Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 61
March 9, 2016
Oh I do like to be beside the Seaside!
Feast your eyes folks - this is a typical view of Scarborough in May - white sands glinting by the cerulean North Sea, glorious sunshine, palm trees waving in the tropical breeze... You so want to be there, don't you?
:-D
Well now you have an extra reason, because it is Smut by the Sea 2016!
And just look at the line-up of masochists running their naughty workshops:
Jennifer Denys presents “Sex in sci fi stories”All details and tickets at the Smut Website. We hope to see you there!
Jennifer Denys has written several sci-fi erotic romances and in the process had to research a weightless sex scene – have any astronauts ‘done it’? Come to Jen’s workshop and find out! The session will briefly cover the history of sexuality in sci-fi literature, look at modern depictions and you will get a chance to come up with your own ideas for sex scenes in the future (we want some really fun, innovative ideas!)
Janine Ashbless presents “Writing Fantasy Erotica”
So you want to write a fantasy, fairy tale, SF or paranormal erotic story … but you don’t know where to start? You’re wondering where to find fresh ideas? This interactive workshop with Janine Ashbless focuses on where to find your inspiration, and how to turn centuries-old plots into startling new stories.
Stephanine Robb presents “Fun with Bondage”
Stephanine will be teaching you all the tricks you need to get your lover right where you want them!
March 7, 2016
Blue Monday: Terrance Aldon Shaw guests
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
Today's guest is Terrance Aldon Shaw, with a complete short story from his new collection The Moon-Haunted Heart.
The 50 very-short pieces in this collection of mature literary fiction range from as many as 4,000 to as few as 50 words, exploring the human condition through the lens of disability, pan-sexuality and erotic mysticism. Brief, richly atmospheric vignettes sit close to longer, more conventional mainstream stories. . . all distilled within that secret place where love and madness meet...
Mazelblum (story #21)
As pussies go, it isn’t bad—a plump, gibbous cornucopia insinuating itself ever-so sveltely between a pair of long slender legs, professionally waxed, tweezed and plucked for an imminent major lifecycle event.
It is one of those captivatingly photogenic cunnus vulvae you see lots of close-ups of in porno videos: the impossibly perfect epitome of the classic Cosmo cooch, the trendily empowered Sex and the City kitty, crouching demurely to strike, hissing and growling with impuissant menace. It is the kind of respectable mazelblum nice boys want to take home to meet their mothers, or, at least, invite out for a quick nosh with their schmickle. The type you want to touch just to feel all that velvety store-bought smoothness beneath your fingertips, or kiss just because you really like the taste—and who ever needs an excuse to chow down on punani?
I swear, sometimes, they call to me from between the bridesmaids’ thighs, their dulcet siren songs muted like the sound you get when you put your ear up to the aperture of a cowrie shell—which, come to think of it, looks uncannily like a vulva. They burble and sigh from inside their gossamer prisons—the frilly gussets and diaphanous drawers, hot-pink tangas like tulle fig-leaves, raspberry hipsters, tangerine boy shorts and sea-foam green bow cheekinis, French-cut mesh and jeweled G-strings like removable vajazzle facades, low-risers in turquoise and teal, fluorescent chartreuse bikini briefs and parti-colored thongs.
I’ve ‘traded up’ to best man and should, theoretically, have my pick of the litter tonight. They’ve all had Brazilian waxes, courtesy of the bride’s mother. Rumor has it, that imperious cougar’s gone in for some work herself and now looks even younger than her daughter down below. Visions of extremely expensive vaginal rejuvenation procedures, velvety Mohicans, taut flesh and glistening polished pearls do a dance of seven veils in my brain.
I look at my watch. We’ll all be meeting around the chuppah in about forty-five minutes.
Then I hear the call, soft but insistent, from one of the reserved suites on the eighteenth floor. A game of hide-and-seek, it seems, and I am it. No time to count to one-hundred. I rove the corridors, pretending to run an errand for the groom, following the music to—no! It cannot be! I find it where I least expect, beneath something borrowed, the Georgette halter babydoll from Victoria’s Secret that was supposed to be special for tonight.
“There’s not a lot of time.”
As if she needs to remind me.
A simpler gift was never given and I unwrap it with rough reverence, touched that she would offer it to me on this day of all days. Swathed in filigreed net without frills or flounces, mocking maiden-white, a bridesmaid no more in her lacey bridal thong.
She wraps her longs legs around my back as I do another man’s office. I am still fully dressed for the occasion to come, in black tie and tartan cummerbund, having had only enough warning to strip off my jacket. There is a death wish in my desperate pumping, the feral groans welling up from the back of my throat and the blazing torrent that bursts the dam below. I slump into her grudging embrace as orgasm overtakes me, my juddering limbs giving way.
