Excerpt: Hungry For More

And here, in the final excerpt in this summer series of Cleis Press magnificence, is a taster from My Pillar-Box Red Cock, my story in Hungry For More from new Cleis imprint Tempted Romance, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. It's a pegging story, which is probably all the introduction it needs:

When he drops his jeans, bends over and shows me the base of the plug sticking out of his ass, I just can’t believe he’s been doing this without me. After what I said that drunken night a few weeks ago. And I thought he’d called me up to the bedroom to admire our new rug. I heard him vacuuming ready to roll it out. It’s hand-woven by Berber nomads don’t you know, one hundred per cent wool from Atlas mountain ewes.

But I’m not admiring the weaving. Instead I’m staring at my husband’s ass as he stands on the newly rolled out rug, having left all his clothes in an untidy pile in one corner of it. I’m staring at the butt plug he’s put in his ass. Or rather, it’s looking at me, one pearlescent blue pupil surrounded by the iris-like filament of his asshole. It twitches a little, the eye winking out some Morse code that only I can understand. It’s saying, “Grab hold of me in your sweaty little fingers, draw me slowly out, stretch his hole with my bulbous girth, push me back in and watch the muscles close, fuck him with me.” Oh, I understand exactly what my husband’s cheap vinyl butt plug is saying to me.

“So, um, when did you get that?”

“About a fortnight ago.” He’s still bent over, hands on his knees, craning his neck round to talk to me. “Actually it was twelve days ago, exactly. Which means I’m up to an hour at a time. I started off wearing it for five minutes and increased gradually.”

We’re standing in our bedroom in broad daylight on a Sunday morning discussing how Ryan has been training his butt for penetration with military precision without telling me. I need to backtrack. Quite far back. I also need to stop staring at the plug and wondering if its round base works as a suction cup.

“Honey, I’m pretty sure you said you didn’t want anything near your ass. You do remember that night, right? That’s why I haven’t mentioned it again.”

That night. It was a few weeks ago. Cabernet sauvignon had been on buy-one-get-one-free, so of course we drank both bottles. Then we started talking dirty. “Go on, there must be some fantasy you haven’t let on about,” I dared him. His turned out to be the relatively mundane one of wanting to watch me with another woman. I’d do it for him, but I was disappointed he came up with something so predictable. He can be pretty filthy at times. But my confession put a bit of a dampener on the evening. He sobered up pretty quick when I said, “I’d really love to fuck your ass with a strap-on.”

Oops.

You can find out the full line-up, links to all sales outlets and read the Introduction over atthe book's Tumblr page.

You can buy Hungry for More at Amazon US and Amazon UK.

Excerpt: Bound for Trouble

Alison's Tyler's Bound for Trouble. See what I did there? No, ok, well then... This Cleis Press antho is a celebration of bondage in all its variety. My story's called Doing It By the Book, and I promise you that things do get better for the couple involved...

I felt a bit silly, to be honest. It was a ridiculous position to be in. I’d expected the usual, spread-eagled on the bed with wrists and ankles tied to the corners. But Rob had read fast. I’d got him the book for his birthday, a bit of naughty amongst the sensible stuff he could show the family. Get Your Kink On: A Beginner’s Guide. We weren’t exactly beginners, but all my hints at doing something more adventurous had gone unheeded. But a guidebook, now that he could relate to. He’s a techie. Instruction manuals are bedtime reading.

But my initial thrill when I’d realized I was finally getting something different was wearing off. My ankle cuffs were tied to the top bar of the headboard, pulling my legs up in the air over my head. Wrists were, as usual, tethered to the corners of the bed. My pussy was utterly exposed and it should have been the fulfillment of my long-held fantasies. But all I could think about was the way the position squashed all my flab up under my thighs and gave me triple chins. The muscles behind my knees were starting to ache.

“The position allows the Dominant to perform oral sex, or, should the submissive require chastisement, to administer punishment to the buttocks and thighs with the hand or an implement.”

Oh God, he was actually reading from the text. And although the book was full of good ideas, it managed to convey them in a dry manner more appropriate to a computer programming manual. Rob was reading from Chapter Two: Basic Bondage for Sex and Dominance. The fancy stuff came in Chapter Three: Bondage for Decoration and Art. I knew. I’d already speed-read the book, careful not to bend the pages back, before wrapping it for him.

“The Dominant may also be able to perform intercourse, either vaginal or anal, although this requires a high degree of upper leg strength.”

“Honey, perhaps I should admit that I’ve already read it,” I said it. “So you don’t need to say it all out loud.”

“Oh sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t reading it to you, I’m just making sure I cover everything. I won’t be performing anal intercourse though so don’t worry about that.” He carried on the muttered monotone, “The position does, however, inhibit access to the submissive’s mouth.”

