Monday, 23 August 2021

Blue Monday: Lustcraftian Horrors is on sale!

 

My story The Witch's Need appears in the Lustcraftian Horrors anthology, edited by Hydra M. Star, which is on release now! For all you fans of tentacles and unhappy endings...

Lovecraft never intended for his mythos to be overtly sexual, but the Great Old Ones are horny for human flesh and all those hybrids don’t just create themselves. Within Lustcraftian Horrors lies thirteen glimpses into the sexual adventures, dominance, and violations the Elder Gods and their kin visit upon the unsuspecting human world. Consider your triggers warned and prepare to enter the void.

The Witch's Need (excerpt) by Janine Ashbless

Agnes looked around her prison, determined not to think more on the men, though the ache in her cunny made her clench her fists. They’d left her one candle in a horn-windowed lantern; it was just enough light to make out her surroundings. The crypt was rectangular, with two raised tombs either side of an aisle to a rear apse, where the stone figure of some medieval knight lay in state on his sarcophagus. Probably these belonged to the Squire’s own forebears, but they did not interest her greatly. The dead were not her provenance. More frustratingly—and more by luck than design, or so she assumed—the close-set flagstones and walls offered her no glimpse of the raw earth she hoped to find. Earth might permit her aid; stone did not. 

She sighed and sat on the corner of one of the tombs, resting her sore legs. They’d kept her standing all day—another petty cruelty, like the fact she’d been given nothing to eat—but the pressure of the stone between her legs was soothing now and she tilted against the hard surface, grinding her hips. Then she lifted her layered skirts and touched her mound, sliding her finger into the slick furrow between her newly-shaven nether lips. Her sex felt strange to her, a foreign thing. Mother Hislop, the old bitch, had stuck her fingers inside during the search for the witch-mark, and Agnes had had to stifle her groan of involuntary arousal. She’d not been able to hide the slickness of her gape though, or the spasming clench of her muscles. Mother Hislop had been triumphant in her disapproval. 

Ah, if only she did possess the powers they accused her of. She would like to blast them all with the ague and the cholera. Let them shit themselves to death

Agnes pressed her fingers to her wetness then and worked it over her pip, hoping to comfort her need. It might be her last chance, she thought, before they hanged her on Whinney Gibbet for the crows to pick at. Maybe the next fellows to enjoy her hot cunny would be the worms that feasted there, and what pleasure would she get from that? This night could be her final ride. 

Then she heard footfalls on the steps outside, and voices, and the rasp of metal. They were returning. She bit her lip. 

When the Witchfinder walked into the crypt followed by two of his soldiers, Agnes was bringing herself to climax, her thighs spread wide, her feet braced on the carved stone of the tomb, and her hand working frantically on her exposed gash. She locked eyes with him, gasping as she tumbled over into her ecstasy, defiant in her shamelessness. 

The two soldiers, hands full of the things they carried, stared with mouths open. She liked that. 

“Are you quite finished?” asked the Witchfinder coldly. 

She withdrew her sticky, pungent fingers with a grin and rearranged her skirts in a parody of decorum. The last waves of her bliss washed through her, balm to her rage and her need. “For the moment.”  

Buy Lustcraftian Horrors

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Print

Kindle 

Nook 

GoodReads

Tuesday, 13 July 2021

Not Dead But Writing!


"That Is Not Dead Which Can Still Type"

Hello Blog! Boy, it's a bit dusty in here ... *blows cobwebs off Blogger*

This is the BIG UPDATE POST just to let you know that Janine Ashbless survived the lockdown and is still (sorta) around. In fact ... *fanfare*

🎺 I'VE GOT A NEW SHORT STORY COMING OUT!!! 🎺

My story The Witch's Need is due to appear in Lustcraftian Horrors, edited by Hydra M. Star, which is currently up for pre-orders on Amazon, due for release in August!

 Lovecraft never intended for his mythos to be overtly sexual, but the Great Old Ones are horny for human flesh and all those hybrids don’t just create themselves. Within Lustcraftian Horrors lies thirteen glimpses into the sexual adventures, dominance, and violations the Elder Gods and their kin visit upon the unsuspecting human world. Consider your triggers warned and prepare to enter the void.

I shall be posting an excerpt from my story in due course; but here's how it opens...

