Winner of Frost Fair!

Thank you to everyone who participated in my Chilly Chat last week!

I put the names of all the commenters into The Hat - and it picked.......





Congratulations Jeremy. Please let me know if you would like either a download (which you can have very soon, as soon as I get the codes) or a hard copy, which will take a couple of months.

And enjoy!

Love in a Cold Climate

I learn stuff when I write. Which is one of the reasons I love to write. I knew that the Thames froze over pretty often in years gone by but had never sat and wondered how and why. When I set out to write a book about the last one, held in 1814, I needed to find this stuff out.

This is the science bit so please concentrate.



Aside from global warming, there's a good reason why the Thames doesn't freeze up now - it's the bridges. Old London Bridge was supported by many piers, each one leaving a much smaller gap than any modern bridge - and this acted like a dam. Chunks of ice floated against the bridges - and like one of those pushing slot machines - the ice jammed up, and the river froze over. When the new bridge was built in 1831, the gaps were larger and the Thames didn't freeze again, or at least, not sufficiently to have a vast "Frost Fair" on the ice - and the famous fair of 1814 was the last one.

OK. That's your lot. On with the smut.

So - the reason behind the snow and ice science and the gratuitous pictures of half naked men in the snow?

Well, my book - Frost Fair is out tomorrow! So it seemed a good excuse.

Frost Fair is set in 1814 when the weather was pretty damned nippy to say the least. England was in a mini-ice age, but was gradually warming up.

It's officially a Regency in the time frame, but there's no drawing rooms, no Bath, no balls. (Well, there are balls--obviously, this is me we are talking about, but they are round and warm and squeezable and no-one dances in them.)


Gideon Frost is an impoverished printer, trying hard to keep his business afloat and only just managing it. To help make ends meet, from time to time he visits the areas notorious for male prostitution (Cock Lane, Lad Lane, and St Paul's Churchyard) to make a few extra shillings.

Then he falls in love--with a client--but not of the Lad Lane type, a client of his print shop and suddenly, when the object of his affection seems about to reciprocate, it's vital that Gideon's secret doesn't come out.

Here, as you can tell, my boys haven't quite got together yet...


Joshua was sure that he could help Gideon. As much as he longed to keep the man by his side forever, he couldn’t see him satisfied with the post of a valet forever. Schemes and ideas swirled around in Joshua’s head, each one more implausible than the last, each daydream sweeter than the one before. He imagined himself as Gideon’s mentor, his patron, setting him—one day—back in business with a new shop, a new press—“Sponsor: Joshua Redfern” across the shop door. And then one day, Gideon might turn to him in gratitude, slide his hand into his own and press those sweet lips to his face. Redfern felt himself hardening at the very thought of it, the way he always did whenever any daydreams of physical contact with Gideon plagued him.

He wondered how it would feel to have him naked and pliant, held tight against him. How his skin would feel, as his fingers traced the line of his backbone from that elegant neck, along the delicious curve of his back to the heaven—and entirely imaginary perfection of his arse. His cock
began to ache as he closed his eyes for a second and flexed his fingers, visualizing how that arse would feel as his hands closed over it. Lean, he was sure. Very little fat, and hard, harder when Gideon clenched... And what else, what delights awaited him... He shook his head and opened his
eyes, letting the vision and phantom body in his arms work its magic, letting the lust course down, down into his loins.

God. He was in danger of spending his seed here in his drawing room without even touching himself. If Gideon’s imaginary form could have this effect, what might his real body do? Whatever it might do, Joshua was quite sure it would not be a disappointment. He strode to the door and took the stairs two at a time, flinging open his bedroom door and slamming it behind him, grateful that he was currently without a valet.

In the seclusion of his room, he allowed himself to revisit his vision of Gideon, grateful, sweet and entirely naked in his arms. Releasing his cock from his breeches, he grasped it firmly, then groaned as the imaginary Gideon dropped to his knees and engulfed the end of Redfern’s swollen cock in that beautiful, wide mouth. Oh God, he thought. Would he look at me like I’m imagining he would as he swallows me? Would he welcome me as I move back and forwards in his mouth—like this? He pumped gently into his hand, his eyes tight closed as his vision lapped and sucked at him.

It was too much, too much. With one fist pressed hard against his mouth, he came, and his seed pulsed over his sliding fingers. It was needful, cathartic, but it wasn’t satisfying, and never would be until his dreams came true.

And another excerpt... a little later when they DO get together.

Gideon’s hands were in his hair, and his head was tipped back as he cried out softly with each fresh attack. He hooked a leg around Joshua’s, and ground his hips and a sizeable erection into Joshua’s hip.

Joshua needed no further invitation, pausing only to divest himself of breeches and boots before throwing himself down on top of the man, claiming his waiting kiss with his mouth and his eager hot cock with one hand. To his delight, Gideon grasped him in one swift and mutual movement and then finally, face to face, they paused and looked at each other. Joshua gave a growl as Gideon’s hand moved on his prick, oh so slowly but sure, firm and so bloody good. Gideon’s fingers slid down the shaft, teasing his sac with each downward movement and Joshua copied the action, watching Gideon’s face as it twisted in pleasure, taking kisses whenever he could and trying to remember to breathe.

