Saturday, 16 March 2019

Thursday, 14 March 2019

Oh Frabjous Day!



I have turned in to the publisher the edited manuscript of the Lust in the Dust! 😇😇😇

Now we wait ... there is a lot of waiting in this business! 😉

Monday, 11 March 2019

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Fenris is back! Yes, today Samantha MacLeod - who clearly never sleeps - brings us a preview peek from the third in the Fenris series: The Monster and the Prisoner (and you can read excerpts from Book 1 and Book 2 to whet your appetite). It's officially out on the 26th of this month:


Captured by the cruel king!

Her family murdered, Sol has been taken in chains to the foreboding fortress of King Nøkkyn, where the King intends to make an example out of her disobedience with a public execution. What’s more, Nøkkyn plans to unleash a false prophecy strong enough to bring down the fiercest monster in the Ironwood forest: Fenris-wolf.

Is there any way for the daughter of slaves to escape the King’s castle? Or will Sol’s captivity also bring about the downfall of her husband Fenris?


I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until I was jolted awake. The bedchamber was dark now, and rhythmic, low snores emanated from the heavy red velvet curtains around Nøkkyn’s bed. My legs throbbed when I shifted and stretched. I’d fallen asleep leaning against the wall. I bit down on the gag to keep from making noise as I tried to rub some feeling back into my burning, prickling legs.

Something moved in the room. I froze. Patches of watery, silver moonlight lay silent across the thick rugs and silk couches of Nøkkyn’s bedchamber. My eyes adjusted slowly to the low light, making out the black shadows of furniture. I turned toward the door closest to me.

The short guard was gone. A flicker of apprehension danced up my neck. What was going on? Was I about to witness an attack on King Nøkkyn?

A low, soft moan came from the far side of the room, deep in the shadows. I turned. My breath caught in my throat.

At first I thought the guards were struggling. It would explain the moan, the way their bodies twisted and pressed together. But, no. They were far too silent and delicate to be fighting.

Another flush of heat tightened in my gut. They were not fighting, these two guards who’d had to stand stock-still and silent as their cocks throbbed with desire. Not fighting at all.

With a low rustle, their intertwined bodies shifted into the moonlight. The tall guard faced me, his hands sunk into the hair of the shorter guard. Their lips pressed together in a deep, hungry kiss, and their hips moved as though they were dancing beneath the moon. As I watched, the taller guard’s hand left his partner’s dark tangle of hair and dropped down his silvery tunic, cupping the shorter’s guards ass. Someone groaned in appreciation, although it was impossible to tell where the sound had originated.

Heat pulsed through my core, winding the coil of arousal tighter. It as though I’d gone back in time to watch Fenris and Týr kissing in the firelight, but this time the scene before me was tinged with risk and danger. If Nøkkyn awoke to find his guards like this, I had no doubt they’d both end up on poles along the castle wall. Stars, I wondered, was it worth the risk?

The men parted for a minute, and my chest tightened with disappointment, although I understood why they had stopped. They were both panting, their chests rising and falling rapidly. The tall guard’s distant, unfocused expression was gone, and he was staring into his partner’s eyes with an intensity that rivaled the sun. I could only see the shorter guard’s back, and his hands coming forward, reaching around the tall guard’s waist.

Oh. As I watched, he unfastened the tall guard’s belt and pushed his tight, pale pants down to his knees. The guard’s stiff cock bobbed in the moonlight. Heat surged between my legs. The short guard brushed the head delicately with his fingers, and the tall man’s entire body shuddered. He said something so soft and low I couldn’t make it out. The men came together again, the tall guard’s arms wrapped around the shorter man’s shoulders.

I could hear them breathe. They were both panting now; the tall guard had turned his face to his partner’s neck to stifle his moans. My leg tingled as I pressed myself further into the shadows. I bit down on my gag, waiting for the last remnants of pain to evaporate, driven out by the fire of my arousal.

My fingers were on my sex almost before I realized what I was doing. The shorter guard’s arm moved down between their bodies, and my fingers pressed against my clit, up and down, following his rhythm. Their tight pants revealed the curve and sway of their leg muscles, the way the short guard’s ass clenched as he thrust his hips against his partner. I thrust my fingers deeper into the wet heat of my sex, imagining the cock I’d just seen in the moonlight, how its hard length would feel against my fingers, then my lips, then buried deep inside me, shooting out its seed into my hungry body.

The tall guard grunted, his words muffled against his partner’s neck. They moved apart, just for a moment, and I saw the silvery stream of the guard’s seed shoot across the room. His face rocked backward, his eyes closed and, for just a heartbeat, he looked like a man who had seen Val-hall itself.


