Family Tradition (AND a Contest!)

One of my all-time favorite costumes

Happy Halloween to all my readers!

Halloween has always been a special day for me. While other kids looked forward to Christmas, or Thanksgiving, or maybe the first day of summer vacation, All Hallows Eve always won out in my family.

Part of it was the opportunity to dress up. My mom made our costumes from scratch - with our help of course. We'd watch the weather reports, worried that it would be so cold we'd have to wear coats that covered our finery. We'd count the days until we could become a pirate or a robot, a dwarf or a princess, a sorcerer or a demon, for one magical evening.

Part of it was the unaccustomed bounty of candy. In the interest of preserving our teeth, my parents tended to restrict our access to sweets. There's a tale about how I was offered a lollipop in a doctor's office when I was three - I didn't know what it was or what to do with it! Anyway, Halloween was an exception. After the enchanted night, my brother and I would hoard our stash, competing to see who could make our Snickers, Three Musketeers and Mars Bars last the longest. I once stretched my Halloween candy out until March! (Even now, I've only had one cavity!)

My dad got into the act too. He'd tell us creepy ghost stories about monsters that lived in the woods and creatures with a thousand arms. I still remember some of those tales. And he was the master of the carving ritual.

The Halloween season would begin, perhaps a week before the great day, with a trip to the local farm stand. There my father officiated while my brother, my sister and I each chose a personal pumpkin. We had distinctly different tastes. I liked the symmetrical, round ones. My brother tended to pick the weird looking, distorted shapes.

A day or two before the 31st, my dad brought out pencils, knives and the melon baller, spread the kitchen table with newspaper, and we all had the chance to design our own Jack O'Lanterns. When we were younger, of course, we just drew the faces and my dad carved them. As we got older, we learned his techniques, including using the melon baller to make round, surprised eyes, or the use of thin slivers cut from the pumpkin meat to serve as eyebrows. It turns out that the eyebrows have a huge influence on Jack's expression.

When the carving was complete, we'd stick candle stubs into the hollowed out pumpkins and my dad would kindle them. Then the fun began.

He'd turn out the light, select the fiercest, scariest looking Jack O'Lantern, and start to sing the pumpkin song he'd composed, dancing around as he did so. He'd swoop the lighted pumpkin into our faces, startling us and making us laugh. We couldn't see anything but the glowing, demonic face. Dad was an expert in animating that toothy, grinning apparition.

I live half a world away from my family now, and my father died three years ago (well into his eighties), but I still try to maintain the pumpkin carving tradition. I can't get orange American pumpkins here. Asian pumpkins are squat, green, and bumpy as though they had warts. Still, once you cut them open, they're pretty much the same inside. I can apply all the expertise I gained from my dad.

I haven't bought my pumpkin for this year yet, but it's on my list for today. I don't have any children to thrill - but on Halloween, I become something of a kid myself.

***

Speaking of Halloween, you can win a free copy of my Halloween story Rendezvous or any other paranormal book from my back list, in my monthly contest. What do you have to do? Share your favorite Halloween costume!

Send an email to contest [at] lisabetsarai.com with the subject "Halloween Contest". Then tell me about the best costume you ever wore. If you have a photo, send it along as an attachment and I'll enter you in the contest twice! Sometime around the 15th of November, I'll randomly draw the winner. I may also feature your photos in a blog post - with your permission, of course.

And speaking of thrills, here's a sexy, scary excerpt from Rendezvous to help you celebrate the season!

****

What the hell, I could still dress up. Even if there was no one to see me.

This year I was going to be Marie Antoinette. I'd found the dress in a book of theatrical patterns, and spent many Saturdays working on the complicated layers and delicate gathers. It was lavender satin, with fringes of crystal beads and ivory lace trim.

I shucked my bra and after a moment's hesitation, my panties, too. With the greatest care, I unzipped the garment bag and slipped the gown off the hanger. The many-layered skirt could almost stand by itself. I stepped into the gown’s embrace, sliding my arms into the flounced, off-the-shoulder sleeves, then reached behind me to lace the bodice tight.

Marie would have had a bevy of maids to fasten her buttons and bows, but this pattern, designed for the stage, was more practical. A pair of satin cords criss-crossed the back, from mid-spine to just below the waist, making it easy to create the body-hugging effect the gown required, but also straightforward to disrobe for changes of scene.

I had planned to pin up and powder my hair, adding baubles and bows in an imitation of Marie Antoinette's signature pouf. I'd also brought the make-up I needed to hide my freckles and produce a fashionable pallor. At the moment, though, that seemed like too much effort. I took another sip of whisky then turned to the mirror.

The costume worked its magic. I was astonished at how regal I looked, and how desirable. The bodice pinched my waist to tiny dimensions, and forced my breasts upwards. The square-cut neckline drew attention to my swelling flesh, barely hiding my nipples. In fact, they were not hidden at all. Though I'd lined the top with muslin as the pattern specified, the tight nubs were clearly visible through several layers of fabric.

I cradled my breasts and used my thumbs to trace circles around those sensitive buds. With each cycle, the spring of tension in my cunt wound tighter. A light flick of my thumbnail sent electricity down my spine and triggered spasms of pleasure. I worried briefly that the juices trickling out of my cunt would spoil the satin. But after all, what did it matter? There was no one to see me tonight, no one to please but myself.

“You certainly do look sexy. Like something right out of de Sade.”

“What? Who...?” I whirled around in confusion, my heart slamming against my ribs. The voice had been close, right next to my ear. Yet the room was empty, unchanged. The same rippling walls, the same thread-bare carpet, the same rusty stains on the ceiling. The rumpled bed where I'd had my tantrum. The almost-empty glass on the dresser.

Ah, the liquor. I must be more drunk than I thought. I turned back to the mirror, searching my face for signs of intoxication, and yelped as something, someone, pinched my nipples.

“Hey! That hurts.” Indignation overwhelmed fear.

“It does, at first. But afterwards, it changes, doesn't it? Afterwards, it feels quite delicious.” I stared at my image, mouth hanging stupidly open, as invisible hands caressed my breasts Strong hands, gentle hands, hands that seemed to know exactly how to make me shiver with delight. “That's what most people don't understand about pain. It's the gateway to the most exquisite pleasure.”

The voice was a melodious baritone, rich, deep, almost hypnotic. “You fear the pain, but that's foolish. You must surrender to the pain. Let it move through you. Let it wash away your doubts and your inhibitions. Let it open you to ecstasy.”

Firm, unseen lips nibbled at my neck. A warm, wet tongue traced the curve from below my ear to my exposed shoulder, then down to the hollow at my throat. With each touch, extravagant new species of pleasure bloomed in my sex. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, savouring the delicate caresses and the amazing sensations that they triggered in my cunt.

Then suddenly, something sharp pierced the rounded flesh of my shoulder. I screamed, surprise heightening the agony that gripped me, and tore myself away from the grasp of the unseen intruder.

My reflection made me gasp in horror and wonder. Droplets of blood oozed from several wounds on my shoulder, wounds arranged in the distinctive semi-circular shape of a bite.