God, he wasn’t going to last, that was certain. It had been too long, and he’d longed for this moment, imagined this too many times. “Gideon...” he whispered, “wait.” He moved his hand over the hot flesh in his hand, pulling and squeezing, loving every sound that Gideon made.

“Too late,” Gideon groaned, and Joshua kissed his words away as warm liquid flowed over his fingers. Gideon’s hand tightened around his shaft, causing Joshua to spend a moment later, hot and far too fast, like a schoolboy with his first fumble.

“Gideon...” He crushed Gideon into an embrace and took kiss after kiss until they were both breathless. “Heaven.”

It sure seems like heaven to me! I hope you enjoyed the smut (and the science!) and if you leave a comment, you might win a copy. I can supply a download pretty sharply, but the print version won't be out for a few weeks, and then I'll need to get copies from the publisher, so you'll need to be a little patient. There's further excerpts on my website, and on the publisher's page.

Keep warm! Shared bodily warmth, remember! Enjoy the video!


Erastes
www.erastes.com

Halloween Giveaway!

by Madeline Moore




Yikes! Is that picture scary or what? Well, Halloween is coming, dear Lust Bites readers, which means two things.

1) Time to get your freak on!

2) Time for the Lust Bites Halloween Giveaway!


This year, we are giving away another impressive batch of erotica books, penned by some of the best writers of erotica working today. That's right, penned by Lusties! First Prize is all of the following:
• Amanda's Young Men by Madeline Moore
• Enchantment by Janine Ashbless, Olivia Knight, and Leonie Martell
• Wildwood by Janine Ashbless
• Phantasmagoria by Madelynne Ellis
• Roping the Wind by Kate Pearce
• Speak Its Name by Erastes,Lee Rowan, Charlie Cochrane
• Market for Love by Jamaica Layne
• something spooky by Portia da Costa
• and the so-hot-off-the-press-it-hasn't-been-released-yet anthology, which features a number of us, Lust At First Bite.

Second and third prizes are copies of Lust At First Bite.

Now, to win this particular contest you must do a little more than write a comment to this post.

We're looking for spooky submissions of no more than 200 words. It can be anything you like, a wee self-contained short story, a snippet from a longer work, or even a snippet for a book that doesn't exist. Get the picture?


Howl you should! Isn't he handsome? Don't get any fancy ideas about him, because, as you can see, he does not have a human head.

Here are a few examples. The first two come to us courtesy of Olivia Knight. They are excerpts from her novel, The Ten Visions.

Hallow's Eve in the graveyard of the University Church of St Mary the Virgin

They sat in silence as the other members gathered on the lawn again, each with a glass in hand which one of them refilled.
'Excuse me a moment,' murmured the old man, his hand brushing her shoulder gently as he stood.
She felt a rush of her earlier arousal,chasing away the sour feeling. Watching him walk towards the circle, she thought, And why not? Older – but clearly not too old – if his eyes are anything to go by… The image of him making love to her, slowly and
tenderly, flashed through her head. It was appealing…
'Sarah!' hissed a voice. She sprang around in fright: Jo was crouched behind the bench. 'Please, you have to believe me, run! While no-one's looking – trust me, your soul depends on this, keep quiet but run!'


A winter afternoon in Duke Humphrey's Library, in the Bodleian

The rich smell of books, shuffling steps of the librarian, and hissing scratch of her pencil on paper, mingled with her thoughts. The silvery-grey pencil lead shone under the glow of the table lamp; the tiny hairs at the back of her neck teased her nape in the irregular, warm breeze.
'Sarah…'
She spun her head at the soft whisper. No-one was behind her. At
the end of the corridor, she could see the librarian quietly talking to
someone; no doubt a brief sibilance had caught her attention. She resumed
her reading and scratching.
'Sarah…'
She heard it again, hardly a breath but distinctly her name. Her
spine stiffened. The librarian and the other student had left her section;
no-one was in sight. Leaning over her books again, she couldn't move her
eyes from one word to the next. The hairs on her arm stood upright. She
waited.
'Sarah…'

Want more? Here's a snippet from Erastes:

He slid down my body, kissing my shoulder, arm, hip. He drove me wild with his lips, tongue. Teeth.
He murmured words I didn't recognise. "Subclavian, brachiocephalic, palmar, iliac, femoral."
"What's that?" I gasped. I could hardly concentrate on what he was saying because my cock was too interested in what he was doing.
"Arteries," he whispered, his tongue teasing the line of hair from my navel.
I wanted to scream with pleasure. "Are you some kind of medical student?" I gasped. I didn't care. His mouth was doing wonderful things with my balls, sucking them in and out. I couldn't have got any harder.. He could have said he was Lon Chaney at that point and I was sure I wouldn't care.
"No," he purred, "it's just an interest. A hobby." I felt his breath on the super-heated head of my cock and I nearly came from that alone.
"The sweetest of all," he said, "is the dorsal artery…and that's found…here."
Oh I screamed all right. When his teeth went in, I screamed. And screamed.


Over to you now, folks. Write us a scene, no more than 200 words, and maybe you will be treated to a bounty of sexy books, guaranteed to make your blood run....hot.
The contest starts now and will run until November 4 (the following Wednesday). So you have one week to write to win!
Winners will be announced on the following Wednesday, November 12.

