Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 54
August 1, 2016
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a filthy episode for your entertainment!
Remember my review of Emmanuelle de Maupassant's 'Cautionary Tales' a couple of weeks ago? One of the things that made me smile was that when I wrote my own faux-Russian fairy tale, Too Much of Water, for Fierce Enchantments, I found a very similar caustic, judgmental, bitter-old-lady narrative voice. It must be a Slavic thing :-D
Too Much of Water is a retelling of The Frog Prince. Zorya has made a bargain with a Vodyanoi - a water-spirit - and now has to pay him back for retrieving her golden ball...
What she did then not even the whores of Kiev will do: such a thing is reserved for a husband alone, for the intimacy of the marriage bond. She took his pale bestial length, already oozing at the slitted tip with eager moisture, into her hot mouth. The Vodyanoi groaned at that just like a real man. She used tongue and lips to explore his girth and his strange contours and then worked him deep into her throat, sucking warmth into that chill staff. It gave her satisfaction in unexpected places to suck him like this, and she felt her own sex flutter as her fingertips weighed the heavy pouch of his stones, finding water still dripping from the black ringlets of hair at his groin.
Shifting his weight forward, he leaned into her. His legs were tense, almost as hard as the iron of his pike. His hips jerked as her head rose and fell in supplication, and he pressed his cock so far to the back of her throat that she gagged and tears welled in her eyes.
I could choke here, she thought, snatching her breath in the backstroke. It wasn’t a new idea though: her husband had similarly used her. The Tsar was an older man and would sometimes take so long that she’d weep for the ache in her jaw—but that wasn’t to be the case this time. She felt the
Vodyanoi’s rhythm grow fiercer, then become a stutter, and suddenly her mouth was awash with his slippery flood. Instantly—so copious was the flow—her fear of choking became a fear of drowning, and she jerked her head back with a gasp. His cock shuddered upon her tongue as the liquid, as cold and clear as mill water, overflowed her mouth and ran down over her chin.
He tasted of nothing at all: just like water.
The Vodyanoi withdrew from her open lips, glaring at her. Swallowing hard and struggle to get her breath back, Zorya nevertheless felt a strange bereavement now it was over, and a dread as to what would come next. Would he grow contemptuously indifferent now—or irritable—as her husband often did?
But her paramour was a Vodyanoi, and unlike a mortal man a single spasm of sin was not enough to sate him. Even as he stood back, his spend still drizzled down the underside of his rigid shaft, as if his balls were too full and now boiling over. He tilted his head, clearly weighing the options, as his gaze raked her kneeling body. ‘You have certain uses, alive,’ he admitted.
Then stooping, he lifted her, his muscles moving like waves under his skin. He turned her from him and thrust her toward the side of the royal bed—a piece of furniture so high that there was a padded bench to facilitate climbing into it. Zorya was pushed down to kneel upon that bench, her elbows on the bed itself. Then the Vodyanoi crouched behind her, lifted up the golden net that was her only garment, and spread her rump cheeks with his hands to reveal her most private parts.
Such shame! What man would do that to a woman? What man would thrust his face into that cleft and lick her, his tongue slithering over her pearl and into her well and then up between the orbs of her bottom to lap at the tight pucker between? It was as if the water spirit were trying to devour her earthiness. Zorya buried her face in the coverlet of the bed, rubbing her cheek upon the silver fox-fur as the Vodyanoi’s tongue—longer and stronger than any human man’s—danced and probed in her most private places, forcing entry into those treasure chambers that only her husband ought to access, and making her cry out.
Let us be charitable and say that it was shame that caused her to whimper and gasp and call upon God as the Vodyanoi’s tongue slid in and out of her—for no woman is entirely devoid of shame, not even a headstrong wanton such as she. Let us assume that it was an attempt to dull the pain that caused her to thrust her fingers down between the smooth fur of the coverlet and her own rougher fur, as he rose up behind her and breached the portal of her sex with his ram. His hand was heavy between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the bed. His hard thighs slapped against the backs of hers and his scrotum bounced on the cushioning lips of her sex, so deep did he delve with each thrust. Zorya heaved her hips against his invasion, but if she regretted her witch’s bargain it was too late now. He rutted inside her just as he had done in her mouth: swift and ruthless, taking his pleasure without regard for her delicacy of feeling. There was a minor difference, in that this time her throat was not stuffed with his meat and he could clearly hear her moans rising in pitch as he stretched her wide. But the result was the same: a great and sudden outpouring, flooding her to such an extent that when he pulled out it ran from her furrow and splashed upon the padded stool. Yet still his prick stood erect, quivering with eagerness, and he had one further use for it. Smearing his own issue up her split with brazen-bold fingers, he redirected that slick and narrow tip to the juicy clench of her anus and pressed home his advantage, forging deep into forbidden territory.
Zorya felt every inch. His inhuman member was as slippery and muscular as an eel and it surged inside her as if swimming upstream. Under his touch she was becoming a river: everything fluid, everything falling. She could hear the rain drumming on the wooden shingles overhead and it was like it was falling into her soul. Her body gave up all resistance and yielded, unable to withstand the waves of sensation rippling up her spine and out along every limb to the tips of her spread fingers. She pawed the coverlet beneath her and sobbed into it, her heat soaking the fur.
