Coming Attractions

Monday = More works in progress, Wednesday = Men in Uniform, Friday = 69 (not that I believe for a minute you're reading this.)

Mathilde Madden x
Thinking what you're thinking...

Group sex: a winter warmer

by Olivia Knight

If you’ve never played Group-Sex-Group-Sex before, here’s how it works: one of us starts a story, and everyone else continues it in the comments. Anyone can join in – so if you’ve never thrown in your penny’s worth before, now’s the time. Devoted long-term readers may recognise this beginning of a story that was never completed, so I’m throwing it to the wolves to finish...

He smiled at me, crinkly and fresh as a crumpled white wool jumper. It was a bit frustrating that his English wasn't exactly up to par, as my usual arch wit and dry repartee were tumbleweeds blown along the desert of his comprehension. Then again, my Spanish consisted of "cheese", "forest", and "dead", so I wasn't in a position to criticise. Nor was I in the position I wished.

Contrary to popular belief, most teachers try extremely hard not to sleep with their students. Teaching English as a foreign language, all to adults, the paedophilia thing isn’t the problem – it’s the sheer awkwardness of it. It's hard to put people in pairs to talk about what they would do if they won a million dollars when you keep having flashbacks of one of them naked above you, muscles standing with strain, thrusting in time to your wild gasps... I didn't know if I were having flashbacks or flashforwards, but I was damn straight having flashes and flushes left right and centre. I did what any teacher would do, in the circumstances. I abruptly graduated him to the next level, where his miraculous eyes would no longer derail my train of thought. (Have you ever tried to explain the future perfect while Spanish eyes promise nails down your spine? Exactly.)

But then - there are always the special students, the ones who get to go to the teachers' pub. Mingle with the natives, as it were. I didn't elect him to our select conclave, but there he was, Friday after Friday, buying bottles of red wine, smiling crinkle-eyed, smooth-cheeked, and as glowing as my eyes as they skittered abruptly over him. And there was I, without my linguistic wit to fall back on, relying only on the never-quite-secure charms of my putative physical beauty. Friday night - eight p.m. (by teacher-time, that's five hours of solid drinking, mind) and everyone's scarpered but me, and him. It's coat time. Walk home time. And all I can think about is that my curves are a bit too soft, and a book I saw in Borders called "He's Just Not That Into You". And maybe if he were interested, he might not be wrapping his scarf around his neck, but might choose to linger...

We both tried to follow each other out the pub, which proved awkward. Outside was dark, exquisitely cold, filled with twinkling little lights and blooming with misty street lamps. I turned to him, where he still stood facing me and smiling. I felt the rushing plunge of my stomach into first fire and then ice, and did what anyone, in my shoes, would have done.
"Cold, isn't it?" I said. "Lovely evening, though. So nice to see everyone. Well, you take care then. Great to see you. I'd better be off. Merry Christmas - oh, and I probably won't see you before, so Happy New Year, as well! Anyway, I'd best get going."
I rattled through my entire repertoire of social parting comments, a one-woman textbook of Functions for Leaving. That he probably caught at best five words of my machine-gun patter hardly mattered. I was filling the silence.
"Well, I'll be off then, hope you have a lovely holiday. Safe trip home!" I continued, "I'm walking this way, where are you headed?"
He looked at me blankly. I took a deep breath and said slowly and clearly, "My house is that way," gesturing southwards. "Where is your house?"
"That way," he said, pointing south.
"Well, no need to say goodbye quite yet then, we can walk together for a bit, it’ll be nice to have the company," I jabbered brightly. Our steps fell into synch along the damp and glistening pavement. I fell silent, a state I detest. My nerves, which usually take refuge in a stream of pacy auto-witter, were left to tear my stomach into little pieces and contemplate endlessly the act of taking his arm.
"So," he said. I'd taught him to introduce subjects of conversation with that word, a few months back. "Where are you going for Christmas?" Present continuous for arrangements - correct social question - I felt a burst of pride alongside the ache that was melting my thighs.

Over to you... Where does their walk take them?

Sex and Comedy

by Sophie Mouette (aka Dayle & Teresa)

“Really, sex and laughter do go very well together, and I wondered—and I still do—which is more important.” (Hermione Gingold, Canadian Actress, 1897-1987)

“Laughter is the best tension reliever and sex is second. So if you’re having funny sex you're probably in good shape.” (Mark Gorkin, “The Stress Doc,” Licensed Clinical Social Worker)
Despite these comments, some people still think that erotica and humor don’t mix well. A recent interview with Morrow/Avon editor Lucia Macro in Romance Writer’s Report sounds the death knell for romantic comedy—done to death, this editor surmises, by too many heroines who were supposed to be funny and lovable, but came off as helpless and ditzy. (Although she does say “a dose of humor” is welcome.) And can the ever-popular alpha male have a sense of humor? (One of us knows a dominant who favors Hawaiian shirts and Hello Kitty sunglasses, just to confuse his sub, but the dominant/alpha male as seen in romance novels tends to be dark and brooding and lacking in the ability to laugh, except menacingly.)

When Teresa pitched our manuscript Out of the Frying Pan—an erotic romance whose secondary characters include a cross-dressing Vin Diesel look-alike action hero—to an editor, the editor stared blankly. “It’s sexy…and romantic…and comic?” she finally said. “How would that work?” The editor was young. Perhaps she hadn’t learned that the pleasures and pitfalls of falling in lust/love can be comedy gold, at least when they’re happening to fictional characters. (We prescribe a course of classic Hepburn films, where the dialogue is sharp and snappy and the sexual tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, even if everyone keeps their clothes on.)