Picture credits: Our werewolf comes to us courtesy of Chuff.
If you want to see more of his work, contact him at: tiger at wulistudio dot com.
The ghost and man embracing is the cover of Sleeping with Ghosts, the fourth album released by European alternative rock band Placebo in 2003.
The two male vampires are from a half-hour TV dramatic series called The Lair.
Madelynne Ellis photographed the First Prize bounty. Thank you!

Coming Attractions

by Erastes
Well Autumn is halfway through and we soon will be doing strange things like bobbing for apples and carving... erm. pumpkins.

This week on Lust Bites:

On Monday Kate Pearce will be sharing a nice long helping of her sizzling book - Simply Sinful.


On Wednesday Madeline Moore will be announcing our Grand Hallowe'en Competition. There will be some great prizes (as always!) so make sure you check in on Wednesday to find out how to win!


And on Friday Jamaica Layne will be in the Smut Slot sharing excerpts from her first novel Market for Love.


Lust Bites - for things that go BUMP in the night!

(Fe)male Order Shopping-Harris' List of Covent Garden Ladies

Want to write a best-seller with plenty of sex? Well perhaps you might be lucky if you follow in the footsteps of Samuel Derrick.


Who was he, I hear you ask? Well, Mr Derrick was Irish and a bit of a con-man if history is to be believed. He used to pretend to be a member of the Irish aristocracy but in reality he was a draper's apprentice, a bad actor, and a failed poet. He was determined to better himself, so travelled to London in an attempt to join such luminaries as Smollet, Boswell and Johnson. These lofty gentlemen, however, didn't give him the time of day.

At some point, (probably, the scholars reckon, in Debtor's Prison), he must have met up with Jack Harris, (AKA as John Harrison), a waiter, and a notorious pimp - self-proclaimed "Pimp General of All England." It was Mr Harris who had a handwritten list of prostitutes, but it was Mr Derrick who - under Mr Harris's name - published the list as Harris' List of Covent Garden Ladies and made a fortune. The book was a barn-storming best-seller and sold 250,000 in its 38 years of being in print.
In a city with well over 3,000 prostitutes (for a population of 675,000) Harris' List of Covent Garden Ladies was a must have accessory for any Georgian man of leisure and pleasure Harris' list was more than just a list. It was a tour of the houses of negotiable affection, "the votaries of Venus" and the prostitutes more personal address.

It wasn't just a list though, nor was it limited to Convent Garden! - it also included anecdotes on the ladies' careers and conquests. It detailed not only their addresses, physical characteristics but also their “specialties”.

Such as: 'Miss Smith, of Duke's Court in Bow Street, "a well made lass, something under the middle size, with dark brown hair and a good complexion" ' Miss Kilpin, who offers her favours inside the privacy of hackney carriages, but who is in reality 'a married city lady, who takes this method of getting home deficiencies supplied abroad'

Mrs Grafton of Wapping was fond of sailors. Her 'best customers are sea officers, who she particularly likes, as they do not stay long at home, and always return fraught with love and presents'.



Miss C: who perfumed herself (particularly below the waist) and entertained a prince who "was so much of an Englishman to despise all fictitious aids in that quarter and, turning up his nose at the ... musk, which was quite offensive to him, he rang the bell and sent the servant for a red herring".

A gentleman in possession of the book would know where to go for the fat and the thin, the top-market whores, the cheapest of the cheap. He'd be informed on the state of their teeth and tits - and their former conquests - nice to know who'd been there before you!

Mr Derrick - on the merits and profits of the book - did manage to become respectable, in the end. He became Master of Ceremonies at Bath on a huge salary of £800 a year - around £100,000 a year in today's money - but despite this rise in fortune, he still died penniless. After his death, the book continued in print in the hands of a society-aspiring prostitute, Charlotte Hayes, although it was generally thought that Ms Hayes did not write with such wit as Mr Derrick. New versions continued to be printed annually until 1797 after which society was becoming a little more prudish.

Read more in: "The Covent Garden Ladies: Pimp General Jack and The Extraordinary Story of Harris’s List" by Hallie Rubenhold – Tempus Publishing, ISBN 0-7524-2850-0

And if you get hold of a copy of The List itself - let me borrow it, will ya?

A Bluffer's Guide to... Gay Historicals

Along the lines of the other Bluffer's Guides I thought I'd do a Gay Historical 1-0-1 today.

Top facts:

* Sadly not yet published by Black Lace. I live in hope as they do have m/m/f plotlines.
* Covers. Usually pretty naff.(with the exception of those below)
* Committed Lusties, Erastes, Madelynne Ellis - hell, just about all of us!

In a nutshell

* There's not enough of it, for a start.
* Some Gay Historicals address the very real problems of being gay in a time when it wasn't just unacceptable, it was reviled and illegal. (Basically after Christianity kicked in) However, there were times when man on man love wasn't just acceptable, it was a normal part of everyday life. (The Greeks had a word for it.)
* Thankfully, due to pronouns they are not called things like "The Mediterranean Tycoon's Depraved Heiress" (With thanks to the Random Romance Title Generator)

The heroes

Not too different from the heroes in other historical romances. They are generally aristocratic (tall and handsome goes without saying - plus they are ALWAYS - always hung like horses, this is the law.) So, create your character: Rich, check. Commanding, check. Handsome, check. Cock of unusual size. Check and double check. OK, you can stop checking now.