Pre-order The Monster and the Prisoner from:
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
Facebook
Twitter
Tumblr
Amazon Author Page
BookBub
Instagram

Saturday, 9 March 2019

Going Greek: William Russell Flint

Chorus and Musicians
Since I've been contemplating things Ancient Greek recently, it seems a good time to dust down (and wipe off) some Homeric pics by William Russell Flint (1880-1969)

Flint was a water-colourist who straddled the boundaries between Classicism and the Modern, commercial illustration and fine art, respectability and soft porn. He was knighted but "enjoyed little respect from art critics, who were disturbed by a perceived crassness in his eroticised treatment of the female figure." He painted illustrations for volumes of The Odyssey, Le Morte d'Arthur, King Solomon's Mines and Chaucer's Canterbury Tales among other family favourites, but he also did about a billion pics of topless ladies in Spanish costume, and OH BOY DID HE LIKE PAINTING TITS.

"Minxes Admonished: an album of deplorable caprices"

So here's some legendary Greek nudes 😍😍😍 mostly painted just before WWI.
Enjoy!











Wednesday, 6 March 2019

#AmEditing


I'm nearly done with line edits for Lust in the Dust...

My anxiety issues have been playing up today, but OMG this job makes me happy.


"Repetition of slid in this paragraph" says my little comment in the margin of a story.

"Slipped," the author substitutes for the second instance.


And just like that the passage is perfect, and I've helped (though the hard work and was all the author's - I'm not pretending I could have written it myself!) and I feel like I've made the world a better place 😊😊😊

I do love editing!

Monday, 4 March 2019

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

In celebration of selling a Trojan War story this weekend (see post below) today's excerpt is from another Greek-myth-inspired tale, Ruby Seeds, which appears in my Dark Enchantment collection:


Saffy is at a cocktail party and getting her flirt on:


With a sharp intake of breath I refocus on my surroundings: the hotel balcony, the party, Patrick. ‘How do I look to you?’ I wonder.

There’s a hint of teeth in his smile: he recognises he’s being challenged. ‘Bored with the party.’

I’ll grant him that, though he doesn’t score high. ‘I’ve been to a lot of parties.’

‘At first I thought you were one of the athletes.’ That gives his gaze an excuse to drop from my face and go exploring. ‘A swimmer, maybe, with a strong beautiful shape like that. But -’ He rescues himself from simple lechery by suddenly focusing on my hair and face with uttermost seriousness: on the black dreadlocks, pale skin, gold piercing in the side of my nose. ‘That’s not swimmer’s hair. You’re track and field, perhaps. On the other hand, you’re drinking. None of the athletes drink, not the night before the first heats. So maybe you’re like me, attached to a corporate sponsor. But – forgive me – you don’t look like a corporate drone either. Too much of an independent spirit, I’d say. So you’re a mystery.’

I giggle, pleased by his ingenuity - and by the raw, tight lines of his body under the evening-wear. ‘And a mystery is intriguing?’

‘I find it irresistible.’ His green eyes tread a dangerous line, leavening their appetite with a hint of twinkling self-awareness. My own body squirms with impatience but I force myself not to seize him.

‘I won’t ruin it for you then.’ I brush the rim of my glass down my throat. ‘Some things you’ll have to work at finding out.’

‘I’ll enjoy that.’ He’s standing very close now. The electricity between us is delicious and I can’t hide a shiver as he brushes the back of my wrist with his fingers. ‘Are you cold?’ he murmurs, tracing a line of goosebumps up my arm.

‘A little.’

‘Shall we go back inside?’

‘No.’

His gratification is undisguised. He knows I am his for the taking. ‘Well,’ he suggests; ‘my jacket, then.’ Slipping it off, he furls it gently about my bare shoulders. I ease away from the rail to make it easier for him, and am enveloped in his warmth and the perfume of his skin and whatever male scent it is he wears. My sex responds to the pheromone shock by blossoming into wet petals. He runs his fingers down the lapels of the jacket, those big knuckles just brushing the jut of my breasts, his grip saying I could pull you to me, his eyes promising a rough landing. I’m still holding my glass. When he looks down it’s there between us, tilted toward him, the carnelian contents threatening to spill.

Then Patrick lifts an eyebrow, the merest brush of his fingertip outlining the ring on my third finger.

‘We’re separated,’ I whisper. Most men don’t care, even when they do notice.

‘Ah.’

‘Nearly a year now.’ I don’t know why I have to say that, and I’m annoyed with myself as the words slip out.

