Friday, 21 September 2018

Stan 2: Kazakhstan

One of the nicer bits.
To be fair, most of the country looks like this.

Kazakhstan, second country on our Silk Road holiday, was ... an experience. By which I

I REALLY MEAN THAT. I'm on a one-woman mission to collapse their miserable, surly excuse for a tourist industry.

Honestly, it's the first country I've ever been to that I concluded was not worth the bother. And there was quite a lot of bother on our way out in particular, as the border guards took one look at our group and decided it was time to pick on someone and extract a hefty bribe. Seven of us made it through to the safety of Kyrgyzstan (and did we hell as like know what was going to happen next or what we should do), while one (along with our extremely noble guide) was held for 7 shitty hours under interrogation until he coughed up £100.

Fuck Kazakhstan and its corrupt police.

So I'm not even going to post any interesting pictures, just in case I give you the mistaken impression that travelling there might be worth the risk. All the ancient historic monuments stop at the Uzbek border anyway - and anything good Kazakhstan has, Kyrgyzstan has more and better.


Wednesday, 19 September 2018

Lust in the Dust: call for submisssions!

I'm SO stoked!

I had the idea at a Smut by the Sea convention a couple of years back, and now at long last I'm going to be editing a short story anthology for Sexy Little PagesLUST IN THE DUST ๐Ÿ’•๐Ÿ’–๐Ÿ’—

Here's the blurb:

It’s the end of the world as we know it.

Civilisation has fallen. Peace and plenty are ideals barely remembered. Everything we used to rely upon has crumbled away, and pleasure is something few can afford. Every joy has to be fought for. When all the trappings of a civilised life are taken away, all we can hope to truly call our own are our bodies and our hearts. In the ashes, we make alliances where we can, and find solace and humanity in unexpected places. And maybe even a little hope for the future…

I’m looking for tales of post-apocalyptic passion. Obviously this can mean Mad Max-style science fiction but I’m also open to stories with a contemporary, fantasy or historical setting – anywhere where civilisation and the rule of law has crashed and burned for any reason, throwing us all back onto our own resources. The aftermath of a terrible war, a zombie invasion, the claustrophobic confines of a bunker – these are all settings where human stories can be told, and where there is life there is sex! Go on, surprise me — and turn me on, of course.

Full details and submission links can he found on the Sexy Little Pages website. The call is open to all and I will be reading blind, so my choice won't be down to Big Names or who I'm friends with. Note that there are strict formatting rules (like anonymising the document) so PLEASE click through and read them carefully before submitting your manuscript!

The last editing gig I did was for Geek Love - you can read all about my commissioning style here.

The deadline is - rather appropriately - the 11th November. So what are you waiting for? ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜

Monday, 17 September 2018

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

This Monday Samantha MacLeod is back with us, and so is her favourite Viking god Loki - in her brand-new story The Trickster's Song:

Long ago, Loki the Trickster tried to steal the golden apples of immortality. But why? And what did he plan to do with them?

Now, Loki’s mortal wife Caroline has just given birth to their first child. The sleep-deprived parents struggle to enjoy their first night out in months, but an old song gives rise to older memories, and Caroline finally hears the dark and heartbreaking story of why Loki attempted to steal Iรฐunn’s magical apples.

And what he lost in the attempt.

I found the boathouse by scent.

There were quite a few boathouses in the town; more houses for boats than people, actually. And then it dawned on me why Anya would take her husband to a cramped, dank boathouse. They must still share a longhouse with her family, or with his family, or with an even larger collection of relations. That would have made for an awkward wedding night, I realized, but the thought brought me no pleasure.

Light from a small fire flickered beneath the door of the very furthest boathouse. I paused long enough to take in Anya’s sweet, wild scent, mixed with an unfamiliar male tang. I debated opening the door, but decided that was far too common.

In a gust of wind and a swirl of flames, I materialized inside the boathouse. The interior was so crowded Anya and her husband were standing, and I appeared close enough to touch them both. She was naked, save her hair sprang, and her pale skin glistened in the firelight.

Her husband gaped at me, and I was forced to do a quick re-assessment. He was bare from the waist up and surprisingly attractive, with dark hair and a strong, young body that smelled of coal and iron; a blacksmith, then. He was clearly astonished to see me, but even in his moment of shock his eyes moved, assessing the situation. Not a dullard, then. Anya had chosen wisely, and it pained me.

Anya smiled at me, glorious in her nakedness. A fresh tang of arousal filled the boathouse, slicking the space between her legs and making my cock stiffen. “Hello, Fire-hair,” she said.

“Hello, Anya,” I growled.

I was sorely tempted to start fucking her now against the rough wood of the over-turned ship’s hulls. But someone touched my arm, and I turned. It was Anya’s husband, gently tracing his fingers along my forearm.

“Loki?” he said. “Really? Loki of the ร†sir?”

He caught my eye, and something in his gaze made me hesitate. I expected shock, confusion. If he even guessed at what I’d done to his new wife, I expected a useless and possibly hilarious rage.

The look in his eyes was something entirely different. I changed my plans and brought my fingers to his forearm, mimicking his touch.

“And you are…?” I asked.

“Falur,” he said. His dark eyes widened, and he followed the progress of my fingers along his arm to his wrist. His pulse raced under my touch.

“Falur,” I said. “Would you like to learn how to pleasure your wife?”

He gasped a little as my fingers intertwined with his. “Y—Yes.”

I turned Falur to face Anya. Her cheeks were flushed, and the air was heavy with her scent. I brought Falur’s hand to the delicate curve of Anya’s belly.

“Lesson one,” I whispered, trailing Falur’s hand down her skin. “Touch her gently.” I brought his hand to the apex of her sex, where I could feel the heat pouring off her body. “Touch her right here.”

I brought Falur’s hand to the nub of her sex. Anya moaned with pleasure, and Falur gasped.

“Very good,” I whispered, my lips against his ear. “Gently, now.” I led his hand in a slow circle and Anya’s hips rocked against the thick muscles of his arm. “And slowly. The slower the better.”

She moaned again. Falur’s breath quickened. I decided the time was ripe to do something potentially foolish. I slipped my free hand around Falur’s shoulders and pressed my hips into his backside, letting him feel the full length of my erection be-tween his legs, ready to vanish if he protested.

He did not protest. He whimpered as he pressed his ass back against my hips, his head dropping into the cradle of my collarbone.

“Good,” I whispered. I pressed Falur’s hand against Anya’s sex and slipped my free hand down the front of his chest, down the hard ridges of his muscles. I had to use my magic to free his belt, but it only took a moment before I could wrap my hand around the full length of his cock. He was moaning and mumbling incoherently now, his hips rocking against my hand, his head thrown back against my shoulder.

“Touch her like you want to be touched,” I said, and my hand matched the rhythm of his fingers against Anya’s sex. I licked and kissed the exposed length of his neck, enjoying his taste and the feel of his racing pulse beneath my mouth.

He came a moment later, crying out in my arms. The boathouse filling with the salty tang of his seed as it spilled over my hand. Ah, I’d forgotten how fun men are! How delightfully straightforward. I wrapped both my arms around his waist as his legs trembled against mine. He blinked and stared around the boathouse as though he’d just woken from a dream.

I didn’t give him time to recover.

“On your knees,” I said, pushing his shoulders. “Your wife is not yet satisfied, Falur.”

He obeyed, but he shifted to face me once his knees were on the hard ground of the boathouse. His lips almost touched my pants, almost pressed against the head of my cock. By the time I realized his intentions, his hands were caressing the inside of my thighs.

“Loki,” he gasped. “I’ve always been...curious.”

I caught Anya’s eye. Her eyelids were heavy, her lips parted. She was supremely turned on by all this. She smiled at me as she very deliberately brought her fingers to her own sex, mimicking what Falur had just done.

Oh, how could I resist?

Buy The Trickster's Song at:

Amazon US :: Amazon UK

Born and raised in Colorado, Samantha MacLeod has lived in every time zone in the US, and London. She has a bachelor’s degree from Colby College and an M.A. from the University of Chicago; yes, the U. of C. really is where fun comes to die.

Samantha lives with her husband and two small children in the woods of southern Maine. When she’s not shoveling snow or writing steamy sex scenes, Samantha can be found teaching college composition and philosophy to undergraduates who have no idea she leads a double life as an erotica author.

Samantha’s Blog
Amazon Author Page

Saturday, 15 September 2018

Stan 1: Uzbekistan

I am just about recovering from the jetlag of my holiday on on Silk Road! Here's a pic of me sweltering in the Registan Square in Samarkand, which gives you an instant flavour of what Uzbekistan feels like for the tourist - it's all about Islamic era historical monuments; it's big, bright, clean and orderly.

Modern Uzbekistan is the descendant of a vast Islamic empire created by this guy, Timur:

Kill total: probably about 17 million

and then put through the modernising grindstone of the Soviet Union:

Kill total: dunno, but high. But also universal literacy, hospitals, roads, and "Praise be to God, opening the faces of the women". Our guide was pretty positive about the results of the Soviet era.

Many of the monuments we saw were in fact restored by the Russians from ruins:

It has in recent years suddenly started to embrace private enterprise and is in the midst of vast social change yet again.

Tea, anyone?

It's Muslim but secular, not fundamentalist - our local guide says most don't even observe Ramadan. 

Lots of pre-Islamic motifs even in religious buildings - this is the Simurgh, the Zoroastrian "bird of compassion" - which I wrote about in Heart of Flame!

I'm struggling not to give you twenty pics of architecture, because OMG words cannot do justice to the beauty:

The necropolis in Samarkand

Bukhara - my HoF heroes went there!

The four towers  of this mosque represent the founder's four daughters :-)

I really liked Uzbekistan - I'd definitely go back.

If only for the string cheese:

Wednesday, 12 September 2018

Saturday, 25 August 2018

On the Silk Road

This is our Travel Wall. It has a single photo from every country Mr Ashbless and I have visited together. And now I'm off to add three more frames to the display! We're on the Exodus Silk Road Tour with six old friends, so the poor guide has to put up with 2 weeks of in-jokes and oversharing our bowel symptoms.

Having anxiously followed Stu Nugent's horrorshow fascinating account of his trip through Kazakhstan, I'm not exactly expecting margaritas and red carpets, but it sure promises to be interesting! I will attempt not to be arrested even once. We have also scored tickets for the World Nomad Games!

I'll be back in couple of weeks or so - try not to destroy civilisation while I'm away, y'all. Mum and Dad -  please don't burn down the house or kill the dog ;-)

Thursday, 23 August 2018

Geek Chic

Isn't this the best sweatshirt EVER?!

I've actually been on a bit of a T-shirt buying frenzy recently:

There's a certain theme...

I am confidently told that the Japanese reads "My Neighbour Cthulhu."
 Now you really can go crazy staring at my boobs ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚


Monday, 20 August 2018

Blue Monday: Kay Jaybee guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Sinful Press stablemate Kay Jaybee, who is launching a new edition of her erotic novel The Voyeur:

Wealthy business man and committed voyeur, Mark Parker, has a list of thirteen fantasies he is intent on turning into reality. Travelling between his London flat, his plush Oxfordshire mansion, and Discreet, his favourite S&M club; Mark is helped to realise his imaginatively dark erotic desires by two loyal members of his staff. His Personal Assistant, Anya Grant, and his Housekeeper, Clara Hooper.

Upon the backs of his willing slaves, Mark has written out his fantasy list in thick red pen. Only Fantasy 12 awaits the tick of completion against their flesh before Mark’s ultimate fantasy – Fantasy 13- can take place.

But have the girls performed well enough to succeed in the final challenge? And what hold does the Bridge's Gentleman's Club, Anya's previous employer, have over Mark? A place Anya was only too delighted to escape from.

In order to find out, Mark’s girls are going to have to face some of the fantasies they thought they’d left behind them all over again; and while they do, Mark will watch...

Crouched, shaking, and unsteady on her hands and knees, waiting with a contrary excitement for Fantasy 12 to start, Anya again ran her eyes around the hall, searching for a glimpse of Clara, but couldn’t see her at all.

Placing a bowl of pick ‘n’ mix condoms on the floor next to his PA, Mark yelled, “Begin!”

Feeling Mark’s shining eyes glued to her shackled body, and stealing herself for an instant orgy, Anya was surprised when no one moved. Perhaps it was the presence of the camera. Discreet was a place for anonymity; somewhere you could avoid being who you were from nine to five.

Just as Anya had begun to think this was all a big bluff just to frighten her, and that nothing was going to happen, her flesh jumped. A pair of smooth hands was sedately crossing her backside.

Clumsily tilting her face to one side, Anya saw a gorgeously curvy woman dressed in a stunning burgundy basque and panties giving her an intimately assessing visual examination.

The unknown woman addressed Mark. “I think a blindfold might make this even more interesting. What do you think?”

Mark wordlessly pointed to the poster for a second time. ‘Do what you want to me...’

The woman smiled, and Anya was immediately plunged into darkness behind a black satin mask.

After that Anya felt as if she was in a dream; or possibly a kinky nightmare. She wasn’t sure of anything except that she wasn’t ready for it to stop.

It began with the crack of a whip across her arse. Then came the hands. Hands everywhere; feeling, pinching, smacking, scratching. So many digits assailed her flesh that Anya had no idea how many individual pairs were actually touching her. Her nipples were rock hard as anonymous mouths gobbled at them, and her pussy quivered as tongues lapped and fingers were jammed in and out. Each time she showed any sign of coming however, it all stopped, and Anya was left to moan helplessly into her bizarre gag; a foam of spittle gathering at its sides.

Just as Anya thought her arms and legs would give way beneath the constant assault, a new pressure grew against her face.

Anya’s jaw clicked painfully as the dildo wedge protruding from her mouth was used for the first time.

The smell of wet snatch was almost overpowering. The redhead’s brain exploded with pornographic images of the picture she and her attendants must be presenting. Hands and mouths were sucking, smacking, and licking her to distraction, and now an anonymous woman had impaled herself on the fake cock.

Anya would have given anything to have her tongue free to taste the source of that beautiful aroma. She couldn’t stop pondering exactly how hard Mark’s dick must be as he watched the stranger thrust against her face. Not for the first time, the PA marvelled at her boss’s self-restraint, for she knew he’d allow himself no relief from his condition until they were all at home again and Fantasy 12 was safely completed.

Despite her best efforts, Anya’s exhausted arms eventually slipped against the sweat-slick wooden floor. There was a muffled shout as her body splayed, and then there was silence.

No one touched Anya as she lay there, motionless but for her heaving chest. She inhaled noisily through her nose, trying to rest her bruised limbs as best she could.

A sudden chill engulfed her as every hand and mouth was removed from her previously overheated body; her unsated flesh trembled. Anya was more desperate for an orgasm than she’d ever been in her life.

Minutes ticked by, then Anya’s skin rippled with mute relief as, from out of the silence that seemed to envelop her, something trailed across her anus.

Two sets of unseen hands pushed Anya onto all fours. She could feel the roughly calloused palms holding her up, supporting her shattered muscles. Then someone slid beneath her and gently nibbled at her swollen tits.

Biting into the hard gag, sweat dripping into her eyes, Anya frantically tried to stop herself climaxing until permission was given.

Expert fingers pumped in and out of Anya’s pussy. Someone was parting her butt cheeks, and even before she could prepare herself for the invasion she knew would come, the thin end of a whip was shafted between her buttocks.

The PA gave a silent scream into the rubber guardian as an unknown arse then speared itself onto the fake dick, its owner’s weight pulling at her face and straining her neck.

It was too much. Filled, yet left feeling frustratingly empty by the slim nature of the plugs being used in each of her orifices, Anya no longer cared about obeying Mark. She forgot about waiting for permission to climax.

He had created this spectacle; he knew damn well that she’d have to come eventually. Anya just hoped she’d managed to impress Mark by how long she’d lasted prior to giving in to the inevitable explosion.

As her head filled to bursting with swirling shapes and colours, Anya allowed her abused body to stop fighting the fulfilment she’d been denying it.

The tongues, cocks, and breasts, all blurred into a swarming mass as she bucked against them. Anya thought she may have heard Mark cry out, but she had no idea whether it was an angry or an ecstatic exclamation as she sank to the floor in exhausted unconsciousness.

The Voyeur is out on 24th August and is available to pre-order from:

Kay Jaybee is the author of Making Him Wait and The Perfect Submissive series. Her fiction has been published by Black Lace, Xcite, Cleis Press and Berkley.


Sunday, 19 August 2018

Lud's Church

It's not a church, though it may have been used as a place of worship in the past...

It's a deep damp limestone cleft in Derbyshire ...

And almost nobody knows about it!

Monday, 13 August 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

And since we're on the theme of Greek myth... Here's a clip from my short story Three Legs in the Evening:

In ancient Greece, disgraced and blinded King Oedipus is confessing his life story to a mysterious woman:

 “I want to know,” she said, “about Phix.”

 He went very still. “How do you know her name?”

 “I’m the one who asked for a story. And I want to hear the things you don’t tell other people.”

 “Really.” His neck was taut and now his hand curled, almost to a clench. He was taller than her, and if he had been sighted she would have been within easy snatching distance. Respectable women never came this close to a strange man, not on their own. Certainly not when the man had such an obscene reputation. “The things I don’t tell other people?” he wondered. “That won’t be hard. They’re only interested in the end of the tale.”

“But everybody knows how it ended. I didn’t have to come find you, to hear that bit of the story.”

“Hhh. Well. If you like, then. You’re not frightened of a story from a man’s point of view?”

All stories are told from a man’s point of view,” she sighed.

“I meant...”

 “I know what you meant. Go ahead. I want to hear.”

He nodded, and moistened his dry lips. “Very well. Not the end, then. The beginning. You have to understand it from the beginning, or you’ll not believe.” He leaned back against the sarcophagus. “I was brought up as a prince of the palace of Corinth. Son, so far as I knew, of the king and queen there. Ignorant that I was a foundling, adopted—because everyone who remembered had been instructed to keep silent upon the subject. And there was a girl there—Is this the beginning? I’m not used to telling this part—There was a servant girl there in the palace…a Libyan…who had the most beautiful breasts.”

He paused, and tilted his head back, as if seeing the long-lost girl with his empty eyes.

“She was older than me, of course. I used to follow her around the palace when I was a youth, just to stare at those breasts. They were the color of pine honey, deep-clefted and firm and big, you understand, really big, swelling against her dress. And I wanted nothing in all the world so much as to lift those ample globes in my hands and suck upon her nipples and bury my head between them and suffocate there.” He smiled wistfully. “Don’t get me wrong—she was pretty too, with a big smile and a waist like so—” he shaped it, tiny beneath his masculine hands “—and a fine rump as round as the full moon, that waggled when she walked. I liked all of her, but oh…her breasts had me in thrall.

“You know, even if I weren’t blind, I don’t think I’d ever see a pair so perfect again.

“All the servants sniggered at me. ‘Here comes your puppy-dog again, Clio,’ they would tell her: ‘wagging his little tail as he follows you.’ And she laughed at me too, but gently. She liked me. The day she caught me by the hand and pulled me into a storeroom and said, ‘Time to do more than just stare at my tits, Prince Oedipus,’ as she pulled open her clothes and laid my hands upon her…I think that was the happiest moment of my life. I felt like a man must feel touching a goddess. I felt like I was holding the sun and the moon in my hands. I felt like all the mysteries and treasures of the earth hand been given to me.

“You know what the greatest wonder was? Her nipples stiffened as I touched them. They rose up, and their areolae puckered to the drag of my fingers, and she sighed and giggled. Her parts reacted to me—and I knew for the first time that a woman’s body felt pleasure just as my own did. Nobody had ever told me that. She loved me touching her.”

Oedipus shook his head in reminiscence. “Her tits. That’s what she called them. A low word for such glorious things. ‘Tits’ and ‘cunny’ and ‘ass’ and ‘clit’, those were the words she used, and she taught me all about them, over many months.

“And I was a diligent scholar, keen to master every lesson and put my learning to the test. I prided myself on the skills I developed under her tutelage. When, for the first time, Clio straddled me nose-to-tail and said, ‘Make me fall first, Prince Oedipus, and I’ll suck your cock until you spurt down my throat,’ I made her come three times before I let her finish me off.

“This is the secret I learned from her: a woman’s pleasure does not come, as almost every man thinks, from her being filled and stretched and pounded by the biggest cock possible, like a pestle banging away in a mortar. Oh, it’s far more subtle than that. And far more complex. A woman’s body is a labyrinth to be solved.

“I took the skills my Clio taught me, and practiced upon other women. Bee-keepers and dancing-girls and weavers and potters…My reputation spread through Corinth like spilt wine, and couldn’t be stopped. Through giggled confidences, they learned from one another. They came to my chamber by night and lured me into barns by day. They wanted to know if I was all I was rumored to be, and I delighted in confirming the tales. That was my pleasure—my obsession if you like, for it became like a yearning for wine or opium. I lusted to make women come. My own fist upon my cock was good enough for me, though I’d no objection to the hotter embrace of a mouth or cunny. But what I really wanted, what I could do for hour after hour, was to lap the nectar between a woman’s legs, and make her arch and swear and blaspheme. To take the shy and gentle maid and make of her a raving maenad. To have the lissome creature astride my face beg for more and more and more, and then weep with joy and thank me and kiss my cock like it was a god. I took delight in pushing a woman to so many climaxes that she would beg me for mercy out of sheer exhaustion.”   

“And were you merciful?”

Oedipus smiled. “Oh, eventually.”

She bit her lip and was glad he couldn’t see her flushed cheeks.

 “It became a point of pride for me that no woman was immune to pleasure, under my hands. I would rise to any challenge: young or old, fair or plain. An ambassador of the Amazons, corded with muscle and scar-tissue, who had never had any use for a man, laughed at my reputation—but she’d changed her mind by the next morning and confessed publicly, blushing, that I had proved her wrong.

“After that I trod closer to the edge of propriety. I took two priestesses of Artemis to my bed and sent them away the next morning reeling and wide-eyed and debauched—but still technically virgins despite the throb of their licked and well-fingered winks and the taste of my semen in their mouths. Married women threw themselves in my path—but who could make an accusation of adultery, when my cock never went near the forbidden shrine of their marriage? My preferred site of oblation was across the pillowy expanses of their tits.”

He smiled, fondly, then shook his head as if he were waking from a dream. “Eventually I provoked too many complaints from confused and outfaced men. To get me out of Corinth and give the pot a chance to stop boiling, the king sent me on a mission to the Oracle at Delphi. Some question about the siting of a new temple. So I went, with a dozen companions.”

His smile had gone now. His mouth was a hard line. “There, in the dark of the cave, the Pythia breathed in the fumes from that crack in the floor that leads to the Underworld, and then slipped from her high stool into the priests’ waiting arms, thrashing and gibbering. All very holy. It made my skin crawl, if I am honest. They carried her forward to where I waited, and she looked straight at me with pupils wildly dilated. And then she said it…You know that bit. Everyone knows that bit.”

 “You will kill your father and marry your mother."

Buy The Sexy Librarian's Big Book of Erotica at:
Amazon US : Amazon UK

Friday, 10 August 2018


My current researches have led me to bump tangentially against the legend of Calypso. A minor Greek goddess...

Henri Lehmann: Calypso (1869)
 ... she's most famous for rescuing Odysseus from yet another ruddy shipwreck...

Cornelis van Poelenburgh - The Goddess Calypso Rescues Ulysses (1630)

  and then keeping him prisoner on her island of Ogygia for seven years as her sex-toy.

Newell Convers Wyeth: Ulysses and Calypso (1929)
She only let him go after the other gods sent their messenger Hermes to order his release.

Most accounts have Odysseus gloomily staring out to sea and sighing for his wife back home:

Odysseus and Calypso - Arnold_Bรถcklin (1883)
 That's presumably because there was nothing else to Ogygia but beach:

Herbert James Draper: Calypso's Isle (1897)
He even refused her offer of immortality - there's only so much sex and sand a man can take, clearly...

Jan Styka: The Goddess Calypso Promises Immortality to Odysseus (1901)
Although he gave the titty-fondling a good go for seven years:

Jan Brueghel the Elder - Odysseus and Calypso (1616)
There are a LOT of depictions of this legend out there, most of them a bit bland and Baroque. But I was delighted to discover William Russell Flint's 1924 illustrations of The Odyssey, which are just full of nipples, nudity and lust:

In fact I'm now rather obsessed with Mr Flint's work!

Wednesday, 8 August 2018

Dark Voices - out now!

It's out! Dark Voices, a charity horror story anthology from Lycan valley Press, is on sale NOW, with 100% of profits going to Breast Cancer organisations

Voices are meant to be heard. Darkness amplifies sound. And Dark Voices cannot be silenced. You won’t find pages filled with sunshine and lollipops or rose glass filtered landscapes. Instead, gloom and evil lurks, monsters and despair prevail. As you read these 38 women of horror, sci-fi and dark fiction, their voices will linger in your mind and infiltrate your soul. Their voices are loud. Their voices are strong. Their voices are dark.

My own story, Nine Portraits of the Empress Danrin, is set in 1919 during the great Spanish Flu pandemic - and here's a little excerpt:

It has occurred to me that there is as yet no proper, scientific record of the processes of decay in the human cadaver. We are surrounded by death in this generation, but we have not learned to read the words it inscribes. Imagine the mercy to the relatives of those lost on the battlefield, and the boon to the forces of law and order, if we could look at a human body and state with confidence how long it has been deceased, of what cause, and - in the case of those found nameless and misplaced - if we could discover from its mortal remains its history, its living appearance and perhaps even its identity.

I am setting myself the task of making a meticulous photographic record of the process of post mortem dissolution. Such a thing has never been attempted before, to my knowledge, although I know of some rare artists who have flirted with the theme. Whilst I was at Oxford a friend took me behind the scenes at the Bodleian Library and showed me a scroll from old Japan that illustrated the body of an empress in the nine stage of decay, from death to bare bones. Despite the graphic and gruesome nature of the paintings (which were clearly rendered from reality, if greatly stylized in manner), I found the story curiously moving. The Empress Danrin, renowned for her great loveliness, wished to demonstrate to her subjects and admirers the illusory nature of human beauty and the foolishness of attachment to such transient flesh. She ordered that upon her death her body was to be exposed by the roadside, so that all might see the truth of The Buddha's teachings upon impermanence. Her parable in the flesh, as it were, inspired many Japanese artists to depict the subject.

I have set myself to creating a modern version of this record, on a purely scientific footing.
* * *

[Portrait Two: the lady's fresh corpse lies abandoned among the weeds, her robe open to expose her pale breasts. There are as yet no external signs of decay.]

Cadavers are easy to come by, in my position. After death, patients are washed down by the nurses and then laid out quickly in pine coffins in the mortuary. Our hospital is of course chronically understaffed, such is the fear of the flu and the attrition rate among young employees. It's simple enough, if one works late at night as I do, to surreptitiously replace the body in the box with sandbags from the yard, and remove the corpse via the lift apparatus to the top floor of the building. I believe that these ranks of small rooms were quarters for servants back when this place was originally built, but they are currently unused and I have forbidden access to all medical staff.

I can run many experiments concurrently.

Monday, 6 August 2018

Blue Monday: Lily Harlem guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Lily Harlem with her new book His Vampire Harem

He's special. He just doesn't know it yet.

Darius Linnet has it all. He's a top male model, he's traveled the world, and everyone wants to either be him or be with him.

But would they really want to walk in his shoes? Because when emotions consume him, heated sparks fly. When he sleeps, his dreams take on an other-worldly twist. And his perfect body—sometimes it doesn't even feel like his own.

Until, that is, he meets a group of sexy, mysterious men who claim they've been searching for him for centuries. He's their savior, apparently, the key to their release from eternal damnation. They love him and they want to show him the pleasure he's been denying himself. There's only one problem: Darius's demon father has other ideas.

His gaze trailed down my body, then back up again. “Okay, press play.”

I did as he’d asked, then silently removed my t-shirt. If I was lucky enough to get close to him I didn’t want clothing in the way.

I guessed the on-screen guys had only just started. They were still in jeans and were kissing, their hands roaming over each other’s toned upper bodies.

I moved closer to Darius.

“You ever done it outside?” he asked as the men undid each other’s pants and shoved at them.


“You like it?”

I grinned. “I like sex no matter where I do it.”

“Oh, I see.”

“You’ll love it too,” I reached for his hand, tugging it from its tight clasp on his other one. “When you’re ready.”

“I hope that will be soon.” He tipped his chin, his attention firmly on the screen.

Two cocks were out now. Each big and hard and glossy in true porn-star style.

The men were moaning, their kisses noisy, as they worked each other’s shafts.

For a few minutes we watched in silence as the camera panned around them, giving views of their cocks, butts and faces.

When one man sank to his knees, I moved closer still to Darius. My arm brushed his, so did my leg. Being so near to him thrilled me, as did the solid wedge of flesh tenting his sweats. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes.” His voice was breathy.

“Me too. The one on the right has a great cock, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” He swallowed.

“And it’s about to get sucked.”

He glanced at me, then turned back to the screen. He swiped his tongue over his bottom lip.

The urge to kiss him, hold him, bring him pleasure and taste his blood was almost overwhelming. I reined myself in. “Would you like me to suck your cock?”

He hitched in a breath and his eyes widened as the onscreen cock disappeared into a willing mouth.

“You’ll know what it feels like then, Darius. You won’t have to imagine.”

“You want to…do that to me?”

“Hell yeah.” I ran my hand down his warm arm, across his belly, then to his cock. “I can think of nothing I’d rather do.” I leaned closer and pressed my lips to the ball of his shoulder.

“Rhys…” He looked at me and touched my cheek.

“No strings,” I said. “Just a bit of fun.” I paused. “An experience I’d be honored to give you."

His eyes flashed and he rubbed his fingertips together. I wondered if heat was growing inside him, a heat that would result in sparks; I hoped so, I wanted to see them.

“Okay,” he said. “I mean, yes please. If you don’t mind, I mean—”

I chuckled and brushed my lips over his. “You’re the hottest guy I’ve seen in a long time, and me and you, we’ll be good together.” Pushing to the edge of the sofa, I then sank to my knees between his legs. I looked up at him as I curled my hands into the waistband of his sweats. “Keep watching the TV and relax. Let me do this. I consider it somewhat of a speciality of mine.”

He lifted his hips, allowing me to pull his sweats to his thighs.

His cock sprung free and a wild rage of excitement went through me. This was the man we’d been waiting for, and now I had him. He was mine, for now at least.

I gripped his shaft.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, my hands are cold.”

“It’s not that, it’s…”


“Just having you touch me. Rhys, I…” He rested his hands on my head.

“I told you, relax, and come when you want to.” I leaned forward and swiped my tongue over the tip of his glans, gathering up a tiny leak of pre-cum. I moaned and closed my eyes, he tasted divine.

His thighs tensed around me and he gripped my hair.

I opened my mouth wide, forming an ‘o’ with my lips, and sank onto him.

The noise that peeled from his throat was long and guttural and vibrated through me.

I tipped farther forward, cupping his balls with my free hand and taking him as deep as I could. Once there, I paused.

The sounds coming from the television were sexy as fuck—moans, groans, gasps and unholy praises to God.

I wanted to hear Darius making those noises, so I lifted up and started on a steady rhythm, using my hands, fingers, lips and tongue.

This man is everything I need and more.

“Rhys, fuck, I can’t last long.” His cock twitched, more pre-cum slid onto my tongue.

I didn’t answer, instead I upped the pace, making sure I lodged him against my throat on each downward plunge.

He was shaking, his body tensed to granite. His hips were rising to meet my mouth and he was yanking at my hair following the rhythm.

And then it was there.

He held his breath, froze, and hot cum shot from his cock. His shaft throbbed and his balls contracted.

I swallowed and didn’t let up.

He cried out, a long wail of release I knew I’d never forget.

The men on the screen were going for it, flesh-on-flesh slaps filling my ears as they pounded.

Darius yanked at my hair, pulling my mouth from him.

I caught his shaft in my palm and set my thumb over his slit.

He was breathing hard, his face was flushed and his pupils wide. He held his hands out to the sides, fingers splayed on the sofa.

“How was that?” I asked, wiping at a drip of saliva trickling down my chin.

“That was…damn, I should have lasted longer but it felt so good.”

“It wasn’t a test, it was an experience. You came when you wanted, what’s wrong with that?”

He wiped his forearm over his brow then glanced at the TV. “Where’s the remote?” As he’d spoken he’d picked it up and turned it off.

“You weren’t enjoying it?”

“I’ve got the real thing, why would I need that?” He smiled. A lovely wide grin that melted my heart all the more for him.

I love him so much.

I studied his groin and traced my fingertip over a vein leading from his abdomen to his right thigh. It was a delicate shade of lilac and combined with the pulse I could feel in his shaft, I had a desperate urge to taste him.

“Just here,” I said, looking up at him. “Can I bite you?”

“Bite me?” He laughed, though he was still out of breath and currently studying the ends of his fingers. “What, like a hickey?”

“Yeah, something like that.” My fangs were tingling in my gums. “I want to taste you here.” I placed the tip of my tongue on the vein. So damn good, so damn close.

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Lily Harlem's sexy romance novels are highly praised and frequently hit bestseller lists. She lives in the UK and since giving up a career in nursing spends her days penning steamy novels and enjoying a view over the beautiful Welsh countryside. She has a passion for animals and can’t help adopting any waif and stray that comes along, much to Mr Harlem’s despair (he actually doesn’t mind in the least!).

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Saturday, 4 August 2018

Full set

Getting excited now!

Will I hit my writing deadline before we fly, that's the question...

Wednesday, 1 August 2018

The Scent of Tears - cover reveal!

It's official now! With a gorgeous wrap-around cover by Jon Sullivan -

For the first time in print, Adrian Tchaikovsky has opened up the realm of the Apt, as featured in his best-selling Shadow of the Apt decalogy, to a carefully selected cast of fellow writers, inviting them to do their best and their worst within the world he has created.  

They have done just that. Topped and tailed by two new stories form Adrian himself, some of the finest imaginations in fantasy, including winners of the David Gemmell Award, the Costa Book Award and British Fantasy Award, have combined to produce a stunning collection of tales that examine fresh aspects of the Apt world and its people. 

There I am (in my KM guise), honoured to be nestled next a whole bunch of prize-winners! Out in October!

Pre-order available

Monday, 30 July 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today, because we've finally been able to switch from grumbling about the heat to grumbling about the rain here in the UK, I've picked an excerpt from my soggiest story to date: At Usher's Well.

My Mistress is wrestling with God, and will not give an inch.

I watch her from the floor of her chamber, as I squat over the fireplace trying to get the logs to blaze properly. We’re using birch because it’s the only thing that’ll catch when wet, but it burns through so fast, and with so little heat, that I’m forever traipsing up and down the stairs with the log-basket on my back. She’s wrapped in a fur-lined pelisse to make up for my lack of success. Her face, thinner now after all these weeks of half-starving herself, catches the grey light along her cheek bone.

Oh Lord, but she looks like Finlay from that angle. My heart clenches inside me, a spasm of loss.

Finlay. Sweet Finlay with the curly brown hair and the fluff of beard on his lean cheeks. Finlay who would follow me into the dairy and press me against the shelves and call me his sweet Meg, his pretty Margaret, his windflower and his kitten and his little white dove. Who’d kiss my hands and my lips and hold me close, nuzzling my hair. Who swore he loved me, even when I laughed him off and pushed him away.

Gently. I was gentle with him. I didnae want to hurt his feelings. He said he loved me and would marry me and we would have beautiful bairns together, three of each, and the lassies would look like me and the lads would look like him.

It was all lies of course—no, not lies, but thistledown dreams. He was the smart one, the son who had learned his letters. He was destined for Oxford University far away down south, and so to take Holy Orders. He would never marry anyone. Besides, my Mistress would never countenance any one of her sons marrying a mere serving maid. Marriage is for equals, and I’d never be theirs’.

That hadnae stopped Finlay’s older brother Rory tumbling me of course—and taking my maidenhead, in fact. Rory was a big, straightforward fellow with a boisterous, ever-eager cock. He rummaged his way through every wench of beddable age in the household, but I doubt that anyone resented him for it, for he was always generous with his coins, and an easygoing master who often intervened with his mother to make sure there were extra portions at dinner for the servants, or to turn away her wrath at some domestic transgressor. Unlike my Mistress, Rory never complained that I was late lighting his fire in the morning, or slow serving at the table. He would only wink and smile at me and pat my rump, and when he came upon me in private he’d pull up my skirts and bend me over a press and slip me his length, strong and easy. On feast days he’d dance me on his broad lap until his prick was as hard as a pole and I was red and flustered, and then he’d touch me secretly under my skirts until I was running as wet and slick as a crock of butter left too close to the oven, and ready to do anything he wanted. That was how he had me, the first time.

Henry Matthew Brock, 1934

‘Are you a woman, yet, Meg?’ he’d murmured in my ear as he dandled me. He could have shouted it and no one would have heard over the ruckus.

‘No, Master Rory,’ I’d said, blushing, feeling my blood soar and my skin flame and my bones loosen.

‘Are you ready for me to make you one?’ His fingertips had stroked my purse until it gaped, begging for him to steal what lay within.

I’d moaned then, and shuddered on his lap.

‘Och, this medlar is ripe, I think,’ he’d said. His other arm was around me, his other hand stroking and squeezing my maiden breasts through my bodice. I was losing all sense; nothing in all the world mattered as much as that devastating tease between my thighs.

‘Aye,’ I’d whimpered. And as that wicked fingertip had circled the plump little pip of my medlar, I’d said ‘Aye!’ again and shut my eyes and pressed my face to his neck as I’d slithered helplessly over into paradise—right there in front of the whole household, his brothers and his mother and all the guests. I didnae cry out, but I heard the catch of Rory’s breath and then his long exhalation. I dinnae ken if anyone paid any attention. Well—I know that my Mistress saw, because she shot me a narrow-eyed glare as Rory eased me from his lap, patted my rear, and pushed me out of the hall in front of him.

It was the Midsummer feast. Rory led me out into the unmown hayfield and laid me down in the long grass, lifting my skirts. His length looked smooth as wood in the moonlight. He wet his thumb in my juices and placed it over my pip, and he kept that there, pressing and stirring, as he laid his cock to my gates and broke them down.

He was heavy, and the smell of wine and crushed grass made my head spin. I wondered why anyone did anything else but this all their lives.

My poor Mistress at the window there disnae look like Rory, and never has. I suppose he takes after his father, who was dead before I came to this place. Certainly he’s her favoured son.

Was her favoured son. It’s hard sometimes to remember that he’s dead, she denies it so adamantly. They’re all dead, drowned in the deep.

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