The, er, OTHER heroes

Now here you can play around a little. You can either make your other hero a match for your arrogant alpha in every sense of the word (and sit back and watch those sparks fly and those buttons go flying (gotta have flying buttons, more later) OR you can create a sensitive little soul. A downtrodden artist, perhaps, or an impoverished tutor. A kidnapped sex slave or an abused and rescued young man. As long as you get a vast gulf between your alpha and your omega, it doesn't really matter. Any excuse to make that boy cry his little heart out because the rough tough alpha doesn't know how to handle him. Or rather - he doesn't know how to handle his feelings - he knows how to handle him all right. (hur hur) The important thing is the desecration of innocence - but don't worry. No matter how nasty the alpha is, your sensitive soul will fall in love with him as he tops from the bottom.

The best bit about writing gay historicals
* Buttons. Oh GOD the buttons. I've coined the term breeches ripper before, but for me waistcoat ripping is far more exciting. Also cravats. You can have a LOT of fun with cravats.
* UST. (No, no, not there, Unresolved Sexual Tension. Buckets and buckets of it. "I'm homosexual!++ Argh! God he's pretty. I wonder if he's homosexual too? How can I let him know? What if he's not? All right... so he is - he's sleeping with Lord [Whossit] - how can I get him?"A writer of gay historicals have immense fun torturing her characters - making every glance count, and when one's passing the port (to the left, of course) at dinner, fingertips are just bound to brush against each other.
* It's much easier to get men together on a day-to-day basis. Whereas a hetero historical writer will have to write about dances, and chaperones and perhaps elopements men can simply hang out with each other, ride in each other's carriages (and no, that's not a euphemism!) without anyone fainting or ruining anyone's reputation. Of course it's pretty difficult to get them into sexual situation, but that's another post...

The best bit about reading gay historicals

* Buttons! Ok, Is it just me and the button porn?
* Appreciating that the author knows exactly what the difference is between a sailor's whipping and a double fisherman but that you don't need to know anything as silly as long as the hero gets tied up.
* Sponge baths.
* Cocks! (sorry, but it did have to be said.) Lots of 'em. Members, yards, rods, poles, perches, arbor vitae, gaying instrument. (yes, really.)

Top tip: beige...biscuit...blasé bleeding anachronisms

Check check check. You may think that it's all right to say your hero's breeches are beige but it wasn't so and any eagle eyed reader will Mock You. They will, however realise if you are trying and make a small slip-up, but they won't appreciate sloppy (or no) research, modern day speech patterns and contemporary men in fancy dress.

What not to say

* “Where's the lube?”
* He climaxed, spunk spurting over his fingers.
* "He's got such a cute ass."

What to say

* “Spit, and have done, man.” (other lubricants are available...)
* GOOD LORD, SHAG HIM ALREADY!
* I'm learning something! Oooo... cocks....

Over to you...

* What gay historicals would you like to see?
* What cliches are you sick of?
* Do you want better covers?
* Anything else?

And if you are interested in finding out more: (and in a more sensible fashion)

Speak Its Name has The Definitive List of Gay Historical fiction.
The Macaronis: Fiction out of the Closet


++homosexual is also anachronistic until the early 20th century, too.

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...

Smut slot: A Friday Smutty art lesson

Chiaroscuro (Italian for clear-dark) is a term in art for a contrast between light and dark. The term is usually applied to bold contrasts affecting a whole composition, but is also more technically used by artists and art historians for the use of effects representing contrasts of light, not necessarily strong, to achieve a sense of volume in modeling three-dimensional objects such as the human body........

Yeah yeah - blah blah. It's been used by Rembrandt and it's still being used today - think of Frank Millar's Sin City and you get modern chiaroscuro. But for me it was a good excuse to write a sexy tale of an artist who falls in love - or is it under the thrall?- of the beautiful young man he's been commissioned to paint as Icarus Fallen.

Chiaroscuro is a novella in Aspen Mountain Press' "Night Moves 1"anthology and tells the story of Michel di Posco who is being paraded around 19th century Florence by his Patron, showing him off as his new prodigy.

It is a vampire story as the cover suggests - all four novellas are - but it's not the emphasis of the story. It explores the good and evil in humanity and vampires. Where are lines of light and dark drawn? Who is good? And who is evil?

I hope you enjoy these two smutty snippets!

Michel has his first sitting with Yuri.

I moved back to him then, ready to start work, my shirt drying on my body in the warmth of the room. Kneeling down beside him, I arranged the sheets beneath him into the shapes I needed to give the impression of lightness and softness.

His gaze did not move from my face and his was impassive, nothing in his elegant countenance showing any emotion except those ageless, deathless eyes. I turned to him and without words unbuttoned his waistcoat with eager fingers, which stumbled and faltered, finding themselves almost incapable of such a simple task.

I do not usually, I add at this point, make a habit of undressing my models; an artist who commits such a faux-pas even once would never find models to pose for him a second time.

But there was no thought of him undressing himself; somehow we both knew such an unveiling was no sexual act, no prelude to eroticism. I had moved above and beyond my lust for him. I was simply preparing him as I would any still life.

He kicked off his house shoes and shrugged his way out of his waistcoat almost without levering himself from the floor. He went to sit up to remove his shirt but I pushed him back down, moved around to his head and pulled it up and over his head. Looking back now, I can hardly believe just how matter of fact I was in disrobing him that first time.