“Not bad for a first try.” She rejects my kiss, not wanting to muss her makeup. Her body is suddenly rigid beneath me, alien, distant, cold. “Maybe next time you’ll actually get me to come, too.”
“Next time?”
“Damn straight, boychik! Tonight, after the reception.”
“Are you sure?”
“Be up here, primed and ready, 11 ‘o clock sharp.”
“If you say so, but—”
“Do I look like I don’t mean what I say?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that—”
“Enough! Get out. I need to start getting ready.”
So this is what I’ve gotten myself into.
I only hope her daughter won’t be too scandalized on this, her special day.
Buy The Moon-Haunted Heart on
Smashwords
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Terrance Aldon Shaw (TAS to his friends) was born and raised somewhere to the left of Chicago in that vast whitebread wilderness known as the American Heartland. As a kid, he passed the time by creating his own graphic novels and “pretend” screenplays, conversing with a brilliant circle of imaginary friends, and dreaming about escape from the stifling phony wholesomeness and pious pabulum of small-town life.
Now devoting full time to writing and reviewing, TAS specializes in mainstream fiction with strong erotic themes and explicit sexual content. His work might best be described as “psycho-rotica,” as he prefers to explore the complex, fascinating inner world of sex; the thoughts, feelings and emotion s that accompany the erotic experience.
Readers can find Terrance Aldon Shaw’s books in both electronic and traditional print at most on-line retailers. His reviews of erotic fiction, musings on the craft of writing, and the occasional free short story are posted on his blog, Erotica For The Big Brain.
TAS on Facebook
Erotica for the Big Brain
Today's guest is Terrance Aldon Shaw, with a complete short story from his new collection The Moon-Haunted Heart.
The 50 very-short pieces in this collection of mature literary fiction range from as many as 4,000 to as few as 50 words, exploring the human condition through the lens of disability, pan-sexuality and erotic mysticism. Brief, richly atmospheric vignettes sit close to longer, more conventional mainstream stories. . . all distilled within that secret place where love and madness meet...
Mazelblum (story #21)
As pussies go, it isn’t bad—a plump, gibbous cornucopia insinuating itself ever-so sveltely between a pair of long slender legs, professionally waxed, tweezed and plucked for an imminent major lifecycle event.
It is one of those captivatingly photogenic cunnus vulvae you see lots of close-ups of in porno videos: the impossibly perfect epitome of the classic Cosmo cooch, the trendily empowered Sex and the City kitty, crouching demurely to strike, hissing and growling with impuissant menace. It is the kind of respectable mazelblum nice boys want to take home to meet their mothers, or, at least, invite out for a quick nosh with their schmickle. The type you want to touch just to feel all that velvety store-bought smoothness beneath your fingertips, or kiss just because you really like the taste—and who ever needs an excuse to chow down on punani?
I swear, sometimes, they call to me from between the bridesmaids’ thighs, their dulcet siren songs muted like the sound you get when you put your ear up to the aperture of a cowrie shell—which, come to think of it, looks uncannily like a vulva. They burble and sigh from inside their gossamer prisons—the frilly gussets and diaphanous drawers, hot-pink tangas like tulle fig-leaves, raspberry hipsters, tangerine boy shorts and sea-foam green bow cheekinis, French-cut mesh and jeweled G-strings like removable vajazzle facades, low-risers in turquoise and teal, fluorescent chartreuse bikini briefs and parti-colored thongs.
I’ve ‘traded up’ to best man and should, theoretically, have my pick of the litter tonight. They’ve all had Brazilian waxes, courtesy of the bride’s mother. Rumor has it, that imperious cougar’s gone in for some work herself and now looks even younger than her daughter down below. Visions of extremely expensive vaginal rejuvenation procedures, velvety Mohicans, taut flesh and glistening polished pearls do a dance of seven veils in my brain.
I look at my watch. We’ll all be meeting around the chuppah in about forty-five minutes.
Then I hear the call, soft but insistent, from one of the reserved suites on the eighteenth floor. A game of hide-and-seek, it seems, and I am it. No time to count to one-hundred. I rove the corridors, pretending to run an errand for the groom, following the music to—no! It cannot be! I find it where I least expect, beneath something borrowed, the Georgette halter babydoll from Victoria’s Secret that was supposed to be special for tonight.
“There’s not a lot of time.”
As if she needs to remind me.
A simpler gift was never given and I unwrap it with rough reverence, touched that she would offer it to me on this day of all days. Swathed in filigreed net without frills or flounces, mocking maiden-white, a bridesmaid no more in her lacey bridal thong.
