Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 15
October 22, 2018
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your pleasure!
Since the nights are drawing in and Hallowe'en is on the horizon, I thought I'd showcase a story from my erotic vampire novel Red Grow the Roses.
Story? Didn't I just say it was a novel? Well yes, but it's a mosaic novel, made up of stand-alone shorts in different styles and voices. This excerpt is from Story/Chapter 6: Five for the Symbol at Your Door. In this case the symbol is a pentagram: Cerri the pagan witch has been hired to help Doug ward off a prowling vampire. She instructs him to rub himself with garlic oil. Then she finds out that Doug is the local vicar...
Kicking off her shoes she made her way on bare feet through the shadowy house. Lady Bast clear the path for me, she prayed. The bathroom door was closed. Drumming her fingers on the wood in a token knock, she didn’t wait for an answer but turned the handle. It wasn’t locked. From within the room a wave of scented steam washed over her: pungent garlic and sharper more fragrant ginger. Doug was fastening his trousers; he turned hurriedly at her entrance and stared. Shirtless, his skin glistened with oil; his hair was darkened into damp locks. His torso was neat and tight of line rather than broad or bulky. He looked horribly discomforted to see her there, and his hands bunched protectively over his groin.
Oh yeah, thought Cerri: not bad at all.
‘Cerri – please!’
‘You done? I came up to see if you needed any help.’
‘I’m done. I managed fine.’
‘Every inch?’ She gave him a come-on grin. ‘Back, sack and crack?’
He nodded, biting his lip.
‘Bet you didn’t manage between your shoulders. Turn around – let’s have a look.’
He looked like he wanted to protest, but he obeyed without another word, and she glanced over the smooth taut skin of his back.
‘There. You did miss a bit. I’ll sort it for you.’ Silently she pulled her blouse off over her head and dropped it behind her. He’d plugged the handbasin and poured some of the oil out into that, a pool of gold in the white porcelain. Dipping one hand in, she laid it between his shoulder blades and felt him quiver as if she’d given him an electric shock, his spine arching. Her second hand joined the first and she smoothed her fingertips down his back, feeling the muscle and the frame of bone beneath. ‘That’s better.’
‘Oh dear God,’ whispered Doug, which she thought not entirely appropriate for a vicar.
‘Doesn’t it feel nice?’ She was massaging the oil into him now, kneading at the flesh, feeling him push back into her. She watched a drop of oil gather and run down the defile of his spine, and she traced it all the way down until it disappeared under the waistband of his chinos. ‘Oops,’ she murmured, following the drop with a fingertip and nearly sending him into convulsions.
‘Cerri, you mustn’t.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘I can’t. It’s not right.’
‘Why not? You lot aren’t celibate.’
‘That just means I’m allowed to get married. I can’t be having it off with anyone I like, you know.’
‘So you like me?’ She leaned into him, not caring that she was getting her bra messy, her hands exploring their way round his waist to his stomach, tracing paths through the line of oiled hair there. He felt lean and hard and good to hold.
‘I ... I can’t.’ But he wasn’t making any attempt to stop her. She found out why when she reached down to brush her fingers across the front of his trousers and encountered a rock-hard mass bulging against the cloth.
‘Oh? Why not?’ She worked the button of his fly with the other hand.
Don’t. Our bodies are not ours alone. They belong to God.’
‘I can go with that.’ He didn’t seem to be wearing any underwear.
Doug sounded strained, almost ready to crack. ‘We have to treat our own bodies and each other’s as holy. I need to – Oh Christ!’ That was the moment at which she got her hand around the erect shaft of his cock. The blasphemy startled her, but she held on tight as he shuddered violently against her, stretching his spine.
‘Shush, lover,’ she whispered, pressing her breasts against him, sliding her grip up and down his substantial length. Fuck – for a slim-looking guy he was a surprising handful. He’d oiled it too, as promised, and it slipped and slithered under her palm with luxurious ease, every ridge and contour a delight to her. Cerri pulled his trousers down over his hips, letting them slide to his calves, and laid her free hand on his ass-cheek, feeling the clench of his muscle. She licked at his shoulder and tasted the aromatic oil. ‘How long since you had a good lay, Doug? The truth now.’
He rolled his head back, panting. ‘Nearly – ah – not since Uni.’
‘Do you jerk off?’
‘Huh?’
‘Do you masturbate, Doug? Do you make yourself come?’
‘Yes. Oh God ... I try ... not to do it too much.’
‘
Why not, lover?’ Her hand was moving up and down in a slick inexorable dance.
‘It’s disrespectful ... to those I’m thinking about.’
Without letting go of his erect cock she slithered round in front of him, looking up into his flushed, stricken face. ‘Don’t you respect me, Doug?’ she asked with a gentle smile, her hand never ceasing its work but moving slower now, firmer. She was worried that he would explode far too fast if she let him. His stomach muscles were tight, his shoulders tense. He looked down into the depths of her cleavage as if into an abyss.
