Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 72
August 14, 2015
Up yours, Freud!
Behold, there shall be no more penis envy! For I have bought a she-wee and no tree is safe!
I've been meaning to buy one for YEARS and finally the prospect of camping has forced my hand, as it were...
Soft plastic, emo colour. I approve.I'll need to practise writing my name in the snow, mind...
August 12, 2015
The Chalice Well
During my trip to the West Country for Eroticon I took the opportunity to make a research visit to Glastonbury - in particular, to the Chalice Well Gardens, which features in my work-in-progress Falling Deep.
This site is a World Peace Garden (with the notable exception of when my nephew and niece are running around it ... sorry everyone....): sort of Interfaith with a tendency toward pagan, as far as I can tell.
It's very pretty indeed!
See how the water is orangey-red? It contains a very high level of iron, which leaves a rusty deposit on the stones. Medieval Christian legend associates it with the Holy Grail that held Jesus' blood from the Crucifixion, said to have been brought here by Joseph of Arimathea.
You can drink the water, which is reputed to have healing properties:
Mind you, the water is also reputed to be warm like blood, and I can tell you from personal experience wading in bathing pool that this is SADLY NOT TRUE!
"HOOOOOLY ... springs!"The actual Chalice Well looks like this:
What happens there in Falling Deep ? You'll have to wait and see!
August 10, 2015
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
A total blast from the past this week - but keeping up with my Eroticon fantasy theme. Here's one of the least troubling scenes from Burning Bright , which is a swords 'n' sorcery fantasy with a sorta dark Bollywood vibe. I had to censor a LOT of this novel before publication - it was a bit much for Black Lace at the time...
I love the title font though(All you need to know for this excerpt is that Veraine is suffering from serious amnesia ... and intermittent hallucinations)
There was a woman standing among the rocks downstream, cloaked in the shadow of the ferns.
Veraine’s irritation shifted into something else. For the briefest moment he hoped it was Teihli, because he was itching for some relief from his tension, but then he realised this was a stranger. She didn’t look startled by his presence; she looked as if she meant to be there. But she was naked from the hips up, clad only in a tight skirt of dull and mottled cloth. Her breasts were small and high and dark as if never hidden from the sun, providing a distracting backdrop to an elaborate gold collar that spread below her throat from shoulder to shoulder. She looked at him without a word, then raised one hand and beckoned.
Veraine stood, rather conscious of his wet clothes and wondering who she was. She didn’t look like one of the village women, who were inevitably modest in their dress and never wore jewellery so magnificent. He strode toward her slowly across the rocks, but when he’d closed half the distance he halted. Something within him was growing wary of her stillness and strangeness, and the knowledge that he’d left his falchion behind on a rock was preying on his mind for no reason that he could put his finger on. He sized her up. She was just a young woman, unarmed and very slight; she couldn’t possibly represent a threat – not in herself. Her skin had a glisten as if freshly oiled. Her hair was so short that on any other woman he’d have thought it ugly, but her bones were so fine that it seemed to suit her. He looked beyond her, checking for signs of an ambush. ‘What?’ he said softly. ‘What do you want?’
I have something to give you, she said. Her lips hadn’t moved: the voice was in his head, sibilant and cool. Veraine felt the water droplets on his spine turn icy. He took a step back as she came toward him, but he couldn’t retreat on ground this rough without turning and running, so he had to stand and watch her advance. His heart kicked in his chest. She did not walk across the boulders; she glided, her legs never moving though her hips undulated. Behind her something like a dress-train slipped among the rocks.
‘You’re not real,’ he whispered.
She smiled and clasped her hands at the back of her neck, weaving her torso from side to side as she closed on him, displaying her little breasts to their best effect. It was almost enough to distract him from that which, below her hips, was so terribly wrong. Almost. He finally realised that what he’d thought of as her skirt was not an item of clothing; from the hips down she was encased in mottled scaly skin, and there was no line of a human leg beneath it - neither legs nor feet. Instead she had the tail of a huge snake, as thick through as her torso and many times her body-length, its coils stirring lazily on the moss. The interlocking pattern on that snakeskin was echoed too in the arrangement of the tight, scalp-hugging knots of her short hair, and a fainter patina on her human skin. He thought he could discern a silvery etching like scales.
He grimaced and repeated louder, ‘You’re not real, are you?’
Not real? That from a man who doesn’t even know what he is?
Her words wiped the smile off his face. ‘You’re a figment from my mind,’ he said grimly. ‘The fight, the stress of battle, the heat of my blood … It’s gone and knocked something loose in my head again.’ His teeth were gritted. ‘You’re just a vision.’