She wraps her longs legs around my back as I do another man’s office. I am still fully dressed for the occasion to come, in black tie and tartan cummerbund, having had only enough warning to strip off my jacket. There is a death wish in my desperate pumping, the feral groans welling up from the back of my throat and the blazing torrent that bursts the dam below. I slump into her grudging embrace as orgasm overtakes me, my juddering limbs giving way.
“Not bad for a first try.” She rejects my kiss, not wanting to muss her makeup. Her body is suddenly rigid beneath me, alien, distant, cold. “Maybe next time you’ll actually get me to come, too.”
“Next time?”
“Damn straight, boychik! Tonight, after the reception.”
“Are you sure?”
“Be up here, primed and ready, 11 ‘o clock sharp.”
“If you say so, but—”
“Do I look like I don’t mean what I say?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that—”
“Enough! Get out. I need to start getting ready.”
So this is what I’ve gotten myself into.
I only hope her daughter won’t be too scandalized on this, her special day.
Buy The Moon-Haunted Heart on
Smashwords
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Terrance Aldon Shaw (TAS to his friends) was born and raised somewhere to the left of Chicago in that vast whitebread wilderness known as the American Heartland. As a kid, he passed the time by creating his own graphic novels and “pretend” screenplays, conversing with a brilliant circle of imaginary friends, and dreaming about escape from the stifling phony wholesomeness and pious pabulum of small-town life.
Now devoting full time to writing and reviewing, TAS specializes in mainstream fiction with strong erotic themes and explicit sexual content. His work might best be described as “psycho-rotica,” as he prefers to explore the complex, fascinating inner world of sex; the thoughts, feelings and emotion s that accompany the erotic experience.
Readers can find Terrance Aldon Shaw’s books in both electronic and traditional print at most on-line retailers. His reviews of erotic fiction, musings on the craft of writing, and the occasional free short story are posted on his blog, Erotica For The Big Brain.
TAS on Facebook
Erotica for the Big Brain
March 6, 2016
March 4, 2016
Dream plot
"Where do you get your story ideas?" readers sometimes ask.
Well in the case of Lovers' Wheel , it literally came to me in a dream.
One night some decades ago, probably before I was even a writer, I had a dream so real and so emotionally powerful that I’ve never forgotten it.
I dreamed that I was standing at the gates of a big old house somewhere in the English countryside. The grounds were so overgrown that the gates were almost choked shut with brambles and weeds, but when I scrambled through and made my way up the drive I found that the house was still occupied despite being decayed. In fact it was a retirement home, with old people sitting around in wheelchairs, dozing and playing chess. Then I realized that these old men were the disguised King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, who had retreated here to await in secret the last call to battle when England would need their heroes again.
That was it. That’s all I dreamed.
Years later, this became the seed for the Lovers’ Wheel quartet I’m currently writing for Ellora’s Cave.
Now I know roughly where the idea grew from. All my childhood I’d been reading stories from authors like Susan Cooper, Alan Garner, and Diana Wynne Jones, in which the nice cosy English countryside was a place where lurked gods and elves and Ancient Powers pretending to be human, just biding their time and perhaps waiting to be woken by plucky middle class school children on holiday. I LOVED those books! I wanted to write a wondrous story about a girl who discovers a hidden world of magical adventure, a girl who is marked for a special destiny, a girl whose choices decide the fate of the world.
Only I wanted to write the adult version, with really dirty sex and way more moral greyness.
Lovers’ Wheel is about Liz, who goes to stay with her Great-aunt Moira at spooky old Enniswitrin House in Somerset, and finds that she’s been picked for the noble task of fucking each of the Twelve Months of the Year in turn, to keep the seasons turning. But being Chosen isn’t nearly as nice or as vanilla as she’s been lead to believe, especially as the Brothers start to lead her into the darker half of the year.
As for Arthur – yeah, he’s there too! Read Summer Seduction and Falling Deep to find out about him. And I promise that When Winter Comes and Joys of Spring will complete the cycle of the year in due course!
Summer Seduction (Lovers’ Wheel Book 1) at Amazon US:
Summer Seduction (Lovers’ Wheel Book 1) at Amazon UK:
Falling Deep (Lovers' Wheel Book 2) at Amazon US:
Falling Deep (Lovers' Wheel Book 2) at Amazon UK:
March 2, 2016
Samhain thing
Okay, so if you follow the publishing news in erotica, romance or horror, you'll have spotted that Samhain Publishing have announced that they are closing down.
I have one book out with them - Heart of Flame - and a bloody good read it is too. A thrilling Arabian Nights adventure-quest with ghouls, sorcery, djinn ... and not just one but two steaming hot romance plotlines.The cover is great as well, so this news has made me very sad.
