Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 73
July 27, 2015
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
Since I've been thinking hard about fairy tales for next weekend's Eroticon, this week's excerpt is from Sleep Tight, my take on the Sleeping Beauty story. It appeared in the anthology Fairy Tale Lust.
And on the bed there’s a body.
In a split second my own body goes from too hot to so cold I’m frozen in place. I feel the gather of sweat at the small of my back form a slow trickle that slides down under the waistband of my jeans like a chilled fingertip.
It’s a body. I can make that out clearly; it’s pale against the dark bedding. Slim. A woman or a kid. My head swims. All I can think, bizarrely, is that I’ve been drinking out of a tap in a room with a corpse. Why the hell didn’t I notice it? How come I didn’t smell the thing?
Because there is no smell. There’s no hint of an odour, except the faintest smell of wild roses and wet stone. I look back to the kitchen door and the hall beyond. My mobile is locked up in the van. I’m going to have to call the police. And then tell them why I was in here to find the corpse. The day’s just turned to shite.
I need to be sure. I’m having problems believing even my own eyes in this light. Inch by inch I shuffle across the flagstones, holding my breath, until I’m close enough to get a proper look.
It’s a young woman. She looks perfect. Her hands are resting neatly on her torso about at the level of her diaphragm. Her bare toes point at the ceiling. Her head floats in a sea of long dark hair and she has dark brows. I can’t begin to guess what she’s doing laid out in the kitchen of a deserted house. How long has she been left here?
Then I see the soft rise and fall of her breastbone, and I realise she’s not dead after all, and the relief is so immense I feel drunk.
‘Ah – Hello?’ My voice is hoarse. And I wonder: what’s she doing sleeping in this place? If she’s a squatter, how on earth did she get in? The only means of entrance I can imagine involves a helicopter and a skylight. ‘Hello?’
She doesn’t stir. I edge closer. Before I reach out I make very very sure that I can see her breathing, that it wasn’t just a trick of my eyes. She’s wearing a long dress of grey lace which doesn’t really hide that much of the pale body beneath. I can see the peaceful expression on her pointed little face. I can see the curves of her waist and hips and thighs. I can see her breasts, flattened a little by gravity but embarrassingly distracting still. They rise and fall slowly and for a moment I’m mesmerised. Black and sticky thoughts crawl in my skull before I shrug them off.
Gingerly I touch her shoulder. ‘Hey?’
No response. Her flesh feels cool but not cold.
Stoned, I think. Or drunk. She’d have heard me otherwise. Grasping the curve of her shoulder more firmly, I give her a little shake. ‘You okay?’
She doesn’t answer. All that happens is that her breathing deepens audibly, and the lace catches on my callused hand and shreds as I lift it. The lace is actually rotten: the threads fall almost into dust. I blink stupidly. Then I reach over to take her by both shoulders and I shake her harder, lifting her an inch from her bed. She falls back upon the dark velvet coverlet with a sigh, and as I withdraw I somehow manage to snag the garment across her breast and tear it open; it offers no more resistance than cobweb.
Fuck, I think witlessly. And I see that where the fabric has pulled and torn across the sweet pale curve of her right breast, her nipple has responded to the stimulus. As I watch, it hardens visibly, rising like a pale pink bud from its areola. I watch as my fingers steal back to brush that swelling mound and it stiffens to dimples.
My head is spinning. This is all like a dream. It can’t be real. There can’t be a young woman asleep in a house that’s been locked up for ten years. She can’t be impossible to wake. I can’t be watching my fingertips touch her - softly, so softly - so that the cushion of her breast is topped by a flushed pearl. I can’t be hearing a gentle moan in her throat.
For a moment I think she’s woken, and I withdraw my hand an inch. She arches a little as if in pursuit of my touch, her breasts rising. Then she relaxes with a ghostly whimper of loss.
It’s like a dream, or a story. An old, familiar story. I moisten my dry lips, knowing what I need to do. Gently I sit on the bed and I lean forward to kiss her. She has full, provocative lips for such otherwise delicate features. They feel cool under mine.
But all she does is smile in her sleep, faintly.
A second time I bend to kiss her, and this time I cup both her breasts, feeling their soft mounds yield beneath my hot hands. She’s as cool as earth and as velvety as a flower petal and she tastes of rosewater. I tug at her nipples until they’re both stiff like beads. I hear her whimper.
Then I sit back. Nothing has changed: her eyes are still shut, their dark lashes etched on her pale cheeks. I’m awash with confusion and shame and arousal. Under my jeans my cock is kicking angrily at its confines, swollen with selfish need. Her pale breasts shine through the shreds of her garment like moons rising through cloud. Without letting myself think I run a fingertip down the length of her body, tearing a furrow through the old grey lace. If it’s so fragile, a part of my mind asks, how did she put it on? - but I ignore the question. She’s just too much of a temptation. I reach the slight swell of her pubic mound and slid my fingers under and through the lace, cupping her.
She’s hairless, peachy, as soft and cool as mounded flour. No stubble. Just velvet petals of flesh hiding a liquid heart, and as I squeeze softly her hips tilt, pushing her sex up against my fingers. Her head tilts back a little and her lips part as she breathes a hungry moan. I nod as if answering a question and curve my fingers in, searching deeper. She’s wet, though surprisingly cool still. I can smell the intoxicating sharp musk of her sex now. It’s on my fingers. My fingers are stroking up and down that furrow, finding the source of the wet, finding the stud of her clit.