‘Cerri...’
‘Take my bra off.’
His hands shook as he smoothed down the emerald straps from her shoulders and released her breasts from their confines. Her nipples were big to match the generous orbs and they pointed at him, beading visibly in accusation. She wondered if she would be able to get him to suck them. She wanted him to suck them. She wanted him to lick her pussy: she had a feeling he’d be very good at that. She wanted him to suck her clit while she straddled him and gobbled his cock.
‘Oh, you’re beautiful,’ he said, like something inside him had broken, and she smiled.
‘It’s okay. It’s fine. You can think about me every time you come. I’d like that.’
Without warning he caught her face up in his hands and kissed her. It was clumsy but that hardly mattered; it was also hungry and desperate and staggeringly sweet. It was as if he were trying to breathe her in. Cerri felt a quite unexpected rush of warmth flash between them.
‘Woah,’ she said, her eyes shining, as they drew apart.
‘Cerri, please...’ His eyes were losing focus.
She liked being in charge. Gently but firmly she pushed Doug back against the bathroom sink, and he grabbed the ceramic with both hands. ‘Spread your legs,’ she murmured, kissing him, and as he did so she cupped his oiled balls in her other hand.
His head went back straight away, his mouth and eyes round. She played with his scrotal sac, rolling the balls within and tickling his perineum. That made him gasp. His cock, already massively solid, seemed to swell in her hand. He was going to come real soon, she could tell; he was going to erupt all over her wicked fingers. She stopped looking up at his face and focused on his crotch, noting each tightening muscle, each subliminal quiver. And the more she played between his thighs, the closer he seemed to get. There were beads of sweat springing out through the sheen of oil now.
Is this what you like, lover?
Buy 'Red Grow the Roses' at Amazon US
Buy 'Red Grow the Roses' at Amazon UK
Buy 'Red Grow the Roses' at Google Play
Buy 'Red Grow the Roses' at iTunes
Since the nights are drawing in and Hallowe'en is on the horizon, I thought I'd showcase a story from my erotic vampire novel Red Grow the Roses.
Story? Didn't I just say it was a novel? Well yes, but it's a mosaic novel, made up of stand-alone shorts in different styles and voices. This excerpt is from Story/Chapter 6: Five for the Symbol at Your Door. In this case the symbol is a pentagram: Cerri the pagan witch has been hired to help Doug ward off a prowling vampire. She instructs him to rub himself with garlic oil. Then she finds out that Doug is the local vicar...
Kicking off her shoes she made her way on bare feet through the shadowy house. Lady Bast clear the path for me, she prayed. The bathroom door was closed. Drumming her fingers on the wood in a token knock, she didn’t wait for an answer but turned the handle. It wasn’t locked. From within the room a wave of scented steam washed over her: pungent garlic and sharper more fragrant ginger. Doug was fastening his trousers; he turned hurriedly at her entrance and stared. Shirtless, his skin glistened with oil; his hair was darkened into damp locks. His torso was neat and tight of line rather than broad or bulky. He looked horribly discomforted to see her there, and his hands bunched protectively over his groin.
Oh yeah, thought Cerri: not bad at all.
‘Cerri – please!’
‘You done? I came up to see if you needed any help.’
‘I’m done. I managed fine.’
‘Every inch?’ She gave him a come-on grin. ‘Back, sack and crack?’
He nodded, biting his lip.
‘Bet you didn’t manage between your shoulders. Turn around – let’s have a look.’
He looked like he wanted to protest, but he obeyed without another word, and she glanced over the smooth taut skin of his back.
‘There. You did miss a bit. I’ll sort it for you.’ Silently she pulled her blouse off over her head and dropped it behind her. He’d plugged the handbasin and poured some of the oil out into that, a pool of gold in the white porcelain. Dipping one hand in, she laid it between his shoulder blades and felt him quiver as if she’d given him an electric shock, his spine arching. Her second hand joined the first and she smoothed her fingertips down his back, feeling the muscle and the frame of bone beneath. ‘That’s better.’
‘Oh dear God,’ whispered Doug, which she thought not entirely appropriate for a vicar.
‘Doesn’t it feel nice?’ She was massaging the oil into him now, kneading at the flesh, feeling him push back into her. She watched a drop of oil gather and run down the defile of his spine, and she traced it all the way down until it disappeared under the waistband of his chinos. ‘Oops,’ she murmured, following the drop with a fingertip and nearly sending him into convulsions.
‘Cerri, you mustn’t.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘I can’t. It’s not right.’
‘Why not? You lot aren’t celibate.’
‘That just means I’m allowed to get married. I can’t be having it off with anyone I like, you know.’
‘So you like me?’ She leaned into him, not caring that she was getting her bra messy, her hands exploring their way round his waist to his stomach, tracing paths through the line of oiled hair there. He felt lean and hard and good to hold.
‘I ... I can’t.’ But he wasn’t making any attempt to stop her. She found out why when she reached down to brush her fingers across the front of his trousers and encountered a rock-hard mass bulging against the cloth.
‘Oh? Why not?’ She worked the button of his fly with the other hand.
Don’t. Our bodies are not ours alone. They belong to God.’
‘I can go with that.’ He didn’t seem to be wearing any underwear.
Doug sounded strained, almost ready to crack. ‘We have to treat our own bodies and each other’s as holy. I need to – Oh Christ!’ That was the moment at which she got her hand around the erect shaft of his cock. The blasphemy startled her, but she held on tight as he shuddered violently against her, stretching his spine.
‘Shush, lover,’ she whispered, pressing her breasts against him, sliding her grip up and down his substantial length. Fuck – for a slim-looking guy he was a surprising handful. He’d oiled it too, as promised, and it slipped and slithered under her palm with luxurious ease, every ridge and contour a delight to her. Cerri pulled his trousers down over his hips, letting them slide to his calves, and laid her free hand on his ass-cheek, feeling the clench of his muscle. She licked at his shoulder and tasted the aromatic oil. ‘How long since you had a good lay, Doug? The truth now.’
He rolled his head back, panting. ‘Nearly – ah – not since Uni.’
‘Do you jerk off?’
‘Huh?’
‘Do you masturbate, Doug? Do you make yourself come?’
‘Yes. Oh God ... I try ... not to do it too much.’
‘
Why not, lover?’ Her hand was moving up and down in a slick inexorable dance.
‘It’s disrespectful ... to those I’m thinking about.’
Without letting go of his erect cock she slithered round in front of him, looking up into his flushed, stricken face. ‘Don’t you respect me, Doug?’ she asked with a gentle smile, her hand never ceasing its work but moving slower now, firmer. She was worried that he would explode far too fast if she let him. His stomach muscles were tight, his shoulders tense. He looked down into the depths of her cleavage as if into an abyss.
‘Cerri...’
‘Take my bra off.’
His hands shook as he smoothed down the emerald straps from her shoulders and released her breasts from their confines. Her nipples were big to match the generous orbs and they pointed at him, beading visibly in accusation. She wondered if she would be able to get him to suck them. She wanted him to suck them. She wanted him to lick her pussy: she had a feeling he’d be very good at that. She wanted him to suck her clit while she straddled him and gobbled his cock.
‘Oh, you’re beautiful,’ he said, like something inside him had broken, and she smiled.
‘It’s okay. It’s fine. You can think about me every time you come. I’d like that.’
Without warning he caught her face up in his hands and kissed her. It was clumsy but that hardly mattered; it was also hungry and desperate and staggeringly sweet. It was as if he were trying to breathe her in. Cerri felt a quite unexpected rush of warmth flash between them.
‘Woah,’ she said, her eyes shining, as they drew apart.
‘Cerri, please...’ His eyes were losing focus.
She liked being in charge. Gently but firmly she pushed Doug back against the bathroom sink, and he grabbed the ceramic with both hands. ‘Spread your legs,’ she murmured, kissing him, and as he did so she cupped his oiled balls in her other hand.
His head went back straight away, his mouth and eyes round. She played with his scrotal sac, rolling the balls within and tickling his perineum. That made him gasp. His cock, already massively solid, seemed to swell in her hand. He was going to come real soon, she could tell; he was going to erupt all over her wicked fingers. She stopped looking up at his face and focused on his crotch, noting each tightening muscle, each subliminal quiver. And the more she played between his thighs, the closer he seemed to get. There were beads of sweat springing out through the sheen of oil now.
Is this what you like, lover?
Buy 'Red Grow the Roses' at Amazon US
Buy 'Red Grow the Roses' at Amazon UK
Buy 'Red Grow the Roses' at Google Play
Buy 'Red Grow the Roses' at iTunes
October 21, 2018
L00t
Here's my book-stash from FantasyCon 2018:
Plus the ones I brought home for Mr Ashbless:
Goddamnit, I need more shelf-space now... :-(
Plus the ones I brought home for Mr Ashbless:
Goddamnit, I need more shelf-space now... :-(
October 18, 2018
Off to Fan
Not only am I writing a horror story this week (which is why I've neglected my blog slightly) but I'm packing for a weekend of Spec-fic-themed sitting in the bar panelshows and talks and filmshows and stuff at FantasyCon 2018 - in the lovely city of Chester.
I haven't made any attempt at getting on a panel this time, but I do have a personal interest in two books being launched this weekend: The Scent of Tears
which contains my story "The Scent of Tears"and The Alchemy Press Book of Horrors:
which contains my story "Remember"so I should be found signing books and drinking the free wine :-)
But mostly I will be chatting to people much more clued-in than I am, and TRYING IN VAIN not to bring home lots more lovely books, LOL
You can read the report Terry the Tentacle made me write about FantasyCon 2016, HERE
October 15, 2018
Blue Monday: Lea Bronsen guests
Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!
