What Casts the Shadow?

[Today I'm hosting Seth Mullins' tour for his new novel What Casts the Shadow? This tale of a young musician's search for meaning sounds really intriguing. And of course, there's a giveaway at the end... Enjoy! ~ Lisabet]

Interview with Janie McCabe

Janie McCabe captured the first series of official Edge of the Known band photos, one of which also graced the cover of their first album. She’s the girlfriend of the band’s singer/guitarist Brandon Chane.

Interviewer: How did you first meet Brandon?

Janie: It was at the Pumpkin Festival in Jennes. His band was playing; but they weren’t called Edge of the Known back then. They were billed as Witch with a Hangover. I was working a jewelry table at one of the tents, and I was so intrigued by what I was hearing that I left for a while to check them out.

Interviewer: What was it that intrigued you about them?

Janie: Well, it was him, mostly. I don’t mean to take anything away from the other two guys. But you know how you can listen to, like, a hundred bands, and yet there will be just a handful that you really take to your heart and cherish – like, the music becomes a part of your life that you’d never want to be without? I was moved by this music in that way, right away, and particularly by the way Brandon sang and his presence onstage. He was so passionate; and yet he didn’t flaunt it in any way. He’s not a showman. In fact, he seems to drift into his own world when he plays. And yet somehow that was more captivating to me than someone up there doing acrobatics.

Interviewer: And then the two of you became romantically involved shortly thereafter.

Janie: Yes. And I don’t know what kinds of stories he puts out about it, but I’d just like to say for the record that I made all the moves. [Laughs] I knew he wasn’t going to, though I could tell that he wanted to. My man is chivalrous to a fault sometimes. And that just drew me to him all the more. Plus, I’d just had an encounter out in that audience with a creep with absolutely no sense of boundaries, so… It was probably the perfect moment for me to meet someone kind and respectful, someone who thinks with his heart first. He’d probably get embarrassed and deny that; but that’s how I see him.

Interviewer: You’re blushing.

Janie: Yes, well, if that’s a problem for you then you’d better change the subject!

Interviewer: Fair enough. You mentioned your jewelry table. Is that a hobby of yours?

Janie: Jewelry and clothing, I make. Yeah, it’s a hobby; but of course I’d love to just devote my life to it if I could. It’s all inspired by crafts of Native Americans and other indigenous peoples. Not that I want to copy anything. I take their visions, and work as closely with the same materials as possible, and try and create something new that still pays homage to the past.

Interviewer: So it’s your dream to make this your livelihood someday?

Janie: I’d like to have my own shop someday where you could walk in and, by the time I was through with you, you’d be decked out from head to feet like a tribal shaman. And not only would you look completely authentic, but I’d be able to tell you all about the symbolic significance of everything you were wearing, too. You won’t get that from any costume shop!

Interviewer: That’d make for an interesting image for Edge of the Known, too…

Janie: Believe me, I’ve thought of that and have already mentioned it a few times. Not that I’d want to go completely tribal… but I do think that something with that influence would suit them well. Their music sounds shamanic to my ears anyway. But Brandon, you know, he can be hesitant about trying radical new things. I’ll just keep giving him gentle nudges until he finally gives in!

Blurb

A troubled young rock musician, a mystic mentor, and a generation of lost souls longing for a new voice to emerge from the wilderness...

When an altercation outside of a performance venue nearly proves fatal, Brandon Chane begins to realize how far his life is spinning out of control. His efforts to channel his pain, frustration and thwarted loves into his music may not suffice to save him. Then he meets Saul, a crisis counselor with the soul of an ancient medicine man, and a far-reaching journey of healing - one that may teach him how to steer away from the very edge of the abyss - begins.

Excerpt

I suppose you could compare it to driving on a high mountain road. You don’t realize how close you are to free-fall, or how sheer and far is the plunge, until you go around a bend where one side is exposed to open air and then there it is: The Abyss.

There’s this edge that you can come to – I imagine it’s a different place for each of us – and you just know that once you get swept over it you won’t be coming back. By the time you’re close enough to see it it may already be too late. You could find yourself teetering, suddenly hearing the warnings that life had been giving you all along, knowing that it’s become impossible to step back; because by that time, those other forces – the ones pounding like the rapids at your back, always trying to push you towards that edge and then over it – have grown too strong.