After the first day of her trial, they moved Agnes Pritchard to the crypt of the village church for safekeeping overnight. Since she hadn’t deigned to plead her innocence, the Witchfinder John Samuels had declared her a more-than-usually-arrogant and dangerous sorceress, and no one wanted to have her on their land overnight, not even in a guarded barn. If she had denied the charges then they would have kept her awake all night, working in teams to walk her up and down without rest, in the hope of causing her to summon her familiars and so prove her guilt. But there was no need in this case. Her contemptuous silence was as good as a confession.

* * * * * * * * * * 

It is in many ways an incredibly appropriate story to introduce this roundup of my news. It also may well be the most appropriate story on which to bow out as Janine Ashbless, if that is to happen. 

Those of you who have no idea what Lovecraftian fiction is might struggle with the rest of this blogpost! πŸ˜‹ Any description of what I've been doing for the last two years is going to reference him and his Cthulhu Mythos. MY WRITING DREAMS HAVE ALL COME TRUE so please forgive my allcaps and blog silence! 

If you'd asked me at any time in the last three decades what I would most like to be known for writing, it wouldn't be for erotica. I would have said "I want to write Call of Cthulhu for Chaosium."

And that's what I'm doing right now - which is why I've put the erotica and even the horror fiction on the back-burner. Chaosium Inc. is a major roleplaying games company, and I've been working freelance for them. First I contributed to the forthcoming Rivers of London RPG. And then I was handed the humungous task of reworking Cthulhu by Gaslight, their Victorian setting for the Call of Cthulhu game, into a new and improved edition. I've had some experience with running Victorian horror LARP, but this is on another level altogether, so basically I've been researching and writing non-fiction for the last year. The first Gaslight book has been turned in and I'm hard at work on the second. I am wonderfully, stupidly, happy, and also a bit cross-eyed from hyper-focus.

This is my life now

I've not been blogging much because this blog belongs to Janine Ashbless, erotica writer - and though there is some overlap in readership with my horror and gaming interests (and there are many posts to prove it), it would be a distinct and confusing change of direction to start talking tentacles all the time.

Will I be writing more smut in future? Who can say? The current puritanical publishing atmosphere does not make it rewarding or inspiring. Sinful Press (very much missed) is only one of the many presses, small and large, to have closed their doors recently, and my optimism has run low. It is probably a lot easier to self-publish than to go through endless cycles of submitting stories, waiting months (sometimes years) for publication, and crossing fingers for payment - just to see the anthology/press pulled from the shelves. I'm re-releasing as much of my own stuff in e-format as possible, but it will only take one censorious move from Amazon to destroy decades of work.

I'm not planning for the future. I'm enjoying what I'm writing NOW. And Now is awesome πŸ’πŸ’πŸ’

My Janine Ashbless Facebook Page is still ticking over.

And I am active on Facebook under my Keris McDonald name

Thursday, 24 December 2020

Hairy Christmas!

 




Angelic blessings! This year a dear friend sent me the best Christmas tree ornament EVER. It's supposed to be a fluffy angel, she swears.

I think it looks like a hairy vulva and that's how it's always going to be in my mind. πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

So here's wishing everyone Happy Holidays and a very Hairy Muffmas - may you find peace and renewal in the darkest days of a dark year, and look to the coming of the light! 

πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–


Monday, 2 November 2020

Blue Monday: Yan, Tan Tethera, Methera

 


 Amazon US :: Amazon UK

To celebrate the e-publication of In Medias Res, a collection of no-holds-barred erotic stories (about 10K each) told in the second person, here's an excerpt from my story Yan, Tan, Tethera Methera. And in case you are wondering what the hell that title means, it's a very old way of counting sheep. It exists - or existed - in many dialect variations across Northern England, but the rhyme I've used goes...

Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera, Pip,
Sethera, Lethera, Hovera, Dovera, Dick.

This is quite a lot of Dick in my story as it is all about trolls who keep humans as sex-pets. And trolls are not small. 

... And not vegetarian.

This story is pretty damn dark. We're definitely in erotic horror territory. When a human male comes into Methera's life and challenges all her old assumptions, things get very dicey. I wanted to write about the terrible dangers of love, as well as about good old-fashioned monster-fucking πŸ˜‰

Here's a little taste:

_____________________________________________________________________

Xanto carries you home over one broad shoulder; he moves much more swiftly at his own crouching lope than when he’s letting you set the pace. When he drops down into the cluster of chambers that make up the nest, he’s surrounded at once by your fellow yows, vying to welcome him back. Draped ass-up over his well-padded back, you can hear all and catch glimpses of the others and the caresses they lavish upon him. Pip is literally dancing about in circles, swinging her long, dark braid.

