Saturday, November 28, 2015

Where No Man Has Gone Before

I’m rounding out the week with an excerpt from another recent Coming Together release, Coming Together Outside the Box. This volume, edited by speculative erotica author and podcast publisher Nobilis Reed, benefits the Cholangiocarcinoma Foundation, an organization dedicated to finding a cure for this vicious and unrelenting cancer.

The theme for this anthology is “pioneers”. The contributors have interpreted this in a variety of ways. My own story, written expressly for this collection, is a humorous tale of a shy young man who finally dares to cross-dress at a Star Trek convention.

Leave a comment with your email and you could win a copy of my speculative erotica story The Antidote. And remember, there’s a grand prize of $40 up for grabs. The more blog posts where you leave comments, the more likely you are to win! Plus every participant has a special prize for you at his or her blog.

You’ll find a bit from “To Boldly Go” below. Links to all the hop posts follow.

Thanks for participating in the Thanks-Giving Back blog hop, by the way. I hope you enjoyed it. (I hope you bought some of our altruistic erotica books, too! They make great holiday presents!) We’ll announce the grand prize winner next week.

You’ve got to be kidding! No way am I going to EnterCon in drag!”

My best friend Lorelei bats her mascara-laden lashes. “You know you want to....”

Yeah, well, I want to get up close and personal with Benedict Cumberbatch, too. It’s not going to happen!”

Lo assumes a well-practiced pout. “But you’d make such a great Uhura. Come on! You’ve done it before.”

Sure, I’ve dressed up in some of your less slutty outfits and gone clubbing with you. But this is different. Despite George Takei, Trek cons aren’t exactly gay friendly. Remember last year, in Tulsa? The crowd almost killed that Kirk and Spock when they found the two in a slash scene.”

That was God forsaken Oklahoma, Jeremy! Nothing like that’s going to happen in San Jose!” She flashes me a deceptively innocent smile. “Anyway, by the time I’m done with you, it’ll be impossible to tell you’re not a girl.”

A little thrill sings through me at that – Lo knows me all too well. It’s not that I want to be a woman. I mean, I’d never go under the knife. I’m very happy with my dick, thank you very much. But I love the way I feel in female clothing – pretty, flirtatious, desirable, far bolder than the meek, nerdy web developer I am in the real world. Just imagining myself as the tall, dignified, curvy starship lieutenant has me half hard. It would be pretty tough to hide my excitement if I were to actually go along with Lorelei’s scheme.

Yeah, I know most drag queens hide their junk between their legs, but that’s just too uncomfortable for me. I don’t plan to enter a bikini contest or anything. A pair of elasticized control panties keeps my bulge fairly discreet.

I’ve got a red velour shift that will be perfect. It flares at the hips and will be plenty long enough to cover your crotch.”

Lorelei, you’re impossible!” My blush probably doesn’t show under my dark skin, but hot embarrassment makes me squirm. Lorelei shoots a pointed glance at the obvious swelling in my jeans.

Blog Hop Links

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Friday, November 27, 2015

Release Day for Another Coming Together Title

In keeping with our blog hop theme of giving thanks, I’m grateful to announce the release of yet another Coming Together book in which I had a hand. Coming Together In Verse, edited by Ashley Lister, collects the poems of many erotic authors (including yours truly). I was fascinated to see the list of contributors, many of whom I know but whose poetry I’ve never encountered. 


All proceeds from the book will support the animal rescue charity Hope for Paws.

Anyway, the book is out today. You can find details and buy links here:

And just to whet your appetite, I’ll give you a short poem that I wrote under Ashley’s tutelage. (It’s not in the book. I want you to buy the book!) If you leave a comment (with your email), you could win a copy of my story The Last Amanuensis, which also includes a sample of my poetry.

Restraint (Rondeau)

My hands are tied, but were I free
I'd suck your cock and sip your pee;
I'd spread my lips so you could sense
the aromatic evidence
of what your voice can do to me.

