Sunday, May 31, 2015

Dual Release Dilemma (Sunday Snog #176 and a Contest!)

I just got back from my trip to the UK to attend the fabulous Smut by the Sea event in Scarborough. While I was away, I had not one but two new releases. So which one should I promote?

It’s a tough decision. The only possible answer is: both! You’ll find blurbs and excerpts for both Fourth World and The Last Amanuensis below. Check them out, then leave me a comment with your email. I’ll randomly select one person from all the people who comment, and give that individual whichever book he or she prefers.

Oh—and since today’s Sunday, one of the excerpts includes a snog. Don’t forget to visit Victoria’s place for more Sunday kisses!

Fourth World: Tales of monsters, myths and magic
Paranormal erotica by Lisabet Sarai (30K words)
Excessica, May 2015

Enter the fourth world - a world of lust and shadows, where anything can happen.

Obsessive passion and dark ecstasy mark these seven stories of paranormal desire from eroticist Lisabet Sarai. An undead couple hunts for beauty and youth in the history-drenched streets of Prague. A sex addict meets his fate in the embrace of a seductive monster. An innocent writer offers her body and heart to a century-old ghost. A spiritual seeker succumbs to temptation in the arms of a fearsome and greedy goddess. A kinky, blood-drenched threesome unfolds in a luxurious Bangkok penthouse. These tales conjure the magic of sex, and its dangers. Expect to be unbearably aroused and occasionally terrified. Do not expect happily ever afters.


The lightest of pressures, the briefest of touches, but it sent tremors through her sex. Instinctively, Beth parted her legs and rocked her pelvis forward, seeking more solid contact. The shopkeeper obliged, slipping one slender finger into the mass of moist curls to her center. Sparks leapt from that finger, raced through her, leaving her weak and breathless.

"Please..." she tried to say, not really knowing what she was asking for but wanting it more than anything. She had no voice, though, no will. She could barely stand.

The proprietor smiled at her reflection, kind, encouraging. "Come here, my dear." He led her to the velvet chaise. "Lie back. Relax."

Beth's mind flailed wildly, even as her body obeyed the man's suggestions. She searched his mild, middle-aged face, seeking reassurance. In response, he knelt in front of her, gently but firmly pushing her thighs apart. Then he removed his glasses, and his eyes were unveiled. Beth thought of the ocean, of the sky, of a gas flame, azure bright, almost transparent. And then of a star sapphire, ever-changing light sparkling in blue depths.

Then he bent his mouth to her sex, and Beth forgot to think.

Sensation and emotion, velvet wetness and diamond sharpness, his tongue a feather and a sword. She writhed and shook, keening like a madwoman. The shawl slipped away from her body. The velour upholstery grew damp beneath her. Beth did not notice. He licked, nibbled, probed her depths, breathed her, drank her, buried himself in her, swallowed her whole. She did not know what it was that he did, only that it brought near-unbearable ecstasy. The world shattered and fell away as pleasure drowned her.

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The Last Amanuensis
Speculative erotica by Lisabet Sarai (5K words)
Fireborn Publishing, May 2015

Poetry is like bloodyou cant hold it back.

The Emperor has decreed that Reason will rule in his lands. Art and literature are banned in favor of military technology. The fearsome Preceptors prowl the capitol, arresting anyone who dares, even secretly, to engage in forbidden activities.

A former teacher and frustrated writer, Adele is grateful for her job as secretary to the enigmatic Professor. During the day, she transcribes his learned treatises on a vast range of topics. Then he calls her to his room one night, to give her a more difficult and intimate assignment, one that risks both their lives.


He told me once, as dawn neared and the candles sputtered out, that I was the most skilled of all the secretaries he has employed over the years. I remember his praise on the nights he does not require my services, when I lie awake thinking about him and our perilous enterprise. It almost melts the lump of cold fear that has taken up residence in my chest.


