Wednesday, 30 March 2016


I spent Easter weekend in the Netherlands, with pretty much the exact pathetic results you'd expect from a middle-aged writer trying too hard...

"Whoa shit! - get me out of here RIGHT NOW guys, I'm going to faint..."
 But in fact we were not there for the, ahem, peculiar delights of Amsterdam...

Canals. Goddamn it, we love canals.
... No: we were there to meet this gentleman:

It's the 500th anniversary of Hieronymus Bosch's death , and a unique exhibition has been arranged by the Noordbrabants Museum in Den Bosch. Painting scattered in galleries all over the world have been brought back to his birthplace for this one extraordinary occasion.

The Wayfarer, from the outer shutters of The Haywain triptych
Bosch is a painter famous for his surreal and inexplicable depictions of Paradise (both heavenly and earthly)

Just WTF is that in the middle of the Garden of Eden?

World's. Best. Party.

No, really?

And for his horrific pictures of Hell:

And the demons therein:

In fact some of them have escaped the gallery and run amuck in the surrounding streets and canals...

It's riding "a goose". Right...

He was also, it turns out, totally obsessed with owls.

I'll have what he's on...

Monday, 28 March 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's excerpt is from my short story Forsaking All Others, which appeared in With This Ring, I Thee Bed - an anthology of wedding-themed erotica.

“It feels strange, don’t you think? To be married?”
“Actually I don’t feel that much different.” Roy put his arm around my waist and kissed my temple. “We’re still us, and I still fancy you even if you are my Mrs.” His grip tightened. “You look hot, Deb, you know.”
“But we are going to be different, aren’t we?” I was trying to grasp my nebulous feeling of unease without raising my voice above a murmur. “I mean, we’ll have to be a bit more grown up now.”
 “You can buy me slippers for Christmas.”
I gave him a poke with one finger. “I mean ... you know. We’ll have to stop messing around. Like, playing with Calvin and Sylvia.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well. We’ll have responsibilities. It can’t go on forever. You know that.”
 Roy frowned a little. “Actually I was imagining us still at it when we need Viagra and Zimmer frames. And maybe, you know, a nurse to help us get into position...”
“Oh be serious!”
 “It’s my wedding,” he said mildly. “The only thing I intended to feel serious about today was the I Do.
“Not the Forsaking All Others?”

   He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “I sort of saw that as Forsaking All Those Except the Ones My Wife Gives Me Permission For.”   
At that moment one of my aunties came up to talk to us, and the conversation ended abruptly.  

