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.

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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.

xxx

Janine

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

blog : website

Devilish Delights

by Madelynne Ellis


I thought we'd have a bit of fun here on Lust Bites today (not that we don't normally have fun). Here's the deal everyone taking part gets to choose seven (not two, or nine, or eleven, or twenty-seven) men with whom they'd like to be locked in the Lust Bites dungeon. That's one for each day of the week folks. (Note: I suppose we can cope with the odd woman or minotaur if you must... Janine.)

Right other rules.

1. The "men" must be fictional characters, whether from books, stage, film, comics, or video games. Please state their name and film/book/other that they appear in and your reason for picking them.

2. Nobody is allowed to choose the same character as somebody else. If you are desperate, you can appeal to do a swap. I suggest you go in there armed with a suitably HUGE bribe.

3. You're not allowed to nominate one of your own creations. Guess I can cross Vaughan (A Gentleman's Wager & Phantasmagoria) off my list now, then. Shame, I'm sure he'd have been great fun.

4. Links to piccies are always appreciated.

5. I don't know... you could always tell us what you're going to do with them.

Okay, down to business. Since it's my post I get to go first. Ohhhh, who shall I have? Will it be someone somebody else wants? How obscure shall I get?

Do you know what... this is hard... There are so-oooooooo many! I think I need a long list before I cut them down to the final six. Here goes, Lucifer (Dawn), Ross Poldark (Poldark novels), Doyle (Merry Gentry books), Phobos (WITCH), Jerry Cornelius (Various Michael Morcock books), Vishous (Black Dagger Brotherhood), Riddick (Pitch Black), Legolas (LOTR books), Fingolfin (The Silmarillion), Gene Hunt (Life on Mars), The Warlock (Warlock), Brian Slade (Velvet Goldmine), Mark Brydon (The State Within), Admiral Bill Adama (Battlestar Galactica), Lucius Malfoy (Harry Potter books), El Mariachi (Desperado), Lord Wraxhall (Lord Wraxhall's Fancy), Benten (Cyber City), Z-man (Beyond the Valley of the Dolls).

Phew! What a lot of men I like. Okay, drum roll, here are my chosen companions in the Lust Bites Dungeon.

1. Jareth the Goblin King (Labyrinth). It doesn't matter how many times I've seen this film, I still sit at the end yelling "take it" when he offers Sarah her dreams. Baby brother vs Goblin King. I know which one wins in my book, and it isn't the baby.



2. Sephiroth (FFVII/Advent Children/Crisis Core) because he's so damn cool he's untrue, I've a burning urge to run my fingers through his hair, and I'm fascinated by the whole one-winged angel thing.



3. Captain Jack Harkness (Dr Who/Torchwood). Hmm, I suspect I may get a few offers for him. I just love his sense of humour, and he's incredibly inventive.





4. Kai the undead assassin (Lexx). Loyal, deadly, and erm... dead. Perhaps, I'd better skip over this one. He delivers some super monologues though, and he can sing!








5. Ian Nottingham (Witchblade). Hmm, another assassin. Haven't seen the TV series, but I love this character in the original comic storyline. Noble, loyal, powerful, ace swordsman and curiously submissive on occasion.










6. Vicomte de Valmont (Les Liaisons Dangereus). I have to say it was a close run fight between him and Lord Wraxhall. They're quite alike really. Two preening peacocks. Style is important in my dungeon.

7. Kerr Avon (Blake's 7). This was another close run one, between Avon and Z-man (Beyond the Valley of the Dolls). They're both witty, Avon with his plethora of withering put-downs, and Z-man with his Shakespearean dialogue. Avon won by being slightly more sane. There are enough sword-wielding lunatics in this dungeon of mine already.

Hmm, so those are my choices. I have noticed that I seem to gravitate towards deadly raving lunatics, with vastly superior intellects, but who also happen to be extremely pretty. Not sure what that says about me. As for what I'm going to do with them once I have them in my dungeon... Sit back and watch them fight it out, of course. My mile wide self preservation streak won't actually let me go anywhere near them, although that might be a tad difficult if we're all locked in a dungeon. One to think on...

Now show me your lists.