This girl’s body, the stretch of her throat as she tilts her head back and the sharp rise of her breasts, the satin slipperiness under my hand – they’re all that count in this twilit dream. She’s extraordinarily responsive to my touch, as if she’s waited a hundred years for this. Maybe she has. I can see the shudder of her hips, the tautness of her flat belly as I stroke her, a single finger making her dance. I can see her fingers flex and pull at her own flesh. But she doesn’t open her eyes, her questing is blind. She needs me. She needs the hand that’s working between her thighs.
She’s close to coming.
And my other hand goes to uncinch my belt buckle, to unzip, to reach into my jeans. My cock bounces free, scorching hot against my palm. I’m aching for release. I swear I only mean to touch myself, to jack off as I watch her climax. But without thinking I find myself climbing on the bed, kneeling over her, parting those slim thighs without regard to the tearing of the lace, slipping into that wet furrow like into a pool of clear water, quenching my burning cock in her cool grip. She’s exquisite. My thrusts are deep but slow as, dream-dizzy, I savour each moment and each move.
I feel her arch beneath me, and I hear her plaintive little moans turn to gasps. I feel the shift of her hips as she lifts her legs and digs her heels into my ass, pulling me in deeper. Her arms furl about my neck. And then I start to ride her faster as the lead in my balls turns molten and starts to rise, as that tight grip clenches and I hear the unmistakable quivering cry of her orgasm.
She opens her eyes and smiles at me.
Buy Fairy Tale Lust at
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play
Since I've been thinking hard about fairy tales for next weekend's Eroticon, this week's excerpt is from Sleep Tight, my take on the Sleeping Beauty story. It appeared in the anthology Fairy Tale Lust.
And on the bed there’s a body.
In a split second my own body goes from too hot to so cold I’m frozen in place. I feel the gather of sweat at the small of my back form a slow trickle that slides down under the waistband of my jeans like a chilled fingertip.
It’s a body. I can make that out clearly; it’s pale against the dark bedding. Slim. A woman or a kid. My head swims. All I can think, bizarrely, is that I’ve been drinking out of a tap in a room with a corpse. Why the hell didn’t I notice it? How come I didn’t smell the thing?
Because there is no smell. There’s no hint of an odour, except the faintest smell of wild roses and wet stone. I look back to the kitchen door and the hall beyond. My mobile is locked up in the van. I’m going to have to call the police. And then tell them why I was in here to find the corpse. The day’s just turned to shite.
I need to be sure. I’m having problems believing even my own eyes in this light. Inch by inch I shuffle across the flagstones, holding my breath, until I’m close enough to get a proper look.
It’s a young woman. She looks perfect. Her hands are resting neatly on her torso about at the level of her diaphragm. Her bare toes point at the ceiling. Her head floats in a sea of long dark hair and she has dark brows. I can’t begin to guess what she’s doing laid out in the kitchen of a deserted house. How long has she been left here?
Then I see the soft rise and fall of her breastbone, and I realise she’s not dead after all, and the relief is so immense I feel drunk.
‘Ah – Hello?’ My voice is hoarse. And I wonder: what’s she doing sleeping in this place? If she’s a squatter, how on earth did she get in? The only means of entrance I can imagine involves a helicopter and a skylight. ‘Hello?’
She doesn’t stir. I edge closer. Before I reach out I make very very sure that I can see her breathing, that it wasn’t just a trick of my eyes. She’s wearing a long dress of grey lace which doesn’t really hide that much of the pale body beneath. I can see the peaceful expression on her pointed little face. I can see the curves of her waist and hips and thighs. I can see her breasts, flattened a little by gravity but embarrassingly distracting still. They rise and fall slowly and for a moment I’m mesmerised. Black and sticky thoughts crawl in my skull before I shrug them off.
Gingerly I touch her shoulder. ‘Hey?’
No response. Her flesh feels cool but not cold.
Stoned, I think. Or drunk. She’d have heard me otherwise. Grasping the curve of her shoulder more firmly, I give her a little shake. ‘You okay?’
She doesn’t answer. All that happens is that her breathing deepens audibly, and the lace catches on my callused hand and shreds as I lift it. The lace is actually rotten: the threads fall almost into dust. I blink stupidly. Then I reach over to take her by both shoulders and I shake her harder, lifting her an inch from her bed. She falls back upon the dark velvet coverlet with a sigh, and as I withdraw I somehow manage to snag the garment across her breast and tear it open; it offers no more resistance than cobweb.
Fuck, I think witlessly. And I see that where the fabric has pulled and torn across the sweet pale curve of her right breast, her nipple has responded to the stimulus. As I watch, it hardens visibly, rising like a pale pink bud from its areola. I watch as my fingers steal back to brush that swelling mound and it stiffens to dimples.
My head is spinning. This is all like a dream. It can’t be real. There can’t be a young woman asleep in a house that’s been locked up for ten years. She can’t be impossible to wake. I can’t be watching my fingertips touch her - softly, so softly - so that the cushion of her breast is topped by a flushed pearl. I can’t be hearing a gentle moan in her throat.