Sorry, sir.” Picking up the instrument (one of his many clever designs), I apply the needle once more, resolutely ignoring the tiny gasp that escapes him. “Just three more words,” I add, tracing the pointillist curve of an S on the still unmarked spot below his right kidney. 
He remains silent. Unutterably brave. I check the scrawled page spread out on the table, just to be sure—the ink is unforgiving of mistakes—then bend again to his pale flesh. Blood wells up from one of my punctures, glittering like a ruby in the snow. When I wipe the surface with an alcohol-soaked napkin, he quivers upon the mattress. Probably he is reacting to the sting, though I like to imagine it is my touch that affects him thus.

Though I know he'll be angry, I cannot stop myself from stroking his naked arse, tracing the lines of text that march up the swell and down into the hollow between his legs. Some are written in my neat, squared hand. Others are unfamiliar. All are beautiful, a thousand words in reds, greens, purples; opulent as some medieval manuscript.

My employer shifts again, spreading his thighs a bit so that I glimpse the dusky, wrinkled mass of his sac. His living warmth penetrates the rubber of my gloves. I nearly tear them off, just so I can feel his skin against mine. My fingers tingle, drawn to his illumined flesh like steel to a magnet.

Adele!There's no fatigue in his voice now, no trace of weakness, nothing but iron determination. I flush with shame at my irresponsible distraction.Finish the bloody poem.

Buy Links

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Fireborn Publishing

Don't forget to enter the giveaway! Leave me a comment telling me which book you'd like to win. And don't forget your email!

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Sunday Snog #175: Clean Slate

My snog today comes from “Clean Slate”, one of the stories in my new collection of lesbian erotica, Her Own Devices. It’s short, but very intense!

Don’t forget to visit Snog Central for links to lots more luscious Sunday kisses!

You're so wet, chica!she purred. I was. Her fingers slipped and slithered in my depths like eels in the ocean.I'm wet, too. I've dreamed about this, about you...since the first day you shed your clothing and showed me your marks, I've wanted to strip you bare and make you writhe...

Oh...oh...oh!I was beyond words, though some distant corner of my mind still observed, commented, analyzed. As though impatient, she pushed the panties down around my thighs, then plunged her whole hand into my sopping pussy. I ground my clit against her knuckles and spread my legs as wide as I could. Elastic cut into my flesh, but I didn't care. I opened myself to her clever fingers, wanting more, moremore of the fierce heat she coaxed from my snow-pale body, more of the pleasure that she woke everywhere she touched.

She nipped at my shoulder, where the anesthetic had started to wear off. Pain sliced through me, a startling contrast to the sweet heaviness pooled between my thighs. I turned my head and she fastened her ripe-plum lips on mine, forcing her tongue into my mouth, still twisting my nipple and stabbing at my clit. She smelled like orange blossoms. She tasted of espresso. She pressed her pelvis against my bare ass. The starched fabric of her lab coat rasped against my cheeks. I could feel her dampness, even through the layers of cloth. I felt her want, a mirror of my own.

Somehow we ended up on the tiled floor. Under her coat she wore tight jeans and a purple tank top without a bra. Cradling her full breasts in my pale fingers, I suckled first one taut nipple and then the other while she struggled with her pants. I ran my tongue up along the outside of one luscious mound, to the sensitive spot under her arm. She stiffened and moaned. I heard tearing fabric and understood that she was as desperate as I was.

I straddled her, pressing my lightly furred bush against her black thicket. Skin on skin, at last! My juices mingled with hers as we rubbed our mounds together. Our rich, musky scent hung heavy in the sterile room. I leaned over to capture her mouth, letting my pea-sized nipples graze her more opulent ones.

She relaxed and let me take the lead. I wanted to devour her. I had to hold myself back. I kissed her ferociously, for a long time, until I could tell she was having trouble breathing. you...chica,she gasped when I finally released her. I could only grunt; I was too deep into my lust to speak. I nipped at her earlobe, then swung around so that my cunt was in her face. She spread me wide with trembling fingers.

