CHANCE OF A LIFETIME - Portia Da Costa

CHANCE OF A LIFETIME is a short erotic romance novella, published on 1st November 2008 by Spice Briefs. It's BDSM themed and features an impoverished twenty-first century aristocrat who enjoys introducing his lovers to the delights of sensual spanking.

Here's an excerpt in which Rose discovers the joys and risks of sneakily watching the Marquis's secret videotapes...

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I discovered this little sitting room a couple days ago, when I was a bit lost and searching for the Blue Salon where I was supposed to be polishing the floor. I stumbled in here and found a room that was homely and pretty lived in, and sort of cozy. And me being irredeemably nosy, when I saw an old VCR and a bunch of tapes, I had to investigate.

Boy oh boy oh boy! What a shock I got.

And now, while the house is empty, I slip another tape into the machine and settle down in a battered old leather armchair to watch it.

It’s a home movie. Filmed, I think, in this very room. And it stars my latest crush, the Marquis himself, and what must have been his girlfriend at the time. Obviously, it was taped many years ago, because His Lordship had short hair then, and now it’s long, down to his shoulders.

Here he is, possibly sitting in this very chair. His knees are set wide apart and his girlfriend is face down across them.

He’s spanking her.

He’s really laying it on with his long, powerful hand, and she’s squirming and creating and patently loving it!

And I’m loving it too, and I don’t really know why. Okay, I knew people played spanking games for sexual kicks, and I’d sort of hinted to various boyfriends that I’d like to try it. But it’s never happened and I’ve never really worried about that.

But now. Now I’ve seen it. I bloody well want it!

I’m so turned on now I can barely see straight. And I certainly can’t stay still in my chair. I’m sweating and my skin feels like it’s already been spanked, all over. And between my legs, I’m drenched, my panties sopping with intense, almost inexplicable arousal. My sex is aching, tight and hungry, as if I want to be fucked right now, but at the same time have my bottom thrashed, just like the woman in the video.

The Marquis really seems to be enjoying her pleasure, even though his cool, handsome face is exquisitely impassive. It’s an old, well worn tape, but I can still see the mask of stern, beautiful composure that he affects… and the wicked dark twinkle in his eyes.

It’s no good, I’ve got to play with myself. I can’t help it and I can’t bear it if I don’t. My sex is so heavy and so tense, I’ve just got to do it.

As the woman on the screen writhes and wriggles and shrieks as His Lordship’s hand comes down, I unzip my jeans and shuffle them down to my knees, dragging my soggy panties with them. There’s something wickedly lewd about sitting here with my clothes half mast like this, and the forbidden exposure only excites me more and makes my need to touch my body ever more urgent.

“Oh God…” I murmur vaguely as I slip my fingers between my legs and find my clit. It’s swollen and ready for my touch like a throbbing button. I flick it lightly and my vagina flutters dangerously. On the screen, the spanked girl tries to touch her own sex, wriggling her hand beneath her belly as she squirms and cries, but the Marquis pauses, mid-spank, and gently remonstrates with her.

“Come, come, Sylvia, you know you mustn’t do that. No pleasure until you’ve been a good girl and taken your punishment.”

His voice is soft, even, but shot through with sweet steel and authority. It pushes me closer to coming just as powerfully as the spanking show does. I suddenly wish I could get to know him better, and make this all real.

“Oh, My Lord…” I whisper this time, closing my eyes and turning on an inner video. This time it’s me across those strong thighs. Me, who’s writhing and moaning, with my bottom flaming.

Oh, the picture is so clear. And it’s the Marquis of today who’s doing the business, not the one in the video.

He’s wearing his usual outfit of black jeans and black shirt, and his beautiful hair his loose on his shoulders like sheets of silk. There’s a sly, slight smile on his pale, chiseled face, and his long, cultured hand comes down with metronomic regularity.

I’m rubbing myself hard now, beating at my clit, but not stroking the very apex of it. I daren’t, I’m so excited and I don’t want to come yet. In my fantasy, he allows me to touch myself while he’s smacking me.

I writhe and wriggle, both fighting the pleasure and savoring its gathering at the same time. I throw my thighs wide, rubbing my bottom against the seat of the creaky old armchair. The sensation of the smooth surface against my skin is even more pervy. I press down harder, squashing my anus against the leather. I imagine him spanking me there, and even though I’ve no idea what it would really feel like, I groan, wanting it more and more and more.

“Oh My Lord… do it… do it…” I burble, eyes tight closed and half out of my mind with desire and longing.

“Actually, my dear, I think you’re ‘doing it’ quite well enough on your own. Do continue.”

What?

It’s like I’m falling, dropping through reality into a parallel universe. I know what’s happened but somehow I can’t stop rubbing myself.

My eyes fly open though, and here he is.

The Marquis.

Somehow he’s walked into the room without me realizing it, moving softly on the rubber soles of his black running shoes.


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Uh oh, looks like Rose is in for it now, doesn't it? ;)


CHANCE OF A LIFETIME is available from eHarlequin, Fictionwise, Books on Board and Amazon Kindle.

Chance of a Lifetime by Portia Da Costa
Harlequin Spice Briefs ® 2008 ISBN 9781426824739
© 2008 Portia Da Costa
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher

Vampire Bites

by Janine Ashbless


"I do not drink … coffee."


