Wednesday, April 26, 2017

Dark Beginning, Bright Future (#marriage #love #karma)

Gold heart

I fell in love with my husband while my mother was dying. That sounds heartless and morbid, doesn't it? But it wasn't like that at all.

We'd met six months before, at a conference. I lived in California; he was based in Massachusetts where I'd grown up. We'd corresponded and talked on the phone, but it didn't seem all that likely that our relationship had much future, given the geographic barriers.

When my mom's leukemia resurfaced after a year's remission, I took a leave of absence from my job so that I could be with her on the east coast. For nearly a month, I visited the hospital every day. Aside from her disease, she was incredibly healthy, and it took a painfully long time for her to die.

When I wasn't at her bedside, I spent the time with K. He somehow knew exactly how to deal with me. If I needed to talk out my fears and my sorrows, he'd let me. If he thought I needed distraction, he'd provide it. He drove me back and forth to the hospital. He took me out to dinner. He let me cry on his shoulder.

Away from my home, my work and my friends, I felt lost and depressed. I worried about my job – my first serious employment since leaving graduate school. I had nightmares about my mother. K handled it all. I was incredibly grateful for his support. I suppose at some level he had ulterior motives, but honestly, I don't know whether I would have made it through those dark days without him at my side.

When my mom finally let go and passed on, he helped my siblings and I make the arrangements, and accompanied me the funeral. Only later did I realize what that cost him. My mother had converted to Catholicism. For reasons buried in his own history, K. has an allergy to organized Christianity. Normally, he won't set foot in a church. However, he made an exception, so that he could be at my side, quietly offering me his love and his strength.

A day or two after the funeral, I returned to California. I was seriously concerned that I might be fired. But K. and I both knew that our relationship had changed. A month later I came east for the winter holidays and then he and I drove cross-country together, in the first of what would become many journeys. We count our time together from the day we left Massachusetts and headed west.

Good, decent men? I certainly found one, or rather, he found me. That was more than thirty years ago. He's proved himself again and again. A few years ago, when I had hip replacement surgery, the poor guy had to take on almost all the household responsibilities. He hardly complained.

I must have really good karma, to have hooked up with this man. Other women apparently feel the same way I do about him – he's not particularly good looking but he never fails the charm members of the fairer sex. I almost feel embarrassed by my good fortune.

Maybe that's why I have some trouble writing male characters who are self-centered, lazy, manipulative or cruel. I've heard so many tales of woe from my girlfriends – but it's hard for me to identify.

My guy is solid gold.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Review Tuesday: Love Under Foot (#gay #review #footfetish)

Love Under Foot cover

Love Under Foot: An Erotic Celebration of Feet
Edited by Greg Wharton and M. Christian

Harrington Park Press, 2004

Let it be a challenge. When I was offered the opportunity to review Greg Wharton's and M.Christian's anthology of gay foot fetish stories, this was my reaction. I'm not a gay male, and although I admit an occasional lustful reaction to the sight of some smooth, graceful woman's foot embraced by a strappy sandal, I find most men's feet, with their calluses, fuzzy insteps and gnarled toenails, distinctly unarousing. At the same time, I have often pontificated on the universality of the sexual urge and the remarkable flexibility of our erotic impulses. Under the right circumstances, any stimulus can become a turn-on. So why not feet?

Nevertheless, I'll admit that despite the exceptional credentials of the editors, I did not have high expectations for a collection which seemed to have such a narrow focus. I was most pleasantly surprised. The twenty tales in LOVE UNDER FOOT offer originality, diversity and unexpected thematic depth, as well as the promised hot homoerotic sexual encounters.

Feet are major players here, but other body parts are not neglected. Greg Herren's "Athlete's Foot" lets the reader vicariously enjoy an outrageously public oil wrestling session between two exceptionally hard bodies. In "Those Boots", by Bill Brent, used leather boots picked up at a BDSM swapmeet trigger an auto-erotic fantasy scene that had me panting. The shoe salesman in Duane William's "No Mean Feet" begins by giving a phantom foot massage to an ex-soldier's amputation stump; I'll let you imagine, or discover, where it ends.

