I’m Back... (#SmutSunday #reviews #masturbation)

You might have noticed I was pretty scarce last week. Actually, I had an accident that required emergency surgery, and spent the time in the hospital. Don’t want to think about that now, though... I’m home working on recovering, and it’s Smut Sunday!

First, I want to thank everyone who left comments on my Charity Sunday post, July 9^th. If you haven’t had the chance to read or comment, there’s still time to do so. I will donate $1 for each comment I receive to my charity of the month, Rosie’s Place. The post will be open for comment until the second Sunday in August (Charity Sunday #3).

Speaking of Rosie’s Place, I got a personal email from them thanking me for doing the promotion. I was blown away. I’ve done quite a bit of altruistic erotica over the years. My impression has been that charities are happy to take money from smutmongers like me, but they don’t like to acknowledge it. Rosie’s definitely has class!

In other news, I just got another five star Amazon review for Damned If You Do. Moondancer called it a “sweetly-hot read with a great story”. Funny that she thought the BDSM was “not overly graphic and heavy”. I’m not sure I’d agree, but you know, different strokes and all...!

Finally, for my Smut Sunday offering, I’d like to send you over to the Unbound Box Magazine, to read my brand new erotic short “Watch Me”. Here’s the first few paragraphs.

“Watch me.”

She stretches out on the cool cotton sheets, back arched, arms above her head, fingers extended toward the headboard. Her spine lengthens and her muscles shift, tightening her belly, raising her breasts. The movement draws his attention—with her head thrown back she can’t see him, but she knows him well enough to predict his responses. Better, perhaps, than he knows her. Her nipples, always prominent, harden into rigid beads that ache for stimulation.

Unlike him, she knows how to wait.

She holds the pose for long moments, giving him the chance to appreciate her taut nakedness, before letting go and sinking back into the mattress. Then she turns toward him, toward the chair next to the bed where he sits, equally naked. As she’d guessed, he’s focused on the lush hills and valleys of her body—but not completely. Though his eyes devour her, his hands are busy elsewhere, stroking the fat, eager erection that rears up from his lap.

“Stop that, darling. I want your full attention. Concentrate on what I’m doing. Imagine what I’m feeling.”

“You look so hot, I can’t help it,” he protests, though he releases his cock, at least for the moment. It’s a beautiful cock, smooth and straight, with a rosy crown that’s already slick with his anticipation. She wants to swallow it, to straddle it, to feel its solid bulk slide into her and fill her. Not yet, though.

Read the rest of the story here: https://unboundbox.com/blogs/magazine/watch-me

And when you’re done, head back to Smut Sunday central for more lovely, sexy posts!

Smut Sunday: The Antidote (#smutsunday #sciencefiction #orgy)

As I sat down to create a post for this Smut Sunday, I asked myself, what is the smuttiest book I’ve written? There are quite a few candidates. However, one that’s way up there in the ranking is my sci fi short story, The Antidote.

The initial motivation for this book was my frustration with writing erotic romance. I’d been getting a lot of push back from my editors, who seemed to think my writing was too raw for romance readers. Being the accommodating sort, and wanting to get my books out there, I mostly acquiesced to their suggestions. However, I was getting tired of pulling my erotic punches (which is what I felt I had to do in romance).

I want to write something really smutty, I thought to myself. As an antidote to all this nice romance stuff.

All at once I had a title. And in nothing flat, I had a story, one that definitely does not sugar-coat the sex or moderate the heat.

Just the right thing for Smut Sunday!

When you’re finished with my offering, head back to Victoria’s SmutSunday home page, for more smutty goodness!

What if the government stole your libido? What would you do to get it back?

Sixty years after the Plague, few remember the mass deaths, the riots and the massacres triggered by the sexually-transmitted disease. Still, most people accept the Council’s mysterious libido-suppression technology as necessary to prevent a resurgence of the deadly virus. Monthly procreative sex, government-supported and hormone-enhanced, is enough to satisfy them.

