Monday, 30 January 2017

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

In my ongoing efforts to save the Northern Hemisphere from the winter blues, I'm posting an excerpt from my truly reprehensible short story Scorched, which appears in the heat-themed anthology Playing with Fire

Emerald has been cheating on her boyfriend Max with their roomie Greg...



“Let’s see them.”

Obediently she drew up her skirt to expose stocking tops and the triangle of silky material. He smiled. “Like that. You buy them for me?”

Emerald nodded.

“But Max will get a kick out of them too, I bet.”

“Mm.” That was the thing about this purchase, she thought: she’d be getting double value.

“You know I can hear you two at night? The walls in this place are pretty thin.” He savored the way she blushed. “Not that you’re exactly quiet. But I hear every thump of the headboard, every little groan and squeal.” He caressed the towel-covered knot of his cock, and the bulge twitched visibly. “Drove me nuts for a year, doll.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was husky.

“I can even hear the sound he makes when he slaps your fat ass.”

Emerald’s eyes widened: Greg’s brutal crudity was one of the things that made him so different from Max. He was shamelessly honest and it was one of the things that made her hot. He liked the fact that she had a big ass, and he told her so. He liked the fact she was a slut, and the more he treated her like one the more she acted that way. “Does it annoy you, hearing us?” she asked.

He smirked. “I just grin and join in for the ride, doll.”

“Oh.”

“Now show me that big bum of yours.”

Turning, Emerald pulled up the back of her skirt. She heard the intake of his breath.

“Fuck, yes,” he said in awe as she wiggled her backside. “I want that.” He stood, the better to run his hands over her ass-cheeks and down the barely clothed split between them. The elastic was taut across her asshole, the gusset stretched tight over pussy lips that already felt swollen. Greg’s fingers crudely but very accurately found the sinkhole of her cunt through the cloth.

“You won’t be able to take these back to the shop, doll. They’re already wet.” Every poke of his fingertips on the sodden cloth exacerbated that situation and Emerald whimpered. There was the sound of a towel hitting the carpet. “You ready for some of this?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Emerald saw the cock she was getting to know so well: heavy, dusky, with a bit of a lean to the right, it stood proudly despite the scrotum beneath that seemed to be trying to drag it down by sheer virtue of its weight. That was the thing about Greg: his dick was good but his balls were something else, and they produced prodigious quantities of come. Emerald was sure they were to blame for the swiftness with which he recovered and was ready for more. Was she ready? “Oh yes.”

“Then get down and ask nicely.”

Falling to her knees, she shimmied out of her dress and faced the object of her desire, wetting her lips. It swayed a little and Greg stroked it up and down.

“Please,” she said sincerely.

“Not good enough, doll.”

“Please, sir…” Leaning forward, she delicately tongued those big balls in their velvet pouch.

“Better.” His glans was glistening.

“I want it so much.” She kissed his bollocks and licked her way up his shaft.

“That’s ’cos you’re a slut, Emerald,” he sighed pleasurably. He was so clean from the shower that he was almost tasteless until she sucked the faintly salty pre-come from the eye of his cock. Putting her hands on his hairy thighs, she lost herself in the art and the pleasure of giving him head. He wrapped his fingers in her hair, guiding her, unhurried. He pushed all the way to the back of her throat and when she took the length without gagging he nearly purred. “Emerald.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, knees splayed and ass thrust out, her mouth wrapped around his turgid cock.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” He nodded over her shoulder.

Confused, it took a moment before she broke away and turned. There in the doorway, arms folded, stood Max with a face like stone.

“Shit!” squealed Emerald, clapping her hand over her mouth as if she could hide the fact it had just been pleasuring their flatmate’s cock. “Oh shit! I’m sorry!”

“Yeah,” said Max. “You look sorry.”

She tried to scramble to her feet but Greg’s hand tightened in her hair, shoving her back down: that was such a shock she went momentarily limp. “Oh no,” he said. “Time to face the music, Emerald.”

“You knew?” she shrieked.

“Of course he knew.” Max came into the room and hunkered down so as to be on eye level with her. “He told me what you two were planning today. He told me everything. What did you expect? He’s my mate, isn’t he?”

“But he started it!” It sounded childish even as she shouted the words, but she meant it. The furtive affair had begun one evening that summer when she and Greg had been lying out on the roof, in swimwear, listening to their MP3 players. Greg had, without warning and without a word, rolled over and put his hand square on her breast.

“Like you resisted,” replied Max.