Oh Rob, I’m not worried, I said to myself.

You can buy Bound for Trouble from Amazon US and Amazon UK. And find out more about the book in its Pop-Up Porn tour at Alison Tyler's blog.

Excerpt: Can't Get Enough

On to the third excerpt in my mini erotica-fest. This Cleis Press anthology is veteran erotica author Tenille Brown's first outing as an editor, and it's one hell of a theme to begin with. Tenille appealed for stories to fulfil this brief:

Have you ever been so hot for your lover that you decided not to go to the dinner you were invited to? Or maybe you got so turned on watching her work the room at a party you had to duck into a coat closet during cocktails. Remember the time you called in sick to work because you simply couldn't put down your vibrator?

Can't Get Enough will contain just these types of stories. An anthology filled with tales of insatiable desire, authors will bring forth stories brimming with sex, kinks and fetishes that you simply can't get enough of, sex you want so much that you can't make it home without having to swing by a shady motel or pull off into a vacant lot.

I realised this could be interpreted in many different ways. As a keen but very amateur runner, I had come across events such as the Tough Mudder obstacle races. And so I started to think about a couple of sporty guys training for such an event. And how that would be with a BDSM slant. And what might happen to distract them during the race. Here's the start of the story:

Dean was ahead already. I admired his ass as his soaked shorts clung to its contours. He was always faster than me, although in a race like this anything could happen. We’d trained for months for the ultimate endurance test, The Toughest Ten, bored of marathons and ironman triathlons. It was Dean who first turned me into a fitness freak. After spotting him lifting weights at the gym I found myself going more and more often in the hope of bumping into him and being able to watch him putting his magnificent body through its paces. It was the body of an underwear model. Or perhaps a sculpted Greek god.

One day, after we’d graduated to swapping names and a terse hello, he said to me, “Hey Joe, how about doing a marathon with me?”

“Sure,” I said, before engaging brain. The most I ran was half an hour on the treadmill, never outdoors. I was just blessed with a naturally toned physique that looked like it saw the inside of a gym far more than my actual couple of hours a week. He soon realized this. But he was patient, quietly sharing training tips, chivvying me along when my spirits flagged and coaxing me to push myself. Without ever sounding patronizing.

I guess it was the chemistry between us. He wouldn’t have put up with me otherwise. Sometimes he slipped into sergeant major style, even name calling – “Come on you worthless faggot, get your butt moving before I order the lads to give you a beasting.” It was all play acting. He’d been in the army for a while. He told me he left because he enjoyed the rough treatment too much. He feared for his wellbeing. And that was the funny thing about our relationship. He was stronger, faster and could endure far more than me. But it was me who got to wrestle him to the floor, grab handfuls of his hair, slap him and call him my bitch. He responded in an immediate physical way, going weak at the knees, eager to drop and suck my cock or let me pound into his ass mercilessly.

“Fuck, Joe,” he’d say, “you do things to me. Things I haven’t been able to experience with any other man.”

He knew I’d be watching him as he pulled ahead in the Toughest Ten. It wasn’t just a run. It was a ten-mile course with ten obstacle stages – mud, ice, fire, water, walls and more to crawl through, swim, wade or climb. Designed by the military’s elite, it put those crazy enough to attempt it through hell and provided the best endorphin buzz available without mind-altering substances.

Our training had covered most of the types of challenge we faced. More thoroughly than necessary, to be honest. I’d confidently bet none of our competitors had submitted to having their balls zapped in order to prepare for the electric fence field.

You can buy the book at Amazon US and Amazon UK and check out the Can't Get Enough blog for reviews, interviews, excerpts and more. 

Excerpt: The Big Book of Submission II

Another excerpt, as promised. A teaser. A taste... of Toasted Marshmallows, the second of my stories in The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales. In which two submissive guys realise they have more in common than beer and football when their girlfriends organise a little outing to the forest:

I stare at my best friend’s cock. I’ve never seen it before. But from this position on my knees I’m getting a close-up view. It’s around the same erect length as my own, but a little thicker. Its head is darker.

“I said suck it.” Karen repeats the order. She doesn’t like having to repeat an order and I don’t like letting her down. I stick my tongue out, shape it around Nathan’s head and guide it into my mouth. I’d use my hands, but she’s cuffed them behind me. And linked them to my ankle restraints for good measure.

