Moving Over, Darling

I've had it with blogger. It is horrible to use. So I'm over on WordPress now - come and see me!

I have a winner! Using my scientific random selection procedure (aka Eeny Meeny Miney Mo) I concluded that my spare copy of Orgasmic will be winging its way to sunny California, straight into the mailbox of LaBibliographe. Congratulations, ma'am - just drop me an email or a message with your mailing address and I'll pop it in the post.

My second good result of the week was getting a cover for my November novella (the Nov nov) at Total E-Bound. And what a cover! I hope, if you find yourself reading Competitive Nature, you will find out for yourself how splendidly fitting this artwork is.

Sunday 8 August 2010

Stuff to Win, Stuff to Buy, Stuff to Read

The generosity of those nice folk at Cleis Press means that I have an extra copy of the new Orgasmic anthology, featuring my story, The London O. Would anyone like a freebie? Just comment, mentioning your favourite word beginning with O, and I'll put your name in my magic hat.

If you already have a copy, or are generally looking for something hot and super-duper-brilliant to read, get on down to Total E-Bound and check out Charlotte Stein's latest release, Past Pleasures. It's due out tomorrow. Let me give you a taster:

Book one in the Desire Through Time Series

The future holds all the pleasures any woman could want.

No sex? No women?

When Kate agrees to a mad experiment with something as insane as time travel, she expects exactly what Professor Waites had suggested: dystopian nightmares and possible barbarians.

So when she finds herself in a future where women no longer exist and the men have no idea what they’ve been missing, she can’t seem to catch her breath.

Especially when the men in question—the darkly handsome Tem, and his starkly beautiful companion Aley, are so curious and so ready to learn everything she has to teach—including all the past pleasures they never knew existed.

Excerpt From: Past Pleasures

When the machine first wound down, Kate Connor couldn’t quite decide if it had worked. The room she was standing in looked ordinary—neat and uniform, but ordinary. The carpet was a rough beige pile, and a little curving armchair stood to her right, by the door. Warm light spilled from beneath another door directly in front of her, giving the entire room a soft ambience that she found somewhat comforting.

It could have been anywhere. It didn’t have to be 3033. For all Kate knew, the machine hadn’t worked, and instead she’d been teleported to somebody’s plush, little apartment.

But then more details surged into focus, and a different idea of what sort of year this was came with them.

The door to her right, for example. It had the look of something you’d find on a submarine. It seemed reinforced and strangely shaped, rounded where it should have been sharp-edged, sunken and scalloped where it should have been smooth and straight.

There was no discernable handle.

There were no objects in the room, either. It took her a while to notice, but once there they became starkly obvious. No books, no DVDs, no magazines lying around—nothing but a little table, a bed and an armchair, with nothing resting on top of any of them. Everything was pristine and seamless, as though no-one had ever lived in the room she stood in.

Even though she knew someone did live here. She could hear them, in the bathroom.

Of course, it could have been that the room before her was not, in fact, a bathroom. After all, the running water might have signified anything, in this brand new alien context. Perhaps they used the water to pass electric currents through their molecularised bodies here. Maybe it wasn’t water she could hear at all, but stabilising fluid, for their mechanised gears.

For the first time since starting this whole crazy thing, awareness of the complete unknown grabbed hold of her guts. She thought not of the sweet countdown to her first journey through the machine, but of its opposite—how long until Waites zapped her back? How long was left? Ten seconds? Twenty? It had seemed like a scrawny little glimpse, before, and she had pushed for more.

Why in God’s name had she pushed for more?

The bathroom door was starting to open. Any second, and Earth’s bleak and terrible future was going to emerge and grab her with its tentacles. She held her breath without even being aware of it; her hand clenched tight around the timer strapped to her wrist, ready to press and press and send a frantic plea for help across the vast acres of time and space—

He was almost a disappointment, after a build-up like that.

“Hello, brother,” he said—and not even in a Chaucerian accent in reverse, or with a buzzing mechanical note behind his voice, like the lizards in V. She ran her gaze the entire length of him, but no third arm sprang out. There didn’t seem to be a ray gun on him or a tentacle growing out of his bum or anything, not anything at all.

He looked like a normal human man. Apart from the preternatural attractiveness, which Kate was pretty sure didn’t count as terrifying. In normal circumstances, perhaps, but not when in the future, trying to cope with everything aside from handsomeness.

Like the gesture he appeared to be making. Hand up, palm facing her. It seemed impolite not to make the gesture in return, and yet awkwardness flooded her on doing so.

“Hello,” she found herself replying, the steady tone of her voice a flickering surprise. It should quake, if only because of one constantly beating fact—she was speaking to a man from the year 3033. Whether or not he was about to eat her face seemed somewhat irrelevant, in light of that fact.

“Can I help you?”

Whoa! I have my finger on the Buy button, waiting for the title to release!

If, after all that, you still need reading material, head down to ERWA, where the fabulous EllaRegina has a new story in the free reads section. 'The Hand & I' is one of my favourite stories of the year so far, surreal and sexy in equal measure.

Enjoy your reading!

O Wow

August, to me, has long been a nothing kind of month. No people about, no work coming in, nothing decent on telly. A big fat zero of a month. But this year, that zero becomes an O. Because this August, the Orgasmic anthology hits the shelves.

Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel - always a hallmark of quality - this collection focuses on the female orgasm in all its glorious complexity and variety.

My story is called The London O and features two characters who will be familiar to those who have read On Demand. Adventurous lovers, Lloyd and Sophie, add a new dimension to seeing the sights in the capital city.

Originally I had planned to write a book of short stories centring around this couple enjoying the tourist facilities in different and inventive ways, but then I realised that it was rather a thin premise for a whole book, and this story let me indulge my craving without letting it get out of control. Here is a snippet for you:

“How does it feel?” whispered Lloyd, standing beside me, one hand placed possessively on my bum, rubbing my skirt as if this would wear through and reveal the answer.

“Very, very rude,” I replied. “Wicked and indecent. I really hope I don’t have some kind of accident on the way home. I do not want to end up in Casualty wearing these.”

“Does it fill you? Are you wet? Does it rub against your clit?”

“Yes to all three. Shut up, for God’s sake!”

“Oh no, I want you to know you’re wearing it – I don’t want you to be able to forget. And I want you to know that I know. God, this is turning me on. I hope there aren’t any delays on the Northern Line tonight.”

We stepped off the escalator and I made a concerted effort to try and walk normally, notwithstanding the exquisite pressure on my clit and the large fake cock wedged in my pussy.

“It’s giving you a sensational wiggle,” said Lloyd admiringly, falling behind me to survey my swaying backside. “It looks so obvious that your pussy is stuffed. But I suppose I know it is, which makes a difference. Maybe nobody else would guess.”

I was convinced that everybody knew it as we headed on to the platform. Every passer-by, from the teenage youths clicking teeth and sucking back hi-energy sodas to the elderly suited man reading his Telegraph, was perfectly cognisant of the fact that I was wearing vibrating knickers, the crotch soaked, my pussy wrapped around a plastic cock, because I was a dirty slut who loves to come and can’t get enough orgasms.

Lloyd kept putting his hand into his jacket pocket, teasing me with the fear that he might be about to activate the vibrator, causing me to clamp my thighs together and clench my pelvic floor muscles. By the time the dirty-grey train came roaring through the tunnel, though, he had still not pressed the magic button.

The train was about three-quarters full, and we could not find a seat together, so I sat in the centre of one row while he took a place by the door, at the end of the opposite bank. Sitting like that, with a highly-perfumed lady on one side and a gay punk on the other, I was suddenly sure that people might be able to see up my skirt somehow – though it was knee-length and didn’t even give away the fact that I was wearing stockings ordinarily. I decided to cross my legs, but this pushed the nubbed rubber even further into my swimming clit, and made my pussy feel even fuller – an inescapable sensation. I squirmed against the seat cushion, unsure whether to uncross my legs again – and Lloyd chose that moment to flip my switch.

I had to swallow a cry as the invasive presence in my pussy began to rev up, a slow shudder at first, speeding to an almost unbearable throb. It felt so painfully wanton that I knew my climax would not be put off for long. I sat back, stretching my spine, trying my very hardest not to pant or moan. My pussy lips twitched and my nipples were hard and sore, pushing against the lace of my bra until some of the pattern must have transferred to them. Lloyd’s sly, delighted smile accentuated the hot rush of sensation; he had had to put a copy of the Evening Standard over his crotch to hide the excitement of it all. My nether regions seemed to be flexing and rippling beyond any vestige of muscular control; the vibrator whizzed up to maximum speed, my clit was swollen and struggling to barge past the little rubber stimulators, my cheeks were hotter than fire, I was fidgeting so much that my neighbours forewent the customary Tube etiquette of complete-oblivion-to-all and began looking sideways at me. And then I came, pressing my hands down into my lap, trying to breathe through the intense flood of liquid sweetness, shuffling my bottom against the cushion and biting down on my lip.

And we were still only at Goodge Street.

Of course, as you would expect from Ms Bussel, a roster of stunning eroticians share the pages with me: Elizabeth Coldwell ; Jacqueline Applebee ; Velvet Moore ; Lolita Lopez ; Susie Hara ; Dusty Horn ; Rowan Elizabeth ; Louisa Harte ; Sylvia Lowry ; Kendra Wayne ; Donna George Storey ; Teresa Noelle Roberts ; Rachel Green ; Lana Fox ; Andrea Dale ; Lily Harlem ; Angela Caperton ; Heidi Champa ; Vanessa Vaughn ; Noelle Keely ; Neve Black ; Charlotte Stein ; Jade Melisande and, of course, the lovely RKB herself.

Please do consider making your August orgasmic this year. Happy reading.

Summer Special

Summertime and the blogging is lazy. Or so it seems. I haven't posted much lately, so by way of apology, I have a free read for everyone, to say thank you for sticking with me.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I wrote my first totally original longish erotica story, which was a tale of a stowaway who finds herself in the clutches of a gentleman turned pirate called Capt. Jake Prince. Captain Jake, in the way of so many compelling erotica characters, is a bad, bad man, but my pirate story didn't really explain how he ended up on the high seas in the first place, so I started to write a prequel. I wrote two-and-a-bit chapters, then I stopped.

I know that there would be no point trying to sell this tale - it is everything the modern audience hates. Omniscient narrator, male point of view, historical, no romance, the list of unticked boxes goes on and on. I was aiming for a picaresque romp, basically. If that's your thing, read on! If not, look away now.

A Rake is Made

“I’ll have another flagon of your finest ale, wench, and look sharp about it.” With a ringing slap to her ample rump, the tavern girl scurried off, giggling, to furnish the customer’s requirements.

Having just that afternoon been expelled from his illustrious school in the town of S_______, young James Prince was of a mood to celebrate, and how better to do so than to indulge in the very same offences for which he had been castigated – boozing and whoring? He cast his by now slightly addled mind back to that momentous encounter in the Headmaster’s office. Offered a choice between twelve strokes of the cane before the assembled ranks of his fellow pupils or dismissal, he had stepped forward, smartly wrested the cane from the authoritarian’s hands and snapped it in two. His decision was clear. He could cheerfully forego the final few weeks of term. His parents were dead and his guardian scarcely cared what his young charge became extricated in, being himself far too occupied with matters of politicking than James’ moral welfare. The dons up at Oxford would still accept him as an undergraduate next term. There was really no reason to endure the humiliation and loss of face taking a dozen in public would afford.

So here he was, his tall and elegant frame beginning to slip sideways on the tavern bench while young Molly beamed at him from behind the counter. He gave her a wink, then looked up as another tankard banged down on the table in front of him, slopping beer on to the worn deal surface. James slid along the bench to accommodate the newcomer, who tipped his cloth cap in a gesture of seeming respect neutralised by the cheery wink that accompanied it.

“What’s a fine young gent like you doing in a place like this in broad daylight eh? Cutting classes?” he enquired pleasantly.

“Most assuredly not,” said Prince, with the suggestion of a slur. “My uniform misleads you; I am no longer a pupil of that establishment. I am a free man of the world.”

“Ah, then we have that much in common. Watkins, Sir, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I am James Prince, heir to the estate of the Dorsetshire Princes.”

They shook hands, Watkins’ face avid with curiosity. “I know of them,” he said. “Their property up at Casterbridge is long vacant, so I’ve heard.”

“They’re dead,” said Prince unemotionally. “The fortune and property is held in trust for me until I am twenty-one. My guardian lives up in London; he sits in the House of Peers.”

“Well, I am mixing with grand company today and no mistake,” said Watkins, with an ironical edge to his voice. “Might I buy you a beer, young Sir? You have a thirsty look.”

“Thank you, my needs are being seen to,” he replied, leering at Molly as she set his drink down. “But you may stay and talk with me if you wish. I am in a holiday mood, and I would have company for my high spirits.”

“Then company I shall provide,” grinned Watkins, and the pair toasted one another many times over before evening came.

Watkins was confounded by his young companion’s seemingly limitless capacity for strong ale, having expected by six in the evening to have accompanied his weaving form to a nearby secluded alleyway, relieved him of his coinage and pocketwatch and left him to sleep it off with the rats.

Yet the youth continued to raise the flagon to his lips, regaling the tavern with accounts of his many run-ins with the venerable staff of the institution he had so lately departed, all coloured to paint Prince as the nonconformist hero he considered himself, rather than the spoilt whelp his masters knew. Everyone in the inn hung amusedly on his every word as the tales grew more extravagant and the form of their telling more slurrily grandiose.

“They must be relieved to see the back of you, young Sir,” simpered Molly, edging past on her way home after a long day’s work only to find her waist seized and her skirts flying up around her as she was pulled backwards on to Prince’s lap.

“You impertinent little hussy,” he hissed into her reddening ear. “I think I may have to make you pay for your cheek.”

She squirmed joyously on the young man’s lap; many a time she had admired his aristocratic bearing and eloquent flattery on a long Saturday afternoon serving in the public bar. Indeed, they had kissed and fondled more often than she could count, though she never imagined he would think her worthy of more ardent attentions.

“What do you say, Watkins? Shall we take a room upstairs for the evening and show Miss Molly here the error of her ways?”

Watkins brightened at what sounded like a definite thieving opportunity with a tumble thrown in; it was funny, he reflected, how your luck could change in a heartbeat. Molly looked alarmed at Prince’s suggestion for her evening’s employ, but he put a finger across her protesting lips.

“Come, Molly, do not seek to feign this veneer of outraged virtue. I know you for what you are and I know you are willing.” He took a handful of coins from his pocket and dropped each down into Molly’s generous decollètage, kissing the spot behind her ear as he did so. “Now get upstairs and earn your money, girl,” he growled, guiding her towards the staircase with a firm hand on her bottom and another on her shoulder, Watkins following behind, bristling eagerly like a dog who has scented a bone.

Once the door had shut behind the trio, Watkins went and sat on the bed, watching his young friend gather the voluptuous girl up into his arms and kiss her soundly as she wriggled and giggled against his long, lean frame. With startling sure-footedness for one who had imbibed so much, Prince danced the girl round and round, never breaking the kiss, until they arrived by the bed and fell sideways into its feathery embrace, coming apart with much excited laughter. Molly moved on to her back, lying spread in wanton rapture with her dark hair tumbled from its clips and the exposed parts of her flesh jiggling temptingly. The men seated either side of her looked down with undisguised hunger.

“Did you ever see such succulence, Watkins?” murmured Prince, tracing a finger from her throat and along her collarbone, then dipping down to the cleft between her heavy breasts.

“No, I confess I should like to see more,” replied Watkins, pulling at the laces of her bodice until the enticing brown nipples popped free of their confines. He scooped up one mound in a reverent hand, his action mirrored on the other side by Prince, so that each man had a titty of his own to play with. And play they did, while Watkins fixed his mouth to Molly’s and Prince worked her lower garments down over her waist and hips so that her cotton pantalettes were all she wore. The expelled youth lowered his lips to suck and nip at Molly’s perky nub, all the while slipping his hand under the waistband of her undergarments, stroking the fleecy triangle with slender fingers until…ah…there…her secret place, hot and wet to the touch. She moaned into Watkins’ questing mouth, rotating her hips to welcome Prince’s explorations.

“Lusty little slut,” he commented, relinquishing her nipple and moving down to wrench the pantalettes off with unseemly haste. “You love it, don’t you, Molly. I’ve heard all about you.”

Molly was beside herself, only able to sigh and twist when Watkins moved to straddle her waist, unbuttoning his britches and resting his cock between the valley of her breasts. “Squeeze them together, girl,” he commanded, “nice and tight, so they rub against my John Thomas.” Molly obliged, pressing the twin pillows together and pulling them back and forth so that Watkins’ member was gently stroked. He flicked his thumbs across her nipples as she worked, giving her rough commands and words of encouragement throughout. Prince, meanwhile, knelt between her parted thighs, imparting a similar kind of stimulation to the little pearl at her centre, standing up from its hood and begging to be touched. The fingers of his other hand rummaged and plundered her intimate space.

“’Tis true she’s no maiden,” he remarked to his companion with a laugh. “I’ll wager she’s had half the farmhands in the county up here. Are you clean, Molly? Do we brave the pox when we both fuck you later?”

“No indeed,” Molly assured them, her voice weak and breathy. “I am without disease.”

Prince bent his considerable nose to her dripping love purse. “It’s true, you don’t smell like a stinking whore, even if you are one. I’ll take my chances.” He traced the outline of her sex delicately with his tongue, sending her over the edge of oblivion, yelling until she was hoarse. Watkins followed in short order, splashing his seed all over her tits, neck and chin.

The two men edged away from her body and looked at the picture she made, spread on the bed with her lips wide and breasts glistening with pearlescent semen. Prince was achingly hard, but he had more plans for her before he pursued his own release.

“Look at you,” he said derisively. “You naughty, naughty little trollop. You would let us do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Sirs,” she confirmed, her eyes shut in rapt afterglow.

“That makes you a very sinful young woman, Molly. I feel chastisement is in order, to show you the error of your ways. Now come and lay yourself across my lap, young lady, and I’ll explicate my lesson on your wicked bottom.”

Molly prised open her eyes and crawled reluctantly over the young master’s waiting lap, presenting her soft white bottom to his appreciative view.

“Now watch this, Watkins, for I’ll need you to take over when my arm tires.” Prince began to apply his large hand to Molly’s quivering globes. The first few smacks left pink impressions of his palm on her skin, but very soon the area was covered in a warm rose blush. Molly squirmed and yelped under the force of Prince’s steady assault, but there was no relief for her.

“Please, Sir, it burns so much, I’ll be a good girl and do whatever you want,” she pleaded, but Prince would not be diverted until her entire arse was a deep shade of red, from the crest of her buttocks down to mid-thigh, and she would be aware of the tight swollen skin for some hours afterward.

He let a hand drift across her backside, impressed by its heat and aware that he would need to use her for his release very soon.

“Are you very sore, Molly?” he asked softly.

“Oh yes, Sir, it stings so badly.”

“Good; then the lesson is beginning to take effect. To continue it, you will need to kneel on the floor and take my cock in your mouth, my dear.”

Molly tumbled off Prince’s lap and did as he asked, watching while he unleashed his considerable prick from the tight school britches he was still wearing. It was impressive both in length and girth, its empurpled head pointing almost skywards.

“He is very pleased to see you, Molly,” murmured the youth. “Be kind to him.” She took the tip into her generous mouth and begin to lick and suck at it, moving slowly down the shaft. Prince growled with pleasure. “I always like to put my cock in a girl’s mouth after punishment,” he noted to Watkins. “It reinforces the lesson, I think. Take my riding crop from my valise and give her ten hard strokes, would you? Good man.”

Molly’s eyes stretched wide with alarm at Prince’s laconic words, but his response was to shove her head further down. “Keep it up, Molly. There will be extra strokes if I feel your teeth, by the way.”

The unfortunate girl pleasured Prince for all she was worth, though it was so very difficult not to stop as each blow of the crop fell squarely and harshly on her already well-reddened behind. Her cries of pain vibrated against her master’s tool, causing him to roll his eyes back in his head with ecstasy, and when Watkins landed the tenth biting lash, Prince could hold back no longer and shot his load far down Molly’s throat before she could even try to draw back.

“Good girl, brave girl, Molly,” crooned the younger man, ruffling her hair soothingly. “You did very well, my dear. I am pleased with you. Now your punishment is done, we can give you more treats.”

Watkins was back at half-mast now, the cropping combined with the sight of her plump lips pumping Prince’s weapon having sent the blood rushing to that part. His companion pulled Molly up for a long and intense kiss, tumbling with her back on to the bed, tasting himself on her tongue with relish and feeling the crop welts on her bum as they tangled. Watkins waited patiently for Prince’s next instruction, accepting his subordinate position with alacrity in the knowledge that he would be off into the night with the haughty lad’s worldly goods before midnight struck.

“Well,” chuckled Prince, seeing the condition of his new friend, “it seems our Mr Watkins might appreciate a demonstration of your oral talents, my dear. Come and sit on the bed, my fine fellow.”

Watkins sat, legs splayed, on the mattress while Molly was manhandled on to all fours, her north end hovering over Watkins’ eager cock while Prince remained behind her, bringing his virile young sword back to full tumescence, which he was able to manage with comparatively little effort.

“Suck him, Molly,” commanded Prince, and at the sight of her obedient, bobbing head, he knelt behind her and plunged his steely hardness straight into her gaping pussy, grasping her hips for purchase and penetrating her very depths. Molly gurgled with delight over the crown of Watkins’ member, delighted to be filled at last, and so comprehensively. Despite the ache of her cheeks and face from all the suction, she felt gloriously stretched and used and wriggled backwards to meet Prince’s savage thrusts, disregarding the additional sting to her sore bum that entailed.

“Egad, you know how to milk a man dry,” gasped Prince, feeling her tight cunny muscles clamp against his surging rod. He reached around to tickle her clit, banging into her frantically until she began to shake her head from side to side, Watkins pulled out of her mouth and spurted across her face, then she and Prince both roared together into an unforgiving climax, their cries flying out through the window to the street outside, alarming passers by and horses alike.

“Oh Sirs,” she wailed, falling forwards limply. “I am undone.”

James Prince lay down at her right side, while Watkins flanked her at her left. “You are our sweet, sweet slut, Molly,” whispered Prince, tracing patterns on the skin of her back and buttocks. “You are doing so very well, my dear. Watkins, would you be so kind as to call downstairs for a spot of refreshment?”

Watkins grinned – these two would sleep very soundly tonight, he would bet – and pulled on his britches, returning shortly afterwards with a platter of cheeses, meats and bread and a jug of water. The debauched trio tore into the food and drank thirstily, then Watkins took Molly into his arms and gave her a long kissy caressing while Prince watched with detached interest, chewing at the last of the bread.

“Watkins,” he said suddenly, “you haven’t had the pleasure of her juicy pussy yet, have you? Why don’t you fuck her while I play with her arse?”

“Gladly,” said Watkins politely, stretching out on the bed. “Hop aboard, my sweet. John Thomas is ready for you.”

Molly mounted the upright shaft, bouncing up and down with glee while Watkins fingered the jiggling breasts. Prince watched from behind awhile, enjoying the scene as the base of Watkins’ shaft played peek-a-boo in and out of Molly’s hole. Well, one of her holes, at any rate.

Prince crept closer and began to massage her still warm derriere, moving his inquisitive fingers ever further in until he had her cheeks prised well apart and a thumb against the little pinky pucker between them.

“Oh Sir,” said Molly brokenly, bending forward so her tits squashed against Watkins’ chest and her rear was even more prominently displayed. Prince exerted gentle pressure to the tight ring of muscle, then he wetted his finger in the juices of her clit and spread them around the target. “Oh, Siiiiir,” she gasped again when his thumb pushed a little harder. She tried to clench her buttocks against him, but he was firm and persistent.

“Surely you have been touched here before, Molly?” he questioned her and she shook her unruly locks.

“No, Sir, I haven’t. That’s what men do with boys, I thought.”

“They can do it with girls as well,” Prince assured her. “It is greatly pleasurable.” At least, so he had heard. The hard truth was that no girl had allowed him to go so far as yet, not even a whore. He found himself obsessed by the idea though, and lustful thoughts of packing his hard cock into a girl’s tiny arsehole consumed his days and nights.

“I…don’t know, Sir,” demurred Molly. “I don’t think it’s quite nice.”

Prince snorted. Who was this trollop, to be talking about what was ‘nice’?

“Try it at least,” he coaxed, and he pushed his thumb down so it broke through the muscular defences.

“Please, Sir, no, Sir,” she cried agitatedly, trying to climb off Watkins’ cock in her alarm, though he held her down. “I’ll scream! I’ll call the innkeeper!”

Prince scowled, defeated. “It’ll cost you a hard spanking, Molly,” he warned her.

“Then a hard spanking I will take,” she said. “Anything you want, Sir…just not that.”

Prince had to content himself with stroking the head of his shaft up and down her rear cleft while Watkins finished off.

She was laid down on her back and each man took a turn on her once more in the missionary position, chafing her bottom against the coarse linens with each thrust, before they fell to sleep in a mess of limbs and kissing mouths, sticky, sore and sated.

*

It was an hour or maybe two later when Prince suddenly awoke to find the candle guttering and Watkins gone. He sat up sharply, extricating the limbs that were mixed up with Molly’s, and padded over to the open door. His valise was gone but he sensed that Watkins had only just left the room. He peered down the dark stairwell but could neither see nor hear a thing.

Then he closed the door quietly and chuckled. He checked to make sure his belongings still lay beneath the bed, where he had hidden them when Watkins was fetching the dinner. Then he pictured the journeyman thief’s face when he opened the valise to find nothing inside but a cushion and a few old textbooks. He latched the door and returned to Molly, sound asleep after her exertions, her round face flushed as she dreamed.

So there you go. A fun experiment in period voice for me - hopefully a fun read for you.

Ladies and Gentlemen, our very special guest star...Ms Charlotte Stein!

*cue wild applause*

Something a bit special for you tonight - a guest post from Charlotte Stein, whom I consider to be the brightest new star in the erotica firmament, and whose new novella TigerLily releases tomorrow. Could I be more excited? Only if the possibility of an Alan Rickman/Richard Armitage manwich was in the offing.

So, without further ado, I will hand you over to Charlotte!

"And now I come to Justine’s place, on my blog tour. My God, I feel like a proper author. I’m touring! Only on the internet, and at very few destinations. But the destinations are awesome, so there!

