Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 58

Blue Monday: K D Grace guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

My guest this week is the indefatigable K D Grace, in best supernatural form! Her latest book Demon: Interrupted (part 4 of the Lakeland Witches series) is out right now.


What secrets does a man have that would cause him to chooses to live under a spell that magically erased his past? When that spell is broken Ferris Ryder must choose to remember all that he was, all that he has done and all that drove him to willingly forget. If he chooses not to remember, the consequences will be dire for himself and the Elemental Coven, who are now his family.

Is the mysterious Elaine, who both fears and desires Ferris, a ghost with a past all her own, or merely a figment of his fevered dreams as he struggles against time to remember the past he fears or destroy the very people for whom he chose to forget?


In a room full of people Ferris could remain totally unnoticed. He heard things that way, saw things that others missed. Fiori suspected that was part of his magic. However, at the moment, he was completely and totally the centre of her attention as his warm, wet tongue teased its way down and around the puckered peaks and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. One splayed hand cupped and fondled her tight pubic curls while the other worried open his fly. What he was doing to her body was also a part of his magic and way more of a surprise, considering the man’s unassuming nature, than his ability to blend in.

She writhed beneath him totally naked, just as she had been when he entered her room, gently easing her out of a bad dream, back into the Waking World, and into his arms.

How had he known she was having the dream again? How had he known about the dream at all? And yet he did, and she was glad that he came to her. ‘Sh! sh. It’s only a dream, Fiori,’ he whispered. ‘Only a dream.’ He’d brought her a glass of water from the bathroom and had returned with a soft white towel. While she drank as though she had just traversed the desert, he gently wiped the perspiration from her face and her shoulders. Then he took the glass away and moved the soft terrycloth knap in slow lazy circles down her back and her ribs as she slid into his arms, laying her head against his shoulder. ‘Do you want me to stay with you?’ he asked.

She only nodded, tightening her arms around his neck.

His black shirt was open and untucked and his nipples hardened as she slid her arms inside and up his back. ‘Do you want me to make love to you?’ He asked it as simply as a parent would ask a child if she would like a bedtime story. He asked it because he knew in a house where sex magic was practiced, healing came in the form of passion, and she nodded again. His cock was already hard, but then she had noticed that it often was. In those times when he allowed attention to be drawn to himself, in those times when he made his presence known he neither attempted to hide his erection nor did he attempt to flaunt it. It was the ease and the comfort with which he wore his own masculinity that made him seem like a much larger man than he really was. In spite of his chameleon nature, he was not shy by any means, and his stamina and his finesse made him a welcome edition to the beds of all of the Elemental witches and their consorts.

Impatient for the feel of him freed, she shoved at his trousers, the scrape of the zipper seeming unusually loud in the quiet room. He ran his hand down to aid her as she worried his cock free. He was neither large nor small. Even his cock was nothing unusual to draw attention to itself, and yet there was no one at Elemental Cottage who didn’t relish the thought of Ferris between their legs, of Ferris shifting and grinding as though his unassuming penis had a secret magic all its own once properly sheathed in an appreciative pussy or mouth or arsehole.


His breath caught with a grunt as she fisted the length of him, and she could almost feel the ripples of lust rising up the vertebrae of his spine. For a second he wrapped his hand around hers and shifted his hips. Then he pulled her fingers free, kissing each one of them, running his tongue in ticklish strokes over the tips, making her hips rock in empathy against the mattress. ‘I’m going to taste you now. I can already smell how good you’ll be.’ With a wriggle of his arse and a shove with his feet he shed his trousers as he crawled down between her thighs, nudging her open with the smoothly shaven wedge of his jaw, clearing the way with nose and lips, teeth and tongue. The humidity of his breath blew across her clit, which rose up in anticipation.

‘There,’ he said, his fingers parting her as agilely and exactingly as if he were a pianist and she were his instrument. For an age he studied her, fingered her, arranged her as though there were only one way, the best way to approach her dark, heavy folds, and he would not partake until he knew exactly what would bring all of her focus, all of her energy, all of her arousal to the very centre of his attention. ‘And now,’ his words were little more than a rush of breath, ‘I’ll give you what you need.’ He took her with his whole mouth, hunched over her like a lion at his prey, the muscles of his shoulders bunched tight, dusted and gilded in moonlight. And she felt the bloom of her arousal like a bud swelling, bursting, opening. Then the bloom became an explosion rising up from someplace suspended above the base of her spine. He held her hips, held her steady with strength his body belied as she bucked against his mouth, as she convulsed, as the moon moved in and out amid the undulation of slate clouds.