It’s such a strange sensation. Like a moleskin cover on a hardback book. Soft skin sliding over rigid, engorged flesh. Of course I’ve felt the same thing before in my hand. I’m a 27-year-old guy – I feel my own erections most mornings in the shower. But to have someone else’s in my mouth, stretching my lips and pushing my jaw down. Well. I suck, running my tongue up the underside. It seems the thing to do. I realize I’ve never analyzed the precise movements Karen’s mouth makes to cause my shaft to stiffen and pulse to climax. She only does it when I’ve been a good boy and obeyed her satisfactorily. I’m hoping for a reward today, more than the toasted marshmallows she’s promised from our backwoods campfire. But if she punishes me instead? I’ll still enjoy it.

"You’re doing well, sweetie,” she says, placing a hand on the back of my head and pushing me on until I cough. Nathan, one of the few old college pals I’ve kept in touch with, has no choice but to stay in position. He’s standing against a maple, arms pinned back around the trunk and more rope wrapping his torso against the rough bark. A thick stick between his teeth, tied in place around the back of his head, gags him. I watched his girlfriend, Rosie, put him place while I knelt in the leafmold waiting to be told what to do.

For more on the line-up, reviews and excerpts, check out the The Big Book of Submission Tumblr.

Available now at Amazon US and Amazon UK.

Excerpt: The Big Book of Submission I

I have two stories in The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales. Two lovely little tales nestled amongst a cornucopia of erotic magnificence. One is called Training My Dom and tells how a submissive woman gradually initiates her previously vanilla fella into dominating her: 

He started it. We’d flirted by text for weeks. Filthy texts: “I want to feel your hard cock deep in my throat,” “I’m going to lick your pussy until you scream...”

“Tell me where your imagination’s been today,” I wrote during a quiet moment at work.

“I thought about some handcuffs,” came the reply. His mind was obviously not on office business either.

I asked for clarification: “For you or for me?”

“I was thinking of using them on you xx.”

Halle-fucking-lujah.

Now, that's a pretty short excerpt, you might by thinking to yourself, but never fear; you can actually read the whole story for free on two retailer sites. You can choose the apostrophe-free version at Powell's Books, or the version with apostrophes but a little squeezed on the layout at Publishers Group West.

I'll be bringing you an excerpt from my other story in the antho, Toasted Marshmallows, tomorrow. You can buy The Big Book of Submission at  Amazon US and Amazon UK or at other outlets listed on the book's Tumblr page.

Big Book of Submission news

It's nearly time... for The Big Book of Submission: 69 Kinky Tales. This Cleis Press offering, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, is out next month and is already getting some fab reviews. Check out the book's Tumblr page for links to those, along with news, dates of readings, excerpts and pre-order information. It has one hell of a line-up of authors, with fellow Brits including Kay Jaybee, Lucy Felthouse and Nicole Gestalt. 

Here are two little extracts from my stories in the book. Check out this post for a taste of all 69.

Training My Dom

So there we were, isolated in the middle of nowhere. Where no one could hear me scream, as he put it. I was standing naked on a hard slate floor beneath the mezzanine bedroom, arms high up my back in a box tie, rope wrapping them tight against my torso. More rope strung up from there to the bars of the balcony above, pulling me onto my toes. Ball gag, silk blindfold and silver bar nipple clamps screwed tight—and then screwed some more.

Toasted Marshmallows

I stare at my best friend’s cock. I’ve never seen it before. But from this position—on my knees—I’m getting a close-up view. It’s around the same erect length as my own, but a little thicker. Its head is darker.

“I said, suck it.” Karen repeats the order. She doesn’t like having to repeat an order and I don’t like letting her down. I stick my tongue out, shape it around Nathan’s head and guide it into my mouth. I’d use my hands, but she’s cuffed them behind me—and linked them to my ankle restraints for good measure.

Dungeon Crawl: A Hint of Piracy

Hello, crawlers and welcome to the dungeon this week. Apologies for my erratic participation, but those spuds don't water themselves, you know. I talk of my allotment, clearly. Anyway, as promised in my Smut by the Sea write-up, here is the extract I read, which is from A Hint of Piracy, contained in the forthcoming Smut by the Sea Volume 3. More news on that very soon. Happy crawling. 

*****

It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I sat Danny down in a quiet corner of a cosy pub and decided it was time to tell him I liked a little more than missionary in my sex life. He was way ahead of me, it turned out. And that’s how I came to be sitting there in our room in a rather sumptuous guesthouse, wearing a pirate hat from a kids’ costume, perched on an antique oak chest and sipping tea from a fine bone china cup. And that’s how Danny came to be curled up inside said chest, while I scoffed all the complimentary biscuits.

It started in Britain’s Smallest House: that hunch that he had something to tell me as much as I had my own confession to make. “I quite like small spaces,” Danny said, peering into a storage space filled with folded blankets beneath the bench seating. I didn’t know if he was talking about the house we were visiting or actually referring to the cupboard.

