The House of Dust

by Janine Ashbless

For the Magic and Desire collection I wrote a dark historical fantasy novella called The House of Dust. My Lustie buddy Olivia Knight sent me a few questions about it (see below). First though, a brief synopsis:

Setting: The land of Sumer (in modern times: Iraq), approximately 2600 BC.

Plot: Ishara, the narrator, is the high priestess of Inanna, the goddess of sex and love. Every year she is ritually married to the King and shares his bed for nine nights. But the story opens with King Tamuz dying; he has been poisoned by his step-brother Nergal. When Nergal takes the throne and proceeds to publicly insult the goddess and humiliate Ishara, she decides to seek magical vengeance. She will open the way to the Land of the Dead and descend through its seven gates – each with its demonic guardian - to negotiate with the Queen of the Underworld and bring the rightful king back to life…

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Olivia: What are you wearing and where are you sitting?

Janine: Well, I’m writing this while I’m waiting in the bathroom queue at a Dungeons & Dragons weekend … so, blue silk pyjamas and dressing gown. And red slippers. Apologies for the colour-clash.

O: The collection is fantasy, though yours is based on "true myth". Which parts of The House of Dust did you make up and which did you derive from mythology?

J: The House of Dust is based on two related myths from the Mesopotamian region, which was the cradle of civilisation and the place writing (and written fiction) were invented. The first myth is The Descent of Inanna, which is about how the great love goddess journeys into the underworld to confront her sister the Queen of the Dead. This original myth includes the death and resurrection of Tamuz and the image of a seven-gated Underworld, at each gate of which Inanna has to remove a piece of her sacred regalia (her crown, her necklace, her belt etc) until she reaches her destination naked and powerless. Some suggest this story is the original of the "dance of the seven veils." In HoD my heroine is the priestess of Inanna and also treats this story as myth – only, because it is a myth about her goddess, she can use it to do the same thing by magic: open the way to the Underworld and go down.

The second myth I use is a chunk of The Epic of Gilgamesh which deals with the stand-up row King Gilgamesh has with Inanna. Basically she says "Phwoar, come and get it, Big Boy," and he says "No way, you dirty slag," and then she gets really angry and releases the Bull of Heaven on him, which he kills. I used that for the political struggle that provides the background to my heroine’s quest. For certain reasons I transferred the struggle between Inanna and the King to Gilgamesh’s father, that’s all.

O: How did you come to choose ancient Sumer for the House of Dust?

J: This was a story I felt I had to write. Look, The Descent of Inanna is among the oldest – if the not the oldest – story ever told by human beings and written down: it’s at least 5500 years old (but incredibly long-lived: the death and return of Tamuz was still being ritually commemorated across the Middle East right into Christian times). And it’s about a woman undertaking a quest. And in it she has to remove her clothing piecemeal! How could I not turn it into an erotic story?

Also the fragments of the myth we still have date from different times (they were adopted by different cultures and rewritten over thousands of years, during which Inanna mutated into Ishtar who was goddess of war as well as sex) and are sometimes contradictory. For example, some versions say that Inanna descends in order to rescue Tamuz, some that the King dies because she orders it upon her return. Some have the Queen of the Dead single and lonely, some give her a husband. Some fragments treat Inanna and Gilgamesh as allies, but the later ones have him behaving with incredible hostility and rudeness toward her (and suffering as a consequence). I wanted to write a version that "explained" all these contradictions and how people might have got confused. To be honest, I was probably being just a tad ambitious for a sex novella.

And I have always been fascinated by Land of the Dead stories and wanted to write one. The question of what (if anything) awaits us after death is universally intriguing.

O: We’re both obsessed by ancient cultures to the point where we’ve had to divvy them up so we don’t tread on each other’s toes! Why do you like these so much as settings for erotic novels?

J: You’re not kidding about our shared obsession! I was writing The House of Dust when I first heard about the publication of your story Inanna's Temple (in Sex in Public): both deal with the ritual Great Marriage where the priestess of Inanna has holy sex in front of everyone, and my squeal of horror was pitched to break glass. Luckily they are very different takes on the subject!

Why do I like ancient civilisation settings? Ooh … warmer weather, fewer clothes, fabulous temples and exotic gods. Sounds like I’m on holiday, doesn’t it? The serious answer is, I think, to do with suspension of disbelief. I do write contemporary erotica but in a modern setting my natural reactions to, ahem, challenging erotic situations are more likely to intrude and I can’t help a part of my mind muttering "She would really be horrified/call the police/sue for sexual harassment." I like writing in settings where I am not bound by modern social rules and standards.

