Review Tuesday: The Watchers by LarryArcher (#hotwife #smut #review @Archer_Larry)

 
The Watchers: Cuckold/Hotwife #5 by Larry Archer

Smashwords and Amazon Digital Publishing, 2016

Poor Gene! He has the most boring job in the universe. He’s married to a beautiful but prudish woman who won’t give him head or try anything adventurous. Fate has even short-changed him in the area of masculine endowment.

However, Gene’s life is about to change. While sitting exhausted in a hotel bar, trying to recover from a mind-numbing seminar about insurance adjusting, he overhears two men discussing an illicit sex show. Taking pity on him, they share information about the location and the rules. In short order, Gene is sitting on one of the couches ranged around the edges of the show venue, watching incredibly filthy sexual activities unfold on the bed in the center.

He’s not just a spectator either. The voluptuous MILF Pam, a regular at these events, takes him in hand, both figuratively and literally, helping to make him more comfortable.

Meanwhile a petite blonde who seems strangely familiar moves around the perimeter, giving blow jobs to every attendee including Gene. Before long she’s been enticed into the spot light and is taking on both men and women. Only when Gene steps into the center of things and penetrates her rear orifice does he realize with a shock that this semen-drenched slut is his wife Theresa.

The Watchers is not erotic romance. It’s not literary erotica. It’s smut, plain and simple, intentionally designed for maximum arousal with minimum complications. This is not a criticism. Sometimes pure porn is what you want, and when you do, Larry Archer is the man to give it to you.

There’s not much plot, though Mr. Archer does give us some sense for the individual histories and preferences of different characters. The sex scenes are raw and rambunctious, with lots of F/F action and a preference for copious bodily fluids. The point of view shifts from one character to another (but not in a way that confuses), leaving the reader with no doubt that every character is enjoying the action.

To be honest, I find most smut of this type boring, but Mr. Archer’s tales stand out due to his personal enthusiasm for sex, his humor and his obvious respect for women. The Watchers focuses primarily on female pleasure. Not that the male characters don’t get off—they do, repeatedly—but the author loves to linger describing the ladies, what they’re doing to one another, what they want and how they feel. Furthermore, his women are not carbon copies of one another. There’s Stephanie, for instance, a building security guard who becomes entangled with the Amazonian beauty Foxy and finds herself acting out the lesbian fantasies she has never dared to share. Or Theresa herself, a good Catholic girl who discovers her inner slut when she gets her first taste of cum. Or fiery-haired Chrissy, big busted and dominant, a sort of ring leader who adores the process of “corrupting” these innocents and bringing them over to the dark side.

The women in Mr. Archer’s story are quite thoroughly used, but there’s no question that they are the ones calling the shots.

The author’s subtle humor helps keep the mood light. Foxy’s husband Larry, a recurring character in the author’s tales, runs one of Vegas’ top strip clubs. On the night of Gene’s initiation at the sex show, Larry’s absent because he’s hosting a convention of Japanese businessmen at his club. Here’s his description, afterward:

Larry pulled into his parking spot and laid his head on the steering wheel for a minute. The big group of Japanese businessmen had taken a toll on him. He wanted them to have fun but they were often a pain in the ass.

They had demanded attention from all the girls and were used to their women being subservient. Larry's girls were to a fault, women's libbers, with an attitude. His girls enjoyed their hold on men and liked to show how they could herd them around like a

sheepdog. This group of Asian men hadn't taken that well and almost constantly Larry was interposing himself in between a stripper and a drunken patron. Then occasionally, one of his security guards was in the mix.

He loved Tiny like a son but this man-mountain could be trying at times. It was funny that someone who looked like a cross between a low land gorilla and a small house could be such a pain in the ass.

Tiny thought of himself as the girl's den mother, especially when some yokel put their hands on one of them; Tiny tended to react negatively.

I have two criticisms of The Watchers. First of all, Mr. Archer needs a better editor. When you’re getting turned on, you don’t want to be distracted by grammar errors or excessive word repetition. Okay, maybe most readers won’t notice these things the way an author like me does, but this kind of problem decreases my personal enjoyment. One particularly egregious error was the fact that the author refers to Theresa by her name, in a scene told from Gene’s point of view, before he has actually recognized the woman as his wife.

