Mehetchi, pull that down. Take a look. It won't bite; this serpent has no teeth.’
He felt a cooler flutter of air as the girl reluctantly turned down the sheet over his thighs. Thin trickles of sweat crawled over his hips and down to the small of his back.
‘It's not so bad, is it, girl?’
The younger witch made a face. ‘It's ugly. Not sweet and smooth like a woman's.’
This drew a bark of laughter from her elder. ‘It's sweet enough, girl! And soft and smooth most of the time, the tenderest part of a man until he starts to imagine somewhere even more tender to put it. Now this one though, he's already thinking on your plump lips, Mehetchi.’ She flicked his cock with one long nail; he couldn't see his own reaction but he could certainly feel it. ‘Hee! Look at it jump! The fish are biting tonight!’ Mehetchi's eyes widened. ‘These are things you have to learn, to be a spirit-talker,’ the other told her. ‘Now go on; put your hand on it.’
Mehetchi obeyed slowly, her cool fingers circling his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut but it made no matter.
‘How is it?’
‘Hot. Every bit of him is fevered.’
‘Not so soft now?’
Her hand hefted his flesh uncertainly. ‘It's getting heavier. It moves in my hand like an animal,’ she observed.
‘Ah; you must pet it like an animal then. Stroke it gently. Yes; like that.’
Her apprentice was wary. ‘What will it do?’
‘It’ll get harder still.’
‘I don't like it hard. It was nicer before. Look: it's too big and ugly already.’
‘But it must get as hard as it can before it’ll spill its seed. Harder than a length of mahogany. See how much bigger it is now? He may be weak with fever, but his flesh is still charged with life.’ She raised a finger. ‘Listen, child; you must understand that a man feels desire just as a woman does, but there’s more than one spirit in his flesh. The prick of a man has a spirit of its own that moves it without his intention. It brings flesh into being from the spirit-world. It makes him rise even when he has no thought of lust in his heart. When he sleeps, the prick-spirit stirs. When he wants to piss, it won't let him. It can be very strong, very cunning. More cunning than the man's own spirit. Look at that serpent - has it any eyes?’
‘No. Only a mouth.’
‘There, you see; a prick-spirit is blind. To it all women are the same. Old and young, pretty and ugly. A prick is as happy with the arse of a goat as with that of a girl. Heh! - a man will fuck mud when his prick is in charge. He’ll do anything to obey it. That's why they are dangerous.’
Mehetchi made a face and squeezed him savagely until his spine arched.
‘This spirit is treacherous, child. It can trick a man into believing he desires a woman, when really he finds her repulsive. Only when the prick-spirit has had its way will he realise that he never wanted her. And then, when he approaches the girl he lusts after the most, the prick-spirit may abandon him, and for all his desire he then will be unable to stiffen for her. When you’re a full spirit-talker, you’ll find that many men, or their wives, will come to you to complain that their prick-spirit has fled. It’ll be your job to search out the spirit wherever it has hidden and bring it back to his body.’
‘Where do they go?’
‘Into the Underworld. I’ll show you the place later. I’ll teach you a song to call them, and another to send them back, should you ever need to.’
‘And what about those below?’
‘Go on; touch them. They're nothing to fear. They’re soft like ripe fruits.’
Mehetchi knelt forward. ‘They're wrinkled like they've hung on the stem too long then! Ugh!’ She giggled, her eyes flashing.
He felt the humiliation writhe in his belly.
‘Those are the source of all his seed. The spirits of all his descendants wait there, anxious to see the light of life. Often they’re too eager and they pour out when there is no womb to receive them. That is your task now. You must draw his seed out and hold it in your mouth; the fever will come with it.’
The girl licked her lips nervously, and even that sight sent a spasm through his helpless flesh.
‘The serpent's mouth is wet! Is that his seed?’
‘Hah!’ the older woman snorted. ‘No – he’s just impatient, child. His prick drools like a toothless old man before his dinner. Suck it.’
No, he said, but his voice went unheard.
There was a moment's pause, a flutter of breath and then Mehetchi 's mouth - cool and soft and liquid - wrapped itself around the burning head of his cock. He groaned, and the embrace became a sucking before it was then was cruelly withdrawn.
‘It tastes salty,’ she murmured. ‘Not so bad. Not as bitter as the vision-beer.’