I felt an arm around my waist, pulling me backwards against the unmistakable bulk of a male body. I struggled against his seemingly supernatural strength. “Let me go!” There were fingers at my back, unlacing and loosening the bodice, working their way into my top.

“Is that really what you want?” A hand snaked into the opening I had left in the voluminous skirts—a slight modification I had made to the pattern. After all, what was the point of wearing a sexy costume if it made you inaccessible?

Cool fingertips wandered up the inside of my thigh, smearing the damp of my secretions into my bare skin. My clit ached in anticipation. A fresh flow of lubrication made my thighs damper still. “I think that you actually want something else.” He found his way into my folds and began massaging the swollen bud at my centre.

I moaned and arched backward, my body taking over while my mind whirled in confusion and disbelief.

“Who—what —are you?” He slid two fingers deep into my sopping cunt, making me writhe.

“Does it matter?” Now his thumb beat rapidly against my clit, while his fingers stroked my depths. His other hand pumped my breast in the same rhythm. I felt the first shimmers of orgasm, far away like heat lightning on the prairie horizon.

“I am who I am, and I know what you want. What you need.” He captured one swollen nipple and squeezed, waking echoes of his previous assault. I yelped and twisted, trying to get away but succeeding only in impaling myself more completely on the hand in my cunt. “Let yourself go, Rebecca,” he murmured close to my ear. Lost in a fog of arousal, and terror, I hardly wondered that he should know my name.

If you can't wait until November 15th - you can get your own copy of Rendezvous here!

Sunday Snog: A Vampire Kiss

Sunday again, and not just any Sunday, but the Sunday before Halloween! In honor of the impending holiday, I'm giving you a quick kiss from my vampire story, Prey.

Don't forget to visit Victoria Bliss and read her Snog, too!

****

We will hunt tonight. I stand at the arching windows of our flat, watching dusk paint the Vltava in a thousand shades of gray. Across the river, the spires of the castle rise in graceful silhouette against mauve banks of cloud. In the background, Juliana plays Lizst. Her fiery restlessness is apparent in the music. She doesn't want to wait any longer.

Long ago, we learned to sate our physical hunger with the blood of dumb beasts. Yet this was not enough. Gradually we came to realize that we could not survive without tasting the fascination and the fear of human victims. We need their rosy, yielding flesh, their scents of musk and salt, their quickened breathing. We crave the worship we see in their eyes, the willingness, no, the eagerness to surrender their entire selves to our unearthly beauty and power.

We are addicted to the drug of humanity. I find this ironic and somehow satisfying, this understanding that regardless of our invulnerability and near-omnipotence, our destinies are inextricably entwined with those of mortals. I sometimes wonder if God is likewise dependent on man (or vampire). Do we provide the same validation for His existence? Do we assuage the same kind of lust?

Juliana tells me that I am too philosophical.

She is here now, her piano abandoned, gazing out with me at the darkening world. Her jet hair is swept away from her ivory brow. Her ripe lips look already bloodied. Her fitted costume of scarlet velvet transforms her voluptuousness into stylish elegance. She slips her cool hand into mine; her long fingernails graze my palm. She stands statue-still as the true night envelopes the city, but I can feel her impatience. Nevertheless, she waits for me to make the decision.

I am, as always, somehow reluctant. My cravings are as strong as hers, I'm sure, but I try to deny them as long as possible. I don't think that it is guilt or shame that holds me back. Rather, I want the desire to build to a state of fever, of delirium, to the point where, uncontrollable and irrevocable, it obliterates the feeble rustlings of thought.

I am close to that point now.

Juliana raises her bottomless eyes to mine and parts her lips invitingly. When I kiss her, I feel her shimmering pleasure in my own body, heat that warms even our deathly chill. My cock stirs, waking from a long sleep.

"My love," I murmur after an endless drink from her mouth. "Let us go."

We don our matching capes, and, hand in hand, stroll through the winding cobbled streets of Staré Mesto, the old town. It is October. A fine drizzle mists against our faces, as though we were walking through a cloud. Light from the shop windows makes golden smears on the damp pavement. The door to some restaurant or bar opens, and we reel like drunkards at the sudden onslaught of warmth, the voices and laughter, the overwhelming fragrance of blood.

You can read the rest of Prey on my website. Let me know what you think!

Horsepower, Circa 1812

By Maria-Claire Payne (Guest Blogger)

By the time I turned sixteen and could apply for a driver’s license, none of my five older siblings still lived at home. My mother never learned to drive, and, frankly, in my one-horse home-town in the Adirondacks in upstate New York, a decent ten-speed bike sufficed for getting me anywhere I needed to be, those extra gears necessary for pedaling up steep mountain roads. I was in fine shape back then!

When I started college a couple of hours south of my home in a much more urban setting, my boyfriend Jake was both fascinated and repelled at the thought that his girlfriend was twenty-one years old and still had no driver’s license. Unlike me, Jake grew up with that silver spoon in his mouth. A transplanted Yankee raised in Texas, he swaggered into my life in a high-end pair of custom cowboy boots. He taught me quite a bit about riding (riding what, I leave to your imagination). He also taught me to drive…his brand-new, fully-loaded, eight-cylinder Ford Mustang GT (yeah, I admit it: I grin big every time I hear that “ride it like a Ford” commercial…). Something like three thousand bucks’ worth of damage later, I earned my driver’s license. Jake also asked me to marry him – to this day I am convinced he figured his insurance premiums would be less….Well, Jake was one of my first great loves, but – alas -- not my only. What did endure from those years together is my passion for Mustangs, men in cowboy boots…and horsepower.

I went on to develop quite an affinity for men on bikes – the ones with engines that say “Harley” on them, not the sort I rode around in my one-pony town. I took a liking to boots other than cowboy styles, growing quite fond of black leather and chains in men’s footwear. Somewhere along the way, I admitted to myself that me riding a motorcycle wasn’t so much of a turn-on: what really got me off was the idea of all that horsepower between – ahem -- a man’s legs….

When I decided to write a time-travel novella, I knew I wanted to explore the Regency era. Since I planned to send a contemporary, successful woman back in time, the term “horsepower” took on a whole new meaning for me. While I envisioned my hero as gentry – in this case, an Earl – I also needed to create a man whose purpose in life consisted of something more substantial than changing clothes and squiring supposed virgins about. So…my Earl became a breeder of horses. Boots, horsepower, Mustangs, and mustangs…ergo, a story developed. And then Esme took on a life of her own and demanded that Logan’s riding crop find uses against flesh other than his prized horses.

Jake has no idea what he put in motion when he let me take the wheel….

Unstrung - Available from Pink Petal Books Bending Tyme - Available from Total-E-Bound

Bending Tyme Excerpt:

Night fell, with no sign of Logan.

Esme opened the door to his bedroom and curled up in the armchair by the fire, stroking the smooth gold of the Davenport locket, wondering if his mother—somehow knowing, somehow envisioning Logan’s future—had buried the half the workers had unearthed just weeks ago. Or would unearth two centuries later… She shook her head, dizzied by the convergences of time.

Lulled by the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, Esme, reams of legal documents clutched in one hand, drifted off to sleep in spite of the butterflies beating a tattoo in her belly.