So many times since then have we playacted our first moments, cheated as it seemed we were of the sensuality of disrobing by my concentration and haste. We peel the clothes from each other like the layers of an onion, taking hours to become fully naked for the delectation of the other. It seems inconceivable that that at first I did no more but tug the clothes from him as roughly as if I were undressing one of my small nephews for bathing.

But the muse was within me; I did not see him as he became exposed to me. Did not see the pure lasciviousness of him, the maleness of his sensual perfection.

All I saw—as more and more marble-white flesh was uncovered—were the tones and shades of his body. The places where the light hid, or gleamed in brightness. Places that were breathless in their mystery. A hollow at the base of his neck, a pair of matched and wonderful shadows on his cheeks, soft adumbration causing a sudden and unexpectedly glorious magic in an otherwise rounded hip. Shadows deepening in a delirious and dangerous fashion as the heavenly triangle of his hips curved inward to meet in an abundance of golden fleece so glorious that Jason would have cast aside his rancid ram skin and sworn allegiance to these bright crisp curls.

And even Buonarroti himself could not have done justice to the proud flesh that which rested between his pale thighs. The most perfect and the most sacred part of him. Buonarroti had a talent for understating a man's anatomy and his David was sadly underrepresented. This sublime column of flesh would be faithfully depicted, I promised myself, and my mouth watered at the anticipation of transposing it onto the canvas.
I realised I was staring at his member, and for the first time since the early days in my master's studio all those years ago, when the male model stood in the centre of us apprentices and removed all of his clothes, I blushed deeply.

To cover my embarrassment, I picked up charcoal and sketched furiously; ignoring the deep chuckle my subject gave.

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

And later....

I followed Yuri up the stairs and into the studio. It was much as it had been the time before, save that the curtains were drawn, no doubt to save the furnishings from the damaging sun.

He saw me glance at the windows. “The light; I hope that it’s not inconvenient?”

“No, not at all, the candles give you more colour anyway.”

He smiled, closed the door upon us and took hold of my arm, pulled me close. “I want you, Michel.”

“The work.”

“Can wait.” He was breathless and impatient, and God forgive me, once more I was swept away and I forgot all about duty and Bettano and even the consuming passion of my art as he buried his mouth in my neck and kissed me, causing my spine to shiver in delight.

He undressed me with rough haste, shrugging his few items off and pulling me to the soft rug beside him. “I have thought of nothing else than you for days, since we met. You consume me.”
He interspersed his words with kisses and all the while he stroked my cock, which shuddered with delight in his hand. “I want to take you Michel, want to fuck you and to spill my seed inside you. Do you want this? Do you? I think you are a virgin.”

The flutter of fear I felt at his words calmed as he kissed and stroked. His hand gradually moved further down my shaft until it left it completely and cupped my balls.

“Yes,” was all I could manage, gasping as his hand slid behind my balls and massaged the sensitive skin behind. Already he knew my body as well as I knew the intricacies of a canvas, knew every bump and crevice, every action to give me pleasure. “Yes.”

“I’ll take that as answer to both,” he said with a deep chuckle. He reached up to the settle behind us and pulled off the bolster cushions, put one under my head. “Roll over onto your side,” he ordered. I did as I was told, but in spite of the warmth of the room I shivered; I felt goose-flesh spring across my skin.

He settled behind me, lovingly. “Don’t be frightened, Michel.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

His hands moved all the while, over my shoulders, my back, my arse. I pressed back against his touch, relaxing more and more. Then one hand slid forward to take hold of my cock again while the other slid between my arse cheeks, and his finger slid up to find my entrance. Instinctively I tensed, but he kissed my neck and stroked my cock so slowly that I found that before I knew, it his finger had slid inside.

It was like a ripple of pleasure that started behind my balls and travelled all the way to the tip of my cock, like the disturbance caused by a pebble in a pond, wave upon wave of something like I’d never felt before. Within minutes, as his finger moved further and further in I found I was pushing back against him, as if wanting more. I did, although the fear was still there.

Something inside of me trembled when his finger touched a place deep within. The sensation was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I thought I’d spend myself immediately, but the urge passed, then returned when whatever it was he’d touched, he touched again. I gasped, arching my body like a bow, pushing my arse into his hand and leaning backwards to receive his kisses. “Again, again, I beg of you.”

He worked me for what seemed like hours, from time to time resorting to a little bottle of oil that he’d hidden beneath the settle. Such foresight and care made me love him more, and the scent of that the oil, pungent and deep, will ever remind me of him. Finally, he pulled his hand away and I felt his cock slip into the cleft.

“I love you, Michel,” he said. He did not so much as push into me, but pulled me by my hips back against him. It was uncomfortable, at first, but not painful. I blushed to feel my own erection wilt.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, his mouth at my neck. “It’s normal. Just breathe.”

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

Want to see what happens next? Buy the book (and you get 3 other novellas too!)

An electronic copy is up for grabs for one lucky commenter!

Erastes

Gentlemen Behaving Badly: "Speak Its Name"

SPEAK ITS NAME is out now!

What is this Speak Its Name of which you speak?

Call it SiN for short. It's a three-novella anthology of gay historical romance. Published by Linden Bay Romance and containing stories from Lee Rowan, Charlie Cochrane and Erastes.