Personally, I can't find anything sexy about stinky gym shoes or sweaty socks. But I'm willing to believe, from the energy and enthusiasm in Sean Meriwether's "Sneaker Queen" or Paul J. Willis' "Aromatherapy", that someone might. Could you come from being tickled? Stories by Wayne Courtois and Jason Rubis suggest that it's distinctly possible.

Most of the tales in this collection treat their subject matter with a light-hearted (or perhaps I should say light-footed) sense of fun. Charles Anders' "At the Right Foot of God" imagines a religion founded on the precept that feet are the province of Divinity -- complete with the appropriate foot worshipping rituals. In "Days of Wine and Toesies", Sean T. Gold serves up a tale of a dinner party flirtation where playing footsy takes a hilariously unexpected turn.

A few of the stories have a darker edge, most notably Simon Sheppard's gritty "The Footwhore of Babylon" and Ian Philips' folksy but tragic "Shrimpboat Willie". These stories provide a satisfying counterweight to the happier tales of cruising, looking for the perfect sole.  

All of this would have made LOVE UNDER FOOT sufficiently entertaining to justify my time in reading it. Three exceptional stories, however, raise this book above the level of fun foot-porn into the domain of literary erotica. All three convey an emotional intensity that nearly brought tears to my eyes. In William Dean's "The Alabaster Arch", the object of desire is not even animate, yet its power reaches across half a world, calling to those who recognize it. "Lotus", by G. Merlin Beck, turns deformity into mystery, and lust into awe.  And M.Christian's "Happy Feet" juxtaposes past and present in the mind of an aged ex-dancer whose feet were the darlings of Kelly and Astaire.

Feet are featured in all three of these stories. The tales are clearly at home in this collection. At the same time, they transcend fetish and orientation, demonstrating that arousal is universal and that desire is an essential attribute of the soul, regardless of its source.

That is the truth that brings me back to erotica, as a reader and a writer, again and again.

Monday, April 24, 2017

Sneak Peek: Resurrection of Artemis by @IzzySzyn (#hacker #superhero #giveaway)


Once known as the infamous hacker Artemis, Amy Wilson now works in a coffee shop. With only months until the end of her probation from working in the technological industry that she loves, Amy is determined to keep Artemis dead and buried.

When incidents similar to the ones Amy did start occurring all fingers start pointing in Artemis’ direction, and three people that want Artemis to come out of retirement.

Quail City’s super heroes Dark Master and Calypso aka as multi-billionaire Noah Adams and his assistant Vanessa London know Amy’s secret, and also know that she is being set up. Having spent months in a flirtmance with Amy, they are tired of waiting and want both her and Artemis in their bed.

Hinderer wants to hold technology hostage, but in order to do that he needs Artemis’ assistance, and he will use any methods necessary to gain her cooperation.

Amazon Buy Link
Available on Kindle Unlimited


People have been mentioning Artemis,” Calypso said. “You wouldn’t have heard anything?”

They knew, Amy thought. Somehow they knew. “No, Artemis isn’t here anymore. At least from what I heard.”

Damn shame, too,” complained one of the customers in the shop. “Not the Artemis that is playing with the lights and stuff. But the Artemis who liked to help people with their problems.”

Yeah, I think if someone is behind it, it’s someone pretending to be Artemis, or trying to shift the blame on her,” said another customer. “She may have done some things, but she’d never deliberately set out to get people hurt.”

Amy smiled at the person that made the comment. “I’ve been here all day. But it’s more than the traffic lights. Didn’t I hear that the other day the Financial District was shut down because the money showed at zero?”

That is something that Artemis had fun with,” Dark Master commented. “Or had in the past.”

I’m sure that whatever has been happening in Quail City has nothing to do with Artemis,” Amy replied.

Hope for Artemis’ sake it’s true,” Calypso said. “Williams is ranting and raving in Commissioner James’ office asking for her to be arrested.”

Just bet he is, thought Amy. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
Amy asked them. She saw that it was almost six and the last bus going towards her apartment would be there any minute.

You in our bed,” Calypso said in her ear. “Your blue hair will look glorious on our pillows.” Then out loud stated, “That’s all for now.”