‘Keep sucking. Lick him,’ her mentor instructed. ‘He likes that. See; his muscles are like stone.’
She obeyed. He felt the fever rip through his bones, a grinding ache that became a fire as it mounted to his skull.
‘When his snake spits into your mouth you must catch it. Whatever you do, don't swallow, or you'll take the fever into your own body. I have a pot here. You must spit the centipede into that.’
The girl mumbled agreement, her lips wrapped around his erection. He could have screamed for frustration at the teasing, infuriating gentleness of her touch, without rhythm or expertise. Her tongue lapped and slithered but to no purpose; she didn't command his cock, only played with it. He wanted to catch her head and thrust deep into her throat but he didn't have the strength or the reach and could only strain uselessly against his weakened frame, his teeth bared.
‘It's not working,’ Mehetchi moaned, after long waves of glorious torment had rolled over his shaking body for what seemed like forever. ‘I can't do it.’
He managed to pull one deep gasp into his lungs and then let the breath out in a moan of frustration. ‘You are at the wrong angle,’ said the witch shrewdly. ‘Turn around. Straddle his chest.’ She guided the girl until she was kneeling astride him, her feet tucked under his shoulders, the tight red cloth of her skirt filling his view. He got one glance down between their bodies as her mouth closed about his monolithic cock again, but then that vision was eclipsed by the scarlet curves of thighs and buttocks. The witch was right; this was a better angle for him, he would have been able to push further into her throat if only his thighs had been able to obey him, or his spine had been more than a limp rope of hot pain, or the pressure in his skull wasn’t threatening to split the bone. This is going to kill me, he thought.
Then an ash-pale hand descended from the shadows onto Mehetchi's scarlet up-thrust rump. The girl quivered. The hand gripped and stroked and ran smoothly up the tight fabric of the skirt in a confident, soothing, commanding caress that seemed to release the girl from uncertainty. Then it slid down and caught the edge of the material, pulling the skirt up to reveal to him the golden-brown skin of splayed thighs. He could not look away. Higher and higher the skirt was rucked, until it slipped up over the curves of the girl’s beautiful bottom and left them entirely naked, framing the dusky pear-shaped glory of her sex.
Mehetchi gasped; he felt the cold inhalation up the length of his cock.
The young witch was possessed of a powerful charm that had nothing to do with spirits. Her plump mons was fluffed with the darkest, downiest hair and her rosy inner lips peeped from behind this curtain, hinting at a deeper cleft hidden within. Her anus was like a velvet flower. He felt the fevered blood boil in his veins at the sight. And he could feel something else rising within him too: not just the bubble of orgasm but something harder, more compact, like a pebble forcing its way up his throat.
Then the older woman's filthy hands slid down from above, parting the buttocks, stroking the soft fur. Mehetchi moaned in shame and jerked as if about to tear herself away. The hands restrained her, gentle but strong, patting the soft mound, soothing that quivering sex.
It was a name, that pebble. A name.
‘Mata!’ the girl whimpered, her voice all but unintelligible around the thickening shaft of his cock. But the older witch was merciless. Her ash-stained fingers parted those innermost lips, laying bare the mysteries of her maiden sex to his eyes. He could see the pink pearl of her clitoris and the tender, vulnerable mouth of her hole. He could see the moisture, slippery as oil, clear as water, welling up to slick the swelling tissues. He could smell the sharp perfume of her arousal and see the wetness gleaming on the witch's fingers, no longer dusty-pale. Those fingertips closed now on the exposed bud of her clit and stirred her beyond endurance.
The name was his own. It rode the swelling tide of his fervour, a black and jagged rock borne on the flood, and he leapt to catch it.
Mehetchi squealed with pleasure and shame - and at the cry and the sight Veraine erupted at last.
Buy Burning Bright at
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play
Apple iTunes
Here's a taste of an old fantasy novel of mine, Burning Bright. The excerpt is from near the beginning - our hero comes-to wounded, tied up and with no memory of who he is.
The drumbeat pounded in his head, the darkness spun in a circle around him - but when he opened his eyes again there was silence. He and the two women were alone in the room.
The witch came over and knelt by his pallet, her breasts till heaving from the exertion of her dance and little streaks of moisture tracked through the ash. Her nipples were hard under their grey dusting. She patted her thigh, signalling to the girl who laid aside her drum and joined her.