Three novellas? Sounds like a bargain!

It is! Aftermath from Charlie Cochrane is a tale of 1920's Oxford Undergraduates, Gentleman's Gentleman by Lee Rowan is a Victorian Spy drama, and Hard & Fast from Erastes is Jane Austen on Viagra.

SiN will be available first as an ebook, and then 4-6 weeks later in a print edition you can grasp firmly with one hand.
So - here's some snippets from each, and I hope you enjoy them!

AFTERMATH by Charlie Cochrane

When shy Edward Easterby first sees the popular Hugo Lamont, he's both envious of the man's social skills and ashamed of finding him so attractive. But two awful secrets weigh Lamont down. One is that he fancies Easterby, at a time when the expression of such desires is strictly illegal. The second is that an earlier, disastrous encounter with a young gigolo has left him unwilling to enter into a relationship with anyone. Hugo feels torn apart by the conflict between what he wants and what he feels is "right". Will Edward find that time and patience are enough to change Hugo's mind?

"Hugo!" Easterby's deep voice split the still sharp air of the April evening. Lamont didn't turn, nor was he steering a course for his own rooms. Edward kept up a pursuit, eventually abandoning words and grabbing his friend's arm. "Hugo, I only asked you to come and take a glass with me. Can't we do that, like any two civilized human beings?"

Lamont turned, hot tears welling in his eyes. "But we're not civilized human beings, are we? I told you before that a lost legion of temptations lies in your room and I haven't the armor to fight any of them. Don't tempt me, Edward. Please."

Easterby looked stunned. "I never meant to tempt you. I…"

Hugo laid a hand on his friend's arm, equally quickly removed it. "I know, you're innocence itself, honestly. But can't you see that I'm burning?"

"But your letters…I thought that you were perhaps warming to the thought of being close friends. There was so very much affection in each line. Or so I thought. Perhaps I simply imagined it all; wishful thinking on my part again." Edward turned away, gulping as though swallowed pride had stuck in his craw.

"Letters were safe, Edward. It was easy to pour myself into them, and like a fool I succumbed to the temptation to do so. I could kiss your letters and not be tainted. Having the same feelings while being so close to you is agony." He reached out again, merely brushed the wool of Easterby's jacket and shook his head sadly.

"Will you meet me tomorrow, then?" Easterby's voice was full of defeat and sadness. "Not in my room if you can't bear it. At a café or in the bar. Anywhere. I need to talk to you." He raised his hand, let it stop within a hair's breadth of Lamont's face. "I've missed you so much."

Hugo nodded. He didn't dare say anything—his treacherous tongue would betray him. He gently grazed his own hand along Edward's, resisting clasping the fingers.


GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN by Lee Rowan

Lord Robert Scoville has lived in a reasonably comfortable Victorian closet, without hope of real love, or any notion that it's right there in front of him if he would only open his eyes and take notice of his right-hand man, Jack Darling. Jack has done his best to be satisfied with the lesser intimacy of caring for the man he loves, but his feigned role as a below-stairs ladies' man leaves his heart empty. When a simple diplomatic errand turns dangerous and a man from their past raises unanswerable questions, both men find themselves endangered by the secrets between them. Can they untangle the web of misunderstanding before an unknown attacker parts them forever?

Jack said nothing. He didn't dare. The truth was stirring in him like a living thing, but he simply did not know what to say. No, he wasn't mistaken. I would love to have you take advantage of me! That would hardly do. In fact, he was grateful for his lordship's integrity. How wretched it would have been to serve under an officer who expected sexual favors, if the attraction were not mutual.

But was it mutual? Jack could not deny what he himself felt. And hope stirred again, a tenuous thread of possibility. A man who would not take advantage might be exercising self-restraint, not indifference. Did he dare speak?

Lord Robert was still fuming, oblivious to Jack's dilemma. "He must have thought me absurdly naïve. I suppose I was. It had never occurred to me that anyone would stoop so low as to make such an assumption about me. Or about you!" He looked up, his eyes full of some unspoken emotion. Anger? Guilt? "My dear fellow, I am deeply sorry. You must believe I never intended to subject you to anything like that. I can't do a damned thing about my own nature, and I'm grateful beyond words for your tolerance. I had no idea you would be offered such an insult."

"Insult, my lord?" Jack's chest felt tight, and his heart was suddenly pounding. Here it was, then—the chance of fulfillment or the destruction of all he had come to know.

"That you were my—that I would—" Lord Robert flung a hand into the air, helplessly.

"The only insult Captain McDonald offered," Jack said carefully, "was the assumption that I would be willing to lie with him."

It was Lord Robert's turn to hesitate. "I'm not certain I understand."

Their eyes met once more, and Jack could not look away. "He was not mistaken about my nature." And, since at this point there could be no going back, he added, "Nor my feelings for you."

HARD AND FAST by Erastes
Major Geoffrey Chaloner has returned, relatively unscathed, from the Napoleonic War, and England is at peace for the first time in years. Unable to set up his own establishment, he is forced to live with his irascible father who has very clear views on just about everything—including exactly whom Geoffrey will marry and why. The trouble is that Geoffrey isn't particularly keen on the idea, and even less so when he meets Adam Heyward, the enigmatic cousin of the lady his father has picked out for him... As Geoffrey says himself: "I have never been taught what I should do if I fell in love with someone of a sex that was not, as I expected it would be, opposite to my own."


