I’ve got fairies on the brain right now and there’s only one way to deal with it: share it with you. My first Black Lace book, Cruel Enchantment, was a collection of "unique and breathtakingly beautiful" erotic fairy and fantasy stories, so I did consider offering you an excerpt from one of those. Then I thought No: if you haven’t read it already, why not offer you a chance to win a copy? Drop a comment in to this post and I’ll pick a winner at random, sometime soon. After all, unpredictability is a Fay trait.
The fairy story I did choose to excerpt for you was actually published in More Wicked Words. I called it
So here it is: a visit from the Smut Fairy:
Mel is on the night train to Manchester Airport. It’s Midsummer Eve, and she’s been Seeing Things on the station platform, the trackside and, now, in the carriage with her…
Mel’s heart thudded. Her reflection gaped at her in the glass. On the far side of the train something dark and inhuman crouched on a seat. She turned.
The man sitting across the aisle was smiling at her. He probably wasn’t Indian as she’d first surmised, not unless he’d escaped entire from a particularly melodramatic Bollywood musical. He looked in fact more like the pirate king from some operetta. Dark hair in unkempt curls, jawline beard, lithe muscularity. Even the insouciant grin was just right. But he was barefoot, obviously so because one was planted up on the table in front of him. He wore a long-sleeved white T-shirt that clung like a second skin and black leggings that were – if possible – even tighter. He looked like nothing so much as an actor resting between scenes in a play.
‘Melanie,’ he said. Beneath the arched black brows his eyes weren’t dark at all: they were a wild, pale hazel. Yellow, she would have said, if that had been possible.
‘Go away,’ she whispered.
He tutted. ‘That’s not much of a welcome. Not what I call friendly. I was hoping for something warmer.’ His accent held a hint of the rustic.
‘I’ll call for the conductor.’
He shook his head gently. ‘I don’t think that would help.’ By way of demonstration he unfurled himself from the seat, leaned over the table to the woman reading in the far corner and opened his mouth over hers, his tongue entering with swift and practised ease. Withdrawing after a moment’s avid exploration, he reseated himself. The woman didn’t react. She wasn’t ignoring him from shock or fear; she simply seemed unaware of his existence. She turned a page and settled further into her novel. The man smirked.
Mel felt her heart hit the pit of her stomach. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to-’
‘Really? I’m sure you do. You’ve got a degree in English Lit.’
‘How the hell did you know that?’
His grin was complacent. ‘You can call me Robin if you like.’
‘If I like?’
‘If it makes you feel better to have a name.’
‘Oh hell,’ she groaned. Her head was spinning. ‘Shouldn’t you have wings?’
He raised his eyebrows and stretched out more comfortably, the black leggings straining over his sculpted muscles and the prominent bulge of his crotch. He seemed to have a talent for lolling stylishly, even in the confines of a standard-class train seat. ‘I can have a pink bloody tutu if you want,’ he said. ‘But I thought you might prefer this.’
Mel remembered too well the reflection in the window. ‘This isn’t your real shape, is it?’ she said, playing for time until she could think straight.
Robin’s grin broadened, became pure evil. ‘No. No, of course it isn’t. Don’t you like this one? There was such a naked threat in his words that Mel’s throat, already dry, almost closed up.
‘It’s fine,’ she grated. ‘Please leave me alone.’
Laughing, he shook his head. His laugh was dark and soft like soot. ‘You don’t want me to go, Melanie. You’re lonely and you’re bored, just like me. I saw that in Leeds station. Come on, Melanie. Don’t waste time. You want your pot stirring before it burns.’
Mel went pink, though she hated it when that happened. It showed up on her pale skin like a signal of weakness. ‘I do not!’ she protested.
Mel, awash with shock, couldn't help looking over at her fellow passenger, but the woman with the book seemed not to have heard a word.
‘Pity me, Melanie. I’ve been over all over the city tonight, trying to get a good hard grind. I slipped into the Lady Mayor’s bedroom at midnight to give her one in the fat behind while she grunted into her silk pillowslips. I’ve humped no less than eight lucky jenny-cats on the rooftops. I’ve done the business in every club and bar in town, pumping in the sweat and press of the dancefloor until my ears rang. I’ve even given the statue of Britannia in the civic square a faceful that she wasn’t expecting. And while I was waiting in the station I put the night cleaner face-down over her shiny sinks and slipped her a length she hadn’t felt the equal of since she was a girl in Jamaica. Melanie – it’s not as if you’ve got anything better to do on a boring train journey. I’m desperate here. My balls are going to explode.’
Her cheeks were blazing. ‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Isn’t that what you need? A good, hard, filthy fuck? How long since you’ve had that? Or you can sit on my face and dance for me. I could get down between those pale thighs and lick your pretty clit till I drowned, my sweet maid. I could reach parts of you that never felt a tongue before. I’ll get my prick so far up your slippery crack that it’ll be banging on your heart. You’ll love it, I promise. You’ll beg me for more.’
His eyes were lambent and fierce; for all his grinning and banter he was in deadly earnest.
‘Don’t,’ said Mel hoarsely. ‘I’m not the one you want.’
In an instant he was out of his chair and crouching on her table. She shrank into her seat, trying not to see his hard body straining against the thin cotton of his clothes, or the strong tanned hands raised toward her. Above all, trying not to see his hot eyes and hungry mouth.
‘You are the one I want. Haven’t you been listening to a word I said?’ His touch was soft on her hair. ‘You can see me, Melanie: it’s a rare trick and it won’t last forever.’ Both hands met at the top of her blouse and he slipped the first button. ‘You can feel me when I touch you. You can shiver under my hands. You can writhe in my arms and rock your hips against me. I want you all right, my little peaseblossom. And I know you want me. You’re aching for it.’
He laid open her thin white blouse and surveyed the breasts revealed. Fat tits, she'd always thought of them, unremarkable in their plain M&S bra. But as he slipped his hands around them they seemed to flare with inner heat.
‘Sweet little birds,’ he murmured. He pressed them together to make a deep soft valley. She laid her hands on his to prise them off, but his wrists were like iron. The warmth seemed to be running along her veins into her arms and belly, making her weak. ‘Oh yes, he said, and planted a hot kiss on the upper curve of each breast.
Want to win a copy of the "peerless and bestselling"Cruel Enchantment (with the original, impossible-to-buy, Goth-succubus cover)? Post a comment!
Want MORE fairies and
Janine "Fairy Snuff" Ashbless.