Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 81
February 15, 2015
Oh my inner goddess
I understand there is some movie or other out this weekend?
No, I haven't read it.And though I hear the movie is better than the book, I think I'll stick to ...
February 13, 2015
Take Me to Church
1) This is a disturbing and topical video
2) I love the song, which is a total earworm with powerful lyrics
3) Hozier himself is pretty cute :-)
February 11, 2015
Pietà
Mr Ashbless is no longer working in Bologna, so it is with some regret that I realise I'm never likely to return to a city whose history, cuisine, and art are nothing short of sublime. I had some wonderful times there.
Here's one last hit of Bologna: an extraordinary work of religious art like nothing else I've ever seen in my life, tucked away to the side in the otherwise unremarkable church of Santa Maria della Vita. I think it's the best piece of devotional sculpture in the whole world ... though you'll never have heard of it.
The Lamentation Over the Dead Christ by Niccolò dell’Arca is a group of seven lifesized terracotta figures dating from the 1460s. This is a fragile medium, so even its survival in this condition is impressive, but what the sculptor has managed to depict in dynamic action is just incredible:
And the expressions captured in clay, of the most uncontrolled grief and anguish, are heart-rending:
This is what grief feels like.
I wish I could have taken more photos, but snapping even these few was a bit dodgy. If you ever go to Bologna, it's well worth visiting in person. I went back several times, and it never lost its distressing power.
Here's one last hit of Bologna: an extraordinary work of religious art like nothing else I've ever seen in my life, tucked away to the side in the otherwise unremarkable church of Santa Maria della Vita. I think it's the best piece of devotional sculpture in the whole world ... though you'll never have heard of it.
The Lamentation Over the Dead Christ by Niccolò dell’Arca is a group of seven lifesized terracotta figures dating from the 1460s. This is a fragile medium, so even its survival in this condition is impressive, but what the sculptor has managed to depict in dynamic action is just incredible:
And the expressions captured in clay, of the most uncontrolled grief and anguish, are heart-rending:
.jpg)
This is what grief feels like.
I wish I could have taken more photos, but snapping even these few was a bit dodgy. If you ever go to Bologna, it's well worth visiting in person. I went back several times, and it never lost its distressing power.
February 9, 2015
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
"Janine and Dan Savage sitting in a tree, K. I. S. S. ... er no, maybe not..."
Well, given the fabby fabby podcast release of The Ingénue this week gone, what else shall I excerpt for Blue Monday but this ... and if you like it you can listen to the whole story, read by the délicieuse Rose Caraway, for free here
“Take a look.” When she did not obey, he added, “Are you afraid? How can you be afraid of me, Zephine?”
How could she be? Her pride prickled. He was bound, spread-eagled - helpless. He could not be more vulnerable, nor less of a threat to her. Why then, was she feeling like this?
Clumsily, she pulled aside the flaps of silk. They clung to him a little, as if his skin was damp, and she felt against her hand the impatient nudge of what lay beneath. Then the cloth was gone, and she could see.
He was nothing like a statue from the Louvre. He was flushed dark, hairy - and erect. His phallus stood out at an impossible angle, to what seemed like a monstrous size. It looked like a weapon.
“Now touch it.” They was no mistaking the authority in his voice. And Zephine had run dry of protest or questions--of any words at all. She looked once into his eyes and then obeyed, running her fingers down its shaft. It kicked against her as if in irritation and she jumped.
“Take it in your hand. How does it feel?”
Her fingers barely circled its girth. “Hot,” she whispered. “Hard.” There was a peculiar satisfaction to its bulk and strength too, though she couldn’t put that into words.
“Do you like it?” His voice was a murmur now. “It likes you, Zephine - very much.”
She didn’t know if she liked it. She just knew that this made her feel as if nothing else in her life had ever mattered, in comparison. “My aunt will be so angry,” she said, with wonder. To her surprise a surge ran through the flesh in her grasp and it grew even harder.
“Yes.” His eyes were darker now, the pupils dilated. “She will beat me.”
Zephine’s own eyes, which had been strangely heavy, shot open. “Surely not!”
“She will. With a riding crop, or a garden cane, or a leather strap.”
“She can’t do that to you!” Doubt crept in then: “Can she?”
“She’s done it before, Zephine. She left me covered in broken welts, all across my chest and my thighs and my derrière.”
“What for?” In her shock, Zephine could not help thinking of the flagellation of Christ. In the church at her school the Stations of the Cross were depicted with wax models of startling realism. One in particular--the whipped and bloody body of Christ, kneeling in his agony--always drew her, horrified and fascinated and full of pity. She feared it, but she’d spent hours gazing at it. She wondered if Piotr would resemble that, if he were to be horse-whipped.
