Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 67
November 16, 2015
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!
For personal reasons (of which, more at a later date), today's excerpt is from my novel Wildwood, which is about two modern day mages fighting over a wood with a huge secret, and over the female tree-surgeon who works there.
In this excerpt aborist Avril is doing some extra-curricular night-time tree-climbing:
With one last look around, I pulled off my top and dropped it on the grass, relishing the whisper of the breeze across my skin. My nipples tightened as if in anticipation. I stretched my arms up and jiggled my boobs, bathing them in starlight, intoxicated with my own daring. I dropped my trousers next, leaving them where they lay, creating a trail across the lawn from my back door toward my goal. Grass stubble scratched my ankles. I shook my behind playfully at the moon. Scents of flowering woodbine and cow parsley and elderflower flowed over me, washing from an area of longer grass and shrubs beyond the tree: a perfume of early summer that I adored.
My knickers were the last item of clothing to go and then I strode forward naked but for my shoes. I kicked even those off when I got under the canopy of the beech, feeling the husks of last year’s mast prickly beneath my bare soles. I cinched on my harness more by touch than sight and tossed the rope-end over a branch. Climbing naked, I then discovered, wasn’t nearly so comfortable as in padded trousers. Luckily it was a well-furnished tree and after the first scramble I didn’t need the ropes. I kept the harness on though; I liked the feel of the tight belt about my waist and the leg-straps that fitted snugly about my arse-cheeks and between my thighs. The torch I had hanging from a side-loop slapped against my right cheek as if in appreciation of the way the straps framed my backside.
By the time I got right into the high crown I admit I wasn’t just flushed from the exertion, I was feeling wickedly horny too, adding the thrill of vertigo to the dizzy surge of sexual arousal. Adding to the scents of the night was the perfume of my own body. I found a place where I could plant my feet wide apart on two radiating limbs and hook one arm over a branch near my head. My back was to the trunk and my legs were spread wide, beneath them nothing but a drop of fifty foot to the ground and the cool air that licked at the inside of my thighs. It was as if I were inviting the whole of the night into my open sex.
Go on, touch me.
I let my free hand drift down to my clit, stirring the wet itch there to further torment. My lips needed little coaxing to part; I was a night-flowering blossom, heavy with nectar. Shudders of pleasure mounted quickly through my body. I imagined what would happen if I should let go and slip; how they would find my body in the morning stark naked and legs spread. How shameful that would be, I told myself teasingly. Perhaps Michael Deverick would be the one to find me. I imagined his face stooping over mine, his eyes blazing with dismay and frustration. I imagined what it would be like to be working in the shrubbery alone one day, and then to turn and see him watching me with that lancing gaze. How he’d step forward and peel the tight lycra up my breasts and bend to bite my salty, grateful nipples. How he’d wrench my jeans down and slam me up against a tree-trunk and fuck me long and hard. Sex with him, I was sure, would be deliberate and prolonged; he was a control-freak. My bare arse brushed the bark. Maybe he’d make me get down and lick his cock clean when he’d come. Maybe he’d tie me to the tree with my own ropes and screw me as I strained against my bonds. Maybe he’d bend me over a fallen trunk and fuck my splayed pussy while my hands clawed at the leaf-mould and I screamed for more until the woods rang and everybody on the whole estate knew I was finally getting it, getting it, getting it.
I came then, riding the storm-surge of chaotic imagery. ‘Woah,’ I breathed, blinking. An owl hooted its wavering call from the wood edge.
Glowing with pleasure, I worked my way back down to a larger branch and settled myself comfortably. The smooth beech-bark felt cool against my hot pussy. I flicked away a spider that had the cheek to run across my thigh. My feet dangled in space and I swung them idly.
From here I could see through a broad gap between the leaves, down onto the long weeds that had once been a lawn. The moon had turned it silver, but the shadows beneath the shrubby elders and the far tree line were jet black. When someone came into sight wading through the grass he was clearly visible, and left a dark furrow of bent grasses in his wake.
I held my breath. For a brief moment – my head addled with moonlight and sensuality - I thought that I’d somehow summoned Michael Deverick. Then I recognised my ginger tree-hugger from Grange Wood. His dreadlocks were unmistakable. He was shirtless, and under that moonlight so pale that he seemed to glimmer, except on his left shoulder where there was a big dark patch.
‘What are you up to?’ I muttered under my breath, leaning forward to get a better look. His hands trailed through the flower-heads caressingly. Then my eyes widened as I realised that he wasn’t just shirtless; the waist-high foliage had been hiding the fact that he was naked. At this distance I couldn’t make out any details, but a momentary glimpse of the unbroken line of flank and hip made me certain.
Bloody hippie, I thought with tolerant disdain. Of course: it was Midsummer’s Eve, wasn’t it? No doubt he was indulging in a bit of pagan nudity for the occasion. If I kept him in sight then I might spy on a bit of sky-clad Morris dancing or whatever it was these people did. Of course the fact that I was butt-naked myself made it difficult to feel really superior. Then I caught sight of his companions, and I forgot to feel superior at all. My spine crawled.
Hilde Hechle, Moonlight Phantasy (1930)
They came through the grass as he did, many of them, on either side, but they left no tracks behind them. Some danced, some skulked, and some slithered along barely cresting the grass. They were the same colour as the moonlight on the dappled foliage and it was hard to make them out; my peripheral vision caught the flicker of their movements easily enough but the poor light made them difficult to focus on if I looked directly. I thought some were doglike, some hunched and muscular as buffalo, some slender as gibbons. My eyes itched as I strained to pick them out against the silvery froth of the meadow and through the gaps between the clumps of beech leaves. I could only be certain of glimpses; the scimitar curve of a horn, the flick of an angled ear, the green glint of a pupilless eye. Only Swampy himself seemed to be truly solid. They were absolutely silent, not even the grass whispering as they passed.
I’m dreaming this, I told myself.
As they reached the edge of the long weeds and slipped out onto the shorter grass I lost sight of most of them behind the banks of beech leaves, though I was certain that one was a bear with a ruff of grizzled fur. It lifted its blunt muzzle to the air and sniffed and grunted before lumbering onward, out of sight.
There’ve been no bears in England for centuries.
