Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 91
July 28, 2014
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt from one of my stories, for your entertainment.
Because it's been incredibly warm and sunny here for a whole week(!), today's snippet is from "Abigail's Ice Cream," which appeared in Best Women's Erotica 2011.
Abigail makes artisan ice cream and sells it at summer food festivals. Tev and Matt are paramedics, and they've been flirting with her all day.
“How did it go?” asks Matt.
“I sold every last scoop.”
“So ... what’s your favourite flavour?” Trev wonders.
“These two,” I answer honestly. “That’s why I brought both; I can’t choose between them.” Then I catch his lifted eyebrows and blush. Matt, chuckling, offers me the chocolate cone.
“Want a lick?”
I shrug one shoulder and nod, tipping my lips to the creamy chocolate his tongue has already swirled over. Goddamn, we’re flirting. How did this happen? What the hell do they see in me? I’m not ugly, okay - but I’m an artsy middle-aged lady who makes outrageous ice cream and wears clothes two decades old and her hair in a style and colour that’s too young for her. I’m not like them; not the sort of person who can press into a drunken crowd or a freezing pond to rescue someone from certain death, not the sort of person who can address a total stranger as ‘love.’ I haven’t even worked for a living until recently – I went straight from art college into marriage, and the divorce settlement and child maintenance were generous enough to keep me and Skye living comfortably. I’m a joke, by their standards.
The chilli heat burns on my tongue. My cheeks are already flushed. Matt grins at me, an easy wickedness dancing in his hazel eyes, as I lick my lips. I’m not trying to be provocative, honestly: you have to lick your lips if you are eating ice cream. “That’s hot stuff,” he teases.
“This is better,” says Trev on my left. “Try some of this, Abi.” It would be rude not to, so I turn to the golden ice cream he offers. This one is melting faster: it’s dribbling down the cone and threatening to slide off. I catch a big gobbet on my tongue, aware that they find my action vastly entertaining, and still not quite believing it. “Bloody hell,” says Trev happily.
“You like the taste of his cream better than mine?” Matt complains and I giggle. Then a cold drip hits my skin and I realise the honey ice cream is dribbling out of the tip of the cone and is marking the front of my dress.
"Ack!” I yelp, half laughing, looking down. “Call myself a professional, eh?’
There’s a drip on the inner curve of my left breast. I’m not wearing a bra – what would I need a bra for, after breastfeeding Skye flattened them so? - and this dress has rather a deep V-neck. The white trail winds down toward the cleft.
“Oh,” says Trev, looking too. “Oh ... that’s...’
“Hold on,” orders Matt. He drops his own ice cream back into the rack and then swiftly kneels before me. His fingertips graze my thighs. “Keep still,” he commands. I feel Trev’s free hand settle on the small of my back and my spine arches, thrusting my cleavage out a little more. Delicately – and it surprises me that this hearty, vital man is so careful – Matt leans forward until his lips are brushing my upper breast. I feel his breath on my skin: my own stops in my throat. I feel the tip of his tongue as he gently licks me clean.
My heart is pounding. The world seems to lurch. I stare over his head, wild eyed. We’re tucked away here, shielded by the first aid tent. Sunlight glints on the dark leaves of the hedgerow and the discarded cans in the long grass. His lips are on my breast in a lingering kiss, causing my nipples to respond greedily, hardening to points. And Trev’s hand slides up and down my spine, slow and firm.
Then Matt sits back. “Trev’s right,” he says softly, his eyes narrowing with hidden laughter. “That’s bloody good.”
Despite the warmth of the day, my nipples are standing up hard against the soft cotton. My sex is full of melting honey.
“Let’s go inside, Abi,” Trev murmurs in my ear. “Come on.”
#Chocolate and chilli: oh, this is not the chocolate of childhood. This is a purely adult pleasure - bittersweet, dark and troubling. Heat lingering upon the lips and the breath. It is chocolate that makes the pupils dilate, the skin flush, the heart quicken. It is the taste of passion.
#
They take me into the ambulance and close the door on the outside world. I glance around – emergency equipment, fold-out chairs, bright plastic drawers - but to be honest I’m not taking anything in. My brain has frozen. All I can think is that this is happening to me, and that I don’t understand how. Is it a joke they’re playing? Will they suddenly back off and start to laugh at me? Will they-?
They kiss me, both of them in turn, urging up against me with their big hard bodies, sandwiching me between them as they press their caresses upon me. I taste chocolate and chilli, honey and saffron. Their tongues are eager, their hands bold. Stubble scrapes my skin. Teeth tease my ears, my neck, my nipples. Trev has kept hold of his ice cream, though it is melting over his hand now: he encourages me to lick it, to suck his fingers, to pass the soft cream from my mouth to his. In the meantime Matt is pulling up my dress, working it over my shoulders, stripping me bare.
I tremble, anticipating their mockery.
Instead, the flash of Trev’s teeth signals pure appetite. He touches the melting ice cream to my right nipple, and as I flinch from the cold Matt catches me, holding me still. As Matt props himself against the stretcher bed and pulls me off balance against him, Trev paints my body with the cold cream: my freckled breastbone, my dark stiff nipples, my puckered stomach. All the way down to the juncture of my legs. He tugs down my panties and, discarding the cone, squashes the last handful of ice cream into my sex, slathering it over my labia, squashing it up into my hot core until it melts and runs down my thighs. It’s shudderingly cold and I squirm in Matt’s embrace, biting back the squeals. I’m half aware that the blond man is tugging at his own clothes, pulling his cock out, but I can’t see it – I just know it as a slab of burning heat thrust against my cold bottom.