“For her pleasure.”
She swallowed. “I will let you go.” Yet her hand did not desert its post gripping his thick meat. He shook his head, just a twitch.
“I don’t want you to, Zephine.”
“But it will hurt!”
“Very much so.”
“Aren’t you frightened?”
“I’m sick with fear.” His lip crooked in a thin smile. “You’re my only comfort, ma chérie. Move your hand, Zephine; move it up and down my cock.”
“I...I don’t think I should.”
“But you must. And if you do, I will tell you what else happens at these parties your aunt throws.”
Zephine bit her lip, but her resistance was only momentary. She wanted to know; indeed she felt she had to, now. Her hand began to slide up his shaft, stroking the hot flesh.
“Good girl. A little firmer. Oh...yes, that’s right. ” He cleared his throat and blinked, his eyes starting to lose focus. “Tonight...Oh, there’ll be so many people here tonight, Zephine, after you are tucked safe in your virgin bed. People from the highest and most respectable echelons of society; and from the lowest, though the poor must be very beautiful to be invited inside these walls--or prodigiously talented. In the twilight the torches will be lit, musicians will play, and all the food and drink you might ever want will be laid out upon the tables. Our salvers will be the bare bodies of young women and men, their nipples garnished with cream and gold leaf, their open thighs displaying the most delectable of banquets. A bath will be filled with champagne, and in it will lie a young beauty, offering her cup for anyone to drink from. From under the trees, in the dark, will come soft cries of pleasure and sharper gasps of pain.
“But do not worry Zephine: on a night such as this the pain is only part of the pleasure. The world is turned upside down in this place and the ancient iron-clad laws of civilisation are dissolved. Men are used as women; women rule as men. The rich bow before the poor, and the great beg indulgences of the lowly. Tonight, were you to mingle with the guests, you might see a bishop on his hands and knees, a bridle about his head and a bit in his mouth, being ridden by a fair whore clad only in spurs, while another jade plunges a huge horsetail plug between his willing cheeks. You might see a general of the army spread-eagled upon the lawn, and a queue of matrons taking it in turn to straddle him and lift their skirts so that they might relieve themselves upon his face. You might, if you were inclined, seek me out here among the roses.”
Beneath her hot, tightly corseted dress Zephine was melting, her body dissolving into trembling boneless weakness, her long drawers clinging to her moist skin and growing sodden with the flow of her sex. She felt almost as if she would faint, and it was all she could do to cling to the great solid stake in her hand. “And what ...what will they be doing to you?” she asked.
“They will do anything they like."
Prefer to read the print version? All the Kiss Me Quick podcasts are available as free iTunes downloads
Best Bondage Erotica 2011 at Amazon US : Amazon UK
"Janine and Dan Savage sitting in a tree, K. I. S. S. ... er no, maybe not..."Well, given the fabby fabby podcast release of The Ingénue this week gone, what else shall I excerpt for Blue Monday but this ... and if you like it you can listen to the whole story, read by the délicieuse Rose Caraway, for free here
“Take a look.” When she did not obey, he added, “Are you afraid? How can you be afraid of me, Zephine?”
How could she be? Her pride prickled. He was bound, spread-eagled - helpless. He could not be more vulnerable, nor less of a threat to her. Why then, was she feeling like this?
Clumsily, she pulled aside the flaps of silk. They clung to him a little, as if his skin was damp, and she felt against her hand the impatient nudge of what lay beneath. Then the cloth was gone, and she could see.
He was nothing like a statue from the Louvre. He was flushed dark, hairy - and erect. His phallus stood out at an impossible angle, to what seemed like a monstrous size. It looked like a weapon.
“Now touch it.” They was no mistaking the authority in his voice. And Zephine had run dry of protest or questions--of any words at all. She looked once into his eyes and then obeyed, running her fingers down its shaft. It kicked against her as if in irritation and she jumped.
“Take it in your hand. How does it feel?”
Her fingers barely circled its girth. “Hot,” she whispered. “Hard.” There was a peculiar satisfaction to its bulk and strength too, though she couldn’t put that into words.
“Do you like it?” His voice was a murmur now. “It likes you, Zephine - very much.”
She didn’t know if she liked it. She just knew that this made her feel as if nothing else in her life had ever mattered, in comparison. “My aunt will be so angry,” she said, with wonder. To her surprise a surge ran through the flesh in her grasp and it grew even harder.
“Yes.” His eyes were darker now, the pupils dilated. “She will beat me.”
Zephine’s own eyes, which had been strangely heavy, shot open. “Surely not!”
“She will. With a riding crop, or a garden cane, or a leather strap.”
“She can’t do that to you!” Doubt crept in then: “Can she?”