The man with the red ’locks seemed in less of a rush than his companions, or perhaps it was only his own crude materiality than caused him to lag behind. One shadowy form dawdled to stay with him, dancing around him in circles that left no trail of bruised grass. She was easier to see as she came close to him, as if he loaned her some focus; a naked girl, whip-thin, with wild hair down to her shoulders and something twiggy protruding from that hair over her temples. I thought it might be a tiara until I realised it was branched horns she wore on her head, like the horns of a roebuck. He laughed and brushed her face with his fingertips. She twirled for him, head thrown back, blocking his progress with her slim body, twining her arms about his neck then turning her back to bump her arse against his groin. The invitation was unmistakable and he put his hands about her waist. She wriggled up against him, arching her back and grinding her bum into his crotch, writhing her head back against his shoulder. What man could resist that sort of offer?
I felt warmth flicker into renewed life in my own sex. They were up to their hips in grass and I couldn’t see any detail, but from the set of their bodies it was clear enough what was going on. He braced his thighs and took what was being offered to him, hoisting her hips so that he could sheathe himself in her from behind. I squirmed on my branch. She arched forward and he had to lean back to balance her, his hands gripping hard on her hips, his thighs working with deliberation. She made a noise like the yawn of a cat and writhed her bum in ecstatic circles. I drank in the sight with furtive, guilty fascination: the shimmy of her tiny breasts, the gape of her lips, the smooth hollow between his hip and thigh, the hunch of his strong shoulders as he pumped into her.
Bereft of those baggy clothes he was a lot more toned than I’d given him credit for. Good, strong arms, I thought. He was almost beautiful.
She was bent right forward now, nearly double, her arse thrust high under the moon. I’d never hope to be so lithe myself. It gave me a good view of his naked torso though, and the sheen on his taut belly as he thrust. He shifted one hand from her hip to clap it against her bum-cheek, clearly relishing the sound of skin on skin.
Dirty boy, I breathed. My pubic mound was pressed against the unyielding branch and leaking onto the bark. This voyeurism was entirely new to me, and the fact that spying on them was making me hot filled me with delicious shame. I could actually hear both of them panting. I watched each thrust and imagined what it might feel like as he quickened toward his goal, his movements jagged and frantic until he groaned and lurched, grabbing her tight, his muscles locked.
He was one of those blokes who really show it when they come. I like that so much in a man.
Then she changed. I didn’t see the moment of transformation; I only know that when she lifted her head next there was nothing human about it. It was the head of a hind on the long neck of a deer, her fur as white as her skin had seemed only a moment before. Her velvet-tipped antlers tossed skittishly. For a moment he froze – as shocked, I assumed, as me. I forgot how to breathe. She kicked and bucked and danced out of his grasp so that he staggered and nearly keeled over, skipping around him in ever-widening circles, and from one spring to another I couldn’t tell if it was a deer or a woman tossing her antlered head and laughing at him in great silvery peals.
I shut my eyes and pressed my forehead to the tree, clinging to its solidity.
Buy 'Wildwood' at Amazon US
Buy 'Wildwood' at Amazon UK
Buy 'Wildwood' at Google Play
Buy 'Wildwood' at iTunes
For personal reasons (of which, more at a later date), today's excerpt is from my novel Wildwood, which is about two modern day mages fighting over a wood with a huge secret, and over the female tree-surgeon who works there.
In this excerpt aborist Avril is doing some extra-curricular night-time tree-climbing:
With one last look around, I pulled off my top and dropped it on the grass, relishing the whisper of the breeze across my skin. My nipples tightened as if in anticipation. I stretched my arms up and jiggled my boobs, bathing them in starlight, intoxicated with my own daring. I dropped my trousers next, leaving them where they lay, creating a trail across the lawn from my back door toward my goal. Grass stubble scratched my ankles. I shook my behind playfully at the moon. Scents of flowering woodbine and cow parsley and elderflower flowed over me, washing from an area of longer grass and shrubs beyond the tree: a perfume of early summer that I adored.
My knickers were the last item of clothing to go and then I strode forward naked but for my shoes. I kicked even those off when I got under the canopy of the beech, feeling the husks of last year’s mast prickly beneath my bare soles. I cinched on my harness more by touch than sight and tossed the rope-end over a branch. Climbing naked, I then discovered, wasn’t nearly so comfortable as in padded trousers. Luckily it was a well-furnished tree and after the first scramble I didn’t need the ropes. I kept the harness on though; I liked the feel of the tight belt about my waist and the leg-straps that fitted snugly about my arse-cheeks and between my thighs. The torch I had hanging from a side-loop slapped against my right cheek as if in appreciation of the way the straps framed my backside.
By the time I got right into the high crown I admit I wasn’t just flushed from the exertion, I was feeling wickedly horny too, adding the thrill of vertigo to the dizzy surge of sexual arousal. Adding to the scents of the night was the perfume of my own body. I found a place where I could plant my feet wide apart on two radiating limbs and hook one arm over a branch near my head. My back was to the trunk and my legs were spread wide, beneath them nothing but a drop of fifty foot to the ground and the cool air that licked at the inside of my thighs. It was as if I were inviting the whole of the night into my open sex.
Go on, touch me.
I let my free hand drift down to my clit, stirring the wet itch there to further torment. My lips needed little coaxing to part; I was a night-flowering blossom, heavy with nectar. Shudders of pleasure mounted quickly through my body. I imagined what would happen if I should let go and slip; how they would find my body in the morning stark naked and legs spread. How shameful that would be, I told myself teasingly. Perhaps Michael Deverick would be the one to find me. I imagined his face stooping over mine, his eyes blazing with dismay and frustration. I imagined what it would be like to be working in the shrubbery alone one day, and then to turn and see him watching me with that lancing gaze. How he’d step forward and peel the tight lycra up my breasts and bend to bite my salty, grateful nipples. How he’d wrench my jeans down and slam me up against a tree-trunk and fuck me long and hard. Sex with him, I was sure, would be deliberate and prolonged; he was a control-freak. My bare arse brushed the bark. Maybe he’d make me get down and lick his cock clean when he’d come. Maybe he’d tie me to the tree with my own ropes and screw me as I strained against my bonds. Maybe he’d bend me over a fallen trunk and fuck my splayed pussy while my hands clawed at the leaf-mould and I screamed for more until the woods rang and everybody on the whole estate knew I was finally getting it, getting it, getting it.
I came then, riding the storm-surge of chaotic imagery. ‘Woah,’ I breathed, blinking. An owl hooted its wavering call from the wood edge.
Glowing with pleasure, I worked my way back down to a larger branch and settled myself comfortably. The smooth beech-bark felt cool against my hot pussy. I flicked away a spider that had the cheek to run across my thigh. My feet dangled in space and I swung them idly.