‘Shall I?’ He moves to take the glass from my hand – but I’m quivering with tension and in the exchange I manage to spill a little down the side and onto his fingers. I laugh and lift the flute and his hand in both of mine, so that I can lick the dribble first from the cool hard glass and then, my eyes never leaving his, from his fingers. I lap those knuckles and suck one long finger into my mouth, teasing the sensitive skin with my tongue even as I hold it captive. ‘Oh God,’ says he softly, with reverence.

I take the glass and throw it over my shoulder. It hits a bush somewhere in the garden below. He touches my mouth with his other hand too, as if wondering how much I can fit between my full lips.

‘There’s got to be a quiet room somewhere…’

‘No.’ I pull my lips from his fingertips. ‘Out here.’ I watch the look of surprise and doubt and delight flash in his eyes, and I lay my hand on his shirtfront. Under the cool cotton his stomach is warm and flat. I slip a button and ease my fingers in through the gap, finding firm flesh. That’s too much for him; he finally steps in to close the gap between us, his thighs brushing up against mine, his hands taking my hips. His lips scout gently across my upturned face, checking for hostility and finding not even token resistance

‘We’re a bit visible,’ he murmurs.

‘Then we’ll have to be careful.’ He has a lovely hard bulge of anticipation in his trousers already, I’m pleased to find. ‘I promise not to scream if you don’t.’ I lick his bottom lip, then catch it in my teeth and give it a teasing nip, just as my hand goes to work on his cloth-covered erection. As our tongues meet he gives a thick little groan. Then he surprises me by taking the initiative and sliding his hand up between my thighs. He doesn’t have to lift the hem of the dress far to find the velvet mound of my pussy under the flimsiest of silken triangles. It’s shaven smooth, a fact he discovers as his fingers stroke me softly through the cloth. His tongue stirs my mouth in assured counterpoint to the movement of his hand.

I can’t help the noise that escapes as he finds the edge of the silk at the crease between thigh and pubic mound, but my moan is kept private by his lips. It’s a secret between us – like the secret movement of his finger slipping beneath the fabric to caress my bare flesh, soft and slow. Like the secret rush of heat to my sex. Like the hidden cleft of my sex-lips that he inevitably finds. Suddenly I’m not soft velvet under his hand any more, I am hot liquid melt and his fingers are delving the shallows of my furrow, back and forth.

Our tongues still dancing together, we shift out stances very slightly. I ease my legs open to make room for his hand. He leans in to me harder, arching me over the rail. To any observer it ought to look like we’re simply locked in a deep kiss. From the balcony windows the partygoers will only be sure of the hand he has locked on my hip, not the one plundering my panties. They’ll see the arm I have draped around his neck, not the way I’m stroking the thick bulge in his trousers, squeezing his tumescence greedily. They might guess, but however avidly anyone is spying upon us they cannot be sure.

What if he loses patience? Will he blow our cover? Will he pull the front of my dress down to expose my breasts, hoist my skirt and fuck me properly in full view of them all? The thought makes me wetter still. His fingertip skids in slippery circles upon my clit, stealing my senses.

He’s perfect.



Saturday, 2 March 2019

I'm going to be a Legend

Georges Rochegrosse: Andromache (1883)

What a week! We're still trying to catch up with life after running the Gothic LARP last weekend, but I had a story to turn in too. I sat up until 4 in the a.m.  on Thursday night finishing it, emailed it on Friday morning - and had it accepted on Friday afternoon 😮 My historical fantasy The Price of Passage is now booked to appear in Vol. 3 of the Legends series from Newcon  Press, to my great delight and pride!

The incredibly grim piece of art above shows a scene from the sacking of ancient Troy. Princess Andromache, stripped nearly naked, has been seized by Greek soldiers and is helpless to stop her infant son being carried off by another Greek and dumped to his death off the walls of  the city. The antagonists are posed against a background of hanged, raped and beheaded corpses and a city in flames. Rochgrosse had a bit of a penchant for violence in his paintings, and this one is quite extreme by Victorian standards.

Next ... back to finishing off edits on Lust in the Dust! I'm just such a huge fan of sunny, optimistic themes, clearly ;-)

Thursday, 28 February 2019

You've got red on you

Lady Bagehot shortly after ripping a guest's throat out

 I had the most wonderful weekend, and honestly it's hard being back here in the real world this week! "Write? Walk the dog? Get up in time to meet the door-fitter? Pah!"

I was helping run the first game in the Victorian supernatural LARP campaign, Gothic.  We've spent the last few months writing, prop-making and stressing out about it all - but it all went smoothly (exception: the fog machine didn't work) and the players were an outstanding group who threw themselves into the drama, and the response has been so positive that I'm now looking for a site for the next one!

