Saturday, 30 January 2016

Two Precious

So I'm just getting stuck deep deep deep into my luverly Valleys of the Earth ... when the edits for Falling Deep turn up in my inbox, along with a 'request' for a cover blurb ASAP!

The writing life, eh? There's always something to distract you from your book, even if it's only your other book :-)

I've seen plenty of authors say it's harder writing the cover blurb than the book, btw. I get that. We are fiction writers, not marketing copywriters. That's a WHOLE different skill, and lots of us find it really stressful.

"Explain in 200 words why your baby is the best baby in the world and everyone should love it."

Thursday, 28 January 2016

So it begins

Mikhail Vrubel again!
I'm 4K into The Valleys of the Earth, the follow-up to Cover Him with Darkness.

I'm scared, tbh.

I'm scared I'll end up repeating myself - metaphors, similes, theological arguments.
I'm scared Milja's relationship with Azazel is too abusive for contemporary readers.

I'm really scared I can't write anything as good as that first volume. Because I think I've set the bar way high, truth be told.

All I can do is write it out, though.

Monday, 25 January 2016

Blue Monday: billierosie guests

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

My guest this week is billierose, with an excerpt from her short story Pasiphae, which appears in the The Beast in Me. And it is, by the way, a superb read, and I loved it - but OMG NOT for the fainthearted, even by Ashbless standards!

Can you guess the theme?

"Our sexual proclivities are an enigma. We have them, we know that they are there; we hide them, we keep them secret – sometimes we act on them. We cannot talk about them – no one would understand. We feel heated shame. We block feeling, turn away from feeling; we do anything not to feel. We crush the horror of the terrible deed that the little voice inside our head bids us do. Freud tells us that repressing feeling will amount to neurosis – Jung says pretty much the same – the repressed will bubble to the surface in one way or another – it will find a way out. 

It will find its voice and it will demand to be heard. 

The two stories presented here delve into the idea of ‘what happens next?’ What do you do – where do you go, after crashing and smashing your way through the final taboo?

A Queen, her depravity told through the millennia. Homer tells her story –Pasiphae the unnatural; the King, her husband, made a cuckold. Men snigger about the royal couple – even now, centuries later. What she did, her shame exposed to all, when she gave birth to a monster.

If you know Homer’s story about the Minotaur, you will know that the Monster is proof that Queen Pasiphae was indeed guilty of a terrible perversion.

And my own tale
“The Beast in Me;” the taboo ever present in Daisy and Noah. They are lovers, besotted with each other; besotted with a terrible secret. They break man’s law and God’s law too.

Sensitive readers should be cautious, especially if easily offended."

Queen Pasiphae had even made drawings on parchment of the type of construction she wanted Daedalus to build for her. He was impressed; she had approach the matter of construction intelligently.

She realised that if the bull were to mount her he would kill her. The bull would crush her to death. She wanted him to build her a hollow cow. Something that she could crawl inside and something that would take the bull’s mighty weight. Her cunt would be exposed; somehow Daedalus was to convince the bull that she was a cow and the bull would copulate with her.

Daedalus had reasoned with her. Had she realised the size of the bull’s erect penis? Would she be able to accommodate him? Didn’t she realise that he could split her in two?

But the Queen countered those questions. She had thought of all of those things. If it was the god’s will that she should die in that way, then so be it.

Daedalus had told the Queen that the King must be informed. Daedalus was, after all, the King’s guest at the court of Knossos. It seemed wrong to actively help the Queen in an unnatural act of adultery without seeking the King’s permission.

Then Daedalus surprised himself at his boldness. Their dialogue had aroused him. And he could smell the meaty, animal stink of the Queen’s arousal. His cock was erect. He lifted his tunic and exposed himself to the Queen. Let her see, he thought. What could she do? She needed him. He stroked his cock, pumping slowly. All the time watching the Queen’s face.

And so I saw what I had come to. Daedalus’ vile behaviour showed me what men and women would think of me. There was no longer any respect, as he exposed and pumped his cock. This was how it would be from now on. Pasiphae, the slut. The Queen who would copulate with a beast. Men would joke about me in taverns, laugh behind my back. They would sing lewd songs about me. The story would be carved out in history; Pasiphae the depraved whore. Pasiphae the perverted, debauched Queen. Daedalus grunted and spurted his seed on the tiled floor, never taking his eyes from my face. He bared his teeth at me. I knelt at his feet obediently, lapping up his spent seed.

