Thursday, 31 January 2019

The Parrish in winter

White Birches

Since the weather's so cold, let's enjoy some of Maxfield Parrish's luminous winter landscapes...

Moonlit Night: Winter

Parrish (1870-1966) spent most of his life as a commercial illustrator - magazines, advertisments, calendars, children's books etc. - before ending his career as a landscape artist. He was immensely prolific and made an absolute fortune from his work, which was incredibly popular with the general public: the most popular art print of the 20th Century is his Daybreak of 1922.

He achieved his rich effects through careful layering of paints and varnishes. His snowscapes are just psychedelic!


Christmas Eve

Christmas Morning

Deep Snow

Lull Brook: Winter
At Close of Day
White Birches: Winter

Winter Sunrise

Monday, 28 January 2019

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

This dark and chilly week, let's help the winter along with some more shivers... My ghost story Cold Hands: Warm Heart appears in my collection Dark Enchantment:

Pre WWI, two young gentlemen, Morgan and Thorpe, are sitting vigil for a ghost in Morgan's ancestral home. If the master of Levingshall ever spends the night there, local lore says that the ghost of a young woman wronged and drowned by his forebear will turn up and kill him. And sure enough a young woman arrives: cold, wet, pulseless and mute - but also oddly passive. Morgan sees the opportunity to take advantage ...

I unfurled a corner of the quilt in order to expose her arm to the fire. The skin was still wet. Droplets stood up in the delicate crease of her elbow. Water was still running out of her hair. I bit my lip. The counterpane should at the very least have blotted up this moisture. This was not natural.

‘Want my jacket?’ Morgan asked with ill humour.

‘She’s still soaked. I think the water’s coming from her.’

Cautiously, he circled back for a better look. ‘We could get her out of that wet dress.’

My mouth was dry, to make up for the cold water wicking into my clothes from the girl. Her linen shift was translucent where it adhered to her skin, and tented over the pebble of her nipple. That detail had not escaped Morgan either; he hunkered in front of her and ran his fingertips down the inside edge of her shift’s deep neckline. ‘What do you say, Alyse? Like to get out of your nasty petticoat?’

She didn’t respond to the name. But she took his hand and laid it on her full, teardrop shaped breast, and a hungry breathy noise issued from those pale lips.

‘Well, ghost or no, there’s no doubt what sort of a girl she is,’ Morgan murmured, his voice thickening to hoarseness.

‘I don’t like this,’ I stammered.

‘Really? You should get a handful of what I’ve got.’ He squeezed, and she moaned and surged into his grip, her shoulders writhing against my chest.


‘Stop being such a bloody prude, man.’ He sniggered, and I could see the doubt and the nervousness evaporate from him. ‘She’s frantic for this; can’t you see? Maybe this is what she wanted all along, all those years. Think about it – she came to the house desperate to make the beast with two backs with Lord Price, and died unfulfilled. Maybe all she’s needed is for someone to give her what she wants. Maybe she just needs the Master of Levingshall to give her a good, hard seeing-to.’

‘Think about your fiancee!’ I protested, as the girl rolled her head back on my shoulder, her lips parted, little breathy pants shaking her breasts as Morgan played with them. Her aroused nipples poked through the wet linen like accusing fingertips.

‘I’ve thought about Cicely until my balls are blue,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you dare reproach me Thorpe; I’ve had enough of waiting for what’s mine. Now the Lord of Levingshall is going to do his duty.’ He took hold of the wet cloth. ‘Let’s get you out of those wet things, shall we my girl?’ With a good hard pull and a twist, he tore her shift open down the front.

Unnecessary, I thought. But I said nothing. I have always been weak compared with Morgan. And despite my protests and my misgivings, it would be dishonest to pretend that the darker part of me was not moved by that girl moaning and writhing in my lap.

‘Take a look at those beauties!’

Her pale skin was marbled with blue veins and her nipples were only tinted with colour, but they stood stiff and responsive to his touch, beaded with running droplets of water. She reached out for him, her slim hands stroking his face, but he slapped them away, grimacing.

‘Your hands are like ice! What about the rest of you, girl?’ Morgan threw back the counterpane and completed the sundering of the dress with swift movements, laying her bare all the way to her pubic mound. She was as slender and as pallid as I’d anticipated, her private fleece cured to ringlets by water. He slipped his hand between her thighs and she writhed her hips as she parted them willingly for him. Then she uttered a moan – a real moan; a soft, thrilling sound – and arched against me. Despite my soaked and freezing clothes my cock stiffened at the unmistakable noise of a woman’s desire.