From here I could see through a broad gap between the leaves, down onto the long weeds that had once been a lawn. The moon had turned it silver, but the shadows beneath the shrubby elders and the far tree line were jet black. When someone came into sight wading through the grass he was clearly visible, and left a dark furrow of bent grasses in his wake.
I held my breath. For a brief moment – my head addled with moonlight and sensuality - I thought that I’d somehow summoned Michael Deverick. Then I recognised my ginger tree-hugger from Grange Wood. His dreadlocks were unmistakable. He was shirtless, and under that moonlight so pale that he seemed to glimmer, except on his left shoulder where there was a big dark patch.
‘What are you up to?’ I muttered under my breath, leaning forward to get a better look. His hands trailed through the flower-heads caressingly. Then my eyes widened as I realised that he wasn’t just shirtless; the waist-high foliage had been hiding the fact that he was naked. At this distance I couldn’t make out any details, but a momentary glimpse of the unbroken line of flank and hip made me certain.
Bloody hippie, I thought with tolerant disdain. Of course: it was Midsummer’s Eve, wasn’t it? No doubt he was indulging in a bit of pagan nudity for the occasion. If I kept him in sight then I might spy on a bit of sky-clad Morris dancing or whatever it was these people did. Of course the fact that I was butt-naked myself made it difficult to feel really superior. Then I caught sight of his companions, and I forgot to feel superior at all. My spine crawled.
Hilde Hechle, Moonlight Phantasy (1930)They came through the grass as he did, many of them, on either side, but they left no tracks behind them. Some danced, some skulked, and some slithered along barely cresting the grass. They were the same colour as the moonlight on the dappled foliage and it was hard to make them out; my peripheral vision caught the flicker of their movements easily enough but the poor light made them difficult to focus on if I looked directly. I thought some were doglike, some hunched and muscular as buffalo, some slender as gibbons. My eyes itched as I strained to pick them out against the silvery froth of the meadow and through the gaps between the clumps of beech leaves. I could only be certain of glimpses; the scimitar curve of a horn, the flick of an angled ear, the green glint of a pupilless eye. Only Swampy himself seemed to be truly solid. They were absolutely silent, not even the grass whispering as they passed.
I’m dreaming this, I told myself.
As they reached the edge of the long weeds and slipped out onto the shorter grass I lost sight of most of them behind the banks of beech leaves, though I was certain that one was a bear with a ruff of grizzled fur. It lifted its blunt muzzle to the air and sniffed and grunted before lumbering onward, out of sight.
There’ve been no bears in England for centuries.
The man with the red ’locks seemed in less of a rush than his companions, or perhaps it was only his own crude materiality than caused him to lag behind. One shadowy form dawdled to stay with him, dancing around him in circles that left no trail of bruised grass. She was easier to see as she came close to him, as if he loaned her some focus; a naked girl, whip-thin, with wild hair down to her shoulders and something twiggy protruding from that hair over her temples. I thought it might be a tiara until I realised it was branched horns she wore on her head, like the horns of a roebuck. He laughed and brushed her face with his fingertips. She twirled for him, head thrown back, blocking his progress with her slim body, twining her arms about his neck then turning her back to bump her arse against his groin. The invitation was unmistakable and he put his hands about her waist. She wriggled up against him, arching her back and grinding her bum into his crotch, writhing her head back against his shoulder. What man could resist that sort of offer?
I felt warmth flicker into renewed life in my own sex. They were up to their hips in grass and I couldn’t see any detail, but from the set of their bodies it was clear enough what was going on. He braced his thighs and took what was being offered to him, hoisting her hips so that he could sheathe himself in her from behind. I squirmed on my branch. She arched forward and he had to lean back to balance her, his hands gripping hard on her hips, his thighs working with deliberation. She made a noise like the yawn of a cat and writhed her bum in ecstatic circles. I drank in the sight with furtive, guilty fascination: the shimmy of her tiny breasts, the gape of her lips, the smooth hollow between his hip and thigh, the hunch of his strong shoulders as he pumped into her.
Bereft of those baggy clothes he was a lot more toned than I’d given him credit for. Good, strong arms, I thought. He was almost beautiful.
She was bent right forward now, nearly double, her arse thrust high under the moon. I’d never hope to be so lithe myself. It gave me a good view of his naked torso though, and the sheen on his taut belly as he thrust. He shifted one hand from her hip to clap it against her bum-cheek, clearly relishing the sound of skin on skin.
Dirty boy, I breathed. My pubic mound was pressed against the unyielding branch and leaking onto the bark. This voyeurism was entirely new to me, and the fact that spying on them was making me hot filled me with delicious shame. I could actually hear both of them panting. I watched each thrust and imagined what it might feel like as he quickened toward his goal, his movements jagged and frantic until he groaned and lurched, grabbing her tight, his muscles locked.
He was one of those blokes who really show it when they come. I like that so much in a man.
Then she changed. I didn’t see the moment of transformation; I only know that when she lifted her head next there was nothing human about it. It was the head of a hind on the long neck of a deer, her fur as white as her skin had seemed only a moment before. Her velvet-tipped antlers tossed skittishly. For a moment he froze – as shocked, I assumed, as me. I forgot how to breathe. She kicked and bucked and danced out of his grasp so that he staggered and nearly keeled over, skipping around him in ever-widening circles, and from one spring to another I couldn’t tell if it was a deer or a woman tossing her antlered head and laughing at him in great silvery peals.
I shut my eyes and pressed my forehead to the tree, clinging to its solidity.
Buy 'Wildwood' at Amazon US
Buy 'Wildwood' at Amazon UK
Buy 'Wildwood' at Google Play
Buy 'Wildwood' at iTunes
November 14, 2015
More ecclesiastical weirdry
Yes, I've been back to the 19th century, apparentlyI've been travelling a bit these last few weeks so I thought I'd post some amusing and bizarre shit* from churches in Europe. No saintly corpses this time round though, sorry :-(
(* I'm being literal about the 'shit,' as you will see)
In the Oude Kirk in Amsterdam there are some crazy C16th carvings in the misericords (seats) of the choir:
"Two heads under one hood" - a proverb meaning two people who agree on everything
"You can't shit gold" - Money doesn't grow on trees!
She's doing SOMETHING to his arse - I thought whipping it, but one source says she is gathering up his turds, illustrating the proverb "Pull lightly on a weak rope" (!)
I think this means "Don't let your cat read grimoires under the bedclothes"In St Peters' Abbey in Salzberg, there's a Dance of Death in the grounds:
This made me so happyand the holy water basins are bat-winged skulls:
Not even slightly disturbing at all, no, not at allIn Salzberg Cathedral the plasterwork is full of evil faces:
And AS FOR THE CRYPT ... OMG! The Angel of Death!