Dark and angsty themes are all very well, but sex and love can be pretty hilarious, too. Plus, just because the sex is serious doesn’t mean your whole life is. It’s not necessarily the sex that’s funny, but we believe a romantic comedy can be really sexy, too. And that’s often what we set out to write.

In the case of our story “Behind the Masque,” (in Sex with Strangers) there’s sly humor in the voice of the narrator, a jewel thief with attitude:

I glanced down at my enticingly displayed décolletage. I could talk the talk, but the girls helped, too.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been pulled over for speeding, only to drive away without a ticket. I can convince the proprietor of a swanky shop that I really did buy this item, but I lost the receipt, and I honestly do deserve a refund. I can charm the fur off a mountain lion, as they say.

And when she gets down and dirty with a security guard she needs to distract, the heat gets serious, but she keeps the attitude:

He was leaning over me to kiss and lick and suckle, though, so I was humping empty air.

Until he stood and my mound connected with the impressive swelling in his uniform pants.

Oh! Well, then.

‘What have we here?’ I murmured. Unable to keep my hands off something like that—a hard cock is almost as enticing as a hot rock, and certainly more fun to play with—I pressed my palm against the bulge.

His hips jerked, and I felt his prick throb even through my gloves. My mouth watered.

Well, what better way to keep a man distracted? With a rustle of silk and brocade, I sank to my knees.

[…]From Joe’s reactions, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t have noticed a parade of elephants galumphing down the hall.

Sometimes, though, it’s not just the tone or the voice. Sometimes ridiculous things really do happen when you’re making love—as our two heroines in “Busted” (in Caught Looking) discover:

I couldn’t form a coherent answer. She buried two fingers in my folds, pressed them up into me. I clamped down on them, desperate for release. The combination of thrusting fingers and the thumb she had pressed against my clit and her mouth clamped on my aching nipple was overwhelming. So many sensations, driving me further to the edge.

I crashed over into orgasm, grinding myself against her hand. I clutched the headrest with one hand and pounded against the car’s ceiling with the other. “Fuck, yes!”

And that’s when a bright light shone in the window and a strident male voice said, “All right, kids, let’s break it up in there.”

It was the voice rather than the light that caught my attention, largely because my bare ass was facing the window, giving the officer a fine view. I pulled my bra up, and tumbled sideways into the driver’s seat, my feet still tangled in my jeans. The action revealed Elle’s breasts in all their glory. She yanked the edges of the cardigan together, but not before the cop outside got a nice eyeful.

Shit. Cop

I’d been caught making out in a car before. Even caught by a cop. But never with a cop herself. Never when one of my partner’s co-workers, essentially, was watching.

Crap.

I reached behind my seat and flailed around for my shirt.

“Jesus, MacIntyre.” Elle’s voice sounded annoyed rather than embarrassed. She rolled down the window a little farther and glared up at him. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

And sometimes, the funny things lead to more hotness:

The way I was squirming wasn’t just from embarrassment. Some little part of me was turned on, not so much by what actually happened as by images running through my head.

(Caught Looking is an voyeur/exhibitionist anthology. Extrapolate from here, or better yet, buy the book and read the whole sexy story.)

Our novel Cat Scratch Fever takes place at a wild cat sanctuary that’s being vandalized. One of the volunteers, a former juvenile delinquent trying to go straight, discovers quite by accident that a sewer pipe has broken.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Across the green, his single utterance was loud and clear.

“Shit!”

“Language, Lance,” Felicia called.

“Crap!”

“We’ve talked about appropriate language—” Felicia tried again, amazed at his sudden descent into crudeness after weeks of him being successfully polite. Cleaning up his language, both grammar and colourful euphemisms, was part of the deal if he was to stay as a volunteer, and he’d been working hard at it.

He had dropped the bucket and rake, and now gestured helplessly, pointing at the ground. “Well, what do you want me to call it?!”

And that’s when the slight breeze shifted towards her. Felicia felt the bile rise in her throat.

But earlier in the book, another character had had the opportunity to see a different side of our bad boy, proving he could be just as hot as he was humorous.

She’d heard that tongue piercings made a huge difference for oral sex—and, from other people, that they didn’t. Melissa was enough of a scientist at heart that she tried to maintain a certain objectivity and figure out the truth. She could definitely feel the stud, a hard ball slipping over her slippery flesh, tantalizing the nerve endings in a slightly different way from the tongue itself.

But it’s hard to stay objective for long when a gorgeous boy is licking your clit—with or without a pierced tongue—and pushing two fingers inside you. Maybe it was the piercing, the rush from the “porn-star moment,” the fulfilment of her long-time yearning for a down-and-dirty session with a bad boy. Or maybe Lance just liked eating pussy and did it well.

All she could say for sure is that she was rapidly losing her mind.

At the end of Cat Scratch Fever we had an erotic clinch in a walk-in freezer that paused (frustratingly so for the characters in the clinch) for a humorous moment. They’re interrupted by Valerie, a wacky and kinky board member who calls out to them, although they don’t respond in the hopes that she’ll go away…

(Warning: Contains spoilers. A name has been disguised to protect the guilty.)

