Sunday, 30 September 2018
It was the Best Song in the World (not)
One of the cultural highlights of our Silk Road holiday was attending the World Nomad Games closing ceremony ... which was quite a lot like Eurovision circa 1978, tbh.
I will leave you to picture our incredulous faces as camp German popband Dschinghis Khan came on - in fake leather mini-skirts - in front of a crowd of nomad-descended, ex-Soviet nationals, to perform their Eurohits "I'm a Rocking Son of Genghis Khan" and "Moscow".
The crowd bloody loved it 😂😂😂
Wednesday, 26 September 2018
Show me Moore!
The uncropped version of this photo is definitely NSFW - and you can find it over at Molly's Daily Kiss where she recounts her experience reading my novel The Prison of the Angels, one afternoon when she should have been making the beds.
I'm not going to spoil that particular Masturbation Monday for you - just go on over and see for yourselves!
There is a bit at the end of the post, mind, that is the most luscious review/writer's compliment:
"I have never really been into fantasy erotica but then a few years ago I went to book launch at Sh Woman’s store in London. Janine introduced her newest creation and proceeded to read the first chapter. I was hooked. The moment the interval started I got up from my seat went straight to the counter and bought the book. I took it home and stormed through it then waited (im)patiently for Janine to pen book number two and then book number three. If I had never gone to that reading I probably would never have read these books as I truly thought that fantasy was not my thing. Janine totally converted me with her brilliant storytelling. I highly recommend you let her do the same to you sometime soon. Although you might find it takes you much longer to get things done than usual."A HUGE thank you to the bold and beautiful Molly Moore!
And you can find buy-links for the whole trilogy here:
1) Cover Him With Darkness
2) In Bonds of the Earth
3) The Prison of the Angels
Monday, 24 September 2018
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!
Since I was in Bukhara a couple of weeks ago, I thought I'd post a piece from my Arabian Nights novel Heart of Flame. My hero and heroine, Rafiq and Taqla, travel to that city on the Silk Road to pass on a message from a dead god to a woman they don't know. They get taken prisoner and tied up for questioning. Sorry, it's not a very rude bit!
(I am ever so slightly peeved that I didn't really describe Bukhara itself in that book ... if I wrote it now I'd have a lot more material to work with!)
She didn’t have long to think about it, to her surprise. Within a few minutes the door opened again and in walked Vizier Najib. He was a big, handsome man, some part of her recognized grudgingly. The grey in his beard did not hide the breadth of his shoulders or the fact that he stalked like a leopard. Around his lean waist was a thickly embroidered sash into which was thrust a curved Turk-style dagger and a scabbarded scimitar. He placed a goblet of wine down on the table and looked at them both thoughtfully.
“Leave us,” he told the guard. Then when the three of them were alone, he folded his arms over his chest. “I have at least an hour before the Amir is due to admit the throng into his august presence and will require my advice. The notion occurred to me—why should I not spend it with two disturbers of the peace? So, who will talk to me?” He glanced at Taqla and smiled. “Not you, I think.” His gaze flitted back to Rafiq. “You then.”
“Right Hand of the Amir,” Rafiq said, guardedly. His face was bruised and his lip cut and swollen.
“So who are you?”
“My name is Rafiq ibn-Jurraia al-Dimashq, and I’m a merchant. Ask at the caravanserai for those who will vouch for me.”
“I will. A merchant selling what?”
“Nothing at the moment. Our caravan was washed away by a flash flood in a wadi, our camels drowned, our companions scattered. We came to Bokhara seeking shelter.”
“Really? A fine story. Now tell me why you tried to bring a sorceress into the Amir’s presence.”
“A sorceress? Her? As I told you, she’s my wife.”
Najib waved a hand negligently and walked over to Taqla, looking her in the face with some interest. She lowered her eyes, not out of shyness but out of desire that he see her as nothing but a respectable and wronged woman. It didn’t work for a moment.