I sat up, dazed, with the terrible realization of how much my life had just changed. He was smiling, just a little. He lay there, looking so delightfully debauched, his lips swollen from my mouth’s assaults, his eyes huge and so dark as to be almost black, that my heart twisted with emotion for him. He reached down and took my hand, still resting on his thighs, caught it in his hand and brought it up to his mouth. With slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, he licked my fingers clean, then turned my hand over and kissed my palm, his eyes closing as he did. It was such a simple and heartfelt declaration of love without words that I was unable to do anything but swallow hard.

Our situation and the danger of it came to us both as the madness receded. We had already been too long closeted together; we could not afford much more time. But our preparations to appear to the others of the house and his gradual re-dressing were delayed again and again by tenderness and kisses as he came to me, again and again.

“One more,” he said, pushing himself against the door and myself. “For I’ll have to live on this moment for who knows how long.” I too, saw the future stretching away from me with nothing more than circumspect glances, unendurable social contact and nights spent lonely, hard and longing.

How my life had reversed in so short a time. From being determined to grant him no quarter, to stand against him in every endeavor, now I was his to command. Just a pressure behind my neck brought my lips down to his; the smallest of his touches had tamed me, just as I fooled myself that I had mastered his recalcitrant nature. I brushed the back of his hair with my fingers, curling it where it had been flattened, and I wanted to say how my heart felt but he had confounded me—as ever.

I tried, knowing that something was needed of me. We could not open that door and resume our lives without some declaration of our intent. And yet, I thought—rational in spite of the glow of new found love—what intents could there be? This madness could never happen again, not in his aunt’s house, and would, inevitably sink to degradation, hidden away in the class of houses that such...tastes were enjoyed, becoming as vile as it was rumored.

I was not sure we had escaped scandal as it was, but to repeat the experience (although every inch of my body wanted to repeat and repeat and repeat) would be insanity of immense proportions.

“Heyward...”

His eyes hooded in a sensuous manner and he leaned against me, his hands almost kneading my chest, like a cat does. “I think, my dear Geoffrey, that now perhaps we might be a little more intimate than that? At least in private.”

From Josh Lanyon, author of Adrien English Mysteries

"Dashing spies, bold Regency bucks, and the flower of English manhood vie for readers' attention in this smart, original and engaging trilogy.This is not your mother's historical romance!"

I hope you'll give it a try, please leave a comment to win a copy in print or ebook, whichever you'd prefer. All three authors will be on hand during the day to answer any questions you have, or perhaps share further snippets!

Erastes
(and in spirit, Lee Rowan and Charlie Cochrane)

How do you solve a problem like smegma?

Ok – that’s not a particularly sexy title. I admit it. But it is a valid point when one writes historical fiction. Writing bed-scenes when your writhing couple didn’t own a bath or shower and wouldn't do for several hundred years could be a turn-off for the reader.

These days we are all Germ Free Adolescents, washing our hair every day and brushing our teeth whilst wearing scented panty liners but history, in general, is not famous for its hygiene. We all know the stories of people carrying posies around so they couldn’t smell the world around them, or scattering rue and rosemary on the rushes to keep down the fleas. I believe the rumour is that Elizabeth I took a bath twice a year, whether she needed it or not.

Once the Romans left England, plumbing because a lost art, and wasn’t really rediscovered for about two thousand years. In the interim times, well, let’s say that the natives were sometimes a little revolting.

There weren’t a lot of cosmetic dentists around in earlier times, and although the toothbrush had been invented in the 15th century, it didn’t really catch on that well (just as well we STILL don’t have to brush using badger or pig’s bristles…), and flossing? Forget it, that’s not caught on in England even today... (joke… joke…).

The Romans definitely had it right, and I don’t know why there’s not a huge slew of authors writing in this era because it’s very easy to get your men naked ("Fancy a trip to the Baths, Lividius?" "Don’t mind if I do, Maximus, old Beanus.") and nice and clean and ready for action.

The Greeks too, were sticklers for cleanliness, and not only that, they were accepting of male love, so no problems there.

It’s when you push ahead a few centuries that you begin to have problems, particularly in more northerly locations where people are covering themselves in skins and bear fat and not peeling off until Spring. Cowboys - out on the range for months on end in a dust bowl, Shakespearian Luvvies sharing their beds with lice and bed-bugs, naval commanders rogering the cabin boy who hasn't seen warm water or fresh fruit for an Atlantic crossing.

So how do get your hero’s todger out of his breeches and into the willing hand of his boyfriend or girlfriend without worrying whether their bed holds more life than just the humans? Ha ha! It’s possible, and with a little bit of suspension of belief without being totally anachronistic, too.

Say for example, you have a couple of lusty young shepherds who have been working on the farm all day in an 18th century small-holding and they look at each other over the sheep dip and they are sweating, the curls sticking to their foreheads, both covered in sheep-muck – and….Hmmm. Problem.