Second, I wasn’t very happy with the ending. The final chapter brings Gene and Theresa together for confessions and of course sex. All of a sudden, Theresa changes from a sweet, eager slut to something of a bitch. She lays down the law to Gene, telling him she’s going to give herself to “the Bull” (Larry) and leave him with sloppy seconds. Gene will have to live with being a cuckold, or live without her.

Her behavior struck me as extremely out of character. It also spoiled the “feel good” atmosphere of the rest of the book. I don’t like abuse mixed in with my sex. One reason I enjoy Mr. Archer’s stories is that everyone ends up satisfied. In this case, Gene likes to watch his wife with other guys but he is not, fundamentally, a guy who gets off being cuckolded. Yet he’s being forced into that role. It was as if the author all of a sudden remembered that this story had been labeled as a “cuckold” tale and stuck this ending on as an afterthought.

Overall, though, I enjoyed this over-the-top erotic romp. If you’re in the mood for light-hearted, no holds (or holes!) barred sex, pick up a copy of The Watchers. 

 

Masturbation Monday - A Fantasy from Exposure (#masturbation #suspense #erotica)

I don’t usually participate in Masturbation Monday, since I mostly host sneak peeks on that day. I happened to have today free, so I thought I’d give it a go!

Here’s a scene from my erotic thriller Exposure for your delectation.

Let me know what you think!

“So, Stella, are we still on for tonight?”

Images of our last meeting flood my memory. I become all loose and warm with the recollection. I know that he can sweep away all my tensions and fears, at least for a little while. Which is why I have to refuse him.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy, but I’ve been feeling really wiped out. My ankle’s still killing me, too. I think it would be better if I took a rain check.”

There’s a long silence. When he speaks again, I hear the pain in his voice. “Are you sure, Stella? We could do something really low key. Why don’t I bring over some take-out and we can just sit and watch TV?”

I want so much to accept. I remind myself about the doll, the break-in, my mangled tomato plants. “I don’t think so, Jimmy. Not tonight, anyway.”

“It’s not...the park, is it? What we did? I’m sorry I came on so strong...”

“Don’t be silly! I was the one who seduced you. And it was great, Jim. I loved it, I really did.” The other memories are getting the upper hand, memories of his gentle fingers and assertive tongue. “I’d love to do it again. Just not tonight, okay?”

“Okay, whatever you say. You can call me anytime. Day or night. You know that, don’t you?”

I want him so badly that I can hardly keep my voice steady. “Yes, I know. I’ll call you soon.”

“Take care of yourself, Stella.”

“You too, Jimmy.” The mob boss pops into my head, and I worry briefly about Jimmy’s safety. But he’s a cop, right? I’ve got to believe he can manage things for himself.

By the time I hang up, my desire for Jimmy has me tied in knots. I can spare a few minutes, I figure, to do something about that.

I’m still wearing my robe. I shuck it off my shoulders and spread it on the carpet, then lie down on my back on top of the plush terry cloth. My nipples are tight, aching bullets of flesh. I cup the weight of my breasts in my palms and flick my thumbs across the stiffened tips, sending shocks through my body with each stroke.

It’s not enough. Readjusting my body a bit, I manage to take a nipple into my own mouth. I suck hard, imagining it’s Jimmy’s eager tongue that’s rasping over the sensitive flesh. I see myself feeding him my lush tits, first one, then the other, while I stroke away at his smooth shaft. Just suckling me would be enough to get him off, I suspect. I sense his cock contracting in advance of his convulsion and let go, pushing his head down toward my pussy instead.

Very few men know how to eat pussy, I’ve found. I don’t know yet how Jimmy will do, but I picture him between my thighs, licking and nibbling. Meanwhile, I simulate the effects of his tongue, working my cunt with both hands. I’m as slick as if I’ve been oiled, inside and out. My fingers of my left hand glide over my swollen lower lips to settle deep inside my cunt. I massage the inner muscles, feeling them pulse whenever my other hand squeezes my clit. I bring in my heels, closer to my butt, so that I can rock my pelvis against my hands, one probing, the other circling, teasing, flicking across the rigid nub until I can hardly stand it. My thighs spread wider as I imagine Jimmy burrowing deeper. “More,” I whisper. “More...”

He’s using his hands now as well as his mouth, holding me open while he sucks me for all he’s worth. His thumb continues to prod and tickle my clit. I writhe and arch against him every time he touches it. Now his other hand is wandering. He slips two fingers into my cunt and pumps in time with his suction. “More,” I moan, close now but needing just that extra little push to send me over the edge.