Emerald gaped. She hadn’t resisted. She’d let Greg squeeze her tit and then pull down her bikini top to play with them both, his hand firm and slow. She hadn’t struggled or protested or even spoken, pinned to her towel by the sunlight and the glint on his opaque sunglasses, overwhelmed by his assurance. Her nipples had stiffened to his touch and her breasts had heaved to meet him. After ascertaining her response to his tweaking and pinching and kneading, he’d slid his hand down to her sex and explored that, sliding inside her bikini bottoms to find her hot wet softness, her yielding openness. And when she started to tremble and twitch he’d heaved himself on top of her and fucked her, not even bothering to remove her bikini. Then he’d rolled away and gone back to reading his Mac magazine, still without a word.

“It…it just happened. I don’t know how.” After that, it had only taken a possessive slap on her butt as she leaned over the sink to water the plants, or a confident tweak of her nipple as she met him in the corridor, to teach her that her whole body was tuned to his key. She’d waited home one morning, pleading that she had stomach cramps, and then as soon as Max went out to catch the bus she’d gone naked into Greg’s room to endure his triumphant smile and submit to his voracious appetite. He’d fucked her on every piece of furniture in the house by now. “It was his idea,” she wailed.

“It was your idea, Emerald.” Max’s eyes were like blue Arctic ice. “I saw the way you looked at him. I knew you wanted to fuck my best mate, no matter how much you denied it. So I told him to make a pass and see how you’d react. I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Oh my god!” Realization came crashing in on her. “You’re out of your mind!”

“Really?”

“It’s been three months!” she gasped. “You knew all this time?”

He nodded. “I knew. I knew the first time, when you were all over me that evening, hot and gagging for it like you were in heat. Was it guilt, or are you just a horny little bitch? I knew every single time you fucked him, Emerald, because you were…so different. Pliant and eager. Like he’d greased you up for me. I knew all right.”

“Shit,” she whispered, seeing him in a totally new light, remembering the ferocious intensity of his lovemaking over these past months. She’d been too wrapped up in herself to question it. “Max, this is twisted…”

Twisted.” He smiled sourly. “Hey, you’re the one who decided one man wasn’t enough for your hot little cunt. Well now you’re going to put your money where your mouth is.”

“What d’you mean?”

Greg, who’d kept quiet so far, laughed. “You reckon you need two men to satisfy you, doll. Well, this is where we test that out once and for all.”



Buy Playing with Fire at:

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Amazon UK
Google Play

Friday, 27 January 2017

Preview excerpt: In Bonds of the Earth

Time to share an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, In Bonds of the Earth (Book of the Watchers 2)!

It's not a Blue Monday so I'm keeping the really rude bits under wraps ... for the moment 😉

Milja has gone to look at an important exhibition of Ethiopian art in a Chicago gallery ... but an old 'friend' shows up to distract her:


“Milja?”

Roshana? I spun so quickly on my new heels that I lost my balance and, toppling, clipped my glass against a display case. My champagne flute shattered at the stem. “Oh crap!” I yelped—and looked up into a face that wasn’t Roshana’s at all. The face of the man I least wanted to ever see again in all the world. The least, and maybe the most.

Egan Kansky. The man who’d saved me and betrayed me. The man who’d snatched me from under the noses of my enemies and taught me to trust him, only to try to deliver me to his own masters.

Egan, who’d done his best to bury Azazel for an eternity of torment again, for the good of us all. I’d let him hold me as we slept together. He was the gentlest, most caring man I’d met apart from my own father—yet I’d seen him coldly shoot dead the thug who tortured me.

Egan: Irish-American, ex-military, now Vatican agent. He’d stepped in front of a bullet for me.

There were no words for the confusion of feelings in my breast right at that moment, seeing him there before me. His square face looked a little more lined than I remembered, but his sandy-blond hair still stuck out over his forehead and his eyes were still that blue strangely flecked with gold; eyes for staring at horizons. The formal evening jacket suited him; way more than it would Azazel, say.

“Egan?” Go away, go away, I can’t bear to see you, I thought, but the words refused to rise to my lips. “What are you doing here?”

I was actually shaking.

He didn’t answer. Instead he sank to his knees before me. It took a moment for me to realize what he was doing; picking up the pieces of my broken glass. Standing again, he dropped them deftly on the tray of the waiter who’d hurried over. “Thank you,” he told the young man.

“I’m sorry,” I gabbled to the waiter, “I’m not used to wearing heels.”

“No problem, madam. May I get you another glass?”

“No… No, thanks.”

The distraction reset our conversation. As we looked back at each other Egan smiled, tentatively. “Hello, Milja. How are you? You’re looking…very well.”

