Monday, 30 April 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a hot excerpt for your entertainment!

As I'm back on the Djinn again - re-editing old novel Heart of Flame - here's an excerpt from another short story of mineChimaera, which is set in modern-day Turkey, where a tourist is stalked by a fiery stranger all the way to Istanbul:

Still he doesn’t smile. He reaches out and lays his hand on the railing of the building at his right, and the iron gate swings open soundlessly at his touch. Let me get this straight: he doesn’t push the gate, but still it moves. I am distracted enough to glance at the structure beyond the rails. It’s the ruin of some traditional looking building, not too big. You see them around in the city, usually mosques that have for some reason fallen into neglect. This one doesn’t have a visible minaret though it does have a dome, so I assume it is a bath-house. Grey swathes of plaster hang from the stonework. The crumbling walls are overgrown with some sort of creeper that has withered to dried sticks in the Turkish summer. Back home kids would take one look and deliver the verdict Haunted.

He lifts his hand in a gesture of invitation.

I must be out of my mind. I must be begging for trouble. I walk past him through the gate, under the archway of the outer wall, into the derelict hamam. I hear him follow me, his feet quieter on the rubble than mine. We pass through an antechamber. We’re inside a room that must have been domed and tiled once, but is now open to the sky. Most of the tiles have fallen and are loose underfoot. It is absolutely silent in here too. My heart is in my throat as I turn to look at him.

He moves upon me with grace but with a terrible eagerness, gripping my arms and pressing me back against a pillar so he can kiss me. He tastes of cardamom. He tastes of sin. He’s more beautiful than I have words for, and my guilt is no more than paper in the flame of my hunger for this man, burnt to ashes. His body presses against me, just at the groin so that there is no mistaking his intentions, and I feel like I’m going to melt or explode or both. His hands find my breasts, pushing up under my respectable long-sleeved blouse, fingers closing over the nipples jutting through the rough lace of my bra. I moan into his mouth, covering his hands with mine to make him squeeze me harder. He pulls from my lips so he can look down at me, his eyes alight with pleasure. We’re both panting.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

He nuzzles my ear, licking the lobe, teeth teasing my skin. ‘Ifrit,’ he breathes.

It doesn’t occur to me that this is not a name.

I don’t have time to think about it, anyway: he pulls me away from the pillar, scoops me up bodily and plants my bum on the top of a block of masonry. I’m almost at eye-level with him now. My feet dangle.

Now he can afford to draw breath. He stills me with a touch to my cheek, then unpicks the buttons down my blouse, his big hands incongruously delicate, just far enough to reveal my bra. He scoops my breasts out of their cups so they lie displayed on the taut fabric, pouting at him. I think my nipples look ridiculously pink against his brown hands, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He plays with them until I gasp and wriggle, drawing them out to stiff points then punishing their temerity with obvious delight.

‘Harder,’ I moan. ‘Please.’

His eyebrows rise but he obliges with a long, cruelly judged pinch that has me seeing stars. Then he arches me over backward, supporting my spine so he can get his head down and suck my nipples, biting me softly. I hang in space, trusting myself to his hands and his teeth, tears burning in my eyes, feeling and hearing his hot sucking kisses. I must be mad, I think, but my thighs are apart and he’s standing between my knees and his free hand is pushing my full skirt right up, it’s warm on the smoothness of my thighs, it’s probing into the moist flesh between them.

I gasp: “Yes! Oh yes!’

With a good strong pull he sets me upright in my seat again, breathless and wide-eyed. He needs both hands to help me wiggle out of my panties. My desire is laid bare. I blush, biting my lip, and crooking his own in a dark smile he wraps his arms around me, crosses my wrists at the small of my back and loops the elastic and lace of my panties over and over them, until I am bound with the evidence of my guilt.

Now I have to trust him. Now I’m helpless to catch myself if I overbalance. Now I can’t fend him off, even if I want to. He kisses me again, lingeringly, but it doesn’t work to distract me from the advance of his fingers up between my thighs, parting my inner lips, delving into my wet welcome. Like his kisses, his touch is expertly invasive. He works my wet flesh with every finger until I’m so slippery I feel I’m going to slide from my perch, until I’m flushed and gasping and splayed. Then he steps back just enough to be able to loosen his cotton trousers and scoop his cock and balls out over the waistband.

He’s both circumcised and shaven, which is a bit of a shock to my English sensibilities, his balls bulging in a smooth, loose scrotal sac. I strain against my bonds, wanting to touch them, but all I achieve is making my breasts jiggle. He slides his fingers deep into me again, then strokes my juices over his cock, working up a bead of his own lubrication. Then he picks up one of my feet and drapes it over his arm, holding me to stop me falling. His hand snakes around my waist as if we are about to dance – and it still feels like a strange waltz even when he shrugs my raised leg right up to his shoulder. He kisses me again, his mouth slow and hungry. He’s still kissing me when his big cock rampages up my slit and, discovering the gate it’s looking for, slides home.

God, he is big.

He stretches me to the limit. He fucks me slow and hard and deep. He knows what he’s doing. He knows what he wants, and I have no choice but to give it to him: in this waltz, he leads. And what he wants is to make me come, so I do it: on his pumping cock, on his wicked fingers. I shriek as I come, my voice echoing under the sundered dome.

Buy Dark Enchantment at:
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Google Play
Apple iTunes

Sunday, 29 April 2018

Slave Market

My novel Heart of Flame (currently being revised for re-publication) has a Middle Eastern setting but it's a romance, and therefore quite restrained. I've treated my subjects and their setting with respect, I hope.

So I need to get this shameless Orientalist exploitation out of my system RIGHT NOW 😈😈😈

Jean-Léon Gérôme: The Slave Market (1866)

It's time for a trip to the 19th Century ARABIC SLAVE MARKET! (All pictures by amoral white guys, for pervy white guys, decrying the voluptuous, perverted wickedness of not-white-people in leering detail. 😛 )

Gérôme gets first billing of course, simply for quality of artwork and his tendency to genuine realism:

Selling Slaves in Cairo

But other artists lean further toward romanticism...

Fabio Fabbi (1861-1946): Her Master's Choice

The Slave Market

The Slave Market  (he was not hot on original titles, or composition)
Okay, we get it, Fabbi ... NEXT

Stanislaus Von Chlebowski (1835-1884): Appraisal

Ernest Normand: The Bitter Draught of Slavery (1885)

Francesco Gonin (1808-1889): At the Slave Market
Giulio Rosati (1858-1917): Inspecting New Arrivals

Luigi Crosio (1835-1915): At the Slave Market
Ettore Circone (1850-1901):  Examining slaves
Pierre Louis Cazaubon (1872-1950): The Slave Market
Henri Adrien Tanoux (1865-1923): Slave Market
Alfredo Valenzuela Puelma: The Merchant's Pearl (1884)
As you might be able to guess, I could probably go on for a hundred paintings - this was a HUGE theme for a lucrative artistic market. It allowed the Victorian and Edwardian painter to indulge not just his skill in depicting nude female flesh (under a mantle of respectability), but also complex fabrics, fabulous lighting, exotic locations, inherent drama/violence - and a subtext of implied racial superiority if the viewer so chose. It really was the genre which had everything.

I'll finish with some paintings from Otto Pilny (1866-1936), who managed to encapsulate the creepier end of the genre, with his grinning men and and his slave women who mysteriously manage to look rather like silent movie starlets:

Pilny's paintings, btw, found enormous favour among the Ottoman rulers of Egypt, who appointed him court painter. So it wasn't just Western male tastes he was catering to.

Wednesday, 25 April 2018

Dare to go bare

I came across this picture online the other day. It's a scene painted on a vase that's in the Harvard University Art Museum. The pottery dates from about 420 BCE and - though it may not be very clear unless you click through to the full-sized pics - it shows two women assiduously getting rid of their pubes.

It seems the process involves an oil lamp, so it's probably done via singeing (OUCH), and then plucking the stub (EXTRA OUCH)

The second woman is being helped out in her depilatory toilette by the god Eros himself, so one assumes that this is all in aid of an amorous night with their loved one(s):

If you're interested in the Ancient Greeks' relationship with pubic hair and gender roles there's an excellent and lively article here :-)

Monday, 23 April 2018

Blue Monday: Dorothy Freed guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's is something special - a NON-fiction excerpt from Dorothy Freed's brand-new memoir, Perfect Strangers:

PERFECT STRANGERS: A Memoir Of The Swinging Seventies is an upbeat, tongue-in-cheek account of becoming sexually liberated and personally empowered—via three-plus years of rampant promiscuity.

In 1974, I was twenty-nine and deeply frustrated by my inability to achieve orgasm during intercourse with my husband, Paul. When I found him, naked and on top of my best friend, Cassandra, it wasn’t the infidelity that hurt me the most—it was the sizzling sex they were engaged in that cut to my core. Damn, I thought, watching Cassandra come for what seemed like hours. Twelve years of marriage. We were never that hot! And with that, my life changed forever and my erotic journey began.

PERFECT STRANGERS documents my sexual coming-of-age as a divorced single mom, during a decade of unprecedented personal freedom. My adventures begin in an upstate New York suburb and transports me to the Land of Oz, otherwise known as mid-70s San Francisco—an era when casual sex seems a simple as a handshake—but for a woman to achieve orgasm, vaginal or otherwise, well good luck on that!


A fine rain began falling as we left Broadway around midnight, after stopping in at a jazz club. We barely made it to Jake’s truck without getting wet. I said little during the ride back to Haight Street. I was so aroused I could hardly sit still. The air in the cab of the truck crackled with excitement and the rain pelted down.

“You were right,” I said later, back in my apartment. “Broadway is sleazy.”

“And you loved it, right?” he asked, like he knew it was so and laughed.

I blushed. “Not loved, exactly… Found interesting maybe… And well, yes… I loved it.”

Jake sat on the padded armchair in my bedroom, watching me. I stood near the window looking out at the rain and saw him reflected in the glass. Attempting to mask my sudden shyness, I fiddled with the stereo, while the man waited with his eyes hot on me, watching my every move.

He’s not real, I thought, I made him up in a fantasy, and now he’s arrived to act it out.

Ten feet away, Jake didn’t move a muscle, but I felt like he’d come closer—and the part of me that didn’t stiffen like a wary cat, welcomed him with open arms.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said. “Let me make you feel good.”

Jake stared intently into my eyes, willing me into his fantasy. Rising from his chair, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me to the bed. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he pulled my T-shirt up over my head, undressing me to the waist.

“A perfect handful, I knew they’d be,” he said, cupping my bared breasts in work-hardened hands. I drew my breath in sharply when he pinched my stiffened nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

“Lie back,” he said, smiling. “Let’s see what the rest of you looks like.”

Unzipping my jeans, he eased them down over my hips and legs. When I was naked, he pressed me back against the pillows, gazing at me for a long moment before proceeding to explore my body like it was uncharted territory.

“You’re such a beautiful woman,” he murmured, and firmly, with some underlying hint of roughness, parted my legs. Half smiling, he spat a glob of saliva onto his fingers and rubbed it deliberately over my swollen sex. Without any sense of haste, he stroked, teased, and delighted, sending hot jolts of arousal coursing through me. Jake slipped thick fingers inside me, moving them around, twisting, massaging, thrusting, and all the while attuning his attention to where my excitement lay.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m your seductor, but I’m also your slave. I’ll do anything to please you.

“There,” I whispered, gasping for breath, “Like that. Right there. Don’t stop!”

Jake found his mark. His knowing fingers and hot wet mouth pinched, licked, and sucked my clit. I moaned steadily, hands in his hair, back arching as he parted my asscheeks and inserted a finger and pushed me straight over the edge. Screaming, I exploded into a thousand tiny fragments of pleasured flesh.

When I opened my eyes, I saw he was watching me. There was no particular expression on his face, just a broad gleam of triumph in his eyes.

