A sexy Halloween excerpt - and a treat! -- #Halloween #pnr #giftcertificate #69cents

Happy Halloween!

My favorite holiday is finally here! I hope you have plans for tonight—maybe even outrageous ones. In any case, I want to help you celebrate.

Below I’ve got a sexy excerpt from my Halloween paranormal short Rendezvous. For Rebecca, Halloween has always been special, an opportunity for her to cast off her sensible, ordinary self and assume a new look and a new identity: someone extraordinary, sensual and seductive.

When Halloween night finds her stranded by a breakdown in a seedy motel nearly a hundred miles from her friend's annual party, she's terribly frustrated and disappointed. Then she discovers that her room is haunted by the invisible but unquestionably virile ghost of a rake who seduced local women nearly half a century earlier. Gradually, the ghost unmasks Rebecca's secret desires, fulfilling every one.

By the time midnight tolls, Rebecca has come face to face with more magic than she had ever imagined.

Today only, you can get this book for only 69 cents at Totally Bound! And all my other paranormal books are only 99 cents. But don’t wait, because at midnight this offer will be gone like cemetery fog when the sun rises!

Meanwhile, I’ve got a special treat for you. Leave me a comment telling me what you think of the excerpt, or what you’re planning for Halloween. I’ll give a $10 bookstore gift voucher to one lucky person who leaves a comment. (Please include your email so I can get in touch if you’re the winner.)

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.

Don’t forget to leave a comment. You just might win!

Review Tuesday: Sweet Caress by William Boyd #ReviewTuesday #pseudoautobiography #photography

 
Sweet Caress: The Many Lives of Amory Clay by William Boyd

Bloomsbury, 2015

I’ve been a fan of William Boyd’s novels for many years, entranced by his vivid, clever prose and deeply appreciative of his multi-layer plotting. Many of his heroes, though, in particular the protagonists of Waiting for Sunrise and Ordinary Thunderstorms, have struck me as almost pathologically bland, aimless and unreflective. Thus, I was surprised and delighted by Amory Clay, the heroine of this pseudo-autobiography.

Amory is passionate, contrary, even a bit wild, yet from her earliest days possessed of an astonishingly perceptive sense of herself. Sweet Caress follows her from her birth in Edwardian England, through her childhood in the English countryside with her emotionally distant mother, mentally-ill father, musically gifted sister and autistic brother, to her teenage years when she discovers her vocation as a photographer. Amory never seems to doubt herself or her impulses. She recounts her stint in perverse and impoverished post-WWI Berlin, cataloging the hidden world of whores and cabaret performers; her near-fatal attempt to photograph British fascists in the thirties; her perilous work in the combat zone during World War II and the Vietnam War; her love affairs with her married publisher, a neurotic French author, and the battle-ravaged Scottish lord she finally marries. Through excerpts from a present day diary, written as she approaches seventy, plus her reminiscences, Amory shares her fears, frustrations, joys and meditations. Her lively account, illustrated with her black and white photos from each period, feels so genuine, that I actually had to go to the Internet to confirm that she was not, in fact, a real person.

I was sincerely disappointed to discover she is entirely fictional. At the same, I was astonished by Boyd’s virtuosity in bringing her to life.

There’s no plot in one person’s history, only a series of episodes. That’s true of this novel as well. Furthermore, we edit our memories when we recall our past. Amory is fully aware of this tendency. Reading Sweet Caress, we have a dual view of the protagonist’s life—her recollections of her feelings when she was young, paired with her current understanding of her more youthful self. We recognize that she’s selecting the highlights, the turning points that defined who she was and who she became.

Boyd pulls this off flawlessly, making it seem easy. Amory drew me in, showed me her world through her brilliant photographer’s eyes, made me believe in and care about her.

I was deeply impressed.

Is the paranormal actually normal? #spirituality #occult #paranormal #giveaway

Blurb

Is the paranormal normal?

Many readers will be surprised when learning that reputable scientists, among them several Nobel laureates, have claimed that telepathy is a reality. Their curiosity will increase when reading that Cleopatra’s lost palace and Richard III’s burial place were recovered by means of clairvoyance. And some will think it to be science fiction when finding out about Stargate—the espionage program where the American military and CIA engaged in the development of psychic spies!