My flesh and heart in heat agree.
Unlock them both; you hold the key
to joy and anguish, both intense.
My hands are tied.

You think me lost. Why can't you see?
If you should claim the whole of me
as yours, I'd offer no defense.
But you're a gentleman, and hence,
my ring makes all this fantasy.
My hands are tied.

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Sunday 22 November

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Thursday, November 26, 2015

Bloody Good Erotica

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate! Even if you don’t, I hope you’ll take a minute to remember and acknowledge all your blessings, and to hug your loved ones.

My Thanks-Giving Back post today features Coming Together In Vein, a multi-author collection of vampire erotica that I edited. The book benefits one of my favorite causes, Médecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders). MSF works to provide medical services to the world’s most desperate, often in areas torn apart by war or devastated by natural disasters. They provide care for all, regardless of race, religion or political affiliationand they’ve suffered for that humanitarian position.

When I compare my own life with those of the people MSF serves, I’m humbled and grateful. This anthology, which includes fabulous stories by M. Christian, Cheyenne Blue, Giselle Renarde, Xan West, Nobilis Reed, and many more of my favorite authors, is worth buying for its own sake. In addition, every cent of the purchase price goes to support MSF’s courageous and compassionate work.

I’ve included a sample from my story in the book, “Vampires, Limited”. Leave me a comment with your email, and I’ll choose one person to receive a copy of my paranormal collection Fourth World, which includes two vampire tales.

Try the next picture.” The man’s body was tense, as though he was working hard to hold something back. Slowly, tearing herself away from the soulful gaze in the photo, she turned it over.

The photograph that followed ripped her apart. Although vampiric in theme, it was nothing like the camp pictures that her publication featured. The same red-haired woman lay nude on a satin-draped bier, graceful and pale. Her wrists crossed on her abdomen, just below the modest swell of her perfect breasts. Her face was turned toward the camera, her eyes closed, her lips parted. A trail of crimson fluid trickled from her neck, across the white satin and onto the stone floor.

Behind the bier stood the vampire. His right hand held a white candle that fitfully illuminated the arches of the vault. His left cupped his victim’s breast, thumb resting lightly on her prominent nipple.

His blond hair was pushed back from his brow, damp with sweat. His skin was flushed with the blood that he had swallowed, the blood that still smeared his lips. Looking into those eyes, eyes dark as hell, Lara felt it all: his grief, his guilt and his awful, all-consuming lust.

Who was she, the ethereal, terribly convincing victim? And who, who was he?

She didn’t see him move. Yet all at once he was behind her, his hands on her shoulders, murmuring in her ear. “Barbara was her name. She was my girlfriend, back in college. A terrible mistake.”

He was so close, she should have felt the heat of his body, but it was as if a mannequin was pressed against her, instead of a living person. She could smell him, though, a sharp grassy scent that made her think of the country and wide open spaces.

Casually he trailed a finger up the side of her neck and circled her earlobe. A shiver raced through her, winding tight around her nipples, spiraling down to her sex. He nipped at her ear, playful, but hard enough to make her gasp. “As for me, you know who I am, don’t you? Or at least, what I am.”

Lara knew what he was saying. She just couldn’t accept it.

Here.” Still behind her, he grabbed her hand and placed her fingers on his throat. His skin was cooler than the air, cool and smooth as marble. “Do you feel any pulse?”

No—but—it’s just not possible. It’s just a myth. A fashion, a fad. Everyone these days pretends...”

He brought her wrist to his lips, flicking his tongue over the spot where the veins were closest to the surface. His mouth was hot, unlike the rest of him. A violent shudder of desire rocked her body. “Close your eyes,” he murmured.

