Monday, April 9, 2012

The Way It's Supposed to Be

I wrote a story yesterday - more than 3700 words, targeted for a femdom anthology to be edited by the incredible D.L. King. It was the most fun I've had in a while!

The title, first line, and character sketches had been sitting in my notebook for more than a month. I knew that I had to get the thing done yesterday, because the deadline was the 10th, while I had other commitments Monday and Tuesday. I didn't feel a sense of pressure, though. Somehow I had confidence that I could simply sit down and let the story out. And that's exactly what happened.

It may not be the best tale I've ever written, but I'm pretty happy with it. The story is called "Layover"; it follows the relationship between a sexy, athletic airline steward and the older female pilot who recognizes submissive tendencies he never knew he had. Not exactly romance - but I'd say it has a happy ending, in that each of the characters gets what he or she wants ;^)

Writing is never "easy", but this tale flowed more smoothly than most. And that's the way it's supposed to be. I love it when the barriers between my imagination and the page crumble. The experience of writing so quickly and confidently is an incredible high.

I only wish my writing was always this smooth - but perhaps I would stop appreciating the peak experience of being "in the zone" if that were true.

Anyway, I just wanted to share what feels to me like good news. I won't know whether the story has been accepted until the summer. So it's time to put it out of my mind and move on to my next project.

Speaking of D.L. King, though, I just learned that her steam punk collection Carnal Machines as well as Kristina Wright's Steamlust collection have received a "seal of approval" from Hustler magazine. Both books include stories by me ("Her Own Devices" and "Green Cheese" respectively). Kind of exciting to be recognized by a nationally known purveyor of smut!

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Sunday Snog: Thieve's Honor

Greetings! My Snog this week is from my short story Thieves' Honor, an intense tale about a woman who gets her kicks picking pockets - until she's caught red handed. Avram Aslayan want's Blaine's help in stealing back something he lost. And he's not above blackmailing her to get her to cooperate.

After you've read my snog, hustle on over to Victoria's Snog Central, for lots more lips-smacking fun. And if you want to know what happens in Thieves' Honor, the story is available as a free read from Total-E-Bound!

****

As I held the envelope open to replace the letters, something shiny rolled out and landed silently on the rug. My pulse quickening, I bent to retrieve it.

In the light of my flashlight gleamed a woman's wedding ring. On a hunch, I shone the light inside. "To Olivia," the inscription read, "with my eternal love". Didn't sound like the sort of thing my urbane and ironic host would write, but then who knows? I dropped the ring back into the envelope, retied the ribbon, and carefully replaced the package where I had found it.

Well, if not the desk, perhaps I could locate a safe. I had to stand on my toes to reach the first painting. With infinite care, I nudged it aside to look behind it. Nothing but blank wall. Disappointed despite myself, I moved on to the next one.

All at once light flooded the room. "You won't find what you're looking for there, my little cat burglar." I blinked, temporarily blinded, and whirled around to face the mocking grin of my host. "I know better than to keep something that valuable in the same house as you."

Aslanyan had crept into the room on feet as bare as mine. His torso was bare, too, above his drawstring pajama pants. I fought with myself to avoid staring at his semi-nakedness, the rich olive hue of his skin, the tangled black forest of hair on his chest.

I licked my lips. My breath was ragged. My heart hammered against my ribs. My nipples ached whenever terry cloth brushed across their swollen tips. Once again, my traitorously wet pussy threatened to spill over and reveal my weakness.

Then he was towering over me, pinning my arms behind me, his warm, damp breath in my ear. "I knew that I shouldn't trust you, Blaine."

"What do you expect?" I struggled against his grip, but I might as well have been back in the handcuffs. "You kidnap me. You threaten me. Don't I have the right to look out for myself?" I glared up at him, trying my damnedest to look formidable. "Anyway, I didn't take anything, though heaven knows there's stuff in here worth a fortune."

He searched my face as though seeking confirmation, his smile leeching away. Abruptly he released me and turned to the desk. He pulled out the bottom drawer. "I left this locked..." He glowered at me, clearly upset.

"I was looking for the photos and videotapes. What do you think? Look, if we're going to be partners, it has to be on an equal basis. Free choice and all. Give me the dirt you have on me, and then we can talk about your scheme, whatever it is." My wrists were still sore from his grasp. My cunt throbbed. I was trying to sound rational, but really I was begging. And not just for the tapes.