About the Author

New York Times Bestselling Author Izzy Szyn was born in May of 2014 when a friend dared her to write. Born and raised in Detroit, MI,  Izzy now lives in Oklahoma City with her furchild Misty, the friendliest Chihuahua/Terrier you will ever meet. Currently works in a call center, where she writes in between phone calls.
Izzy loves to keep in touch with her readers. Email her at

Izzy will be awarding a $10 Amazon to one randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Please use the RaffleCopter below to enter. Remember you may increase your chances of winning by visiting the other tour stops. You may find those locations here.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Celebrate Books! (#LoveToRead #giveaway #bdsm)

World book day banner

Happy World Book Day!

I’m not kidding. The United Nations has designated the 23rd of April as World Book and Copyright Day—a special day to honor authors and readers and to spread the joys of literacy around the world.

For more information, just go here:

Of course, for us authors every day is book day.

Right now, I’m counting down to the release (next Friday!) of my new kinky erotic romance Damned If You Do. I’ll be running a bunch of events, including a release blitz with lots of prizes. Stay tuned for details!

To whet your appetite, here’s a sexy bit from the book.

And, to get you in the mood for the blitz, I’ll do a giveaway today. Leave me a comment with your email letting me know how you plan to celebrate World Book Day. I’ll randomly choose one person to receive a copy of my BDSM suspense novella, Bangkok Noir.

Come here, Gwen.”

His order broke through her paralysis. In a matter of seconds she stood before him, legs spread, head bowed and hands clasped at the small of her back. She’d described this posture of submission so many times that it felt completely natural to assume it now. She couldn’t meet his brilliant amber eyes, but she felt his gaze playing over her body like a laser beam—breasts, belly, hips, pubes, all seared by that fierce, knowing stare. Her nipples felt huge, hot, a bit bruised from his earlier attentions. Her zipper hung open, a lewd invitation, while her clit tingled and throbbed, trapped in the tight, wet confines of her trousers. Her breath came fast and shallow. She’d never been so excited in her life.

Absolutely lovely.” He released another lascivious chuckle. “I’m really going to enjoy this. But I suppose we must go through the formalities, right?” His voice took on a scary edge. “Gwen Diamante, do you yield to me? Do you consent to be my sexual slave?”

She almost came, just from the question.

Yes,” she whispered, her chest tight with emotion. It was actually happening, the scene she’d imagined so many times. It was real.

You agree to obey my orders in every particular? To let me use your body however I wish, provided I do you no permanent harm?”

Yes—yes, Sir.”

And you agree that I can punish you when you fail to satisfy me—or when it pleases me to do so?”

Punish. Oh, God! The very word melted her. Would he whip her? Cane her? Images of the varied modes of discipline she’d explored in her books flashed through her mind. The possibilities made her dizzy.

Well, Gwen? Do you consent?”

Oh, um, sorry. I consent—I think. But…” Sudden doubt flared as rationality momentarily vanquished lust.

But what? What is it, my dear?”

She ventured a glance at his face. He wore an expression of kindness. Was it genuine, or simply a mask?

I don’t know you at all. How do I know I can trust you?”

A gentle smile lit his aristocratic features. “Ah, my skeptical little slave! Do you need another demonstration of my power? Shall we make your submission conditional, too? Don’t you want this?”

I’m sorry, Sir. I do. You know I do. I’m just frightened.”

I understand, Gwen. You’ll have a safe word, for tonight at least. If you want me to stop what I’m doing, at any time, just say ‘angel’. All right?”

Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” Her arousal reasserted itself as he rose and stepped toward her, stopping only inches away. He seemed taller somehow as he loomed over her, his eyes filled with golden fire. Heat radiated from his compact form. She felt herself melting, losing all definition, all sense of who she was. He brushed a lock of hair off her forehead then trailed his fingers along her throat, down to her cleavage. She thought for a moment that he’d kiss her. A wild need to taste him drove everything else from her thoughts.

Instead, he retreated back toward the armchair, where he removed and neatly folded his suit jacket. Next he unbuckled his belt and slipped it out of the loops on his trousers. He stroked the strip of leather back and forth across his palm.

A queasy thrill tightened Wendy’s belly.

Now, I want you to strip. Then kneel, there on the cushion, with your head down, your thighs spread and your ass in the air.”

She was on her knees in thirty seconds.

Don't forget to leave me a comment!

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Authors and Readers -- help gay men in Chechnya! ( #charity #lgbtq #chechenrainbow )

You might not have heard about this. When you do, you’ll likely be as sick and angry as I am.