Morgan had gone still. His eyes met mine.

‘What?’ I demanded, my voice unsteady.

‘Cold all the way through,’ he whispered, and his lips curved cruelly. I could see the muscles working in his wrist. ‘But wet there too. Gloriously wet. And she’s no virgin.’

Alyse’s hands reached for him again, pleadingly. He pulled back in annoyance.

‘Hold her arms out the way, Thorpe.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘What do you think? Hold her tight.’

To enjoy Morgan getting his just deserts, you can buy Dark Enchantment at:

Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play

Saturday, 26 January 2019


A Wooded Winter Landscape with Deer by Peder Mørk Mønsted (1859 - 1941)
Isn't this a beautiful  painting? It fills me with joy.

Thursday, 24 January 2019

Burne-Jones at the Tate

In the Depths of the Sea
(the only picture where anyone is smiling!)

Since I spent a day in London last week, here are some photos I took in the Tate Britain exhibition of the work of Pre-Raphaelite Edward Burne-Jones (1833-98) - which is on for another month: if you want to go, get there EARLY and allow yourself lots of browsing time.

The Annunciation

I'm just sorry that my photos don't give you a proper idea of the SCALE of many of the pieces - which were huge in most cases - nor of the richness imparted by the colour and gilding.

The Wine of Circe

The Pilgrim Outside the Garden of Idleness

The Wheel of Fortune

Love and the Pilgrim

Portrait of Amy Gaskell

They had the whole Perseus Cycle there, in various forms

 -  though some pieces were unfinished

And the whole Briar Rose Cycle too:


Burne-Jones and his ilk are wildly unfashionable with critics, but OMG the beauty...

Spirits, or The Uninterrupted Dream

Greatly recommended, for anyone who has a chance to go.

Monday, 21 January 2019

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

And Samantha MacLeod is back again for the second time this month - she's a busy writer! Today she shares an excerpt from The Monster's Lover, which is officially released today:

Promised to cruel King Nøkkyn’s harem, Sol Eriksen is out of options, and nearly out of time.

When she meets a distractingly handsome stranger in the Ironwood Forest who claims to be a legendary monster, Sol thinks he must be a madman, or a demon. She knows she shouldn’t listen to him. Or trust him. And she should not, under any circumstances, kiss him again.

As King Nøkkyn's grip around her tightens, Sol finds her last chance at freedom may lie with her mysterious new lover, the man who calls himself Fenris

“Are you a demon?” I asked.

His frown deepened until he looked slightly lost. “Why would I be a demon?”

I shook my head, pressing my lips together to keep from answering his question. Because you’re so beautiful, I wanted to say. Because you’re naked, in the middle of the Ironwood, by yourself.

“I-I’m sorry. Have I scared you?” he asked.

“No,” I said, crushing my dress to my chest as if it could muffle the wild pounding of my heart.

“Don’t run. Please.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to put any more space between the two of us, between his bare chest and arms and my trembling body.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. His lips twitched as he opened his eyes, almost as though he were trying to remember how to smile. “I’m Fenris,” he said.

I couldn’t stop my laugh. It rang across the Lucky like a peal of thunder before I could clamp my hand over my lips. He frowned again, his forehead wrinkling.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But Fenris is a wolf. A monster. You’re just a boy.”

“A boy?”

He took another step toward me, so close I could have touched him, then glanced down at himself. A flash of heat burned through my body. No, not a boy. His shoulders were wide, and his chest was ridged with muscles. And between his legs...This close, I couldn’t avoid it. I didn’t want to avoid it. Another ripple of heat surged deep inside me as I drank in the sight of him.

I’d seen my brothers and father naked, on occasion, the drooping, pale stem between their legs curled around the wrinkled sack holding their seed. Those markers of their manhood had seemed oddly soft and vulnerable, almost comic.

But this demon was different. There was nothing vulnerable about what stood between his legs, hard, straight, and alarmingly large, jutting from a tangle of thick curls to point directly at the evening sky. I was suddenly very aware of my wet dress pressed against my breasts and between my legs, its thin fabric and the thick air the only things separating our two bodies.

I dragged my eyes back to his face. His soft lips curved over white teeth as I met his eyes. He had a strangely pleasant smile. I wondered if his lips would feel as soft as they looked, and blood rushed to my cheeks as the space between my legs grew even warmer.

“But, you’re not a monster,” I insisted. “You have a stick in your hair.”

He frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, just missing the little twig as it twisted above his ear.

“No, your other side,” I said.