I’d wondered aloud how anyone could live here for real. “It’s ridiculously tiny, even for me,” I said. I’m five two. In heels. “It’s cute and everything, but there’s no room to... swing a cat.”

“Swing a cat, huh?” he murmured, still staring into that narrow hole, holding up the hinged lid that doubled as fireside seating. And my mind ran through a series of half-formed images that started with actual small, furry animals being swung in the manner of a Monty Python sketch and ended in the brig of a sailing ship, a bit like the one moored off the quayside that had been done up for the pirate festival the following weekend. I was the captain, of course, in this pleasant little fantasy, and Danny was my captive, of course. Although in the couple of months I’d known him I hadn’t yet worked out how to convey the fact that my favourite view of him was when he was on his knees in front of me. And that I’d rather liked it that time he’d half-jokingly said, “Yes, mistress.”

When I was asked to go to Conwy to do a couple of travel pieces by a magazine I freelance for, I invited Danny along to make the most of the free digs. It was perhaps a little early for romantic weekends away, but this was semi-work. And, I thought, maybe a bit of “getting away from it all” would give me the opportunity to come clean. It’s not like I’m a raging dominatrix or anything, but I really needed to find the time to mention that I had certain preferences, before our internet dating relationship turned any more serious. Certain preferences I had never found myself in quite the right relationship to express before, and which I certainly wasn’t ready to add to my online profile (Interests: tying men to my bed and fucking their brains out). But I had this inkling Danny might not be so very shocked at the things I hadn’t listed.

“You look like you want to climb in there yourself,” I said. I mean, seriously, the man was staring intently into that dark space while there was a queue of folk outside waiting to pay their £1.50 each to explore this curious tourist attraction. It’s so tiny—officially the smallest house in Great Britain as verified by The Guinness Book of Records no less—that only two or three people are allowed in at a time.

“Hmm,” he said, glancing at me, with that look. I mean, That Look, with capitals and bells and knobs on. That Look that might have meant, “Please keep me in a cage in your bedroom because I’d very much enjoy being your sex slave.” Or was it, “What the hell are you getting at, woman”?

“Ok, Mr Terse. We’d better get moving; there’s about a hundred people waiting to get in here. And if we’re doing the castle before I have that interview, we need to hurry.”

In fact, we were probably inside for ten minutes at most. It’s only two rooms, after all. And the narrow bed in the loft space creaked loudly. Yes, we tested that, me pushing him down for a quick cuddle and kiss the way you do when you’re still only weeks into a relationship that holds great promise. Back on the quayside, the breeze was pinging halyards against the steel masts of little yachts to play that classic seaside tune that’s usually accompanied by the squawks of herring gulls about to swoop on your fish and chips.

“I wonder what it’ll be like here next weekend when the festival’s on,” I said. “I think I prefer it now while it’s a bit quieter.”

“I dunno, it could be interesting. I wouldn’t mind being taken prisoner by a beautiful pirate captain.”

Hmm, wavelength alert. Was he on the same one as me? “Are you saying I’m not beautiful and cruel enough for you?”

“Beautiful enough, certainly, but you haven’t been very cruel to me. Yet.” Oh, how corny. He leaned over me for a kiss. And yet, despite his superior height and his broad shoulders, there was a tiny dip of his head that suggested something. Gentleness. Deference. Submission?

“No. Not yet.” I decided it was his turn to wonder. “That’s because we haven’t been to the castle dungeon yet.” Yeah, yeah, I know, it was all getting silly. He was there joking about being locked in confined spaces, flogged and tied to the mast of a pirate ship (or did I make that bit up?), while I was offering to be mean to him in the dungeon of a medieval castle. I should really have just come out and said it: “Danny, I would actually like to do all those things to you. For real. In fact, I have this pair of handcuffs at home that I ordered over the internet but then shoved to the back of my sock drawer because I was too embarrassed to even open the box. I’d very much like to see you wearing them.” I should have said it—although I’d perhaps have to make it clear I meant the cuffs and not the socks. But I was still worried we could be having a serious wavelength malfunction and he might have run away to escape my evil clutches.

I really didn’t want him to run away. He was too delicious for that, all dark eyes and floppy fringe and scruffy air about him even when he’s in a shirt and tie for work (Occupation: logistics manager and tea lackey). All squeezable and pliable and eager to please, especially with his tongue.

I strode off up the hill to the castle, leaving him to follow and hoping the sway of my hips was giving off just the right air of confident allure.

Anyway, the castle was busy on this sunny Saturday lunchtime and, of course, the dark, damp doorway to the lower levels looked highly inviting to a never-ending stream of kids and their weary parents. I snatched a quiet moment to back Danny into a gloomy corner. I stood so close I was penning him in—and he let me—and whispered, “So now I’ve got you in the dungeon, what should I do to you?”