That wasn’t hard now was it? Just give in. Go with the pleasure.

He directed me to my knees for the next act of the fantasy.

“Suck my cock, woman,” he ordered, and I did so, my mouth filled with his hardness and salty taste, and I breathed in his heady aroma. I accepted him obediently, as I did in my fantasy, licking at his cock-head, lapping at it, teasing it with the warm wetness of my lips. I made him moan with pleasure by swiping his shaft with my tongue as I deep-throated him. My hands cupped his balls, which tightened with excitement, and my body responded with a non-stop, electric tingling between my thighs.

Jaws aching, I sucked for all I was worth—until he’d had enough.

Finally, heavily, he mounted me, plunging in with a moan of ecstasy, abandoning himself to pleasure with the ease of an animal. Thrusting, grinding, probing, he claimed me as his woman, seeking my excitement with his own.

“Yes!” I cried out, “Yes!” And moaning, I raised my hips to meet his thrusts, while his hands held mine above my head and pinned them to the mattress. Writhing beneath him, my breath came in gasps, and my excitement rose like mercury in a thermometer, as I groped for the unfamiliar wavelength of out-of-control.

Finally, his eyes glazed over with passion. “Oh my cock, my nuts!” he moaned, humping like a crazed animal. “I’m going to come now. Take my come woman. Take it!”

Buy Perfect Strangers at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK

At 73, Dorothy Freed claims to be the oldest, practicing erotica writer in the SF Bay Area. This may
or may not be true, but it’s her story and she’s sticking to it. Dorothy Freed is the pseudonym of a Bay Area writer, who lives with her husband, two senior rescue dogs, and a formerly, feral grand-cat in a coast-side community near San Francisco. She combines the roles of being a humane human, who stands up for animals and the natural world—with being a writer of sizzling hot, erotica. Her stories are memoir-based, inspired by her participation in the casual sex lifestyle, and later, the BDSM Scene.


Dorothy’s website, DorothyFreedWrites contains her blog, SIXTY-NINE AND STILL SEXUAL.

Friday, 20 April 2018

Spring, with boobs

A month late, Spring has finally arrived here with a brazen heatwave and an embarrassed rush of flowers.

And you know what Spring means to artists? Yes, pretty goddesses with their boobies out! Botticelli's Primavera is the most famous of these depictions, partly because it is layered with slightly obscure allegory:

c. 1470

But Flora the Roman goddess of flowers and springtide pops up (and out) in art throughout the ages. In this one her flesh is literally made out of flowers:

Arcimboldo: Flora Meretrix (c1590)
Her story is the usual Greek offhand misogyny: she starts off as the nymph Chloris ("green") but is transformed into Flora the goddess of spring after being abducted/raped/married by the West Wind.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau: Flora and Zephyrus (1875)
John William Waterhouse: Flora and the Zephyr (1898)
However, she certainly seems to have made the best of the situation:

Triumph Of Flora, by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (1743)

She's long been a popular subject for the classically inclined patron...

Portrait of a Courtesan as Flora by Bartolomeo Veneto, c. 1520
Romaine Brooks: Spring (1912)
George Wilson: The Spring Witch (1880)
Clearly, for artistic types, Spring is definitely when the sap starts rising!

Wednesday, 18 April 2018

Dicewriting: not a review

I'm a roleplaying geek. I like dice. A lot.

I even have a gothic dice-tower to roll them down!

And what's more, I was present at the conception of this book:

Zak Jane Kier

Last year at Smut in the City: Leeds, Zak Jane Keir gave us a writing exercise where we each generated the ideas for a story using random rolls of an ordinary dice/die (a d6, as we like to say in RPG circles). It was an extremely successful workshop, and she was begged by several of us to write a whole book.

And now she has - you can buy it on Amazon!

The premise of Dicewriting for Erotica and Erotic Romance is straightforward; simple story outlines are generated by the dicerolls, but it's entirely up to your fervid imagination as a writer what that story looks like. I'm always going to tend to fantasy/paranormal for example, but you might not want to touch that with a 10-foot pole...