“She’s done it before, Zephine. She left me covered in broken welts, all across my chest and my thighs and my derrière.”
“What for?” In her shock, Zephine could not help thinking of the flagellation of Christ. In the church at her school the Stations of the Cross were depicted with wax models of startling realism. One in particular--the whipped and bloody body of Christ, kneeling in his agony--always drew her, horrified and fascinated and full of pity. She feared it, but she’d spent hours gazing at it. She wondered if Piotr would resemble that, if he were to be horse-whipped.
“For her pleasure.”
She swallowed. “I will let you go.” Yet her hand did not desert its post gripping his thick meat. He shook his head, just a twitch.
“I don’t want you to, Zephine.”
“But it will hurt!”
“Very much so.”
“Aren’t you frightened?”
“I’m sick with fear.” His lip crooked in a thin smile. “You’re my only comfort, ma chérie. Move your hand, Zephine; move it up and down my cock.”
“I...I don’t think I should.”
“But you must. And if you do, I will tell you what else happens at these parties your aunt throws.”
Zephine bit her lip, but her resistance was only momentary. She wanted to know; indeed she felt she had to, now. Her hand began to slide up his shaft, stroking the hot flesh.
“Good girl. A little firmer. Oh...yes, that’s right. ” He cleared his throat and blinked, his eyes starting to lose focus. “Tonight...Oh, there’ll be so many people here tonight, Zephine, after you are tucked safe in your virgin bed. People from the highest and most respectable echelons of society; and from the lowest, though the poor must be very beautiful to be invited inside these walls--or prodigiously talented. In the twilight the torches will be lit, musicians will play, and all the food and drink you might ever want will be laid out upon the tables. Our salvers will be the bare bodies of young women and men, their nipples garnished with cream and gold leaf, their open thighs displaying the most delectable of banquets. A bath will be filled with champagne, and in it will lie a young beauty, offering her cup for anyone to drink from. From under the trees, in the dark, will come soft cries of pleasure and sharper gasps of pain.
“But do not worry Zephine: on a night such as this the pain is only part of the pleasure. The world is turned upside down in this place and the ancient iron-clad laws of civilisation are dissolved. Men are used as women; women rule as men. The rich bow before the poor, and the great beg indulgences of the lowly. Tonight, were you to mingle with the guests, you might see a bishop on his hands and knees, a bridle about his head and a bit in his mouth, being ridden by a fair whore clad only in spurs, while another jade plunges a huge horsetail plug between his willing cheeks. You might see a general of the army spread-eagled upon the lawn, and a queue of matrons taking it in turn to straddle him and lift their skirts so that they might relieve themselves upon his face. You might, if you were inclined, seek me out here among the roses.”
Beneath her hot, tightly corseted dress Zephine was melting, her body dissolving into trembling boneless weakness, her long drawers clinging to her moist skin and growing sodden with the flow of her sex. She felt almost as if she would faint, and it was all she could do to cling to the great solid stake in her hand. “And what ...what will they be doing to you?” she asked.
“They will do anything they like."
Prefer to read the print version? All the Kiss Me Quick podcasts are available as free iTunes downloadsBest Bondage Erotica 2011 at Amazon US : Amazon UK
February 8, 2015
John Barleycorn
The theme tune for this week's writing ...
February 6, 2015
Cider insider 1:01
There was a young lady from Ryde,Who ate some green apples and died;The apples fermentedInside the lamented,And made cider inside her inside!
British cider - carbonated, looks like pee, gets teenagers shitfacedIt's been a learning curve this week!
My current work-in-progress Lovers' Wheel mentions cider a LOT - it's set in a magical corner of the English West Country and there is apple-picking, wassailing and drinking a-plenty going on. I didn't however realise until this last week that there may be a communication gap between me as writer, and my US readers.
Here in the UK, cider is a cheap, fizzy ALCOHOLIC drink - usually 5% or so ABV, but there are stronger ones. Until the advent of alcopops it was the gateway drink for teenagers, fufilling that vital role of giving them something to dull the taste of their cigarettes as they sit round for interminable hours in council playing fields, in the drizzle, scowling at everyone. Cider is bloody horrible, and I speak as someone who used to drink it ... and can't go near the stuff any more.
My stomach is having nightmare flashbacks RIGHT NOW
There are variants on the theme. In the West Country you can get scrumpy, which is roughly speaking home-brewed cider that is distributed or sold illicitly and is usually rumoured to be flavoured with dead rats. It's stronger than commercial varieties and not carbonated.
There are draft ciders, which are posh versions of scrumpy. They are more fashionable these last few years.