Then what do you have to fear?
He couldn’t answer that. Her eyes were beautiful; huge black pupils surrounded by golden irises; eyes he felt he might fall into. There was something almost hypnotic about them. But she didn’t blink. She hadn’t blinked since he’d first seen her. ‘What do you want?’ he asked harshly. His mouth was dry. He wanted to reach out and grasp her, to prove to his hand that she was real enough to touch, but he dreaded the consequences too much.
I wish to make a bargain with you. I offer… She cocked her head. Understanding.
That sounded a little too equivocal. ‘Of what?’
Of yourself. Of the past you have lost.
His heart skipped a beat. ‘You know?’
The serpent of the mind represents wisdom, and I am nothing but a vision in your mind, am I not? What can I offer on my side but insight?
‘In exchange for…?’
For a little seed. Seed for my hatchlings. She looked pointedly down at the white cotton of his loincloth, still wringing wet; despite the folds of the loose cloth it was translucent where it clung to his thighs and crotch.
He balked. ‘Ah.’ If not truly erect he was pumped up and distended – partly the result of the fight, partly due to her proximity. Those bits of her that were not serpentine were powerfully attractive. She put her hand on his breastbone and he felt her warmth, like that of an iron blade left in the sun. She reminded him of a knife in many ways; slim and hard and deadly. Now he’d been given the proof of her solidity he’d desired, his skin shivered under her touch. ‘You want-?’ he whispered. She had no legs, no buttocks; he couldn’t even guess where her sexual opening might be located.
She smiled and slid in a circle around him, her hand trailing on his chest. He shuddered but stood still, like a horse too spooked to move, only his head turning. By the time she was behind him her hands were sliding round his waist. He felt the sinews of his legs and buttocks tighten and the skin up his bare back crawl in anticipation. She was looping his feet about with a great coil of her tail.
You fear my poison? She came back round his right shoulder; her palm was splayed across his stomach, pressing upon the hard abdominal muscle, smoothing her way down to the edge of wet cotton that was his only line of defence. She smiled, showing white teeth that seemed quite human, then stretched up to kiss his cheek briefly. You will take no harm from me.
He put his hand on her breast - just to be sure. Her skin was neither oily nor cold as he’d feared, but dry and very smooth. She isn’t real, he told himself, brushing her hard nipple, but his body believed otherwise and his penis kicked, finding instant comfort in the palm of her hand. There was a taunting glitter in her eyes. Only the twin tips of her pale, forked tongue spoiled the effect as they flickered into view across her lips. It was a narrow tongue no thicker than a finger, and entirely inhuman.
He clenched his teeth. ‘No.’ A woman could not be a snake; a snake could not be a woman. This was something from a forest legend and he did not have to believe it.
Don’t be afraid, she said and slid down before him. She didn’t drop to her knees because she had no knees; she simply lowered herself on her huge muscular tail. I will not bite. She nipped the skin of his chest between her teeth: No harder than this.
The breath caught in his throat. I don’t have to accept this, he told himself as she sucked his nipple and teased it to stiffness with that bestial tongue: I can stop her. But his resolve was weakening. When she slipped the knot of his loincloth and dropped a fold to uncover his cock he noted that it was already standing, swaying a little. The stream water had done nothing to cool his blood and his flesh looked very dark jutting out against the white cloth.
Oh yes, she said with satisfaction. Her mouth, when it descended, felt like pure liquid pleasure - and with that touch he was lost. No longer capable of resistance, Veraine let his head roll back as the sensation of physical relief washed over his senses. He felt her encompass his cock not just with her lips but also the paired tips of her coiling bifurcated tongue, her grip firm and sure. He surrendered to it completely; unreal or not, it didn’t matter in that moment. Above them the stone walls of the ravine seemed to lean in to watch. When he looked down again all he could see was the back of the snake-woman’s head rising and sinking as she sucked and licked. As he put his good hand on it and pulled her closer, feeling the hard ridges of her knotted hair beneath his palm, the first memory burst in his skull like a flash of lightning: a glimpse of a sun-drenched courtyard and young men in white tunics involved in some sort of skirmish, armed with dummy wooden swords. He gasped.
Then he shut his eyes the better to see, as flash after flash exploded in his skull.
Buy 'Burning Bright' at Amazon US Buy 'Burning Bright' at Amazon UK
Buy 'Burning Bright' at Google Play Buy 'Burning Bright' at iTunes
A total blast from the past this week - but keeping up with my Eroticon fantasy theme. Here's one of the least troubling scenes from Burning Bright , which is a swords 'n' sorcery fantasy with a sorta dark Bollywood vibe. I had to censor a LOT of this novel before publication - it was a bit much for Black Lace at the time...
I love the title font though(All you need to know for this excerpt is that Veraine is suffering from serious amnesia ... and intermittent hallucinations)There was a woman standing among the rocks downstream, cloaked in the shadow of the ferns.
Veraine’s irritation shifted into something else. For the briefest moment he hoped it was Teihli, because he was itching for some relief from his tension, but then he realised this was a stranger. She didn’t look startled by his presence; she looked as if she meant to be there. But she was naked from the hips up, clad only in a tight skirt of dull and mottled cloth. Her breasts were small and high and dark as if never hidden from the sun, providing a distracting backdrop to an elaborate gold collar that spread below her throat from shoulder to shoulder. She looked at him without a word, then raised one hand and beckoned.
Veraine stood, rather conscious of his wet clothes and wondering who she was. She didn’t look like one of the village women, who were inevitably modest in their dress and never wore jewellery so magnificent. He strode toward her slowly across the rocks, but when he’d closed half the distance he halted. Something within him was growing wary of her stillness and strangeness, and the knowledge that he’d left his falchion behind on a rock was preying on his mind for no reason that he could put his finger on. He sized her up. She was just a young woman, unarmed and very slight; she couldn’t possibly represent a threat – not in herself. Her skin had a glisten as if freshly oiled. Her hair was so short that on any other woman he’d have thought it ugly, but her bones were so fine that it seemed to suit her. He looked beyond her, checking for signs of an ambush. ‘What?’ he said softly. ‘What do you want?’
I have something to give you, she said. Her lips hadn’t moved: the voice was in his head, sibilant and cool. Veraine felt the water droplets on his spine turn icy. He took a step back as she came toward him, but he couldn’t retreat on ground this rough without turning and running, so he had to stand and watch her advance. His heart kicked in his chest. She did not walk across the boulders; she glided, her legs never moving though her hips undulated. Behind her something like a dress-train slipped among the rocks.
‘You’re not real,’ he whispered.
She smiled and clasped her hands at the back of her neck, weaving her torso from side to side as she closed on him, displaying her little breasts to their best effect. It was almost enough to distract him from that which, below her hips, was so terribly wrong. Almost. He finally realised that what he’d thought of as her skirt was not an item of clothing; from the hips down she was encased in mottled scaly skin, and there was no line of a human leg beneath it - neither legs nor feet. Instead she had the tail of a huge snake, as thick through as her torso and many times her body-length, its coils stirring lazily on the moss. The interlocking pattern on that snakeskin was echoed too in the arrangement of the tight, scalp-hugging knots of her short hair, and a fainter patina on her human skin. He thought he could discern a silvery etching like scales.
He grimaced and repeated louder, ‘You’re not real, are you?’
Not real? That from a man who doesn’t even know what he is?
Her words wiped the smile off his face. ‘You’re a figment from my mind,’ he said grimly. ‘The fight, the stress of battle, the heat of my blood … It’s gone and knocked something loose in my head again.’ His teeth were gritted. ‘You’re just a vision.’
Then what do you have to fear?
He couldn’t answer that. Her eyes were beautiful; huge black pupils surrounded by golden irises; eyes he felt he might fall into. There was something almost hypnotic about them. But she didn’t blink. She hadn’t blinked since he’d first seen her. ‘What do you want?’ he asked harshly. His mouth was dry. He wanted to reach out and grasp her, to prove to his hand that she was real enough to touch, but he dreaded the consequences too much.I wish to make a bargain with you. I offer… She cocked her head. Understanding.
That sounded a little too equivocal. ‘Of what?’
Of yourself. Of the past you have lost.
His heart skipped a beat. ‘You know?’
The serpent of the mind represents wisdom, and I am nothing but a vision in your mind, am I not? What can I offer on my side but insight?
‘In exchange for…?’
For a little seed. Seed for my hatchlings. She looked pointedly down at the white cotton of his loincloth, still wringing wet; despite the folds of the loose cloth it was translucent where it clung to his thighs and crotch.
He balked. ‘Ah.’ If not truly erect he was pumped up and distended – partly the result of the fight, partly due to her proximity. Those bits of her that were not serpentine were powerfully attractive. She put her hand on his breastbone and he felt her warmth, like that of an iron blade left in the sun. She reminded him of a knife in many ways; slim and hard and deadly. Now he’d been given the proof of her solidity he’d desired, his skin shivered under her touch. ‘You want-?’ he whispered. She had no legs, no buttocks; he couldn’t even guess where her sexual opening might be located.
She smiled and slid in a circle around him, her hand trailing on his chest. He shuddered but stood still, like a horse too spooked to move, only his head turning. By the time she was behind him her hands were sliding round his waist. He felt the sinews of his legs and buttocks tighten and the skin up his bare back crawl in anticipation. She was looping his feet about with a great coil of her tail.
You fear my poison? She came back round his right shoulder; her palm was splayed across his stomach, pressing upon the hard abdominal muscle, smoothing her way down to the edge of wet cotton that was his only line of defence. She smiled, showing white teeth that seemed quite human, then stretched up to kiss his cheek briefly. You will take no harm from me.
He put his hand on her breast - just to be sure. Her skin was neither oily nor cold as he’d feared, but dry and very smooth. She isn’t real, he told himself, brushing her hard nipple, but his body believed otherwise and his penis kicked, finding instant comfort in the palm of her hand. There was a taunting glitter in her eyes. Only the twin tips of her pale, forked tongue spoiled the effect as they flickered into view across her lips. It was a narrow tongue no thicker than a finger, and entirely inhuman.
He clenched his teeth. ‘No.’ A woman could not be a snake; a snake could not be a woman. This was something from a forest legend and he did not have to believe it.
Don’t be afraid, she said and slid down before him. She didn’t drop to her knees because she had no knees; she simply lowered herself on her huge muscular tail. I will not bite. She nipped the skin of his chest between her teeth: No harder than this.
The breath caught in his throat. I don’t have to accept this, he told himself as she sucked his nipple and teased it to stiffness with that bestial tongue: I can stop her. But his resolve was weakening. When she slipped the knot of his loincloth and dropped a fold to uncover his cock he noted that it was already standing, swaying a little. The stream water had done nothing to cool his blood and his flesh looked very dark jutting out against the white cloth.
Oh yes, she said with satisfaction. Her mouth, when it descended, felt like pure liquid pleasure - and with that touch he was lost. No longer capable of resistance, Veraine let his head roll back as the sensation of physical relief washed over his senses. He felt her encompass his cock not just with her lips but also the paired tips of her coiling bifurcated tongue, her grip firm and sure. He surrendered to it completely; unreal or not, it didn’t matter in that moment. Above them the stone walls of the ravine seemed to lean in to watch. When he looked down again all he could see was the back of the snake-woman’s head rising and sinking as she sucked and licked. As he put his good hand on it and pulled her closer, feeling the hard ridges of her knotted hair beneath his palm, the first memory burst in his skull like a flash of lightning: a glimpse of a sun-drenched courtyard and young men in white tunics involved in some sort of skirmish, armed with dummy wooden swords. He gasped.
Then he shut his eyes the better to see, as flash after flash exploded in his skull.
Buy 'Burning Bright' at Amazon US Buy 'Burning Bright' at Amazon UK
Buy 'Burning Bright' at Google Play Buy 'Burning Bright' at iTunes
August 9, 2015
More Meat, More Music
Helen J Perry is at Broadstairs Folk Week and is been running interviews with the various contributors to Who Thrilled Cock Robin?
Including me!
August 7, 2015
Herm herm
Two of my favourite subjects come together today: art and naughty bits:
Roman windchime, British museum
You have to understand, in the Classical world, penuses peni the phallus was not just a symbol of manliness and/or sexy fun, it was a potent magical protection against bad luck, the evil eye and wicked spirits. (Talk about a phallocentric worldview!)
Taking them out for exercise was very time-consuming though.
For the public good, therefore, pillars were erected by the sides of roads, at market places, and in front of temples. They were rectangular in form with a depiction of a knob on:
In the Yorkshire Museum... though not always as elaborate as this one from the island of Delos, which has a dong-headed chicken carved on the front as well as the eye-watering topper.
"It's a COCK, geddit?"These pillars were called Herms - and in fact, that's where the god Hermes (patron of boundaries, crossings and travellers) got his name from.
(from Wikipedia, under creative commons license)Eventually carved portraits of the great and good came to be substituted for the god himself, in a display of civic pride. Which leads to the frankly ridiculous situation that a orator like Demosthenes here is depicted as a head and a knob, and nothing else.
In the Munich GlyptothekYou've got to wonder whether he looked at that and thought, "Yeah, good likeness."
There is by the way a fable of Aesop's in which "A dog of a pious turn of mind salutes the god's herm, a statue of the kind used to mark boundaries and stages along a road. When the animal announces its intention to anoint him, the god hastily begs it not to and says he does not need to be honoured any further."
:-D
Roman windchime, British museumYou have to understand, in the Classical world, penuses peni the phallus was not just a symbol of manliness and/or sexy fun, it was a potent magical protection against bad luck, the evil eye and wicked spirits. (Talk about a phallocentric worldview!)
Taking them out for exercise was very time-consuming though.For the public good, therefore, pillars were erected by the sides of roads, at market places, and in front of temples. They were rectangular in form with a depiction of a knob on:
In the Yorkshire Museum... though not always as elaborate as this one from the island of Delos, which has a dong-headed chicken carved on the front as well as the eye-watering topper.
"It's a COCK, geddit?"These pillars were called Herms - and in fact, that's where the god Hermes (patron of boundaries, crossings and travellers) got his name from.
(from Wikipedia, under creative commons license)Eventually carved portraits of the great and good came to be substituted for the god himself, in a display of civic pride. Which leads to the frankly ridiculous situation that a orator like Demosthenes here is depicted as a head and a knob, and nothing else.
In the Munich GlyptothekYou've got to wonder whether he looked at that and thought, "Yeah, good likeness."There is by the way a fable of Aesop's in which "A dog of a pious turn of mind salutes the god's herm, a statue of the kind used to mark boundaries and stages along a road. When the animal announces its intention to anoint him, the god hastily begs it not to and says he does not need to be honoured any further."
:-D
August 5, 2015
Eroticon 2015
Love THIS :-)So, another Eroticon has been and gone ... and I had more fun this year than ever before! Well, I gave a talk, so the gigantic tsunami of stress-hormones made for some masochistic thrills as far as I was concerned :-D
Photo by KD Grace - thanks!And of course I spent the weekend with a whole bunch of truly wonderful people - familiar faces...
KD Grace and Zak Jane Keir rockin' those black lanyards
Ashley Lister and Molly Moore. Apologies for blowing the highlights in this photo, Molly ;-)... and new friends too, some of whom I was not allowed to photograph. I spent a lot of Saturday night with Emily and Wendy and it was brilliant fun: thanks for hanging out with me!
The mystery of why things got all pink and blurry on Saturday night might be solved by these pics:
Salted caramel popcorn is the best flavour , take my wordThere were as usual great presentations - and of course the famous Practical BDSM Demonstrations:
I got to try cupping, thanks to the lovely Molly and Michael:
"!!!"
Yes, I had a bruise next day!But I did not try this:
Ah .... AHHHHHHHHHH!I had SUCH a good time :-)
It feels like a real community of friends now, and I'm totally looking forward to next year.
Thank you Ruby for all the awesome!
August 3, 2015
Eyecandy Monday - Justine Elyot guests
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
This week's excerpt is from The Naiad, by Justine Elyot. It's the final story in this run featuring tales from the wonderful wet-themed anthology Drenched.
"How do you feel, Naiad?" he asked.
He had put down his burden and tightened the belt of his silk robe around him. He hadn't offered one of those to me. I could do with one. The breeze was becoming more evident, especially around my nipples.
"I feel vulnerable," I said, pressing my thighs together and curling my toes.
"Vulnerable, yes, good. But are you comfortable?"
"I think so."
"Not too dry? Poor little naiad is used to the water, isn't she?"
"I suppose so." The residual drops from the jacuzzi had all slid off my skin now.
He knelt down by my side and passed his hands over my upper torso, rubbing and stroking over my breasts and collarbone and down over my stomach.
"Yes, I think so," he said, bending to kiss my navel. "Very dry. This must not be comfortable for you?"
"It's…"
But before I could continue, I let out a sharp cry.
He had reached into his picnic box and brought something out, which he placed square on my belly. It was a goddamn ice cube!
"Oh my god, that's freezing!"
I tried to turn so it would slide off, but he tutted and held it in place with the tip of a finger.
"No, no, no," he said. "This is good for you."
I wriggled and shivered and whimpered while he sent the cube on a little journey, leaving cold wet tracks across my skin. He let it glide between my breasts, then climb their slopes, circling – but never quite coming into contact with – my nipples, until the damn thing melted.
I was gasping with the cold, but he showed mercy by kissing all the places the cube had chilled, warming them back up with his fulsome lips and tongue.
I wondered if he could tell that I was ready for him now…more than ready. My clit felt ready to burst with need for his attention and I didn't need any ice cube to get me wet down there. Could he scent it? Something told me that he could.
But it didn't mean he was going to go easy on me.
Another bullet of ice materialised on my nipple, making me arch my spine and howl. He was amused by this, holding my poor throbbing bud between finger and thumb and keeping the ice cube where he wanted it. He kept it there, not moving, just until my nipple went beyond pain and into numbness, then he transferred it to the other. The expression of satisfaction on his face told me how he enjoyed watching me writhe. I didn't find it frightening. I found it intensely arousing. He was using me the way he wanted and I was willing to comply, even if it did mean purple nipples.
"I know it's cold," he whispered. "But you'll warm it up, won't you? Because you aren't cold. You're on fire."
He put his free hand between my thighs and rubbed the juicy swollen clit he found there. Yes, there was his proof. I couldn't deny what I was, what I craved.
The ice shrunk and disappeared, its existence only evidenced by the rivulets trickling down my breasts into the furrow between them.
Eberhardt put his face there and lapped up the crystal droplets, then flicked the tip of his tongue over my recovering nipples. The warmth buzzed them back into painful life. I wriggled my bottom into the buttercups as he opened his lips and sucked.
He alternated between nipples, dipping lazy fingers between my pussy lips and into my cunt at the same time. I was so close to coming from the double stimulation of being fingered and sucked simultaneously that I began to squirm. Instantly, he stopped what he was doing and smiled down at me. The sun had gone in. The leaves rustled against a stronger breath of wind.
"Oh," was all I could whisper.
"Not yet," he teased. "Naiads are very sensual little creatures, aren't they? I had no idea. I think more
ice…"
"Oh no," I moaned, but he was quick and deft and before I could clamp my legs together he was holding a cube to my clit. I kicked my legs against the acuteness of the sensation, but he rubbed slowly, up and down, then in slow circles, using his free hand to stroke and brush and pinch my nipples. I cried out and he popped a finger in my mouth, silencing me, making me suck on it. Now all I could do was hump my bottom up and down in a useless quest to free myself from my freezing invader.
"This is good," he crooned. "You are doing well." He pushed the cube inside me, where it melted almost straight away. I felt the cold fluid mingle with my own warm juices and trickle between my butt cheeks. I had never felt ruder, more ashamed or more turned on.
"Lovely," he said, shifting position and taking his finger from my mouth.
"Oh, please, not another," I pleaded, panting.
He climbed in between my knees and bent his head to my vulva, his eyes devilish as they peered up from my pubic mound.
"You don't like it?" he asked, his breath blasting my clit as he spoke.
"It's…torture," I said.
He clicked his tongue. "Awww." The expression of exaggerated sympathy ended with a little kiss on my clit. "Cold," he commented.
"Uh, yeah," I said, but sarcasm probably wasn't in order just now, when there was every chance of getting a dozen ice cubes tipped over my defenceless body.
He raised his head again, along with a finger which he wagged at me.
"You said please and asked me very nicely before, and that's the only reason I'm not reaching for another ice cube right now. But I can change my mind at any moment."
So I was to behave myself. I wanted to behave myself. This strict teacher vibe he was projecting really worked for me.
I nodded and tried to look doe-eyed.
He seemed satisfied with that, but he had more to say. "What you have to understand, Flosshilde, is that you belong to me now. I don't think any of your little water sprite friends are going to swim up to the bank to rescue you, do you?"
"I guess not."
Buy Drenched at Amazon US : Amazon UK
Justine Elyot says: "I love to write erotica and erotic romance. Elements you are likely to find in my work include: moustachioed melodrama villains, whips, wisecracks, knights in tarnished armour, damsels under duress, lovers, leather, aquiline features, references to popular songs. I massively overuse qualifiers like ‘really’, ‘quite’, ‘actually’ etc. and can’t resist the temptation to substitute long words for ‘said’. Reviewers either rave or cringe, with very little middle reactive ground (insert Marmite cliche here). Which will you do?"
Justine's website
Justine on Amazon US : Amazon UK
This week's excerpt is from The Naiad, by Justine Elyot. It's the final story in this run featuring tales from the wonderful wet-themed anthology Drenched.
"How do you feel, Naiad?" he asked.
He had put down his burden and tightened the belt of his silk robe around him. He hadn't offered one of those to me. I could do with one. The breeze was becoming more evident, especially around my nipples.
"I feel vulnerable," I said, pressing my thighs together and curling my toes.
"Vulnerable, yes, good. But are you comfortable?"
"I think so."
"Not too dry? Poor little naiad is used to the water, isn't she?"
"I suppose so." The residual drops from the jacuzzi had all slid off my skin now.
He knelt down by my side and passed his hands over my upper torso, rubbing and stroking over my breasts and collarbone and down over my stomach.
"Yes, I think so," he said, bending to kiss my navel. "Very dry. This must not be comfortable for you?"
"It's…"
But before I could continue, I let out a sharp cry.
He had reached into his picnic box and brought something out, which he placed square on my belly. It was a goddamn ice cube!
"Oh my god, that's freezing!"
I tried to turn so it would slide off, but he tutted and held it in place with the tip of a finger.
"No, no, no," he said. "This is good for you."
I wriggled and shivered and whimpered while he sent the cube on a little journey, leaving cold wet tracks across my skin. He let it glide between my breasts, then climb their slopes, circling – but never quite coming into contact with – my nipples, until the damn thing melted.
I was gasping with the cold, but he showed mercy by kissing all the places the cube had chilled, warming them back up with his fulsome lips and tongue.
I wondered if he could tell that I was ready for him now…more than ready. My clit felt ready to burst with need for his attention and I didn't need any ice cube to get me wet down there. Could he scent it? Something told me that he could.
But it didn't mean he was going to go easy on me.
Another bullet of ice materialised on my nipple, making me arch my spine and howl. He was amused by this, holding my poor throbbing bud between finger and thumb and keeping the ice cube where he wanted it. He kept it there, not moving, just until my nipple went beyond pain and into numbness, then he transferred it to the other. The expression of satisfaction on his face told me how he enjoyed watching me writhe. I didn't find it frightening. I found it intensely arousing. He was using me the way he wanted and I was willing to comply, even if it did mean purple nipples.
"I know it's cold," he whispered. "But you'll warm it up, won't you? Because you aren't cold. You're on fire."
He put his free hand between my thighs and rubbed the juicy swollen clit he found there. Yes, there was his proof. I couldn't deny what I was, what I craved.
The ice shrunk and disappeared, its existence only evidenced by the rivulets trickling down my breasts into the furrow between them.
Eberhardt put his face there and lapped up the crystal droplets, then flicked the tip of his tongue over my recovering nipples. The warmth buzzed them back into painful life. I wriggled my bottom into the buttercups as he opened his lips and sucked.
He alternated between nipples, dipping lazy fingers between my pussy lips and into my cunt at the same time. I was so close to coming from the double stimulation of being fingered and sucked simultaneously that I began to squirm. Instantly, he stopped what he was doing and smiled down at me. The sun had gone in. The leaves rustled against a stronger breath of wind.
"Oh," was all I could whisper.
"Not yet," he teased. "Naiads are very sensual little creatures, aren't they? I had no idea. I think more
ice…"
"Oh no," I moaned, but he was quick and deft and before I could clamp my legs together he was holding a cube to my clit. I kicked my legs against the acuteness of the sensation, but he rubbed slowly, up and down, then in slow circles, using his free hand to stroke and brush and pinch my nipples. I cried out and he popped a finger in my mouth, silencing me, making me suck on it. Now all I could do was hump my bottom up and down in a useless quest to free myself from my freezing invader.
"This is good," he crooned. "You are doing well." He pushed the cube inside me, where it melted almost straight away. I felt the cold fluid mingle with my own warm juices and trickle between my butt cheeks. I had never felt ruder, more ashamed or more turned on.
"Lovely," he said, shifting position and taking his finger from my mouth.
"Oh, please, not another," I pleaded, panting.
He climbed in between my knees and bent his head to my vulva, his eyes devilish as they peered up from my pubic mound.
"You don't like it?" he asked, his breath blasting my clit as he spoke.
"It's…torture," I said.
He clicked his tongue. "Awww." The expression of exaggerated sympathy ended with a little kiss on my clit. "Cold," he commented.
"Uh, yeah," I said, but sarcasm probably wasn't in order just now, when there was every chance of getting a dozen ice cubes tipped over my defenceless body.
He raised his head again, along with a finger which he wagged at me.
"You said please and asked me very nicely before, and that's the only reason I'm not reaching for another ice cube right now. But I can change my mind at any moment."
So I was to behave myself. I wanted to behave myself. This strict teacher vibe he was projecting really worked for me.
I nodded and tried to look doe-eyed.
He seemed satisfied with that, but he had more to say. "What you have to understand, Flosshilde, is that you belong to me now. I don't think any of your little water sprite friends are going to swim up to the bank to rescue you, do you?"
"I guess not."
Buy Drenched at Amazon US : Amazon UK
Justine Elyot says: "I love to write erotica and erotic romance. Elements you are likely to find in my work include: moustachioed melodrama villains, whips, wisecracks, knights in tarnished armour, damsels under duress, lovers, leather, aquiline features, references to popular songs. I massively overuse qualifiers like ‘really’, ‘quite’, ‘actually’ etc. and can’t resist the temptation to substitute long words for ‘said’. Reviewers either rave or cringe, with very little middle reactive ground (insert Marmite cliche here). Which will you do?"
Justine's website
Justine on Amazon US : Amazon UK
August 2, 2015
Sheep for smutwriters
Heh. There's a Shaun the Sheep trail in Bristol this summer :-D
July 31, 2015
A bad case of nerves
Ever get so keyed-up you just feel like falling asleep? ;-)
Saint George Hare: The Victory of Faith, 1890
Saint George Hare (1857-1933, and wow what a name!) was one of those pious artists who enjoyed painting sexy ladies in chains, but NOT IN A DIRTY WAY AT ALL because it was all about history and religion and purity and was, like, totally uplifting and spiritual. Heh.
This is actually one of the slides I'll be featuring in my presentation on Sunday at Eroticon 2015. My presentation will also be uplifting and spiritually nourishing, I promise.
Trust me, I'm a smutwriter ;-)
Saint George Hare: The Victory of Faith, 1890
Saint George Hare (1857-1933, and wow what a name!) was one of those pious artists who enjoyed painting sexy ladies in chains, but NOT IN A DIRTY WAY AT ALL because it was all about history and religion and purity and was, like, totally uplifting and spiritual. Heh.
This is actually one of the slides I'll be featuring in my presentation on Sunday at Eroticon 2015. My presentation will also be uplifting and spiritually nourishing, I promise.
Trust me, I'm a smutwriter ;-)
July 29, 2015
Janine Ashbless Eroticon 2015 meet and greet
Wooohoooh! I'm off to Eroticon 2015 this weekend, and more excited even than usual because this year I'm actually on the schedule - I'm doing a presentation on Writing Fantasy and Fairy Tale Erotica on the Sunday :-D
Also I love that it takes place in Bristol, which is a beautiful city, and I love meeting up with all my comrades-in-arms, old and new. It's really interesting hearing from sex-bloggers and people who work in forms of erotica other than printed fiction (we've got visualisation therapists and photographers and everything).
This blog post is my official online meet-and-greet, and if you want to see others just pop over to Molly Moore's place because she is hosting for everyone who wants to take part.
So "Hi, everyone" :-)
NAME: Janine Ashbless
(I don't do Twitter... there aren't enough hours in the day as it is.)
Is this your first time at Eroticon? If No, what is your favourite memory from a previous Eroticon and if Yes, what are you most looking forward to at Eroticon 2015?
It's not my first, as I've been to all the British events. My memories are overwhelmingly positive - I was absolutely bowled over the first time by the professionalism, amazing level of organisation and the sense of community. (Also how exhausting it is!)
I had a particularly great time last year because I shared a room with my friend Vida Baily and we did all the sitting-up-late-eating-chocolates-and-chatting stuff . I'll miss her so much this year!
Which 3 sessions have you already earmarked as definitely going to?
The schedule is always the hardest part of the weekend - what to see when you want to go to everything? The mixture of inspiration and good solid practical advice can't be beat. But I'm keen to attend the sessions on Writing Jouissance: Pleasure Pain and Madness, Cover me - a guide to cover art, and Self-Publishing .
What drink will you be ordering at the bar on the Saturday night?
It's going to be gin-and tonic. I don't want it to stain if/when I drop it all over my nice dress ;-)
If you wrote an autobiography what would it be called?
"It Has to Have to a Human Head!"
(That's what my first editor told me, in despair at some of my wilder imaginings. He was so so WRONG.).
Where are you writing this post and what 5 things can you see around you (not including the device you are writing on)?
I am sitting at my desk in my study. Amidst all the mess I can see...
One of those weird head-massager thingiesMy writer award from Jade magazineA sleeping greyhoundA plushie of Great CthulhuA Leonidas 300 action figure
If you could go out to dinner with any 5 sex bloggers or erotic writers, regardless of whether they are coming to Eroticon or not who would they be?
Jeez, are you trying to get me in trouble with everyone else at the conference? I'm happy to go out to dinner with any five erotica writers because YOU ARE ALL WONDERFUL!
(... Okay, I'd like to sit and listen to any group that had Remittance Girl and/or Saranna DeWylde and/or Cameryn Moore in it, because they are all kick-ass take-no-prisoners scary in their different ways, and I LOVE that.)
Okay, it's time to go and get packed for the weekend - I hope to see lots and lots of you in a few days' time!
