Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 123

Talking dirty

It's said that most people cannot stand the sound of their own recorded voice. I am certainly no exception! In order to get me to record an audio snippet from Of High Renown , from the Thrones of Desire anthology, editor Mitzi Szereto had to defeat me in armed combat, tie me naked in the desert for a week (I bit the head off a passing vulture at one point), and finally bribe me with a night of passion with Jon Snow.

At that point I finally failed my Will Save and capitulated.

So here I am in all my horrendous audibility. But it's not just me, of course:

ASHLEY LISTER reads from Here there be Dragons - a fabulously gritty tale in which sex is about power and betrayal as much as about lust. AURELIA T. EVANS reads from Eyekeeper - a twisty story of witch-burning and a brutal power struggle
JANINE ASHBLESS reads from Of High Renown - a story of rape and redemptionJO WU reads from Key to the Queen’s Elixir - a heartbreaker of a story about long-lost loveMITZI SZERETO reads from Escape - a story you can't quite believe is going to have a happy endingNYLA NOX reads from The Widow’s Man - a bittersweet femdom tale about betrayalSACCHI GREEN reads from Flesh and Stone -  a squirmy-hot tale of frustrated desire
ZANDER VYNE does the clever thing and gets someone else to read from The Last Sacrifice - a story of gods and monsters and high destiny.

All author readings


By the way, I probably haven't mentioned it here yet, but a big chunk of Piers Anthony's foreword is devoted (approvingly!) to my story as an example of how traditional male and female fantasy themes can be entwined and subverted. Which is rather cool!

Although I will say that Of High Renown is probably one of the most girly, "feminine" stories I have ever written. Goodness knows what came over me ... I think I was in the middle of some sort of hormone attack.


Buy Thrones of Desire at Amazon US : Amazon UK
Kindle US : Kindle UK

Remember - you don't need a Kindle to read kindle-format books! You can do it on a PC!

Heart of Flame out in paperback!

Georges Rochegrosse (1859-1938): La Schiava e il LeonUgh ... I was up until 5.30 a.m. It was a very important date, after all. The paperback release of Heart of Flame! Oh, and some foreign election.
:-)

To celebrate my book release and my immense relief, here's an excerpt from Heart of Flame . Which, please note, is Arabian Nights romantic adventure and not, strictly speaking, erotica ... but it has some very steamy scenes nontheless.

And a lot of arguing. This is by no means the last, or the worst, row my hero and heroine have...



 It took several hours pursuing the tracks of the magical mount, but she caught up with him eventually. She saw the Lion Most Strong from a good way off, standing motionless in the middle of the broken landscape with its silver body catching the sunlight, and as she neared she saw that it stood with one heavy paw on the chest of a supine Rafiq, pinning him to the ground. His waterskin lay to hand. He had crooked an elbow over his face to shield it from the afternoon sun, and she was perversely annoyed that he wasn’t struggling, even though he’d been held captive for hours and must have given up long ago. She would have liked to have seen him struggle and rage.

When she was ready she approached on foot and ordered the Lion Most Strong to stand back. It released Rafiq, who let out a grunt of surprise. He struggled up onto his knees, blinking at her, his face crusted with sand. ‘Taqla,’ he groaned.

She stepped in as he lurched to his feet and punched him as hard as she could in the face. At the last moment he saw her fist and flinched away so her knuckles stuck him only a glancing blow, which was perhaps a good thing because she managed to skin her knuckles on his teeth and split his lip even so. He staggered a little. She clenched her stinging fist, shocked how much it had hurt her and blaming him for that too.

‘Bastard! Thief!’

‘Taqla—’ He lifted a hand in dismay to his bleeding lip.

‘You stole my Horse! You dumped me in the desert! You son of a whore!’ She was burning too hot with fury to judge her attacks; when she struck again at his face he grabbed her wrist and pulled her hard against him, seizing the other hand as it flailed and wrestling both wrists behind her to pin them at the small of her back. She was still too angry to be afraid. ‘How could you?’ she spat. ‘After everything?’

‘Taqla!’ he shouted as she twisted furiously in his arms; “Shut up! Stop it! Listen to me!’

‛I hope street dogs eat your corpse!

‛Stop!’

She stopped struggling to draw breath, snarling. He was very strong and held her easily, his face over hers.