So – here are your basic guidelines for smexxing it up in days gone by:

1. Remember your characters come from a time when hygiene wasn’t a great issue. They were used to smells; they aren’t going to be put off when it comes down to it. Concentrate on manly sweat, and accurate scents that might be there, rosemary, juniper and cinnamon. Celery and cardamom (often chewed to freshen the breath)

2. Ignore teeth. It’s better not to keep referring to everyone’s perfect teeth because that’s going to be pretty damned unlikely before modern times and National Health dentistry. Assume that your hero and heroine are savvy enough to eat well and haven’t been stuck on long ship voyages. Snogging someone with bleeding gums or a jaw full of wooden dentures ain’t never going to be sexy.

3. Make them a little unusual for their time; remember Horatio Hornblower? . He used to shower daily on deck to the general amusement of all (which included his fellow lieutenants who were probably a little more fragrant than he was.) Horatio’s skin would have tasted deliciously of salt, and not of rancid sweat. What a damned shame that Lieutenant Bush never took advantage of this, canonically. I’m pleased to say, though, that there are now a few Age of Sail novels (Lee Rowan’s Ransom, Alex Beecroft’s Captain’s Surrender) that are exploring the love of 17th Century sailors - for other sailors.

4. Have a sex scene after swimming, that’s always an ideal time to avoid problems like fleas….

5. Bedbaths! An Erastes staple! I have had a bed-bath in both my novels so far. Not only are they a great way to get rid of any revolting smells, smeg and other things wot shouldn’t be on skin when a tongue is going to be stuck in any orifice handy, but they are sexy as hell and get the juices flowing, and the blood surging to places where it should be surging. Natural sponges=teh sexy.

6. Don’t forget the times when hygiene WAS important. Even in Britain, before the Romans buggered off and us English reverted to smelly painted savages, there was underfloor heating, hot water, communal baths, massages, showers and hot and cold running slaves. Egypt, China, Japan too - all had higher civilisation than northern Europe.

7. And yes! There were showers in Regency England! Here’s proof. Of course it meant that one’s man had to stand on a step-ladder and pour water into the top – but perhaps one’s man enjoyed this task – and he’d certainly enjoy drying sir off afterwards. But not with a soft thick towel please!!!

I hope the following scene from Transgressions (due out Spring 09 from Perseus Books) illustrates and illuminates.

Our heroes have been on the road for several days, deserting their brigade after Naseby, the battle that just about finished the English Civil Wars. They are muddy, and smelly, and when the finally reach shelter a bit of how’s your father is just what the Cavalier ordered, but I was all too appreciative of just how dirty they would be.

“Patience,” Tobias murmured again "Close your eyes, keep them closed." David did as he was told, and he was rewarded with a brief caress feathering over his scrotum. Tobias' weight lifted, there was a noise David didn't at first recognise, then a delicious feeling of warm wetness sweeping up each leg and ending with a soft massage of the skin between his thighs. He squirmed in abandoned pleasure, spreading his legs wider and wider to allow Tobias more access, with what he now realised was a sponge.

"Don't stop..." David arched from the bed, hoping the sponge would be moving up further still.

"I have no intention of it. You appear to have got mud everywhere." Tobias' voice was wryly amused. "Your face, Master Caverly, is filthy. The sponge was rinsed again and David felt his face being wiped gently, and wherever the sponge touched, so did Tobias' lips. As the lips passed David's mouth, David attempted to capture the teasing tongue but Tobias was moving onwards and would not be stopped. As sponge, fingers and hands explored his chest, swept over aching erect nipples and dragged slowly and blissfully downwards, David stopped thinking completely. All he could concentrate on, with his eyes closed tight, was where that tongue would go next. It teased into a newly washed navel, then tickled its way down the trail of every hair till he felt the sponge rest lightly on the base of his cock.



"How you got mud here, I can't imagine." David gasped as the sponge slid across the head, then arched as gentle fingers pulled back the foreskin and once again the cool sponge slid across the tip, which felt like it was on fire, and ten times bigger than usual. He gasped again as water dripped down upon it, running in rivulets down the shaft and pooling around his balls before sliding deliciously between his arse cheeks. With his sight removed, every touch was a delight his skin felt alight with sensation and the anticipation of where the next touch would come from. It was hard not to pull Tobias down and to forget his orders but he did it; for love of the man and for love of the sensations he was causing him.

When he felt his cock pulled in the sweet warmth of Tobias' mouth he had to bite his lip to stop himself from spending immediately. He pushed his hips up, just a little, to stop that teasing tongue from wasting time around the crown and Tobias let him enter him more fully. Tobias' kept his head still, and encouraged, David began a series of slow, self-indulgent and wonderful thrusts into his friend's welcoming mouth. It was like nothing he'd experienced before and although he'd never taken a man in passion, he wondered if it could possibly be as beautiful as this. Was this the pleasure that Tobias took from him? That Hal had - that Jon had? Gradually he had to increase his speed, he wanted release and his thrusts became faster and deeper. When he felt Tobias' hand between his legs, he spread his knees as wide as he could, thinking the man would enter him, but Tobias kept his head in place and slid a wet finger into David's entrance, sending David spiralling out of control as he felt him climax ripping through him. He shouted Tobias' name, pushing the man's head down even further onto his cock and emptying himself into Tobias' mouth.

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

Finally to paraphrase Bing Crosby:

You've gotta accentuate the positive,

Eliminate the negative.

Latch on to the affirmative.

Don't mess with Mister not-so-clean

Have good clean fun!