O: Your stories inevitably walk the dark side of fantasy and The House of Dust becomes very dark with Ishara’s descent into the underworld. Is that about the erotic potential of darkness, or the kinds of plot you prefer? Do you see yourself as a "dark" writer?

J: I see myself as someone who writes about the redemptive light of love and passion shining in the darkness. (The House of Dust has a happy ending, I promise!)

There are two different types of darkness in this story. The first is the sexual: my heroine undertakes a journey of submission, surrendering her power and identity and ego as she goes down through the Seven Gates. The necessary ordeal brings her to new understandings of mortality, herself and her relationship with the man she loves. It allows her to save him. She is broken down and rebuilt as a wiser, better and stronger person.

The second kind of "darkness" is that this is a story that begins with the death of the heroine’s lover. It is about loss, grief and death. My vision of the underworld is true to the source myths and not particularly pleasant.

Yes, it’s a dark story. It has to be to make its point: love is what matters.

O: The queen passes seven Gatekeepers to reach the Underworld and they each demand something different from her. Which is your favourite? What does that say about you?

J: My favourite is probably this passage here – the Second Gate. I had a lot of fun playing with sub themes for this novella. And it includes my favourite line of the story.

Later on Ishara encounters the scorpion-men guarding the Sixth Gate and I loved this image too: "then I see them, because when they move they generate a flickering light like the dance of distant lightning. There are four of them, bigger than oxen. Their rear parts are the bodies of scorpions and from the front grow the bodies of men. All parts are covered in black chitinous plates, and when those plates rub together the light flickers into being, illuminating their staring faces. Venom-laden tails arc high over my head."

Push, push, push the envelope of what is acceptable…

O: And your favourite line of your own story is…?

J: The House of Dust contains my favourite line of all time!

‘Do you suck cock, Queen of Heaven?’

I can’t read it without a big evil grin.

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So, for a hot and wicked excerpt go over to my blog. And to win a copy of Magic and Desire, just drop a comment here or at my blog and I’ll pick someone at random – winner announced in Coming Attractions this Sunday.

And come back on Wednesday and Friday to see what Portia and Olivia made of the Magic theme – and for more chances to win!

xxx
Janine
My Website : My Blog

Death and the Maiden: killing characters

by Janine Ashbless

Eight down, maybe nine, thought Veraine, spinning on his heel and shaking the hair out of his eyes, ready for the next attack. The square was in uproar, with people everywhere shouting and shrieking. But when he looked for the Slavers he saw only fallen men, some lying dead and some wounded. He paced a tight circle, adjusting his grip on the slippery hilt of his sword. People scattered before him.

It’s done, he realised, incredulous - forcing his teeth to unclench, feeling the rictus mask of battle relax only slowly. He drew himself upright, taking deeper breaths. The villagers shrank away from him like grass withering before a fire. He tried to lick his lips but his tongue was dry and there was a terrible coppery taste in his mouth. He looked for relief and gratitude in the faces around him but saw only fear. At last he turned back to Tehli. She was staring at him, holding her torn blouse closed. There was no smile on her face either: her expression was one of naked horror.

Reflected in their eyes he saw a monster.

(from Burning Bright)

I am a serial killer.

I kill characters. Lots of them. Not just the villains who deserve it either, as above – though I certainly do relish killing off villains: in Divine Torment for example the high priest collapses with dysentery and shits himself to death. But that epidemic also affect thousands of innocents. And then there’s the earthquake, which partially collapses a clifftop temple on top of a barbarian encampment during a pitched and bloody battle … thousands and thousands of deaths, all so that my two heroes can get it together and run off into the sunset.

Now that’s what I call romance.

But wait, I’m not just ruthlessly profligate with the lives of faceless minions. In Burning Bright I introduce my protagonist Myrna to Anada, a fellow slave of the Tiger Lords; a bright, resilient young woman determined to make the best of her captivity. She falls foul of the sadistic Tiger Queen and is brutally killed during sex. It’s a turning point for Myrna, who determines not to accept her fate passively. A reader told me: "When I read that I got really worried. Because I realised you might not let the heroes survive."