‘Taqla, I’m sorry.’ His eyes burned. ‘Listen. Listen. I haven’t betrayed you. Believe me.’

‘You left me!’

‘I had to take the Horse. I am sorry, but I need it to find the house of the djinni. I had no choice. I would have returned it when I could.’
  
‛Tell me your ass is made of solid gold and you shit diamonds! Shall I believe that too?’

He shook his head, teeth bared. ‛Taqla—I left because I couldn’t bring you with me and see you hurt.’

‘Me—hurt? Haven’t I saved your life before now? Haven’t you needed me every step of this journey?’

‘Yes!’ He turned his face aside so he could spit blood into the sand, then caught her gaze again, his eyes hot with anguish. ‘Yes. I’ve needed you. But this is different. There’s so much chance of you getting killed-’

‘You think I’m afraid?’

‘No. Never. Taqla, listen to me: I couldn’t see you hurt for my sake. I couldn’t bear it.’

‘We had a bargain,’ she snapped. ‘We were in it together. You get what you want and I get what I want.’

He shook his head as if in pain, and when he spoke again it was under his breath. ‘I read the scroll.’

‘What?’

‘The spell in the Scroll of Simon.’

She felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. ‘Oh,’ she said, while the import of his words sank in and the desert seemed to reel about her. It had never occurred to her that he would be able to read Greek. She was suddenly horribly conscious of the way he was holding her up tight against his hard body. ‘No,’ she whispered, trying to shrink away from him. She couldn’t move an inch.

John Singer Sargent 1856-1925‘How could I let myself hurt she who loves me the most?’

‛I ...’

‛Look, I saw you drowned in the swamps of Basra. I couldn’t do that to you again—not now. I couldn’t let you risk your life out of love for me.’ His voice was soft, all shouting done.

‘No, you’ve misunderstood…’

‘Taqla, why are you afraid of admitting it?’

‘I … It isn’t like that…’

‘Isn’t it? What is it like then?’
  
She groaned. His lips curved, self-deprecating, as if knowing he was inviting another blow.
  
‘I think I know exactly how it feels. Taqla, is it not obvious that I’ve been falling in love with you this whole time?’
  
She went still, her eyes widening.
  
He smiled lopsidedly because of his split lip. ‘I’ve been like a man sliding down a sand dune, trying to keep on my feet and all the time falling. Can’t you see that?’
  
She tried to speak but for once had no words. Not even when he bent his head and kissed her through her veil. She felt the warm softness of his lips on hers and the ghost of his breath through the silk. Her heart slammed painfully in her chest, sending the blood roaring through her head.
  
Quietly, while his lips still held hers, he let go of her wrists. One hand stayed to hold her close to him, but the other rose to touch her face through the folds of her headscarf. Then he drew back a little so he could look into her eyes. She could read his intent. She knew what he was going to do and the voices of warning were roaring in the back of her mind, but still she didn’t resist when he gently drew down the fold of her veil and bared her face.



Buy e-book at Samhain : Buy paperback at Samhain
Amazon US paperback  :   Amazon US kindle  :  Amazon UK Kindle

Eyecandy Monday

It's 5th November, which is Bonfire Night here in the UK. So this Eyecandy is brought to you in the interests of Health and Safety: play safe folks! Don't mess about with the fireworks! Keep a firefighter handy for emergency conflagrations!

Personally I can't wait until it's all over for another year, and the dog is no longer so scared to go outside that he pisses in the kitchen . . .
:-(

Magna!

Having small relatives over to visit does have one advantage: you get to take them to see cool stuff . . . like fire tornados.

I love November

Wooohooo - it's November!
No, I'm not growing a moustache. I'm the Guest Author of the month at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association, which is a huge honour. It also means that for a whole month three of my stories are up there in their unwholesome entirety for you to read.

And I picked three of my personal favourites, which means you'll find some very dark and dirty themes there!

Sun Seeking - Ness has dumped her boyfriend and is on holiday alone in the Greek Islands; she gets picked up by a mysterious woman who wants to show her ... some of the sightsScorched - Emerald is cheating on her boyfriend with their flatmate: a story of betrayal and retribution. The Red Thread - Ari is ... well, let's just say that this is my ultimate something-scary-in-the palace-cellar story!
Enjoy!