Then Trev gets down and eats the ice cream off me, tits and belly and thighs, all the way. I must be salty from the day’s work but he doesn’t care. His mouth is both hungry and tender. It makes me fear and it makes me need, and ultimately it makes me surrender, opening my legs to let him plunge his mouth and his hand between. His fingers go inside me, diving through the cream. His mouth devours my clit, sucking and nibbling and licking like I’m a gelato. I heave up against Matt’s torso, feeling his hands cup my breasts and tug at my sticky nipples. I’m helpless to resist. Trev’s hand is working me insistently, each thrust opening me more. His mouth has taken control of my whole body. Matt’s tongue is hot and wet in my ear: I’m being eaten by both men and I can’t stop it, I can’t help it, I’m coming now with breathy unmistakeable squeals – and Matt growls “Yes - you give it all up now; that’s right,” in my ear as my world turns inside out.
Orgasm leaves me shaken and trembling. Trev stands and pulls me up against him, stroking the wet strands of hair back from my face, and I focus my eyes with some effort. He’s smiling, but his cock is straining impatiently against me. I can feel it through his green paramedic trousers. “What happens now?” I ask in a tiny voice.
“What do you want to happen, Abi?” he murmurs, brushing my face with kisses, rubbing my palm against the swollen ridge in his pants.
“I want...” I reach behind me for Matt. He’s got his flies open and his cock is standing up hard under his stroking hand, and as he guides my fingers to grip that thick shaft I realise he’s already clad it in a skin of latex. Smooth operator.
“Want this?” Matt asks, voice full of chocolate.
“I want both of you,” I confess.
Trev’s eyebrows arch. “Together?’
What am I thinking of, at my age? This is crazy. “Yes,” I gasp.
BWE 2011 is still on sale at Amazon US : Amazon UK
Because it's been incredibly warm and sunny here for a whole week(!), today's snippet is from "Abigail's Ice Cream," which appeared in Best Women's Erotica 2011.
Abigail makes artisan ice cream and sells it at summer food festivals. Tev and Matt are paramedics, and they've been flirting with her all day.
“How did it go?” asks Matt.
“I sold every last scoop.”
“So ... what’s your favourite flavour?” Trev wonders.
“These two,” I answer honestly. “That’s why I brought both; I can’t choose between them.” Then I catch his lifted eyebrows and blush. Matt, chuckling, offers me the chocolate cone.
“Want a lick?”
I shrug one shoulder and nod, tipping my lips to the creamy chocolate his tongue has already swirled over. Goddamn, we’re flirting. How did this happen? What the hell do they see in me? I’m not ugly, okay - but I’m an artsy middle-aged lady who makes outrageous ice cream and wears clothes two decades old and her hair in a style and colour that’s too young for her. I’m not like them; not the sort of person who can press into a drunken crowd or a freezing pond to rescue someone from certain death, not the sort of person who can address a total stranger as ‘love.’ I haven’t even worked for a living until recently – I went straight from art college into marriage, and the divorce settlement and child maintenance were generous enough to keep me and Skye living comfortably. I’m a joke, by their standards.
The chilli heat burns on my tongue. My cheeks are already flushed. Matt grins at me, an easy wickedness dancing in his hazel eyes, as I lick my lips. I’m not trying to be provocative, honestly: you have to lick your lips if you are eating ice cream. “That’s hot stuff,” he teases.
“This is better,” says Trev on my left. “Try some of this, Abi.” It would be rude not to, so I turn to the golden ice cream he offers. This one is melting faster: it’s dribbling down the cone and threatening to slide off. I catch a big gobbet on my tongue, aware that they find my action vastly entertaining, and still not quite believing it. “Bloody hell,” says Trev happily.
“You like the taste of his cream better than mine?” Matt complains and I giggle. Then a cold drip hits my skin and I realise the honey ice cream is dribbling out of the tip of the cone and is marking the front of my dress.
"Ack!” I yelp, half laughing, looking down. “Call myself a professional, eh?’
There’s a drip on the inner curve of my left breast. I’m not wearing a bra – what would I need a bra for, after breastfeeding Skye flattened them so? - and this dress has rather a deep V-neck. The white trail winds down toward the cleft.
“Oh,” says Trev, looking too. “Oh ... that’s...’
“Hold on,” orders Matt. He drops his own ice cream back into the rack and then swiftly kneels before me. His fingertips graze my thighs. “Keep still,” he commands. I feel Trev’s free hand settle on the small of my back and my spine arches, thrusting my cleavage out a little more. Delicately – and it surprises me that this hearty, vital man is so careful – Matt leans forward until his lips are brushing my upper breast. I feel his breath on my skin: my own stops in my throat. I feel the tip of his tongue as he gently licks me clean.
My heart is pounding. The world seems to lurch. I stare over his head, wild eyed. We’re tucked away here, shielded by the first aid tent. Sunlight glints on the dark leaves of the hedgerow and the discarded cans in the long grass. His lips are on my breast in a lingering kiss, causing my nipples to respond greedily, hardening to points. And Trev’s hand slides up and down my spine, slow and firm.
Then Matt sits back. “Trev’s right,” he says softly, his eyes narrowing with hidden laughter. “That’s bloody good.”
Despite the warmth of the day, my nipples are standing up hard against the soft cotton. My sex is full of melting honey.
“Let’s go inside, Abi,” Trev murmurs in my ear. “Come on.”
#Chocolate and chilli: oh, this is not the chocolate of childhood. This is a purely adult pleasure - bittersweet, dark and troubling. Heat lingering upon the lips and the breath. It is chocolate that makes the pupils dilate, the skin flush, the heart quicken. It is the taste of passion.
#
They take me into the ambulance and close the door on the outside world. I glance around – emergency equipment, fold-out chairs, bright plastic drawers - but to be honest I’m not taking anything in. My brain has frozen. All I can think is that this is happening to me, and that I don’t understand how. Is it a joke they’re playing? Will they suddenly back off and start to laugh at me? Will they-?
They kiss me, both of them in turn, urging up against me with their big hard bodies, sandwiching me between them as they press their caresses upon me. I taste chocolate and chilli, honey and saffron. Their tongues are eager, their hands bold. Stubble scrapes my skin. Teeth tease my ears, my neck, my nipples. Trev has kept hold of his ice cream, though it is melting over his hand now: he encourages me to lick it, to suck his fingers, to pass the soft cream from my mouth to his. In the meantime Matt is pulling up my dress, working it over my shoulders, stripping me bare.