Malham House. Don't go down into the cellar...

 

It's been decades since I reffed a weekender and I was delighted to find that some things now make it easier, like using Facebook to communicate, (OMG, that halves the work on its own!) and the incredible ease of finding props and costume on Amazon, Wish, and Ebay instead of having to make everything yourselves (tiger-skin?  mop caps? emerald necklace? certainly madame!). That's probably a good thing, since my energy levels are lower these days!

 It's incredibly validating and rewarding to run a game and I've been on Cloud Nine! It almost makes up for the prior stress 😆😆😆

"It's pronounced Batshit"

Monday, 25 February 2019

Blue Monday: Sherry Perkins guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Sherry Perkins. Her paranormal romance novel At the End of the Rainbow featured on a Blue Monday last year - and here's an excerpt from the sequel, What You Wished For - which is out now!


Strange circumstances brought Morgan Patterson from the sandy beaches of the US East Coast to rocky Northern Ireland. Some called those circumstances destiny. Morgan called it something else. 

For her, it was just a college senior year abroad. Until, that is, her studies were interrupted when she met the man of her dreams. A man who took her by the hand, leading her into a world where promises were binding things, where nothing was as it seemed, and where wishing for something could get you more than you bargained for -- including killed. But it was also a world of enduring love, hidden treasures, and the chance to right the wrongs of long ago. 

What Morgan called it was her kingdom. A kingdom she was willing to die to protect.



Morgan could hear Connor moving around downstairs. He was probably getting some cookies before coming to bed. The man was a cookie eating fool if ever there was one. She rolled over in the bed. He’d been to see Em earlier. Morgan had more than a sneaking suspicion she wasn’t going to like whatever he was going to tell her about that—if he managed to pry himself away from the cookies and come to bed.

Conner walked upstairs, the treads squeaking under the weight of his footsteps. When he got to the top of the landing, he leaned his shoulder against the bedroom doorway. Morgan was lying on her side, wearing one of his tee shirts and nothing else. Her pregnant belly was protruding from beneath the shirt. It was quite a lovely thing to see, but that was a thing that he never would have admitted to Em. He smiled, resting his head on the jamb.

“Are you staring at my tummy?” she asked. She stretched a little, then rolled onto her back—her hands on her stomach, and her knees spread just enough that it made him hard to look at her.

He nodded. “Sugar, I’ve something to tell you, and I don’t want you to have a feckin’ cow, yeah?”

Morgan sighed. Loudly. “Connor, we are getting married in a few days. Please don’t tell me that you slept with Em.” She stared expectantly at Connor, waiting for his answer. He had that stupid look on his face guys get sometimes when they want some ass, and Morgan had some trouble reading him because of it.

“No, it’s not that,” he said, repositioning his head against the door frame. “I’d gave you my word. I’d said I’d be faithful to you and you alone, yeah? Besides you know I’d not be able to lie to you if I’d done it.”

Morgan snickered. She closed her thighs, her knees touching but her feet splayed outward. “Of course you can. You lie to me all the time. You and Tiernan both.”

He shifted on his feet. “Naw, sugar, that much is true. Neither he nor I can lie to you. You’ve been told as much before, yeah?”

“I have been told it before. Ryan told me. Fergal said it too. But they never said why. So why is that? Why can’t you lie?”

He shrugged. “It’s not so much about the lying itself. You’ve always known we could be more than a bit manipulative—or what’s that college-girl word you like to use? Obfuscate? Yeah, that’s the word. You knew we could obfuscate. No, it’s more about you, yourself. Like a biological imperative or that.”

“Connor, you don’t even know what a biological imperative is.”

“I do know, Morgan. I’m not a fucking dunderhead, am I now? Reproducing is a biological imperative. Protecting kith and kin. Getting enough roughage in your diet. Stuff like that.” He paused and shifted on his feet again. “Lying to you is counterproductive, literally and figuratively.” He laughed. “Your productiveness, sugar, is of some importance to me. So no, I’d not slept with Em but she wanted it. She wanted it bad. Only that would be counterproductive to what I’m trying to accomplish with you, and for you.”

“What did she do?” Morgan asked.

“It’s not what she’d done. I did it. It’s what I’d done. I gave her exactly what she wanted.” He walked to the bed, sitting on the mattress at Morgan’s feet. He placed his head against her knees, then rolled his forehead against her. “Open your legs, sugar. Let me explain it to you.”

“Stop it, Connor. I’m not in the mood.”

“Sure you are, and I can prove it.” He separated her knees with his hands. kissing the inside of one thigh. Morgan relaxed just a bit. He licked two fingers, wetting them before sliding them deep inside her.