Happy Hallowe'en!

All pictures by John Atkinson Grimshaw (1836-1893)It's All Hallows' Eve, the nights are drawing in ... so let me tell you a ghost story. Two friends are sitting up in a deserted house, waiting for the ghost to appear...


I had to hand it to him: Morgan was never lacking in confidence. As for myself, my curiosity was piqued, certainly, and with it my sense of adventure. And if I have rather more imagination than my friend, I was determined not to let it get the better of me. I rose, throwing the stub of my cigar into the fire, and started to stroll about the room, stretching my legs. We’d uncovered only the two chairs we’d dragged to the hearth; now I twitched the dust sheet off a couple more pieces of furniture, discovering a high-backed oak settle and a coffer that turned out to be empty.
    ‘Looking for ghosts?’ asked Morgan, spreading his legs indolently.
    ‘In hostile territory, secure your immediate surroundings,’ I replied, quoting the cadet officer who’d taught us both at Winchester. We shared a grin. I bundled up another sheet and added, ‘Hello!’
    It was species of large chaise longue or day bed I’d uncovered: very heavy looking, carved of the black oak so typical of Welsh farmhouses. The upholstery was of Indian cotton, but looked clean enough. ‘Bags the bed here!’ I said smartly.
    ‘Too nervous to go upstairs?’ Morgan asked teasingly. I shot him a pointed look.
    ‘It will be cold as Erebus up there, and I don’t suppose the mattresses will be aired.’
    He nodded. ‘Well, I intend to sit up. If we stay down here, we can take turns to watch and to sleep.’
    ‘Sounds fair.’ I turned to the nearest wall and pulled down the sheet draped over a frame there. I was expecting to find a painting: what I uncovered was a mirror, its glass a little spotted at the edges, its depths grey. I paused, struck by the play of firelight on Morgan’s face. His handsome aristocratic features and sandy moustache contrasted with my blunter, darker countenance and my pensive expression. ‘Why is it that the ghost seeks out the Master of the house?’ I asked suddenly.




    ‘Mm?’ He looked up from inspecting the swirl of brandy in his glass.
    ‘Is it revenge?’
    ‘Isn’t it always revenge?’ He laughed shortly. ‘The story is that there was this girl … Hm. I was told her name but I forget the details – Alyce, was it? She was a daughter of border gentry around here. Not sure how long ago, but I believe it was around the Civil War. Something like that. She grew up a proper little hoyden, allowed to run wild, but very beautiful too. She was wilful and wouldn’t marry any of the men her father lined up for her, but one day she was out riding – on her own, mind you, and astride the saddle – and she met one of the neighbours, the Lord of Levingshall. My ancestor.’ Morgan smirked, and watching his reflection in that glass his expression struck me as oddly unpleasant. ‘Now, Lord Price – he wasn’t a Morgan back then - was a very handsome man and quite the charmer. She fell for him, head over heels, out there in the greenwood just like in the old songs. He laid her down on the grass so green and lifted her skirt and with a hey-nonny-nonny…’
    At that moment there was a draught down the chimney and the fire flattened, shadows leaping across the room. I spun to face my friend in mock alarm. Well, perhaps it was not all mockery. He’d stopped, lips parted over his next word, eyes glinting. He bared his teeth in a grin.
    ‘Well, let’s say he taught her a few things about riding she hadn’t learnt at home. Gave her a good churn with his cream-stick, as they say out here in the country. The lucky lass thought she was in Paradise. And when she slipped off back home that night she couldn’t help thinking about him, about how kind he’d been to her and how helpful and how handsome … And how big was his prick.’ Morgan patted his crotch fondly. ‘The upshot was that next day she got on her horse and rode from her father’s lands to his, all the way to the house here, desperate for a repeat performance. But when she got to Levingshall she found the place was in the midst of wedding preparations: Lord Price was to be married that day to another lady.’
    I pulled a face, bracing myself.
    ‘Of course, if she’d have had the least sense she would have scuttled off quickly and kept quiet about the whole thing and salvaged some dignity. But the silly wench had just lost her maidenhead and was wildly in love and she made the most terrible scene, demanding that he marry her instead, and then begging him, and then cursing him for betraying her – which he hadn’t done, never having promised her anything. Lord Price laughed her out of the place. Alyce jumped on her horse in the end and rode away from the hall, to the bridge, where in her rage she threw herself off into the waters. It was spring and the water was icy cold from the hills: servants dragged her out but she was already stone dead. They buried her in unconsecrated ground of course, being a suicide as well as a whore.’
    Poor girl, I thought.