"Did you look inside the envelope?" He seemed to be ignoring my plea.

His gaze skewered me. I nodded. "But I didn't read any of the letters." He closed his eyes, as though in pain. "She's lovely," I added softly.

There was desperation in his eyes. He stared down at the carpet. "Lovely, yes. She was indeed lovely."

"Was?" I knew I was treading on risky territory. "Did she die?"

When he returned his gaze to me, his face was a mask of agony. "Die? No, she didn't die. As I told you, she was stolen."

"Stolen?"

"By a man I called my friend." No wonder he was so detached, so guarded. A flash of pity arced through my body, followed by a bolt of lust. It seemed to illumine the room. Avram looked at me, no, looked through me, his fists clenched.

I took a step in his direction, drawn by his intensity. "So now, you want revenge, right? Do you really think she's worth it?" I deliberately provoked him, wanting that passion of his turned in my direction. "Give her up, Aslanyan. You shouldn't hold on to someone who betrayed you."

Avram seemed to wake from his trance and finally to see me. "Is that so? And who should I hold on to? A deceiving little minx like you?" He took a step toward me, roughly dug his fingers into my shoulder. The robe fell open, and I shrank backwards despite myself, shaking with mingled fear and desire. I couldn't hold his gaze.

I could feel the heat radiating from his bare flesh. I could feel the challenge of his dangerous, provocative smile. For a long moment we hung there, transfixed, silently taking each other's measure. Then he lifted me up, threw me over his shoulder and carried me up the winding staircase.

I didn't struggle. I didn't want to. Absurd visions of Scarlet O'Hara and Rhett Butler ran through my head. I expected him to throw me on the mattress, bind me to the posts, tear off my robe and ravish me. Okay, I admit, I wanted him to do that.

Instead, he positioned me gently at the edge of the bed, parted my thighs, and brought his mouth to my sex.

His nimble tongue and muscular lips vanquished me in a way that his cock never could have. I opened myself to his hot, wet strokes. I writhed and twisted, gripping the bedposts until my fingers cramped (though of course I didn't notice at the time). I screamed loudly enough to wake the neighbors, in a less exclusive area. Again and again, he brought me to the edge, then coaxed me over.

No pride, no shame, no fear: Blaine Ford, née Bridget Flanagan, allowed herself to be pleasured until she was limp and sore and closer to heaven than the nuns would ever have believed.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Red Grow the Roses

By Janine Ashbless (Guest Blogger)

[I'm pleased today to feature a preview of a stunning new vampire novel from paranormal expert Janine Ashbless. Enjoy! ~ Lisabet]

Blurb:

“Maybe you’ll be lucky. Maybe he’s not human. He’ll take you in his arms and you’ll feel his strength – a strength that makes it impossible to fight him. But you’ve already lost the will to resist, that moment he looked into your eyes and showed you all his hunger and his promise. You knew then. You knew that this is what you are for – what we are all for – with our warm beating hearts and our aching sexual needs.

We are for them.”

There are six vampires in the city. Ageless, terrifyingly beautiful and always hungry – not just for blood but for the other pleasures the human body offers. Sadistic chanteuse Estelle; feckless Ben; Roisin, the mirror-ghost; Wakefield, haunted by his own damnation; Naylor, the most feral of them all.

And Reynauld is the Good Shepherd, the one who holds them all in check. But his grip on his own humanity is fading, and when Wakefield accidentally kills a woman and Naylor gets the blame, a power-struggle erupts between the city’s immortal undead.

Red Grow the Roses tells of bloodlust and sexual desire; for vampires the two are indistinguishable. These transgressive, startling stories draw the reader down the darkest and most seductive paths of pleasure – to where the monsters are waiting.

*****

Excerpt

‘I don’t feed from humans,’ Wakefield hissed, trembling.

‘That’s what I heard. I just find it hard to believe.’ Rolling onto her knees, she reached for the discarded rose he’d cut for her. ‘Nasty sharp thorns these things have got,’ she mused, laying the stem across her bare breasts. With a twitch she drew it down, scoring her flesh with half-a-dozen needle-pointed thorns, shuddering as the pain burned through her. Pin-points of blood rose on her pale skin and swelled, a string of rubies decorating the white flesh and the roseate nipples. ‘Ah,’ she groaned.

Robert Wakefield seemed to grow taller; his hard-on bulged. She could taste the coppery tang of her victory.

