Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 56

Shut Out

Illustration by by Florence Harrison, 1910Poem by Christina Rossetti:

The door was shut. I looked between
Its iron bars; and saw it lie,
My garden, mine, beneath the sky,
Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:

From bough to bough the song-birds crossed,
From flower to flower the moths and bees;
With all its nests and stately trees
It had been mine, and it was lost.

A shadowless spirit kept the gate,
Blank and unchanging like the grave.
I peering through said: 'Let me have
Some buds to cheer my outcast state.'

He answered not. 'Or give me, then,
But one small twig from shrub or tree;
And bid my home remember me
Until I come to it again.'

The spirit was silent; but he took
Mortar and stone to build a wall;
He left no loophole great or small
Through which my straining eyes might look:

So now I sit here quite alone
Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that,
For nought is left worth looking at
Since my delightful land is gone.

A violet bed is budding near,
Wherein a lark has made her nest:
And good they are, but not the best;
And dear they are, but not so dear.

The Machines de L'île

"Ooh-la-la. Vous est un Big Boy, aren't vous?"
A week ago I was off the blog/radar in Brittany, France. It's a region famous for its neolithic monuments (of which more later, I don't doubt) - but here's something it should be at least as famous for because it is TOTALLY F*CKING WONDERFUL: Les Machines de L'île in the city of Nantes.


The Machines is a gigantic ongoing steampunk art project inspired by Jules Verne. They build HUGE mobile creatures that are part vehicle, part puppet, and all awesome.

BEHOLD THE ELEPHANT: it's 12m tall and can take 50 passengers on a 45 minute walk!

(When the drivers aren't on strike, of course...) Here's a little something they built for China:



Their current project is the Heron Tree, a 45m steel structure with a self-sustaining plant ecosystem, in which visitors and robots interact among the branches. 


They are busy building working prototypes:



It crawls!
It scampers!
IT FLIES!

It looks really weird!
No, hold on, this is way weirder...
OMG I'm going to have nightmaresAlready functioning on-site is the gigantic three-storey Marine Worlds Carousel

Tentacles!!!
... which we got free rides on because of the strike :-D

A hysterically happy AshblessSo, if you ever go to France, I wholeheartedly recommend a visit to Les Machines de L'île :-)

Troy: September 2001 - June 2016

I said goodbye to Troy yesterday. He was 14 and his legs had finally given out. He went off to sleep with a stomach full of roast chicken and a happy sigh.

He started life as Gortkelly Rusty, an Irish racing greyhound. He even won a couple of races. Then someone shipped him to England (at which point, in 2003, he falls off the official records) and he turned up dumped on the streets in June 2005. It's a story common to many ex-racers.

He was taken in by the wonderful Tia Greyhound and Lurcher Rescue, and we had him for ten lucky years. He was a big, dignified, gentle dog who loved food and cuddles. He always assumed that everyone he met was his friend, and I am glad he had such a long and happy life, and such an easy death.

Being a pet owner hurts.

Out of Office

I'm away from my blog for a week or so, but I thought I''d leave you with this picture of Azazel: angel of sacrifices. I don't often link to living artists but Peter Mohrbacker is GREAT - he's been painting a whole series of angels and fallen angels on his Angelarium site. Most of them are a whole lot less human looking than Azazel there - in fact he's positively cuddly in comparison to his brethren.
Do go take a look!

You can also buy his first angel book from
Amazon UK
Amazon US

We Need to be Wicked

Lucrezia Borgia, by Bartolomeo Veneto (1502-1546)
There's been some spirited discussion on my Facebook wall recent of this article and this one, so I thought I'd re-post my take on the subject. It originally appeared on the Sinful Press blog back in April. I've made some minor corrections for clarification.