Yes, the crypt is given over to terrifying little shadow puppets because... um ...it's Good for Your Soul
But the best find has to be a wax effigy of the dead Christ in the Cathedral Treasury. Not just dead, but cut open to reveal his intricately modeled intestines. I think I must have skipped that bit in Sunday School...
What the ...?
Noooooooo!November 11, 2015
POET POWER!
Friday just got Blacker -
Don't be a shopping slacker!
This book by Ashley Lister
Will give you fapping blister(s)
So buy it, not something worse:
Coming Together in Verse! *
We have a release date for Coming Together: in Verse - it's the 27th of November! Black Friday!
The Poets:
Ashley R Lister, Alessia Brio, Victoria Blisse, Rachel Woe, Janine Ashbless, Liz Honeywell, AJ Chilson, Roy Clements, Katy J, Ashe Barker, Lisa Bower, PJ Bayliss, Geneva Rose, Jay Willowbay, Slave Nano, Lily Harlem, Kay Jaybee, KD Grace, Norbert Gora, IG Fredrick, Jade A Waters, Adrea Kore, Bella Settarr, Okami No Koga, Daniel Davis, Joanna Harrington-Cruise, Sophia Sophia, Le Petite Mortimer, Eleanor Meadows, Angell Brooks, L Hollamby, Blacksilk, CA Bell, Ian Jade, Tamsin Flowers, Ruby Red, Colin Davies, Desmond Field, Rachel McGladdery
* I can absolutely guarantee that all the book poems are much better than this one.
November 9, 2015
Blue Monday: Victoria Blisse guests
Every Monday I post a naughty episode for your enjoyment!
Today my guest is the incredible ever-busy smut entrepreneur Victoria Blisse, with an excerpt from her new book Good Manors, which promises "a glimpse behind the scenes of the aristocracy including its seedier side", and "a novel with twists, turns, secrets and steaming hot erotic encounters."
India Grace, a respected journalist, is assigned to the estate for a behind the scenes look at how it runs. It is the last place in the world she wants to be. Back when she was young and naïve she took a photo of old Lord Mallard, which led to her success and his downfall. She carries the guilt with her to the location and it’s constantly in the back of her mind when she meets the hall’s latest owner, Xander Patrick.
Xander’s father died when he was only thirteen, and he doesn’t hold many good memories of him. He helped his mum build Mallard Hall back up, and since her death struggles to keep it going single-handedly. The last thing he needs is a meddling journalist poking into estate business, especially when the meagre profits are mysteriously disappearing.
The two try to keep their distance but find themselves drawn together in many unexpected ways. A meal leads to an investigation of secret passageways and from that India and Xander explore their attraction, using different rooms of the hall for their kinky games.
In the end India’s secret will have to come out, but will it bring the couple closer together or tear them apart?
I kissed with gentle purpose, the curls tickling my lips and nose. Her thighs fell wider the farther I journeyed over her skin. I didn’t know if it was a conscious move but it encouraged me lower, faster. Her warm fragrance made my senses reel with desire. She smelled of soft, warm bread and honey. I wanted to dive in and eat her up, to savor those flavors.
It was all about teasing her, showing her who was boss without restraint or punishment, and I wasn’t going to rush. Darting my tongue down between her lips, I felt the bump of her clit then pulled back. She wriggled and gasped then lifted her hips to encourage me to do the same thing again. I didn’t.
I ran my hands up the backs of her thighs and gently encouraged her to settle her legs over my shoulders. She was wide open to me and I peppered kisses along one of her lips, careful not to graze her clit but to keep to the plump, juicy lip until it tapered out, then I kissed up the opposite one.
I continued this game until she arched her back and groaned with frustration. It was a test of my patience too. I wanted to properly eat her, bury my face and get lost in the scent and the taste of her, but it wasn’t about my satisfaction, it was about driving her wild with lust.
I blew across her wetness.
“Oh, please,” she groaned.
“Please what?” I asked, then blew again, directing the breeze across her clit.
“Please, Sir.”
“What do you want?” I asked, lifting my head and looking along her body, taking in the tortured look on her face. She shook her head from side to side, battling with herself about voicing her desires.
“Tell me, India, what do you want?”
She opened her eyes and held my gaze for a few seconds. It was only when she closed them that she spoke.
“Please make me come, Sir.”
“Good girl.” I stroked her thigh as I praised her. “How shall I make you come?”
“Any way you like, Sir.” She gasped and shuddered under my touch.
“That’s a good answer, India, but how would you like me to make you come? What do you want me to use?”
“Oh God, Sir.” She shook her head and scrunched up her eyes. “Your mouth, please, I want to come on your lips, your tongue. Please, Sir.”
“That’s better.” I smiled and bent once again, giving her exactly what she wanted, exactly what I wanted. Her heat overwhelmed my senses, she burned my lips in the most erotic way, her intimate folds pulling against my mouth, rubbing, creating friction and yet more heat.
I made sure to lap at her clit, teasing the soft, silky protrusion with gentle licks. With each lash of my tongue it hardened further. India strained against me, her flesh pressing against my ears. I could still hear her moans and gasps, though, and felt her muscles tensing, her buttocks lifting off the table to push more of her into my mouth.
I pulled back from her clit and lapped at her slit. She tasted sublime—chocolate, fresh bread and apples. She was the tastiest, most satisfying meal. I wanted to eat her forever. India keened with frustration as I left her clit—well, I’d say high and dry but it wasn’t, she was soaked—and I continued to focus lower down. I teased her lips, her sweet entrance, and reveled in her frustrated gasps and the fevered pumping of her hips.
Eventually I took pity, mostly because I wanted her orgasm, I craved it. Teasing her had been fun but I needed her pleasure. I returned my mouth to focus over her clit, sucking lightly and undulating my tongue over and around it. Her hips shot up and she ground her pussy against my face, pushing my nose into her flesh, surrounding me with her wet muskiness.
She was loud, so loud that I could hear her chants through the soft flesh of her clinging thighs. I kept the same rhythm with my tongue, letting her climb and shudder. I knew she was so very close and to deny her would be catastrophic.
She clamped around my head and she roared her completion, her wetness enveloping me. I clung on for dear life, lapping gently until she relaxed, her thighs dropping away, letting me up for air. I pulled away from the heat of her cunt and licked my lips. I was so hard I couldn’t think of anything else but fucking her.