I tremble, anticipating their mockery.
Instead, the flash of Trev’s teeth signals pure appetite. He touches the melting ice cream to my right nipple, and as I flinch from the cold Matt catches me, holding me still. As Matt props himself against the stretcher bed and pulls me off balance against him, Trev paints my body with the cold cream: my freckled breastbone, my dark stiff nipples, my puckered stomach. All the way down to the juncture of my legs. He tugs down my panties and, discarding the cone, squashes the last handful of ice cream into my sex, slathering it over my labia, squashing it up into my hot core until it melts and runs down my thighs. It’s shudderingly cold and I squirm in Matt’s embrace, biting back the squeals. I’m half aware that the blond man is tugging at his own clothes, pulling his cock out, but I can’t see it – I just know it as a slab of burning heat thrust against my cold bottom.
Then Trev gets down and eats the ice cream off me, tits and belly and thighs, all the way. I must be salty from the day’s work but he doesn’t care. His mouth is both hungry and tender. It makes me fear and it makes me need, and ultimately it makes me surrender, opening my legs to let him plunge his mouth and his hand between. His fingers go inside me, diving through the cream. His mouth devours my clit, sucking and nibbling and licking like I’m a gelato. I heave up against Matt’s torso, feeling his hands cup my breasts and tug at my sticky nipples. I’m helpless to resist. Trev’s hand is working me insistently, each thrust opening me more. His mouth has taken control of my whole body. Matt’s tongue is hot and wet in my ear: I’m being eaten by both men and I can’t stop it, I can’t help it, I’m coming now with breathy unmistakeable squeals – and Matt growls “Yes - you give it all up now; that’s right,” in my ear as my world turns inside out.
Orgasm leaves me shaken and trembling. Trev stands and pulls me up against him, stroking the wet strands of hair back from my face, and I focus my eyes with some effort. He’s smiling, but his cock is straining impatiently against me. I can feel it through his green paramedic trousers. “What happens now?” I ask in a tiny voice.
“What do you want to happen, Abi?” he murmurs, brushing my face with kisses, rubbing my palm against the swollen ridge in his pants.
“I want...” I reach behind me for Matt. He’s got his flies open and his cock is standing up hard under his stroking hand, and as he guides my fingers to grip that thick shaft I realise he’s already clad it in a skin of latex. Smooth operator.
“Want this?” Matt asks, voice full of chocolate.
“I want both of you,” I confess.
Trev’s eyebrows arch. “Together?’
What am I thinking of, at my age? This is crazy. “Yes,” I gasp.
BWE 2011 is still on sale at Amazon US : Amazon UK
July 27, 2014
July 25, 2014
Phenology - July
Nothing new happens in July. It's just like June, but with thunderstorms.
Nah, that's not exactly true, although the natural changes are a bit more subtle at this time of year. July is a time of PURPLE flowers if you know where to look:
This (above) is Himalayan Balsam, a pain-in-the-ass invasive species often found on river banks. It pulls up easily though. Later on, its seed will form in tightly-wound clockwork-style pods that explode in your hand (that's how it spreads so easily). It makes for much jumping and squealing entertainment when out on a walk, so I can't quite bring myself to hate it as much as it deserves :-)
This (above) is Rosebay Willowherb or Fireweed - so called because it colonises burned areas like crazy. It used to be rare in the UK, but it spread up the railways lines (all that clinker and coal, see?) during the Victorian period and is now found everywhere.When London was bombed during the blitz, "Bombweed" became a common sight, cloaking the ruins.
This is Betony, or Bishopwort - a plant with many herbal and magical uses. It protects you from gout, goblins, witches and bad dreams, and (when planted) stops ghosts wandering about! And according to Gerard's Herbal (1500s), "It maketh a man to pisse well." What else could you ask for?
This is Bush Vetch - a legume, as you might guess, and just beautiful when it grows in masses. Vetch species have been cultivated for at least 10,000 years as human and animal feed - possibly the earliest known agricultural crop.
The purple thistles are turning to fluff though...
The first wild fruits, in the form of cherries, start to ripen in July - you will have to race the birds to get to them.
And just in case you think it's all purples and pinks and nature is going through a tweenie stage ... July is also the time for Meadowsweet or Meadwort (a natural aspirin) to be in flower ...
o... and Poppies of various kinds (long associated - because of the opium connection - with sleep, peace and death), of course.
July 23, 2014
Where Genres Collide
Want to be the VERY FIRST to hear me read from Cover Him with Darkness? Well, there is a new Super Relaxed Fantasy Club being set up in Yorkshire, and their first pubmeet is in York on the 2nd of August.
Through some bizarre fluctuation in the quantum probability field, I am one of the two reading authors that day! (The other being David Tallerman) And there will be a Q&A!
Cleis have kindly sent me an ARC copy so that I look slightly professionalHeaven knows what fantasy fans will make of my work ... I suspect I may have to elide some of the smutty bits since it is an open meeting ;-)
So anyway, ALL welcome - there will be a free raffle for cool prizes (books, I suspect). I would totally love to see you guys there if you could make it. Yorkshire needs more smut geeks!
July 21, 2014
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment. Today's excerpt is a special guest snippet from the redoubtable
billierosie
. Warning - billierosie writes erotic stories and thoughtful blog-posts that are transgressive and challenging - this excerpt is consensual but, in the genre parlance, "nasty": First of all I'll let her introduce it herself:
Freddie grinned down at the elegantly dressed lady kneeling between his big, polished shoes. Her previously perfectly coiffed ash blonde hair was sticky with his spunk. Spunk drooled from between her lips mingling with the tears and snot that messed up what had been, a perfectly made up face, glowing with expensive cosmetics. Rivulets of brown mascara ran down her cheeks. Her pink lipstick was smudged beyond the exquisitely drawn line of her lip giving her a slutty appearance. Freddie glanced down at his softening cock, at the ring of pink pearlescent lipstick that encircled what had been an impressive erection.
And what a spectacle it had been. Her upper class lips stretched around his cock as he jammed it into her throat. His big hands gripping either side of her head as he fucked her face. His fingertips digging into her scalp. Freddie knew he was hurting her. He didn’t care. The little gurgling, choking sounds that she had made had been a bonus. He should have picked up his mobile phone and photographed the event: he would next time.
She pushed her large tits back inside her brassiere. Freddie had ordered her to display them before deciding whether to masturbate on them or to use her mouth. He had chosen her mouth. He wondered if she had ever deep throated a guy before. The way she gagged and spluttered as his large cock had raped her throat made him think that it was her first time. Freddie loved it when that happened. A virgin throat. He felt an unexpected tenderness. But only briefly. Freddie pulled out in time to splatter her tits, hair and face as well. She buttoned up her cream silk blouse with trembling immaculately manicured fingers.
Freddie needed to piss and he aimed his cock to splatter her face as he emptied his bladder. He wiped his cock on her hair before zipping up.
Her humiliation was complete. He had used her mouth as a receptacle for his spunk, with no more attention to her than if she had been a basin or a bucket for his ejaculation. He’d used her expensive face as a urinal. She stank like a urinal too. Served her right, thought Freddie.
He wondered if shoplifting had been on her agenda when she’d left her home that morning. Probably not. The attempted theft of the beautiful silk Paisley scarf: the exotic design for which Freddie’s store was so famous, had the feel of an impulsive action. She had simply draped it casually around her slender shoulders thinking that it would not be noticed. The vibrant exotic purples and greens had been set off perfectly by the elegant simplicity of her navy blue Chanel suit and certainly, Freddie wouldn’t have realised the theft had he not watched her do it.
He kicked her growling at her to get up and she yelped as he ordered her out of his office. He was finished using her and her hiccupping sobbing was beginning to get on his nerves. Her shoes had fallen off in her eager scramble to get to his thick cock. Once she had realised that the opportunity of redemption was at hand, there had been no stopping her and she had gobbled and slurped him into her mouth.
She had begged him not to call the police, pleading with him in her cut glass accent, that she would do anything, anything at all. She was meeting her husband for a luncheon appointment: she mustn’t be late.
Her posh voice grated on his ears. And as if her upper class, well-bred accent hadn’t been enough to irritate him, the fact that she’d called it “luncheon” infuriated him. Posh bitch. Posh snivelling bitch. But Freddie loved her pleading it made his huge cock harder than ever and he had strung out her begging long enough for her to approach hysteria.
Freddie imagined her trembling and quivering through her luncheon appointment. He hoped that her husband would appreciate the carefully aimed stains and the stink. When he had first collared her she had smelled expensive. Now he’d shot his load over her she smelled of expensive perfume mingled with Freddie’s spunk and piss.
Yes Freddie loved shoplifters. He wasn’t fussy if they were male or female. If anything the men were more fun because they showed greater resistance to Freddie’s extreme version of redemption. But they always capitulated in the end. Never once had a male shoplifter demanded that Freddie call the police to arrest him. Sucking on Freddie’s big cock was preferable to a night in the cells, and an appearance in Court the next morning. So Freddie’s cock got a lot of male attention these days. But it was the humiliation that Freddie loved most of all. To say that the men especially were totally out of their comfort zone was an understatement of astronomical proportions. Freddie never analysed his predilection. Why would he bother?
It was always a bit of a disappointment to Freddie when he discovered that one of his detainees was gay. He didn't think that a gay guy would find sucking cock much of a challenge. He felt that the blow job lacked a certain frisson. But a blow job though was still a blow job.
Where can billierosie take you from there? Well ...
"I am so pleased and happy to announce that my new book is out! Fetish Transcendence; the dark side of desire. The new collection of erotica from billierosie. Twelve stories; each story celebrating the magical, mystical diversity of human sexual experience. Those secrets and lies that we keep well hidden; that we dare not admit to ourselves, but make their presence felt through our fantasies and dreams. Dark desires that arouse in the heat of the night when our darker side cannot help but give in.
There’s a potpourri of fetish within these pages; it’s a collection that will impress the connoisseur of erotic fiction and the new reader, whose only experience of erotica is Fifty Shades of Grey…You’ll find Dominants and their submissives in strange, unexpected places in Fetish Transcendence. The opening tale tells of Freddie, the security guard in an exclusive London store, who has a very creative way of dealing with shoplifters..."
Freddie grinned down at the elegantly dressed lady kneeling between his big, polished shoes. Her previously perfectly coiffed ash blonde hair was sticky with his spunk. Spunk drooled from between her lips mingling with the tears and snot that messed up what had been, a perfectly made up face, glowing with expensive cosmetics. Rivulets of brown mascara ran down her cheeks. Her pink lipstick was smudged beyond the exquisitely drawn line of her lip giving her a slutty appearance. Freddie glanced down at his softening cock, at the ring of pink pearlescent lipstick that encircled what had been an impressive erection.
And what a spectacle it had been. Her upper class lips stretched around his cock as he jammed it into her throat. His big hands gripping either side of her head as he fucked her face. His fingertips digging into her scalp. Freddie knew he was hurting her. He didn’t care. The little gurgling, choking sounds that she had made had been a bonus. He should have picked up his mobile phone and photographed the event: he would next time.
She pushed her large tits back inside her brassiere. Freddie had ordered her to display them before deciding whether to masturbate on them or to use her mouth. He had chosen her mouth. He wondered if she had ever deep throated a guy before. The way she gagged and spluttered as his large cock had raped her throat made him think that it was her first time. Freddie loved it when that happened. A virgin throat. He felt an unexpected tenderness. But only briefly. Freddie pulled out in time to splatter her tits, hair and face as well. She buttoned up her cream silk blouse with trembling immaculately manicured fingers.
Freddie needed to piss and he aimed his cock to splatter her face as he emptied his bladder. He wiped his cock on her hair before zipping up.
Her humiliation was complete. He had used her mouth as a receptacle for his spunk, with no more attention to her than if she had been a basin or a bucket for his ejaculation. He’d used her expensive face as a urinal. She stank like a urinal too. Served her right, thought Freddie.
He wondered if shoplifting had been on her agenda when she’d left her home that morning. Probably not. The attempted theft of the beautiful silk Paisley scarf: the exotic design for which Freddie’s store was so famous, had the feel of an impulsive action. She had simply draped it casually around her slender shoulders thinking that it would not be noticed. The vibrant exotic purples and greens had been set off perfectly by the elegant simplicity of her navy blue Chanel suit and certainly, Freddie wouldn’t have realised the theft had he not watched her do it.
He kicked her growling at her to get up and she yelped as he ordered her out of his office. He was finished using her and her hiccupping sobbing was beginning to get on his nerves. Her shoes had fallen off in her eager scramble to get to his thick cock. Once she had realised that the opportunity of redemption was at hand, there had been no stopping her and she had gobbled and slurped him into her mouth.
She had begged him not to call the police, pleading with him in her cut glass accent, that she would do anything, anything at all. She was meeting her husband for a luncheon appointment: she mustn’t be late.
Her posh voice grated on his ears. And as if her upper class, well-bred accent hadn’t been enough to irritate him, the fact that she’d called it “luncheon” infuriated him. Posh bitch. Posh snivelling bitch. But Freddie loved her pleading it made his huge cock harder than ever and he had strung out her begging long enough for her to approach hysteria.
Freddie imagined her trembling and quivering through her luncheon appointment. He hoped that her husband would appreciate the carefully aimed stains and the stink. When he had first collared her she had smelled expensive. Now he’d shot his load over her she smelled of expensive perfume mingled with Freddie’s spunk and piss.
Yes Freddie loved shoplifters. He wasn’t fussy if they were male or female. If anything the men were more fun because they showed greater resistance to Freddie’s extreme version of redemption. But they always capitulated in the end. Never once had a male shoplifter demanded that Freddie call the police to arrest him. Sucking on Freddie’s big cock was preferable to a night in the cells, and an appearance in Court the next morning. So Freddie’s cock got a lot of male attention these days. But it was the humiliation that Freddie loved most of all. To say that the men especially were totally out of their comfort zone was an understatement of astronomical proportions. Freddie never analysed his predilection. Why would he bother?
It was always a bit of a disappointment to Freddie when he discovered that one of his detainees was gay. He didn't think that a gay guy would find sucking cock much of a challenge. He felt that the blow job lacked a certain frisson. But a blow job though was still a blow job.
Where can billierosie take you from there? Well ...
"Lovers, Allen and Clara elope, but there are dangers on the road to the little church where they can legally marry. In Fruits de Mer you’ll learn of Josiah’s exotic, erotic taste for les moules, while in Sherlock Holmes and the Curse of the Moonstone, Sherlock Holmes and Watson solve yet another intriguing mystery through the powerful force of outrageous sex.Fetish Transcendence is available an e-read at Amazon UK : Amazon US
One dirty phone call precipitates another in Touch, while in Body Swap, Simon and Clarice turn their unique, extrasensory gift to their advantage; love and lust carries them through the generations. They have no fear of the tomb; they have defeated death itself.
The rocky road to attaining sanctity is told through a terrible, sacrilegious confession to Father Abraham. It’s a confession of an abomination; an unspeakable sexual perversion that threatens the immortal soul.
The heat of the crowd generates its own dark mood of erotica. There’s hardly any room to breathe let alone move. It’s hot and sweaty. Someone presses up close behind you; too close. You know exactly what is going on but you are powerless to stop it; to do anything about it. You can’t even turn around to confront your violator. Poor Julia! Will she ever get over the humiliation?
And there’s a holiday romance; a romance with a difference for this submissive male and the Dominant woman who knows how he can achieve real pleasure.
The two final tales tell of Anastasia; the lucky lady who inherits millions. You’d think she would be happy, but there is Marcus whom she adores, but who doesn’t want her. And driving the narrative there is a diary. A piece of pornography that teaches Anastasia about a long ago sexual awakening – an awakening worthy of the Marquis de Sade himself."
July 20, 2014
Bearded Lady Pt. 2
My second home-made beard this year. It's getting to be a habit.
The woolly beard was WAY more comfortable, btw - because it wasn't glued on. It's made of a piece of open-weave fabric with two colours of wool threaded through, held up by elastic and a stretchy hairband. And my ears.
I do like the Full Moon of Durin over my shoulder. Presumably it's shining on the secret door into the Lonely Mountain!
July 18, 2014
Melusine - the spoilers
I posted an excerpt from my latest published story Melusine on Monday ... but I will readily admit it's really not clear that this is definitely a paranormal story. In fact the only clue is the name in the title, which you may or may not know, gentle reader.
The tale is medieval, and European rather than British.
I was only only vaguely aware of the Melusine fairy tale myself, until my flying day-trip to Luxembourg in 2012 - because there she is counted as a (pseudo)historical figure, the wife of the reputably historic Count Siegfried (922-998 CE), and is credited with magically creating the Bock castle overnight.
Still standing, in portionsIt is said that Melusine can still sometimes be spotted swimming about in the river, in either human or serpent form.
I'd been waiting to write about her ever since that day. And when the call popped up to write a long short story for Sweetmeats Press with the theme "drenched" ... well, that was my chance!
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The story in its simplest form is that a nobleman marries a beautiful fairy maiden, but she agrees only on condition that she gets to spend one day of the week on her own. He must not intrude on her solitude that day, nor must he ever ask her what she's up to.
Of course, many years (and several children) later, curiosity gets the better of him and everything goes to pieces. It always does in stories - see Cupid and Psyche, or Bluebeard, for example.
It was an chance for me to write a rare female-dominant story and, even rarer, one about a married couple with a full - and filthy - relationship.
Melusine is available NOW as an e-book
Amazon US : Amazon UK
It is part of the collection Drenched from Sweetmeats Press, also available in e-form and soon to be released in paperback:
Amazon UK
July 16, 2014
Sale - Lovers' Wheel
News news news!
My pagan-magic-erotica series The Wheel of the Year has been renamed Lovers' Wheel and has been bought by Ellora's Cave!
EC, of course, have previously published my short story In Appreciation of Their Cox and my fantasy romance novella The King's Viper - Which is, by the way, currently discounted to $0.99 as an e-book for two weeks only at the EC site :-)
(all books available on Amazon too)
Lover's Wheel will be released in 4 novella-sized chunks that add up to a BIG novel:
Summer Seduction Falling Deep When Winter Comes Joys of Spring
(D'you see what I did there? Suggestive puns are now compulsory.)
I'm enjoying writing this so much! Even the astrology bits ;-) It's what my whole Phenology thing has been about. As I type this, Summer Seduction has gone off for editing and a cover, and I'm at home kicking Autumn into shape: scary harvest festivals, savage unicorns (!) and a crash-course in submission and BDSM for my somewhat nervous heroine.
She has no idea what awaits her...
My pagan-magic-erotica series The Wheel of the Year has been renamed Lovers' Wheel and has been bought by Ellora's Cave!
EC, of course, have previously published my short story In Appreciation of Their Cox and my fantasy romance novella The King's Viper - Which is, by the way, currently discounted to $0.99 as an e-book for two weeks only at the EC site :-)
(all books available on Amazon too)
Lover's Wheel will be released in 4 novella-sized chunks that add up to a BIG novel:
Summer Seduction Falling Deep When Winter Comes Joys of Spring
(D'you see what I did there? Suggestive puns are now compulsory.)
I'm enjoying writing this so much! Even the astrology bits ;-) It's what my whole Phenology thing has been about. As I type this, Summer Seduction has gone off for editing and a cover, and I'm at home kicking Autumn into shape: scary harvest festivals, savage unicorns (!) and a crash-course in submission and BDSM for my somewhat nervous heroine.
She has no idea what awaits her...
July 14, 2014
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a rude bit from one of my stories, for your entertainment.
Today's snippet is from my (longish) short story Melusine. It's a supernatural fem-dominant tale, based on a medieval legend, with a modern setting.
In this scene, uptight accountant Martin is sitting on a sun-lounger by a pool, trying to pretend he isn't secretly gawking at Lucy as she swims.
The open pages on his lap were a blur. He’d never read another word again, he knew. There was nothing in his head but this Lucy’s divine body; half-seen, half-mystery. Wholly bewitching. Then he heard her light footfalls and saw a blur of tan skin and unnatural green, and he knew she was standing in front of him.
Martin raised his gaze and, with immense effort, looked her in the face.
No sunglasses now. Her eyes weren’t blue, as he’d imagined, but olive green, and her long dark lashes were starred by pool-water. Her face … she was just as beautiful as he’d hoped, but he was also relieved to see that she wasn’t as young as her body had suggested; her face had the planed look of a woman well out of her first youth, all angles and cheekbones. Except for her lips, which were full and curved in an asymmetric half-smile.
Martin could feel his heart hammering.
She was looking at him. Not just his face, either. She looked him up and down, as if assessing him, and he felt heat charge up to his face and down to his crotch. Did she see a respectable trim man in casual clothes—or a furtive, middle-aged lecher? He knew he couldn’t possibly leave now, because if he stood up she’d see he had a hard-on. Quite possibly that was obvious already, but he didn’t dare check. Her coolly judging expression made him squirm inside with shame, but it did nothing to quell his surging erection.
Without a word, she lifted her towel and ran it across her wet hair. Tarnished darker by water, a few strands were already turning back to gold—but that wasn’t what registered. What mattered to Martin was that in attending to her body right there in front of him, she had somehow granted permission to look. So he did.
Dear God.
Was she even human, to look like that? He was a Londoner; he’d married an English girl, he was used to English bodies—pale, fleshy, buttery-soft, sweetly imperfect, and always slightly self-doubting. Not this golden-tan litheness, this confidence, this taut athletic ideal. Lucy had the body of an Olympic gymnast and the assurance of a supermodel. The inner slopes of her delectable breasts—not huge, not small, just utterly perfect, like some impossible lycra-wrapped treasure—were jewelled with water droplets that shivered and ran and begged to be touched, and her waist was so slender that his hands ached to circle it. Those long long legs rose to a tilted pelvic girdle, one hip cocked, the twin ties of her bikini bottom dripping diamonds and tantalisingly vulnerable.
He wanted to lick those water drops. He wanted to touch those breasts and feel their softness and their weight. He wanted to put his hands on those hips and feel the movement of her frame, the way they rolled, as if mere engineering would make her real somehow, make her a thing of earthly possibility. Make her comprehensible to his English sensibilities.
His cheeks burned as he met her gaze again.
Coming to some private decision, this vision flung her towel down across his lap. “Oil me,” she commanded.
“Huh?”
“Oil me.” Her voice had a husky edge, a slight European accent. She tossed the bottle of sun-oil from her other hand onto the towel and Martin gasped as it smacked right on his burgeoning cock. But the blow did not register as pain; he was beyond that now. He grabbed at the bottle automatically. He was not, however, swift enough to react before Lucy moved in on him, swinging round to present her back and ass and sinking down to straddle his thighs.
He had just enough self control not to swear with shock and delight. He couldn’t stop the noise, half earthy grunt and half groan, that escaped his throat, though. And he heard her laugh softly.
Jesus. This can’t be real.
She smelled of chlorinated pool water. Most of it was going on the towel, but she was dripping on his papers and his trousers and his shirt. He found he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the fact that she was sitting astride him, her spread bum-cheeks nestling on his crotch, her strong, slender back presented for his touch. He could see the drops running down the declivity of her spine, right there in front of him, an inch from his raised hands.
This is crazy. Holy hell Martin, don’t mess this up! He couldn’t imagine what had he done to deserve this, in this life or any other, but he had no intention of rejecting this gift from the gods. Carpe diem, you idiot!
So he flipped the lid of the bottle and squirted sun-oil over her shoulders, though when it came to laying a hand on her he actually held his breath, as if she were some dream bubble who might burst and vanish. But her back was solid and smooth beneath his palm, and not even cool from the pool but warm with her body heat.
He began to stroke the oil across her skin.
“Mmm,” she purred, arching her spine.
“Okay?” he stammered.
“Oh yes. Nice.” She wriggled under his grasp, thrusting her bum out a little more, with consequences beneath the draped towel that Martin did not dare think about. His brain had locked down to a tiny circle of focus: her body, alive and lithe under his hands, and the slick slide of skin on skin. The concave of her waist, the flare of her hips, the ripe peachy curves of her ass, unconcealed by the string of her thong … Not that he dared touch those. He caressed the oil into her back for as long as he could, dizzy with the scent of sun-lotion.
“Shoulders?” he asked. His mouth was so dry the word sounded woolly.
“Shoulders. Legs. Everywhere,” she answered, grabbing the bottle from where it rested at his hip and squirting a line of oil down her thigh.
“Uh. Right.” He felt drunk, and clumsy, and unreal. He smoothed his hands down her thighs as far as he could reach toward her knees, leaning into her. Down, and then back up again, smooth as cream—and as he reached her hips she lifted herself a little, raising the perfect heart-shape of her bottom clear of the towel to allow those hands easy access below. “Oh God,” he breathed, cupping her butt like he was holding the world in either hand.
“Don’t talk.”
He nodded frantically, though she couldn’t see him. He would have done anything she demanded, so long as he could go on touching that incredible body. Legs, bum, hips—and then, under her guiding hands, round to the front, up from her hips to her waist, over her stomach, back down to her inner thighs, up again, down again. He could hear her sighs of pleasure, feel the heave of her ribs and the press of her groin upon his. His cock was like an iron bar now beneath the damp towel, his hands were thrumming with warmth, and his head was full of the scent of her—chlorine and sun-screen, like the incense of some pagan goddess, making his heart pound. Breathing deeply, he shut his eyes, pouring all his concentration into his hands and his crotch. She writhed back against him, squirming her hips deliciously.
“Up.”
“What?” he whispered, his lips in her wet and tangled hair.
“Up here.” Pulling down the stretchy fabric of one bra cup, she directed a squirt of oil over her left breast.
Oh God what if someone comes up and sees? flitted through his accountant’s mind, half a breath before Martin let out a guttural noise entirely beyond his control and ran his hand in, taking possession of the orb, squeezing and smoothing and stroking. Lucy whimpered, but it was no protest. Her nipple, refusing to be soothed by his caresses, rose up hard and stiff beneath his warm palm, its halo puckered. He didn’t wait for an invitation to find its twin; he had both breasts now, both breasts, and this incredible golden nymph was gasping and writhing in his lap, and it was like he had won the lottery and gone to heaven and been crowned king of the universe. And he still couldn’t believe it.
“Oh yes.” Lucy reached down to the arms of the sun-lounger, grabbed and jerked. That was when the cushioned back collapsed away behind him; a shove of her ass in his midriff sent him off-balance. Instantly his deference reasserted itself; the panicked thought that he’d done something wrong, that he was going to have to pay for his trespass. He felt those fabulous tits slip from his grasp as she rose up, wriggling into a new position and pressing him down. Somehow he found himself flat on his back, with her bum above him dark against the brilliant sky.
Her ass, cheeks parted and thighs bracketing his head, her sex covered only by the narrowest strip of wet day-glo green.
If anyone walks by now -
She put her head down onto the towel and rubbed her face over the mound of his erect cock.
Melusine is available NOW as an e-book
Amazon US : Amazon UK
It is part of the collection Drenched from Sweetmeats Press, also available in e-form and soon to be released in paperback:
Amazon UK
Today's snippet is from my (longish) short story Melusine. It's a supernatural fem-dominant tale, based on a medieval legend, with a modern setting.
In this scene, uptight accountant Martin is sitting on a sun-lounger by a pool, trying to pretend he isn't secretly gawking at Lucy as she swims.
The open pages on his lap were a blur. He’d never read another word again, he knew. There was nothing in his head but this Lucy’s divine body; half-seen, half-mystery. Wholly bewitching. Then he heard her light footfalls and saw a blur of tan skin and unnatural green, and he knew she was standing in front of him.
Martin raised his gaze and, with immense effort, looked her in the face.
No sunglasses now. Her eyes weren’t blue, as he’d imagined, but olive green, and her long dark lashes were starred by pool-water. Her face … she was just as beautiful as he’d hoped, but he was also relieved to see that she wasn’t as young as her body had suggested; her face had the planed look of a woman well out of her first youth, all angles and cheekbones. Except for her lips, which were full and curved in an asymmetric half-smile.
Martin could feel his heart hammering.
She was looking at him. Not just his face, either. She looked him up and down, as if assessing him, and he felt heat charge up to his face and down to his crotch. Did she see a respectable trim man in casual clothes—or a furtive, middle-aged lecher? He knew he couldn’t possibly leave now, because if he stood up she’d see he had a hard-on. Quite possibly that was obvious already, but he didn’t dare check. Her coolly judging expression made him squirm inside with shame, but it did nothing to quell his surging erection.
Without a word, she lifted her towel and ran it across her wet hair. Tarnished darker by water, a few strands were already turning back to gold—but that wasn’t what registered. What mattered to Martin was that in attending to her body right there in front of him, she had somehow granted permission to look. So he did.
Dear God.