Madelynne xx

Crush Wednesday: Lusting after the Lambda Male

by Anne Tourney

This isn't just a crush -- it's a manifesto. Not to diss the Alpha Males that make many of you so hot and bothered, but I'm here today to speak up for every horny foot soldier who never showed up for the battle because he was back in the tent practicing his cunnilingual skills on some mighty warrior's concubine.

So you've never heard of that elusive species, the Lambda Male? Probably because he's hiding behind a frieze of networking cables or a stack of amplifiers, or just wandering around a parking lot trying to figure out where he left the van he's living in until he sells his first collection of poetry (even then, let's face it, he'll still be in the van). In a discussion of hero archetypes at All About Romance, a group of romance reviewers and authors discussed the fine distinctions among Alpha, Beta, and Gamma Males. Alphas are the traditional heroes: strong, dominant, with a natural inclination to protect and rescue, when they aren't conquering and beheading. Deltas (the dangerous heroes) and Thetas (the wounded heroes) also come up in the discussion, but no one mentions my favorite: the Lambda Male.

Lambda is my all-purpose category for nerds, geeks, and misfits -- in short, guys who are too strange, too smart, too nice, or all of the above. If you peer back into the annals of classic American cinema, you can't miss the 1984 movie Revenge of the Nerds. Lambda Lambda Lambda was the brotherhood of outcasts caught in a dualistic struggle against a fraternity of hunky jocks, Alpha Beta. I'll never forget the immortal line uttered by Robert Carradine's character, Lewis Skolnick, when he was asked by his blonde cheerleader lover why he was so good in bed: "All jocks think about is football. All nerds think about is sex."

And for me, that's a big part of the Lambda Male's appeal, aside from his vulnerability, his quirkiness, and his mismatched socks: a constant preoccupation with all things erotic. Not that Alpha Males don't think about sex, but there are too many other things that clutter their leonine heads, like winning the Super Bowl, or saving the world. All that heroic activity prevents them from focusing on the most important thing on earth, which is, of course, right between your . . . eyes. Yes, Lambda Males are interested in your brains, too. They like to know what you're thinking. They might even (gasp) ask you what you're thinking, or reading, or listening to on your iPod.

If you doubt my enthusiasm for Lambda Males, here's a roll call of the "heroes" in my recent novels: Jeremy, the bipolar art geek who falls madly in love with his therapist (Taming Jeremy); Daniel, the has-been rock guitarist who drives across the West in search of the Epiphone that inspired him when he was fifteen years old (Head-On Heart); and Joel, the womanizing photographer who 's always stumbling over his own, uhm, tripod (Lying in Mid-Air). Then there's Nolan, the hero of my most recently hatched novel, Kiss Between My Lines. Nolan works as a clerk at the public library, while secretly inflicting his vision of "information anarchy" on the world by shelving all of the books out of order. On his nights off, he works the lights over a mosh pit. Nolan never ends up saving the world, but he does save the heroine from a life without orgasms.

These guys aren't just outsiders; they're so far off the radar screen that they don't even have checking accounts. Not only do they not drive racecars, a lot of them take public transportation. And God forbid they should work for the DEA; Lambda Males are more likely to be found firing up a bong than shooting up a crackhouse. Not that Lambdas aren't heroic, or brave, or bursting with testosterone . . . well, maybe they aren't. Maybe they're just slightly below average oddballs, with an intensity that makes them sexy, and a self-deprecating attitude that makes them irresistible. These are the sweet, skinny guys who wore Iron Maiden t-shirts in high school and smoked Camels behind the gym, then went home to practice the oboe in secret. They're the guys in the next cubicle at work who write you epic love poems that you'll probably never read. They're passionate about something -- an eccentric idea, a top-secret software program, the lyrics to the song that's going to make the world forget "Stairway to Heaven" (oh please, someone write that one soon). But most of all, they're passionate about you.

So now we come down to the nitty gritty, the question that underlies all this discussion: Come on, Anne, aren't these guys just garden variety losers? I mean, they don't actually win anything. They don't really rescue anyone. Most of the time, they can't even walk a city block without their shoes coming untied.

My answer is yes, on the spectrum of masculine sexuality, Lambda Males are definitely on the "loser" end, opposite the muscle-bound Alphas. But in my opinion, that only suggests that the spectrum of masculine sexuality needs to broaden its array of colors.

Here are just a few of my favorite Lambda Males. Who are yours?

