Sunday, August 31, 2008

Coming attractions

beautiful wet man looking into the oceanby Olivia Knight

Last week's wet men notwithstanding, this may be the most beautiful image ever to grace the Lust Bites blog (and we don't hold back with our gratuitous photos). Speaking of backs and holding - mmm...

(Perhaps I'm biased. This is almost exactly how I imagine Sir Thomas from "The Three Riddles" in Enchanted, though not featured in his armour here. Or perhaps any woman in her right mind and half the world's men would look at that back and whimper with longing.)

On Monday, Erastes continues the Bluffer's Guide series with her Guide to Gay Historicals. (See image, right.)

On Wednesday, Kate Pearce looks at finishing books - those final details, the letting go, and what to do when you've finished and are sitting folornly staring at the walls. (For ideas, see image, right.)

On Friday, Portia da Costa gets In Too Deep (as in image, right) with her latest UK release.

Competition winners

Miss Trixie, for your explanation of why wet men are so hot, you win your choice of Enchanted, Southern Spirits, or Phantasmagoria - send your snail mail details and your choice to knight [dot] olivia [at] gmail [dot] com.

CC you win a copy of Wildwood - send your snail mail details to janineashbless [at] fsmail [dot] net

Everyone else, you can award yourself prizes for your own brilliance! Just click on the cover of your choice.

Friday, August 29, 2008

Smut Slot - Wildwood

by Janine Ashbless

This picture of Holly is by my old mate Ian Stobie, and suits Wildwood exactly. Used with permission.

Did you know, it's exactly a year since I last claimed the Smut Slot? Well today I'm delighted to offer an excerpt from my latest novel Wildwood, a tale of contemporary magic. If you want some more info about the plot you can catch up here, but for this excerpt all you need to know is that Avril has just been out for a memorable first date with her boss, Michael, and now he's driving her home.

We didn’t talk as we drove back. I mean, in the circumstances, what was there I could say? In the glow of the dashboard light Michael’s face was only dimly visible, but I assumed he wore an expression of satisfaction. His white shirt seemed almost phosphorescent.

He’d had a complete change of clothing and a first-aid kit waiting back at the car. He’d daubed his cuts and bites with antiseptic and they seemed to have stopped bleeding. No marks showed on the new shirt.

As we drew nearer home he broke the silence to enquire, ‘Back to your place, or to my hotel?’

‘You can drop me off at the bottom gate of the Grange.’ My voice was raspy with rage.

He didn’t reply, but he took the turnings obediently enough and soon drew up outside the locked iron gates, pulling across the road to park in the little lay-by. He didn’t switch the engine off. The curve of the wall and the bars of the gate were the only objects visible; beyond the cast of the dipped headlights the night was totally black. I didn’t care; I’d far rather walk on my own across the estate grounds than spend any more time in his company.

‘You seem angry, Avril,’ he said as I grabbed for the handle.

‘Angry?’ I glared at him as the interior light came on. ‘What could I possibly be angry about? Well - I suppose there is the emotional blackmail. That’s the sort of thing that might make some people angry.’

His expression was mild. ‘You had a choice. I promised you that.’

‘Yes.’ I slid down onto the road. ‘And I should have let them rip you apart.’ Then I slammed the door on him. But I was at a disadvantage; the estate gate was over on the driver’s side of the vehicle, and the road around here was all loose gravel chippings, so I had to stop and put my shoes back on. By the time I crossed in front of the bonnet he was out too, waiting for me. Half-blinded by the headlights, I nearly walked into him. He caught my wrists. I went rigid.

‘Avril.’ He was standing very close; so close that our bodies were nearly touching. I could feel the warmth radiating from his torso, and smell his skin. He inclined his head so that he could murmur in my ear, and I felt the caress of his breath: ‘If you should have, then why didn’t you?’ His voice was soft and throaty and it made all the hairs stand up on my neck.

I didn’t reply. I didn’t shrug him off or pull away, though my muscles were locked with tension. I let him take my earlobe softly between his teeth and nip at my flesh. I let him put his finger on my cheek and then draw it along my jaw and then down my throat and breastbone, very gently. I couldn’t see him at all; the headlights were blinding, but I could feel his excitement. It was like electricity leaping the tiny gap between our bodies. Though I stayed rigid I let him turn me to face the front of the car and then, holding me from behind, put my hands on the warm vibrating hood. He moved slowly, with great deliberation. Giving me time to know exactly what was going on.

See: I had the choice.

‘Spread your legs,’ he said softly. And I obeyed. I put my ankles apart. My calves were already taut in those unaccustomed high heels. Michael leaned into me firmly, spreading my arms wider too, so that I was tilted forward, my bum sticking out. I could feel the hard bulge of his erection nudging my buttock. Then he stood back, just looking at me. Granting me time to comprehend my surrender. ‘Good girl.’

My legs were trembling. My heart was turning somersaults. You bastard, I thought.

Then he lifted my skirt and laid it over my back, exposing my naked sex to the night. I could feel the breeze on my most intimate flesh. I could picture how I must look to him very clearly: all long legs and heart-shaped ass, my face and torso in shadow. Just my pert out-thrust cheeks and the dusky teardrop of the sex that they framed, soft and sweet and defenceless. I wasn’t in the most pristine of states given our earlier activities; my placket was still puffy and slick with moisture. But as he stood there examining me I felt a sudden gush of new warmth and I knew that I was creaming up for him all over again. I was glad then that it was dark, because my face was burning with humiliation.

Firmly, Michael cupped my pussy in his hand and squeezed. My juiciness was only too apparent. Still it did not seem to be enough to satisfy him: he spent some time adjusting my stance, spreading my bum-cheeks with his hands, running his fingers up the deep cleft and over my buttocks and through the slippery petals of my sex. He stroked the tight iris of my anus until I whimpered, feeling myself yield. There was nothing I could hide from him, and when I heard the sound of his flies being opened I knew that there was nothing I would not let him have.
I wanted him to fuck me.

I wanted his cock so much that when he put it to the wet lips of my sex and pushed bluntly into me I sobbed in relief. And Michael heard and understood perfectly: ‘Yes. There it is; it’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘You’re all right now. You’ve got it.’
I had to bite my lip to hold back the tears of gratitude.

He fucked me very thoroughly, his hands on my hips, his groin slapping into my backside. He made no attempt to touch my clit. This wasn’t about making me come, I understood: this was about him taking his pleasure of me - and it was about me loving that. It was about restoring the balance of power between us to the place it had been at the start. Where he liked it.