‘My spirits tell me,’ said the witch, ‘that the fever spirit is a red centipede. It must be sucked out of him. With his seed.’ She looked slyly at her companion. ‘They said that you should do it.’
The girl made an 'o' with her mouth and shook her head, her eyes suddenly unable to fix upon the supine body before her.
‘Tch,’ clicked the witch with her tongue; ‘you're too old to be afraid of men, Mehetchi. If you weren't my apprentice you'd have been married by now.’
‘I'm not afraid - I just don't want to,’ the girl said, wriggling. ‘He's a foreigner.’
‘A man is a man. There's no difference to speak of. Anyway; his hands are tied: what are you worried about?’
He then realised that the pressure he'd felt across his back was a length of cord attached to either wrist. A cold stab of fear ran up his belly.
The girl hissed between her teeth. ‘I don't … I’m not ready for this,’ she muttered.
‘Don't give me that, girl. You’re training to be a spirit-talker, so don't tell me you're squeamish. You do what the spirits instruct.’
The girl stuck out her lower lip but didn't reply. Her colour was high. He wasn’t capable of imagining what she was feeling, but he knew he didn't want this at all. He was too weak to protest, but his muscles clenched in painful cramp. This wasn’t how he wanted it; not tied down and helpless, picked over by two witches like a couple of vultures on a corpse. He tried to protest, but came out as a groan.
The witch poked his right nipple sharply. ‘Don't be impatient, you,’ she admonished. ‘Now Mehetchi, pull that down. Take a look. It won't bite; this serpent has no teeth.’
He felt a cooler flutter of air as the girl reluctantly turned down the sheet over his thighs. Thin trickles of sweat crawled over his hips and down to the small of his back.
‘It's not so bad, is it, girl?’
The younger witch made a face. ‘It's ugly. Not sweet and smooth like a woman's.’
This drew a bark of laughter from her elder. ‘It's sweet enough, girl! And soft and smooth most of the time, the tenderest part of a man until he starts to imagine somewhere even more tender to put it. Now this one though, he's already thinking on your plump lips, Mehetchi.’ She flicked his cock with one long nail; he couldn't see his own reaction but he could certainly feel it. ‘Hee! Look at it jump! The fish are biting tonight!’ Mehetchi's eyes widened. ‘These are things you have to learn, to be a spirit-talker,’ the other told her. ‘Now go on; put your hand on it.’
Mehetchi obeyed slowly, her cool fingers circling his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut but it made no matter.
‘How is it?’
‘Hot. Every bit of him is fevered.’
‘Not so soft now?’
Her hand hefted his flesh uncertainly. ‘It's getting heavier. It moves in my hand like an animal,’ she observed.
‘Ah; you must pet it like an animal then. Stroke it gently. Yes; like that.’
Her apprentice was wary. ‘What will it do?’
‘It’ll get harder still.’
‘I don't like it hard. It was nicer before. Look: it's too big and ugly already.’
‘But it must get as hard as it can before it’ll spill its seed. Harder than a length of mahogany. See how much bigger it is now? He may be weak with fever, but his flesh is still charged with life.’ She raised a finger. ‘Listen, child; you must understand that a man feels desire just as a woman does, but there’s more than one spirit in his flesh. The prick of a man has a spirit of its own that moves it without his intention. It brings flesh into being from the spirit-world. It makes him rise even when he has no thought of lust in his heart. When he sleeps, the prick-spirit stirs. When he wants to piss, it won't let him. It can be very strong, very cunning. More cunning than the man's own spirit. Look at that serpent - has it any eyes?’
‘No. Only a mouth.’
‘There, you see; a prick-spirit is blind. To it all women are the same. Old and young, pretty and ugly. A prick is as happy with the arse of a goat as with that of a girl. Heh! - a man will fuck mud when his prick is in charge. He’ll do anything to obey it. That's why they are dangerous.’
Mehetchi made a face and squeezed him savagely until his spine arched.
‘This spirit is treacherous, child. It can trick a man into believing he desires a woman, when really he finds her repulsive. Only when the prick-spirit has had its way will he realise that he never wanted her. And then, when he approaches the girl he lusts after the most, the prick-spirit may abandon him, and for all his desire he then will be unable to stiffen for her. When you’re a full spirit-talker, you’ll find that many men, or their wives, will come to you to complain that their prick-spirit has fled. It’ll be your job to search out the spirit wherever it has hidden and bring it back to his body.’