“Well,” called Valerie, “I was just coming to say goodnight.” Something in the tone of her voice suggested that she knew perfectly well what Felicia was up to in the fridge.

Gabe was inside her to the hilt; she was stretched around him. She felt his hand worm its way around her and between her thighs to stroke her wet clit.

Staying quiet was getting harder by the second.

She fluttered and clenched around him, and felt his hips jerk in response. Well, if he was going to torture her, she was going to torture him back. Now a little roll while she tightened some more.

She bit her own lip. That had been a mistake, at least from a keeping-quiet point of view.

“Oh, and I wanted to let you in on a little secret,” Valerie continued, “just between us girls, because I know how angry you are at [the villain]. I suggested to the police that [he] would probably need a thorough going-over, just in case he’s hiding anything. Can you imagine how surprised they’ll be when they find the butt plug that’s stuffed in him? Ta ta, dear!”

The woman’s delighted laugh, which didn’t sound the least bit demented under the circumstances, faded as she left the café.

Felicia was so stunned by the revelation that for a moment, her mind went blank. Then Gabe started moving again, thrusting into her and manipulating her clit at the same time. Felicia clutched the shelf so hard that she thought she might yank the bolts out of the wall.

“God, yes!” Gabe gasped, suddenly moving faster. The blood buzzed in Felicia’s ears as she responded, clamping down around him and shuddering through another orgasm along with him.

Only then, spiralling down from her climax, did she start to giggle. Gabe leaned against her, and she felt his chest rock with his own laughter.

In the real world, guys with a sense of humor have a better chance of getting hooked up—so why shouldn’t our heroines appreciate a man’s rapier wit as much as his killer abs and ginormous erection? (After all, under normal circumstances, you can check out the wit sooner than the…other important attributes.) And besides, science is on our side!

“[N]ew research suggests, humor talent does offer a possible advantage in the contest to proliferate offspring…. At least that’s the implication of a study of college students at McMaster University in Canada. Psychologists Eric Bressler and Sigal Balshine presented the students with photos of comparably attractive members of the opposite sex, accompanied by autobiographical statements supposedly authored by the people pictured. On average, women rated the ‘funny’ men as more romantically desirable than the plain talkers.” (science writer Tom Siegfried)

Then again, maybe we should let someone who's both funny and sexy have the last word, not a bunch of scientists. And so we turn to cartoon bombshell Jessica Rabbit, heroine of the hilarious (although admittedly not very erotic) movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit? When the unnaturally curvy redhead is asked why she loves her husband—a manic animated rabbit in the vein of Bugs Bunny—she replies, simply, “He makes me laugh.”

It's 5 O'Clock Somewhere . . .

Hello, lovely and lusty ones! I’m delighted you could join us to kick off December with some holiday decadence. What could be more decadent than sharing cocktails with a bunch of smutwriters at five o’clock in the morning, or five o’clock wherever you are? Along with cocktails, we’ll be serving appetizers: juicy secrets about the Lustbites authors (hopefully the latter will increase as the booze begins to flow). You might even find a few cocktail recipes tucked in among the gossip. I’m Anne, your hostess, bartender, and designated driver. Anyone who needs a ride home across The Pond will need to check with the nearest dark, mysterious stranger reading alone at the back of the bar (Shanna, isn’t your vice men reading alone in bars?).

So grab a seat, order a drink, slip off your shoes -- or your inibitions, or your panties, or whatever else you might do to make yourself comfortable -- and let’s get to know each other. Whether you’re a writer or a reader or both, please share a bit about yourself, too, using our questions or some of your own. Your favorite cocktail recipes are welcome, too; your bartender could use some inspiration here.

I’d like to say thanks to Alison Tyler for passing the swizzle stick to me for this shindig – hopefully she’ll drop in to procrastinate with us for awhile and have a few drinks.

Okay, I’ll spin the empty champagne bottle. (One down already? It's going to be a wild Monday.)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

DEANNA ASHFORD

Hi, I'm Deanna Ashford and I live in the south of England, close toLondon. I'm a full time writer when I'm not looking after everyone else in my family, including my very elderly King Charles Spaniel. I write historical, fantasy and modern erotica. My favourite are historicals and I'd write them all the time if my editor would let me!I love the research and find the past infinitely more interesting than the present.

Favourite Authors: Lots but the ones I can think of are Simon Scarrow,Bernard Cornwell and Mark Adkin.

Religion: None but Buddism does sound interesting

Turned on by: Passionate, fairly muscular men, with dark curls youwant to run your fingers through and blue/green eyes.

Would like to fuck: A certain guy who shall remain nameless but you can find his description above.

Passions other than sex: Writing of course, romantic music, historyand travel.

Major character flaw: I'm typical of my birth-sign Aries and I worry way too much about what I look like.

Drink of Choice: Mai-Tai
1 ounce Fine Jamaican Rum
1 ounce Martinique Rum (St. James)
1/2 ounce Orange Curacao
1/2 ounce Orgeat Syrup
Juice from one fresh lime (about 3/4 ounce)

Shake vigorously and serve. I chose this because it reminds me of Hawaii my most favourite place.

OLIVIA KNIGHT

Hi, I'm Olivia. I drink red wine, smoke roll-ups, listen to film scores on full blast, stay up late, walk very fast, and talk too much at parties. I'm the one standing outside with a cigarette who's just thrown her wine all over her dress. And that's why I wear black. No, I'm not drunk - I'm by nature a loud, friendly, clumsy person. And here's the Q&A lowdown...