When I heard the sound of a car engine coming toward us I quivered and almost tried to break position. Michael put one hand on the centre of my back and pushed me down firmly against the hot steel. I didn’t fight, but sweat broke out all over my skin; inwardly I writhed. What if they recognise us? I howled inwardly. What if they’re local to the Grange and they know exactly who we are and they see me being fucked by my boss; fucked from behind; fucked like a cheap slut in my shiny high-heels on a public road?

Gradually the sweep of their headlights over the beetling hedges pushed back the night. They were going to come up on us from behind, I realised. There was no chance they’d miss us behind the bulk of the 4x4. They were going to pin us in their headlights and see exactly what was going on; Deverick’s hands biting into my bum as he rammed his meat rhythmically into my willing snatch. I whimpered and thrust back against him; he quickened his pace, his breath coming hard and shallow.

They were coming. There they were. The night was split asunder by light and the roar of the motor was suddenly on top of us as they emerged round the bend. As the headlights swept over us I saw for an interminable moment my hands spread wide on the bonnet and my face reflected in our windscreen, eyes wide and mouth slack. The humiliation was too much to bear; I came, crying out. And as my sex clenched and my arse bucked Michael filled me to overflowing.

Then the car had swept past us. For a moment its brake-lights glowed a frantic crimson, and in the midst of the pulsations of pleasure and shame I wondered if it were about to stop and the passengers leap out for a longer look. Then it was gone around another bed, and we were alone again.

Without any hurry Michael withdrew, wiping his turgid prick on my buttocks before tidying himself away. I didn’t move. Not until there was a soft flash of light and he leaned back over me to show me the screen of his cell phone and the close-up picture he’d just taken of my rear. It was a small screen but the definition was good; you couldn’t miss the glisten on those plumped-up lips that made it clear this anonymous gash had just been well used. ‘For personal use,’ he said as he flipped my skirt back down over my bum.

Perhaps he meant to be reassuring. There wasn’t really anything I could say to him. Dumbly I turned away, my heels wobbly on the granite chippings as I fumbled for the keypad of the electronic lock on the gate. I heard the engine growl as he slipped his car into gear and eased back onto the road, leaving me to open the gate and set off down the drive in nearly complete darkness. I welcomed it. I welcomed the silence. I wanted to be invisible.

Michael’s calling card slipped wetly down the inside of my thighs as I walked home.

Want to win a copy of Wildwood - as Recommended by Dark Angel Reviews? Thanks to the lovely people in the Black Lace office I have an extra copy to give away this week! All you need do is drop a comment on this post: I'll pick a random winner and announce it in Coming Attractions this Sunday.



Buy Wildwood at Amazon UK : Pre-order Wildwood at Amazon US

blog : website

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Crush Wednesday: wet men

by Olivia Knight

We’ve all been there: garden party, drink in hand, exchanging witty repartee with some magnificent specimen whose eyes smoulder with wry debonair amusement, and you think – What, on earth, could possibly make you hotter? – and with a discreet nudge of the elbow, knock him into the pool.

Ahh. Wet men. (Someone else will deal with Angry men in a separate post, as I don’t do anger and am basically a non-confrontational dialogueic kind of person, as I’ve often explained very fast to men as they clamber dripping wet out of pools.)

A year ago, almost to the date, Kristina Lloyd did her lust-addled best to explain the appeal of wet men - she couldn't. (But she did supply some excellent pictures.) Nor can I. (But ditto.) It's like explaining the appeal of breasts to... who doesn't get breasts? To whom do I need to explain wet men? Just think about it:

hot men looking hotter when theyre wet

If you can explain what's so damn hot about wet men, we'll give you stuff.

A year on, we've had plenty more wet men and to celebrate their perennial appeal, we're herding them together for you.

All men are hotter wet. We don't know why, we're hoping you'll tell us, but c'mon. Think of the two hottest men in existence. Brad Pitt; John Barrowman. Could they possibly get hotter?

hot men looking hotter when theyre wet

Yes: wet.

Try it as an experiment - wander the streets, find a desperately clit-twistingly exquisite man, and pour a bucket of water over him. Ta-da! (I myself carry a bottle of water everywhere I go for this very purpose.) Want to make your hero hotter? Wet him.

'Adrian, you're soaked!' she exclaimed as she opened the door. Water ran in rivulets over his face and down the open neck of his t-shirt. His thick black hair was plastered on his cheeks as if it had been painted on. His jaw was covered in light stubble. He laughed, and she felt her eyes flare in admiration. She shouldn't be alone in the same house as this man.
The Ten Visions

It could be that wet men tend to be naked or to strip their clothes off shortly after.

It could be the artistic play of light as water slides and gleams across goose-pimpled skin. It could be the intensely private moment of getting wet and naked, those soulful thoughtful moments in the shower combined with the promise of bareness: intimacy of body and mind.

Let's consider that while we look at these, so that we're being philisophical and artistic instead of downright lewd.

hot men looking hotter when theyre wet

It could be a harkening back to primeval memories of when we all trawled the oceans, flapping our gills in glee.
It could be a hankering after mermen.
It could be a half-baked excuse for more wet men.

hot men looking hotter when theyre wet

Scroll up and down, drool, dribble, whimper gently, and once more, if you can explain what's so hot about wetness, we'll give you stuff - your choice of Enchanted by Janine Ashbless, Olivia Knight and Leonie Martell, Southern Spirits by Edie Bingham, or Phantasmagoria by Madelynne Ellis, all variously featuring Men's Wetness. And if you need more inspiration, revisit Kristina's wet men.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Writing for Film, or, 'Any Idiot Can Make a Movie'

by Madeline Moore

Gird your loins, Lusties and bloghoppers alike – today’s topic is writing for film. ‘Golly, Mad,’ I can almost hear you say, ‘I didn’t know that you’ve had a feature film produced.’
That’s because I haven’t, and before you question my credentials, let me tell you this: There are people in Hollywood who make their living as screenwriters without ever seeing a film produced. Imagine that. Horrible, isn’t it?

I've had two feature filmscripts optioned at Writer's Guild of Canada rates,(and many more for the token dollar or two) and one half hour film produced by the National Film Board of Canada, writing under my real name. At any time, my partner Felix Baron and I have scripts being considered by half a dozen or so production companies all over the world, from Bollywood to Hollywood. Felix has had two movies produced but don’t go looking for them on the shelves of your video store, because neither,mercifully, has been released. Poor production values will sink any film. Maybe any idiot can make a movie, but making one good enough to secure distribution is another story.