Simonsen, a Norwegian historian of ideas, introduces an array of entertaining paranormal tales from history, archaeology, anthropology and psychology, and presents scientific research that has provided fascinating results. He argues that the stories we hear about telepathy, clairvoyance and precognition ought not to be dismissed as superstition

In step with spiritual and occult traditions, the author suggests that consciousness is not limited to our own head. Rather he thinks that all humans (and perhaps all living beings) are linked together in a “Mental Internet.’ Via this network we may exchange ‘telepathic emails’ with friends and family and make clairvoyant ‘downloads’ of information.  Thus perhaps what we usually call ‘supernatural’ is completely natural but little understood communications via this Mental Internet?

Our Secret Powers gives us a engaged and entertaining analysis of a controversial subject and would make an excellent travel companion.

"Superb survey of the paranormal... Although serious in content, it is written in a light, often humorous, style which is a delight to read. As someone who has myself made a lifelong study of the paranormal, I cannot recommend it highly enough." ~ Fantasy author, Herbie Brennan

"Simonsen describes his book as 'A travelogue from the twilight zone',but he is far too modest. Our Secret Powers is a sprawling work, meticulously researched, in which the author deftly, and with engaging wit, pulls together the various strands of "psi"--telepathy, clairvoyance, precognition,telekinesis, and healing--and presents them for our consideration." ~ Pulitzer-prize winner, Teresa Carpenter

Excerpt

Based on this idea, we launch a quite simple model, called the “Mental Internet.” The basic metaphor here is that somewhat in the way our computers are linked together via the Internet, the ‘consciousnesses’ of all humans, and perhaps all living beings, are linked together via some sort of Mental Internet. Consciousness, like the Internet, is—on some level—something that we are all doing together; it is networking. And telepathy is the communication that drives this network.


I therefore invite the reader to engage in a little thought experiment throughout the book: namely that an Internet Model of consciousness may have some relevance. Galileo once invited the Inquisition to look through his telescope in order to see what he himself had seen. But, as we know, the inquisitors were not very keen on having their horizons expanded and instead muttered murkily of ‘the work of the Devil.’ However, I take it for granted that the reader has a radically more open attitude than those darkened souls, and I am therefore confident that my invitation will be well received.


I find it intriguing to think that our everyday perception of Space and Time may, in some respects, be merely a mental frame, a habit. And therefore it might be possible to think outside the box in a more radical way. The proposed thought experiment about a Mental Internet allows for this, and telepathy can then be considered as the ‘emails’ sent and the ‘downloads’ made via this mental network. Many phenomena that otherwise would appear inexplicable will in light of this model fall quite nicely into place. More (much more) about this later!



About the Author

Terje G. Simonsen is an author with a Ph.D. in the History of Ideas. He has increasingly focused his attention on the esoteric and occult traditions and on paranormal phenomena, as telepathy, clairvoyance, precognition, telekinesis, healing etc. Recently he published the highly acclaimed Our Secret Powers, based on his extraordinary knowledge within this field. Elegantly and with great personal wit and insight, he discusses parapsychological phenomena such as telepathy, clairvoyance, and precognition. 


Simonsen has had his work praised by several of the world’s most renowned experts on the paranormal: The bestselling parapsychologist, Dean Radin, chief scientist at the Institute of Noetic Sciences, says: ‘As an encyclopedic introduction to the psychic side of the fascinating but puzzling domain known as the paranormal, there is no better choice than Our Secret Powers.” And Stanley Krippner, expert on hypnosis, shamanism and altered states of consciousness, former leader of two departments in the American Psychological Association, says: “This is an outstanding book and it deserves all the attention it can get. Not only is Our Secret Powers a book for all seasons, it is a book for all reasons!’”.





http://www.paripublishing.com/authors/terje-gerotti-simonsen/


Author page on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/terjesimonsen

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/8895604334/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0

Amazon.UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Our-Secret-Powers-Clairvoyance-Precognition/dp/8895604334 

Buy link Pari Publishing: 
http://www.paripublishing.com/books/our-secret-powers





Terje G. Simonsen will be awarding a $25 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Sizzling Sunday: Damned If You Do #Halloween #paranormal #BDSM #giveaway

For Sizzling Sunday today, I have a never-before shared paranormal excerpt from Damned If You Do.

And I’m giving away a copy of the book to one lucky reader. Just leave me a comment to enter.