‘Tell me; have you ever whipped a girl with your roses, Mr Wakefield?’ Lilla began to crawl backwards from him on hands and knees, arse swaying, breasts wobbling. ‘Maybe one of your servants? The parlour maid perhaps? You ever taken a bunch of roses and whipped their tits?’ She put on a country accent for her next words, her voice suddenly breathlessly innocent but at the same time teasing: ‘Oh Mr Wakefield, you wouldn’t be thinking of doing that to a poor innocent girl? I couldn’t bear that sir – it’ll hurt something cruel. You wouldn’t want to ruin a helpless maid, would you, sir? You wouldn’t want that on your conscience?’

Inhumanly swift, he lunged and grabbed the front of her bodice and yanked her up to slam her against one of the wrought-iron pillars. Eagerly Lilla extended her hands over her head, thrusting her breasts out so that he might feed. But he didn’t, not right away. He looked down at her with a face hollow with hunger, and then he took hold of her long drawers at the waist and snapped the drawstring with one tug of his wrists. He tore the damp, clinging cotton from her thighs to bare her sex, and then he tied her wrists with the twisted strips and secured her to a ornamental bracket high on the pillar, hauling her up onto her toes. She said nothing, words robbed from her by anticipation, lips parted about her shallow breaths.

His face mask-like, his eyes burning, he plunged his cold fingers between her thighs and up inside her, breaching the gates of her sex to take the measure of her heat, the slick of juices, the yielding sucking flex of her tight hole. Lilla writhed on his hand, twisting helplessly with each thrust of his wrist, and he watched her breasts jiggle and bounce, their pink points dewed in red. His teeth were so extended now that his upper lip did not hide them.

‘Oh please,’ she gasped. ‘Please – bite me!’

*****

Buy Links:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B006PW46O8/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=lucyfelthouse-21&linkCode=as2&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B006PW46O8

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006PW46O8/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=lucyfelt-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B006PW46O8

http://www.mischiefbooks.com/books/red-grow-roses/

http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-redgrowtheroses-679540-144.html

*****

Author Bio:

Janine Ashbless is a multi-published author of erotica and erotic romance. Her first collection of erotic fairy, fantasy and paranormal stories, Cruel Enchantment, was published in 2000 by Black Lace. Red Grow the Roses is her sixth novel. Her stories have been published by Spice, Black Lace, Nexus, Xcite, Racy Pages, Cleis, Ellora’s Cave and Samhain, among others. She was Jade Magazine’s Erotic Fiction Writer of the Year 2009. Janine loves goatee beards, ancient ruins, minotaurs, trees, mummies, having her cake and eating it, holidaying in countries with really bad public sewerage, and any movie or TV series featuring men in very few clothes beating hell out of each other. She lives in England.

Author site/blog link: http://www.janineashbless.com http://www.janineashbless.blogspot.com

Thursday, April 5, 2012

You Are Not Your Book

There are actually three things you can't escape: death, taxes, and bad reviews.

We all receive negative reviews occasionally, and yes, they're pretty tough to handle. We authors pour so much of ourselves into our work that an unfavorable review feels like a slap in the face, a repudiation of our personal worth. Suddenly you wonder why you bother. You've slaved over your book, dedicated weeks, months, even years to the task of bringing it to fruition, and then someone labels it "shallow", or "boring", "cheesy" or "predictable". It's enough to ruin your life (not to mention those of your significant others).

Over time, you learn to cope with those feelings of rejection. First of all, you come to realize that you are not your book. Every individual has different tastes, so you can't please everyone. The fact that someone didn't like what you wrote does not reflect on your status as a human being.

Second, it's clear that the negativity of many reviews is a property of the reviewer - not the book. There are people who get a charge out of being snarky. For some reason, tearing apart someone else's work makes those reviewers feel better about themselves. Sad, isn't it? If you receive a poor review, check out other reviews by the same person. Often you'll find a pattern of criticism, which may in fact have nothing to do with reality. Some consistently negative reviewers may be authors trying to tarnish the reputation of their competition. Others, I think, are frustrated wannabee authors. Some are just people who for some reason enjoy being nasty.

However, with the advent of social networking and instant approval or disapproval - with the ridiculous competition for attention that authors face on Amazon and to a lesser extent other online book outlets - a negative review can definitely impact your sales. Book browsers don't necessarily even take the time to read reviews - they just check the number of stars a book has received. Personally I have a lot of trouble with the concept of reducing a book's quality to a single numeric rating, but it's a fact of life. So, if you receive a bad review from a reader, what should you do? What can you do?