The Queen stood before the King, in the magnificent throne room; Daedalus stood at the King’s right hand. King Minos was a big man, yet on this day he seemed shrunken and frail. He had aged years in just a few small minutes. He sat on the sculptured throne, his head in his hands. The frescoes of gryphons guarding the royal throne looked on at the King’s devastation impassively.

Queen Pasiphae was composed; she had told Minos, clearly and slowly what she wanted, needed to do. Now she stood before him, her eyes wide, steadily watching him.

And how magnificent she looked. Every bit a Queen, her blue flounced skirts setting off her deep blue eyes. Her voluptuous breasts were bare and swayed when she moved. She had gold tinted her nipples, as was the custom for a high priestess. Her arms were covered in gold bracelets filled with precious stones. Golden hairpins of crocus flowers decorated her long, tumbling, fair tresses. She wore a costly pendant, shaped and hammered by the court goldsmith, into a bee hive pattern. Pasiphae had dressed for the occasion. Speaking with the authority of the goddess, she diminished her husband. Both she and he knew it.


Daedalus smiled; the previous day he had ordered the Queen to suck his cock. Not because he particularly desired such a thing. But because he wanted to see her beautiful mouth stretched to its capacity by his thickness. She’d gagged as he pushed his long, thick cock into her throat but he’d been relentless. He’d talked to her throughout; telling her that she was dirt; a slut. He’d pulled out to ejaculate on her face; her silky, fair hair sticky with his spunk.


Daedalus admired her composure as she stood before her husband. Not once had she flinched, not even when her husband had cursed her for an evil whore. That she was no better than the women who sell themselves to the sailors at the docks and harbours around the island. She had simply replied that it was what the god demanded; that her husband was to blame for not sacrificing the beautiful white bull to Poseidon.

King Minos had wept his response. He would go down in history as a cuckold. A fool, who would encourage his wife in this perversion. He knew what the gossips around the court whispered; that Minos was an impotent idiot, who couldn’t satisfy his wife.

Now they would know that they were right.

Again, Pasiphae had asserted that it was the god’s will.

Daedalus bowed his head to hide another small smile from playing around his lips. It maybe the god’s will, he thought. But the Queen was desperate for this fucking. The fucking may kill her; but without it she would surely die.

The King rose to his feet as if to strike his wife, but his large frame tumbled and crashed back onto the throne, his limbs twitching and jerking. He tried to speak, but his words were slurred. One side of his mouth dragged down in a terrible sneer. His head fell back; the eyes rolled beneath his lids, showing only the whites. The god had struck him down, silencing him.


Daedalus left the Queen pouring over the drawings he had brought to her apartments. He had ordered her to finger herself before he would give them to her, and desperate as she was, she’d obeyed him. He’d made her pull up her skirts and open her thighs, displaying her open cunt. He’d grinned as he watched the Queen’s fingers slurped, squelching, in and out of her wet hole.

She wept as she fingered herself, little sobs coming from her throat. How much longer would she have to wait? She had begged Daedalus to make haste with his work. She’d flung her arms around his knees, begging him to hurry. The tension had gone on for too long; she couldn’t bear to wait much longer.

Buy The Beast in Me at Amazon US :: Amazon UK

People fascinate billierosie. What makes them tick; what are their secrets and lies. The effete guy in the bank; the blonde lady shopping in the supermarket, the elderly lady living in a care home. What stories could they tell? Perhaps erotic stories of sex, intrigue and fetish?

And fetish is high on billierosie's agenda. The strange, haunting stuff that informs our darkest desires. It could be fur or feathers. Shoes, silk stockings, or toes. Poop or pee. An amputee's stump. If we made a list it would go on forever.

billierosie lives in a pretty village in England. She doesn't fit with village life; certainly not the Women's Institute. billierosie loves the theatre, Art, film, books and all things eccentric. billierosie plans to have fun and stay young, writing sexy erotica.

billierosie's Amazon page

Wednesday, 20 January 2016

I'm too sexy for my wood

Pirelli Calendar reject
Because there's a public road bordering my bit of woodland, there's the odd bit of detritus shed by passers-by.
Highlights of my litter-picking so far:
  • 1 tyre
  • 2 hubcaps
  • 1 pair freshly-discarded latex gloves (WTF? Ewwww!)