“Connor Doyle, tell me what you did. Tell me what you and Em did.”

He pushed his fingers inside her again, then again and one more time after that. “I told her what she
wanted to know. Because after I’d thought about it, pissing Tiernan around was part of your Big Plan, was it not?” He moved his fingers, feeling for the little indentation that marked her g-spot. When he’d found it, he rubbed it rather enthusiastically.

Morgan whispered something in response.

“What?” he asked, rubbing a tad more insistently.

“I said, I said don’t stop,” she murmured.

“You mean this? Don’t stop this?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “I won’t stop. Not until you tell me, yeah?” She still didn’t answer, which he took as encouragement to continue. He rubbed some more until she held her breath and arched her back, moaning loudly and wetting his fingers with her warm viscous fluid. “Morgan,” he sighed. “Morgan, Morgan, Morgan.”

“Tell me. It’s OK. Just tell me.” She reached between her legs, touching Connor on the side of his face. He leaned into her hand.

“She wanted me to tell her a secret. Something that only Tiernan would know about you and hurt him in the bargain. She wants to hurt him. She wants to punish him. But first, she wants to make him suffer. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant proposition, yeah? Because I wouldn’t mind it so much, neither—making him suffer. Especially if he suffered because of you and me, something we’d done together.”

“What did you tell her, Connor?”

“I told her that when we were at it, you got off when I licked your calves and you watched my mouth and tongue on you.”



Buy What You Wished For at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK


Sherry Perkins has worked as a licensed practical nurse for more than thirty-five years and has experience in psychiatric/addictions nursing, nursing-care coordination, and risk management. She earned a BS in health sciences from Campbell University in Buies Creek, North Carolina, and has spoken at public health functions on topics such as addiction prevention and treatment, prevention of teenage opioid deaths, and connecting patients who are resistant to treatment with appropriate services.

A mother of four, Perkins lives with extended family on the Delmarva Peninsula, where she enjoys collecting shells and sea glass; reading mysteries, science fiction, and fantasy; doing organic gardening; and following the Dave Matthews Band around the East Coast. At the End of the Rainbow was the first in a series of books inspired by a visit to Northern Ireland and a yearning to return there one day.

Facebook
Amazon Author Page
Goodreads
Twitter:  @SherryP37399883
And email at perkins.sherry.SP@gmail.com

Wednesday, 20 February 2019

Into the Shadows


Alas, dear readers - I must regretfully bid you a fond farewell for a few days. I am called upon to take up my post as the kindly matriarch of a beloved family in the gas-lit reign of the Empress Victoria. I am afraid my portrait photograph is not all I had hoped, because I struggle with these new technologies and did not understand the photographer's instructions. But I think it captures my essential sweetness, merriment and open-hearted generosity in a candid manner, and all who glimpse it will be assured that a warm welcome awaits them in my haunted mansion on the banks of the ghastly mere that is Malham Tarn. 

I shall return! 💀


Monday, 18 February 2019

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Things move fast in the Norse world of Samantha MacLeod! Back in January we had an excerpt from The Monster's Lover: Book 1 of The Fenris Series. Now she's back with Book 2 - The Monster's Wife.  😉


Saved by the monster!

Sol and her lover Fenris escaped the cruel king Nøkkyn and fled deep into the Ironwood. Yet life in the forest proves more perilous than Sol imagined. Is the handsome Týr, one of the Æsir from the myths of her childhood, a friend or a foe? How well does she actually know the mysterious man who saved her from Nøkkyn’s clutches?

And, even hidden beneath the shadows of the Ironwood forest, are Fenris and Sol truly safe from the King’s reach?



Fenris took the drinking horn and leaned back. Firelight flickered across his muscular chest as his hair swirled across his shoulders. By the Realms, even after all the time we’d spent together, he was still so beautiful it took my breath away. With a sudden flush of heat, I envisioned plunging my hands deep into his hair, pulling the horn from his lips, and kissing the mead from his mouth as I wrapped my legs around his waist, sinking my body onto his, thrusting our hips together while Týr watched—

Fenris dropped the horn with a victorious whoop. His eyes blazed, bright and unfocused in the firelight. “Like an Æsir,” he said, wiping his mouth.

“Just like an Æsir,” Týr agreed.

Týr bent closer to Fenris, taking the drinking horn from the grass at his side. Fenris leaned to meet him, and—

I blinked, at first distrusting my eyes. Fenris and Týr had bent so close to one another their lips touched. Fenris tilted his head, his mouth opening to Týr. Týr closed his eyes. For a heartbeat the whole world stood still. Fenris moaned.