The first sweep of her strong, hot tongue gathered me and drew me to the pinnacle. The second stroke pushed me off. My body took flight, arrowing up into clouds of pure pleasure then tumbling downward to burst against her face. Everything poured out of me, the darkness and the fear and the shame, flooding her eager mouth.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

From sweet to OMG don’t tell my mother I wrote that

By Killarney Sheffield (Guest Blogger)

As an author it’s all about the journey, not about where you are going, but how you get there. I started out 10 years ago as a stay at home mom of five. Writing took place mostly in the evening when the little ones were in bed. Why did I write? Well, because I had to, I needed to, it was a way to keep my sanity in a house full of kiddie chaos. I was inspired by an author whom I loved and read everything she ever wrote, Kathleen Woodwiss. I started out writing sweet and a little spicy historical romances, and as strange as it sounds saw my dream of being published in 2010 become a reality with my third ever manuscript. The strange part? That contract was followed by ones for my second manuscript and then my first, kind of a reverse play if you will.

The more I wrote the more I found myself wanting to explore more than just sweet romances. I dabbled with a short erotica and an all most over the mainstream line historical, The Courtesan, but never really attempted a full on erotic novel until 50 Shades Of Grey came out. I wasn’t inspired to write an erotica by the hype or the money, rather because (and I apologize if this offends anyone), I hated the series. Yes, I hated 50 Shades of Grey. I as a reader and an author had three major issues with the series; 1) A 21 yr old virgin in this day and age? Okay, not impossible, but highly unlikely. 2) The heroine had no driving force to sign a sex contract and to me a virginal curiosity just wasn’t enough. 3) What normal woman falls for a guy that screwed up??? I’m sure if the man wasn’t a billionaire no woman, or reader, would have given him a second look… and I don’t personally know anyone shallow enough to put up with creepy for money. So basically I wrote my own 95,000 word version of 50 Shades set in the regency period titled SINGED.

SINGED was supposed to release in May, however, due to the success of a couple of my historical romances right now, including a sweet one entitled, Love’s Magic, 2015 RONE award nominee, it has been delayed until fall. Until then how about a sneak, unedited peek at SINGED?