“She’s a witch.” He ran his hands over the pouches hanging at her belt, taking the time to measure the shape of her waist and hips and slide a hand between her legs. She jerked in shock.
“Sayyid, you are mistaken,” said Rafiq very coldly.
The vizier walk around her with a knowing smile. “A fine collection of rings you have there,” he remarked, taking her bound hands in his.
Taqla clenched her fists, feeling the cord bite into her wrists.
Najib sighed. “I can always cut them off,” he murmured into her ear and she shivered, knowing she had little choice. When she opened her hands again, he stripped the rings from her fingers, examined them one by one and laid them out in a line upon the table. It was painful to be parted from the magical tools she relied upon. She could feel sweat gathering at her temples.
“We came only to ask the favour of the Amir,” said Rafiq through gritted teeth. “We mean no trouble in Bokhara.”
The vizier ignored that. He returned to Taqla yet again. “Any more?” he asked her, reaching for her throat. Under her stout outer jacket, which he tugged open, she was wearing a high-necked shirt of fine cotton. He took that between his hands and ripped it, baring her breastbone. Taqla tried to swivel away, but he grabbed her shoulder with a heavy hand, pinning her in place so he could grope under the torn fabric.
“Get your hands off her!” Rafiq roared.
“You have a hasty temper, friend,” said Najib, squeezing Taqla’s breast. “Very nice,” he added, eyes glittering, as she protested through the sodden gag. He pinched her nipple, twisting it painfully, and then, just as abruptly, he let go and walked away, confronting Rafiq eye to eye. “She’s most appealing, isn’t she? Have you had her in the form of a boy yet? She can do that, you know. She can take any form that pleases you.”
Taqla, her right nipple stinging and swollen, nearly choked as she tried to draw gasping breaths through her gag. She felt her eyes fill with welling tears and she swallowed wildly, her jaw aching. Meanwhile Rafiq opened his mouth, very obviously to utter an imprecation as offensive as humanly possible, but then bit down on the words, his breath hissing through his bared teeth.
“Talk to me, my friend,” said Najib lazily. “Do you understand your situation? I am the vizier here and it’s my position to protect the Amir. He’s an old, frail man who just wishes to be left alone to enjoy his hashish and his women. Tell me what you two were planning here…or believe me I will do things to the girl that you will not enjoy watching.”
Rafiq snapped his head back in frustration, banging it against the pillar. “I’m a merchant—a trader!”
“And the witch?”
“My bodyguard,” he said, his grin belying the cold hate in his eyes.
The vizier laughed appreciatively. “Better. What were you planning to do?”
“I carry a message, that’s all, for the ruler of Bokhara.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s something I’m often paid to do when I travel—take messages.”
“Show me.”
“It’s not written down.”
“Then what have you been paid to say?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s for the recipient alone.”
“From whom?”
“Again, I cannot say.”
Dazed and frantic, Taqla was aware that Rafiq had remembered her warnings that the instructions of the god should be carried out very literally—if the message were to reach Adhur-Anahid through gossip or a third party, the compact would certainly be void.
“That’s…very interesting.” The vizier leaned in closer, and from the expression on his face he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Now, you see, you have piqued my curiosity. What do I have to do to get you to talk, my friend?”
He sank his hand into Rafiq’s crotch. Taqla stopped breathing. Rafiq seemed to gain several inches of height as his spine straightened and all expression left his face. The two men stared into each other’s eyes, faces almost touching.
“Ah now, no protests this time?” The vizier chuckled lightly. “In all honesty you’re as much to my taste as the little sorceress, friend. Why don’t I cut out the bit where she gets hurt and just move straight on to hurting you? Or do you like it rough?” His hand, buried in the loose cloth of Rafiq’s trousers, moved with lavish purpose.
Buy "Heart of Flame"
The most beautiful woman in all Arabia has been abducted by a djinni - and only forbidden magic can bring about her rescue.