My body responded before my mind could fully grasp what was happening. The dark coil of need inside my gut tightened, and the space between my legs began to ache. My nipples pricked at Týr’s shirt, scraping the coarse fabric.

The men pulled apart, still gazing into each other’s eyes. I thought they would kiss a second time, and something hungry buried deep inside me wanted to see their naked, muscular chests pressed together in the firelight, but Fenris pulled away.

“Sol,” Fenris said, looking at me with a frown. “Týr is my good friend. My very good friend. We usually kiss.”

Týr laughed. “We usually do more than kiss.”

Fenris was watching me, his expression a bit lost, and it occurred to me he was waiting for something. Permission, perhaps?

“I-I don’t mind,” I stammered.

Fenris’s frown evaporated, and his eyes danced. “Would you like to kiss him too? Týr is a very good kisser.”

I met Týr’s eyes in the flicker of firelight. His soft lips curved into a smile, and I was suddenly very aware of his naked chest.

“I’d like that,” I said.

Týr crawled toward me, stopping only when he was sitting directly in front of me. He took my cheek
in his warm palm and smiled, waiting for me. I closed my eyes and fell toward him, surrendering to the urgent demands of my own body.

He was a very good kisser. Týr’s beard was soft enough not to scratch, and the brush of his rough hair against my cheek made me shiver with arousal. His lips and tongue danced across mine carefully and unhurriedly. Týr’s kisses moved through me like the mead, slow and golden, awakening every part of my body. Fenris’s kisses were always hungry, always wanting more, like he was a wolf, ready to devour me. But Týr kissed me like he wanted nothing else in all the Nine Realms, as though all he’d ever wanted to do was move his lips and tongue against mine until the end of time.

Týr’s hand moved as we embraced, traveling down my cheek and neck, pressing the fabric of his shirt against my arm, cupping my breast. When his thumb grazed across my nipple, desire sizzled through my body, slicking the space between my legs. I groaned into his mouth. More. I needed more.

Týr pulled away, grinning. “Oh. You’re lovely.”.

I moaned. He’d taken his hand from my breast, and the sudden absence of touch and pressure seemed unbearable.

“She tastes amazing,” Fenris said.

Before my brain could process that comment, Fenris was next to me. My hungry lips sought him out, kissing him frantically. Another hand pressed against my breast, squeezing my nipple, and I gasped as a long, hot shiver of arousal raced through me. I sank my hands into Fenris’s hair and leaned against him, kissing him desperately.

Firm, warm hands pushed my legs open and brushed fingers across the inside of my thighs.

“Yes,” I said, aching to be touched.

Something warm and wet pressed between my thighs, and I opened my eyes in shock. Týr lay face down on the ground before me, the muscles in his back flexing slowly in the firelight, his head buried between my legs. Fenris sat next to me, his arm supporting my shoulders, his lips nibbling my ear and neck.

I closed my eyes again, allowing myself to be taken.

Týr’s lips and tongue moved across the swollen heat of my sex, kissing it as slowly and carefully as he’d kissed my mouth. My body rocked with pleasure; heat built in waves as Týr devoured me while Fenris kissed my neck, trailed his teeth down my skin, and closed his fingers around my nipple. I tried to speak, to tell them yes, more, but my words came out as a strangled, gasping moan.

They made love to me slowly, despite my whimpered protests. Again and again Týr brought me to the crest only to back off, leaving me panting and mewling. He kissed me until time lost its meaning, until everything lost all meaning. I was nothing but sensations--just the feel of Týr’s lips against my sex and my fingers in his hair, the scrape of Fenris’s teeth against my neck and the slow trickle of my sweat rolling onto Fenris’s chest, the gasp and hiss of my breath as each new jolt of pleasure shook me to my core, the forest and the firelight vanishing as my vision blurred.

When my climax finally came, it obliterated me. My legs stiffened, trapping Týr between my thighs as I screamed to the treetops, over and over, every thought destroyed, every part of my body flooded with ecstasy, until I collapsed back against Fenris’s chest.



 Buy The Monster's Wife 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
Facebook
Twitter
Tumblr
Amazon Author Page
BookBub
Instagram

Saturday, 16 February 2019

Sinister Ducks

This has been doing the rounds online 😉


Which of course made me think of the GREATEST DUCK SONG OF ALL TIME



(written by Alan Moore, probably after some funny mushrooms I'm guessing)

"Everyone thinks they're such sweet little things
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Soft downy feathers and nice little wings
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
But there's a poison I'd like to administer,
You think they're cuddly but I think they're sinister.
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!


What are they doing at night in the park?
Think of them waddling about in the dark.
Sneering and whispering and stealing your cars,
Reading pornography, smoking cigars.