I liken the successful production of a film to the successful production of a baby.
On the one hand,it happens all the time. On the other, it’s a freakin’ miracle. Here are the first steps to making a movie: A real producer reads a script he/she likes. She pays the writer for the right to run with the script by purchasing an option, usually for 1 or 2 years. She secures distribution, financing, a completion guarantee and brings the director on board. The film is cast, the preproduction folks get busy, and the writer is paid in full before a single frame of principal photography is shot.

Dream on. Here’s how it really goes: Some egomaniacal twit with access to $$$,not his own, decides to use it for ‘seed money’ and make a movie, because any idiot can make a movie. He loves your script. He doesn’t secure distribution. If the financing fails to happen, he blames the (now lousy) script. If some sort of financing is secured, he brings the director on board. The film is cast, the preproduction folks get busy, and the film is hopefully shot. Oops, there's a boom in this shot, an open door in that one, no sound for a few scenes and the climactic scene is so dark the action cannot be discerned. 'We'll fix it in post-production.' The editing takes forever. The errors are not fixed. The writer never gets paid and the film never gets shown.

Alternately: A real producer finds a script she likes. She contacts the writer thusly: ‘Hey! I love this script! Let me see what I can do!’ The writer says, ‘Sure!’ No option is mentioned. The writer attempts to forget that somewhere out there is a real producer running with her script. You might never hear from this producer again, or you might get good news from her in short order. Or, long after the writer actually has forgotten, years later, the producer might get in touch, asking if the script is still available. You never know. In The Business Time means nothing.

How to tell the difference between a real producer and an egomaniacal moron play acting as one? Sadly, it can’t be done. All producers look like madmen, or madwomen. Perhaps all of them are mad, as it takes an ego the size of the Titanic to be a producer. There are a few telltale signs to watch for, however:

The so-called producer arranges a meeting at a café and either doesn’t order lunch, or doesn’t pay for the writer’s lunch. Real producers spring for lunch.

The so-called producer says, ‘This time next year we’ll be in Hollywood, snorting coke off the bodies of hot young actors and actresses.

The so-called producer says, ‘I’m going to build the biggest Independent Production Company in the world.’

The so-called producer says ‘Any idiot can make a movie.’

Here's a picture of one of the great real producers working today, Mr. Harvey Weinstein.

My Favorite Anecdote from the shooting of my half hour film:

The producer is oversized in every way. He’s a big, loud, fabulous Czech/Canadian who spent time in jail after The Prague Spring of 1968. He is committed to drama, and young artists, of which I am one, love him.

The director is a good friend of mine. He’s a handsome young Romanian/Canadian who aches to be a filmmaker.

The DP is an intense, dark Chilean/Canadian who spent time in jail during the Chilean Revolution. He smolders with the need to make movies.

The writer is me. Plain old Canadian, no jail time, kind of scared and who wouldn’t be in this company?

The shoot is under way when I arrive at the middle class home that is the primary location for this film, a drama about teenage suicide.

The Director works with the actors, the DP works on framing the shot, the lighting guys light the sound guys test their equipment the make up people do make up the continuity person checks that everyone is wearing what they were wearing in the previous shot, which may have been filmed last week but will be cut together with the results of today’s shoot to make a scene, and hours pass.

Quiet on the set! Rolling...and Action!’

The scene unfolds. Oh my God all these people are here to make my words live on film. I’m overwhelmed.

The Producer is watching a video playback in a back room, which is so small he seems to fill it completely with his large frame.

Suddenly, he can be heard huffing down the hallway and a moment later, he bursts onto the set. He roars, ‘WHAT IS THIS SHIT IN THE FRAME?’

Whether or not it is shit is only your opinion,’ retorts the DP.

The producer responds with this: ‘IT IS NOT MY OPINION. IT IS ABSOLUTE OPINION!’

The DP quits, the Director suffers, the Producer raves and the writer goes home, with a brand new line she will use from now on when she wishes to have her own way, but not a great feeling about the prospects for the film. However, everyone makes up and the film is shot as written and distributed by The National Film Board of Canada. My first, and to date only, film credit.

Nuts and Bolts:

A feature filmscript is divided into three acts. As others have said, write a Beginning, a Middle and an End. The beginning introduces the problem. The Middle complicates it. The End unravels it and finishes with a cathartic climax.

In feature screenplays in particular, it is very important to get the %s right – 25% for Act I, 50% for Act #2, 25% for Act #3. It’s at 25% and 75% that we put our major plot twists. That keeps the energy coming. A twist should sling-shot the viewer.

The structure isn’t always obvious. There might be several plots, each of which has its own three acts. If one writes a 120 page script, most producers will open it at page 30, to see if the twist/act end is there, then to page 90, for the same reason. If that end of act twist is missing, he might not read the script.

One page of the script is equal to one minute. As a first timer, you’d be wise to write your screenplay with a calculator in one hand. Independent producers look for a page count of 85-90. You can go to 120 pages but it had better be really good. Anymore than that and your script might be rejected merely by being held in the hands and judged too heavy. How to keep costs down? Minimal locations, minimal exterior shots, minimal cast and no special effects. No kids. No animals. This just in: Don't write a spec animation film, the studios have their own animation people for that.

Scripts may be written and submitted online or printed, using Word, but I recommend the software Movie Magic or Final Draft.

Don't worry about camera angles. The only camera directions the writer needs to provide are 'POV' (Point of View) and 'Fade to Black' or 'Dissolve to White.' Directors and DPs don't want the writer to provide the camera directions. That's their job. Yay!

Presently there are an awful lot of adaptations being done, since books have a built in fan base. Producers generally avoid the R rating, which means we likely won’t be seeing adaptations of our erotic novels anytime soon. That could change. Happily, for all the trend-watchers and money and computers and suits focussed on the question, 'What makes a movie boffo box?’ they still cannot predict it. To this I say – HO HO HO.

In my opinion, a great screenplay reads like poetry. Every word is necessary or it shouldn’t be there. Every line of dialogue must move the plot forward.
A great script to read is The English Patient,screenplay by Anthony Minghella and Michael Ondaatje, adapted from Ondaatje’s difficult-to-read novel by the same name.
The director, the late Anthony Minghella did a beautiful job of transferring that book to the screen.

A script often used to teach screenwriters is Chinatown Here’s what the writer, Robert Towne, had to say about the creative process. “It seems like it took me forever to write–at least 10 months. It was difficult; all screenplays that are highly structured are difficult–you are not relying on the momentum of some picaresque tale to take you wherever you want to go. Always the hardest part of any story is to figure out the point of entry where your story begins.” –The Hollywood Reporter, July 2002

In my opinion, the most perfect movie ever is McCabe and Mrs. Miller. Adapted from the book McCabe by Edmund Naughton, screenplay by Robert Altman and Brian McKay. All the elements: acting, writing, directing, lighting, sound, colour, and soundtrack, are terrific. Kudos to the director, the late Robert Altman.