Buy 'Fierce Enchantments' at Amazon US Buy 'Fierce Enchantments' at Amazon UKBuy 'Fierce Enchantments' at Google Play Buy 'Fierce Enchantments' at iTunes
Remember my review of Emmanuelle de Maupassant's 'Cautionary Tales' a couple of weeks ago? One of the things that made me smile was that when I wrote my own faux-Russian fairy tale, Too Much of Water, for Fierce Enchantments, I found a very similar caustic, judgmental, bitter-old-lady narrative voice. It must be a Slavic thing :-D
Too Much of Water is a retelling of The Frog Prince. Zorya has made a bargain with a Vodyanoi - a water-spirit - and now has to pay him back for retrieving her golden ball...
What she did then not even the whores of Kiev will do: such a thing is reserved for a husband alone, for the intimacy of the marriage bond. She took his pale bestial length, already oozing at the slitted tip with eager moisture, into her hot mouth. The Vodyanoi groaned at that just like a real man. She used tongue and lips to explore his girth and his strange contours and then worked him deep into her throat, sucking warmth into that chill staff. It gave her satisfaction in unexpected places to suck him like this, and she felt her own sex flutter as her fingertips weighed the heavy pouch of his stones, finding water still dripping from the black ringlets of hair at his groin.
Shifting his weight forward, he leaned into her. His legs were tense, almost as hard as the iron of his pike. His hips jerked as her head rose and fell in supplication, and he pressed his cock so far to the back of her throat that she gagged and tears welled in her eyes.
I could choke here, she thought, snatching her breath in the backstroke. It wasn’t a new idea though: her husband had similarly used her. The Tsar was an older man and would sometimes take so long that she’d weep for the ache in her jaw—but that wasn’t to be the case this time. She felt the
Vodyanoi’s rhythm grow fiercer, then become a stutter, and suddenly her mouth was awash with his slippery flood. Instantly—so copious was the flow—her fear of choking became a fear of drowning, and she jerked her head back with a gasp. His cock shuddered upon her tongue as the liquid, as cold and clear as mill water, overflowed her mouth and ran down over her chin.
He tasted of nothing at all: just like water.
The Vodyanoi withdrew from her open lips, glaring at her. Swallowing hard and struggle to get her breath back, Zorya nevertheless felt a strange bereavement now it was over, and a dread as to what would come next. Would he grow contemptuously indifferent now—or irritable—as her husband often did?
But her paramour was a Vodyanoi, and unlike a mortal man a single spasm of sin was not enough to sate him. Even as he stood back, his spend still drizzled down the underside of his rigid shaft, as if his balls were too full and now boiling over. He tilted his head, clearly weighing the options, as his gaze raked her kneeling body. ‘You have certain uses, alive,’ he admitted.
Then stooping, he lifted her, his muscles moving like waves under his skin. He turned her from him and thrust her toward the side of the royal bed—a piece of furniture so high that there was a padded bench to facilitate climbing into it. Zorya was pushed down to kneel upon that bench, her elbows on the bed itself. Then the Vodyanoi crouched behind her, lifted up the golden net that was her only garment, and spread her rump cheeks with his hands to reveal her most private parts.
Such shame! What man would do that to a woman? What man would thrust his face into that cleft and lick her, his tongue slithering over her pearl and into her well and then up between the orbs of her bottom to lap at the tight pucker between? It was as if the water spirit were trying to devour her earthiness. Zorya buried her face in the coverlet of the bed, rubbing her cheek upon the silver fox-fur as the Vodyanoi’s tongue—longer and stronger than any human man’s—danced and probed in her most private places, forcing entry into those treasure chambers that only her husband ought to access, and making her cry out.
Let us be charitable and say that it was shame that caused her to whimper and gasp and call upon God as the Vodyanoi’s tongue slid in and out of her—for no woman is entirely devoid of shame, not even a headstrong wanton such as she. Let us assume that it was an attempt to dull the pain that caused her to thrust her fingers down between the smooth fur of the coverlet and her own rougher fur, as he rose up behind her and breached the portal of her sex with his ram. His hand was heavy between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the bed. His hard thighs slapped against the backs of hers and his scrotum bounced on the cushioning lips of her sex, so deep did he delve with each thrust. Zorya heaved her hips against his invasion, but if she regretted her witch’s bargain it was too late now. He rutted inside her just as he had done in her mouth: swift and ruthless, taking his pleasure without regard for her delicacy of feeling. There was a minor difference, in that this time her throat was not stuffed with his meat and he could clearly hear her moans rising in pitch as he stretched her wide. But the result was the same: a great and sudden outpouring, flooding her to such an extent that when he pulled out it ran from her furrow and splashed upon the padded stool. Yet still his prick stood erect, quivering with eagerness, and he had one further use for it. Smearing his own issue up her split with brazen-bold fingers, he redirected that slick and narrow tip to the juicy clench of her anus and pressed home his advantage, forging deep into forbidden territory.