Today's guest is Lea Bronsen, with an excerpt from her new menage story, High Risk Fever:
Two young and indecently handsome bicyclists visit a village in the French Alps during the summer holidays. Forced by a raging storm to spend the night at the local bed and breakfast, they invade the quiet lives of hostess Anne and her husband, Brian.
A power outage plunges the foursome into darkness, encouraging new liaisons to form, life-long secrets to be unveiled, and steamy lessons to be learned. But once the storm moves on, can the four find a balance and resume their normal lives?
Confident she was invisible in her dark corner of the living room, Anne silently descended the stairs one after the other with steps as soft as cat paws. At the bottom, she bent her head to see the scene unfolding at the other side.
Atop the coffee table, a white candle burned next to a bottle and a glass, creating a romantic atmosphere. Behind the swirling flame, the two young bicyclists sat close together on the bordeaux couch, dressed in pullovers and sweatpants, entangled. Gentle candlelight caressed their smiling faces as they stared into each other’s eyes, murmuring words Anne couldn’t hear, and…uh…kissing.
The truth hit her like a slap in the face. So that explained Todd’s hostile behavior in the kitchen, when she was talking to his lover, apparently. He thought Micaela was hitting on her!
Well, he had been.
An array of contradictory feelings assaulted her. She closed her eyes and sat on the stair. This was voyeurism, secretly witnessing two people’s intimacy. Jealousy and deceit, too, as a little earlier, she was the one Micaela attempted to seduce. That, and shock, because she had never before seen two men—
Low moans made her open her eyes again.
The guys were sharing wet, open-mouthed kisses, and fondling each other’s chests and stomachs beneath the pullovers.
Whispering something into Micaela’s ear, Todd snuck a hand down to his own pants, leaned back, and pulled out his fully erect cock.
Oh, God.
Anne stared in disbelief. This was getting seriously pornographic!
Smiling, Micaela moved a hand to Todd’s huge erection, grabbed it at the base, and leaned forward until close enough to touch its head with his half-open lips. His long, black locks slid down his shoulders, glowing in the soft light.
With a guttural sound of excitement, Todd closed his eyes, moved his hand to the other man’s shoulder, and stroked him.
Micaela opened his mouth and licked the tip of the thick shaft, letting his tongue glide around in playful circles before taking the length deep into his throat.
In response, Todd threw his blond head back against the couch, arched eager hips to meet Micaela’s sucking, and groaned. “Oh fuck, man.” He laughed.
Paralyzed, Anne blinked before shaking from her daze. She couldn’t watch this strictly private moment between two other people. Besides, at any moment, Todd could open his eyes and notice her sitting on the stairs. Then, what?
Encouraging his lover with his hand, Todd laughed again, and gasped.
All right, let’s get out of here.
Careful not to make any abrupt movements, she stood and retreated up the wooden steps, holding her breath—but the next stair gave a small, treacherous creak under her weight.
Oh, no.
The sound sent icy fear through her from top to toe, and the hair on her neck stood. She imagined the clank echoing between walls in the darkened living room. Frozen, she held her breath and tried to detect any sound above the heavy rain hitting the asphalt outside. A voice, a gasp of shock, something.
But, no, complete silence lingered behind her.
Maybe they hadn’t heard the noise, and she could walk up the stairs pretending nothing had happened. Or….
Curiosity gnawed at her. She needed to look, wanted to know for sure.
Inch by inch, she turned, careful not to make the step squeak again. She bent her knees to see underneath the ceiling and gazed at the guys on the couch.
Behind the dancing candlelight, Todd’s emerald eyes were wide and set on her.
Her heart jumped.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She loathed it, loathed herself.
Meanwhile, Micaela’s head kept bobbing up and down in his lover’s lap, oblivious to her gaze.
Nausea tightened her stomach as she stared, holding Todd’s look. Sweat formed under her armpits, and cold droplets glided down her torso, meeting the waistband of her pants.
She couldn’t define what his steady, intelligent eyes were stating. In the dark, the flickering candle flame reflected his pupils, but he didn’t blink once. Maybe he just didn’t mind her seeing him getting sucked by another man.
She needed to leave.
The same moment she made up her mind to turn around, he threw his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. A long groan of pleasure escaped his parted lips. Arching his whole body, he grabbed a fistful of Micaela’s long, black hair and yanked backward.
The Italian gave a throaty chuckle, but didn’t stop. As if encouraged, he moved his hand from the base of Todd’s erection to beneath the waistband and inside his pants. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was cupping Todd’s balls and fondling them, all the while expertly working his lips and mouth on the hard cock.
Pulling harder at Micaela’s hair, Todd grimaced and began to groan in rhythm.
His imminent release transfixed her. Heat filled her lower stomach.
Jesus.
She swayed on the stairs and leaned against the wall to steady herself.
Micaela brought his other hand to Todd’s engorged cock. With a playful grin, he withdrew his mouth and kept it open above the tip while giving it short, vigorous strokes.