Robert Carradine: The quintessential Lambda Male cleans up very nicely

Screenwriter/Actor Mike White, who wrote my favorite
Lambda Male movie of all time: The Good Girl


Jake Gyllenhaal: As the tormented novelist/poet/playwright/cashier
Holden Worther in The Good Girl, he's the ultimate Lambda Male

Jason Mraz: See, he washed the t-shirt in the same load of laundry as the hat

Joaquin Phoenix: Lambda-esque actor playing Johnny Cash,
who was somewhat of a Lambda with a heavy dose of Delta

Kevin Spacey: a Lambda Male who had the
last laugh as "Verbal" in The Usual Suspects

Flawed Heroes

By Janine Ashbless

Back in May Gwen Masters did a wonderful post, Who Needs Perfection, about the flawed heroines we love in fiction. Women who aren’t perfectly beautiful or competent or emotionally intelligent: women with flaws that make them human and interesting instead of mere Barbie dolls. We had everything from beards to mental breakdowns and it was inspiring.

But the deep-down cynic in me said, "Sure we like flawed women – because we’re women. Barbie makes us feel inadequate and jealous. Bet we don’t like flawed Men so much. Bet our heroes are just perfect."

So I started asking around for flawed heroes. And just to make it more difficult (because I’m a meany) I stipulated three completely arbitrary rules.

1) No out-and-out Villains. We had, for example, an early suggestion of Hannibal Lecter and I really don’t think he counts. His habit of killing and eating people isn’t so much a flaw as the entire point of his character: if he didn’t crash the boundaries by being a cannibal, what would there be left of him to make him such a modern icon? Nah: if you only fancy a character because he’s evil then his evil isn’t a character flaw; it’s a fetish-object.

2) No Darcy-alikes. I don’t count being initially cold, brooding and emotionally distant – even rude – to the heroine. This one pops up in trad romantic fiction a lot: it’s just Romance shorthand for "I’m an Alpha. In fact I’m so dominant nobody can be my equal or a close friend. Boy, am I a good catch! But my life is an empty shell without the Love of a Good Woman and the moment you break down my emotional barriers you will find that underneath it all I am passionate and loving."

3) No Fake Heartbreakers. You know; the guy who’s introduced by reputation as a total philanderer who leaves a string of conquests behind him, just so the heroine can get uptight and self-righteous while secretly she’s gagging for it. That’s Trad Romance shorthand for, "I am highly sexed. I will never slump in front of the TV with a tin of beer while you seethe and reach for the Rabbit. I will give you as much sex as you could ever want. Plus, the fact that women keep falling in love with me makes it clear that I am inherently desirable. But the moment I make an emotional commitment to the heroine I will miraculously become the model of lifelong devotion and faithfulness."

Tall order, eh? Let’s see…

Mathilde Madden has written about "David in Equal Opportunities. He's a player. A faithless man-slut. Or he was before the wheelchair. Which I'd feel weird counting as a flaw. But there you go. He can't walk."

Portia da Costa has not just writen about "Robert Stone: he's far from a young Adonis, with his greying hair and stocky build," but also "Gian Valentino Guidetti - his physical shortcoming is a tendency to suffer from migraines, which he makes into a huge drama."

And when it comes to other writers’ work, Madelynne Ellis likes "Sherlock Holmes – a melodramatic depressive cocaine addict!"

Deanna Ashford has a very understandable soft spot for "Richard Sharpe. He comes from a poor criminal background and initially entered the army to escape from being imprisoned as a murderer. He's not well educated and he is gritty and basic. Yet he is also very sexy."

And Nikki Magennis nominates "Philip Marlowe - I love how he fucks things up and often ends up getting beaten by the crooks. Oooh, and Sawyer in Lost. Oh yes."

Teresa Roberts suggests "Emerson from the Amelia Peabody Mysteries by Elizabeth Peters. He's hopelessly rude, has the social graces of an enraged bull elephant, and, although gifted, keeps screwing up his career because he's so tactless. It's the combination of high intelligence and complete lack of social sense I find charming in him."

Alana Noel Voth votes for "Randle McMurphy (One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest) a mentally ill narcissist rebel rouser who defies the dictatorship of Big Nurse. He feigns insanity, which makes him even more scandalous and sly, and seriously he plays with fire."

