Monday, 22 July 2019

Blue Monday: First Contact

Every Monday I'll be posting an excerpt from one of the stories in Lust in the Dust.

The third story in our lineup is First Contact by Raven Sky, simultaneously a thoughtful critique on the standard Apocalypse paradigm and a queer romance set in the wilds of Canada:


I knew I was fucked the moment I laid eyes on her. What the hell was a white woman doing this far north, squatting in my family’s hunting shack? Well, I guess I knew what she was literally doing, and I should have looked away, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was naked, standing in my kitchen, using water boiled on the wood stove to sponge-bathe her body. I’d spotted the smoke quite a ways off and come prepared to take on whatever threat had found my hideaway. I wasn’t prepared for her, though.

She was blonde. No one this far north was blonde. At least not above and below. Sure some of the reservation bimbos tried to fake it with expensive chemical dyes, but blonde was something foreign and exotic that we only ever saw on TV and the internet. Back when those things still existed.

I knew I was being a creeper, but still I looked on at her body framed by the window, as she used a cloth to wash her tall, lithe frame. She had an angry looking rash on her left calf, but otherwise she was physically perfect. I’ll be honest and admit that I didn’t check out her eye colour, but her skin was pale and her tits were small with perky pink nipples. Her hips were soft curves and her ass was perfectly rounded. There was soft, ample fuzz of the lightest shade of tan between her thighs.

I felt like I’d stumbled into some strange pornographic movie, because nothing this extraordinarily sexy had ever happened to me before. She was scrubbing the length of her arms, then her tits and torso, and I felt my own sex get slick at the way her rosy little nipples tightened up. I squirmed and thought about touching myself, but that was a step too far for my dignity. I snapped back into the reality of the situation, which was that a stranger was trying to steal my home. And even if she was a startlingly gorgeous stranger, she was still a threat.

I retreated to the trees and walked full-circle around the house, looking for clues. Who was she? Was she alone? Did she have weapons? What did she want?


 Buy Lust in the Dust:
 
It's the end of the world as we know it.

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…

Lust in the Dust brings together ten erotic short stories set in times where civilisation and the rule of law have crashed and burned. The aftermath of a terrible war, a zombie invasion, a cityscape over-run by nature, a medieval fortress. Wherever there is life, there is lust.

Edited by Janine Ashbless - with stories by S. Nano, Elizabeth Coldwell, Raven Sky, Sommer Marsden, Cara Thereon, Jones, Gregory L. Norris, Nicole Wolfe, Janine Ashbless, Quiet Ranger.
 

Saturday, 20 July 2019

Jellicle jollies



I assume furries are rejoicing even as the po-faced internet harpies shriek with horror - there's going to be a movie version of Cats released this year! 😻😻😻

I saw the original stage show (video below) in London many years ago and I remember it as being weirdly sexy (in a "let's-not-mention-this" kinda way). From where we sat below the stage it seemed to be an endless parade of lithe lycra-clad butts and crotches gyrating in our faces. Needless to say, I loved it 😁😁😁



Up, up, up to the Heaviside Layer!

Thursday, 18 July 2019

Hard As

Empress Dowager Cixi, and her 6-inch fingernails, for you history buffs
Well, I was booked in this week for a photoshoot and the instructions we received urged long, shiny fingernails.  My natural fingernails, even when I've not been nibbling them, are short and stumpy like my fingers and usually ingrained with garden dirt, so I decided to get false ones for the first time in my life..

HOLY FUCKING SHIT that was not a good move.

First of all, you've got to understand that this was WAY outside my comfort zone. It's an artform that belongs to younger working class women, predominantly, so I'm clueless both as to the terminology (gels? acrylics? infills?) and the appeal. But it's an Experience for sure. I entered this Thai production line in the nail-bar, and only embarrassment stopped me succumbing to a panic attack and bolting out the door.

The  process is sort of fascinating actually. They grind the surface of your natural nail to provide a key. Then they glue these plastic tips onto the ends of your nails and cut these down to size. Then they use this MAGIC POWDER that turns into a plastic slime when it comes into contact with the MAGIC PURPLE LIQUID*, and they slap it onto your extended nails and shape and buff it with EXTREME VIGOUR. I don't know what the glue they use is but it puts superglue to shame - it's instant and as far as I can tell permanent.

Here's the results:


They actually looked okay from that angle but when I walked out I discovered the true horror. They are 10 tiny levers of pain that connect to your nail beds. Doing anything that requires normal fingertip pressure (opening the car boot for example) is AGONY. Accidentally catching them against a hard surface is AGONY.

And I can't clean my ears when I wash my hair. Or pick up small objects from the floor. Or use a smartphone. Or, ahem, do any of the things I might normally do with my genital area...

Here are the evil buggers from the side:


Thick, aren't they?

I'm stuck with them, literally and figuratively. I have no clue whether they grow out naturally. Here's how the internet says you get them off:

  1. Clip the acrylic nails as short as possible.
  2. Pry the edges with the pointy end of the tweezer.
  3. Now, pour acetone free nail polish remover in a bowl.
  4. Soak the nails in the nail polish remover for at least 30-40 minutes.
  5. Once you feel the nail loosened, pull it out gently with tweezers.
OKAY STOP RIGHT THERE. I am NOT gouging my nails out with tweezers!!!  😱😱😱

So basically I've clipped them short with tin-snips and filed them and now I'm going to ignore them until my fingers fall off.