I blushed, wishing that the saleswoman hadn’t persuaded me into a dress quite so short or so tight, wishing that my hands weren’t trembling. “I’m good.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The depths of all that we dared not speak about yawned like the Grand Canyon. “You made it out then?”

“Yes. I walked.” He gestured with open hands. “Then hitch-hiked.”

I brushed my fingers over my face, wanting to hide.

“How’s your hand?”

Of course. The last time he saw me I’d just had my finger broken. “It’s fine. He fixed it.” I didn’t have to say Azazel’s name.

Egan nodded, sucking his lips in. “Are you still with him?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that, one way or another,” I said, finding some backbone at last. “Your people will have been keeping an eye on me, I assume.”

He looked suddenly uncomfortable. I got the distinct impression he was winging it. “I’ve recused myself from that particular mission.”

“Meaning what?”

“Sure, I told my superiors that I couldn’t in good conscience accept their plans for you.”

Imprisonment. Breeding. The murder of my children. “I bet that was a fun conversation.”

He grimaced. “That it wasn’t. But they accepted it. I’m not here on their behalf.”

“You’re not planning to kidnap me, then?”

He shook his head. “No. You won that round, Milja. You were right and I was wrong.  You were an innocent. I ask your forgiveness.”

That was it: his apology. I stared at him mutely.

“Liking you…” He blinked and looked over my shoulder. “It wasn’t what I planned. It messed things up, from the point of view of my superiors. But I don’t regret it.”

My eyes stung and my throat felt swollen, but I knew no tears would slip down my face. “Thank you for letting me choose,” I said, my voice a wobbly whisper. “You did let me choose, didn’t you?” Between you and Azazel?

“Yes.”

“I chose him. Now go away. Please.” I turned my back on him, staring blindly into the reflection of the glass case.

From behind, he put both hands on my waist. My world flipped upside down. His breath was on my hair, his warmth against my back. “Milja,” he whispered, his lips soft against my ear, “that’s not forever. You can change your mind.”

If Azazel sees this, I don’t know what will happen.

I shut my eyes, swaying, almost leaning back against him. I wanted him to slip his arms right around my waist. I wanted to turn within the circle of his arms and press my face to his chest, breathing in the warm sweet scent of him.

Here’s the thing, the terrible stupid thing. Azazel loved me, Azazel was powerful as a thunderstorm, and he would protect me from men and angels even if he had to tear the world apart and drown it in blood to do that. But I never, ever felt safe with Azazel. I felt safe with Egan. Even with everything I knew and everything I guessed, even in moments of horror and rage, there was a part of me that instantly and instinctively fitted into the shield of his arm, that felt like this is my home, I belong here. I could think of no other way to articulate it to myself.

“Choose again,” he whispered, sending shivers from the whorl of my ear down my neck and my spine, right inside me. “Please—come outside with me. We need to talk.”



In Bonds of the Earth is published through all the usual outlets on March 1st.
If you have a Paypal account you can order an early paperback copy - HERE

And if you want to catch up, Part 1 of the trilogy: Cover Him with Darkness, is available from
Amazon US
Amazon UK

Wednesday, 25 January 2017

"Was Ashbless able to pull this off?"


Some advance reviews are in for In Bonds of the Earth!

First off, a gifftastic post from Samantha MacLeod:

"A globe-trotting masterpiece. Ashbless’s landscapes are so evocative they may as well be characters. History and geography are beautifully woven into this passionate, sexy, and occasionally disturbing story."

(I particularly like the "occasionally disturbing" quote 😈 ... and really hope that Samantha forgives me for what I do to a certain Norse god in Bk 3...)

And from the Sexy Librarian herself, Rose Caraway:

"An absolute must-read. Janine Ashbless' impressive knowledge of primeval Christianity and her passion for plot-brimming storytelling renders yet another gripping fantasy that ravishes readers, all while on a journey to the ancient rock-cut churches of Lalibela, Ethiopia. I must confess... I would follow Ashbless' Milja and her exquisitely rebellious Azazel anywhere. My heart quickens for Book Three."

And from Kate Douglas, bestselling author of the Wolf Tales books:

"Janine Ashbless creates pure magic with words. Her stories are darkly erotic and enticing, powerful and wickedly strange, yet at their very core, romantic. Poetry for dark angels and a tale that will literally hold readers enthralled ... hold them, and not lightly let them free."

Thank you, Samantha, Rose and Kate!

In Bonds of the Earth is published through all the usual outlets on March 1st.
If you have a Paypal account you can order an early paperback copy - HERE.