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Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Erotic Visions for the Brave

Ive known Amanda Earl for nearly a decade, having met her (as is the case with so many other fellow authors) through the Erotica Readers & Writers Association. She contributed two stories to Cream, the ERWA anthology I edited in 2006. However, I didnt fully appreciate Amandas artistry, passion and erudition until she joined the Oh Get a Grip group blog in 2013. She only stayed a year before moving on to other creative ventures, but that was long enough for me to recognize her for the remarkable individual she is. I was thrilled when she agreed to work with me in compiling Coming Together Presents Amanda Earl.

While editing on this collection, I’ve had the chance to read (and re-read) far more of Amanda’s erotica than I’d done before. In the aftermath, I’m still soaked. Amanda’s stories exhibit great diversity, but all are designed to arouse.

The stories in this book run the gamut from raw and transgressive (“Sir North”, “Daddy Complex”) to wistful and tender (“Typing for Jack”, “Mercy and the Man in the Dark Suit”) to playful (“Cinderella and the Glass Dildo”, “Jesus, Melinda and the Undead”) to desperately dark (“The Vessel”, “Sex with an Old Woman”). In these pages, you’ll find humor and irony, satire and philosophy, and pretty much every shade of pleasure imaginable. Amanda’s fiction explores lust in all its compelling urgency and celebrates the incandescent experience of mutual sexual satisfaction. But don’t look for romance; although her characters may share affection, respect, the thrill of recognizing common or complementary fantasies, she’s not really interested in happily ever after. To quote from her glorious tale, “The Adulteress”:

I'm not going to pine away for the guy after he's gone. Or maybe I will, just a little bit, here in my lonely apartment with the candles burning bright. I might obsess about him just a smidge. Fantasize about fucking him again. Write for hours or days about the encounter or turn to a fresh, blank page. It depends on how good we are together. I suspect my Romanian playwright and I will fuck like gods. Even the way he looks at me turns my knees to jelly, my cunt to cream.

This is literary—and literate—erotica. Be warned, though. Amanda doesn’t mince words. She’s graphic in her descriptions, ferocious in her explication of desire, no matter how wild, dangerous, messy and socially unacceptable its form. This isn’t a book for the faint of heart. I suspect Amanda’s proud of this fact.

Like all books in the Coming Together Presents imprint, this collection benefits a charity selected by the author. Amanda has chosen GMHC (, which provides worldwide AIDS/HIV prevention, care and advocacy throughout the world. Amanda and her husband have participated in the GMHC Walk for Life in Ottawa for a decade. All proceeds from sales of Coming Together Presents Amanda Earl will go toward helping to end the epidemic and improving the quality of life for those living with AIDS/HIV.

So even as you’re squirming in your seat, amazed and aroused by Amanda’s carnal creations, you can know that you’re actually doing a good deed.

[Leave a comment on this post, with your email, and I’ll enter you to win a copy of my speculative erotica story The Last Amanuensis.]

Here’s a bit from Amanda’s story “Matilda Jones Has a Secret”.

Matilda is also excited to be in a room full of fellow rubberists. They are all either hooded or masked. Some wear gas masks. Like her, the participants would be ostracized by their families and their communities if their activities were discovered. In larger cities, she’s heard that those into rubber are able to walk around in public. That is something she can never do in her small bedroom community. It is enough for her now to have discovered a group of like-minded people.

Matilda smiles and greets a woman in an electric blue spandex leotard. A man in a shiny rubber raincoat waves at her. She is home.

Her master is lounging on a bar stool; he is handsome and masculine in leather and shiny PVC, with an opening that displays his cock, which she notices is already distended. A topless woman in a plaid latex mini skirt licks his boots.

Matilda kneels and waits for his command to crawl to him. She bites the end of the collar and holds it with her teeth while she crawls, taking care not to drop it, because she knows what the consequences will be if she does so.

When she is at his feet, he bends her forward so that her ass is in the air and her breasts are within easy reach. He reaches down and strokes the zippers over her breasts, unzips each zipper slowly and then pulls on a tit, hardening it. He smiles at her quick intake of breath, then does the same thing with the other tit. Matilda’s breasts are now aching with pain and ready to be used. Her master tells her to open her mouth. The collar drops into his hands.