He’s listening. He’s tuned in to what my body needs. There’s a brief awful moment of loss when he pulls his fingers from my cunt. Before this registers, though, he plunges his thumb into me in their place. And then, half a breath later, he slides one of the liberated fingers smoothly into my ass.

Oh, Jimmy, you’re so nasty, I think as I scream and topple into bliss. Who’d ever believe a nice, respectful guy like you would be like that? My body continues to shake with the aftershocks of the climax, my pelvis jerking in the air.

Would he really be like that? I wonder vaguely. I want more than ever to find out.

Finally, I relax and stretch out my legs. I cringe at the sharp pain in my ankle. Right. Until a few minutes ago half my weight was on that ankle, as I strained my pussy toward the ceiling, trying to come. Got to be more careful when I play with myself, or I’ll never heal. Next time, I should lie on my stomach. Or maybe do it on my hands and knees, so I can imagine Jimmy screwing me doggy style...

I’m actually getting turned on again, enough that the pain begins to fade. The pictures are rolling in my mind again, clearer than ever. Jimmy’s grinning at me, his cheeks smeared with my juices, as he positions himself behind my elevated butt. He leans over and slides his tongue up my crack from front to rear. The next thing I feel is his swollen knob, rubbing back and forth outside my well-lubricated cleft.

My phone rings, rudely shattering my fantasy. I hope it’s not Jimmy again, trying to make me change my mind. Because at this point, I’m not sure I have the strength to say no to him.

Charity Sunday Snog: For Haiti (#pnr #giveaway #charity)

These days it seems like the world faces one disaster after another. Feels like only a few weeks ago that I ran a charity snog for survivors of the Italian earthquake. Now my news feeds are full of desperate images from Haiti in the wake of Hurricane Matthew. Over 900 people killed at last count. Reportedly 90% of settlements in the south of the country destroyed. The impoverished country still hasn’t recovered from the earthquake in 2010. Matthew’s devastation is a double whammy.

I can’t just sit here comfortably and do nothing. So today’s kiss is dedicated to the long-suffering folk of Haiti. I’ve never shared this excerpt before. It’s from my paranormal erotic romance Rough Weather —especially appropriate since the hero Marut is Haitian, and is lord of the air.

For every comment left on this blog post, I will donate one dollar to the hurricane relief fund at Oxfam America. You can donate, too:

https://secure2.oxfamamerica.org/page/content/emergency_haiti_hurricane_matthew/

Also, I will give away a copy of Rough Weather to one randomly selected commenter, so please include your email address.

Read. Comment. Share this post with your friends. Do what you can to help.

(And don’t forget to visit Victoria Blisse, who has more sexy Sunday kisses on offer!)

Thank you!

She fought the wind along every inch of the path through the dunes. Crouching low, leaning forward to offset its force, she battled against fierce gusts that threatened to sweep her from her feet and dash her to the sand.

The intermittent showers had become a chill downpour. She paused to catch her breath, peering through the grey curtain that obscured her view of the sea ahead, and sent her mind questing for another trace of Marut. Thunder crashed around her. Otherwise, there was no answer. Dread tightened into an aching knot in her chest as the rain beat down upon her nakedness and plastered her hair to her head.

The rain is hers, the sweet springs and the salty billows, all of the watery world.

Although usually she loved the rain, now it was just another obstacle keeping her from her lover. Enough. As soon as she issued the silent command, the precipitation slackened to a drizzle, though the wind continued its relentless assault. She had no time to wonder at this. Ahead, massive breakers rolled onto the beach, up to the very foot of the dunes. The rocks where she’d first seen Marut were half-submerged in a roiling whirlpool flecked with ivory foam.

Stepping into the seething ocean, she felt the current tug at her ankles and draw her deeper. A sheer wall of water loomed over her, gleaming like polished black glass. She dived into the wave before it could swallow her, kicking hard to send herself into calmer waters closer to the bottom.

Even her preternaturally acute vision could discern few details in the murk below the surface. Still, she had no doubt she was headed in the correct direction, towards the westernmost extremity of the island, some twenty-five miles away. A sense of Marut’s presence drew her like a radio beacon. With her mind on her lover, she allowed instinct to control her body. Power rippled along her spine, propelling her through the depths, faster than she’d ever swum before. The water offered no resistance. Ondine gave herself up to her element, leaving a bubbling wake as she raced towards her lover’s call.