If I'm not online, btw, it's because I'm here :-)

Monday, 18 January 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

And this Monday it is - it HAS to be - an excerpt featuring my very own Goblin King, from filthy fairy tale Named and Shamed.

This is, btw, pretty mucky. You have been warned.

Humiliation-junkie Tansy has fallen into the clutches of the Elder Witch and has become her housemaid. Now the witch has a visitor...

So that was how I spent my days as scullion to the Elder Tree Witch. Until one night the fishes’ song gave a prediction I’d never heard before:

What does the morrow bring?
Golden sun, blackberries ripen, the Brenin rides by -
This we sing.
Neither the witch nor her sons remarked on the forecast at the time, but the next day I was out at the front of the cottage, feeding the chickens, when I heard a bestial snort behind me and I looked round. And there he was.
I really don’t see how he’d managed to sneak up on me, riding a big horse like that. It was a black stallion, with an arched neck and a mane like rough silk that was hung with tiny silver bells. The Brenin was dressed entirely in black too — a hodgepodge of fashion stolen from history. Mr. Darcy boots, a long Victorian riding coat, biker leathers on his legs and a belted medieval shirt embroidered down the front — all topped off with a black half-mask in the form of a skull. Behind the skull’s eye-sockets his eyes glinted. His hair was a dead white and it hung down as far as his elbows, while his skin, where it showed, was the colour of long-buried bone. Frankly, he looked like a manga villain, and he should have been risible anywhere outside of a convention auditorium . . . but he wasn’t. I could feel reality crinkling up around him, like cellophane exposed to heat.
As I stared, the horse reached down, snatched up one of the chickens and ate it, bones and feathers crunching in its teeth with a noise like a packet of crisps.
“Lady,” I said through dry lips. I didn’t dare raise my voice. But I didn’t have to. She stepped out from the cottage and strode toward the rider, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh, Brenin! Such an honour you pay me! Are you hunting today?”
He switched his attention to her, his thin lips twitching in a smile. “My Hounds rest at the moment, Grandmother. I thought I’d call in at the house of my favourite beldame and see how she is keeping.”
I noted that the moment he opened his mouth, the rest of the chickens bolted back into their ruined hut, though there was nothing unpleasant about his voice that I could discern. It was a cool, dry, well-spoken voice, and it somehow made me think he was used to giving orders.
“Well! I am well!” she cackled merrily, practically dancing on the spot. “These old bones are still strong. You must stop a while and break bread with me.”
“Willingly, Grandmother.”      
 “Quick, skivvy!” She signalled to me and I came nervously around the front of the horse to join her. The animal snorted at me in a disparaging way and pawed the rock with a silver-shod hoof, the bells strung in its mane making a shivery noise. “On your elbows and knees,” she commanded me, nodding at a spot below the Brenin’s boot. “So that my lord may alight.”