Bwa ha ha…


Vampires. They’re insatiable, they’re everywhere and they’re hungry for sex as well as blood. Gone are the days when they hung out in dingy castles in the Carpathians and stole the occasional filthy peasant baby for dinner. Nowadays it’s all sharp clothes and nightclubs and urban gangsterism, or exotic locales, designer drugs and hard liquor. And yes – they’re well into the sex thing these days. Omnisexual and sadistic, travel may have broadened their minds but they’re just as mean as ever ol’ Dracula was.


In Lust at First Bite, the new Black Lace anthology of sexy vampire short stories, you’ll find vampires in Venice, in Egypt and on the Ganges, in the theatre and the suburbs, Coney Island and remote hotels and the offices of media executives. And since four of us Lusties have stories in the collection, here’s your sneak peek:

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The Oasis at Night by Madeline Moore

(Charles and Miriam are searching for the lost tomb of Cleopatra deep in the Egyptian desert…)

Charles shimmied down. He tongued orange in and out of her sex, until the mangled fruit disappeared down his throat. An inch from his eyes, her inner lips were delicate, and scarlet. Beneath her skin a vein pulsed so strongly he could count her heartbeats. He sucked one tender lip into his mouth. With it held between the lips of his mouth, he could feel the throb of her blood as it pulsed.

It was so tempting … He let his incisors sink into the flesh, just a tad, still divided by a thin sensitive film of flesh. She groaned, so he did it again and then released her pussy from his mouth like a beast of prey dropping its catch.

‘I could eat you, little bird,’ he said. He propped himself on his elbows and stretched his body the length of hers. ‘And I might. But not tonight.’

‘Tonight is all we have, Charles,’ she whispered.

‘I still need you,’ he whispered back.

He entered her then, roughly, in one hard thrust that travelled deep inside her tight tunnel. Six hard strokes and he’d had enough of it. Too soft, this tunnel, too yielding.

He pulled out, flipped her over, yanked her to all fours and was in her bum before she could take another ragged breath. The rougher he got, the louder she got. He wound his fist in her hair and tugged her head back. Her mouth dropped open and she was shrieking, which made him laugh. He couldn’t see the pulse in her throat but it didn’t matter any more, he could hear it, or was it his own pulse, his own heartbeat recklessly, wildly fuelling the monster between his legs.

---

Sometimes They Come Back by Portia Da Costa

(Richard, having walked out on his wife Mel, returns to their house in the hope of reconciliation…)

Sounds from upstairs made him nearly faint in an agony of mental pain.

It was voices. Mel’s and that of a man. Low with pleasure and ragged, as if deliciously close to orgasm.

He almost flew up the stairs, more sure footed now, his anguish lending him wings.

In the bedroom, as he burst in, exactly the tableau that he’d feared assaulted his eyes.


His Mel, astride another man, her body magnificent in torn black lingerie, her eyes wild with lust and hot dark glee as she gazed down at the pale muscular form of her lover. A lean man, ripped and powerful, with long flaxen hair.

Richard froze, unable to speak or move. He could do nothing but watch in a saturation of horror and grinding despair.

Slowly, slowly, Mel undulated and rocked on the body of her paramour, her slender form hypnotic in its grace and almost glowing, fluorescent with sensuality. Slowly, slowly she turned her head to the side and looked straight at Richard, her beautiful face a disdainful mask of passion. Her eyes still on him, she reached down to the apex of her thighs, where she sat on the slim hips of her lover, and languidly, almost insultingly, strummed her clit.

Her lips were red, decadently stained, and her neck was bleeding, just as the neck of the man beneath her was.

Only her blood, and her companion’s, was almost black.

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The Blood of the Martyrs by Janine Ashbless

(Emily and her lover Paolo have accidentally released an undead medieval saint from his Venetian crypt…)

‘Ah.’ Aronne’s breath was hot in my lips. ‘This is sin.’

‘It will be forgiven,’ I whispered.

He stared. We were both trembling now. Ghost-pale, his cock sprang out into my grasp. Hot velvet skin moved under my hands as I measured his rigid length. I dared to look down. His prick was big and ruthlessly eager, not sharing his misgivings. A bead of moisture gleamed at the tip: no pearl, but a ruby.

I wanted to take the body and blood in my mouth.

Do this in remembrance of Me.

Stolen clothes. Stolen memories. They were too much for him. This saint had the appetites of a predator, whetted to a razor edge by years of deprivation and darkness. His eyes were scarlet reflective discs of light as he stooped and picked me up, jamming me against the chapel bars. And then he opened my loose pyjama jacket, the last pathetic piece of clothing between me and those jaws, and with immense care bit my breasts, over and over. His teeth were so sharp that the bites hurt comparatively little, but every puncture sent the lightning of Heaven crashing through my body. His tongue burned and soothed me simultaneously, lapping at my flesh. I wrapped my legs around his torso and knotted my hands in his white hair and rode the waves of shock and euphoria, surrendering myself to his strength and his need.

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And last but not least…

El Alquimista by Madelynne Ellis

(Jessamine has gone to confront the vampire called the Alchemist over the death of her lover Billy…)

I’m like a furnace now, burning up. But the Alchemist never stops coaxing. ‘You shouldn’t have gone so long without a lover,’ he says. ‘Your hunger is consuming you. I can ease that. I can make it all go away. Just give me the word and we’ll make a bond.’

I want him; crave him with every ounce of my being, but the price he’s asking is far too high.

When he nicks my ear lobe, panic floods my veins and I rise up beneath him. I don’t escape. Our bodies just press closer, but he does release my wrists. ‘You must know how this works,’ he says. ‘I need to take a little the better to give.’