Chapter One
Nice young ladies don’t sneak out when they are supposed to be in bed. The thought sticks in my mind. Well, perhaps I am not such a nice young lady, at least not beneath my obedient debutante exterior… With an un-lady-like snort I push the sentiment from my head. The streets of the city still flirt with shadows at this hour and I need to be careful to keep my wits about me as I make my way along them. Cory's waiting. His penned note is clipped, filled with something sinister I can't quite put my fingers on. It simply says, 'Must meet. Please come to Colt's Foot Inn, Hyde Street'. There is trouble. I can sense it. My twin and I always sense each other's feelings. My footsteps echo across the cobblestones as I round the corner. Up ahead is the marker to the Colt's Foot Inn. My father would be furious if he knew I was out at this hour and without a chaperone. Something moves behind me. It's not an audible noise, more of a feeling someone or something is there. My heart pounds in my chest. No one but Cory knows I'm out. A hasty glance over my shoulder picks up a dark form. It's tall and frightening. Terror quickens my steps. I'm running now, running to the Inn. In the door I burst, breath puffing in white clouds of steam. The door slams shut behind me and I lean against it. The tavern keeper looks up and nods. I'll be safe here. A quick scan of the room shows I am the only one here, besides the barkeep that is.
“I am looking for Cory Sexton, good sir. Is he here?”
The man jerks his head in the direction of the stairs. “He paid for room five last eve.”
Frowning I make for the stairs, taking them two at a time in a most un-lady-like fashion, much to my mother's horror and my father's chagrin, were they to witness it. The hallway at the top of the stairs has a musty, sour ale odor to it. Wrinkling my nose I glance at the numbers on the doors in passing. Again, my father would be disgusted to see me in such a rundown establishment as this one. An earl's daughter should not be seen in such a place, even attired in a demure dark blue velvet walking dress. My father would be dismayed to see his only son in such a place too, but then again it has been almost a year since he's seen Cory. The two always had a volatile relationship. A year ago they had the argument to end all arguments. Cory left and my father refused to utter his name again. To this day I have no idea what the disagreement was even about, neither will tell me. It is not a woman's concern. We must not strain our pretty little heads with a man's problems. Men can be so foolish sometimes.
Catching the number 5 painted in a faded, crooked splatter across a door to my right I stop and knock on it. The sound echoes. When no one answers I try again and tap my slipper on the worn red carpet. Has he forgotten he summoned me? Perhaps he has gone back to sleep. Impatient with his rudeness I try the knob. It twists easily in my hand. Upon opening the door I am greeted with chaos. My gasp fills the room. The floor is littered with parchment, clothing, ink pots and linen. The cot in the corner is sliced open and the straw ticking yanked out in a heap at the foot of it. Cory is nowhere to be seen. Fear prickles the hairs on my neck. Where is my brother? Has something terrible happened to him?
A book lying open spine up catches my eye. I cross the room and pick it up. Flipping it over I realize it is a journal of sorts. In my brother's spiky hand is written the date and a simple entry.
February, 12th 1820. A toast to radical socialism. Spencean Philanthropists.
The Spencean Philanthropists is none other than a group of radical socialism and violent republicans. It's rumored it is run by a man named Arthur Thistlewood. Just who he is no one seems to know. What side is my brother on? Though one would assume he is on the side of our sovereign king I am not so sure. I have long suspected he may have an interest in a new government. To support this openly means death if you are caught, either by the hangman's noose or the guillotine. Either way, dead is dead.
There is only one page in the journal. Where the rest should be are jagged edges, giving evidence that someone didn't want anyone else to read the previous entries. It is a mystery that would make the great Scotland Yard wonder, though I suppose they are much too busy hunting down criminal masterminds to bother with the writings of one young heir to the Sexton fortune.
Something shiny on the bare floor under the small window garners my attention. Upon inspection I find my brother's emerald stick pin. He loves this pin. It is his favorite because it matches my eyes, our eyes. Picking it up I twirl it around in my fingers and it glitters against my white gloves. He wouldn't leave without it, not intentionally. Fear so consuming rolls through my limbs. Closing my eyes I clutch the pin to my breast and will it away. “What have you done, Cory?”
The curtain billows in the morning breeze as I open my eyes. Stepping to the sill and leaning out I discover a trail of broken branches and vines leading to the ground. Someone's entry ... or exit. Good deduction Victoria, Scotland Yard would be proud. A lantern keeper strolls down the cobblestones bathed in the rosy glow of the sun starting to slip above the horizon. One by one he snuffs the wicks in each dome atop the tall lamp posts. I must get home before father or one of the maids discovers me gone.
At the bottom of the stairs I pause, looking for the barkeep. He enters the room from a curtained off area in back. “My brother, Lord Sexton, is not in his room. Did you see him leave? Did he say when he would be back?”