I pinned my dress under an arm, reached for him, and pulled the tiny branch from his long, auburn curls. He caught my wrist. My heart surged, hammering against my ribcage. He turned, his lips almost brushing my skin. His nostrils flared and his eyes closed. I forgot to breathe.

“Your scent,” he growled. “I know you. You like to pick the bloodberries along the river.”

“Y-yes,” I stammered.

My skin burned under his cool touch. I did like bloodberries, the little red spheres that grew only along shady riverbanks. And yes, I’d picked baskets full in the early summer. I picked the last harvest just a month ago, not far from here.

His lips pressed against the inside of my wrist. They felt as soft as I’d imagined. I shivered, although I was far from cold. A strange heat filled me, a burning born of some new fire I’d never before touched. I opened my mouth to say something, to ask who he was and what he was doing with his lips to make my body smolder like this but, instead of speaking, I moaned like an animal.

His gaze met mine, and he smiled.

I wasn’t sure who moved first, if he came toward me or if I was drawn to him like a moth to a candle, but when he released my wrist I was in his arms with my wet dress pressed between my breasts and the hard muscles of his bare chest. I was half surprised the heat of our bodies didn’t release a cloud of steam from the fabric.

I tilted my head. I wanted him to kiss me. I needed that kiss, needed it the way the trees need sunlight and rainwater.

He wrapped his arms around my waist, and I felt the hard jut of his manhood against my stomach. I’d never been told the exact mechanics of what it was men and women did together in the darkness of their sleeping furs, but on some level my body understood what it wanted. My thighs slicked with heat and moisture; my hips tilted to-ward him, seeking him, needing him.

He buried his face in my hair, his breath hot against my neck as he ran his hands over my waist and up my back.

“Smells good,” he muttered. “Oh, you smell good.”

He pulled back, then dropped to his knees. I gasped, missing the heat of his chest against mine. The sudden absence felt like pain.

I looked down at his pale eyes. He raised a trembling hand to my chest, and his fingers curled around my wet, crushed dress.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Buy The Monster's Lover at:

Amazon US:
Amazon UK:

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

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

Samantha’s Blog
Amazon Author Page

Sunday, 20 January 2019

Friday, 18 January 2019

Playing hooky

I spent yesterday in London rampaging around as many museums as I could in a day!

I saw this at the Tate Britain:

Which was just GLORIOUS - Burne-Jones isn't even my fave Pre-Raphaelite, but this collection of paintings and tapestries was just beyond amazing. I will post more photos later...

I went to the British Museum

for this:

And this:

And I finished off at the delightful Wellcome Collection of historical medical "objects" collected by a Victorian philanthropist -

for this kinda thing:

Birthing model for trainee doctors

A bourdalou - a chamber pot for ladies!

Roman votive offerings

and for this:

Then I went home and watched Bandersnatch, just to balance out my aching feet with an aching head!

Monday, 14 January 2019

Blue Monday special

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment! All since all this week my filthy fairy novel Named and Shamed is on a special price promo, here's a typically deranged excerpt from the wildest ride I've ever taken readers on:

Fairy tales were always thought to be childhood fancies. That is until the fairy folk returned.

As the closest thing to an expert on all things otherworldly, nobody knows better than Tansy the dangers of Them There. But with the world thrown into chaos, and another’s life in her hands, she has no choice other than to accept a magical offer of help.

And as Tansy soon finds out, there is always a price to pay for dealing with the Fairies. A price that may include her own life, if she can't find the True Name she is looking for.

So begins a descent into the wildest realms of Faerie - and into the darkest depths of Tansy's own out-of-control desires.

I turned on my heel and walked away, stuffing my boobs back into my bra. Vince dropped into the driving seat as I reached the car.

“Let’s go,” I said grimly, fishing a pack of baby-wipes out of the glove box and starting to clean up my knees and boots. “We’ve got trouble.”

“You’re trouble all on your own, girl.” He gunned the engine.

“You don’t know the half of it. That lot from the pub are still looking for us.”

Gail shot me a hard, angry glance. “You’ve got to be joking?”

“I wish,” I said, with feeling. “That’s all we need, isn’t it?” I swabbed moodily at my legs as we zigzagged down the twisty lanes. I felt scared and wired and guilty at the danger I was getting my friends into, and the combination didn’t sit well with me. As I tried to knot up the plastic bag I’d stuffed the dirty wipes into, it split and I lost my temper.

“Shit!” I shouted, flinging it all down.

Vince pulled the car over into a field gate and stopped the engine, glaring at me. I glared back — and then became aware that I’d rammed my hand between my thighs and was grinding it against my pubic mound in frustration.