Monday, 23 January 2017

Blue Monday: Carla Atherstone guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today I welcome first-time guest Carla Atherstone, with an excerpt from her short story Something New.


Wendy doesn’t even know what it is she’s looking for, until she meets Lana. Sexy and glamorous, Lana’s unlike any other woman Wendy’s ever known – especially when Wendy discovers a substantial surprise in her pants.


Lana’s hips swayed as she walked; she had full hips and a gorgeously round arse. She was wearing a green thong; the top of it was just visible above the waistband of her jeans.

She stepped into the lift and beckoned Wendy in after her. As soon as the doors closed they were kissing, but it seemed only a moment later that the lift pinged and they had to compose themselves as the doors slid open again.

Wendy followed Lana down the corridor to the door of her flat, glad there was no one else around. Her face was burning and the gusset of her panties felt moist. Lana smiled back at her as she unlocked the door of the flat and stepped inside.

The door shut behind Wendy. The flat was neat and pleasant; a kitchen and a breakfast bar, a living room with a thick white pile carpet and a patio balcony giving a great view of the city. She wondered what the bedroom was like.

“Wine?” said Lana as she went into the kitchen.

“Please.”

“White or red?”

“White, please.”

Wendy ran to the toilet and peed. When she cleaned herself with the tissues, she was astonished to find how wet she was. She touched herself and shivered with delight; it would hardly take any effort to bring herself off. But she didn’t; she was here to let Lana do that. She pulled up her trousers and flushed instead.

In the living room Lana offered her a glass of wine. “To us.”

“To us,” said Wendy, and their glasses clinked. She took a sip of wine, then put the glass down and kissed Lana again. Lana cupped and stroked Wendy’s breasts through the blouse; Wendy pushed up the halter-top to expose her partner’s pert breasts — Lana wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples were a light brown, and quickly came erect as Wendy took first one, and then the other, in her mouth. Her skin was very smooth and soft, and tasted lightly of salt.

Lana pushed Wendy’s suit jacket off over her shoulders and began to unbutton her blouse. But Wendy was already sliding down to her knees, kissing Lana’s flat belly, her tongue toying with her navel and the little diamantĂ© piercing there. She fumbled with the belt on Lana’s jeans, then the button and zipper, then pulled them down.

Lana slipped her tanned, slender feet out of her sandals, then stepped out of the jeans as they fell around her ankles. Every inch of her was smooth and tanned, unblemished, perfectly toned. She was naked now except for the green thong. Wendy reached up to stroke her belly and thighs, then hooked her thumbs into the thong and drew it down.

Lana’s cock, now limp, looked nothing like the thick truncheon Wendy had felt before. It was tiny, in fact, almost toy-like; a small pink thing curled shyly between Lana’s thighs, along with a pair of small, pink testicles. All were clean-shaven. Wendy reached out to cup Lana’s cock and balls, gently stroking the flaccid dick with her fingertips, kissing it gently, then running her tongue up and down its length. Lana gave a little gasp. Wendy lifted her cock; she kissed, then licked Lana’s balls, before taking them in her mouth to suck them.

Lana ran her fingers through Wendy’s hair. Wendy smiled, letting Lana’s testicles slip from her mouth before kissing her penis again. It was starting to thicken; Wendy ran her tongue around the tip several times, then took it in her mouth. Lana groaned and her hips began to move. Shucking off first her blouse and then her bra, Wendy began to suck her in earnest.

Lana’s cock was swelling in her mouth; it’s a grower, Wendy thought. Lana gripped her hair tighter. Wendy looked up. Lana was flushed, panting for breath, those green eyes drinking in every detail as Wendy unfastened her trousers, pulling them and her sodden panties down, kicking off her shoes as she struggled free.

Now completely naked, she took Lana back into her mouth. She looked up to see Lana’s head was thrown back. In the mirrored ceiling she could see her partner’s face: her eyes were screwed shut and she was biting her lip. Wendy smiled; it felt good to see Lana’s self-possession slip, to see lust taking her over as well.

Wendy took Lana’s cock from her mouth to study it. It bore no resemblance to the little pink thing she’d first seen; now it was the hard shaft that had pressed up against her in the alley once more. Bigger and thicker, if anything, and harder still. It jutted up proudly, veins standing out along its length; its round purple head bobbed in front of her face, still glistening from her mouth.

Lana looked down at her, breathing heavily, face flushed. Wendy smiled up at her and ran her tongue over the swollen cockhead, then began to kiss and lick and gently nibble at the head and shaft. Lana groaned, and Wendy smiled up at her again before pushing her head forward to take the full length of her cock in her mouth, then into her throat. Lana gasped and gripped her hair. Wendy sucked at her hard, squeezing her lover’s rounded hips and fondling her buttocks.