‘No. I saw what you did to Billy, you won’t take that from me.’

‘Are you implying that your boyfriend was bisexual? Do you imagine I fucked his arse as I took his blood?’

‘No!’ I don’t know what I’m protesting at: the implication that I’d imagined it or the image he is planting. Billy was true to me. This beast preyed upon him. They were never lovers.

But I can see them entwined now. Billy’s knees on the floor, his upper body supported by the white sofa and his hand on his cock, wanking himself while the Alchemist thrust roughly into his arse.

‘Stop it,’ I gasp. ‘Stop planting these images.’

‘Why?’ he laughs. ‘They’re turning you on.’

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If you want to read more then you can buy Lust At First Bite from Amazon UK as of this week, or pre-order from Amazon US (out in January). Just the thing for those long Winter nights…

Sweet dreams!

xxx
Janine

The New Rakes

By Nikki Magennis



THE NEW RAKES – Out now!

Hi all! It’s lovely to be back here on Lust Bites, and I’m very excited to bring you a peek of my second novel, The New Rakes, which is out now in the UK. (Okay, nearly now. Tomorrow. If you order it now, they might even slip a sneaky one in the post this very afternoon.)

So, what’s it all about? Well, I wanted the strapline: ‘Sex and sex and rock n roll’, but the editor sensibly went with ‘She’s got a lust for life’.

Here’s the blurb:


The New Rakes are known for the hot, dirty electro music they play in basement gigs all over the city, but lead singer Kara has ambitions beyond underground success.

Fuelled by her sexy performances and the love/hate relationship with her guitarist Tam, the band is poised on the brink of stardom. And when Mike Greene, the charismatic head of a record company, offers The New Rakes a deal, it seems all their hopes are about to be realised.

But Kara and Mike have history - and this time he wants more than a professional relationship. Kara is seduced by his glamorous promises and despite the attempts of Lina, his manipulative ex-girlfriend, she becomes Mike's lover.

As she gets tangled in a web of sex, power and deceit, Kara learns the hard way what success really means. Will she have to choose between the limelight and true love?


What else can I say ... I think the book is very, very dirty. Hopefully dirtysweet. And hopefully intense.

*Sigh*

I’m patently no use at writing promotional copy. Which is why I made a short film instead. Are you sitting comfortably? Voila!




(No paper dolls were harmed during the making of this movie. Well, not much. I glued them back together afterwards.)

Lastly, here’s a wee snippet:

She shoved him up against the white-painted breezeblocks with a force that made him raise an eyebrow and smile at her, even as she was slipping a hand inside the waistband of his trousers and groping for his cock. The shaft sprung up to meet her fingers, plump and promising and already leaking a little drop of pre-come.

It was always a slight shock, feeling Tam’s prick in her hand – like discovering an old friend in an obscene pose. Which was exactly the situation, she decided, letting him grip her wrists and pull them up, swinging her round until she was the one with the hard scrape of the wall behind her.

‘My turn, I think,’ he said, sinking to his knees in front of her and burying his face in her lap. Through the thin fabric of her skirt, the heat of his breath scorched her pussy, turning her molten and making her thankful for the hard wall at her back.

Meanwhile she could feel the wiry strength of his fingers working their way up her legs, pawing at her skin like a cat working its claws. He pushed her clothes aside, shoving her skirt up and tugging her knickers down simultaneously to reveal the light fuzz of her pubic hair and the little deep pink bud of her clit, which he kissed, softly.

Read more at my blog.

And if you’d like a chance to win the book, I’ll be giving away two signed copies today – just say hi in the comment box and tell me which rock star you’d be a groupie for!

Nikki x


Amazon UK

Out on January 6th in the US and Canada – preorder now!

SMUT SLOT: Market for Love, by Jamaica Layne

Here you'll find an excerpt from my latest Virgin Cheek release MARKET FOR LOVE by Jamaica Layne! Here's your chance to see how erotica can work in the super-uptight financial world, even in the midst of an economic downturn! Comment away, because one lucky commenter will receive a FREE signed copy from the author! (Check back on the comments thread in 3 days to see if you won!)