For a moment I think she’s woken, and I withdraw my hand an inch. She arches a little as if in pursuit of my touch, her breasts rising. Then she relaxes with a ghostly whimper of loss.
It’s like a dream, or a story. An old, familiar story. I moisten my dry lips, knowing what I need to do. Gently I sit on the bed and I lean forward to kiss her. She has full, provocative lips for such otherwise delicate features. They feel cool under mine.
But all she does is smile in her sleep, faintly.
A second time I bend to kiss her, and this time I cup both her breasts, feeling their soft mounds yield beneath my hot hands. She’s as cool as earth and as velvety as a flower petal and she tastes of rosewater. I tug at her nipples until they’re both stiff like beads. I hear her whimper.
Then I sit back. Nothing has changed: her eyes are still shut, their dark lashes etched on her pale cheeks. I’m awash with confusion and shame and arousal. Under my jeans my cock is kicking angrily at its confines, swollen with selfish need. Her pale breasts shine through the shreds of her garment like moons rising through cloud. Without letting myself think I run a fingertip down the length of her body, tearing a furrow through the old grey lace. If it’s so fragile, a part of my mind asks, how did she put it on? - but I ignore the question. She’s just too much of a temptation. I reach the slight swell of her pubic mound and slid my fingers under and through the lace, cupping her.
She’s hairless, peachy, as soft and cool as mounded flour. No stubble. Just velvet petals of flesh hiding a liquid heart, and as I squeeze softly her hips tilt, pushing her sex up against my fingers. Her head tilts back a little and her lips part as she breathes a hungry moan. I nod as if answering a question and curve my fingers in, searching deeper. She’s wet, though surprisingly cool still. I can smell the intoxicating sharp musk of her sex now. It’s on my fingers. My fingers are stroking up and down that furrow, finding the source of the wet, finding the stud of her clit.
This girl’s body, the stretch of her throat as she tilts her head back and the sharp rise of her breasts, the satin slipperiness under my hand – they’re all that count in this twilit dream. She’s extraordinarily responsive to my touch, as if she’s waited a hundred years for this. Maybe she has. I can see the shudder of her hips, the tautness of her flat belly as I stroke her, a single finger making her dance. I can see her fingers flex and pull at her own flesh. But she doesn’t open her eyes, her questing is blind. She needs me. She needs the hand that’s working between her thighs.
She’s close to coming.
And my other hand goes to uncinch my belt buckle, to unzip, to reach into my jeans. My cock bounces free, scorching hot against my palm. I’m aching for release. I swear I only mean to touch myself, to jack off as I watch her climax. But without thinking I find myself climbing on the bed, kneeling over her, parting those slim thighs without regard to the tearing of the lace, slipping into that wet furrow like into a pool of clear water, quenching my burning cock in her cool grip. She’s exquisite. My thrusts are deep but slow as, dream-dizzy, I savour each moment and each move.
I feel her arch beneath me, and I hear her plaintive little moans turn to gasps. I feel the shift of her hips as she lifts her legs and digs her heels into my ass, pulling me in deeper. Her arms furl about my neck. And then I start to ride her faster as the lead in my balls turns molten and starts to rise, as that tight grip clenches and I hear the unmistakable quivering cry of her orgasm.
She opens her eyes and smiles at me.
Buy Fairy Tale Lust at
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play
July 26, 2015
July 24, 2015
How do I love PowerPoint? - let me count the ways
I LOVE POWERPOINT.
No seriously, I do. It is the only thing Microsoft have ever created that is intuitive to use and does more or less exactly what you hope it's going to do when you try something new. Import a picture? - click on the picture icon. Picture's the wrong size and in the wrong place? - just drag it around until it looks right.
Why can't they do this with all their pissy software, heh?
Clearly someone had a moment of clarity where they thought, "No, heck, let's make it easy for people who aren't software engineers like us, and don't like learning new tech, and don't want to spend time and/or money on a tutorial course!"
...
I think I just answered my own question....
Anyway, I've been working very happily on my presentation for Eroticon 2015. I'm mostly trying to find ways of say controversial things concisely and yet without goading people to tear me a new asshole on the internet.
You didn't think "fantasy and fairy tale" could be controversial? Oh, you sweet summer child ...
Do join us!
July 22, 2015
Art appreciation
If you're ever in a gallery of ancient art in some foreign city ... I'm the one wandering around taking pictures of all the scrota.
The famous Barberini Faun
He is a faun - he has a tail!Scrota both Classical and Archaic:
But wait - I have range - I do bums too!
And here's another faun / satyr, twisting round to look at his own bum.
I'm told travel broadens the mind :-)
July 20, 2015
Blue Monday - Lisette Ashton guests
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
This week's excerpt is from Hard to Swallow, by Lisette Ashton. It is another of the stories in the wet-themed anthology Drenched , which I'm showcasing over this month.
There was a small reception area outside Stern’s office. Two people waited there beneath the watchful eye of Stern’s dour-faced personal receptionist. Addison recognised William Daye as one of the station’s more successful presenters. He was tall and darkly attractive in a bland-James-Bond fashion. The woman sitting away from Daye, huddled alone in a corner of Stern’s reception, was Lydia Knight.
When she first saw the woman that morning, Addison had thought Knight looked overly glamorous for a woman who was in a recording studio presenting an unseen radio show. It surprised her that Lydia wasn’t sitting closer to Daye as she had assumed the two presenters were friends as well as co-hosts on the afternoon show, Daye and Knight.
Lydia, it seemed, was sitting away from Daye because she was preoccupied.
She sat in a corner of the room. Her gaze was lowered and her ankles were crossed. She had the base of a pale green bottle of mineral water pressed between the tops of her thighs. Unconsciously, and seeming unmindful of anyone else seeing what she was doing, Lydia rocked the bottle back and forth against her crotch.
Addison held her breath. She wanted to watch the woman more closely. She wanted to see what was going on. She had never before encountered anything so-
“May I help you?”
Addison glanced up to see that Stern’s dour-faced receptionist was addressing her. The woman’s words cut through whatever thoughts she had been forming about the peculiarity of Lydia’s actions.
“Addison,” she explained. “I’m here to see Mr. Stern.”
“From main reception?”
She nodded.
“Go and sit in that corner and drink your water.”
Addison frowned and tried to think how she was supposed to respond to such an unprecedented command. She started to say something, then realised the words would likely land her in more trouble than she currently needed.
“I’m here to see Mr. Stern,” she repeated, wondering if there had been some confusion. “He just called down and-”
“Go and sit in that corner and drink your water,” the receptionist repeated, pointing. “I shall inform Mr. Stern that you’re waiting. He will see you when he has time to see you.”
The woman scowled at Addison and then turned her gaze away. Addison could see an earpiece trailing from the receptionist’s ear and when the receptionist began speaking again, Addison knew she was no longer part of the conversation.
Daye flashed her a sympathetic smile. His shrug said that he didn’t quite understand the receptionist’s rudeness. And the shifting of his gaze, and his exaggerated pretence at suddenly seeing something interesting in his magazine, said he had no intention of discussing the matter.
Knight seemed oblivious to everything around her as Addison took a chair in a facing corner. It was impossible not to watch as Knight rolled the base of her water bottle against her crotch. The woman’s eyes were closed with lurid concentration but her jaw hung half-open. She occasionally released soft, moaning sounds that were obscenely reminiscent of orgasm.
Addison didn’t know whether to be intrigued or repulsed.
The sound of Stern’s office door opening snatched her attention away. She looked up in time to see the receptionist tell William Daye, “Mr. Stern will see you now.”
As the receptionist spoke to Daye, Zoe flounced out of Stern’s office. Zoe stormed over to where Addison sat and pointed a finger down at her. Her cheeks were flushed with twin spots of matching color. Her nipples stood hard against the smooth fabric of the blouse beneath her little black Chanel jacket. There was a spreading damp stain on the crotch of her cranberry chinos.
Addison tried not to gape.
“Let me give you a word of fucking advice,” Zoe growled.
Addison flinched, expecting a tirade similar to the one Zoe had inflicted on Tony. Instead of an outpouring of bile and fury, the woman simply puckered her lips into a scowl and said, “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.”
Then she was gone. Addison was left alone in Stern’s reception with Stern’s receptionist, Lydia Knight, and her own bottle of mineral water.
“Jesus,” Addison muttered. “Is that scary bitch incontinent? Or does she just cream herself from stamping on everyone below her?”
“She’s not incontinent,” Lydia muttered. “She’s just humiliated.”
Addison glanced at Lydia. The woman hadn’t opened her eyes. She still sat with her legs slightly apart, the bottle of mineral water pressed firmly against her crotch, her chest rising and falling with symptoms that looked as though she was in the throes of a near-orgasmic release.
“She’s just humiliated,” Lydia repeated.
“Excuse me?”
“Drink your water,” Lydia said. “Stern will have expected you to have done that much when you’re summoned.”
“What’s going on here?” Addison asked. “What am I missing?”
“You’re not missing anything.”
Lydia’s bottle continued to rock back and forth. The motion was slow, deliberate and consistent with its rhythm. She continued until her entire body stiffened. The shock of stiffness was followed by a small, trembling shiver. Then she took a long, drawling breath that sounded lewdly similar to an orgasmic sigh. Finally, Lydia opened her eyes. She studied Addison with a solemn appraisal that was almost too intense.
Addison allowed the woman to look, still trying to work out whether this was uncommonly bizarre behavior, or if it fitted with everything else she had so far experienced at the radio station.
“Drink your water,” Lydia urged. She closed her eyes. “That’ll be for the best.”
“
You two aren’t talking, are you?” called the receptionist.
Lydia said nothing. She continued to rock back and forth.
Addison decided it would be best if she didn’t respond. She didn’t think she would be able to say anything constructive as a reply to such a school-mistress-type question. Unless she watched every syllable she muttered for the rest of the afternoon, Addison knew she was in serious danger of saying something irrevocable and career-killing on her first day with the radio station.
“I’m sure you both know that Mr. Stern doesn’t allow talking whilst you’re waiting,” the receptionist called.
Addison had known no such thing. The rule sounded positively draconian. She settled back in her chair and wondered if she should simply give up on the idea of becoming a radio presenter. Admittedly, the goal of becoming a radio presenter was a long-cherished ambition. But it seemed that the goal of being a radio presenter at this station came at the cost of dignity and respect.
“Yes,” Lydia sighed.
The word roused Addison from her musings. She turned and glanced at the woman. Lydia had the base of the bottle of mineral pressed so hard against her sex it looked like beads of pressured-perspiration were sliding down the sides of the plastic. Her eyes were closed but the lids fluttered as though she was in the throes of euphoria.
“Yes,” Lydia repeated.
Addison tore her gaze away. Was Lydia really getting herself off? Was that acceptable public behavior anywhere? Had no one else in the radio station noticed? And why was Lydia’s arousal so frighteningly contagious? Addison could taste the electric excitement in the air. Her entire body throbbed as though she was yearning to share some of the woman’s infectious sexual enthusiasm.
“Are you…?”
Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t think how to broach the subject without sounding voyeuristic, challenging or judgemental. Lydia hadn’t bothered to open her eyes and Addison was happy to convince herself that the woman hadn’t heard her question.
“Never mind,” she said quietly.
“Drink your water,” Lydia whispered. “And let me finish what I have to do.”
Drenched at Amazon US : Amazon UK
Lisette Ashton on Amazon US : Amazon UK : Goodreads
This week's excerpt is from Hard to Swallow, by Lisette Ashton. It is another of the stories in the wet-themed anthology Drenched , which I'm showcasing over this month.
There was a small reception area outside Stern’s office. Two people waited there beneath the watchful eye of Stern’s dour-faced personal receptionist. Addison recognised William Daye as one of the station’s more successful presenters. He was tall and darkly attractive in a bland-James-Bond fashion. The woman sitting away from Daye, huddled alone in a corner of Stern’s reception, was Lydia Knight.
When she first saw the woman that morning, Addison had thought Knight looked overly glamorous for a woman who was in a recording studio presenting an unseen radio show. It surprised her that Lydia wasn’t sitting closer to Daye as she had assumed the two presenters were friends as well as co-hosts on the afternoon show, Daye and Knight.
Lydia, it seemed, was sitting away from Daye because she was preoccupied.
She sat in a corner of the room. Her gaze was lowered and her ankles were crossed. She had the base of a pale green bottle of mineral water pressed between the tops of her thighs. Unconsciously, and seeming unmindful of anyone else seeing what she was doing, Lydia rocked the bottle back and forth against her crotch.
Addison held her breath. She wanted to watch the woman more closely. She wanted to see what was going on. She had never before encountered anything so-
“May I help you?”
Addison glanced up to see that Stern’s dour-faced receptionist was addressing her. The woman’s words cut through whatever thoughts she had been forming about the peculiarity of Lydia’s actions.
“Addison,” she explained. “I’m here to see Mr. Stern.”
“From main reception?”
She nodded.
“Go and sit in that corner and drink your water.”
Addison frowned and tried to think how she was supposed to respond to such an unprecedented command. She started to say something, then realised the words would likely land her in more trouble than she currently needed.
“I’m here to see Mr. Stern,” she repeated, wondering if there had been some confusion. “He just called down and-”
“Go and sit in that corner and drink your water,” the receptionist repeated, pointing. “I shall inform Mr. Stern that you’re waiting. He will see you when he has time to see you.”
The woman scowled at Addison and then turned her gaze away. Addison could see an earpiece trailing from the receptionist’s ear and when the receptionist began speaking again, Addison knew she was no longer part of the conversation.
Daye flashed her a sympathetic smile. His shrug said that he didn’t quite understand the receptionist’s rudeness. And the shifting of his gaze, and his exaggerated pretence at suddenly seeing something interesting in his magazine, said he had no intention of discussing the matter.
Knight seemed oblivious to everything around her as Addison took a chair in a facing corner. It was impossible not to watch as Knight rolled the base of her water bottle against her crotch. The woman’s eyes were closed with lurid concentration but her jaw hung half-open. She occasionally released soft, moaning sounds that were obscenely reminiscent of orgasm.
Addison didn’t know whether to be intrigued or repulsed.
The sound of Stern’s office door opening snatched her attention away. She looked up in time to see the receptionist tell William Daye, “Mr. Stern will see you now.”
As the receptionist spoke to Daye, Zoe flounced out of Stern’s office. Zoe stormed over to where Addison sat and pointed a finger down at her. Her cheeks were flushed with twin spots of matching color. Her nipples stood hard against the smooth fabric of the blouse beneath her little black Chanel jacket. There was a spreading damp stain on the crotch of her cranberry chinos.
Addison tried not to gape.
“Let me give you a word of fucking advice,” Zoe growled.
Addison flinched, expecting a tirade similar to the one Zoe had inflicted on Tony. Instead of an outpouring of bile and fury, the woman simply puckered her lips into a scowl and said, “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.”
Then she was gone. Addison was left alone in Stern’s reception with Stern’s receptionist, Lydia Knight, and her own bottle of mineral water.
“Jesus,” Addison muttered. “Is that scary bitch incontinent? Or does she just cream herself from stamping on everyone below her?”
“She’s not incontinent,” Lydia muttered. “She’s just humiliated.”
Addison glanced at Lydia. The woman hadn’t opened her eyes. She still sat with her legs slightly apart, the bottle of mineral water pressed firmly against her crotch, her chest rising and falling with symptoms that looked as though she was in the throes of a near-orgasmic release.
“She’s just humiliated,” Lydia repeated.
“Excuse me?”
“Drink your water,” Lydia said. “Stern will have expected you to have done that much when you’re summoned.”
“What’s going on here?” Addison asked. “What am I missing?”
“You’re not missing anything.”
Lydia’s bottle continued to rock back and forth. The motion was slow, deliberate and consistent with its rhythm. She continued until her entire body stiffened. The shock of stiffness was followed by a small, trembling shiver. Then she took a long, drawling breath that sounded lewdly similar to an orgasmic sigh. Finally, Lydia opened her eyes. She studied Addison with a solemn appraisal that was almost too intense.
Addison allowed the woman to look, still trying to work out whether this was uncommonly bizarre behavior, or if it fitted with everything else she had so far experienced at the radio station.
“Drink your water,” Lydia urged. She closed her eyes. “That’ll be for the best.”
“
You two aren’t talking, are you?” called the receptionist.
Lydia said nothing. She continued to rock back and forth.
Addison decided it would be best if she didn’t respond. She didn’t think she would be able to say anything constructive as a reply to such a school-mistress-type question. Unless she watched every syllable she muttered for the rest of the afternoon, Addison knew she was in serious danger of saying something irrevocable and career-killing on her first day with the radio station.
“I’m sure you both know that Mr. Stern doesn’t allow talking whilst you’re waiting,” the receptionist called.
Addison had known no such thing. The rule sounded positively draconian. She settled back in her chair and wondered if she should simply give up on the idea of becoming a radio presenter. Admittedly, the goal of becoming a radio presenter was a long-cherished ambition. But it seemed that the goal of being a radio presenter at this station came at the cost of dignity and respect.
“Yes,” Lydia sighed.
The word roused Addison from her musings. She turned and glanced at the woman. Lydia had the base of the bottle of mineral pressed so hard against her sex it looked like beads of pressured-perspiration were sliding down the sides of the plastic. Her eyes were closed but the lids fluttered as though she was in the throes of euphoria.
“Yes,” Lydia repeated.
Addison tore her gaze away. Was Lydia really getting herself off? Was that acceptable public behavior anywhere? Had no one else in the radio station noticed? And why was Lydia’s arousal so frighteningly contagious? Addison could taste the electric excitement in the air. Her entire body throbbed as though she was yearning to share some of the woman’s infectious sexual enthusiasm.
“Are you…?”
Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t think how to broach the subject without sounding voyeuristic, challenging or judgemental. Lydia hadn’t bothered to open her eyes and Addison was happy to convince herself that the woman hadn’t heard her question.
“Never mind,” she said quietly.
“Drink your water,” Lydia whispered. “And let me finish what I have to do.”
Drenched at Amazon US : Amazon UK
Lisette Ashton on Amazon US : Amazon UK : Goodreads
July 18, 2015
Return of the mojo
My writing muse has strolled back into town - the bitch. She has been nowhere to be found for the best part of a year now (apparently having thrown a huge sulk at being set aside while I was doing publicity for my last two novels), but I rediscovered her in Munich last weekend.
She hasn't even offered an apology.
This is a Roman mosaic (200 CE) in the Glyptothek, Munich's ancient sculpture collection. It depicts the Wheel of the Year, which is also the subject of my Lover's Wheel quartet. The woman lying down is Tellus, the Earth, whilst the standing gentleman is Aion, or Eternity. Their children are the four seasons - Spring (with flower garland), Summer (wheat). Autumn (fruit) and Winter (the one actually wearing some warm clothes).
Since getting home I've written a powerpoint presentation for the upcoming Eroticon AND a chunk more of Falling Deep , which is part two of the LW quartet. I have a big plot-knot to unravel (that process will involve some loooooong showers and some poking about in the dark corners of Wikipedia) but once I know what's happening there I'll be in the homeward stretch.
I'm cautiously optimistic about my writing prospects in the foreseeable future, which believe me is more than I could have said in June :-)
Just as long as I don't scare that goddamn motherfucking bitch of a muse away...
She hasn't even offered an apology.
This is a Roman mosaic (200 CE) in the Glyptothek, Munich's ancient sculpture collection. It depicts the Wheel of the Year, which is also the subject of my Lover's Wheel quartet. The woman lying down is Tellus, the Earth, whilst the standing gentleman is Aion, or Eternity. Their children are the four seasons - Spring (with flower garland), Summer (wheat). Autumn (fruit) and Winter (the one actually wearing some warm clothes).
Since getting home I've written a powerpoint presentation for the upcoming Eroticon AND a chunk more of Falling Deep , which is part two of the LW quartet. I have a big plot-knot to unravel (that process will involve some loooooong showers and some poking about in the dark corners of Wikipedia) but once I know what's happening there I'll be in the homeward stretch.
I'm cautiously optimistic about my writing prospects in the foreseeable future, which believe me is more than I could have said in June :-)
Just as long as I don't scare that goddamn motherfucking bitch of a muse away...
July 16, 2015
Magic Mike XXL
I've just got back out from a girly cinema night watching Magic Mike XXL.
Now let's be honest - this is the reason I went:
Although I was - embarrassingly - the only one in the audience to laugh out loud when he stomped in complaining about "Twilight ... all that vampire bullshit!"Anyway, I just wanted to say it was a better movie than I'd expected. (I haven't seen the prequel, to be clear.) It wasn't the dumb comedy I'd anticipated, although it certainly was funny in many parts; it's a character-driven road movie with dance set pieces. It does NOT have a standard romantic arc, even though you think it's going to. And, rather to my bemusement, it's so pro-female-sexual-agency that it has to rate as the most polemically feminist movie I've seen in years (including trans women, larger women and not-heterosexual women). In fact the nicest thing about it was that it was so much about female enjoyment, and how much the guys loved that.
Okay, so there were other nice things about it too... :-)
I had to look up what Mollies are, though. It's Ecstacy, in old money.
July 14, 2015
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
Since I've been all about the statues this last couple of weeks, I've been reminded of my short story Sacrifices, which appeared in my first collection, Cruel Enchantment. It was the first (but not the last) story that I wrote about Medusa. In this story, as a minor goddess, she is capable of going unseen by mortals when she wishes - and she likes to spy ...
One of my poor victims can be found in a grove of cypresses by the river, not far from the royal palace of their little king, and it is often visited by the womenfolk when they come to do their laundry. I have forgotten his name, or even if he ever told it to me. He is old; his upturned face has worn away a little, blunting his nose and smoothing his hair. He kneels, knees braced apart, hands splayed on his thighs. There is a bare patch of earth about him where the women of the town have walked. His phallus rises straight as a spear, white as the moon. It too has been worn by much touching and anointing. It is slender and smooth; not ugly or massive enough to frighten a virgin, but quite virile enough to bring a flush to her cheeks.
The handmaidens of the royal entourage giggled and sighed and hid their faces in modest hands at the sight of such a shocking thing. Then without exception they came forward to touch him, and to pay their respects. Some were nervous and only stroked his shoulder, some tickled his straining member teasingly. One of the older ones, greatly daring, fondled his hard pouch and kissed his unyielding lips before swaggering away, swinging her hips for the benefit of her companions.
The king's daughter stood watching these flirtations. Her lips were parted and her colour high; she was the only one of the maidens who was not laughing. I watched her closely. She signalled to her entourage and gave them some order, and reluctantly they all retreated to the edge of the clearing and sat in little groups, their backs to the princess and the statue.
When she was sure that her companions had stopped looking over their shoulders, she leaned forward to the stone image, put her pink lips to his ear and whispered a heartfelt prayer. She wanted a gold-crowned hero, a king's son who would love her and make her his wife - and soon. The sincerity of her plea made my nape prickle. She was ready for bedding, this maiden; her words were only confirmed by the curves of her body showing through the transluscent folds of her peplos. Her eyes smouldered as she stepped back from him and bit her lower lip.
Then she knelt, as many had knelt before her, and laid one hand on his marble shaft. She stroked it cautiously, as if it might come to life under her touch - and I could almost believe it would, if stone were able to be tempted as flesh is. She circled the snake's head with one finger, blushed, and then leaned down and pressed her lips to it in a long, devout kiss. He looked whiter than the snows of Olympus against her living skin. I saw the very tip of her pink tongue lick his alabaster wand.
She sat back then and looked around her, silently daring any of her entourage to have been spying, but they were obediently turned away. Hesitantly she took from the folds of her peplos a small jar. When she broke the wax seal I smelled a waft of expensive perfume, such as is used after bathing to anoint the skins of great queens. She wished to make an offering. I licked my dry lips. She slipped her fingers into the jar and drew out a scoop of white unguent, then very slowly applied it to the phallus before her. Its scent filled the grove; the handmaidens stirred and whispered. She trailed her fingers up and down the elegant shaft, spreading it from wrinkled balls to smooth prick-end.
As she gained confidence she used both hands and found a firm, rhythmic grip. I watched entranced as she massaged the erection - gods, it was already so stiff and vertical that it could not have responded in any other way than to erupt in spurts of silver sand, so lifelike was his form and so intimate their pose.
The king's daughter paused, looked down at herself and shifted her posture. Something was causing her discomfort; she wriggled her creamy buttocks as if to accommodate and alien presence. Then, looking about her from beneath her lashes, cheeks burning with shame and some other, more imperative emotion, she rose to her feet, pulled her peplos up around her thighs, straddled the image's hips and - one hand on the back of his neck to balance herself - sank slowly down over his slippery stone member until it touched the doors of her secret underworld.
I had to admire her strength and determination. Unable to drop straight down the entire length of the rod, she had to brace herself on straining thighs and cling to her obdurate partner's neck as she introduced the bulb of his phallus to the wet lips of her virgin hole. Her eyes closed in concentration and her face creased with effort; she did not wish to hurt herself, yet her every instinct was to take the shaft as far as she could within her. She rocked back and forth, letting the cold stone stir the hot hearth of her fires, mingling the chrism with her own juices. Her peplos slipped from her shoulder and one rose-tipped breast slid into view; she did not notice, or care, that it was quivering shamelessly in full sight of the gods and anyone else who might look at her. She did not cry out, but her breath was ragged - and the faces of her handmaidens, who still did not dare look around, were growing pink.
Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Amazon US
Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Amazon UKBuy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Google PlayBuy 'Cruel Enchantment' at iTunesAudiobook available on Audible.comand iTunes
Since I've been all about the statues this last couple of weeks, I've been reminded of my short story Sacrifices, which appeared in my first collection, Cruel Enchantment. It was the first (but not the last) story that I wrote about Medusa. In this story, as a minor goddess, she is capable of going unseen by mortals when she wishes - and she likes to spy ...