Good Manors is available from:
Totally Bound
Amazon US
Amazon UK
All Romance Ebooks
Barnes and Noble
Kobo
Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and award winning erotica author. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, and the co-editor of the fabulous Smut Alfresco, Smut in the City and Smut by the Sea Anthologies.
Victoria is also one of the brains behind the fabulous Smut events, days and nights dedicated to erotica, fun and prizes.She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories. Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.
You can find often find Victoria procrastinating on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest To find out more check out her website
Today my guest is the incredible ever-busy smut entrepreneur Victoria Blisse, with an excerpt from her new book Good Manors, which promises "a glimpse behind the scenes of the aristocracy including its seedier side", and "a novel with twists, turns, secrets and steaming hot erotic encounters."
India Grace, a respected journalist, is assigned to the estate for a behind the scenes look at how it runs. It is the last place in the world she wants to be. Back when she was young and naïve she took a photo of old Lord Mallard, which led to her success and his downfall. She carries the guilt with her to the location and it’s constantly in the back of her mind when she meets the hall’s latest owner, Xander Patrick.
Xander’s father died when he was only thirteen, and he doesn’t hold many good memories of him. He helped his mum build Mallard Hall back up, and since her death struggles to keep it going single-handedly. The last thing he needs is a meddling journalist poking into estate business, especially when the meagre profits are mysteriously disappearing.
The two try to keep their distance but find themselves drawn together in many unexpected ways. A meal leads to an investigation of secret passageways and from that India and Xander explore their attraction, using different rooms of the hall for their kinky games.
In the end India’s secret will have to come out, but will it bring the couple closer together or tear them apart?
I kissed with gentle purpose, the curls tickling my lips and nose. Her thighs fell wider the farther I journeyed over her skin. I didn’t know if it was a conscious move but it encouraged me lower, faster. Her warm fragrance made my senses reel with desire. She smelled of soft, warm bread and honey. I wanted to dive in and eat her up, to savor those flavors.
It was all about teasing her, showing her who was boss without restraint or punishment, and I wasn’t going to rush. Darting my tongue down between her lips, I felt the bump of her clit then pulled back. She wriggled and gasped then lifted her hips to encourage me to do the same thing again. I didn’t.
I ran my hands up the backs of her thighs and gently encouraged her to settle her legs over my shoulders. She was wide open to me and I peppered kisses along one of her lips, careful not to graze her clit but to keep to the plump, juicy lip until it tapered out, then I kissed up the opposite one.
I continued this game until she arched her back and groaned with frustration. It was a test of my patience too. I wanted to properly eat her, bury my face and get lost in the scent and the taste of her, but it wasn’t about my satisfaction, it was about driving her wild with lust.
I blew across her wetness.
“Oh, please,” she groaned.
“Please what?” I asked, then blew again, directing the breeze across her clit.
“Please, Sir.”
“What do you want?” I asked, lifting my head and looking along her body, taking in the tortured look on her face. She shook her head from side to side, battling with herself about voicing her desires.
“Tell me, India, what do you want?”
She opened her eyes and held my gaze for a few seconds. It was only when she closed them that she spoke.
“Please make me come, Sir.”
“Good girl.” I stroked her thigh as I praised her. “How shall I make you come?”
“Any way you like, Sir.” She gasped and shuddered under my touch.
“That’s a good answer, India, but how would you like me to make you come? What do you want me to use?”
“Oh God, Sir.” She shook her head and scrunched up her eyes. “Your mouth, please, I want to come on your lips, your tongue. Please, Sir.”
“That’s better.” I smiled and bent once again, giving her exactly what she wanted, exactly what I wanted. Her heat overwhelmed my senses, she burned my lips in the most erotic way, her intimate folds pulling against my mouth, rubbing, creating friction and yet more heat.
I made sure to lap at her clit, teasing the soft, silky protrusion with gentle licks. With each lash of my tongue it hardened further. India strained against me, her flesh pressing against my ears. I could still hear her moans and gasps, though, and felt her muscles tensing, her buttocks lifting off the table to push more of her into my mouth.
I pulled back from her clit and lapped at her slit. She tasted sublime—chocolate, fresh bread and apples. She was the tastiest, most satisfying meal. I wanted to eat her forever. India keened with frustration as I left her clit—well, I’d say high and dry but it wasn’t, she was soaked—and I continued to focus lower down. I teased her lips, her sweet entrance, and reveled in her frustrated gasps and the fevered pumping of her hips.
Eventually I took pity, mostly because I wanted her orgasm, I craved it. Teasing her had been fun but I needed her pleasure. I returned my mouth to focus over her clit, sucking lightly and undulating my tongue over and around it. Her hips shot up and she ground her pussy against my face, pushing my nose into her flesh, surrounding me with her wet muskiness.
She was loud, so loud that I could hear her chants through the soft flesh of her clinging thighs. I kept the same rhythm with my tongue, letting her climb and shudder. I knew she was so very close and to deny her would be catastrophic.
She clamped around my head and she roared her completion, her wetness enveloping me. I clung on for dear life, lapping gently until she relaxed, her thighs dropping away, letting me up for air. I pulled away from the heat of her cunt and licked my lips. I was so hard I couldn’t think of anything else but fucking her.
Good Manors is available from:
Totally Bound
Amazon US
Amazon UK
All Romance Ebooks
Barnes and Noble
Kobo
Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and award winning erotica author. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, and the co-editor of the fabulous Smut Alfresco, Smut in the City and Smut by the Sea Anthologies.
Victoria is also one of the brains behind the fabulous Smut events, days and nights dedicated to erotica, fun and prizes.She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories. Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.
You can find often find Victoria procrastinating on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest To find out more check out her website
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty episode for your enjoyment!
Today my guest is the incredible ever-busy smut entrepreneur Victoria Blisse, with an excerpt from her new book Good Manors, which promises "a glimpse behind the scenes of the aristocracy including its seedier side", and "a novel with twists, turns, secrets and steaming hot erotic encounters."
India Grace, a respected journalist, is assigned to the estate for a behind the scenes look at how it runs. It is the last place in the world she wants to be. Back when she was young and naïve she took a photo of old Lord Mallard, which led to her success and his downfall. She carries the guilt with her to the location and it’s constantly in the back of her mind when she meets the hall’s latest owner, Xander Patrick.
Xander’s father died when he was only thirteen, and he doesn’t hold many good memories of him. He helped his mum build Mallard Hall back up, and since her death struggles to keep it going single-handedly. The last thing he needs is a meddling journalist poking into estate business, especially when the meagre profits are mysteriously disappearing.
The two try to keep their distance but find themselves drawn together in many unexpected ways. A meal leads to an investigation of secret passageways and from that India and Xander explore their attraction, using different rooms of the hall for their kinky games.
In the end India’s secret will have to come out, but will it bring the couple closer together or tear them apart?
I kissed with gentle purpose, the curls tickling my lips and nose. Her thighs fell wider the farther I journeyed over her skin. I didn’t know if it was a conscious move but it encouraged me lower, faster. Her warm fragrance made my senses reel with desire. She smelled of soft, warm bread and honey. I wanted to dive in and eat her up, to savor those flavors.
It was all about teasing her, showing her who was boss without restraint or punishment, and I wasn’t going to rush. Darting my tongue down between her lips, I felt the bump of her clit then pulled back. She wriggled and gasped then lifted her hips to encourage me to do the same thing again. I didn’t.
I ran my hands up the backs of her thighs and gently encouraged her to settle her legs over my shoulders. She was wide open to me and I peppered kisses along one of her lips, careful not to graze her clit but to keep to the plump, juicy lip until it tapered out, then I kissed up the opposite one.
I continued this game until she arched her back and groaned with frustration. It was a test of my patience too. I wanted to properly eat her, bury my face and get lost in the scent and the taste of her, but it wasn’t about my satisfaction, it was about driving her wild with lust.
I blew across her wetness.
“Oh, please,” she groaned.
“Please what?” I asked, then blew again, directing the breeze across her clit.
“Please, Sir.”
“What do you want?” I asked, lifting my head and looking along her body, taking in the tortured look on her face. She shook her head from side to side, battling with herself about voicing her desires.
“Tell me, India, what do you want?”
She opened her eyes and held my gaze for a few seconds. It was only when she closed them that she spoke.
“Please make me come, Sir.”
“Good girl.” I stroked her thigh as I praised her. “How shall I make you come?”
“Any way you like, Sir.” She gasped and shuddered under my touch.
“That’s a good answer, India, but how would you like me to make you come? What do you want me to use?”
“Oh God, Sir.” She shook her head and scrunched up her eyes. “Your mouth, please, I want to come on your lips, your tongue. Please, Sir.”
“That’s better.” I smiled and bent once again, giving her exactly what she wanted, exactly what I wanted. Her heat overwhelmed my senses, she burned my lips in the most erotic way, her intimate folds pulling against my mouth, rubbing, creating friction and yet more heat.
I made sure to lap at her clit, teasing the soft, silky protrusion with gentle licks. With each lash of my tongue it hardened further. India strained against me, her flesh pressing against my ears. I could still hear her moans and gasps, though, and felt her muscles tensing, her buttocks lifting off the table to push more of her into my mouth.
I pulled back from her clit and lapped at her slit. She tasted sublime—chocolate, fresh bread and apples. She was the tastiest, most satisfying meal. I wanted to eat her forever. India keened with frustration as I left her clit—well, I’d say high and dry but it wasn’t, she was soaked—and I continued to focus lower down. I teased her lips, her sweet entrance, and reveled in her frustrated gasps and the fevered pumping of her hips.
Eventually I took pity, mostly because I wanted her orgasm, I craved it. Teasing her had been fun but I needed her pleasure. I returned my mouth to focus over her clit, sucking lightly and undulating my tongue over and around it. Her hips shot up and she ground her pussy against my face, pushing my nose into her flesh, surrounding me with her wet muskiness.
She was loud, so loud that I could hear her chants through the soft flesh of her clinging thighs. I kept the same rhythm with my tongue, letting her climb and shudder. I knew she was so very close and to deny her would be catastrophic.
She clamped around my head and she roared her completion, her wetness enveloping me. I clung on for dear life, lapping gently until she relaxed, her thighs dropping away, letting me up for air. I pulled away from the heat of her cunt and licked my lips. I was so hard I couldn’t think of anything else but fucking her.
Good Manors is available from:
Totally Bound
Amazon US
Amazon UK
All Romance Ebooks
Barnes and Noble
Kobo
Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and award winning erotica author. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, and the co-editor of the fabulous Smut Alfresco, Smut in the City and Smut by the Sea Anthologies.
Victoria is also one of the brains behind the fabulous Smut events, days and nights dedicated to erotica, fun and prizes. She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories. Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.
You can find often find Victoria procrastinating on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest To find out more check out her website
Today my guest is the incredible ever-busy smut entrepreneur Victoria Blisse, with an excerpt from her new book Good Manors, which promises "a glimpse behind the scenes of the aristocracy including its seedier side", and "a novel with twists, turns, secrets and steaming hot erotic encounters."
India Grace, a respected journalist, is assigned to the estate for a behind the scenes look at how it runs. It is the last place in the world she wants to be. Back when she was young and naïve she took a photo of old Lord Mallard, which led to her success and his downfall. She carries the guilt with her to the location and it’s constantly in the back of her mind when she meets the hall’s latest owner, Xander Patrick.
Xander’s father died when he was only thirteen, and he doesn’t hold many good memories of him. He helped his mum build Mallard Hall back up, and since her death struggles to keep it going single-handedly. The last thing he needs is a meddling journalist poking into estate business, especially when the meagre profits are mysteriously disappearing.
The two try to keep their distance but find themselves drawn together in many unexpected ways. A meal leads to an investigation of secret passageways and from that India and Xander explore their attraction, using different rooms of the hall for their kinky games.
In the end India’s secret will have to come out, but will it bring the couple closer together or tear them apart?
I kissed with gentle purpose, the curls tickling my lips and nose. Her thighs fell wider the farther I journeyed over her skin. I didn’t know if it was a conscious move but it encouraged me lower, faster. Her warm fragrance made my senses reel with desire. She smelled of soft, warm bread and honey. I wanted to dive in and eat her up, to savor those flavors.
It was all about teasing her, showing her who was boss without restraint or punishment, and I wasn’t going to rush. Darting my tongue down between her lips, I felt the bump of her clit then pulled back. She wriggled and gasped then lifted her hips to encourage me to do the same thing again. I didn’t.
I ran my hands up the backs of her thighs and gently encouraged her to settle her legs over my shoulders. She was wide open to me and I peppered kisses along one of her lips, careful not to graze her clit but to keep to the plump, juicy lip until it tapered out, then I kissed up the opposite one.
I continued this game until she arched her back and groaned with frustration. It was a test of my patience too. I wanted to properly eat her, bury my face and get lost in the scent and the taste of her, but it wasn’t about my satisfaction, it was about driving her wild with lust.
I blew across her wetness.
“Oh, please,” she groaned.
“Please what?” I asked, then blew again, directing the breeze across her clit.