Now Samhain are doing their absolute best to keep the business going as they wind it down, so that authors can be paid off and rights reverted properly. Books are still being published and sold as normal for the foreseeable future. They are also exploring other income streams, and keeping us informed as much as they can, so kudos to them. What NONE of us want to see is the company having to declare bankruptcy. Because at that point we all lose.
There is of course a contract clause saying that in the case of publisher bankruptcy, all rights revert to the writers. Sadly, under law, this isn't worth the paper it is written on, as it is the duty of the bankruptcy court to pay off debtors first. Our rights would get sold to the highest bidder. This is potentially a very bad thing indeed.
If you want to help authors at Samhain, including me, KEEP BUYING THEIR BOOKS. If you think you'd like a copy of Heart of Flame , buy it now! - don't risk the chance it'll disappear forever into Publishing Hades!
Samhain Direct:: Amazon US :: Amazon UK :: Google Play :: iTunes
February 29, 2016
Blue Monday: Falling Deep release
Every Monday I post a anughty excerpt for your entertainment!
Falling Deep is out on WEDNESDAY THIS WEEK so here's a bit from where it starts to get all BDSM...
The chauffeur waiting by the car cast her one cool glance as he opened the door. She felt embarrassed by the flush she was sure must be showing at her cheeks. The ridiculous heels wobbled on the gravel and Yohan had to help her balance. Under that impeccable suit sleeve his arm felt strong as a bar.
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he assured her.
Liz thought back to the teachers she’d had crushes on at school. Older men had their own attraction, she admitted. At least this one was courteous, unlike Evan. And certainly more caring than John! Definitely a step up the social scale, she told herself, trying to keep her breathing under control. The corset was more constricting than she’d first realized and she was uncomfortably aware that there’d been a certain amount of, well, heaving when she was first introduced to him.
The interior of the car was upholstered in white leather and unusually spacious. It was also cool, little warmer than the chill November evening outside. As Liz slid into the seat she hoped he’d put the heater on. She was not dressed for autumn.
Yohan settled himself beside her. “On the floor, please,” he said with a little smile, indicating the carpet before him. “I want to be able to see you.”
“Oh,” said Liz, not sure whether to be offended. “Right.” She swung down to kneel before his spread thighs. In a weird way she felt flattered, she realized. Before she came to Enniswitrin she’d felt invisible. Men had never paid her very much attention. Now she was getting it in surfeit.
She shivered.
“Cold?” he wondered.
“A bit.” Then she tipped sideways as the car executed a turn onto the drive, and had to catch herself with an out-flung hand.
Yohan tutted. “Hold on to these,” he told her. There were two metal rings set into the floor of the vehicle, and tied to them were what looked like black silk scarves. He caught one up, wrapped it several times around Liz’s right wrist, and tucked the loose end into her palm. Before she could react he turned to her other hand and tied it the same way.
Liz bit her lip, uncertain. She was now bound, sort of, as long as she cooperated. But he was right, in that she could steady herself when the car yawed.
“You look utterly delicious,” he told her, stooping to tuck his hand up the front of her skirt, between her parted thighs. The brush of his palm was smooth but his touch on her sex was electric and she responded, quite automatically, with an arch of her back and a sharp in-drawing of breath that made her bosom strain against the basque’s cruel confines. He watched her reaction, his dark gaze pouring across her face and breasts. With one fingernail he found and scratched the silk directly over her clit.
Liz quivered from top to toe and shut her eyes. It was too much—too intimate, too fast, too shameful. She didn’t want to see his face, so close to hers, drinking in her reaction. His finger moved, a tiny light scritch-scratch over the most sensitive part of her, making her squirm on those taut silk bonds, almost making her dance to his touch. She could tell him no, she could push his hand away, but that would mean unwrapping her bonds, it would mean voicing defiance, and it would mean making him stop. And she didn’t want that.
No, her reactions had been too slow. That second’s hesitation had been long enough to allow the pleasure-messages to reach her brain. Now she didn’t want him to stop. She didn’t want to lose that teasing, sharp-edged stimulation. Her clit was singing like a tuning fork in sympathy with his motion, and those vibrations were rolling out through the rest of her body in waves.
“I see,” he murmured, and she wondered what it was that he saw—that she was a pushover when it came to sex? That she was as malleable to his will as any ingénue?
She heard a click and she opened her eyes. Yohan was reaching into a compartment built into the leather seat. “No,” he admonished, deserting her crotch to catch her jaw in his hand and turn her face up to his. “I want your attention at all times. I want you to look at me.”
Liz would have made some snarky comment, but her poor pussy was too upset by the loss of his hand. The need for him to touch her again was so cruel that she blinked her long lashes at him and nodded, the tiny motion captive in his palm.
“Good.” He rewarded her by reaching back under her skirt with his other hand, and she heard the hum a split-second before she felt it. A vibrator. A good one—big, near-silent, its flowing curves almost velvety in texture against her inner thigh, her panty-gusset, her aching clit.