Favorite to read: A.S. Byatt

Favorite to watch (apart from a man undressing): Farscape

Favorite food & drink: daytime, oatcakes & coffee; nightime, cheese & wine

Religion: anything featuring priestesses & ancient vaulting stone - I'm a temple-whore

Things that make me hot: words - words words words - intelligence - hipbones - strong arms - thick black hair - skin-smell

Would like to fuck: Legolas, Aragorn, Tristan

Passions other than writing and sex: candles, art, music, walking, and trees

Major character flaw: stubborn as a rock. In fact, rocks have nothing on me.

Favorite quotation: "Do I look absolutely divine and regal, yet at the same time very pretty and rather accessible?" - Queenie, from Blackadder

Philosophy: Do what you love.

Olivia's Martini Tutorial:

• Dash of vermouth

  Gin

  An olive, speared on a toothpick

Use an ice-cold glass. Roll the vermouth around a martini glass, tossing out any extra. Put the olive in on its toothpick. Fill a cocktail shaker with ice & shake two measures of gin in it, then strain it into the glass.

Note the absence of crushed ice, mixers, cherries, vodka, and nasty stuff that comes in a bottle labelled "Martini" but which isn't. It's really not so hard - so I can't work out why almost nowhere can get it right...

"Martini, martini, the drink I like most -

Two and I'm under the table,

Three and I'm under host."

- Dorothy Parker

ANNE TOURNEY

I’ve been writing erotic fiction since the early 1990’s. Most recently I’ve been writing erotica and erotic romance novels for Black Lace and Cheek. I’ve also published a bit of dark fantasy and mainstream fiction here and there. Today my latest Cheek novel Lying in Mid-Air makes its debut in the U.S. And I just typed “The End” on my 2008 Cheek release, Kiss Between My Lines.

Favorite Author: So, so hard to choose just one, but I think my all-time favorite, in terms of both the depth and breadth of her creativity and the influence she had on my writing, is Margaret Atwood.

Religion: Episcopagnostic

Things that make me hot: Intelligence, wit, creativity, and passion in anyone, male or female. Deep, long kisses that make you feel like you’re blissfully drowning. Men with strong, large, well-shaped hands. Men who tell me stories or read me poetry. Horse toys (I’ll tell you more about that after we’ve had a few).

Would like to fuck: Alexander the Great. Yeah, I know, time travel’s a bitch, but I’ll go to great lengths for a truly dominant male.

Passions other than writing or sex: Reading, photography, movies, long walks alone, contemporary poetry, my sweet six-toed Siamese cat, sushi, sweets, music (classical, jazz, alternative rock, and ambient are some of my favorites).

Drink: Cranberry juice with 7-Up and a lemon twist.

Philosophy of life: It’s not a party till somebody spills their drink.

Major character flaw: A love of excess. And more excess. And a bit more of that excess, please.

Favorite sex toy: Anything that makes me feel like I have four legs and a tail.

Secret for overcoming writer’s block: A sledgehammer.

Cocktail recipe: This is the only time of year that I can justify drinking fattening drinks. The rest of the year, I could knock 'em back anyway, but with considerably more guilt.

Peppermint Stick

1 1/2 oz. Creme de Cacao
1 oz. Peppermint Schnaps
1 oz. light cream

Shake ingredients with ice; strain into a champagne flute. Garnish with a candy cane.

And I had to add this one, just ‘cause I love anything slippery:

Slippery Nog

3/4 oz. Bailey’s Irish Cream
3/4 oz. Butterscotch Schnapps
Eggnog

Combine Bailey’s and schnapps in a highball glass, fill with eggnog. Stir well. Suck it down. Mmmmm . . . .

Holiday cocktail recipes from Drink Nation.


KATE PEARCE

Hi, I’m Kate Pearce, and you’re probably going to ask me if I write children’s books but I don’t -- really, I don’t. Despite looking like your average frumpy housewife, I write the edgy erotic romance novels that my mother is ashamed of. I’m originally from the UK and now live in California so I understand both sides of all the Lustie’s arguments which can get quite confusing sometimes. (erm not that we ever argue of course)

I write for Virgin Cheek, Ellora’s Cave and Kensington Aphrodisia so I’m busy as hell but glad to be employed. Historicals are my favorite books to write but somehow the contemporaries and futuristics sell just as well.

Favorite author: Just one? Jane Austen

Religion: Ex Roman Catholic and okay with that.

Things that make me hot: Voices, smiles, muscled arms, my hubby, Becks and Take That.

Would like to fuck: Now this minute?

Passions other than writing and sex? Riding a horse, reading, my little dog, good food and friends.

Major character flaw: I don’t have one -- erm, complacency

Philosophy: Life’s too short to waste doing something you hate.

Drink:

Strawberry Lemondrop Martini

3 oz vodka
4 oz sweet and sour mix
6 drops lemon juice
1 tsp sugar

Pour all ingredients into a cocktail shaker, and shake. Place the rim of a chilled cocktail/martini glass in a bowl of lemon juice, then transfer to a bowl of sugar in order to coat the rim. Pour the contents of the cocktail shaker into the cocktail glass, and serve. Makes 2 martinis.

