Monday, 15 October 2018

Blue Monday: Lea Bronsen guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Lea Bronsen, with an excerpt from her new menage story, High Risk Fever:


Two young and indecently handsome bicyclists visit a village in the French Alps during the summer holidays. Forced by a raging storm to spend the night at the local bed and breakfast, they invade the quiet lives of hostess Anne and her husband, Brian. 

A power outage plunges the foursome into darkness, encouraging new liaisons to form, life-long secrets to be unveiled, and steamy lessons to be learned. But once the storm moves on, can the four find a balance and resume their normal lives?


Confident she was invisible in her dark corner of the living room, Anne silently descended the stairs one after the other with steps as soft as cat paws. At the bottom, she bent her head to see the scene unfolding at the other side.

Atop the coffee table, a white candle burned next to a bottle and a glass, creating a romantic atmosphere. Behind the swirling flame, the two young bicyclists sat close together on the bordeaux couch, dressed in pullovers and sweatpants, entangled. Gentle candlelight caressed their smiling faces as they stared into each other’s eyes, murmuring words Anne couldn’t hear, and…uh…kissing.

The truth hit her like a slap in the face. So that explained Todd’s hostile behavior in the kitchen, when she was talking to his lover, apparently. He thought Micaela was hitting on her!

Well, he had been.

An array of contradictory feelings assaulted her. She closed her eyes and sat on the stair. This was voyeurism, secretly witnessing two people’s intimacy. Jealousy and deceit, too, as a little earlier, she was the one Micaela attempted to seduce. That, and shock, because she had never before seen two men—

Low moans made her open her eyes again.

The guys were sharing wet, open-mouthed kisses, and fondling each other’s chests and stomachs beneath the pullovers.

Whispering something into Micaela’s ear, Todd snuck a hand down to his own pants, leaned back, and pulled out his fully erect cock.

Oh, God.

Anne stared in disbelief. This was getting seriously pornographic!

Smiling, Micaela moved a hand to Todd’s huge erection, grabbed it at the base, and leaned forward until close enough to touch its head with his half-open lips. His long, black locks slid down his shoulders, glowing in the soft light.

With a guttural sound of excitement, Todd closed his eyes, moved his hand to the other man’s shoulder, and stroked him.

Micaela opened his mouth and licked the tip of the thick shaft, letting his tongue glide around in playful circles before taking the length deep into his throat.

In response, Todd threw his blond head back against the couch, arched eager hips to meet Micaela’s sucking, and groaned. “Oh fuck, man.” He laughed.

Paralyzed, Anne blinked before shaking from her daze. She couldn’t watch this strictly private moment between two other people. Besides, at any moment, Todd could open his eyes and notice her sitting on the stairs. Then, what?

Encouraging his lover with his hand, Todd laughed again, and gasped.

All right, let’s get out of here.

Careful not to make any abrupt movements, she stood and retreated up the wooden steps, holding her breath—but the next stair gave a small, treacherous creak under her weight.

Oh, no.

The sound sent icy fear through her from top to toe, and the hair on her neck stood. She imagined the clank echoing between walls in the darkened living room. Frozen, she held her breath and tried to detect any sound above the heavy rain hitting the asphalt outside. A voice, a gasp of shock, something.

But, no, complete silence lingered behind her.

Maybe they hadn’t heard the noise, and she could walk up the stairs pretending nothing had happened. Or….

Curiosity gnawed at her. She needed to look, wanted to know for sure.

Inch by inch, she turned, careful not to make the step squeak again. She bent her knees to see underneath the ceiling and gazed at the guys on the couch.

Behind the dancing candlelight, Todd’s emerald eyes were wide and set on her.

Her heart jumped.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She loathed it, loathed herself.

Meanwhile, Micaela’s head kept bobbing up and down in his lover’s lap, oblivious to her gaze.

Nausea tightened her stomach as she stared, holding Todd’s look. Sweat formed under her armpits, and cold droplets glided down her torso, meeting the waistband of her pants.

She couldn’t define what his steady, intelligent eyes were stating. In the dark, the flickering candle flame reflected his pupils, but he didn’t blink once. Maybe he just didn’t mind her seeing him getting sucked by another man.