Gwen Masters thinks a lot of "Dominick Birdsey in I Know This Much is True by Wally Lamb. He's the "normal" twin of a schizophrenic brother. All his life he has struggled to find his own identity, with the fear of having his brother's illness, the guilt, the anger...and he deals with all of it in a myriad of self-destructive ways. Flaws? This man is created of flaws. He describes himself perfectly in the beginning chapter: 'I never said I wasn't a son of a bitch.' Priceless!"

Well, it seems some Lust Biters just can’t stay away from the Bad Boys…

Alison Tyler says: "Sam Spade, the detective in The Maltese Falcon. He's slept with his partner's wife. He's not all that unhappy when his partner is shot dead, but he doesn't want the wife any more. He flirts with his attractive secretary, just stringing her along. Then falls in love with the woman whose case he takes, but sends her up the river anyway. (Of course, she deserves it.) He's pretty much a cold-hearted bastard. God, I love him."

Kristina Lloyd says: "I love Heathcliff. He scares and repulses me too but I find that hot. He is sex. He is the id let loose. Heck, he's borderline feral. People (and puppies) die because his love for Cathy is so vast and impossible to contain within orderly society. Wow, if that ain't devastatingly romantic, I don't know what is."

So gentle reader, do we like flawed, realistic, human men? Or can we only fall for fictional guys who epitomise either sexual perfection or dangerous villainy? Have our romantic heroes got to be bigger than real life? Where are the uglies, the fools, the klutzes, the failures? The people, in other words, like us?

xxx
Janine Ashbless
www.janineashbless.com

Illustrations (Or, "Hands off – these are mine!"):
1) The Earl of Rochester: Colossally self-destructive. Dies of syphilis. A bit of a potty-mouth.
2) Nikolai Dante: A good man manipulated and bullied into working for brutal political tyrants.
3) The Phantom of the Opera: Disfigured homicidal control-freak – and that hair is a wig.

Sweeter than Wine - a sneak preview of Suite Seventeen by Portia Da Costa

In the kitchen, Annie admits a transgression to her exotic and playful master, Valentino...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'So, have you obeyed me, Annie?'

Suddenly I need more than an indifferent red wine to fortify me. A hefty belt of gin would be better. My head goes so light that I seem to be floating towards the ceiling. Everything until now seems to have been all in my imagination, and only this moment of erotic connection is reality. I blink at him, imagining that I can see an invisible, silvery link between the two of us, forged by the strange interplay of an ever-tilting power balance.

I lower my head, staring into my glass, and twisting at the folds of my skirt between fingers that are a hot, sticky echo of far stickier zones.

'No… No, I haven't.' My voice comes out tinny and nervous, echoing around the kitchen as if we’re in a cathedral.

When I risk looking up again, Valentino's sculpted face is a picture. He's perfectly stern and his carved, elegant features are formed into the cool lines of a wise mentor who's mildly disappointed with an increasingly hopeless pupil.

But his eyes… oh, his eyes are luminous. They’re as dark as sin, yet brilliant with joy and anticipation. Despite the façade that form demands of him, I know he's elated by my answer.

He takes a measured sip of his unremarkable wine, still watching me. A past master of ratcheting up tension without any apparent effort, he makes me wait, for what seems like an age, before he answers.

‘Now why does that not surprise me?’ His voice is quiet and conversational and I doubt if a casual acquaintance would notice anything untoward about it.

But I do. To me it’s as if he’s just made the most obscene and explicit suggestion, and I blush so hard that I swear I can hear my ears sizzling.

‘I… I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be. I’m not.’ He allows himself a smile now, and suddenly my heart turns over.

Oh hell… Again, the stark simple truth is hammered home to me, even as his dark eyebrows lift in provocation.

I love him. And my heart twists with bitter-sweet joy as I watch as his glorious face straighten in an obvious effort to get back on track again. He’s no solemn, serious, po‑faced master who’s hung up on rituals. This is all fun to him. A sweet, life-enriching game. And he wants to share it with me, and enrich my life too.

‘Lift your skirt,’ he orders quietly, ‘Show me the evidence.’