Take this destination, for example. It’s Justine Elyot! She’s amazing, she’s dazzling, she’s a superstar. But you know that, because you come here all the time and get dazzled by her, like she’s Edward Cullen only totally brilliant and not a banana-faced buffoon.

Anyhoo, in case you don’t know- I’m Charlotte Stein. I am, like, the lesser Justine Elyot. Think of Justine Elyot, and subtract 100. That’s me. And I have a release out on July 19^th called Tigerlily, from Total-E-Bound! So Justine, being me plus 100, agreed to let me guest post!

Yay!

And so I did a poem, in her honour:

Justine Elyot is all of the big words

The big good words

That I can think of.

Like: stupendous. Only that’s not enough

So how about:

Stupendofabulous.

But even that’s not enough.

So: Stupendofabulomazing.

She writes like a dream

About awesome things I can never write about.

And if I had not have been a Black Lace

Author too, I would have thought:

Who is this stupendofabulomazing person?

But I was, and so it came to pass

That I knew her.

My life is better for knowing her.

If I’d had

To struggle through the wilderness alone

I don’t know what

I would have done. Given up, probably.

So to Justine I say,

In the words of Anthony and the Johnsons:

You are my sister, and I love you

May all of your dreams come true.

And now a blurb, and an excerpt, and a link for Tigerlily! Which was my purpose for coming here, and that I kind of forgot for a minute there.

Oh what’s a girl to do, when she finds a sexy, naked man in her back garden?

When a naked guy turns up in Mae’s back garden, she can’t decide if he’s crazy or sent from heaven. He can’t remember his name, or where he’s from, but he seems to know one thing for certain- Mae is in need of some hot loving, and fast.

However, the more he persuades her to let go and give in, the more she finds herself believing that she’s met him before. But childhood games with a boy who she’s sure had wings on his back are giving way to her deepest sexual fantasies, and dreams of another world entirely are not far behind…

“There was a guy, running a blue streak through the trees. Mae Connelly could see him, even amidst the febrile greenery and the lowering light, arms pumping. Legs pumping. Cock swinging in the breeze.

Which was when she decided to stand up, and get a better look.

Purely out of simple curiosity, of course. Nothing unseemly about stepping off your porch to gawk at a man who appeared to be running through the field behind your house, buck ass nekkid.

And it didn’t sadden her—not even a little—when he ploughed into the long grass and everything below the waist got cut off. No—not even a little bit, uh-uh. After all, she was just a concerned citizen.

Concerned about someone who sure looked terrified. He looked more than terrified—she could see him, turning his head every five seconds as though expecting to see hellhounds behind him, chomping at his heels. He kept almost stumbling, like fear wouldn’t let him keep his footing.

And as he veered closer to her house, she could definitely make out red, striping his upper arms. The fact that said upper arms were sinewy with muscle and very nice indeed took a shameful backseat.

She shouted before her brain confirmed that doing so was a good idea.

“Hey!”

It was definitely not a good idea. He fell almost immediately, at the sound of her voice. She saw him turn, and then it was all just tits over ass and nothing but the long grass, stirring, to suggest that he had ever been there.

All the possible reasons that someone could be running, naked and terrified, went through her head: escape from a forced nudist colony. Being hunted by a Terminator from the future. Sex game that went horribly, horribly wrong. Or right, depending on your kink.

But none of them seemed either a) plausible or b) sane. As far as she knew, forced nudist colonies didn’t even exist. And likely Terminators and time travel machines didn’t, either. Especially not ones that sent you through time with your ass hanging out.”

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Thanks always, Justine!"

Waaaah, she wrote a poem about me! I plan to dig deep, find my inner McGonagall and return the favour - watch this space! And buy the book! You won't regret it, friends.

Not Paying Attention

...as usual, which is how I happened to miss my author interview spot at the Fairy Tale Lust blog until two days after the event. If you want to hear about my love for the gothic and Grimm, you can find them here.