Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 60

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The fungus that dare not speak its name

This is Auricularia auricula-judae or Jew's Ear, though I doubt that you're supposed to call it that in public these days. In fact even a decade ago, when I was doing Medieval Days for schoolchildren, I was at pains to describe it as "Judas's Ear" ... which has the advantage of being both accurate and more medievaltastic. Because it grows almost exclusively on elder trees, it was said to be an supernatural echo of Judas hanging himself from an elder after betraying Jesus.

Here it is happily growing on an elder in my wood:



It's edible despite its creepy appearance - it really does have a floppy velvety texture much like a human earlobe. In fact a very close relative under the name Cloud Ear Fungus is used in Chinese cuisine, and so bizarrely there's a European industry in supplying it dried, in bulk, to China, where it's packaged as something we'd consider exotic and shipped back to UK restaurants and supermarkets.


I'm not sure if it's beautiful, but it is a fascinating lifeform, and a humorous reminder that fungi are genetically closer to the Animal Kingdom than the Plant Kingdom ;-)

The fungi that dare not speak its name

This is Auricularia auricula-judae or Jew's Ear, though I doubt that you're supposed to call it that in public these days. In fact even a decade ago, when I was doing Medieval Days for schoolchildren, I was at pains to describe it as "Judas's Ear" ... which has the advantage of being both accurate and more medievaltastic. Because it grows almost exclusively on elder trees, it was said to be an supernatural echo of Judas hanging himself from an elder after betraying Jesus.

Here it is happily growing on an elder in my wood:



It's edible despite its creepy appearance - it really does have a floppy velvety texture much like a human earlobe. In fact a very close relative under the name Cloud Ear Fungus is used in Chinese cuisine, and so bizarrely there's a European industry in supplying it dried, in bulk, to China, where it's packaged as something we'd consider exotic and shipped back to UK restaurants and supermarkets.


I'm not sure if it's beautiful, but it is a fascinating lifeform, and a humorous reminder that fungi are genetically closer to the Animal Kingdom than the Plant Kingdom ;-)

Wayland's Smithy

If you've read Cover Him With Darkness you'll know that I put the defeat of the Watchers (fallen, mortal-shagging angels) at "about five thousand years ago" somewhere in the Bronze Age.

Evelyn de Morgan
Since I'm writing the sequel, The Valleys of the Earth , in which my "hero"Azazel goes trying to find his imprisoned brothers all round the world, I've been looking for places they might be stashed in underground cells.

Here's one: Wayland's Smithy in Oxfordshire:


It's a famous Neolithic longbarrow and this month I finally got to see it, having had it on my to-do list for decades. That's because it is a bit of a hike up The Ridgeway in a surprisingly remote range of chalky hills...


... and is deliberately badly signposted by English Heritage. Here it is hidden in its copse of trees, unvisited, melancholy and a little bit spooky even in daylight:


The barrow (185 ft long by 43 ft wide) was built in about 3,400 BCE, over the top of an older smaller barrow. The front stones at the chamber end are BIG and present a strikingly feminine entrance into the Underworld

Though that may just be my dirty mind...
The legend that sprang up around this earthwork was that it was the forge of the supernatural blacksmith Wayland (a memory of the Germanic smith-god Wolund, he's referenced in Beowulf and The Ring Cycle among others).

It was claimed well into historical times that if you rode up there and left your horse tethered by the stones overnight, along with a silver coin, you'd find it freshly-shod in the morning. I love that story! It has such a ring of "Yeah, you can interact with the supernatural if you want to - no problem."



Kipling used Wayland's legend in this chapter of Puck of Pook's Hill.

So that's a site-visit I can claim expenses for, eh? ;-)

Blue Monday: Lilya Loring guests

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest author is Lilya Loring, whose story Company Ink appears in the brand new anthology Inked.


Tattoos are intimate and personal, yet can hide as much as they reveal... 

This superb collection of erotic stories will have you squirming in your seat! Inked contains first times, first tattoos and first loves, artists crossing galaxies to save mankind and magic in all forms.

Edited by Anna Sky, Inked contains nine sexy and provocative stories from Gregory L. Norris, Annabeth Leong, Victoria Blisse, Zak Jane Keir, Harley Easton, Jillian Boyd, Alain Bell, Lilya Loring and Katya Harris.