Research: Syd Field’s book, Screenplay used to be the one and only book screenwriters read. That’s changed. Robert McKee's book, Story, is the most read these days. He also conducts screenwriting seminars all over the world. Speaking of Robert McKee…there are lots of movies about making movies, but you really only need to see one, and it is Adaptation.

This movie, starring Nicolas Cage and Meryl Streep, takes an inside look at adapting a popular book into a feature film. Robert McKee has a cameo in it. Charlie Kaufman and his brother Donald, hohoho, wrote the script, (although only Charlie showed up to accept his Oscar for best adapted screenplay, hohoho) and the writer of the book being adapted in the movie is also credited, Susan Orlean. This is a brilliant movie which you should see even if you don’t want to write movies, you just like watching them.

Speaking of Adaptation, you might notice that feature scripts in the movie have three holes punched in them, but only two brads, one at the top and one at the bottom, leaving the middle one empty. This is, in fact, how the hard copy of a feature filmscript should look. The cover page shouldn’t be fancy or tarted up in any way. You can copyright it with the WGA, even if you’re not a member, but it isn’t likely to do you much good. If they like your script they’ll buy it from you. If they like the idea, they’ll just steal it.

There’s a saying in Hollywood – ‘If a great script were thrown out the window of a taxi at midnight, it would be on a producer’s desk by morning.’ Nice, but I doubt it, Ralph.

I mentioned in my Lust Bites post of August 11, 2008, Writing For TV that Felix wasn’t as yet a paranoid screenwriter. In all honesty, he still isn’t – we send our stuff all over the world every day. But he’s getting there. Here’s what happened to us this year:

Felix and I wrote a ten minute short script, as a lot of filmmakers start out shooting shorts and we wanted to have one on our list of log/syns. He connected with a fellow (hereafter referred to as 'the jerk') who works in post production on a MAJOR television series out of L.A. and had already produced one short film. The jerk ran with our script (no option, no token exchange of a dollar) and even lined up some of the actors who appear in the MAJOR series to appear in our film. Oh Boy!

The Writer’s Guild of America strike threw a wrench into his plans. Once the strike had ended, the jerk called to say he’d decided to shoot an ‘in your face’ drama first, although eventually he was sure he’d still shoot our script. In the meantime, he wondered if we had a dramatic short he could have? Felix said no. He then asked if Felix had a FEATURE script he would be willing to cut to ten minutes? Felix said no.

A couple of weeks later, we saw a distinctive, highly original key scene from our script enacted on the MAJOR television show.

We wrote to the Executive producer of the series, mildly pointing a finger at the jerk and clearly stating that while we know we can’t copyright an idea we’d like the Executive producer, one of the biggest TV and movie producers in the world, to know where the idea came from.

A few weeks later we received a reply stating that the letter had not been read, in accordance with the prodco’s policy. Pretty much what we expected – but we like to think someone took the jerk aside and sternly suggested that next time he offers the major television show a scene from his own work he should make sure it really is his own. Grumble. Now, if our little film ever does get made, when people see the scene instead of saying, 'Wow, I've never seen that before,' they will say 'Saw it on TV.'
Grumble grumble.

So there it is. If you know aspiring filmmakers you might write a short film for them and see if it flies. These days you can write and produce a movie, shooting on video and transferring it to film, but you still need investors and distribution or your movie, even completed, will never be seen. So, pity the screenwriter who is a filmmaker first and a writer second, and be glad it isn’t you.

Do you have a favorite movie? Is there a novel you'd love to adapt for the silver screen? Have you written your Oscar winning speech yet? Do tell...

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Coming Attractions, pa pa pa pa pa pa........

by Erastes

I would sing the Pearl and Dean theme tune here, but I doubt anyone here is ancient enough to understand the reference or remember Pearl and Dean at all. *feels old*

So, in my best gravelly "Trailer Man Voice" I am happy to announce my very first coming attractions. THIS WEEK....

There's a reason for the movie references, of course, so excuse the clumsy segue.

On Monday Madeline Moore will be discussing Scriptwriting For Dummies.

On Wednesday Olivia Knight will be getting the hose and bucket out and getting men wet for our amusement and delectation.

And on Friday, Janine Ashbless slides into the Smut Slot and shows us around her Wildwood

Lust Bites: Popcorn and gallon of coke for the libido...

Friday, August 22, 2008

Southern Spirits: Product of a One-Track Mind

Have you ever sat on a train, felt its powerful, relentless rhythm drive through you? Ever fantasise about having sex onboard - or even do it? Ever wonder if anyone else did too, willed on perhaps by the spirit of the train....

My second Black Lace novel, Southern Spirits, has now been released in the US as well as the UK, and is set aboard the Silver Belle, a luxury train ala the Orient Express, but travelling through the most isolated places of America's Deep South as a mobile club, where its exclusive members get to indulge in their deepest, wildest fantasies, and anything goes...

The Silver Belle and its owner, career criminal Jack Wheeler, comes under the scrutiny of Federal tax agent Catalina "Cat" Montoya. She's young, ambitious, and eager to become an undercover agent. But on her first assignment, she is reluctantly partnered with Nathan Ames, an older, more experienced (in so many ways!) agent - and a man with whom she once had a secret office fling:

‘And what about you, Hound? Am I way out of your league, too? Maybe you shouldn’t even bother trying…’
Now Nathan stepped forward, his hands on her hips. ‘Honey, the one thing you can know about me is that if I go to Hell, it won’t be for not trying…’ And they were kissing again, this time with his hand sliding up between them, gently but insistently cupping one of her breasts through the material of her dress, his moans into her mouth confirming his delight.
He helped set her ass on the edge of the desk, her head dipping back as she stared upwards. His lips moved down along her smooth olive skin, reaching up and skilfully slipping one shoulder strap down, working on the soft flesh above her lacy bra, licking and sucking on it, biting it so softly and growling. Cat’s body shook as he then slipped her breast from her bra, licking around the sensitive nipple, and she rode the sheer sensation of pleasure she was feeling through her body. Still kissing her, Nathan moved his hands to her hips and slid down along the soft fabric of her dress, dipping beneath the hem to touch her stockinged thighs.
Cat moaned aloud, gasping, but still asked him, ‘And what part of me do you think is my best feature?’
Almost before she realised it, he was easing her back, onto her elbows, raising and parting her legs while still supporting them, and drawing up the hem of her dress. His voice was a whiskey purr. ‘When I’ve sampled them all, I’ll tell you.’
Cat leaned back further as he disappeared under her dress, and she felt his hands, his head, moving up between her thighs. Her breath quickened as she felt his breath through her silk thong onto her pussy, and her pulse skipped a beat when she felt his fingers draw aside the strip of fabric barely covering her sex...