She woke to strong arms lifting her from her chair, Logan’s mouth finding hers.

“I just learnt your official title,” Esme murmured.

“Clearly I must meet with George on a field of honour,” he whispered into her hair, fingering the locket she wore. He smiled. “Earl of Davenport.”

“Yes, I read all about it,” she said, nodding towards the documents littering the floor. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” She covered his hand with her own, opening the locket.

Logan cupped her face in his hands. “I need you to stay of your own accord.”

Esme frowned. “You planned to just let me leave, then?”

Logan ran one finger along her jutting chin, shaking his head at her contrariness. “Travel conditions would have been such to delay your departure for weeks, perhaps months.”

“Schemer.” Esme looked deep into his eyes, watching their aquamarine brilliance turn that deep blue, knowing his need matched her own, this uncharacteristic shyness she felt only in his arms making her blush. “You know this property will be mine in, like, a hundred and ninety-something years? Don’t get too comfortable, dude.”

“Perhaps you’ll give me leave to stay this night,” Logan murmured, running his broad palms across her curves, cupping her ass, pulling her close.

“You are wearing too many clothes, sir.” Esme felt the hard length of his cock through the layers of material between them, Logan laughing at her impatience as she struggled to undo the buttons and tabs keeping her hands from his flesh.

Finally, he stood nude, the glow from the fire highlighting the muscled strength of his physique. Now he grew impatient, ripping the thin fabric of her chemise from her body. Esme reached up to kiss him but Logan turned her around, encircling her with his left arm, bending her over his bed. The first crack of his new riding crop, the leather stiff, met its mark—he thrust her legs apart with one knee and Esme gasped at the feel of his tongue probing her, his tongue and his fingers in her pussy fuelling the heat rising from where the leather popper had struck her ass.

Logan brought the crop down again, bending his length over her, one hand lacing through her long locks now, jerking her head back. “Is this what you want?”

Esme felt her cheeks burning, her lust matching his own. She lifted herself off the bed, but Logan moved faster, ripping the thin leather wrist strap swinging from the crop handle and rolling her over onto her back. He ignored her slap as she fought to free herself, intent on making this conquest less than easy for him. He caught her hands before she could deliver a second blow, binding them with the leather strip.

Esme kicked out at him but he laughed, spreading her knees with his broad hands, taking away her leverage while his weight bore down on her.

Frustrated, Esme turned to avoid his kiss, but he cupped her face between his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“Is this what you want?” he demanded again, his voice low and husky.

Esme felt the rigid length of his prick against her thigh, the slick film of pre-cum coating the head of his cock, mingling with the moisture dripping from her pussy. Still she bit her lip, refusing to give him any satisfaction.

Logan bent his head, rolling her left nipple in his mouth, delivering gentle bites to her soft skin, biting harder as he moved to give equal attention to her right.

Esme moaned his name, surrendering herself now to the sweet synergy of pain and pleasure surging through her, spreading her legs wider, wanting him in her, right now.

Logan lifted his hips, the head of his cock still teasing her swollen pussy. Esme thrust against him, but he pulled further back in spite of her muffled protests.

Brushing his lips against hers, he asked her again, “Is this what you want?”

Esme arched her back, the need to feel him inside her peaking. “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes, revelling in the feel of his mouth, his tongue teasing hers while he slid his full length into her, slowly, so slowly, then faster, slowing his thrusts again just long enough to undo the leather strap binding her wrists.

Her hands free, Esme raked her nails across his flesh, feeling his muscles contract against the pain. He caught her lower lip between his teeth. Biting down, she ran her fingertips along the fresh marks scoring his shoulders, cooling their heat, grabbing his ass.

“Come in me,” she moaned, begging him.

Logan kept his lust in check, moving ever more slowly, teasing her—tormenting her—murmuring her name even as she crested, the throbbing muscles in her pussy contracting, leading him to the edge as well.

Esme wrapped her fingers in the dark curls framing his face. “Turn over,” she whispered, and he obliged, the full length of his cock still encased in the tight walls of her throbbing cunt.

Esme rocked her hips forward and back, grinding Logan’s full length into her, pulling his hands to her breasts, watching his face while he moaned her name, fast losing control of his need. Esme slowed her gyrations, her gentle motions sending waves of ecstasy across her swollen clit. Esme’s gaze met Logan’s, his face reflecting the contortions spreading across her own as she started to come, her own release heightened as his gaze dropped to watch the thick length of his engorged cock sliding in her wet heat, the sight driving him over the edge. She gasped when he pulled her down, his arms demanding, Logan consumed with his own need to explode as Esme felt her cunt massaging his swollen rod, his mouth finding hers as they came together, their bodies slick with sweat even in the cool night air.

Logan propped himself up on one elbow, running a finger along the curve of her chin, finding her lips with his, this kiss tender after the bruising heat fuelling their passion.

“We travel to Tennessee soon.”

Esme nestled into his arms, not caring about further travel plans but content to hear the smooth cadence of his voice as he planned their future—together.

His voice filled with excitement now, Logan talked about the limitless possibilities in this new country, unconstrained by the expectations he had abandoned in England. “Perhaps we might press further west someday. I hear of wild horses roaming free across those lands. An intriguing breed for hardiness…”

Esme smiled, letting him talk, burying her face in his shoulder. Wow, she thought, considering the exquisite 1969 cherry red Mustang parked outside her office. In maybe two hundred years…

* * * * *

Making Love from Payne...because, sometimes...Love Hurts

Bio: Maria-Claire Payne is the alter-ego of another Claire who holds multiple professional credentials related to the field of radiation oncology and a graduate degree in psychology. Both personalities share a love of taking classes in English literature and reading in many genres as well as getting inked and admiring biker dudes from afar. When no new reading material is readily at hand for whatever reason, her children have caught her reading cereal box-tops to fill the void. Maria-Claire lives in Southern Florida with her two rather conservative (how did that happen?) teenagers, the ghost of her soul-mate (her muse), and a crew of Himalayan and Persian cats affectionately referred to as the “Pussy Posse.” She loves to hear from her fans.

http://www.maria-clairepayne.com http://www.maria-clairepayne.com/blog

Fighting Cancer - One Dollar at a Time

I try to keep my blog upbeat, but today I want to take a few minutes to introduce a serious subject: cancer.

Practically everyone I know has been touched by this disease. My mother died of leukemia, after two years of chemotherapy that left her a shell of herself. Later, one of my dearest friends succumbed to ovarian cancer, which hit completely out of the blue. My step-mom and several close friends are breast cancer survivors.

You probably have your own litany of victims.

Now you can do a little something to help find a cure for this dreadful disease. This week, MuseItUp Publishing released Lavender Dreams, an anthology to help support cancer research...one dollar at a time. The ten great stories in this book were generously donated by Muse authors. The cover art was also donated. All the royalties from this volume will to go to the Dana Farber Research Hospital, in memory of one of our editors who fought a long battle with cancer. She passed away this year, and it was this hospital her husband asked us to donate and help them along in their research.

I don't have a story in this book, but I know many of the authors who do. It's bound to be fabulous. You can get your copy today - for only $1.99!