But if you don’t win...the book is only 99 cents until the end of the month, as part of my Month of Magic!

Shadows filled the bedroom. Mister B had closed the drapes against the bright June sun, and odd as it seemed, the temperature had dropped enough to raise goose bumps on her naked arms. He'd also removed all her belongings from the top of her bureau, on the opposite wall, and spread a cover of black satin over the surface. A crimson candle burned there now, flanked by a black ostrich feather, a silver bowl, and a vicious looking knife with a serrated silver blade. Next to the blade lay a multi-page document, which Wendy recognized as the contract her companion had shown her yesterday.

Mister B stood beside the chest of drawers, wearing a hooded robe of black, embroidered in gold with mystic signs. His trim form practically vibrated with tension. “Come here,” he ordered. “Time is short. We should have done this last night.”

“Let me put something on,” Wendy replied with a shiver.

“No! You must be naked.” Picking up the knife, he reached for her. “Give me your hand. There’s a twelve hour tolerance on the contract date. You must sign before the clock strikes noon.”

“Wait just one minute!” Dodging his blade, she snatched the papers from the dresser. “I haven't read the full contract yet.”

“Bloody hell, woman! Let's get on with it. I've summarized the terms for you—the rest is just legalese.”

He appeared agitated. Wendy's doubts resurfaced. He'd seemed totally normal last night—normal for a sadist, at least— but what if he really was wacko? She didn't like the look of that blade one bit.

“I'm sorry, but there's no way I'm going to sign a contract without reading it thoroughly. If you have a problem with that, you can leave now.”

“No, no–—read the whole damned thing if you insist–—just be quick about it.” He replaced the knife on the table and commenced pacing back and forth in front of the bed.

Wendy seated herself on the edge of the bed and proceeded to review the document as carefully as she could, given the chills that racked her body.

In fact the contract was simple, specific, and far more clearly written than many she'd been offered over her years in the business. Subterranean Services Ltd. promised her annual sales of at least five million copies and annual pre-tax income of at least $500,000, these levels to be achieved within one year of signing and to be maintained for at least ten years. In return, she promised to surrender her Immortal Soul—she noted the capitals with some amusement—upon demand, but in any case no later than two years from the date of signing. She also agreed to obey the Representative of the Provider “in all matters, including sexual” until the transfer of her soul was completed. There was the typical boilerplate about indemnification, jurisdiction, arbitration (“by an Authority to be chosen by the Provider”) and notice. However, there were no provisions for termination.

She'd included slave contracts in a couple of her novels. There was always a termination clause. Of course, it might be that the transfer of one's soul was irreversible. In any case, she wasn't going to sign without engaging in some negotiation.

“This seems reasonable, assuming I believe you can deliver. Which of course isn't a reasonable belief at all.”

“You can count on me, Gwen.” His mellifluous voice dripped with honey, though she still read impatience in his stance. “Did I not prove that to you last night?”

“Last night was an impressive demonstration. As was yesterday afternoon. Still, I suspect that my soul must be worth a good deal more than five million dollars, the aggregate value of this contract.”

“The minimum value, my dear. With your talent, and my support, there's no practical limit—”

“Even so, I'd like to add some wording about termination.” She crossed her arms over her bare breasts, and forced herself to meet his eyes.

“Impossible!” The venom in his exclamation startled her. “Our contracts are irrevocable, by their very nature.”

“Look at it from my perspective, Sir. I'm giving up my free will, in addition to my so-called immortal soul. I have significantly more at stake than you. If you should prove untrustworthy...”

“You can trust me, Gwen.” His oily persuasiveness had returned. “I swear by the Horns and the Hooves that I'll fulfill your heart's desire. Your body's as well.”

“An escape clause, then. Time limited, if you want.” She handed him back the contract. “Otherwise, I'm afraid I can't sign.”

“Damn you, woman! You drive a hard bargain.” His fists clenched then relaxed. “Very well.” He waved a palm over the document, then passed it to her again. “Will this satisfy you?”

New text had appeared on the last page. Wendy read it, her heart racing at this new demonstration of her companion's powers.

“Until midnight on October 31, 2017, this agreement shall be treated as provisional. Before that date and time, either of the Parties may dissolve the contract by stating three times in the presence of the other, ‘I renounce you’. Upon termination, any benefits conferred will be revoked. If neither of the Parties exercises this option before the specified date, the agreement shall endure in perpetuity.” She peered up at the robed figure looming over her. “Four months. I guess that should be enough time to decide.”