See what I did there?

Your mileage of course may vary, but randomised elements have always been very effective story triggers for me - our writing group, The Deadliners, used them all the time - because I naturally tend to approach plots as jigsaw puzzles, and this is a creative puzzle-solving exercise. So I can guarantee Zak's fab little book is going to get a lot of use!

Now all I want is a hardcore geek version which will allow me to roll my d10s 😉

Monday, 16 April 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I am about to go back into Arabian Nights mode and get my old novel Heart of Flame prepped for re-publishing ... here's a djinni-related excerpt from a short story of mine, Slave of the Lamp:

She summons me forth once more. This time I am indoors, and cannot grow to my full height. I rein myself in before I smash through the carved cedar beams of the roof.

There is a squealing and a shrieking, a flurry of panic at my arrival. I look down and see the room is full of women. It makes me grin to see them shrink away and cover their faces - though several are peeking through the slits of their fingers, and that makes me grin too. I have arrived clothed, because Bilqis commands me thus, but my silken trousers do not fully disguise the extent of my exuberance. They are all young and lovely; their breasts bare and firm, their shapely thighs and rounded bottoms a field of delight that my rampant share urges me to plough. In Solomon's palace, I would assume that this is the apartment of his concubines. Here in Sheba, they must be the queen's handmaidens. It is clear they have not been expecting the arrival of any male, and their consternation is enchanting. I wish to rush in among them like a cockerel among a flock of hens.


I force my attention back to Bilqis, who kneels upon cushions in the middle of this fluttering crowd, with a slender maiden cradled in her arms. 'Mistress?'

She's dressed less formally today. I can see her ebony nipples through the damp and clinging gauze of her robe. I understand that the land of Sheba is considered punishingly hot by humans. 'Djinni,' says she, 'my slave here has been bitten by a viper. Can you heal her?'

The girl in her arms is twisting with pain, her dark skin grey now and glistening with sweat. I can see her injured foot, swollen to twice its natural size, propped upon a cushion.

'Pray to the God of Solomon, mistress,' I suggest sourly. 'Does He not promise to be merciful?'

'I have. And to Shams and Ilmaqah and Athtar, who rule this land. The gods do not answer me. So if it lies within your power, djinni, I command you to heal this maid.'

I briefly consider some way to twist her words, but my heart is not in it. I am too distracted by the perfumed, quivering throng of women. And the girl is pretty, for a human, or will be so when well. I twitch a single finger - mostly to show how easy this is for me - and the poison hisses out of her, issuing as faint green cloud from her open lips. Her leg reverts instantly to healthy flesh.

Everyone in the room utters a wahwahwah of wonder. Except Bilqis, who smiles and nods, and the girl, who sobs and buries her face in her queen's breasts.

'There, there,' says the monarch of all Sheba, both left and right of the Red Sea. 'You are fine. Not need to cry, my sweet one.' And my eyes widen as the maid pulls down the fine gauze of the queen's robe and sucks a big nipple into her mouth.

Bilqis closes her own eyes for a moment in pleasure, then opens them, meeting my gaze with a long, considering look. 'You did well, djinni,' she says. 'It pleases me to reward you.' With a couple of clicks of her fingers she jerks two of the women at the side of the chamber from their knees. 'You two: see to his pleasure.'

I'm taken aback, but far from dismayed. The young women are curvaceous of body and beautiful of face, and they advance toward me with rapidly rising and falling breasts, bright-eyed but gratifyingly nervous.

'It would help, djinni,' says the queen in a dry voice, 'if you were to assume the size of a mortal man.'

I comply, shrinking my towering form down from the ceiling, until I am only the size of a very large man. The two handmaidens kneel before me on the cushioned floor, and reach for my hidden weapon, wetting their lips as they tug at my clothes. They are eager to obey their queen, I note, approving.

'Do not hurt them, djinni,' Bilqis adds as an afterthought.

I bare my sharp teeth in a grin at her. But I clasp my wrists at the small of my back, safely out of the way.