For a while, he puts up with the effusiveness of the welcome, but then he growls, “Enough!” 

Everyone scatters, abashed. 

As Xanto drops you to the floor in front of him, you feel their eyes upon you, curious, but your own attention is, of course, on him. Myriad hands caressing his thighs have had their effect, and his pizzle is swinging heavily between his ankles. You touch it, feeling the ridged silk of the skin and the incredible weight and heat and girth of him. He’s aroused enough for the first exudate to appear at the tip, a clear and slippery gel that creates a blessed natural lube for troll penetration, and you use both hands to smear it back over the cock’s blunt head, hearing his rumble of approval. Grateful tears swell your throat. 

“I don’t want to mate with the tup,” you whisper, working his cock. “I just want you, Papa Xanto. Don’t make me mate with the human, Papa. I love you! You are the only one I want!”

His growl is so deep that it’s almost below the threshold of hearing. “Turn around.” 

You obey, dropping to knees and elbows, tail lifted high, and you feel the heat of his huge body as he squats carefully behind you. “Please, Papa!” 

“Methera, little one,” he says, as he lays one hand between your shoulder blades. You can feel the tips of his claws. “This is foolishness. Are you seeing Yan or any of the others make such a fuss about their tuppings?” 

Yan is watching you darkly from the margin of the cave. 

“No,” you admit.

Xanto draws his claws softly down the smooth skin of your back, while his other hand strokes the ivory stem of your tail, stirring the thick plug within your ass, awakening the dark ripples of readiness that surge through your insides. “Tell me who it is you belong to, little one.” 

You groan as the shifting plug works its secret magic. You’re aware of its presence at all times. How could you not be? But when it is in motion, it overwhelms all else. “I belong to you, Papa Xanto.” 

“That you do. I own your mother before you. Four times I have her tupped, and four beautiful babies she lambs for me in her time. But you are the most beautiful, Methera, and the only one I keep for myself. I love you, little one. I am not wanting to hurt you.” 

“I love you, Papa,” you whimper. “Please.” 

“Then do not irritate me like this. Do as I tell you. If you anger me, Methera, I am eating you in two bites. Is that what you are wanting?” 

The thought of his huge jaws closing about your body, his fangs piecing your sweet flesh, combine with the churning of the tail-plug in your ass to make your sex juices gush. But you answer, “No, Papa,” because you are not stupid. 

“Good girl,” he growls. The clench of your rear is loose with surrender now, and the plug slithers out half-way, stretching your sphincter around the fullest point of its girth. Xanto gives it another pump and a wriggle for good measure, and you groan. “You are my good girl,” he says, a little breathless, popping the tail clear. “I know you are being good.” 

For a moment, you experience the terrible ache of an empty hole—a void that seems vast and unbearable in its hollowness. Your muscles spasm hungrily. You drop your shoulder to the floor and, with one hand, strum your clit-chain. 

Then Xanto presses the tip of his cock to that needy clench and pushes, stretching that gape to its greatest extent. “Ah,” he grunts, drawing his hand down your back and scouring you with his claws. 

You spasm with orgasm, squealing, and though his bluntly pointed tip is as big as your own clenched fist, your ass all but sucks it in. Through the rush of blood in your head, you feel him moving within you, magnificent and careful. He’s far, far too big to sheathe himself full length in your meager human hole, but as he pushes in and pulls out at the entrance, the slippery squeeze on the sensitized tip of his prod is enough to provoke him. With a deep “Uh,” that makes your ears buzz, he spurts, filling your ass with scalding hot troll cream. It squirts out around his shaft as he keeps pushing, in and out, and that slop is enough to set you off again, crying out in abandon. 

The other yows glare and play with their clit-chains, aroused and envious. 

 _____________________________________________________________________

 Amazon US :: Amazon UK

Sunday, 1 November 2020

Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera: new story out now!

 

It's been a long wait but I'VE GOT A NEW EROTIC STORY ON SALE! Yippee!! πŸ’πŸ’πŸ’πŸŽ‰πŸŽˆπŸŽ†

In Medias Res: you in the midst of things, an anthology edited by Rose Caraway, is OUT NOW in e-format and soon to be in audio too!

IN MEDIAS RES puts YOU 'In the Midst of Things.' It's a collection of erotic stories unlike any other. Curated by Rose Caraway, host of the Kiss Me Quick's Erotica Podcast, you will connect with desire and fantasy in a whole new way through tales told in the second-person perspective. Partake in every moment as YOU are cast as the main character in each of these stories.