He pressed his back into the damp stone and his fingers curled around the cold iron grid at his side that was blocking off some dangerous underground nook from accident-prone tourists. It was as if he’d very much like his wrist to be chained to that iron. Or maybe I was making things up again.
He only managed to whisper two words—two words that sent a rush of blood to my pussy—before we heard shrill voices getting closer and had to move on. “Dastardly things,” he said, in a delightfully breathy voice.

An InLinkz Link-up

Smut by the Sea Swim Team

Who's with me? I can't go to Scarborough and not have a little dip in the sea, preferably around high tide. The lifeguards seemed a little bemused last year when Tabitha Rayne and I wrestled ourselves into our cossies under towels and launched ourselves into the waves. That's Tabitha pictured... oh no, sorry, that's the Birth of Venus by Botticelli. Tabitha isn't joining us this year, sadly, but Anna Sky has already kindly offered to hold my towel.

Find out all about the Smut by the Sea event - happening this Saturday, June 14th, in Scarborough, UK - and pick up tickets at smutbythesea.co.uk. 

I'm also doing a reading and it's probably time I decided on a story. I think I'll pick an extract from the coming-very-soon More Smut for Chocoholics, which gives me a choice between some Aztec jungle femdom or two guys working in a brewery... I'll probably go for the brewery; you can't beat a pint of real ale. Here's the start of A Steamy Brew to give you a little taster....

“Here, new boy, try this,” Nigel says, holding out a handful of little brown nuggets and once again failing to remember my name even though I’ve been here three months now.

“What are they?”

“Taste one and see if you can guess.”

“Is this a trick? Is it actually edible?” Nigel’s always playing a joke on someone; he makes me nervous. Or maybe it’s the line of his jaw that makes me nervous. Or the thick hair on his forearms. Nigel usually disobeys his own brewery’s rules about covering up to avoid scalds or burns, instead shoving his sleeves up around his elbows. What is it about a bunched sleeve that I find so much hotter than fancy shirt cuffs?

“Of course it’s edible, would I tell you to eat something if it wasn’t edible?”

“Er, yeah, I think you would.”

“Ah, you got me there.” He reaches out his free hand and rubs his knuckles hard on my scalp, doing goodness knows what to my hair. At least I’ve learnt not to put gel on it when I’m bound to get a face full of hot vapours from the wort tun at some point during my working day. But his hand in my hair gives me that tight little feeling in my throat; it’s similar to trying to breathe through a mouthful of steam, to be honest. “I would, you’re right, but not in this case. This is edible. In fact it’s the food of the gods, it’s been venerated for centuries, millennia even, more precious than gold.”

“It doesn’t look like much. Looks like chopped up coffee beans or something. It’s not coffee, is it? I can’t stand the stuff.”

“It’s not coffee, but you’re not far off with the bean angle. Here, taste.”

He lifts a piece to my lips. And I start to wonder if being put on the rota to work the bank holiday was such a coincidence after all. Nigel just said it was my turn, that everyone has to work a couple a year. But it means it’s just me and him in the brewhouse today. And, as I wonder, I start to hope. Hope that perhaps he’s seen me looking at him with more than a passing glance. Hope that my gaydar is working and that he prefers blokes, and that he’s single, and that he’s open to opportunity and that he might prefer a little blond like me to all the chunks of manliness usually found swaggering around this place, chucking kegs about as if they were scatter cushions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no weakling, but some of them lay it on a bit thick.

I part my lips and let him push the nugget inside my mouth, feeling a tingle where his fingers brush my skin. Christ, it’s been too long since I had a shag, I’m getting a semi over the feel of one square millimetre of another man’s skin on me. Admittedly, it’s a man I’ve been fantasising over, imagining him coming up behind me while I’ve got my face over one of the hot brew vessels.

He lets the piece of whatever it is go and pulls his hand away and he has this look of amusement on his face and I don’t know if it’s because of what I’m about to taste, or because he knows what’s going on in my head. And my crotch.

I roll it around my tongue but get nothing beyond realising that it’s hard as a nut.

“Bite it. Go on.”

God, he’s fucking with me. And God, I’m enjoying it. I bite.

And then I splutter. “Fuck, that’s disgusting.” I spit out the pieces into my palm. “I thought hops were bitter, but that. Fuck, it’s like eating burnt, I dunno, walnut shells or something.” I do that fl-fl-fl-fl spitting thing where you try to get every last speck of something out of your mouth, but still I can feel the grit of it on my tongue.