In the hazy vision of heat he seemed larger than himself, much larger than himself as though his arousal, their arousal together had released something broader of shoulder, deeper of chest, darker of memory and, as the moon disappeared, the power of him rose like a shadow thick and all-consuming and, somehow, other than himself. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Gooseflesh prickled over her breasts, even as she rocked out her orgasm against his mouth. But before the tingle of uncertainty and the edge of fear could take hold, the moon reappeared and unassuming Ferris gave her clit on last hard tug with his lips and then rose over her, positioning himself, easing her open with his knees and his hips.

Buy Demon: Interrupted at:
Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Amazon DE

Books 1 though 3 of the Lakeland Witches trilogy (Body Temperature and Rising, Riding the Ether, and Elemental Fire, are also available.)


K D Grace was voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes. K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about? 

When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked Coast to Coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She also enjoys martial arts, reading, watching the birds and anything that gets her outdoors.

K D Grace also writes hot romance as Grace Marshall. 

K D's website
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Brit Babes

Fall of Day

There's some discussion as to this picture by William Rimmer (1816-1879). Titled Evening (Fall of Day) it would seem to be a metaphorical depiction so literal as to make little sense. Day does not actually die in our Western mythology/symbolism, despite the common turn of phrase. And why is the figure haloed and lacking in genitals?

It makes more sense if you see the figure in relation to the fallen angel Lucifer - "Morning Star" or "Daystar" of Christian mythology  - which is loosely based on Biblical references, but mostly fleshed out in Milton's Paradise Lost. Rimmer would have been familiar with that work.

Here's a statue of Lucifer on the Fountain of the Fallen Angel in the Buen Retiro Park in Madrid, situated at 666 metres above sea level and very similar in realisation.


Ricardo Beliver 1877Rimmer's picture was the basis for Led Zeppelin's Swan Song record logo, btw.


 You can read about the occult hoo-hah surrounding their album Led Zeppelin IV, here.

Library porn: now with added demons

Last week I went looking, with authors Charlotte Courtney-Bond and David Tallerman, for demons in the John Rylands Library, Manchester:

Spooky, huh?It was built in 1900 by Cuban-born Enriqueta Rylands in memory of her late husband. She then gifted it to the people of the city.

That has to be the basis of a horror story, surely?It is currently hosting a small exhibition on Magic, Witches and Devils in the Early Modern World - basically a collection of grimoires and early prints. Unfortunately you're not allowed to take pictures of the exhibits themselves (Tthere are only about seven cabinets, but they're fascinating stuff. I was amused to see that Dr John Dee had doodled a lady with bare boobs in the margins of his spellbook, for example).


But if I couldn't take pictures of ancient tomes groaning with diabolic power, or even the Shakespearean first folio, at least I could photograph the building itself for all you library fans.



Because it is the most amazingly Hogwartian place!







It bristles with arches, groins, unnecessary pillars, and grotesque carvings of monkeys, green men and dragons - more that anyone could ever count.


And we did find one demon:



It's a good job we had fortified ourselves with Holy Water...

The breakfast of champions. And exorcists. 
More municipal library porn in my earlier post

My First Time

Pommes by Chéri Herouard (1881-1961)Today I'm over at Kay Jaybee's blog telling her all about My First Time. You will discover there the truly shameful secret of what I did when I was 18 years old...

:-)

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I've been deep in some gruesome territory for the last few weeks writing a horror story, I think today I'll get it all out of my system and post an excerpt from my story "Montague's Last Ride". It appeared in my very first story collection, Cruel Enchantment, way WAY before zombie erotica was ever a Thing, and it is really horror-erotica. I even read it out loud at the World Horror Convention some years back. 


Bored, masochistic gentlewoman Cecilia has sort-of-inadvertently tempted family ancestor the rakish Lord Montague back from his grave...

Lord Montague stood near the foot of her bed. Cecilia forgot to breathe.