Nervous though I was, disobedience didn’t even occur to me. I was well-trained by this point. I put down my pot and sank into position as a mounting block for him, bracing my back. His booted foot was hard and he didn’t spare me his weight. I let out a little gasp of relief as his feet finally struck the dirt.
“Will you have beer, my Brenin? Wine? Milk?”
“Wine. But first I would relieve myself after the ride.”
“Of course. Skivvy!”
 I knelt up. At first I didn’t realise what was expected of me. She signalled impatiently for me to face the Brenin, with his high boots and long legs. I noticed he wore a knife at his belt and the hollow horn of a ram, chased in gold, and that he had a riding crop with a thick stock thrust into his left boot. He was popping the crotch studs of his leathers.
“Open your mouth, girl!” the witch screeched.
A blowjob? That was no hardship, I thought. He was hot in his creepy way, and he’d make a welcome change from the three grotesque witch-spawn. As he revealed a smooth cock, full and curved but not yet erect, I licked my lips expectantly and set them in a welcoming pout.
“Open! You want him to piss all over your face?”
 My eyes widened as realisation hit me. My heart clenched and blood rushed to my face, masking my freckles. After everything that had happened to me, everything I’d submitted to, I still found it hard to believe anyone could expect this. It made me feel dizzy. I felt a twinge between my legs too: shock manifesting as arousal. I looked up into his face, as he stepped in and I opened my mouth. He smelled of saffron, and rain upon dust, and his expression was unreadable. But he must have felt my involuntary tremble as, taking my jaw in his hand, he fed his elegant ivory cock between my lips and over my tongue, and set his legs a little apart.
I took his cock as far back in my mouth as I could, telling myself it was no different than necking a pint of beer, and the further back the less I would taste it. I was sort of right. Except it was hot. And not beer. In fact it tasted like honey – one of those strong, dark honeys collected from arid pine forests. As the flood commenced, tears brimmed in my eyes, making his form waver above me. I’d been pissed on by those two cops — long ago it seemed now — but never pissed in. Never reduced to such humiliation on such an intimate and primal level. I couldn’t breathe, he filled my throat so. And my belly. I couldn’t do anything but open my throat and swallow it all down, and it seemed to take him forever to empty his bladder. His fingers were cool where they held me, cool where they brushed the hair back from my face so he could watch my eyes. I couldn’t hide from him the emotions that battered me — the revulsion, the abject submission, the desperate desire to perform well, my slowly growing panic as my air ran out. I was going to gag soon. I was going to choke and wrench away. I would end up with his hot spray all over my face, as he held my hair to keep me in place — and the thought set me burning.
At the very last moment, just before fear became reality, the Brenin pulled out. Not all the way, but enough for me to snatch a gasp of air. And to recognise part of the cause of my distress. His cock was no longer entirely soft and slender, but pumped fat with arousal. He used it in a thorough exploration of my mouth, making sure I tasted the dregs before he released me properly at last. I was crying properly now, salt tears running down and mixing with the bitter-sweet drops on my lips as I licked them.
 I could no longer look up at his face.
“I like her.” He stroked his cock idly and it bounced to full erection between his long fingers. “Those eyebrows — even her lashes — they’re like flame. She’s a rarity. And she’s very receptive.”
“Yes, she is. Try her cunny, my Brenin, if it pleases you. ‘
 “I’ll have her rear entrance, for preference.”
“Of course. It will be quite ready for you.” Grasping the long leather rope, she pulled the butt-plug from my anus with no effort at all.
He pulled the riding crop from his boot, wielding it in the hand that was not busy caressing his stiff shaft. The whip, roughly rounded in cross-section, was much thicker than a modern one, though it tapered to a springy point. I had a nasty feeling it was made from some sort of dried animal pizzle. Contemplatively, he poked and slapped at my breasts, the muted sting exciting my nipples to points.
“Face down,” he said. “Grip your ankles.”
I obeyed, lowering my face and shoulders to the ground and reaching behind me to grip my calves. My ass was exhibited upward, pointing into the air. The Brenin walked round behind me, flicked my skirt up with his whip and surveyed the view presented. I could feel my asshole, pliant and open, oozing grease where the butt-plug had been pulled from it. He set the narrow end of his crop across the hole, pressing slightly. My sphincter fluttered, dilating. He tapped it softly then with the very point of the crop, and I felt my anus spasm, ripples of pleasure flaring out across my ass.
 “Very good,” he breathed. Crouching down behind me, he fed the thick head of his cock to my waiting hole. “You may speak,” he told me indulgently, as he impaled my ass.

Sunday, 17 January 2016


David Bowie rocks the Urban Paranormal genre.
With tentacles.

Thursday, 14 January 2016

RIP Rickman

Well, 2016 seems determined to take out every geek icon, doesn't it? First the Goblin King, now Snape.

Alan Rickman was a great actor and a nerdy sex-symbol. He played villains (usually smart, sneering villains - my favourite kind - pitted against meathead heroes). He played repressed self-defeating British middle-class men burdened by varying degrees of bitterness. He, like Bowie, was a fixture in our cultural life, and they both died too young, even at 69.

"I'll take this as a healthy reminder that subtlety... isn't everything" - upon receiving a BAFTA for 'Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves'

He wasn't really handsome (well, maybe for a few moments in a good light).

All his sex-appeal was in his voice, his eyes, and his charisma. But he was pretty much guaranteed to steal the show in every movie.

Heh - I have to admit to a very school-inappropriate flutter when I first watched this epic thespian flounce-off:

Goddamnit. This year has seen too many momento moris already.