Then the handmaids lay hold of their prize; one cupping my big balls, the other stroking my thick shaft. Both of them vie for the right to suck my glans, and most stimulating it is to watch them fight for the honour; their lips wrestling over the crown of my manhood, their tongues lashing and sliding over the veined pillar of my magnificence. Teasing fingers stroke my balls and the skin behind. I let out a groan of appreciation. These two are not ignorant of the bodies of men, clearly.

And it is so long since I have known carnal pleasure. Years now, trapped in that lamp. My sap rises swiftly. I look up from the two bobbing heads at my crotch, just to distance myself and prolong the delight, but the broader view does not provide distraction. Every woman in that room is watching me, looking at my body and my cock and their two sisters sucking and slurping at it. Their eyes are wide, drinking in the sight. Their full, moist lips are parted. Their soft breasts heave with each breath they take. Some look entranced; some wary; some hungry. Even the queen herself wears a faint smile, though the maid she is suckling at her breasts is kissing with such vigour that Bilqis' expression appears somewhat unfocused.

My bow is at full stretch, straining for release. I can feel my balls tighten, their hot wet burden ready to be spilled. My thighs are so taut they tremble. I look down once more and see my two handmaidens are taking it in turn to run their tongues up the length of my cock, swallow the head, suck it lovingly, and then let it go just in time for the other girl to engulf.

'Yes, oh yes,' I growl, fire swimming in my veins. 'That is right, you Whores of the Earth! This is your place, all of you!'

'Stop,' says Bilqis sharply.

In an instant the two girls draw away, leaving my cock standing bereft and waving wetly. My vision swims. I can feel the flame burning in my blood turn to pain. I can feel my balls clenching. I turn to the queen, with a snarl.

'I give, and I take away,' Bilqis says, brushing the girl from her as she stands. The queen has a wrathful glitter in her eye. 'Get back into your Lamp, djinni.'

I have no choice but to obey.

Buy Underworlds at:
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Google Play

Wednesday, 11 April 2018

Green Man Date ftw!

Last year one of the things I did for the first time in my life was Help Make a Porno - and now it's going to be released upon the world!

Green Man Date, an Arthurian tale set on the wooded isle of Avalon, starring Fauni Cate and Charlie Forrest, will debut at the London Porn Film Festival on Thursday 12th, as part of their "Local Heroes" lineup. Tickets are already sold out!

And no, I don't appear in the movie, but you can hear me and Mr Ashbless singing on the soundtrack, and my wood does appear, a lot (along with others' wood, ahem) ... and it looks suitably fabulous and magical. But viewers will just have to imagine the overpowering smell of wild garlic for themselves 😁

Monday, 9 April 2018

Blue Monday: S. Nano guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest author is S. Nano with a treat from his new novel La Contessa:

The most decadent city… The most perverted mistress…

Renowned for her beauty and cruelty, La Contessa’s reputation as a dominatrix is well established. And eighteenth century Venice has degenerated into a decadent and lascivious city, the perfect backdrop for her to play-out her debauched games and political ambitions.

She sends her maid, Julia, into the alleyways to search for a young man to act as her slave. Julia finds Roberto prostituting himself in the least salubrious district of Venice. He enters into La Contessa’s service to perform her bizarre and sadistic scenes.

From their first meeting there is a mutual attraction between maid and servant. The young couple engineer a series of sexual encounters, knowing the risks should their mistress discover them. Their situation is complicated when La Contessa rescues Becky and brings her to the palazzo as her submissive girl-slave. The interloper exposes Julia’s jealousies… and the feelings for her mistress.

How long can Roberto and Julia keep their love secret? Will Becky’s presence thwart their relationship? Will La Contessa’s scheming bring her the richest prize in all Venice?

All is resolved before the grand ball and masked, BDSM orgy held by La Contessa in her palazzo as the climax to Venice’s Carnivale.

In this scene from the book La Contessa recreates Italian Commedia Dell’Arte theatre using her servants as ‘human puppets’. The Commedia Dell’Arte was popular in 18th century Venice and typically included masked characters and stock roles such as the lovers (amorosi), the clown (zanni) and the master or old man (vecchi), as seen in this extract. La Contessa adds an erotic and bdsm twist to her version of the theatre! 