At least I can, with some care, pick my nose again. 😠



(*poly methyl methacrylate acrylic (PMMA) mixed with "liquid monomer", usually ethyl methacrylate.)

Monday, 15 July 2019

Blue Monday: Addicted to Disaster

Every Monday I'll be posting an excerpt from one of the stories in Lust in the Dust.

Second in the lineup is Addicted to Disaster by Elizabeth Coldwell, a wry look at the very start of an apocalypse, from the point of view of some washed-up celebs stuck in a Big Brother style reality show:



Much to everyone’s surprise, including my own, it was Claire who walked out within the first couple of days. She could cope without cream cakes and kebabs, but she was so self-absorbed she drove the rest of us mad. Following a massive stand-up fight between her and Jake, when he’d dared her to use a sentence without the word “me” in it, she packed her bag and quit the cottage.

That was when the psychological torment began for the rest of us. Lights and loud noises keeping us awake; our food being reduced to nothing but unpleasant kale smoothies for days on end.

Though not all my personal torment was of the production company’s making. I was doing my best to hide a growing physical attraction to Jake Steele. I’d never officially admitted I was gay, but it was an open secret in the industry. No one was particularly surprised; after all, it was pretty much compulsory to have at least one gay member in every boy band. I just didn’t want my sexuality to be used as a marketing tool. And if the producers of Celebrity Cold Turkey knew I was into men, they would have used that as another weapon in their armoury against me.

Then, the morning after Claire made her sudden departure, I found myself sharing a shower with Jake. The disembodied voice that gave us our instructions told us we had ten minutes before the hot water was being switched off. “It might not come back on for a while,” the voice added. Not knowing how long it would be before we’d have the luxury of a hot shower again, Jake and I both dived for the small wet room. For once, his usual hostility thawed as we ducked and weaved under the shower head, lathering ourselves down. I tried to keep my eyes off his body, but it wasn’t easy. Unlike Graham, who tended to walk round in little more than a pair of shorts, I’d never seen Jake less than fully dressed. My eyes were drawn to the length of his back, the thin covering of dark hair on his pecs and his limp but undeniably meaty cock. I fought hard to prevent my own from stiffening as I admired it. Almost as if he knew what I was thinking, he started soaping his balls before taking his thick length in one hand and washing himself there, too. When Jake caught me staring, I made the excuse that I was looking at the Chinese character he’d had tattooed just above his pubic bush.

“It means ‘strength’,” he told me. “At least, I hope it does. For all I know, it could say ‘wanker’. I just liked the way it looked.”

“I was going to have a tattoo done,” I told him. “All the boys in the band were, as a publicity stunt. We were going to have ‘Together Forever’ on our arse cheeks. Two weeks later, I quit the band. Some forever that would have been…”

At that point, the spray from the shower head begin to run cold, and we knew it was time to get out. There was still plenty more I wanted to discuss with Jake, things I could only ask him while the water was muffling any chance of our conversation being picked up by the microphones dotted round the cottage. How was he coping without sex, if it really was so important for him to get laid once a day, every day? He didn’t seem to be as tetchy and disoriented as Graham and me, and he was having no problems sleeping. Was he scratching the itch by indulging in a crafty wank when he thought no one was looking? I couldn’t see it, somehow. The layout of the building had been deliberately designed to give us all the minimum of privacy. We even shared the same bedroom, Claire included. Perhaps Jake was somehow managing to pleasure himself under the covers, when the rest of us were asleep.

The image of him, hand wrapped round his shaft, trying not to make a sound as he brought himself off, had my cock twitching in frustrated desire. But the moment had passed, even if I pondered the question more than once over the next days and weeks, watching Jake moving around the cottage and wondering if he realised how I felt about him. I knew there was no chance of my feelings being reciprocated — Jake was all heterosexual, all the time, as he’d repeatedly told the press — but in quiet moments I could dream he might want to sample the delights on the other side of the divide.

For all his faults, it was Jake who first started to suspect things had somehow changed. “Is it me,” he asked as we were having breakfast, “or has there been a complete lack of new instructions for the last couple of days?”


Buy Lust in the Dust:
 

Sunday, 14 July 2019

Hardcore Inspiration

I swore when I went to Edge-Lit, that this year I wouldn't buy ANY books!


I only bought 6! I think that's pretty good πŸ˜„πŸ˜„πŸ˜„

And this is how Simon Bestwick signed his ...


Okay okay!

Thursday, 11 July 2019

"Not a duff story in here"


Mini-review from Dirty Sexy Words πŸ’”πŸ’”πŸ’”

"Having had a sneak previews, I can safely say there’s not a duff story in here: they are wonderfully varied and one or two will stay with you for a good long time."
Thank you Zak!


Monday, 8 July 2019

Blue Monday: In Pursuit of the Millennium

Every Monday I'll be posting an excerpt from one of the stories in Lust in the Dust.