    We went upstairs to our suite where my wedding dress and veil lay out on the bed as I’d left them, but a big pile of fluffy white towels and a couple of bottles of champagne had made an appearance. Roy took me in his arms, just as he had done so many times that day. But this time it was different. This time he kissed me slow and deep, the way that always gets to me, breaking down my barriers. This time he wrapped his fingers in my hair and tugged my head back, and the almost-threat of his grasp sent a spark of arousal right down my spine and through my belly to ignite a glow at my clit. This time his cock started to get hard. His other hand pressed me to him, squeezing my ass, and I writhed my hips.
When we broke I was breathless and already warm.
 “Want to go to bed?” he asked.
“Hmm.” I nipped at his lower lip. “I believe I do.”
“You can come out now,” he called over my shoulder. That was when Sylvia and Calvin came out of the bathroom, grinning. She was holding her own camera.
This is where the second photograph album starts.
Snap: I’m kneeling, out of my dress but back in my veil. It hangs down over my face and torso, so sheer that it doesn’t hide those big breasts of mine cradled in their beautiful lace La Senza bra, or my wide-eyed expression as I gaze out at the camera. The two men either side of me are faceless and fully dressed, only their midsections visible in this print. Each has one hand on my shoulder pushing me down to my knees and another hand tight round one of my wrists, holding it up. My fingers are curled helplessly, my lips parted in anticipation of what’s to come.
 Snap: Head-and-shoulders shot. My veil is flipped back now. I’m kneeling between two sets of bare male flanks and two cocks, erect and angled toward an apex, like swords held at a salute for when the bride exits the church. I’ve got one cock in each hand and my head is turned toward Roy’s – you can tell it’s him because of the dark pubic thatch and the hairier thighs - and my lips are wrapped round his bell-end, sucking hard.
 They’re amazing pictures, the textures of flesh and fabric rendered so finely that even just looking you can almost feel them beneath your fingertips.
 Snap: Closer yet: the two cocks are almost touching over my head. Champagne foam escaping from a newly-opened bottle oozes and slops down their flushed shafts and drips into my open, eager mouth waiting below.
 Snap: I’m topless and pantyless now, leaning back against a male torso, breasts upthrust. Champagne is being poured down my torso from the bottle tilted over my tits; it gushes in runnels off my erect nipples, sluicing over my belly to run into the shaven split below. You can see bubbles freckling my skin. Calvin’s sandy head is between my thighs and he’s lapping champagne and sex juices from between my spread pussy lips. He said it was the “best fucking cocktail” he’d ever tasted. God, we got champagne everywhere. On the towels, on the carpet, on the coverlet ... Everywhere.
Snap: My back to the camera, the veil hanging down to my ass-cleft, my spine a shadowy sinuous line under the transparent fabric. I’m sitting astride Roy’s lap as he perches on the edge of the bed. With one hand he’s holding my wrists cruelly together at the small of my back, and with the other he’s twisting my head sideways so I can suck Calvin’s cock as he stands beside us. 
Snap: Just my spread thighs, poised over the smooth column of Calvin's cock as if I’m about to impale myself upon it. My thighs are glistening with moisture and my sex lips visibly unfurled.
“Can you take it?” Roy whispered in my ear as he held me. 

Snap. Yes, I could. All the way.

Buy With this Ring, I Thee Bed at
Amazon US :: Amazon UK :: Googleplay

Friday, 25 March 2016

The fungus that dare not speak its name

This is Auricularia auricula-judae or Jew's Ear, though I doubt that you're supposed to call it that in public these days. In fact even a decade ago, when I was doing Medieval Days for schoolchildren, I was at pains to describe it as "Judas's Ear" ... which has the advantage of being both accurate and more medievaltastic. Because it grows almost exclusively on elder trees, it was said to be an supernatural echo of Judas hanging himself from an elder after betraying Jesus.

Here it is happily growing on an elder in my wood:

It's edible despite its creepy appearance - it really does have a floppy velvety texture much like a human earlobe. In fact a very close relative under the name Cloud Ear Fungus is used in Chinese cuisine, and so bizarrely there's a European industry in supplying it dried, in bulk, to China, where it's packaged as something we'd consider exotic and shipped back to UK restaurants and supermarkets.

I'm not sure if it's beautiful, but it is a fascinating lifeform, and a humorous reminder that fungi are genetically closer to the Animal Kingdom than the Plant Kingdom ;-)

Wednesday, 23 March 2016

Wayland's Smithy

If you've read Cover Him With Darkness you'll know that I put the defeat of the Watchers (fallen, mortal-shagging angels) at "about five thousand years ago" somewhere in the Bronze Age.

Evelyn de Morgan

Since I'm writing the sequel, The Valleys of the Earth, in which my "hero" Azazel goes trying to find his imprisoned brothers all round the world, I've been looking for places they might be stashed in underground cells.

Here's one: Wayland's Smithy in Oxfordshire:

It's a famous Neolithic longbarrow and this month I finally got to see it, having had it on my to-do list for decades. That's because it is a bit of a hike up The Ridgeway in a surprisingly remote range of chalky hills...

... and is deliberately badly signposted by English Heritage. Here it is hidden in its copse of trees, unvisited, melancholy and a little bit spooky even in daylight:

The barrow (185 ft long by 43 ft wide) was built in about 3,400 BCE, over the top of an older smaller barrow. The front stones at the chamber end are BIG and present a strikingly feminine entrance into the Underworld

Though that may just be my dirty mind...