She needed to leave.

The same moment she made up her mind to turn around, he threw his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. A long groan of pleasure escaped his parted lips. Arching his whole body, he grabbed a fistful of Micaela’s long, black hair and yanked backward.

The Italian gave a throaty chuckle, but didn’t stop. As if encouraged, he moved his hand from the base of Todd’s erection to beneath the waistband and inside his pants. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was cupping Todd’s balls and fondling them, all the while expertly working his lips and mouth on the hard cock.

Pulling harder at Micaela’s hair, Todd grimaced and began to groan in rhythm.

His imminent release transfixed her. Heat filled her lower stomach.

Jesus.

She swayed on the stairs and leaned against the wall to steady herself.

Micaela brought his other hand to Todd’s engorged cock. With a playful grin, he withdrew his mouth and kept it open above the tip while giving it short, vigorous strokes.

A few more seconds of pumping, and then came his reward. Todd pressed his hips upward with a growl, and long rushes of thick white liquid ejaculated from his cock into Micaela’s open mouth. As he swallowed, more semen ran down alongside the cock’s head and over his fingers, glistening in the candlelight.

Growling a last time, Todd let go of his lover’s hair and covered his grimacing face with trembling hands. "Oh my fucking God.” He breathed hard.

Indeed.


Buy High Risk Fever at:

Books2Read
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
Kobo
Apple iTunes
Smashwords

Get the print edition on Amazon

Add the book to your shelf on Goodreads
See photos that inspired Lea to write the book on Pinterest


Lea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her own stories the same intensity. After venturing into dirty inner-city crime drama with her debut novel Wild Hearted, she divides her writing time between psychological thriller, romantic suspense, and dark erotic romance.


Meet Lea Bronsen on



Sunday, 14 October 2018

Friday, 12 October 2018

New bookcase!


Let there be rejoicing - for I have a big new bookcase! We had to replace the radiator to fit it in, so it's a major achievement ;-)

But now I have two free shelves to put my photo albums in - which should last me most of the rest of my holidaying life!

What, those books temporarily on the top shelf? That's the overflow from my To-Read Pile.

This is my ACTUAL To-Read Pile:



Wednesday, 10 October 2018

Autumn: the cleavage shots

Lawrence Alma-Tadema: Autumn: Vintage Festival (1877)
Since Autumn is now here for real, it's time to celebrate with some sexy Victorian portraits of her ;-)

Autumn (1898) by William Stott of Oldham

Falling Leaves, Allegory of Autumn (1872) by Hugues Merle
Autumn (1871) by  John Atkinson Grimshaw

Autumn by Jean-Denis-Antoine Caucannier (c. 1860 - c. 1905)
And Alphonse Mucha practically made portraits of the seasons into his own sub-genre 

1896


1897


Monday, 8 October 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Since we are coming up to Hallowe'en, here's a bit from my short story Scratch, set in Colonial America some years after the Salem Witch Trials. Maarten Gansevoort and his wife Mercy have received a visit from The Devil himself, under the name Nicholas Scratch:



‘Now tell him, Mercy,’ said the stranger, ‘why you signed yourself to me.’ He withdrew his foot from her mouth, and the momentary gape of her lips was obscene, before she licked them. ‘Tell him.’

‘When I was young,’ she whispered, eyes once more downcast as if focused far away, ‘there was nothing but toil and fear. No frivolity, no indulgence, no joy. Even their God was dark and bitter, and I hungered for colour and delight. And some came to me and whispered that there was a master who would promise those things. So I went with them. I knew what I was doing. They debauched me and I was their willing whore. It was the first time in my life I was not a dull drab thing, not just a servant, not just a girl-child. And then he came to me.’

Maarten tugged at his plain linen collar, releasing some of the heat.

‘You see?’ the stranger asked his host pleasantly. ‘Such memories she has. And one of the few things I have in common with your kind, good people, is – let us say – nostalgia. A capacity to regret what has been lost. I miss my sweet Mercy. So with your permission, Goodman Gansevoort…’ He stood, setting his flagon aside.