With your help, hopefully we can one day find a cure to this disease that has taken many from our lives.

For more details, please visit the Muse bookstore and click on the LAVENDER DREAMS banner on the right sidebar.

Thank you!

Outside the Comfort Zone

By S. Dora (Guest Blogger)

Let me start by thanking Lisabet for giving me so graciously a chance to be her guest. It’s truly an honour to be here.

Write about what you know. All writers must have heard those words about a thousand times before we even published our first story.

But be honest, what could be more fun than ignoring that rule? And I don’t mean get into a spaceship and visit far away worlds, change into a vampire or werewolf, built a castle and become a medieval knight. These and many more scenarios fall into the safe realm of make-believe. We know we don’t live in the far future or ancient past, and our readers know that too. As long as we do our homework and build our worlds believably, readers will follow us to wherever and whenever we will take them, if only because the human imagination knows very few boundaries.

Make-believe can be much closer to home, and perhaps much more of a challenge than pretending to be a shape shifter or an impoverished Victorian lady. What about we write from the point of view of a different gender than our own? Or a different sexuality? A sexual practice we know we could never enjoy ourselves?

I’m a lesbian, of the Kinsey six, and then some, variation. I’m not (sexually) attracted to men at all. I’m also very much married and if monogamy didn’t exist, I would have invented it. I met my wife when I was eighteen, we’ve been together since I was twenty and it’s now thirty years later, so I at least I know that much about myself and my preferences.

Yet, my first novella written as S. Dora is about Owen, a single man falling in lust with a cute young m/m couple, and Sebastian and Davin are both totally devoted to their relationship and totally in for a threesome. More than that, Owen Bartlett isn’t single because he just happens to be between relationships, or because of some nasty experience that makes him cautious of ever trusting another man again. There is nothing to heal or make better. No, he’s single because that is what he is in his heart of hearts.

And that to me is far more about stepping outside my comfort zone than writing in intimate detail about the male anatomy or to describe what happens between those three men once they’re in a room with a bed. Because being male or female is a gradual process, and even if most of us have bodies that indicate without any doubt whether we’re one or the other, what happens in our brain is far more complicated. Every human need, character trait, talent and peculiarity can be found in both genders, though perhaps not in equal measure. Except for our very specific roles in making babies, nothing is truly and exclusively male or female. It’s even impossible to know with absolute certainty what another member of your own gender feels, even if they share your sexual orientation. It makes an ideal playground for a romance and erotica writer.

But to imagine what it’s like to be single, go to a party, meet a couple and have sex with them, now that is foreign ground to me. It’s not my fantasy, not the chance for adventure I missed. And perhaps that’s exactly the reason why I loved writing Three so much.

Curious about the story of Owen and what happens when he meets Sebastian and Davin? Three will be available at Total E-Bound on November 21, but here’s already a little teaser:

***

Davin’s back was plastered against Sebastian’s front, or perhaps Sebastian’s front was plastered against Davin’s back. Both moved in perfect counterpoint to the music. The slightly taller boy was grinding his crotch against the thinly covered arse of the shorter one, meanwhile covering the shorter boy’s head with butterfly kisses. He raked his teeth over his boyfriend’s earlobe, resulting in a soft, sweet moan from Davin, who had his eyes half-closed and his lips slightly parted. Owen doubted he was even aware of his surroundings.

Sebastian, on the other hand, looked straight at Owen, challenging him in a way that was quite open to more than one interpretation. That look, as much as Davin’s blatantly exposed sexual need, went straight to Owen’s cock, bypassing any and all rational thought.

Sebastian travelled one hand slowly downwards until his long fingers rested against the clearly outlined erection, but kept the other possessively around Davin’s middle. He traced the bulge with his thumb, whispering into the other boy’s ear. Davin blushed and nodded in agreement to the words only he could hear.

Owen felt he was being drawn into an unpredictable situation but couldn’t deny he was totally mesmerised by the perverse beauty of what was happening between the three of them. Sebastian dancing, for lack of a better word, with Davin, and he, Owen Bartlett, the one who couldn’t help but feel left out, because no matter how much Davin and Sebastian seemed to direct their teasing in his direction, they were still one very-much-in-love couple and one single man. Later he would almost certainly take the stimulation for his one-handed activities from imagining all the possible combinations with him in the roles of both spectator and participant, but for now he was sitting and watching, wishing he was somewhere else as well as hoping this would never end.

Suddenly the music stopped and the lights went on. The party was undeniably over, so Owen prepared himself mentally to go to his room and get some sleep. Halfway up the stairs a hand touched his arm. He looked and saw Sebastian Lane. He knew what the boy wanted from him, and what his own answer would be. Two gorgeous young men invited him to be part of whatever was going to happen in that hotel room… Why would he say anything but yes? He didn’t quite believe they actually wanted him to be actively involved. Maybe they got off on being watched, but even that was too good to turn down. He couldn’t deny his utter humanity.

***

You can pre-order Three now from Total-E-Bound

Curious about my other writing? I also publish under the name R.A. Padmos, and in August my novel Ravages came out with Manifold Press. (http://www.manifoldpress.co.uk/2011/08/ravages/)

Chained

By Kelli Key (Guest Blogger)

It is all Lea Schizas' fault.

The founder and editor of MuseItHot and I were talking one day about the difference between erotica and porn. (Keep in mind my normal genre is historical romance written as Killarney Sheffield.) Now, I like many people did not understand the difference until Lea recommend a couple of erotica/romance reads to me. I read them, very red faced and without telling my husband who, knowing him would find the whole experience...titillating?...Yeah, pun intended. Anyway, I read these stories and said to Lea, “I simply could not write that kind of thing.”

Her response? “Sweetie, I just read your 5^th historical romance submission the other day and honestly it is a cat's whisker short of a soft erotica.” Well, imagine how red faced I was at that point. I figured why not give it a try?

A week later I subbed a short erotica called "Larger than Life" for the MuseItHot 'Lacey's Lamp' series. Long story short I was astonished to receive an acceptance letter from Lea. By this time I was feeling pretty cocky...again, pun intended, so I sat down and wrote my October 28^th 2011 release, Chained. Or rather, Shianne, the heroine highjacked my muse and spilled her life story out onto the page. Hence 'Chained' was born and along with it my dabbling in soft erotica. Chained is essentially the coming of age story of a young woman in 1974. She makes many mistakes along her journey until one lands her in the arms of Ben, a chain gang corrections officer. Will her mistakes cost her the love she has finally found? You'll have to read the book to find out.

Blurb

Everyone feels chained...sometimes.

Shianne is a 70's teen crossing over into adulthood. When she makes the mistake of trusting the boy her mother warned her about she finds herself alone and wanted by the law. Then she meets Ben. Hiding out on his dairy farm isn't exactly a city girl's dream but it seems her only choice. She doesn't count on falling in love. If he learns the truth will she lose him forever?

Excerpt

My boots make a squishing sound and I stop. Oh gross, I'm ankle deep in cow excrement. That's right. Shit. If there's one thing worse than the smell, it has to be walking through it, or so I think at the time. I would learn later falling in it is far worse. I literally wade through puddles of excrement and out into an even larger open area filled with black and white cows, big squares of ground up straw, and large cement bunks filled with what looked like regurgitated grass.