In one of my author groups, members exhort each other to go online and "shout down" bad reviews, by labeling them as "unhelpful" or "disliking" them. I'm ambivalent about this practice.

If a review is deliberately destructive - and if it has no connection to the reality of the book - I can see this kind of mass disapproval might be appropriate. However, if a negative review appears to be an honest expression of the reviewer's opinions, as opposed to an ego trip designed to build the reviewer up by tearing someone else down, I'm definitely not comfortable labeling the review as spam or illegitimate. Sure, it might help sales, but I have to put myself in the reviewer's shoes. If I sincerely didn't like a book, and can say why, I don't want my assessment attacked simply because it's not positive - or even because someone else does not agree with me.

Because yes, I've written bad reviews myself. I review for several sites including Erotica Revealed and Erotica Readers and Writers Association. My books for ER are usually assigned rather than books I request (although I suppose I could object if I were sure I'd hate a book). As a reviewer, I've got to be honest, even if it might be painful for the author. (Heck, I know it will be painful.) I try my best to find something positive to say about a book I don't like, and I'm careful to emphasize that the review is merely my opinion. I'd hate to have somebody jumping on my reviews, though, calling them "unhelpful".

The trouble is that the publishing has become this nightmare world where quality hardly makes a difference. What matters is "buzz". How many people can you get to "like" your book? To mention it on Facebook or Tweet about it? Can you twist all your friends' arms into voting your book as "best", whether they've read it or not? Can you make yourself heard above the roar of the digital crowd?

You know, I hate getting bad reviews. But even more, I hate the way considerations totally divorced from the book itself now determine a book's success. Some of my colleagues tell me that I have to play the game if I want to be noticed. Sorry, but I really don't have the time, the energy, or the stomach for that. To me, that's not what it means to be a writer.

***

By the way, my BDSM short story collection Just a Spanking is free today and tomorrow at Amazon. If you haven't already got yourself a copy, hop over and snag one now!

http://www.amazon.com/Just-Spanking-Dominance-Submission-ebook/dp/B006V2W680/

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

The Indulgence of Co-Authoring

By Lily Harlem (Guest Blogger)

Thanks so much for having me here today, Lisabet. I am going to chat a little about co-authoring which is something I’ve had the great pleasure of becoming involved in over the last year. My partner in erotic writings is Natalie Dae (also known as Emmy Ellis and Sarah Masters to name a few of her personas).

Natalie Dae and I have our first co-author novel That Filthy Book just out at Total-E-Bound.

How did it all start?

Well, we became friends as we have a mutual editor and got chatting on the loop. It wasn’t long before we realised that we lived within a few hours of one another which meant, at a UK writing event, we had the chance to meet up—enormous fun that included plenty of wine, tons of gossip and great entertainment!

By this point we had been beta reading each other’s work (Nat is also a whizz at anything arty so had helped me out with bits and pieces I was completely hopeless at), and we knew one another’s style pretty well.

One day, a month or so after finally meeting face-to-face, she sent me a first chapter. “I’m having a wobble,” she said. “Read this before I go any further and tell me if its complete poo.” I’m sure any authors reading this will know exactly what she meant, I certainly did!

Anyway, I read it and it wasn’t complete poo at all, it was bloody brilliant. Great characters, fab introspection, all in all a really wonderful set-up, but still she scratched her head, unsure of where to go with it, so I said, not wanting to waste any of her lovely words, “How about I write the next chapter?” The reply: “Go for it!”

So I did and it was raw, sexy—in fact, downright filthy! Nat loved it, and not only that, we both felt like we’d just put our characters on the biggest, most thrilling roller-coaster in the world and we were going to have to hang on for the seriously wild ride we’d sent them on.

We were off…

It was then writing together became a complete, chocolate-with-sprinkles indulgence. We would do a chapter length each and pass it on, amazing ourselves at the twists and turns in the plot as we wrote. Of course, we had an idea of where we were going, but it was very loose. But that was the beauty of ‘the book’—it went where our characters wanted it to go.

One thing I found amazing was how we both knew the hero and heroine so well. There was never a time either of us questioned, “Would he/she do/say that?” Everything was seamless, the decisions they made, their actions—even if heart-stoppingly shocking—worked perfectly. Sometimes, at editing, I would read it back and think, “Who wrote that? Me or Nat?” Which must ultimately be a very good sign.