She could see that he had once been more than handsome; he wore the rags of his beauty as he wore the torn trousers and the loose, yellowed linen shirt. His hair was dark and fell to his shoulders like a gleaming shadow, his cheekbones were high, his shoulders broad over a lithe body and narrow hips. But his burial clothes did little to hide the terrible wiry thinness of his limbs, or the discoloured skin stretched tight as parchment over jutting collarbones, or the long narrow hands with their yellowed nails. and  - he had no eyes. Blackened pits gaped at her turning his face into a mask.

For a moment that could not be measured - for both breath and heartbeat seemed to have deserted Cecilia - they faced each other down the length of the bed, both perfectly motionless. Then she opened her mouth and gave a terrible choking gasp. But at that he began to walk round towards her, and the cry she might have uttered died in her throat. A clutch of cold gripped her entire body like a straitjacket and she could not stir from where she knelt. The action of walking transformed Lord Montague from a simple corpse, an object of disgust, to something much worse. The horror of it hit her like glory; he was beyond mere revulsion.

He did not move like a living man - he was too stiff, unused to the motion. His bare feet clicked on the polished floorboards. Cecilia shut her eyes briefly, but opened them when he stopped before her. Her next shuddering breath brought the sweet carrion stink of him to her nostrils. She noted without thought that beneath the stained cravat knotted about his throat, the bruises of his hanging could still be glimpsed, torn and livid.

He inclined his head towards her.

Slowly she reached out with one hand and touched his chest, just where skin and cloth met at the deep neckline of his shirt. He was cold, and his skin slightly damp to the touch., like old leather left out in the rain.  There was no rise and fall to his ribs. Cecilia whimpered deep in her throat and very gently Lord Montague raised one hand to brush and then cup her cheek. She shut her eyes, leaning into the chill of his brittle fingers. Her own hand slid down the front of his shirt, felt the tightness of the abdominal skin and the suggestion of writhing movement beneath it. A dark wave of dizziness threatened to drown her. Struggling above it like a woman fighting a rough sea, she opened her eyes wide, raised her head, and did not flinch even when his face descended upon hers and their lips met.

He stank of death. He tasted of death. Breathing deeply, she found she could not support herself any longer; all the strength seemed to have ebbed from her. She sank helpless down from her kneeling position, back against the pillows, and watched dreamily as his hands traced the outline of her breasts. One by one he undid the the little white bows down the front of her nightdress, exposing her plump breasts. His hands were so cold; her nipples leaped at once under their icy caress and became hard as pebbles. He cupped her in his skeletal grasp and bent to tug one stiff pink nipple lightly in his teeth. She moaned and writhed under the horror and the pleasure. Her hips moved in blind circles. She brushed his dark hair with one hand, felt something wriggle away from her palm, and did not care. His touch was torment.

"Oh God," she whispered as he pulled and rolled her flesh between the leathery bones of his fingers. The coldness within her was giving way to a terrible, melting heat; her sex was all liquid fire and desperate need. When he released her she began to sob.

His hand  went then to her nightdress and the fabric tore like wet paper beneath them. He bared her down the entire length of her body, seemed to contemplate the sight, and then traced that path across her skin with his fingertips, cracked nails scoring pink lines upon her. His touch reached her pubic mound, the rough hair of her secret flesh. Cecilia swallowed her last gasp, froze, and then opened her thighs to him. his fingers slipped into wetness.

Her eyes pleaded. She lifted her arms to her ancient lover.

He stooped to her. The rotted cloth of his trousers ripped under his nails. She felt the cold, hard length of his embrace, the push of his thighs parting hers, the icy length of his slippery member sliding between her hot inner lips. She wrapped her legs around his thrusting hips and groaned aloud with pleasure, clawing at his back. His flesh disintegrated under her nails and she felt the bare bones of his spine against her fingertips, but it did not slow him or give him pause in his terrible quest. The appetite that had brought him back from the grave overmastered everything. Not death, not damnation, not the collapse of his earthly flesh could hold him back.


Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Amazon US
Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Amazon UK
Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Google Play
Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at iTunes
Audiobook available on Audible.com
and iTunes

Halestorm

(No, not the "Freak Like Me" you know. Different song)

I heard this on the radio and thought it was lots of fun :-)

Beltane

Because the pagan/natural cycles are woven into my Lovers' Wheel series, I'm taking a look in 2016 at the four great Celtic quarter days, the most important festivals of the neo-pagan year. I've covered Imbolc previously, so here we are at the start of the summer with the sexiest festival of them all!