She broke the surface finally, after an endless transit that might have taken minutes or hours, and filled her lungs with ozone-scented air. Crests of wind-whipped water hid the horizon, but alternating red and white flashes from the Aquinnah lighthouse confirmed that she’d reached her destination.

There was no sign of her lover.

“Marut? Marut!” The gale drowned her cries.

Useless to call out.Ondine focused inward, summoning an image of her mate.

Marut. Beloved, where are you?

The drone of an engine reached her ears. She gazed at the racing clouds above her.

The pitch of the engine noise rose higher and higher to a keen of tortured metal. Then silence. Seconds later, a small plane ripped through the clouds and plummeted downwards, clearly out of control.

“Marut!” Her throat was raw with screaming. Wind-driven water washed over her head. Blinking the salt from her eyes, she followed the plane’s deadly trajectory, trying to determine where it would land.

As she watched in horror, one wing tore way and tumbled into the sea. Unbalanced by the loss, the plane turned jerky somersaults. Fierce gusts tossed the aircraft to and fro like some weightless bauble. She kicked hard to raise her head above the waves and caught a glimpse of the red clay cliffs to her right. Please, she prayed to some unknown power, keep him away from the coast.

As if in answer to her entreaty, the damaged craft veered to the left, caught in some random blast of air, then hurtled down into the ocean.

The minor tsunami that followed the impact sent her diving again. She surfaced next to the wreckage of Marut’s Cessna, which floated on its side, its remaining wing pointing into the water like a rudder. Ondine wrenched the door open. Seawater poured into the compartment.

Marut lay crumpled over the controls, battered and bleeding. Physical pain shot through her at the sight, paralysing her for a long moment. But there was no time to waste. It took every ounce of her strength to drag him from his seat and away from the plane, which began to sink as the sea filled the cabin.

Ondine clutched his inert body against her side with her right arm while paddling with her left, working to keep his head out of the water. Although his eyes were closed and a ragged, bloody gash marred his forehead, he was definitely breathing. A wave swamped them both. Marut sputtered and gasped without regaining consciousness.

I’ve got to get him to shore. How could she, though, without him drowning in the storm-churned swells?

All of the watery world. The truth was a sudden bright light scattering the darkness in her heart. Still clasping her lover to her breast, she let her thoughts spread out across the heaving billows.

Be still.

The winds of the northeaster still howled around them, but the surging ocean calmed, bit by bit. Gentle undulations rocked their bodies. She rolled Marut onto his back, her arm across his chest, and prepared to tow him to land.

“Uh—uch!” Racked by a fit of violent coughing, he sank beneath the surface for an instant. She hauled him up into the air and he twisted in her grasp, struggling to see her face. “Ah…uch…Ondine? Oh, thanks be to the loas! You’re here!”

“Don’t move! You’re injured, maybe badly…” She tried to flip him into a back float once more, but he squirmed like a snake in her arms.

“The storm…the plane… I had to get home to you…”

“Hush! Save your strength…let me…”

The wind snatched the words from her lips. Leaving the water behind, she rose on a pillar of air, cradled in Marut’s arms. He murmured endearments as they flew higher, covering her face with kisses. The gale swirling around them stole his words too, but she felt every one.

Now they were among the clouds, enmeshed in darkness with lightning crackling around them. Electric currents rippled through her flesh, awakening her senses. Marut’s eyes glowed with inner fire. He released her in order to tear off his tattered clothing, yet still the winds bore her up as steady as the waves below. Exhilaration and joy drove out any hint of fear. In perfect trust, Ondine surrendered to the prince of air.

Don't forget to leave a comment. I'll donate a dollar for every one. And you could win a copy of Rough Weather, too!

On a living room couch far far away... (#erotica #fairytales #inspiration @Liz_DeJesus23)

By Liz DeJesus (Guest Blogger)

Once upon a time on a living room couch far far away…a friend sent me an illustration of Snow White. Except that this wasn’t a typical Disney drawing or illustration. This Snow White had a wicked smirk on her face, her makeup was smeared and looked as though she had been pulled away from someone else’s lips while in the middle of a make-out session…and she was holding a sign with numbers on it. This was Snow White’s mugshot and she was being arrested for sexual misconduct. And this wasn’t the only one. There were four illustrations in this series. Fairy Tale Mugshots, drawn by Marilen Androver. Snow White, Alice (from Alice in Wonderland), Red Riding Hood and Goldilocks.