Having to pose with Nathan as a couple on board the Silver Belle,
Cat finds herself fighting to stay professional, to not let her continuing, growing hunger for him overwhelm her judgement. They have the flirtatious I Hate You, I Love You by-play of all the great screen couples from Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn through Moonlighting's David and Maddie, and on to those other mismatched Special Agents, Mulder and Scully.

And you know, sometimes words aren't enough when you're lying next to a man you shouldn't want, but do... so you find any excuse, just like a drunken Cat, tempting Nathan away from his call back to base...

He was rising to his knees when Cat pulled him into a kiss, swooping on him and pulling him so that he practically fell on top of her. They struggled, until he pinned her arms above her head. ‘Damn it, Cat, stop this right now or-’
'Or what, you fucking puta-’
He kissed her, ostensibly just to shut her up, though still savouring the feel of his lips on hers, and the heat of her mouth as his tongue explored it. She moaned into his mouth, and ground her thigh against the lust-stiffened cock still restrained within his clothes. He tasted her desire, as strong as the alcohol on her breath.
It was that reminder that made him pull from her mouth. ‘Ca-Cat, no-’
She looked up at him from the bed, from under heavy lids. ‘Damn it Nathan, say yes. I am as horny as you. I think maybe we just need to fuck and get it out of our system. Otherwise we won’t be able to do our jobs.’
‘Uh, you guys know I’m still on the line, don’t you?’
Grimacing, Nathan reached out, lifted the phone long enough to say, ‘Call you in the morning,’ before hanging up and tossing it to the nearby couch. ‘Awww, Lord...’

And it's a fight which isn't helped by her need to get close to the charismatic Jack Wheeler, who has designs of his own on her:

Cat felt her head spinning despite his touch. ‘Well? Aren’t you gonna go ahead and kiss me?’
‘One doesn’t just jump into these things,’ Jack replied softly, ‘It’s the journey, not the destination.’ The thumb of one hand swivelled out, brushing against her full lips. She parted them slightly, feeling the moistness and breath escape. Her pussy called to her, and she gripped his forearms for support.

He pushed his thumb in slightly, barely penetrating Cat’s mouth, as she let the tip of her tongue brush against the tip of the digit. It was insane, an insane desire that she had to keep under control. Seconds later, her thoughts were lost as he pulled her in, found her mouth with his lips, and kissed her, hard and hot and with an unleashed hunger. Cat responded, moaning into his mouth…

As Cat finds herself giving into pleasures she never thought she could experience, she learns during a seance that the train really is haunted, haunted by spirits who in life had also surrendered to their own dangerous passions:

The cool air failed to overcome the overpowering heat Val felt emanating from her naked, trembling flesh. Mickey’s feather-light touch returned, trailing fingertips up along the contours of her ass, along the undercurves and up towards the dimples steepling her cheeks, even as his other hand pressed down against her lower back, keeping her dress raised and out of the way. Val trembled at his touch, his alternating waves of rough and gentle behaviour keeping her dizzy and wanting, made a sound like a whimper as she heard him undoing his trousers. Oh God, he was going to take her here and now, with his crew only a short distance away…
Then Val heard his trousers drop, felt him, his shaft, the velvety hot tip of it, touch the apex of the sweet valley between her buttocks, sliding down. And it descended, pausing to tease at the tightened opening to her rear. And as it continued further, Mickey leaned in closely as if to whisper in Val’s ear. ‘And what about… this?’
Mickey’s cock reached the puffed, wet, waiting entrance to Val’s pussy.
And entered.
Val moaned sharply, shamelessly, twisting like a worm on a hook as Mickey slowly filled her up, his hands gripping her hips. He kept still as she squirmed, and then flexed it inside her, making her start and curse into her arms.
He began to move, slowly driving into her, again and again, Val’s hot, wet flesh moulding itself around the hard member as it repeatedly, rhythmically filled her up, and releasing clusters of lovely sensations.
‘Yes, you came for this,’ Mickey purred, still gripping Val by the hips, steadying her against the table, his broad hairy thighs brushing against her stockinged legs. ‘But I think you came for more.’ Almost imperceptibly, his left hand released its hold on her hip, and moved up along Val’s cambered spine, gripping the loose material of her dress and holding onto it, his cock still thrusting relentlessly into her.
Val was lost, unable to deny, acknowledge, or make any coherent response. And when she felt Mickey’s hand move around from her hip to her groin, touching her bush, stroking her even as his middle finger sought out the top of her slit, found her clit, stroked it while still driving into her from behind - she cried out, uncaring of who heard her.
Her thoughts jumbled as she came, bent forward wantonly over the table-
-As Cat, bent forward wantonly over the table, released her grip and fell backwards into her chair, the chair tipping back until the back of her head hit the floor.
Dimly she heard someone racing for the carriage lights, and then finding them. Heartbeats later, Nathan was kneeling at her side, opening her eyes to peer into them. Concern etched in his expression. ‘Catalina, what the hell-’
On her other side, one of the other attendants at the seance asked, ‘Is she okay?’
Cat tried to close her eyes again, found Nathan was still holding her lids open, and slapped his hand away. ‘Besame el culo, pajiero.’
Nathan let go and knelt back. ‘She’s okay.’

So, are you ready for the journey? Stop fighting it and let the spirits take you somewhere new!!

Southern Spirits is available now in both the UK and the US, in all good bookshops as well as on Amazon (where you can leave reviews by the way hint hint!). Please let me know what you think! Edie Bingham xxx

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Guest Post: Sedonia Guillone

We're thrilled to have the lovely Sedonia Guillone visiting us here at Lust Bites today. Please make her feel welcome as she introduces us to her Men of Tokyo.

A bit about Sedonia:

Birthplace: Norwood, Massachusetts
Astrological signs: Taurus, Rooster in Chinese zodiac
Favourite films of all time: Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, Sanjuro
Favourite music: anything by Gackt
Foods: olives, pizza, Thai curry
And I’m a coffee freak. I think my blood type is “caffeinated”.

The work I’m most enthusiastic about at this time is my White Tigers series published at Total-E-Bound. I feel that with these stories I am finding my voice a bit more as a writer, as this series incorporates so many elements of my life in a strange and new synthesis. You wouldn’t think that a Jewish girl from New England would have anything in common with gay men in Japan, one of whom was a high ranking yakuza in a crime family. However, I will tell you that I grew up with a gay father in a house surrounded often by all these handsome guys he and my “stepfather” were friends with.