Buy at Amazon UK Buy at Amazon USA Buy at BN.com

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Chapter One

“I am so dead.”
That’s what Miranda Johansson, the sole female stock research analyst at Maxwell Moore & Company, LLC, whispered one Tuesday morning—a Tuesday that would surely soon be known as Black Tuesday in financial circles.
“I am so, so, dead,” Miranda moaned.
The market had just crashed.
Well, not the whole market, exactly—just the entire telecom sector, which also just so happened to be the area of the market Miranda Johansson’s stock research focused on. And to be perfectly accurate, the telecom sector hadn’t just crashed. The telecom sector had actually sunk so low it was resting somewhere in the ninth circle of Hell, right next to Dante, Lucifer, and Julius Caesar.
Miranda watched the share prices of the thirty-two telecom stocks she covered plummet farther and farther down on the black-and-green screen of her trading terminal. When all the shares in her research universe sank to below ten percent of their opening price, she put her head down on her keyboard. She thought she might cry.
In fact, she did cry. A little. Not out loud. Not enough to need a nose-blow or a hanky. But enough so that two big fat salty tears squeezed their way past her scrunched-up eyelids. And those two big, fat, salty tears were more than enough to send her $15.98 eyeliner and $32.00 Super-Luscious-Curl mascara running right down both her cheeks in two greasy black rivers. But she was too wrapped up in the eighty-seven million or so dollars she’d just lost for her clients to know that.
“I am so fucking dead.” This time she didn’t whisper or moan. This time, she screamed. Screamed, loud enough to bring Annabelle--her emotionally astute, middle-aged personal assistant--trotting right into her office.
“Miranda? Miranda, hon, are you okay?”
“Mrrrghhhh,” Miranda told her keyboard. The ‘ESC’ button jammed itself into her left eyelid.
“Miranda? Are you going to issue a special First-Call bulletin on the—ahhhm—price adjustments?”
Price adjustments. Miranda silently thanked God that Annabelle was too diplomatic to call it what it really was—a career-destroying clusterfuck of a total, massive, stock implosion.
Miranda jerked upright, the pattern of her keyboard decorating the entire left side of her face. “Yeah, Annabelle. I definitely think a First Call bulletin would be, um, appropriate.” Miranda had to bite her lower lip to keep from bursting into tears again. She knew that the day’s portfolio losses of any investor who’d been following her stock advice would exceed 90 percent. With that kind of single-day hammering, Miranda figured this First-Call bulletin could very well be the last one she’d ever write, to say nothing of the hate mail and obscene phone calls she was sure to start receiving from Maxwell Moore and Company’s clients any minute.
She made a mental note to start working on her resume.
Annabelle pulled a steno notebook and pen from somewhere in her ample cleavage. “Shall I start taking down that First Call bulletin now, hon?”
Miranda sighed. The still-plummeting numbers on her trading computer screen were making her dizzy. She needed a coffee break, and fast.
Well, more like a four-martini break. But drinking during market hours was strictly against Maxwell Moore & Company policy. With guzzling gallons of alcohol out of the question, Miranda decided she’d need at least three double-espressos just to get through the rest of what was sure to be a horrendous day.
“I’ll be back in five minutes, Annabelle. I’m going downstairs to the coffee shop for a little while. Hold my calls.”
“Sure thing, Miranda. But wait just a sec ….”
Miranda ignored her. She got up from her desk and headed out of her office and straight down the hall toward the elevators.

* * * *

“Three double-espressos, please,” Miranda barked at the purple-dreadlocked college student behind the counter of her building’s lobby coffee shop. “With soy milk and a dash of hazelnut syrup. And can you put all three double-espressos in the same big cup, please? Just leave off the lid. I’ll drink it here.”
The purple-dreadlocked clerk didn’t acknowledge Miranda’s order. He just stared at her.
Miranda rolled her eyes. She didn’t have time for this. “Pardon me, but are you hard of hearing?”
“No,” the glassy-eyed, purple-haired clerk said after a long, awkward moment. “Sorry. I was just kind of freaked out by your--face, that’s all.”
“My face? Are you implying there’s something wrong with my face?” Miranda’s temper—short in even the best of circumstances—let loose in full post-market-crash fury. “Because if you are honestly going to stand there making comments about my face when your hair looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, then you have really got a lot of nerve, buddy.”
Purple Dread Head’s mouth popped open for a moment, then clapped shut with a click. Silently he turned his back on Miranda and began frothing some milk for her espresso order.
“That’s more like it,” she said under her breath. “Lazy freaking hippie.”
Tossing petty insults at low-paid service workers wasn’t exactly Miranda’s style----in fact, she’d put herself through business school slinging lattes at this coffee chain’s main competition----but losing eighty-seven million dollars’ worth of her clients’ money in one day wasn’t exactly her style, either. With that kind of bad news weighing her down, Miranda figured she was entitled to blow her stack a little bit. She stepped down to the end of the counter to await her order, seething, and grinding her teeth in time to the espresso machine.
As she stood there, gathering up about nineteen packets of sugar for what would probably be the most intense shot of caffeine in her life, Miranda felt a sharp tap on her shoulder.
“I really think you owe the Rastafarian behind the counter an apology, miss.”
Miranda whirled around. A tall man stood just to her left, carrying an extra-large mug of hot chocolate complete with about four inches worth of whipped cream on top. A tall, slim, trim, well-dressed, and very attractive man. Dark hair in an immaculate, well-combed cut. Ice-blue eyes. Jawline so angular and sharp it was probably capable of shredding lettuce. Broad shoulders, square chest, dimpled chin. A stop-your-heart-right-between-beats kind of tall, attractive man. In other words ….
Drop. Dead. Gorgeous.
A drop-dead-gorgeous man who also looked about two seconds shy of tossing his hot chocolate right into Miranda’s face.

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Want to know what happens next? Well, you'll just have to buy the book!

(Or, you can comment for your chance to win a FREE signed copy from the author!!)

Buy at Amazon UK :: Buy at Amazon USA :: Buy at BN.com

The Persian Girl

by Madeline Moore




Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none but self expect applause; He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes and keeps his self-made laws.
- Sir Richard Francis Burton British explorer & orientalist (1821 - 1890)



On Wednesday, we chatted with Felix Baron, a writing tutor and an erotica writer who publishes novels with Nexus. Felix's latest release is called The Persian Girl. It recounts an adventure, hitherto unknown, that Sir Richard Burton experienced before he was knighted.



As you may know, he translated The Arabian Nights, The Kama Sutra, and The Perfumed Gardens. A master of disguise, en route to India Sir Richard learned enough Hindi to get off the ship, enrobed, and pass as a Hindu. He entered Mecca as a Muslim. He is acknowledged as the greatest swordsman of all times, and wrote the standard British Army manual on the sabre. Quite the character, hm?