A few more seconds of pumping, and then came his reward. Todd pressed his hips upward with a growl, and long rushes of thick white liquid ejaculated from his cock into Micaela’s open mouth. As he swallowed, more semen ran down alongside the cock’s head and over his fingers, glistening in the candlelight.
Growling a last time, Todd let go of his lover’s hair and covered his grimacing face with trembling hands. "Oh my fucking God.” He breathed hard.
Indeed.
Buy High Risk Fever at:
Books2Read
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
Kobo
Apple iTunes
Smashwords
Get the print edition on Amazon
Add the book to your shelf on Goodreads
See photos that inspired Lea to write the book on Pinterest
Lea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her own stories the same intensity. After venturing into dirty inner-city crime drama with her debut novel Wild Hearted, she divides her writing time between psychological thriller, romantic suspense, and dark erotic romance.
Meet Lea Bronsen on
Website / Blog / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Goodreads / Amazon / Pinterest
Today's guest is Lea Bronsen, with an excerpt from her new menage story, High Risk Fever:
Two young and indecently handsome bicyclists visit a village in the French Alps during the summer holidays. Forced by a raging storm to spend the night at the local bed and breakfast, they invade the quiet lives of hostess Anne and her husband, Brian.
A power outage plunges the foursome into darkness, encouraging new liaisons to form, life-long secrets to be unveiled, and steamy lessons to be learned. But once the storm moves on, can the four find a balance and resume their normal lives?
Confident she was invisible in her dark corner of the living room, Anne silently descended the stairs one after the other with steps as soft as cat paws. At the bottom, she bent her head to see the scene unfolding at the other side.
Atop the coffee table, a white candle burned next to a bottle and a glass, creating a romantic atmosphere. Behind the swirling flame, the two young bicyclists sat close together on the bordeaux couch, dressed in pullovers and sweatpants, entangled. Gentle candlelight caressed their smiling faces as they stared into each other’s eyes, murmuring words Anne couldn’t hear, and…uh…kissing.
The truth hit her like a slap in the face. So that explained Todd’s hostile behavior in the kitchen, when she was talking to his lover, apparently. He thought Micaela was hitting on her!
Well, he had been.
An array of contradictory feelings assaulted her. She closed her eyes and sat on the stair. This was voyeurism, secretly witnessing two people’s intimacy. Jealousy and deceit, too, as a little earlier, she was the one Micaela attempted to seduce. That, and shock, because she had never before seen two men—
Low moans made her open her eyes again.
The guys were sharing wet, open-mouthed kisses, and fondling each other’s chests and stomachs beneath the pullovers.
Whispering something into Micaela’s ear, Todd snuck a hand down to his own pants, leaned back, and pulled out his fully erect cock.
Oh, God.
Anne stared in disbelief. This was getting seriously pornographic!
Smiling, Micaela moved a hand to Todd’s huge erection, grabbed it at the base, and leaned forward until close enough to touch its head with his half-open lips. His long, black locks slid down his shoulders, glowing in the soft light.
With a guttural sound of excitement, Todd closed his eyes, moved his hand to the other man’s shoulder, and stroked him.
Micaela opened his mouth and licked the tip of the thick shaft, letting his tongue glide around in playful circles before taking the length deep into his throat.
In response, Todd threw his blond head back against the couch, arched eager hips to meet Micaela’s sucking, and groaned. “Oh fuck, man.” He laughed.
Paralyzed, Anne blinked before shaking from her daze. She couldn’t watch this strictly private moment between two other people. Besides, at any moment, Todd could open his eyes and notice her sitting on the stairs. Then, what?
Encouraging his lover with his hand, Todd laughed again, and gasped.
All right, let’s get out of here.
Careful not to make any abrupt movements, she stood and retreated up the wooden steps, holding her breath—but the next stair gave a small, treacherous creak under her weight.
Oh, no.
The sound sent icy fear through her from top to toe, and the hair on her neck stood. She imagined the clank echoing between walls in the darkened living room. Frozen, she held her breath and tried to detect any sound above the heavy rain hitting the asphalt outside. A voice, a gasp of shock, something.
But, no, complete silence lingered behind her.
Maybe they hadn’t heard the noise, and she could walk up the stairs pretending nothing had happened. Or….
Curiosity gnawed at her. She needed to look, wanted to know for sure.
Inch by inch, she turned, careful not to make the step squeak again. She bent her knees to see underneath the ceiling and gazed at the guys on the couch.
Behind the dancing candlelight, Todd’s emerald eyes were wide and set on her.
Her heart jumped.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She loathed it, loathed herself.
Meanwhile, Micaela’s head kept bobbing up and down in his lover’s lap, oblivious to her gaze.
Nausea tightened her stomach as she stared, holding Todd’s look. Sweat formed under her armpits, and cold droplets glided down her torso, meeting the waistband of her pants.