Lana’s grip on her head tightened. “Stop,” she breathed. Wendy looked up, and Lana withdrew from her mouth; a strand of pre-cum hung between Wendy’s lips and Lana’s cock. Lana reached down to cup Wendy’s breasts, stroking and fondling the soft warm flesh, rolling the nipples between thumbs and forefingers. She leant down and kissed Wendy again, her warm tongue probing deep into Wendy’s mouth. Then she whispered “Come on,” slipped her hand into Wendy’s, then led her out of the plush living room and through another door.

The flat’s bedroom was much bigger than Wendy had expected, decorated in soft pink and sporting a king-size bed with white satin sheets. She turned to face Lana, who pushed her back onto the bed and leant over her. She kissed Wendy again, then slid down, kissing and licking, sucking the soft flesh of Wendy’s breasts into her mouth, biting and nibbling gently at it with her white teeth. Then her mouth slid over Wendy’s stomach to the wet, trimmed bush between her legs. Wendy lay there, panting; every inch of her skin tingled with anticipation.


Buy Something New on
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Carla Atherstone is an enthusiastic newcomer to the world of erotica, but writing down the products of her filthily fertile imagination has rapidly become her second favourite pastime. Her third favourite is rambling among the hills, moors and woods around her home in the wilds of Lancashire; her first, of course – aided by her patient and understanding husband – is finding creative ways to pass those long winter nights. She has further stories coming from Deep Desires Press, and in Hot Chilli Erotica.

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Friday, 20 January 2017

The Magic Wall



So I heard that song on the radio (EARWORM WARNING!) and it starts with the lines:

I'm going down to Florence, gonna wear a pretty dress
I'll sit atop the Magic Wall with the voices in my head.

I looked for the Magic Wall online and, lo and behold, this is it:



The Wichahpi Wall in Alabama is an extraordinary piece of outsider art, created over 30 years by a single guy called Tom Hendrix in memorial of his great-great-grandmother Te-lah-nay, a Yuchi Indian deported on the Trail of Tears back in the 1830s, when she was 14. She hated life on the reservation so much that she took off and walked the 700 miles home.




Each stone in the wall - 9 million lbs in total weight he estimates - represents one step of her extraordinary 5-year journey. Hendrix has included rocks from all over the world, including Antarctica, and even a meteorite.


The wall winds about and folds back on itself. In total it is 1.25 miles long, making it the longest unmortared stone wall in America, and reportedly the largest memorial in existence to a woman.




It's a piece of art I find incredibly moving.

It's also a fine example of our instinct to sacralize the landscape. I suspect we have an inbuilt tendency, many of us, to see the spiritual and the natural together. That way lies the slippery slope of pantheistic paganism, of course - so the monotheistic religions do their best to cut sacred spaces off from nature, enclosing worshippers in synagogues, mosques and churches with no exterior view. But nature creeps back into those faiths in the form of sacred wells, stones, mountains and caves. And folk spirituality is drawn to the landscape, its first home. 

There are more photos of the Magic Wall  here

And this is Tom Hendrix talking about his project:


Wednesday, 18 January 2017

Bananaboat

You are not my family; you don't have to sit through hours of holiday photos of fish whilst I intone "Greasy Grouper... Nebulous Lizardfish... Chocolate Spottyfish..."

But I will show you this:


Because I spent all my teenaged leisure time quietly reading, playing D&D or (I kid you not) hanging out with the Church Youth Group, I somehow managed to miss out on riding a banana-boat.

Finally, I have caught up with being seventeen!

(And yes, we did get dumped in the water!)

Monday, 16 January 2017

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today is in fact the Official Blue Monday in the Northern Hemisphere - that winter's day where moods hit a statistical low, supposedly. To counteract that, here's an excerpt from my short story Sun Seeking, which is all about a holiday on the beautiful sun-drenched Greek island of Delos which doesn't go quite as anticipated...

Love on the SUNNY SIDE, damnit!
‘Your family’s Greek?’

‘Originally. We live all over the place now.’

Shipping millionaires or something, I guessed.  Men might be from Mars, but the Rich are from another galaxy altogether. Phoebe tugged down a swathe of netting to block the taverna entrance and the speckled gloom deepened very slightly. I shivered. My damp dress was less comfortable now.