“Four months to choose between fame and obscurity, wealth and poverty.” He took both her hands, raised her from the bed, and drew her toward the chest of drawers. His fevered touch dispelled her chills. Her nipples swelled and her clit pulsed. He cupped her breasts for a moment, then slid his hands over her hips to capture her ass and pull her body against his. Under the loose robe, his erection raged. “Four months,” he murmured, licking along her throat with his searing tongue, “to choose pleasure over loneliness.”

* * *

Don't forget to leave me a comment as an entry to my drawing!

Saturday Spanks: Rajasthani Moon -- #SaturdaySpanks #MonthOfMagic #BDSM

Today’s Saturday Spanks excerpt comes from my multi-genre opus Rajasthani Moon. Do you like BDSM? Ménage? Shifters? Steampunk? Multicultural? BBW? This book has them all, and more!

It also has lots of sexy bondage and punishment scenes, at the hands of a sadistic but gorgeous Rajah, and his bandit half-brother.

For example...

At long last, the door rattled and then swung open. Sarita leapt from her seat, crossed the richly-patterned carpet, and sank to her knees in front of the entering Rajah.

“My Lord, I have done as you commanded. The spy awaits you.”

Amir took in Cecily’s shameful state in one astute glance. Amusement was evident in both his voice and his expression. “Excellent work, Sarita. I could hardly have done better myself.” He raised his favourite to her feet and bestowed a kiss upon her lips. She pressed her lithe body against his in an attempt to prolong the embrace, but he gently put her aside and strolled over to confront Cecily.

“She looks extremely fetching in bondage, just as I’d expected.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cecily glimpsed the other woman’s deepening scowl.

“How are you feeling, Miss Harrowsmith?”

The mockery in his tone was not enough to prevent a surge of renewed lust, which she struggled to suppress. “I presume that’s a rhetorical question, Your Highness,” she replied after a moment. God, but his eyes are hypnotic! “Given that I’m stark naked and trussed up like a turkey about to be roasted.”

“Not entirely rhetorical.” The handsome Rajah circled around to inspect her from the rear. “It seems to me that you’re distinctly damp.” With a chuckle, he swept a finger down the length of her cleft, gathering her moisture. Her inner muscles clenched as sparks struck her clit. When he smeared her juices across her bum, she wanted to sink through the floor. “Based on the available evidence, I’d say that being bound excites you.”

“Nonsense—” she began. Her attempts at a cool, sarcastic response were interrupted by the ferocious slap he landed on her arse. “Ow! Oh…” The sting from his spank vanished, overwhelmed by the delicious sensation of his fingers playing in her cunny. “Oh…ah…”

“And it’s clear that, like many of your compatriots, you find corporal punishment arousing.”

“No—ow! That’s ridiculous…Ow! Ah! Ow!”

He alternated sharp blows to her buttocks with exquisite explorations of her cunt.

“Fondness for punishment is one of the many intriguing cultural phenomena I encountered during my sojourn in your dank country.” He circled her back hole with a slick finger, then probed gently. “I suppose that being exposed to those notions at a tender age might have shaped my own predilections in that regard.”

She tightened her sphincter, trying to keep him out, without success. Guilty pleasure rushed through her as he wiggled his digit just inside the entrance. “Oh—you…uh—you spent time in England? Ah…” Though he pulled out, the effects of his lewd touch continued to ripple through her body. Her sex gaped, hungry, dripping with excitement she couldn’t hide. If only he’d stop chattering and simply take her…

“I was schooled there. Pratan as well. My father believed in the value of knowing one’s enemy.”

“I’m not— We’re not—oh!—your enemy, Your Highness. Ow!”

The Rajah had pinched one of the welts raised by his brother’s whipping. “Hmm. We’ll see. Speaking of Pratan, it looks as though he did quite a job on you yesterday. Perhaps I should refrain from inflicting any further damage on your delectable bottom at present.”

Cecily bit back a moan of disappointment. She hung her head, appalled by her reaction. Her hair tumbled around her face, hiding her shame.

“Fear not, sweet Cecily. I have other ideas about what to do with you—equally nasty and painful, I guarantee.” He gave both her butt cheeks a solid squeeze, waking echoes of her previous beatings, then moved away.