Zorya felt every inch. His inhuman member was as slippery and muscular as an eel and it surged inside her as if swimming upstream. Under his touch she was becoming a river: everything fluid, everything falling. She could hear the rain drumming on the wooden shingles overhead and it was like it was falling into her soul. Her body gave up all resistance and yielded, unable to withstand the waves of sensation rippling up her spine and out along every limb to the tips of her spread fingers. She pawed the coverlet beneath her and sobbed into it, her heat soaking the fur.
Buy 'Fierce Enchantments' at Amazon US Buy 'Fierce Enchantments' at Amazon UKBuy 'Fierce Enchantments' at Google Play Buy 'Fierce Enchantments' at iTunes
July 31, 2016
New dog!
She's eight or nine years old, blind in one eye, has an illegible tattoo in one ear (suggesting she was a British-bred racer) and is both smarter and bossier than the poor boy she's moved in with.
She's not a looker, in fact I have my doubts she's pure greyhound ... but she is sweet. She likes cuddles and kisses (bleurgh!), and eating (of course).
:-)
July 29, 2016
Marie Claire
Well it was only a matter of time before, style-guru and international youth-icon as I am, I was featured in the hallowed pages of Marie Claire Magazine:
Me and Amy Schumer, we're like best budsAnd here I am - name-dropped in an article interviewing Justine Elyot, first of her name, praise be to her!
Another common misconception of erotica is that it’s all badly-written trash, something that Justine hotly disputes, insisting ‘Go and look at Charlotte Stein, Kristina Lloyd or Janine Ashbless, then come back and tell me that again.’
Here's the full article: "9 Erotic Novels to Satisfy You This Summer"
I just want to say
1) THANK YOU JUSTINE
2) Leg-warmers are going to be so in this autumn
July 27, 2016
Stones of Ireland
I thought I'd show you some pics of my recent short trip to Ireland, not just because I got to spend a truly fabulous few days hanging out with a fellow smutwriter ...
Vida Bailey tells a filthy story ;-)
but also because the weather was AMAZING - and OMG it's a beautiful country:
The monastic valley of Glendalough
These 100ft-tall Rapunzel-like towers were built from the C9th as refuges from the Vikings. That's the door.
Architecture got a bit less vertical as the centuries wore on:
This is Powerscourt, which has the best name of any stately home ever
... and possibly the best view
We didn't roam far from the Dublin area, so we visited the Neolithic Necessities. This is the passage-grave at Newgrange, built in 3200 BCE:
No wheels, no draught animals ... but no Netflix either, so what else was there to do?
The entrance skylight is aligned with the Winter Solstice, sending a beam of light down the tomb for a few minutes each year:
Near Newgrange is the slightly younger site of Knowth (only 2000 BCE) which deserves to be better-known because it is quite surreal:
Tombs of the Tellytubbies!There are eighteen gravemounds here. This is a glimpse down the longest passage:
Turn wight at the far end, hahah ... Sorry, spontaneous D&D pun there.But it wouldn't be an Ashbless neolithic holiday without some suggestive-looking artifacts, so BEHOLD The Stone of Destiny on the Hill of Tara!
It was supposed to let out a roar at the touch of the rightful High King of Ireland...
I have no further comment to makeAnd here's a lovely Stone-Age dildo:
Because the Past may be a foreign country, but everyone loves a rock hard knob :-)
Vida Bailey tells a filthy story ;-)but also because the weather was AMAZING - and OMG it's a beautiful country:
The monastic valley of Glendalough 
These 100ft-tall Rapunzel-like towers were built from the C9th as refuges from the Vikings. That's the door.Architecture got a bit less vertical as the centuries wore on:
This is Powerscourt, which has the best name of any stately home ever 
... and possibly the best viewWe didn't roam far from the Dublin area, so we visited the Neolithic Necessities. This is the passage-grave at Newgrange, built in 3200 BCE:
No wheels, no draught animals ... but no Netflix either, so what else was there to do?The entrance skylight is aligned with the Winter Solstice, sending a beam of light down the tomb for a few minutes each year:
Near Newgrange is the slightly younger site of Knowth (only 2000 BCE) which deserves to be better-known because it is quite surreal:
Tombs of the Tellytubbies!There are eighteen gravemounds here. This is a glimpse down the longest passage:
Turn wight at the far end, hahah ... Sorry, spontaneous D&D pun there.But it wouldn't be an Ashbless neolithic holiday without some suggestive-looking artifacts, so BEHOLD The Stone of Destiny on the Hill of Tara!
It was supposed to let out a roar at the touch of the rightful High King of Ireland...
I have no further comment to makeAnd here's a lovely Stone-Age dildo:
Because the Past may be a foreign country, but everyone loves a rock hard knob :-)
July 25, 2016
Blue Monday: billirosie guests
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
My guest this week is billierose, with an excerpt from her femdom novella Enslaving Eli.