What did I learn?

Writing with someone not only talented but also with a beautiful vibrant use of the English language was wonderful. I learnt a lot as we wrote, experimented too, because it was safe to. Also there was never a ‘writer’s block moment’ or a ‘bugger, now what?’ because Nat knew the novel as well as me so it was only ever a quick question and it was flowing again. We bounced it off one another, quite literally.

That Filthy Book was actually written over just a few weeks; we got into a routine that suited us and the word count romped up. It was then accepted by Total-E-Bound, and Nat, with her other head on as Head of Art at TEB did the amazing cover. I have to say, when she sent it to me I couldn’t stop looking at it. I blew it up to full screen and just stared and stared and stared. I even got up in the middle of the night and stared again!

I knew we had the characters running parallel in our heads, like they were real people we both knew, but when I saw the images she’d created I was staggered by how she’d brought to life what was in my mind’s eye. Everything about Karen and Jacob was right. From their expressions, to their hair colour, physique, and the way Karen is just undoing Jacob’s shirt while they both look shifty. Perfection!!

I feel very privileged not to be only writing with Nat, but also able to call her my friend and confidant. And I hope in years to come, when we have many more co-author titles, we will be able to look back fondly on That Filthy Book and say remember when…

Thanks so much for letting me chatter today, Lisabet. It’s always fun to come and hang out on your blog. Below is a little more information about That Filthy Book.

PS - Also this week I’m a guest at The Novel Spot – www.novelspot.net. Each day there is a sequential autobiography, by me, about how I became a writer of erotic romance. I hope you will stop by.

Blurb for That Filthy Book

Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I thought. But it turns out an old, dog-eared book with contents so filthy and so depraved that I’d been forced to hide it after reading, has sunk deeper into my erotic subconscious than I’d ever imagined. Luckily, though, Jacob is up for exploring the new side of me that has risen to the surface after all these years. In a whirlwind of wanton adventures that pushes us to the limits of our sexuality, we begin to rediscover what it once was that had us screaming with pleasure and how to accept that nothing will ever be the same again between us.

Excerpt (18+)

It seemed Lady Luck had joined us for our journey, giving the green light for all our needs to be met only three days after my confession of what I really wanted him to do with that branch.

Jacob’s parents had asked if they could take the girls to a circus on Saturday night. It started at eight, didn’t finish until ten, so they’d suggested it was more sensible that they keep them until Sunday morning, possibly Sunday afternoon if the children fancied having a roast dinner with them at the local pub.

I was not about to turn that opportunity down, especially when Jacob had been hot for the idea of outside sex. In fact, he’d been more than up for it, and the excited glint in his eye when I’d held up the carefully stripped bark had sent a tremble to my very core. Something told me I’d hit another very dark and very sinful nerve of his.

But always one to think of others, Jacob had already promised to help a work colleague move house on the Saturday. I didn’t mind too much because it left me with an empty afternoon to prepare for our evening of fun. I started with a pamper accompanied by a glass of wine, treating myself to a cucumber face mask, sugar body scrub, shave—including my pussy—manicure and pedicure and finally a generous slathering of body butter.

It left me feeling tingly and smooth, as if my body was honed and prepared. The thought of my silky, clean skin and perfectly neat red nails out in the open, amongst dirt and leaves, with the sootiness of bark mould smudged randomly over my body had me panting with excitement. I could just imagine mud squelching around my toes and the creamy skin of my wrists worn red by ropes. And the image of my arse marked raw by the branch, well, that had me feeling like a sacrificial offering.

For I knew that this evening I would be handing myself over to nature, to Jacob, and to my own darkest desires. The bare bones of my soul were about to be revealed. No holds barred, no chance to hide. They were the very skeleton of me that only Jacob would ever set eyes on.

When the dipping sun sent lilac and crimson fingers darting over the horizon I was ready—more than ready. I’d had a light tea and another glass of wine, resisted the temptation to masturbate—just—and saved myself for my husband.

The front door opened with a whoosh, then shut with a resounding slam. I spun from the kitchen window where I’d been staring at the darkening copse.

The copse that was ready and waiting.

Heavy footsteps banged down the hall. Loud and resolute, the sound reverberated around my head.

This was it. There was no turning back.