Like all my paranormal titles, Rajasthani Moon is on sale for only 99 cents until the end of October, as part of my Month of Magic. Get your copy of this outrageous full length novel today!

Cover Reveal: THE FALSE SERIES by @MeliRaineAuthor #Suspense #Amnesia #CoverReveal

Get ready for chilling new romantic suspense from Meli Raine – first book releases on November 13^th!

FALSE MEMORY (Book 1)

Release Date: 11/13/18

Apple Books Exclusive: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/false-memory/id1387687477?mt=11

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40405827-false-memory

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/false-memory-by-meli-raine

It all started with the bereavement flowers with my name on them.

Not the best way to wake up, right? I work in a flower shop. I know a funeral arrangement when I see one.

I know a killer when I see one, too. And one is standing in my hospital room right now, straight behind the man who saved my life.

I can’t tell anyone the truth, because that’s the fastest way to really die. So I do the next best thing. I “lose” my memory.

I fake my amnesia.

Pretending not to remember a brutal attempted murder has its perks. The killer is backing down, spending less time around me, loosening the noose.

The less I claim to recall, the more my rescuer, Duff, works to help me “remember.” I hate lying to him.

But he doesn’t understand that my memory is dangerous. To me. And to him.

Fooling everyone isn’t easy. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Except it’s starting to look like I’ve been fooling myself.

In more ways than one.

FALSE HOPE (Book 2)

Release Date: 12.11.18

Apple Books Exclusive: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/false-hope/id1421994196?mt=11

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/42088265-false-hope

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/false-hope-by-meli-raine

FALSE START (Book 3)

Release Date: 01/15/19

Apple Books Exclusive: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/false-start/id1421999168?mt=11

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/42088271-false-start

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/false-start-by-meli-raine

About the Author

Meli Raine writes romantic suspense with hot bikers, intense undercover DEA agents, bad boys turned good, and Special Ops heroes — and the women who love them. Meli rode her first motorcycle when she was five years old, but she played in the ocean long before that. She lives in New England with her family.

Social Media Links:

Website: http://meliraine.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meliraine

Twitter: https://twitter.com/meliraineauthor

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/meli-raine

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13536295.Meli_Raine

Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/beV0gf

Cover reveal organized by Writer Marketing Services.

Conjuring Demons - #paranormal #obsession #power #Halloween #MonthOfMagic

First came the flames. Then, the screams. Each cry was distinct to Kyle’s ears—the men’s hoarse yells, the women’s shrieks, the inarticulate wails from the infants. He couldn’t see them, not yet. Sooty smoke billowed up, hiding the plummeting bodies, making his eyes sting. Orange tongues of fire pierced the black cloud. The cries grew louder as the heat intensified.

He took a big swig of cheap vodka. The bottle was already half empty. His head spun and he knew he couldn’t stand, but the awful screams still rang in his mind.

Please, he thought. No more. I can’t take any more. Let me pass out soon. He drank again, his gut churning as the raw liquid splashed into his empty stomach.

He tried to focus on the present—the rough stone pressing against his back, the chill wind biting through his ragged jacket, the faint smell of urine that filled the passageway under the highway. Useless. The sensations of the real world seemed thin and frail, powerless to overcome the horrible scenes in his head.

Every time, it got worse. It took more alcohol to remove him to that state of blissful oblivion. I’m adapting, just like any drunk. Before long, I’ll need a whole bottle to drown out the visions. Eventually, it will kill me. The thought was a relief.

The spells came more frequently these days, and not just during his waking hours. Nightmares stalked him, full of bloody flesh and torn limbs, searing fire or icy floods. He’d claw his way back to consciousness, howling like an animal, trying to escape. He’d been kicked out of every shelter in the city. He upset the other residents too much.

He could always go back to the hospital. Thorazine didn’t completely smother the visions, but it deadened the emotional impact. He could sit for hours, watching disasters play themselves out on the screen of his mind, and not care.

It worked for a while, but then he always ended up signing himself out again. As painful as consciousness was, it was better than the half-life of being drugged. At least, that was what he told himself, on the good days when his curse was in remission. The staff looked relieved when he left. Even the professionals had trouble dealing with his ‘hallucinations’.

“Hey, gimme a drink, will ya?” A voice cut through the screams echoing in his head. The grizzled man lying next to him on the sidewalk smelt like long-unwashed socks. “Come on, please? Us bums got to stick together.”