She couldn’t define what his steady, intelligent eyes were stating. In the dark, the flickering candle flame reflected his pupils, but he didn’t blink once. Maybe he just didn’t mind her seeing him getting sucked by another man.
She needed to leave.
The same moment she made up her mind to turn around, he threw his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. A long groan of pleasure escaped his parted lips. Arching his whole body, he grabbed a fistful of Micaela’s long, black hair and yanked backward.
The Italian gave a throaty chuckle, but didn’t stop. As if encouraged, he moved his hand from the base of Todd’s erection to beneath the waistband and inside his pants. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew he was cupping Todd’s balls and fondling them, all the while expertly working his lips and mouth on the hard cock.
Pulling harder at Micaela’s hair, Todd grimaced and began to groan in rhythm.
His imminent release transfixed her. Heat filled her lower stomach.
Jesus.
She swayed on the stairs and leaned against the wall to steady herself.
Micaela brought his other hand to Todd’s engorged cock. With a playful grin, he withdrew his mouth and kept it open above the tip while giving it short, vigorous strokes.
A few more seconds of pumping, and then came his reward. Todd pressed his hips upward with a growl, and long rushes of thick white liquid ejaculated from his cock into Micaela’s open mouth. As he swallowed, more semen ran down alongside the cock’s head and over his fingers, glistening in the candlelight.
Growling a last time, Todd let go of his lover’s hair and covered his grimacing face with trembling hands. "Oh my fucking God.” He breathed hard.
Indeed.
Buy High Risk Fever at:
Books2Read
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes & Noble
Kobo
Apple iTunes
Smashwords
Get the print edition on Amazon
Add the book to your shelf on Goodreads
See photos that inspired Lea to write the book on Pinterest
Lea Bronsen likes her reads hot, fast, and edgy, and strives to give her own stories the same intensity. After venturing into dirty inner-city crime drama with her debut novel Wild Hearted, she divides her writing time between psychological thriller, romantic suspense, and dark erotic romance.
Meet Lea Bronsen on
Website / Blog / Facebook / Twitter / Instagram / Goodreads / Amazon / Pinterest
October 14, 2018
Day by day
Yesterday this:
Today this:
I do my adulting in small doses ;-)
Today this:
I do my adulting in small doses ;-)
October 12, 2018
New bookcase!
Let there be rejoicing - for I have a big new bookcase! We had to replace the radiator to fit it in, so it's a major achievement ;-)
But now I have two free shelves to put my photo albums in - which should last me most of the rest of my holidaying life!
What, those books temporarily on the top shelf? That's the overflow from my To-Read Pile.
This is my ACTUAL To-Read Pile:
October 10, 2018
Autumn: the cleavage shots
Lawrence Alma-Tadema: Autumn: Vintage Festival (1877)Since Autumn is now here for real, it's time to celebrate with some sexy Victorian portraits of her ;-)
Autumn (1898) by William Stott of Oldham
Falling Leaves, Allegory of Autumn (1872) by Hugues Merle
Autumn (1871) by John Atkinson Grimshaw
Autumn by Jean-Denis-Antoine Caucannier (c. 1860 - c. 1905)And Alphonse Mucha practically made portraits of the seasons into his own sub-genre 
1896
1897October 8, 2018
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!
Since we are coming up to Hallowe'en, here's a bit from my short story Scratch, set in Colonial America some years after the Salem Witch Trials. Maarten Gansevoort and his wife Mercy have received a visit from The Devil himself, under the name Nicholas Scratch:
‘Now tell him, Mercy,’ said the stranger, ‘why you signed yourself to me.’ He withdrew his foot from her mouth, and the momentary gape of her lips was obscene, before she licked them. ‘Tell him.’
‘When I was young,’ she whispered, eyes once more downcast as if focused far away, ‘there was nothing but toil and fear. No frivolity, no indulgence, no joy. Even their God was dark and bitter, and I hungered for colour and delight. And some came to me and whispered that there was a master who would promise those things. So I went with them. I knew what I was doing. They debauched me and I was their willing whore. It was the first time in my life I was not a dull drab thing, not just a servant, not just a girl-child. And then he came to me.’
Maarten tugged at his plain linen collar, releasing some of the heat.
‘You see?’ the stranger asked his host pleasantly. ‘Such memories she has. And one of the few things I have in common with your kind, good people, is – let us say – nostalgia. A capacity to regret what has been lost. I miss my sweet Mercy. So with your permission, Goodman Gansevoort…’ He stood, setting his flagon aside.
‘What?’ said Maarten thickly, as the stranger held out his hand to Mercy, who placed her fingers in his.
‘I intend to make a cuckold of you, friend.’
He opened his mouth but no words came out.
‘We will retire to the bedchamber to spare your feelings, Goodman. Of course you will hear her scream her pleasure: I can hardly prevent that. She was always most vocal, I remember.’
Maarten gripped the table edge as if he would overturn it.