The kernels of the stories were planted in my psyche at a young age. However, unlike my household, the White Tiger is an intentional community in which the members are consciously working on their spiritual development and learn to place the welfare of their unique and deeply bonded friendships first. I am incredibly fortunate to have a community of friends in which such cooperation is our intention. Although we’re not even remotely like the White Tiger, the elements of sacrifice and friendship and deep acceptance are what I infuse into my characters and which fuel my love of these characters and stories.

I was initially inspired by Jade Lee’s Tigress (Dorchester Publishing) series of erotic historical romances set in turn-of-the century Shanghai in which she incorporates the incredibly erotic practices of the White Tigress with the development of a romance between the hero and heroine.

At the time however, I’d begun writing M/M and became absolutely enamored of the genre, wanting almost to write nothing else. That, along with my growing fascination with samurai culture, inspired by the magnificent films of Akira Kurosawa, presented me with a incredible source of story elements. Back in 2007, I wrote His Beautiful Samurai (Torquere Press), only my second M/M novel and first romantic suspense. Although it is set in contemporary Tokyo, there is an ill-fated romance between two samurai of the past that plays a part in the present mystery.

By then, I’d learned much more about the teachings of the White Tigress and was looking for a way to transpose this incredibly juicy venue into M/M. Hence, the White Tiger, a gay men’s hotel in Tokyo. As often happens with writers, ideas kick around in our minds and marinate, developing into a story the characters want us to tell. I’d had the idea in my mind of having two men go undercover in the White Tiger where they would undergo incredibly erotic experiences while solving the mystery. Of course! I had my two lovers from His Beautiful Samurai, Toshi Genjin (named for Toshiro Mifune, of course) and John Holmes (I swear I didn’t know then of the porn star by the same name, lol). This book became the sequel, Beautiful Samurai, White Tiger. However, once I wrote this story, I realized that the men of the White Tiger each had a romance and story of his own that needed to be told.

My boyfriend had given me a title to write a story for, as he’s done several times (Ace in the Hole, Loose Id and Enter the Hero (Red Sage Secrets, vol 25). Hence, Men of Phuket: Tongue-Thai’d had risen in my mind. The segue was perfect
and I was able to continue the story of Ryu, who appears briefly in Beautiful Samurai, White Tiger but who was deeply affected by the events in the novel. From there, I was like a racehorse let out of the gate. The romances of the White Tiger men have clamoured ever since to be told. I ended up going back in time a bit before the mystery that brings readers to the White Tiger and zoomed in on the men’s stories, i.e. how each of them came to be a part of the White Tiger, how the place got established, the development of the romances. The romance between Kiku (also named for Toshiro Mifune’s character in Seven Samurai) and Yuzo in Men of Tokyo: Sudden Surrender is the pivotal romance that sparks the events of Beautiful Samurai, White Tiger, yet the stories are structured so that the mystery can be read completely separately without needing the other White Tigers novels in order to understand what’s going on.

Blurb for Men of Tokyo: Sudden Surrender (current release)
In desperation for his life, Yuzo Kitano escapes the sadistic clutches of Taro Suzuki, one of Tokyo’s fiercest yakuza, and seeks refuge with Suzuki’s arch-rival, Kikuchiya Fujimara, owner of the White Tiger, a luxurious love-hotel for gay men which also serves as a spiritual community for its inhabitants. From early meetings with the handsome, charismatic leader who trains men in the sexual Tao, Yuzo senses deep inside he’s found someone he can trust and who will keep him safe. What he doesn’t expect is the absolute sensual bliss he finds with Kikuchiya’s skilled lovemaking and realizes he’s found what he’s really wanted his whole life. But does Kiku want him in return? At first, Kiku sees only Yuzo’s alluring beauty and desperate need for protection. But the headstrong impulsive Yuzo is also the first man Kiku has ever met whose touch is healing and calming for him, rather than a distressing channel for his psychic abilities, and the more he makes love to Yuzo, the more Kiku is in danger of losing his heart to another for the first time in his life. However, Kiku also knows that when Suzuki finds out where his slave has gone, there will be hell to pay. Kiku has already made one harrowing sacrifice to the yakuza in return for his freedom and might not survive a second…


Kiku rolled over with Quan Chan in his arms so that he lay atop the other man. Chan Chan, as Kiku affectionately called his friend and sometime lover of ten years, nearly matched Kiku in physical size, so there was no mistaking the power in the possessive grip of Chan Chan’s thighs as they pressed into Kiku’s hips.

Brushing a kiss over his friend’s full parted lips, Kiku braced himself for the painful images that always assailed him during lovemaking. Didn’t matter who the man was, or even if they were making love. The visions came, as they did now when Quan Chan’s hands started to knead Kiku’s back muscles. Chan Chan as a boy in Shanghai, running wild in the streets while his mother earned their keep in a whorehouse. Dirt-streaked, hungry, often beaten up for fun by bigger, older boys and left to bleed and cry. Chan Chan had known only this life until he miraculously stumbled upon the White Tiger Temple, the original place that his own White Tiger was loosely modelled on.

Kiku turned his head from Chan Chan, but more images were coming. His dear friend as a young, troubled man searching for shelter by learning to stroke and lick another man’s dragon properly. Something about that always tore at Kiku’s heart.

“Kiku, are you all right?” Chan Chan asked in Shanghainese, the language Kiku had grown up speaking with his Chinese mother. The whispered question made him realize the tension seeping into his body.

Kiku sighed. “Yes. Fine.” No need to make the other man feel badly about what neither of them could control. He stroked a thumb across Chan Chan’s high cheekbone, knowing that their time as lovers would probably be ending soon, the way it had with Ryu when the visions grew too intense and frequent to bear while they were in bed. Lowering his face to his friend’s, he kissed him again, stealing between his lips to taste the moistness there.

As Chan Chan always did, his mouth softened in surrender. His hands resumed their caress on Kiku’s back and Kiku registered the deepening of emotion in the other man. Chan Chan had always been taken with him, but had started to fall deeply in love with him in recent months. Though Kiku wanted to return the romantic feeling, as he’d wanted to with Ryu, the visions held him off as if with spikes.

Tension clenched in his back and shot down his arms and legs. Kuso! Kiku shifted his hips forward to make their dragons slide together. The sensation was pleasant but didn’t make blood surge through his organ as it usually did. He was softening again. The third time this week. That had never happened to him before, no matter how bad the images were. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to Quan Chan.