We start with In Pursuit of the Millennium by S. Nano, who says: "I went for an historical setting, placing my story in 16th century Germany which was awash with groups who believed the end of the world was imminent. It’s set in Munster at a time when a radical Anabaptist sect had taken control of the town, believing they’d instituted God’s rule on earth. What could possibly go wrong?!"



The terrified call spread like wild-fire across the square. “God save us, the tower’s falling!”

The crowd panicked. People desperately ran away from the tower, jostling for escape from the impending disaster. The square was transformed into a scene of fear and chaos. But Anna did not move. She trusted to God. The tower teetered above the platform where Jan van Leiden was preaching. Anna watched as the tower hung like a presage of impending doom before crashing down into the square. Blocks of broken masonry collapsed to the ground, tearing through the wooden platform where he stood.

Anna looked on open-mouthed. She peered into the impenetrable fog of dust surrounding the stage, desperately seeking out the preacher. Surely he would be crushed by the falling masonry?

As the fragments of stone and mortar got whipped into the air by the wind, a male body, defiant and imperious, emerged out of the dust.

Anna gasped. It’s a sign!

Jan of Leiden climbed down from the shattered remains of the wooden platform, unharmed, untouched. “The final day is upon us! Prepare yourselves, Brethren.”

He stepped down amongst those followers who, fearing nothing and trusting to the will of God, had not fled the falling tower; mostly young women like Anna.

Her heart beat faster. He has come down amongst us.

And then, as if to demonstrate his body was unscathed by the falling masonry, he ripped off his tunic, pulled his undershirt over his head and, finally, removed his breeches. His perfect body remained unblemished, and beautiful. She had never seen a man’s naked body before, but the sight of it aroused new and disturbing sensations in her. Her curiosity was aroused by the object dangling between his thighs. She felt her heart thumping, and a dampness in her crotch.

“Fear not, Brethren! The Day of Judgment is near. What need have we of clothes? For when Christ comes He will take us as we were born — naked like babes — naked like the Creator made us — naked as Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden. For this is how we will return to meet Our Maker.”

Anna didn’t know what came over her but at these inspiring words she had an overwhelming urge to divest herself of all earthly trappings and prepare herself for the imminent crisis by following his example. She pulled at the dirty rags that passed for a dress and threw them into the dust. She did so spontaneously, without any self-consciousness for her scrawny body, emaciated by famine, or her flat breasts. Her actions acted like a catalyst to the other women gathered around Jan, who, following her example, proceeded to rip off their skirts, bodices and undergarments and discard them.

“My children,” called the preacher, his arms upraised, a Bible in one hand, “prepare yourselves, for the Day of Judgment is here. Go forth and spread the word that all must assemble here in the square at midnight and await the coming of Christ Our Saviour, for His return is nigh and we must be ready for Him.”

At this, with no command or order, the young women got down onto their knees before Jan, the King of MΓΌnster, the ruler of the New Jerusalem. Anna forced her way to the front of the group immediately before him. His messianic gaze, full of the fervour of faith, stared into her and she swooned at the sight of it. It’s as if he’s picked me out.

His hand reached down and touched her forehead. “Bless you, my child,” he whispered.

He touched me. It was a shock that bore down to her very core. It aroused parts of her body she was barely aware of and produced a yearning tingle in her sex.

He bent down and addressed Anna directly, “Are you a virgin, my child?”

“Yes, my Lord, I am,” Anna mumbled, barely able to believe the Saviour would speak to her, that he would single her out for special attention.

“Then, my child, you are one of the elect and you must come to me at night’s fall to attend me on the final eve, before the sword of Christ smites our enemies and raises us up into ecstasy.” He raised his voice. “Just as Christ had his twelve disciples, I shall choose twelve virgins to lie with me, on this the final night.”



Buy Lust in the Dust:


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

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…

Lust in the Dust brings together ten erotic short stories set in times where civilisation and the rule of law have crashed and burned. The aftermath of a terrible war, a zombie invasion, a cityscape over-run by nature, a medieval fortress. Wherever there is life, there is lust.

Edited by Janine Ashbless - with stories by S. Nano, Elizabeth Coldwell, Raven Sky, Sommer Marsden, Cara Thereon, Jones, Gregory L. Norris, Nicole Wolfe, Janine Ashbless, Quiet Ranger.

Friday, 5 July 2019

IT'S HERE!



And here's my foreword:

I grew up during the Cold War. The threat of the world ending hung over us; we were recipients of countless nightmarish TV programs about nuclear devastation and a government booklet called Protect and Survive which gave such spectacularly inadequate advice as propping an old door to make a family bomb shelter. At my family church they told us how the End Times prophecies were all coming true, and that the Second Coming would happen (accompanied by nuclear Armageddon) any day now. I was a teenaged member of CND; it seemed like the only protest I could make.

Then in 1991 the Cold War ended. We were suddenly safe. “History,” the pundits told us, “is over;” Western Liberal Capitalism had won, and the rest of the world would just fall peacefully into line now.

How little did they know.