TERESA NOELLE ROBERTS

Hi, Teresa Noelle Roberts here. You can call me T. Want some coffee, or maybe a glass of wine? Pull up a chair--you'll probably have to move a cat or two first--and make yourself comfortable. I'm writing from southern Massachusetts, unfortunately not right on the beautiful wintry coast, but I can pretend. I write short fiction, novels, and poetry, mostly erotic and/or mystical in nature. I also write erotic fiction as half of the fabulous two-headed monster named Sophie Mouette. I've been playing with words since before I actually knew how to write, and will probably continue to do so until they pry the keyboard out of my cold dead hands.

Favorite author: In what genre? I think I have a word limit here... I have an old-fashioned love for Jane Austen, because of the way she handles serious matters with a light touch.

Religion: Crunchy freeform pagan.

Things that make me hot: Beautiful eyes, intelligence, thinking dominance, leather, little beards, wit, cleavage (most likely not in combination with a little beard, but gender-bending is pretty hot too). And did I mention wit, intelligence, and dominance?

Would like to fuck: Possibly, if you're witty, smart, and on the toppy side, but my dance card's full these days.

Passions other than writing and sex? Food and cooking. The ocean. Belly dance. Sharing any of the above (and writing and where appropriate, sex) with those I love.

Drink: Champagne or rich red wine. Possibly a fine Scotch.

Major character flaw: Procrastination. (I should be working on a novel right now!)

Philosophy: I like being on the bisexual fence. I can see my house from here. More to the point, I can see yours . . . and the view in your bedroom window's mighty nice!


DAYLE DERMATIS

An interviewer once said of me that I have so many pseudonyms, you'd think I was a spy! Under my own name (Dayle A. Dermatis), she writes fantasy/SF. As Sophie Mouette, with coauthor Teresa Noelle Roberts, I write erotica and erotic romance. As Sarah Dale, with coauthor Sarah J. Husch, I write erotic romance. And as Andrea Dale, I write erotica and erotic romance, too... Apparently I've never seen the point in using pen names for privacy reasons.

I work full time as a writer and editor, and live in southern California within scent of the ocean. No, the recent wildfires didn't threaten me, although the sky turned the color of what I imagine the sky in hell looks like (if I believed in hell). I have impressive cleavage. Many people are surprised to learn I'm not a Virgo.

Favourite author: Guy Gavriel Kay

Politics: No, thank you

Religion: Pagan Turned on by: Full lower lips, dark blue eyes, naughty wickedness, sense of humor

Would like to fuck: Many of you

Passions other than sex: Styx, history, costuming, textile/fiber arts, music, herbalism, Wales, Celtic studies, birds of prey, cats (big and small), faeries, Pre-Raphaelites, Craftsman bunglows, travel (37 countries to date), motorcycling . . .

Major character flaw: Not admitting I have one

Favourite anecdote: The first thing William the Conqueror did when landing in Britain was trip and fall on his face. He recovered by grasping a handful of sand and announcing that it was the first part of Britain he'd conquered. No idea if it's true, but damn, I wish I had that ability to think on my feet! (Or not, as the case may be...)

Drink: Although I once wrote a story about a drink called The Witch of Venice, I prefer a nice, crisp, dry white wine. Or champagne. "It doesn't matter whether the glass is half-empty or half-full. What matters is whether there's another bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge."


SHANNA GERMAIN

Hi all - Shanna Germain hailing from Portland, Ore. where it's currently raining. Where it's always raining. Which means I get to spend a lot of time cooped up in my home office, with the cat on my lap and a soy mocha on my desk, pumping out words. I write a little bit of everything -- I'm mainly a short story writer, but I also write poetry, articles, novellas and, most recently, novels. My topics are almost always sex and death. Blame it on my hippie parents. Or my sordid past as a college student. Or the years that I worked as a paramedic. Or maybe those are just the things that interest me most. (Can I say that on Blogger?)

Favorite author: Amy Bloom.

Politics: Way too liberal to still be living in the U.S.

Religion: Naturalistic pantheist. Or heathen. Depends on the day.

Things that give me a hard-on: A good laugh, great dimples (in either set of cheeks), blue-blue eyes, snake hips, muscled calves, curly hair, boots, a woman who walks like she means it, a man reading alone in a bar.

Would like to fuck: Yes.

Passions other than sex: Writing, first and foremost. Then, sex. Oh, wait, other than sex . . . walking and hiking, playing sports, coffee, dark beer, good food, travel, great friends.

Major character flaw: Fear disguised as humor

Favourite anecdote: Dorothy Parker was once interrupted on her honeymoon by Harold Ross (her indomitable editor at The New Yorker), pressing her for a belated book review. "Too fucking busy," Parker replied, "and vice versa."

Drink: I'll have two of everything.


JANINE ASHBLESS

Hi – I’m Janine Ashbless. I live in England, and write full time. I foster dogs for a rescue charity. I’ve got chainsaw certification. I’ve been trained in shamanic journeying, though I don’t do it any more. I write paranormal, fairy-tale and fantasy erotica : "Vivid and tempestuous and dangerous, and bursting with sacrifice, death and love. " Portia says – I couldn’t ask for a better description. Imagine a bastard cross between Angela Carter and Robert E. Howard! I also write ‘straight’ ghost stories and horror – but not under this name. I write because it’s a physical addiction: if I stop for too long I start to go wappy.