The legend that sprang up around this earthwork was that it was the forge of the supernatural blacksmith Wayland (a memory of the Germanic smith-god Wolund, he's referenced in Beowulf and The Ring Cycle among others).

It was claimed well into historical times that if you rode up there and left your horse tethered by the stones overnight, along with a silver coin, you'd find it freshly-shod in the morning. I love that story! It has such a ring of "Yeah, you can interact with the supernatural if you want to - no problem."

Kipling used Wayland's legend in this chapter of Puck of Pook's Hill.

So that's a site-visit I can claim expenses for, eh? ;-)

Monday, 21 March 2016

Blue Monday: Lilya Loring guests

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest author is Lilya Loring, whose story Company Ink appears in the brand new anthology Inked.

Tattoos are intimate and personal, yet can hide as much as they reveal... 

This superb collection of erotic stories will have you squirming in your seat! Inked contains first times, first tattoos and first loves, artists crossing galaxies to save mankind and magic in all forms.

Edited by Anna Sky, Inked contains nine sexy and provocative stories from Gregory L. Norris, Annabeth Leong, Victoria Blisse, Zak Jane Keir, Harley Easton, Jillian Boyd, Alain Bell, Lilya Loring and Katya Harris.

He grabbed her around the waist, pulling him to her, desperate to finally feel her skin against his. With a grunt, he used one hand to peel away his t-shirt, gasping when he caught the freshly bandaged tattoo.

She smiled at him sweetly and helped him free his arm. There was something caring in the way she handled him, the way she helped him. When their skin touched, she moaned a little and pressed her cunt against him. He grabbed her through her pants, could feel her heat, her wetness and it made him rigid. Normally Wade was more timid, allowing the women in his life to call the shots. Tonight, he was different. He was powerful and commanding, wanting nothing more than to fuck her like she deserved, like she needed.

He guided her to the bed where she fell on her back with a soft thump. This was not going to be a casual, missionary style fuck; he was going to make her beg for him.

Her eyes watched him with curiosity. In a series of quick movements, he stripped her of her boots, jeans, and panties. The light from the bedroom lamp bathed her in a soft glow. He rubbed the soft flesh of her belly and placed a gentle kiss. She squirmed, but settled down as he moved lower. He took off his belt, jeans, and boxers, letting his cock spring free.

“Uh uh,” he said, “no peeking,” as she moved to get a better look.

He placed a hand on her sternum and guided her back down on the bed. Her legs were spread wide, waiting for him. He stroked the length of his cock for several moments as he watched, taking in the sight of her. Her nipples, a ruddy pink, were already puckered. His eyes traveled lower. Her sex was delicate with neatly trimmed, dark blond hair.

“A blond, huh?” he said.

She laughed and her breasts bounced, “Don't tell anyone.”

“I won't,” he said as he knelt before her.

She was so wet, so tense in anticipation that she shivered at his hot breath on her skin. He liked the coppery smell of her. He spread her lips with his hand to reach her clit and licked her slowly, running his tongue from her clit to her hole and back again. With each stroke, her body shook and her hips arched toward his face.

Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her eyes were shut and her head tilted back. Soft moans escaped her lips, increasing in frequency. His lips formed a tight seal on her clit and as she began to buck, he thrust two of his fingers into her.

Her upper body came up off the bed and she came, screaming, a litany of “Oh god” and “Oh fuck” streaming from her lips.

Wade didn't give her much time to recover. “Roll over,” he commanded, slapping her ass cheek hard enough to sting.

Grace groaned but did as she was told, resting her head on her folded arms. He ran his hands over her rounded ass that was now up in the air. Her back was also heavily tattooed—covered in koi fish and cherry blossoms swirling around a partially disrobed geisha. He swept her hair to the side so he could see all of it as he fucked her. On her lower back, he planted a series of gentle kisses. Her skin was silky and slightly salty.

“Tell me,” he said as he slid a finger inside her tight opening, “do you like it from behind?”