When Jasmine the beautiful Dominant meets tall, hunky Eli at the dullest party in the world, Eli wants to see her again. He doesn’t understand her reluctance, they’ve had fun together and it isn’t as if he is asking her to marry him, just maybe a cup of coffee. When Jasmine tells Eli of her secret life, Eli is intrigued and gradually he is initiated into a world of BDSM, that as Jasmine’s submissive, is impossible for him to walk away from.
Jasmine tells Eli tales of a secret, exclusive organisation, The Coterie. The Coterie is centuries old. Its members are Dominant women; their ethos in life is total submission of the male. Eli endures humiliation, depravity and absolute control, at the hands of Mistress Jasmine. But Eli and Jasmine are more than Mistress and slave, they have fallen in love. When Mistress Jasmine is killed in a road traffic accident, Eli is devastated. Officially, Eli now belongs to The Coterie. He is property. He is told that he is to be sold to another Mistress. Eli has other ideas.
She had commanded him to be naked and ordered him to light candles around the room. He’d counted them as he lit them. Sixty six candles of all sizes. The flickering flames threw dark, dancing shadows. Who would have thought that candlelight would be so bright?
When she commanded him to open the garden doors, he just did it, relishing the little task as he inhaled the scent from the rose garden. The night air was cool on his genitals. He felt a strange pride when she praised him, for what was a very simple deed. Then she’d order him to kneel at her feet as he listened to her soft, low voice, sometimes telling him tales of the Coterie and her strange life; at other times, cradling his head and stroking his hair as she chanted erotic sonnets to him.
Eli didn’t speak. He wasn’t permitted. He was content just to listen and to be mesmerised.
His cock was erect; always painfully erect. Pre cum leaking from the slit.
She tied his hands behind his back, looping the rough string in a figure of eight. First around one wrist, then the other, then she’d repeat it. She did the same with his ankles.
He was effectively immobilised. He was bound and naked. He was enveloped in the warmth of security. He had always felt a deep yearning to be tied up. When he had fantasised about such a scenario in the past, his cock had become hard and he had masturbated to a resounding climax. He had used the fantasy with some of his past lovers to arouse himself, so that he would be hard enough to penetrate them. Jasmine made the fantasy a reality.
She fitted him with spiteful nipple clamps, the tiny golden teeth biting into him. Her dark eyes always mysterious and cruel. She would twist his nipples as the teeth bit until a low moan uttered from his lips. The pain was excruciating, causing his abdomen muscles to contract, doubling him over. She played the music of Bach to give him something to concentrate on when the pain overcame him. The perfection of the music helped, and he would slip into a trance like state, where it seemed he was a part of a choral symphonic picture; the rhythm of the notes, their rhymes and tones made a river of language to float upon, taking him to a place where everything was richer, in brighter colour…exquisite beauty and pleasing pain.
She would stroke his hair and rub his ears as if he were a pet. She’d tell him that she was sorry, but it was for his own good. When the tears came and the snot drooled from his nose, she would dry his eyes and clean his snotty face. She’d praised him while she gently pumped his erection; she told him that it was an excellent sign that pain aroused him.
And the tales continued; a riotous carnival of words, new colours to wrap around him. One minute his heart would be breaking; the next she would lead him to a world of pleasure domes and gardens where he was overwhelmed by the scent of sweet herbs.
She pointed out that his cock was always hard throughout his suffering.
Yes, he was learning that pain did arouse him. As soon as he saw her retrieve the nipple clamps from the drawer, he was instantly hard. Already she was training him to associate pleasure with pain.
Pleasure and pain. Pain and pleasure. It should not be. Surely he was an abomination? But he was content; the poetry of pain prevailed over reason.
Eli had knelt naked at her feet, on that night when she had whispered her tales of eroticism and intrigue. His wrists and ankles were again tied behind his back; the coarse, rough string cutting into his flesh. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore his throbbing erection. He closed his eyes and swallowed, willing his cock to be flaccid.
Was there any truth in what she’d told him? Or was the Coterie just a silly figment of an overactive imagination? All that Eli really knew at that moment was that his erection was unbearable. He would give anything for her to wrap her lips around his cock and suck him hard. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
She showed him photographs she had of a contraption, a machine, that she said was in the Coterie dungeons. He was impressed with the old device. It wasn’t in use now, it was hundreds of years old, and fragile, but it had been the blue print for a generation of pulleys. Copies were sold at BDSM outlets online and in sex shops the world over. By cranking a handle, a Dominant could raise her submissive’s arms above his head, lifting him bodily. The naked submissive could be kept in that position for hours, his toes just allowed to graze the floor. His Mistress doing with him exactly as she pleased. She could play and tease his erection, or have him flogged. It was up to her. If she wished, she could just ignore him, leave him hanging there while she attended to her other submissives, or surfed for pornography on line. His cries for mercy ignored.
Eli felt chilled and thrilled. A tremor shivered up his spine.
He felt a deep gratitude that he was finally understanding the reason for his deepest, darkest desires.
Jasmine had explained to him, as best as she could, how he could be trained to orgasm only at her command. It was a tried and tested method, she’d told him and had been used at the Coterie for centuries.