I didn’t want to. Not for anything.

The door swung open, and there he stood, with his broad shoulders filling the frame and his head bowed slightly. He pulled his brows low and set his jaw. A small muscle flexed and unflexed in his cheek.

"Get down on your knees, bitch."

I gasped at the completely thrilling sound of his bad man’s voice and folded my legs until my knees landed on the freshly swept lino. He was so feral, so dominant, not Jacob the protector, the carer. No, tonight I had Jacob the master, the taker, the giver of sinful pleasure.

Between one breath and the next he was in front of me, his groin level with my face and his hands on his hips. The scent of man and hard physical work washed over me, as well as perhaps a hint of a greasy spoon cafe where he’d no doubt been treated to pie and chips for the efforts of his day.

"Take out my cock."

I reached for the buttons on his jeans, surprised to see that my hands trembled. Excitement? Trepidation?

This had not been part of any plan, but I wasn’t complaining. In fact, there wasn’t a plan. All Jacob had asked was that I trust him. He said that he understood what I wanted and would make it all happen for me. Of course, we had a safe word, but I couldn’t imagine I would need it. I trusted Jacob with my life and my pleasure. I always would.

"Hurry up," he said, tangling his fingers in my neatly brushed, softly conditioned hair. "Take it out and suck it."

After I freed his cock, his length sprang into my palm, hot and thick, and the purple veins winding up the shaft bulged with his keen arousal.

In a sharp movement, he jerked forward and the tip slid into my salivating mouth. "Wider, whore," he snarled. "Take me, all of me."

I stretched my jaw and he sank deep, sliding to the back of my throat in one urgent movement. I gagged but he ignored it; pulled back then rode in again, all the time holding my head in a tight, vice-like grip so I had no choice but to take him, tip to base.

I’d sucked on Jacob’s cock a million times, but never had he taken control like this. He was always respectful and deathly still, allowing me to determine depth and pace. But this was different—this was sinful, depraved Jacob fucking my mouth without a thought for my well-being.

I adored it.

Needing support as my body was jostled by his thrusting hips, I gripped his thighs. Saliva ran down my face and neck onto my red blouse, my nose repeatedly buried in his wiry pubic hair. He steamed on and on, hissing and cursing above me. Breathing was difficult, my mouth was so chock-full of hard, demanding cock. When I did catch a breath the air was heated and smelt of him, musky and raw.

"Get fucking ready for it," he snarled, thrusting to such a depth his balls slapped against my chin. "I’m going to come down your throat. I’m going to fill you up, now...argh...fuck...now."

He let out a garrotted cry as his cock swelled further, then, in several sweet pulses, copious amounts of fluid gushed over my tongue. I swallowed rapidly, the action tugging the crown of his cock further down my throat.

"Ah, sweet...fucking...Jesus," he hissed, gripping my hair. "That’s it, keep sucking, swallow me."

I did as he asked. My body quivered, and I could almost come myself just from the feel and taste of him climaxing so hard and forcefully. Had he lain there all those millions of times I’d sucked him off, restraining himself? Had he wanted to throw me down and fuck my mouth in a hard, abandoned way, but resisted?

I didn’t have time to dwell on this because Jacob pulled out, gripped my upper arms and dragged me into a standing position. Gasping, I stared into his flushed face. His mouth was parted as he drew in big lungfuls of air. His eyes sparkled, the pupils wide and dilated, showing me the dark depths of his most basic needs.

"That’s just the beginning," he said in a rasping, breathy voice. "To take the edge off what you’ve had me thinking of for three days." He slanted his mouth down hard over mine, taking possession of my lips and tongue in a furious, ravenous kiss. He pulled away abruptly. "You’re such a tease," he muttered, "tempting me, turning me on. Well, now you’re going to get it. You’re going to get punished for making a man want you so bad it hurts his soul."

Links

Buy – http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?P_ID=1604

Lily’s website http://www.lilyharlem.com/index.html

Natalie’s website http://emmyellis.blogspot.com/

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Sunday Snog: Serpent's Kiss

My snog this week is from my Mayan shape shifter novel, Serpent's Kiss.

From the first, Dr. Elena Navarro senses that the wounded man she discovers outside the gates of her rural clinic is not an ordinary mortal. With his chest ripped open, Jorge Pélikal still demonstrates unnatural strength and power.