“Yes,” she nodded, shuddering from his ministrations.

“Oh, you're a dirty girl then,” he said and laughed.

She was the perfect height, cunt open at exactly the right level for him. Wade hissed as he rammed his cock inside her in one deep thrust, knowing she was wet enough to take it. She cried out in pleasure, hands moving to grasp the blankets to steady herself.

Hands grabbing her hips, he pounded into her a couple of times and then withdrew, his cock hovering just inches from her. She tried to push back onto him, but he held her in place.

“Tell me you want it,” he said as he slapped her ass cheek with his open hand.

She groaned and he slapped her flesh again.

“I want it,” she said.

“Want what? I want you to say it,” he rubbed her cunt with the tip of his cock. She was slick and hot with desire.

“I want your hard cock inside me. Now,” she said.

He entered her again and she screamed, arching her back to meet him. He wanted to watch her ass rise and fall, trace the lines of her tattoos with his eyes, reach forward and grab a handful of her shiny black hair, but the pleasure was too much. He could only close his eyes, and lean his head back as he enjoyed the feeling of being inside her.

Buy Inked at Sexy Little Pages
Amazon US (paperback and kindle)
Amazon UK (paperback and kindle)
Smashwords – iTunes – Barnes & Noble – Kobo – Inktera – Excitica

Lilya Loring has an unhealthy obsession with fairy tales. She received a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in 2014. She lives in the South, surrounded by an evergrowing pile of books. 

Friday, 18 March 2016

Dead sexy

Enrique Simonet: The Autopsy or Anatomy of the Heart (1890)
Well, this seemed an appropriate picture to follow on from Wednesday's confession. Click on the pic for full details.

Of course, there a long history of artistic depiction of dissection (think Rembrandt's famous Anatomy Lesson), but it would be a Victorian painter who'd try to eroticise the subject ... in the most respectable and melancholic way, ahem.

Not that I'm suggesting there were any strange toys in Simonet's attic...

The Decapitation of St Paul

Wednesday, 16 March 2016

I'm not a Weirdo, I'm a Writer

... honestly, Officer... I just happen to have a lot of research material!

Yes, it's time to dive into the research rabbit-hole again!
Yes, I am writing a story about necrophilia.
No, it's not erotica - it's horror. And I hope to scare the hell out of myself :-)

Don't worry, I won't be inflicting any excerpts on you poor innocent smutsters, lol!   :-D

Monday, 14 March 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's excerpt is from my most pun-tastic title ever, In Appreciation of Their Cox. It's about a university rowing team, of course :-)

Eight tall, muscular men, straining every sinew, and one itty-bitty young woman urging them on with all her might.

Joanna is the coxswain for a British university rowing crew, all of them fit and muscular and hot. Although she’s fantasized about each of the men, she has always been careful to keep her relations with them strictly platonic. But now she’s leaving for a new job— and they'’re going to have a farewell party they will never forget, as all Jo’'s wildest dreams come true on this final night together.

“Hey,” says Nils, “the door is locked. We have all night.”

The turning of fantasy to concrete possibility makes my heart thump and evokes a warm gush inside me that seeps to my panties. I look around the room, making myself meet their gazes. I see a lot of grins and lifted eyebrows but there’s something in their eyes that says it’s not being taken just as a joke.

“You used to that sort of thing back home, Nils?” wonders Zeke.

“Not much else to do on the long arctic nights,” Ed suggests.

“You’re not serious, are you, Coxey?” asks Murray.

I bite my lip.

“You really want to, Jo?” Bradley asks.

I focus on Darren. His jaw is twisted to the side, his eyes round. This might be too much for him at his age. Hell, is it not too much for me? “Um,” I say, helpfully. “It’s a…” The words clog in my throat. “It’d have to be all of you, you know. That’d be the point.”

There’s a silence. I look down into my whisky. I can feel my clit swollen, my knickers sodden. I want to wriggle where I sit but I don’t dare.

“Well, nobody’s walking out,” Murray observes.