Amazon US :: Amazon UK

It includes my story Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera - but here's the sparkling author lineup:


1) BASIC TRAINING by Rachel Kramer Bussel:
The phone rings, and you know by the sound that it's your Dom. He wants you, his prized submissive, available tomorrow. He's sending his limo to pick you up early to bring you to his luxurious estate. His plans? A challenge--featuring you, five strangers, and the fulfillment of your fantasies. You will be graded on your performance.

2) THE CLASSICAL EDUCATION OF A MODERN YOUNG MAN by Malin James:
Dr. Bixby-Charles is a goddess of a woman who outclasses you in every way. She's been your tutor since Freshman year. Over these last four years, she's given you an appreciation for the arts, culture, and Jazz--not to mention countless secret erotic fantasies. But now, you're graduating, and it's time to say good-bye to the boy you were and hello to the man you want to become.

3) POS by Sonni de Soto:
You and your husband have learned a lot about one another, playing out sex scenes at home. You've tackled some pretty tricky topics and dealt with intense emotions along the way, which has allowed trust and adventure to blossom in your relationship; it's become your cornerstone--your foundation. Now, you've invited a long-time friend to play out a particularly vicious scene with you. Can you three handle it?

4) UNDER THE LANDSLIDE by Jade A. Waters:
He's at your doorstep, and he's not supposed to be. What you both feel is very real, and it impels you to come together again and again. It's a tangled mess--obsession, moral conflict, knowing there's no future with him. But, hard as you try, there's just no getting around the undeniable passion you both feel. Last time was supposed to be the last time.

5) ODONTE by Tamsin Flowers:
Kit McIntyre is the best Shakespearean actor of his generation, and he's your husband. He commands the stage with every performance while you, his biggest cheerleader, stay in the dressing room with Odonte, a handsome, worldly man...and your best friend. Odonte has many stories to tell, in particular, a provocative tale about your illustrious husband.

6) DOVE SONG by Rose Caraway:
It's 1880. Your Mistress has been dead a year. It's fallen to you to run Wineman House, and its "redeemed whores" with an iron fist, just as you vowed. Guests are to arrive soon--their bids have been placed. You know that promise means denying your pleasures and predilections, as well as losing the girls you've grown to care for--especially Mae, your feisty, freckled love, and Martha, your devoted housemaid who wants nothing more than to bask in your carnal eminence. And then there's Samuel Fairaway, the mansion's renowned gunslinger, whom you've shared a particular brand of violence with, in private sessions.Wineman House's loathsome handyman, Ben, has been slingin' back whiskey all morning, and he wants to be sure you will keep your promise.

7) YAN, TAN, TETHERA, METHERA by Janine Ashbless:
Papa Xanto is the biggest, dirtiest, most formidable troll down in the warren, and you, his most revered human 'yow.' You have been just as dedicated to your intense breeding-tutelage as Pappa has been. Your nestmates are jealous of your many silver piercings, bracelets, chains, and rings, but you are most proud of your girthy, carved ivory tail-plug--having trained so hard to be able to take something the size of an adult troll's pizzle. Today, Papa Xanto is taking you to the tup-fair to find you a suitable human sire. More than anything, you want to bring your Papa offspring and honor.

Amazon US :: Amazon UK


I'll be posting an excerpt tomorrow!

Thursday, 20 August 2020

Guest post: Ashley Lister on Blackstone Towers

Blackstone Towers Blog Tour – Day Seven 

First, I’d like to thank Janine for allowing me to bring my blog tour here today. This is day seven of the blog tour and I’m very excited because I’ve written a really fun horror novel and I want to tell you a little bit about it.

(I’ll be honest and admit I’m introducing myself in the same way each day, in case these words encounter someone who doesn’t know me or who hasn’t been following the blog tour. If you’ve already read my introduction on one of the other blogs, or if you simply don’t care who I am or what I’ve got to say, skip to the bit under the picture of the book cover).

By way of introduction, I should begin by saying my name is Ashley Lister; I write horror fiction and some of the crudest poetry known to mankind; and I’m here talking about a horror novel I’ve written which will be published on August 22nd. It’s called Blackstone Towers and this is what the story is about:

The talismans of the magi control seven realms of the mortal world. One can grant the bearer immortality; another gives its owner unfathomable wealth; a third gives the holder unerring foresight. There is a talisman to control reality, success, the deliberate and the accidental, and a talisman that governs the balance between love and hate. The planets are now aligning, and one worldly resident of Blackstone Towers knows the talismans urgently need collecting and destroying before they fall into the wrong hands. The only problem is establishing whose hands are the wrong ones.