The other man’s arms stayed around him. “What is it, Kiku? Please, talk to me.” Chan Chan’s insecurity hovered around them now, like a cloud. “Did I do something?”

Kiku cupped his cheek. The poor man still carried within him the child who blamed himself for every misfortune that befell him even though he was absolutely guiltless. “It has nothing to do with you, my friend.”

Chan Chan stilled. “It’s the visions, isn’t it?” Of course, after ten years of friendship, he’d be more tuned into Kiku than Kiku had given him credit for.

“Oh no,” Chan Chan moaned. He knew about how this same thing had forced Kiku to stop being lovers with Ryu who still pined away for his friend while living in the bedroom next door. “Does this mean…?”

Kiku winced at the pain in his friend’s voice. He smoothed a hand over Chan Chan’s brow. “I don’t know.” He looked down into the other man’s sad eyes, visible in the hushed lighting of the room. “Would you still be my friend if it did?” He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Chan Chan over this. Quan Chan was the man who’d brought him to the path of the White Tiger on his past trips to Shanghai for the Suzuki family’s business. Quan Chan had first taught him the promise of spiritual well-being through the proper use of his yang force. Taro Suzuki had once accused Kiku of being a “collector of people,” but Kiku knew the truth. To let go of a true friend like this man would be a foolish, stupid act.

“Of course, Kiku. I would never—”

A knock on the soji screen to his room interrupted Quan Chan.

“Yes?” Something about the urgency in the knock made Kiku’s heartbeat rise slightly.

“Kiku-sensei, forgive me for disturbing you.”

It was Naoto, his right hand around this place. The White Tiger ran as well as it did because of this young man’s service and Naoto would never disturb his private time unless there was a damn good reason.

“It’s all right. Come in.” He sat up as the screen slid open, revealing Naoto’s brawny form.

Naoto bowed. “I’m sorry. Ryu thought I should get you immediately.”

Ryu also would never disturb him for something superficial.

A strange energy skittered up Kiku’s arms. Beside him, he felt Chan Chan sit up, taking care to keep the covers over their groins. Not that it mattered if Naoto saw them. Naoto had once been a lover too, while Kiku taught him the practices of the White Tiger. “What is it?”

“Yuzo is here.”

The name took a moment to register in his consciousness. “You mean Suzuki’s uke?” What the hell would Suzuki’s submissive be doing here without Suzuki?

Naoto nodded his head of long hair. “Hai. He ran away from Suzuki and came here, asking for you. He’s in bad shape.”

“I’ll bet he is.” Kiku threw back the covers and shot to his feet. Suzuki never left anyone better than he found him. Always worse. “I’ll come right away.” In the past few months, Suzuki had brought the young man with him when he came to use the White Tiger. Kiku hated having Suzuki in his place and generally banned yakuza, but use of the facilities had been part of their agreement. As he threw on a kimono and tied the belt, a memory came to mind of the last time he’d seen Yuzo here with Suzuki. He hadn’t missed the way Yuzo looked at him with longing. Nor had he missed the hatred simmering in Yuzo’s large eyes when Suzuki’s back was turned.

Naoto was waiting in the hallway for him. At the threshold, Kiku remembered Chan Chan and turned. The man had also risen from the bed and was tying the sash of his kimono, a sad expression on his face. Though Quan Chan was still learning Japanese, Kiku knew his friend spoke enough of the language to have understood the exchange with Naoto. Their gazes met.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Kiku murmured.

A touch of light infused Chan Chan’s eyes. “Friend is all that matters,” he said softly.


Kiku followed Naoto’s lead down into the kitchen.

“He ran quite a distance,” Naoto said as they walked. “All the way from Suzuki’s flat. Barefoot, practically naked. Ryu heard someone pounding on the back door, and there he was.” He pushed open the door leading to the kitchen.

Kiku nodded his thanks and stepped in, already seeing a flash of shaggy hair. Proceeding into the kitchen with Naoto behind him, Kiku paused at the scene.

Yuzo sat in a chair by the large stainless steel centre table. The white button down shirt he wore was pushed back over one shoulder while Basho, the cook here at the White Tiger, was smearing cream over one side of Yuzo’s chest. Ryu knelt in front of Yuzo, his pink-dyed head bent over the task of wiping Yuzo’s bare feet gently with a wet cloth. A teapot and cup of tea already sat on the table beside Yuzo.

A flush of pride mingled with the foreboding Kiku already sensed. He’d trained his men well and they’d come a long way on the path of service and compassion from the basket cases each one had been in earlier years.

Ryu saw Kiku first. He looked up, hand freezing in mid-wipe of Yuzo’s left foot. “Kiku,” he said softly. He rose and stood aside, his eyes, Kiku grimly noted, stricken. No doubt, Yuzo’s plight brought back Ryu’s own nightmarish rape by Suzuki at the tender age of seventeen. Unlike Yuzo however, Ryu had been innocently asleep in his own bed, only to awaken with Suzuki and one of his goons hovering over him.

Although Ryu had set Yuzo’s foot back down, the young man in the chair kept his gaze down, as if not noticing what was happening.

“He’s really hurt,” Ryu went on, his voice tight. “That’s why we disturbed you. We wouldn’t have—“

“You absolutely did the right thing.” Kiku touched Ryu’s shoulder briefly before approaching the chair. When he did, Basho moved away also, revealing the reason for his use of cream on Yuzo’s chest.

Unprepared for the anger that spiked through him, Kiku clenched his fists at his sides and stared at Suzuki’s name tattooed there. The job was obviously freshly done, judging by the rawness of the skin around them as well as the darkness of the Nara ink, not quite blue-green as it would shortly turn.

“Suzuki held him down while his goon…” Ryu’s voice choked off.

“I understand.” Kiku’s own voice sounded tight to his ears. It was one thing to undergo the tattooing process by free choice as he and Ryu had done. Quite another to have it done as a branding, no matter how small the mark.

Only then did Kiku notice the slight trembling of Yuzo’s shoulders. The young man’s face remained tilted downwards, causing the shagginess of his hair to hide his eyes as if he were afraid or ashamed to make eye contact.

Kiku didn’t wonder about that. Even a man in Yuzo’s shattered state had to understand the risk he’d taken as well as the grave danger he put anyone into who gave him shelter.

No matter. Kiku’s soul-driven need to protect always won out, especially when it concerned a victim of Suzuki’s depravity. He knelt down and studied Yuzo’s hunched over form.

Suzuki’s pernicious yang force roiled in the air around Yuzo, like a noxious stink that permeated the young man’s skin and hair. No telling what the rotten energy had done to Yuzo’s heart and soul from prolonged intimate exposure. Ryu still had nightmares ten years after the rape. “You’re safe now, Yuzo,” Kiku said.