He could be right. My personal idea of a satisfying ending is one which includes Tragic But Redemptive.

"La Petite Mort" is a conceit expressing the dissolution of the conscious self that comes both at orgasm and death. But death is a dangerous and uneasy participant in erotic fiction.. Sometimes it seems a seductively logical extension of where the action’s going: there’s a tendency in some (usually highly literary) fiction to kill off the female protagonist (it’s almost always a female one) because the writer makes her so submissive, so self-abnegating, so yearning for humiliation and surrender that he (yep, it’s usually a he) can’t think of anywhere else to stop. It’s like the writer is aesthetically offended by the idea of someone who finds profound satisfaction in pain and submission on an evening but gets up the next morning perfectly happy and goes off to work and meet her friends.

I don’t kill my characters for that reason. I don’t think BDSM tendencies are a mental illness. I don’t think submissive women characters are "asking for it." I’ve only once fucked a character to death – in The Temptation of St Gregory (a short story in Cruel Enchantment) – and it was a man, and he was a jerk who deserved his fate, and it I wrote it because I was so irritated by the sacrificial girlies in other collections. And it wasn't a bad way to go, with an ‘angel’ at one end and a ‘demon’ at the other:

She understood. With a smile of infinite compassion, she parted her robes with one hand, revealing a small, white, and perfect breast tipped with a little nipple of maidenly pink. Gregory gazed at it with holy awe. She tilted him toward her and his mouth closed over that cool, stiff point. As his despised flesh below thrust towards its unholy apotheosis, Gregory began to suck upon the angel’s breast. Ecstasy incomprehensible exploded in him. The fire and the light became a howling flame that tore him apart. His body poured pulse after pulse of acid seed into the hungry cunt of the demon, and his soul erupted forth.

That passage - in which the actual experience of dying is portrayed as erotic - is all but unique in my writing. I usually portray death as painful, frightening and to be avoided if possible. So I ask myself why I do kill characters.

Well, partly it’s because I write in fantasy/historical settings where armed combat is part of the milieu. I love my warriors, with their honed bodies and their self-reliance and their skill and their courage and their refusal to be victims. (To set the record straight, much like Madelynne Ellis in her Bloodstained Men post below, I like my violence safely distanced by fiction – and preferably a non-contemporary setting - or by a ritual/sporting context: real violence in the real world absolutely repels me.)

Partly it’s because in the context of these settings I want my villains to be real villains. If someone is introduced as a terrifying opponent to my heroes I want him to be genuinely worth opposing, not just a bit of an irritating sod. (In an early VBL novel which I shall not name, a character in a Norman Conquest setting was introduced as being almost diabolically evil – which was certainly worrying and intriguing for me as a reader until it turned out that by "evil" the writer meant "has such incredibly good sex with his floozies that when he dumps them they CAN NEVER FALL IN LOVE WITH ANOTHER MAN". At the time I concluded that the writer either knew nothing about Anglo-Norman history, or was a complete moron. Okay, nowadays I’d be more charitable and mutter darkly about romance genre limitations but back then I naively hoped for narrative honesty.) My own villains are real bastards and they do commit murder.

So it’s about drama.

It’s about doing something that matters. My fictional worlds are (almost as much as the real one) places of injustice and cruelty and sudden violent death. In the face of these, my characters get to decide where they stand. What it is that matters to them. What they are willing to fight for and perhaps risk everything for – in other words, because this is romance, for each other.

Other authors may be able to carry this off in the setting of, say, a pastel-coloured suburban wedding, but I like to paint with a broader brush and deep shadows. I find it difficult to define what has value and is good, except in contrast to what is terrible. I write erotic romance because I think love and pleasure have value: how can this be seen except against the contrast of loneliness and pain? How can a sacrifice have worth unless it involves loss? How can an action be courageous except in the face of fear?

Here’s Veraine, fettered in the dark and waiting to be tortured to death:

He was a soldier, and he had always known it would end this way, or worse. He had never had any prospect of dying in his bed, peaceful and happy. How many people did? Civilians got to fool themselves that death was not inevitable, that it wouldn’t hurt, that that it would wait until you were ready. But a soldier knew the reality. Death was not an option; it was inevitable. What you had on your side wasn’t hope or defiance but courage. Simply courage to face it.