Now, 28 years later, the Doomsday Clock stands at two minutes to Midnight — the closest it’s been since 1953 — and non-proliferation treaties are being torn up. Faith in pluralistic democracy has crumbled and we’ve voted demagogues and neo-fascists into power all over the planet. Medieval-style religious fundamentalism is running riot. Environmentally, we’re officially going through a Mass Extinction event. And of course there’s Climate Change. As I write this, scientists are warning that we’ve got twelve years to get enough of a grip on carbon emissions just to keep global warming to under two degrees. 

We’re all fucked, at best guess.

Which leads me to the subject of this anthology. 

I don’t know whether the human race will still be around in a century — or if it is, in what form. But I know that if we’re here we’ll still need sex and eroticism, just like we always have done. Not simply for biological procreation, but for solace and connection, validation and escape, identity and hope. Our humanity in all its aspects, good and bad, is expressed in our sexuality. 

When I put out the call for Lust in the Dust I hoped that the drama of the apocalyptic theme would spark authors’ imaginations — but I was knocked out by the variety of takes on the subject. Here you will find sombre stories and humour, literary fiction and porno-style romps, grief and defiance and love. Some of these tales will be challenging reads. Some won’t be for you. And there’s one story that made everyone involved in the production of this book cry.

My heartfelt thanks to all the wonderful authors who contributed. And my enormous gratitude to Anna Sky of Sexy Little Pages, who got the ball rolling, and to Lisa Jenkins of Sinful Press, who caught the ball in mid-air.

If you’re reading this book in the ashes, remember us.

xxx
Janine

Wednesday, 3 July 2019

Mad Max MMMMMMMYEAH



When Lisa Jenkins, publisher at Sinful Press, asked me what my ideal cover image for Lust in the Dust would be, I told her, "THIS:"

Mad Max: Fury Road

Post-apocalyptic grime? Check.
Conflict? Check.
Imperator Furiosa sitting on someone's face? Check.

That's my personal idea of sexy πŸ˜„πŸ˜„πŸ˜„ but hey, your experience may vary.

She's beautiful though...


And so's the eponymous Max, let's face it:


In fact if you are old enough to remember the original trilogy, and Mel Gibson before he officially outed himself as a dickhead, the entire Mad Max franchise is a rich seam of moody, post-apocalyptic hotness...


... and kink:


HELL YEAH AUNTIE ENTITY!


And if that's got your juices flowing, well, there's always this book... 😜




Monday, 1 July 2019

Lust in the Dust is "enthusiastically recommended!"


 It's out on FRIDAY 5TH!


And Lust in the Dust has garnered a fabulous review from Erotica for the Big Brain:

"The ten stories in this consistently engaging anthology take readers through a broad range of mood and emotion, from the sardonic to the heartbreaking, the breezily tongue-in-cheek to bullet-in-the-brain pan serious. Each and every one of them is finely-crafted, thoughtfully conceived, and damn sexy to boot! An embarrassment of riches, to be sure, yet no less a lambent example of something all too rare in our present throwaway age of planned literary obsolescence; an anthology that prioritizes quality over quantity: This is a credit to editor Janine Ashbless, whose introductory notes before each story lend a sense of unity to what could have been a rather rambunctious undertaking."
You can read the rest HERE

Thank you TAS! πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–



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

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…

Lust in the Dust brings together ten erotic short stories set in times where civilisation and the rule of law have crashed and burned. The aftermath of a terrible war, a zombie invasion, a cityscape over-run by nature, a medieval fortress. Wherever there is life, there is lust.

Edited by Janine Ashbless - with stories by S. Nano, Elizabeth Coldwell, Raven Sky, Sommer Marsden, Cara Thereon, Jones, Gregory L. Norris, Nicole Wolfe, Janine Ashbless, Quiet Ranger.

Sunday, 23 June 2019

Ripping (off) the Light Fantastic


Over a year since moving in, and the last chandeliers are coming down!


Oops...


Here we go again with the paint...


Thursday, 13 June 2019

Lust in the Post

It's here!


Contributor copies of Lust in the Dust have been arriving this week in the hands of their authors. It looks LOVELY!

And it's officially released on JULY 5TH through all the usual stockists πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–

I've been decorating the stairwell all this week (see cheerful shade of Apocalypse Red in photo above) so I'm absolutely cream-crackered, but this should keep me awake reading for a few nights...

Tuesday, 4 June 2019

Avon calling


I was very sorry to hear yesterday of the death of actor Paul Darrow, who played Kerr Avon in the TV series Blake's 7 many decades ago. He was one of the first characters I had a total crush on as a child...


Blake's 7 was a massively popular 1970s Brit SF series with a rather varied quality of script (and the occasional terrible set) which probably doesn't stand the test of time, but it goes down in history for having the most crushing ending ever to a series, as the Evil Federation comprehensively wins and our protagonists are betrayed to ignominious deaths. It traumatised a generation of kids - if you think the Red Wedding was grim then you are just a naive baby!


The other thing it did to a generation of kids was turn them on to some less-than-vanilla character relationships in the shape of Avon and arch-villain Supreme Commander Servalan...


Avon was a bad guy who accidentally found himself in company with the rebellious heroes and stuck around for the political struggle because he didn't have any better options. He dressed in black, was witheringly sarcastic and heartless, and is generally responsible for all my sexual interest in uber-intelligent emotionally-unavailable bastards.