This is a novel that includes zombies, ghosts, daemons and other generally scary creatures. The first question people ask when you write a novel that includes such features is, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Naturally, this shouldn’t be the first question anyone asks me. I think the first question should be, “That sounds awesome! Where can I buy a copy? And can I look at your back catalogue too?”

However, we don’t live in my ideal world so I’ll answer the popular question first: do I believe in ghosts?

The honest answer is: what time is it?

I’m writing this in daylight. I’ve got a portly dog on my lap and the soundtrack for Guardians of the Galaxy is playing in the background. Of course I know there’s no such thing as ghosts or the supernatural. If something does unexpectedly make a noise, the chances are that it’s the farty little dog on my lap.

However, tonight, I’d have a different response. I don’t believe in ghosts. But I also make sure I turn on every light in the house if I’m going for a late night pee. I used to work for a funeral director (I mentioned this earlier in the week) and I’m only just beginning to realise it probably wasn’t the best occupation for someone with my susceptible disposition. One night, and this was two in the morning night, I’d been called to drive the funeral director’s ambulance to a rural farmhouse.

It was very sad, as all deaths are. A relatively young man had passed away from cancer.
The funeral director had met me at the farmhouse and he helped me get the body into the back of the vehicle. And then I was expected to drive back through unlit and unfamiliar country roads, alone save for the dead body in the back of the ambulance.

I saw things on that journey home that could only have come from my imagination. As the promise of dawn crept toward the horizon, I saw the edges of the landscape shift as though it was a behemoth, uncurling and preparing to devour the tiny mortals that scurried over the earth.

I definitely didn’t hear anything in the back of the ambulance, scratching at the door that separated me and my travelling companion. I didn’t hear any strange sounds like that and I don’t still hear echoes of those sounds when I’m alone at home in the dark.

All of which is my way of building to my question for today: Do you believe in ghosts? And, if so, why? Answer below, if that’s easiest for you. I’ll be checking back throughout the day. Answer on Twitter if you prefer, using the hashtag #BlackstoneTowers. If you don’t use Twitter, and don’t like the comments box, please feel free to email me at me@ashleylister.co.uk. I’ll be collecting all the answers and, on the day of publication, I’ll chose my favourite response and send one lucky winner a free copy of one of my novels. 

This is day 7 of a 9 day blog tour and, each day up to the launch, I’ll be on a different blog, as detailed below. And, each day, I’ll be asking a different question. Please feel free to follow me, answer as many questions as you like, and if you’ve got any questions about the book or anything else, I’ll be happy to answer.

Also, if you fancy coming to the online launch, where I’ll be reading from Blackstone Towers and sharing some of my ribald poetry, drop me an email and I’ll send you an invite.



Thank you again to Janine Ashbless and to all you readers. I look forward to hearing what you’d do with the gift of foresight. And, if you want to pre-order a copy of Blackstone Towers, this link should take you through to the Amazon page

Tuesday, 11 August 2020

WAP

 

 This truly magnificent video and very catchy track has been quite controversial recently, it appears. Politicians have been parading their shocked tears. Because it's okay for male rappers to go on about how horny they are feel, but if women do it they are a threat to civilisation. You can read all about it here if you like.

The version above, by the way, is the censored one. Full and filthy lyrics here:

And if you think any of this is new, Whores of Yore has an EPIC Twitter thread about blues lyrics by women in the 1920s and 30s that will make your jaw drop and your hair curl! 

"I got nipples on my titties big as the end of my thumb

I got somethin' 'tween my legs  'll make a dead man come.

....

Say I fucked all night, and all the night before baby, 

And I feel just like I wanna, fuck some more”.

 

 

All power to those wonderful women who fiercely own their sexual desire!  πŸ’–πŸ‘ΏπŸ’–

Thursday, 18 June 2020

For the Shame of It



This is so great! At a time when I'm struggling to even remember the joy of writing fiction, LN Bey shoots me broadside with a huge post about writing Plague Porn, Consent and Dub-con ... which happens to include an enthusiastic (and very detailed) review of Named and Shamed, my most outrageous erotic novel. 😊😡😳😊

"Relentlessly filthy" is how LN describes it! Also "It’s a tricky, tricky thing to pull off—and many fans of more cozy erotica will probably not approve. Let them. I fully understand that this novel might not be everyone’s proverbial cuppa."