 We Need to be Wicked  Recently I bought an anthology of female-written fiction whose subtitle was “women up to no good”. Now this is not a book review, but I want to make it clear that these stories were well-written and well-edited and almost all really interesting, taken as individual pieces. Nevertheless I read the collection with a growing sense of frustration and finished up feeling thoroughly cheated.
You’d have thought with a title like that you’d be in for tales of villains, wouldn’t you? Criminals, wild girls, cheats, roisterers, spies, revolutionaries, murderers, rioters, conspirators, cunning manipulators, selfish bitches, fighters and rebels?
What we actually got, out of 35 stories, were 13 about women in sexual relationships with men who treated them badly (anywhere from ignoring them as they grew apart, way up to severe abuse), and the women reacting in various ways (from having a bit of a cry, up to revenge murder). Of the remaining stories, 12 featured women who did absolutely nothing ethically dodgy at all, and 4 had female protagonists who were miserably coerced into wrongdoing by some sort of external compulsion (usually family pressure).
These weren’t stories of Women Up To No Good, these were stories of Poor Downtrodden Wives and their Nasty Menz. These were stories of passive, conformist, characterless doormats pushed into a corner.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m most certainly not someone who thinks that all fiction should be socially improving or be about supplying good role models. I have zero truck with activists who think that misfortune happening to a female character automatically makes a Bad Story and its fans misogynists, or those who call on authors to be “punished” for killing off any gay character. A progressive take in fiction is a good thing, IMO, but the moment it becomes the only criterion then storytelling is dead.
So yeah, if you’re a writer – write what you like.
But hell, I do think there is a hole in feminist fiction, and a terrible distortion in the image women writers present our gender: selfless, sexless creatures victimized by nasty men with all the personality of sharks.
Clytemnestra, by John Collier (1882)Because that’s JUST NOT TRUE, ffs! In real life, women do really bad things from selfish motives (and gosh, men have complex inner lives and are often altruistic!). Girls are bullies just as much as boys are. Women inflict verbal, mental, sexual and physical abuse on partners and children (the rate of domestic violence among lesbian couples is actually higher than male-to-female violence in heterosexual couples). They neglect their responsibilities and desert their families for sex and excitement. THEY WANT SEX WITH PEOPLE THEY ARE NOT MARRIED TO. They’re greedy, materialistic, cruel, and driven by status and power and money – because those are all human traits, not just male ones.
Yes, I get that women writers don’t want to shore up the old-school clichés of manipulative bitches and sultry temptresses – but putting 'our' people on a pedestal (and “we are all blameless victims” – such a low, dreary, shitty pedestal!) is not the solution either.
And good grief, what is this authors’ conspiracy that women characters don’t think much about sex? If that were the case, the multi-billion dollar Romance industry would drop dead overnight. They might be cautious for very good practical reasons about expressing it, but women in real life dream about, lust over and objectify men they don’t know. 
All. The. Time.
I’m a feminist. I don’t wish to finish yet another book of female-focused fiction thinking, “Well shit, I never want to read another woman writer again, pass me some Robert E Howard for fuckssake.” What I do want is to read about women doing thrilling things, about women driven by their unruly impulses, about women who make terrible life choices with heroic, ferocious passion. I want them to go on rash missions and shoot for the stars and stop being the eternal goddamn voice of dull respectability and caution. I want women to be heroes and villains, not just protagonists. I want women’s fiction – and women in fiction – to be as exciting and scary and dramatic and shocking as any written.
Women characters in fiction need more ego. It’s the fundamental basis of being an individual after all.I want us to reclaim our lust, our agency – and hell yes, our wickedness.

Blue Monday: Annabeth Leong guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

We're back for a second taste of the anthology Silence is Golden, because it's NOW OUT IN PAPERBACK TOO, yay! And my guest excerpt is from Annabeth Leong's A Change of Perspective.


I had stepped into someone else’s life. Everything I had on was new or rented—the tuxedo, the shining black leather shoes, the binder that concealed my breasts, the cock stuffed into the front of my pants.

The woman on the other end of the leash I was holding didn’t belong to me either. Kristina, my best friend, had begged me to put on this show for just one night, for just this party, and I had agreed.

I had stripped her naked, buckled her into a leather collar so thick she couldn’t bend her neck, locked it with the padlock she had given me, and led her into the main party room by a leash handle that could double as a spanking implement. The temptation was to clutch it because I wasn’t sure I knew what I was doing, but I forced myself to hold it loosely instead. Max, the character I was playing tonight, wasn’t the type to over-grip. He was the definition of cool and smooth, because I’d made him up to be that way, and I focused on walking and moving like I’d imagined he would.