That was it, my get-out clause. I’d expected someone to cut and run. Bradley maybe. Or Ed. I sneak a sideways look at Ed. He’s gnawing his lip, but he nods at me very slightly. “Oh,” I say. “Well. Um.” I think I’m starting to hyperventilate, because I’m feeling lightheaded. “I’ve not really got any idea where to start.”

Murray gets up from his table. “Let’s start with a game then,” he says, coming over and holding out his hands to me. Nils takes my drink, and I slip both hands into Murray’s and let him help me down from the bar. I’m not sure my legs could hold me up unaided now. I’m churning inside with heat and arousal and trepidation. He leads me into the middle of the room to stand on the only rug. “Ed, can I borrow your tie?”

Ed of course wore a tie to dinner. He likes to observe the niceties, even if the tie is hanging like a noose around his open collar at the moment. He strips it off and hands it to Murray. I wonder if I’m going to be tied up when he circles behind me, but what he does in fact is blindfold me with a couple of turns.

“Okay?” he whispers. The effect of his disembodied voice and his warm whisky-scented breath on my ear is to make shivers run all across my skin.

I nod.

He tightens the knot. Lifting my chin, he surprises me with a soft kiss. Then he addresses the others. “Come on then, gentlemen.”

They move in. I hear the rasp of chairs and the whisper of their clothes, their breathing, the little murmurs they make in their throats. They surround me. I’m not sure if Murray is directing with gestures or it’s spontaneous, but they start to touch me and strip me. I’m not wearing that much, just a short dress and a bra-and-panty set beneath, no stockings or slip on this summer night. Hands glide over my skin as the fabric is tugged away. I can’t guess how many of them are able to reach me at a time, I can’t tell who it is who’s touching me. They’re just hands, callused and blistered from the oars, gentle but insistent. Someone fumbles at the catch of my bra, someone else hooks down the lace cups with his fingers. My nipples pebble as they’re exposed to the cellar air, and instantly they’re tested and tweaked and flicked and someone bends to give one a quick lick. My breasts are small to fit with my slight build, but they’re squeezed and jiggled appreciatively. Fingertips caress the length of my spine, making me shiver. Even my hair is stroked, my ears tickled. Now that I’m suddenly no longer forbidden territory they are curious and eager. My bottom is fondled, my panties pulled down, the cleft of my ass invaded by exploring fingers as, from the front, someone else strokes my pussy. It’s exhilarating and scary and confusing, my brain a whirl of sensation with no visual picture to make sense of the touches to my skin. I smell their colognes and hear them chuckle and whisper, and I squirm and lean into their hands and whimper with pleasure.

“Now,” says Murray as a hand presses down on my shoulder, “Kneel down, Jo.”

I slip to my knees, my body more naked now that the hands are withdrawn. The only apparel they’ve left on me are my red shoes with the four-inch heels.

“This game is called Cocks for the Cox.”

Sniggers and a few protests at the pun. I grin, half in fear. My sex feels hot and heavy, brimming with juice.

“Your job is to guess which cock belongs to which man, Jo. No peeking now.” He takes my head in his hands and tilts me forward. Something smooth and warm bumps my lips, nudging them apart as it presses home. It’s the glans of a cock of course. I taste salt and soap, feel a slippery ooze against the tip of my tongue as I accept the turgid swell of flesh. Whoever it is tilts his hips, encouraging me to take it farther, and I open my mouth to suck it slowly within, exploring the contours of that crown with my tongue. There’s a collective sigh of breath from every angle. I know they’ve circled me now, they’re all around. Stretching my neck and opening wide, I admit the thick shaft right down to my throat. Hair tickles my nose. It’s a solid, stout cock but not that long. Tentatively I lift my hand to his crotch, finding fabric and the teeth of the zipper. He’s still wearing his trousers, but his fly is wide open and he’s holding his pants up as he rocks pleasurably in the warm embrace of my mouth. His scrotum is hairy and very big, bulging from the V of his fly. It’s the size of that sac that gives him away.