Favourite author: HP Lovecraft (not as rude as he sounds!).
Politics: Green

Religion: Pagan atheist

Turned on by: Intellect, goatee beards, long hair, heroism

Would like to fuck: Gerard Butler

Passions other than sex: Travel, myth, greyhound welfare

Major character flaw: Embittered idealist

Favourite anecdote:

Niels Bohr, the quantum physicist, was asked why he had a horseshoe nailed over his door.
"For luck."
"But you don’t believe in that sort of thing, surely!"
"No I don’t. But I understand it works whether you believe it or not."

Drink: Mine’s a Bloody Mary, Anne!

Bloody Mary

4 -6 cubes (cracked) Ice
1dash Worcestershire sauce
1 dash tabasco sauce
1 measure vodka
6 measures tomato juice
1/2 a lemon worth lemon juice
1 pinch celery salt
1 pinch cayenne pepper

Put the cracked ice into a shaker. Dash the Worcestershire sauce and Tobasco sauce over the ice and pour in the vodka, tomatoe juice and lemon juice. Shake vigorously until a frost forms. Strain into a tall, chilled glass, add a pinch of celery salt and a pinch of cayenne pepper. Decorate with celery stick and/ or slice of lemon.

KRISTINA LLOYD

Hello. I’m Kristina Lloyd and you’ll always find me in the kitchen at parties. I live in Brighton on the south coast of England, and I write about women who like it on the dark, dirty and dangerous side. That’ll be me then. I’m quiet and bookish (shut up Madden, I am) and I like a nice whisky. My third Black Lace book, Split, has just been released and I seem to spend a lot of time staring into the middle distance, wondering when he’ll untie me.

Good stuff: bees, i-Pod, men swimming, me swimming, taxidermy, shingle beaches, porn, Pilot Hi-techpoint V5 pens (black ink), cartography, straitjackets, Andalusia, olives, marionettes, opium poppies and lots of other lovely, idiosyncratic nonsense like that.

Cocktail of choice: Margarita

1. For that salt-frosted rim, chill glass in freezer. Rub a lime wedge around rim. Dip in a saucer of salt. (Well, I think that’s how I did it last time. Tequila affects my memory.)

2. Follow the 3:2:1 rule. Three parts tequila, 2 parts Triple Sec, 1 part freshly squeezed lime juice. Shake in an old jam jar for that extra homemade touch. Pour over a smidgen of crushed ice. Add lime wedge.

Chin-chin!

MADELYNNE ELLIS

Hi, I'm Madelynne Ellis, Full Time Writer, Evil Goth Sorceress, Stoker of the Stove of Screaming Souls, Tender of the Bone Orchard, the Opaline Incantatrix, Fantoccini Chef, Haunter of the Dark Supermarket, Freelance Crypto-zoologist, Word-Bitch In Resident at Hobbs End Lunatic Asylum, ship's mum and harlot.

Favorite author: JRR Tolkien

Passions other than writing and sex? Theatrical make-up, dressing up in silly costumes, scaring people.

Favourite drink: Port, Goblin Cider, Cognac. Not necessarily in that order.

Major character flaw: Stubborn.

Favorite quotation: "If music be the food of love . . . Prepare for indigestion." -
Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich.

Favorite colour: Triad black

Favourite vicarious pastime: Flirting

Would like to play seduction games with: Gackt, Jonathan Rhys Meyers & Lord Wraxall. And yes, together would be fine.

Secret for overcoming writer's block: A four hour bubble bath.

MADELINE MOORE

Favorite author: I’m a voracious reader. Always have been. There are a slew of authors I faithfully read as their new books come out. Alice Munro, though she’s said she might stop writing now because her grandma once said to her, ‘Why make more misery?’ She dedicated one of her books like so: ‘To the careful reader.’ I like that very much. I recently discovered Sarah Dunant’s In the Company of the Courtesan and have been devouring her books as quickly as I can find them. In the erotica department I think I’ve read something by every member of Lustbites, at least a short story. The work is as varied as the individuals who make up our blog, but I’ve honestly enjoyed all of it.

I’ll miss Susie Bright’s Best of American Erotica anthologies, especially since I haven’t been in one. I love Alison Tyler’s “ABC” series, Cleis Press, and I will be in L is for Leather.

Favorite movie: When Apocalypse Now ended I fell to my knees in the theatre. That movie knocked me out! I enjoyed the recent expanded version. Fight Club, Adaptation, Notes On A Scandal, Elizabeth. The list is huge. I write TV and film scripts so I watch a lot of movies and a fair bit of TV and sometimes, I admit, I can get pretty excited about a nice long TV night featuring Bones, CSI Vegas, Law and Order CI, Weeds, The L Word . . .

Favorite food: A true prairie girl like me can’t get by without red meat, though I’ve tried from time to time. I like a great steak, crazy about my own beef stew, and lately, the mere mention of a Kelsey’s burger with cracked peppercorns and basil mayo makes my mouth water. I like gravy, a lot. But for a real dining out experience, oh give me Thai food! Glass noodles, papaya salad, chicken curry with coconut milk, salad rolls, and for dessert, fried bananas with coconut ice cream. Cob coon mac mac, ca!

Religion: Deist. There’s something out there, just don’t ask me what it is and do not attempt to tell me what it is, either.