    ‘A month later, Lord Price was found dead in his bed, cold as ice and wringing wet - and a look on his face like he’d seen the Devil himself. Luckily he had brothers, but the next one went the same way before they worked out it wasn’t safe for the landholder to stay in his own house.’ He sighed. ‘It’s come down to us through cousins and younger sons. No one in the family wants the damn place, and though the rental income isn’t bad it’s no fortune.’
    ‘I can see your problem. You’ve inherited a bit of a white elephant, haven’t you?’
    ‘I hope not. I sincerely hope not. And with luck we shall know by the morning, eh?’
    ‘Mm.’ I wasn’t sure what species of luck he was courting here.  I turned back to the mirror and considered recovering it, rather disliking the shadowy room reflected in the tinted glass.  Common sense – or pride – got the better of me though. Discarding the sheet, I turned to the fire for something to keep me occupied, but the blaze had steadied and was burning bright and warm. ‘I’ll go get another basket of logs, shall I?’
    ‘Shh!’ Morgan held up his hand.
    I froze. For a moment there was silence except for the pop and crackle of the flames. ‘What?’ I ventured at last.
    ‘Shh! That!’
    This time round I heard it: a low squeak. In the time it took me to turn and face in the direction of the noise I’d identified it as the sound a wet fingertip makes upon glass. I took a deep breath. The interior shutters in this room were closed and barred, but I knew from the front elevation that the tall, rectangular windows were made up of leaded diamonds of glass.
    Quietly, with a look of grim satisfaction, Morgan opened his gun-case and bent to the weapon within. Breaking it, he slipped in the first cartridge. ‘Open it,’ he said in a low voice.
    I barely hesitated. Dropping the steel bar that held the central panel, I pulled the shutter wide open. A multitude of diamond panes reflected the firelight at my back, but the cold draught was immediately felt. The night outside was moonlit, and filled with the soughing of the unseen river. Bushes pressed right up to the house; beyond them I could make out the grey wash of a lawn.
    Squeak.


    ‘It’s a branch rubbing on the glass.’ I glanced back triumphantly at Morgan and caught him stood with gun readied but pointed down and away, for which I was grateful. He cracked a grin.
    ‘Of course it is.’
    I reached out to grasp the shutter again, but stopped mid-motion, puzzled by something half-visible through the shrubbery. ‘I say – what’s that on the lawn?’
    ‘What?’ Morgan grabbed the oil lamp and started forward, but I waved it away: the more light around me, the less I could see outside the house.
    ‘Out there – something white on the grass.’
    Side by side, we peered out through the thick, bubbly glass and the criss-crossed branches, trying to bring into focus the pale object lying out there at some indeterminate distance. I wasn’t even sure it was an object: it might have been a patch of light or a litter of stones. There was no telling how big it was or even if it was moving.
    ‘What the hell,’ Morgan muttered, really irritated.
    ‘We’ll get a better view from the landing window,’ I suggested. We would be higher than those damned shrubs up there, and able to look down on the lawn.
    ‘Good idea.’ Turning decisively, he strode from the room and I followed, bringing the lamp. It was a good thing I did: the hall was in darkness otherwise and the big oak staircase would have been near impossible to negotiate because the moonlight did not fall further than the half-landing. The ancient treads creaked beneath our feet as we ascended. Shoulder to shoulder again, we stared out onto the back garden lawn.
    There was nothing out there. The lawn was a sweep of unbroken grey, the trees beyond as black as India ink.
    ‘Can’t see a damn thing,’ Morgan complained. ‘Are you sure there was something out there?’
    ‘I thought so.’ I felt chilly all of sudden, though I attributed it to moving from the only room with a lit fire.
    Behind us, the front door knocker crashed. We both jumped like someone had run a galvanic current through us, and spun round to look down the stairs. The ground floor was in impenetrable shadow.
    ‘Who is it?’ Morgan called. ‘Who’s there?’
    There was no answering shout, but the door knocker slammed again.