Dungeon Crawl - Penelope's Suitors

Publishers like to categorise. Perhaps readers like it too. I mean, 'BDSM' has to be your first requirement. After that, you know where you are if you opt for a bit of femdom or male dom, if you're going for f/m, f/f or m/m. Or maybe you don't because you're like me and you're searching for some indefinable something, some essence of kink that defies categories. I'm awkward like that. Anyway, welcome to this week's Dungeon Crawl, brought to you by Romancing the Kink, and to an excerpt from the third and final story in my little collection, Miranda's Tempest. 

It imagines what life is like for Penelope in the long years of her husband Odysseus' absence, while 108 suitors lord it up in her household, each trying to persuade her that her husband is dead and she should marry him instead. Yes, we're talking Homer. Ancient Greece. And the statue of a goddess that comes to life, and some lesbian menage, and some voyeurism, and some feminisation, and some prostate milking, and some loom bondage. All those things. Don't forget to check out the other authors in this week's crawl, but without further ado, here's a little something to tease:

‘Though I love my maids, I have also missed my husband and welcome his safe return home. He is the only man I will ever share my bed with. For you, I can offer something you may think little better than slavery, but it will allow you to serve me in a far more personal manner than a kitchen boy.’ I am almost ashamed of the way I toyed with this earnest youth as he knelt at my feet. But I think he enjoyed it. His mouth was open and his breath audible. ‘Should you pass the test, I would have you become one of my personal servants. Join my maids in keeping me from loneliness when my husband is absent, which he no doubt will be again. You will have to hide your masculinity: shave your body, wear women’s garments and control your cock. In return, you will get to serve me as my maids do and bring me pleasure. Do you accept?’

‘Yes my lady. Willingly.’

‘Then it is time to administer the test. The other suitors were told that if they passed once they would undergo this treatment each night until my weaving was finished. As you can see, my cloth is barely begun, but I tire of it already. And there is no longer a need for this trickery. I will not make it a condition for you. But I will repeat the test when it amuses me to. Now remove your robe and stand facing my loom.’

Leontes rose and did as he was bidden, turning his lean back to me and my companions. The loom’s large, upright frame was fixed to the wall with batons to allow room for the bar of the heddle to move, separating the warp threads for me to weave between them. The thicker yarn I had spun to secure each suitor now hung permanently from the frame. I told Leontes to raise his arms and fastened his wrists wide apart above his head. I had him open his legs and stooped to tie his ankles to the lower corners. His torso tautened and his cock rose, parting the warp threads. The horizontal heddle pressed into his upper thighs, raising his rear. He was so much calmer than the others, though his breathing had quickened. His response seemed one of arousal rather than the consternation the others had shown.

‘Are you ready?’ I asked.

‘Yes, my lady,’ he whispered, turning glossy eyes towards me over his shoulder.

I dipped my hand into a bowl of oil and rubbed it between my fingers and over my knuckles. I pressed my fingertips to the top of Leontes’ crack and allowed him a moment to become accustomed to my touch.

An InLinkz Link-up

Dungeon Crawl - a little light spanking

Ready for a little light spanking? For the Dungeon Crawl this week I'm bringing you an excerpt from my story Twenty-four Surprises. It's a festive-themed story, which I guess is a little odd when Easter's coming up, but I hope you'll forgive that because it does have some lovely domestic discipline in it. It's from Winter Warmers, published by House of Erotica. Now, if you'd care to assume the postion:

He shows me the paddle. Black. Check. Leather. Check. Smaller than I’d imagined. He pushes it to my face, down by the sofa cushions. “Kiss it, Sam. You have to kiss the implement of correction, don’t you. You remember?”

I may have said that, yes. I purse my lips and give it a smacker, my face flushing red. My ass feels like it’s glowing already, sticking up there like a beacon. Tom brushes a hand over it and dips a finger under. “My, how wet you are darling. It just shows what a depraved creature you are.”

One track of my mind is thinking that his Victorian gentleman act is just ridiculous, while another is imagining grand drawing rooms and crowds of sombrely clad men clustered around tethered, bent-over females with their acres of skirts and petticoats pushed up over their heads. Tom rubs the paddle over each cheek, drawing out the anticipation so much I wiggle my hips and invite him to get on with it.

“All in good time, Sam. You need to reflect on your misdemeanours first, have them pictured in your mind when the paddle lands. Otherwise, how will you learn? You must learn that your perverse, unladylike fantasies will be met only with punishment, not rewarded with fulfilment.”

What misdemeanours? Who cares? Maybe I didn’t do the breakfast dishes this morning when it was my turn. Maybe I don’t iron his socks. Maybe I haven’t adequately scrubbed the step or blacked the grate. Whatever that means.

“Are you ready to accept your punishment?”