He grabbed her around the waist, pulling him to her, desperate to finally feel her skin against his. With a grunt, he used one hand to peel away his t-shirt, gasping when he caught the freshly bandaged tattoo.

She smiled at him sweetly and helped him free his arm. There was something caring in the way she handled him, the way she helped him. When their skin touched, she moaned a little and pressed her cunt against him. He grabbed her through her pants, could feel her heat, her wetness and it made him rigid. Normally Wade was more timid, allowing the women in his life to call the shots. Tonight, he was different. He was powerful and commanding, wanting nothing more than to fuck her like she deserved, like she needed.

He guided her to the bed where she fell on her back with a soft thump. This was not going to be a casual, missionary style fuck; he was going to make her beg for him.

Her eyes watched him with curiosity. In a series of quick movements, he stripped her of her boots, jeans, and panties. The light from the bedroom lamp bathed her in a soft glow. He rubbed the soft flesh of her belly and placed a gentle kiss. She squirmed, but settled down as he moved lower. He took off his belt, jeans, and boxers, letting his cock spring free.

“Uh uh,” he said, “no peeking,” as she moved to get a better look.

He placed a hand on her sternum and guided her back down on the bed. Her legs were spread wide, waiting for him. He stroked the length of his cock for several moments as he watched, taking in the sight of her. Her nipples, a ruddy pink, were already puckered. His eyes traveled lower. Her sex was delicate with neatly trimmed, dark blond hair.

“A blond, huh?” he said.

She laughed and her breasts bounced, “Don't tell anyone.”

“I won't,” he said as he knelt before her.

She was so wet, so tense in anticipation that she shivered at his hot breath on her skin. He liked the coppery smell of her. He spread her lips with his hand to reach her clit and licked her slowly, running his tongue from her clit to her hole and back again. With each stroke, her body shook and her hips arched toward his face.

Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her eyes were shut and her head tilted back. Soft moans escaped her lips, increasing in frequency. His lips formed a tight seal on her clit and as she began to buck, he thrust two of his fingers into her.

Her upper body came up off the bed and she came, screaming, a litany of “Oh god” and “Oh fuck” streaming from her lips.

Wade didn't give her much time to recover. “Roll over,” he commanded, slapping her ass cheek hard enough to sting.

Grace groaned but did as she was told, resting her head on her folded arms. He ran his hands over her rounded ass that was now up in the air. Her back was also heavily tattooed—covered in koi fish and cherry blossoms swirling around a partially disrobed geisha. He swept her hair to the side so he could see all of it as he fucked her. On her lower back, he planted a series of gentle kisses. Her skin was silky and slightly salty.

“Tell me,” he said as he slid a finger inside her tight opening, “do you like it from behind?”

“Yes,” she nodded, shuddering from his ministrations.

“Oh, you're a dirty girl then,” he said and laughed.

She was the perfect height, cunt open at exactly the right level for him. Wade hissed as he rammed his cock inside her in one deep thrust, knowing she was wet enough to take it. She cried out in pleasure, hands moving to grasp the blankets to steady herself.

Hands grabbing her hips, he pounded into her a couple of times and then withdrew, his cock hovering just inches from her. She tried to push back onto him, but he held her in place.

“Tell me you want it,” he said as he slapped her ass cheek with his open hand.

She groaned and he slapped her flesh again.

“I want it,” she said.

“Want what? I want you to say it,” he rubbed her cunt with the tip of his cock. She was slick and hot with desire.

“I want your hard cock inside me. Now,” she said.

He entered her again and she screamed, arching her back to meet him. He wanted to watch her ass rise and fall, trace the lines of her tattoos with his eyes, reach forward and grab a handful of her shiny black hair, but the pleasure was too much. He could only close his eyes, and lean his head back as he enjoyed the feeling of being inside her.

Buy Inked at Sexy Little PagesAmazon US (paperback and kindle)Amazon UK (paperback and kindle)Smashwords – iTunes – Barnes & Noble – Kobo – Inktera – Excitica
Lilya Loring has an unhealthy obsession with fairy tales. She received a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in 2014. She lives in the South, surrounded by an evergrowing pile of books. 
Website Twitter: Pinterest:Facebook: 

No pressure then

Dead sexy

Enrique Simonet: The Autopsy or Anatomy of the Heart (1890)Well, this seemed an appropriate picture to follow on from Wednesday's confession.