“Please, Sir.”
“What do you want?” I asked, lifting my head and looking along her body, taking in the tortured look on her face. She shook her head from side to side, battling with herself about voicing her desires.
“Tell me, India, what do you want?”
She opened her eyes and held my gaze for a few seconds. It was only when she closed them that she spoke.
“Please make me come, Sir.”
“Good girl.” I stroked her thigh as I praised her. “How shall I make you come?”
“Any way you like, Sir.” She gasped and shuddered under my touch.
“That’s a good answer, India, but how would you like me to make you come? What do you want me to use?”
“Oh God, Sir.” She shook her head and scrunched up her eyes. “Your mouth, please, I want to come on your lips, your tongue. Please, Sir.”
“That’s better.” I smiled and bent once again, giving her exactly what she wanted, exactly what I wanted. Her heat overwhelmed my senses, she burned my lips in the most erotic way, her intimate folds pulling against my mouth, rubbing, creating friction and yet more heat.
I made sure to lap at her clit, teasing the soft, silky protrusion with gentle licks. With each lash of my tongue it hardened further. India strained against me, her flesh pressing against my ears. I could still hear her moans and gasps, though, and felt her muscles tensing, her buttocks lifting off the table to push more of her into my mouth.
I pulled back from her clit and lapped at her slit. She tasted sublime—chocolate, fresh bread and apples. She was the tastiest, most satisfying meal. I wanted to eat her forever. India keened with frustration as I left her clit—well, I’d say high and dry but it wasn’t, she was soaked—and I continued to focus lower down. I teased her lips, her sweet entrance, and reveled in her frustrated gasps and the fevered pumping of her hips.
Eventually I took pity, mostly because I wanted her orgasm, I craved it. Teasing her had been fun but I needed her pleasure. I returned my mouth to focus over her clit, sucking lightly and undulating my tongue over and around it. Her hips shot up and she ground her pussy against my face, pushing my nose into her flesh, surrounding me with her wet muskiness.
She was loud, so loud that I could hear her chants through the soft flesh of her clinging thighs. I kept the same rhythm with my tongue, letting her climb and shudder. I knew she was so very close and to deny her would be catastrophic.
She clamped around my head and she roared her completion, her wetness enveloping me. I clung on for dear life, lapping gently until she relaxed, her thighs dropping away, letting me up for air. I pulled away from the heat of her cunt and licked my lips. I was so hard I couldn’t think of anything else but fucking her.
Good Manors is available from:
Totally Bound
Amazon US
Amazon UK
All Romance Ebooks
Barnes and Noble
Kobo
Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and award winning erotica author. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, and the co-editor of the fabulous Smut Alfresco, Smut in the City and Smut by the Sea Anthologies.
Victoria is also one of the brains behind the fabulous Smut events, days and nights dedicated to erotica, fun and prizes. She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories. Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.
You can find often find Victoria procrastinating on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest To find out more check out her website
November 8, 2015
November 6, 2015
If you think your writing space is shit...
... you haven't been to Coleridge Cottage in Somerset:
You remember Coleridge of course - he wrote such classic poems as The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan...
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dreadFor he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.
whilst out of his tree on a pharmaceutical mixture of alcohol and opium.
Well he did it, over three years, here:
This is actually the Victorian extended improved versionAnd I can tell you in no uncertain terms that this place was a fucking hovel.
This was the first parlour. When they had house-guests like William and Dorothy Wordsworth (who stayed for months at a time), those lucky guests slept in here:
This photo slightly exaggerates the size of the room
This was the main parlour where the family lived (Coleridge, wife, children, guests) hung out in the daytime and Coleridge wrote at night:
This was where Sara Coleridge cooked, in the lean-to. There was no oven of course - she had to go down the street to use the bakers' oven like everyone else.
And upstairs the family and their servant girl all slept in one room.
The whole place was overrun with mice, btw. It must have been disgusting. And mind you, this was a respectable middle-class household, quite comfortable by the standards of most people. It wasn't like any of the men were doing manual labour for a living - they wrote poetry and newspaper articles and indulged in long walks on the hills, and generally left any hard work to wives and 12-year-old servant girls.
The cottage had its OWN WELL! Luxury!Coleridge quite frankly seems to have been a total dick. He left his wife Sara to watch their child Berkeley die at 9 months, and eventually abandoned her; latched on to then fell out with poetic friends with excessive and predictable fervour; sponged off patrons for a living; and left his children "to chance and charity".
He was a piss-poor gardener as well.But he was a great poet ...
It's a reminder that writing talent, virtue and - apparently - hygiene are in no way connected to one another.
You remember Coleridge of course - he wrote such classic poems as The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan...
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dreadFor he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.
whilst out of his tree on a pharmaceutical mixture of alcohol and opium.
Well he did it, over three years, here:
This is actually the Victorian extended improved versionAnd I can tell you in no uncertain terms that this place was a fucking hovel.This was the first parlour. When they had house-guests like William and Dorothy Wordsworth (who stayed for months at a time), those lucky guests slept in here:
This photo slightly exaggerates the size of the roomThis was the main parlour where the family lived (Coleridge, wife, children, guests) hung out in the daytime and Coleridge wrote at night:
This was where Sara Coleridge cooked, in the lean-to. There was no oven of course - she had to go down the street to use the bakers' oven like everyone else.
And upstairs the family and their servant girl all slept in one room.
The whole place was overrun with mice, btw. It must have been disgusting. And mind you, this was a respectable middle-class household, quite comfortable by the standards of most people. It wasn't like any of the men were doing manual labour for a living - they wrote poetry and newspaper articles and indulged in long walks on the hills, and generally left any hard work to wives and 12-year-old servant girls.
The cottage had its OWN WELL! Luxury!Coleridge quite frankly seems to have been a total dick. He left his wife Sara to watch their child Berkeley die at 9 months, and eventually abandoned her; latched on to then fell out with poetic friends with excessive and predictable fervour; sponged off patrons for a living; and left his children "to chance and charity".
He was a piss-poor gardener as well.But he was a great poet ...It's a reminder that writing talent, virtue and - apparently - hygiene are in no way connected to one another.
November 4, 2015
Only 50 shopping days!
Sorry. I'm so sorry - it's way too early to be mentioning Christmas, isn't it? But the marvelous Kay Jaybee has released this photo of her article in the ETO Magazine, in which she recommends her top ten erotic novels. And there, lo, is my
"Can I hold it in one hand?"What can I say but Ho Ho Ho?
