Angelia Sparrow's Blog, page 21
May 9, 2014
Cyberpunk werewolf/merman tentacle porn!
Now that I have your attention...
It's out today!
Click cover to purchase.
Niall is a Netrunner also known as the Timberwolf, fierce and cunning in his information raids. But when he's captured in the real world by tech giant Erik, also known as The Wheelman, Niall is Chained to the Wheel in real space and used for Erik's pleasure in the Net. And when Erik comes to test him, it will be with the awe-inspiring lower body of an octopus and a mingling of pain and pleasure that Niall no longer wants to escape.
It's set in the same universe as these:
But instead of Sean and Caitlin, or Zara and Gemini, this one is Niall and the Wheelman.
And like so many stories, it was inspired by this picture
And no, I'm not kidding about the werewolf and merman aspects...
Excerpt, not entirely worksafe:
Erik laughed. “Oh, little one, you've taken to your place so well.” He kissed Niall's temple and surrounded him with the mantle and his arms.
“Beta wolf, Master,” Niall said as he leaned his head against Erik's magnificently broad chest, resting in the full body hug. “I always show belly for an alpha.”
“Bit of a slut too, as I hear it. There have been a great many alphas you've lifted your tail for, am I wrong?”
Niall shook his head. “There have been a number, Master.” He'd lost count before he was twenty. Pretty, big-eyed boys could always find lovers, especially the kind who could pay for things like meals out, and occasional goodies. He was no whore, but he didn't say no to presents or dates, either. And dating up was just smart. Now, he'd reached the very top. Irony abounded.
Erik just chuckled. “From here on, that number is one. Unless I say otherwise.”
“Of course.” Niall flicked his tongue over one of Erik's nipples, knowing they were very sensitive. Erik shivered.
“Ambitious little slut. Let's see just how you like it, then.”
Erik let go of him and the octopus avatar grew until the tentacles were as thick as Niall's thigh at the base and twice as long as he was. The beak released his cock and Erick shoved him well away, the better to watch, Niall figured.
“That's a lovely picture. Wolf imprisoned. No, Wolf ensnared, I think. Go ahead, sweetness, change for me. I've seen the werewolf avatar. Use it.”
Niall hung in the tentacles that held him spread-eagle and concentrated. He almost never changed avatars without a device, so this was uncomfortable. He remembered how he looked and yelped as he shifted into the hulking, hairy, bipedal wolfman.
It's out today!
Click cover to purchase.
Niall is a Netrunner also known as the Timberwolf, fierce and cunning in his information raids. But when he's captured in the real world by tech giant Erik, also known as The Wheelman, Niall is Chained to the Wheel in real space and used for Erik's pleasure in the Net. And when Erik comes to test him, it will be with the awe-inspiring lower body of an octopus and a mingling of pain and pleasure that Niall no longer wants to escape.
It's set in the same universe as these:
But instead of Sean and Caitlin, or Zara and Gemini, this one is Niall and the Wheelman.
And like so many stories, it was inspired by this picture
And no, I'm not kidding about the werewolf and merman aspects...
Excerpt, not entirely worksafe:
Erik laughed. “Oh, little one, you've taken to your place so well.” He kissed Niall's temple and surrounded him with the mantle and his arms.
“Beta wolf, Master,” Niall said as he leaned his head against Erik's magnificently broad chest, resting in the full body hug. “I always show belly for an alpha.”
“Bit of a slut too, as I hear it. There have been a great many alphas you've lifted your tail for, am I wrong?”
Niall shook his head. “There have been a number, Master.” He'd lost count before he was twenty. Pretty, big-eyed boys could always find lovers, especially the kind who could pay for things like meals out, and occasional goodies. He was no whore, but he didn't say no to presents or dates, either. And dating up was just smart. Now, he'd reached the very top. Irony abounded.
Erik just chuckled. “From here on, that number is one. Unless I say otherwise.”
“Of course.” Niall flicked his tongue over one of Erik's nipples, knowing they were very sensitive. Erik shivered.
“Ambitious little slut. Let's see just how you like it, then.”
Erik let go of him and the octopus avatar grew until the tentacles were as thick as Niall's thigh at the base and twice as long as he was. The beak released his cock and Erick shoved him well away, the better to watch, Niall figured.
“That's a lovely picture. Wolf imprisoned. No, Wolf ensnared, I think. Go ahead, sweetness, change for me. I've seen the werewolf avatar. Use it.”
Niall hung in the tentacles that held him spread-eagle and concentrated. He almost never changed avatars without a device, so this was uncomfortable. He remembered how he looked and yelped as he shifted into the hulking, hairy, bipedal wolfman.
May 8, 2014
Never a dull moment here
I have a second (paying) job, so posts may or may not be terribly regular.
What am I doing?
I edited Resistance by BR Sanders.
Naomi and I have a short story in Dominant Tendencies. If you liked the Memphis of DJ Admire, pay a trip back, with a couple of combat mages, who--very literally--set the night on fire.
Both books are available here as ..pdf, .epub and .mobi, as well as paperback
Currently writing to meet a June 1 deadline, and then we start The Month of Writing Dangerously.
What am I doing?
I edited Resistance by BR Sanders.
Naomi and I have a short story in Dominant Tendencies. If you liked the Memphis of DJ Admire, pay a trip back, with a couple of combat mages, who--very literally--set the night on fire.
Both books are available here as ..pdf, .epub and .mobi, as well as paperback
Currently writing to meet a June 1 deadline, and then we start The Month of Writing Dangerously.
May 1, 2014
8 Hours....
The clock counts down that last work shift.
Eight hours left in the Writing Dangerously campaign
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331
Can Angel make even 1/10 of her goal?
$78 is all that's needed.
Get an ebook.
Get a paperback.
Get a character named after you!
Have a sample of the book that you'll be funding:
I poured myself some tea, laced it with rum, and thought. Couldn't be a 'thrope killing, the moon wasn't right. Vampires were only after the blood. Most of the predator species would rend and tear the whole body. The wounds were neat, not even ragged from hacking or a saw. It looked as if someone had just run a super sharp knife around the legs at the bottom of the underpants and the top of the knee. I had an image of flesh being split away from the bone like foam insulation off a pipe. The cleanness of the removal made something tickle in my brain but I couldn't think what it was.
No. This was a human, or mostly human, killing. But not the usual kind. They wouldn't call me in for a guy mad at his girlfriend or a pissed off stepdad who decides to take it out on the kids because it will hurt the woman more. There was something Nightside about this case, and I couldn't figure it out. I had better get on the stick, though. I had twenty-one days to save the next ankle-biter from a nasty death.
Nightside work again. Once you get a rep for it in this business, you never work with humans again. Not that I care about being around people, just that I like my corpses to stay dead. On the Nightside of Memphis there are all kinds of dead, from walking-around-working-dead like the zombies on President's Island to running-the-whole-vampire-underworld dead, like Elvis. I don't mind those. It's the ripping-the-throat-out-of-the-neighborhood-PI dead I object to.
Me, I wasn't dead. Not yet and I planned to keep it that way for a while.
And I was going to do my best to make sure some parent didn't wake up to a horrible surprise on Halloween morning. Full moon on Halloween, it was going to be a hot time in the old town that night. Full moons made the pixies frisky and a lot of Nightsiders more active. The vampires tended to stay in on Halloween, but the werewolves would be running.
We didn't have many local 'thropes. It had been a family unit of three with a couple cousins not in the pack proper. The late Old Man Camomescro ran tight herd on his son and grandson. Nice folks. Grandson Dan taught English at a local college before he'd moved to Wisconsin. His uncle, Zoltan, was in logistics and had stayed in town. The cousins were on my payroll. They were still at the bottom of my suspect list.
Vamps were out of the question. We hadn't had an exsanguination in over a decade. Elvis keeps his people in line. Zombies didn't eat people, unless they got out from under their spell. Those that did seldom got more than a bite or two out of the foreman before being put down. Ghosts didn't kill. Or rather, they compelled people into dangerous situations instead of outright attacks.That eliminated the most obvious Nightsiders. Yay for new and exciting cases.
I hoped it wasn't another demon.
Eight hours left in the Writing Dangerously campaign
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331
Can Angel make even 1/10 of her goal?
$78 is all that's needed.
Get an ebook.
Get a paperback.
Get a character named after you!
Have a sample of the book that you'll be funding:
I poured myself some tea, laced it with rum, and thought. Couldn't be a 'thrope killing, the moon wasn't right. Vampires were only after the blood. Most of the predator species would rend and tear the whole body. The wounds were neat, not even ragged from hacking or a saw. It looked as if someone had just run a super sharp knife around the legs at the bottom of the underpants and the top of the knee. I had an image of flesh being split away from the bone like foam insulation off a pipe. The cleanness of the removal made something tickle in my brain but I couldn't think what it was.
No. This was a human, or mostly human, killing. But not the usual kind. They wouldn't call me in for a guy mad at his girlfriend or a pissed off stepdad who decides to take it out on the kids because it will hurt the woman more. There was something Nightside about this case, and I couldn't figure it out. I had better get on the stick, though. I had twenty-one days to save the next ankle-biter from a nasty death.
Nightside work again. Once you get a rep for it in this business, you never work with humans again. Not that I care about being around people, just that I like my corpses to stay dead. On the Nightside of Memphis there are all kinds of dead, from walking-around-working-dead like the zombies on President's Island to running-the-whole-vampire-underworld dead, like Elvis. I don't mind those. It's the ripping-the-throat-out-of-the-neighborhood-PI dead I object to.
Me, I wasn't dead. Not yet and I planned to keep it that way for a while.
And I was going to do my best to make sure some parent didn't wake up to a horrible surprise on Halloween morning. Full moon on Halloween, it was going to be a hot time in the old town that night. Full moons made the pixies frisky and a lot of Nightsiders more active. The vampires tended to stay in on Halloween, but the werewolves would be running.
We didn't have many local 'thropes. It had been a family unit of three with a couple cousins not in the pack proper. The late Old Man Camomescro ran tight herd on his son and grandson. Nice folks. Grandson Dan taught English at a local college before he'd moved to Wisconsin. His uncle, Zoltan, was in logistics and had stayed in town. The cousins were on my payroll. They were still at the bottom of my suspect list.
Vamps were out of the question. We hadn't had an exsanguination in over a decade. Elvis keeps his people in line. Zombies didn't eat people, unless they got out from under their spell. Those that did seldom got more than a bite or two out of the foreman before being put down. Ghosts didn't kill. Or rather, they compelled people into dangerous situations instead of outright attacks.That eliminated the most obvious Nightsiders. Yay for new and exciting cases.
I hoped it wasn't another demon.
April 30, 2014
The Last Minute!
Or at least the last 32 hours.
This is it. The Writing Dangerously Indiegogo closes tomorrow at Midnight Pacific Time.
$282 official donations have come in and I appreciate every one.
If you read my books, or even if you like the excerpts, please kick in. The book is getting written, just perhaps not in a single month, because I will be working.
Every dollar helps. But every $20 helps more. 8)
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331#home
This is it. The Writing Dangerously Indiegogo closes tomorrow at Midnight Pacific Time.
$282 official donations have come in and I appreciate every one.
If you read my books, or even if you like the excerpts, please kick in. The book is getting written, just perhaps not in a single month, because I will be working.
Every dollar helps. But every $20 helps more. 8)
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331#home
April 29, 2014
[Religion] On Believing in Gods
[Mirrored from LiveJournal]
I've been asked several times lately "Why don't you believe in God?"
My answer is always the same. "It would be like believing in the postman." (Hattip to Terry Prachett)
They don't get it. They never get it. All they hear is that I'm not a Christian, so of COURSE I don't believe in God.
For me, the gods are real. All the gods from Ahura-Mazda to Zeus. They aren't physical realities. They aren't people. They are useful metaphors and ways of thinking about the world, much like archetypes, TV tropes or even tarot cards.
I read tarot. I ALWAYS preface my reading with "The cards know nothing. What they are is a reframing device to allow you to organize the knowledge you already have." This is why my cards never lie. Because they only tell you what you already know. But much as est wraps up your bad personality traits and hands them back with confidence and a shiny bow on top (does anyone still do est? Or did that die in 1983?), the cards clarify things.
Gods do the same thing for me.
They're someone to talk to when I can't explain to my human friends and family. They're a way of focusing my will when my own focus seems distracted. (and since magic is just applied will, this focus is vital) I work more closely with some gods than with others. I don't get along with some deities at all.
Those who know me, know I have a running quarrel with Loki. This has lessened considerably since Hermes laid claim to me, saying, "This writer, this traveler, this one who engages in commerce, she is MINE." Trickster gods are never dull, if never quite cozy and comfortable. Coyote is not my patron, but I catch him keeping an eye on me now and then.
The Egyptian gods have not called me to worship their pantheon. Ma'at in particular has no use at all for me.
Oddly, the Celts aren't all that interested in me either. The Green Man loves me madly, and in spring, when he laughs from every tree and bush, he makes me feel young and desirable. The rest, not so much.
The Norse pantheon and I are well acquainted, but they have let me know I am not theirs. Frigga offers the occasional aid, as does Freya. Odin is more rare. Loki just messes with me. And Thor is not my bestest buddy.
The Greeks, well, no one was more surprised than I when Hera took me up. And Hermes was another shock. I had always thought of myself as possibly Athena's girl, but she is uninterested in me.
I do not appropriate gods from outside my culture. No Kali or Shiva, no Amaterasu or Tlaloc.
YHWH does not like me. He doesn't like any of us who walk away from worshiping him. People get offended when I say he tried killing my daughters, making them mentally ill so they would commit suicide, when I walked away. I was told numerous times, from numerous sources (including dreams) that they would get better and live if I came back. People say God doesn't work that way. I raise one eyebrow and say "Tell it to the mothers of Egypt." (This is why I find Passover a problematic holiday. It boils down to "Please, God, don't kill us. We'll feed you sheep's blood. Go kill the goyim kids next door.") I would say, in a way, having confronted this deity and stood up to him, he is more real for me than he is for those who simply sing and pray on Sundays.
Jesus loves me, but I can't live with him. He's that one ex. That ex you still love, and still bump into occasionally. You have a couple hugs and a laugh or two, and then you remember why you broke up. (and I find, oddly, a lot of Christians don't get the "Jesus as boyfriend" metaphor. I tend to ask "What rock have you been under for 30 years?") He's sweet, and he says he loves me, but he wants me to change everything to show how much I love him. I can't do that.
Believing in gods is silly, for me.
It's like believing in screwdrivers or dentures.
And yeah, I can talk all I want about how they're just metaphors and useful ones. But at the end of the day?
I talk about them like they're people. Then again, I talk about everyone, real and metaphorical and fictional, the same way. Anita Blake has the same reality to me as Kali, and they're both as real as my neighbors down the street.
Edit to add a footnote: the last est seminar was in 1984.
I've been asked several times lately "Why don't you believe in God?"
My answer is always the same. "It would be like believing in the postman." (Hattip to Terry Prachett)
They don't get it. They never get it. All they hear is that I'm not a Christian, so of COURSE I don't believe in God.
For me, the gods are real. All the gods from Ahura-Mazda to Zeus. They aren't physical realities. They aren't people. They are useful metaphors and ways of thinking about the world, much like archetypes, TV tropes or even tarot cards.
I read tarot. I ALWAYS preface my reading with "The cards know nothing. What they are is a reframing device to allow you to organize the knowledge you already have." This is why my cards never lie. Because they only tell you what you already know. But much as est wraps up your bad personality traits and hands them back with confidence and a shiny bow on top (does anyone still do est? Or did that die in 1983?), the cards clarify things.
Gods do the same thing for me.
They're someone to talk to when I can't explain to my human friends and family. They're a way of focusing my will when my own focus seems distracted. (and since magic is just applied will, this focus is vital) I work more closely with some gods than with others. I don't get along with some deities at all.
Those who know me, know I have a running quarrel with Loki. This has lessened considerably since Hermes laid claim to me, saying, "This writer, this traveler, this one who engages in commerce, she is MINE." Trickster gods are never dull, if never quite cozy and comfortable. Coyote is not my patron, but I catch him keeping an eye on me now and then.
The Egyptian gods have not called me to worship their pantheon. Ma'at in particular has no use at all for me.
Oddly, the Celts aren't all that interested in me either. The Green Man loves me madly, and in spring, when he laughs from every tree and bush, he makes me feel young and desirable. The rest, not so much.
The Norse pantheon and I are well acquainted, but they have let me know I am not theirs. Frigga offers the occasional aid, as does Freya. Odin is more rare. Loki just messes with me. And Thor is not my bestest buddy.
The Greeks, well, no one was more surprised than I when Hera took me up. And Hermes was another shock. I had always thought of myself as possibly Athena's girl, but she is uninterested in me.
I do not appropriate gods from outside my culture. No Kali or Shiva, no Amaterasu or Tlaloc.
YHWH does not like me. He doesn't like any of us who walk away from worshiping him. People get offended when I say he tried killing my daughters, making them mentally ill so they would commit suicide, when I walked away. I was told numerous times, from numerous sources (including dreams) that they would get better and live if I came back. People say God doesn't work that way. I raise one eyebrow and say "Tell it to the mothers of Egypt." (This is why I find Passover a problematic holiday. It boils down to "Please, God, don't kill us. We'll feed you sheep's blood. Go kill the goyim kids next door.") I would say, in a way, having confronted this deity and stood up to him, he is more real for me than he is for those who simply sing and pray on Sundays.
Jesus loves me, but I can't live with him. He's that one ex. That ex you still love, and still bump into occasionally. You have a couple hugs and a laugh or two, and then you remember why you broke up. (and I find, oddly, a lot of Christians don't get the "Jesus as boyfriend" metaphor. I tend to ask "What rock have you been under for 30 years?") He's sweet, and he says he loves me, but he wants me to change everything to show how much I love him. I can't do that.
Believing in gods is silly, for me.
It's like believing in screwdrivers or dentures.
And yeah, I can talk all I want about how they're just metaphors and useful ones. But at the end of the day?
I talk about them like they're people. Then again, I talk about everyone, real and metaphorical and fictional, the same way. Anita Blake has the same reality to me as Kali, and they're both as real as my neighbors down the street.
Edit to add a footnote: the last est seminar was in 1984.
Two days
Penultimate chance!
I have $282 official dollars raised (and a $50 contribution off line) And it looks like it might be DJ Admire, because as I was reminded today, Urban Fantasy needs more Urban Folks. So bring on the Hispanic cop partner and give the Bluesmen a bigger role.
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331#home
I have $282 official dollars raised (and a $50 contribution off line) And it looks like it might be DJ Admire, because as I was reminded today, Urban Fantasy needs more Urban Folks. So bring on the Hispanic cop partner and give the Bluesmen a bigger role.
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331#home
April 27, 2014
Sunday Snippet from the Work in Progress
This is from Terror of the Frozen North, the sequel to
Curse of the Pharaoh's Manicurists
Zimmer came over to the stove smiling and rubbing his hands together before extending them to the fire. “It's all set. We have three sleds and we'll try my arctic transport devices as well. Charles, you will take one sled, sharing with food and tents, because we need the rest for cargo.”
“Apparently, I'm supercargo,” Nigel grumbled, taking his turn at the stove. “You get a nice passenger sled and I get to ride atop a disassembled contraption.”
Zimmer shrugged. “You can always ride the mechanized cargo transport with me. However, given there is still a small chance of explosion, I thought you'd prefer the safer method.” He looked at Edward. “Your lordship will be testing a personalized arctic transport. It's based on existing snow fliers and diesel powered, so it should be capable of speeds up to thirty-five miles an hour, about twice as fast as the sleds.” He looked around. “I propose a hot meal before we head into the wastes.”
Charlie had no quarrel with the idea but the food put before him was as strange as any he'd faced in Egypt or Turkey. The salted herring with onion gravy was nothing like the golden fried cod in London. Fresh rye bread with real butter and peasoup rounded the meal out and puffy pancake balls finished out the meal. Edward ate heartily, clearly dreading another adventure spent on bully beef and machanochie.
They were finishing the last of the pancakes when the head of the crew came to report they had off-loaded everything and loaded the dogsleds. The mushers were waiting.
“Splendid,” Zimmer said. “You and the men help yourself to lunch. We'll be back in a week or so.”
“We're not taking them with us?” Charlie asked.
“We shouldn't need them. The machinery is entirely designed to be assembled and operated by two to three man crews. This will be a full field test. The mushers will handle the transport, but the testing is all on us.”
Zimmer took them out to where three dogsleds with their teams of ten dogs waited in harness. An odd looking machine, looking a bit like a motorcycle on skiis with a large five-bladed propeller behind it, stood with bulging saddlebags draped over the comfortable looking seat. Beside it, a blocky thing on treads, with skiis instead of the front wheels, looked ready to rumble its way across the ice all the way to Canada.
“The cargo transport, and the personal transport. You'll be testing the gear in the saddlebags as well, your lordship. It should carry two soldiers, their weapons and gear much quicker than most forms of ice transport we have now. I based it on Alexander Graham Bell's airboat design. Had old Napoleon used a few hundred of these, the Bolsheviks would all be speaking French.”
Charlie give a thin smile at the joke. He watched, shifting from foot to foot, as Edward straddled the personal transport. He looked at the dogsled waiting for him, packed with gear and a Charlie-sized gap in the middle. The tarp meant to go over it tempted him. He could bundle in, safe and warm, while Zimmer drove the heated truck and Edward froze on the personal transport.
“Load the sled,” he said. “I'll ride with Edward. It's a two-man transport, after all. Let's test it properly.”
Keep the words flowing! Support Writing Dangerously!https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331#home
Zimmer came over to the stove smiling and rubbing his hands together before extending them to the fire. “It's all set. We have three sleds and we'll try my arctic transport devices as well. Charles, you will take one sled, sharing with food and tents, because we need the rest for cargo.”
“Apparently, I'm supercargo,” Nigel grumbled, taking his turn at the stove. “You get a nice passenger sled and I get to ride atop a disassembled contraption.”
Zimmer shrugged. “You can always ride the mechanized cargo transport with me. However, given there is still a small chance of explosion, I thought you'd prefer the safer method.” He looked at Edward. “Your lordship will be testing a personalized arctic transport. It's based on existing snow fliers and diesel powered, so it should be capable of speeds up to thirty-five miles an hour, about twice as fast as the sleds.” He looked around. “I propose a hot meal before we head into the wastes.”
Charlie had no quarrel with the idea but the food put before him was as strange as any he'd faced in Egypt or Turkey. The salted herring with onion gravy was nothing like the golden fried cod in London. Fresh rye bread with real butter and peasoup rounded the meal out and puffy pancake balls finished out the meal. Edward ate heartily, clearly dreading another adventure spent on bully beef and machanochie.
They were finishing the last of the pancakes when the head of the crew came to report they had off-loaded everything and loaded the dogsleds. The mushers were waiting.
“Splendid,” Zimmer said. “You and the men help yourself to lunch. We'll be back in a week or so.”
“We're not taking them with us?” Charlie asked.
“We shouldn't need them. The machinery is entirely designed to be assembled and operated by two to three man crews. This will be a full field test. The mushers will handle the transport, but the testing is all on us.”
Zimmer took them out to where three dogsleds with their teams of ten dogs waited in harness. An odd looking machine, looking a bit like a motorcycle on skiis with a large five-bladed propeller behind it, stood with bulging saddlebags draped over the comfortable looking seat. Beside it, a blocky thing on treads, with skiis instead of the front wheels, looked ready to rumble its way across the ice all the way to Canada.
“The cargo transport, and the personal transport. You'll be testing the gear in the saddlebags as well, your lordship. It should carry two soldiers, their weapons and gear much quicker than most forms of ice transport we have now. I based it on Alexander Graham Bell's airboat design. Had old Napoleon used a few hundred of these, the Bolsheviks would all be speaking French.”
Charlie give a thin smile at the joke. He watched, shifting from foot to foot, as Edward straddled the personal transport. He looked at the dogsled waiting for him, packed with gear and a Charlie-sized gap in the middle. The tarp meant to go over it tempted him. He could bundle in, safe and warm, while Zimmer drove the heated truck and Edward froze on the personal transport.
“Load the sled,” he said. “I'll ride with Edward. It's a two-man transport, after all. Let's test it properly.”
Keep the words flowing! Support Writing Dangerously!https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331#home
April 26, 2014
Gimme Five! Five days, that is
We've gotten some momentum and tripled the donations in the last 3 days. Thanks to all who have donated and boosted signal.
Keep Angel eating steadily as she writes!
Ensure adequate caffeine!
And all for the price of an ebook: $5.
Or a paperback: $20
Or you can join the adventure for $75.
(Don't worry, we won't have you do anything that would embarrass your mother...at least not without your consent!)
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331#home
~~~~
And just to whet your appetite, some steampunk medical fetish. This is from "Induced Paroxysms" in the Adventuresses collection.
I circled her once more, letting the tension in the room build. I stopped between her legs and addressed the audience again.
“It is my theory that nervous hysteria is caused by a lack of stimulation to the female genitalia. Therefore, we shall proceed to induce paroxysms of pleasure in our subject until she sweats. After that, she shall have a brief rest while I take questions. Then, we shall have a second round of induction and see whether she is greatly improved after that.”
"Quackery,” shouted a male voice from the back row. I looked up and saw a man in a top hat and elaborate, multi-lensed monocle start down the stairs. “Everyone knows that such stimulation is actually quite dangerous for women of quality. Lesser women can endure much of it with no ill effects, but the flower of British womanhood should not be subjected to such outrage in the name of medicine.”
I simply laughed as he reached the floor. “And what would a man know of the illnesses of women? Has he endured the monthly curse? Has he been subject to the whims of the moon and of his own body? Has he borne children in pain and blood? You know nothing, sir. I doubt you know which hole produces healthy infants and which produces only waste. I am quite sure your mother's midwife did not, for she seems to have discarded the baby and kept the other product.”
The audience laughed at that. He tore off his hat.
“Demme, woman, do you mean to say that you, with your feeble brain, have more knowledge than I?”
The crowd roared.
“Indeed I do, at least in this one area. Should we test our relative enlightenment in the field of appearing a jackass in public, I doubt I should prove the better.”
That got an even bigger laugh, He winked at me and we went for the big finish. “This poor unfortunate, lying immobilized on the table behind us, can clearly endure any of these coarse uses you put her to, and more than likely has on many occasions. But the ladies of quality, such as are assembled in the rows and watching, could not and furthermore would not, tolerate such violation of their modesty.”
As if we'd coached her, one woman on the second row stood up and yelled, “Oh please, madame doctor, violate me next!”
The rest caught on. “No, me!” “Me after that!” filtered around until all the women were on their feet begging to be in Casey's position. I held up my hand for quiet.
“If our oh-so-learned colleague will take his outraged morals back to his seat and there use them for a cushion until such time as our demonstration is done, we shall proceed. After the demonstration, provided it works as it should, there will be a subscription sheet for treatments and for my newsletter.”
Alex clamped his hat back on his head and stomped up to the back row, fuming and muttering under his breath. He'd played it perfectly. Now, I hoped he had the sense to slip out before the end and change his costume before some of the ladies decided to re-enact a Rite of the Maneads on him after the show.
“As I was saying before our omniscient colleague chose to enlighten us poor feeblebrained women about the true natures of our bodies, we shall induce in the subject a series of ecstatic paroxysms created by stimulation to her vulva, vaginal cavity and clitoris, aided in part by the pressure on her nipples.” I dropped all semblance of the neutral physician. “Who is ready to watch her writhe?” I shouted, and snapped my goggles over my eyes with a maniacal laugh, all mad scientist now.
Keep Angel eating steadily as she writes!
Ensure adequate caffeine!
And all for the price of an ebook: $5.
Or a paperback: $20
Or you can join the adventure for $75.
(Don't worry, we won't have you do anything that would embarrass your mother...at least not without your consent!)
https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously/x/6784331#home
~~~~
And just to whet your appetite, some steampunk medical fetish. This is from "Induced Paroxysms" in the Adventuresses collection.
I circled her once more, letting the tension in the room build. I stopped between her legs and addressed the audience again.
“It is my theory that nervous hysteria is caused by a lack of stimulation to the female genitalia. Therefore, we shall proceed to induce paroxysms of pleasure in our subject until she sweats. After that, she shall have a brief rest while I take questions. Then, we shall have a second round of induction and see whether she is greatly improved after that.”
"Quackery,” shouted a male voice from the back row. I looked up and saw a man in a top hat and elaborate, multi-lensed monocle start down the stairs. “Everyone knows that such stimulation is actually quite dangerous for women of quality. Lesser women can endure much of it with no ill effects, but the flower of British womanhood should not be subjected to such outrage in the name of medicine.”
I simply laughed as he reached the floor. “And what would a man know of the illnesses of women? Has he endured the monthly curse? Has he been subject to the whims of the moon and of his own body? Has he borne children in pain and blood? You know nothing, sir. I doubt you know which hole produces healthy infants and which produces only waste. I am quite sure your mother's midwife did not, for she seems to have discarded the baby and kept the other product.”
The audience laughed at that. He tore off his hat.
“Demme, woman, do you mean to say that you, with your feeble brain, have more knowledge than I?”
The crowd roared.
“Indeed I do, at least in this one area. Should we test our relative enlightenment in the field of appearing a jackass in public, I doubt I should prove the better.”
That got an even bigger laugh, He winked at me and we went for the big finish. “This poor unfortunate, lying immobilized on the table behind us, can clearly endure any of these coarse uses you put her to, and more than likely has on many occasions. But the ladies of quality, such as are assembled in the rows and watching, could not and furthermore would not, tolerate such violation of their modesty.”
As if we'd coached her, one woman on the second row stood up and yelled, “Oh please, madame doctor, violate me next!”
The rest caught on. “No, me!” “Me after that!” filtered around until all the women were on their feet begging to be in Casey's position. I held up my hand for quiet.
“If our oh-so-learned colleague will take his outraged morals back to his seat and there use them for a cushion until such time as our demonstration is done, we shall proceed. After the demonstration, provided it works as it should, there will be a subscription sheet for treatments and for my newsletter.”
Alex clamped his hat back on his head and stomped up to the back row, fuming and muttering under his breath. He'd played it perfectly. Now, I hoped he had the sense to slip out before the end and change his costume before some of the ladies decided to re-enact a Rite of the Maneads on him after the show.
“As I was saying before our omniscient colleague chose to enlighten us poor feeblebrained women about the true natures of our bodies, we shall induce in the subject a series of ecstatic paroxysms created by stimulation to her vulva, vaginal cavity and clitoris, aided in part by the pressure on her nipples.” I dropped all semblance of the neutral physician. “Who is ready to watch her writhe?” I shouted, and snapped my goggles over my eyes with a maniacal laugh, all mad scientist now.
April 25, 2014
Inkstained Succubus anthology calls
We have 4 open anthologies.
All anthologies pay royalties, an equal share of 40% split among authors.
Wordcount is 5,000-10,000 words, unless otherwise specified
Guidelines available at http://www.inkstainedsuccubus.com
Taking FlightDeadline: June 15th, 2014
Whether angels, demonics, birdfolk, elves, or the Tuatha de Dannan, we have always been fascinated by wings. For this anthology, we ask for your greatest erotic fiction with wings. Let us touch the soft feathers or spidersilk and be wrapped in them, strange sensations against flesh. All pairings welcome, all genres considered.
Pairing: Any (M/M, F/F, M/F, Trans* inclusive) erotic
Happy ending required.
Expected Release: September 1st, 2014
~~~~
Candle in the DarkDeadline: September 15, 2014
Deck the halls, and pull out the holly and the ivy. The longest, darkest night of the year should be brighter because of the warmth of romance and the heat of passion. Winter holidays abound in this anthology, with a wide welcome to any traditional (or inventive) winter holiday. Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, Saturnalia, or Solstice, if your boys celebrate it, we want their story.
Pairing: M/M erotic
Happy ending required.
Expected Release: December 1st, 2014
~~~~~
Somewhere Out There Deadline: December 15th, 2014
Beyond our understanding lies a great, wide galaxy full of adventure, romance, and very, very hot beings. This anthology is fully science-fiction, both far and near future, with or without dystopia. Introduce us to your finest worldbuilding and storytelling, and show us your view of the future...and who will be with whom in it.
Pairing: Any (M/M, M/F, F/F, Trans* and Poly inclusive) erotic
Happy ending not required, though Happy For Now encouraged.
Expected Release: March 1st, 2015
Note: This is a line, not just an anthology. With a good response, we'll be launching a SF/F line. Therefore, submissions for this call should be 3k-15k for the anthology, but 15k-100k will be considered for simultaneous release.
~~~~~~
[Untitled Genderqueer Anthology] Deadline: March 15th, 2015
The spectrum would be a dark place with only black and white, and gender is no exception. We want your finest genderqueer/fluid characters doing what they do best. Whether science-fiction, fantasy, steampunk, or paranormal, these stories should be plot focused and starring a character not on the normal gender spectrum. However, we emphasize that this is not an anthology for genderqueer issues.
Pairing: Genderqueer, Any erotic level
Happy For Now required.
Expected Release: June 1st, 2015
NOTE: Also seeking an inventive, inclusive name for this anthology.
All anthologies pay royalties, an equal share of 40% split among authors.
Wordcount is 5,000-10,000 words, unless otherwise specified
Guidelines available at http://www.inkstainedsuccubus.com
Taking FlightDeadline: June 15th, 2014
Whether angels, demonics, birdfolk, elves, or the Tuatha de Dannan, we have always been fascinated by wings. For this anthology, we ask for your greatest erotic fiction with wings. Let us touch the soft feathers or spidersilk and be wrapped in them, strange sensations against flesh. All pairings welcome, all genres considered.
Pairing: Any (M/M, F/F, M/F, Trans* inclusive) erotic
Happy ending required.
Expected Release: September 1st, 2014
~~~~
Candle in the DarkDeadline: September 15, 2014
Deck the halls, and pull out the holly and the ivy. The longest, darkest night of the year should be brighter because of the warmth of romance and the heat of passion. Winter holidays abound in this anthology, with a wide welcome to any traditional (or inventive) winter holiday. Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, Saturnalia, or Solstice, if your boys celebrate it, we want their story.
Pairing: M/M erotic
Happy ending required.
Expected Release: December 1st, 2014
~~~~~
Somewhere Out There Deadline: December 15th, 2014
Beyond our understanding lies a great, wide galaxy full of adventure, romance, and very, very hot beings. This anthology is fully science-fiction, both far and near future, with or without dystopia. Introduce us to your finest worldbuilding and storytelling, and show us your view of the future...and who will be with whom in it.
Pairing: Any (M/M, M/F, F/F, Trans* and Poly inclusive) erotic
Happy ending not required, though Happy For Now encouraged.
Expected Release: March 1st, 2015
Note: This is a line, not just an anthology. With a good response, we'll be launching a SF/F line. Therefore, submissions for this call should be 3k-15k for the anthology, but 15k-100k will be considered for simultaneous release.
~~~~~~
[Untitled Genderqueer Anthology] Deadline: March 15th, 2015
The spectrum would be a dark place with only black and white, and gender is no exception. We want your finest genderqueer/fluid characters doing what they do best. Whether science-fiction, fantasy, steampunk, or paranormal, these stories should be plot focused and starring a character not on the normal gender spectrum. However, we emphasize that this is not an anthology for genderqueer issues.
Pairing: Genderqueer, Any erotic level
Happy For Now required.
Expected Release: June 1st, 2015
NOTE: Also seeking an inventive, inclusive name for this anthology.
April 23, 2014
Eight Days from the End. Nowhere near the Goal
Eight Days Left! Only 8 and we are far from the goal. Do you read me? This is simply buying the next novel ahead of time. Could be steampunk Civil War zombies, could be WWII furries, could be DJ Admire. YOU get to help decide. $5 for an ebook. A ebook with a shout out to YOU! Tell me that's not a good deal.https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/writing-dangerously#home
All of these are viable projects, I just need time.
A sample of the two already begun:
“What brings you to my door this late, Henry?” Frank asked, his voice steady. Arthur could smell his fear. The same fear rolled off Henry in waves.
“You really are blind,” Henry whispered. “I'd heard, but... I'm sorry, Frank. It's the war. You know it is. Roosevelt is going to ask for more funding in a couple weeks. Then comes conscription. Your boys, they won't be conscripted. They'll just be commandeered. I saw the preliminary draft of the orders last week.”
“What do we do?” Arthur asked.
Henry looked up at me. “He talks. Oh, Frank, that's bad. Most constructs aren't taught to talk. They're treated like animals with human traits. But he can talk, so that makes him half a person, under the law.” Henry shook his head. Arthur didn't know if he liked him or not.
“They're coming, Frank. You and your boys are pretty well known throughout the South. Everyone knows about Leo the Lion-dancer, and Arthur the Teddy-bear Boy. If you're lucky, the War department will use them for recruiting material and they'll never see the front. A lot of movie stars are doing that, making war movies.”
“More are signing up, the radio says. Leslie Howard and David Niven have gone into the RAF, I heard. I hear bad news waiting, Henry. Quit beating around the bush and tell me.”
“All constructs are now property of the US government, to be utilized in the war effort. That's all the orders say, but I've heard men talking, Frank. Think about the dogs and pigeons we used. Remember what they did to Joseph.”
Frank nodded solemnly. “I remember. I've been expecting this night. Thank you for coming ahead of the news.”
“I know some other folks with construct relatives, and they're hiding them. You can't hide the boys, Frank. They're too well known.”
“We'll go about the work, like always,” Arthur said. “We'll travel with the show. Gordon will dance. I'll be myself. Mama can still sing. If the army wants us, they can come get us. But they have to wait until the performance is over.”
Frank chuckled. “My boy knows his own mind, Henry."
****
Captain Morgan is my reality filter, and today I needed all the filtering I could get. It was an ordinary October Wednesday in Memphis, pollen count through the roof, just off the full moon and eighty degrees with humidity that made clothes and pollen stick to everything.
I'd known the day would be bad when my phone went off at seven. Only the Memphis P.D. rings in on the Andy Griffith theme.
“Admire here,” I snarled. It was too damn early to be polite and my late night liaison with the Captain had left my eyeballs trying to eat my brain with tiny sharp teeth.
“Miss Admire, Captain Williams here. I need to see you. I have something my guys can't handle. Not even the Preternatural and Magic Squadron can figure it.”
If the Bitch Patrol, a crack squad of eight female cops who were also top-rated sorceresses, witches and talismongers, couldn't handle something, I sure as hell didn't want it. I'm just a No-Talent PI, without enough magic to train, but just enough to drive me straight into the Nightside and the bottle.
I thought about the last few jobs I'd done. I thought about the fact that the cops did pay. I thought about my rent.
So, despite my pounding head, I pulled myself out of the Murphy bed in my office and headed down to 201 Poplar.
Two hours later, I was sitting back at my desk, staring at one of the ugliest serial killer cases I'd ever seen. Bad enough when they're killing prostitutes or drunks. Some people even consider that a public service. But this one...
Five children, each on the night before the full moon. Every one asleep in their own house, in their own little bed. Three girls and two boys, found dead by their parents, blood soaking the beds and carpets, all flesh missing from hip to knee.
I just stared. Five kids, killed and not a sound heard by parents and no trace of the missing flesh. Two girls, three boys. Two black, two white, one Hispanic. No pattern, not even a common neighborhood. The deaths were scattered from Bartlett to Raleigh to Orange Mound. I didn't look at the names or pictures. That was more than I really wanted to know about the kids.
All of these are viable projects, I just need time.
A sample of the two already begun:
“What brings you to my door this late, Henry?” Frank asked, his voice steady. Arthur could smell his fear. The same fear rolled off Henry in waves.
“You really are blind,” Henry whispered. “I'd heard, but... I'm sorry, Frank. It's the war. You know it is. Roosevelt is going to ask for more funding in a couple weeks. Then comes conscription. Your boys, they won't be conscripted. They'll just be commandeered. I saw the preliminary draft of the orders last week.”
“What do we do?” Arthur asked.
Henry looked up at me. “He talks. Oh, Frank, that's bad. Most constructs aren't taught to talk. They're treated like animals with human traits. But he can talk, so that makes him half a person, under the law.” Henry shook his head. Arthur didn't know if he liked him or not.
“They're coming, Frank. You and your boys are pretty well known throughout the South. Everyone knows about Leo the Lion-dancer, and Arthur the Teddy-bear Boy. If you're lucky, the War department will use them for recruiting material and they'll never see the front. A lot of movie stars are doing that, making war movies.”
“More are signing up, the radio says. Leslie Howard and David Niven have gone into the RAF, I heard. I hear bad news waiting, Henry. Quit beating around the bush and tell me.”
“All constructs are now property of the US government, to be utilized in the war effort. That's all the orders say, but I've heard men talking, Frank. Think about the dogs and pigeons we used. Remember what they did to Joseph.”
Frank nodded solemnly. “I remember. I've been expecting this night. Thank you for coming ahead of the news.”
“I know some other folks with construct relatives, and they're hiding them. You can't hide the boys, Frank. They're too well known.”
“We'll go about the work, like always,” Arthur said. “We'll travel with the show. Gordon will dance. I'll be myself. Mama can still sing. If the army wants us, they can come get us. But they have to wait until the performance is over.”
Frank chuckled. “My boy knows his own mind, Henry."
****
Captain Morgan is my reality filter, and today I needed all the filtering I could get. It was an ordinary October Wednesday in Memphis, pollen count through the roof, just off the full moon and eighty degrees with humidity that made clothes and pollen stick to everything.
I'd known the day would be bad when my phone went off at seven. Only the Memphis P.D. rings in on the Andy Griffith theme.
“Admire here,” I snarled. It was too damn early to be polite and my late night liaison with the Captain had left my eyeballs trying to eat my brain with tiny sharp teeth.
“Miss Admire, Captain Williams here. I need to see you. I have something my guys can't handle. Not even the Preternatural and Magic Squadron can figure it.”
If the Bitch Patrol, a crack squad of eight female cops who were also top-rated sorceresses, witches and talismongers, couldn't handle something, I sure as hell didn't want it. I'm just a No-Talent PI, without enough magic to train, but just enough to drive me straight into the Nightside and the bottle.
I thought about the last few jobs I'd done. I thought about the fact that the cops did pay. I thought about my rent.
So, despite my pounding head, I pulled myself out of the Murphy bed in my office and headed down to 201 Poplar.
Two hours later, I was sitting back at my desk, staring at one of the ugliest serial killer cases I'd ever seen. Bad enough when they're killing prostitutes or drunks. Some people even consider that a public service. But this one...
Five children, each on the night before the full moon. Every one asleep in their own house, in their own little bed. Three girls and two boys, found dead by their parents, blood soaking the beds and carpets, all flesh missing from hip to knee.
I just stared. Five kids, killed and not a sound heard by parents and no trace of the missing flesh. Two girls, three boys. Two black, two white, one Hispanic. No pattern, not even a common neighborhood. The deaths were scattered from Bartlett to Raleigh to Orange Mound. I didn't look at the names or pictures. That was more than I really wanted to know about the kids.