Yuzo’s ragged breathing made the bangs over his eyes ripple. His lips, full and pouty, were slightly parted, and his neatly manicured hands clutched his knees so tightly, his knuckles were white.

At first, Kiku thought the man was in such shock he wouldn’t answer, but then Yuzo lifted his gaze and looked directly at Kiku.

Large, liquid brown pools stared out from under thick heavy lashes. Kiku found himself staring back, disturbed at the sense of capture he experienced. He glanced away but felt drawn back, as if Yuzo’s silent will were stronger than any other force, and saw that the fear and horror in Yuzo’s eyes had already begun to ebb.
“Thank you,” he whispered. Then, as if touched with a cattle prod, he sat up straighter, eyes wide. “I…I promise, Fuju, I won’t stay. I just needed to get away. Please believe me.”

Yes, he did understand. But there was something else in what Yuzo was saying, something that told Kiku that Yuzo had been planning to escape Suzuki and to take refuge here. No doubt a touch would tell him more.

Carefully, so as not to startle Yuzo, Kiku took gentle hold of Yuzo’s arms over the white shirt. Suzuki’s shirt, no doubt, judging from the way it draped so largely over Yuzo’s slim form. Yuzo’s triceps, though also slim, were hard and sinewy against Kiku’s fingertips. “We’ll talk about that later, Yuzo-san,” he said softly. “For now, you’ll stay here.”

Yuzo’s large eyes were staring down into his, unflinchingly and Kiku found himself studying every contour of the man’s face. The brush-like lashes, the shaggy way his hair framed his delicately-boned face, the poutiness of his full lips as well as the barest hint of moustache on his upper lip. Without that, his beauty would have been quite androgynous, very much like the boy-band type that was wildly popular these days. What wasn’t androgynous was Yuzo’s slender body of lightly chiselled muscle. That was all male.

Kiku caught himself staring and silently chided himself. To be objectifying the man at a moment like this. Only then did he realize the absence of images. He brushed his thumbs over Yuzo’s biceps, also hard and enticing as the rest of him. Nothing. Only Yuzo’s fear, mingled with relief and the continuing burn of Suzuki’s raw, angry qi.

How was this possible? Never mind that, he continued to chide himself. No doubt, once he got Yuzo into the shower, naked with him to cleanse him of Suzuki’s negative energy, the images would come. They always did.

You can visit Sedonia here.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Scary is sexy

In some ways, when we experience fear it is very akin to sexual arousal. We experience a sudden surge of emotions, adrenalin pumps through our bodies and our heartbeat elevates as our eyes widen and our pupils dilate. Both are extreme emotions prompted by some signal or other, but whether the physical response had anything to do with it I am not one hundred percent certain - but for me scary is sexy!

One of the first books I read that frightened me and yet titillated me at the same time was Dracula by Bram Stoker. To me, the novel definitely had erotic undertones that equated vampirism with sex. The hero Jonathan Harker travels to Count Dracula’s castle in Transylvania and while he is there falls under the spell of three wanton female vampires, to be rescued just in time by Count Dracula himself. Harker eventually returns to England and his fiancée Mina but Dracula follows him and begins to prey on Mina’s friend, Lucy. Night after night Dracula visits Lucy in her bed and drinks her blood. There is something very mesmerising about this mythical (I hope!) undead creature roaming the night desperate to drink blood from the neck of a warm red-blooded mortal.

I don’t find all scary movies sexy - gore-fests like Friday 13th and the Jason movies don’t press my buttons but a very good friend of mine tells me that she finds Hannibal Lecter sexy in a bizarre kind of way.

The sexy but scary images I like best hail from TV. When I was small I found Doctor Who scary, but of course I was too young to equate that with sexy. Nevertheless there is definitely a hint of sexy now that David Tennant has made the role his own. Now add into the mix the omnisexual Captain Jack and I get some seriously sexy thoughts when I see them together.

To me, Buffy really started the trend of sexy and scary. We were given an innocent, pretty teenager who somehow morphed into this awesome vampire slayer, who also killed demons and other creatures that invade our nightmares. Buffy, played by Sarah Michelle Gellar, probably prompted any number of ‘wet dreams’ for a lot of adolescent boys. The programme really came into its own when Angel appeared on the scene. At first we saw a good-looking rather secretive guy, rather inappropriately called Angel, who seemed to want to help Buffy, and then we learned that he was a vampire who had had his soul restored to him by gypsies as punishment for the murder of one of their own. Angel was doomed to wander the earth trying to make retributions for the crimes he committed when he was Angelus, one of the most evil vampires to roam the earth.

The sexual attraction between Angel and Buffy changed the show and then one day they slept together. In this one moment of true happiness Angel was doomed to lose his soul again and he turned into his evil alter ego Angelus – how sexy is that? For me the evil Angelus baiting and taunting Buffy was a little scary and yet also incredibly sexy. Then Spike came on the scene and the pheromone count rose.

The show proved popular in the ratings and Angel (David Boreanaz) was given his own show, a grittier version set in LA. This Angel was darker and most definitely more of a turn on for his female fans. Thank you, Josh Weedon, for all the pleasure you gave me over the years.

Other vampire series have come and gone but one of my particular favourites was Moonlight. It wasn’t that frightening because in this show vampires weren’t all soulless creature: many of them were successful people living among humankind, scared that their secret might be discovered. Some had acolytes and allowed them to drink blood from their veins, as if the experience was almost orgasmic in its intensity. Mick St John was a vampire with a heart, not as angst-ridden as Angel but sexy all the same. His purpose in life was to recover his mortality and become human again. Mick fell in love with Beth Turner and eventually the show turned into a love story with a dark edge to it.

However, the show I now love best of all is Supernatural. It follows brothers Sam and Dean Winchester played by Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles respectively. They travel across the US in a black 1967 Chevy Impala investigating and combating paranormal events and other unexplained occurrences, many of them based on American urban legends and folklore, as well as classic supernatural creatures such as vampires, werewolves and ghosts. One of favourite episodes is about shapshifters, but they don’t just change their shape: when they morph from one person to another they shed their skin like a snake, but in a far more gory fashion. One becomes a copy of Dean and, when it is discovered, it slowly peels off its skin, one of the scariest images I’ve seen on TV, as the sexy Dean turns into this foul creature.

Angel, Buffy and Moonlight may have left our screens, apart from the ubiquitous repeats, but Supernatural is still in full flow. Try and catch if you want to watch something both scary and sexy at the same time.