The touch of it there sent her up on her knees in wordless shock, the silk bonds straining against her wrists. Yohan never flinched and never let her escape. His hand cupped her face as she writhed her hips and thrashed her head back and forth, and his eyes were still gazing into hers as she lost all focus.
There was no respite. No matter how she moved, the vibrator kept up with her, its muted and secret rumble turning her flesh to liquid, her cold to hot, her no to yes. It drowned her inhibitions and sank her senses in an ocean of wanting.
Wanting more.
Needing more.
I can’t come here in the car! she thought frantically, even as her body told her it could, it would, it was going to.
Now.
Buy Falling Deep at Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Falling Deep is out on WEDNESDAY THIS WEEK so here's a bit from where it starts to get all BDSM...
The chauffeur waiting by the car cast her one cool glance as he opened the door. She felt embarrassed by the flush she was sure must be showing at her cheeks. The ridiculous heels wobbled on the gravel and Yohan had to help her balance. Under that impeccable suit sleeve his arm felt strong as a bar.
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he assured her.
Liz thought back to the teachers she’d had crushes on at school. Older men had their own attraction, she admitted. At least this one was courteous, unlike Evan. And certainly more caring than John! Definitely a step up the social scale, she told herself, trying to keep her breathing under control. The corset was more constricting than she’d first realized and she was uncomfortably aware that there’d been a certain amount of, well, heaving when she was first introduced to him.
The interior of the car was upholstered in white leather and unusually spacious. It was also cool, little warmer than the chill November evening outside. As Liz slid into the seat she hoped he’d put the heater on. She was not dressed for autumn.
Yohan settled himself beside her. “On the floor, please,” he said with a little smile, indicating the carpet before him. “I want to be able to see you.”
“Oh,” said Liz, not sure whether to be offended. “Right.” She swung down to kneel before his spread thighs. In a weird way she felt flattered, she realized. Before she came to Enniswitrin she’d felt invisible. Men had never paid her very much attention. Now she was getting it in surfeit.
She shivered.
“Cold?” he wondered.
“A bit.” Then she tipped sideways as the car executed a turn onto the drive, and had to catch herself with an out-flung hand.
Yohan tutted. “Hold on to these,” he told her. There were two metal rings set into the floor of the vehicle, and tied to them were what looked like black silk scarves. He caught one up, wrapped it several times around Liz’s right wrist, and tucked the loose end into her palm. Before she could react he turned to her other hand and tied it the same way.
Liz bit her lip, uncertain. She was now bound, sort of, as long as she cooperated. But he was right, in that she could steady herself when the car yawed.
“You look utterly delicious,” he told her, stooping to tuck his hand up the front of her skirt, between her parted thighs. The brush of his palm was smooth but his touch on her sex was electric and she responded, quite automatically, with an arch of her back and a sharp in-drawing of breath that made her bosom strain against the basque’s cruel confines. He watched her reaction, his dark gaze pouring across her face and breasts. With one fingernail he found and scratched the silk directly over her clit.
Liz quivered from top to toe and shut her eyes. It was too much—too intimate, too fast, too shameful. She didn’t want to see his face, so close to hers, drinking in her reaction. His finger moved, a tiny light scritch-scratch over the most sensitive part of her, making her squirm on those taut silk bonds, almost making her dance to his touch. She could tell him no, she could push his hand away, but that would mean unwrapping her bonds, it would mean voicing defiance, and it would mean making him stop. And she didn’t want that.
No, her reactions had been too slow. That second’s hesitation had been long enough to allow the pleasure-messages to reach her brain. Now she didn’t want him to stop. She didn’t want to lose that teasing, sharp-edged stimulation. Her clit was singing like a tuning fork in sympathy with his motion, and those vibrations were rolling out through the rest of her body in waves.
“I see,” he murmured, and she wondered what it was that he saw—that she was a pushover when it came to sex? That she was as malleable to his will as any ingénue?
She heard a click and she opened her eyes. Yohan was reaching into a compartment built into the leather seat. “No,” he admonished, deserting her crotch to catch her jaw in his hand and turn her face up to his. “I want your attention at all times. I want you to look at me.”
Liz would have made some snarky comment, but her poor pussy was too upset by the loss of his hand. The need for him to touch her again was so cruel that she blinked her long lashes at him and nodded, the tiny motion captive in his palm.
“Good.” He rewarded her by reaching back under her skirt with his other hand, and she heard the hum a split-second before she felt it. A vibrator. A good one—big, near-silent, its flowing curves almost velvety in texture against her inner thigh, her panty-gusset, her aching clit.