I shall die silent, Veraine told himself: he will not make me scream

There was one shred of comfort and he wrapped his heart around that thought. Every man died, and few in the cause of anything of worth. They lost their lives for trivial reasons; for standing in the wrong place at the wrong time, for turning their head to the left instead of the right or the right instead of the left. For a misinterpreted glance, for an incautious remark, for being too cowardly to act or too brave to run. They died by mischance, by stupidity, by ignorance, by the casual malevolence or cool indifference of others more powerful than themselves. But he, Veraine, was going to die because he’d made a choice. He had let the gods know that there was something he wanted more than fame or riches, more than anything else in the world. Something he would sell everything in his life for. His soul’s desire. And for once the gods had listened.

He’d had her. For only a few hours, but with such intense passion that even before the priests had discovered them, he’d known that he wouldn’t emerge unscathed or unchanged.

In the darkness, invisible, his dry lips tightened in a fearful smile.

(from Divine Torment)

Along with real villains I want to read about heroes who are genuinely courageous. How can you be a hero if you aren’t mortal - if you risk nothing? Superman isn’t heroic – he’s just better than everyone else. Wolverine is a fake – I actively dislike the character – because no matter how many fights he gets into the hairy bastard is incapable of really losing. At worst he walks away to fight another day. That is just so wrong!

I’ve read happy-hippy-trippy erotica where the heroine tumbles giggling from fuck to fuck and finally for no reason at all decides she Loves the hero For Ever and Ever. No pain, no stress, no drama. And you know what? - I cannot bring myself to care. And oh God I want to care, when I’m reading and when I’m writing. I’m not just in it to give my wrist some exercise, you know. Just because it’s erotica doesn’t make it vacuous! I want to believe in these characters. I want to root for them (and along with them…) I want to fall in love with them. I want to feel their emotions.

I believe love and lust both matter. I believe in passion!

Once on another website I was thoroughly castigated for apparently holding the opinion that the ultimate heat-death of the universe renders all romance worthless. No guys – you’ve got it all wrong. I think that love only has value because we are so fragile, and ultimately at the mercy of an indifferent world. Our own unique experiences as are ephemeral as sparks. There are unimaginably vast tracts of time and space out there, and only in the human sphere does any of it have meaning. I think that mercy and justice and truth have value because we nurture them into existence against all the odds. I think that the things you make a stand for are what define you. I think that if you’ll give your life for something then it has value.

I kill because I think it matters.

So when I wrote a novella for Black Lace’s forthcoming Magic & Desire collection I took the decision to start with the death of the romantic hero. And when his lover, the high priestess of Inanna, chooses to descend into the Land of the Dead to find him again, she has to confront all her worst fears and surrender everything that is most precious to her. And she has to come face to face with her own motives and see herself in her nakedness:

I’m parched, and grateful when the gatekeeper eases me into the water. I wonder briefly what it is he has left to take from me – and then he dunks me beneath the surface and begins to scrub me. He is very thorough. There are moments when I am sure I am going to drown on the very threshold of the House of Dust. I’m too exhausted to struggle, almost too exhausted to care. He scrubs every inch of my skin. He scrubs my hair. He scrubs the inside of my mouth and my cunt and my arse. Then he drops me in the pool and wades out.

I kneel in the water until I regain my balance, then rise to my feet. I feel almost empty of sensation. The water is curiously heavy, reluctant to ripple even as I wade across it. The black surface reflects better than that of a mirror, and with one glance down I am snared by my own reflection. I stare in horror.

In all my life I’ve never seen my own face without the temple makeup upon it. My face, even to me, was that of the goddess: dark-eyed, dewy-lipped, smooth and lovely. Without the paint I have the face of - Well, I could be anyone. A merchant’s wife. A domestic servant. I’m a little paler than average perhaps, through working indoors. My wet hair hangs in black strings. My eyes look small and lack drama without kohl. My lips are less full. Two lines crease my neck and tiny bird-prints bloom at the corners of my eyes. There is no seduction, no fire, no delight in this face. Instead there are freckles across the bridge of my nose.

I didn’t know I had freckles.

I close my eyes briefly, searching within. The goddess has gone. I understand what the last gatekeeper has taken from me and it fills me with cold thick despair. I am not a goddess. I am not the centre of all desire, the heart of all love. I am not Inanna anymore. I am just me.

Throwing back the bar, the gatekeeper opens the Seventh and last Gate, then turns and looks at me.