‘Maarten,’ said Mercy swiftly: ‘Be at peace. Please, my husband.’ For a moment her eyes focused warningly on him, pinning him to his seat, but then he seemed to slip her mind. Her gaze turned back to their guest and she led him away to the inner room, and the door closed.
Maarten Gansevoort was in agony. He felt as if his stomach was full of knots. The room with its blazing fire was suddenly too warm, so he stood and flung off his woollen jacket and paced about the floor. He went to find his flintlock musket, and even got so far as to reach for the lead, but his hands fumbled uselessly with the box and he gave up. He scratched at his sweating chest and rubbed angrily at his crotch, sickened to find a most disloyal tumescence which his immediately put down to anger. He could not believe he was permitting another man – or anything in man’s form – take his wife from under his nose like that, no matter that man’s status or puissance. He could not believe that she seemed so willing, when their marriage had been so warmly content. He could not bring himself to face the confession she’d made, though it rolled around the margins of his mind painfully. He put his head in his hands and groaned, tried to pray but recoiled from the words. How could he pray when he had let such a Guest into his house?
Without intending it, he suddenly found that he was holding his breath, listening. Nicholas Scratch had been right about Mercy’s tendency to cry out in the throes of rutting; often he’d had to stifle her noises with his hand or the corner of the quilt, lest she disturb the whole household. When she fornicated she did it without restraint: it was one of the things that made his blood burn for her.
Reaching a decision, Maarten Gansevoort slipped off his blunt-toed shoes and crept on stockinged feet toward the inner door. He knew every board in the house he’d built, and not one of them creaked under his weight. He reached the bedchamber door and crouched down. The handle was only a smooth dowel that ran through from one side of the sliding latch to the other, and hadn’t been pegged in place. With much hesitation and care, he pulled the stick clean out of the door, leaving a round hole to which he applied his eye.
He could see quite clearly. The chamber with its shuttered windows, lit by candlelight. The big bed that he had made himself for his first marriage, spread with the cream quilt that Mercy had brought as part of her trousseau. Mercy standing at the side of the bed, facing the door, the stranger’s bare arms about her from behind. He had evidently removed his clothes, though Maarten could see little of him. Mercy’s own clothes were in disarray, her bodice unlaced, her shift pulled down from her shoulders, her big freckled breasts bare and cupped in the stranger’s groping hands, her plump brown nipples being plucked and flicked and pinched. Her neck was twisted at an angle and there was a look on her face of such painful need that Maarten Gansevoort caught his breath. Her mouth formed a quivering ‘O’ as if she were moulding it about some virile member. She writhed her sumptuous hips, grinding her ass-cheeks into the stranger’s crotch, and covered his hands with her own as he mauled at her.
Nicholas Scratch licked at her white throat, chuckling, then turned her in his hands and pushed her to her knees. Suddenly his body was visible; the unblemished body of a muscular young man, perfect in every way. His stiff stood up rampantly erect from a nest of black curls, dark with blood against the paler skin of his thighs and belly. He took himself in hand and laid the other hand on Mercy’s head as if in blasphemous blessing. But all he was doing was pressing her lower. She put her face to the fat pouch of his scrotum and kissed it fervently.
Maarten Gansevoort loosed the drawstring of his breeches and slipped his hand inside his clothes, ashamed beyond words, yet aroused so much he could no longer wait. His own member was hot and sticky and as hard as smoked meat. He stroked himself, feeling his balls clench, feeling the length in his hand grow thicker and longer with every beat of his heart.
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Since we are coming up to Hallowe'en, here's a bit from my short story Scratch, set in Colonial America some years after the Salem Witch Trials. Maarten Gansevoort and his wife Mercy have received a visit from The Devil himself, under the name Nicholas Scratch:
‘Now tell him, Mercy,’ said the stranger, ‘why you signed yourself to me.’ He withdrew his foot from her mouth, and the momentary gape of her lips was obscene, before she licked them. ‘Tell him.’
‘When I was young,’ she whispered, eyes once more downcast as if focused far away, ‘there was nothing but toil and fear. No frivolity, no indulgence, no joy. Even their God was dark and bitter, and I hungered for colour and delight. And some came to me and whispered that there was a master who would promise those things. So I went with them. I knew what I was doing. They debauched me and I was their willing whore. It was the first time in my life I was not a dull drab thing, not just a servant, not just a girl-child. And then he came to me.’
Maarten tugged at his plain linen collar, releasing some of the heat.
‘You see?’ the stranger asked his host pleasantly. ‘Such memories she has. And one of the few things I have in common with your kind, good people, is – let us say – nostalgia. A capacity to regret what has been lost. I miss my sweet Mercy. So with your permission, Goodman Gansevoort…’ He stood, setting his flagon aside.
‘What?’ said Maarten thickly, as the stranger held out his hand to Mercy, who placed her fingers in his.
‘I intend to make a cuckold of you, friend.’
He opened his mouth but no words came out.
‘We will retire to the bedchamber to spare your feelings, Goodman. Of course you will hear her scream her pleasure: I can hardly prevent that. She was always most vocal, I remember.’