He shakes his head. “I don't keep tabs on me customers, miss.”
“Could I leave a message for him?”
“Ye could, and 'e'll get it if'n I remember.”
Frowning I cross the room to the bar. “Have you perhaps a quill, paper and ink?”
“Nope. No need fer such things. I can't read nor write.”
“I see.” The man is uneducated and coarse, probably of no mind to help me either. “How long did my brother rent the room?”
A smirk lingers on his lips. “'Till the end of the month. Now, ifn you'll excuse me, I've got things t' do.” With that he turns and disappears once more behind the curtain.
The only thing to do is head home. Later, when no one is about during afternoon retirement I can send a note around to my brother and hope he answers. Perhaps there is even another message awaiting my return at my father's townhouse. I pray there is.
The journey back to the well to do homes is uneventful. Except for a few curious stares no one seems to bother with a well-dressed woman about at such an uncivilized hour. Thankfully. My courage is flagging. When the townhouse looms ahead of me, all red brick and sandstone against the tangerine sky a sigh slips from me. I'm home. My brother is not.
Easing through the door I close it as soft as possible behind and tiptoe up the main staircase. Before long I step into my safe and protected room. Pink frills adorn everything, from the deep pink velvet bedspread, to the matching canopy and on the trim of all the paler pink cloths draping the tables. Even the carpet is a lighter shade. Why? The designer designed it that way. My tastes have not really been reflected here for I am not the lady of the house. My mother is, Lady Gwendolyn Sexton.
As quick as possible I slip off my cloak and out of my gown, hanging them neatly in the amour. It wouldn't be good to be caught sneaking back in. Good thing I left off that annoying and much hated whalebone corset my maid insists I wear each day. I'd never get it off myself, or on for that matter. After donning my nightdress I slide between the sheets, make myself comfortable and try for a few hours more sleep before it is time to greet the day. According to mother, a proper lady does not rise before ten.
No, not now. Sleep is still calling.
“Miss. It is time to rise. Your breakfast is here.”
Groaning I roll over. I know ladies aren't supposed to make inappropriate noises like moaning, groaning or grunting. Not in public anyway. After sitting up she places a tray across my lap containing a cup of hot chocolate, a coddled egg and half a dozen buttery toast fingers. I swear the mice in the pantry are better fed. Good thing I have my own personal stash of treats and sweets hidden in the trunk in the amour. Besides, the cook likes me and often slips me extra rations when mother is not around. It is lucky women don't starve to death, though I have seen many faint due to corsets that are too tight. Sometimes I wish I was born without a silver spoon in my mouth. My maid Mary doesn't have to wear a corset, go to silly parties, starve herself or submit to dozens of costume changes a day. On the other hand she works so many hours in a day I doubt she has anytime for such pursuits. And did I forget she is able to marry for love? Those of the 'ton' don't marry for love. We marry for wealth and social status. I don't know anyone who actually married someone they love, most hardly even know each other before tying the nuptial knot. All this I mull over while eating my meager meal. Most girls my age are worried about fashion plates, beaus and what they will wear to the next ball …
Blinking I put aside my thoughts and turn my attention to the maid. “Yes Mary?”
“Would you prefer the pink muslin or the yellow satin this morning?”
Rolling my eyes I shrug. “Which ever you think, Mary.”
“Yes, miss.”
She goes to the amour and returns with the pink muslin. Emerald eyes and rich chestnut hair go with everything. Unlike Mary's mop of wild red curls she tries to hide under her odd looking white cap. With a roll of my eyes I shove the tray away and it is time to dress. It takes the usual hour to be primped, curled, pinched, corseted and dressed. To make matters worse my first clothing change is before noon tea, in two hours. After dressing I head downstairs to the small family parlor. Mother will be there by now, no doubt fretting because I am ten minutes late ... as usual.
“Victoria, you are tardy, my dear,” my mother scolds the second I set foot in the room.
“Yes mother. I am sorry.” Suitably chastised I take my seat in front of the easel. My paintings are ... not terrible. Honestly, I haven't much talent as far as that is concerned. My drawings are basic and the color slopped on them too bright and sometimes garish. The painting instructor tried hard, I'll give him that. Still, a well-bred lady should be able to paint, embroider, dance, play an instrument and of course bore a gentleman to near death with simple, inane chatter. It also helps if you can master a charming smile and eyelash batting. In my case, well, I have to admit I am quite good at playing the pianoforte. The music teacher is the only one of the instructors who did not require extra payment to ... nurture my un-talents.
“Good morning, my dears,” father says and saunters into the room carrying his newspaper. I enjoy spending time with father. Sometimes he understands me, or maybe he just humors me.
“Good morning, Father.”