Here's a lovingly-curated compilation of his bitchiest moments:



RIP Paul Darrow - you will be missed πŸ˜”

Thursday, 30 May 2019

Legendary Lineup


It's time for a signing...


I'm off under my other name as part of the signing lineup at the official NewCon launch THIS SATURDAY (1st June) 1-5pm . I'm part of the Legends Vol.3 set, with my story The Price of Passage, but there will be authors launching the Best of British Fantasy 2018 as well, because we are all about value for money πŸ˜‰



Stories that are brimming with swordplay, treachery, deeds both dark and noble, with cunning thieves and wily tricksters, blood-thirsty gods and flawed heroes. David Gemmell passed away in 2006, leaving behind a legacy of memorable characters, epic settings, and thrilling tales. In the Legends anthologies, some of today's finest fantasy authors pay homage to one of fantasy fiction's greatest ever writers. Welcome to Legends.

Contents:
1. Introduction by Stan Nicholls
2. Blood Debt – Gail Z. Martin
3. A God’s Mercy – Richard Webb
4. Berserker Captain – Neal Asher
5. The Price of Passage – Keris McDonald
6. Summoner – Danie Ware
7. Pelicos the Brave and the Princess of Kalakhadze – Steven Poore
8. The Timekeeper’s Tarot – Den Patrick
9. Her Grail – Ben North
10. Piercing the Mist – Shona Kinsella
11. Chosen of the Slain – K.T. Davies
12. The Dying Land – Nick Watkinson
13. A Hero of Her People – Anna Smith Spark
14. All Deaths Well Intention’d – RJ Barker
15. By Any Other Name – Justina Robson




Everyone is welcome, so come along and mingle and drink free wine!


126 York Way
London
N1 0AX
Saturday 1st June 1 - 5pm

Oh ... and then I'm off to see Muse in concert in the evening. Busy day!

Monday, 27 May 2019

Blue Monday

Mondays are the day I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 Vol.3 is OUT NOW! It includes my Western story Sourdough:


Come inside, experience the breadth, inspiration, and excitement of superb erotic storytelling.
 

Browse my card catalog. Find the perfect story to suit your mood, with subjects tantalizingly indexxxed to whet your appetite!

Lose yourself in these thirty risquΓ© adventures, loaded with fabulous characters in provocative situations. Get ravished by flirty-frills and sassy petticoats in our hot bodice-ripper romance. Keep it strictly confidential as you fall in love with a dangerous undercover spy. Feel your heart quiver as you lust after two brothers on the lone frontier. The choice is yours in this library of sexy-sharp stories!


Sourdough, by Janine Ashbless: 

Grace busied herself with kneading the dough, rolling it out onto the floured table-top and plunging her hands into the soft white mass. The muscles danced in her forearms as she bore down upon it, stretching and folding and squeezing, and the familiar work made her breath come harder. The rhythm was mesmeric, almost, and it was a while before she looked up at Amos again.

He was watching her. Not her face, she realized; he hadn’t even noticed her surreptitious glance toward him. He was staring at her cleavage as if entranced, his mug half-way to his lips but forgotten.

Such a famished look in those eyes.

Heat rose to Grace’s face as she realized her culpability. Her white camisole was low-cut, the top button not even done up, and her breasts bulged softly out over the top of her corset as she leaned forward, just like rising loaves. He’s lusting after me. The wave of heat washed down from her cheeks, through her breastbone and into her belly and down between her thighs, gathering weight and force as it went, until she thought it would wash her out down the creek and into the Missouri and out to sea a thousand miles away, all the way back to her giddy girl-days in England. The shock took the breath from her.

Without thinking—she couldn’t think, not with the blood roaring in her ears like that—she flipped the dough forward a few inches on the tabletop, so that she’d have to lean even deeper into the kneading. The bulge of her breasts must be more precarious now, and she could feel the quiver of her cleavage with every move she made.

When she looked up at Amos this time, she made the motion obvious, though she never paused in her labors. Their eyes met, burning, and his face went stiff, like a mask.

They both knew.

It felt inevitable.

Push went her hands in the dough. She sucked her dry lips briefly to moisten them.

As if pulled by gravity, his gaze fell back to the cleft of her breasts, struggled to her face, and then fell again. She looked at the felt hat in his lap and imagined what it must be covering. She’d seen his erection tenting his canvas pants before at odd moments—once when she’d been hanging out laundry and he’d been chopping wood nearby. Once when she’d poured the hot water into his tin bath while he waited to undress and wash. She’d always pretended not to notice. Now she wondered dizzily what his cock would feel like against her palm, her thighs, her lips.

Push. Fold. Turn. The heavy beat of life. The damp well of her sex was threatening to spill down her thighs.

Softly, almost shyly, he slid his hand beneath the hat to grasp himself. There was a plea in his eyes now.

She smiled. Hot, she thought. Hard. Full of marrow and frustration. She’d like to see that.

The muscles of his forearm bunched as his hidden fingers gripped tighter.

That was the moment that Ezra came thumping down the stairs from the bedroom above. Amos managed to whip his hand out from beneath the hat before his elder brother opened the stair door, but the rest of him stayed frozen. He couldn’t move from his chair. Grace straightened up sharply, pulling the great ball of dough toward her. She felt as if her whole being was about to fly apart like a keg of gunpowder.

“Morning,” said Ezra, swaggering into the room behind her and surveying them both.

“Good morning, husband,” said Grace over her shoulder. Her voice would not rise above a whisper.

Amos nodded, quick and—she thought—looking guilty.

Ezra certainly noticed something in the air. He came up behind Grace as she worked assiduously at the dough, and rested his big hands on her hips. “There’s a fine sight for a morning,” he said, snuggling his crotch into her ass. “You enjoying it, brother? Just sitting there taking in the view?”

“I’ve just got in,” Amos muttered. “Been out in the long pasture.” He dropped his coffee mug on the
table.

“There’s nothing like the sight of a wife hard at work in the morning,” said Ezra, ignoring his words.

Her prices is beyond rubies, as the Good Book says. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness, isn’t that so?” His hands were working in her long skirts, squeezing her ass through the layers of cloth, gathering them up. “Bet you wish you had one, brother.”

Amos glowered. He was used to being taunted, Grace knew, though it was rarely this blunt. But he couldn’t move right now. If his lifted the hat and stood, his guilt would be obvious.

“Ezra,” she protested, as he found his way under her dress and to the thin cotton of her long drawers. Her face was growing ever more pink.

“Hush now,” he said, putting a hand between her shoulder blades and tipping her forward over the edge of the table. “You’ve got women’s work to be getting on with.”

For a moment she thought he meant the bread, until she felt him toss her bundled skirts up around her hips and reach between her thighs to the split of her bloomers. Ezra always woke with a beam you might build a bridge on, but he’d never been this bold before. Not in front of his brother.

Amos squirmed angrily.

“Damn, this feels fine,” her husband said, his fingers sliding rudely into her while his other hand worked open the buttons of his fly. “Best feeling in the world, Amos."


Buy The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 Volume 3 at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK


Thursday, 23 May 2019

Sheffield's Bear Pit

I'm still exploring our new area! One day this Spring I paid my first visit to the city of Sheffield. First of all to its Botanical Garden (which are absolutely excellent for anyone with an interest in plants):


It has one of the oldest glasshouses still standing (1830s) full of scary flowers like this triffid thing:


It has a fossilised tree-stump, discovered in a local coal seam:


It sells the strangest looking tea ever:


And it has a BEAR PIT!


This dates from Victorian times and no one seems terribly certain whether actual bear-baiting took place in there - it was probably just a zoo enclosure. The bears got moved out after a child fell in and was savaged, it's said.

From one of the oldest glasshouses then to a very modern one, and one of the largest in built here in the UK within the last century: the Winter Garden in the town centre:



No bears though...


Monday, 20 May 2019

Blue Monday

Mondays are when I post sexy excerpts for your entertainment!

If you buy my gothic novella  Bound in Skin you'll find The Grief of the Bond-Maid included as a bonus story. It's more about the magical quest and less about the relationship than most of my romances, but it's still NAUGHTY, I promise ... 😈


"You came to my house of your own will, alone. Don't you think you've left it a little late to decide that I am not to be trusted?"

Two stories of magic, shape-shifting and passionate romance with historical settings.

Bound in Skin: When her father dies, Cassandra Otley travels alone to the mountainous heart of Europe, to take up his position cataloguing the library of a reclusive nobleman with a dire reputation. Cassandra has learned rather more from books than a proper young Victiorian lady ought - yet some things have to be encountered in the flesh to be believed.

The Grief of the Bond-Maid: When the Viking wizard Vegtamr begins a necromantic ritual to sieze the power of the Runes, his slave-girl Sjofn takes the terrifying decision to thwart him. She recruits two handsome Norse strangers to help her in this desperate shamanic quest across the Nine Worlds. But Thorkell and Bjarni have their own secrets...


Sjofn stamped her feet, chilled by the journey and by what she’d seen. Casting about, she looked for the spirits of her two companions, but they were nowhere near the fire. The circle of her footfalls widened to a spiral.

‘Where are you going, Sjofn?’

‘I’ll just check they’re safe,’ she muttered, walking away uphill, toward the trees, and letting Kot follow at a distance. She found them not far into the dense shadow of the firs, standing face-to-face — and in a moment the curiosity to which she’d not dared admit met with all the answers it had been looking for. Bjarni had his back to one of the trunks. Both men had loosened their clothes, and each was holding the other’s erect cock in his hand and caressing it from root to crown.

Sjofn felt the blood flare up to burn in her cheeks.

They were almost the same height, she noticed; Thorkell perhaps a couple of inches taller. It meant they met easily mouth-to-mouth, sharing breath that was coming shorter and shallower to both of them; sometimes kissing but then drawing apart, only to kiss and bite softly once more. Red and dark stubbles rasped together. Scarred lips touched with both hunger and tenderness. Their eyes were hooded, unfocused; as if there was no world beyond their embrace, as if there was nothing but the other man in all the night, and that man known by touch and taste as much as by sight. Sjofn stared. Their hands moved with familiar sureness, and with a firmness that — to her — looked punishing. Two cock-heads nudged together, two thick shafts were enfolded together by weapon-hardened fingers. There was no speech; just a mutual urging of the flesh that became increasingly fervent, knuckles blurring as they stoked the flames.

Recalling Vegtamr’s cold and perfunctory impositions upon her, something in Sjofn rose up in rebellion. Was this how it should really be — this melting confusion of skin and breath and intent?
Then Bjarni’s head thunked back against the tree’s bark, his hips shifting as his legs grew taut with strain, his eyes watching Thorkell’s face from under half-lowered lids. His throat worked but he grunted only once as his sea-spume burst between the other man fingers. His own tugging grew ragged, then suddenly imperious. Thorkell’s brow knotted into a frown and his eyes screwed shut. He jerked his head as if in immense effort, as his own seed gushed out in response and overflowed Bjarni’s grasp.

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

For a while they clung together, gasping a little. Their hands mingled the semen, lazy now, rubbing that spend into their hot and swollen flesh.

Sjofn walked away, her legs shaking and her heart pounding hard. She walked back to the fire and sat down, brooding into the darkness. When Kot came up and nuzzled under her hand she pushed him away.

‘Why are you angry?’ he asked.

‘I’m not.’

‘Oh no: of course you aren’t,’ he huffed. ‘You’re just…?’

‘Unsettled,’ she complained. ‘I know that a witch must be all things: tree and stone, bird and beast, male and female. We’re shapeshifters. But those two are warriors. It’s unmanly.’

‘From what I saw, they were both very much male,’ Kot said, with the nearest approximation a spirit might make to a smirk. ‘Didn’t you think so?’

‘I don’t want to think about it.’

‘Sjofn … You’re jealous.’


All buy-links for Bound in Skin are HERE

Tuesday, 14 May 2019

Dirty 30 Vol.3


Heads-up/cover reveal here for the next anthology I'm involved with - it's The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 Vol.3, which is due for release on May 24th, and is edited of course by the wonderful Rose Caraway.

In SLD30 Vol.2 I had a story from Norse mythology - Sweet Hel Below. This time round I've switched it up and tried my hand at a Western: Sourdough. I may have been watching a lot of Westworld at the time!)

You can read a brief extract from my new story HERE

Thursday, 9 May 2019

My Willy

Meet my new dog!


He has HUGE FEET!


Willy comes from Dahab in Egypt, via a one-woman rescue called Janet's Wadi.


He was found as a young dog, tied up with his tail severed, in the middle of the road. This is pretty normal for the way street dogs get treated out there 😒😒😒
He's seven years old now, so has spent most of his life in the safe desert space of the Wadi, but he's still very timid and submissive. He tries to make friends with every human he meets and offering his paw is his signature move.


 His bat-ears are because he's part Baladi Dog and that also means he's extremely vocal - he speaks by groaning, growling and making Chewbacca noises! He's a fast learner - notably smarter than a greyhound for sure! πŸ˜‚



He has the sweetest nature and despite being new to indoor living hasn't make a mess even once. He walks politely off the lead now. What a gentleman!


As for the name ... well, it wasn't my idea! But how appropriate for smutwriter, LOL!

Follow Janet's Wadi on Facebook

Monday, 6 May 2019

Blue Monday

Mondays on my blog are when I post sexy excerpts for your entertainment!

As of this last week I've finally got this reprint project up on sale: Bound in Skin: two dark romances contains two longish stories that reverted to me after their original anthologies went out of print. The eponymous Bound in Skin originally appeared in a Catscratch Press anthology, but it's been reworked (and expanded slightly) for this version which is now available from a range of online outlets.


"You came to my house of your own will, alone. Don't you think you've left it a little late to decide that I am not to be trusted?"

Two stories of magic, shape-shifting and passionate romance with historical settings.

Bound in Skin: When her father dies, Cassandra Otley travels alone to the mountainous heart of Europe, to take up his position cataloguing the library of a reclusive nobleman with a dire reputation. Cassandra has learned rather more from books than a proper young Victiorian lady ought - yet some things have to be encountered in the flesh to be believed.

The Grief of the Bond-Maid: When the Viking wizard Vegtamr begins a necromantic ritual to sieze the power of the Runes, his slave-girl Sjofn takes the terrifying decision to thwart him. She recruits two handsome Norse strangers to help her in this desperate shamanic quest across the Nine Worlds. But Thorkell and Bjarni have their own secrets...


So very late one evening I stole back down from my room to the library. The servants had retired to bed as early as ever and I had not seen Margraf Goran for two days. I had stripped down to my undergarments while preparing for my unwelcoming bed, but now had thrown over those a dressing gown in broderie anglaise, and my stockinged feet were silent on the castle’s ancient floorboards.