Here's the lovely front cover of The Persian Girl:



and here's what it says on the back:

The auction catalogue read: Lot #217. A tin trunk, circa 1860, containing a number of esoteric volumes, many with curious woodcuts, all in poor condition.

The trunk holds the secret diaries of Sir Richard Francis Burton: soldier, spy, explorer, linguist, diplomat, master of disguise, the greatest swordsman of all time, hero, scoundrel and rake. During the period of his life recounted in 'The Persian Girl', he carouses his way from London to the Himalayas.

From the depraved 'governess', Abigail, and her debauched young wards, to the quartet of nymphs he encounters in a Turkish palace, Burton's journey leads him to his greatest challenge of all - schooling a dozen lusty young wenches in the more arcane arts of the bed chamber.

After that, saving the British Empire from a perfidious Russian plot is easy.

Sound like fun? I'd say so! This novel is a great read, and I'd say that even if Felix Baron wasn't my true love.

I just adore stories that start with the discovery of ancient stuff. In this case, Felix purchased the tin box, in which he discovered the secret writings of Sir Richard Burton. It is known that Sir Richard's wife, Isabel, burned all of his papers that she deemed scurrilous. But Sir Richard, knowing his wife's public prudishness (as well as her private earthiness) must have hidden some of his scandalous stuff in a tin box, only to have it end up in the hands of none other than Felix Baron, erotica writer. How serendipitous!



This first excerpt takes place in the Turkish palace mentioned above. Sir Richard Burton is being pampered by four lovely sylphs:

I was led into a candle-lit chamber that was dominated by a raised dais, not strewn with cushions as I might have expected, but thickly padded and covered in textured cotton. Signs and tugs directed me to recline, on my back, arms and legs spread wide. One fetched hot towels and aromatic unguents. My face was lotioned, covered, kneaded through cotton, then bared for the ministrations of a cut-throat razor. The girl’s strokes were so sure and delicate that it felt as if she were caressing my skin with a goose-feather rather than with a sharp blade.
When she was done, my steaming towels were renewed, but this time only covering my eyes. I was so warm and comfortable that despite the presence of four delightful nymphs, I had almost drifted off to sleep before I became aware that my smallest fingers and toes were being subtly manipulated. The tugs started gently but became stronger, until the joints ‘cracked’ and the ministering fingers moved on to the adjoining toes and fingers.
Their coordination impressed me. Without a pause, the massage moved from finger to finger, toe to toe, until both of my great toes and both of my thumbs ‘popped’ simultaneously.
Strong little fingers dug into my palms and the soles of my feet. It seemed as if each and every one of the bones in those appendages was isolated and manipulated before the probing fingers moved on. My wrists and ankles were deeply massaged, then my forearms and calves. When the girls started on my knees and elbows, I became aware that my digits were being revisited. This time, the girls were using their lips. Again, the sweet treatment progressed from smallest to largest. Each finger and toe was licked and then sucked upon, as if it were a miniature cock being fellated.
The slow progression was incredibly tantalizing but I was happy to surrender to the teasing. It was simultaneously stimulating and relaxing to have ten fingertips fondling each of the creases between my thighs and my torso and caressing my armpits while four soft wet mouths and sinuous tongues played behind my raised knees and on the insides of my elbows.
My erection became almost painful. Gentle lips nuzzled both sides of my neck. There were tongues slithering the lengths of my groins. Fingers brushed my nipples and danced down the arches of my ribs. The two girls who attended to me above my waist were straddling my arms. I lifted my hands to stroke the softness of their bellies. As if in response, all four humped higher upon me. Four mounds bore down. A girlish cunny spread its hot wet lips on each of my insteps. Two more impaled themselves on my fingers. All four lithe lovelies writhed, stimulating themselves as well as me.
A tongue tickled at each corner of my mouth. I turned my head to the left, to suck the sweetness from one eager mouth, then to the right, to sample and compare the other nymph’s oral nectar.
The back of a hand lifted my scrotum. The perineum, called Hui Yin in Taoism, is a Chakra, a centre of spiritual power. It is as sensitive as a lip. The caress I was subjected to was so subtle that for a while I wasn’t sure of its source. Then I realized. The girls were giving me ‘butterfly’ kisses – fluttering their eyelashes on my skin. The sensation was almost unbearably exquisite. I reached a stage when it seemed my climax would be inevitable even though my shaft had not yet been touched unless I delayed it by an effort of will, when all four withdrew.




Oh! Poor Sir Richard!
Well, we mustn't feel too bad for him. He gets plenty of action, as well he might, for he's as talented in bed as he is with a sword. In this excerpt, he has been captured and is being transported along the silk road. One of his companions on the journey is Fatima, a young Egyptian belly-dancer.