Things that make me hot: Anticipation (for a few hours only, not for a few days.) Lingerie. A firm hand and a soft voice. Words, baby, lots of words, crooned in a low, rumbling male baritone. When I’m hot I get wet, and that makes me hotter, which makes me wetter…and so on. I love the way that works.

Would like to fuck: In my dreams, Vincent D’onofrio and Dennis Quaid. In real life I’m happier than I’ve ever been since Felix Baron became my lover.

Passions other than writing and sex? I lived in Thailand for 2 years when I was 14 – 16 years old, and I continue to be interested in all things Thai, especially the food, and thick, straight, black hair.

I enjoy great conversation – and I get lots of that at Lust Bites. I’m passionate about my beautiful daughters and their education.

I guess I’m pretty nuts about my huge chocolate Siamese cat, Leo. He’s incredibly affectionate, talks a lot, and loves getting presents. He knows if I’m sick or sad, and comforts me in his kitty cat way. In fact, I believe that cats are proof that there is a God, as they are such a perfect pet (they even make a pleasant rumbling sound when you stroke them, for gawd’s sake) I find it hard to believe they weren’t crafted by the Master.

Drink: Schweppe’s diet ginger ale.

Major character flaw: Moi? I have been known to lose my temper – suddenly, explosively, very verbally. I have an addictive personality so almost everything I enjoy becomes a problem, sooner or later, (see above, favourite drink, diet ginger ale, sigh.) Some exceptions to that rule are sex, writing and music.

Favorite quotation: ‘A man climbs a mountain and they call him a hero. I climb mountains that aren’t even there!’ Francis Ford Coppola

Philosophy: If you don’t like me, don’t be around me. Also, if I’m not doing it with a glad heart, then I’m not doing it at all.

Favorite sex toy: I can’t tell you my favourite sex toy. All the other sex toys might get jealous.

Secret for overcoming writer’s block: Nothing overcomes writer’s block like a good deadline. If I don’t have one and can’t make myself respect my own, I just get Felix to give me a deadline. That works.

PORTIA DA COSTA

Drink: Stella Artois

• open bottle or can


• pour into glass


• drink


• alternatively may be drunk from bottle or can

Bio: My name's Portia Da Costa [sometimes] and I live in a small town in West Yorkshire with my husband and three cats. I write mainly contemporary erotic romance, with occasional forays into paranormal. I'd love to try writing a hot historical some day, or maybe an urban fantasy, but I probably don't have sufficient plotting skills for either.

Favourite authors: Thomas Harris and Ian Fleming. Cyrian Amberlake for erotica. Currently reading Lord of Scoundrels by Loretta Chase, and just finished Claiming the Courtesan by Anna Campbell - both excellent.

Favourite fantasy heroes of the moment: Robert Goren, Professor Charles Eppes and Special Agent Don Eppes, Eisenheim the Illusionist, Captain Jack Sparrow

Favourite pastime: watching the telly

Favourite foods: fish and chips, chocolate, cake

Favourite drinks: tea, coffee, apple juice, lager

Major character flaw: all of them.

Love, WendyPortia

So that's some of us . . . have a drink (or two, or six) and tell us who you are.

Coming Attractions

by Kristina Lloyd
As erotica authors, we’re always telling tales of cock but tomorrow we’re shaking it about about a bit and bringing you cocktails instead! Anne Tourney, your hostess with the mostest, will be swizzling the sticks as lots of Lusties turn up to say hello, drunkenly introduce themselves and have sex on top of the photocopier - just like people with proper jobs do at office Christmas parties.

On Wednesday, Dayle A. Dermatis and Teresa Noelle Roberts do a double act and explore the merry world of sex and humour.

Then it’s double, triple, quadruple and beyond as Olivia Knight sets the ball rolling on Friday for our irregular group sex slot. (Yes, as in 'highly irregular'.) Watch a sexy story unfold before your eyes as writers and bloggers build on each other’s words to create who knows what? Tales of cock, no doubt. Why don't you fix yourself a drink and join us?

---

Winner of Kate Pearce's Roping the Wind is Ana Aragon. Please send your postal address to us at lustbitesladies at yahoo dot com

Pic is Brandon Mills by Joe Oppedisano. Yum.

Silver Werewolves Book 2: The Silver Crown

By Mathilde Madden

I know, I know, book one has only just come out in the US and already the UK is getting the sequel. But don't worry - no spoilers if you haven't read book one yet, just a hot little snippet and the chance to win your own copies of both Book One: The Silver Collar and Book Two: The Silver Crown.

(By the way, although book 2 would make sense on its own, the books are best read in order.)

So I won't say too much, just that this is the heroine of all three books, Iris, out doing her job, with her ex-husband and fellow werewolf hunter Blake.

Blake flicked his mic back up. He turned his body a couple of degrees and lined himself up square on with Iris. He smiled. One of his nasty ones. 'Right then.'

Iris stared at him. She felt suddenly very, very alone in a dark park with a predatorily scary man. She shook herself – again. Not a scary man. Just Blake. Blake. Ex-husband, Beast loving, werewolf hunter Blake. 'Right then, what?' she said, horrified when her voice came out as a crackling whisper.

'No more bloody messing around. I'm going to fuck you now, Iris.'

The corners of Iris's mouth twitched into a smile. She almost laughed. 'What?'

'You heard me.'

'What? Blake. Don't. Stop it. We need to go back and help Pepper. She's got two lycs down there not to mention Pure – whatever he is.'