Here's the link to THE POST IN FULL  ('ware spoilers)

"Named & Shamed is not about a viral invasion of Britain and Europe, with its accompanying medieval cultural trimmings. It portrays an invasion by those horrific legends and myths themselves. In this world created by Ashbless, all the once-supposed causes of human suffering—the witches, fairies, and ogres of the Middle Ages—have come back, from the netherworld, from whatever dimension they’ve been in, and they are causing societal havoc. People are self-isolating, afraid to leave their houses—and let me tell you, they are no kinder than a mindless virus. They just have a far more wicked sense of humor. Named & Shamed is not only one of the most outright filthiest erotic novels I’ve ever read (possibly the filthiest—that’s a compliment, btw), it is primarily about how those old stories linger, even into our modern age—there’s something in our collective psyches that has never quite let go."

Thank you LN - I am all wibbly with delight! πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–

Thursday, 28 May 2020

For your shelf-ish desires


I thought I'd pop in with some recommendations for scurrilous books I've been reading under lockdown. First, a couple of new ones:

A Curious History of Sex is by Dr Kate Lister of Whores of Yore fame and it's a publication I backed on Kickstarter. Sex and Sexuality in Victorian Britain is by our international goth correspondent Violet Fenn and has just been released this last week. Both are easy-reading non-fiction, written with wit and a real fondness for their subject matter, and are to be recommended for any historian's bookshelf. Buy them and annoy your friends by reading out Interesting But Dirty Facts πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰


Not so new is the immense graphic novel Lost Girls, authored by my writing hero Alan Moore and painted by Melinda Gebbie. Originally an extraordinarily expensive trilogy that has been out of print for a few years, it's now a single-volume edition (with extra material) currently on sale via their eBay shop at an astounding £20 (+P&P)!

So if, like me, you have been waiting to find an affordable copy, THIS IS YOUR CHANCE to read about Alice (of Wonderland), Wendy Darling and Dorothy Gale meeting as adults on the eve of WW1 and regaling each other with the "true" versions of their famous adventures. Careful with this one - it's very beautiful and artsy and intelligent (and very hot), but strong stuff even for porn and I'm slightly surprised it hasn't been banned. Moore rather famously does not give a shit what anyone thinks and does not believe in censoring art.


Tuesday, 28 April 2020

This be the verse

Hah! Look what I found! It's me reading my poem On Erotic Vocabulary, way back in 2015:


It's one of three of mine (with varying degrees of silliness) published in Coming Together in Verse:

Tuesday, 21 April 2020

Blue "Monday"

Okay, I'm running a bit late but who's counting the days in lockdown?

Hot to the Touch was released into the wild last week, so here's an excerpt from my story, Meet My Husband:


“Talking of neighbors…” said Andrew thoughtfully, and indicated the hedge with a sideways glance. “Should we perhaps continue this conversation indoors?”

Jeff nodded. Cassie abandoned her dessert plate but took her wineglass. She felt giddy, but she doubted it was the fault of the single glass of chilled Chardonnay.

“Want a top-up on that?” Andrew asked, and she nodded. As he scooted away to the kitchen Jeff intercepted her under the veranda, blocking her path through the cane furniture.

“Did I hear you right—you're not into Andrew's peek-a-boo fantasies?”

She shook her head. “I like to keep my private parts private.”

“So you've never done it in the garden?”

“No.” Her inner alarms were a-quiver now; she knew that husky, considering tone in Jeff's voice. She knew where those roving glances were headed.

“Not even in the hot-tub? Or under here?” He indicated the structure of the veranda, its open walls almost sealed off by the heavy droops of leaves and flowers, the sunlight and shadows flickering where the breeze tried to break through. It made a lambent green room, humid with the smell of growing life.

“No...”

“Oh well,” he said with a grin. “Baby steps.” He looked down at her summer dress, blue cotton with a pink rose print, and put a fingertip lightly on the not-quite-risquΓ©, almost-intimate skin of her breastbone. “Now take those panties down.”

“Jeff…” she chided.

“What? You scared your husband might suspect something's going on between us?” His finger traced a path downward and the voice behind his grin was low, and warm, and teasing. But there was an edge of iron in there that made her knees go weak. “I've got a kiss for you, but you need to earn it. Take them off, now.”

Andrew hadn't come back into view. Cassie took a deep breath and pulled her panties down and off. She wanted that kiss, after all—she'd been two hours in his company with hardly a touch, and she wasn't used to that. She yearned to feel Jeff's mouth on hers.