The touch of it there sent her up on her knees in wordless shock, the silk bonds straining against her wrists. Yohan never flinched and never let her escape. His hand cupped her face as she writhed her hips and thrashed her head back and forth, and his eyes were still gazing into hers as she lost all focus.
There was no respite. No matter how she moved, the vibrator kept up with her, its muted and secret rumble turning her flesh to liquid, her cold to hot, her no to yes. It drowned her inhibitions and sank her senses in an ocean of wanting.
Wanting more.
Needing more.
I can’t come here in the car! she thought frantically, even as her body told her it could, it would, it was going to.
Now.
Buy Falling Deep at Amazon US :: Amazon UK
February 28, 2016
Hero's journey
Actually I want to link to this excellent article by Tamsin Flowers: How to use the Hero's Journey to write erotica.
February 26, 2016
OUT NEXT WEEK! - Falling Deep details
Woohoo! I now have buy-links and blurb for Falling Deep, book two of my Lovers' Wheel quartet, and the follow-up to Summer Seduction.
Publication date is Wednesday 2nd March
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Liz is reeling with shock. She has just discovered that her Great-aunt Moira’s spooky old house is the last disguised remnant of mystical Avalon, and that Moira has been manipulating her into initiation as an immortal sorceress serving the old powers of nature.
Liz’s ordained role is to turn the Wheel of the Year through the seasons by having sex with each of the Twelve Months in turn. The Brothers of the Fall appear to be hot and handsome men, but they are far more daunting than their summer predecessors. Liz now faces three new avatars who are increasingly dominant and kinky. As the year turns inexorably toward the darkness, Liz must embrace the allure of total submission and give them complete control of her sexuality.
Inside Scoop: Liz explores a wide range of erotic experiences, including light bondage and brief f/f touching.
Reader Advisory: This story has graphic sexual language and scenes—no closed bedroom doors (or other rooms) here!
A paranormal erotica story from Ellora’s Cave
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
February 24, 2016
The Angels of the Days of Creation
The Days of Creation, 1871-6, oil and gouache, Harvard Museum Time for some more angel art, I think - and perhaps some of the most gorgeous ever.
The Pre-Raphaelite artist Edward Burne-Jones originally designed The Days of Creation for stained glass in 1870 and it became such a mahoosive hit that it was recreated many times (by him, by the William Morris factory, and by copyists) in fired tiles, church frescos, stained glass, and paints of various kind.
There are six panels, each representing one of the Biblical days of Creation, working from dark to light, monochrome to colour, one to many. The angels are male (ish) but the primary model was a 15-year-old girl, Jenny Morris.
On Day One, represented by a lone angel, the orb he's holding shows the light created in the void ("Let there be Light") and the separation of the Light from the Darkness, into Day and Night - if you look closely there are two diverging spheres within the angel's crystal orb.
On Day Two, yesterday's angel has retired to the background to make way for a second. The orb he carries shows the sky/heavens being separated from the waters below. There's no dry land yet.
On the Third Day, God picks up the pace quite a bit. He raises dry land out of the waters and then creates all of plant life to cover that ground. The marble floor beneath the angels' feet gives way to soil and plants too, at this stage.
Restored version, derived from B&W photos and contemporary descriptions: The Fourth Day was cut from its frame during a dinner party at Harvard University in 1970, and has never been recovered. Whoa - hold on! something is missing from the sky, despite the pre-existence of day and night. On Day Four God hurriedly bolts on the Sun, Moon and Stars. Because logic.
Back to Earth for Day Five, when the fishes and the birds are created to fill the seas and the heavens. Beneath the angels' feet you can see puddles and seashells :-)
It's Day Six at last, and the frame is now rather over-crowded. God creates all the land animals, plus Adam and Eve to rule them. If you look closely you can see the wicked Serpent coiling about near their feet ....
(The Angel of the Seventh Day has gatecrashed the party and lolls about in the foreground in his pyjamas, playing the lute and watching Netflix.)
February 22, 2016
Blue Monday: Primula Bond guests
Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!
Today's guest is bestseller Primula Bond, with an excerpt from Pierre - which is the follow-up to her Silver Chain trilogy.
Pierre Levi fears that the hit and run which nearly killed him was the only thing capable of stopping his destructive behaviour. Now he’s torn between his desire for reconciliation with his brother, Gustav, and his attraction to Serena, Gustav's girlfriend.
I part my lips and smoothly suck in the most precious part of Pierre Levi.
My heart is pounding. Sweat pricks under my arms. I run my free hand down between my legs. I'm soaking wet. I'll be leaving a slick of pussy juice on his bed.
I close my lips as the length of him jumps over my tongue. So long. So hard. Still he doesn't move. I can only hear the thick pulsing of my own blood.