He wraps it around her neck. Matilda feels the familiar and delicious constriction as he fastens the collar. Her arousal spreads from her stomach to the depths of her cunt. He zips her eyes closed. She is now in darkness, with flecks of light glinting through the zipper teeth. All she can do is listen, focus and accept what is about to be done to her. She is responsible for nothing. Everything is out of her control.

She chews her lips as the cold clamps bite into each nipple. She tries not to squirm in desire as she smells the musky aroma of her master’s cock, which forces its way inside her mouth. Matilda can taste a trace of the other sub’s perfume on his cock. Somehow this flagrant evidence of wantonness arouses her even more, firing her imagination and her loins. Nothing is hidden here, nothing is disapproved of. There are no limits.

Her master unzips the zipper at her crotch, ordering her to spread her legs. She loves the throatiness of his voice, the clarity of his commands. She either obeys or he punishes her. It is that simple. She winces as the cold, steel-pointed toe of his boot parts her moist and swollen lower lips.

Her master pushes her down on his boot, ordering her to hump against it until she comes. The boot is still wet from the other submissive’s tongue. A rush of heat spreads through Matilda’s cunt. She can tell by the feminine gagging sound that her master is shoving his cock down the other sub’s throat. Once he has used the girl, she will be dismissed. Matilda’s master will focus solely on using his own personal rubber-clad wench.

Around her, she can hear the snap of whips, the rattle of steel chains, the moans of the others, as if they are all part of some ecstatic symphony. The sounds add to her feelings of bliss.

As she humps her master’s foot, she luxuriates in knowing she is his to do with what he wants and that her sole duty is to be his beautiful and exotic slave, gleaming in black rubber. Her mind flashes briefly to the woman, pale in her pastel frock, her minivan full of groceries, the backseat covered in faded crayon marks. She remembers the Laura Ashley sheets on the lonely queen sized bed her husband rarely bothers to sleep in. Then her master removes the clamps and she howls in pleasure and pain, knowing her loud screams are pleasing him. Sensation drives every thought from her busy, analytical brain as she reaches climax.

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Sunday 22 November

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Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Funny, Brutal, Tender

I first met C. Garcia-Sanchez, like so many of the authors whom I admire, through the Writers list of the Erotica Readers and Writers Association. I honestly can’t remember exactly how we struck up the first of our many email conversations. I do, however, recall him asking me if I would read and critique his work in progress, “The Color of the Moon”. And I remember being stunned and amazed by the beauty, wisdom and depth of that piece—even as I was playing the role of a responsible crit partner, suggesting cuts and changes. His compelling tale of ancient Japan, with its itinerant Buddhist monk and passionate ghost, was like nothing I’d ever read. Certainly, despite its intense eroticism, it was a far cry from the salacious tales I typically critique and review.

The Color of the Moon” is more than just an erotic story. It’s about the conflict between religion and spirit, the addictive power of desire, and the nature of reality. It’s a love story, a ghost story, a historical tour de force. He had a tough time finding a publisher (although Whiskey Creek Press finally took the chance) because the work just didn’t fit into anyone’s boxes.

Since that first experience, I’ve had the privilege of reading many of Garce’s tales. His work continues to defy categorization. I don’t know anyone else who could write an erotic story about a suicide bomber (“How Paradise Comes to the Blind”, in Coming Together: Into the Light) that could still arouse—but Garce managed. He can be hilariously funny, shockingly brutal, achingly tender—but he is always original. The stories in this volume are no exception. You will be laughing so hard your stomach hurts one moment, gasping in terror the next. As you plunge into this volume, expect the unexpected.

Garce writes from his heart and his soul. His stories are often difficult. They challenge both intellectually and emotionally. I don’t want to scare readers away, but I also must warn you. You will not read this book and remain unchanged.