“Get the fuck out of the car,” said Vince softly.

I was so surprised I obeyed. He came round onto the verge side where I stood, and shut my door for me with a decisive clunk. His eyes bored into mine.

“Turn around. Face the car.”

All the air went out of my lungs. As I turned, he tugged up my skirt, swatted my bum-cheeks and then reached down to grab my pussy, mashing it hard in his hand. I let out a strangled squeal as the burn flamed through my flesh.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” he growled in my ear. “You’re just gagging to open wide for every man we meet, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” I moaned.

“I don’t know why you bother putting knickers on in the morning, girl. Unless it’s to keep your knees warm.” He demonstrated by pulling the garment in question right down and exposing my cunt.

“Spread them.”

I did what I was told, stretching my panties across my open thighs and thrusting my ass out in presentation. He smacked my sex with his open palm and I heard the wet splat.

“Damn!” he said appreciatively. “You’re just fucking insatiable. Your pussy’s like a black hole, girl — you’re going to swallow the whole damn world. Well, put me at the top of the queue.”

Action was matched to promise as his cock suddenly butted up against my pussy and — without preamble or foreplay — bulled straight into that tight hole, making me cry out.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, grabbing my hips and making space for his cock inside me with a few firm thrusts.

“God, you’re hard!” I yelped, awed. I couldn’t believe he was fucking me in broad daylight at the side of a public road. Where anyone could see us.

“That’s watching you blow that farmer,” he grunted, through gritted teeth. “You, going down on your knees in the shit for that big ugly mother. With your tits out, wobbling. That’s the dirtiest thing I ever saw. You’re the dirtiest girl I ever met, Tansy. Sex on a fucking stick, girl! Sure, my cock wants some of that.”

And I wanted to give him everything his cock would take. With the whole world watching. Bracing against the car, I moved my hips to meet his every savage thrust. He was hard as iron and he moved like a machine built for fucking.

I didn’t think it could get any better — until Gail wound down the window from inside, pulled out my tits from their straining bra and bit them, chewing on my nipples until I came — screaming, “Yes! Oh Christ yes… yes! Fuck me! FUCK ME!” up and down the Queen’s highway.

Yeah. Vince was right. That was what I needed.

Buy Named and Shamed at:

Amazon Smartlink $0.99 /£0.99!!!
Kobo - £0.99!!!
Apple iTunes Smartlink - $0.99 / £0.99!!!

Friday, 11 January 2019

The loneliness of the long-distance editor

Just an update on what I'm up to. I've been getting first edits off to the authors this week - there's just one left to do at the weekend.

Here's the stats:

9 stories (chosen blind, i.e. without knowing who wrote them)

5x M/F
2x M/M
2x F/F

3x Zombies
3x UK spelling, 6x USA spelling and/or setting.

According to publisher Anna Sky (who has access to legal names on contracts), 5 of the authors are women, 4 are men.

Honestly, I could not be happier! I think I've got an amazing, very eclectic mix of tales. They vary from literary to bawdy, hopeful to heartbreaking, historical to SF.

And I just LOVE the process of being an editor. It feels like I'm polishing up pieces of jewellery that have been loaned by craftspeople to put on display - and it's such an honour to work with these beautifully wrought pieces.

It's also terrifying, because I've been on the other side of the process. I know how defensive I get whenever I see an editor's red pen on my work. My instinct is to protect my creation - every word choice, every semi-colon (... especially the semi-colons!). I've probably wound up 9 very talented authors this week, I'm sure, to some extent or another.

The only thing is, I also don't like an editor who says "Yeah, everything's fine" for my work. I don't believe them. I'm too close to the story - I can't see the writing as the reader out there will. I know I need an outside eye, coming to the text cold, needing to be convinced. The editor is there, in large part, to advocate for future readers. To say "Okay, I don't think that bit is entirely clear - can you just tweak it a bit?"

So I'm nervous, and I don't want to piss anyone off, and I know my analytical streak can be a bit domineering if I don't keep an eye on it... but I've got to make the best anthology I possibly can.

And I honestly think it's going to be awesome 💖💖💖

Wednesday, 9 January 2019

Seasonal fashion notes

My friend Annie crocheted me some sparkly dragon-scale writing gloves for Xmas 😍

Of course y'all know that writers are supposed to look like this when they work:


So I'm rather letting the side down this week in my gloves and shawl 😁

Frankly, it's a triumph if I'm not still in my dressing gown

From the bottom of my heart I apologise to the erotica writing community, and I promise I'll try harder!