‘Come on,’ Phoebe said, twitching off a tablecloth and laying it on the sand at Xander’s feet. Taking the platter she sat herself down picnic-style and patted the cloth next to her. I slid out from behind the table, feeling a little weird now that there were only three of us left. I felt worse when I’d sat down and she scooted behind me so that I was reclining back against her. With a snort she snatched away the sunhat held casually at my breast. The damp cloth of my blouse still clung to places it was supposed to conceal. I squirmed inwardly. I hadn’t bargained on getting cornered by a strange man; it seemed far more risky than just going off with a girl. But, I thought, a woman would be on my side if it turned nasty – wouldn’t she?

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ said Phoebe and Xander nodded, his enigmatic near-smile teasing. His fingers rippled up and down the strings of the guitar, weaving cascading tapestries of sound. Phoebe fed me the appetisers from the plate with her fingers, piece by piece. I tasted reluctantly the salty feta, juicy black olives, creamy tzatziki. I wasn’t feeling hungry. There was something creepy about the intimacy here; the way she was flirting with me in front of her brother’s steady gaze.

The trouble was, the more uneasy I felt, the hotter and wetter I grew. She traced my lips in yoghurt and I lapped at her finger. She dripped olive oil on my tongue and I tilted my head back to receive it. Each new transgression forced me to find the courage to accept it, and each act of submission made my pussy burn. I wanted to squirm my bottom on the sand. When she slid one hand up under my blouse to cup my breast I excused it to myself by saying that Xander couldn’t actually see my naked flesh. When she pulled back my head against her shoulder and kissed me, long and wet, her tongue sliding in and out of my mouth, I told myself I shouldn’t be prudish. When she rolled up my top to expose my nipples and took those points in her fingers, pulling and pinching them until they stood up fat as pink olives, then I mumbled in my head that every tourist in Greece went topless and it didn’t mean a thing. And all the time my pussy grew plumper and more slippery until I felt like I was all writhing sex and pleading tits.

She kissed all the strength out of me. She kissed me down to heavy, to passive, to open and empty, needing her forcefulness to fill me. When she withdrew from my mouth my lips were slack and swollen. I made little helpless noises in my throat.

‘Let’s get this off,’ she murmured, easing my blouse over my head.

I whimpered, my eyes pleading, but I didn’t resist. What difference did it make, after all, if my breasts jutted out from beneath the bunched fabric or whether my shoulders were bared too and the blouse discarded in the sand?

‘Shush,’ she ordered, pulling my head back by the hair so that she could lick my tongue. I was grateful; she understood me. My whimpers didn’t mean that I needed her to stop; they meant that I needed her to make me go on.

Once I was resting back in her arms she cupped my breasts from below, squeezing them as if fascinated by their weight and softness.

‘Beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘You have beautiful breasts.’ She looked up at Xander for confirmation and he nodded, one eyebrow raised, cool and distant. But his hands had slowed upon the guitar and the rapid intertwining notes were grown simpler now, as if the music were vying for his attention with something more elemental. ‘I could eat them up,’ Phoebe whispered in my ear. She took up a piece of cut cucumber and rubbed its wet cold flesh across the stiff tips of mine, glazing them shiny as the cucumber turned to pulp. ‘Do you like this?’

I nodded faintly. I couldn’t speak any more.

‘Let’s see.’ She pulled my skirt up slowly, finger over finger. Xander’s eyes, a merciless blue like the cloudless skies above the islands, were fixed upon us, barely blinking. ‘Yes. Let’s have a look.’ She cupped her hand over the mound of my sex and my hips twitched, my bum grinding into the cloth and the sand. ‘Yes. See this? She’s wet already, Xander.’

There was no denying that. The gusset of my tiny panties was soaked, the cotton already translucent from the seawater but more slippery with my juices. My thighs spread wider under her coaxing; he could look straight down between them. She pressed the cloth up against me. Then she slipped her fingers beneath the cotton and ploughed my furrow for real. ‘Beautiful pussy too,’ she breathed. ‘Oh Ness, is that nice?’

I mewed like a kitten. Her fingertip was stirring my clit to flames.

‘Pussy’s so wet. Pussy’s being naughty.’

There was no denying, either, what was happening here: if they really were siblings then this had gone way beyond kinky. It struck me with a kind of terror, which rendered me helpless as a rabbit in headlights. I was sagging against her arm, her right hand hooked up under my breast and tugging at my tit while her left hand delved deeper and deeper into my sex. Her fingers made little wet noises as they spread me wide.

‘Can you hear how wet she is?’

Xander dipped his chin in acknowledgement. His lips were parted. The notes fell slow and distinct from his fingers like drops of rain.

‘Dirty little pussy,’ Phoebe breathed. ‘Showing yourself for my brother.’