This isn't just for him. This is for me.
He is hard and huge. His hips push urgently. I slide my lips down to the base so that he's deep inside my mouth, shoving to the back of my throat.
A brief memory twists in my head of the times I did this for Daniele. In the flat. In the alleyway behind his precious kitchen, amongst the rubbish bins and the overhead lines of washing. I wonder if that sous chef gives head as well as me. But then I realise, in a dazzling flash of exhilaration, that I don't give a toss. Another man's cock is in my mouth and I'm going to do this so brilliantly that when he's spent he'll be begging for more.
I push the thick shaft back with my tongue, close my lips, and suck it into the wetness of my mouth. It gives a little buck and thickens.
I'm getting wetter, wriggling on the bed beside him. He's stiffening and swelling as I suck. My breath is gasping and rasping with excitement now. Pleasure surges through me.
Pierre Levi thinks he's the boss of everyone. But watch this. I have him right where I want him. Well, apart from inside me, that is. But I can wait for that. I can wait. A little longer.
His obvious, thrusting pleasure is turning me on. I can taste him. He's wrapped my hair round his fingers and is tugging at me. I move my mouth up and down, a relentless pleasure machine.
'Rosie. Stop. Honey, stop.'
I pause, my mouth loosening, lips losing their tight grip. Why does he want me to stop? He dismissed me the other day, just after that wonderful kiss. Does he want to dismiss me now?
Fight for him.
'Too late, Levi. Just enjoy it.'
I start to bite him, nip the taut surface. I've no idea how hard to bite or how much I might hurt him. But I'm going ahead anyway.
He sinks back. He's made that token effort of resistance. He's accepted that he's just a man with a massive hard-on that needs sucking off. And a girl he quite likes is doing him the favour.
He moans my name again, louder this time, then slides his hands over my ears so that all I can hear is the rushing of my own blood. I work even harder. I want to give him something he won't forget. Here's the little mouse, bursting out of her shell.
The dark room is warm and still, lit only by the moonlight.
He thrusts deeper into my mouth, groaning more loudly now. I will myself to exercise control for a little bit longer and fondle underneath the shaft, feel the soft balls shrinking shyly as I encircle the base with my finger and thumb. He's filling my mouth. He's pushing at the back of my throat and my lips are gripped hard over the smooth surface.
I nip once, nip a little harder, then suck, my lips sliding, and all at once he is jerking, pushing himself into my face, he's thrusting against the roof of my mouth, blocking my throat, his fingers are pulling violently at my hair, pulling me away, pushing me back, and then he's groaning loudly and painfully, more painfully than I realised. He's sobbing out my name, quietly but forcefully, as his life force spurts from him.
I open my throat and swallow every hot sweet drop.
I kneel back at last, wipe my mouth quickly, and watch him. His eyes are open, staring at me, glittering through the dark.
'Rosie. Bad girl.'
His throat bulges as he regains his breath, swallowing down the shouting excitement. His mouth slowly closes and he lies back, totally spent. I could watch him all night. The lovely man I've reduced to this exhausted heap.
He could have stopped me at any time, but he didn't.
I'm fighting for you, Pierre Levi.
'Don't talk now, Pierre. We'll talk tomorrow.'
I get up, my legs shaking, my jaw aching from my ministrations. I look down at him, but apart from his arm lying across him now, and his pyjama left open, he looks as if he hasn't moved.
I want him so badly it hurts. But not here. Not now.
I take one last look at him before I close the door, and outside the room, up in the corner, the little red eye on the camera winks.
Buy Pierre at Amazon UK
Buy The Silver Chain / Unbreakable trilogy at Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Primula Bond has been writing erotic fiction for Black Lace and Xcite Books for twenty years, most recently the Sunday Times best-selling erotic romance series consisting of The Silver Chain, The Golden Locket ,The Diamond Ring and Pierre, the dramatic sequel, all published by Harper Collins.
She contributes features and stories to the Erotic Review, has given workshops at writing festivals on erotica and short stories, and offers a critique service for aspiring erotic and romantic writers through Writers Workshop. You can find her blog at www.primulabond.blogspot.com and follow her at Facebook and Twitter @primulabond.
'Primula Bond's effortless writing style makes her...a pleasure to read'. Forum
'One day all erotic novels will be as good as this.' Bastei Lubbe
'Explicit and remarkable ... tremendously well written ... a winner.' ETO
Today's guest is bestseller Primula Bond, with an excerpt from Pierre - which is the follow-up to her Silver Chain trilogy.
Pierre Levi fears that the hit and run which nearly killed him was the only thing capable of stopping his destructive behaviour. Now he’s torn between his desire for reconciliation with his brother, Gustav, and his attraction to Serena, Gustav's girlfriend.