She agreed, ‘Slowly and gently. We have all night.’
I wrapped her curvaceous little body in my arms. My fingers found her nipples. I nuzzled and licked into the crook of her neck, a caress I’d discovered she particularly enjoyed. Fatima was less patient. Her fingers curled around my shaft. Her back hollowed, hitching her bottom higher. She steered my cock up between her thighs to the lush warm wetness of her cunny and rubbed its dome between her nether lips and against the hard little button at their juncture. Her gasps were subdued and breathless but within a few moments she gave a delicate shudder and sighed.
‘You said “slowly and gently”,’ I reminded her.
‘That was to give me the patience for “slowly and gently.” Now, tease me, please?’
‘And what manner of teasing does my little harlot have a taste for, tonight?’
‘This manner.’ Once more she guided my shaft, this time presenting it to the pucker between her bum’s cheeks. Her grip was just behind my cock’s head. She rubbed my dome against her opening with increasing pressure until the tight portal to her rear passage relaxed and the head of my cock, just the head, entered her.
Holding me there, she twisted her neck to get her tongue to my mouth. As we kissed, I pressed, gently, but her grip tightened, holding me still.
With a last lascivious lick of my lips, she murmured, ‘Just that deep, no deeper. That’s the best part – when the thickest part of you passes through the narrowest part of me.’
I rocked. My cock’s head plopped through the stricture, and plopped out of it. Each stroke was held in check by her clutching fist. I felt Fatima shiver in my arms in time with my entrances and with my exits. The urge to plunge deep came to me but I resisted. From her swallowed moans and tiny quivers, I was sure that she too was fighting her desire to be totally impaled. My lust stretched and sang, like the string of a violin that was being played even as it was tightened. It became more extreme when I felt that although Fatima’s left hand was restraining me, her right was busy at her cunny.
There was no sudden rush to climax. One second I was slowly sodomising her and enjoying the incredible tension. The next, I spent. My jism had simply flowed out of me.


Want more? Well, The Persian Girl is available in the UK now, and is available for preorder now in the US for a Dec. 9 release (just in time for Christmas!)

Or - Felix will be popping in today to answer any questions you have about research, etc. and I'll be about as well, so pepper us with your questions and comments and one lucky person will win a copy of The Persian Girl.

Love is a Battlefield

IN TOO DEEP - Portia Da Costa



Blurb

It's all in the mind...

Librarian Gwendolynne Price starts finding indecent proposals and sexy stories in her suggestion box every morning. Shocked that they seem to be tailored specifically to her own deepest sexual fantasies, she begins a tantalising relationship with a man she's never met.

At the same time, she's fast getting involved with a man she has met. Superstar historian Professor Daniel Brewster is on sabbatical, researching in the library. The glamorous academic sets women's hearts thudding all over the country, but Gwendolynne is the one he quickly shows an interest in...

Pretty soon however, a relationship of erotic letters and toe-curlingly sensual emails collides with kinky games played in the all too real flesh.

Can Gwendolynne decipher the identity of her mysterious correspondent Nemesis, and will he still be as exciting when unmasked? Can she survive the pain of loving then losing Daniel when his research is over and leaves and moves on?

Or is she tangled in too deep with both men?

In this excerpt, Gwendolynne, becoming increasingly more besotted with Daniel, succumbs to jealousy and picks a fight... while they're in the middle of making love... er, shagging on an old settee in the library's basement!

* * *

‘Who was that woman?’

I can’t believe I just spoke. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m drowning in the most sumptuous sensations, yet still my stupid jealous brain is screwing things up.

Daniel’s eyes fly open, and for a moment, they’re unfocused and hazy. He blinks as if he’s not quite sure who he’s seeing - but I see red. Maybe he’s even fantasising about her? ‘You know, the one with the suit who you were snogging in the lobby.’

He frowns, still scrunching up his eyes, then seems to focus. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, he grips me hard around the waist, bucks up his hips, and jams me down yet more firmly on his erection.

I let out an ‘Oh God!’ and feel as if steam is coming out of my ears. My body is stretched around him, the tension tugging hard on my clit. I forget that any other woman on the earth even exists. There’s only me sitting on Daniel, full of his cock. He thrusts up again, and pulls me down, and it’s not just the decrepit settee that creaks and groans.

‘That woman…’ His voice is low and thrilling. His grip still hard. ‘That woman is my cousin Annie, and she’s the co-owner of the Waverley Hotel. Which is why I’m staying there.’ Consolidating his grip with one hand, he swivels his wrist and slips his other between our bodies, finding my clit and flicking it. My pussy ripples around him and I see stars, my own eyes closing. He flicks me again and I start to come, still confused, still angry.

‘Satisfied?’ he growls, and taking my clitoris neatly between finger and thumb, he squeezes. When he gives my bottom a little slap, I am satisfied… and I come.

A scream bubbles in my throat, but at the last second, I jam my fist in my mouth. Waves and waves of pleasure radiate from my clit where he grips it, holding on delicately even though I’m jerking and writhing all over the place.

He slaps me again, my orgasm surges… I half black out.

I slump forward and for a few minutes, I just crouch over him, draped against his body, my chest heaving, my entire sex fizzing with aftershocks. His arms fold around me, cradling me, exquisitely gentle and tender where before he was domineering. It’s like I’ve been shot into space and now I’m floating down gently on my parachute.

Sex was never like this before.

Maybe I’ve never even had sex before, just some pale and ineffectual simulation of it?

Eventually, I haul in a deep breath. I’ve touched down again. And the most pressing matter I have to deal with right at this moment is the fierce erection that’s still hot and hard inside me.

How on earth can this be? Does the man have superhuman powers? My ex or indeed any of my previous boyfriends would have been finished long since. No way they could have withstood such an exciting ride, because surely it must have been just as hectic for him as it was for me.

And yet here he is, like a rock inside me, but a warm, blood-filled rock that pulsates with the force of his life.

I straighten a little, and look down at him.

The devil!