“You start by raking the manure out of their beds, and then add a bale or two of fresh straw from behind the barn.” Ben points to the squares, where many of the cows are lying down chewing bubblegum. Okay, it looks like they are chewing gum although I never do see any of them actually blow a bubble. Maybe cows can't blow bubbles. It doesn't make sense to me to chew gum in the first place if you can't blow bubbles, unless of course you have really bad breath. I can only assume a cow's breath is pretty bad, judging by what comes out the other end...

I frown. Cows crap in their beds. God! Even my little brother never pooped in his bed, he peed in it for a couple of years though. “So, I scrape the...shit, from the beds, that's it?”

He grins and I think I should have kept my big mouth shut. “You also need to shovel the holding area into that pit there, but wash the holding area and the milking parlor down with the hose first.

Okay, it doesn't sound that hard. Like I said, I should learn to keep my big mouth shut.

With a final grin he says, “I'll check on you on my break. Have fun.” He saunters off. I have never been so close to calling someone an asshole as in that moment.

Fun? Fun is riding the roller coaster at the fair, dancing to the latest rock and roll record, or hanging out with friends. Shoveling shit does not qualify as fun. I get over it and head for the parlor. The water is cold, but the job itself is not so bad. I don't mind spraying everything down, it's kind of satisfying to get everything spic and span.

The hose takes some getting used to; it’s not your usual little garden variety but a big fire hose type thing. It’s stiff and heavy and, as I discover, hard to hang onto if you turn the nozzle on full blast. By the time I finish the parlor and move on to the holding area, I'm not having such a bad time blasting the watery manure down the grate in the floor.

After I finish washing, I head for the cow beds. Most of the big animals get up and hurry away as I approach, but a few of them turn to stare at me. I have to admit, they make me nervous. I remember my dad telling me animals can tell if you’re scared of them. I wouldn't say I'm scared of cows, I just have a very healthy respect for them. Very healthy.

So there I am, minding my own business when I sense something behind me. Just before I turn around I feel hot breath on the back of my neck. As I spin around, heart pounding in my chest, I come face to face with the biggest cow on the planet. I'm not sure whether to be frightened or just grossed out. Big snot stringers hang from the cow's nose as she sniffs my shirt. I stand there, trying to decide what to do when she swings her head and snots on me. I scramble backward, forgetting the bed area is raised six inches off the main floor by a concrete lip. Before I see my folly I end up flat on my back in three inches of cold, gooey shit. Next thing I know I am surrounded by big, snotty, slobbering black and white beasts. Panic makes my vision blur and my heart race. Holy shit! Okay, not literally, but I am in trouble now. I assume cows are herbivores but I'm really not sure. I'm lying there, trying to decide what to do when suddenly the cows scatter. Through the shit splatter I see Ben approach. He stops in front of me, hands on his hips. His shoulders are shaking and I realize he's trying to keep from laughing out loud. What a jerk! I fail to see anything funny about someone else's feces oozing into my underwear.

“Need a hand?” When he extends his hand to help me up I seriously think of snubbing him, but I figure the least I can do is pay him back.

His facial expression doesn't change as I place my hand in his, complete with crap coating, and I wonder if perhaps he's used to being covered in grossness. Once I regain my footing his silent shaking turns to gut busting laughter.

Bio: Kelli Key is a mother, author and first time dabbler in erotica. (But we'll keep that between us as the kids go to Catholic school!)

Sunday Snog: A Kiss from Bangkok Noir

It's Sunday again - time to share another kiss. This one is from my story "Bangkok Noir", which is included in my collection of BDSM fiction, Rough Caress. The narrator is Nok, a dancer in a Bangkok go-go bar.

By the way, if you haven't been by already, do visit Victoria Blisse and read her snog! I guarantee you won't be disappointed! Actually, she has a guest today! Hop on over and find out who!

*****

At the end of the row of benches, I noticed somebody new. A handsome farang with hair the color of straw, wearing business clothes that looked expensive. He smiled at me, a strange smile that made me feel like I was naked.

Of course, my costume doesn't hide very much. Normally, that gives me a feeling of power. Maybe I will allow them to see the hidden parts. Maybe not.

With this man, it didn't matter what I was wearing. I felt like he could see right through my clothing. Like he could see every bit of me, even if I wore street clothes. My nipples started to ache, and my G-string got more slippery than ever.

For the first time since I started working for Ajarn, I was nervous. I stumbled on my spiky heels. I almost lost my balance. Luckily, I was able to turn the mistake into a sexy dip that showed off my bare rear. Most of the customers didn't notice.

The blond man was not fooled.

My heart was beating so hard that it hurt. When I finished my dancing time, I ran into the toilet and splashed some water on my face. I crouched down, my back against the wall, listening to the chatter of the other girls. My eyes closed, I tried to follow my breathing, the way the monks taught me. All I could see was the farang looking at me, with that X-ray stare of his, like something from a science fiction movie.

I stayed in the bathroom for as long as I could. I knew Ajarn would notice if I was gone too long. Finally, I had to go back out. I peeked out from behind the curtains, trying to see if he was still there. When I saw that his seat was empty, I sighed with relief.

I headed toward the bar to get a coke. My throat was tight and dry. Then I felt a hand on my arm. It was him. His skin was so cool, it made me shiver.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked. His voice was kind, and made me think of music. Still, I felt something like terror. He stared at me without blinking. Now it was me who was embarrassed. I looked away.

Ajarn was on the other side of the room, watching us. I couldn't refuse.

"Thank you, sir. Just a moment. I go get a coke, come back right away."

"Let me go with you," he said smoothly. He took my arm and walked me to the bar. After we got our drinks, he guided me to a table in the corner.

"Sit," he ordered. I didn't want to, not really. But what could I do? I clicked my glass against his. "Chok dee," I said. "Good luck to you."

His smile made me feel like I had eaten a meal of live butterflies. "Same to you. What's your name?"

"My name Nok. What your name?"

"You can call me Sam," he said. "Nok is bird, right?"

I nodded. He brushed my long hair off my shoulders and down my back. Then he took my chin in his hand. He raised my eyes to meet his again. I felt like I was captured. Trapped.

"Very appropriate. You're as delicate and airy as a sparrow." I thought of those caged birds they sell at the temples. You set the birds free to make merit, but they always return to their masters.

Without warning, he kissed me. His lips were as soft as his voice, at least at first. I thought I should stop him, though. I tried to pull away. His right hand held my mouth against his. His left arm wrapped around my waist. I couldn't move.

So I gave up. I let him slide his tongue into my mouth and suck the breath from me. The funny thing was, as soon as I gave in to him, I began to like it. He smelled like soap and expensive cologne. He tasted like his whisky. I could feel that he was strong, much stronger than he looked, with his slim body and fancy clothes.

He kissed me harder, biting my lip. I felt like I was melting. He let go of my chin and played with my breasts through the stretchy mesh. My sex was on fire against the hot, sticky leather.

