Black Sails

While we on holiday in lovely sunny Dorset (Brrrrr!) last week, we watched a whole lot of Black Sails. It's the series you want if you like pirates but found Pirates of the Caribbean just too damn silly, and woefully deficient in lesbian sex:
 

There are boobs, bums and cocks in Black Sails, which is why it's here on my blog 😈 Also, two series in, we've seen two poly threesomes, which is pretty heartening ... even if there's no guarantee that the individuals won't have betrayed each other twice before tea.  Characters in Black Sails change their allegiances with dizzying frequency.

It's a giant, high-speed political soap opera really, with a background of sailing ships and mass murder. Every action has unforeseen (and usually terrible) consequences. The premise (if you are even further behind the curve than me and need to be told) is that it's set twenty years before Treasure Island, so there's a really clever mixture of fictional characters like Long John Silver and Captain Flint ...

... alongside historical characters such as 'Calico Jack' Rackham, Charles Vane and Anne Bonny:

Of course most of the main characters are SCARY HAWT, because this is television...

Even the ugly ones are hot, particularly Vane who sort of looks like an Uruk-hai with maxed-out charisma:

And who am I to complain? 😍

Black Sails also has gorgeous sea scenery, tons of violence, and THIS wonderful intro sequence:



What it doesn't have, despite the above, is any undead. Oh well ... back to Game of Thrones for that!

Blue Monday - with free books!

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today is a bit special because you can download these books for FREE on Kindle! Editor Rose Caraway is holding a sale at Stupid Fish Books, so today and tomorrow (26th-27th November) several of her beautiful erotica anthologies are going for £/$ NOTHING, even if you aren't signed up to Kindle Unlimited - including a couple featuring my own short stories (both definitely on the horror spectrum, btw).

Sweet Hel Below:

The Norse god Baldur dies, goes down to the Land of the Dead... and goes down on its terrifying queen

My brother killed me.

He didn’t mean to, of course. He only wanted to join in with all the other laughing, beer-giddy gods as they took it in turns to attack me and watch their weapons bounce off without even making contact. So when Loki sidled up to him, pressed the mistletoe dart into his hand and said “Here, I’ll guide your throw,” blind and trusting Hodur let him. The magical dart, sharp as iron, pierced my left eye and buried itself to the tip in my brain.

That is a story everyone knows. I’m telling a different one here.

They burnt me on a ship-pyre. The black smoke rose up and I blew away as soot. Then rain caught me and washed me down into the leaves of the World Tree, down the silvery bark to its roots, past mortal lands and the realms of fire and ice to the very lowest of the Nine Worlds. To Helheim.

Where else is there for a dead god to go?

I found myself facing a ravine full of raging water and churning sword blades. How wide that gulf stretched it was hard to tell; to my dismay the sight in my left eye had not returned to me. I walked the bank, stumbling sometimes, until I found a bridge with a roof of golden thatch. Guarding it was a blonde and lovely giantess almost twice my height, armed with shield and spear.

“What’s your name, traveler?” She grinned at me, looking me up and down in a way I’m quite familiar with.

“Baldur, Odin’s Son.”

“Baldur the Golden?” Her face fell a little. “I heard the news from Asgard. You may pass.”

I tried a smile. “I don’t have to fight you?”

“I am here to stop people getting out of Helheim,” she answered gently. “Follow the road north and downhill to find the Lady’s hall. But first, kiss me. Dead or not, I would have it said that Modgud was once kissed by Baldur the Beautiful.”

She knelt so that I could kiss her, though I fear my lips felt cold because her own felt so warm to me. I stroked her breasts until she began to sigh, feeling her big nipples rise to the kiss of my cool fingers and the heat thrum beneath her skin. Her heart beat harder. But then, with a sad laugh, she pushed me away.

“No more, alas, Odinsson. The Dead and the Living may not lie together.”

Amazon UK
Amazon US

The Sorcerer's Apprentice:

A cocky would-be sorcerer meets his match when he tries to take advantage of a succubus

Mr. Deverick kept a woman in the penthouse apartment. In a cage.

Heh. I felt a bit weird about that, the first time I saw her. The mirrored wall slid back and behind it was a dark windowless room. As Deverick stepped over the threshold the lights came on. The room was featureless except for the cage, and the cage was empty except for the girl. She was kneeling on the floor, her face to the hardwood inlay, her long blonde hair fallen over her hands. I could see a lot of bare skin, the color of clover honey.

The room smelled faintly of pussy.

I thought: Fuck, is this a test? He hadn’t warned me. And I’m pretty sure some of the bugshit-crazy stuff he gets me to do is just to test me out.

This made me nervous, and I couldn’t help making a snorting noise. Like a laugh, only not really, because this wasn’t funny or anything. It was a bit creepy.

But the noise made her raise her head and sit back, and then it became creepy and hot—both at the same time. She was wearing a little pair of baby-pink panties and a T-shirt in the same color, except that the shirt had been hacked off way too short, covering her nipples but showing a whole lot of under-boob. She had big tits, see, and because the room was cold I could see her nips poking through the thin cloth like light switches. Those trashy clothes made her look more fuckable than if she’d been naked, I swear.

As her eyes lit on Deverick her expression went from sad and pouty to a hopeful little smile, all eager to please.

My cock did 0-60 in less time than it took my hand to reach up and pull nervously at my tie.

“What’s on your mind, Dylan?” my employer asked me. “Something funny?”

I cleared my throat, knowing that if he glanced in the vicinity of my crotch he wouldn’t have to ask. That girl was just prime T&A. Majestic tits, teeny little waist, wide hips flaring out below. Hair long and blonde and sleek, streaked with ashy highlights. Big wide don’t-hurt-me-daddy eyes that looked green even from this distance. And a mouth like …

I told my inner art critic to shut the fuck up. “I was just wondering if they’re real, Mr. Deverick,” I said, trying to sound all cool. “Her tits, like.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Flicking a finger at the girl he spoke a few words in a language I didn’t recognize, and though he didn’t raise his voice it was clearly an instruction. She rose to her feet and came forward to the bars, allowing me to add Incredible Long Legs to my inventory of her assets.

The steel struts were placed just the right distance apart. She pulled up her T-shirt and thrust herself forward so that a bar was nestled in the valley of her cleavage, and her award-winning golden globes stuck through on either side. Her nipples stared at me.

“Have a feel,” said Deverick with a polite gesture.

Say what you like about my boss—and people do say some nasty shit about him, though only when they think he’s out of earshot—Michael Deverick knows a thing or two about perks for loyal employees. Today’s particular perks were … perky, to the max. I moved in close. The girl, either bashful or plain old nervous, looked up at me through her long lashes and glanced at Deverick as if for reassurance. At the periphery of my vision I saw him nod.

She smelled like sex in a rose garden.

I cupped those fabulous titties with a feeling of genuine awe and squeezed slowly, questing—in vain—for the over-firm bulge of silicone implants. I pressed them together round the bar and thumbed her nipples and rubbed her skin. And to my surprise I felt her respond: a flush crept up her throat and her eyes darkened as her pupils dilated. Then she moaned, very softly: perhaps too softly for Mr. Deverick to hear. It was like a secret between us.

My cock was like a fucking totem pole by this point. You could have held a war dance around it.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Are they real, then?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh yeah.” I gave her nips another tug and saw her eyelids flutter. I knew I should stop, having done the task requested of me, but my hands had a will of their own and my hard-on was voting with them. “They’re real alright. Is she Russian? I mean, I know you’ve got a line in luxury imports…”

He laughed softly. “No, not Russian.”

“That language?”

“Enochian.”

Fuck. Enochian. I might have a shed-load to learn from Deverick, but I’d already heard of Enochian. It’s the language of angels … and fallen angels.

I let go of the beach-balls and took a couple of steps back. My boss grinned that Hollywood Irish grin of his. But the girl just grabbed the bars and looked up at me with those big innocent eyes, desolate.

“Is she …?” I didn’t want to say angel. It sounded gay. “A demon?”

“A succubus.”

I stared at her, waiting for a flash of sulfurous yellow eyes or fangs or something. But she just looked like a human girl. Except better.

“So your job while I’m away next week is very simple,” he told me, pointing at the floor of the cage and putting her on her knees with two words.

I shut my slack jaw and tried to focus. Simple was good. Simple made a change. He was forever sending me off on errands that were complex and downright peculiar—crossing five Thames bridges, blindfolded and on foot, before sunset; or busking outside Kings Cross Underground and giving a bottle of … something … to the first blue-eyed man who dropped me a coin. Nor did the sly bastard ever explain what purposes these acts had. I just had to guess—and if my guesses were getting stronger over the last year, that was down to my own hard work. He was in no damn hurry to teach me anything, despite our agreement.

“Every night after dark you come in to this suite, you open this door and come in here. Then you whack your Mr. Ugly through the bars and give her a cream tea. That’s all. Don’t fuck her, and whatever you do don’t kiss her. Once only. Then leave.”

Amazon UK
Amazon US

Brave New World

Take one look at your skies
And in the darkness realize
Kill fear, the power of lies
For we will not be hypnotized

Who's a Big Boy then?

I have made a pilgrimage to what must surely be my spiritual home, and paid respects to my totem god.

Can you see him over my shoulder there?

It's the Cerne Abbas Giant, who is official possessor of the Biggest Dick in Britain - 36 ft long!

He's actually best seen from the sky:

Photo from Wikipedia, CC License

Carved into the chalk hillside above a Dorset village by hands unknown (but probably sticky), the Giant is ancient (at least early 17th Century) and may possibly be Romano-British or even older. No one knows. He's a big hit round Cerne Abbas. Apparently spending the night on his knob is helpful if you are trying to get pregnant - or so they say!

We  ate lunch in this nice pub:

Where we drank this beer:

See - travel does broaden the mind ;-)

Dirty 30 Vol.3: table of contents

Rose Caraway is publishing a third volume in The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 series of anthologies, now officially aiming at Spring 2019. She's just published the line-up, and my story, Sourdough, is right up there!

Sourdough is a step outside my comfort zone because it's a Western - you can read a teaser snippet here.

The Sexy Librarian returns with

Dirty 30, Volume 3!

COMING, Spring of 2019!!

This may be her hottest collection yet.

Get ready for; a concubine who makes samurai blush, interrogation room suspense, moonshine and revenge, a nurse who gives good bedside manner, a night burglar, priestly desires and parishioner confessions, couple’s massage, a sexy bidding war, rekindling of old flames, a jewelry heist, hot courtroom drama, aliens, a new spin on Hansel and Gretel, mermaid folklore, and so much more!

Blue Monday: S J Smith guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Sinful Press stablemate S J Smith, with an excerpt from his new erotic-comedy novel Return to the House of Fox:

The new management has embarked on a program of modernisation, intending to reopen the doors of the greatest brothel in the known universe for business. But while the plans are not welcomed by all, forces of both good and evil have recognised an opportunity to finally worm their way inside the infamous House of Fox.

For Doctor Katrina Moore, a chance meeting with a mysterious patient will set her on a journey of self-discovery. Meanwhile, Kitty de Catt just wants her old job back, and is prepared to go to any lengths to make sure she gets her way.

Once again, every fantasy will come true, in this gripping sequel to The House of Fox that literally no one has been waiting for: Return to the House of Fox: The ***** of the Golden ***** (subtitle redacted for legal reasons).

---

“So now you go quiet on me.” Katrina, chin propped on knuckles, sat on a kitchen stool in front of Willy, who remained in a comatose flop in his wheelchair. She’d brought him back to her home for lack of any better ideas, but now, with the sun well on the rise and the traffic steadily building toward rush hour outside, she realised that particular decision had been a stupid one. A rush of blood and adrenaline had carried her through the night, but in the cold light of day she had to face up to the fact she had kidnapped a patient from the hospital, and sooner or later, someone was going to start looking for him.

She had to take Willy and get out of here, that much was obvious. But where? Now she had him, what the hell was she supposed to do with him? “Come on, Mister, a little help would be appreciated,” she implored for the umpteenth time. But the Jesus Penis wasn’t playing ball, and remained small and shrivelled, hiding in the nook of Willy’s pyjama flies like some tiny, skittish mammal, too scared to poke its nose out its nest.

“Okay,” she pointed a waggling finger. “Maybe I’ll just force you to come back to life,” and she took hold of it, rubbed and squeezed it, gently massaged the shrunken head. Nothing happened. So she leaned forward and kissed it, trailed her tongue along the limited length of its shaft. Nothing happened. Not a sausage.

Hmm. This was a headscratcher. How to coax an erection from a seemingly impotent cock. If anyone could do it, surely it ought to be the former eminent cockologist, Dr Katrina Moore? Medically, she knew exactly how the damn things worked. Give her the right combination of tools, physical therapy and drugs and she could raise even the limpest of winkles from the dead. To personally inspire a stiffy was a different matter, however. She’d never exactly pushed the frontiers in the bedroom department. Standard missionary with the lights off was perfectly sufficient, thank you very much. Just get it over with quickly, because she had far more important things to do.

“Got to be sexy,” she whispered to herself, as she narrowed her eyes and tried to second guess the reluctant cock. She undid a couple of buttons and leaned forward, giving the Jesus Penis an eyeful of cleavage. Nothing happened. How about a bit of dirty talk? “Hey there. How’d you like to engage in full penetrative intercourse and be inserted into my vagina?” Nothing. God, she sucked at this.

How did they do it, those seducers and teasers of men? How could a grown woman pout and jiggle and slowly strip naked for some drooling man, without the patent ridiculousness of the situation sending her into a laughing fit? She thought about the girls she’d seen on TV, how they held their audience enraptured by simply hinting they might take off their clothes. Maybe that was the answer; would a lap dance entice the Jesus Penis out of its shell? She got to her feet, stood over Willy and undid a couple more buttons while swaying her hips in what she hoped was a vaguely erotically pleasing manner. Nope. She couldn’t go through with it; it was just way too stupid. “To hell with you,” she snapped, turned her back on the cock and stormed away to put the kettle on.

Angrily throwing a teabag into a mug, she decided to take matters into her own hands. What was the point hanging around here waiting for a limp dick to tell her what to do? Since when was a man the master of her? She carried her cuppa to the kitchen table, then went and fetched a road atlas from the shelf in the drawing room. Opening it out at a full page map of Wales, she blew the steam off her tea and pondered the image; here was Coraton, down on the south coast, and out of its urban sprawl, a network of highways led off in all directions, each one a potential journey in the making. All she had to do was choose one; throw Willy in the back of the car and set off; see where the road took her.

As she traced the red line of a motorway with her fingernail, she became aware of movement in the corner of her eye, and turned to see the Jesus Penis expanding and swelling. “Oh, finally you decide to put in an appearance.” She folded her arms and stuck out her bottom lip, keen to let the appendage know it wasn’t in her good books right now. But there was something different about this erection, something altogether more powerful, and instead of arousal, fear coursed through her veins.

Below her feet, a tremble shook the ground, and she clutched at the rim of the table in alarm. The light in the hall dimmed and surged, dimmed and surged, and the digital radio sprung to life, broadcasting some ominously heavyweight German opera. The Jesus Penis grew bigger and bigger, passing a foot in length, vibrating as if being manipulated by some unseen hand.

“Oh my God,” Katrina ducked down. “I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

A deafening roar, like the approach of a tsunami, had her put her hands over her ears, and she dived below the table for cover. Plates tumbled from the cupboards and pictures fell from the wall as the whole room shook. The Jesus Penis’ angry purple head swung around in her direction.
“
No, please, stop.”

With a sound like the popping of a champagne cork, the King of Cocks ejaculated a wad of spunk. It flew through the air, six feet off the ground, and landed with a splat on top of the table, somewhere above Katrina’s head. The shaking stopped. Everything became quiet and still.

After a couple of minutes, she dared to creep out from her hiding place. The room lay wrecked, broken crockery and glass shards scattered across the beige floor tiles. Katrina got to her feet, trembling with fear. The Jesus Penis had returned to its dormant state, tiny and insignificant, a snail in its shell. “What the hell happened?” She took two steps out into the open, and only then did she realise.

The blob of greyish white spunk had landed on the atlas, plopping down right on top of a town called Rhyl.

---

Buy Return to the House of Fox at:

Amazon (universal link)

SJ Smith is a neurotic recluse who lives in a small town in North Wales. It has long been his dream to become a filth monger.

SJ Smith blog 
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The Old Straight Path

Here's a setting for a spooky encounter I came across this week ... the old Drove Road across the Quantock Hills in Somerset. It's been in use by shepherds and drovers since at least medieval times, when it was called the Alferode ("Elf-Road"? "Alfred's Road"?) Certainly Alfred the Great might have used it, as it it was a Saxon "Harepath" (an army route) and features an even earlier Bronze Age monolith at Triscombe Stone.

The wibbly beech trees are relatively late plantings on top of the stone walls.

1933

Frank Turner puts my reaction to the last few years into verse 😨😭😣

The first time it was a tragedy,
The second time it's a farce.
Outside it's 1933, so I'm hitting the bar.
But I don't know what's going on anymore -
The world outside is burning with a brand new light,
But it isn't one that makes me feel warm;
Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn.

Read it, now edit

The submissions window for Lust in the Dust has now CLOSED, which means it's time for me to go into overdrive.

Sexy Little Pages likes a fast turnaround on acceptances and rejections, so my job now is to make that choice of 9 stories. Already I'm feeling bad.

Why? Because I'm going to be rejecting some perfectly great stories, for various good reasons - they don't quite fit the theme of the anthology, or I've reached my quota of zombies, or they aren't right for this publisher (but they'd do fine elsewhere). One of the stories I love, but we're really not sure it'll get past the Apple censor. Two of the stories, both of them dramatic and well written, have essentially the same plot twist ... and I can't choose both!


And I'm aware, because I'm on the other side of this so often, that those authors have poured hours of effort, their heart and soul, into their creations. So it feels cruel saying Sorry, No.


It's a tough job ... but I guess someone's got to do it. Pity the editor, folks.

Blue Monday: Lucy Felthouse guests

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Armistice Centenary

Gassed, by John Singer Sargent

Wilfred Owen 1893-1918

Wassup?

Just a catchup on what I've been doing this week...

• I've sent off a horror story
• I've started a fairy tale
• I've asked a publisher to sub one of my stories to a reprint antho
• I've been reading through stories for Lust in the Dust - there are some good ones already!
• I'm off tomorrow to the Yorkshire Romance Writers' meeting (Yahay! Cake!!!)

I'm not the the most focused writer in the world, so for me this is pretty damn productive...  😜

Feeling Justified

In my eternal quest to be 5 years behind everyone else watching TV, I'm keeping my eyecandy quotient up by watching Justified while reading subs for Lust in the Dust this week (GET WRITING btw, if you haven't subbed already!).

Timothy Olyphant has a pretty hot bod and is clearly the only good-looking guy in the whole of Kentucky...

but his eyebrows are the real stars. They deserve acting credits all of their own: Left Brow ... Right brow.  Quizzical, come-hither, or embodying barely-supressed rage (okay, mostly the latter), they are captivating 😀

Plus, it has great title music:

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's is from my Arthurian story Knight Takes Queen, which appears in my collection Fierce Enchantments. In this scene Guinevere recalls the first time she went astray with Sir Lancelot:

So Guinevere dug her fingernails into the sheet and remembered the first time she and Lancelot had sinned together—the single memory that was sure to inflame her more than any other. She had been several years into her lukewarm marriage when Lancelot joined the Round Table, journeying to Camelot from his domain over the sea. That fateful day, she had been sitting with him in the rose garden, in a small pavilion among the blooms, and they’d been playing chess—a game he’d taught the Court and which had swept the nobility, just as this handsome foreign knight had overwhelmed the ladies of Camelot. A ferocious downpour had sent her ladies-in-waiting running for cover, terrified for their silken dresses, but the two of them had remained in their precarious shelter, cut off from the castle by a curtain of pouring rain.

Guinevere had already been aware of her strong attraction to the man who had claimed the honour of being Queen’s Champion, having bested every other Knight of the Table at the jousting lists. She’d been both absorbed by the chess game and giddy with pleasure. It hadn’t mattered to her that he’d been much the stronger player. In fact she liked that. They’d played three games, wagering small sums of gold to sharpen the interest, and she’d only won the first time because he let her. His fingertips had brushed hers on a number of occasions and she had been hard-put not to giggle.

Then he’d announced, ‘Knight takes Queen. Mate.’ He’d looked her in the face, and at that moment they had both known. Heat had flashed through her body like a lightning strike. She’d reached out to lay her king over in surrender, but her hand had shaken so wildly she did not dare touch the board. He’d seen that too. Suddenly, without a word, she was aware of the danger she was in.

She’d sprung to her feet and backed off, knocking over her stool like a child in a panic. He’d followed, instantly, closing on her as she backed up against a wooden pillar. Rain struck the back of her neck but she’d barely felt it. He’d loomed over her, his eyes holding hers, his intention implacable. But his voice had been pitched soft.

‘I win again,’ he’d said. ‘You owe me a forfeit, my queen.’

She’d nodded, running the tip of her tongue across her lip in a frantic effort to wet it so she might speak. She could feel her voice all bundled up into a croaky snarl in her breast.
‘
Lift your skirts. Show me.’

Maybe he’d meant only as far as the knees—that would have been shameful enough, but it hadn’t occurred to Guinevere until later that there might have been some escape. She’d bunched up the floor-length front of her dress, hand over hand, revealing the secret path of her thighs, all the way to her sex. He’d glanced down briefly, no change of expression visible on his face, then pinned her gaze again.

‘Open them.’

She’d obeyed. She hadn’t questioned the necessity. His face was so close to hers that she’d been sure he was going to kiss her. But he’d put his hand down between her slightly parted thighs, and cupped the dark gold nest of her sex in his palm, running his fingertips into her cleft. He’d found her as wet as if she’d been caught in the cloudburst.

She’d nearly died of the pleasure and the terror of that touch.

All he’d done was stroke her. Stroke her soft and needy sex, caress her clit with one moistened, expert fingertip, back and forth, utterly patient, while his face hovered over hers watching every nuance of expression. She’d arched her shoulders against the wet post and gasped and quivered and shaken, completely in his power, until she spent with a gush and a helpless cry and a sudden rush of tears. It was the first time a man had ever brought her to climax.

And he hadn’t kissed her. Not that time.

But from that moment on, she’d known she was his to do with whatever he desired.

---

Buy Fierce Enchantments at:

Amazon US
Amazon UK
Kobo
Barnes and Noble
Google Play

Rumble

This 1958 single, "Rumble," by Link Wray, was - believe it or not - the only instrumental track to be banned by American radio stations! It featured the first (improvised) fuzzbox.

DVD review: Strange Days

Remember Strange Days? No? Even sci-fi fans might have missed this 1995 movie, despite the fact it was written and produced by James Cameron, directed by Kathryn Bigelow, stars some well-known actors and has a kick-ass soundtrack. It tanked at the box-office for reasons that are beyond me.

I watched it for the first time this week and I want to sing its [qualified] praises. It's set in a then-futuristic 1999 just at the flashpoint of the Millennium. Society is barely holding it together and in LA the law is stretched thin. Ralph Feinnes stars as Lenny, a weasley seller of illegal VR experiences recorded direct from peoples' brains, who is still pining for his dead-eyed ex-girlfriend Faith (Juliette Lewis), who ditched him for an even slimier low-life music producer.

 Angela Bassett plays his best friend Mace, who puts up with Lenny's shit WAY above and beyond the call of duty.

"There there, you useless idiot. Who made you the hero FFS?"

There's a plot involving a secret SQUID recording that Must Not Fall Into the Wrong Hands, a serial killer who tapes his snuff adventures, and much hanging about in neon-lit clubs or next to burning cars. It's beautifully shot, and though Lewis isn't the greatest actor she sure belts out a song:

But what really makes the movie now is its unnerving prescience. Without giving too much away, its tangled plot resonates with the current Black Lives Matter movement and eyeballs a racially divided America. When Mace asks if maybe they shouldn't just let full scale revolt kick off and burn everything to the ground, you've really got to wonder if the old system is worth preserving , and at what cost, to whom?

Caveats: This might not be the movie for you if you are sensitive to cinematic violence - and particularly sexual violence. It's a hardboiled thriller. Also, at this stage even middle-aged white peeps like me are wondering "Why's the protag a white guy? Can't Mace be the main character?" ... but that's 1990s Hollywood for you.

You should really watch it for Angela Bassett though, because she is DA BOMB.