‘Where do they go?’
‘Into the Underworld. I’ll show you the place later. I’ll teach you a song to call them, and another to send them back, should you ever need to.’
‘And what about those below?’
‘Go on; touch them. They're nothing to fear. They’re soft like ripe fruits.’
Mehetchi knelt forward. ‘They're wrinkled like they've hung on the stem too long then! Ugh!’ She giggled, her eyes flashing.
He felt the humiliation writhe in his belly.
‘Those are the source of all his seed. The spirits of all his descendants wait there, anxious to see the light of life. Often they’re too eager and they pour out when there is no womb to receive them. That is your task now. You must draw his seed out and hold it in your mouth; the fever will come with it.’
The girl licked her lips nervously, and even that sight sent a spasm through his helpless flesh.
‘The serpent's mouth is wet! Is that his seed?’
‘Hah!’ the older woman snorted. ‘No – he’s just impatient, child. His prick drools like a toothless old man before his dinner. Suck it.’
No, he said, but his voice went unheard.
There was a moment's pause, a flutter of breath and then Mehetchi 's mouth - cool and soft and liquid - wrapped itself around the burning head of his cock. He groaned, and the embrace became a sucking before it was then was cruelly withdrawn.
‘It tastes salty,’ she murmured. ‘Not so bad. Not as bitter as the vision-beer.’
‘Keep sucking. Lick him,’ her mentor instructed. ‘He likes that. See; his muscles are like stone.’
She obeyed. He felt the fever rip through his bones, a grinding ache that became a fire as it mounted to his skull.
‘When his snake spits into your mouth you must catch it. Whatever you do, don't swallow, or you'll take the fever into your own body. I have a pot here. You must spit the centipede into that.’
The girl mumbled agreement, her lips wrapped around his erection. He could have screamed for frustration at the teasing, infuriating gentleness of her touch, without rhythm or expertise. Her tongue lapped and slithered but to no purpose; she didn't command his cock, only played with it. He wanted to catch her head and thrust deep into her throat but he didn't have the strength or the reach and could only strain uselessly against his weakened frame, his teeth bared.
‘It's not working,’ Mehetchi moaned, after long waves of glorious torment had rolled over his shaking body for what seemed like forever. ‘I can't do it.’
He managed to pull one deep gasp into his lungs and then let the breath out in a moan of frustration. ‘You are at the wrong angle,’ said the witch shrewdly. ‘Turn around. Straddle his chest.’ She guided the girl until she was kneeling astride him, her feet tucked under his shoulders, the tight red cloth of her skirt filling his view. He got one glance down between their bodies as her mouth closed about his monolithic cock again, but then that vision was eclipsed by the scarlet curves of thighs and buttocks. The witch was right; this was a better angle for him, he would have been able to push further into her throat if only his thighs had been able to obey him, or his spine had been more than a limp rope of hot pain, or the pressure in his skull wasn’t threatening to split the bone. This is going to kill me, he thought.
Then an ash-pale hand descended from the shadows onto Mehetchi's scarlet up-thrust rump. The girl quivered. The hand gripped and stroked and ran smoothly up the tight fabric of the skirt in a confident, soothing, commanding caress that seemed to release the girl from uncertainty. Then it slid down and caught the edge of the material, pulling the skirt up to reveal to him the golden-brown skin of splayed thighs. He could not look away. Higher and higher the skirt was rucked, until it slipped up over the curves of the girl’s beautiful bottom and left them entirely naked, framing the dusky pear-shaped glory of her sex.
Mehetchi gasped; he felt the cold inhalation up the length of his cock.
The young witch was possessed of a powerful charm that had nothing to do with spirits. Her plump mons was fluffed with the darkest, downiest hair and her rosy inner lips peeped from behind this curtain, hinting at a deeper cleft hidden within. Her anus was like a velvet flower. He felt the fevered blood boil in his veins at the sight. And he could feel something else rising within him too: not just the bubble of orgasm but something harder, more compact, like a pebble forcing its way up his throat.
Then the older woman's filthy hands slid down from above, parting the buttocks, stroking the soft fur. Mehetchi moaned in shame and jerked as if about to tear herself away. The hands restrained her, gentle but strong, patting the soft mound, soothing that quivering sex.
It was a name, that pebble. A name.
‘Mata!’ the girl whimpered, her voice all but unintelligible around the thickening shaft of his cock. But the older witch was merciless. Her ash-stained fingers parted those innermost lips, laying bare the mysteries of her maiden sex to his eyes. He could see the pink pearl of her clitoris and the tender, vulnerable mouth of her hole. He could see the moisture, slippery as oil, clear as water, welling up to slick the swelling tissues. He could smell the sharp perfume of her arousal and see the wetness gleaming on the witch's fingers, no longer dusty-pale. Those fingertips closed now on the exposed bud of her clit and stirred her beyond endurance.
The name was his own. It rode the swelling tide of his fervour, a black and jagged rock borne on the flood, and he leapt to catch it.
Mehetchi squealed with pleasure and shame - and at the cry and the sight Veraine erupted at last.
Buy Burning Bright at
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play
Apple iTunes
Sunday, 10 September 2017
Friday, 8 September 2017
How to shock the Devil
 |
| On which she showed:—what you will guess, no doubt, And put the demon presently to rout, Who crossed himself and trembled with affright: He'd never seen nor heard of such a sight |
Sorry, too shattered to blog. But please enjoy this charming woodcut by Charles Eisen...
Wednesday, 6 September 2017
Not waving but drowning
 |
| Ancient Terror by Leon Bakst (1908) |
I've been writing a short story this week!
Don't get too excited for me - I'm really struggling to find the right balance between story and erotic action without stretching it to, like, 10K. But AT LEAST I'M WRITING - and at the moment anything counts, damnit.
The God Below is set in the aftermath of the fall of Atlantis. Given how well-known that theme is these days, and how much Edwardian/Victorian artists liked their classical scenes full of dramatic action, there are surprisingly few paintings on the subject to be found - and those not by mainstream antiquarian artists.
 |
| Nicholas Roerich: The Last of Atlantis (1928) |
Never mind. Who needs pictorial inspiration for the violent end of civilisation, when it's all around us anyway?
Monday, 4 September 2017
Blue Monday: Tony Fyler guests
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
This is the third week of dalliance in Sinful Pleasures (the anthology, lol) and today I've got an excerpt from Tony Fyler's short story Lazy Sunday.
There are times when you should allow an “Elaine having a crisis’ call” to disrupt your plans…
And there are times when you shouldn’t.
I stare at Carrie’s pussy, the distance between us maddening, and as Elaine begins to pour her latest woes in Carrie’s ear, I wink, reach down and slide a fist around my cock, remembering times when the distance disappeared:
The first time we fucked, in her single student bed, when I was trying to be Mr Sensitive, and all she wanted was the heat, the friction, the definite push and presence of my cock inside her, the oblivion of fucking like scratching an infinite itch. I’d been…honoured. Even as I felt it, I knew it sounded odd, but that’s what it was – an honour, that of all the guys who wanted her, she had chosen me, found enough in me to be the man she took to bed.
The second time, half an hour later, all about her, the grind of her hips, and rubbing her clit as she rode me, and came with me inside her – the first time I’d ever felt that with a woman. The third, fourth, fifth times – each different, each learning, each making me want her more, making me want to never be without her.
The time I discovered her poetry weakness, outside, in the park, with my back against a tree. Reading French poetry, being desperately pretentious. She was doing the sun dress thing that Summer, and she looked like something from a watercolour in the yellow dress with strawberries on, and a broad straw hat. As I read, she closed her eyes, her breathing getting heavier.
“Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit,” I read.
She reached over, letting her hand lie, as if testing a theory, in my lap.
I looked down, surprised but thrilled, and flared a welcome to her. She took off the sun hat, then unzipped me, pulling out my cock and covering her hand with the hat. “Keep reading,” she said, the Summer thick in her voice.
I did, the words, the intonations rising and falling along with her fist on me. I’d just started “La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel” when she squeezed the base of my cock, I thought to make me stop.
“Le miel,” she repeated, seeming content and yet frowning.
“Life is the flower, and love is the honey,” I translated. She nodded, as if to say she wasn’t an imbecile.
“Oui,” she said, releasing me from her grip and letting the hat cover my modesty. “It’s no good,” she decided, her voice quavering. “Was gonna wait till I got you home, but that can’t happen now.” She reached quickly up both sides of the sun dress and drew her panties down, letting the dress fall quickly back into place and handing me the sodden scrap of fabric. That was it, that was the word, it was absolutely sodden, like you read about in stories and don’t believe until you experience it for yourself and realise you underestimate a woman at your peril.
“One day, my darling,” she said, her voice raw and thick as she pulled the hat away, exposing me to the breeze and any wandering eyes, “I’m going to sink down your body while you read me this stuff, and I am going to suck your cock and blow your tiny mind to the sound of the French poets.”
I looked around nervously as the light summer breeze played over the flesh of my cock. I needn’t have worried. She put the hat back on her head and straddled me, the sun dress disguising nothing of what we were doing, should anyone walk by.
“But for now,” she said, taking my shaft in her hand underneath the long skirt, “don’t you stop. Don’t you fucking stop, my darling man.” And with that, she sat back on me, and it was like nothing I’d ever known, barely a form around me at all, more like some living, pulsing, demanding part of her was taking what it needed, like it needed to be earthed, through my body, through the tree, through the grass and ground itself, like the poetry was taking her up and she needed the vicious thrust all the way back down on me, her nails digging into my shoulders. The heat of her pussy, the slick hot barely-friction of her movement was like an engine on my cock, like it was turning her into something else, some expression of everything urgent in the world, like Summer and life, like sap and beework, like—
“Andy!” she yelped, her pace not slackening. “I’m gonna…Oh God, Andy, come with me! Come in me! Come home!”
I read a few more lines, my eyes blurring with the sweat of Summer and her heat. I saw the scarlet flush along her neck and in her cheeks, and she flung one hand from my shoulder and dug it into her groin through the fabric of the dress.
“A—”
And then there was no sound; no birds in the trees. Just the bellowing of heartbeats as her muscles clamped, as my flesh could stand it no more and surged in shuddering pulses inside her. Eventually, I knew she’d put both her arms around me again, holding me, cradling. I was deaf, dumb, numb, not really me, and the first sound I could make out when I came back from the soundless somehow pure white world was her soft, soft sobbing into my neck. The first sensation not sexual, but her fingers, stroking my cheek, her kisses on my face.
“I love you,” she cooed, over and over, as though reassuring me that she was still herself. We’d said it already by then, but this…this was different. Special. Real.
“Je vous adore,” I said, pulling her lips to mine for a soft, grounding, reconnecting kiss. “Je vous adore…”
Buy Sinful Pleasures at:
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Kobo
Google Play
iTunes
Support your small publisher and buy the paperback direct
Tony Fyler is a Welsh journalist, professional editor and aspiring writer. He writes across several genres, including comic fantasy and YA sci-fi, despite being properly trained as a historian and journalist. Lazy Sunday, in the Sinful Pleasures anthology from Sinful Press is his first venture into erotica.
Website (writing)
Twitter: @FylerWrites
Website (editing):
Editing Twitter: @JFEditing
Email: enquiries@jefferson-franklin.co.uk
This is the third week of dalliance in Sinful Pleasures (the anthology, lol) and today I've got an excerpt from Tony Fyler's short story Lazy Sunday.
There are times when you should allow an “Elaine having a crisis’ call” to disrupt your plans…
And there are times when you shouldn’t.
I stare at Carrie’s pussy, the distance between us maddening, and as Elaine begins to pour her latest woes in Carrie’s ear, I wink, reach down and slide a fist around my cock, remembering times when the distance disappeared:
The first time we fucked, in her single student bed, when I was trying to be Mr Sensitive, and all she wanted was the heat, the friction, the definite push and presence of my cock inside her, the oblivion of fucking like scratching an infinite itch. I’d been…honoured. Even as I felt it, I knew it sounded odd, but that’s what it was – an honour, that of all the guys who wanted her, she had chosen me, found enough in me to be the man she took to bed.
The second time, half an hour later, all about her, the grind of her hips, and rubbing her clit as she rode me, and came with me inside her – the first time I’d ever felt that with a woman. The third, fourth, fifth times – each different, each learning, each making me want her more, making me want to never be without her.
The time I discovered her poetry weakness, outside, in the park, with my back against a tree. Reading French poetry, being desperately pretentious. She was doing the sun dress thing that Summer, and she looked like something from a watercolour in the yellow dress with strawberries on, and a broad straw hat. As I read, she closed her eyes, her breathing getting heavier.
“Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit,” I read.
She reached over, letting her hand lie, as if testing a theory, in my lap.
I looked down, surprised but thrilled, and flared a welcome to her. She took off the sun hat, then unzipped me, pulling out my cock and covering her hand with the hat. “Keep reading,” she said, the Summer thick in her voice.
I did, the words, the intonations rising and falling along with her fist on me. I’d just started “La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel” when she squeezed the base of my cock, I thought to make me stop.
“Le miel,” she repeated, seeming content and yet frowning.
“Life is the flower, and love is the honey,” I translated. She nodded, as if to say she wasn’t an imbecile.
“Oui,” she said, releasing me from her grip and letting the hat cover my modesty. “It’s no good,” she decided, her voice quavering. “Was gonna wait till I got you home, but that can’t happen now.” She reached quickly up both sides of the sun dress and drew her panties down, letting the dress fall quickly back into place and handing me the sodden scrap of fabric. That was it, that was the word, it was absolutely sodden, like you read about in stories and don’t believe until you experience it for yourself and realise you underestimate a woman at your peril.
“One day, my darling,” she said, her voice raw and thick as she pulled the hat away, exposing me to the breeze and any wandering eyes, “I’m going to sink down your body while you read me this stuff, and I am going to suck your cock and blow your tiny mind to the sound of the French poets.”
I looked around nervously as the light summer breeze played over the flesh of my cock. I needn’t have worried. She put the hat back on her head and straddled me, the sun dress disguising nothing of what we were doing, should anyone walk by.
“But for now,” she said, taking my shaft in her hand underneath the long skirt, “don’t you stop. Don’t you fucking stop, my darling man.” And with that, she sat back on me, and it was like nothing I’d ever known, barely a form around me at all, more like some living, pulsing, demanding part of her was taking what it needed, like it needed to be earthed, through my body, through the tree, through the grass and ground itself, like the poetry was taking her up and she needed the vicious thrust all the way back down on me, her nails digging into my shoulders. The heat of her pussy, the slick hot barely-friction of her movement was like an engine on my cock, like it was turning her into something else, some expression of everything urgent in the world, like Summer and life, like sap and beework, like—
“Andy!” she yelped, her pace not slackening. “I’m gonna…Oh God, Andy, come with me! Come in me! Come home!”
I read a few more lines, my eyes blurring with the sweat of Summer and her heat. I saw the scarlet flush along her neck and in her cheeks, and she flung one hand from my shoulder and dug it into her groin through the fabric of the dress.
“A—”
And then there was no sound; no birds in the trees. Just the bellowing of heartbeats as her muscles clamped, as my flesh could stand it no more and surged in shuddering pulses inside her. Eventually, I knew she’d put both her arms around me again, holding me, cradling. I was deaf, dumb, numb, not really me, and the first sound I could make out when I came back from the soundless somehow pure white world was her soft, soft sobbing into my neck. The first sensation not sexual, but her fingers, stroking my cheek, her kisses on my face.
“I love you,” she cooed, over and over, as though reassuring me that she was still herself. We’d said it already by then, but this…this was different. Special. Real.
“Je vous adore,” I said, pulling her lips to mine for a soft, grounding, reconnecting kiss. “Je vous adore…”
Buy Sinful Pleasures at:
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Kobo
Google Play
iTunes
Support your small publisher and buy the paperback direct
Tony Fyler is a Welsh journalist, professional editor and aspiring writer. He writes across several genres, including comic fantasy and YA sci-fi, despite being properly trained as a historian and journalist. Lazy Sunday, in the Sinful Pleasures anthology from Sinful Press is his first venture into erotica.
Website (writing)
Twitter: @FylerWrites
Website (editing):
Editing Twitter: @JFEditing
Email: enquiries@jefferson-franklin.co.uk
Sunday, 3 September 2017
Friday, 1 September 2017
Well, it's a Friday...
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| In The Moonlight by Albert von Keller (1844–1920) |
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| The Martyr |
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| Witches' Sleep - 1888 |