Of course, there a long history of artistic depiction of dissection (think Rembrandt's famous Anatomy Lesson), but it would be a Victorian painter who'd try to eroticise the subject ... in the most respectable and melancholic way, ahem.

Not that I'm suggesting there were any strange toys in Simonet's attic...

The Decapitation of St Paul

I'm not a Weirdo, I'm a Writer

... honestly, Officer... I just happen to have a lot of research material!



Yes, it's time to dive into the research rabbit-hole again!
Yes, I am writing a story about necrophilia.
No, it's not erotica - it's horror. And I hope to scare the hell out of myself :-)

Don't worry, I won't be inflicting any excerpts on you poor innocent smutsters, lol!   :-D

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's excerpt is from my most pun-tastic title ever, In Appreciation of Their Cox. It's about a university rowing team, of course :-)


Eight tall, muscular men, straining every sinew, and one itty-bitty young woman urging them on with all her might.

Joanna is the coxswain for a British university rowing crew, all of them fit and muscular and hot. Although she’s fantasized about each of the men, she has always been careful to keep her relations with them strictly platonic. But now she’s leaving for a new job— and they'’re going to have a farewell party they will never forget, as all Jo’'s wildest dreams come true on this final night together.


“Hey,” says Nils, “the door is locked. We have all night.”

The turning of fantasy to concrete possibility makes my heart thump and evokes a warm gush inside me that seeps to my panties. I look around the room, making myself meet their gazes. I see a lot of grins and lifted eyebrows but there’s something in their eyes that says it’s not being taken just as a joke.

“You used to that sort of thing back home, Nils?” wonders Zeke.

“Not much else to do on the long arctic nights,” Ed suggests.

“You’re not serious, are you, Coxey?” asks Murray.

I bite my lip.

“You really want to, Jo?” Bradley asks.

I focus on Darren. His jaw is twisted to the side, his eyes round. This might be too much for him at his age. Hell, is it not too much for me? “Um,” I say, helpfully. “It’s a…” The words clog in my throat. “It’d have to be all of you, you know. That’d be the point.”

There’s a silence. I look down into my whisky. I can feel my clit swollen, my knickers sodden. I want to wriggle where I sit but I don’t dare.

“Well, nobody’s walking out,” Murray observes.

That was it, my get-out clause. I’d expected someone to cut and run. Bradley maybe. Or Ed. I sneak a sideways look at Ed. He’s gnawing his lip, but he nods at me very slightly. “Oh,” I say. “Well. Um.” I think I’m starting to hyperventilate, because I’m feeling lightheaded. “I’ve not really got any idea where to start.”

Murray gets up from his table. “Let’s start with a game then,” he says, coming over and holding out his hands to me. Nils takes my drink, and I slip both hands into Murray’s and let him help me down from the bar. I’m not sure my legs could hold me up unaided now. I’m churning inside with heat and arousal and trepidation. He leads me into the middle of the room to stand on the only rug. “Ed, can I borrow your tie?”

Ed of course wore a tie to dinner. He likes to observe the niceties, even if the tie is hanging like a noose around his open collar at the moment. He strips it off and hands it to Murray. I wonder if I’m going to be tied up when he circles behind me, but what he does in fact is blindfold me with a couple of turns.

“Okay?” he whispers. The effect of his disembodied voice and his warm whisky-scented breath on my ear is to make shivers run all across my skin.

I nod.

He tightens the knot. Lifting my chin, he surprises me with a soft kiss. Then he addresses the others. “Come on then, gentlemen.”