Apparently, over the last month, authorities in Chechnya have been rounding up gay men (and even those suspected of being gay) and confining them to detention camps. The New York Times reports at least 100 arrests and three deaths.

This sounds like a scene from my dystopian gay romance Quarantine. But that’s supposed to be speculative fiction...

A group of authors is mobilizing to help raise money to help the victims, as well as to expand awareness of this emergency situation. You can find out more here:

Some of us are donating money from our book sales to organizations helping the victims of this purge. Some are offering items for auction. I’m auctioning off two paperback copies of Quarantine. Seems grimly appropriate. The auction will be held between May 5th and May 12th. See the link above for details.

If you’re an author, I hope you’ll consider adding your voice and your work to this effort. If you’re a reader, please participate in the auction. We’re expecting some great prizes to come on the block. Of course you can always donate directly to the Russian LGBT Network, the main organization helping to get gay men in Chechnya to safety. For details, see Dale’s blog:

Whatever you do, don’t be silent. Don’t let this injustice and inhumanity stand.

Thank you.

When love is forbidden, the whole world's a prison.

Dylan Moor will do anything for freedom. Seven years ago, a gay plague spread to heterosexuals, killing millions and sparking brutal anti-gay riots. The guardians rounded up men who tested positive for the Homogene and imprisoned them in remote quarantine centres like desolate Camp Malheur. Since then, Dylan has hacked the camp's security systems and hoarded spare bits of electronics, seeking some way to escape. He has concluded the human guards are the only weakness in the facility's defences.

Camp guard Rafe Cowell is H-Negative. He figures the lust he feels watching prisoner 3218 masturbate on the surveillance cameras must be due to his loneliness and isolation. When he finally meets the young queer, he discovers that Dylan is brilliant, brave, sexy as hell—and claims to be in love with Rafe. Despite his qualms, Rafe find he can't resist the other man's charm. By the time Dylan asks for his help in escaping, Rafe cares too much for Dylan to refuse.

Dylan's plan goes awry and Rafe comes to his rescue. Soon they're both fugitives, fleeing from militant survivalists, murderous androids, homophobic ideologues and a powerful man who wants Dylan as his sexual toy. Hiding in the plague-ravaged city of Sanfran, Dylan and Rafe learn there's far more that their own safety at stake. Can they help prevent the deaths of millions more people? And can Rafe trust the love of a man who deliberately seduced him in order to escape from quarantine?

Rainbow Awards Honorable Mention – Best science fiction novel – 2012!

The fact was, no one really knew who the Guardians were. At the height of the Plague, thousands had been dying daily. The streets stank from the smoke of burning bodies and torched buildings. Crazed mobs had roamed the cities, looking for the ‘carriers’ they blamed for the death of their loved ones. The fact that gays had been dying twice as fast as straights hadn’t stopped them.

Then the Robbies had marched in, a small army, with Tasers and tear gas. At first, some people had screamed about an alien invasion. Within hours, the messages began coming from ‘the Guardians of American Greatness’, urging people to be calm, promising to contain the scourge of the perverts. Gradually, the chaos had subsided.

Dylan vividly remembered being dragged to the testing centre by a pair of robots. They’d smashed in the door of the Castro District apartment he’d shared with his lover. Miguel’s body had been sprawled on their bed, his coffee-coloured skin riddled with the oozing sores that were the Plague’s mark. Dylan had been crouched on the floor, crying and rocking back and forth, while explosions shook the building and sirens wailed.

He hadn’t put up any fight. What would have been the use? Miguel was dead. The world was in flames. He’d been seventeen.

But he was ready to fight now. He’d do whatever was necessary to get out of this hell. Dylan reached into the basin of the chemical toilet, feeling around the inside rim. The slimy plastoceramic surface made his skin crawl. Ammonia fumes burned his nostrils. He grinned as his fingers found the item he sought. Detaching the object from the hook he’d installed, he brought out an oblong about the size of a cig pack.

He unwrapped the protective plastic and switched on the controller. The organic LCD screen glowed pale blue. He’d lifted it from a discarded microwave oven. His fingers danced over the keyboard, composing his message. The interface was crude but adequate for his needs.