Suddenly, he pinched one of my nipples, digging in his fingernails. His mouth smothered my cry of surprise and pain. After the pain, though, I felt amazing pleasure, shooting up my spine like lightning.

"You like that, Nok." My English is only so-so, but I could tell he wasn't asking a question. He was telling me. And he was right.

I was terribly embarrassed. I wanted him to do it again.

He bent me backwards. My hair nearly brushed the floor. He put his mouth on the other nipple and sucked. I felt that his mouth was between my legs, sucking me there. It was like heaven. I reached up, wanting to stroke him, but he pushed my hands away.

Then, when I was not expecting it, he sank his teeth into my flesh. Everything went dark for an instant. Then pain exploded in me, brilliant as the sun. I was burning up, but I wanted to burn.

When I opened my eyes, he was watching me. That strange smile was on his face, but he also looked worried. "That's enough for tonight, Nok," he murmured. "I have an appointment elsewhere, in any case. But I will come back for you, soon."

Funny But You Don't Look It...

By M.Christian (Guest Blogger)

Before I say anything I want to toss out a hearty and well-deserved thank you to Lisabet Sarai to giving me this very nice opportunity to ... well, chat about whatever I'm going to chat about.

To be honest I'm at a bit of a loss about what that might be. I mean – hell – I'm a writer, right? So this kind of thing should, at least, be second nature. To be honest, though, I've never liked talking about myself. Part of it is privacy, sure, but a lot of it is that I've always wanted my work to stand on its own: that people should (hopefully) buy my stuff because they like it – and not just because they like me.

But Lisabet asked me a question that's been making me scratch my head – always a good thing. But first a tiny bit of background: while I write in a lot of genres – non-fiction, mysteries, romance, horror, science fiction, and a lot of smut – I also have written more than a few books and stories out there with gay or lesbian characters.

But here's the kicker: I'm straight.

Part of why all this happened is because of simple logistics. As any serious writer can tell you, you cannot really plan for a career in this business: you take what comes your way and, if you're lucky, that can lead to work and, even luckier, even more work. In my case I had a lot of great experiences selling stories and editing anthologies for various gay and lesbian publishers ... which, in turn, got me a few in-roads when it came time to write novels. Gay or lesbian novels, naturally.

One thing I have to mention before I go any further is that I never, ever lied about who and what I am when I worked with these publishers. Sure, I don't like to talk that much about myself (so you won't find me on Facebook or Twitter, by the way) but I was always clear with them about my sexual 'reality.'

There was one time, though, that I have to share. I had a really great relationship with one publisher ... such a sweet, wonderful man ... and one day he asked a mutual friend what kind of men I liked. This friend-in-common answered, honestly: "Women." That made me very upset – not that I had been 'outed' as straight – but that I may have hurt this man who meant so much to me, that he may have thought I'd been leading him on or lying about who I was. It was simply a sin of omission: I thought he knew about me.

I immediately got on the phone and, much crying later, we were laughing about the whole thing. I told him, blinking back even more tears, that his respect and support of my work meant more to me than anything I could name, and that because of that I wished – and still do – that I could be gay to love him even more. He has since moved on but I think about him a lot. I loved him then and I love him now.

But why I've written about gay and lesbian characters is more than just a writer taking the opportunities he's handed. As I've written so many of these stories and books I've become pretty comfortable using them – to a point where I really need to get in touch with my heterosexual side (that's a joke, son).

Kidding aside, I really have gotten to a point where a lot of my projects simply work better with gay or lesbian characters. Part of that is because of this 'thing' I've been on. It started with the -- kind of -- infamous novel I did called Me2. Originally written for Alyson Books, but being re-issued by Renaissance Books very soon, the book is about identity and ... well, I cant really say much more without giving too much away. Just buy the book, okay?

Beyond the fact that it was commissioned by a gay publisher I really don't think I could have done the book with a straight-focus. I've thought a lot about that but each time come to the same conclusion: the book has a much more intimate feeling, more claustrophobic by having it be gay: like having the theme stand in a hall of mirrors.

My new book, Fingers Breadth, is the same. This time the book is about ... well, again I won't say much. But it does deal with what happens to people under pressure – and how, within all of us, there's a real disturbing truth when that pressure gets to a certain point. Again, I really feel that the book simply works better with gay characters – for pretty much the same reason. The characters in the book interact with people who, at a deeply social and sexual level, themselves – making the book feel very constrained and, to use the word again, claustrophobic.

Another book I wrote also had queer characters but, this time, my thinking was different. Painted Doll, first put out by Lethe Books but also coming soon in a new edition by Renaissance, is – basically – a cyberpunk/noir erotic tale of a woman-on-the-run forced by circumstance to pose as a kind of dominatrix. For Painted Doll I made the character a lesbian because I thought it would be a good, and pretty obvious, juxtaposition between the life she had to leave behind and the one she's had to adopt.

Before you think that this is getting to be a bit ... much, what with all the gay and lesbian characters, I do want to say that I really, honestly, have written a book without a major gay character. Published by Phaze, Brushes is an erotic romance about the people surrounding a famous artist – and how their misconceptions and prejudices about him have affected their lives.

... and (sheepishly) I have to admit that my other two books have ... (ahem) gay characters – and not just queer but also vampires. In all honesty they were written for gay publishers, but both Running Dry and Very Bloody Marys does mean that I'm batting a lot for the other team ... at least in terms of my writing.

Does this bother me? Not a lot, to be honest: I'm a writer and writers write. If we are lucky we can choose what we write -- but for a lot of us we take what we can get. This is not a complaint ... far from it: I have absolutely, totally, thoroughly enjoyed writing these books, as well as everything else I've done, and it means a tremendous deal to me when I get fan mail or positive reviews. I would have no problem writing these kinds of books ... until I couldn't write anymore.

But part of the reason why I think I have enjoyed writing these kinds of things is because they were part of a personal journey of exploration: I simply didn't know I could write these kinds of things until I tried .... let alone that they would be as well-received as they've been.

Like I said, writers write – but it's also very important to push yourself, to try new things to step outside of your comfort zone. Weirdly, me saying that writing gay or lesbian books 'doesn't bother me' actually does bother ne a bit – because at some level it means that I may have become a teeny-tiny bit complacent.

Because of this ... well, I won't say that I won't never, ever, write a gay or lesbian book again but it is a factor that is going to sit in the back of my mind going forward. As a lot of writers have discovered, you never know what you may be good at until you try. I've had some luck writing gay books, for which I am profoundly grateful, but going forward I really do think I'm going to try to do things differently.

Will it work? I hope so. But the other maxim I believe in – right up there with 'writers write' – is that a writer never fails ... unless they stop writing.

And, with me, there's absolutely no chance of that.

Here, for your delectation, is an excerpt (Chapter One) from Finger's Breadth.

Looking from the window of the coffee shop. Watching from the windshield of a parked car. Staring from the glass of a very rare unbroken bus kiosk. Glaring from the side of a passing bus.

A brief summer rain had painted the city that night in reflections. Fanning saw himself everywhere, and eve- rywhere he saw himself his expression said the same thing—Why haven’t you caught him yet?