The submissive had to be completely dedicated to his Mistress; that was just the beginning. Pleasure and pain were inextricably linked, but so was fear of pain. Humiliation, and an overwhelming, blushing shame played a big part too. She’d frowned as she’d tried to find the words to make it make sense. She looked adorable in the candlelight. He wanted to kiss her; shove his tongue down her throat.
She knew that he was not concentrating and leaned into him, cruelly twisting the shiny gold clamp decorating his nipple.
It wasn’t just a question of obedience, she told him. When a submissive was fully trained, the urge to ejaculate would still be there. More than anything the need to ejaculate would be urgent. It would hurt him physically and his intense, profound pain would be a gift to his Mistress. The submissive simply would not be able to ejaculate while his Mistress withheld permission. The overwhelming feeling of inevitability would be there. But the anticipation would lead to nothing. The orgasm would fade; the erection would not. A submissive could be kept in such a state for days; days of sweating, agonising frustration.
She said that a submissive had once told her that it was like having a full bladder and not being able to piss.
What was she turning him into? Certainly not a eunuch. A puppet then; a puppet for her to torment and manipulate.
Her next words shocked him.“You need to ejaculate, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he panted. Could she read his mind, as well as turn him on without even touching him?
“Yes?” she queried, as if waiting for him to say something else. She tapped her foot impatiently.
“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured.
“Then cum,” she whispered.
He must have imagined it, but it was as if something like an electric current passed between them. She leaned into him and ripped off the nipple clamps; pain roiled through him and he bellowed his fury. He exploded. He felt as if his testicles were emptying themselves of a lifetime of seed. He roared his orgasm, like a mating bull. He felt dizzy, he felt wonderful; the power terrified him. His spunk splattered onto her shiny black heeled shoes, onto her stockings and her black pencil skirt. And even after he’d emptied himself of every drop of seed, the glorious spasms continued. He laughed. He wept. He thanked her. He lapped and gobbled at her shoes, clearing up the mess he’d made.
Enslaving Eli is at
Amazon UK (£1.99 Kindle, £5.99 paperback) :: Amazon US ($2.91 Kindle, $7.99 paperback)
Sizzler Editions
People fascinate billierosie. What makes them tick; what are their secrets and lies. The effete guy in the bank; the blonde lady shopping in the supermarket, the elderly lady living in a care home. What stories could they tell? Perhaps erotic stories of sex, intrigue and fetish?
And fetish is high on billierosie’s agenda. The strange, haunting stuff that informs our darkest desires. It could be fur or feathers. Shoes, silk stockings, or toes. Poop or pee. An amputee’s stump. If we made a list it would go on forever.
billierosie has been writing erotica for about five years; she has been published by Oysters and Chocolate, Logical Lust, and Sizzler. She has two novellas, both published by Sizzler Editions; “Memoirs of a Sex Slave”. And “Enslaving Eli.”
Most recently billierosie has published independently through Kindle Direct Publishing.
billierosie lives in a pretty village in England. She doesn’t fit with village life; certainly not the Women’s Institute. billierosie loves the theatre, Art, film, books and all things eccentric. billierosie plans to have fun and stay young, writing erotica.
Billierosie Blog
Facebook
Twitter: @jojojojude
My guest this week is billierose, with an excerpt from her femdom novella Enslaving Eli.
When Jasmine the beautiful Dominant meets tall, hunky Eli at the dullest party in the world, Eli wants to see her again. He doesn’t understand her reluctance, they’ve had fun together and it isn’t as if he is asking her to marry him, just maybe a cup of coffee. When Jasmine tells Eli of her secret life, Eli is intrigued and gradually he is initiated into a world of BDSM, that as Jasmine’s submissive, is impossible for him to walk away from.
Jasmine tells Eli tales of a secret, exclusive organisation, The Coterie. The Coterie is centuries old. Its members are Dominant women; their ethos in life is total submission of the male. Eli endures humiliation, depravity and absolute control, at the hands of Mistress Jasmine. But Eli and Jasmine are more than Mistress and slave, they have fallen in love. When Mistress Jasmine is killed in a road traffic accident, Eli is devastated. Officially, Eli now belongs to The Coterie. He is property. He is told that he is to be sold to another Mistress. Eli has other ideas.
She had commanded him to be naked and ordered him to light candles around the room. He’d counted them as he lit them. Sixty six candles of all sizes. The flickering flames threw dark, dancing shadows. Who would have thought that candlelight would be so bright?
When she commanded him to open the garden doors, he just did it, relishing the little task as he inhaled the scent from the rose garden. The night air was cool on his genitals. He felt a strange pride when she praised him, for what was a very simple deed. Then she’d order him to kneel at her feet as he listened to her soft, low voice, sometimes telling him tales of the Coterie and her strange life; at other times, cradling his head and stroking his hair as she chanted erotic sonnets to him.
Eli didn’t speak. He wasn’t permitted. He was content just to listen and to be mesmerised.
His cock was erect; always painfully erect. Pre cum leaking from the slit.
She tied his hands behind his back, looping the rough string in a figure of eight. First around one wrist, then the other, then she’d repeat it. She did the same with his ankles.