His smile is a picture. There is the tenderness, I wasn’t mistaken - but shining through that is an infuriating male smugness. A ‘look at me… look at my powers of endurance… you’ll never beat me’ expression, which makes me want to do just that, beat him. I want to overwhelm him into shooting inside me, my helpless slave.

I shove back on his chest, bracing myself, adjusting my position. Then I lift, and crash down again, taking him deeper. My pussy flickers dangerously again, another orgasm only a whisker away, but I get the satisfaction of Daniel’s eye flying wide open. And when I do it again, he lets out a curse that’s more appropriate for a merchant seaman than a highly educated and sophisticated academic.

‘Shush!’ I command him, leaning a little forward again and covering his mouth with my hand.

Then I ride him, I really ride him, lifting up and pounding down on him again and again. Within seconds I’m coming, in a sudden, violent encore, but I work on through it, my body moving on auto while my mind sails among the stars.

And still he resists me, the bastard.

Enough already. I hunker down, squat down really hard on him and clench my glowing sex around his cock. It makes me see those stars again, but I grit my teeth and grip him and work him like I’ve never gripped and worked a man before.

His hands grip my hips, digging into the too, too abundant flesh there, and I feel the tips of his nails threatening my skin. The fuck, he’s still holding out on me! His beautiful face is an icon of strain and stubbornness, the line of his jaw hard as iron, his teeth clenched.

Bugger this!

Still tight on him, I rise up and crash down again.

And two things happen simultaneously. No, three things. No, actually, four…

Daniel snarls another seafaring oath.

He comes, his hips pistoning crazily.

I come again, the pleasure wrung from me almost as if it were pain.

The ancient settee finally succumbs to the punishment we’ve inflicted on it… and the whole thing collapses under us with an almighty crash!

IN TOO DEEP is available to preorder from Amazon.com and NOW from Amazon.co.uk

So, back on Friday 5th September when I did a promo thingie for this fine publication, I said that everyone who commented then *and* today would go in a draw for a copy of ENTERTAING MR STONE and one of SUITE SEVENTEEN... However, have decided to extend the draw to anyone who commented then *or* today ie. more chances to be the winner! If the person whose name comes out of the hat did actually comment on both days, there will be extras though... ;)

So let me know what you think of this slice of simultaneous argument and make-up sex! LOL

Finally, I'd like to thank Wendy the Superlibrarian for pointing me in the direction of the splendid 'Naughty Librarian' pix I've used in this post. Thanks, mate!

I'd also like to thank David Krumholtz aka Professor Charles Eppes from Numb3rs for being so deliciously cute and inspirational.

Return to Stoneworld... again.

Portia Da Costa



I love to read linked books and ever since I started writing, I've often tried to create mini series and books that have characters and settings in common. Back in 2005, I wrote a book called Entertaining Mr Stone, and with it I established what I call Stoneworld - which is the 'universe' in which that book, and several others, as well as a few short stories are set. Stoneworld is an un-named Northern Borough and its environs, very much like the area I've lived and worked in all my life. Entertaining Mr Stone was set in the Borough Hall, where the heroine Maria had a clerical job and met the deliciously sexy Mr Robert Stone, the Borough's Director of Finance. A key scene also took place at the Waverley Grange country house hotel, and the next book - Suite Seventeen - featured the hotel as its main location. And now, In Too Deep takes place in the Borough's Library Headquarters, with walk-on appearances by several characters from both EMS and S17 and some of the action occurring at the Waverley too.

In Too Deep is the story of Gwendolynne Price, a readers' advisor in the Borough Library, much as I once was a readers' advisor in a Public Library Headquarters. The Borough Library is an old fashioned place in some ways, and has a traditional 'suggestion box'. The story opens just as Gwendolynne has started receiving suggestive notes, via the box, from a mysterious and rather verbose pervert who calls himself 'Nemesis'. At the same time as she's getting her socks blown off by these deliciously kinky letters, she's also falling in lust big-time with a visiting celebrity academic, Professor Daniel Brewster, who she privately calls Professor Hottie McHotstuff. He's researching his latest book and television history series in the Borough Library archives. Cue much friskiness down in the stacks and an escalating exchange of increasingly explicit letters, emails and internet chats, when Gwendolynne launches into a daring and sexy relationship with *both* men!

Read an excerpt here

Available from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk

In Too Deep isn't the end of Stoneworld however. I'm currently writing my next Black Lace novel, Kiss It Better, which features a heroine who owns a café in a small town on the edge of the Borough. And guess which country house hotel the mysterious hero just happens to be staying at? ;)

So, gentle readers, do you like books that are part of a series, or which are set in an over-arcing 'universe' or locale?

On Friday 26th September, I will be posting an excerpt from In Too Deep here at Lust Bites. Leave a comment here today, and one on the 26th as well, and your name will go into a draw, in which the prize is a copy of each the first two Stoneworld books - Entertaining Mr Stone and Suite Seventeen. Hopefully, by the time the winner's read those, he or she will be champing at the bit to read In Too Deep!