‘What?’ said Maarten thickly, as the stranger held out his hand to Mercy, who placed her fingers in his.

‘I intend to make a cuckold of you, friend.’

He opened his mouth but no words came out.

‘We will retire to the bedchamber to spare your feelings, Goodman. Of course you will hear her scream her pleasure: I can hardly prevent that. She was always most vocal, I remember.’

Maarten gripped the table edge as if he would overturn it.

‘Maarten,’ said Mercy swiftly: ‘Be at peace. Please, my husband.’ For a moment her eyes focused warningly on him, pinning him to his seat, but then he seemed to slip her mind. Her gaze turned back to their guest and she led him away to the inner room, and the door closed.

Maarten Gansevoort was in agony. He felt as if his stomach was full of knots. The room with its blazing fire was suddenly too warm, so he stood and flung off his woollen jacket and paced about the floor. He went to find his flintlock musket, and even got so far as to reach for the lead, but his hands fumbled uselessly with the box and he gave up. He scratched at his sweating chest and rubbed angrily at his crotch, sickened to find a most disloyal tumescence which his immediately put down to anger. He could not believe he was permitting another man – or anything in man’s form – take his wife from under his nose like that, no matter that man’s status or puissance. He could not believe that she seemed so willing, when their marriage had been so warmly content. He could not bring himself to face the confession she’d made, though it rolled around the margins of his mind painfully. He put his head in his hands and groaned, tried to pray but recoiled from the words. How could he pray when he had let such a Guest into his house?

Without intending it, he suddenly found that he was holding his breath, listening. Nicholas Scratch had been right about Mercy’s tendency to cry out in the throes of rutting; often he’d had to stifle her noises with his hand or the corner of the quilt, lest she disturb the whole household. When she fornicated she did it without restraint: it was one of the things that made his blood burn for her.

Reaching a decision, Maarten Gansevoort slipped off his blunt-toed shoes and crept on stockinged feet toward the inner door. He knew every board in the house he’d built, and not one of them creaked under his weight. He reached the bedchamber door and crouched down. The handle was only a smooth dowel that ran through from one side of the sliding latch to the other, and hadn’t been pegged in place. With much hesitation and care, he pulled the stick clean out of the door, leaving a round hole to which he applied his eye.

He could see quite clearly. The chamber with its shuttered windows, lit by candlelight. The big bed that he had made himself for his first marriage, spread with the cream quilt that Mercy had brought as part of her trousseau. Mercy standing at the side of the bed, facing the door, the stranger’s bare arms about her from behind. He had evidently removed his clothes, though Maarten could see little of him. Mercy’s own clothes were in disarray, her bodice unlaced, her shift pulled down from her shoulders, her big freckled breasts bare and cupped in the stranger’s groping hands, her plump brown nipples being plucked and flicked and pinched. Her neck was twisted at an angle and there was a look on her face of such painful need that Maarten Gansevoort caught his breath. Her mouth formed a quivering ‘O’ as if she were moulding it about some virile member. She writhed her sumptuous hips, grinding her ass-cheeks into the stranger’s crotch, and covered his hands with her own as he mauled at her.

Nicholas Scratch licked at her white throat, chuckling, then turned her in his hands and pushed her to her knees. Suddenly his body was visible; the unblemished body of a muscular young man, perfect in every way. His stiff stood up rampantly erect from a nest of black curls, dark with blood against the paler skin of his thighs and belly. He took himself in hand and laid the other hand on Mercy’s head as if in blasphemous blessing. But all he was doing was pressing her lower. She put her face to the fat pouch of his scrotum and kissed it fervently.

Maarten Gansevoort loosed the drawstring of his breeches and slipped his hand inside his clothes, ashamed beyond words, yet aroused so much he could no longer wait. His own member was hot and sticky and as hard as smoked meat. He stroked himself, feeling his balls clench, feeling the length in his hand grow thicker and longer with every beat of his heart.

Buy Dark Enchantment at:

Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play
iTunes

Sunday, 7 October 2018

Nina Cried Power




 "This song was intended as a thank you note to the spirit and legacy of protest".