He was effectively immobilised. He was bound and naked. He was enveloped in the warmth of security. He had always felt a deep yearning to be tied up. When he had fantasised about such a scenario in the past, his cock had become hard and he had masturbated to a resounding climax. He had used the fantasy with some of his past lovers to arouse himself, so that he would be hard enough to penetrate them. Jasmine made the fantasy a reality.
She fitted him with spiteful nipple clamps, the tiny golden teeth biting into him. Her dark eyes always mysterious and cruel. She would twist his nipples as the teeth bit until a low moan uttered from his lips. The pain was excruciating, causing his abdomen muscles to contract, doubling him over. She played the music of Bach to give him something to concentrate on when the pain overcame him. The perfection of the music helped, and he would slip into a trance like state, where it seemed he was a part of a choral symphonic picture; the rhythm of the notes, their rhymes and tones made a river of language to float upon, taking him to a place where everything was richer, in brighter colour…exquisite beauty and pleasing pain.
She would stroke his hair and rub his ears as if he were a pet. She’d tell him that she was sorry, but it was for his own good. When the tears came and the snot drooled from his nose, she would dry his eyes and clean his snotty face. She’d praised him while she gently pumped his erection; she told him that it was an excellent sign that pain aroused him.
And the tales continued; a riotous carnival of words, new colours to wrap around him. One minute his heart would be breaking; the next she would lead him to a world of pleasure domes and gardens where he was overwhelmed by the scent of sweet herbs.
She pointed out that his cock was always hard throughout his suffering.
Yes, he was learning that pain did arouse him. As soon as he saw her retrieve the nipple clamps from the drawer, he was instantly hard. Already she was training him to associate pleasure with pain.
Pleasure and pain. Pain and pleasure. It should not be. Surely he was an abomination? But he was content; the poetry of pain prevailed over reason.
Eli had knelt naked at her feet, on that night when she had whispered her tales of eroticism and intrigue. His wrists and ankles were again tied behind his back; the coarse, rough string cutting into his flesh. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore his throbbing erection. He closed his eyes and swallowed, willing his cock to be flaccid.
Was there any truth in what she’d told him? Or was the Coterie just a silly figment of an overactive imagination? All that Eli really knew at that moment was that his erection was unbearable. He would give anything for her to wrap her lips around his cock and suck him hard. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen.
She showed him photographs she had of a contraption, a machine, that she said was in the Coterie dungeons. He was impressed with the old device. It wasn’t in use now, it was hundreds of years old, and fragile, but it had been the blue print for a generation of pulleys. Copies were sold at BDSM outlets online and in sex shops the world over. By cranking a handle, a Dominant could raise her submissive’s arms above his head, lifting him bodily. The naked submissive could be kept in that position for hours, his toes just allowed to graze the floor. His Mistress doing with him exactly as she pleased. She could play and tease his erection, or have him flogged. It was up to her. If she wished, she could just ignore him, leave him hanging there while she attended to her other submissives, or surfed for pornography on line. His cries for mercy ignored.
Eli felt chilled and thrilled. A tremor shivered up his spine.
He felt a deep gratitude that he was finally understanding the reason for his deepest, darkest desires.
Jasmine had explained to him, as best as she could, how he could be trained to orgasm only at her command. It was a tried and tested method, she’d told him and had been used at the Coterie for centuries.
The submissive had to be completely dedicated to his Mistress; that was just the beginning. Pleasure and pain were inextricably linked, but so was fear of pain. Humiliation, and an overwhelming, blushing shame played a big part too. She’d frowned as she’d tried to find the words to make it make sense. She looked adorable in the candlelight. He wanted to kiss her; shove his tongue down her throat.
She knew that he was not concentrating and leaned into him, cruelly twisting the shiny gold clamp decorating his nipple.
It wasn’t just a question of obedience, she told him. When a submissive was fully trained, the urge to ejaculate would still be there. More than anything the need to ejaculate would be urgent. It would hurt him physically and his intense, profound pain would be a gift to his Mistress. The submissive simply would not be able to ejaculate while his Mistress withheld permission. The overwhelming feeling of inevitability would be there. But the anticipation would lead to nothing. The orgasm would fade; the erection would not. A submissive could be kept in such a state for days; days of sweating, agonising frustration.
She said that a submissive had once told her that it was like having a full bladder and not being able to piss.
What was she turning him into? Certainly not a eunuch. A puppet then; a puppet for her to torment and manipulate.
Her next words shocked him.“You need to ejaculate, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he panted. Could she read his mind, as well as turn him on without even touching him?
“Yes?” she queried, as if waiting for him to say something else. She tapped her foot impatiently.
“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured.
“Then cum,” she whispered.
He must have imagined it, but it was as if something like an electric current passed between them. She leaned into him and ripped off the nipple clamps; pain roiled through him and he bellowed his fury. He exploded. He felt as if his testicles were emptying themselves of a lifetime of seed. He roared his orgasm, like a mating bull. He felt dizzy, he felt wonderful; the power terrified him. His spunk splattered onto her shiny black heeled shoes, onto her stockings and her black pencil skirt. And even after he’d emptied himself of every drop of seed, the glorious spasms continued. He laughed. He wept. He thanked her. He lapped and gobbled at her shoes, clearing up the mess he’d made.