Closing his eyes, he brought up an image of the brawny black guard who was his target. What would work best? He didn’t know much about Rafe—he hadn’t been able to hack the guy’s dossier. He could read boredom and frustration in the man’s strong, regular features. He knew from their first encounter that Rafe had a temper. Yet Dylan also sensed a streak of decency. Most of the human guards at Malheur were supposed to be convicts. Let the dregs take care of the pariahs seemed to be the Guardians’ philosophy. Rafe hadn’t struck him as the criminal type, though, despite his rough looks.

Clearly Rafe was attracted to men, or at least to Dylan. But he probably didn’t consider himself queer. Best not to be too explicit in the message, then. It would be better to allow Rafe to deceive himself about his motives.

Dylan completed his task, scheduled the message, and pressed ‘Send’. If all went well, the invitation would be delivered to Rafe on his private channel tomorrow afternoon. Dylan returned the controller to its hiding place, washed his hands, and returned to his bunk. It was a bit after three a.m. Rafe would be working his shift in the control room.

Dylan pulled down his trousers. His cock was already hard from thinking about Rafe. He stroked its length, lingering at the tip. Time for the night’s show.

Friday, April 21, 2017

Sneak Peek: Thank You for Holding (#romcom #wedding #onhold @jkentauthor)

Thank You For Holding cover
Book 2 in the On Hold Series


Having it all is a fantasy, right?

Carrie Shelton thought her boyfriend was too good to be true. Her best friend's brother? A guy who loved antiquing? Who cuddled on the couch while watching foodie YouTube clips and talking about artisanal spices? Who helped her accessorize her outfits?



So when he ran off with Kevin, the owner of an antique shop, right before his sister’s wedding, Carrie’s life went from fantasy to nightmare.

As maid of honor, she can’t back out of the wedding. And her ex is the best man - but now he has his own best man.

She needs a date. Stat.

Enter Ryan. Sure, he’s a hot male stripper at the O Spa where she works as junior designer, but he’s a few years younger and just, you know -- a friend.

Perfect. She needs a friend more than she needs a boyfriend.

A weekend of playing her boyfriend so she can save face is a lot to ask, but for some reason Carrie doesn't understand, Ryan's all in. Enthusiastic, even.

Especially when it comes to physical displays of affection.

Public kisses turn to private confessions, and pretty soon, Carrie can't tell the difference between fantasy and reality.

Because if Ryan's just pretending he's in love with her, then why does the chemistry between them -- and between the sheets -- feel so real?

Carrie can't settle for almost, though. She's already done that. She's not putting her life on hold anymore.

Turns out Ryan won't, either.

He's holding out for more.

Thank You For Holding is a STANDALONE in the On Hold series. You do not need to have read book 1 in the series, Our Options Have Changed, but after reading about Carrie and Ryan’s friends-to-lovers adventure, you’ll want to. ;)



I'm going to be the maid of honor in my friend Jenny's wedding. You probably saw that coming. I met Jenny at work here at the O Spa, the women’s private club chain where I am the Assistant Director for Design. O Spas are the “fourth space” for women. Home, work, and other public venues are the first three.

We are meant to be the ultimate space. From highly-trained, well-oiled, hot massage therapists who wear g-strings that are outlawed in 111 countries, to a sex toy boutique with weekly workshops, to a new coffee shop with lattes that are better than sex, the O Spa caters to what women want.

A break, a chance, and a friend.

Jenny loved working for O, but she moved on a year ago, a promotion she could only get by changing companies. We were never just work friends. We're true best friends, and besides that, we could be sisters-in-law someday. I'm dating her brother, Jamey.
Who is standing in front of my desk right now, telling me about the tickets he just scored to Straight No Chaser at the Wang Center in November. We love a cappella. 
"Fifth row, Carrie! And it'll be near the holidays, so maybe they'll do songs from their Christmas album!" His dark, wavy hair falls over his forehead in a boyish little curl. His eyebrows are perfectly arched. He gets them threaded more often than I do. His narrow chinos are rolled at the cuff, exposing his bare ankles in brown loafers. And is that my cotton scarf knotted around his neck?