Kyle handed him the bottle. His hand shook. “Sure, help yourself.”

The old timer took a deep swallow, then grinned at him. “Thanks, kid.”

The flames flared up, hiding the man’s pock-marked face and gap-toothed smile. A woman’s cry rang out, full of terror. “No, please, no more…” Kyle muttered, closing his eyes. The hungry fire continued to dance behind his eyelids, mocking his attempt at escape. He groped for the bottle.

Aside from the ravening monster I felt inside me when I was anorexic, which I’ve talked about in another post, I’m pretty fortunate. I don’t seem to have any personal demons, at least nothing beyond the normal fears that come with being human. That’s not necessarily true of my characters, though, as illustrated by the excerpt above from my M/M erotic romance Necessary Madness.

In Kyle’s case, his “demon” is an uncontrolled ability to see the future. His raw visions show him only disasters, terrible happenings he cannot prevent. The effects of his paranormal talent are scarcely distinguishable from schizophrenia. He has become a miserable outcast, cynical and suspicious. Even love, the solution to all dilemmas in romance, can hardly save him.

Sometimes my demons are actual supernatural beings. And they can be overwhelmingly seductive. Here, for instance, is a snippet from my story “Fourth World”, from the collection of the same title.

I turn to see Jeremy’s hand wandering up her silk-clad thigh. I’m surprised by his daring. Back at school he was always the shy one in our crowd. I was the one who took the initiative.

His eyes are closed, his lips parted. His trousers rise up from his groin in an imposing peak. Mai cups his bulk and squeezes. Jeremy groans. His hand slips under her skirt.

Jealousy sizzles through me. A red mist clouds my vision. “Never mind,” says Mai, her hand on my thigh, her lips fastening on mine.

Her kiss claims me. I try to take control, to thrust my tongue between her ripe lips, but she playfully forces me back, then plunders my mouth with her own. She tastes sweet but strange, the fruity remnants of her wine not quite hiding a metallic element. My cock surges, painful and eager, trapped in my tight briefs.

Blinded by the fall of her hair around my face, I grope for her breast. Her flesh is firm and elastic under my fingers. Her nipple juts through flimsy barrier of her dress. I circle it with my thumb and she moans into my mouth. I pinch the delightful nub and she bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood. I want to protest, to push her away, but she’s far stronger than I expect. Her kiss becomes more heated, more desperate. My pierced lip throbs. Something’s not right, I think, but then her hand settles on my cock and all thought vanishes.

Her fingers skitter across the distorted fabric of my trousers, testing my hardness. She settles her palm over my swollen bulk, squeezing in time with her sucking kisses. I feel the tightening heaviness that tells me I’m going to come. I take a deep breath, trying to gain some control. Her scent floods my nostrils. The need for release overwhelms me. The first spurt of come pulses halfway up my shaft, but then she removes her hand. The urge subsides, becomes just bearable. Her lips graze my earlobe. “Not yet, darling. Save that for me.”

****

Yes, as you might have guessed, Mai is a vampire—but as Harry and Jeremy discover, she’s the type who likes to play with her food.

The most intriguing demons, though, are the ones inextricably embedded in my characters’ nature. In “Fire”, my protagonist has a fire fetish which compels him to commit arson.

These days, I can't even strike a match without getting hard.

It was better than I could have imagined. Pure joy. After years of borrowing other people's fires, I had my own. There were no sirens, no spectators, no official types keeping an awkward eye on me. Just me and the night and the dancing, piercing flames. I lay down in the scrubby grass with my fly wide open and watched greedily as the blaze devoured the feast I had laid before it.

By the time the building had become a charred pile of debris, I was gorged and sated. I called in sick that morning.

After that, second-hand conflagrations couldn't satisfy me. I have to have my own. I try to space them out, keep at least six to eight weeks between them. It's tough, but I don't want anyone to get suspicious.

The first few weeks after a session, I have plenty of memories to keep me going. I can close my eyes and recall every detail, the intricate shapes of the flames, the taste of smoke in my lungs, the searing, intimate caress of the heat on my privates.

I remember the sequence in which the barn or the shed or the deserted fishing cabin collapsed. Sometimes the whole structure explodes, or caves in on itself. Other times, one wall will totter and fall gently, leaving the others standing as though buoyed up by the hot gases, until at last they simply melt away, crumbling to glowing ash. It is always fascinating, thrilling, enough to push me over the edge.