Enslaving Eli is at
Amazon UK (£1.99 Kindle, £5.99 paperback) :: Amazon US ($2.91 Kindle, $7.99 paperback)
Sizzler Editions
People fascinate billierosie. What makes them tick; what are their secrets and lies. The effete guy in the bank; the blonde lady shopping in the supermarket, the elderly lady living in a care home. What stories could they tell? Perhaps erotic stories of sex, intrigue and fetish?
And fetish is high on billierosie’s agenda. The strange, haunting stuff that informs our darkest desires. It could be fur or feathers. Shoes, silk stockings, or toes. Poop or pee. An amputee’s stump. If we made a list it would go on forever.
billierosie has been writing erotica for about five years; she has been published by Oysters and Chocolate, Logical Lust, and Sizzler. She has two novellas, both published by Sizzler Editions; “Memoirs of a Sex Slave”. And “Enslaving Eli.”
Most recently billierosie has published independently through Kindle Direct Publishing.
billierosie lives in a pretty village in England. She doesn’t fit with village life; certainly not the Women’s Institute. billierosie loves the theatre, Art, film, books and all things eccentric. billierosie plans to have fun and stay young, writing erotica.
Billierosie Blog
Twitter: @jojojojude
July 24, 2016
Word
If you haven't seen this, Terrance Aldon Shaw finally nails down the "Porn vs Erotica" definition.
Love it!
July 22, 2016
Contractual obligations
OMG -
I've decided I have to take my giant unsorted pile of contracts and put them in publisher order in a nice filing box. Because it takes me forever to look up an old contract.
I think I'm going to need more than one box ... :O
July 20, 2016
Writers' Tears
See - the Irish understand what it is to be a writer!
;-)
July 18, 2016
Blue Monday: review of Cautionary Tales
Something different today, as instead of an excerpt, I give you my review of Cautionary Tales by Emmanuelle de Maupassant
First, a disclaimer.
I made a decision when I started writing never to review other authors' erotica, for several reasons:
I'm hella difficult to please with erotica, which is quite frankly why I write it. My tastes are idiosyncratic and my standards both harsh and subjective.I'm not terribly articulate about why I like books. I'm much better at dissecting the things I don't like.I really don't have that much time set aside for reading.In this small, friendly and supportive community of writers, I don't want to upset colleagues by giving anyone a bad review (see above) - or even a "Meh, TL:DR," which is only too likely, sorry everyone. Just because I'm not enthused by a book doesn't mean it's bad, or that it won't be a runaway bestseller, so I see no value in inflicting my opinion on any author.
BUT I'm breaking my promise and making an exception here for Cautionary Tales because although Emmanuelle is a fellow smutwriter, THIS BOOK IS NOT EROTICA.
Not as the rest of the genre recognises it, anyway. It's Faux Folk-story. A set of twelve shorts based on pagan Slavonic traditions, simply and lyrically told. You could totally believe they were collected in the eighteenth century from gnarled and filthy-minded old peasant women sitting in huts at the edge of wolf-haunted forests.
That's not to say these stories aren't bawdy. There's lots of sex in them:
But unlike the standard erotica genre, the tone of these stories is not sex-positive. This book does what it says on the tin. These are good old-fashioned tales of transgression, and the horrendous supernatural punishment meted out to those guilty of indulging such vices as laziness, deceit and greed. In fact each separate tale is explicitly present as a warning: "... Against Envy" or "... Against Lechery" etc. The conceit that holds the collection together is that these stories are narrated by the disembodied Dead, watching the wicked ways of the living and finding fault us all. The collective narrative voice is embittered, judgmental and yes, salacious - dwelling on the bawdy detail but only to condemn it.
It's deliciously dark and misanthropic, closer to horror than modern erotica. Sinners frequently get gobbled up in all senses of the phrase :-) Of course, these dire warnings and over-the-top punishments serve only to heighten the reader's pleasure in the transgressions depicted, because this is not fiction where you are supposed to identify with the characters, this is storytelling in the old sense where you never quite forget that you are listening to a story, and you enjoy it all the more for your sense of safe distance.
Or at least you think you are safe, until you walk away from the firelight...
The traditional Russian / Slavonic setting - with frequent nods to the food, festive calendar and supernatural terrors thereof - is worked in extremely well, creating a sense of human civilisation as an outpost of light and order at the margins of an illimitable ancient forest of chaos and danger. The stories are both satisfyingly familiar (as fairy stories should be) and unsettlingly strange. They are cruel. They are nihilistic. They cut no slack for human failings or human nature:
"A moment's temptation takes us on a wrong path.On that path may lurk foul fiendsinhuman, yet feeding, needingall our weaknesses"
say the narrator ghosts, yet they offer no glimpse of a hopeful alternative to lust and greed and selfishness. They might be able to see the hell lurking around us, but they have no glimpse of heaven.