Tommy and I first talked about forming a band together before either of us had learned to play an instrument. We both perceived music – particularly, its heavy, extreme underside - as the ideal vehicle for our personal salvation. The first guitar that I purchased, a Fender Telecaster that I immediately spray painted black to my father’s horror, became my refuge. It was my best friend and confidante. It gave me a convenient excuse to avoid social situations that, more often than not, would only remind me of how far off the beaten path I really was.

About the Author

Seth Mullins draws upon the great sweep of human soul-journeying to weave his tales. He's inspired by music, shamanism, dreams and the mysteries and miracles of our inner life. His greatest love as a writer is for fiction that depicts a journey towards self-awareness in the deepest sense.

"Probably the most valuable thing that I learned throughout my spiritual journey in this life is the importance of trusting in one's self. Many of our cultural lessons encourage us to ignore or even fear our inner reality. And yet it is this realm that really does hold the answers to all of our questions, and can point the way towards the most fulfilling life experiences possible for us."

Mr. Mullins has lived in Maine, Connecticut, New Mexico, Oregon and Vermont.

http://www.humanityswayforward.com (Humanity's Way Forward - my website)

http://frontiersofconsciousness.blogspot.com (The Edge of the Known by Seth Mullins - my blog)

"What Casts the Shadow?" (The Edge of the Known) on Amazon: http://amzn.to/1rkhffS

My Amazon author page: amazon.com/author/sethmullins

https://www.facebook.com/seth.thomas.37454

http://twitter.com/SethMullins1

https://www.facebook.com/WhatCaststheShadow

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Sunday Snog #149: A F/F Kiss from Exposure

I've been working all day on my lesbian witch story - it started as a short but it's up to nearly 10K words and I still have at least two more scenes to write. I don't know where this is coming from, but it's fun.

Anyway, since my mind has been dwelling on the charms of the female sex, I thought I'd share another F/F kiss from Exposure.

After you've finished her, click back to Sunday Snog Central for lots more delicious kisses.

I’m prepared this time, when her mouth meets mine. Somehow, I expected this, from the moment I heard her voice on the phone. She probes almost tentatively at the joining of my still-closed lips. I open and suck her tongue into my mouth, tasting lemon and butter this time, I will not be taken. I will not be passive and vulnerable.

I grab her shoulders and pull her against me. My mouth is rough on hers, mashing her lips against her teeth. My tongue probes rudely.

She likes my forcefulness. I can feel her melt beneath me as I push her back against the cushions. She sighs when I pull my mouth from hers and nip at the flawless skin of her neck. I let my hands wander shamelessly over her body, its curves and hollows hardly hidden by the light crepe of her clothing.

isn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts are compact against my palms, the nipples poking smartly through the cloth. I give them symmetrical squeezes and she moans, squirming and rubbing herself against me. Guess I’m her type, too.

like that. I don’t trust Francesca but her lustful behavior is so at odds with her proper exterior, I can’t help feel some affection. Not to mention answering lust. My silk panties grow wetter every time she whimpers at my touch. She is slumped against the wrought iron back of the bench, her thighs splayed open in a most unladylike way, her ankle-length black skirt bunched up to her knees.

Bending closer to her, I take one of those pert nipples in my teeth and at the same time slide one finger through the cleft between those thighs, under the skirt. I find no panties, only bare, shaved skin, slick and soaked. My cunt swells and seeps with matching desire. Her pelvis jerks forward at my first touch. I stroke her, lightly, but she grabs my hand and tries to push it into her. Liquid gushes around my fingers. A musky perfume rises from her, mingling with the floral scents around us.

It all floods back, what I learned from Layla during our brief, incandescent affair. My fingers know exactly what to do. Francesca is desperate, twisting and writhing, reaching for release. I rake the tip of a fingernail across the rigidness of her clit and her back arches in response. 

Almost, almost there. “Stella...” she moans. “Please, Stella.”