:-)
The lineup, for those with fuzzy eyesight, is as follows:
Anything But Vanilla - Madelynne Ellis Big Bad - Sommer Marsden Cassandra's Conflict - Fredrica Allyn Control - Charlotte Stein Named and Shamed - Janine Ashbless Nanny State - Giselle Renarde Raw Silk - Lisabet Sarai The Business of Pleasure - Justine Elyot The Initiation of Miss Holly - K D Grace Undone - Kristina Lloyd
November 2, 2015
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!
This week it's a brand new exclusive excerpt from The Sorcerer's Apprentice, my contribution to the anthology Libidnous Zombie published on Hallowe'en. I set out to write a story in a voice that was simultaneously titillating and disturbing ... and this is how it begins:
Mr. Deverick kept a woman in the penthouse apartment. In a cage.
Heh. I felt a bit weird about that, the first time I saw her. The mirrored wall slid back and behind it was a dark windowless room. As Deverick stepped over the threshold the lights came on. The room was featureless except for the cage, and the cage was empty except for the girl. She was kneeling on the floor, her face to the hardwood inlay, her long blonde hair fallen over her hands. I could see a lot of bare skin, the color of clover honey.
The room smelled faintly of pussy.
I thought: Fuck, is this a test? He hadn’t warned me. And I’m pretty sure some of the bugshit-crazy stuff he gets me to do is just to test me out.
This made me nervous, and I couldn’t help making a snorting noise. Like a laugh, only not really, because this wasn’t funny or anything. It was a bit creepy.
But the noise made her raise her head and sit back, and then it became creepy and hot—both at the same time. She was wearing a little pair of baby-pink panties and a T-shirt in the same color, except that the shirt had been hacked off way too short, covering her nipples but showing a whole lot of under-boob. She had big tits, see, and because the room was cold I could see her nips poking through the thin cloth like light switches. Those trashy clothes made her look more fuckable than if she’d been naked, I swear.
As her eyes lit on Deverick her expression went from sad and pouty to a hopeful little smile, all eager to please.My cock did 0-60 in less time than it took my hand to reach up and pull nervously at my tie.
“What’s on your mind, Dylan?” my employer asked me. “Something funny?”
I cleared my throat, knowing that if he glanced in the vicinity of my crotch he wouldn’t have to ask. That girl was just prime T&A. Majestic tits, teeny little waist, wide hips flaring out below. Hair long and blonde and sleek, streaked with ashy highlights. Big wide don’t-hurt-me-daddy eyes that looked green even from this distance. And a mouth like …
I told my inner art critic to shut the fuck up. “I was just wondering if they’re real, Mr. Deverick,” I said, trying to sound all cool. “Her tits, like.”
He lifted an eyebrow. Flicking a finger at the girl he spoke a few words in a language I didn’t recognize, and though he didn’t raise his voice it was clearly an instruction. She rose to her feet and came forward to the bars, allowing me to add Incredible Long Legs to my inventory of her assets.
The steel struts were placed just the right distance apart. She pulled up her T-shirt and thrust herself forward so that a bar was nestled in the valley of her cleavage, and her award-winning golden globes stuck through on either side. Her nipples stared at me.
“Have a feel,” said Deverick with a polite gesture.
Say what you like about my boss—and people do say some nasty shit about him, though only when they think he’s out of earshot—Michael Deverick knows a thing or two about perks for loyal employees. Today’s particular perks were … perky, to the max. I moved in close. The girl, either bashful or plain old nervous, looked up at me through her long lashes and glanced at Deverick as if for reassurance. At the periphery of my vision I saw him nod.
She smelled like sex in a rose garden.
I cupped those fabulous titties with a feeling of genuine awe and squeezed slowly, questing—in vain—for the over-firm bulge of silicone implants. I pressed them together round the bar and thumbed her nipples and rubbed her skin. And to my surprise I felt her respond: a flush crept up her throat and her eyes darkened as her pupils dilated. Then she moaned, very softly: perhaps too softly for Mr. Deverick to hear. It was like a secret between us.
My cock was like a fucking totem pole by this point. You could have held a war dance around it.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Are they real, then?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Oh yeah.” I gave her nips another tug and saw her eyelids flutter. I knew I should stop, having done the task requested of me, but my hands had a will of their own and my hard-on was voting with them. “They’re real alright. Is she Russian? I mean, I know you’ve got a line in luxury imports…”
He laughed softly. “No, not Russian.”
“That language?”
“Enochian.”
Fuck. Enochian. I might have a shed-load to learn from Deverick, but I’d already heard of Enochian. It’s the language of angels … and fallen angels.
I let go of the beach-balls and took a couple of steps back. My boss grinned that Hollywood Irish grin of his. But the girl just grabbed the bars and looked up at me with those big innocent eyes, desolate.
“Is she …?” I didn’t want to say angel. It sounded gay. “A demon?”
“A succubus.”
I stared at her, waiting for a flash of sulfurous yellow eyes or fangs or something. But she just looked like a human girl. Except better.
“So your job while I’m away next week is very simple,” he told me, pointing at the floor of the cage and putting her on her knees with two words.
I shut my slack jaw and tried to focus. Simple was good. Simple made a change. He was forever sending me off on errands that were complex and downright peculiar—crossing five Thames bridges, blindfolded and on foot, before sunset; or busking outside Kings Cross Underground and giving a bottle of … something … to the first blue-eyed man who dropped me a coin. Nor did the sly bastard ever explain what purposes these acts had. I just had to guess—and if my guesses were getting stronger over the last year, that was down to my own hard work. He was in no damn hurry to teach me anything, despite our agreement.
“Every night after dark you come in to this suite, you open this door and come in here. Then you whack your Mr. Ugly through the bars and give her a cream tea. That’s all. Don’t fuck her, and whatever you do don’t kiss her. Once only. Then leave.”
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
November 1, 2015
Libidinous Zombie - out now!
AIEEEEEEEE!!! IT'S OUT ON SALE!
Yes, Libidinous Zombie is now available from Amazon US and Amazon UK. Eight terrifying and disturbing stories of erotic horror!
Can you tell from the cover that we are serious about the horror bit? No sparkly vampires here! (But in fact, only one zombie story too...)
Edited by Rose Caraway, the lineup is as follows:
Jade A Waters - The Lucky OneTamsin Flowers - The Only Girl in the WorldRemittance Girl - The Night that Frank ScoredAllen Dusk - Damaged MelodyMalin James - Alice in the AtticRaziel Moore - Spell FailureRose Caraway - Devil WindsJanine Ashbless -The Sorcerer's Apprentice
Amazon US : Amazon UK