The only possible criticism of this book I can imagine is that the stories all have a very repetitive rural setting and pace - they're all very similar to each other. There are no broader horizons, no palaces or Tsarinas or quests. But this claustrophobia is also a part of the collection's strength. Any story too different and it would dilute both the dread and the sense of illicit, queasy pleasure. This book sets out to taint and contaminate the reader, and I do mean that in a good way. And goodness me, is it well-written! I love the umbrella conceit, and the way the prose-poem of the restless dead at the start is threaded back into the narration of the individual stories. This works brilliantly.
Five thumbs up to Emmanuelle and her incredibly original and creepy collection:
Amazon UK :: Amazon US
First, a disclaimer.
I made a decision when I started writing never to review other authors' erotica, for several reasons:
I'm hella difficult to please with erotica, which is quite frankly why I write it. My tastes are idiosyncratic and my standards both harsh and subjective.I'm not terribly articulate about why I like books. I'm much better at dissecting the things I don't like.I really don't have that much time set aside for reading.In this small, friendly and supportive community of writers, I don't want to upset colleagues by giving anyone a bad review (see above) - or even a "Meh, TL:DR," which is only too likely, sorry everyone. Just because I'm not enthused by a book doesn't mean it's bad, or that it won't be a runaway bestseller, so I see no value in inflicting my opinion on any author.
BUT I'm breaking my promise and making an exception here for Cautionary Tales because although Emmanuelle is a fellow smutwriter, THIS BOOK IS NOT EROTICA.
Not as the rest of the genre recognises it, anyway. It's Faux Folk-story. A set of twelve shorts based on pagan Slavonic traditions, simply and lyrically told. You could totally believe they were collected in the eighteenth century from gnarled and filthy-minded old peasant women sitting in huts at the edge of wolf-haunted forests.
That's not to say these stories aren't bawdy. There's lots of sex in them:
The mystery guest surveyed the circle of inviting rumps. He'd sample them all, but where to begin?
Here was one, skirts raised the highest, and bending over eagerly. Pretending to adjust her garter, he could just glimpse her cunt dew-slick: plump pillows waiting for his head, Hands upon her ample hips, the demon nudged its nose between her cheeks, and snuffed at her mackerel slit.
"Fish for feasting," it declared, and began its supper, breath hot upon those fleshy gates.
"Oh my grandmother's teeth!" cried out the girl. The creature's agile tongue slid within, And what a tongue! As thick as a man's member and so very long, each delving slurp near knocked her off her feet.
But unlike the standard erotica genre, the tone of these stories is not sex-positive. This book does what it says on the tin. These are good old-fashioned tales of transgression, and the horrendous supernatural punishment meted out to those guilty of indulging such vices as laziness, deceit and greed. In fact each separate tale is explicitly present as a warning: "... Against Envy" or "... Against Lechery" etc. The conceit that holds the collection together is that these stories are narrated by the disembodied Dead, watching the wicked ways of the living and finding fault us all. The collective narrative voice is embittered, judgmental and yes, salacious - dwelling on the bawdy detail but only to condemn it.
It's deliciously dark and misanthropic, closer to horror than modern erotica. Sinners frequently get gobbled up in all senses of the phrase :-) Of course, these dire warnings and over-the-top punishments serve only to heighten the reader's pleasure in the transgressions depicted, because this is not fiction where you are supposed to identify with the characters, this is storytelling in the old sense where you never quite forget that you are listening to a story, and you enjoy it all the more for your sense of safe distance.
Or at least you think you are safe, until you walk away from the firelight...
The traditional Russian / Slavonic setting - with frequent nods to the food, festive calendar and supernatural terrors thereof - is worked in extremely well, creating a sense of human civilisation as an outpost of light and order at the margins of an illimitable ancient forest of chaos and danger. The stories are both satisfyingly familiar (as fairy stories should be) and unsettlingly strange. They are cruel. They are nihilistic. They cut no slack for human failings or human nature:
"A moment's temptation takes us on a wrong path.On that path may lurk foul fiendsinhuman, yet feeding, needingall our weaknesses"
say the narrator ghosts, yet they offer no glimpse of a hopeful alternative to lust and greed and selfishness. They might be able to see the hell lurking around us, but they have no glimpse of heaven.
The only possible criticism of this book I can imagine is that the stories all have a very repetitive rural setting and pace - they're all very similar to each other. There are no broader horizons, no palaces or Tsarinas or quests. But this claustrophobia is also a part of the collection's strength. Any story too different and it would dilute both the dread and the sense of illicit, queasy pleasure. This book sets out to taint and contaminate the reader, and I do mean that in a good way. And goodness me, is it well-written! I love the umbrella conceit, and the way the prose-poem of the restless dead at the start is threaded back into the narration of the individual stories. This works brilliantly.
Five thumbs up to Emmanuelle and her incredibly original and creepy collection:
Amazon UK :: Amazon US
July 17, 2016
Genius Loci
Following on from yesterday's post, it turns out I've got another horror story in print - my story "The Sleck" appears in Genius Loci: tales of the spirit of place (ed. Jaym Gates). It's the tale of a man who goes back to visit the muddy pond where his little daughter drowned ...
It's currently available in paperback, an e-version to follow soon we hope:
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