He held his hand out and she dropped the claret-colored thong with the lace sides into his open palm. Jeff rubbed it between his fingers. “Wet,” he said, tucking it into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Who's secretly been getting all worked up, you bad girl?”

Of course she’d been getting worked up. She’d been sitting with her husband and her lover, watching both, enjoying the contrasts, yearning to break out of their stultifying politeness and touch somebody. She cast him a you-got-me look.

Then Jeff pulled her slowly toward him and she lifted her arms about his neck, stretching up on her toes. She slid into his kiss like it was a hot bath that lapped every inch of her shivering skin. So rapt was she in the tug and tease of his mouth that it took her a moment too long to register the movement of his hands inside the spaghetti straps of her dress and down her back, deftly unclipping her matching bandeau bra. As he released her he pulled it off completely, leaving her naked beneath the thin cotton dress.

Cassie flashed a protest with her eyes, but he wasn't looking that high. His free hand covered her right breast, shaping the material against its soft orb and stiff nipple. His mouth tugged in a smile even as his fingertips tugged at her, making her exhale a long whimper.

“Bad, bad girl,” he breathed, and she felt the heat and the weight of her desire swell between her thighs.


It doesn’t matter what you heard in the past, because Hot to the Touch: Views from the Polyamory Lifestyle is changing the rules. Three isn’t a crowd anymore—it’s the most erotic party your x-rated mind can imagine!
This new collection from well-known editor Cole Riley propels readers into the heads, hearts, and libidos of lovers committed to the Poly Life, open relationships, open communication, and open bedroom doors. With stories from those just beginning to explore the poly lifestyle to those that have years of experience pleasing multiple partners—in or out of the bedroom, together or separately—this collection will arouse your senses and make you yearn for your own menagerie of sexual partners, lovers, and so much more.
You can buy Hot to the Touch at:

Simon and Schuster 
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
Kobo

Tuesday, 14 April 2020

Out now! Hot to the Touch


Hot news!

There's a brand new anthology of stories out today, edited by Cole Riley. A collection of polyamory erotica, Hot to the Touch includes a new story of mine: Meet My Husband 😍😍😍

This new collection from well-known editor Cole Riley propels readers into the heads, hearts, and libidos of lovers committed to the Poly Life, open relationships, open communication, and open bedroom doors. With stories from those just beginning to explore the poly lifestyle to those that have years of experience pleasing multiple partners—in or out of the bedroom, together or separately—this collection will arouse your senses and make you yearn for your own menagerie of sexual partners, lovers, and so much more.
 Publisher's Weekly reviews it:

"Janine Ashbless’s playful “Meet My Husband” and Sommen Madsen’s high-tension “Him” showcase the power of combining the erotic energy of three different lovers.  ...Though not a definitive collection of poly erotica, this anthology will appeal to those who want well-crafted, cheating-free stories that explore sexuality beyond the couple."

Table of Contents

Meet My Husband - Janine Ashbless
Ghost Swinger - Amanda Earl
The Dinner Party - Remittance Girl
Because of Bingo - Rebecca M. Kyle
Bob & Carol & Ted (But Not Alice) - M. Christian
Homecoming - Teresa Noelle Roberts
Snakefruit - Anne Tourney
Him - Sommer Madsen
Speed Play - Abigail Ekue
Between Two Lovers - Thomas S.. Roche
Reminder - Jeremy Edwards
Sleeper Car - Max Lagos
The Benefit of the Doubt - Cole Riley
One Last Fling - Kristina Wright

You can buy Hot to the Touch at:

Simon and Schuster 
Amazon US :: Amazon UK 
Barnes & Noble
Kobo

Monday, 6 April 2020

Blue Monday: isolation special


Keeping my finger on the pulse, LOL

Who says my erotica isn't contemporary and relevant for today's world?  😁 I've been fingering my way through my files, ahem, to find the stories that speak to this international pandemic.




The obvious one is Quarantine, which you can find in full and for free if you hop over to my Website and click on FREE READS in the top bar. It's set in an Ebola research facility and it's about two people going stir-crazy under lockdown:


'This bloody sucks!' Lee moaned.

'Well whose fault is that?' she yelled, surprising even herself with her vehemence.

'Not mine!'

'Really? Who are you blaming?'

'You're the one who bent -' Lee stopped mid-sentence.

'What?' Tessa sat up and dropped her voice to a hiss. 'What did I do?' She saw Lee's face work as conflicting impulses fought for control.