“Yes.”

“Are you truly penitent?”

“Yes.”

“You will count the blows.”

“Yes.”

Thwack.

It’s definitely harsher than the satin paddle. Heavier, stingier, louder. “One.”

“You may now rearrange your attire and carry on with your duties.”

Huh?

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Put your knickers back on and help me make the dinner.”

“What? Is that it? That can’t be it."

If that single little spank has left you unsatisfied, be assured there's much more to come in the story. But if you're desperate for more right away, crawl on over to the other blogs taking part this week...

An InLinkz Link-up

Shakespearotica: Meet Orlando

As promised, I'm back with an excerpt from my new story As We Like It, which is in Shakespearotica: Queering the Bard from Storm Moon Press.

In this scene, Celia and Ross are watching the wrestling when they first see Orlando. If you now the story of As You Like It, you'll know that there is indeed a wrestling scene shortly before Rosalind is banished from the dukedom. Like the original, my Celia and Ros(s)alind will meet Orlando again. The story is told from Celia's point of view.

We sneak beneath the stands to watch the fights from the shadows. The bouts are held outside the palace walls, one of the few places where village dweller and noble can be found together, although even here the nobles stick to their private boxes. The sand is warm, though it has been in the shade under the arena’s seats all day.

The fights are not a sport for ladies. My father is watching above us, but the noble wives will be sipping tea inside the palace. We have a very different view of the action than the men get from their boxes. We lie on our bellies, our eyes level with the bottom of the electrified steel cage that surrounds the fighters. A bout is just finishing. The loser is slumped against the wire, conscious, but too broken and dazed to pull his back away from the electric current. An attendant pushes him off it with his booted foot and hauls him away.

“I give you Charles, Duke Frederick’s undisputed champion.” The umpire lifts the victor’s hand high. “Three brothers he has overthrown already tonight. One, I hear, is unlikely to live to see another day. Who else will dare to meet his challenge?”

Silence.

I’m half afraid Ross will leap to his feet. But though he is stronger and taller than me, he is still slight-figured and only of average height at most for a man. He is a boy next to Charles. I think he likes to watch the wrestlers and dream of having a body like theirs, all hard, glistening muscle. Taking repeated blows and falls and getting back up for more. I try to understand his yearning for a different shell to house his spirit. But it’s hard enough to imagine how he must feel lying on his front with his ribs meeting the sand through a thin layer of flesh where once he had breasts.

A voice breaks the silence. “I will face this Charles.”

The umpire opens the gate to allow the new fighter into the cage, and we see him rise into view opposite us. He is removing his shirt as he climbs the steps into the ring. The crowd murmurs, sizing up his physique. He flings the garment into their midst and steps into full view. Charles is a monster beside him. The image is enhanced by his growling as he tries to frighten his opponent. He is twice the width of the newcomer, a foot taller, older, battle scarred.

“And what is your name, young man?” The umpire asks, emphasizing the “young”.

“Orlando, sir.” He is soft-spoken, yet his voice carries.

Orlando pulls off scuffed boots and drops them outside the gate, and then unbuckles coarse cotton trousers. I thought Ross’s clothes were scruffy, but Orlando’s are so torn and full of holes,  it is barely less modest when they are gone. His plain grey briefs are mean in comparison to Charles’s silver satin shorts, covered in sponsorship logos. Charles laughs and the crowd joins in. Orlando merely waits, unmoved by taunts.

“Best of three falls,” the umpire shouts. “You know the rules: there are no rules.” The crowd knows his lines by heart, but they roar, nonetheless. The umpire leaves the ring, barring and padlocking the gate behind him. His only real task is to count down each fall to see if a combatant can get up in time to fight on or lose the round.

Shakespearotica: Queering the Bard, edited by Salome Wilde, is available from Storm Moon Press, Amazon and Amazon UK.

Snippet: True Love's Curse

As promised, I'm back to tell you more about my story, True Love's Curse, in The House of Erotica Witching Hour anthology. Out in time for Halloween, the book has thirteen stories from Victoria Blisse, Elizabeth Black, Heather Lin, Annabeth Leong, Lucy Felthouse, Gemma Parkes, Vanessa de Sade, Nephylim, Nicky Raven, Daddy X, Isabel Holley, and little ol' me. Victoria Blisse has two in there, just in case you're counting. It's available at:

All Romance

Amazon UK

Amazon.com

My blurb went like this: Hedgewitch Nadine knows that something is drawing her to a particular Welsh valley near the home she’s chosen to escape the bustle of modern life. But it’s only when a rock gives way under her foot that she finds him, a fairytale prince shackled to a slab of slate. She does the only thing one can do when faced with a fairytale prince: she kisses him. And then she has to work out how to summon the spirit of his true love and free him from the evil queen’s curse.