I smile at him. Jamey is a great boyfriend because he always wants to do fun and unusual things. Has ever since we began dating two years ago. Our friends rely on Jamey to keep them current. When Steve Martin curated the Lawren Harris show at the MFA, we were the first people in the door. When Juliet opened in Union Square, we were tasting the tasting menu before anyone else had tasted it.
You can see why a lavender flowered cotton dress -- with puffed sleeves -- is of no use to me.

We can go back to my place after the concert and I’ll make cocoa. Bet you’d enjoy something sweet and hot,” I say with a flirtatious grin. I give him what I hope is a smoldering look. He’s holding my hand and his eyes widen in mock excitement, then he looks away.
I love Jamey.

Buy links:

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Author Bios

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down

Elisa Reed is a journalist-turned-fiction-writer whose snappy, irreverent prose combines with an irrepressible zest for the simpler, and often intimate, pleasures of life to produce fun(ny) contemporary romance with a focus on second chances. New England born and bred, Elisa Reed now lives, writes, and plays in New Orleans and along the sugar sands of the Gulf Coast.

You can find her on Facebook at:

Release blitz organized by Writer Marketing Services.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

A Rose By Any Other Name (#pseudonym #erotica #lesbian @EmilyByrne)

Red Rose
By Emily L. Byrne (Guest Blogger)

When I first began writing erotica, I opted not to use a pseudonym. I was temping at the time, Google didn’t exist and nobody really cared what I did in my off hours (AKA: The Good Old Days, more or less). Periodically, coworkers or acquaintances would find out that I wrote and had published work in various genres and they would occasionally bring it into work to have me sign it. It didn’t happen often, so it stayed flattering and fun, right up until it was very much not the book of mine that I would have suggested to that particular colleague at that particular job.

By then, Google was very definitely a thing, as were workplace computer network filters of various kinds and my temping days were behind me. For about three minutes, I sat there and blinked and wondered what to say next. All I could see was a potential HR moment that would not end well for me. I think this is probably a thing that happens to a lot of erotica writers with day jobs: maybe you're not ready for the PTA or work or the neighbors to know what kind of writing you do. Or maybe you'd just rather pick the right time to share your fabulous erotica-writing self. There's a lot to be said for coming out in your own time in circumstances that you can more or less handle.

As it happened, no unpleasantness ensued with my "No, not that one!" coworker, but I went home later on that week and created Other Me, Emily L. Byrne. Honestly, the situation did me a favor, since Other Me should have been around a long time ago for marketing purposes. Like many writers, I write in multiple genres, including erotica, romance, fantasy, science fiction, horror, literary and nonfiction, even the occasional mystery and what I found was that people who weren’t fans of erotica tended to be wary of buying my other work. And, of course, fans of my erotica read my dark fantasy novel about menopausal werewolves and politely yelled at me for months after it came out because there was no sex in it. So marketing definitely played into my decision as well.

As to why picked the name I did, I’ve always fancied the name ‘Emily,' ‘L’ is for the first letter of my last name and Byrne is an old family name, and voila! Emily L. Byrne was born. I did my due diligence and verified that no other writers of erotica or erotica or erotic romance were using the same name. A new (at least to me) writer did pop up soon thereafter with a similar name and genre, which is something to bear in mind when choosing an Other You. You want a good pseudonym if that's the direction you looking to go, but it's challenging to get that balance between unique, findable and odd. I freely admit to not being keen on the more “obvious” pseudonyms, in part because I wanted something that I could be comfortable talking about in the context of my other work. Emily was someone I could live with, someone I could trot out on a writing panel or at an author reading with an breezy "And if you're interested, I also write hot smutty stories as..." and not feel silly.

The flip side of that is building up an equivalent amount of name recognition. I published everything under my own name for over a decade so getting Emily up and running as a recognizable name in a changing genre was a tad challenging to start with. But I'm optimistic that readers are starting to find "Other Me." And with that, here's an excerpt from my new book, Knife's Edge: Kinky Lesbian Erotica.

Hope you enjoy it!

If you do, and you'd like a free copy of the book, just leave me a comment! I'll randomly draw one winner. Don't forget to include your email address so I can find you if you win!

Except from "Reunion at St. Mary's”

Bridget Marie Riordan O’Halloran was depressed. It wasn’t so much that work was insanely stressful, though that was part of it. Or that Vic and all her friends seemed to have forgotten her birthday, though that didn’t help. It was the clipping from the parish newspaper, sent courtesy of her mother, that put her over the edge. Sister Agnes Mercy Byrnes had been taken up to Heaven, or so it said.