Because of nerves, we’d arrived a little late. Kristina hadn’t been to any kinky events since she’d broken up with her ex, and we’d had a long talk about that before getting dressed. I went out like this most weekends, but not usually as a top, and never presenting as a man. I’d spent forever in the bathroom adjusting the package I’d purchased for the occasion, half-worried I hadn’t put it on right and half-overwhelmed by how turned on I got seeing its bulge.

The party was already in full swing. The seemingly required soundtrack of Massive Attack and Hybrid pumped steadily through high-quality speakers, ordinary household objects were hidden under black cloths, and kink furniture had been brought out and set up throughout the space. The carpet must have been steam cleaned earlier that day—a slightly damp, soapy smell wafted through the air-conditioned room.

I’d been going to private kinky parties for years, but the first moment inside I always felt like I was in the wrong place. I never could sort out the details of the press of bodies, and the sounds of gasps, moans, grunts, and screams hit me with a sense of danger that took a few minutes to transform into a vicarious thrill. Usually, that was when I would lean toward the person I came with, wrap myself in their toppy energy, and let our power dynamic settle my nerves.

Tonight, I was the top. The chain that linked me to Kristina stirred. She shifted from foot to foot like a nervous animal, and I knew what she needed because it was what I would have needed in her position.

I picked up the slack in the chain until it stretched taut. Choking up to keep her on a short leash, I steered us toward a spot deeper in the party as if I knew exactly where we were going. I didn’t, but she didn’t have to know that.

I could feel her calming with every step. She followed me like a dancer, up on her tiptoes because I had a few inches on her, her bare feet landing precisely, the movements making the muscles in her thick calves and thighs flex and ripple. I thought it was a beautiful effect, so I shifted my grip to urge her higher onto her toes.

Her posture changed even more. Her straight neck translated to a straight back. We’d decided not to use any restraints besides the collar and lead, but she moved her hands into position behind her as if I’d cuffed them there, and the gesture emphasized the curves of her breasts, stomach, and hips.

Her thick, curly hair cascaded down her back, tendrils brushing the tops of her thumbs. She kept her eyes lowered, which made the beauty of her long lashes more noticeable and made me feel safe watching her face.

I wasn’t used to looking at my best friend this way. Of course, I knew she was pretty, but I didn’t usually admire the sensual fullness of her cheeks. I’d never before stared at the spot below her ear and thought about putting my tongue there. I’d certainly never mentally compared the coppery brown of her lips and her nipples, had never wondered if the latter were hardening because of me.

I’ll admit, I’d forgotten the role I was supposed to be playing. A bottom might get to go la-la in subspace, but a top can’t give in to the temptation to neglect the rest of the world.

I was so focused on Kristina that I walked into a tall someone’s chest. In my surprise, I jerked the leash to an odd angle, making her stumble.

I opened my mouth to apologize to both of them, then remembered who I was tonight and closed it. I didn’t know how well I passed to other people, but I passed great to myself as long as I didn’t say anything. I felt like Max, felt like a handsome, sexy, well-put-together, dominant man—right up until the soprano tones of my voice hit my eardrums. I’d experimented with lowering it, but that just made me feel ridiculous. Instead, Kristina and I had agreed that Max would be the strong, silent type. We’d even worked out signals I could use to check in with her, so I wouldn’t have to break the spell while we were in front of other people at the party.

We hadn’t anticipated a situation where I’d need to communicate with anyone but her.
Buy Silence is Golden on
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Annabeth Leong is frequently confused about her sexuality but enjoys searching for answers.

Her work appears in dozens of anthologies, including the 20th anniversary edition of Best Lesbian Erotica and Heiresses of Russ 2015: the Year's Best Lesbian Speculative Fiction. She is the author of Untouched: A Sensory Voyage of Voyeurism and Discovery, and the editor of MakerSex: Erotic Stories of Geeks, Hackers, and DIY Projects.
Website:
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I am in blood stepped in so far

Magazine illustration by Fritz Hegenbart 1864–1943I've hit 41K on my wordcount for The Valleys of the Earth , which means that notionally I am halfway through!

Plotwise, the excrement is about to hit the rotating blades in great quantity.

(Also I just wrote "wordcunt" so I think I should stop and eat)

Vegetable Love

Winter, by Guiseppe Arcimboldo, 1573My bad poetry posted earlier this week reminded me of an absolute gem of erotic poetry I came across recently:  Robert Herrick's The Vine.