Elena is irresistibly attracted to Jorge, although he warns her their coupling could open the gates of chaos. She and Jorge fall in love, despite his dire predictions. Gradually Elena comes to understand that Jorge is a supernatural player in a cosmic drama that will determine the fate of the earth and of mankind - and that even if he triumphs in his apocalyptic struggle with his nemesis, she may lose him forever.

I've always been a sucker for forbidden kisses. When you've finished this one, click on over to Sunday Snog Central and sample Victoria's sizzling snog as well as lots more kisses from your favorite authors.

***

Jorge stood just outside the cave, gazing intently down at the cultivated fields below. He seemed unaware of her. Elena watched for a moment, not wanting to disturb his concentration. A crowd in bright clothing gathered among the maize plants, obviously involved in some ceremony. Off to one side, an ancient crone with a halo of snow-white hair beat a drum in a solemn rhythm. As Elena peered over Jorge’s shoulder at the scene, the woman looked up in her direction.

A shiver ran up Elena’s spine. Despite the fact that they were hidden by a rock overhang and a row of scrubby bushes, Elena could swear the native woman saw her, or at least sensed her presence. Elena sensed something, too, not exactly menace, but a warning, a premonition of pain.

She shook her head to dispel these dark thoughts and pressed her body up against Jorge’s muscled back. Her nipples burned like live coals at the touch of his bare skin. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned close to his ear. “Jorge. I missed you.”

She felt his form tense, as though he wanted to push her away. Then he relaxed into her, allowing her to caress his swelling cock through his trousers.

“Wait,” he protested, though he was already surrendering to her loving persuasion. “We need to talk. I need to explain to you, who and what I am.”

Elena ignored his protests. She turned him around to face her. He did not resist. Her lips locked on his and he melted into the kiss. It was sweet as cane, hot as molten lava. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tight against his firm body. His erection poked at her navel through his pants. She rubbed herself against him, teasing him, thrilling as she felt him grow harder still.

“Explain later.”Her voice was husky with desire. She led him back to the pallet where she had awakened.

She slipped to her knees and untied the drawstring at his waist, then pulled his trousers down over his hips. His cock sprang out, straining towards the roof of the cave. In the torch-illumined dimness, the ruddy column of swollen flesh seemed to glow with its own light. Elena grew hungrier. She grasped him firmly, eager to taste the fluid gathering on the slick bulb, but Jorge’s hand on her tangled hair stopped her.

“No, I want to taste you. You’ve already drunk from me. And it nearly killed you.”

Elena remembered the coiling fire and the green oblivion that had followed her swallowing his essence. Looking back, she recalled only the overwhelming pleasure. “Please…I’m stronger now…I know what to expect,” she protested.

But she allowed him to lay her down upon the makeshift bed and part her thighs. Every time that he touched her, he kindled new sparks of lust.

He knelt between her legs, gazing at her. “Gods, you are beautiful!” Leaning forward, he captured a nipple between his lips. Lightning arced through her body. She moaned and thrashed helplessly as he suckled her. Every flicker of his tongue echoed in her aching sex.

He transferred his attentions to her other breast, leaving the first nipple tender and throbbing. Her clit pulsed in time. She was dying for his tongue there, at her centre. She tried to push his head in the direction of her groin. He laughed and grasped her wrists, holding her arms out by her sides as he continued to lick and suck at her flesh.

“No, querida, not yet. Slow down and enjoy every instant. We may not have time like this again.”

Saturday, March 31, 2012

The Moving Finger

By M.Christian

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
-- The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

I may have said this before but it's always worth repeating: here's a hearty thank you to Lisabet for the opportunity to write a little piece for her excellent blog.

This time, Lisabet has asked me to write a bit about the how my newest novel, Finger's Breadth, came to be.

In a nutshell, Finger's Breadth is ... well, maybe too weird for a nutshell (perhaps even too much for a coconut shell) but I'll give it a shot. Basically, it's a near-future gay erotic horror/thriller with a hefty dose of social commentary. Less-than-basically, it's a series of characters dealing with "the cutter:" the nickname given to a mysterious figure drugging random men and amputating the first digit of their little finger.

I told you it was weird.

In many ways I see Finger's Breadth as a thematic sequel to my previous novel, Me2. In that book I had a lot of fun playing with the idea of identity. Less-than-basically that because of peer pressure, mass-produced lifestyles and fantasies, we are all becoming more or less interchangeable.