‘I can’t go before her like this,’ I tell him. Even my voice sounds thinner.

That hooked beak opens to speak: ‘The laws of the Underworld are perfect. Do not question them.’

Bowing my head, I climb from the pool and pass through the door. Beyond is a short ramp down onto a grey plain. Slowly I descend, until I sink over my toes into the dust that covers everything, and the great lead doors close behind me.

(from The House of Dust)

xxx
Janine Ashbless
Blog: Website : Fiction/Photodump

Movie Deaths: Troy – The Fellowship of the Ring – Spartacus – Gallipoli - 300

Works in Progress

Deannna Ashford

Our smuts slots have brought you, dear readers, excerpts from our latest novels just before or around about the dates of their release and judging by your comments you appear to like these tasty tit-bits. However we writers don’t want to think that we laze around in our beds half the morning drinking coffee and eating chocolates, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Although we must admit that on occasions we ladies do indulge ourselves a little. Nevertheless, we write because that is what we really want to do. As the writers among you will know writing is a compulsion that takes one over at times.

We therefore decided that you might enjoy occasional little peeps at our work in progress and consequently this new post was born. From now on at fairly regular intervals we will be whetting your appetites with short excerpts from our work in progress - whether it be our next book, a novella or a short story.

To start this off this month’s offering consists of excerpts from the work in progress of Janine Ashbless and Portia Da Costa and the two extracts couldn’t be more different.

We start off with The House of Dust, by Janine, which is going to appear along with novellas by Portia and Olivia in Black Lace’s “Magic& Desire" collection in 2008.

Setting the scene - This story is set in ancient Mesapotamia. The main character is Ishara, priestess of the love/sex/fertility goddess Inanna and ritual wife of the king. When the story starts the king is dying - poisoned by his brother. Ishara eventually descends into the Land of the Dead to try to bring her lover back. The excerpt here is a flashback to happier times.

There on the balcony Tamuz found me in prayer, my hands raised to the heavens. Softly he dismissed the company and came up behind me. I faltered in my words as he slipped his hands about my upper body, cupping my breasts as he pressed up against me.

‘Don’t stop,’ he murmured, kissing my neck. Such informality was permitted during the time of the Great Marriage, so I carried on praying while he rolled my nipples to points of exquisite frustration between his fingers and bit softly at my ears, tugging at the clusters of golden balls strung from my pierced lobes. I made it to the last verse in a stumbling rush, my spine arched so as to press my shoulders and my buttocks back against the hard wall of his body. I could feel little bolts of lightning chasing across my breasts and down to the wellspring of my sex, as if great Enlil himself were playing with my nipples. When Tamuz laid a firm hand upon my navel and slid it down to cup my pubic mound I gasped out loud. I wanted so much for him to set me face down over that low wall and root me there high above the flat roofs of Uruk, now touched with faintest pink from the approaching sunrise, so that I might encompass the whole of my realm with my eyes as he filled me, so that Utu the shining sun might blind me with his glory as I was made incandescent from behind and within. But Tamuz turned me instead and sat me upon the edge of the wall, lifting my skirts over my knees to reveal my smooth thighs and sliding his hands up their inner surfaces, all the way to the mound of my delta. I put my arms around his neck and drew him closer, my legs encompassing his. Gently, with the tips of his fingers, he stroked my purse until he broke the fragile seal of flesh and let the moisture within seep out.

‘Daughter of the Moon,’ he whispered, his eyes shining; ‘we’ve hardly met and yet I have wounded you sorely.’

‘You did,’ I breathed. ‘The pain is unbearable. My whole body cries out.’

‘Forgive me. I thought you might be healed by now.’ He circled the pomegranate-pip of my clitoris expertly, making me shudder. I dug my nails into his skin.

‘This is a wound that can’t be healed. You hurt me too deeply and now I must live with it forever.’

‘Can I make reparation?’

‘You might, if you are brave.’

His fingers were slippery now to the root, moving slickly in and upon my sex, stirring me beyond endurance. ‘And how shall I do that?’

‘You must staunch the wound,’ I said, parting the layers of his long kilt to reveal the length of his prick, the skin already taut and glistening; ‘with the weapon that made it.’ I took hold, and Tamuz’s expression made it clear I had his undivided attention. ‘It’s an ancient magic,’ I confided, my eyes wide and serious. ‘Only by wounding me again can you ease me of my pain.’