It tastes like rotting apples ... and you'll think you are stone cold sober until you try to stand up.BUT, this week I was researching the process of cider pressing, and to my amazement found that in America, cider is not even alcoholic. They have "cider" and "hard cider". So-called "cider" or "soft cider" is in fact - according to my awesome network of informants on Facebook - fresh apple juice.
WHY DON'T YOU JUST CALL IT JUICE, GUYS?
Which, at any rate, finally explained my US editor's confusion when this happened in Summer Seduction:
British cider - carbonated, looks like pee, gets teenagers shitfacedIt's been a learning curve this week!My current work-in-progress Lovers' Wheel mentions cider a LOT - it's set in a magical corner of the English West Country and there is apple-picking, wassailing and drinking a-plenty going on. I didn't however realise until this last week that there may be a communication gap between me as writer, and my US readers.
Here in the UK, cider is a cheap, fizzy ALCOHOLIC drink - usually 5% or so ABV, but there are stronger ones. Until the advent of alcopops it was the gateway drink for teenagers, fufilling that vital role of giving them something to dull the taste of their cigarettes as they sit round for interminable hours in council playing fields, in the drizzle, scowling at everyone. Cider is bloody horrible, and I speak as someone who used to drink it ... and can't go near the stuff any more.
My stomach is having nightmare flashbacks RIGHT NOWThere are variants on the theme. In the West Country you can get scrumpy, which is roughly speaking home-brewed cider that is distributed or sold illicitly and is usually rumoured to be flavoured with dead rats. It's stronger than commercial varieties and not carbonated.
There are draft ciders, which are posh versions of scrumpy. They are more fashionable these last few years.
It tastes like rotting apples ... and you'll think you are stone cold sober until you try to stand up.BUT, this week I was researching the process of cider pressing, and to my amazement found that in America, cider is not even alcoholic. They have "cider" and "hard cider". So-called "cider" or "soft cider" is in fact - according to my awesome network of informants on Facebook - fresh apple juice.WHY DON'T YOU JUST CALL IT JUICE, GUYS?
Which, at any rate, finally explained my US editor's confusion when this happened in Summer Seduction:
She opened her mouth to say something, though she hadn’t yet lined up what it was going to be—and at that moment, one of the young guys Shane had introduced her to previously bundled into the group. He was sweating and flushed, and very clearly a bit the worse for the cheap cider .
Davie looked around grinning at everyone, fixed his gaze on Liz’s breasts and announced, “Fuck me, you’ve got great tits!”
Then he put out both hands and grabbed them.
Shane, without hesitation, swung a fist in a haymaker that knocked Davie off his feet and straight into the people behind. He went down flat in a confusion of staggering drinkers, slopped cider and aggrieved shouts.
Liz stared, mouth open, as Shane stomped forward to stand over the fallen man with fists bunched. She hadn’t been offended by the sudden grope—she hadn’t had time to get offended. This was so far outside her usual experience that she was in shock.
“What the fuck!” roared a big ugly guy who’d lost his own pint over his girlfriend in the sudden ruckus.
“You want some?” Shane demanded gleefully. There was a joyous grin on his face. “You want some too?”You learn something new every day ... ;-)
February 4, 2015
Podcastaway - it's The Ingenue
Woohoo! It looks like my new album cover, doesn't it? (Prog-rock, I hope, lol)
Well, that's not quite what it is - but it is the cover pic for the very first Kiss Me Quick podcast of 2015, which includes the whole of my story The Ingenue read out in Rose Caraway's gorgeous sexy voice :-) She even triumphantly masters the French pronunciation which I would dread to tackle! You can hear it all here, for free! (Just click on the POD button)
Rose is also the editor of The Sexy Librarian's Big Book of Erotica (which contains another of my stories , Three Legs in the Evening ), and is the most lovely and incredibly hard-working person. You can get all 11 hours of that book beautifully narrated on Audible (but listen to the podcast first and you'll find out how to do it at bargain rates).
You can access all the KMQ podcasts and their erotic stories here.
The Ingenue is a BDSM story about the corruption of innocence. A man is tied to a cross in the garden of a French villa, but when young Zephine goes to investigate, she finds herself wildly out of her depth. The Ingenue first appeared in Best Bondage Erotica 2011
February 2, 2015
Blue Monday - Lynn Townsend guests
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
This week my guest is Lynne Townsend, with a delectable slice from her new supernatural/steampunk novel London Steam.
"Duncan Farnsworth discovers being a vampire has not improved his social life, his chances of finding love, continuing the family line, or getting a bite to eat. Maneuvering his way around a sarcastic butler, his spinster sister, a run-in with an amorous werewolf, and a confrontation with a dead soldier and a French airship captain, Duncan finally finds exactly what he is thirsting for. "
Duncan grinned, his glorious, red mouth turning up in a sly smirk. He squeezed Nigel's cock, nearly bringing the airshipman to orgasm right there. "Did you want me to stop?"