The world needs this song this week :-(

The people in the video, btw, are all human rights activists - mostly from Ireland, where Hozier is based.

Friday, 5 October 2018

Stan 3: Kyrgyzstan

 

Kyrgyzstan has a very different feel to Uzbekistan, the first country on our tour, even though both are ex-Soviet authoritarian states. Uzbekistan is historically settled - with what we'd recognise as agricultural/mercantile kingdoms - and straightforwardly Muslim. In contrast, Kyrgyzstan has a proud history of being tribal and nomadic, built few cities before the Tsarist era, and its version of Islam is mixed up with a fair amount of shamanic paganism.

Pretty much all the ancient art concerns goats.


They still hunt with golden eagles:



They love their yurts and their horses:





And their mountains - most of the country is "alpine":




They don't weave fancy silk carpets; they make felt hangings out of sheep's wool instead:


The most famous Kyrgyz historical site is the remains of the minaret at Burana:



Though they also do a cool line in balbals, which are mysterious ancestral stone figures:






We liked Kyrgyzstan a lot ... though it was worth being careful with the food choices ;-)

Balls of dried, salty yoghurt

A big bowl of NO THANK YOU

Wednesday, 3 October 2018

Sinful news

George Watts: The All-Pervading (1890)
(Is it just me, or does this angel painting bear a schematic resemblance to a vulva?)

If you don't get the Sinful Press newsletter (and if you don't you should), do pop over to read it online - it contains among other things a quickie interview with yours truly ... in which I finally 'fess up to something I've never yet mentioned online.

NO, NOT YOU MUM. YOU STAY RIGHT HERE AND ADMIRE THE ART.

Monday, 1 October 2018

Blue Monday: Justine Elyot guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is long-time Black Lace stablemate (and now Sinful Press buddy) Justine Elyot with her brand new, published-just-today book The Story of Jo:


“I met a man called Emmett, and now I belong to him.”

Twenty-something Jo meets Emmett on a team-building course, and her initial disdain for him soon turns into attraction.

With Emmett’s strong but loving hand to guide her, Jo unleashes her inner submissive and they embark on an intense voyage of sexual discovery. Their mutual fascination sees them exploring bondage, spanking, toys and more, and their romance is as perfect as Jo could hope for, until another man appears on the scene.

She knows that Emmett hero-worships his former boss and mentor, Charles, but when she finds out that Charles is the man who introduced Emmett to the art of domination, she has no idea how to feel.
With fierce desire growing between the three of them, can they find a way to explore this new dynamic without destroying what they already have?


The flogging seemed to go on forever, with Emmett whipping me up into burning heat and sting, but the pain was nothing compared to the challenge of Fox’s implacable gaze. I wanted desperately to hide from it, but there was nowhere to run.

Instead, I had to accept that he was watching and enjoying my humiliation, as well as adding to it with his clear appreciation. Which was crueller—the man who whipped, or the man who watched?

As my merciless husband laid stroke after stroke, I howled and whimpered, the sounds squeezed out from a captive jaw.

“You need this,” said Fox, as the first tear fell. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I wailed, trying hard to move my body, but restrained at every turn.

“Do you deserve it?”

“Yes, yes, I deserve it,” I hissed. I was becoming something less than human, something purely submissive and sexual.

Emmett laid several evil strokes on my exposed inner thighs, then he moved between them. My clit was so swollen and wet that the whip felt good, almost orgasmic, against it.

“Oh God,” I moaned. “I can’t…”

Emmett went back to my bottom, which must have been as red as it could possibly be by now. It was so incredibly sore, and yet I felt nowhere near safewording. I was locked into Fox’s laser stare, powerless to break out.

He rose from his chair and grabbed my hair, in the way Emmett had done, then kissed me ravishingly while Emmett finished up on my behind. My tears spilled on to his cheeks and ran down his nose while his tongue plunged inside my mouth.

I clung to his shirt, holding him near me, rapt and lost in the sensation.

Emmett laid aside his whip. Fox broke the kiss.

I lay, panting and burning, between them. I had crossed the boundary of fear. I was in the realm of pure submissive bliss.

“Come and look at her arse,” invited Emmett brokenly. “That’s red for you.”