I began to come. She wasn’t even trying to bring me off, she was just touching me up, but I couldn’t bear her gloating judgement or the lancing blue of his eyes or the knowledge that she was exposing me and I was doing nothing to cling to my dignity. Electric sparks flashed through my clit.

‘Oh, what a slut. What a filthy little slut.’

And she was right, wasn’t she? thought I as I convulsed, hips and belly jerking, thrusting my tits up, longing for Xander to see them shaking, longing for Phoebe to enslave me further. The blood thundered in my ears.

Even as I came down, the pulse jumping all round my body as it does with that first easy orgasm, distress started to return in the backwash. But I had no time to think what to do next. Phoebe slipped from beneath my limp body and laid me back on the sand, pulling my arms over my head. I could feel the cool firm ripples of sand through the tablecloth. I could see the fishing nets and the vine leaves overhead. I felt her shift her position, pinning my arms to the sand under her shins. I heard the last note of the guitar fall silent. I looked down the length of my body and Phoebe slipped her hands under my head for a moment to support it. I saw the skirt rucked up around my hips and the pathetic wisp of cloth over my pubic mound and my sprawled, open thighs. Beyond them Xander laid his guitar gently aside and stood, and I knew that Phoebe was offering me to him as a gift.  


Buy the Love on the Dark Side anthology at 
Amazon UK : Amazon US

Monday, 9 January 2017

Blue Monday: Lucy Felthouse guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is the legendary Lucy Felthouse, with an excerpt from her newly-released collection Classic Felthouse.



Fancy a blast from the past? Then dip in to five short stories from the Lucy Felthouse archive. A handful of her earliest published tales have been polished up and presented to you in one seriously hot collection. Enjoy a sexy soldier, a buxom babe, erotic daydreams, filthy phone sex and a language barrier, and see where it all began for this prolific author of erotica and erotic romance.


Of course, he already knew what to do, he was just teasing me. Slender fingers crept up to join his face between my legs, and pulled my sticky knickers aside. I gasped at the contact, and then again as his tongue finally caressed my tortured pussy. He set to work licking up all the juices that had been secreted from my body, but as he did, my cunt continued to produce them. I realised he could be down there some time. Ah well, I thought, that’s no hardship. He was damn good at what he was doing, too, gently nipping at my outer labia, sucking them gently into his mouth one at a time, then letting go and letting his tongue dance around. He flicked briefly at my clit, then teasingly went lower, to the entrance of my pussy, and teased me there.

As he gave me expert head, my internal muscles tightened involuntarily. Then I experienced that familiar tingling feeling which told me an orgasm was on its way. To ensure Matt didn’t stop pleasuring me at a crucial moment, I crossed my ankles behind his head and pulled him more firmly to me. He seemed to relish in this mild act of domination, and suckled at my clit almost savagely. And that was it—all it took to trigger my climax. I thrust my hands into his hair as I moaned my pleasure aloud, unwilling to let him go.

But Matt had other ideas. Grinning wildly at the result of his efforts, he leaned up to kiss me, his lips now sticky with my juices. I kissed him back, deeply, still high on passion. I could feel his erection through his trousers now, mere layers of fabric between his cock and my aching cunt.

“Fuck me, now.” The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. Well, I couldn’t take them back.

Matt didn’t exactly resist, either. He unbuckled his belt, and undid his fly. Underneath he wore white boxers. My absolute favourite. His trousers dropped to his ankles as he stood on the step of the truck. He stroked his cock through his boxers and I longed to feel it inside me. But first…

I rooted around for my handbag. Finding it, I grabbed it, my fingers deftly opening it and diving into the inside pocket to retrieve an emergency condom. I always kept a couple in there, just in case. You just never know, do you? Horniness made my movements quick and precise. Within seconds the wrapper was open and the protection ready in my hand. I beckoned to Matt and he leaned over me once more. I opened the buttons on the front of his underwear and pulled out his prick.

And I was so very glad I did. It protruded proudly from his body, a lovely long and thick cock, nestling in nicely groomed pubic hair. I stroked it a couple of times and grinned as I saw the pre-cum seeping from the tip. It was so thick my hand barely fit around it, and I couldn’t wait to have it buried deep inside me. I rolled the condom on firmly, then laid back and grabbed Matt’s collar.

I yanked him down on top of me. His mouth met mine again and his delectable dick nestled against my wetness, my panties still shoved to one side. I pushed my hips towards his, hurrying him along. I wanted him, now. His resolve didn’t last long. After sliding his length up and down my vulva a couple of times, he suddenly plunged inside. I was so wet that he sunk right in with no resistance at all. We moaned simultaneously at the sensation, I of being filled, he of being surrounded by wet warmth. Then he began to move inside me, slowly at first, then building up speed.

He alternated thrusts; some slow and deep, others fast but shallow. I looked into his eyes and knew he was teasing me once more. He somehow knew how I wanted it, but was deliberately holding back. I grabbed his gorgeous firm arse cheeks and pulled him roughly to me and thrust towards him at the same time. I needed it hard, fast. I wanted to come again, spasming and squirting around his cock.

Now he couldn’t resist. He began to piston into me like some kind of machine. Hard, fast, deep strokes that had me screaming in delight, or would have done, had he not clamped a hand over my mouth. I gripped his arse like I would never let go, greedily pulling him into me.

I felt my second orgasm approaching and wrenched my face away from his hand. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel your cock pumping its load into me as I come. Fuck me as hard and fast as you can go.”

He didn’t need telling twice. He certainly tested the suspension on the truck! I thought my pussy was on fire, the friction was so deliciously hot. My pussy tightened once more, the telltale sign of my orgasm, then Matt slowed his pace.

“I’m coming, baby—now,” he said.

The sensation of his muscles contracting inside me gave me that final push. My own orgasm ripped through my body, more powerful than the last, making spots dance behind my eyelids and my back arch, pushing his cock yet deeper into me. We rode out our simultaneous climaxes, limbs entangled and breaths coming fast and shallow. He dropped down on to me, exhausted, his lips seeking mine for a tender kiss. I felt his heart beating madly against my chest, even through our clothes.

Conscious of where we were, we couldn’t afford too much recuperation time, so we kissed one final time and reluctantly began to rearrange ourselves.

Once decent, Matt held his hand out to help me out of the truck. “Think you can keep your hands off me this time?”

“Looks like I’ll have to.”


Buy Classic Felthouse at:

Amazon (universal link):
Barnes & Noble:
iBooks:
Kobo:
Smashwords

Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of, and an Amazon bestseller), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances CafĂ©’s Best MĂ©nage Book 2015 award, and an Amazon bestseller) and The Persecution of the Wolves. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 150 publications to her name. She owns Erotica For All, and is one eighth of The Brit Babes. Find out more about her writing at lucyfelthouse or on Twitter or Facebook. Sign up for automatic updates on Amazon or BookBub. You can also subscribe to her monthly newsletter

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Thursday, 5 January 2017

Pre-order In Bonds of the Earth!


In Bonds of the Earth is AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER direct from Sinful Press, and will ship in February.

The paperback is £10.99 : postage is free in the UK and £5 elsewhere.



Broad at the shoulders and lean at the hips, six foot-and-then-something of ropey muscle, he looks like a Spartan god who got lost in a thrift store. He moves like ink through water. And his eyes, when you get a good look at them, are silver. Not gray. Silver. You might take their inhuman shine for fancy contact lenses. You’d be wrong.

“I will free them all.”

When Milja Petak released the fallen angel Azazel from five thousand years of imprisonment, she did it out of love and pity. She found herself in a passionate sexual relationship beyond her imagining and control – the beloved plaything of a dark and furious demon who takes what he wants, when he wants, and submits to no restraint. But what she hasn’t bargained on is being drawn into his plan to free all his incarcerated brothers and wage a war against the Powers of Heaven.

As Azazel drags Milja across the globe in search of his fellow rebel angels, Milja fights to hold her own in a situation where every decision has dire consequences. Pursued by the loyal Archangels, she is forced to make alliances with those she cannot trust: the mysterious Roshana Veisi, who has designs of her own upon Azazel; and Egan Kansky, special forces agent of the Vatican – the man who once saved then betrayed her, who loves her, and who will do anything he can to imprison Azazel for all eternity.

Torn every way by love, by conflicting loyalties and by her own passions, Milja finds that she too is changing – and that she must do things she could not previously have dreamt of in order to save those who matter to her.

In Bonds of the Earth is the second in the Book of the Watchers trilogy and the sequel to Cover Him With Darkness.

Tuesday, 3 January 2017

An angel for 2017

An angel has blessed me with a visit...


We got back from our holiday awaytime to find that this had been posted through our letterbox.

I don't know if it's an anonymous gift from a friend/neighbour, or (as I suspect) some Christmassy outreach from one of the local churches.

But I love it.

It has no face, just a swirl of flaming hair. And look at its itsy-bitsy TERRIFYING SKELETAL ANGEL HANDS!


I'm going to call it Semyaza and hang it over my PC :-)