Abandoning my glass, I ease up the crinkled turquoise folds of my cheap skirt, feeling sweat break out all over my skin as it rises. He’s seen every bit of my body, and sampled it as both a lover and a master, but every time I reveal myself to him has all the impact of the first time. My face heats up like an embarrassed teenaged virgin’s showing herself to a boy she’s crazy about. Clumsily, I bunch my skirt around my waist.

‘Come here… I’d like a closer view.’

I take a step towards him, but he halts me.

‘Bring your drink.’

Skirt in one hand, wine in the other I walk towards him, feeling strange and disorientated. Holding the glass somehow makes the exposure of my barely covered crotch a hundred times ruder. When I reach him, I hang my head, unable to face the brilliance in his eyes. I’m a penitent. A miscreant. Deserving of punishment, not the beneficence of wine.

He reaches out, lifts my chin and makes me look at him, ignoring my exposed crotch and the incriminating thong, and concentrating solely upon my eyes.

He heaves a mock sigh, clinks his glass to mine, and takes another sip from his. ‘Drink up,’ he murmurs, then he switches his glass to his right hand and with his left, he pushes my flimsy underwear aside and dives two long fingers magisterially between my sex-lips.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that I’m sopping wet, and when he strokes me, I groan out loud, unable to stop myself.

‘Your wine, Annie,’ he prompts, and I raise the glass to my lips, terrified I’ll choke.

But I don’t. I swallow the rich, fruity fluid, savouring its slightly rough bite as Valentino’s fingers glide back and forth, and my hips weave like a trollop’s, working in sync with him.

He licks a droplet of wine from his lush lower lip, still watching my face as he flicks rudely at my clitoris.

'Delicious…' His head tilts a little and his tongue sweeps again, back and forth, caressing his lip as his finger caresses me.

I can't take it any more. I shove my glass down precariously on the counter, and clasp my fingers over his in defiance. My skirt drops down to cover our hands and I close my eyes to shield them from his gaze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you've enjoyed this preview of Annie and Valentino's naughty relationship... Suite Seventeen will be available in June in the UK and August in the US. Visit my WendyPortia Weblog for the latest breaking news.

Read another excerpt from Suite Seventeen here

NB. one lucky commenter will get a download of my 2005 ebook 'Lessons and Lovers'!

Happy reading!

WendyPortia
aka Portia Da Costa
Celebrating 12 glorious years of Black Lacemaking!

Female fantasies of female submission

by Kristina Lloyd

I know it’s all tinselly and the lights are so pretty but I’d like to talk about sex with dogs. Or, more specifically, about Nancy Friday whose collection of female fantasies, My Secret Garden, caused such a fuss when it was published in the 70s. Why? Because it was so dirty. For the first time, ordinary women were voicing their lusts, and society was appalled. Many scenarios centred on female submission and rape fantasy, and women, they complained, surely didn’t think like that. In Women on Top, published in the 90s, the submissive fantasies had largely disappeared to be replaced by those of dominatrices, closet lesbians, and a rather high incidence of gals who dreamed of getting it on with the family pet.

I don’t know where Nancy was getting her data from but the implication was that, thanks to feminism, women’s fantasies had suddenly got healthier. OK, so doing it with Fido might not sound that healthy but it does neatly evade the gender politics inherent in your more average hetero, human shag.

Today, there’s plenty of evidence to show that fantasies of female submission are still immensely popular. A fem sub fantasy can be anything from a good, hard kiss against a wall, to a mild spanking, to a hardcore gangbang in a fully-equipped dungeon. What all the scenarios have in common is that he, our object of lust, is the boss. We can flip this notion on its head and declare it’s actually the woman calling the shots: as the fantasist, she’s in control of events; as a role-player in BDSM games, she probably has a safeword to mean ‘stop’. This might be true but, for me, it misses the point. And the point is: many women get off on thoughts of being dominated by a man. Or by a couple of them. Or by a whole, badly-tattooed football team in a massive hot tub. (Oops, there goes another of my secrets.)

Not surprisingly, in our postfeminist age, this can make us uneasy. Our fantasies seem to be in direct conflict with our real-life hopes and expectations. But consider the inequalities of the society we’ve been brought up in, and it’s easy to see why these fantasies are so common. In our culture, nice girls don’t, and dreams of being overpowered absolve us of responsibility and guilt. The fantasy dom is also extremely useful because he knows exactly what we want and he’s staying in control – of us and himself. We don’t have to ask for a thing. We don’t have to try and please. Take a look at him. See? He’s already pleased. Very. And all you’ve done is show up. Heck, what a relief.