“Incredible,” said Fox. “Judging by the state of her down there, she’s ready for a good seeing to.”

“Weren’t we going to…first…?”

“Yes, yes. I’m ahead of myself. Right.”

Fox came back round and sat in his chair. I could see the great bulge in his suit trousers and thought it must be uncomfortable for him, but I didn’t have too much sympathy to spare when my own pussy was absolutely dripping.

“Remember,” he said. “Eye contact. I’ll hold you in place if necessary, but I think it’s time you tried to obey without help. Hold out your hands to me.”

I quickly wiped my damp cheeks with the backs of them, then gave them up to Fox, who held my fingers. Once we were linked, Emmett moved in between my legs and began to touch me, slowly, teasingly, tracing out the line of my labia with his fingertips.

I sighed gently. Fox smiled, enjoying my helplessness, stroking my fingers.

“Is that good?” he whispered.

Emmett rubbed my clit and I moaned in gratitude.

“Take that as a yes,” said Fox dryly.

“Yes, sir,” I groaned.

The eye contact maintenance was hard; they were rolling back and sideways and all over as Emmett settled into a slow, steady rhythm. He introduced one finger, then two, then three, into my vagina, but he didn’t thrust. They were there as a marker, a reminder of what I was going to get.

I was barely in need of any stimulation at all—it was a matter of a minute, maybe two, before I felt the approach of a shattering orgasm.

I think Emmett could feel the first flutters against his seated fingers. Still stroking away at my clit, he asked me if I was close.

“Yes, yes, sir,” I said.

Fox pinched my fingers, and I tried hard to focus on him, but everything was beginning to blur.

“You know what you have to do, pet,” Emmett reminded me.

“I know, I know, please, sir, may I come?”

“Who are you asking?” Fox leant forward, his gaze bearing down hard on me.

“You, sir, you and…both…everyone…please…oh God.”

“No,” said Fox, and I let out a loud moan of despair.

“Joking,” he said. “Go on then, just this once.”

He dropped my fingers and cupped my lower face in both hands, keeping my eyes full on him as my climax gushed down and out of me. The enormity of the feeling was unlike anything I’d experienced before, and it precipitated me into a flurry of tears. He kissed them all away, with passion, while Emmett fell to his knees and kissed my pussy and clit. I felt cocooned in tenderness, loved and adored beyond dreams.

Fox found my lips and kissed me hard and hungrily throughout the vigorous fucking Emmett then subjected me to. Each thrust pushed me into Fox’s face, and slapped up against my stinging bottom. I clung blindly to Fox’s shirt, bunching it in my fists. He was my support and my strength, just as much as Emmett was now. The bond was forged.


Buy The Story of Jo at:
Amazon
Kobo
iTunes
Barnes and Noble
Google Play

Sunday, 30 September 2018

It was the Best Song in the World (not)



One of the cultural highlights of our Silk Road holiday was attending the World Nomad Games closing ceremony ... which was quite a lot like Eurovision circa 1978, tbh.

I will leave you to picture our incredulous faces as camp German popband Dschinghis Khan came on - in fake leather mini-skirts - in front of a crowd of nomad-descended, ex-Soviet nationals,  to perform their Eurohits "I'm a Rocking Son of Genghis Khan" and "Moscow".

The crowd bloody loved it πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

Wednesday, 26 September 2018

Show me Moore!


The uncropped version of this photo is definitely NSFW - and you can find it over at Molly's Daily Kiss where she recounts her experience reading my novel The Prison of the Angels, one afternoon when she should have been making the beds.

I'm not going to spoil that particular Masturbation Monday for you - just go on over and see for yourselves!

There is a bit at the end of the post, mind, that is the most luscious review/writer's compliment:

"I have never really been into fantasy erotica but then a few years ago I went to book launch at Sh Woman’s store in London. Janine introduced her newest creation and proceeded to read the first chapter. I was hooked. The moment the interval started I got up from my seat went straight to the counter and bought the book. I took it home and stormed through it then waited (im)patiently for Janine to pen book number two and then book number three. If I had never gone to that reading I probably would never have read these books as I truly thought that fantasy was not my thing. Janine totally converted me with her brilliant storytelling. I highly recommend you let her do the same to you sometime soon. Although you might find it takes you much longer to get things done than usual."
A HUGE thank you to the bold and beautiful Molly Moore!