Tuesday, 12 January 2016

Goblin King

Like many, I was saddened to hear of Bowie's death this week. I'm afraid I was never much into his music (bar a few singles like The Man who Sold the World), but OMG he has a place in my heart and an eternal imprint in my psyche thanks to his role in this movie, which I still rate as one of the greatest fantasy films ever:

Labyrinth was released in 1986, so I'd have been nineteen, which is a bit late for any of these "awakening my sexuality" confessions that have been going around. But my goodness he had an effect on it. Not so much the Infamous Bulge:

(I don't actually recall noticing it at the time). More the hair actually...

I'm a hair perv and I don't care.
And the hoards of muppety goblin minions...

I mean, who doesn't adore a goblin army?

No, in all seriousness, what I fell in love with was the film itself - just endlessly inventive, funny, creepy and visually stunning - in which King Jareth was just the sexy icing on the cake. Labyrinth was extraordinary for the time because it was a magical quest with a girl as the hero. Since the invention of children's fiction we have been up to our eyeballs in boy-heroes going boldly forth to rescue, save, explore and make good of themselves, but NEVER until then was it a girl.

Sarah has a character arc where she starts off imaginative but unhappy and self-centered, and then gets to display and develop courage, cleverness, loyalty, strength of will, discernment and tenacity. She's cunning at making allies. She's also forced, at 15, to resist the temptations of easy romance and the "princess dream" when Jareth fakes up his pretty ballroom scene for her - and that's a big ask for a fifteen year old.

I mean, shit - I'd abandon my baby brother and all my friends to shag him any day. I'm no good at adulting!

There's a deeper exploration of the revolutionary girl-hero here, and a sweet male-POV eulogy for the Goblin King here.

So that's part of the reason why Labyrinth made such an impact on me. But there's more! The relationship between Jareth and Sara is a deeply uneasy one in which power and sexual attraction are double-edged weapons. It's creepy and complex, and in the end it turns out that the Goblin King is as trapped as she is.
 Can you understand the impact of this dialogue in a movie essentially for children?

Oh, and I now realise that a reflection of King Jareth turns up in my BDSM novel Named and Shamed, as The Brenin, king of the fairy court:

 And there he was.
    I really don’t see how he’d managed to sneak up on me, riding a big horse like that. It was a black stallion, with an arched neck and a mane like rough silk that was hung with tiny silver bells. The Brenin was dressed entirely in black too — a hodgepodge of fashion stolen from history. Mr. Darcy boots, a long Victorian riding coat, biker leathers on his legs and a belted medieval shirt embroidered down the front — all topped off with a black half-mask in the form of a skull. Behind the skull’s eye-sockets his eyes glinted. His hair was a dead white and it hung down as far as his elbows, while his skin, where it showed, was the colour of long-buried bone. Frankly, he looked like a manga villain, and he should have been risible anywhere outside of a convention auditorium . . . but he wasn’t. I could feel reality crinkling up around him, like cellophane exposed to heat.
In fact, now I come to think of it, there's a really strong case for Named and Shamed just being my adult version of Labyrinth...

Who would have thunk it, eh?

So I will miss you, Goblin King. Long may you reign immortal in your castle in the heart of the Labyrinth...

Monday, 11 January 2016

Blue Monday: Zak Jane Keir guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

My first guest of 2016 is Zak Jane Keir with a snippet from her hot new collection Sticky Fingers and Warm Leatherette

Sticky Fingers and Warm Leatherette is a collection of short stories including BDSM, roleplay, bisexual party games and obsessive lust. 

A newbie sub comes up with the perfect birthday present for the mistress he adores...
A game of Truth or Dare goes further than expected when fantasies are shared...
A DJ becomes erotically obsessed with the girl who calls him every week to talk dirty...
A Master and a Mistress find their mutual attraction is too hot to handle, even though neither is willing to submit...

All this and more: seven sexy stories from an author with a reputation for having experienced most of it before she wrote about it.

The following extract is taken from A Little Aural, where a hot-talking DJ becomes fascinated by the woman who calls him up on air every week....