In his ear, a Bluetooth bud whispered the Officer- Wertz inquiry’s soundtrack; in his pocket, the video was playing on his phone. He didn’t need to hear or see it. No one would, but if asked he could probably rattle off every verb, every noun, every linguistic bit from when Knorr started it to when he stopped it. Knorr was good at what he did, just like the lab mice who studied crime scenes and picked up tiny bits of DNA with their finely honed tweezers.

Welcome to the decentralized world of the new San Francisco Police Department, where your specialty was all you did and generality was extinct.

Fanning was a freelancer but was supposed to be good at what he did, too. Sneering at himself reflected in the coffee shop window, he gripped the phone in his pocket. If he’d been stronger, or the plastic less durable, it would have cracked.

Glowering for an instant at his reflection in the windshield of the parked car, he pulled the phone out and flipped through a few key digital pages. As with the inquiry, he didn’t need to look at it again, but he did anyway. Better than sharing the street with his scowling mirror images.

It hadn’t changed—Wertz’s home address and where he worked were still the same. The first was across town, in the Mission. The second was just down the street, at a Gap Store.

Ten a.m. to six p.m. His shift hadn’t changed, either. But it was 6:17, and there was no sign of Wertz.

Fanning paced the wet sidewalk, searching up and down the street but mostly the blue-and-white bright- ness of the Gap store. In his ears, Wertz’s voice clicked into silence; then, as it was set on “loop,” it began again.

Just like the others. Same MO, same kind of pick-up place, same amount of Eurodin in Wertz’s system, the lab mice doing their usual fine and precise work, and the same mutilation—right hand little finger amputated at the first joint.

Again, his phone threatened to break in his hand, but again, he wasn’t strong or determined enough to do it. The beat cops who’d found Wertz sound asleep on the J Church train; the lab mice who’d analyzed the drug in his system; Knorr, who’d asked his carefully prepared and expert questions...

But then there was Fanning, who was supposed to assemble piece after piece after piece after piece until they made a picture of someone’s face.

Cutter’s face.

Looking up from where he’d been looking down, he saw a silhouette come between the blue-and-white of the

Gap store. A dark shape that was about the right height, about the right build, about the right age, to be whom he was looking for. Fanning carefully released his tight grip on his phone and stepped back into a nearby alley, one carefully chosen for its heavy solitude.

Heavy solitude was just what Fanning wanted.

#

His age had ticked over to forty half a decade ago, bringing with it eye surgery, regular arthritis treatments and a pre-diabetic monitoring pump sewn into his belly. He didn’t run as fast as he used to, didn’t snap back like he used to, didn’t hit as hard as he used to, but he still could get the job done. The shape that had been about the right height, about the right build, about the right age, became less about and more exact as Wertz passed. The night was cold as well as wet, so Fanning felt more coat than skin when he grabbed Wertz and spun him off his feet into an echoing crash down deep in the inky canyon of the alley.

Wertz, again according to his file, had ticked over to twenty, also half a decade ago, so he had perfect eyes, good joints, and a strong heart. Maybe, if he went to the gym, even some muscles. Fanning got to the back of the alley as fast as he could without running. Wertz was pull- ing himself out of some deep-blue biodegradable trash bags, the logo of the city Green Commission warped by his body landing hard on them.

Wertz began to say something. When Fanning’s fist landed fast and meaty in the young man’s gut, the air he’d prepared for speaking rushed out in a gagging spasm.

“Talk when you’re fucking talked to,” Fanning said, down-deep, carefully prepared vocal thunder. Knorr was good, but Fanning knew how to talk, too. “You fucking lied, didn’t you?”

Wertz was in darkness, but there was just enough light spilling from the businesses and streetlights to give his young face ghostly definition. The shape of his eyes, nose, lips revealed to Fanning that the guy was twisted up with confusion and, best of all, fear.

“You lied,” Fanning said, even lower, even closer to Wertz, giving him no time to think.

Wertz said something, the exact words lost to sud- den traffic sounds leaking from the street. Even though Fanning couldn’t tell what he said, he knew enough—a voice to that confusion and, still best of all, fear.

“Shut the fuck up,” Fanning said, punctuation added with another punch to the man’s gut. Again his breath left in a retching rush of air, now tinged with the sharp reek of pre-vomit.

“I said you were lying.” Now was the time to ask the question, to put that confusion and fear to good use. “Weren’t you, you fucking asshole?”

“W—what?” was all Wertz managed to get out.

“Your finger. Your finger! You know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

The young man who’d crashed in the garbage held his hand up—a reflex, ancient and common. But some- thing about it was new, only in the last week or so—four and three-quarters fingers, not a solid five.

“Tell me the truth, asshole. Tell me the fucking truth.”

“I don’t know what...” Wertz’s eyes glistened in the sparse light. Young. Very young. Young enough so he didn’t need eye surgery, arthritis treatments, or a bit of medical hardware just to the right of his navel. Young enough to recover damned quickly. “I told ... told them everything.”

“You’re. Lying.” Each word a vocal bullet, face-to- face, making youth face the harsh reality of determined age.

“No, no...”

“Don’t give me that shit.” Another punch, another effort to drive the point home. “What the fuck hap- pened?”

“I told them...what happened. I did.”

“You let someone just cut part of your fucking finger off? Don’t give me that shit.”

“Drugged. I said...”

“I know you were fucking drugged. I know all about that shit. Tell me what you didn’t tell the cops.”

“I told them...Fuck you, I told them everything.”

Fanning grabbed Wertz. Forty-five years reminded him they were there with a quake down his spine. Teeth tightly clenched, he tried to keep a hissing gasp from slipping out. It took work, but he got Wertz up and out of the garbage in one movement. The next movement was yet another blow to Wertz’s stomach.

Closer than before. Even more intimate in his threat: “You’re. Fucking. Lying.”

“No,” Wertz said. “I didn’t. I didn’t.” He repeated it, over and over, fast and sharp, like a whisper sped up into a near squeal.

“Yes, you fucking did. You’re fucking hiding some- thing.”

Then Fanning realized Wertz really was hiding something.

#

Looking from the mirror behind the bar. Watching from the skyline of antique bottles. Staring from the am- ber liquid in his glass. Glaring from the deep mahogany brownness of the bar top.

No grass, no acid, no meth, no ecstasy, no fun, no flash, no jump—the place had nothing but what was on tap and in that skyline of gin, tequila, vodka below the mirror. It was an antique, a musty relic for musty old relics that were a lot older than Fanning.

It wasn’t his usual kind of place, but it was close. That made it his kind of place that night.

Tapping the glass. The bartender, who looked as pre- served as the contents of his bottles—probably because he consumed as much as his derelict patrons—filled him up again.

Jack Daniel’s wasn’t his drink, but it was all he could think of. That made it his drink for that night.

Fanning sipped, feeling lighter fluid trickle down his throat, threatening to make him cough. Reclaiming his breath, he took a longer, deeper one, then took a longer, deeper drink, bringing the floating ice cubes in contact with the bottom of the glass.

Looking, watching, staring, glaring—his reflections reminded him why the antique bar was his place for the night, the Jack Daniel’s his drink for the moment.

Nothing. Nothing at all. Wertz had been a dead end. Another dead end.