Nasty and small, undeserving of life.
They smirk at your hairstyle and sleep with your wife.
Dressed in black jackets and horrible shoes,
Getting divorces and turning to booze.


Forcing old ladies to throw them some bread.
Who could deny they'd be better off dead?
Look closer and you may recoil in surprise,
At web-footed fascists with mad little eyes.
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!"

Wednesday, 13 February 2019

Love and His Counterfeits

For your romantic enjoyment on Valentine's day, here are some rather wonderful paintings by the "last of the pre-Raphaelites," and one of the most popular artists of the Edwardian era, Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale (1872-1945) on the subject of LOVE. [click to enlarge]:

Love and His Counterfeits (1904)

This picture needs quite a bit of explanation!
"When a girl's soul awakens and she opens the door of her Heart's Castle to receive Love, at first she will not recognise him.
First, she will see Fear and think him to be Love. Fear, in craven armour of black, with no coat of arms or badge to mark his family. But by Fear, Love may come.
Then she will see Romance, being now in love with 'being in love' - Romance, the Boy on a Bubble with a Castle of Dreams in his hand, and Birds and Roses about him. He leads Ambition, who shall stir the girl to think he is Love himself - Ambition, very hot and eager, riding upon Pegasus, the winged Horse.
After them is Position, whom she may take for Love; but truly she is in love with Appearance, Prestige, Importance, Riches, Place, all his Train, and this is borne by a Cupid.
Now she is stirred by Pity, thinking whom she pities she loves - Pity with the Cup of tears with three handles, that many may drink.
Then she perceives Arts, a brave fellow who is but words and emptiness and a mask for love. Arts paints a wound upon him and sings that it is real. To Love he is not henchman, nor cousin, but enemy.
Behind him goes Flattery with a mirror, so she is wooed by vain words. Then Gratitude comes with the smoke of memory, and she will think she is faithless if she does not love one who has been kind.
Now, at last, after her emotion, her assault by gifts, mirrors, riches, tears, dreams, phrases, memories, comes True Love, empty-handed, to take and win her Heart's Castle."


Perhaps Brickdale's most famous painting is The Uninvited Guest (1906) which depicts Cupid hanging out disconsolately at the fringes of a wedding that is all about wealth, appearance and position. Love is not invited here.


Can't get enough of that ol' Symbolism? Here's Chivalry Dying of Love for the Goddess:


(Note the knights all swooning about somewhat over-dramatically, which has entertained Venus enough to give her pause in the procession of olympians.)


Here's much simpler picture, but still full of drama:


The Secret


And my absolute fave, Love and Adversity (1900) in which the protagonist is kept company by Love while (one assumes) his Beloved goes off to marry some rich dude.


Add caption
I means, it's got a hairy dude in bondage at the castle gate - What's not to adore? There's definitely a story waiting to be written for that one!


Monday, 11 February 2019

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Valentine's day is coming up so it's time to remind myself of my festively themed story Shot to the Heart, which is all about a lingerie-buying session...





He took me to Curzon’s, which is a big old-fashioned department store of the sort you don’t see much about anymore: a family-owned business rather than part of a chain, and just a bit run-down. It’s the Land that Fashion Forgot. I don’t shop there myself; its clientele is mostly the dowdy middle-aged who remember it from their own childhood. Because this was a weekday morning there weren’t many customers in and we had the big open-plan floors almost to ourselves. We wandered through the jewellery sections and crockery and perfume. Oliver held my hand and said very little, just smiled slyly. I let him enjoy being mysterious.

Then he led me up the stairs to the fourth floor and into the lingerie department and I was amazed to find that those dull middle-aged women had a real good thing going with their underwear. The department was big – and the stock wasn’t all designed to fit anorexic waifs either. All the labels had French or Italian names on. There were basques and corsets and girdles and stockings and bras of every shape and size – bras to make you look big and bras to make you look small, naughty nighties and control garments and suspender belts. I’ve never seen so much lace all in one place.

‘See anything you like?’ Oliver asked. ‘My treat.’

‘You sure?’

‘Oh it will be,’ he promised, brushing his lips to my ear and biting gently at the lobe. I shivered. I started to look through the racks of bras, falling instantly in love with the different colours of contrasting lace. A female shop assistant with a face like a wet weekend drifted over in our direction.

‘Can I help you at all?’

‘We’re fine,’ said Oliver cheerily. He had the right accent for that kind of place. She looked us over and then retreated to her counter again as a tweedy-looking lady went up to ask for help. I smiled to myself, stroking a longline slip of red satin slashed to the waist, and failing to imagine the tweedy woman wearing anything like this in a hundred years. I had a push-up bra in dark purple with lavender trim in one hand, and another in wild hues of blue and turquoise and pretty appliquéd flowers in the other, when Oliver came over with his own choice of garment.