Lighting a single oil-lamp, I brought to my desk a volume I had uncovered that morning and wanted to peruse again. It was handwritten on fine paper in a script that I judged was Hindustani, but the interest of the book was not in the text but in the illustrations on almost every page; delicately detailed paintings in jewel-bright colours of couples — and not just couples but entire parties — engaged in copulation in the most perfectly maintained gardens and pavilions. The men depicted were unprepossessing to my eye; plump, unshaven and rather grumpy-looking, their virile members as curved as scimitars. The women were equally sullen in appearance but made up for it with extravagantly feminine figures and a litheness that bordered on contortionism. I tilted my head this way and that as I scanned the pages, trying to decipher the knotted positions of the participants and wondering if they were possible for a woman of English frame; wondering if I would ever be inducted into such practices. My heart beat swiftly. My hand crept down between my hot thighs. I was completely absorbed.

I don’t know what it was that made me look up, but the Margraf was in the library doorway, leaning against the frame and watching me, his arms folded. I could have leapt out of my skin. I jumped to my feet instead, without thinking how guilty this made me look, and slammed a folio of innocent architectural sketches over the pornographic book.

Margraf Goran took that as a cue to approach from the shadows. He was dressed with the minimum of decency in shirt and trousers, but he was barefoot, which explained why I hadn’t heard him enter the room. His paces were long and measured, without hurry. I think he was savouring the moment. A dark smile played about his lips. As for myself, I stared and panted with all the wit of a deer cornered against a fence. I had no skill at dissembling, even if my state of semi-dress hadn’t rendered this encounter entirely beyond the pale of decorum.

‘What are you reading, Miss Otley?’ he asked, with an interest that was far from polite. ‘Something quite gripping, I have to assume? It’s very late.’

I didn’t answer. I knew without doubt that I had just lost my position of employment here and I was so panicked I could not move. If I hadn’t been so frightened I might have combusted with shame, but in fact I felt wan and dizzy.

‘Hm?’ He looked down at the sketchbook, eyebrows raised in enquiry. ‘Go on. What is it?’

I pressed my hands flat onto the cover, determined that he’d have to use force to take a look at what lay beneath. I didn’t move even when he walked round the desk and round me, stopping to look down over my shoulder. Quietly he reached forward and laid his left hand over mine. He had long, strong fingers. The movement brought his body into contact with my own, all along my arm and shoulder and back.

‘Please,’ I whispered.

The Margraf slid his fingers between mine, splaying them wider. His hand felt warm and dry. He waited a moment for me to yield, but my arms stayed locked. I heard him smile, though I could see nothing of his expression. With his other hand he very gently lifted the locks of my undressed hair from my neck and bent his head to breathe the scent of my skin. ‘It must be something quite exciting,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite warm, Miss Otley … and damp.’

I shut my eyes. My heart was pounding so hard my tense arms were jumping with each beat. ‘Sir,’ I entreated.

I think he’d lost interest in the actual book some moments previously. Releasing my hand, he scooped my chin up and drew my head back and away, exposing my throat. His lips brushed the sensitive skin in a slow sweep, his breath warm. With the other hand he traced the edge of my dressing gown around the scoop of my neck, his fingertips igniting my skin, and slipped the cotton back from my shoulder. What really horrified me was how gentle he was. There was no force involved at all, and with that he made me complicit in my own ruin. Even when I felt his teeth graze my ear I did not fight him. My eyes flew open again but I could not even focus them. The room seemed to spin.
‘Your skin is so soft,’ he whispered, and I heard an edge of unmistakable hunger in his voice. I shuddered in his hands.

Slowly he tugged free the fastenings of my gown and smoothed it off my shoulders, down to my elbows. Underneath I was wearing only long drawers and a sleeveless camisole top, its wide-scooped neckline decorated with a surf of lace and little blue bows, so that looking down over my shoulder he found a great deal of skin to admire. His chest was pressed lightly to my back. He traced the line of my collarbone. His touch — all fingertips and lips — was almost tender, but I knew without seeing it the pale wolf-light that would be burning in his eyes. He found the loose lace directly over my right breast and played with the folds, making me gasp as my nipple tightened to an eager point.

‘Shall I?’ he whispered hot in my ear, moving to finger the row of tiny buttons directly down my breastbone. ‘Or what about … this?’ Without warning his other hand slid round the waistband of my drawers, found the bow there and pulled it out in one long exquisite movement. Biting my lip, I pressed my mons against the desk edge, trying to keep those knickers in place. It didn’t stop him. Reaching under my dressing gown, he found the first sliver of bare skin between upper and lower garments and smoothed his palm down my hip and flank. My drawers, held up at the front by the hard line of wood, had no defence elsewhere and slipped to bare the curve of my bottom.

I was melting for him.

‘Wonderful,’ he growled in my ear, one hand on the satin swell of my buttock cheek, the other finally swooping to cup my right breast through the thin cotton. I felt like he was holding my whole being in his hands. Then he was pressed against me properly, lifting me up on my toes with the length of his body hard against my softness, my round bottom tucked up into his thighs and crotch, his hand squeezing my breast, his mouth on my throat, teeth bared over my pulse. Through a few thin layers of cloth I could feel exactly how much he wanted me. My legs and arms were so rigid that they could take the strain no more. My mind whirled with the pictures from the book. Suddenly I was shaking and tears were spilling down my cheeks.

‘Sir, please,’ I sobbed.


All buy-links for Bound in Skin are HERE