*nb... you'll notice that Prof Hottie appears to be rather a dab hand at maths too. This is because his real world 'template', a fictional mathematician, is one of my fantasy writing coaches. Confused? I think I am... LOL

Smut Slot - Wildwood

by Janine Ashbless

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See: I had the choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

xxx

Janine

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

blog : website

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

Smut slot: Amanda's Young Men

Fireworks are for sale all over Canada right now. This is because Canada Day, July 1, is right around the corner, but I like to think it’s because the release date for Amanda’s Young Men is July 3, (although the book is available now on Amazon.co.uk) and Canadians everywhere are eager to celebrate. OK, so the release date is for the UK only and, according to the information I have at present, Amanda’s Young Men won’t be available in Canada/US until January 6, 2009, but still…a girl can dream, and for anyone who's ever dreamt of young-but-legal boy toys, my book is a dream come true.

Here's what the front cover looks like:


And here's what it says on the back:

When her husband dies of a heart attack in a by-the-hour motel, Amanda inherits a chain of shoe shops that bleed money. But luckily for Amanda, the staff are bright and beautiful young people, ambitious to succeed and eager to give her total satisfaction. As she sets out to save the chain, and discover the woman involved in her husband's death, Amanda also finds time to amuse herself with lovers - young ones, and lots of them. Heels, hose, and haute couture have always been parts of Amanda's life, but now she's up to her dimples in duplicity, desire and decadence.

That’s right, she’s a cougar on the prowl. And not this kind of cougar:


We’re talking about this kind:



Way to go, Demi! Next Friday we’ll be talking about boy toys and you’ll get lots of pictures like this one, and the opportunity to comment on the topic:



But today, it’s all about Amanda's Young Men. So here’s a couple of bites from the book to whet your appetite.

Amanda steals Paul from a rival shoe store:

He measured her foot with the delicate touch of a spider. ‘One moment, Madam.’
The shoe he brought to her was a plain classic pump in metallic bronze, with six-inch steel-tipped heels that were as slender and vicious as nails. He knelt and used his palm to push up on the blunted spike to press the shoe’s heel onto Amanda’s foot. Amanda bore down, forcing his right hand lower and lower, until its back was flat on the floor, and trapped. Then she put just a little weight on it, indenting the flesh of his palm.
Paul looked up at her face with both pain and lust in his eyes.
‘Now the other shoe,’ she said.
‘I…’
‘You’ll manage.’
‘Yes, Madam.’ Awkwardly, he worked her foot into the second shoe, one-handed, until a third of her heel was in it. He set his palm beneath its spike and looked up again, his deep brown eyes silently pleading.
Amanda knew exactly what he wanted. She forced his left hand down and trapped it beside its mate.


Amanda has sex with Paul:

Amanda knelt between his thighs. His balls, like Rupert’s, were tight and close to his body, two perfect gemstones encased in a sack of the thinnest, smoothest leather. She handled them with care, arranging his scrotum to hang nicely over the edge of the couch. The rest of his lovely young package lay limp on his thigh. She blew on its head. It twitched and rose a fraction. Her left hand took its base and lifted it. Even that slight attention engorged his flesh.
Amanda dipped her head. As her lips stretched over Paul’s knob, he gasped. She didn’t take him deep. It was her lips and tongue, slobbering and deliberately making wet noises, that brought him to full straining erection. She rose swiftly and knelt on the sofa astride Paul’s thighs. Still holding his shaft, she lowered herself until its dome was snuggled between her pussy’s bare lips.
Paul’s eyes clouded with lust. Holding his gaze, she sank, teasing herself and savouring each throbbing inch as it sank into her. When she was sitting on him, her lips stretched around his base, she ground down, gaining an extra inch, and rotated, stirring her own insides on the stiff rod that impaled her.
‘I’m going to fuck you,’ she growled. ‘I’m going to get myself off on your hard young cock and it doesn’t matter to me whether you come or not. This is for me. You understand?’
He nodded.
Amanda took a fistful of his hair in her left hand and twisted it. Paul winced but said nothing. Forcing herself down, Amanda bumped and twitched and squirmed until her clit was trapped between her pubic bone and his. She slow-humped, masturbating herself on his captive flesh. The thumb and forefinger of her still-latexed right hand clamped on his left nipple and firmly rotated it.
Now that she had two hand-grips, Amanda cut loose, twisting her hips and riding him, hard and fast. It must have been good for him, too good, because he groaned, humped up and collapsed. ‘Don’t you dare go soft on me,’ she ordered, and gave his nipple a cruel wrench.
Perhaps it was the sudden pain, for the flesh that she’d felt start to soften inside her recovered its rigidity. Incredible! She was truly using him just as she’d use a sex toy, pushing his buttons to make him perform exactly as she required. Inspired by her newfound power, Amanda rode Paul harder, faster, pounding her pubic mound down on his, exulting in every sensation. He kept the pace, thrusting up to meet her, matching her wildness with his own. Sweat dripped from her forehead onto his cheek. His tongue instantly stretched to capture the droplet. He closed his eyes, as if to savour the flavour. And it was this, this gentle, unexpected wordless declaration of adoration in the midst of their ferocious coupling, that tipped her into a climax so deep, so complete, it made her howl.

One lucky commenter will win a signed copy of Amanda’s Young Men, to be announced Monday. Just one thing – my author copies have gone missing but more are on the way. So the winner will have to be patient, but not as patient as North American readers.

Let the celebration begin!

(The painting used in this post is by Robert R. Bliss: "Untitled Pair of Young Men" If you have interest in this painting, contact Outer Cape Auctions.)

(If you just can't wait a week to contemplate boy toys, why not revisit Olivia Knight's crush Wednesday post on skinny boys?

Buy the book - Amanda's Young Men - Amazon.co.uk

preorder the book - Amanda's Young Men - Amazon.com

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