Herrick (1591-1674) was a contemporary of the Metaphysical Poets. I believe the definition of metaphysical poetry boils down to an intense interest in

1) getting laid,
2) forcing metaphors through the hymen of credulity and right up the long and winding vagina of embarrassing crassness (see what I did there?).

Not many modern smutwriters, for example, would stoop to arousing their characters or readers by reminding them that their putrescent vulvas will one day be eaten out by maggots, like Marvell:

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall soundMy echoing song; then worms shall tryThat long preserv’d virginity,And your quaint honour turn to dust
Or by remarking that they are crawling with fleas, like Donne:

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be
Anyway, here's Herrick's The Vine , in all its hortiphallic glory:


"I dream'd this mortal part of mineWas metamorphos’d to a vine;Which crawling one and every way,Enthrall’d my dainty Lucia.Me thought, her long small legs and thighsI with my tendrils did surprise;Her belly, buttocks, and her waistBy my soft nerv’lits were embrac’d:About her head I writhing hung,And with rich clusters (hid amongThe leaves) her temples I behung:So that my Lucia seem’d to meYoung Bacchus ravisht by his tree.My curles about her neck did crawl,And arms and hands they did enthrall:So that she could not freely stir,(All parts there made one prisoner).But when I crept with leaves to hideThose parts, which maids keep unespy’d,Such fleeting pleasures there I took,That with the fancy I awoke;And found (ah me!) this flesh of mineMore like a stock, then like a vine."
He's got wood, as they say...

Of course, if you like flora-themed sex, there's always this fine collection of suspicious-looking vegetables ;-)

Smut by the Sea 2016

I might have missed Eroticon this year, but I got to Scarborough for Smut by the Sea 2016!



I even got to frolic on the *ahem* beautiful golden sands this time, yay!

Jennifer Denys took this picThere were of course fabulously smutty readings from fave authors:

Nano Vaslen , Richard V Raiment and Victoria Blisse
Dylan McEwan and K D GraceAnd there were workshops on self-publishing (from Anna Sky) and writing Sci Fi (from Jennifer Denys).


Oh, yeah ... and one from me on Writing Fantasy:

Another photo from Jennifer :-)Then the dapper Jay Coates and the fabulous Bea Noir treated us to the first-ever Dr Scribbly workshop, wherein we were inspired to write things based on Bea's sexy and slightly terrifying burlesque.


And then Hermione ate a lightbulb and hammered a 6-inch nail up her nose...
Here is wot I wrote in response as I came out of shock. I blame Ashley Lister for infecting me with bad poetry:

MetASSmorphosis Spell
I wish my ass was glass So that Bea would eat it; I wish my ass was a nose So that Bea would nail it; I wish my ass was a chair So that SuperBea would give a flying fuck
Photo by Nano Vaslen
 I won a prize for that!
IT IS NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!

You have a filthy mindThank you Victoria Blisse for another lovely Smut event :-)

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's excerpt is from In Real Life which has just been published in Silence is Golden (ed. Anna Sky). Which means I am now officially a Sexy Little Author :-D

If someone is unable to speak, how do they communicate with their partner? If a sub or Dom can't hear well in crowds but loves to play at parties, what mechanisms are in place to ensure everyone stays safe?

The kink-inspired stories in Silence is Golden are sexy and bold. You'll meet strong, diverse characters across the spectrum of sexuality who revel in their desires. From silent Doms and Deaf lovers to submissives who can't be silenced and those who seek out the quiet. This sizzling collection brings together the finest erotic stories from Annabeth Leong, Dale Cameron Lowry, Sienna Saint-Cyr, Leandra Vane, Anna Sky and Janine Ashbless.

 In Real Life: Ellie is out on a blind date with Bryn, who is deaf - and accompanied by his signer Hugh.



‘What’s wrong?’ Hugh demands. They’re both hovering behind me, staring.
  
‘I’m really sorry! I’ve got to head back to the station or I’m going to miss the last train tonight. I’m really sorry – I just forgot.’ I squeeze both their arms in turn. ‘I was having such a great time!’        
  