You can read a later  (And much ruder) excerpt from Cold Hands, Warm Heart here


You can read the whole story in Dark Enchantment
Amazon US : US Kindle : Amazon UK : UK Kindle

Eyecandy Monday - a special gift

Today's Eyecandy Monday is a very special one, because for the first time I've had a friend contact me and say "Can I be your Eyecandy?"

And I went "Oh oh oh YES! That's HOT!"

Isn't that a wonderful picture? It was taken by Mighty Aphrodite, one of many companies specialising in "boudoir" photography. Ordinary women are quietly finding courage to bare all for the camera. And they're discovering, through the camera's eye, that they are beautiful and desirable. Which is an incredible gift.

Most women hate their own bodies. Self-criticism is just something you grow up with, as inescapable as teenaged acne. But if you're lucky, and you have a bit of help, you can grow out of that too. It just might take until you're in your forties ... or fifties ... like my friend above.

All is revealed

. . . though not just yet!

This carpet-o'-nerdy-stuff on my kitchen floor is the preparation for the start of a very special photo shoot I did yesterday for the Geek Love book.

It took seven hours.

Results are pending, while the photographer-who-may-not-be named (she has a clause in her day job contract saying she "may not bring the company into disrepute"!!) selects, crops, tints ... and photoshops out that unfortunate insect bite.

I'm . . . not sure if I should be scared. Or proud. Or whether I've just taken leave of my senses.

Geek Love - running order

And that, Oh Best Beloveds, is how I went about the process of sorting the accepted stories for Geek Love into a final running order: torn-up post-its stuck to a board. Very high-tech, hey? I swear I tried doing it in a desktop document first . . . but for some reason I just couldn't wrap my head around things that way.

The main thing with running order is variation. Anyone reading through from front to back should be presented with a kaleidoscopic cavalcade from across the range of themes and styles.

The stories divided roughly into two groups: the "realistic" and the "speculative fiction" (sci-fi, fantasy, steampunk, superheroes). So I started by alternating those. Then I had to take account of settings: the several stories with office settings for example, and several about gamers, needed to be spread out. The cluster of f/f stories had to be separated  of course (to stop it turning into one giant lesbian orgy, ahem), so I also alternated hetero stories with ones themed around alternate sexualities (And it gets pretty damn alternative in places. I'm talking insects . . . no, not incest! Insects.). And then there are special rules for the beginning and end of the book . . .

I'm amazed it worked out, but somehow it did. Pretty much perfectly, I think.

So this is it:

1.     Black Gold   - Kristina Lloyd
2.     Goodness, Her Tail   - Camille Alexa
3.     The Journal of Mary Freder - Peter Smalley
4.     Raid Night - James Sutter
5.     The Hope of Cinnamon -  M. Christian
6.     Electric - Wendy Wagner
7.     The Secret Life of Ramona Lee - Michael M. Jones
8.     The Ivory-Billed Woodpecker is Extinct - Bill Noble
9.     Saving the World - Shanna Germain
10.   Downtime - Tanya Korval
11.   The Pornographer’s Assistant - A.C. Wise
12.   Opening Juicy Lucy - Craig Sorensen
13.   A Great Old Time - A. L. Auerbach
14.   Binary - Preston Avery
15.   Morphosis - Jak Koke
16.   Who Am I This Time? - Andrea Trask
17.   Voyeuristic Beauty - Elise Hepner
18.   Fuck the World - J. A. Shirley
19.   At the Faire - Andrea Dale
20.   Grinding - Janine Ashbless
21.   Command Prompt - Ed Grabianowski
22.   Pages and Play Things - Harry Markov
23.   Player Characters - Lucia Starkley
24.   The Purpose of Tongues - Kirsty Logan
25.   Ho Pais Kalos - Molly Tanzer
26.   RJ-45 - Alison Winchester
27.   F-RPG - Vivienne Ashe
28.   Porn Enough at Last - Jesse Bullington
29.   Magdelene - Sommer Marsden

And in my not-so-unbiased opinion, they're bloody brilliant.

"This book is utterly shameless"

Tilly Hunter has reviewed
"A no-holds-barred descent into the most filthy and degrading sexual acts imaginable, with each fresh round of shame for the heroine soon being trumped by something even more debased. Fantastic!"


Thank you Tilly!


Buy atAlso available on Kindle (but without the illustrations)