With a final swirl of my tongue I withdraw and lick my lips. “Jon.”

A rueful grunt from over my head, and appreciative sniggers all round. “Got it. That’s some mouth you’ve got, Coxey.”

“Next,” says Murray, and hands swivel me on my knees. The next cock is long and smooth, with a sharp flavor reminiscent of chardonnay. A moment’s careful exploration convinces me it has no foreskin, and that makes me more than half-sure I know the answer. I suck enthusiastically though, in no hurry to make my guess, and explore his groin with my fingers. His pubes are trimmed back nearly to a stubble. It’s slightly distracting when someone behind me slips a hand beneath the curve of my bum and strokes my pussy, parting the puffy lips to lay open the wet furrow and plow it with a finger.

“Zeke,” I gasp, pulling clear.

“Oh fuck, man,” he groans, wrapping his fingers in my hair and pulling my face back so he can rub his dick all over it. I open my mouth, more than willing to let him sheathe his tool again, but Murray is feeling mean—or impatient.

“Uh-uh. Next.”

Next is Ed, I’m sure of it. He’s only half-hard, at least until I start sucking. Then he stiffens up admirably. I wonder if he’s shut his eyes or he’s just looking at all those other rampant cocks. I give him the full works, trying not to be overwhelmed by the two unknown hands caressing my pussy and the finger delicately circling the pucker of my asshole. But when that wicked digit, slick with my own juices, prods into the ring of muscle, I sit up hard, my heart hammering.

“Ed! And stop that!”

Murray chuckles.

Buy In Appreciation of Their Cox at 
Ellora's Cave :: Amazon UK :: Google Play

Saturday, 12 March 2016

No. 3: The Larch

Here I am murdering trees:

There's a patch of larch in the heart of my wood. They're dark and atmospheric, but I'm working on reducing them in order to give more space to the broadleaves.

We did some ring-counting and they are 31 years old!

Now I feel like a serial killer.

Wednesday, 9 March 2016

Oh I do like to be beside the Seaside!

Feast your eyes folks - this is a typical view of Scarborough in May - white sands glinting by the cerulean North Sea, glorious sunshine, palm trees waving in the tropical breeze... You so want to be there, don't you?


Well now you have an extra reason, because it is Smut by the Sea 2016!

And just look at the line-up of masochists running their naughty workshops:

Jennifer Denys presents “Sex in sci fi stories”
Jennifer Denys has written several sci-fi erotic romances and in the process had to research a weightless sex scene – have any astronauts ‘done it’? Come to Jen’s workshop and find out! The session will briefly cover the history of sexuality in sci-fi literature, look at modern depictions and you will get a chance to come up with your own ideas for sex scenes in the future (we want some really fun, innovative ideas!)
Janine Ashbless presents “Writing Fantasy Erotica”
So you want to write a fantasy, fairy tale, SF or paranormal erotic story … but you don’t know where to start? You’re wondering where to find fresh ideas? This interactive workshop with Janine Ashbless focuses on where to find your inspiration, and how to turn centuries-old plots into startling new stories.
Stephanine Robb presents “Fun with Bondage”
Stephanine will be teaching you all the tricks you need to get your lover right where you want them!
All details and tickets at the Smut Website. We hope to see you there!

Monday, 7 March 2016

Blue Monday: Terrance Aldon Shaw guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Terrance Aldon Shaw, with a complete short story from his new collection The Moon-Haunted Heart.

The 50 very-short pieces in this collection of mature literary fiction range from as many as 4,000 to as few as 50 words, exploring the human condition through the lens of disability, pan-sexuality and erotic mysticism. Brief, richly atmospheric vignettes sit close to longer, more conventional mainstream stories. . . all distilled within that secret place where love and madness meet...

(story #21) 

As pussies go, it isn’t bad—a plump, gibbous cornucopia insinuating itself ever-so sveltely between a pair of long slender legs, professionally waxed, tweezed and plucked for an imminent major lifecycle event.