From the other side of the curtain I hear La Contessa’s voice, muffled by the barrier of thick velvet.

“Welcome to my theatre. I have laid on a special puppet show for you. This is a tale of two lovers, and the vicissitudes they encounter in pursuit of their love in the face of a cruel guardian.”

There’s polite applause as the curtain rises.

I’ve a moment to take in my surroundings. The theatre is magnificent. Its façade is decorated in rich reds and gilded wood in baroque style. Fixed to the top corners are two solid-gold masks modelled on Greek theatre depicting comedy and tragedy. Smaller golden masks with various dramatic expressions: joy, sorrow, anger, quizzical and confused, cover the columns of the theatre. I take a peek at the audience arraigned in rows on luxurious, velvet-covered seats. At the centre of the front row in pride of place are La Contessa with an expectant and mischievous smile, her breasts bursting out of her dazzling, indigo gown, and her principal guest, the Archbishop, looking thoroughly miserable and uncomfortable.

I feel the tug of the wires pulling me around. It’s a strange sensation, one of being led rather than a complete loss of control. Whilst the wires direct my movement, I have to relax my whole body to allow them to do their work, creating the impression of being manipulated by the puppeteers to the audience. My actions are jerky and quirky as you’d expect with a real puppet.

I find myself facing Becky. My arm is raised and lifts up to touch her cheek. My hands are pushed down to brush against her shiny silk robe. The touch of the sleek silk is exquisite. As my hands are directed to run over her breasts, I finger the hardness of her nipples pulling against the tight material. I hear Becky gasp. Our roles are meant to be played out in silence, but it’s a barely audible expression of her arousal the audience can’t hear. And I’m turned on too. My cock instantly swells until it presses against the sensuous silk. Surely the audience must be able to see my cock tugging at the robe as it becomes erect?

The puppeteers raise Becky’s hands to make them run against my robe. I hadn’t noticed how erotic the silk was to touch when I put it on as I was focused on getting ready. But now, with the girl’s fingers running across the silken material, the sensation is erotically mind-blowing, especially as her fingers stretch towards my groin and touch my hard cock through the silk. I sense the anticipation in the audience as they watch the display of fondling, and the erotic tension building up between us.

The puppeteers execute a swift manoeuvre so the next thing I’m aware of is my arms being wrapped around Becky, and hers around mine as the wires thrust us together. I feel the pulse of her heart racing with sexual excitement as her breasts press against my chest. Then the wires gradually pull our faces together until our masks touch. Through the holes in the masks our lips brush against each other’s. Her tongue reaches out into my mouth, and we kiss through the masks. On her lips I taste the sweet malvasie wine she drank before the show to calm her nerves. I wonder what Julia is thinking. I haven’t seen her costume yet, but I know she’ll be waiting in the wings watching every moment.

The masks part, and our bodies are twisted around by the stiff cords to face the audience. I watch as the ingenious arrangement of wires allows Becky’s robe to slip from her body into a crumpled heap on the floor. There is a collective gasp from the audience as La Contessa’s slave girl is revealed, standing naked, waves of blonde hair tumbling over her bare shoulders with only the mask of the inamorati to cover her face.

There is a tug on the wires securing my robe and I realise the costume is cleverly designed to split into parts so the puppet wires don’t impede the silk’s stately progress as it slides over my flesh. There’s one anxious moment when the robe snags on my erect cock, and the puppeteer has to jerk a wire so it can slip onto the stage. There’s another gasp as my hard-on is shown to the audience. Through the eye-holes in the mask, I see Lady Rudston swooning into a faint. Now, I’m not one to boast… well no, that’s not true! I know my cock is a great asset, and when it’s fully erect, as now, standing out proud, thick, and hard, I know it’s a magnificent tool. Far from being embarrassed at having my cock exposed to a crowd, I revel in it, and get turned on by it.