Was she even human, to look like that? He was a Londoner; he’d married an English girl, he was used to English bodies—pale, fleshy, buttery-soft, sweetly imperfect, and always slightly self-doubting. Not this golden-tan litheness, this confidence, this taut athletic ideal. Lucy had the body of an Olympic gymnast and the assurance of a supermodel. The inner slopes of her delectable breasts—not huge, not small, just utterly perfect, like some impossible lycra-wrapped treasure—were jewelled with water droplets that shivered and ran and begged to be touched, and her waist was so slender that his hands ached to circle it. Those long long legs rose to a tilted pelvic girdle, one hip cocked, the twin ties of her bikini bottom dripping diamonds and tantalisingly vulnerable.
He wanted to lick those water drops. He wanted to touch those breasts and feel their softness and their weight. He wanted to put his hands on those hips and feel the movement of her frame, the way they rolled, as if mere engineering would make her real somehow, make her a thing of earthly possibility. Make her comprehensible to his English sensibilities.
His cheeks burned as he met her gaze again.
Coming to some private decision, this vision flung her towel down across his lap. “Oil me,” she commanded.
“Huh?”
“Oil me.” Her voice had a husky edge, a slight European accent. She tossed the bottle of sun-oil from her other hand onto the towel and Martin gasped as it smacked right on his burgeoning cock. But the blow did not register as pain; he was beyond that now. He grabbed at the bottle automatically. He was not, however, swift enough to react before Lucy moved in on him, swinging round to present her back and ass and sinking down to straddle his thighs.
He had just enough self control not to swear with shock and delight. He couldn’t stop the noise, half earthy grunt and half groan, that escaped his throat, though. And he heard her laugh softly.
Jesus. This can’t be real.
She smelled of chlorinated pool water. Most of it was going on the towel, but she was dripping on his papers and his trousers and his shirt. He found he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the fact that she was sitting astride him, her spread bum-cheeks nestling on his crotch, her strong, slender back presented for his touch. He could see the drops running down the declivity of her spine, right there in front of him, an inch from his raised hands.
This is crazy. Holy hell Martin, don’t mess this up! He couldn’t imagine what had he done to deserve this, in this life or any other, but he had no intention of rejecting this gift from the gods. Carpe diem, you idiot!
So he flipped the lid of the bottle and squirted sun-oil over her shoulders, though when it came to laying a hand on her he actually held his breath, as if she were some dream bubble who might burst and vanish. But her back was solid and smooth beneath his palm, and not even cool from the pool but warm with her body heat.
He began to stroke the oil across her skin.
“Mmm,” she purred, arching her spine.
“Okay?” he stammered.
“Oh yes. Nice.” She wriggled under his grasp, thrusting her bum out a little more, with consequences beneath the draped towel that Martin did not dare think about. His brain had locked down to a tiny circle of focus: her body, alive and lithe under his hands, and the slick slide of skin on skin. The concave of her waist, the flare of her hips, the ripe peachy curves of her ass, unconcealed by the string of her thong … Not that he dared touch those. He caressed the oil into her back for as long as he could, dizzy with the scent of sun-lotion.
“Shoulders?” he asked. His mouth was so dry the word sounded woolly.
“Shoulders. Legs. Everywhere,” she answered, grabbing the bottle from where it rested at his hip and squirting a line of oil down her thigh.
“Uh. Right.” He felt drunk, and clumsy, and unreal. He smoothed his hands down her thighs as far as he could reach toward her knees, leaning into her. Down, and then back up again, smooth as cream—and as he reached her hips she lifted herself a little, raising the perfect heart-shape of her bottom clear of the towel to allow those hands easy access below. “Oh God,” he breathed, cupping her butt like he was holding the world in either hand.
“Don’t talk.”
He nodded frantically, though she couldn’t see him. He would have done anything she demanded, so long as he could go on touching that incredible body. Legs, bum, hips—and then, under her guiding hands, round to the front, up from her hips to her waist, over her stomach, back down to her inner thighs, up again, down again. He could hear her sighs of pleasure, feel the heave of her ribs and the press of her groin upon his. His cock was like an iron bar now beneath the damp towel, his hands were thrumming with warmth, and his head was full of the scent of her—chlorine and sun-screen, like the incense of some pagan goddess, making his heart pound. Breathing deeply, he shut his eyes, pouring all his concentration into his hands and his crotch. She writhed back against him, squirming her hips deliciously.
“Up.”
“What?” he whispered, his lips in her wet and tangled hair.
“Up here.” Pulling down the stretchy fabric of one bra cup, she directed a squirt of oil over her left breast.
Oh God what if someone comes up and sees? flitted through his accountant’s mind, half a breath before Martin let out a guttural noise entirely beyond his control and ran his hand in, taking possession of the orb, squeezing and smoothing and stroking. Lucy whimpered, but it was no protest. Her nipple, refusing to be soothed by his caresses, rose up hard and stiff beneath his warm palm, its halo puckered. He didn’t wait for an invitation to find its twin; he had both breasts now, both breasts, and this incredible golden nymph was gasping and writhing in his lap, and it was like he had won the lottery and gone to heaven and been crowned king of the universe. And he still couldn’t believe it.
“Oh yes.” Lucy reached down to the arms of the sun-lounger, grabbed and jerked. That was when the cushioned back collapsed away behind him; a shove of her ass in his midriff sent him off-balance. Instantly his deference reasserted itself; the panicked thought that he’d done something wrong, that he was going to have to pay for his trespass. He felt those fabulous tits slip from his grasp as she rose up, wriggling into a new position and pressing him down. Somehow he found himself flat on his back, with her bum above him dark against the brilliant sky.
Her ass, cheeks parted and thighs bracketing his head, her sex covered only by the narrowest strip of wet day-glo green.
If anyone walks by now -
She put her head down onto the towel and rubbed her face over the mound of his erect cock.
Melusine is available NOW as an e-book
Amazon US : Amazon UK
It is part of the collection Drenched from Sweetmeats Press, also available in e-form and soon to be released in paperback:
Amazon UK
July 13, 2014
OMG, look what happened to Gary Numan
I want to hear Rammstein sing Numan covers.