It is one of those captivatingly photogenic cunnus vulvae you see lots of close-ups of in porno videos: the impossibly perfect epitome of the classic Cosmo cooch, the trendily empowered Sex and the City kitty, crouching demurely to strike, hissing and growling with impuissant menace. It is the kind of respectable mazelblum nice boys want to take home to meet their mothers, or, at least, invite out for a quick nosh with their schmickle. The type you want to touch just to feel all that velvety store-bought smoothness beneath your fingertips, or kiss just because you really like the taste—and who ever needs an excuse to chow down on punani?

I swear, sometimes, they call to me from between the bridesmaids’ thighs, their dulcet siren songs muted like the sound you get when you put your ear up to the aperture of a cowrie shell—which, come to think of it, looks uncannily like a vulva. They burble and sigh from inside their gossamer prisons—the frilly gussets and diaphanous drawers, hot-pink tangas like tulle fig-leaves, raspberry hipsters, tangerine boy shorts and sea-foam green bow cheekinis, French-cut mesh and jeweled G-strings like removable vajazzle facades, low-risers in turquoise and teal, fluorescent chartreuse bikini briefs and parti-colored thongs.

I’ve ‘traded up’ to best man and should, theoretically, have my pick of the litter tonight. They’ve all had Brazilian waxes, courtesy of the bride’s mother. Rumor has it, that imperious cougar’s gone in for some work herself and now looks even younger than her daughter down below. Visions of extremely expensive vaginal rejuvenation procedures, velvety Mohicans, taut flesh and glistening polished pearls do a dance of seven veils in my brain.

I look at my watch. We’ll all be meeting around the chuppah in about forty-five minutes.

Then I hear the call, soft but insistent, from one of the reserved suites on the eighteenth floor. A game of hide-and-seek, it seems, and I am it. No time to count to one-hundred. I rove the corridors, pretending to run an errand for the groom, following the music to—no! It cannot be! I find it where I least expect, beneath something borrowed, the Georgette halter babydoll from Victoria’s Secret that was supposed to be special for tonight.

“There’s not a lot of time.”

As if she needs to remind me.

A simpler gift was never given and I unwrap it with rough reverence, touched that she would offer it to me on this day of all days. Swathed in filigreed net without frills or flounces, mocking maiden-white, a bridesmaid no more in her lacey bridal thong.

She wraps her longs legs around my back as I do another man’s office. I am still fully dressed for the occasion to come, in black tie and tartan cummerbund, having had only enough warning to strip off my jacket. There is a death wish in my desperate pumping, the feral groans welling up from the back of my throat and the blazing torrent that bursts the dam below. I slump into her grudging embrace as orgasm overtakes me, my juddering limbs giving way.

“Not bad for a first try.” She rejects my kiss, not wanting to muss her makeup. Her body is suddenly rigid beneath me, alien, distant, cold. “Maybe next time you’ll actually get me to come, too.”

“Next time?”

“Damn straight, boychik! Tonight, after the reception.”

“Are you sure?”

“Be up here, primed and ready, 11 ‘o clock sharp.”

“If you say so, but—”

“Do I look like I don’t mean what I say?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that—”

“Enough! Get out. I need to start getting ready.”

So this is what I’ve gotten myself into.

I only hope her daughter won’t be too scandalized on this, her special day.

Buy The Moon-Haunted Heart on
Amazon US :: Amazon UK

Terrance Aldon Shaw (TAS to his friends) was born and raised somewhere to the left of Chicago in that vast whitebread wilderness known as the American Heartland. As a kid, he passed the time by creating his own graphic novels and “pretend” screenplays, conversing with a brilliant circle of imaginary friends, and dreaming about escape from the stifling phony wholesomeness and pious pabulum of small-town life.

Now devoting full time to writing and reviewing, TAS specializes in mainstream fiction with strong erotic themes and explicit sexual content. His work might best be described as “psycho-rotica,” as he prefers to explore the complex, fascinating inner world of sex; the thoughts, feelings and emotion s that accompany the erotic experience.