The desire to be desired is, I believe, at the heart of erotic fantasy. We can imagine ourselves to be so goddamn gorgeous that our man, Mr Slightly-Twisted Alpha (back off sister, he’s mine), can’t control his base, animal instincts. He wants it, and he wants it now, and our cries of ‘No, stop!’ don’t mean jack shit to him. My imagined man is seldom someone I’d want to have dinner with. But then it’s not his mind I’m after. It’s his smouldering masculinity, his arrogance, his charisma, his cracking pair of thighs. The dominant male archetype is something we’ve all been brought up with, inside the home and out. He’s there in film, books and TV. He’s Tarzan, he’s daddy, he’s the bogeyman in the dark. He’s the bank manager, he’s Shakespeare, he’s Heathcliff, he’s God. He is, in short, the product of centuries of male social superiority. Small wonder he’s so hard to knock off the top spot.

The fem sub scenarios I like to read and write about are fairly dark, grubby acts tinged with danger. I’m not into elaborate, ritualised behaviour or heavy equipment. I struggle to read fiction where the bloke is referred to, without irony, as 'master', 'sir' or, heavens above, 'He'. This stuff leaves me cold. I can’t see the characters for the role-play. Its world is artificial. I prefer my fem subs to be ordinary, believable women who are perhaps uneasy about what butters their muffins. I want conflict, internal and external. I’ve written about rape fantasy. Sometimes it’s called ravishment, being taken, forced submission or consensual non-consent. It sounds better phrased that way but it amounts to the same thing: he made me do it, and it was raw, scary, debasing, sweaty and hot. (And here I'm obliged to add, for the hard of thinking (Wow, you made it this far? Here, have a biscuit.): no woman wants to be genuinely raped. As a concept, it's really not that tricky to comprehend.)

In Asking for Trouble, my second novel, Beth agrees to play a game with Ilya, a virtual stranger, in which they explore fantasy. Reluctantly, Beth admits to having rape fantasies, making it clear it’s fantasy. They agree to a safeword but the stakes are high: not only does the safeword stop a particular sex act, it also ends the relationship, no questions asked. In one scene, Beth and Ilya are angry. Ilya wants to fuck. Beth doesn’t. ‘Well then,' says Ilya. 'This is shaping up to be a pretty decent rape fantasy, isn’t it?’ He squashes her against a wall, his hand clamped to her mouth. Beth, whether she wants to or not, is unable to utter the safeword.

This is a key moment. Ilya has denied Beth the right to speak. He has taken her out of the game and his power has become purely physical. Language is political. Language makes us. Language separates us from animals. When Ilya silences Beth, they are no longer equals in the game - or in the world - and fantasy has become too realistic.

In the book, I really wanted to make this point. I wanted to highlight the importance of distinguishing fantasy from reality. Sure, there are overlaps for us all but in this instance, the line has to be clear. Ilya, in using his muscle against Beth, is effectively stealing her fantasy by twisting it in something else.

In our culture, female sexuality has been silenced for too long. Feminism has finally given women a voice, allowing us to articulate our desire (even if sometimes that amounts to little more than ‘uh, uh, yeah’). It’s crucial we speak and allow ourselves to explore and enjoy our fantasies, even – perhaps especially – the dark, troubling stuff. Our desire has been denied and distorted for centuries. The last thing we need to do is silence ourselves.

I’m an enlightened, independent woman with a filthy, overactive imagination. I consider myself a feminist. Why wouldn’t I? And I’m happy to say (and I’ll say if for you if you’re shy): I love a forced submission. I love those arrogant bastards.

Anyone else agree? Anyone else say ‘uh, uh, yeah’?

Kristina Lloyd

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• Asking for Trouble has just been reissued in the US alongside Black Lace releases, Dark Designs by Madelynne Ellis and Sex and Shopping. Scroll down a couple of posts to enter our amazing giveaway competition, featuring these 3 books and many, many more!


• To read more about Asking for Trouble, click here. To read an extract, click here.


• The image at the top of this post is copyright Kristian Purcell and is used here with kind permission of the artist. Take a look at Kristian's website. His work is lovely.

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