Lena’s different. Though she loves her husband Jeff, she yearns to experience the thrill of forbidden lust, to know what it feels like to couple with a stranger. Rumors speak of an antidote that liberates the libido from the Council’s thrall. Denied from birth, Lena is willing to risk everything—her marriage, her freedom, even her life—for one taste of unbridled desire.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Club Lust. Tonight we have a special treat, a newcomer enjoying her first taste of freedom.” He gripped the bottom of my jersey and pulled it over my head in one deft motion.

All eyes in the room turned to my suddenly bare chest. The heat of their attention brought a flush to my cheeks. My nipples contracted into throbbing bullets of needy flesh. Bolt pinched and twisted them, far rougher than Jeff had ever been. Liquid gushed from my cunt as though he’d turned on a faucet.

“Such fine, round, bouncy tits. Just looking at them makes me want to rub my cock in between them until I come all over her face. Don’t you all agree?” The crowd murmured its assent. I don’t know what excited me more, his words or the fact that simultaneously, he’d unzipped my skirt and pulled it down to my ankles. Underneath I wore the red bikini briefs that had come with our last booster pack. They were soaked.

Bolt’s hand dropped from my breast to cup my pubis. I shivered. My cunt clenched at the indirect stimulation as he brushed his palm over the wiry hair underneath the pseudo-silk. My clit swelled, hot, demanding. I arched my pelvis, pressing my sex more firmly against his hand. He wriggled a finger between my lips, pressing the fabric into my cleft. Pleasure shimmered through my whole body. Earlobes, lips, fingertips, nipples, clit, toes, all throbbed in time. I heard myself moan.

“Our little slut is very wet,” Bolt gloated. “I think she wants to be fucked. Let’s get a look at her cunt.”

I heard a click beside my ear, then felt cold steel against my thigh. Fear flickered through me, almost indistinguishable from lust. Fresh blood, he’d said. But his blade sliced only through my panties, first at one hip, then the other. Still behind me, he pulled the saturated fabric out from between my thighs. The friction and the knowledge that I was being watched combined to pull me into the whirlpool of a minor climax. I slumped in Bolt’s grasp, twitching helplessly. The audience responded with enthusiastic applause.

I was still shuddering when Bolt pushed me onto the mattress, face down, butt in the air. “Spread your legs, baby. Show them all your hot, pink twat. Let them see your tight asshole. Tonight we’re going to fill you up, kitten.”

I obeyed, overwhelmed with shame and yet eager to display my slick lips and hungry holes. The embarrassment made me all the more excited. I wiggled my ass, trying to attract Bolt’s attention. 
 

The watchers clapped in delight. Bolt landed a stinging slap on one butt cheek. Heat streaked through me, nearly triggering another come. He spanked me again. My cunt clenched, empty, ravenous.

“You need a cock, don’t you? At least one. Well, here you go.” A fat rod of flesh appeared in front of my face. “Suck this, slut.”

I needed no further invitation. I couldn’t wait to taste him. Bolt’s cock was as monstrous as the rest of him, far larger than Jeff’s, but I swallowed him whole. I ran my lips up and down his length, pressing my tongue firmly against his bulb at the apex of each stroke.

He tasted funky, as though he hadn’t showered in a while, and a bit bitter. In my aroused state, I found him delicious. The mattress smelled of mold, though the sheet seemed clean. It didn’t matter.

My clit burned. My thighs felt sticky. My cunt drooled onto the makeshift bed. My nipples ground against the rough cotton. All my senses were heightened, but they were sending only positive messages.

He swelled and jerked in my mouth and I eased off. I wanted him to come in my cunt, or spurt all over my back. So that everyone could see.

Buy Links

Amazon US - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B013ZS2678

Amazon UK - http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B013ZS2678

Smashwords - https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/569511

Barnes and Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-antidote-lisabet-sarai/1122682231?ean=2940152362305

Smut Sunday: Father’s Day (#fantasy #ageplay #SmutSunday)

Welome to another week of Smut Sunday, the brainchild of the irrepressible Ms. Victoria Blisse.

Today is Father’s Day in the U.S., and maybe elsewhere too. I thought I’d like to share some smutty bit involving some character who’s a father. However, I came to conclusion that none of my male characters have ever had kids (which shows a certain lack of diversity, doesn’t it?)