The proceeds from Coming Together Presents C. Garcia-Sanchez will benefit the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network ( RAINN is the nation's largest anti-sexual assault organization. It operates a national hotline, educates the public about sexual assault; and leads national efforts to prevent sexual assault, improve services to victims and ensure that rapists are brought to justice. Garce picked this charity after writing one of the stories in this volume (“Miss Julia’s Cake Club”). When you read the story, you will understand why.

Garce is always self-deprecating about his own abilities. He claims that he’s just an apprentice and calls me his “mentor”. I tell him that you can learn craft but that means little without inspiration. Personally, I’m honored to be able to present this collection of stories by one of the most talented authors I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. I hope that you’ll appreciate his visions as much as I do.

[In case you haven’t figured this out, I edited this collection. Leave a comment and you could win a copy of my sci fi erotica story, The Antidote. But I hope you’ll consider picking up a copy of Garce's book, for yourself or someone you love.]

Here’s a bit from the stunning coming of age story, “El Pimientero”.

That first time going in, how does that feel for a boy? It was not like I expected. It felt keenly strange. To feel the wet flesh yield and envelope the tip of my cock, to feel it go in like a blade.

I looked up at her eyes to see if I was hurting her. She was looking away from me, at nothing, almost indifferent, it seemed, to what I was doing to her. I pushed forward firmly but gently and watched from above as my stiff cock disappeared an inch at a time. Deep and down into her slickness, her open woman’s wound. The feeling. It was as complex as wine. The animal strangeness of being inside another person for the first time. To look down between her legs and see our mounded hairs bunched up against each other tightly, and just below that the hard shaft disappearing into her. The delicious warmth wrapped all around the shaft of my cock. The tip of my cock was throbbing and tickling me madly. A couple of strokes and I would surely pop. It was important to wait. To prove to her I could do it. But I could feel the excitement building, even as I kept still, leaning into her, but not thrusting. Only holding it there and feeling the maddening sensations getting away from me.

It’s about letting go,” she had said, one evening at the cine. The projector was threaded with an Arnold Schwarzenegger flick. We sat there in the hot little loft, side by side, drinking Squirt soda from scratched green bottles and eating cookies. “It’s hard to let go, especially for the man,” she continued. “It’s hard for the woman during sex also, but it’s hard to let go in other ways, ways that are different. The man has to calm his penis in the beginning so that he doesn’t lose control and shame himself. Or you can do it the other way too. I had a lover named Horatio. He had a runaway pinga, like a pistol – bang! He didn’t fight it. He simply shoved it in and said ‘This one is for me, Maria, the next is for you!’ and bang and bam and thank you. Not even a minute. But he got it up again quick and he was good for the rest of the night. It was like taking a rock out of his shoe. For a woman, letting go is about letting go of your heart, of letting yourself be open. It can be very difficult.”

I felt myself letting go and my breath becoming faster. I grunted and tensed against it, grinding my teeth, trying to perform the special stopping act I had practiced. But my body was beginning to win.

Get off of me!” she yelled.


Get off of me!” She twisted away, put her foot up against my belly and shoved me out of her. My cock throbbed as I doubled over, holding it in. A single pearl drop burst forth and dribbled, dangling a second like a tiny rope and then dripped away to the floor. I looked up at her. Her face was red.

What are you doing, Chacho? Do you want to fuck your grandmother? What would your mother say if she saw what we’re doing? Who do you think are?”


Leave me alone!”

I’m in love with you!” I shouted it out. “I’m in love with you, Doña Maria Soledad. Why shouldn’t we have each other?”

She curdled into a ball, pulling up her knees. She bunched up the blankets and buried her face. I heard a wail and she curled up tighter, covering her face with her hair.

I had seen Doña Soledad in almost every mood there is but I never before seen Doña Soledad cry. I had no idea what to do. Just when she had made me feel like a man, she made me feel like a stupid boy again. 

Thanks-Giving Back Hop Links

Sunday 22 November

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