"No!" End this? Never. Nigel would surrender his throat willingly, desperately. Even if he died again in this moment, it would be glorious.
"I savor what you feel," Duncan whispered, intent. His hand moved eagerly, lazily, inside Nigel's trousers, caressing, stroking. Another pair of hands, smaller, more delicate, moved along his bare chest, stripping him down. Nigel found his mouth on Agnes's breast, the nipple sweet and hard against his tongue. She arched backward, her other breast covered by Duncan's free hand. A spare moment of clarity and Nigel wondered how they had not all three ended up spilled across the plank floor. "I can taste it. It scents the air around you, courses through your veins, spices your blood. It is the aroma of warm buttered bread, the most delicious hint of lemon on fresh-caught trout. You delight me... make me hungry, a starving creature, although I have already fed."
"Anything you want," Nigel whispered, licking, nuzzling at Agnes's soft breast. She moaned, writhed.
"Oui, mon Dieu!" Agnes agreed, turning in his arms to embrace Duncan, her fingers busy with his coat buttons. It took longer to strip Duncan out of his formal dinnerware, but each revealing inch of pale flesh was worth it. Never had Nigel seen anyone so beautiful. Perfect marble skin covered lean muscles, wide shoulders and narrow hips. The darker member thrusting upward from a tangle of blond curls was thick, eager. Agnes knelt, one hand on each of them, her strokes tangling with Duncan's fingers against Nigel's hot, eager cock. Nigel reached, found the smooth, cool flesh, the heavy balls underneath, touching, caressing. He gripped Duncan's length, felt Agnes's hand dip below his own, tickling the vampire's sack. Duncan gasped, his luminous eyes wide.
Agnes and Duncan gave Nigel's cock and balls the same teasing, torturous treatment; one satin hand rubbing up and down, the second, smaller, beneath. He grew harder, enough so that he entertained a brief fancy of splitting out of his own skin, like a plant, reaching for the sun, splitting the earth asunder and striving toward the skies.
Vampires are renowned for their incredible strength and speed. Perhaps that was why Nigel barely noticed when Duncan moved them all to the bed with as much ease as a maid tossing over a basket of laundry. The sheets and pillows of the captain's bed were soft, warm, welcoming. Agnes squealed with delight as Duncan ran a hand down her lithe, nude body and found that center of her pleasure. She writhed against Duncan's teasing fingers, her body wiggling and lush against Nigel's, their legs intertwined.
It was difficult to tell where one body stopped and another started. Nigel was kissing, kissing someone. A slick tongue darted in and out of his mouth, his hands curled in a tangle of golden curls, hands roaming, seeking, finding. The two men spread Agnes's legs wide, each teasing her moist folds, slipping into wet depths until she was shrieking with pleasure, shuddering all over. She shivered with delight, her thighs quivering as she surrendered to the sensual onslaught.
Agnes pushed Nigel down onto the bed, crawling over her lover like a playful seal, planting kisses all over his body. Nigel relaxed under her care until her mouth came dangerously close to his throbbing cock and then he struggled, not wanting it to end, desperate to hold his passion. "Wait, wait," he gasped. He struggled to sit up, but Duncan held him down easily with one hand. The vampire lowered his head, kissed Agnes's cheek, licked at her full, red mouth, and the two of them kissed, mere inches from Nigel's quivering cock, their breath mingled over his hot, tense flesh.
She smiled around the kiss and, with deliberate, aching slowness, both of them lowered their flickering tongues to Nigel's cock; one hot and quick, the other cool and slow, they licked and lapped, teasing, drawing each sensation out over him like water. Nigel fisted the sheets, twisting his hips and bucking excitedly against the gratification, wanting, needing... they teased him together, his captain and the vampire, with some subtle magic, knowing, it seemed, when he was close to climax. Backing off time and again as he spiraled closer and closer, they taunted him with eager skill until he was mad with it, beyond endurance.
Agnes vanished, treating her lovers to a view of her rounded, nubile backside as she leaned over the side of the bed, one hand pressed against the floor for balance, the other digging in her airtrunk. With a triumphant wave, she gestured for Duncan to reel her back into bed.
Agnes held up the slender waxed paper package containing an "assurance cap," a length of sheep's intestine used to prevent pregnancy and diseases. "I do not know," she said, "if you are needing one of zees or not, my vampire." She glanced at Nigel.
Duncan shook his head. "I do not require such. I cannot sire a child, and the only disease I have is vampirism, and I am assured you can only catch that if I kill you."