Bad, very bad. But there was something else. Think- ing of it, he drank more of the harsh amber, feeling it land in his stomach like a punch. A grin at that thought, but a bitter and sour one. Just like the ones he’d landed on Wertz.

Even more bitter, still more sour—not like the ones he’d landed on Wertz. He’d told himself before hauling the kid into alley it would be worth it if he could get something, anything out of it. Some bit, some piece, some crumb that would fill in the gaps and put Cutter in his hands.

But there’d been nothing.

One more swallow, and the glass was empty. But there was that something else. Something that made him tap the glass for a third time; for a third time, the per- fectly preserved bartender poured more Jack. The noth- ing that swam around in his head was practical and pragmatic; his failure was bubbling nausea, threatening to spill out onto the mahogany bar, onto the museum- quality carpet. It was his mission, and he’d failed—again.

There was still booze in his glass, but Fanning knew he shouldn’t drink any more. Knew, but he still wanted to. Anything to put it all aside, bury it behind a drunken haze.

Wertz had been hard. Very hard—a determined and ferocious erection that had pushed up against Fanning. Needing, wanting, a dark kind of urgency. Hard because of what Fanning had been doing to him.

Bad, but not the worst. It could mean vomit on the museum-quality carpet, vomit on a mahogany bar; but Fanning still reached out, wrapped sloppy fingers around the glass and took another long drink. Anything was better than remembering that last little detail of the night, the real something else that had pulled him off the street into a place that wasn’t his kind of place, to put a drink in his hand that wasn’t his kind of drink.

Wertz had been hard. Very hard. Fanning had been, too.

Bio: M.Christian is - among many things - an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites.

He is the editor of 25 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, The Mammoth Book of Future Cops and The Mammoth Book of Tales of the Road (with Maxim Jakubowksi) and Confessions, Garden of Perverse, and Amazons (with Sage Vivant) as well as many others.

He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises, Filthy, Love Without Gun Control, Rude Mechanicals, and Coming Together Presents M.Christian, Pornotopia, How To Write And Sell Erotica; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, Fingers Breadth, and Painted Doll.

Let me throw in the suggestion that if you're interested in sampling some of his work, you should buy the charity collection Coming Together Presents M. Christian. Even if you don't like the stories in that book (which I think is very unlikely), your purchase will benefit Planned Parenthood and their work on behalf of women's health.

~Lisabet

Lisabet's October Newsletter

Trick or Treat!

It's October, my favorite month of the year - when I get to dress up and pretend to be someone scarier or sexier than I really am. The photo above is one of my costumes from a number of years ago. What am I, you ask? I called myself "Creature of the Night" - you might not be able to tell, but that's a snake tucked into my belt and a black widow spider on the ribbon around my neck. The costume was not a total success. (I think the makeup makes me look like I have a rash...) Actually, I was aiming for something more like Elvira...

Ah well, I can dream, can't I? In any case, my October newsletter is finally here. Read on for news about releases, reviews, blog posts, work in progress, and of course, contests!

New and Upcoming Releases

Earlier this month Cleis Books released Steamlust, a fabulous new anthology of steam punk erotic romance that includes my story "Green Cheese". The book is already receiving rave reviews.

Publishers Weekly wrote:

Not content to titillate, these passionate vignettes will also satisfy steampunk fans intellectually with nuanced discussions of self-sufficient women and the roles that machines play in our lives.

Romance Times comments:

With a foreword by Meljean Brook and an introduction by the editor, this erotic paean to steampunk captures many aspects of the genre. Expect the unexpected...

In the case of my story, "the unexpected" includes Victorian Bangkok, mechanical dancers, and a war on the moon. Just click here for an excerpt.

Speaking of reviews, Miz Love gave Treble a rating of five out of five and called it "a keeper":

Treble is a fab-tastic collection of very hot tales to suit all tastes. Each story brings a unique slant to the table on more than two in a bed. If you’re curious about just what goes on between the sheets when there’s more than one willy standing up to attention, then this is the book for you. There are lots of hungry willies about, let me tell you, each one belonging to delicious men who bring forth different emotions in each tale.

You can read the full review here. And by the way - if you're the type who enjoys a physical "page turner", Treble is now out in print!

I have two releases coming out next month. November 14th, Total-E-Bound will release Hot Spell, my paranormal tale featuring a hero who is literally sizzling. On the 28th, Wild About That Thing goes on sale as a stand-alone title. Both books are available for pre-order now!

Other News

I recently got the news that my story Shorn has been accepted for Kristina Wright's next anthology, Lustfully Ever After - a collection of erotic romance fairy tales. My story is an unconventional retelling of Rapunzel. The book will be out next year.

Just finished another new story which I've submitted to D.L. King for her succubus-themed anthology. The tale, called Naked in Varanasi is set in India and features an encounter between a man seeking spiritual truth, and an ancient goddess. Keeping my fingers crossed!

Want to a chance to win some great prizes? Of course you do! My fellow author Bianca Sommerland is hosting a Lover's Scare contest on her blog. Fourteen fabulous authors - including me! - are offering sexy, scary excerpts or flash fiction, one each day between the 18th and the 31st of October. Bianca's giving away an Amazon gift card and a bunch of free books. Some of the authors - yours truly included - are also offering prizes. In my case, you can win a copy of my Halloween novella Rendezvous. Leave comments to qualify for prizes. And don't forget to vote for your favorite story. We authors can win, too!

My day is the 27th of October, but don't wait until then to visit. The fun is going on now! Just click the banner below to go to the site!

Every author you check out brings you closer to winning one of the prizes.

My free read this month, appropriately entitled Trick or Treat, provides a humorous and sexy look at a committed BDSM relationship. If you're in the mood for more Halloween-type fun, you might want to check out Dirty Laundry or Offering. My poem Beltane is also about All Hallow's Eve.

Contests!

Thanks to all of you who visited my blog while I was traveling and participated in my Backlist Blog Bash. You kept things lively while I was away!

This month I'm celebrating Halloween by giving away your choice of any paranormal title in my backlist: Necessary Madness, Serpent's Kiss, Tomorrow's Gifts, or Rendezvous. What do you have to do? Share your favorite Halloween costume!

Send an email to contest [at] lisabetsarai.com with the subject "Halloween Contest". Then tell me about the best costume you ever wore. If you have a photo, send it along as an attachment and I'll enter you in the contest twice! Sometime around the 15th of November, I'll randomly draw the winner. I may also feature your photos in a blog post - with your permission, of course.

Lisabet's Pick of the Month

My Pick for October is Beth Wylde's website. Beth writes wonderful, sex positive erotica and romance. She is celebrating Breast Cancer Awareness month by donating a dollar of every sale from her newest book, Women Gone Wylde, to the Susan G Komen for the Cure Foundation in hopes of one day eradicating this horrid disease. The dollar donation applies on books sold direct from Createspace (https://www.createspace.com/3577926). Or you can email Beth at b.wylde [at] yahoo.com to order a signed copy, and receive a Breast Cancer Awareness rubber duck souvenir and a 2012-2013 Be Aware calendar.

My Absolute Favorite

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