Random Smut (#SmutSunday #ComingTogether #TabooErotica)

I was trying to decide what book I’d use for today’s Smut Sunday excerpt. Then I had a brainstorm. I’d let fate decide.

I counted the books on my single author titles page (49), then asked Random.org to choose one. The result was my charitable taboo erotica tale, A Breed Apart.

In this pseudo-Victorian tale, a woman whose virtue has been compromised is hired by a wealthy couple to serve as governess for their young daughter. When she arrives at their remote mansion, she begins to understand why their advertisement specified a “woman of experience”.

All proceeds from this book support the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom.

This is a particularly smutty excerpt. But it’s just the beginning...

When you’ve finished my Smut Sunday offering, head back to Smut SundayCentral for more great smut.

"Good day, Miss Varney." The high, clear voice exuded confidence. "Welcome to Hawthorne Manor." According to the letters I had exchanged with her father, Clara Hawthorne was five years old, but she held herself with the dignity of an adult. She was a diminutive creature, barely three feet tall, dressed in a ruffled apple green frock with matching slippers. A cloud of red-gold hair framed her perfect features like a halo. Her eyes burned with green fire like her mother's.

"Good day, Clara. I am to be your new governess." I had risen from my chair when my employer returned. Now I bent from the waist to bring myself closer to my enchanting new charge. "I'll be teaching you reading and spelling, figures, music and drawing, and French, if you'd like."

"I can already read," Clara told me solemnly. "But Edward and I would very much enjoy learning to speak French."

"Edward?" I glanced up at Clara's parents.

"Her imaginary playmate," Peter replied, his voice odd. He turned his attention back to the child. "Your lessons will start tomorrow, Clara. Are you pleased?"

"Oh yes, Papa." The girl surprised me by taking my hand. Like sun breaking through clouds, a glorious smile glowed on her pixie face. "We shall have fun, shan't we, Miss Varney?"

"If you are so eager to learn, then I think we shall," I replied. "I look forward to teaching you."

"Now run along back to your games, darling." Rachel Hawthorne beamed down at her daughter. "I will call you when it's time for supper." The girl scampered up the stairs, her demeanor finally suited to her age. All three of us watched her disappear.

"She is absolutely charming," I told my employers. "And she appears to be extremely intelligent."

"Wait until you hear her sing. She has the voice of an angel." Peter Hawthorne returned his gaze to me. "Ah, you've finished your tea. Have a nip of brandy now."

"Oh, I don't think that would be advisable, sir..."

"Please, we're not so formal here. If I am going to call you Joan - and I am, because 'Miss Varney' is just too damned stiff - then you must call me Peter. Certainly not 'sir'!"

"I couldn't, really, it wouldn't be proper..." I began, then stopped short, not knowing what shocked me more: his profanity, his insistence that I use his first name, or the fact that one of his hands was stroking Rachel's buttocks while the other cupped and squeezed her breast. Rachel's face made it clear that his caresses were more than welcome. A flush painted her alabaster cheeks, like the first hint of dawn. Her eyes half-shut, her lips parted, she was obviously in a state of bliss.

His fingers crept downward, across her crimson-clad torso to her belly. I sank back into my chair, riveted by the salacious picture they presented. Peter's hand settled near the join of her thighs. I could see him probing into that space through her skirts. Meanwhile he nosed her jet curls out of the way and nuzzled her earlobe.

Under my layers of wool and muslin, I felt my privates grow damp. I swelled and ached the way I had when Thomas pulled me into the pantry to steal a kiss. I remembered his hands groping beneath my clothing, so skillful in kindling lust in my virgin body. I watched and I remembered and God help me, I wanted what Rachel had. I wanted him to touch me that way, bold, lewd, laughing, certain that I would not resist....

"Joan? Joan!" Rachel stood before me, offering me a crystal snifter half full of golden liquid. "I think you need this. You look as though you are about to faint."

Confused and compliant, I reached for the glass. Her fingers brushed mine. Something like lightning coursed through my body to strike my moist center. I tried to suppress a moan.

"Drink," Peter ordered. "The spirits will revive you." I swallowed a mouthful of the liquor. It seared my throat then settled comfortably in my chest, glowing like banked coals. Heat spread through me, melting me, burning away my anxiety and my exhaustion.