They move in. I hear the rasp of chairs and the whisper of their clothes, their breathing, the little murmurs they make in their throats. They surround me. I’m not sure if Murray is directing with gestures or it’s spontaneous, but they start to touch me and strip me. I’m not wearing that much, just a short dress and a bra-and-panty set beneath, no stockings or slip on this summer night. Hands glide over my skin as the fabric is tugged away. I can’t guess how many of them are able to reach me at a time, I can’t tell who it is who’s touching me. They’re just hands, callused and blistered from the oars, gentle but insistent. Someone fumbles at the catch of my bra, someone else hooks down the lace cups with his fingers. My nipples pebble as they’re exposed to the cellar air, and instantly they’re tested and tweaked and flicked and someone bends to give one a quick lick. My breasts are small to fit with my slight build, but they’re squeezed and jiggled appreciatively. Fingertips caress the length of my spine, making me shiver. Even my hair is stroked, my ears tickled. Now that I’m suddenly no longer forbidden territory they are curious and eager. My bottom is fondled, my panties pulled down, the cleft of my ass invaded by exploring fingers as, from the front, someone else strokes my pussy. It’s exhilarating and scary and confusing, my brain a whirl of sensation with no visual picture to make sense of the touches to my skin. I smell their colognes and hear them chuckle and whisper, and I squirm and lean into their hands and whimper with pleasure.

“Now,” says Murray as a hand presses down on my shoulder, “Kneel down, Jo.”

I slip to my knees, my body more naked now that the hands are withdrawn. The only apparel they’ve left on me are my red shoes with the four-inch heels.

“This game is called Cocks for the Cox.”

Sniggers and a few protests at the pun. I grin, half in fear. My sex feels hot and heavy, brimming with juice.

“Your job is to guess which cock belongs to which man, Jo. No peeking now.” He takes my head in his hands and tilts me forward. Something smooth and warm bumps my lips, nudging them apart as it presses home. It’s the glans of a cock of course. I taste salt and soap, feel a slippery ooze against the tip of my tongue as I accept the turgid swell of flesh. Whoever it is tilts his hips, encouraging me to take it farther, and I open my mouth to suck it slowly within, exploring the contours of that crown with my tongue. There’s a collective sigh of breath from every angle. I know they’ve circled me now, they’re all around. Stretching my neck and opening wide, I admit the thick shaft right down to my throat. Hair tickles my nose. It’s a solid, stout cock but not that long. Tentatively I lift my hand to his crotch, finding fabric and the teeth of the zipper. He’s still wearing his trousers, but his fly is wide open and he’s holding his pants up as he rocks pleasurably in the warm embrace of my mouth. His scrotum is hairy and very big, bulging from the V of his fly. It’s the size of that sac that gives him away.

With a final swirl of my tongue I withdraw and lick my lips. “Jon.”

A rueful grunt from over my head, and appreciative sniggers all round. “Got it. That’s some mouth you’ve got, Coxey.”

“Next,” says Murray, and hands swivel me on my knees. The next cock is long and smooth, with a sharp flavor reminiscent of chardonnay. A moment’s careful exploration convinces me it has no foreskin, and that makes me more than half-sure I know the answer. I suck enthusiastically though, in no hurry to make my guess, and explore his groin with my fingers. His pubes are trimmed back nearly to a stubble. It’s slightly distracting when someone behind me slips a hand beneath the curve of my bum and strokes my pussy, parting the puffy lips to lay open the wet furrow and plow it with a finger.

“Zeke,” I gasp, pulling clear.

“Oh fuck, man,” he groans, wrapping his fingers in my hair and pulling my face back so he can rub his dick all over it. I open my mouth, more than willing to let him sheathe his tool again, but Murray is feeling mean—or impatient.

“Uh-uh. Next.”

Next is Ed, I’m sure of it. He’s only half-hard, at least until I start sucking. Then he stiffens up admirably. I wonder if he’s shut his eyes or he’s just looking at all those other rampant cocks. I give him the full works, trying not to be overwhelmed by the two unknown hands caressing my pussy and the finger delicately circling the pucker of my asshole. But when that wicked digit, slick with my own juices, prods into the ring of muscle, I sit up hard, my heart hammering.

“Ed! And stop that!”

Murray chuckles.

Buy In Appreciation of Their Cox at 
Ellora's Cave :: Amazon UK :: Google Play

No. 3: The Larch

Here I am murdering trees:


There's a patch of larch in the heart of my wood. They're dark and atmospheric, but I'm working on reducing them in order to give more space to the broadleaves.

We did some ring-counting and they are 31 years old!


Now I feel like a serial killer.