‘I’d like to see you in this as well,’ he said softly.

It was a single-piece body made to look like a ruched Victorian corset, with definite hints of burlesque. The chestnut satin of the side panels was overlaid in peach lace and there were plentiful trimmings of black ribbons and suspender straps. I could imagine how I’d look in it and my mouth watered.

‘Are you sure, Ol? This stuff is pretty expensive.’

‘Valentine’s present. You had a look at the knickers yet?’ He drew me gently toward those racks and away from the assistant.

‘I bet you want me in itty bitty thongs, don’t you?’ I giggled.

‘Nope. I don’t have a thing for string.’ He turned slightly so that his back was to the counter and anyone watching, and lowered his voice to a warm murmur. ‘What I like is those ones with the full panel of lace at the front, all sweet and pretty, and then you turn around and at the back they’re cut high so that your beautiful round bum cheeks peek out from beneath the lace band, almost bared.’ He was starting to sound a little throaty. ‘It’s like the curtain going up on the stage at the theatre. Oh god, Nikki, that just drives me crazy.’

‘Everything drives you crazy,’ I countered as he brushed up against me, gentle but very deliberate.

‘Everything about you, anyway.’ He took my hand – the one not laden with hangers full of frillies – and pressed it reverently to the front of his jeans. He had a semi on already – a hard curve of flesh that surged up against the fabric and against my fingers. He wanted me but bad, I had to admit, and that eagerness was arousing in the most primal way. I licked my lips. I wanted to rub him harder, but a department store wasn’t exactly the right place.

‘Here,’ he said, handing me four pairs of panties. ‘Now head that way. To the changing room. Quickly! While she’s busy!’

Trying to look nonchalant, we wound our way between the racks to the back corner of the building where the changing rooms were. In a more modern store there would have been some sort of security, but this place was old fashioned and understaffed. There was just an outer door and, inside, three cubicles. Oliver hurried me into the far cell and shut the door on us before catching me up in teasing kiss, all tongue and promise. I wriggled my hips, grinding against him. Two can play at teasing. I was pleased to feel him gasp in response and grow harder.

‘You’re such a horny git,’ I complained happily.

‘Only because you’re so deliciously fuckable,’ he countered.

It was a fair cop: I was already well into the tickly, squirmy stage, and just the pressure of his hands and his crotch against me was making me burn. I giggled softly.

‘Coat off,’ he whispered, laying his own on the bench and sitting on it. I looked down at him, pouting, then wriggled out of my coat in a mock-stripper style to reveal the less-than-sexy layers underneath: a fine grey jersey-cotton top and a red plaid skirt over thick black tights.

‘You going to watch me try on my presents?’ I asked, though I thought it obvious. But he shook his head. His eyes were intent on some secret, serious purpose.

‘Take your skirt off.’

I unzipped and obeyed, half-smiling but starting to catch his mood. I was embarrassed about my woolly tights, which were rather more practical than sensual, but Oliver didn’t seem to be put off. He rolled them carefully down my legs, and helped me step out of my boots before tossing the tights aside. I stood before him bare-thighed, the mirrored iterations of my legs arrayed around him.

One lucky point in my favour: out of all the panties I own - from lacy wisps to striped shorts to polka-dotted cotton (and even the stretched grey overwashed ones that every girl has at the back of her drawer for emergency use) – I’d donned this morning a pair in the style he liked best: full cover at the front and even down over the crease of the thigh, but cut high over the cheeks behind. These were plain black and very soft and flimsy, and my cheeks seemed to glow in contrast to their sober hue. My ass is far from skinny, but it was only under Oliver’s admiring attentions that I’d come to really appreciate those full, peachy globes. I gave him a twirl to demonstrate my good taste in panties, and in the mirrors my reflections twirled too.

Quickly he caught me and pulled my bottom to his face, kissing first one cheek then the other, just below the delicately scalloped edge of the cloth. I gasped a little as his hand slipped up between my thighs, encouraging me to widen my stance and part them, for which he rewarded me by cupping the mound of my sex. His hot breath and reverent lips and his moist tongue-tip roamed over the curves of my bottom, his other hand stroking up under the line of my panties until I was flustered and breathing hard. His thumb stroked my pussy lips through the silky fabric, working magical changes on and inside me.

‘Oliver,’ I whispered frantically. If he kept this up I was going to forget all my dignity.



You can find Shot to the Heart in the e-collecion of the same name:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Kobo