"Ah, that's lovely," I told them, taking another wonderful sip, and then another. I didn't recall when or how they'd ceased their lecherous embrace. Somehow that did not seem to matter. The room floated around us, golden and warm as the brandy they insisted I drink. For the first time since I had been expelled from Dalrymple Hall, I felt safe.

Peter was at my side, helping me to stand. His arm snaked around my waist. I supported myself against his lean, strong body. Rachel took my elbow. Their scent, wild herbs and rain-washed stone, rose around us. I stumbled, treading on the hem of the woman's gown.

"Oh, I'm so sorry...I told you that I shouldn't drink the brandy." I found myself giggling. After a moment the couple joined me in laughter.

"Do not be concerned, Joan," Rachel murmured as they assisted me in climbing the stairs. Her lush body pressed against mine. Nothing had ever felt so heavenly.

"We will take care of you," Peter whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "You are going to be part of our family."

Good, I thought to myself, so intoxicated that I did not resist at all when they stripped me of my clothing and pulled a nightshirt over my head. I need family.

Sunday Snog: A Breed Apart

My snog today is taken from A Breed Apart, published by Coming Together in their Tabooty series. After being seduced by the rakish son of her aristocratic employers, Joan has no hope of obtaining another place as a governess with a respectable family. Despite the peculiar wording of the advertisement ("seeking a woman of experience - no references required"), her desperate circumstances force her to accept a position at isolated Hawthorne Manor, on the wild West Yorkshire moors. Rachel and Peter Hawthorne, her new employers, turn out to be a handsome couple who are far younger than Joan had expected. Joan cannot decide whether the impropriety of their public behavior toward one another is real, or a product of her own lustful imagination.

All sales of A Breed Apart benefit the Coalition for Positive Sexuality.

Don't forget to visit Victoria Blisse's Snog page, read her offering, then follow the links to the other author snogs!

I stood before their door as I had on previous nights, transfixed by the crest and fall of their passion. "Harder! Faster!" Rachel cried. I imagined her spread-eagle under Peter's lithe form. I could almost feel the force of his manhood driving into the hungry space between my legs. I plunged my fingers into my soaked quim, wishing that I were she.

My imagination took over, painting lurid pictures of my own ravishment. My fingers simulated the rough thrusts I imagined Peter delivering. In my mind, his wife watched eagerly, playing with her breasts while her roguish spouse despoiled me.

Lost in my fantasy, edging ever closer to my crisis, I did not notice the lull in their salacious symphony. Only when the door opened, revealing my gasping, half-clad form to Rachel's amused eyes, did I realize that my own vocalizations had given me away.

"Joan," she murmured. Shame leaped up to consume me. I snatched my hand from my cunny, miserably aware that my woman-scent hung in the air like the exhalation of a beach at low tide. "Come in, darling. We've been expecting you."

She grasped my wrist and drew me into their chamber. I was too stupefied by embarrassment to resist. Her skin was pure satin on my bare arm, the most delicious sensation I'd ever experienced. It was some moments before I realized that she was completely and gloriously naked.

"I - I - I'm sorry," I stuttered. "I didn't mean...um - please excuse - the door...."

"Hush," she said, enforcing her command by pressing her lips to mine.

Lightning arced down my spine. Thunder beat in my ears. I would have collapsed had she not crushed me to her pillowy breasts. Her ripe mouth tasted of strawberries and rain. Her tongue wriggled between my lips like the Biblical serpent, tempting me with new knowledge. A part of me watched, horrified, as I allowed her to deepen the kiss, screaming warnings when I circled her trim waist and stroked the silken firmness of her swelling buttocks.

I refused to listen. When she slipped her hand inside my wrap and pinched my nipple, I moaned into her mouth and ground my pubis against hers. She laughed like a naughty child. Taking my hand once more, she guided it to the soft curls that shielded her sex. It was like touching myself. I burrowed into that damp nest, seeking the hot, hard bead of flesh I knew I'd find there. She gasped, sucking my breath into her lungs, as new liquid gushed around my probing fingers.