She seems to have no connection to the prim, well-coifed widow who wrung that orgasm from me two days ago. As for me, I’m enjoying having power over her. At this point, I bet she’d do anything I asked, sexually. I could make her kneel in front of me and I could force my hairy pussy into her face, and she’d lick me till I told her to stop. The image creates delicious spasms in my cunt, but I don’t follow through with the notion. I don’t want to give myself up to her, not again, not this time.

The Very Sweetest Thing

Today I have an interview with my fellow author and long time friend Julius.

In The Sweetest Thing, the debut short story collection by Julius Addlesee, the author shares his love of women and sex. There is adoration in every connection, from the man who is fascinated by his next-door neighbor’s breasts, to the woman who revels in discovering the exuberance in a young man’s sexuality. Unlikely couplings range, from a young soldier and an officer’s wife briefly marooned together, to a writer and his fan acting out one of his stories. His characters give in to their desires with sincere affection. 

 

1. How did you come to write erotica?

I started writing erotica in my late teens. Not for nothing do I term it mental masturbation. When you love writing and love sex - writing erotica is, I suppose, a natural evolution.

2. It's obvious from your stories that you love women. Can you talk about what you find most attractive?

Their differences, they are easier to talk to than men. Mental intimacy can develop within a just few sentences. "Opening up" just happens. Then of course, there are all those delicious naughty bits.

3. What's the hardest thing about writing erotica?

Describing an orgasm, his or hers. We're not truly conscious during an orgasm are we? Describing those moments when time sort of disappears is nigh unto impossible. I can only describe the just-before and the just-after. A bit like a nuclear explosion.

4. You belong to the Erotic Readers and Writers Association. Can you
tell us how you joined and what you enjoyed about belonging to that group?

I joined a dozen or more years ago, can't remember how it came about. I'd been a member about a month and was on line at their site when someone said, "Go turn on the TV!" ...... The towers were falling and the world was about to change, forever. Magic people at ERWA, their critiques transformed my writing. Some might call them pervs - they're the nicest pervs in the world!

5. Does your family know you write erotica and what do they think of your work?

"Yes." he replied with a chuckle. My partner writes too so she approves. #1 son is intrigued and wants a copy of the book. #2 son considers it "All too much information."

6. Who reads your stories when you are working on them?

Just my maiden. But then, she inspired about half of them.

7. How did this collection come about?

At Nan Andrews' suggestion I think. No Nan = No Publishing & No Book.

8. How does it feel to see your work in print?

I can't imagine a greater thrill. It's a tiny bit of immortality really. And a chance to flip the bird to a world that largely still sees sex as unclean.

9. Are you continuing to write erotica? why or why not?

Yes, and I'd like to finish a few of my unfinished stories just in case people fall in love with Volume 1

10. Tell us something about Julius Addlesee.

Just a guy who has a thing about the ladies and those naughty bits and loves to write about them both. A Canadian, ex-pat Brit who still loves the way an English girl says the word "knickers." As for the nom de plume, my maternal grandmother was an Addlesee and a sailing-barge skipper's daughter. I wonder what she called a vagina?

Blurb

Desire comes in all shapes and sizes. There’s a moment between two people when the spark overcomes circumstances -- between neighbors, co-workers, with that girl in the donut shop, or the woman you already live with -- and to hell with the consequences. The taste, the scent, the feel of skin on skin; it really is the sweetest thing.

Excerpt from “Pussy-holic” by Julius Addlesee

Sonya took off her watch and put it, face down, on the small table at her elbow.

“There, time is on hold.”

She drank three swallows of beer and sensed she had a slight buzz. She’d not eaten since she’d left her apartment.

“Mustn’t get too drunk, anything might happen.”

“Indeed, just about anything.”


“Back to the story?” she asked.


“By all means.” He held out his hand and she passed him the book.
 He read, ‘Maureen knelt astride his lap and reached for the top button on her blouse.’

Sonya took another swallow of beer, put the bottle down and stood up. She turned, knelt astride his lap, her ass on his knees and reached for the top button of her blouse.

Simon licked his lips. He was going to get to see those breasts.

With the last button undone, she opened her blouse and shrugged it off. Her bra was a lacy, white affair. It was low cut and gave her a delightful cleavage. His cock responded. She reached behind her and unfastened the hooks. She slipped the straps of her shoulders and the bra joined her blouse on the sofa beside them.