He pauses and kisses my cheek before moving on to kiss mother's hand. Then he settles into his favorite chair to read the paper. The minutes tick by in time with the clock on the mantle. The swish of mother's needle and thread, the crinkle of father's paper and the scratch of my charcoal stick on the canvas as I create my newest master piece ... of manure. Oops, did I just think that? Well, it’s not as if I said it out loud.
My attention shifts from the bowl of sad looking fruit I'm sketching to the door as the butler arrives. Something to break the tediousness of the morning would be most welcome, a letter, an invite to a party, anything.
“Excuse me, my lord. There is a Lord Dominic Davil here to see you.”
Father puts away his paper. “Show him in, Jeffries.”
Into the parlor and my life walks the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Men aren't supposed to be beautiful, but this one is. He is a modern 1820s version of Adonis. Dark and mysterious are the first two words that come to mind as his gaze settles on me. Wavy black hair neatly tied back with a puce ribbon, to accentuate a strong square jaw, unmarred by stubble or hair rises to full lips, wide cheek bones and an aristocratic nose. A well cut black coat studded with glittering ruby like buttons stretches over broad shoulders and matching trousers without a visible crease anywhere mold his God like torso, hips and thighs. All this topped with Hessian boots polished to an almost glowing shine. Adonis. I allow my stare to travel back up his impeccable dress to his face and catch the glint in his eye. Is it amusement at my slack jawed admiration? Yes and no, I think. There is something dangerous about his deep blue, almost black eyed attention. A shiver trails icy fingers down my spine. Deliciously dangerous. That gaze promises something, wicked, hungry and intoxicating.
The lord in question looks away, a slight smirk on his lips and crosses to my mother. “Good afternoon, Lady Sexton.” He gives an elegant bow and kisses my mother's hand. I notice she blushes and squirms slightly in her chair, eyes wide and smitten. He releases her hand and turns away. “Lord Sexton. I have come bearing news.”
Father rises to his feet and sets aside his paper. “Good afternoon, Lord Davil.”
Blinking I look away, the spell broken by my father's greeting. My heart beats an aroused tattoo against my chest and my breath is coming in small gasps. Does Lord Dominic Davil have this effect on every woman he meets? I hope not.
Father holds out his hand to me. “Have you met my daughter, Victoria?”
Rising with as much grace as I can muster I cross the couple steps to him on shaky limbs.
Warm fingers caress mine in a light grip, his thumb stroking the back of my knuckles. “Charmed to meet you, Miss Sexton.”
Someone is charmed and I suspect it is not him, but rather only the women in the room. I fight the urge to moan and sigh, “Oh, my,” instead in a breathy whisper.
This time his lips turn up in a quirky grin. The scoundrel is certainly aware of the effects he has on women. His lips descend to brush my hand and I almost squeal as the rake twirls his warm tongue against the skin unbeknownst to my father. He releases my hand at the hitch in my breath and straightens. A cheeky glint in his eyes shows he approves of my reaction. Heat creeps up my neck to my cheeks. I sidle a quick glance at mother. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. Did she catch his inappropriate gesture, or did he do the same thing to her and she suspects?
“Shall we retire to my study, Lord Davil?”
Regret at the stranger's leaving forms and I return to my seat as he tips his head in acquiescence. He follows father to the door, but pauses on the threshold of the room and fixes his cool gaze on me. “Until we meet again, Miss Sexton.”
Is it just me, or does my name roll off his tongue in a blatantly seductive way? Before I can reply he's gone. I glance at my mother.
Her eyes sparkle with anger and her lips are still pressed in a thin line. “Victoria Sexton, I am appalled! Your performance was disgraceful.”
Head bowed I bite my lip. My performance? What about his? “Yes, mother.” There is no point in arguing. Last time I pressed my luck I was confined to my room for the Wellsbrook hunt. All because I complained it wasn't fair I could not ride father's stallion Windwalker in it. Women do not ride unmannerly stallions she scolded. Looking back I suppose I shouldn't have pressed my luck by retorting Windwalker had more manners than some of the so called gentleman attending. Me and my big mouth. It gets me in trouble all the time.
Glancing at the mantle clock I smother a groan. It is another hour yet before I can be excused to change again.

About Me

Well, before becoming a published author I used to be a natural horsemanship trainer, farrier and English & Western riding coach. I currently live on a Canadian cattle ranch with my family, though one day have dreams of seeing the world and moving to Australia. I am still as passionate about my horses as my writing but have to work hard to balance the two these days. Which is my greatest joy? Probably my registered Thoroughbred stallion 'Stamp de Gold' whom I lovingly refer to as 'Love Monkey'. In a horse person's life there comes that one very special equine who seems to know exactly what you want and what you are thinking. I have been blessed with 2 of those amazing creatures over my years of owning, training and showing, my dear departed 'Melderman' and 'Stamp de Gold'. For all those 'horsey' readers and authors out there I also have a blog dedicated to all kinds of horse info which you can find on my links page.