Every week, she listened to the show, listened to him, and spent the entire two hours in a state of dreamy arousal. It wasn’t just his voice, it wasn’t just the tracks he played, it wasn’t just the things he said, but some irresistible blend of everything that made her nipples tight and her pussy wet. Jade licked her lips and wriggled, feeling the satin sheet ridge up beneath her hips. He was talking dirty again, his voice low and confiding, about what it felt like to lust so intensely, to want to go deeper and harder. She heard herself whimper, and she cupped her breasts in her hands and gave them a little squeeze, her arousal growing stronger. The song he was fading up was new to Jade: throbbing bass and a languid string section overlaid with urgent, guttural lyrics, and she knew she was going to do it this time.

Her mobile was on the bedside table; she sat up and felt about for it. All the DJs asked the listeners to tweet and text and only rarely suggested they might actually phone in, but the number was available on the website and she’d managed to key it into her phone memory a few weeks ago, even though she told herself she’d never actually use it. Twitter and texting were too much effort for too little reward, but an actual conversation? She made herself focus; waited for the package of adverts and station info to kick in; pushed the buttons.


It wasn’t the voice she was expecting, and she nearly dropped the phone.

“Oh. Um, is this - er -”

“Yeah, Redhot Radio. You want to go on air? Talk to Chas?”

“I... er... Jade’s palms were sweating. She took a deep breath. “Yes, please.”

“OK, turn your radio off. Have to do that or it makes a horrible mess.”

She rolled over on the bed, scrabbled for the switch, couldn’t find it for a couple of seconds but then there it was.

“I”ll stick you through now, love.”

A moment or two of silence and, before she was wholly ready, he was speaking to her. He was speaking directly to her.

“So I have a caller. Hey, caller, how's it going?”

Get a grip, she thought. Either get a grip or hang up.

“It’s good,” she said, and her voice barely shook at all. “I was listening to the show and it made me feel...”

“Oh did it now? Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Will you play a song for me? Something really dirty?”

“I might do. Will you tell me what you’re wearing?”

Jade ran her free hand over her bare breasts, feeling her nipples tighten under her own touch.

“Nothing. Nothing at all, I’ve just had a shower.”

“Best way to be,” he said. “Specially when it’s hot, and you’re pretty hot, aren’t you. girl?”

Jade heard herself moan, didn’t care. She spread her legs and raised her knees, opening herself to the hot night.

“You want it, don’t you?” His voice was teasing, but there was affection there, not derision, and a hint of arousal on his side. “You like it, you love it…”

“So do you,” she said, and she knew it was true.

“I’ve got something for you, girl,” he said, and he was laughing at himself, a little, she could tell. “A whole 12 inches…”

She pressed the phone close to her ear; she could hear him breathing even over the opening bars of the song he’d chosen for her.

“Enjoying it?” he said, suddenly, and Jade gave a little squeal: her fantasies had been advancing at such a rate she’d almost forgotten she was genuinely, really, actually on the phone to him. Her hand was cupping her mound, her fingers making their first tentative little forays between her juicy, swollen lips as the insistent, sleazy bassline worked its magic.

“Oh yeah,” she whispered.

“Going to tell me what you’re doing right now?”

“How many times have you done the same thing?” Jade felt a sudden urge to take back at least a little control of the situation.

“You’d be surprised.”

“I could surprise you, too. But I have to go now.”

It took a couple of fumbles to hit the right button to end the call, but she managed to find the switch to put the radio back on within seconds, and the same track was still playing. The intensity of her desire was close to painful now, and she wondered briefly if she should have gone with it, brought herself off on air, told him exactly what she was thinking while she did it. No, that was a step too far, she wasn’t bold enough, or not bold enough yet. She stretched out on the bed, glad she’d turned the volume right up. She really needed to come.

She could talk, now, when she was talking to the man she imagined: she could talk and moan and even scream if she wanted to, and no one need ever know.

Jade began to stroke herself properly, circling her clit, spreading her pussy lips and caressing them. She could use both hands now she didn’t have the phone in one of them. One hand on top of the other, her palm against her mound, her middle finger dipping in and out of her slick, juicy channel in time with the music, she began to breathe faster and more noisily.

“I want you, you know I do,” she whispered, just as the track playing began to fade and he spoke again. This time he was addressing all his listeners, not just her, but it didn’t spoil her mood and simply increased the speed of her body’s race towards orgasm. He was still talking about lust, about desire, about heat, and those times you couldn’t hold on any longer but you just had to give in, you just had to let go. Jade had to let go, had to give in, two fingers pumping in and out of her snatch, her hips jerking, her thighs tensing: she came with a series of guttural moans.