"Le petite mort, she does not count to become a vampire, I hope. Else I am doomed," Agnes said. Her mouth curled up in that irresistible smile and Duncan did not resist. He touched her smiling lip, then kissed her, drawing out her tongue.
"I do, however," Nigel said, taking the folded paper from her. "No child deserves that sort of life; a walking deadman as a father?" Bitterness tainted the sweet course of emotion as the airman drew the cap over his erect member, then it faded entirely as Agnes threw one leg over Nigel's hips.
Facing away, raising her mouth to Duncan's kiss, she slid Nigel's cock into her hot depths. Duncan returned her kiss eagerly, his hands roaming down the lithe, nubile body. He found her center of pleasure and worked it, fingers wandering from that spot, down the base of Nigel's cock, and across his balls, teasing. Gently, Duncan slid that wandering finger against Nigel's puckered opening, rubbing, massaging.
Surrounded by sensation, Nigel raised his hips, pounding his cock into Agnes's slit, feeling the glory of her wet, hot flesh around him. With deliberate, careful grace, Duncan moved in, pressing his own cock, smooth, cool, solid, against Nigel's ass. It was a stretch, pain flared, then damped down again in erotic pleasure, until the three of them were joined together; Duncan to Nigel, Nigel to Agnes. They moved as one being, sliding, writhing, twisting against each other, straining. The strength of Nigel's climax was so great that spots of blackness and light burst against his eyelids. He shouted wordlessly, then collapsed against the bed, limp and drenched with sweat.
Duncan worked him a bit longer, sliding in and out, his hand awkwardly bent to find Agnes's clit and pleasure her as she twisted on Nigel's slowly deflating member. The quivering of her orgasm squeezed Nigel's oversensitive cock and he groaned. He couldn't pull out of her, trapped as he was under her weight and Duncan's expertly working cock. It was too much, too much, he couldn't, not yet, not again. His own cock twitched, stirred with a life of its own. Dear God, please, he was incoherent, pleading, praying. Duncan stiffened, and a jet of fluid, hot against the coolness of his flesh, spurted out of him as the vampire trembled.
Buy at Amazon US : Amazon UK
JMS Books
Smashwords
B&N
All Romance
Lynn Townsend is a geek, a dreamer and an inveterate punster. When not reading, writing, or editing, she can usually be found drinking coffee or killing video game villains. Lynn's interests include filk music, romance novels, octopuses, and movies with more FX than plot.
This week my guest is Lynne Townsend, with a delectable slice from her new supernatural/steampunk novel London Steam.
"Duncan Farnsworth discovers being a vampire has not improved his social life, his chances of finding love, continuing the family line, or getting a bite to eat. Maneuvering his way around a sarcastic butler, his spinster sister, a run-in with an amorous werewolf, and a confrontation with a dead soldier and a French airship captain, Duncan finally finds exactly what he is thirsting for. "
Duncan grinned, his glorious, red mouth turning up in a sly smirk. He squeezed Nigel's cock, nearly bringing the airshipman to orgasm right there. "Did you want me to stop?"
"No!" End this? Never. Nigel would surrender his throat willingly, desperately. Even if he died again in this moment, it would be glorious.
"I savor what you feel," Duncan whispered, intent. His hand moved eagerly, lazily, inside Nigel's trousers, caressing, stroking. Another pair of hands, smaller, more delicate, moved along his bare chest, stripping him down. Nigel found his mouth on Agnes's breast, the nipple sweet and hard against his tongue. She arched backward, her other breast covered by Duncan's free hand. A spare moment of clarity and Nigel wondered how they had not all three ended up spilled across the plank floor. "I can taste it. It scents the air around you, courses through your veins, spices your blood. It is the aroma of warm buttered bread, the most delicious hint of lemon on fresh-caught trout. You delight me... make me hungry, a starving creature, although I have already fed."
"Anything you want," Nigel whispered, licking, nuzzling at Agnes's soft breast. She moaned, writhed.
"Oui, mon Dieu!" Agnes agreed, turning in his arms to embrace Duncan, her fingers busy with his coat buttons. It took longer to strip Duncan out of his formal dinnerware, but each revealing inch of pale flesh was worth it. Never had Nigel seen anyone so beautiful. Perfect marble skin covered lean muscles, wide shoulders and narrow hips. The darker member thrusting upward from a tangle of blond curls was thick, eager. Agnes knelt, one hand on each of them, her strokes tangling with Duncan's fingers against Nigel's hot, eager cock. Nigel reached, found the smooth, cool flesh, the heavy balls underneath, touching, caressing. He gripped Duncan's length, felt Agnes's hand dip below his own, tickling the vampire's sack. Duncan gasped, his luminous eyes wide.