I say "thematic sequel" because after writing Me2 I was itching to challenge myself with a new project – one that allowed me to explore human nature again. With Finger's Breadth, I tried to reach down even deeper and get even dirtier with how we relate to one another: socially, sexually, you name it.

The seeds that would eventually sprout become Finger's Breadth came from a wide variety of sources – or threads that would become the quilt if you don't like plant metaphors – but, botany or fabric, they have more in common than you might think. One of them came from my fascination good versus evil. Yeah, yeah, I know: lots of people have done – and will do – the exact same thing. But I've always been frustrated at how cowardly a lot of authors have been on the subject -- cowardly, because very few people seem to be willing to honestly look at the question.

I did a bit of that in an old story of mine, called "Counting," where a man has the shocking revelation that his lover, who he'd always thought of as a revolutionary hero, was simply someone who enjoyed killing – and, though intelligence or circumstance, was simply killing for the 'right' side.

The world is simply not full of people who wring their hands together and cackle manically. Most of the time the either don't think about their actions, justify them in some way, or take a twisted form of pride in being that kind of person. What complicates the situation even more is how each of these states can slip and slide – often in the space of a few minutes.

For example, I've always wanted to do a book – maybe my next one – about a man who accidentally hurts another person. But instead of living with the guilt he goes out of his way to prove to himself, and the rest of the world, that the person harmed deserved it in some way. What would make the book fun to write would be putting the poor fellow, and the reader, through an emotional and spiritual roller coaster: with each revelation the unfortunate victim going from lily-white innocent to dark-hearted monster to troubled-soul to disturbed-psycho.

With Finger's Breadth I played a lot with that: where no one is really good or evil, black or white, victim or victimizer. People have their own reasons for what they do, and often the "purity" of their thinking does that very same slip and slide across their emotional landscape.

Another thread -- or kernel -- came from peer pressure. Alas, that term has been thrown around far too much ... so much that it's lost a lot of its power. Overused or not, though, we all are governed by the need to conform. Sometimes that conformity is obvious, but other times its so subtle we may not even be aware of it. In its darkest manifestation the end result is "just following orders" but there are many other disturbing shades of it. With Finger's Breadth I wanted to really explore the power of conformity – even pushing it to the point where, as the number of amputations rises, men would begin to self-amputate to fit in. Like I said, I told you it was weird.

But there are other manifestations of peer pressure – and as I wrote the book I discovered more and more places in the characters' lives (as well as our own) where it tugs and pushes and pulls us around. I'm not going to chat about those – read the book, damnit – but let me just say that, as with Me2, it took me a few months to get over writing Finger's Breadth ... and it has altered how I look at the world, and more importantly the people, around me.

The final thread (or kernel) -- or at least the final one I want to chat with you about today -- that came into writing the novel is that sexuality, gay or straight or bi, is not always a bright world with an orgasmically shiny sun high in the sky – but rather there's a very strange dimension to the human sex drive. Barebacking, in particular, was a jumping off point for Finger's Breadth but it wasn't the only sexual behavior that inspired me. For those who don't know, "barebacking" – or at least one form of it – is for people, particularly gay men, to participate in unprotected sex. The reasons for it are extremely varied but two types kept nagging at me: when it was done as a thrill-seeking behavior – Russian Roulette with HIV – and when it was done as a sexual rite-of-passage. The last one nicely dovetails with the whole peer pressure thing again: that people would willingly infect themselves to fit in.

Even though these jumping-off points for the book seem a bit dark – and I'm the first to admit I didn't write Finger's Breadth to be a shiny, happy novel – I also want to say that many of the characters in the book found at the end of it that they'd had their eyes opened. Yes, often that awakening is a harsh one – like having a painful peak behind the curtain of how we all act and react together as social animals – but in most cases they leave the book seeing everything a bit clearer.

A part of writing this book is that I also wanted to leave the reader with a moment of clarity. Maybe I'm being pretentious in that I want to change how people look at the world, but I tell myself that – success or failure – it's still worthwhile to try.

But a larger part of Finger's Breadth came not because of any mission but because – like with everything I write – I though the idea would be lots of fun to explore, the novel loads of fun to write. And, guess what, I did have a fantastic time writing the book – and I can only hope that anyone else, moment of clarity or not, will enjoy it as well.

******

You can get your own copy of Finger's Breadth at Amazon.com and read my review here. ~ Lisabet