BELTANE (from Bealtaine, "bright fire") is celebrated on 30th April/1st May, about halfway between the Spring and Summer Equinoxes. It is a fire festival, as of course are all the Quarter Days.  Like Imbolc, at its historic roots it is a festival of a pastoral, herding people. It marks the beginning of summer and the point at which the cattle are released from their winter byres and fields out into the summer pastures further afield, because finally there is enough grass for them all.


Celtic tradition centered around the lighting of bonfires to banish the long winter nights, which the livestock were driven between in order to gain protection from the blights and dangers, both natural and supernatural, of the summer months to come.


Inevitably, a festival at this time of year in the northern hemisphere must celebrate returning light and warmth, new growth, fertility/birth and - therefore - the feminine. In Catholicism, the whole of the month is devoted to Mary as the "Queen of May," honouring her with crowns and displays of flowers. Not surprisingly this is because of older pagan associations with queenly goddess-figures, which needed to be usurped and negated with a good clean dose of Christianity. Before Christ, the Roman festival of the Goddess Flora was held right at the end of April and had a notably sexual character, including the very active participation of prostitutes.

Spring , by Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1894)You can still see traces of the sexual/fertility nature of the festival in the folk rites of Maypole Dancing (putting a wreath on the top of the erect pole, and then dancing around it ... oh come on) and in the crowning of a pretty young woman as the village's May Queen, as well as any number of ribald Morris dances and poetic references to "going a-maying":

Now is the month of maying,
When merry lads are playing, Fa la la la la la la la la,
Fa la la la la la lah.
Each with his bonny lass
Upon the greeny grass.
Fa la la, etc...

The Spring, clad all in gladness,
Doth laugh at Winter's sadness,
Fa la la, etc...
And to the bagpipe's sound
The nymphs tread out their ground.
Fa la la, etc...
Fie then! why sit we musing,
Youth's sweet delight refusing?
Fa la la, etc...
Say, dainty nymphs, and speak,
Shall we play barley-break?
Fa la la etc...

(ballad from 1595)

Going a-Maying was a tradition where young people (particularly unwed ones) would head off into the woods very early on May Morning to, ahem, gather flowers. These garlands and branches and "may bushes" were brought back to fill the public places of the community ... though never brought indoors. I've talked about the may/hawthorn blossom thing before, with it's chemical associations with sex and death (it's the trimethylamine, man), so I'll just leave the link there for those interested.

John Collier (1850-1934): Queen Guinevere's Maying
Modern pagans count Beltane as the day the youthful God and Goddess get to have sex for the first time in the year. Interestingly, in folk tradition May - the month associated with wooing - is extremely unlucky for actual weddings ... perhaps because of the buried memory of all that orgiastic gadding-about, perhaps because of the Jewish mourning period of Omer that tends to fall at the same time, which forbade marriage.

Married when the year is new, he'll be loving, kind and true.
When February birds do mate, you neither wed nor dread your fate.
If you wed when March winds blow, joy and sorrow both you'll know.
Marry in April when you can, Joy for Maiden and for Man.
Marry in the month of May, and you'll surely rue the day. 

Another strand of powerful and somewhat threatening femininity was the association of May Day (and the may/hawthorn tree) with the Fairy Queen (a degraded goddess figure), as you were in danger of meeting her if you hung out near a hawthorn on May Day, and perhaps being abducted by her for many years.

Robert Anning Bell (1863-1933)
Since the publication of Dracula in 1897 a parallel Germanic tradition has become more well-known in the English-speaking world - that of Walpurgisnacht (St Walpurga's Eve) or Hexennacht on April 30th. Walpurga was an English missionary to the pagan Germans back in the 8th century, and a pioneering female writer, but her feast day is best remembered as the time when witches ride across the land and meet up to do evil. Again, a reminder of terrifying and highly sexualised supernatural women.

Jusepe de Ribera (1591 – 1652); Procession to a Witches' SabbathSo whatever you are planning for the May Day holiday - even if it's just a socialist rally for International Workers' Day - BE CAREFUL OUT THERE!
;-)

Body horror and the Empress Danrin

WARNING: some of the pictures further down this post are fairly gruesome and disturbing.
 