'You were bent over.' The words seemed to come from a constricted throat. 'Your ... arse...' He made a generously curved shape in the air with his hands to make up for his incoherence. 'I walked into the bench.'

She was gobsmacked. 'You dropped solvent everywhere because you were looking at my butt? In a HAZMAT suit?'


Bolt Hole which appears in my collection Fierce Enchantments, is also about two uneasy companions hiding away in a confined space, only this time it's during a zombie outbreak:


“What’re you doing out here on your own?” he asks.

“I wasn’t alone,” she rasps.

The water down her cleavage just feels like more sweat now. She can’t bear it. She’s got to lean back against the metal just to stay upright. Discarding the spade against the wall beside her, she wrenches off her other glove, then pulls down the zipper of her suit from collar to navel. The vest-top beneath is absolutely sodden with sweat, and plastered to her torso. She sees the pale flash of the man’s widening eyes, and she knows her chest is heaving as she pants for breath, but it doesn’t seem important. All she wants is to get out of these leathers.

She wriggles out of her bags and belts, frantic to shed the weight. The front zipper of her biker all-in-one goes all the way down to her crotch, making it easier to peel off the arms and shoulders and drop the top half of the suit to hang from her hips. That helps. She sets her shoulders back against the corrugated metal, praying for cool, but it’s warmer than she is. She can see the man staring. His torso is completely bare, and she envies that. She can feel the moisture flooding between her burning thighs. Her mind is a churning whirl.

She wants to be naked. She wants to be cold. She wants water and a breeze.

He’s gone very still. Outside, the living dead moan with frustration.


Amazon US : Amazon UK  
Kobo
Barnes and Noble



Lust in the Dust is of course full of apocalyptic crisis sex. My own story, The Basque of the Red Death, is a pastiche of Poe's famous plague tale:


On Midsummer Eve, six months after we'd sealed ourselves within the castellated walls, Prince Prospero threw his wildest party yet; a masquerade ball themed upon pagan Arcadia. A suite of seven chambers in the heights of the abbey was opened and prepared; a cloister in coloured glass wherein the old abbot had been inclined to contemplate the Seven Ages of Man, or the Seven Deadly Sins, or perhaps the Seven Sorrows of Our Lady, but now turned to more worldly and hedonistic use.

The Easternmost room, lit in blue, was dedicated to the pleasures of the tongue; Amuse-bouche, the nobles called such things. The centrepiece was a plump and naked maiden, lying supine amid platters of tiny pastries and sweetmeats, covered from head to rosy toes with creamed vegetables piped into intricate patterns, and bejewelled with pomegranate pips and sugared almonds — like a living, breathing, reliquary. Officially she represented Gaia, Mother Earth. I happened to know that Helga had volunteered for this role because she preferred it to running up and down the abbey's stairs.

The Purple Room centred upon a veiled trio of Fates who stood with arms linked, facing outward to the walls of the chamber. They were veiled and draped in prodigious swathes of plum-hued silk, so that not only their features but their very forms were impossible to make out — all but their breasts, which were uncovered and glistened with oil, the nipples stained dark with blackberry juice; somehow more naked for the being the only body-parts visible. The unspoken invitation to touch those orbs, to grope and stroke and play, was all but irresistible.

In the Green Room an ivy-wigged and leaf-painted dryad sat in a sling at head-height, her thighs spread by two loops. On a table beneath was a bowl heaped with brandy-soaked fruit, which the wanton would receive with a giggle into the slippery clench of her sex before squeezing it back out of that cornucopia, now subtly flavored.

The Orange Room was staffed by Cynocephali; naked girls masked with the heads of dogs and leashed like animals too. They served strictly on their knees.

The White Room took this theme further; the seven Pleiades here were bound firmly to racks and upended over tables, thighs spread by bars and wrists hoisted over their heads; their virginal silk dresses artfully inadequate to the task of shielding their maidenly modesty.

In the Violet Room flagellation was on offer; the three mistresses there were dressed as avenging Furies and strutted about with horse-whips in hand, taking full advantage of their license to inflict punishment.

But the Red Chamber, the one at the end — the one with that terrible black-draped clock — stood empty and unused. Whatever debauchery it was intended to host, no one had yet plucked up the courage.

 

 
 
Oh - and if you are up for a horror (not erotica) tale of necrophilia, dark gods and mental collapse set during the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1919, you can always try my story Nine Portraits of Empress Danrin, found in Dark Voices: