Madeleine Shade's Blog

The Poetic Justice of Mermaids

by Fred Appleyard (1874 – 1963)

I’m in a mermaid mood this morning. I’ve always loved mermaids, not the sweet simpering creatures found in cartoons, but the sexy seductive sirens of old. It would be the most terrible of fates, being a mermaid’s man, or would it? Enjoy!

Mermaid by Moonlight

by Madeleine Shade

Come with me, my flame,

to the caverns so deep

and I will show you my pearl.

On my breasts you may sleep.

The depths of the ocean by Edward Burne-Jones , 1886

Come with me, my pet.

Don’t believe all the lies.

I choose you above all men.

Now come claim your prize.

Come with me, my dear.

There’s no need to wait.

I will show you great treasures

waiting at the sea’s gate.

Come in me, my love.

Plant your seed deep.

And for your reward

in my garden you’ll sleep.

A Man Young And Old: III. The Mermaid

by William Butler Yeats

A mermaid found a swimming lad,

Picked him for her own,

Pressed her body to his body,

Laughed; and plunging down

Forgot in cruel happiness

That even lovers drown.

 

 

The Mermaid

A Mermaid by John William Waterhouse

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I

Who would be

A mermaid fair,

Singing alone,

Combing her hair

Under the sea,

In a golden curl

With a comb of pearl,

On a throne?

II

I would be a mermaid fair;

I would sing to myself the whole of the day;

With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;

And still as I comb’d I would sing and say,

‘Who is it loves me? who loves not me?’

I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall

Low adown, low adown,

From under my starry sea-bud crown

Low adown and around,

And I should look like a fountain of gold

Springing alone

With a shrill inner sound

Over the throne

In the midst of the hall;

Till that great sea-snake under the sea

From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps

Would slowly trail himself sevenfold

Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate

With his large calm eyes for the love of me.

And all the mermen under the sea

Would feel their immortality

Die in their hearts for the love of me.

III

Sang de poisson by Gustav Klimt, 1898

But at night I would wander away, away,

I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,

And lightly vault from the throne and play

With the mermen in and out of the rocks;

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,

On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,

Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.

But if any came near I would call and shriek,

And adown the steep like a wave I would leap

From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;

For I would not be kiss’d by all who would list

Of the bold merry mermen under the sea.

Sirens by Arthur Rackman

They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,

In the purple twilights under the sea;

But the king of them all would carry me,

Woo me, and win me, and marry me,

In the branching jaspers under the sea.

Then all the dry-pied things that be

In the hueless mosses under the sea

Would curl round my silver feet silently,

All looking up for the love of me.

And if I should carol aloud, from aloft

All things that are forked, and horned, and soft

Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,

All looking down for the love of me.

Sirène ou l’abysse vert by Giulio Aristide Sartorio, 1900

Explore BDSM though a Fairy Tale Lens with a #FREE Read

Good morning fairytale friends.

I have NEWS!

Hunted: An Erotic Twist on Little Red Riding Hood is in the final stages and should be available for purchase on July 1st.

To celebrate, I’m offering a #FREE copy of Porked: An Erotic Twist on The Three Little Pigs at Amazon today (6/17) and tomorrow (6/18). Raul Villalobos (my wolf in Porked) has a howl-worthy hot role to play in my twist on Little Red Riding Hood.

All of my completed and planned novellas and short stories in the Shady Lady Fairy Tales ‘verse link (in one way or another), but there are several titles other titles currently available with characters and back story that enhance the tale in Hunted: An Erotic Twist on Little Red Riding Hood.

Reginald, also known as the Huntsman, shows up at the end of Tangled: An Erotic Twist on Rapunzel. There are hints of his link to Zel in the story which will soon become apparent as the series progresses. Reginald is one the royal Fae members of the Delacourt family and is the brother of Rumpelstiltskin (Rumpled: An Erotic Twist on Rumpelstiltskin), Deidre (Porked: An Erotic Twist on The Three Little Pigs), Mireille (Tangled: An Erotic Twist on Rapunzel) and Regina (who is the evil queen in the upcoming title (Tempted: An Erotic Twist on Snow White).

Stacked: An Erotic Twist on The Princess and the Pea explores the back story on the lineage of Scarlett (Little Red Riding Hood) and Eirwen (Snow White) through the romance between Rosamund and Casimir, the Dark Prince of the House Alkaev. (If you keep an eye out for the Easter eggs in the story and related novellas, you will discover Rosamund’s true bloodline.) Keep in mind, the royal Fae houses must follow the accords that came on the heels of the Glittering Wars and, as such, they are forbidden to cross bloodlines with the other royal Fae houses. However, the royal Fae families are fading and must mate with humans with ancient fairy blood in order to revive their dying Houses.

(I am smiling and rubbing my hands together in the anticipation of revealing all of these interwoven tales. The twelve scheduled novellas, scattered short stories and planned four-part novel are all intricately tied together. There will be an increasing number of snippets and scenes, maps and charts available only at Shady Lady Fairy Tales to help you navigate the complexity of the Shady Lady Fairy Tale ‘verse. I can’t WAIT to get them completed and available for your reading pleasure!)

Snow White and Rose Red by Kerry Darlington

On another note, Hunted: An Erotic Twist on Little Red Riding Hood and Tempted: An Erotic Twist on Snow White are a mash-up with the fairy tale Snow White and Rose Red. Expect to see Reginald again in Tempted: An Erotic Twist on Snow White. He is the Huntsman, after all. For those of you unfamiliar with Snow White and Rose Red, the story follows two sisters who encounter a bear that is trying to free himself from the curse of a dwarf. I have shifted this story a bit and have linked it to Frosted: An Erotic Twist on Hansel and Gretel.

In my take of Hansel and Gretel, Hans is the son of Barret, a German name which means “mighty as a bear.” (Can you see where I’m going with this?) A read through of Frosted: An Erotic Twist on Hansel and Gretel, will provide the back story of Scarlett’s main love interest in Hunted: An Erotic Twist on Little Red Riding Hood. This short story in the Quickie Collection also introduces readers to Alarica, the Empress of House Morgenstern. It’s going to be a wild ride folks.

Enjoy!

Purchase Links:

Porked: An Erotic Twist on The Three Little Pigs (FREE 6/18-6/17)

Stacked: An Erotic Twist on The Princess and the Pea (.99 cents)

Frosted: An Erotic Twist on Hansel and Gretel (.99 cents)

Tangled: An Erotic Twist on Rapunzel ($2.99)

 

Artist Explores BDSM through Disney Dommes Series

It’s been a while since I’ve posted. Sorry about that. I’ve been hard at work on a multitude of projects and, let’s face it, summer is here! The days may be longer, but there still isn’t time to get everything done.

I’ve been holding on to images in the series Disney Dommes, created by DeviantArt artist Christopher Stoll, who has kindly allowed me to share his work with my fairy tale fans. This images are a naughty bit of fun. In the words of the artist, “The intention is not to make porn, rather these pop-culture heroines are being used to demonstrate how conventional notions of sexual performance can be turned on their head. There is nothing shameful or inherently pornographic about ostensibly vanilla princesses in sexually expressive or traditionally masculine positions.”

And on a further note, also by Stoll, “As with all fetishes you will see during the duration of the Disney Domme series, practitioners of [insert fetish here] fall on a broad spectrum of sexual orientation and gender identity. Please do not make unfair assumptions…. They are fictional characters, and it’s just silly, really.”

NOTE: All of the following images and text are protected by copyright by Christopher Stoll.

Rope-binding involves the consensual tying, binding, or restraining of a partner for aesthetic or erotic play. Rope, cuffs, tape, or other restraints may be used for this purpose. Often both participants enjoy the restrained partner’s submission and the temporary transfer of power. For sadomasochists, bondage is often used simply to facilitate play, making the restrained partner more accessible to other behavior (spankings or punishments). However, bondage can also be a end in and of itself. The dominant partner can derive visual pleasure from seeing their partner tied up, and the restrained partner can derive tactile pleasure from the feeling of helplessness and immobility. Binding restraints can be simple to apply using household items and little experience. For this reason binding is often the first encounter most vanilla couples have with BDSM style sexual play. Even though binding features most prominently in the kink community, it is by far the best known and most widely accepted sexual act associated with BDSM.

Cinderella lived her life under the unfortunate care of her cruel stepmother and jealous stepsisters, who forced Cinderella to work as a scullery maid in her own home. The story, however, has a happy ending. She finds herself a prince charming who is dedicated to making her every dream come true.

Servitude in BDSM is characterized by a submissive performing personal tasks for their partner. Typically, in domestic servitude roles, the submissive can receive pleasure and satisfaction from performing personal services for their dominant. The submissive may serve as a butler, houseboy, assistant, or sometimes even slave. The satisfaction of servitude is often combined with other fetishes, such as the pleasures of humiliation. A submissive may rub his or her dominant’s feet because the sub enjoys providing the service, has a foot fetish, or enjoys being “lower” than the dominant.

Mulan‘s quest for honor and acceptance in 4th century China’s patriarchal society led to her adopting the mantle of masculinity and joining the army. Her subsequent return to a feminine identity left her own sexuality in doubt, and once again she began to question whether adopting a ‘male’ persona might help her find fulfillment. In the above piece Shang is willing to oblige, having seen her strength of will on full display during their service together. He finds himself increasingly eager to occupy a docile and receptive roll during their time together, while Mulan feels herself growing more comfortable in a dominant state of sexual expression.

Feminization is a sexual fetish wherein a ‘sissy’ (typically a man) is made to adopt hyper-feminine behaviors, and engages in stereotypically “feminine” activities. This often extends into sexual performance, and particularly within the BDSM community sissies fill a ‘submissive’ sexual roll. A common fantasy is a sissy’s involuntary/forced transformation from masculine to feminine. Often at the hands of a dominant who seeks to utilize them sexually. This transformation can take many forms (physical or psychological) and can either be permanent or temporary (often depending on the desires of the dominant and the constraints of their daily life).

Ariel and Eric both remember well the terrifying rush of drowning, and each seek to overcome this troubling memory in their own way. BDSM can often help its practitioners externalize their phobias under controlled circumstances, and here its effects are on fully display.

Breath-play, also called “erotic asphyxiation”, is the restriction of oxygen to the brain to provoke sexual arousal or feelings of helplessness. The practice can take the form of throat constriction, wrapping the head in plastic or latex, or submerging the participant in water. The term “auto-erotic asphyxiation” is used when the act is done by a person to themselves. Colloquially, a person engaging in the activity is sometimes called a gasper. A submissive allowing a Dominant control of their oxygen supply often involves powerful control and captivity fantasies, and is typically the primer more for deliberately sexual play. This is because when the passage of air is restricted, as in strangulation or hanging, the sudden loss of oxygen to the brain can increase feelings of giddiness, lightheadness, and pleasure, all of which will heighten sexual sensations. The most powerful manifestation of this effect is “hypoxia”, a lucid, semi-hallucinogenic state. Combined with an orgasm this rush of natural endorphins is said to be highly addictive.

Impact play is a sexual act in which one person (typically the submissive) is hit repeatedly by their dominant partner. There are number of activities that qualify as impact play. The submissive can be struck with either with the dominant’s open hand, or a rigid implement such as a paddle, whip, cane, or riding crop. For safety, impact play should be done on areas of the human body well protected by fat or muscle; the kidneys, neck, tailbone, hipbones, and all joints should be avoided. The usual targets for flagellation are the buttocks and the upper back. With care, the thighs, the backs of the calves and the chest can be targets as well. Breasts are another potential, but high-risk, target and should only be used with experience.

Jasmine lives a life of luxurious confinement as the princess of Agrabah. In her gilded cage she finds satisfaction through her large collection of exotic pets. Each of them with their own expressive nature, and each of them under her gentle care. Aladdin becomes just another member of her menagerie, taught tricks and trained to serve his new mistress and her unconventional whims.



Petplay, is highly variable form of erotic roleplay entirely defined by the interests and personality of the people involved. It ranges from the simple playful behaviors of a kitten or puppy, to crawling around on all fours and being fed and cared for. Ultimately taking on an animal role that one feels personally/spiritually appropriate. The extremes of pet-play can involve masks, prosthetic attachments, and temporary bondage based body modification (such as binding the forearms to the upper-arms and/or the calves to the thighs). It often involves control and captivity fantasies and focus on certain “strengths and weaknesses” of an animal persona. Pony-play can involve showmanship, physical training, riding, and public presentation. Puppy-play often revolves around BDSM related discipline and physical affection. Alternatively, Cow-play tends to consist of impregnation and lactation fantasies. Although pet play submission is common, just because one partner is playing the “pet” does not necessarily make them the passive or submissive member of the relationship. For example ‘werewolf’ or ‘werecat’ roleplaying often involves animalistic expressions of dominance by one partner over another. Also note that petplay in no way involves bestiality.

Play piercing or needle play is sexual performance that involves needles, sharpened bones, or other slender tools penetrating the skin for temporary sessions or “scenes.” These insertions are temporary and not intended to become permanent body modifications. Those who engage in play piercing may do so for its ritual significance, self expression, or sexual pleasure.

Play piercing in BDSM can produce a natural endorphin high. Furthermore, the experience of multiple piercings in an erotically or spiritually charged context can induce intense orgasm. Remember that the needles are placed ‘through’ the skin so that both ends are accessible, rather than ‘into’ the skin (as this can cause injury). This also means that needles may be arranged in aesthetically pleasing configurations such as a smiley face, or may be overlapped into a recurring pattern like a corset. It is not uncommon to see lace pulled between inserted needles in complex temporary patterns at BDSM events. Improper technique can result in the transmission of bloodbourne diseases, but if done correctly there is far less danger of injury or infection than from ordinary cuts or scratches (like from a house-cat) due to the depth of insertion and the use of a sterilized needle.

Alice‘s peculiar intrusion into a fantastical dreamworld as a young girl perked her interest in the brain- its limits, fancies, and capabilities. She dedicated her time to unlocking the secrets of the mind and found herself soon in a position of power over the weak-willed. A prodigious skills with pills and potions meant she could blossom desire in whomever she chose with a dash of the wrist and a string of careful words. It took a while working at the hospital to find her calling, and it took a while longer to perfect her skill as a nurse and caretaker… But finally she could hold her head high and answer the question that has plagued her all these years…

“Who are you?” a caterpillar once asked.

“The boss,” she can now confidently reply.

Medical play typically involves but is not limited to medical uniforms and restraints, mental hospitals, intimate examinations, temperature taking, injections, drug use, and hypnosis. Often medical play relates to doctor/nurse and patient role play, power exchange, or other situations of a clinical nature. Mental institutions and psychological examination are a frequent role play scenario, and in these cases erotic hypnosis is often used to reinforce power exchange. This ranges from hypnotically-induced orgasms to long-term conditioning. The act of hypnosis itself often takes center stage in these scenarios as the subject surrenders control and opens themselves to mental vulnerability. Medical costume fetishes are relatively well known and common amongst role-play enthusiasts, but occasionally take more potent forms. For example, drug and anesthesia fetishism is a potentially dangerous form of BDSM when enacted outside the boundaries of fantasy. Involving everything from playing with anesthesia-related tools such as masks, tubing, needles, to the acquisition of real anesthetics. Certain over the counter substitutes are occasionally used in place of real anesthetic agents, but nonetheless pose real danger to the uninformed or uninitiated.

Fairy Tale Friday – Fairy Tale Excerpts from the Fabulous Vanessa de Sade

Happy Friday, my fairy tale friends.

Today, I’d like to share the naughty fairy tales of author Vanessa de Sade. The first excerpt comes from a story called A Simple Procedure, which appears in the House of Erotica anthology, The Milk Round. The second excerpt is from Bluebeard’s Tower, taken from her solo collection, In the Forests of the Night from Sweetmeats Press. Enjoy!

Excerpt from A Simple Procedure

By Vanessa de Sade

“Count backwards from ten,” a voice whispers; an icy needle sending spider webs of cold kisses down her arm…

The long winter had been hard on their tiny village, blighting what was left of the meagre crop before the harvest was even fully brought in and turning the normally placid waters of the lake to iron so that no fish could survive.

And throughout November the bitter north winds continued to blow icy and without respite, their deranged wailing the hysterical keening of wild-haired mad women; and the dark came uncomfortably early each evening, the creaking forest echoing to the baleful howling of rabid wolves throughout the dark hours, the hungry humph-backed beasts circling the barricades in ever-closing circles.

“Alright, she’s going under…”

 A dispirited fire still burned in the mayor’s house, skeletal frost-scarred sticks spitting with rage and belching black smoke up into the starry sky, but most of the other huts were without any heat other than their meagre cooking stoves, and the villagers shivered under the cured furs of the bears that had been hunted that summer and should have been sent to the Christmas market in Beiderhoff had not the snows and freezing weather made the roads impassable.

The extremity of weather had even prompted the Mayor to order the strengthening of their barricade with thorny branches, and the high gates were shut and bolted nightly at dusk, their new bone-white spikes glinting maliciously in the early quicksilver moonlight. People tended to stay indoors most of the time, and would only gather in the square around the giant carving of the rampant grizzly when the gates were bolted; to barter grain or tallow candles for skinny squirrel carcases downed by boys with slingshots that morning, and already stiff with frost and ice.

The giant effigy that so dominated the clearing had been begun by Karl the Woodcarver in the first blush of last Spring, a score of strong men dragging the huge trunk of a storm-blasted oak into the square and helping him to position it, the tap-tap-tap of his chisels a familiar sound throughout the voluptuous gloaming of the summer evenings when he had completed his daily quota of dancing bears and pecking chickens for market and would commence work on his labour of love.

And they had all stood around drinking tankards of foaming, slightly-warm, hop beer, watching transfixed as the great beast emerged from the lightning-kissed oak wood, its huge jaws permanently wide in a perpetual roar of defiance as first its head and neck, and then powerful arms, appeared; looking as though the tree were giving birth to a huge furred-and-clawed infant. They had even been planning an official unveiling to mark the Harvest Festival when the cellars would be packed full-to-bursting with grain, and tables laid with starched white cloths in the square, groaning under the weight of preserves and freshly baked gingerbreads, blush-pink hams and tureens of steaming stews.

But then, in the heat of a balmy Indian Summer night, Karl had disappeared just as the hunters returned with the flayed carcases of mountain bears strapped to their wagons, and while lovers slid naked into the cool emerald waters of the lake, search parties combed the dark woods for him without success.

“OK, we’re in…”

Some said that he had been abducted by bandits, others that he had met with the black witch of the Great North Caves and been stewed alive for sweetbreads; or, most popular of all, that the ancient woodland gods had been so offended by his carving that they had cursed him and his village. A theory given much verisimilitude by the early blizzards and long unending dark.

And there was still talk of this months later when the evening sky was turning from fiery red to a bruised Prussian blue and the King’s riders came, their regal white horses galloping into the square like snorting dragons just as the men of the watch were preparing to shut the tall gates for the night.

“Citizens! We bring urgent tidings from the royal palace of King Ludwig,” they called to the curious faces that were peeping from windows and darkened doorways, their rasping breath like steam in front of their flushed face, hot with exertion and blue with the cold simultaneously. “The infant son of their majesties is starving and in dire need of a wet nurse, and any woman volunteering for the position will be richly rewarded. So, who among you is with child or nursing?”

A murmur rose, but, after the first flurry of excitement weary heads were shaken. A rich reward meant food, but there were no swollen bellies or maids with tiny tots in the village that winter, and so there would be none amongst them who could be sent forward to bring them salvation.

But then someone whispered an unfamiliar name, a low hungry sound, like an ill wind rustling dead leaves in a winter’s grave yard. “Gretchen, Gretchen the new girl. She has milk. She will go with you and save the village!”

And, like a demon’s chorus the whole township took up the chant: “Yes, Gretchen, Gretchen the new girl, send for Gretchen,” and she found herself being pushed, protesting, from her hut to the hard earth of the square where the huge horses stamped and steamed in the shadow of Karl’s unfinished effigy.

“My people, you are mistaken, I cannot perform this task,” she began, but the king’s men only looked at her coldly, and, following their gaze to her own bodice, she saw two wet stains where her large white breasts were unmistakably leaking milk.

* * * * *

A fast outrider had been sent ahead and fat serving women awaited their arrival at the castle, where great fires burned in the huge inglenooks of the tall flint tower, and the scents of rare Arabian coffees wafted from the great kitchens in the basements as Gretchen was propelled up endless flights of winding stairs and deposited in a round turret room full of windows that looked out across the entire kingdom. Frozen rivers stretched like great pewter snakes across acre after panoramic acre of snow-bound woodland, while smoky hamlets clustered defiantly in their clearings, the brass weather vanes on their wooden church steeples glinting like fire in the early morning sun.

“We need no boundaries stones here in Gondal,” a soft voice said from behind her, “for our kingdom is for ever defined by what can be seen from this tower. My God, you’re shivering girl, have they not brought you anything to warm you after your ride?”

Gretchen turned, though her legs were weak, and attempted to curtsey. “Your Majesty,” she blurted, looking at the floor and the rich tapestry of animal skins covering the cold flagstones.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop acting like a peasant and stand up,” the Queen chided, and Gretchen looked up to meet the ice blue eyes of a slim woman about her own age with a long braid of flaxen hair and snow-white skin, so tall and slender that she looked like a Viking longship’s figurehead.

“We are all cursed. My child is starving and I cannot feed him,” the Queen said, circling Gretchen like a predator, “and already there are whispered plots to have me banished and some fat Bavarian princess put upon the throne in my stead…”

“But surely there are women of your court who may feed him,” Gretchen interrupted. “Young and fecund noble women, well fed and heavy with children of their own?”

The Nordic queen laughed, but it was sad and mournful sound, like a midnight foghorn on the stillness of a desolate lake. “That is why we are all cursed,” she whispered, “for there are none in all our land who can nurse him, and only you, a stranger who has no offspring, with the promise of milk in your breasts. But, come, we must hurry, the child is in need of sustenance and I can hear the whispered plotting of the nobles in every corner. They have already dubbed me the Snow Queen, let us have the heir healthy before they can conjure up a name for you.”

She clapped her hands and serving women appeared and quickly drew heavy velvet drapes across the ring of windows, and the room suddenly became muffed and womb-like, the cold blue-grey palette of the winter daylight replaced by the warm tones of the dancing firelight, and firm hands guided Gretchen to the centre of the chamber as a divan drenched in Indian silks that gleamed with the glints of golden threads was placed by the warmth of the roaring fire.

“Come,” said the Queen, “we have very little time. Show your breasts to me before the child is brought in.”

Gretchen swallowed in embarrassment but shucked off the hooded scarlet cape they had given her for the journey as she was bidden, letting it fall to her feet and form a huge blood-red rose amidst the wolf skins on the flagged floor. Then she opened her bodice with trembling fingers and exposed her bare and quivering bosoms to the other woman’s eager gaze. She was tall and white-skinned, with a luxurious mane of ebony black hair and lush lips the colour of rubies – or perhaps a drop of blood on virgin snow. And her big, heavy breasts were pure white, the soft skin boasting an almost blue tinge like fresh milk, a marbled network of fine veins visible just below the surface, the dark rubbery nipples huge and swollen, milk already oozing lazily as the Queen gently squeezed.

“Thanks be to the Blessed Virgin, this is a miracle,” she whispered, licking her fingers and going back to swollen tips for more, gently massaging both of Gretchen’s tender nipples without hurting, the heavy nubs sleek and glossy as black cherries still warm from the tree. “And so rich and sweet. Come, let us not waste time, bring in the child and let the royal lineage continue.”

* * * * *

Later, Gretchen lay languidly on the warm silk of the divan, her bounteous breasts still bare and dribbling, the child fed and taken back, satisfied, to his cot by an army of doting nurse maids.

“You have saved the kingdom, lady,” the Queen purred, sitting down beside her in the flickering firelight. “And with so beauteous a pair of tits that it seemed almost sacrilegious to put them to so mundane a purpose as nursing an infant. Though I must confess that I almost envy my own child the feel of these beauties in his mouth.”

Gretchen smiled voluptuously in the soft light, a feeling of delicious turpitude slowly overtaking her as she felt the other’s eyes still consuming her nakedness.

“You are the queen, your majesty,” she replied in an almost-sly, husky voice, full-bodiedly pregnant with promise and suggestion. “You may also sample me if you so wish. To satisfy yourself that my milk is sound for your child, of course.”

The Queen swallowed and nodded her head. “You are right,” she said slowly, “I am the queen and you must do my bidding.”

“Then shall I remove my bodice completely so that you may evaluate me fully?” Gretchen asked, marvelling at her own boldness.

“Yes,” the other replied, pulling impatiently at the flimsy cotton in her eagerness. “My, how fair and heavy your breasts are, and your skin is softer than all the fine silks that are brought to me in homage by the dusky men of the Orient. And, my, how eagerly your long swan’s neck receives my kisses and your tits shiver in anticipation of my hungry mouth.”

“Squeeze my nipples as you did earlier and make my milk flow,” Gretchen begged, more aroused than she had ever been in her life before. “Then taste me and consume me to your heart’s content, suckle me with your hungry mouth and imbibe greedily of my sweet honeydew until you can manage no more.”

“I am indeed a glutton for your sweetness,” the Queen panted, squeezing at Gretchen’s aching nipples then sucking hungrily. “But is there not some service I can perform for you while I satisfy myself like a wanton?”

A flood of answers so perverse that she blushed scarlet ran immediately through Gretchen’s mind, but, overcoming her embarrassment, she found her voice and whispered in the other’s ear.

“The fire is warm and soporific. If your highness wishes, we could both disrobe to feel the sensuality of skin against skin while you suckle me, and it would please me greatly if you would stroke me while you feed…”

Buy-links for The Milk Round:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Excerpt from Bluebeard’s Tower

By Vanessa de Sade

It was a cold grey winter night, our office’s rambling old brownstone fog-enshrouded from the stealthily-flowing Hudson, the whole city hushed and echoing to the baleful sound of fog horns in the December dusk. And I lay, my new party skirt unceremoniously rucked up around my waist, being fucked by the bearded Ivan Meyrowitz, who stood over me lit in painterly tones, his big hairy body plunging into me like a swampland hog.

I was twenty-six but looked sixteen, something that had given many a thrill to the countless men who had thought that they were robbing me of my innocence, though that had been taken long since by my maid, Beulah, who, still to this day, crept into my bed at night and nuzzled at me till we would turn, mouth to slit, our slow languorous tongues evoking the forgotten scents of magnolia and the southern heat, Beulah’s obsidian skin glistening in the moonlight as I feasted hungrily on her short thick minge.

And, of course, she wasn’t really called Beulah. I just called her that to goad her. Peel me a grape, Beulah. Peel it yourself, you stuck-up white bitch. You sassing me, girl? Suck my dick, bitch. Then a scramble on the floor or on the bed, clothing rent asunder, fingers and tongues quickly finding hot and wet orifices and falling to touching and licking. Why, bless me, you are sure rough on your clothes, my Mama would say, shaking her head, and Beulah would nod sagely in agreement. She sure is, ma’am. Touching her cunt when she knew only I could see.

She didn’t like it when I craved cock, though, and would turn her back to me when I came home and slid between the sheets, my lips and cunt salty with semen, my pale peaches and cream complexion red with beard-burn and yearning for the soft touch of her thick ebony lips, her loving words of comfort.

And tonight I had landed the prize marlin of prickland, the biggest enchilada of the ole pork sword, Ivan Meyrowitz, senior partner of the firm of architects I worked for here in the Big Apple, much feared, much desired, a tall megalith of a man, dark and bearded like a potent Cossack, pulling me into a darkened studio while the Christmas party raged downstairs.

I’ve wanted to fuck you ever since you got here, he whispered urgently in my ear. A good tactic to bed me, I thought, I always responded to need in men, even though I knew it would evaporate as soon as cock had touched cunt and the wetness deposited. Aren’t you supposed to say, don’t you know I love you, you little goose? I asked facetiously, already fumbling for buttons on the silk front of his shirt.

Meyrowitz always dressed simply but sexily. Plain blue jeans. White silk shirts. Jackets from the deepest velvet corduroy in rain-soaked moss greens, hued from dyes made from the crushed shells of exotic tropical beetles. And his scent… Intoxicating. Spicy musks and amaretto-soaked tobacco. You always knew when he had entered a room by the way all the women looked up and sniffed the air.

And tonight he wanted me, his legendary cock had risen up in my honour and I had been summoned to his royal bedchamber to pay my homage, hand over his droit du seigneur. And I was not fooled, I knew that I was merely his plaything d’jour. And yet I hungered for his cock.

He pushed me down roughly onto the cold wood of a drawing board, ripping a blueprint for some wondrous creation. Even as a schoolgirl I had worshiped at his alter, my bedroom walls covered not in lily-faced immature pop idols but photographs of his palaces and towers; later with blueprints and cutaway drawings from architectural magazines. And I reached hungrily for his kiss but he withheld it, his mouth shut behind the thick blue-black beard, his eyes unreadable.

Enraged I ripped the buttons from his shirt and bared his chest, his body like an animal’s, like something that only a silver bullet could kill. He moaned through tight lips and hiked up my skirt, pulling my skimpy panties to my knees.

I tugged at his belt and tore open his jeans, dragging soft denim and silk boxers down together, gasping at the animal scent of his cock as it sprang up to greet me, the huge circumcised head glistening and naked like a ripe plum.

He stepped out of his clothes and pushed into me, not even guiding the monster with his huge hand, so sure of himself was he that he slid inside me like a heat-seeking missile, pushing up into my sticky wet clam with ease.

Not like this, not here, I gasped, ready to come already, the thick veiny shaft of his cock brushing my clit as he penetrated me, roughly, like being licked by a sand-papery animal tongue.

Then where? he asked, still rutting.

Take me to your tower, I begged, adding in a small voice, it’s all right. You can hurt me…

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Bio: Vanessa de Sade is a forty-something lady who likes to write twisted erotic tales about real women exploring the darker regions of their own sexuality. As well as contributing to anthologies she is the author of the novels Jane and Maid for Milking; and the solo story collections Black & White Movies; Nude Shots; Tales from a Tangled Bush and the erotic urban fairy tale collection, In the Forests of the Night.

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The Para-Portage of Emily by Muffy Wilson

The Para-Portage of Emily
The Shadow Seduction Series
By
Muffy Wilson
@SexyMuffyWilson



Emily Macque, a young, beautiful junior partner in her father’s law firm, is but a heartbeat away from love or destiny. Duty brings Emily to a frozen Island estate two hundred and fifty miles north of Chicago. Devotion requires she delve into the property history to settle an estate probate. Death lures her into the arms of the shadows seduction created by the flickering light and dark shadows.

What flames the timeless passions spanning the decades? Love, desire or obsession?

Colin Jorgenson, once a Great Lakes mariner, is a strong man haunted by love and loss. How long will he return each night, gripped by desire, hoping to find the woman he has loved for a century?
Beneath the pristine Island beauty, passions hungered, lingered in the ardent darkness. His passions, fueled by decades of loneliness and longing, could no longer be denied. Will they face eternity together or love in secret as dark things are to be loved between the shadows and the soul?
Loved it!
I just finished The Para-Portage of Emily. Quite the

page-turner!!
I was gifted a free copy by the author and found it to be a

cleverly woven plot with descriptive characters you won’t soon forget. I’m not one to give out spoilers,
but if you like paranormal intrigue, hot romance, and mystery, you will love it. Looking forward to more works by Muffy Wilson as I’m sure they will be just as brilliant.
~ By Love To Read


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“Tell me what you know about Mariner’s Maiden please, Kirby.”
Kirby took a long draw on his beer before he began his narrative.
“It was years ago, around 1800 Miss Emily, when the original land owner arrived on the Island with settlers from Norway. He’d claimed five hundred acres on this southern point of the Island for himself. He

became wealthy in cattle, wheat, timber and cheese. As his family grew and were educated on the Mainland, they moved, one by one, off Island. They were a wealthy, hard-working lot, but needed less and less of the acreage they owned. Much of the original plot was donated to the Town throughout the years. Some sections were sold.
“It got down to the last hundred acres when Colin Jorgenson bought the property, around 1890 or 1900. I am not exactly sure. The main house was much smaller and less grand than it is now, for sure.
“Now, Colin was a Maritime Captain and often he’d be gone for months at a time. He sailed the Great Lakes several times a year with supplies, spices, fancy goods and ‘fortunes of bounty’. That’s what they called

it then. It was for sale to rich settlers throughout the Great Lakes. He’d earned all his wealth in trading by the turn of the century. He came and went for several years until, in his mid-thirties, he met and married a much younger woman, Amalya, and came back to the Island with her.”
Kirby sat back, drained his beer and continued. “The property was called Mariner’s Cove then. He spent two years with Island tradesmen rebuilding this house for his wife. To honor her, and before his return to the water, he commissioned a maritime woodcarver to create the figurehead of Amalya you saw yesterday on the tree marking the entrance.
He had the figure of Amalya mounted on the bow of his ship and apparently felt she was always with him in his travels. She died one summer, pregnant with their first child, shortly after his returning from his last trip of the season. He shut himself away in this house—a broken man, left forlorn and alone, to die years later of a broken heart as a recluse. It’s said he returns night after night trying to find his Amalya, his beloved.”
“But that’s just old folklore, Miss Emily, there’s nothing to it but made up stories from the past by gossips and romantics. This place has never been haunted—no one has ever said it was, anyway. Even though

he was long dead, this property was held in Old Colin’s estate until your uncle bought it around 1955, I think. I suppose there is more you can find out at the Archives office in the Island library at the town offices, if you want. That’s about all I know and it ain’t much.”
Refusing a second beer, Kirby was off to finish his chores. “Thank you, Miss Emily,” Kirby said as he stood to leave.
Emily walked him to the door with Barkley in tow.
“Oh, there is one more thing” he added. “There is supposed to be a crypt on the property somewhere. I heard tell that Old Colin buried his Amalya in there and when he was dying, he crawled into it to die on her casket. Creepy, but no one’s ever found it to my knowledge—and between me and my dad, we’ve covered this property as caretakers for over fifty years.”
Emily extended her hand in gratitude for the information and company. “Thank you, Kirby. All of that is so very interesting. He must have been deeply in love with Amalya.”
Kirby, a middle-aged man, stood and shook Emily’s hand. He turned to leave, stopped and dropped his head as he hesitated at the bottom of the steps. A simple country man, this time was no different.
“Miss Emily…” He looked up at her rather sheepishly, and stuttered slightly, “Forgive me, Miss Emily, if I offend you. I have been a bachelor all my life and never had a way with women or much of a need for them.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like ‘em well enough, but I never was able to pick the right words in their presence. If…if you don’t mind my saying…you look an awful lot like those paintings in the house of Miss Amalya.”
“Oh my word, Kirby, how you flatter me! It is purely a coincidence, I assure you.” Emily smiled, as she dismissed the compliment and waved good-bye at Kirby. As he left, she thought about the love shared between

these two remarkable people, Colin and Amalya. Amalya and Colin.
She had forgotten to ask what became of the baby…

Fall in Love with the Island and Mariner’s Maiden
This is a story to savor. Ms. Wilson’s descriptions are poetic and enthralling,
placing the reader in the midst of the story, and the

relaxed pace of the story does not lessen the power of suspense. Shrouded in mystery, romance, and eroticism, “The Para-Portage of Emily” is a treat for the senses,
a haunting indulgence. Despite hints throughout, the ending still surprised me, and though satisfied,
I regretted the literary journey’s end. Highly recommended.
I look forward to more from this promising series.
~ By Jordan Stringfellow


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Muffy, author of erotic, romantic stories about love, sex, hope and passion, was born in San Antonio, Texas, to traditional parents. With two older brothers, she was the youngest, the family “princess,”

indulged and pampered. She adored her older brothers, following them everywhere and was surrounded by love, stimulation, and pets. Her father was a career Colonel and pilot in the U.S. Air Force which required the family to travel extensively.

The family lived in most points between Alaska and France. Muffy spent her formative years in Europe and came of age in France.

Returning from France with her family, Muffy finished high

school in Northern California and attended the University of California, Davis, and majored in Business Management.

Muffy entered the work force, independent with a fierce
work ethic, and retired at 39 from IBM as a Mid-West Regional Director in the Real Estate and Construction Division. She and her husband moved to a small Island in northern Wisconsin where they owned a historic tavern, restaurant and resort business which they since have sold. They now live a charmed life by the water in SW Florida.
Muffy pretends to be a serious real estate business person but, in real life, indulges her private interest in writing sexy novels and sensual romantic literotica ~ Live, Laugh, Love with Passion.

I really enjoyed the Para-Portage of Emily
I really enjoyed the Para-Portage of Emily… a skillfully

and imaginatively told tale of love, lost and found. Mysterious twists kept me turning the pages until the end.
Love conquers all, AND it was hot!
~ By Barbara A. Lyle


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Website | Blog | Twitter | Email | Facebook | FB Fan Page | Mailing List Sign-Up | Google+ | Triberr | WordPress | Amazon | Ganxy | XinXii | Kobo Books | iTunes Books | Barnes and Noble | All Romance eBooks | Smashwords

| Goodreads | Yellow Silk Dreams Publishing | Secret Cravings Publishing |

Previously Published:
Secret Cravings, Oysters & Chocolate, Decadent Publishing, Ravenous Romance,

Yellow Silk Dreams

Coming Soon:
Moonbeams of Unintended Consequences ~ TBA Spring 2015
Cheerleaders in Heat ~ TBA Summer 2015

Other Novels and Contributions:


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Cross Genre Paranormal Erotic Mystery
Should John Grisham and EL James have a secret love child,

she would no doubt pen legal thrillers with a luscious layer of the erotic.

They would name their child Muffy Wilson and send her to Stephen King for some

pointers in the paranormal.
Wilson, in the obliquely titled “The Para-Portage of Emily”,

interweaves these three diverse genres into a compelling, magic carpet of a

novel that takes Emily Macque from Chicago to a bitter island estate two

hundred miles north in the frozen sea. Emily is the striking junior partner in

her father’s law firm, her mission, to settle the probate on an estate, her

destiny to fall into the arms of Colin Jorgenson, a seaman haunted by a past

love that torments his life.
Intelligent, well-written, with fully fleshed out characters and a story with

more twists than a spiral staircase, “The Para-Portage of Emily” had

me gripped until the very last page.
~ By Chloe





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Live ~ Laugh ~ Love
with Passion

Fairy Tale Friday – An Erotic Romance by Terrance Aldon Shaw

THE FIRE-HOSTAGE

(Based on Der Ring des Nibelungen)

By Terrance Aldon Shaw

 I

 Once upon a time—and a fell and fearsome time it was, when endless twilight lay upon the land—there lived a lowly orphan waif whom men called Findlekind. A callow and untutored lad, uncouth of manner, brusque and forward of speech, the boy had been set to work as a striker’s apprentice when he was scarcely grown big enough to hoist the blacksmith’s hammer on his own. And so in the forge he labored for many a year, growing at last into a strong and comely youth.

Now, having been raised among rough, hard-spoken men, Findlekind was ignorant of his origin and lineage. Neither had he known the companionship of a woman, nor ever, in truth, set eyes upon one save from afar. And yet, for all, the lad knew naught of fear; undaunted by darkness or danger, brash and impetuous as the wild beasts he often joyed to stalk beneath the spreading branches of the trees, even to the far reaches of the great green forest. And so it was that when he came to be of an age, Findlekind took his leave of the brigands who had fostered him, and boldly struck out on his own with a mind to explore the wider world, to seek his fortune, and to learn the secret of his birth. “Mayhap I shall come to know fear as well,” said he.

Some leagues to the east, upon a barren mountainside, a mysterious light was seen to shine perpetually in the gloaming, a shimmering roundel of varicolored fire that danced and flickered, silent and graceful as the lambent curtains so often wont to ring the northern sky. It was toward this wonder, like a guiding star, that Findlekind made his solitary way. And so it fell out upon an hour belonging neither to day nor to night, that the youth found himself deep in the murky heart of the wood, a place where even the bravest souls were often loath to venture.

And there, before the narrow mouth of a cavern, the fearless callant came upon a dwarf, a vile creature of baleful countenance and irksome humor, who, with peevish curse and impious oath upon his gnarled lips, labored at a battered forge of ancient elvish make, the dull ring-a-ting-ting of his tiny hammer echoing among the ageless trees.

“You there, boy!” cried the dwarf, “Come, help build up the fire for me, for, in truth, I cannot make it hot enough myself. Look lively, now, my son!”

“You are no sire of mine,” Findlekind replied, and it was surely true, for the comely lad stood three times taller than his would-be master, pleasingly formed of body and limb with flowing locks of golden hair, a handsome human creature born of beauty and strength. “In any case you are a fool to fear a little heat, even so small and weak a thing as you are.”

“Nay, ‘tis you’re the fool,” croaked the dwarf, “for, though small and weak I may be, I know the secret of a great treasure-hoard that lies hidden but a little way from here. I’ll share it with you, on my name, Zwergrotz, I swear, if you’ll but help me put this shattered sword to rights.” He held up the splintered remnants of a ruined weapon so that the youth might examine it.

“I’ve never seen its like before,” said Findlekind, turning the pieces this way and that in his hands. “Such a blade was surely spell-forged, for the edges are like adamant, and the face of it shines with the gathered light of a thousand brilliant stars. So marvelous a thing must have been formed in the magic fire of Loge himself, for only such an unearthly blaze could ever burn hot enough to melt the metal.”

“Do I look like I’ve got magic fire?” Zwergrotz grumbled bitterly, “Think you I have but to whistle for the Trickster to come panting like a hound at my heel? No, no! ‘Tis not so! Zvergrotz might as well wish for chickens that turn themselves upon the roasting spit, or sacks of gold that fall like hail from a cloudless noon-bright sky. Alas! The gods are cruel to such as I. Their favors fall on comelier folk, wherefore poor dwarves are left to toil and struggle as best they might. Come, then, show some pity, and work the bellows for me, boy!”

“If I must,” said Findlekind, heaving an indolent sigh, “but only if you will tell me how this goodly weapon came to be sundered, and of the hero who wielded it. For combat that could shatter a blade like this must surely have been fierce, and how I’d have thrilled to witness such a mighty battle! Yet I suppose I can settle for your telling of the tale instead.”

“I know naught of all that,” said Zwergrotz. “The thing came to me as you behold it even now.”

“And how was that, little man? Whence came this wonder into your possession?”

“From the hand of a dying wench—Lorne her name. Great with child was she, weary and weak, for she had been fleeing a terrible bane; her lover felled upon the field of battle, and the gods’ own minions pursuing her through the forest, seeking after her, or so she said, to snatch the child. She bid me take the sword and foster the babe so that he might one day wield it in honor of his sire.”

“What then?” said Findlekind, pumping the bellows with all his might until the fire roared up hot and high.

“Pffttt! What then indeed!” the dwarf’s spittle hissed upon the coals, “The wench died in the whelping of a son, naming the child with her final breath. ‘Garin,’ said she, e’er I could lift the cursed thing to her breast, ‘My little Garin. son of Lotharing, my brother, my love . . .’ And that was that.”

“So what became of the child?” asked Findlekind.

“What do you suppose?” Zwergrotz laughed scornfully, “That I’d have ought to do with a bastard born of incest? Nay! Better to curse myself a hundred times! I kept the sword as payment for my trouble, and sold the squalling brat to an ogre, the better to be rid of it.”

“Try the fire now,” said Findlekind, “for, in truth, I think it burns too hot for any common metal.”

“Still no good,” complained the dwarf. “It’s useless! Useless!”

“You give up too easily, little master,” said Findlekind, “Be patient and I’ll make it hotter still. But as I work you must tell me the rest of the tale.”

“The rest? Aye. There’s more to be told. The ogre had not gone far with the brat. He meant to roast it up with onions and turnips, and make a soup from the bones that were left after the feast—I recollect his going on about it, boasting all the while, drooling, and smacking his fetid lips. But being quite stupid like the others of his kind, and short-sighted withal, the hapless fool lost his way in the dusk before he could reach home. T’was then he stumbled into a camp of tall-folk, a band of deserters from some war or another, and a desperate lot they were. They fell upon the gormless fiend and slew him. I heard the commotion from a distance, the shouts and roars and howls of rage, and all the while the infant squealing and bawling like as to wake the dead. T’was they, the tall-folk, took the child, but whether to foster it or feast upon it themselves I was not keen to learn. All I know is that the squalling ceased, and I was content to have peace and quiet at last.”

“In truth methinks the fire can get no hotter now,” said Findlekind, “Give me a turn at the hammer, little man. Let’s see what a pair of strong hands can do.”

“Very well, boy. Use that!” Zvergrotz nodded towards a heavy striking mallet that leaned against the cavern wall, “A clumsy thing it is and poorly balanced, but better suited to your size, I’ll wager.” Findelkind hefted it easily and began to work the metal. A spray of orange sparks flew up with the first clanking blow, like an angry flock of fiery birds rising to their doom. And over, and over, seven and twenty times again, the anvil rang, until, at last, the broken pieces of the sword were roughly joined anew.

“You’ve done it!” cried the dwarf, dancing about for joy. “With this the treasure surely shall be mine!”

“Perhaps,” Findlekind examined his work with a frown, “Yet even in so hot a blaze, these welds are weak at best. No telling how long it will be before the thing breaks once again. I must needs reheat the metal and try to forge it more carefully.”

“So be it,” Zvergrotz muttered impatiently. “Only be quick about it.”

Now as he labored an idle notion came into Findlekind’s head. I wish I’d known my father and my mother. I wonder what they were like, and how they came to know each other e’er I was gotten . . .And then a strange and wonderful thought came to him: What if I were the infant in the dwarf’s tale? Could I be the son of Lotharing, the great warrior, and Lorne, the fair and faithful? At that very moment an errant spark leapt up from the forge to waken the lad from his daydream, scorching him painfully upon the chest, quite close to the heart.

“Donner’s cock!” he swore in a loud voice, “Will this cursed metal never soften? Melt! Melt! Flow together like a river and be one where there were many and yet none! May Loge, the god of fire make it so!”

No sooner had Findlekind uttered the words than his prayer was answered, for there came a great gust of wind upon the air, and a column of brilliant viridescent flame fell from the sky with a yawning roar. The unearthly green-gold fire danced upon the crimson coals with a sound like the tinkling of tiny bells and the ghostly echo of a child’s mischievous laughter. And yet the green fire did not overwhelm the red, but only made the forge burn hotter until the rough-welded weapon was soft enough to work.

Findlekind wasted no time, but laid the glowing blade upon the anvil and struck home, folding and refolding the metal three times by three times, and hammering three times again, until the sword had been turned no fewer than seven and twenty times in all, a number most pleasing to the gods.

“‘Tis done!” he cried, lofting the weapon in haughty salute to the glory of youth, which knows nothing of the impossible. “Now, to try it!” Findlekind twirled the sword about, tossing the hilt from hand to hand in order to test its balance, before grasping it firmly and bringing it down edge-on against the fulciment itself. A single blow was all it took to split the anvil clean in two.

“Ha! At last” the dwarf hopped up and down, grabbing greedily for the hilt, “’Tis mine at last!”

“Have a care, little man,” said Findlekind, knocking the dwarf into the dirt, “Lest I be of a mind to cleave your miserable carcass in twain as well, for I know now who I am!”

“It cannot be!” cried Zwergrotz with a piteous squeak, “Surely, you cannot be—”

“Aye!” said Garin, for that was his name indeed, “I am the son of Lotharing and Lorne! T’was my mother you found in the forest, and this very sword you stole from her dying hands. T’was to her you gave your worthless word, turning away before the warmth had even left her to sell me to the ghoul, and wash your cursed hands of mother and child in a single craven stroke. I should slay you here and now for what you’ve done!”

“Mercy!” the hapless creature cowered upon the ground, “Have pity on poor Zvergrotz! I’ll share my treasure with you, young hero! Did I not promise to divide it with you? Only aid me in retrieving it, and I shall be as good as my word.”

“Of what worth was your word to my mother?” Garin towered menacingly above the dwarf. “I shall have my revenge upon you, feckless worm; of that you may be sure. Yet, perhaps I owe you some little grace for telling me of my beginnings. And if there’s treasure to be had, well, you’ll lead me to it and soon, for a wealthy man can slay a traitor on the morrow as easily as a poor man make short work of a cowardly wretch today.”

“I will! I will!” The dwarf groveled at the young man’s feet, crawling forward to kiss his boots, “Zvergrotz will keep his word this time! He promises!”

“Up now!” Garin prodded the loathsome supplicant with the tip of the sword, “Make haste, for I’m impatient to be done with you.”

 II

(Synopsis)

In Part II, Zvergrotz (Dwarf-snot) leads Garin to the lair of the three-headed dragon who guards the treasure hoard. After slaying the dragon, Garin finds a suit of armor that appears to withstand great heat, and with it, an enchanted helm, which allows him to hear the dwarf’s thoughts. Thus, learning of Zwergrotz’ murderous intentions, Garin strikes the vile little creature down with his father’s sword. He gathers up all that may be useful, and continues on his way.

III

 Now when the lad who knew no fear at last found his way to the foot of the mountain, he saw that the land was littered all about with the bones of many men, a great army of skeletons, still clad in rusting mail and broken plate. What manner of place is this, he wondered, for if in life these warriors were honorably felled in battle, why had the host of Valkyries not come upon their milk-white steeds to bear them to Valhalla?

Laying his doubts aside, Garin set to stripping the corpses of knives and daggers with which he might hasten his ascent, finding, at last, a heavy double-headed battleax, a goodly thing for driving the blades into the rock. Nonetheless, in spite of all his effort, the climb was arduous and slow, for the mountainside was steep and treacherous, making it almost impossible to gain purchase on the sheer, unyielding face. Yet ever undiscouraged, the tireless youth made his way for many hours—a day and a night or so it seemed—until, pulling himself up onto a narrow shelf of rock, he saw that he was hardly further from the bottom than when he had begun, and that the ground below was still much nearer than the summit above.

Now there drew on an ominous and dreadful storm such as might unman the heartiest of heroes. Lightning arced from the low-brooding clouds that swirled about the mountain. Thunder broke in deafening roars, re-echoing against the peak until the rocks themselves began to quail and quake as if in terror of the storm-god’s wrath. The loud reports spread out in all directions, far and wide, booming through the forests and valleys below like the mighty footfalls of a giant.

Undaunted even by this, Garin resumed the ascent, clambering upward through the very heart of the tempest until the clouds lay far below him, a churning maelstrom of murky mist and shadow, now and then illumined from within by sullen bursts of lightning, half-blurred beneath the roiling haze. Still on he climbed until, upon what must have been the dawning of the third day, the hero beheld a drear promontory, flat and barren save for an ancient stone circle, a shrine to some unremembered god, long fallen into disrepair. And yet, the youth could see at once that the place was enchanted, for among the pillars that still remained erect, a spectral conflagration blazed and flickered, unkindled and unconsuming, upon the very air itself.

‘Tis naught but an enchanter’s glimmer, he thought. But when he stretched out his hand to touch the fire, Garin found that it was surely real enough. Even so, from time to time the flames would appear to part, becoming transparent whenever the lightning flashed far below. Thus, for a fleeting moment, the circle inside the wall of fire would be illuminated. And there within, Garin spied the image of a beautiful maiden, reposing on a low stone couch, though whether in slumber or in death, he could not say.

In truth, Garin had no words for what he saw—for though the lad knew vaguely of women, he had never beheld one so closely before. Could this be the cenotaph of some fallen heroine, he wondered, the grave-effigy of a valiant sword-maiden? Or, perhaps, an altar of the elder folk, set up in reverent homage to an ancient patroness of battle? Curiosity welled up within his heart like a ravenous hunger, and thus, drawn by a strange emotion he could not name, the boy tried to think of a way he might break through the ring of fire, and make his way to the maiden’s side.

Putting his back to the flames, his great sword drawn and ready, Garin began to wheel about like a weathercock, turning widdershins as he sought out the very warp and weave of the magic from which that wondrous conflagration had been conjured. Through the iridescent tongues of flame he struggled, even as a mariner might sail into the face of the wind. The fire seared and branded his flesh where it was exposed, but would not give way. So Garin began anew, circling in a deosil direction, against the grain of the spell. And though the fire barely burned him this time, neither would it yield nor part. Again and again he tried, seeking a path through the unearthly blaze, and each time the way was blocked.

Finally, waiting for a lightning flash from below, whence the wall of flame grew transparent as a pane of crystal, and ridding his mind of all thought save that of the beautiful damsel within, Garin burst through the fire into the midst of the circle.

And there she lay, outstretched before him, a woman of surpassing loveliness and grace, neither of wood nor stone, but of flesh and blood, loosely involved from head to toe in a diaphanous shroud, which did not hide the simple linen shift she wore beneath. A beauty, tall and lithe of limb, her hair was the color of honey, the long silken tresses tumbling about her naked shoulders in supple disarray. Her hands were folded formally across her midriff, fingers entwined in regal repose. Her eyes were closed as if sleep hung heavily upon them, though her bosom did not rise or fall, nor was there any sound of breath upon her winsome lips.

But as he looked upon her, Garin, for the first time in his life, was seized by dread. “Better to face a score of dragons,” he said to himself, “or contend alone against a host of goblins, for in that case at least my arms would remember their skill, and I could strike at the heart of my foe. Yet as it is I can neither rush headlong into the fray nor turn about and flee.”

Thus, ever so cautiously, the lad reached forward with his sword, gently prodding the dormant vision before him. “Rise up and challenge me!” he cried, but the sleeper was not roused. Emboldened thus, using only the very tip of the blade, Garin lifted the shroud from the maiden’s face, gazing on that fair and fearsome countenance with childlike awe. After a moment he began to pull back the gossamer fabric that covered the rest of her body, slowly peeling it away as if it were no more substantial than a spider’s web, until, at last, it lay about her sides, a tattered remnant of the gauzy grave sheet that had imprisoned her.

Surely she still lives, Garin thought, and it was true, for there was no sign of corruption upon her flesh; her voluptuous limbs had not wasted as one in death, nor had mortality cast its darkling shadow o’er her rosy cheeks. And yet, for all, she did not stir.

He came close then, inclining his ear to listen at her lips, but no sound did she make. After a short while he turned his face to hers, softly blowing upon her mouth, but no sign did she offer in return. He gently pressed his lips to hers, willing the maiden to respond as he shared his breath with her, but still she would not be awakened.

I’ve come too late, he thought, stepping back that he might take in the sight of her more fully. It was then he noticed that one of the sleeping beauty’s perfect breasts lay bare, for the gown she wore had fallen open as he cut away the shroud. And before he knew what was happening, Garin’s mutinous manhood had begun to swell within his breeches, growing painfully tumescent at the thought of her unveiled pulchritude.

And so, driven by youthful lust, intoxicating as the first taste of new wine, the boy returned and knelt beside the maiden once again, leaning down to kiss her fair, firm breast, and run his curious fingers through her hair. The gods are cruel to lead me to such an end, he thought. How now am I to be satisfied? His lips and tongue then freely roved about her comely curving shoulders, ascending the alabaster column of her neck, until they found her mouth a second time. “Farewell,” he whispered, “Would that I had known thee in life.” Thus he sighed and murmured, too addled by thoughts of desire to notice that the woman’s lips were warm and yielding where they ought only to have been rigid and cold.

At last, weary from the many labors of the arduous hours gone by, Garin laid his head upon that welcoming bosom, meaning to rest a little while. Yet, strange it was, for at that very moment, he thought he heard the beating of the damsel’s heart.

“A dream,” he said. Still, laying his ear more closely to her breast, he attended with all his might. And there it was again, a mortal cadence, muffled and slow, yet adamant withal. “Surely, this must be a dream!”

No sooner had the words left his lips, than the maiden started up on her stony bier, drawing in a great gulping breath. “And what would you know of dreams?” she said, wrenching the sword from Garin’s hands, “Explain yourself, presumptuous mortal!”

The woman held the sword to his throat, edgewise, a little way beneath his ear. She asked again, “Who is he that wakens me so boldly?”

“I am Garin, the son of Lotharing and Lorne,” he stammered, struggling to master his fear, “And I have come many leagues seeking this place. With the aid of the gods themselves I forged the very steel you hold now in your hands, and with it, too, I’ve slain a fearsome dragon, winning for myself a great hoard of riches beyond measure. For three days and three nights by my counting I clambered up this alpen crag, breached the ensorcelled ring of flame, and found you here as if bewitched, enthralled in deathlike slumber.”

“Truly?” the maiden leveled the sword at Garin’s chest, “Are you the hero, sir, whose coming my father foretold?”

“Your father?”

“The Father of All,” she replied, “Wotan himself.”

“How can this be?” said Garin, “Whence came you, a daughter of the mightiest of gods, to this bleak and unexalted plane? Wherefore have you been spellbound upon this low and lonely rock?”

“I am called Feurgeisel,” she said, “that is, Hostage of the Fire, though long ago I bore a nobler name, before I was imprisoned here for defying the will of my father. Once I was among the company of Valkyries, who bear the bodies of the honored slain from off the field of battle. But I chanced to fall in love with one of my mortal charges, a warrior of matchless mettle and manly prowess. So it was that I plucked him from harm’s way when Fate had justly decreed his death. I could not endure the thought of so low and inglorious a doom for such as he, to be stabbed in the back by a cowardly dissembling foe. Love blinded me to duty, and so I was imprisoned for my crime within this cell of mystic flame.

“Yet I begged my father, e’er he abandoned me to my penance, to one day send a hero who might pass through the fire and win me to himself. And such love was in great Wotan’s heart that he granted his wayward child this boon.”

“And so I have come,” said Garin, “and so I would have you now.”

“Mayhap you shall,” replied the Valkyrie, still brandishing the sword, “Yet one more test remains e’er you prove yourself that champion of whom the bards shall sing.”

“And what test is that?”

“A simple thing, indeed, for such as you,” she smiled, “Only vanquish me in single combat, whence I’ll gladly give myself to you. Overcome my immortal body by dint of strength and skill, and it shall be yours to do with as you will.”

“Aye?” Garin moved quick as lightning, dancing aside to dodge the blade, and, in a single dizzying turn, seize the Valkyrie about the wrists. And now they contended, strength for strength; Wotan’s daughter desperate to keep hold of the sword-hilt even as the son of Lotharing would strive with all his might to wrest it from her grasp.

“I feel the trembling weakness of your arms,” said Garin, “And hear the panting sighs of fatigue upon your troubled breath. The fire of defiance has gone out of your eyes, whence now they wax with fear. Mayhap I shall not need to fight you at all.”

“Oh glorious All-Father! What have you done?” cried Feurgeisel, “How can it be that I am mortal?”

No sooner had the words parted from the blushing maiden’s lips, than Garin overcame her last defense, turning her wrists aside until at last the sword became too heavy for her to bear. With no other choice left to her, Feuergeisel dropped the blade, and bowed her head in abject submission.

The boy raised her clenched wrists to his lips and kissed them hungrily. Still, he hesitated to do more, not knowing what to make of this new-won prize, the like of which he had never beheld. Nor did Feuergeisel yet understand the ways of a mortal woman’s heart, for it is intuition above all else that sets the children of Midgard apart from those who dwell above. Thus, waiting upon him patiently, by and by she looked up into his eyes with dread and wonder. And as she gazed upon him, a strange spirit rose within her, whence she knew at last what she must do.

Slowly, she pulled his hands to her bosom, leaning forward so that he might savor the firmness of her unimprisoned breast. With that, the lad released her wrists, and thrust his fingers wantonly beneath the drooping fringe of her bodice, the better to probe the camber of that still half-veiled orb. His trembling palms were moist against her soft enfevered flesh, his fingers curious yet uncertain. Thus, following her new-found mortal senses, the maiden laid a gentle hand upon his burgeoning loins, and so began to work the laces of his leathern breeches, whence in a little while his ample manhood was released, drawn inch by inch into the open air.

“Oh, brave and wondrous sight!” the Valkyrie sighed, “Truly only the greatest of heroes could wield so worthy a weapon!” So saying, she bowed her head to lay her lips upon the lurid shaft, anointing it with kisses like a supplicant at the feet of some dread lord. Bold Garin could do naught but gasp and moan as Feuergeisel pleasured him thus. And so it was that desire at last overcame uncertainty, and, firmly seizing her by the shoulders, he began to bull his way into the maiden’s mouth, thrusting forward with his thighs till, with a deep groan, he sped and spent upon her ravenous tongue.

“How now!” he cried, “I am undone! For you have disarmed me a second time!”

“Not so,” said Feuergeisel, “See? Brave and unbroken stands thy blade, wanting for naught but a sheath to call its own.”

“And where am I to find a proper scabbard?” he said.

“Here, my lord,” Feuergeisel replied, standing boldly before him as the shift fell about her feet. “Come, lie down with me and try it.” she drew his hand to the place of which she spoke, “No doubt ‘twill make for a goodly mating.”

And so they lay together, the hero and his Valkyrie, wrestling and writhing, limbs ever tightly entwined, delving the pleasures of earthly love as they joyed in one another’s beauty and strength. Garin might well have conquered with his hungry mouth alone, while Feuergeisel, beguiling him with sighs and kisses, eagerly led the lad to all the hidden treasures of her maiden flesh. Their hips and thighs were as the wind and waves, rolling and swelling, arching and falling, the hero moving easily within his love, as she for her part eagerly rose to meet his sure, unhurried thrusts. Again and again, they melted in the fiery forge of bliss, one into the other, dying in delight, to be reborn, yet only half-cooled, to a still more adamant desire.

“Oh, what a thing it is to be mortal!” cried Feuergeisel, “For I never knew the power of such enjoyment could be contained within mine own unworthy limbs, like some hidden treasure waiting to be found!”

“Nor I,” said Garin, leaning over to kiss her breasts again. Ever so softly he blew upon her jewel-like paps, as one works the bellows to bring a fire to full and fulsome heat. “’Tis true, before I came unto you I knew naught of dread, yet now you’ve shown me a thing which is mightier even than fear.”

“Love!” she whispered.

“Aye,” said Garin, “And a favorable omen from the gods it is, for with it we are both set free indeed. Thus, shall you no longer be the lowly hostage of the fire; but I shall call thee Siegrid, for, in truth, you are my beauty and my peace, my glorious victory and my happy rest. What say you, fair one?”

“I like it well, my lord,” said Siegrid, drawing him into her restless, yearning arms. “And I would have that blade of yours once more within this taut and well-oiled scabbard!”

“You are a young lad’s dream come true!” he said, “But look! Do you not see?”

“What, my love?”

“The sun!” he pointed upward to the sky, “The sun has come out at last! How could I have failed to notice it, but that my eyes were dazzled by an even greater wonder!”

And thus, the twilight that had so long oppressed the land was broken by the brightness of a new day, and the sorrows of Midgard were, for a time, forgotten. Some say it was the father of the gods, great Wotan himself, smiling upon the union of his own dear daughter with so worthy a hero as Garin, the lad who knew no fear. Some say the two of them still live quite happily together within that enchanted wheel of flame upon the mountainside, where they are eternally young, passing the time with tales and songs, making love with that same wonder and delight as e’er first they met.

Copyright © 2014 by Terrance Aldon Shaw. This story may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express written permission.

NOTES ON THE FIRE HOSTAGE

The narrative outline of this story roughly follows the plot of Siegfried, the third opera in Richard Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen (Ring of the Nieblung) cycle (1853-1869). In addition to Wagner’s fantastic music and story, I was greatly inspired by Arthur Rackham’s wonderful color illustrations for the operas (1911-1912, republished by Dover in 1979). I have also borrowed quite freely from diverse elements of Norse and Germanic folklore and myth, especially the syntax, rhythms, cadence rhymes and extravagant alliterations of the great sagas and poetic eddas.

I did not want to use the names of principal characters in Wagner’s story, though their similarities will be obvious to anyone who knows the operas. So, Findlekind/Garin is the impetuous and utterly fearless Siegfried, Zvergrotz is the avaricious dwarf, Meme, while Feurgeisel/Siegrid is the disgraced Valkyrie, Brünhilde (whose name literarlly means “Dark Heroine”). Siegfried’s parents, the brother and sister Siegmund and Sieglinde, only alluded to in this story, become Lotharing and Lorne (Lorne being a female paranymn of Lothar).

Originally I had intended to call my hero Findlewaise (foundling waif), but thought that, perhaps, Findlekind (foundling child) might be a bit more euphonious as well as easier to pronounce. Garin is just one of many words for warrior or hero, and I liked the straightforward simplicity of it, rather like the qualities of the lad himself. The name Zwergrotz comes from the German words Zwerg (dwarf) and Rotz (snot). Feuergeisel is, as she explains in the story, quite literally “the hostage of the fire”. While Siegrid is more commonly a Scandanavian name, it expressed elegantly and precisely the beauty and grace of the newly-mortal heroine.

Connect with Terrance Aldon Shaw

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Email: taldenshaw@gmail.com

Italian Artist Takes Fairy Tales into the Comic Age

The Little Mermaid commission (Line Art by Pasquale Qualano & Color by Ylenia Di Napoli)

I’m a bit behind on my blogging, but I have a special treat for you this week. I recently came across animage of a sexy Cinderella with bloody feet created by DeviantArt artist Pasquale Qualano and decided his work was a natural fit for fairy tale fans. After contacting the artist, I received permission to post his images here at Shady Lady Fairy Tales. You are in for a treat!

Born in Naples, Italian artist Pasquale Qualano started his professional career at the early age of 19. After getting his start with local editors, Qualano began to craft pieces in graphic advertising. In 2005, he started working as a conceptual artist with GG Studio Comics, a collaboration that led to his work being featured by Marvel. (His work depicting She Hulk, featured in issues #35 and #36, is gorgeous.) Five years later, Zenescope Entertainment and Moonstone Books to his impressive portfolio. (He has 21 covers featured at Zenescope Entertainment including work for the Grimm Fairy Tales series!)

To see more of his work, check out his gallery at DeviantArt or stop by for a visit at his Website.

Grimm Fairy Tales #45 (Line Art by Pasquale Qualano & Color by Studio Cirque) Copyright © Zenescope Entertainment

What ever happened to Cinderella? Way back in Grimm Fairy Tales #2 we met Cindy, a poor college freshman being tortured by the snobby sorority girls on campus until Sela came to her rescue. Under Belinda’s influence Sela transported her to the fairy tale realm and promised to make all of Cindy’s dreams come true for a small price…Her Soul. Cindy has been living the good life on campus since she made her deal but when she gets a visit from the Devil’s right hand man she finds out the time has come to pay up. Cindy’s fate is revealed in this issue…Cinderella Revisited. (SOURCE: Comic Vine)

Neverland #7 (Line Art by Pasquale Qualano & Color by Jason Embury) Copyright © Zenescope Entertainment

The final chapter of the story is here! Pan unleashes his full fury on Wendy, Cross and their allies and they have little chance of standing before the ruler of Neverland’s power. As hope fades an unlikely ally comes to their aid…Tink has finally had enough of Pan’s tyranny. But her help may have come too late. Don’t miss the exciting conclusion to this popular spin off of Grimm Fairy Tales. (SOURCE: Comic Vine)

Little Red Riding Hood commission (Line Art by Pasquale Qualano & Color by Ylenia Di Napoli)

“The wolf is carnivore incarnate and he’s as cunning as he is ferocious; once he’s had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do.” ― Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories

Tarzan vs. Sabor (Line Art by Pasquale Qualano & Color by Ylenia Di Napoli)

“I didn’t have to act in Tarzan, the Ape Man — just said, ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane.’” ― Johnny Weissmuller (Photoplay magazine, June 1932)

Variant cover for Alice In Wonderland #3

 Alice: “What is the use of a book, without pictures or conversations?” ― Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Snow White commission (Line Art by Pasquale Qualano & Color by Ylenia Di Napoli)

 “I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” ― Mae West

Connect with Pasquale Qualano on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, or on his Website. All images are protected by copyright and are the property of Pasquale Qualano and/or Zenescope Entertainment.

To see more work by colorist Ylenia Di Napoli (The Little Mermaid, Little Red Riding Hood, Tarzan vs. Sabor, and Snow White), check out her gallery at DeviantArt.

Rejected Princesses: Legendary Ladies Get the Fairy Tale Treatment

Even though I am a huge fan of fairy tales, the Disney princesses started getting on my nerves in my 20s. By the time I hit my 30s I started writing my own fairy tales, which I populated with characters that had…well…that had character.

However, I didn’t find the portrayal of truly interesting “princesses” in modern art until last summer when I was introduced to the Rejected Princesses project created by artist Jason Porath.

It was love at first sight.

Early last year, Porath, who worked as effects animator at DreamWorks Animation, was joking around with co-workers about the production of Frozen when an intriguing question arose: What woman would be the most unlikely to get the animated “princess” treatment. Porath posted the question on Facebook and was immediately inundated with suggestions ranging from literary characters to historical women. Intrigued with the quirky idea, Porath sat down and sketched the first characters in what would soon become an international sensation – the Rejected Princesses: Women too Awesome, Awful or Offbeat for Kids’ Movies.

“I am a huge lover of the obscure, rare, and weird. I’m also a feminist, so the two interests collide with this series.”

The June 2014 launch of Porath‘s dedicated website for Rejected Princesses featured ten of the first female characters given the artist’s unique “princess” treatment. My favorites in this original set include the mythological and fairy tale characters: the Corn Maiden, a Native American goddess attributed with the creation of corn; Pasiphaë, the mother of the Minotaur; Penta, a handless fairytale princess from Italy; and Sita, from the Sanskrit epic poem Ramayana. In the stories of just those four female figures, Porath tackles the subjects of forced marriage, infidelity, bestiality, venereal disease, incest, and kidnapping.

In this first set, he also gave a couple of literary ladies the rejected princess treatment: Lolita, the of the rejected princesses illustrated by Porath, and Beloved, the murdered ghost who returns to exact revenge on her mother in Toni Morrison’s acclaimed book on the effects of slavery.

The historical women who made the first cut range from a female pharaoh (Hatshepsut) to a female tanker in WWII (Sergeant Mariya Oktyabrskaya). As Porath trips through time, he highlights the 6th-century Merovingian queen consort Fredegund, who assassinated her competition and eventually her lover and his brother (she also attempted to murder her daughter), and the villainous Wu Zetian, the first and only female Emperor of China who destroyed any and all claimants to the throne (in Porath’s portrayal the queen is seen poisoning her infant daughter). The final two rejected princess to make the cut in Porath’s earliest versions are Nzinga Mbande, 17th-century queen of what is now Angola, and Mai Bhago, 18th century Sikh warrior-saint and only survivor of the Battle of Khidrana.

Since that first barrage of illustrations, Porath has been unveiling a new rejected princess each Wednesday – with the exception of a few missed dates here and there including most of December when Porath injured his hands. Among the notable entries, you’ll discover an undefeated Mongolian wrestler, a Mexican revolutionary, a sword-slinging opera singer, legendary warriors queens, a prostitute turned pirate, an undefeated sword master, a pacifist British secret agent, a Jewish Ethiopian queen, a cross-dressing nun, an author of necrophiliac erotica, a dragon-slaying South African princess and many other incredible characters.

“I try to display a wide range of people in part because the women displayed to young girls are so limited. Not everyone is a role model. Not everyone is a perfect example. Women can be violent, and weird, and funny, and mischievous, and everything in between. To limit the types of folk I portray to just morally upstanding paragons of virtue would be in some ways a kind of censorship.”

Porath’s brings his quirky humor to the crafting of the history and/or legend(s) descriptions of each of the “princesses.” And his artistic notes and source bibliographies add an extra layer of enjoyment to the images. Even though he meticulously researched each of the characters prior to creating the images, he acknowledges that fact that mistakes can be made. This down-to-earth artist keeps it real with a page dedicated to Corrections and shout outs to his ever-growing community of fans and scholars.

“There’s a lot of propaganda going on in many of these stories – sometimes hundreds of years after the fact. I personally find it all incredibly interesting, and appreciate these truth-twistings as an integral part of their histories.”

In addition to his Rejected Princesses, Porath features contemporary women on his blog with Modern Worthies and invites fan involvement with his Community page. Best of all, last September Porath announced the development of a Rejected Princesses book, which will be published by Dey Street (an imprint of Harper Collins) in 2016. Sign up for his mailing list to keep up to date on the development.

Here are a few of my favorite Rejected Princesses:

I have respect for any woman growing up with 19 brothers. And it doesn’t hurt that Khutulun was Genghis Kahn‘s great-great-granddaughter. This warrior princess refused to marry a man unless he could beat her at wrestling. If the suitor lost, he had to pay up with a gift of 100 horses. Let’s just say she stayed single — single and the owner of an incredibly enormous herd of horses.

Over the years, I spent quite a bit of time exploring the region surrounding the Arizona-Mexico border. I’ve heard about (and written about) Pancho Villa, but I’d never heard a word about this sassy soldadera. After sacking the city of Torreon, Petra Herrera split off from Pancho Villa and created an independent all-female brigade. “[She] enforced that rule by staying up late and using any wayward male soldier that tried to get in as target practice.” Now that is one feisty mamacita!

This civil rights activist used the power of the pen to bring awareness to the epidemic of lynchings in the South. “For a good thirteen years, she was practically the only person doing investigatory journalism into lynching. Despite her massive contributions to the cause, she was almost left off the NAACP’s founders list, due in no small part to some wanting to distance themselves from her forceful language.” That’s a form of journalism I can get behind.

I’ve always had a fascination with female pirates and this Princess of the Chinese Seas is no exception. “According to legend, following her husband’s death, [Ching Shih] summoned the scattering fleet captains and announced: ‘Under the leadership of a man you have all chosen to flee. We shall see how you prove yourselves under the hand of a woman.'” She ruled the Red Flag fleet with an iron fist and kept the Chinese government on their toes for years. I love it!

I was first introduced to the famous philosopher and mathematics professor Hypatia of Alexandria in 2009 with the film Agora.  When she got caught up in the political unrest, wild allegations about her spread, making her the victim of a mob that publicly stripped her naked and then killed her. So much for honoring intelligence.

Being a fairy tale junkie, I was instantly smitten with the story of the Brazilian mermaid Iara. Who can resist a river-dwelling mermaid who takes revenge upon all men who encounter her? Her green hair and orange tail (inspired by the fins of a Brazilian guppy) are gorgeously illustrated. And I love the face and arm paint, which comes from tattoos of the Tupi people who are associated with this myth. Sing on, you sexy siren!

Connect with Jason Porath on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram or on his Website. All images are protected by copyright and are the property of Jason Porath.

Wicked Temptations: Naughty Games and Nursery Rhymes

Little Bo Peep by Walter Crane, 1885

Excerpt from Wicked Temptations by Shaunna Peterson

“Fin, I understand that this might be new to you, but you are going to have to do what I ask of you. NOW get undressed. This will be your last warning. I will start dishing out punishments.”

He was startled by her demanding voice, but it slowed into something seductive when she said ‘punishments.’

“Sor…Sorry, Mistress Bo,” he stammered as he flipped off his shoes and removed his socks, but his nerves got the best of him as he fumbled with the button to his pants. He stilled when Bo’s hands slid over his, halting his motions. He looked up into those crystallized blue eyes of hers. Looking at her was like a breath of fresh air, filling him with peace and a longing for something sensual.

“Let me, Fin. You’re overthinking this. Just follow the rules and enjoy your time with me, okay?”

“Yes, Mistress Bo. Thank you, Mistress Bo.”

He dropped his hands to his sides and watched Bo flick off the button, lower his zipper and spread the front of his jeans wide. His hardness strained against the fabric of his boxer briefs. He heard Bo’s small inhalation at the sight of his burning muscle just begging to be set free. She gripped the open flaps of his jeans, but didn’t move them. She stepped back and took a deep breath.

“Now, you finish the rest. I want you naked.”

Fin’s pulse quickened, his heart beating so loudly he could hear it in his ears. He grabbed the flaps of his jeans and pulled them down, removing his pants and tossing them to join his backpack on the chair. He crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head, tossing it to the chair to rest with the rest of his clothes. He ran his thumbs under the waistband of his boxer briefs and pushed them down, exposing himself to Bo’s watchful stare. Her eyes wandered over his nakedness as she took in every detail. She slowly circled him, making a sound of appreciation as she stopped in front of him.

“On your knees,” she said. “Kiss my boot, Fin and tell me how much you love it.”

“Ye….Yes, Mistress Bo.” Fin was hesitant as he didn’t like taking orders, but something about the way that Bo did it made him want to obey so he did as she asked and dropped to his knees. He placed a kiss to the top of each boot and told her how he loved being on his knees for her.

Bo ran her fingers through his dark locks and praised him for following her directions. He kissed further up on the calf of her boot and told her how much he loved kissing her boots. Feeling brave, he continued up to the top of her boots and kissed the skin peeking out from the black leather. He placed a light kiss on her knee caps. Between each kiss, he told her how much he loved the feel of her soft skin against his lips. She wound her hands through his hair, clutching his locks in-between her fingers and yanked his head back. Fin looked up at her, stunned at the aggression she was displaying.

“Did I tell you to kiss my skin, Fin?” Her breasts were straining against the white ties of her hooded coat as her breath rasped out in a series of short bursts.

“No, Mistress Bo. I am sorry, Mistress Bo.”

She released his head rather roughly and pointed to the bed in the middle of the room.

“Bed,” she commanded. “Now.”

Fin had just started to rise to his feet when she pushed him back down to the floor using the heel of her boot.

“Crawl,” she growled. “Crawl to the bed, Fin. For that, you will be punished. Now. Crawl.”

Fin cast his eyes at the floor and damned himself for attempting to be so bold. He mentally shook his head as he crawled across the hardwood floor and waited at the side of the bed for his next order. He stared down at the floor listening to the clicks and clacks of Bo’s heels as she made her way toward him. ‘I can’t believe I am doing this shit!’ He thought to himself. But he found it was actually turning him on more and more the rougher she got with him.

“Get up and bend over the bed, Fin.” Her voice was commanding and Fin felt the need to make her please her. He rose from his knees and bent over the bed, leaving his bare ass vulnerably bared to Bo. He stretched his arms out along the silky material beneath him, relishing as the softness of it slid against his skin. He turned his head and nuzzled his face into the silkiness of it.

“Don’t move.”

“Yes, Mistress Bo.”

He listened to Bo walk about the room. He heard her open and close something heavy and then make her way back to him. His heart pounded against his ribcage as his breath became labored in anticipation of what was to come next. He was eager and nervous to find out what his punishment would be. He felt the floor between his legs vibrate and knew Bo was standing right behind him. Suddenly, he felt something soft between his shoulder blades, sliding down his spine to rest at the very top of his bottom. He shivered under the sensation of this object leaving a chilling trail down his body.

“Do you know what a riding crop is, Fin?” Her voice close to his ear, he could feel her warm breath caress his neck. Before he could answer, she showed him.

Smack!

One swift, quick flip of the riding crop landed on his left butt cheek. He stiffened against the bed, clutching the bedding in his hands. He was not prepared for that.

Through gritted teeth, he answered his mistress. “Yessssss, Mistress Bo, I know what a riding crop is.”

“Great!” she chimed. “You will count out the ten lashings I give you. This is your punishment and then you will thank me for each of them. Do you understand?” she asked as she sucked his ear lobe between her teeth, giving it a small flick with her tongue.

Fin felt his cock spring to life against the bed, his mouth watering at the promise of what that tiny flick meant.

“Yes…..Yes, Mistress Bo.” He managed to get the words out in-between the ragged breaths that were pouring from his mouth.

She released his earlobe, but whispered to him. “Take your punishment, Fin. The best is yet to come.”

Buy link for Wicked Temptations:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Cover Blurb for Wicked Temptations

When Finch Hood flees the scene of a botched robbery at the home of the corrupt Senator Jackson, he ends up taking refuge at a brothel run by the illustrious Madame G. No silly goose, Madame G sends the senator’s men packing and introduces Finch (known as Fin to his friends) to the decadent delights of nursery rhymes turned naughty.

Over the course of the night, the modern-day Robin Hood is pushed to his limits as characters, straight from the pages of “Mother Goose,” challenge Fin’s sexual limits in ways he never dreamed possible. Fin quickly learns not to make a peep as a not-so-little Bo hooks him with her dominatrix demands. Jack, who is both nimble and quick, heats things up with candle play. And Little Miss Muffet, known as Missy in this twisted take, traps the hero in a dark web woven by her seductive spiders.

The next morning, Finch Hood takes his new place at Missy’s side while he and his merry band hatch a plan to bring the senator to his knees. After all, it’s not wise to mess with Madame G. And they all lived Happily Ever After.

Bio:  Stay-at-home Tennessee mom and inspired writer of fantasy & erotica, Shaunna Peterson released her debut fantasy/mystery novel Diamonds in the Sea in 2014, which was shortly followed with the publication of her first erotic short story Dirty Little Devil .

In 2015, Shaunna started the year with her erotic story “Sinful Delights,” which was included in the charity anthology Project: Aphrodite: A Labor of Lust , curated by Arden Aoide . Wicked Temptations , Shaunna’s most recent publication, delves into the realm of erotic fairy tales with a nursery rhyme twist. She is currently at work on the sequel to Diamonds in the Sea . “I have always been the reader, never the writer,” says Shaunna, “Now that I have tasted writing I don’t think I can get enough of it. This thirst for writing may never be quenched.”



Website
Amazon US Author Page
Amazon UK Author Page
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A Study in Stained Glass

Header Collage by Mandie Manzano

I have always been a fan of stained glass, so I was immediately smitten by the stunning art of Mandie Manzano. In fact, I featured her Fairy Tale Series in the December post Fairy Tales Shine in the Vibrant Art of Mandie Manzano. This incredible series became the inspiration that led to the development of the stained glass images set high in the tower walls of Zel’s bower in my story Tangled: An Erotic Twist on Rapunzel. (The stained-glass windows in this erotic fairy tale offer hints to plots in other stories I have scheduled to write set in the Shady Lady Fairy Tales ‘verse.)

I’m Not Bad, I’m Just Drawn That Way by Mandie Manzano

Although, Manzano hasn’t added images to her Fairy Tale Series, she has been creating an impressive portfolio of work featuring other fairy tale characters collected under her Pop Culture gallery. In addition to Disney princesses and villains, Manzano had created colorful versions of superheroes (Catwoman, Superman, Poison Ivy and the Avengers), cartoon characters (Heathcliff, Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, Wilma, Pikachu, Dr. Who, Jessica Rabbit, Hello Kitty and Jack Skellington) and images drawn from video games, feature films and Broadway productions. Her portrayal of The Wizard of Oz (We’re Off) and Ariel from The Little Mermaid (The Mermaid’s Song) are among my favorite images in this gorgeous collection. Although, I especially enjoyed the Disney villains she created as a contest entry. Fabulous stuff!

Disney Villains by Mandie Manzano

Best of all, Manzano‘s art can be purchased as prints or on a variety of alternative canvases such as T-shirts, phone cases, tote bags, throw pillows and shower curtains at søciety6. I, for one, can’t wait to see what’s next!

Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo by Mandie Manzano

Any consideration of the story we call ‘Cinderella’ for simplicity’s sake must acknowledge that ‘Cinderella’ has had a dizzying array of personae over hundreds of years, in several cultures. There is no one authoritative tale of ‘Cinderella,’ only a hall of mirrors with a different face in each reflection. –Marie Rutkoski

You’ll Bring Honor by Mandie Manzano

The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all. –the Emperor

Daughter of Triton by Mandie Manzano

I must be a mermaid. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living. –Anaïs Nin

Bayou Beauty by Mandie Manzano

Sometimes you have to kiss a few frogs to find a prince. –Fairy Tale Proverb

I Know You by Mandie Manzano

You have to dream before your dreams can come true. –A. P. J. Abdul Kalam

But I Know Every Rock and Tree and Creature… by Mandie Manzano

Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better. –Albert Einstein

Starry Lights by Mandie Manzano

I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars. –Og Mandino

Mandie Manzano’s work is featured in prints and products at søciety6 and on her website. Other ways to connect with her are on Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, DeviantArt and Pinterest. All images are protected by copyright and are the property of Mandie Manzano.

Princesses by Mandie Manzano