Blake cocked his head. His movements had suddenly gone all sinuous and seductive. Prowly. 'All tranqued, baby,' he purred. 'Pepper can handle it.' He took a couple of steps towards Iris.

'Blake? What about the other one?'

'We can’t track it without a sighting. We need to wait for Pepper to get back to us.' Blake was too close now. He reached out and touched Iris's hair, brushing a few stray strands out of her eyes and then reaching around and pulling out the band that held her pony tail, letting his fingertips tickle the back of her neck. It was a familiar gesture. One he used to do all the time. It was his pre-sex thing. When they were dating and when they were married, he would do this at home, in the office, he did it once at Iris's cousin's wedding. His thin dry fingertips had the perfect texture for this move. They played – just for a spare moment – around the very start of her spine. That achingly vulnerable spot where her brain slunk into her body.

His voice was silk, smoke. 'Come on, Iris. You always did used to like it out of doors. Out of breath. Out of…, of control. You want to fight me a bit first? Wrestle? See who gets to be on top. I know you usually can best me, but I really want to win tonight and sometimes that can give me enough edge. Want to try me. I really want to win, Iris. Flip you over. Fuck you like an animal. I wonder why I should be thinking that way.'

Iris was shaking her head. Slowly, her disbelief winning out over her growing, conflicted arousal. 'Blake…? Have you gone nuts? What on earth makes you think I'm going to have sex with you? I'm with Alfie. You know that. In fact, I know that you know that because you have been acting practically psychotic about it a lot of the time.' But Iris hadn't moved away from Blake and his hands were on her shoulders.

Blake moved his right hand and played with the collar of Iris's shirt. 'Yeah? Does he know that? You know you can’t trust a lyc, Iris. He'll always betray you. They might look human, but they're not. They'll always put their own kind first. You saw that in the basement.'

Iris took a single step back. Away from Blake. Shaking her head. He watched her, almost as if he was just curious about what she might do. Like everything she did faintly amused him.

She moved fast. She kicked Blake hard in the shin and turned to run. She started pounding away across the playground and across the park. But Blake already wasn't far behind her, shouting something about her wanting to play games.

Iris tried to sprint, but she was exhausted from pursuing the lyc. Her muscles were screaming too soon and she felt Blake almost at her shoulder. She swerved as she anticipated his tackle, but missed her footing in the pitted ground, going down hard on the grass.

Blake had her. He had dived half on top of her and he hauled himself up her body, rolling her onto her back. He had her arms pinned under his knees as he straddled her and he got his face very close in hers. He took hold of her chin, running the pad of his thumb across her lips. She jerked her head away. 'Blake. Get off me.'

'No.' Blake ducked his head, stuck out his tongue and licked her top lip.

'God, Blake.' Iris was panting now and it wasn't from the run.

Blake stared at her for a moment. He was breathing just as hard as she was. He narrowed his eyes as if he was trying to work something out. Then he said, 'I know you know that I'm not a good man, Iris. But even I – your special nightmare - am not going any further with this game until you give me permission.'

'What?'

'Well, I don't want to get done for sexual harassment now, do I, Iris? Look, I'm going to give you a chance now. One chance. If you want to walk away, right now, I'll let you.'

Underneath him Iris almost spat. 'You'll let me!'

'Yeah. I'll be kind and let you get away.'

'You let me get away! I don’t need you to… Fuck you, Blake.' Iris almost spat it.

'I'm not the one about to get fucked. I'm going to fuck you. Just like you want me to. I'll even carry on playing the bad man for you, if you like, so you can tell yourself it was all my fault. You can fight me as hard as you want. You can hurt me – kick me in the balls, I know that's your favourite move – I don't care. Fight me. But I'll win, Iris. Because I want you more than you want me to stop. I know you, Iris. I know what you need.'

'Blake, have you lost your mind?'


So if you want to win copies of the first book and the newly released The Silver Crown just drop me a comment and growl if you love werewolves (or, actually werewolf hunters since there weren't any werewolves in that scene)

Mat Madden x

Birthday Bites

by Madelynne Ellis

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUST BITES!

Woo hoo! Yes, that's right, we're one whole year old today, which feels like a hell of a long time here in blogland. Above you'll notice our gorgeous birthday cake in all it's chocolatey scrumminess. You may also notice that it is small but perfectly formed. This is because here at Lust Bites we like to give you a nibble then tease you with promises of more... much more!

And here I am about to tease you with more, if you'll only commit to a little blog hopping and visit us all at home. Roll up, roll up now, for the... wait for it...

The Lust Bites 1st Birthday Scavenger Hunt.

You can find all the important details about addresses, questions and prizes by clicking here, or on the banner below, so I'm not going to repeat them here.


But first, let me whet your appetite by telling you there are a whopping sixteen books on offer, including these


as well as an assortment of bookmarks, cover flats, mugs and lingerie. And all you have to do to have a chance of winning some of this loot is answer a few (fifteen) questions. (That's not even one per book!) Then email the answers to lustbitesladies@yahoo.com before 5th January 2008. Easy. Right?

What are you waiting for? Go... Scoot!

Oh, yeah. I remember. You've figured I'm saving the yummiest morsels for last. Well, I suppose we can share. Here they are, the Lust Bites birthday boys... from top to bottom: Coy, Pits, Yum, Chips, Doodle, Sandy & Chains. Enjoy!