I part my lips and smoothly suck in the most precious part of Pierre Levi.
My heart is pounding. Sweat pricks under my arms. I run my free hand down between my legs. I'm soaking wet. I'll be leaving a slick of pussy juice on his bed.
I close my lips as the length of him jumps over my tongue. So long. So hard. Still he doesn't move. I can only hear the thick pulsing of my own blood.
This isn't just for him. This is for me.
He is hard and huge. His hips push urgently. I slide my lips down to the base so that he's deep inside my mouth, shoving to the back of my throat.
A brief memory twists in my head of the times I did this for Daniele. In the flat. In the alleyway behind his precious kitchen, amongst the rubbish bins and the overhead lines of washing. I wonder if that sous chef gives head as well as me. But then I realise, in a dazzling flash of exhilaration, that I don't give a toss. Another man's cock is in my mouth and I'm going to do this so brilliantly that when he's spent he'll be begging for more.
I push the thick shaft back with my tongue, close my lips, and suck it into the wetness of my mouth. It gives a little buck and thickens.
I'm getting wetter, wriggling on the bed beside him. He's stiffening and swelling as I suck. My breath is gasping and rasping with excitement now. Pleasure surges through me.
Pierre Levi thinks he's the boss of everyone. But watch this. I have him right where I want him. Well, apart from inside me, that is. But I can wait for that. I can wait. A little longer.
His obvious, thrusting pleasure is turning me on. I can taste him. He's wrapped my hair round his fingers and is tugging at me. I move my mouth up and down, a relentless pleasure machine.
'Rosie. Stop. Honey, stop.'
I pause, my mouth loosening, lips losing their tight grip. Why does he want me to stop? He dismissed me the other day, just after that wonderful kiss. Does he want to dismiss me now?
Fight for him.
'Too late, Levi. Just enjoy it.'
I start to bite him, nip the taut surface. I've no idea how hard to bite or how much I might hurt him. But I'm going ahead anyway.
He sinks back. He's made that token effort of resistance. He's accepted that he's just a man with a massive hard-on that needs sucking off. And a girl he quite likes is doing him the favour.
He moans my name again, louder this time, then slides his hands over my ears so that all I can hear is the rushing of my own blood. I work even harder. I want to give him something he won't forget. Here's the little mouse, bursting out of her shell.
The dark room is warm and still, lit only by the moonlight.
He thrusts deeper into my mouth, groaning more loudly now. I will myself to exercise control for a little bit longer and fondle underneath the shaft, feel the soft balls shrinking shyly as I encircle the base with my finger and thumb. He's filling my mouth. He's pushing at the back of my throat and my lips are gripped hard over the smooth surface.
I nip once, nip a little harder, then suck, my lips sliding, and all at once he is jerking, pushing himself into my face, he's thrusting against the roof of my mouth, blocking my throat, his fingers are pulling violently at my hair, pulling me away, pushing me back, and then he's groaning loudly and painfully, more painfully than I realised. He's sobbing out my name, quietly but forcefully, as his life force spurts from him.
I open my throat and swallow every hot sweet drop.
I kneel back at last, wipe my mouth quickly, and watch him. His eyes are open, staring at me, glittering through the dark.
'Rosie. Bad girl.'
His throat bulges as he regains his breath, swallowing down the shouting excitement. His mouth slowly closes and he lies back, totally spent. I could watch him all night. The lovely man I've reduced to this exhausted heap.
He could have stopped me at any time, but he didn't.
I'm fighting for you, Pierre Levi.
'Don't talk now, Pierre. We'll talk tomorrow.'
I get up, my legs shaking, my jaw aching from my ministrations. I look down at him, but apart from his arm lying across him now, and his pyjama left open, he looks as if he hasn't moved.
I want him so badly it hurts. But not here. Not now.
I take one last look at him before I close the door, and outside the room, up in the corner, the little red eye on the camera winks.
Buy Pierre at Amazon UK
Buy The Silver Chain / Unbreakable trilogy at Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Primula Bond has been writing erotic fiction for Black Lace and Xcite Books for twenty years, most recently the Sunday Times best-selling erotic romance series consisting of The Silver Chain, The Golden Locket ,The Diamond Ring and Pierre, the dramatic sequel, all published by Harper Collins. She contributes features and stories to the Erotic Review, has given workshops at writing festivals on erotica and short stories, and offers a critique service for aspiring erotic and romantic writers through Writers Workshop. You can find her blog at www.primulabond.blogspot.com and follow her at Facebook and Twitter @primulabond.
'Primula Bond's effortless writing style makes her...a pleasure to read'. Forum
'One day all erotic novels will be as good as this.' Bastei Lubbe
'Explicit and remarkable ... tremendously well written ... a winner.' ETO