And you can find buy-links for the whole trilogy here:
1) Cover Him With Darkness
2) In Bonds of the Earth
3) The Prison of the Angels

Monday, 24 September 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I was in Bukhara a couple of weeks ago, I thought I'd post a piece from my Arabian Nights novel Heart of Flame. My hero and heroine, Rafiq and Taqla, travel to that city on the Silk Road to pass on a message from a dead god to a woman they don't know. They get taken prisoner and tied up for questioning. Sorry, it's not a very rude bit!

(I am ever so slightly peeved that I didn't really describe Bukhara itself in that book ... if I wrote it now I'd have a lot more material to work with!)


She didn’t have long to think about it, to her surprise. Within a few minutes the door opened again and in walked Vizier Najib. He was a big, handsome man, some part of her recognized grudgingly. The grey in his beard did not hide the breadth of his shoulders or the fact that he stalked like a leopard. Around his lean waist was a thickly embroidered sash into which was thrust a curved Turk-style dagger and a scabbarded scimitar. He placed a goblet of wine down on the table and looked at them both thoughtfully.

“Leave us,” he told the guard. Then when the three of them were alone, he folded his arms over his chest. “I have at least an hour before the Amir is due to admit the throng into his august presence and will require my advice. The notion occurred to me—why should I not spend it with two disturbers of the peace? So, who will talk to me?” He glanced at Taqla and smiled. “Not you, I think.” His gaze flitted back to Rafiq. “You then.”

“Right Hand of the Amir,” Rafiq said, guardedly. His face was bruised and his lip cut and swollen.

“So who are you?”

“My name is Rafiq ibn-Jurraia al-Dimashq, and I’m a merchant. Ask at the caravanserai for those who will vouch for me.”

“I will. A merchant selling what?”

“Nothing at the moment. Our caravan was washed away by a flash flood in a wadi, our camels drowned, our companions scattered. We came to Bokhara seeking shelter.”

“Really? A fine story. Now tell me why you tried to bring a sorceress into the Amir’s presence.”

“A sorceress? Her? As I told you, she’s my wife.”

Najib waved a hand negligently and walked over to Taqla, looking her in the face with some interest. She lowered her eyes, not out of shyness but out of desire that he see her as nothing but a respectable and wronged woman. It didn’t work for a moment.

“She’s a witch.” He ran his hands over the pouches hanging at her belt, taking the time to measure the shape of her waist and hips and slide a hand between her legs. She jerked in shock.

Sayyid, you are mistaken,” said Rafiq very coldly.

The vizier walk around her with a knowing smile. “A fine collection of rings you have there,” he remarked, taking her bound hands in his.

Taqla clenched her fists, feeling the cord bite into her wrists.

Najib sighed. “I can always cut them off,” he murmured into her ear and she shivered, knowing she had little choice. When she opened her hands again, he stripped the rings from her fingers, examined them one by one and laid them out in a line upon the table. It was painful to be parted from the magical tools she relied upon. She could feel sweat gathering at her temples.

“We came only to ask the favour of the Amir,” said Rafiq through gritted teeth. “We mean no trouble in Bokhara.”

The vizier ignored that. He returned to Taqla yet again. “Any more?” he asked her, reaching for her throat. Under her stout outer jacket, which he tugged open, she was wearing a high-necked shirt of fine cotton. He took that between his hands and ripped it, baring her breastbone. Taqla tried to swivel away, but he grabbed her shoulder with a heavy hand, pinning her in place so he could grope under the torn fabric.

“Get your hands off her!” Rafiq roared.

“You have a hasty temper, friend,” said Najib, squeezing Taqla’s breast. “Very nice,” he added, eyes glittering, as she protested through the sodden gag. He pinched her nipple, twisting it painfully, and then, just as abruptly, he let go and walked away, confronting Rafiq eye to eye. “She’s most appealing, isn’t she? Have you had her in the form of a boy yet? She can do that, you know. She can take any form that pleases you.”