I'm finishing off a horror story this week, and one of the weird places my research has taken me is to the story of Tachibana no Kachiko (died 850 CE) a powerful Japanese noblewoman also known as the Empress Danrin. Her legend gave rise to a whole school of erotic/horrific art.


"The Death of a Noble Lady and the Decay of her body"- image from a set in the Wellcome Library
The Empress was a devout and influential Buddhist, but also extremely beautiful. It bothered her no end that all anyone thought about when they met her was falling in love ... or trying to get into her knickers. So she left orders that when she died, her body was to be exposed on the roadside in Kyoto so that anyone passing could see her putrescent corpse, and come to an understanding of the vanity of attachment to material beauty. This caused such a sensation that depictions of the Nine Stages of Decomposition (and poetry about it!) became all the rage in Buddhist schools, and quite fashionable between 13th - 19th centuries in Japan. They start with the living (but languid) woman and show the progression of decay all the way down to fragments of bone.

artist Kobayashi Eitaku, 1890
The Buddhist discipline of mindfulness of death (one's own, and that of all other beings) is known as Maranasati. In theory contemplation of such Kyuaizu ("Nine Signs") pictures was quite high-minded, but in fact there emerged an eroticised element bordering on necrophilia. The subject of these paintings was not always the empress, but always a beautiful woman (never a man) and often a courtesan, shown naked and appealing in the first stages. Don't fool yourself that Buddhism is any less misogynistic than other religions: there was a strong moral undercurrent of "look how disgusting women's bodies are really, young art-lover - don't you fall for their sexy wiles!"

Eitaku's "Body of a Courtesan in Nine Stages" - you can see the complete set HERE
Here is a set of Kyuaizu showing the body of famed courtesan Onono Komachi. They are apparently pretty accurate and likely to have been drawn from an actual model.









And now you can go and have dinner...

Blue Monday: L N Bey guests

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is LN Bey with an excerpt from her brand-new, literally-just-released-this-second novel Blue




As her guests arrive for dinner, Janet is both aroused and fearful—because this is no ordinary suburban dinner party. Recently divorced and looking for something new, Janet finds it when her friend Jon invites her to join an exclusive club of kinksters whose initiation is to be the host—and the entertainment.

Before the food is even served, she’s naked and on her knees, not to mention in over her head with her far more experienced guests. An avid reader of BDSM erotica, Janet learns that reality doesn’t always jibe with the fantasy as she rapidly loses control of the situation.

So begins Janet’s odyssey into a kinky suburban underground she never dreamed existed: caterers who were once dominatrices; real estate agents and lawyers by day who make twisted, sexy art by night; a stunning but sadistic insurance analyst who owns an entire stable of slaves of her own.

Well-trained submissives are in short supply out here in the ‘burbs, and Janet, blue-eyed and eager, has just the potential these people are looking for.

Kinky and sexy, intelligent and perceptive, Blue is both highly entertaining social satire and red hot erotica


Everyone was just staring.

“Well?” Jack said, “What are you waiting for?”

But she didn’t know what to do. Jack beckoned her with his finger. Janet crawled toward him, a lump in her throat.

“Have you been trained to show respect?” he asked when she reached him.

“No, Sir.”

“She was told!” Jon protested.

“Can you figure it out for yourself?”

Janet hesitated, but she could guess. She lowered her face to kiss his shoes. She heard a zipper.
When she raised herself up, his cock looked like a missile emerging from its silo—perfectly straight, incredibly smooth. Oooooh God. It had been well over a year since she’d last had one, and not very often for quite a while before then.

She glanced up at his face.

“What are you waitin’ for, darlin’?” Jack said. “An embossed invitation?”

Janet licked her lips, leaned forward on her hands and knees, and took the cock into her mouth. She moaned at the sensation of it filling her mouth, and she held it there, savoring it, tasting it. Man, she thought. Male. A man freshly showered but driving here in warm weather. She felt a surge of pure, primal lust. She slid her tongue up and down it inside her mouth, feeling every feature of its smooth, warm surface. Jack inhaled sharply. She backed off, and swirled her tongue around the cock’s head—feeling its firm ridge and licking the very tip, slick with pre-come.