However, I realized that I do have some age-play erotic scenes in my novel Incognito. Miranda, the heroine in that book, is frigid when she’s with someone who cares for her. On the other hand, she’s an insatiable sexual adventuress when it comes to doing things with strangers.

In this particular case, she discovers that her roommate Lucy has been hanging out in a fetish chat room, and that she has made contact with a guy who calls himself Big Daddy. In the meantime, Lucy has fallen in love and is off in Paris. Miranda takes a call from Big Daddy, and on the spur of the moment, decides to impersonate Lucy.

When you’re done with my smutty excerpt, head back to the Smut Sunday page for more outrageous fun.

And don’t forget to be good to your Dad—today and every day!

All eyes were on her when she walked into the bar at eight sharp. She had raided Lucy’s closet again, and the effect was startling. She wore a plaid kilt that would have been short on her petite apartment-mate, and a plain white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her long legs were bare down to her white ankle socks and patent leather flats. She had parted her hair in the center and gathered it into two braids, tied with red bows.

In these conservative surroundings, among the hunting prints and the leather upholstery, she knew that she looked bizarre, bizarre but sexy. It felt like Halloween. After a few moments, the eyes turned politely away. A marketing gimmick, they thought, or perhaps some twisted young heiress. They returned to their martinis and their gossip.

Somehow, she recognized Big Daddy immediately. He was a handsome man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He sat in a corner, one knee over the other, swirling brandy in a snifter and watching the door. Their eyes locked across the room. She felt pulled to his corner by some type of magnetism.

He rose as she approached, offering his hand. “Lucy, my dear,” he said warmly. “You’re right on time.”

Miranda felt shy and tongue-tied, but fortunately he carried the conversation. “Please, sit down.” He gestured at the cocktail waitress. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Red wine, please.”

Big Daddy looked at her sternly. “Now, don’t be naughty, Lucy. You know that you‘re too young to drink wine.” He turned to the waitress. “A Shirley Temple for my little friend here.” The waitress smirked at Miranda and disappeared.

Miranda desperately wanted some alcohol, to dull the edge of her nervousness and help her to relax. When the fruity drink arrived, the waitress served it with a flourish and a wink. Taking a sip, Miranda thought she detected a hint of vodka under the grenadine and soda. She mentally thanked the saucy young woman.

Big Daddy was staring at her. She found that she liked it. “You look delightful, my dear,” he said at last. She glowed at his approval. “Perfect in every respect. I do expect that I will have the chance to examine you more closely when we go upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Miranda’s voice was almost a squeak.

“I took the liberty of reserving a room for us, where we can be more—private. Of course, if you are not comfortable being alone with me, I will quite understand.”

Strangely, Miranda found that she trusted him. He seemed gentle and courteous, if somewhat authoritarian. His melodious voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. “No,” she said finally, “I think that I would like to be alone with you.”

She wondered what Lucy had told this man, what fantasies they had shared on-line before setting up this meeting. She had to know—needed to be prepared.

“Big Daddy…”

“Yes, Lucy.”

“Remind me, what did I say in the chat room? Sometimes I have a hard time remembering.”

He smiled indulgently. “You told me that you wanted to be my little girl. That you wanted me to spank you if you were bad. That you had nasty thoughts and feelings, and knew that you needed to be punished for them.”

“And what did you tell me?”

“That I had just the kind of firm hand to keep you in line.”

[Warning: things get a lot smuttier after this point. But given this is Father's Day, I thought I should keep the post PG!]

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.

Smut Sunday: Raw sex from Quarantine (#mm #glbtq #ChechenRainbow)

For Smut Sunday, I have a very raw excerpt from my MM erotic romance Quarantine. This book is set in a concentration camp for confining gay men. Dylan is a prisoner; Rafe, a guard.

If this excerpt moves you, consider bidding in the charity auction to save threatened gay men in Chechnya. I’m offering two autographed print copies of this provocative book.

Meanwhile, when you’re finished with this post, head back to Smut Sunday Central for more sexy, smutty fun!

“I know you watch me,” Dylan answered, all the brashness gone from his manner. “Well, I watch you, too.”

“How…?” Rafe slid his fingers into Dylan’s reddish thatch and raised the inmate’s eyes to his own.

“Easy. I programmed a guard to change the video routing. To feed the stream from here to the screen of my controller.”

So there were spy eyes in the control room, after all. “No…”

“Yes. You know that hard-on of mine that you enjoy watching so much? That’s for you, man. When I jack off at night, I’m thinking of you.”

Rafe’s mind reeled. He snatched his hand from Dylan’s hair as though he’d been scalded.

“Unlock the cuffs, man. Let me touch you. Let me show you how much I want you.”

“Shut up, faggot!” The key burned a hole in his palm. His rigid dick strained against his zipper. He was tottering on the edge of a precipice, tempted to jump. Tempted to give in, to release the rash young man who’d delivered himself into Rafe’s hands.

But that would be suicide. The penalties for breaking quarantine were more severe than for murder.

He could take what he wanted, though. As long as Dylan was still cuffed, no one would really care. Rafe was H-negative—not queer, just horny from the months cooped up here with nothing but eP, no normal release. Oh, God, but he was horny!

The pressure from his boner made it difficult to undo his fly. When he finally managed to work the zipper down, his cock burst from its prison, bobbing like a fat black sausage in front of Dylan’s hungry eyes. Moisture welled up from the slit. Dylan licked his full lips as though dying for a taste.

“Ah, yes…” the prisoner sighed, leaning forward and reaching out his tongue.

Rafe didn’t answer. He grabbed the back of Dylan’s head and plunged his dick into that wide-open mouth.

Heat. Wetness. The firm pressure of a muscular tongue, kneading his pulsing flesh. The tight seal of those ripe lips locked around his rod. Rafe struggled for control. The sensations that flooded him threatened to set him off before he even got started. He pulled back, popping out of Dylan’s mouth. The other man moaned in disappointment. Rafe drilled back in, hard and fast.

Dylan gagged and Rafe let up for an instant. Dylan tried his tricks again, swirling his tongue along the shaft, nipping at the head, sucking like a vacuum cleaner gone mad. Pleasure swirled through Rafe, tightening its grip, bringing his cum to a premature boil. Dylan’s mouth was a garden of delights, but Rafe didn’t want that. He didn’t want the inmate to give him anything. He wanted to take.

He slammed his cock down Dylan’s throat, feeling the bulb graze the palate. The man on his knees choked on the invading bulk. This time Rafe didn’t relent. He jerked his hips, driving his cock even deeper.

He felt Dylan surrender, giving up all pretence of will or control. The muscles spasming around his rod relaxed. The jaw went slack. Again and again, Rafe buried his dick in that brazen, laughing mouth, bruised and drooling now under Rafe’s assault.

In. Out. In. Rafe stepped closer to the kneeling inmate so that he could thrust deeper. His climax was on a slow burn now, building with each stroke. He could fuck this raw, sweet mouth forever.

Something brushed against his leg, a solid lump that sent a new thrill up his spine. Dylan’s cock was hard—hard because Rafe was using him like the fag pussy he was. Rafe had the cruel notion that he might stop, push the inmate away and deny him any pleasure. He saw himself, using his fist to bring himself over the edge, showering Dylan’s face with jism but leaving Dylan without relief.

He was too far gone to stop, though. The hot pleasure dancing in his flesh made him generous. Let the twink come, he thought. As if in answer, Dylan rubbed his crotch against Rafe’s knee awkward because of his bonds and the inescapable cock plundering his mouth.

The friction increased Rafe’s excitement. He seized Dylan’s head with both hands. His back arched. His balls tightened. Then everything exploded, sharp pleasure slicing through him like shrapnel. His cum flooded the other man’s mouth. The sensation of Dylan swallowing detonated new waves of delight.

Dylan’s cock pulsed. Rafe pulled away at the last instant, not wanting evidence of their games to stain his trousers. Dylan moaned as convulsions shook his body. Gradually he stopped shuddering. He sank back onto his heels, Rafe’s semen dribbling from the corners of his half-smiling mouth. 

Bid for a signed copy here! 

 

Smut Sunday: Walpurgisnacht (#prn #witches #newrelease)

 

When I set up the release date for my new paranormal erotic romance at Excessica, I deliberately chose the Friday closest to Walpurgisnacht. In case you’re not familiar with the tradition, in Germany and Scandinavia the night of April 30^th is celebrated as the witches’ sabbath. On this night, it is said, witches and other unholy creatures gather on the mountaintops to kindle bonfires, cast spells and dance with the Devil until dawn. Various northern cultures mark the date with drunken revelry, promiscuous sex, lewd practical jokes, and huge fires to drive the witches away.

The Spring festival clearly predates Christianity, but has been grafted onto Saint Valpurga’s Day on May 1^st. Walpurgisnacht (also called “Hexennacht” in Germany) has influenced many writers, artists and musicians. References appear in work by Goethe, Bram Stoker, Thomas Mann and Edward Albee. Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain” is a symphonic impression of Hex Night (brought to life with still-stunning animation in the 1941 Disney classic Fantasia), while William Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan gave a slightly comic twist to the macabre legend in their operetta “Ruddigore”.

In any case, it seemed appropriate that I should publish my tale of diabolical temptation and paranormal debauchery around April 30^th. There are no witches in my tale, but the Devil is very much in evidence.

Here’s a quick excerpt, illustrating my heroine’s fall.

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.”

“Oh...” she sighed, melting into his embrace. “Yes, Sir.”

He disengaged himself from her clinging body, all business once again. “So you will sign?”

“Yes—yes, of course, Sir. Then will you fuck me again? Please?”

“All in good time, Gwen.” He grasped her left wrist, turning her hand palm up. “First things first.”

The knife flashed in the gloom. “Ow! Hey…!” A scarlet line bloomed on her palm, stretching from the crook of her thumb to the base of her little finger.

Mister B tipped her hand over the bowl. “My apologies, but certain formalities are required.” A shudder rippled through her as she watched the bright red drops collect in a shallow puddle. “That should be sufficient, I believe,” he continued after a few minutes. He extracted a black silk handkerchief from some hidden pocket of his robe. “Clench your fist around this to stop the bleeding. Meanwhile…”

He dipped the quill end of the feather into the pool of gore, then guided her to the signature line on the final page of the contract. “Sign here. Your full, legal name, as on the first page.”

Wendy hesitated. The blood-tipped pen hovered over the paper. Somehow this didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore.

“Don’t worry, sweet.” How could she resist him—his tempting voice in her ear—his warm breath on her neck—the heat he sent rippling through her limbs? “I’ll take care of you. Forever, Gwen.”

Forever. Every romance lover’s dream.

“Sign it, my lovely slave.” He held her wrist in one hand, while steadying the contract with the other. Still, she could swear she felt his fingers wriggling in her sex. “Sign, and receive your heart’s desire.”

~ ~ ~

In the spirit of Walpurgisnacht, I offer you Damned If You Do—BDSM erotic romance that just might tempt you to the dark side.

Get your copy here:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0727RZ39B/

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0727RZ39B/

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/damned-if-you-do-lisabet-sarai/1126292735?ean=2940157395711

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/damned-if-you-do-10

Excessica: https://goo.gl/dZN3dr

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35009284-damned-if-you-do

By the way, be sure to check out all the other posts on offer for this Smut Sunday!

Smut Sunday - Contest! (#freebook #bdsm #smutsunday)

Have you been following my story, Thieves’ Honor, through last week? Because today, I’m giving you a quiz!

Answer the three questions below in a comment. I’ll randomly draw two winners from among the people who get the answers right. Each one will receive a $5 bookstore gift certificate plus a copy of my romantic kink collection Hearts & Handcuffs!

You can also leave a comment on yesterday’s post, telling me what you thought of the story, and I’ll consider that another contest entry.

Here are the questions:

1. What is Blaine’s real name?

2. Where does Avram live?

3. What country does Avram come from?

Be sure to include your email address along with your answers!

Where's the smut, you might ask? Obviously you didn't read the story! For more deliciously sexy stuff, visit Smut Sunday Central!

 

Smut Sunday: Anonymous Sex (#anonymous #incognito #sundaysmut)

I was trying to decide which of my books would be considered the “smuttiest”. But how do you define “smutty”? Does it depend on the variety of the sexual activities or interests involved? How intense or extreme they are? Or is smut a state of mind, a way of thinking and feeling that’s independent of your physical activities?

However you define the concept, my second novel Incognito (recently re-released in an expanded version by Totally Bound) has to be up near the top. My heroine Miranda is trapped between her fear of intimacy and her powerful libido. She engages in outrageous scenes with strangers, but pushes away the attentive and charismatic young professor who might actually care about her.

Her adventures incognito are triggered by an unexpected anonymous coupling in a disco. Here’s a bit from that first scene, which sets the tone for Miranda’s further explorations.

When you’ve recovered...head back to Victoria’s for more delicious Sunday smut.

She felt damp and disheveled. She made her way through the dark corridor that led to the ladies room. There, the light was bright enough to make her blink. A bevy of young women sparkled around her in tight dresses and spike heels, preening and perfecting their beauty like exotic and colorful birds. Miranda gazed at herself in the mirror. A stranger gazed back, long limbs and ripe curves, creamy skin flushed with excitement.

I should go home, Miranda thought, as she reapplied her lipstick and adjusted her clinging garments. Enough is enough.

She stepped into the shadowed hallway, seeing nothing but the flash of the strobe at the opposite end. All at once, from behind her, she felt a hand firmly grasp her wrist. “What…?” she began, then there was a finger at her lips, urging her to silence. She was pulled backward, against someone’s body, a man’s body—the evidence bulged against her, pushing into the small of her back. The finger at her lips brushed her cheek then flicked at her right nipple.

I should scream. The thought was fleeting, abstract. Meanwhile there were hands in the dark, silent and skillful. There was no force here, only invitation, temptation. She did not resist as her unknown companion guided her through some curtains, into a place of deeper darkness where the beat of the rock and roll was muffled and distant. There was a metallic sound of coat hangers disturbed by their entrance.

He did not speak, but Miranda heard his rough breathing as he cradled her breasts in his palms. Was it her partner from the dance floor? she wondered. She sniffed for his cologne but caught only the scent of male sweat and her own arousal.

A wave of lust washed over her. Miranda groped behind her, seeking that hard ridge of flesh she knew she’d find there. Blind, she brushed against it. Then one of her breasts was released and she heard a zipper tearing open. Now his cock was naked in her hand, pulsing hot, steel encased in velvet. It was strange and thrilling to have him slide back and forth in her palm, to sense his excitement in the hardening, swelling bulk she fondled.

The hand on her breast tugged, pulling her top down to her waist. Then it resumed its bold caresses, tightening thumb and forefinger on her nipple until she almost cried out. Heat flowed through her. She felt herself melting from the inside out, dampening, softening, opening like some tropical flower.

Her partner used both hands to raise her skirt. She rested her palms against a wall and arched her back, forcing her bottom out toward him, inviting him on. He stroked and fondled her buttocks. Each touch made her hungrier, more greedy for the sensation of his huge, unseen cock inside her.

A soft moan escaped her as he reached between her legs to cup her pubis. “Shh,” he whispered. She did not recognize the voice. Impatient, unbearably eager for him, Miranda grabbed her brief bikini panties and pulled them down to her knees. They were soaked, she realized, as she struggled to remove them entirely.

Her partner took hold of the garment. There was the sound of rending fabric as he tore them off her. Yes, thought Miranda, crazed with desire. Please. She spread her legs wide and rubbed her hind cheeks against the hardness springing from his groin.

She felt his fingers groping in the dark, seeking the entrance among the folds. They slipped into her. She pushed, trying to force them deeper. Now the head of his cock prodded her pussy, while his fingers still played there, opening, stretching, guiding. At last, the whole wonderful length of him slid into her.

She bit her lip, struggling to maintain their tacit vow of silence. He worked her, plunging deep and hard, sensing her needs without words. The shrouded beat of the music, the beat of her heart, the synchronized rhythm of their breathing—it was another dance, and Miranda poured herself into it.

The darkness was total. Still, Miranda, driven by instinct, closed her eyes. Other senses took over. The cloakroom was heavy with the animal smell of sex. Sound was muffled, subtle, no voices, nothing but the quickening rasp of air through open mouths. Wanting taste, Miranda burrowed her face into the crook of her arm, to find salt and a hint of musk. Touch, though, was the reigning sense, the glide of his cock in and out of her slick folds, the little twinge when he caught the opening of her womb. His coarse pubic hair like burlap against her thighs when he buried himself to the hilt. The sharp bite of his fingernails as he pried her cheeks apart, seeking deeper access, more complete possession.

* * *

So, was that smutty enough for you?

If not, tune in next Sunday!

Smut Sunday - Her Secret Ingredient (#humor #cooking #smutsunday)

I had put together a brief but steamy Sunday Snog for today. Then I discovered that Victoria Blisse has officially ended the Sunday Snog series and started a new meme - Smut Sunday.

Oh well... this excerpt should qualify! It's from my short story Her SecretIngredient. This is the prequel to my full-length BDSM menage novel, The Ingredients of Bliss.

Stir in a pinch to stir up his passion.

When the Tastes of France food channel offers Mei Lee ‘Emily’ Wong a series of guest spots, she jumps at the opportunity to take her culinary career to a whole new level. Ultimately, she wants a show of her own, but first she has to prove herself to Michelin-starred network founder and effective dictator, Etienne Duvalier. A legend in the world of classic French cuisine as well as a domineering perfectionist, Etienne is sceptical about the culinary abilities of a woman from Hong Kong. To make things more difficult, the master chef is also so gorgeous that Emily can’t help being attracted to him.

Emily tries to solve both problems by spiking her luscious profiteroles with an ancient Oriental aphrodisiac. Unfortunately, Harry Sanborne, the low-key, bespectacled producer for Emily’s show, samples the delicacies she intends for Etienne’s consumption. His powerful reaction to her secret ingredient comes as a pleasant surprise to them both. Harry turns out to be far more impressive in bed than on the set. However, he can’t do nearly as much to advance her ambitions as Etienne. Emily tries once more to tempt the exacting M Duvalier with her special cooking as well as her feminine charms. The outrageous results threaten to end her TV career forever—until Harry steps in to save her reputation and claim her heart.

When you're done with my offering, head over to the Smut Sunday page for more lovely smut! 
 

Oh God! He was all over me, fondling and caressing whatever flesh he could access through my dishevelled clothing—and it was glorious! Crumpling my skirt to the waist, he worked his clever fingers under the elastic of my panties to stroke my soaked fur. I jerked against his palm, wanting him to explore more deeply. He appeared happy to oblige, pushing into my channel with his fingers while strumming my clit with his thumb. I wormed my way into his loose trousers and clung to his cotton-covered ass, feeling his glutes flex as he ground his astonishing hardness against my belly.

I’d never doubt my grandmother again.

His mouth returned to mine for a reprise of that breath-stealing kiss then he licked his way along my collarbone and burrowed into the valley between my breasts. Without removing his hand from between my thighs, he somehow managed to drag our tangled bodies down to the kitchen floor.

The feel of unyielding ceramic tile under my back brought back a moment of sanity.

“Harry—wait! Stop!” Here we were writhing half-naked, in public, on the studio kitchen floor. Anyone could walk in—Roth, or Marty, or heaven help me, Etienne himself! It must be close to his appointed time for sampling my creations and I’d bet my Cordon Bleu diploma that Etienne was never late.

Terror flashed through me, momentarily eclipsing my lust. “We can’t do this, not here, not now…”

Harry replied with an inarticulate grunt, parted my thighs and dove between them to press his mouth against my silk-covered mound. His hot breath had me boiling in an instant. I grabbed his head to pull him closer and I heard a chuckle, smothered by my moist pubis. The vibrations sang through me, kicking off a minor explosion of pleasure that left me panting and limp.

Harry profited from my temporary immobility by stripping off my drenched panties and applying his tongue directly to my wet, aching pussy. He lapped along my cleft, down to my rear hole then back again, finishing with a flick to the swollen bead at the apex. I shuddered under him, hauled to the edge of another climax by his talented mouth. He obviously knew exactly what he was doing. Pursing his lips around my clit and sucking hard, he sent me tumbling over the cliff and into ecstasy.