Taqla, her right nipple stinging and swollen, nearly choked as she tried to draw gasping breaths through her gag. She felt her eyes fill with welling tears and she swallowed wildly, her jaw aching. Meanwhile Rafiq opened his mouth, very obviously to utter an imprecation as offensive as humanly possible, but then bit down on the words, his breath hissing through his bared teeth.

“Talk to me, my friend,” said Najib lazily. “Do you understand your situation? I am the vizier here and it’s my position to protect the Amir. He’s an old, frail man who just wishes to be left alone to enjoy his hashish and his women. Tell me what you two were planning here…or believe me I will do things to the girl that you will not enjoy watching.”

Rafiq snapped his head back in frustration, banging it against the pillar. “I’m a merchant—a trader!”

“And the witch?”

“My bodyguard,” he said, his grin belying the cold hate in his eyes.

The vizier laughed appreciatively. “Better. What were you planning to do?”

“I carry a message, that’s all, for the ruler of Bokhara.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s something I’m often paid to do when I travel—take messages.”

“Show me.”

“It’s not written down.”

“Then what have you been paid to say?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s for the recipient alone.”

“From whom?”

“Again, I cannot say.”

Dazed and frantic, Taqla was aware that Rafiq had remembered her warnings that the instructions of the god should be carried out very literally—if the message were to reach Adhur-Anahid through gossip or a third party, the compact would certainly be void.

“That’s…very interesting.” The vizier leaned in closer, and from the expression on his face he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Now, you see, you have piqued my curiosity. What do I have to do to get you to talk, my friend?”

He sank his hand into Rafiq’s crotch. Taqla stopped breathing. Rafiq seemed to gain several inches of height as his spine straightened and all expression left his face. The two men stared into each other’s eyes, faces almost touching.

“Ah now, no protests this time?” The vizier chuckled lightly. “In all honesty you’re as much to my taste as the little sorceress, friend. Why don’t I cut out the bit where she gets hurt and just move straight on to hurting you? Or do you like it rough?” His hand, buried in the loose cloth of Rafiq’s trousers, moved with lavish purpose.


Buy "Heart of Flame"

The most beautiful woman in all Arabia has been abducted by a djinni - and only forbidden magic can bring about her rescue.

Taqla the sorceress lives in comfortable secrecy, until she agrees to help the handsome traveller Rafiq find the kidnapped daughter of the Amir. They set off together on a journey fraught with magic and peril, though a landscape of ancient desert ruins, terrible monsters and deception. With so many secrets to keep, Taqla cannot afford to trust Rafiq – and yet she must, with her life.

In the meantime, the captive Ahleme must try to fend off the attentions of the terrifying djinni who wishes to father upon her a new saviour of the Djinn race. Can Ahleme survive her imprisonment? Can Taqla really bring herself to help Rafiq win Ahleme back, when she is hopelessly in love with him herself? Can she trust him not to betray her, when sorcery is a crime punishable by death? Passion may yet betray them all.

Friday, 21 September 2018

Stan 2: Kazakhstan

One of the nicer bits.
To be fair, most of the country looks like this.

Kazakhstan, second country on our Silk Road holiday, was ... an experience. By which I
mean DON'T EVER GO THERE.

I REALLY MEAN THAT. I'm on a one-woman mission to collapse their miserable, surly excuse for a tourist industry.

Honestly, it's the first country I've ever been to that I concluded was not worth the bother. And there was quite a lot of bother on our way out in particular, as the border guards took one look at our group and decided it was time to pick on someone and extract a hefty bribe. Seven of us made it through to the safety of Kyrgyzstan (and did we hell as like know what was going to happen next or what we should do), while one (along with our extremely noble guide) was held for 7 shitty hours under interrogation until he coughed up £100.

Fuck Kazakhstan and its corrupt police.

So I'm not even going to post any interesting pictures, just in case I give you the mistaken impression that travelling there might be worth the risk. All the ancient historic monuments stop at the Uzbek border anyway - and anything good Kazakhstan has, Kyrgyzstan has more and better.

😑😑😑