Buy Sticky fingers and Warm Leatherette at
Amazon US :: Amazon UK:: iTunes

Zak Jane Keir has been writing about sex for a long, long time. She generally prefers femdom and pansexual material but doesn't mind a bit of heterosex now and again. Her latest collection of short stories, Sticky Fingers and Warm Leatherette, is available now in e-book format.

Friday, 8 January 2016

Vrubel's Demon

[click to expand pictures - they're worth it]

Demon Seated (1890)

Whilst poking around on t'internet for inspiration for Cover Him with Darkness, I came across the art of Mikhail Vrubel (1856-1910). He was a Russian member of the Art Nouveau and Symbolist movements, and though he started off with a lot of religious art, it was eventually a fallen angel that destroyed him ...

Head of a Demon

Vrubel became interested in illustrating a long poem by Lermontov, Tamara and the Demon (full English translation here). In that work a fallen angel, tooling about feeling bored with doing evil stuff, falls in love with Georgian princess Tamara when he espies her dancing at her wedding.

Having no great grasp of either timing or subtlety, the demon has the groom killed and commences nagging / wooing Tamara into becoming his eternal bride.

"Give me thy love - for thee is waiting
Eternal life for earthly span;
For I, in loving as in hating
am great like God, not weak like man."

He's so besotted he even promises to give up evil and obey God for her - and at that point she gives in and lets him kiss her.  

Which kills her on the spot.

Demon and Angel with Tamara's Soul

An angel takes Tamara off to heaven, and the poor demon is left to fly over the earth again, lamenting and alone.

Demon Flying

Ah ... That's romance for you ;-)

Demon Overthrown

Vrubel became obsessed with his own particular image of the demon (who you have to admit is pretty damn sexy!). He sculpted and painted the character over and over again.

Demon Flying

He wouldn't stop repainting the face on this one even when it was hanging in the gallery:

And at this point he lost it all together and had a total breakdown. Several periods of hospitalization dominated the last few years of his life - it seems to have been tertiary syphilis that caused his insanity and encroaching blindness.

He never painted his Demon again. But he did paint Azrael, the Angel of Death, in 1904:

Six-winged Seraph (Azrael)

He died in 1910.

Full biography and gallery of his paintings here

Wednesday, 6 January 2016

Deeper than expected

At long last I've finished the second installment of my Lover's Wheel quartet. Or at least edited it to the point that I can no longer write any more because my brain goes Pfffft.

Falling Deep clocks in at 52,500 words, which is over 10K longer than Summer Seduction (somewhat to my surprise - I was expecting it to be short) and covers September thru November in the story of Liz's initiation into sex magick. Thank god I didn't try to write the story as a single volume!

The autumn months include Harvest-Home and Samhain, and in this tale start a shift from enthusiastic but cheerful vanilla sex into darker D/s territory. Brace yourselves for human sacrifices and visiting undead, as well as Arthurian revelations and betrayal.

And if you think that's scary, just wait for When Winter Comes ... ;-)

Friday, 1 January 2016

Could Try Harder

I'm a bit torn about 2015 TBH. On a personal level it was a great year full of fun times, and one in which none of that Bad Shit waiting in the wings of every life (yes, every life) was given its cue to lumber onstage. It Was Good. Even if I did start going grey...

Gold star 2015!

But I didn't get enough writing done. For great swathes of time other things took priority. And when I did have time I very very often managed to fuck it up. My procrastination fairy is earning bonuses. And nothing is more unsettling to a writer than not writing, believe me. It is the loose shale undermining a mountain of crazy just waiting to crash down.

I'm less driven as I get older, I know that. I'm less idealistic about the possibility of breaking through to a mass readership (Hah!) but I'm also genuinely lazier, I'm afraid. I used to rely a lot on my inner determination and work ethic to see things through, but alas ... the fuel tanks of Protestant guilt are finally running dry.

I think I may also be having too much good sex to need to write about it any more. What can I say?

Anyway, I'm going to try to turn things around in 2016. I've promised I'll get The Valleys of the Earth out (that's Cover Him With Darkness #2) because quite a few people want to see that.

It's my resolution for 2016.
Fingers crossed!

And here's wishing you all, whether you've made resolutions or not, a very Happy New Year. May 2016 be better than 2015,  that's all any of us can hope for :-)