Her breasts were big and looked delightfully heavy. His hands moved of their own accord, he badly wanted to touch.

“They’re too big,” she said quietly, as if she feared he’d think so too.

“They’re beautiful,” he said with a sincerity that made her close her eyes and smile. The nipples were big and dark. They jutted from their dark surrounds. He thought they begged to be loved.

“Are you a breast man, too?”


“Too?”


“Well, the hero of your tale says he’s a pussy-holic.”


“I guess I’m both. How could I not love those?” he whispered.


She reached down and took his hands and placed them on her breasts. They were so soft, so heavy, their skin like warm silk. He cock was rigid again. Jutting up between them. He circled his palms on her nipples and she moaned, squirming her ass on his lap. He kept his hands moving and she began breathing through her mouth.

He took his hands away and looked. Hers were the biggest nipples he’d seen. Erect now like his cock, they just had to be suckled. He took her right breast in both hands and lowered his head. With his lips round the nipple he sucked gently and teased with his tongue. He felt an awful urge to bite.

About Julius

Julius Addlesee is a retired aviation engineer and writer of smut. He lives in eastern coastal Canada with the love of his life, living, breathing, loving words and women.

This is his first short story collection.

The Sweetest Thing is available for purchase at Amazon.com in both paperback and Kindle ebook editions.

Print

Ebook

 

Two Free Books This Weekend!

Greetings!

I'm giving away two free books this weekend.

On Saturday I'm participating in the Reader Appreciation Day at The Sweet Spot, a great Yahoo group for lovers of M/M erotic fiction. You could win a copy of my paranormal BDSM Christmas story, Tomorrow's Gifts.

More than a dozen other M/M books are up for grabs, too!

The party takes place here:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/TheSweetSpotMM

Meanwhile, on Sunday, I'll be offering a copy of The Ingredients of Bliss on The Romance Studio's Book-A-Day page:

http://theromancestudio.com/bad_form.php 

(The books on offer change every day!) All you have to do is register to be part of the drawing.

I hope you'll take advantage of both these opportunities!

Be The Change You Want to See

The Romance Studio (TRS) is helping author Joseph Morgan (The Originals) and his wife Persia White to raise money to build a well in Ethiopia. Every day, 1,400 kids under the age of five die from water-related illnesses. 

If you want to help them change this, consider donating something to the campaign.

Donate here: https://my.charitywater.org/be-the-change-you-want-to-see-1#.VFG1FnWHzkc.gmail

Once you've donated, contact TRS to let them know of your contribution.

Any amount is appreciated.

Authors:  For each donation, you’ll get the same amount in advertising @ TRS, the minimum being a cover or banner ad on our main site ($15 value)

Readers: TRS will select 3 readers to win books from the TRS prize vault, to be mailed before Thanksgiving break.

I just made a donation. I hope you will too!

And while we're talking about giving - check out Sacchi Green's fabulous review of Coming Together Presents Amanda Earl over at Erotica Revealed. All proceeds from sales of this book benefit AIDS charity GMHC. 

Get yourself a copy! You won't be sorry!

 

A Visit to The Vineyard

I’m delighted today to welcome Michael Hurley to Beyond Romance. I’ve got a few questions for Michael. Then he’ll share the details about his new novel, The Vineyard. This post is part of his blog tour for the book. See the Rafflecopter widget at the end to enter his giveaway.

Lisabet Sarai: Any weird things you do when you’re alone?

Michael Hurley: Sometimes I sing sea chanties.

LS: What is your favorite quote and why?

MH: “The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.” ―George Bernard Shaw

Think about it. We’re all so busy trying not to make waves, and we tend to resent the wave-makers, but without them we’d all be stuck in the middle ages.

LS: What is your favorite ice cream flavor?

MH: I love wedding cake ice cream. In fact, I love wedding cake. I could eat great huge mounds of it. It’s as good a reason as any other to get married.

LS: Which mythological creature are you most like?

MH: Sisyphus. I’m a slow learner.

LS: What are four things you can’t live without?

MH: Strong black coffee. A good pint of Guinness Stout. The morning paper. A sailboat.