‘We’ll walk you there,’ Hugh says. He and Bryn are signalling frantically at each other as we leave the club, and I get the impression that there’s a heated discussion going on, but it’s all over my head and I shrug it off. Outside the air is crisp and smells faintly of gunpowder from the midnight fireworks. The streets are full of underdressed people making their way from club to club. The chill air bites at my legs too; I shed my patterned winter tights when we reached the bar and now there’s nothing but bare skin between the tops of my boots and the bottom of my short skirt. I figure I’ll manage.
  
As I get myself sorted I realise I’ve got a few more minutes than I was counting on; my printout with the train time says Ten Past, not Ten To. We all relax a bit then. Bryn holds his arm out and I link mine in his, pleased. We walk through the streets, taking turns down quieter roads to avoid the crushes outside more popular venues, and when we get to a pedestrian bridge over a canal I pause to look down into the water, charmed by the glints of reflected light.
  
Hugh instantly takes the opportunity to light a fresh cigarette.
 
 Turning to put my back to the handrail, I look at Bryn with a faint smile. Wordlessly, like a man in a dream, he moves in to kiss me again, shielding me from the night air with his body. One hand slips under my open coat to clasp the small of my back and I arch into the lean of his torso, flowing against him. My thighs feel liquid, without resistance, and he feels more solid by the second. His mouth explores mine with a growing hunger; I’d like him to eat me up. He’s half-hard already. When I moan into his mouth he feels the vibration, and I know that by the immediate flex of his erection and the tensing shift of his muscles. A hand moves up to cup my breast and a thumb drifts over my right nipple, already stiff from the chill, flicking it softly and revelling in its fullness.
  
Oh God, that touch sends electric messages chasing through every part of my body, lighting up my clit. I feel the tracks of my nerves flaring like strings of LEDs under my skin. I can’t help squirming against him, and I don’t want to help it. I’m wildly turned on; I have been all evening.  My pussy aches, wanting him to full it, and the cold outside is more than balanced by the heat burning inside me.
  
We part, gasping a little, and experiment with smaller, biting kisses. I wrap my arms about his neck and ruffle that mown turf at the back of his scalp, wondering how soft that velvet would feel between my thighs. Bryn stoops to nibble at my ear and kiss my neck, and through his careful gentleness I can feel his breath coming hard and shallow. The hand on my breast deserts its station to clasp my bum-cheek, squeezing me through my skirt.
 
 Stretching my throat for him, I tilt my head and let my gaze fall on Hugh. He’s leaning forward on the railing a few feet away, smoking his roll-up idly and watching us, his expression inscrutable. Lifting my right thigh around Bryn’s in an unambiguous invitation for him to nestle closer, I feel my skirt ride up, gifting Hugh with a new view. His attention zeroes in and his lips tighten. My eyelids droop and flutter as Bryn shifts his grip on my bottom, reaching round and down for the hem of my skirt, sliding it up to explore the full swell. My skin thrills to his big warm hand.  He’s looking for the edge of my panties, I realise, but it takes him a while to find that because I’m wearing a thong; a wispy, lacy little thing picked deliberately for our meeting: might-get-lucky knickers, fuck-me panties. When he tucks a thumb under the elasticated lace at my hip I gasp involuntarily, knowing he’s crossing a boundary.
  
That’s when Bryn’s hand makes its irrevocable move to the front, under my rucked-up skirt, his fingertips delicate on the hidden fabric; tickling my pussy, teasing the barely-concealed nub of my clit, tugging the silky gusset aside. Hugh has forgotten to inhale and his cigarette trembles in his fingers. I’m past resistance now, if I ever was capable of it. I don’t care we’re on a public footbridge and that there are people walking past every few minutes. I don’t care what a slut I must look. I just want Bryn to touch me more. I just want to welcome his fingers into my wet and I’m so grateful for their slick caress on my swollen clit that when it finally happens I whimper out loud.
  
Bryn lifts his head from my throat and looks at me searchingly. Withdrawing his hands, he lifts them to sign; I grab his hips in frustration and pull his pelvis harder in to me, grinding my bereft mound against him.
 
‘He wants to know if you mind me watching,’ Hugh asks, his voice all woolly and hoarse.
  
I kiss Bryn softly, eagerly, and shake my head. ‘Not in the least.’
  
Hands dance again. I want them to dance on my breasts, in my wet slot.
  
‘He wants to know if you’d like me to touch you too.’
 
 I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, my heart pounding. ‘I’d like that very much,’ I whisper.



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