Sometimes, I imagine that I'm inside, during those final moments when the fire declares victory. I lie on the my back, feeling the sparks rain down on my naked flesh, struggling to breathe as the fire sucks up all the oxygen. I know that it sounds a bit twisted, but I come the hardest when I think about the fire consuming me, taking me into itself.

Anyway, after a while, the memories aren't enough. I start to dream of fire. I wake up soaked with sweat, with a hard-on that I can work for hours without finding any real relief. I begin to get irritable, less polite, less persuasive. My work begins to suffer.

That's when I know it's time. It takes me a few days to prepare, and then finally, I have what I need.

****

This tale was recently republished in Rule 34: Weird and Wonderful Fetish Erotica.

Sexual desire can be a personal demon, perhaps the hardest of all to fight. Here’s a bit from my tentacle erotica tale, “Fleshpot”, also part of my dark paranormal erotica collection Fourth World. 

* * * 

Cass was right. It's a disease. She was right to cut the ties, when she found me in the garden shed with sweet Susan the baby sitter, in flagrante. I offer no excuse.

It doesn't feel like a disease, though, when I'm in the throes, my senses drenched in the seashore scent of my latest conquest. It feels like I'm on the edge of a revelation, like this is the fuck I've been seeking all my life, the one that will make everything clear, new, beautiful and real. When I burrow into that mysterious place between her thighs, I'm not just looking for pleasure. I'm seeking some kind of truth, or at least that's how it seems, like this is the time that I'll break through that barrier. I catch tantalizing glimpses of brilliance, just out of reach, shining like the grail in some celibate knight's vision. That's me, on a quest for the ultimate knowledge. Except of course, I'm not celibate.

When the papers came from her lawyer, my transgressions sucked dry by legal language ("extramarital liaisons"), my kids stolen by some judge's whim, I took off. My business— electronics OEM—can always provide an excuse for a trip to Asia. My meetings in Bangkok consumed a day and a half. Since then I've been here in this sleazy coastal resort town two hours from the capital.

I've done it all, in the past two weeks, tried everything. The lithe Thai beauties who twine like snakes around the poles in all the bars and clubs along the walking street. The buxom, pushy Russian girls, with their milky complexions and succulent nipples, ripe to the point of bursting, eager to empty both my cock and my wallet. The lady boys, as slender and graceful as their sisters, even more feminine, in fact, the prick erupting from their hairless, perfumed loins as much a shock to them as to me. I've sampled the exotica on sale here, the dwarfs and the cripples, the grossly obese young woman who nearly smothered me in her lush, unutterably soft flesh. I've been whipped and returned the favor. So far I've managed to resist the fifteen year old boys, but just last night a youth of terrifying beauty who claimed to be nineteen drained me in the men's room of one of the a-go-go places. An acrid mixture of urine and camphor stung my nostrils as I pumped my cum into his agile mouth. And in that transcendent instant, as always, I felt myself on the verge of understanding.

At the moment, I'm taking a break from throbbing music and naked skin of the indoor clubs. I perch on a bar stool at the edge of the pavement, watching the parade of tourists and touts ambling by.

I'm tired. The twins I fucked earlier, in a red-lit, window-less room above one of the bars, exhausted me with their convincing enthusiasm for my body. Nee and Nu were indistinguishable, two toffee-skinned tarts who claimed to be eighteen but might have been anywhere from fourteen to thirty. One sat on my face, the other on my cock. Nee (or was it Nu?) made short work of my hard-on. I exploded into the condom with just a few minutes of massage by her muscular pussy. Nu, though (or maybe Nee?), humored me, letting me lick her bare twat and breathe her low-tide scent for as long as I wanted—until I hardened again, earning laughter and admiration from my two playmates.

****

Maybe the medieval Christians were right. Lust is a demon, one that can consume you body and soul. In the case of my nameless protagonist in “Fleshpot”, he pays off his demon with his life—but willingly.

"La Luxure dans l'art roman" by Bougnat87 -

Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons

When does desire become demonic? A fruitful question indeed, for those of us who write erotica.

By the way, except for Rule 34, all the books mentioned in this post are available for only 99 cents until the end of October, as part of my Month of Magic promotion.