Blurb

Ten years after college, three very different women reunite for a summer on Martha’s Vineyard. As they come to grips with various challenges in their lives, an encounter with a reclusive fisherman threatens to change everything they believe about their world—and each other.

Excerpt

Climbing up the dune, she stumbled from little avalanches of sand that slipped beneath her feet. The boy caught her and pulled her up. His hand was smooth and warm and young. It felt good to her to hold a boy’s hand again.

At the top of the dune, the salt air swept over and around her face and hair. The ocean was shimmering, limitless. There was nothing around them but the sea and the wind and the sand—which is why she had come to this, her new favorite place on the Vineyard. Only today she was going to have to share it with a gangly skinflint of a boy who stood there still grinning at her, the wind tossing a lone, blond cowlick back and forth on top of his head like a bobble-head doll.

Perhaps he expected another kiss. She assured herself he wouldn’t be getting one. After all, she had grown better at restraining her impulses in the two months since that first ferry ride.

“I thought you’d be married and off on your honeymoon by now,” Charlotte said, glad finally to be back on offense after nearly rolling down the dune.

She made a point of not looking at him. Teenage boys with racehorse metabolisms and zero body fat were very fond of not wearing shirts, and while the cheerleading squad down the beach probably found that exciting, Charlotte thought it was important that she not appear to agree.

She kept looking out to sea as she spoke, as if the water were far more interesting than the boy or what he might have to say, which in truth it was not. When the silence became awkward, she turned to see if he were even paying attention. He was staring off at the horizon. She followed his gaze.

“Long story,” he said, finally.

In the pause that followed, it became clear that the story, long or short, was not likely to be told. Charlotte sensed a wound that was something more than shyness. It provoked an unwanted and involuntary surge of maternalism in her.

“I’m Charlotte,” she said, extending her hand. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener to long stories.”

The boy looked at her and took her hand for the second time. He did not complete the introduction but simply held her hand in his. He wasn’t coy; it just didn’t occur to him that his name was at all important to her.

In his bare feet he was not as tall as she remembered, and he seemed younger. He wasn’t a child, but he couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, if that. Separated from the rough girl who had been hanging on him on the ferry, he looked less like a greaser and more like a California surfer. The difference somehow mattered to Charlotte. It felt weird that it mattered.

She hadn’t intended to be his company, nor had she asked him for his, but the top of the dune was not wide. When she wandered away the few feet it allowed and spread her blanket, he followed and sat beside her. He offered a half-empty bottle of spiced rum she hadn’t noticed he had been dangling from his left hand. She didn’t usually drink that early in the morning—or to be more precise, she never did—but somehow she sensed this wasn’t the time or the place to accentuate the differences in their ages and manners. She wanted to hear his story, and she wanted him to feel free to tell it.

Still, he said nothing. Instead, he sat next to her and peered out at the sea as if they were an old married couple, silent and content merely to have each other’s company.

The voices of the others rose and fell periodically on the air, coming from fifty yards away in the direction of skiff down the beach. That the boy’s friends didn’t seem in a hurry to join him suggested that they, too, knew he needed some space. Charlotte could hear them laughing and groaning and grunting, trying to pry the keel of their boat out of the sand with the help of the tide that slowly rose around it.

She leaned back on the towel and continued to follow the boy’s gaze out to sea. He had an odd intensity about him, as if he were expecting something was about to happen out there—a missile launch or mermaid eruption or something. On the third pass of the rum, he turned to look at her.

“We were supposed to be having a baby,” he said.

“We?”

“The girl and me—the one you saw on the ferry.”

"And . . .?”

“And nothing. She lied to me. I heard about it from one of her girlfriends who called me from back home. Said she couldn’t keep quiet anymore. That she felt it was wrong. She said my girlfriend wasn’t pregnant—never had been. She just made that up to get me to take her away from her old man. Not that I can blame her. He used to beat her . . .”

Charlotte had not forgotten the girl’s blistering right hook, and now she realized where it came from. She must have given the old man as good as she got.

“ . . . but it was a damned lie just the same.”

Charlotte said nothing, which didn’t seem to faze him. “A damned lie,” he said again, looking back toward the sea.

“Is that why you were getting married?”

“She must have thought so, but I would have married her anyway—baby or no baby.”

“And so now you’re not—getting married, I mean?”

“You can’t build a marriage on a lie,” he said, looking at her with an expression of surprise, which she took to mean that he would have guessed someone so much older would have been a little wiser.

Charlotte let the proverb hang in the air. It was true enough, in theory, but in reality her own marriage and, she had come to believe, a great many others—perhaps even the majority—were rather elaborately built on a foundation of lies. True love was a myth, as far as she was concerned.

“’Think about it,’ you said to me, back then,” he continued. “Do you remember?”

“I do, but I was …” She started to explain her bizarre conduct on the ferry that she realized, as soon as she began, made no difference to anyone now. He cut her off.

“Truth is, apart from wondering why you was such a damn lunatic and where the hell you had come from, I didn’t need to think about it. In fact, I was pretty excited about it. That’s what I guess you didn’t know—and how could you. I’m sure I looked like just a punk to you.”

“Still do, actually.” She said this to be witty and cute, which it was not, and which alarmed her, as if her mouth had suddenly detached itself from her brain. She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Another lie told to the poor boy. He seemed rather Byronesque to her, in fact, and not at all like a punk, but she didn’t think he would understand why, so she left it.

“I was excited to be a father,” he continued, indignantly. A tear rolled down. He was struggling to keep his emotions in check. She had had no idea. She felt suddenly even more mortified at her glibness a moment ago.

It was either the best or worst of all possible combinations, depending on the eye of the beholder. Here was this painfully earnest boy, wounded and still suffering at the hands of a conniving and thoughtless girlfriend. Here was this older woman, herself conflicted and out of touch with her own feelings about love and sex and marriage. Between them was a half-empty bottle of rum, and all around them was sunshine and the sea.

About the Author

Michael Hurley and his wife Susan live near Charleston, South Carolina. Born and raised in Baltimore, Michael holds a degree in English from the University of Maryland and law from St. Louis University.

The Prodigal, Michael’s debut novel from Ragbagger Press, received the Somerset Prize for mainstream fiction and numerous accolades in the trade press, including Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, ForeWord Reviews, BookTrib, Chanticleer Reviews, and IndieReader. It is currently in development for a feature film by producer Diane Sillan Isaacs. Michael’s second novel, The Vineyard, is due to be released by Ragbagger Press in December 2014.

Michael’s first book, Letters from the Woods, is a collection of wilderness-themed essays published by Ragbagger Press in 2005. It was shortlisted for Book of the Year by ForeWord magazine. In 2009, Michael embarked on a two-year, 2,200 mile solo sailing voyage that ended with the loss of his 32-foot sloop, the Gypsy Moon, in the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti in 2012. That voyage and the experiences that inspired him to set sail became the subject of his memoir, Once Upon A Gypsy Moon, published in 2013 by Hachette Book Group.

When he is not writing, Michael enjoys reading and relaxing with Susan on the porch of their rambling, one-hundred-year-old house. His fondest pastimes are ocean sailing, playing piano and classical guitar, cooking, and keeping up with an energetic Irish terrier, Frodo Baggins.

Website: www.mchurley.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mchurleybooks

Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/5445584.Michael_C_Hurley

Visit all the stops on Michael's tour, for more chances to win:

November 3: Deal Sharing Aunt
November 3: Brooke Blogs
November 4: Laurie's Thoughts and Reviews
November 5: Unabridged Andra's
November 5: Andi's Book Reviews
November 6: Nickie's Views and Interviews
November 7: Bunny's Review
November 7: The Cerebral Writer
November 10: Lisa Haselton's Reviews and Interviews
November 10: Black Heart Magazine
November 11: Queen of All She Reads
November 11: MAD Hoydenish
November 12: Beyond Romance
November 13: Coffee Books and Art
November 14: Lilac Reviews
November 17: Book 'Em North Carolina
November 17: The blog of C.R. Moss
November 18: Our Wolves Den
November 19: Books N Pearls
November 19: Room With Books
November 20: Long and Short Reviews
November 21: Jersey Girl Book Reviews
November 21: Sharing Links and Wisdom
November 24: Margay Leah Justice
November 25: Booklover Sue
November 25: Zee Monodee - Author's Corner
November 26: Wake Up Your Wild Side
November 27: Writer Wonderland
November 27: SiMPLiSPEAKiNG
November 28: Beer, Books and More

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Sapphic Smut: Tales of Lesbian Lust Out Now!