Taqla the sorceress lives in comfortable secrecy, until she agrees to help the handsome traveller Rafiq find the kidnapped daughter of the Amir. They set off together on a journey fraught with magic and peril, though a landscape of ancient desert ruins, terrible monsters and deception. With so many secrets to keep, Taqla cannot afford to trust Rafiq – and yet she must, with her life.
In the meantime, the captive Ahleme must try to fend off the attentions of the terrifying djinni who wishes to father upon her a new saviour of the Djinn race. Can Ahleme survive her imprisonment? Can Taqla really bring herself to help Rafiq win Ahleme back, when she is hopelessly in love with him herself? Can she trust him not to betray her, when sorcery is a crime punishable by death? Passion may yet betray them all.
Since I was in Bukhara a couple of weeks ago, I thought I'd post a piece from my Arabian Nights novel Heart of Flame. My hero and heroine, Rafiq and Taqla, travel to that city on the Silk Road to pass on a message from a dead god to a woman they don't know. They get taken prisoner and tied up for questioning. Sorry, it's not a very rude bit!
(I am ever so slightly peeved that I didn't really describe Bukhara itself in that book ... if I wrote it now I'd have a lot more material to work with!)
She didn’t have long to think about it, to her surprise. Within a few minutes the door opened again and in walked Vizier Najib. He was a big, handsome man, some part of her recognized grudgingly. The grey in his beard did not hide the breadth of his shoulders or the fact that he stalked like a leopard. Around his lean waist was a thickly embroidered sash into which was thrust a curved Turk-style dagger and a scabbarded scimitar. He placed a goblet of wine down on the table and looked at them both thoughtfully.
“Leave us,” he told the guard. Then when the three of them were alone, he folded his arms over his chest. “I have at least an hour before the Amir is due to admit the throng into his august presence and will require my advice. The notion occurred to me—why should I not spend it with two disturbers of the peace? So, who will talk to me?” He glanced at Taqla and smiled. “Not you, I think.” His gaze flitted back to Rafiq. “You then.”
“Right Hand of the Amir,” Rafiq said, guardedly. His face was bruised and his lip cut and swollen.
“So who are you?”
“My name is Rafiq ibn-Jurraia al-Dimashq, and I’m a merchant. Ask at the caravanserai for those who will vouch for me.”
“I will. A merchant selling what?”
“Nothing at the moment. Our caravan was washed away by a flash flood in a wadi, our camels drowned, our companions scattered. We came to Bokhara seeking shelter.”
“Really? A fine story. Now tell me why you tried to bring a sorceress into the Amir’s presence.”
“A sorceress? Her? As I told you, she’s my wife.”
Najib waved a hand negligently and walked over to Taqla, looking her in the face with some interest. She lowered her eyes, not out of shyness but out of desire that he see her as nothing but a respectable and wronged woman. It didn’t work for a moment.
“She’s a witch.” He ran his hands over the pouches hanging at her belt, taking the time to measure the shape of her waist and hips and slide a hand between her legs. She jerked in shock.
“Sayyid, you are mistaken,” said Rafiq very coldly.
The vizier walk around her with a knowing smile. “A fine collection of rings you have there,” he remarked, taking her bound hands in his.
Taqla clenched her fists, feeling the cord bite into her wrists.
Najib sighed. “I can always cut them off,” he murmured into her ear and she shivered, knowing she had little choice. When she opened her hands again, he stripped the rings from her fingers, examined them one by one and laid them out in a line upon the table. It was painful to be parted from the magical tools she relied upon. She could feel sweat gathering at her temples.
“We came only to ask the favour of the Amir,” said Rafiq through gritted teeth. “We mean no trouble in Bokhara.”
The vizier ignored that. He returned to Taqla yet again. “Any more?” he asked her, reaching for her throat. Under her stout outer jacket, which he tugged open, she was wearing a high-necked shirt of fine cotton. He took that between his hands and ripped it, baring her breastbone. Taqla tried to swivel away, but he grabbed her shoulder with a heavy hand, pinning her in place so he could grope under the torn fabric.
“Get your hands off her!” Rafiq roared.
“You have a hasty temper, friend,” said Najib, squeezing Taqla’s breast. “Very nice,” he added, eyes glittering, as she protested through the sodden gag. He pinched her nipple, twisting it painfully, and then, just as abruptly, he let go and walked away, confronting Rafiq eye to eye. “She’s most appealing, isn’t she? Have you had her in the form of a boy yet? She can do that, you know. She can take any form that pleases you.”
Taqla, her right nipple stinging and swollen, nearly choked as she tried to draw gasping breaths through her gag. She felt her eyes fill with welling tears and she swallowed wildly, her jaw aching. Meanwhile Rafiq opened his mouth, very obviously to utter an imprecation as offensive as humanly possible, but then bit down on the words, his breath hissing through his bared teeth.
“Talk to me, my friend,” said Najib lazily. “Do you understand your situation? I am the vizier here and it’s my position to protect the Amir. He’s an old, frail man who just wishes to be left alone to enjoy his hashish and his women. Tell me what you two were planning here…or believe me I will do things to the girl that you will not enjoy watching.”
Rafiq snapped his head back in frustration, banging it against the pillar. “I’m a merchant—a trader!”
“And the witch?”
“My bodyguard,” he said, his grin belying the cold hate in his eyes.
The vizier laughed appreciatively. “Better. What were you planning to do?”
“I carry a message, that’s all, for the ruler of Bokhara.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s something I’m often paid to do when I travel—take messages.”
“Show me.”
“It’s not written down.”
“Then what have you been paid to say?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s for the recipient alone.”
“From whom?”
“Again, I cannot say.”
Dazed and frantic, Taqla was aware that Rafiq had remembered her warnings that the instructions of the god should be carried out very literally—if the message were to reach Adhur-Anahid through gossip or a third party, the compact would certainly be void.
“That’s…very interesting.” The vizier leaned in closer, and from the expression on his face he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Now, you see, you have piqued my curiosity. What do I have to do to get you to talk, my friend?”
He sank his hand into Rafiq’s crotch. Taqla stopped breathing. Rafiq seemed to gain several inches of height as his spine straightened and all expression left his face. The two men stared into each other’s eyes, faces almost touching.
“Ah now, no protests this time?” The vizier chuckled lightly. “In all honesty you’re as much to my taste as the little sorceress, friend. Why don’t I cut out the bit where she gets hurt and just move straight on to hurting you? Or do you like it rough?” His hand, buried in the loose cloth of Rafiq’s trousers, moved with lavish purpose.
Buy "Heart of Flame"
The most beautiful woman in all Arabia has been abducted by a djinni - and only forbidden magic can bring about her rescue.
Taqla the sorceress lives in comfortable secrecy, until she agrees to help the handsome traveller Rafiq find the kidnapped daughter of the Amir. They set off together on a journey fraught with magic and peril, though a landscape of ancient desert ruins, terrible monsters and deception. With so many secrets to keep, Taqla cannot afford to trust Rafiq – and yet she must, with her life.
In the meantime, the captive Ahleme must try to fend off the attentions of the terrifying djinni who wishes to father upon her a new saviour of the Djinn race. Can Ahleme survive her imprisonment? Can Taqla really bring herself to help Rafiq win Ahleme back, when she is hopelessly in love with him herself? Can she trust him not to betray her, when sorcery is a crime punishable by death? Passion may yet betray them all.
Sunday, 23 September 2018
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
mean DON'T EVER GO THERE.
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 Pages: LUST IN THE DUST 💕💖💗
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? 😍😍😍
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 Iðunn’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 Æsir?”
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.
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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 Iðunn’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 Æsir?”
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?
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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.
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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:
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| Kill total: probably about 17 million |
and then put through the modernising grindstone of the Soviet Union:
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| 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.
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| Tea, anyone? |
It's Muslim but secular, not fundamentalist - our local guide says most don't even observe Ramadan.
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| 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:
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| The necropolis in Samarkand |
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| Bukhara - my HoF heroes went there! |
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| 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:
