Authorly Delusions, Persistent Fantasies - #BlackLace #Eroticon #SmutByTheSea @VictoriaBlisse

What would I wear? That was what was on my mind as the publication date for my first novel grew closer, 'way back in 1999.

I'd somehow hit the karma jackpot. My first attempt at a novel had been accepted by the illustrious Black Lace imprint - the people who published my idol and inspiration Portia da Costa! I'd been corresponding with Kerri Sharp, the editor, a seriously no-nonsense sort of person. I imagined the numerous staff of Black Lace, all toiling away on the season's titles, including mine. And I wondered whether the publisher might throw some sort of sexy, glamorous release party for all the authors.

Black Lace's address at that time was “Thames Wharf”. I thought that sounded incredibly exotic and British. I could picture the place, a converted warehouse with a glassed-in ceiling and recessed lighting. I could imagine my fellow erotica authors, all decked out in leather or velvet, short skirts or long ones with provocative slits showing plenty of thigh, wearing boots or maybe even masks. I pictured myself among my peers, sipping champagne from crystal goblets and chatting about sex and writing. I fantasized about meeting Portia in person (I saw her as an elegant, curvy brunette) and telling her how she was responsible for my success.

I had no idea how I'd afford the trip to London. On the other hand, my book had been accepted, despite the incredibly tiny odds. Who could predict what the universe might hand me next? Maybe I could finance the trip out of my advance.

Did I really expect the party? Probably not. It was just fun to think about. I had no idea, though, how wildly unrealistic my fantasy was. Looking back now, I'm pretty sure that Kerri Sharp was more or the less the whole Black Lace staff all on her own. Like most publishers, Black Lace was undoubtedly scraping by, the margins on books getting smaller and smaller each year. Money to organize a party for the authors? I'm sure the notion would have evoked incredulous laughter.

A few years later, I visited the Blue Moon Books offices in lower Manhattan. I was a bit shocked by how small and grungy they seemed. I had imagined that publishers – New York publishers – had spacious office suites, luxurious conference rooms, sophisticated, erudite, well-paid editors who decided the fate of poor authors like me. Instead, Blue Moon was crammed into half the tenth floor of a hundred year old building with water stains on the ceiling and a tiny elevator that creaked like it was going to expire on the way up. My editor was disheveled and a bit shy, almost embarrassed by the fact that he published explicit sexual fiction.

Sigh. Welcome to the real world.

Since then, I've learned that erotica authors are not necessarily all that glamorous, either. I've gotten to know Portia fairly well in the cyber-sphere. She's a lovely middle aged lady with silver-blond hair who lives in a small town with her cats, pouring her fantasies out onto the page. I've been fortunate enough to actually meet some of my colleagues from the Erotica Readers and Writers Association and the Erotic Authors Association. With one or two exceptions, there's nothing about these people that would indicate they write fiction hot enough to scorch the page. They don't wear dog collars or stiletto heels. They have bad hair days and wear glasses, just like me.

I will admit, though, that it's always a high to meet another member of the inner circle. The excitement is palpable. It doesn't matter what we look like. Deep down, each of us knows we're in the presence of a fellow outlaw, and that's intoxicating.

Several years ago, I did have the pleasure of attending Smut by the Sea, a conference for erotic authors and readers in lovely Scarborough, hosted by the amazing Victoria Bliss. That was a true high. I met a bunch of folks whom I’ve known for ages online, including Victoria and her husband Kev, of course, but also Anna Sky, Ashe Barker, Delores Swallows, Kryssie Fortune and Ashley Lister. I got to read from one of my books (barely escaping a paddling for exceeding my five minutes), attended a workshop on writing shifter stories, overall just had a wonderful time.

Victoria is involved in another erotica conference in mid March, called Eroticon. God I wish I could go! Certainly I’ll be there in spirit. It’s being held in London—just like in my fantasies so long ago!

If you’re in the neighborhood, don’t miss it! We erotica authors might not be glamorous, but I guarantee, we’re a lot of fun!

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 - Restraint (#poetry #bdsm #devotion)

(To GCS)

Restraint (Rondeau)

My hands are tied, but were I free

I'd suck your cock and sip your pee;

I'd spread my lips so you could sense

the aromatic evidence

of what your voice can do to me.

My flesh and heart in heat agree.

Unlock them both; you hold the key

to joy and anguish, both intense.

My hands are tied.

You think me lost. Why can't you see?

If you should claim the whole of me

as yours, I'd offer no defense.

But you're a gentleman, and hence,

my ring makes all this fantasy.

My hands are tied.

 For more lovely smut click here.

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!

Sunday Snog and Giveaway! (#pnr #giveaway #steampunk)

Happy Sunday!

My snog today comes from my steampunk-menage-BDSM-shifter novel, Rajasthani Moon. In case you’re not familiar with this outrageous story, here’s the blurb:

Neither kink nor curse can stop a woman with a mission.

Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire, is a woman on a mission. When the remote Indian kingdom of Rajasthan refused to remit its taxes to the Empire, Her Majesty imposed an embargo. Deprived of the energy-rich mineral viridium, essential for modern technology and development, Rajasthan was expected to quickly give in and resume its payments. Yet after three years, the rebellious principality still has not knuckled under. Cecily undertakes the difficult journey to that rugged, arid land in order to determine just how it has managed to survive, and if possible to convince the country to return to the Empire’s embrace. Instead, she’s taken captive by a brigand, who turns out to be the ruler’s half-brother Pratan, and delivered into the hands of the sexy but sadistic Rajah Amir, who expertly mingles torture and delight in his interrogation of the voluptuous interloper.

Cursed before birth by Amir’s jealous mother, Pratan changes to a ravening wolf whenever the moon is full. Cecily uncovers the counter-spell that can reverse the effects of the former queen’s hex and tries to trade that information for her freedom. Drawn to the fierce wolf-man and sympathising with his suffering, she volunteers to serve as the sacrifice required by the ritual—offering her body to the beast. In return, the Rajah reveal Rajasthan’s amazing secret source of energy. In the face of almost impossible odds, Cecily has accomplished the task entrusted to her by the Empire. But can she really bear to leave the virile half-brothers and their colourful land behind and return to the constraints of her life in England?

~ ~ ~

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Morning sun filtered through the latticed windows, the intermittent light adding new patterns to the intricately-woven carpet. Cecily stirred in the nest of cushions Amir had scattered upon the floor at the foot of his bed. She stretched her bondage-stiffened muscles, wincing as embroidered satin abraded her punished backside. The Rajah’s spanking appeared to have irritated the welts from the flogging administered by his brother. What a pair of deviants!

A short chain tethered her ankle to the massive mahogany bedstead. Otherwise she appeared to be free—not counting, of course, her deadly collar. Rising to her knees, she peered at Amir, who lay careless and relaxed in sleep upon the fine linen sheets. With his eyes closed, luxurious lashes brushing his smooth cheeks and full lips slightly parted, he looked boyish, fresh and innocent. How appearances could deceive!

Was he merely feigning sleep? Cecily scrutinised his naked form, studiously ignoring the tell-tale swell below his waist. She could not detect the slightest evidence of tension. His gloriously-muscled chest rose and fell in a slow, regular rhythm. She held her palm above his luscious mouth and felt the warmth of his breath upon her skin. A faint aroma of almonds hung around him. She recalled the scented oil with which he’d greased her rear channel and shuddered, half disgusted, half aroused.

For the moment, the Rajah appeared to be in her power. Cecily knew many techniques for quickly and efficiently terminating a man’s life, without the need for excessive force or blood. It would be quite simple to eliminate this enemy of the Empire.

The train of thought came automatically, a consequence of her training. She dismissed it as impractical. She would still be a prisoner, and a proven assassin rather than merely a seeker of intelligence. Besides, what purpose would such a murder serve? Amir was far more valuable to her alive, as a source of information.

Underneath all her rationalisation, Cecily was keenly and shamefully aware of the fact that she could never kill this man—no matter how vicious or dangerous he might be. He had a hold on her, far stronger and more difficult to escape than his silvery chains. Her quim was still tender and raw from the effects of his infernal instruments—his sparks, his clamps and his cock—but she felt herself moisten as she gazed on his slumbering beauty. In his presence, what she truly wanted was to give in, to have him use her like the helpless captive she was.

Helpless? She shook her head as if to scatter her offending thoughts. What was wrong with her? Had the Rajasthani ruler cast some sort of spell over her? She should be focusing on escape. She might not have ferreted out all the Rajah’s secrets, but already she knew much that was of value. Furthermore, if she managed to get out of the palace, she could disguise herself and engage in some additional sleuthing…

“Good morning, pet.” Amir’s piercing eyes fluttered open and pinned her gaze, while his lips curved into a self-satisfied smile. Any semblance of innocence fled. “Did you sleep well?”

“I’m not your pet. Furthermore, I scarcely had a comfortable moment all night, due to the after-effects of your tortures.”

“Tortures? Please! Based on your reactions to my little games, I don’t think ‘torture’ is exactly the appropriate term, my delectable spy.”

He reached up, grabbed her shoulders and pulled her down on top of him.

“Ow!” Cecily began as the chain bit into her skin. His voluptuous lips sealed off any further commentary. She wanted to struggle but his arms were steel bands confining her. Her breasts mashed against his solid chest, the nipples plump and swollen as grapes, while the sweet rigidity of his cock poked into her from under the sheet.

It felt far too pleasant—outrageously so. Amir prised her mouth open and probed deep with his brazen tongue. She could not help imagining that tongue rooting in her cunny. Desire shimmered through her as she opened to him, savouring his flavour of cinnamon and fennel.

Clearly he sensed her surrender. He released his hold on her torso so that he could trace her bountiful curves, down over her hips to her buttocks. Seizing two handfuls of her opulent flesh, he ground his cock against her mound. His fingernails scored her arse and woke twinges of remembered pain that only fanned her need. Awkward because of her chains and his still-tight hold upon her, Cecily tried to spread her thighs, so that his erection would provide more direct stimulation. The sheet that separated their flesh was soaked by their pooled secretions.

She wanted to roll away, so that they could remove that barrier. Amir held her fast, determined, perhaps, to frustrate her, while he continued to ravage her mouth with astonishing ferocity. Even Cecily’s well-honed muscles were no match for his strength. She gave up, closed her eyes and allowed him do whatever he pleased. For now, at least, he was in control—and if she was honest with herself, she didn’t mind.

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Celebrating Ten Years of Published Erotic Romance (#bdsm #lapdance #celebration @VictoriaBlisse)

By Victoria Blisse (Guest Blogger)

Ten years in Erotica seemed like something I needed to celebrate so I did! With an anthology of brand new short stories never seen before. One for every year I’ve been a published author.

Sometimes it feels like I’ve always been writing erotic romance but then often it feels like I’ve barely started. It was quite the realisation when it hit me that I’d been published for ten whole years!

In many ways I’m the same as I was when I started. I’m sure my writing has evolved, gotten better even. I know my edits tend to have less red corrections on them now than they used to have anyway. I still write everything and anything that captures my imagination but with characters as curvy and ample as the author writing them.

I have to say though, BDSM is definitely my favourite thing to write. So it seemed appropriate to make my celebration a collection of hot dominance and submission stories. It also led to the wonderfully punny title – Tender – that combines the number of stories/years I’ve been published with the feeling after a good spanking. Not only that, it conveys the compassion I try to pack into all my stories too.

So if you want to taste a little bit of my style, Tender is a good place to start and if you’ve read other books of mine then this will be a little tasty taster for you to enjoy. Here’s the blurb and an excerpt for you to enjoy!

Blurb

Victoria Blisse has collected together ten stories of bondage, dominance and pleasurable pain to celebrate ten years as a published author.

This diverse mixture of tiny, teasing tales filled with sexy doms and their dedicated submissives showcases her unique style and her favourite genre: BDSM.

Enjoy a lap dance, a naked suit fitting and a bit of floral bondage. Experience punishments with crops, canes, floggers, hands and even a spatula in locations as diverse as a locker room and at the bottom of the stairs. Discover the fun of ball gags, sherbet lemons, secret collars and tape measures. Be swept away by the lust of these alpha males and their treasured subs.

There is something for all tastes, with kinks in all flavours for you to sample. Feast on this anthology of decadent delights by the one and only Queen of Smut.

Excerpt from “Private Dancing in a Public Place”

“I want you to dance for me.” Jake said, matter-of-factly.

“But Sir—” I started to protest. Not just anyone was allowed to lap dance, a club would have rules about such things, surely. When he invited me here tonight, I thought I’d get a night off, that we’d be enjoying one of the girls dancing for us. I didn’t expect to be part of the entertainment.

“No buts, I want you. Come with me.” I followed him obediently. I was anxious but my desire to please my Master overrode that. We wound our way through the club, past scantily clad women and groups of men trying hard to resist their wiles. In the room in the back it was much quieter, just a couple of dancers engaged in their jobs with more flesh on show than hidden. I dropped my gaze, cheeks heating. Was he going to expect me to do that too? To strip completely in public? My heart danced erratically to the heavy beat of the metal song in the background. Could I do it? Could I do something so brazen? I really didn’t know.

Jake led me to the corner, darkened at least and a little way apart from where the professional strippers did their work. He sat down on the plain, armless chair, spread his legs and looked at me.

“Jane, when the next song starts I want you to dance for me. I want you to strip completely and use your body to excite and seduce me. Now first, take off your dress.”

I looked at him, stunned into inaction.

“You’re my stripper, Jane. You need to start in nothing but your lingerie. I want to get my money’s worth.”

“How much are you paying me?” I asked without thinking.

“Mercenary.” He smirked and took his wallet out of his pocket, opened it and pulled out two purple notes and beckoned me closer. I stood between his knees and he pressed the notes into my hand.

“Now get that dress off before I change my mind and just spank you here and now for your disobedience.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry.” I scrunched the notes and pushed them into my handbag. I threw it to the floor beside his chair, took a step back and pulled in a deep breath at the same time. Hesitation would end in punishment and as my arse was already tender from the chastisement of the wicked flogger earlier in the day. I took a deep breath and lifted the edge of my red skirt. I pulled it up and over my head quickly, like removing a plaster. If I thought about what I was doing I’d freeze and stop so I just threw the dress away, shivering with as cold caresses my exposed skin.

I glanced around me, no one seemed to be paying me any attention except Jake. He stared intently at my exposed bits. I was particularly relieved that I was wearing my best matching lingerie. Black and red lace bra and knickers that not only looked pretty, but were comfortable too. I felt a little more confident knowing what little clothing I wore looked good and matched and thank God I was wearing knickers for a change!

The loud, thumping music stopped but the bass continued, it was the beat of my heart. I could hear it in the depths of my ears and feel it throbbing, the beat spreading through my veins, my body vibrating with nerves. My mouth was dry, my lips sore. I licked them and gulped. Goose bumps jumped up along my arms and thighs, with the cold or the fear of the unknown I wasn’t sure.

The next song started with a distinctive scream of a guitar and the throb of an instantly familiar classic rock song. I wondered if the song had been requested or if it was just a delectable coincidence. Closing my eyes I attempted to still my fears, my nerves. A spark of inspiration hit and finally I knew what to do next. When I opened my eyes I looked straight at my Master. I sought out his gaze. I would lose myself in it. I’d focus on Jake, only him, forgetting the location, the professionals around me. He wanted me to dance and to strip, so I would for him.

I didn’t really know where to start. Zumba is great fun but it doesn’t really teach you how to dance seductively. I had to get closer to him. So I stepped forward, once, twice. My cute little black kitten heels helping me to swing my hips as I delicately sashayed until I was between his spread thighs.

I used the thrum of the music to dictate my movements, rolling my hips from side to side, when I conquered that I added in my shoulders, keeping my gaze fixed on Jake. He’d paid me, I had to do my best to entertain him, to turn him on. I kept swaying and lifted my hands up to the clip that held my hair back and with a sharp tug freed my brunette curls to spill down onto my shoulders. I threw the clip away and shook my head to free the curls further, loving the feel of them gently tickling my shoulders.

The lyrics kicked in and I leant closer, wanting to feel his body heat, wanting to tempt him with my flesh. I didn’t know if normal rules counted for him, if he could touch me but I wanted to tempt him, wanted to make him long to touch me, to make him break the house rules. Closer and closer I pushed, rolling in time to the beat until I stopped with my lips just before Jake’s. I pursed my lips as if I was going to kiss him, then pulled back again with a cheeky smile.

I was beginning to enjoy myself. I was in control for a change. I’d been given free range to tempt and tease and I was going to make full use of that permission. I knew what would drive him wild and slowly I turned around. I ran my hands up into my hair, lifted it, my fingers spread as I swayed my arse in time to the beat. Dropping my hair I tilted forward, sliding my hands down my sides until I caught my knickers with my thumbs and pushed down, rolling the material lower and lower to expose my buttocks. I left them to cling to my thighs and tilted forward, pressed my arse up and out then with a flex of my stomach muscles pulled it back in. I knew he’d be staring at his handiwork, the marks he’d left on my tender skin as I fucked the air.

* * *

Tender is available from amazon for just 99p/99c and this link will take you directly to the amazon appropriate to your location: http://amzn.to/2erAmzl

About Me

Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United fan and award winning erotica author. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, Smut by the Sea and Smut in the City.

She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories.Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.

Find out more at http://victoriablisse.co.uk or follow and friend Victoria: http://twitter.com/victoriablisse http://facebook.com/victoriablisse