Readers can find Terrance Aldon Shaw’s books in both electronic and traditional print at most on-line retailers. His reviews of erotic fiction, musings on the craft of writing, and the occasional free short story are posted on his blog, Erotica For The Big Brain.

TAS on Facebook
Erotica for the Big Brain

Friday, 4 March 2016

Dream plot

"Where do you get your story ideas?" readers sometimes ask.
Well in the case of Lovers' Wheel, it literally came to me in a dream.

One night some decades ago, probably before I was even a writer, I had a dream so real and so emotionally powerful that I’ve never forgotten it.

I dreamed that I was standing at the gates of a big old house somewhere in the English countryside. The grounds were so overgrown that the gates were almost choked shut with brambles and weeds, but when I scrambled through and made my way up the drive I found that the house was still occupied despite being decayed. In fact it was a retirement home, with old people sitting around in wheelchairs, dozing and playing chess. Then I realized that these old men were the disguised King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, who had retreated here to await in secret the last call to battle when England would need their heroes again.

That was it. That’s all I dreamed.

Years later, this became the seed for the Lovers’ Wheel quartet I’m currently writing for Ellora’s Cave.

Now I know roughly where the idea grew from. All my childhood I’d been reading stories from authors like Susan Cooper, Alan Garner, and Diana Wynne Jones, in which the nice cosy English countryside was a place where lurked gods and elves and Ancient Powers pretending to be human, just biding their time and perhaps waiting to be woken by plucky middle class school children on holiday. I LOVED those books! I wanted to write a wondrous story about a girl who discovers a hidden world of magical adventure, a girl who is marked for a special destiny, a girl whose choices decide the fate of the world.

Only I wanted to write the adult version, with really dirty sex and way more moral greyness.

Lovers’ Wheel is about Liz, who goes to stay with her Great-aunt Moira at spooky old Enniswitrin House in Somerset, and finds that she’s been picked for the noble task of fucking each of the Twelve Months of the Year in turn, to keep the seasons turning. But being Chosen isn’t nearly as nice or as vanilla as she’s been lead to believe, especially as the Brothers start to lead her into the darker half of the year.

As for Arthur – yeah, he’s there too! Read Summer Seduction and Falling Deep to find out about him. And I promise that When Winter Comes and Joys of Spring will complete the cycle of the year in due course!

Summer Seduction (Lovers’ Wheel Book 1) at Amazon US:

Summer Seduction (Lovers’ Wheel Book 1) at Amazon UK:

Falling Deep (Lovers' Wheel  Book 2) at Amazon US:

Falling Deep (Lovers' Wheel  Book 2) at Amazon UK:

Wednesday, 2 March 2016

Samhain thing

Okay, so if you follow the publishing news in erotica, romance or horror, you'll have spotted that Samhain Publishing have announced that they are closing down.

I have one book out with them - Heart of Flame - and a bloody good read it is too. A thrilling Arabian Nights adventure-quest with ghouls, sorcery, djinn ... and not just one but two steaming hot romance plotlines.The cover is great as well, so this news has made me very sad.

Now Samhain are doing their absolute best to keep the business going as they wind it down, so that authors can be paid off and rights reverted properly. Books are still being published and sold as normal for the foreseeable future. They are also exploring other income streams, and keeping us informed as much as they can, so kudos to them. What NONE of us want to see is the company having to declare bankruptcy. Because at that point we all lose.

There is of course a contract clause saying that in the case of publisher bankruptcy, all rights revert to the writers. Sadly, under law, this isn't worth the paper it is written on, as it is the duty of the bankruptcy court to pay off debtors first. Our rights would get sold to the highest bidder. This is potentially a very bad thing indeed.

If you want to help authors at Samhain, including me, KEEP BUYING THEIR BOOKS. If you think you'd like a copy of Heart of Flame, buy it now! - don't risk the chance it'll disappear forever into Publishing Hades!

Samhain Direct:: Amazon US :: Amazon UK :: Google Play :: iTunes