[Given my love of lesbian erotica, I just had to share this new release with you! ~Lisabet]

Blurb

Light hearted, sexy Sapphic smut is the theme of this erotic anthology, edited by Lucy Felthouse with assistance from Kev ‘Mitnik’ Blisse.

From coffee shops to exotic Indian adventures to cosy cabins in France, Sapphic Smut has it all. Fun with sugar, naughty spankings, seductions by strangers, seductions by friends, cougars and even a twist on a fairy tale abound in this exciting collection of lesbian stories from erotica’s finest authors.

This delicious girl-on-girl anthology contains stories from Lucy Felthouse, Kay Jaybee, Louisa Bacio, Sallyanne Rogers, Vanessa de Sade, Tabitha Rayne and Elizabeth Coldwell.

Amazon: http://mybook.to/sapphicsmut

Other links: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/sapphic-smut/

Editor’s Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/lucyfelthousewriter

Excerpt

Alana really couldn’t believe how flat Holland was. She’d been told by many people, but somehow, she still wasn’t expecting a place that made Cambridgeshire look like the Peak District. Her view from the train as she travelled from Schiphol airport to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station was unimpeded. Not so much as a hillock was visible.

And now, here she was, standing outside the station with crowds milling around her. A mixture of tourists, businesspeople and natives. She herself was a combination of two of those groups—she was here on business, but she’d deliberately extended her trip so she could spend a couple of days exploring the city. She had a day either side of her meeting, the boring part a filling to a sightseeing sandwich. Though, despite the boring tag, the meeting definitely wasn’t a bad thing, it was an appointment to cross the ts and dot the is on a very lucrative deal—certainly the trip was worthwhile.

After watching the insanity for another minute or so, she began to head away from the station, wheeling her small case along with her. Already armed with a guidebook and a decent map, she knew where she was going. 

Her map-reading skills were excellent, and she made the short walk to her hotel in less than twenty minutes. Anywhere else, she’d have gotten a cab, but it appeared they were a rare commodity in this city.

She’d checked in, dumped her bags and freshened up within another ten minutes, and was back on the street.

An online acquaintance had sent her a bunch of information for her trip—about the best museums, interesting things to see that might not be in guidebooks, and details on transport. It appeared that Amsterdam was unlike London, Paris and Rome, in as much as it had trams as its preferred mode of transport, rather than underground trains. Only one Metro line ran through the city, north-to-south. Everywhere else was utterly dependent on trams, bikes and being on foot.

And fuck, there were a lot of bikes. They zipped here, there and everywhere, not always staying where they were supposed to be, it seemed. The slim Dutch people atop the bikes were oblivious, just concentrating on getting where they were going.

Alana searched for the nearest tram stop, and quickly discovered she needed to be on the other side of the road to head in the right direction.

Crossing the road was a chore in itself. A dice with death. She’d thought Rome’s motorists were insane, but at least they were fairly predictable. 

Here, she was faced with crossing a road that held a cycle path, a tram line and a lane for cars. Shifting down the pavement, she stood at the conveniently placed crossing. It still didn’t make things much easier, but at least she could mingle in with the crowd. Traffic was much more likely to stop if it was going to hit a crowd of people than a single pedestrian. Right?

By some miracle, she reached the opposite pavement unscathed—except for her nerves, which were shot—and approached the tram stop. As if by magic, a tram arrived, and it was the correct number. Things were looking up.

After a few minutes, she realised that public transport in Amsterdam was nowhere near as easy to navigate as in the other major cities she was familiar with. There, their Tube or Metro stations always had plenty of large, unmissable signs telling you where you were. Piccadilly Circus, Anvers, Piramide. Here, it seemed you were left to your own devices. There were announcements on board the tram, but they were in Dutch—a language which she knew very little of—incredibly muffled, and pretty much drowned out by the sound of the tram’s motion and its passengers.