So the scene is set. The two inamorati stand naked on the stage. The audience is expectant, waiting to see if their love for each other will be consummated. The wires push Becky onto the floor so she’s on all fours. One jerks her bottom up into the air, her cunt lips hanging there waiting to be penetrated. The puppeteers tug at the wires to pull me onto my knees and pull my arms forward under Becky so I can grasp her tits. My penis hovers tantalisingly over her crack. The puppeteers use the wire secured to my erection to adjust the angle of my cock. It’s a manoeuvre requiring deft skill and precision. If the slant of my cock is only a fraction out, then my penis will miss its target. Vincenzo has trained his performers well. My cock probes the entrance to Becky’s vagina, and at just the right moment I’ve the freedom of movement to push my member inside her. Her cunt tightens around my cock, and then I thrust into her harder, taking her doggy style before the assembled guests. I warm to my task. The movement of the wires guides me, but I can add my own force to it. What the audience see, to their delight, is one puppet fucking another.

As I push myself into Becky, my thoughts turn to Julia. Although she claims she’s not jealous of the girl, it must be hard for her to see her lover fucking another woman in such a public spectacle.
Whilst I pump my cock into Becky trying to hold back from coming inside her, I hear a splutter of laughter. I should explain that the set is designed in the style of an Italianate garden, and at the back of the stage is a row of bushes. As I glance out the corner of one eye, I realise the audience is amused at the antics of Julia. She’s dressed as the zanni, a clown in a harlequin suit of blue, red, and yellow triangles, white stockings, a tall white hat, and a white mask with a shocked expression. I must say she looks great in the part and, I have to hand it to her, whatever her misgivings, she’s entering into it with gusto. She’s hiding behind a bush spying on us, and then every so often, indeed in time with my fucking motions, her head pops out from above the bush. Then she dances behind another bush and sticks her head out from its side each time my cock thrusts into Becky’s cunt. We have to pretend we haven’t seen her and carry on with our lovemaking, regardless of the zanni’s antics at the rear of the stage.

La Contessa loves it. She’s laughing, as are her guests, except for the Archbishop who sits there po-faced. At one point Julia does cartwheels to the front of the stage jumps up, points at us feigning shock, and then runs out to stage left. We continue our fucking throughout her performance. Becky rolls her backside into me and, as my cock pushes into her, she emits quiet grunts. We aren’t meant to climax, but it’s obvious we are both turned on. It’s an effort for me to hold back from ejaculating, and poor Becky is straining her whole body to prevent herself from collapsing into orgasm.

Relief comes with appearance of Lucio dressed as the vecchi, the girl’s cruel guardian. He’s dressed in tunic, stockings, tri-cornered cap, and mask, all in black. Vincenzo has gone to town with the mask. It’s black with a bulbous nose and decorated with lines and huge warts. He’s made to look incredibly ugly. I should add that he’s carrying a fearsome whip with leather thongs in his hand. Julia, who has gone to her master to report what she’s seen in the garden, is bouncing up and down excitably pointing at us whilst we carry on screwing.

Lucio marches forward, grabs my ponytail, pulls me out of Becky and throws me to the ground. Becky’s juices on my cock glisten in the glow of the candles used to light the stage. The vecchi places a few carefully aimed strokes with the whip across my backside. They sting. Old Lucio, who out of the staff, has never particularly taken to me, uses his mistress’s puppet show as an opportunity to vent his hostility with a severe whipping. My arse is smarting, and I can feel the welts swelling up out of my flesh.

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

‘La Contessa’ is his third full length novel. ‘Adventures in Fetishland’, a BDSM/fetish re-invention of the classic Alice stories was published by Xcite Books and ‘Mistress of the Air’, a comic, Steampunk, erotic adventure was also published by eXcessica. His novellas and short stories have been published by Xcite Books, House of Erotica, Forbidden Fiction, Coming Together and Greenwoman Publishing.

He is a regular participant in reading slams at ‘Smut by the Sea’ and similar events in the UK, contributing a workshop ‘Kinking Up the Past’, on getting inspiration for erotic stories in historical settings.

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