One of my poor victims can be found in a grove of cypresses by the river, not far from the royal palace of their little king, and it is often visited by the womenfolk when they come to do their laundry. I have forgotten his name, or even if he ever told it to me. He is old; his upturned face has worn away a little, blunting his nose and smoothing his hair. He kneels, knees braced apart, hands splayed on his thighs. There is a bare patch of earth about him where the women of the town have walked. His phallus rises straight as a spear, white as the moon. It too has been worn by much touching and anointing. It is slender and smooth; not ugly or massive enough to frighten a virgin, but quite virile enough to bring a flush to her cheeks.
The handmaidens of the royal entourage giggled and sighed and hid their faces in modest hands at the sight of such a shocking thing. Then without exception they came forward to touch him, and to pay their respects. Some were nervous and only stroked his shoulder, some tickled his straining member teasingly. One of the older ones, greatly daring, fondled his hard pouch and kissed his unyielding lips before swaggering away, swinging her hips for the benefit of her companions.
The king's daughter stood watching these flirtations. Her lips were parted and her colour high; she was the only one of the maidens who was not laughing. I watched her closely. She signalled to her entourage and gave them some order, and reluctantly they all retreated to the edge of the clearing and sat in little groups, their backs to the princess and the statue.
When she was sure that her companions had stopped looking over their shoulders, she leaned forward to the stone image, put her pink lips to his ear and whispered a heartfelt prayer. She wanted a gold-crowned hero, a king's son who would love her and make her his wife - and soon. The sincerity of her plea made my nape prickle. She was ready for bedding, this maiden; her words were only confirmed by the curves of her body showing through the transluscent folds of her peplos. Her eyes smouldered as she stepped back from him and bit her lower lip.
Then she knelt, as many had knelt before her, and laid one hand on his marble shaft. She stroked it cautiously, as if it might come to life under her touch - and I could almost believe it would, if stone were able to be tempted as flesh is. She circled the snake's head with one finger, blushed, and then leaned down and pressed her lips to it in a long, devout kiss. He looked whiter than the snows of Olympus against her living skin. I saw the very tip of her pink tongue lick his alabaster wand.
She sat back then and looked around her, silently daring any of her entourage to have been spying, but they were obediently turned away. Hesitantly she took from the folds of her peplos a small jar. When she broke the wax seal I smelled a waft of expensive perfume, such as is used after bathing to anoint the skins of great queens. She wished to make an offering. I licked my dry lips. She slipped her fingers into the jar and drew out a scoop of white unguent, then very slowly applied it to the phallus before her. Its scent filled the grove; the handmaidens stirred and whispered. She trailed her fingers up and down the elegant shaft, spreading it from wrinkled balls to smooth prick-end.
As she gained confidence she used both hands and found a firm, rhythmic grip. I watched entranced as she massaged the erection - gods, it was already so stiff and vertical that it could not have responded in any other way than to erupt in spurts of silver sand, so lifelike was his form and so intimate their pose.
The king's daughter paused, looked down at herself and shifted her posture. Something was causing her discomfort; she wriggled her creamy buttocks as if to accommodate and alien presence. Then, looking about her from beneath her lashes, cheeks burning with shame and some other, more imperative emotion, she rose to her feet, pulled her peplos up around her thighs, straddled the image's hips and - one hand on the back of his neck to balance herself - sank slowly down over his slippery stone member until it touched the doors of her secret underworld.
I had to admire her strength and determination. Unable to drop straight down the entire length of the rod, she had to brace herself on straining thighs and cling to her obdurate partner's neck as she introduced the bulb of his phallus to the wet lips of her virgin hole. Her eyes closed in concentration and her face creased with effort; she did not wish to hurt herself, yet her every instinct was to take the shaft as far as she could within her. She rocked back and forth, letting the cold stone stir the hot hearth of her fires, mingling the chrism with her own juices. Her peplos slipped from her shoulder and one rose-tipped breast slid into view; she did not notice, or care, that it was quivering shamelessly in full sight of the gods and anyone else who might look at her. She did not cry out, but her breath was ragged - and the faces of her handmaidens, who still did not dare look around, were growing pink.
Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Amazon US
Buy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Amazon UKBuy 'Cruel Enchantment' at Google PlayBuy 'Cruel Enchantment' at iTunesAudiobook available on Audible.comand iTunes
July 11, 2015
Where in the world is Janine today?
Picture clues:
Surfers
PagodaHeh. Any ideas?
July 10, 2015
Socca pizza for the soul
I spent a very happy evening with Megan Kerr last night. We talked about food and gardening and bumble bees and bonobos, and she cooked the most delicious gram-flour pizzas and I admired her arts-and-crafts home decor. She is definitely a domestic goddess!
Her easy no-wheat pizza-base recipe is here. I'm determined to give it a go - if I can ever raise myself from the level of "open packet, microwave contents" ;-)
Getting together with other writers is really important. We inspire each other. We all find each other daunting, of course, and we worry that everyone else is more talented/hardworking/lucky than we are. But the really great thing is to be among those who understand what it feels like to be a writer, which is sometimes an odd and lonely state. So I'm grateful for evenings like this - and not just for the pizza!
The really weird thing is, all her family think I sound Australian...