‘Then,’ he said, his voice hoarse, ‘I see you’re skilled in the magical art.’

My hand was working his copper to harder bronze. ‘Oh yes, my King.’

‘And it is my duty to help you.’ With infinite care, both of us breathing shallow and quick, he nudged into me, sheathing perhaps two-thirds of his length. The wall held me at just the right height for him.

‘Don’t let me fall,’ I whispered.

His arm tightened about my waist. ‘Never.’

* * *

The second excerpt is from Gothic Heat with is a sequel to Portia Da Costa’s popular novel Gothic Blue.

Setting the scene - Possessed by the discarnate spirit of the evil sorceress, Isidora, Paula Beckett has come to remote Sedgewick Priory with her lover Rafe Hathaway, in search of her friends, Belinda and Jonathan, who may be able to help find a solution to her predicament.

‘I thought this was a priory?’ Rafe rubbed rain out of his eyes, and peered at the structure, ‘It looks more like a baronial castle than a religious institution… Love the kitsch Gothic style…’ He pointed towards the dark, elaborate building that seemed to sit and sneer at them from amongst seven circles of hellishly overgrown formal garden. ‘Shit, it’s even got a Rapunzel tower!’

‘It doesn’t look as if it wants visitors, does it?’ Paula followed Rafe’s pointing fingertip to the peculiar tower, perched atop one corner of the rambling, black windowed priory. She’d never seen a less welcoming place in her life, and a tumbling festering structure that might have been a chapel, set to one side, didn’t help matters. Flickers from the lightning seemed to suggest blue wraiths drifting in and out of its broken down stones.

‘It doesn’t look as if anyone’s been here in centuries.’ Rafe blinked more water out of his eyes as it began to teem even more ferociously from the sky, ‘Are you sure your friends are here?’

‘No, not exactly sure… But I can’t think of anywhere else… They’ve disappeared from their workplace and their flat… and I can’t raise them on their mobiles…’

Indeed, it was just a hunch that Belinda and Jonathan had come back here. That, and an inkling she suspected she was getting from Isidora.

Within the chill from her sodden clothing, a deeper, older chill gripped her innards, making her sway.

Is this all a trick, you bitch? she demanded silently of her ‘guest’. Is there something here you want?

A lightning bolt crashed somewhere right over her head, and she shrieked with fear, tripping as eldritch laughter filled her head.

But instead of hitting the sharp, wet gravel, Paula experienced a moment of total disorientation as she seemed to fly up into the air. Grabbing wildly for purchase, she realised that Rafe had whisked her up off her feet and was holding her cradled in his arms, leather jacket and all.

‘I’m all right! Put me down!’ She wriggled, but his gentle hold didn’t yield.

‘No you’re not. You’ve hardly been sleeping and you’re worn out.’ Adjusting his grip on her, Rafe started off down the path that led to the house, carrying her effortlessly, ‘We need to get in there…’ He nodded towards the dark, unprepossessing building, with its glaring blank windows that glittered blackly. ‘Even if it is a ruin, at least it’ll give us some shelter until this lot dies down.’

‘I’m not sure… I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.’ God, how clichéd did that sound? Like something out of a low budget horror movie, complete with stock footage haunted mansion. ‘What… what if there’s something even worse than Isidora in there?’ Her arms tightened around Rafe’s neck as black, formless fears floated through her imagination, and she imagined that low voice saying, there isn’t anything worse than me, you little ninny.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the ghosts and ghoulies.’ Rafe sounded almost cheerful, as if being half drowned by a rainstorm amused him rather than pissed him off. ‘I’m a big guy… I can handle myself.’

‘Oh, I’m sure everything will be just fine,’ Paula shot back at him.

Inside though, she felt a slow, honeyed thrill. There was something primal about being carried in a big man’s arms, and the heat of Rafe’s body was both reassuring and exciting. He was strong, she had no doubt about it, and her desire, which had been dowsed by the relentless rain, came storming back. A swift, raw scenario unfolded behind her eyes as her body rocked to the rhythm of his long stride. She saw him kicking down the door of the crumbling Priory, laying her down right there in the entrance hall or whatever… then ripping off her jeans and her panties and thrusting straight into her.

Well that's all for now but don't worry there will be a couple of tasty excerpts from two more ladies of Lust Bites in a few weeks.


Deanna