For the first time all evening, she was no longer embarrassed. She thrust her head downward, taking as much in as she could, moaning again as its hardness nearly filled her throat. She considered how she must look to the others, down on her hands and knees, head bobbing up and down, red ass up in the air, and it now thrilled her. This was what she was wanting, when she’d listened to Jon’s idea weeks ago. Slave-girl-in-castle, slave-girl-in-mansion, slave-girl-on-pirate ship, she’d read them all—and never mind all the submissive-to-a-billionaire stories. If this was what it was to be put in her place, to be a sub, she was all for it. She could feel her own wetness and she spread her knees apart, wishing Jon or whoever would move behind her.

“You know,” Carolyn said, “If she’s going to be trained properly, she’s going to have to learn to take a whipping while servicing her betters.”

Okay, maybe never mind about that slave girl thing. Janet stopped, and looked up at Jack’s face with his dick still in her mouth—You’re not going to let her, are you? her eyes pleaded, but his expression was quite different.

“Couldn’t agree more,” he said, grinning and watching her intently. Janet lowered her lips down the cock again, and swore it had firmed up even harder.

The crack of the whip was a complete surprise; she hadn’t heard Carolyn move. Janet screamed, her cry muffled by Jack’s cock, and it took everything she had not to pull away from it—but she had the feeling doing so would make things worse. She looked up at Jack, who watched her with fascination. Begging him with her eyes wasn’t going to work, apparently.

Carolyn whipped her again, causing her to moan, her mouth still filled. She hesitated once more from the pure, painful surprise of it, but only for an instant. What had she been expecting, these last few weeks? Let’s face it, this was what she’d been picturing in her mind for tonight, what had got her all slippery sitting at work or trying to watch TV—being on her hands and knees, sucking a man, being whipped.

The next blow came quickly and Janet whimpered again, but did not stop or even slow her sucking. If anything, she sped up, worked harder. The fourth came after a long pause, Carolyn apparently making her wait for it, knowing that the anticipation could be as agonizing as the whip itself. Janet flinched when it came, but she did not ease up on the cock.

Carolyn swung three times in rapid succession across Janet’s ass, already hurting from the previous whipping, and once more against the tender backs of her thighs. Janet squealed, prodded to suck even faster at each blow. Carolyn whipped across her shoulders, which she did not expect. That seemed almost rude, though she didn’t know why.

But she remembered what Carolyn had said: she was being trained. To suck a cock while being whipped.

Okay then. She sucked furiously as the whip struck twice more across her back.

“You wanna trade places with her?” Jack said to Carolyn, and Carolyn struck her harder.

“In your dreams, Jack.”

Jack moaned and leaned back in his seat. Carolyn whipped her again, and again, as Jack began moving his hips in perfect timing with her bobbing head, fucking her mouth. He grabbed her head on both sides, holding it in place, and with a loud and ecstatic groan he exploded into her. She continued sucking, head held still, as his hips slowed and he began thrusting in time with his ejaculations. Carolyn timed her lashes with his orgasm, each thrust into Janet’s mouth met with a stinging crack across her ass. Janet could only moan at each convulsion, partly out of what was becoming actual pain from Carolyn’s whip, and partly from the shear subservience she felt each time Jack’s cock penetrated her deeper, releasing its hot come into her throat. She let its salty taste dominate her.

Carolyn’s whipping stopped. Janet relaxed—as did Jack’s cock, softening until she could take it all in and bury her lips in his pubic hair. Carolyn returned to her chair and reclined back into it. Jack still held Janet in his hands, and he lifted her head as his dick flopped against his stomach. He smiled beatifically.

She expected him to say something grateful, but instead he turned her head toward Carolyn sitting in the chair next to his.

“Now her, darlin'.”


Buy Blue at 
Amazon US :: Amazon UK


Denver, Colorado-based LN Bey has written one and a half erotic novels, but unfortunately had to write the first one three times to get it right. A long-time reader of BDSM erotica, LN reviews and analyzes erotic works of merit on this website, and has had several short stories published in anthologies, including Best Bondage Erotica 2015 and the upcoming No Safewords 2, published by Laura Antoniou. When not writing smut or writing about smut, LN is usually serving demanding cats or taking long naps in the sun.

L N Bey:
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Wonder Woman

I LOVE THE NEW WONDER WOMAN in Batman Vs Superman


1) She is massively hot




 2) She looks totally badass



3) She is neither WASPy nor some goddamn teenager. Gal Gadot is 30.


 I never had any interest in the character until now, but I want to see more WW movies!