And the story goes like this:

I put my foot on a rock. It looked like any other piece of slate embedded in the deep brown earth. But the whole floor of earth and grass and stones and heather gave way. I’m tempted to say it was a surprise. It certainly should have been, would have been to most people. But I just thought, “Ah, now I’m getting somewhere."

And there he was. Naked. Debris from the collapse dusting his skin and clinging to the dark, curled hair around his genitals. Shackles enclosed his spread-eagled wrists and ankles, chains linking them to four thick iron rings set into the rock.

His chest was rising and falling gently but his eyes were closed. I brushed the bits of rock and soil from his chest and stomach. As I trailed my fingers down towards his hips – okay, towards his cock – he stirred, murmuring as if he was dreaming. His face was young and fresh and innocent. But troubled, a crease in his brow. I brushed myself off, then flicked the dust from his lips with my fingertips. There’s really only one proper thing to do when faced with a sleeping fairytale prince. I kissed him. Bending over and placing my palms on the slab either side of his head, I leaned in and pressed my lips to his.

100th Sunday Snog!

Well, this may be my first Sunday snog, but it’s Victoria Blisse’s 100^th. Lucky her. And to celebrate, she’s raising some money for charity and organising a bumper giveaway. She’s already raised more than a hundred quid for Medecins Sans Frontieres and she’s rounded up dozens of authors to give away some freebies on their blogs.

I’m going to give away an ebook copy of Smut by the Sea Volume 2. Comment on this post for your chance to win. I’ll use some highly scientific method to pick a winner if I actually get more than one commenter! You’ve got until midnight on September 27^th to enter. And if you’d like to go off and have a chance of winning dozens more prizes, then all the authors taking part are listed on Victoria’s Blisse Kiss page.

This snog is taken from my story in Smut by the Sea Vol 2, Stuck on the Edge. Gareth and Claire's last paddle in the sea before they’re meant to be going home from their little island hideaway is getting a little out of hand:

Gareth swam up beside me, the arms of his t-shirt wrapping round his biceps. I put my feet down, feeling soft sand between my toes instead of shingle out this deep, and let him get his arms around me. You’d think I might have been getting used to the temperature by now, but in fact I felt like my lips might be turning blue. He kissed them. And somehow his lips were still warm. As mine melted against his, it felt like the rest of my body was a marble statue. Only my lips were real, flesh and blood, pulsing with heat. His tongue was hot too. He darted it out and I opened my mouth to let him in. My throat felt tight and deep within my frozen belly a little spark went pop.

I may have moaned a little. He drew back and said, “You did once tell me you fancied sex in the sea. And somehow we’ve never got round to it.”

“Are you kidding me? Sex? Here? Now?” My voice rose in pitch until I was sure it was audible only to bats. I was shaking and my mind was already wondering how long it would take for Gareth to run to the warden’s cabin, for the warden to radio for help, for a helicopter to arrive, winch me up and transport me to the nearest hospital to be treated for hypothermia. And frostbite. And crazy, irrational lust. My nipples were already rock hard because of the cold, but now they were tingling too. Because of the lust.

Teaser time

Here's a little taste of my story in The Women Who Love to Love Gay Romance. Vicky has been out on a date, but all she can think about is her flatmate and his boyfriend, who are spending a rare quiet night in together at her place. She ends the date early and rushes home, hoping to catch them cuddling on the sofa... or maybe even listen in to them in the bedroom. But what she finds is much more than that and has been inspired by something the guys found lurking on her laptop after she failed to shut it down properly...

I hear the TV straight away as I unlock the door. At least, I think it’s the TV when I first hear voices through speakers. “Hi guys, I’m home.” They’re still on the sofa, but all my fantasies have not adequately prepared me for what I see. Not when it’s right there, right in front of me on my antique burgundy leather couch. They’re both buck naked. But that’s a minor consideration. Will is lying across Jake’s lap face down, his ass raised on the top of Jake’s thighs.

They freeze as I come into the room, but they don’t jump up and start making excuses, which is probably because Will is in no fit state to jump anywhere. Not with his wrists and ankles bound with two of my silk scarves. My laptop is open on the coffee table, the film I watched earlier playing quietly in the background. Not the TV. That’s blank, reflecting Jake and Will’s positions back to me even as I try to do the decent thing and look away. Will’s got a knotted tea towel tied in his mouth and a little voice at the back of my mind says, “He’d better not be drooling on my antique burgundy leather couch.”

“Fuck. Vicky. We weren’t expecting you home so early.”

You can buy from Amazon.com, Amazon UK, All Romance and Smashwords.