Agnes and Duncan gave Nigel's cock and balls the same teasing, torturous treatment; one satin hand rubbing up and down, the second, smaller, beneath. He grew harder, enough so that he entertained a brief fancy of splitting out of his own skin, like a plant, reaching for the sun, splitting the earth asunder and striving toward the skies.
Vampires are renowned for their incredible strength and speed. Perhaps that was why Nigel barely noticed when Duncan moved them all to the bed with as much ease as a maid tossing over a basket of laundry. The sheets and pillows of the captain's bed were soft, warm, welcoming. Agnes squealed with delight as Duncan ran a hand down her lithe, nude body and found that center of her pleasure. She writhed against Duncan's teasing fingers, her body wiggling and lush against Nigel's, their legs intertwined.
It was difficult to tell where one body stopped and another started. Nigel was kissing, kissing someone. A slick tongue darted in and out of his mouth, his hands curled in a tangle of golden curls, hands roaming, seeking, finding. The two men spread Agnes's legs wide, each teasing her moist folds, slipping into wet depths until she was shrieking with pleasure, shuddering all over. She shivered with delight, her thighs quivering as she surrendered to the sensual onslaught.
Agnes pushed Nigel down onto the bed, crawling over her lover like a playful seal, planting kisses all over his body. Nigel relaxed under her care until her mouth came dangerously close to his throbbing cock and then he struggled, not wanting it to end, desperate to hold his passion. "Wait, wait," he gasped. He struggled to sit up, but Duncan held him down easily with one hand. The vampire lowered his head, kissed Agnes's cheek, licked at her full, red mouth, and the two of them kissed, mere inches from Nigel's quivering cock, their breath mingled over his hot, tense flesh.
She smiled around the kiss and, with deliberate, aching slowness, both of them lowered their flickering tongues to Nigel's cock; one hot and quick, the other cool and slow, they licked and lapped, teasing, drawing each sensation out over him like water. Nigel fisted the sheets, twisting his hips and bucking excitedly against the gratification, wanting, needing... they teased him together, his captain and the vampire, with some subtle magic, knowing, it seemed, when he was close to climax. Backing off time and again as he spiraled closer and closer, they taunted him with eager skill until he was mad with it, beyond endurance.
Agnes vanished, treating her lovers to a view of her rounded, nubile backside as she leaned over the side of the bed, one hand pressed against the floor for balance, the other digging in her airtrunk. With a triumphant wave, she gestured for Duncan to reel her back into bed.
Agnes held up the slender waxed paper package containing an "assurance cap," a length of sheep's intestine used to prevent pregnancy and diseases. "I do not know," she said, "if you are needing one of zees or not, my vampire." She glanced at Nigel.
Duncan shook his head. "I do not require such. I cannot sire a child, and the only disease I have is vampirism, and I am assured you can only catch that if I kill you."
"Le petite mort, she does not count to become a vampire, I hope. Else I am doomed," Agnes said. Her mouth curled up in that irresistible smile and Duncan did not resist. He touched her smiling lip, then kissed her, drawing out her tongue.
"I do, however," Nigel said, taking the folded paper from her. "No child deserves that sort of life; a walking deadman as a father?" Bitterness tainted the sweet course of emotion as the airman drew the cap over his erect member, then it faded entirely as Agnes threw one leg over Nigel's hips.
Facing away, raising her mouth to Duncan's kiss, she slid Nigel's cock into her hot depths. Duncan returned her kiss eagerly, his hands roaming down the lithe, nubile body. He found her center of pleasure and worked it, fingers wandering from that spot, down the base of Nigel's cock, and across his balls, teasing. Gently, Duncan slid that wandering finger against Nigel's puckered opening, rubbing, massaging.
Surrounded by sensation, Nigel raised his hips, pounding his cock into Agnes's slit, feeling the glory of her wet, hot flesh around him. With deliberate, careful grace, Duncan moved in, pressing his own cock, smooth, cool, solid, against Nigel's ass. It was a stretch, pain flared, then damped down again in erotic pleasure, until the three of them were joined together; Duncan to Nigel, Nigel to Agnes. They moved as one being, sliding, writhing, twisting against each other, straining. The strength of Nigel's climax was so great that spots of blackness and light burst against his eyelids. He shouted wordlessly, then collapsed against the bed, limp and drenched with sweat.
Duncan worked him a bit longer, sliding in and out, his hand awkwardly bent to find Agnes's clit and pleasure her as she twisted on Nigel's slowly deflating member. The quivering of her orgasm squeezed Nigel's oversensitive cock and he groaned. He couldn't pull out of her, trapped as he was under her weight and Duncan's expertly working cock. It was too much, too much, he couldn't, not yet, not again. His own cock twitched, stirred with a life of its own. Dear God, please, he was incoherent, pleading, praying. Duncan stiffened, and a jet of fluid, hot against the coolness of his flesh, spurted out of him as the vampire trembled.