From what Bridget remembered of her, she was more likely to be torturing the Devil below than hovering on a cloud above but where she was didn’t matter so much as the fact that she was gone. It was the passing of an era. Sister Agnes had been the terror, among other things, of Bridget’s high school years. It was hard to forget the hours she spent over the years masturbating over her memories of the spanking the nun had once given her in the principal’s office. Imagining those firm hands on her young flesh gave her a thrill even now. She pictured Sister Agnes going even further and pulling down her white virginal panties and…Vic walked in a moment later to find her with her hand between her legs.

Hi sweetie. Ooh, that looks like fun. What triggered this?” Vic grabbed the little clipping as Bridget jerked her hand out of her pants. Vic gave her a look of pure disbelief. “You’re jilling off to Sister Agnes’ obituary?”

Bridget turned bright red and tried to come up with a good explanation. Then she gave up and went on the attack instead. “You forgot my birthday! Some girlfriend you are.” She crossed her arms over her chest to hide the nipples poking through her shirt. Sister Agnes’ hands had been pretty amazing in that last fantasy.

I knew you were going to say that,” Vic grinned triumphantly as she dropped onto the couch. She ran one hand down Bridget’s thigh with a possessive pressure that never failed to make her pay attention. “I’ve got a little surprise for you, babe. Kind of appropriate too, given your new ghoulish hobby. We’re going to your tenth high school reunion. My treat.”

Bridget’s jaw dropped. No way. Sister Julia and Father Williams would run them out of Sacred Heart parish at the head of a torch-wielding mob. Vic just didn’t understand how things worked at parochial school. But before she could say a word, Vic had her in a liplock that soon turned to other things. Once Vic was holding Bridget down and pounding her fist into her wet and desperate pussy, going home for the reunion sounded just fine. Besides, it was two months away; she had plenty of time to change Vic’s mind.

But somehow, they never got around to talking about it. Every time she tried, Vic was too busy or was all over her so she gave up, resigning herself to the trip from hell. It would be even worse if they ended up staying with her parents. She just hoped her mother wouldn’t say the rosary over them when she thought they were sleeping again.

Despite all her worries, she did start to wonder if some of her old friends would be there. Monica came out after graduation. That was inevitable. If James Dean was ever reincarnated as a Catholic high school girl, Monica was it. Then there was Mary Eileen. She’d never forget that one sleepover party where they all decided to practice kissing. From what she could remember, Mary Eileen wanted to practice a few other things too, but they’d all been too scared to try them. As for the rest of the girls who ran around with them, well if Bridget knew her budding Dykes on Bikes chapter, they were it by now.

By the time they got ready to leave town, Bridget was pretty much resigned to the trip. It made it easier that Vic was so very obviously up to something. That was usually a good thing. Bridget even resisted taking a peek in the toy bag when she loaded it in the car. No point in spoiling the surprise, whatever it was. At least they were staying at a hotel and not her parent’s, so no matter what, there was a bright side.

Vic wasn’t letting anything slip, though. She was too tired for sex in the hotel they stopped at halfway there, which was weird, and she wasn’t talking much during the drive, which was weirder. Bridget was getting antsy and it brought out the pushy bottom in her. She wheedled, she whined, she sulked; anything to get Vic to do something with or to her. Anything at all. She squirmed against the fabric of the car seat imagining a few of those things. But for the first time in years, Vic wasn’t going for it. She smiled when Bridget pouted and stonewalled when she whined until her girlfriend thought she’d go nuts before they got there.

About the Author

Emily L. Byrne is a geek who lives in Minneapolis with her wife and the cats that own them. Her stories have appeared in Bossier, Spy Games, Forbidden Fruit, First, Summer Love, Best Lesbian Erotica 20th Anniversary Edition, The Princess’ Bride, The Nobilis Erotica Podcast and The Mammoth Book of Uniform Erotica. She can be found at and @emilylbyrne.

Knife’s Edge: Kinky Lesbian Erotica by Emily L. Byrne is available from Amazon, Smashwords and the Queen of Swords Press website in other formats.