Maarten gripped the table edge as if he would overturn it.
‘Maarten,’ said Mercy swiftly: ‘Be at peace. Please, my husband.’ For a moment her eyes focused warningly on him, pinning him to his seat, but then he seemed to slip her mind. Her gaze turned back to their guest and she led him away to the inner room, and the door closed.
Maarten Gansevoort was in agony. He felt as if his stomach was full of knots. The room with its blazing fire was suddenly too warm, so he stood and flung off his woollen jacket and paced about the floor. He went to find his flintlock musket, and even got so far as to reach for the lead, but his hands fumbled uselessly with the box and he gave up. He scratched at his sweating chest and rubbed angrily at his crotch, sickened to find a most disloyal tumescence which his immediately put down to anger. He could not believe he was permitting another man – or anything in man’s form – take his wife from under his nose like that, no matter that man’s status or puissance. He could not believe that she seemed so willing, when their marriage had been so warmly content. He could not bring himself to face the confession she’d made, though it rolled around the margins of his mind painfully. He put his head in his hands and groaned, tried to pray but recoiled from the words. How could he pray when he had let such a Guest into his house?
Without intending it, he suddenly found that he was holding his breath, listening. Nicholas Scratch had been right about Mercy’s tendency to cry out in the throes of rutting; often he’d had to stifle her noises with his hand or the corner of the quilt, lest she disturb the whole household. When she fornicated she did it without restraint: it was one of the things that made his blood burn for her.
Reaching a decision, Maarten Gansevoort slipped off his blunt-toed shoes and crept on stockinged feet toward the inner door. He knew every board in the house he’d built, and not one of them creaked under his weight. He reached the bedchamber door and crouched down. The handle was only a smooth dowel that ran through from one side of the sliding latch to the other, and hadn’t been pegged in place. With much hesitation and care, he pulled the stick clean out of the door, leaving a round hole to which he applied his eye.
He could see quite clearly. The chamber with its shuttered windows, lit by candlelight. The big bed that he had made himself for his first marriage, spread with the cream quilt that Mercy had brought as part of her trousseau. Mercy standing at the side of the bed, facing the door, the stranger’s bare arms about her from behind. He had evidently removed his clothes, though Maarten could see little of him. Mercy’s own clothes were in disarray, her bodice unlaced, her shift pulled down from her shoulders, her big freckled breasts bare and cupped in the stranger’s groping hands, her plump brown nipples being plucked and flicked and pinched. Her neck was twisted at an angle and there was a look on her face of such painful need that Maarten Gansevoort caught his breath. Her mouth formed a quivering ‘O’ as if she were moulding it about some virile member. She writhed her sumptuous hips, grinding her ass-cheeks into the stranger’s crotch, and covered his hands with her own as he mauled at her.
Nicholas Scratch licked at her white throat, chuckling, then turned her in his hands and pushed her to her knees. Suddenly his body was visible; the unblemished body of a muscular young man, perfect in every way. His stiff stood up rampantly erect from a nest of black curls, dark with blood against the paler skin of his thighs and belly. He took himself in hand and laid the other hand on Mercy’s head as if in blasphemous blessing. But all he was doing was pressing her lower. She put her face to the fat pouch of his scrotum and kissed it fervently.
Maarten Gansevoort loosed the drawstring of his breeches and slipped his hand inside his clothes, ashamed beyond words, yet aroused so much he could no longer wait. His own member was hot and sticky and as hard as smoked meat. He stroked himself, feeling his balls clench, feeling the length in his hand grow thicker and longer with every beat of his heart.
Buy Dark Enchantment at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play
iTunes
October 7, 2018
Nina Cried Power
"This song was intended as a thank you note to the spirit and legacy of protest".
The world needs this song this week :-(
The people in the video, btw, are all human rights activists - mostly from Ireland, where Hozier is based.
October 5, 2018
Stan 3: Kyrgyzstan
Kyrgyzstan has a very different feel to Uzbekistan, the first country on our tour, even though both are ex-Soviet authoritarian states. Uzbekistan is historically settled - with what we'd recognise as agricultural/mercantile kingdoms - and straightforwardly Muslim. In contrast, Kyrgyzstan has a proud history of being tribal and nomadic, built few cities before the Tsarist era, and its version of Islam is mixed up with a fair amount of shamanic paganism.
Pretty much all the ancient art concerns goats.They still hunt with golden eagles:
They love their yurts and their horses:
And their mountains - most of the country is "alpine":
They don't weave fancy silk carpets; they make felt hangings out of sheep's wool instead:
The most famous Kyrgyz historical site is the remains of the minaret at Burana:
Though they also do a cool line in balbals, which are mysterious ancestral stone figures:
We liked Kyrgyzstan a lot ... though it was worth being careful with the food choices ;-)
Balls of dried, salty yoghurt
A big bowl of NO THANK YOU