Buy at Amazon US : Amazon UK
JMS Books
Smashwords
B&N
All Romance
Lynn Townsend is a geek, a dreamer and an inveterate punster. When not reading, writing, or editing, she can usually be found drinking coffee or killing video game villains. Lynn's interests include filk music, romance novels, octopuses, and movies with more FX than plot.
February 1, 2015
Yes Nora!
Since she's written more than 209 romances, she certainly knows what she's talking about!
*impressedface*
January 30, 2015
Phenology - January
"January brings the snow;Makes our feet and fingers glow."
Well, I am totally gutted. I was convinced I'd have a Snow Photo for January's roundup. The whole of the USA is buried in snowdrifts, as far as I can tell from the news. Northern Ireland is freezing to death and has had all the water cut off. Scotland is impassable ... even more so than usual. Twenty minutes due west of where I sit, in the same goddamn county, they are having Snow Days off school and happy snowball fights. What have I got? Nothing. Not a flake.
Well, there's some ice on the ponds:
Note the glorious sunshine.What is going on? This is the second winter in a row that hasn't really happened. And it's not just been (relatively) warm, it's been sunny a lot of days - unheard of! I'll be out in my bikini soon, I tell you...
I've even seen the odd bold hazel catkin, which aren't supposed to be out for another month.
These are male catkins - "lambs' tails"More conventional at this time of year ... well, remember those ivy flowers in October? They fruit in winter:
Which is why of course they are contrasted with holly berries in the carol The Holly and the Ivy . While certainly this song has a strong Christian message (the holly's features are all tied symbolically to the Passion of Christ), it also carries an older (and deeply misogynist) theme - holly is considered 'masculine' and superior in every way, whilst ivy is 'feminine' and basically crap. Even birds won't eat her poisonous berries, it's claimed, except owls (which are Creatures of the Night).
Argh! Proof that witches have been flying overhead!
These balls of twiggy growth are the plant's reaction to stress (viruses, fungi, parasites etc) and are actually harmless to the tree, as well as providing miniature habitat for a lot of beasties.
One plant you will see still in glorious flower in January is the gorse:
There's a folk saying that "When gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of season" - i.e. Never!
And the other January flower is of course the wonderful, magical snowdrop. As soon as last year's plants die off and everything looks dead, new snowdrop shoots spring from the cold earth. The Wheel of the Year never stops turning...
Which brings me, in my phenology log, full circle :-)
Well, I am totally gutted. I was convinced I'd have a Snow Photo for January's roundup. The whole of the USA is buried in snowdrifts, as far as I can tell from the news. Northern Ireland is freezing to death and has had all the water cut off. Scotland is impassable ... even more so than usual. Twenty minutes due west of where I sit, in the same goddamn county, they are having Snow Days off school and happy snowball fights. What have I got? Nothing. Not a flake.
Well, there's some ice on the ponds:
Note the glorious sunshine.What is going on? This is the second winter in a row that hasn't really happened. And it's not just been (relatively) warm, it's been sunny a lot of days - unheard of! I'll be out in my bikini soon, I tell you...I've even seen the odd bold hazel catkin, which aren't supposed to be out for another month.
These are male catkins - "lambs' tails"More conventional at this time of year ... well, remember those ivy flowers in October? They fruit in winter:
Which is why of course they are contrasted with holly berries in the carol The Holly and the Ivy . While certainly this song has a strong Christian message (the holly's features are all tied symbolically to the Passion of Christ), it also carries an older (and deeply misogynist) theme - holly is considered 'masculine' and superior in every way, whilst ivy is 'feminine' and basically crap. Even birds won't eat her poisonous berries, it's claimed, except owls (which are Creatures of the Night).
Holly and his merry men, they dance and they sing,Ivy and her maidens, they weep and they wring.Nay, ivy, nay, it shall not be I wis;Let holly have the mastery, as the manner is.Here's another suspiciously feminine feature that's much more noticeable in the depths of winter: the Witches' Brooms you find on some trees:
Argh! Proof that witches have been flying overhead!These balls of twiggy growth are the plant's reaction to stress (viruses, fungi, parasites etc) and are actually harmless to the tree, as well as providing miniature habitat for a lot of beasties.
One plant you will see still in glorious flower in January is the gorse:
There's a folk saying that "When gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of season" - i.e. Never!
And the other January flower is of course the wonderful, magical snowdrop. As soon as last year's plants die off and everything looks dead, new snowdrop shoots spring from the cold earth. The Wheel of the Year never stops turning...
Which brings me, in my phenology log, full circle :-)