I loved each one on sight.

Not only that, I was curious. And anyone that knows me, knows that I love fairy tales and I’m a curious person (very similar to our dear Alice). The more I looked at these images, the more I asked myself ‘How did they get arrested in the first place?’, ‘What lead them to commit these crimes?’, ‘What are their personalities like?’, ‘Are they innocent…or guilty of the crime?’. So naturally I had to answer all of these questions.

This is pretty much my process when it comes to my writing. Some authors have charts, post it notes and are very organized. I wish I were more like that. I’m a pantser all the way. I fly by the seat of my pants and just go wherever my characters want to go. I want to discover things at the same time they do. There are a few things here and there that I do know ahead of time but very rarely does that happen. And the great thing about writing is that everyone has a different process. Everyone has their own unique way of bringing characters to life.

I like writing the old fashioned way, pen and paper. It’s a sensory thing for me. The soft, smooth paper, and the needle tip pen (my favorite kind) softly scratching against the paper. *happy sigh* That’s really all I need. So I get lost in the sound and the story that I’m working on at that particular moment.

And sometimes, I get inspired by works of art like it happened with Mugshots. I had the pictures saved on my cellphone and whenever I needed to do so, I would look at each image and pretend to interrogate them. Sounds insane. I know. But like I said, writers have their own way of doing things. And sometimes Alice would ‘talk’ and tell me bits and pieces of her story (at least what she remembered). Or Holly (my Red Riding Hood) would half growl, half mumble her story at me.

I loved trying to figure out who these women were. What they were addicted to, who they loved, and who they hated. It took me a little over two years to write Mugshots, mostly because I got stuck with some of the research I had to do. I got bogged down by the details and didn’t focus on the actual story. What happens when you get arrested? What is it like to get fingerprinted? And the famous mugshot? How was that going to happen? Lots of things that needed to be taken into consideration. So I ended up going with a small police station and kept it all as though it were happening in a small fictional town.

And last year on New Year’s Eve I gave myself a resolution. I told myself that this was the year that I would finish writing Mugshots and get it published. I had the bare bones of the story, all I needed to do was hunker down and finish writing the book. Every day for MONTHS that’s what I did. I immersed myself in the strange, dark, erotic and magical world that Snow, Alice, Holly and Winnie lived in.

I had an amazing time writing this book and I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading it as well. If you are a fan of fairy tale retellings with a little bit of mischief and erotica thrown into the mix then you will definitely enjoy Mugshots.

Blurb

Alice had recently been dumped by her boyfriend, Jack Hart. She’s not taking the breakup very well. She’s picked up a dangerous mushroom habit and has been taking frequent trips down the rabbit hole. Alice and her BFF Kat Cheshire go on a drug infused and sexually charged trip as they make their way toward Wonderland, a new dance club that Alice has been eager to visit. Will she make it out of the rabbit hole unscathed or will she forever be changed?

Holly is a good granddaughter and an antique store owner by day. But by night? She becomes a wolf determined to escape the nightly attentions of her ex-boyfriend, Pyotr. The man that turned her into a monster. After she rejects his advances one time too many he threatens to kill the person she loves the most in the world. Her grandmother. Holly will do anything to keep her safe…even enlist the help of a woman with golden hair.

Winnie loves bears. Some people might say she’s obsessed but she calls it being an avid collector. She is searching for a particular set of bears. They are ‘The Three Wise Bears’ and each one is made out of solid gold. Winnie has two out of three. She’s close to finding the third one and completing her collection. She’ll do whatever it takes to find it…even breaking and entering.

Snow is in a tough position at work….in more ways than one actually. Every night she puts on a show at The Poisoned Apple, her stepmother Cora owns the highly exclusive sex club. And every night Snow entertains the clients by performing sexual acts, but she’s tired of that life. She longs for the day she can quit her job and live with her boyfriend Jerry. But things get complicated when Cora becomes more and more unstable with every passing day. She grows obsessed with Snow’s beauty and popularity. Enough that Snow tries to run away from her controlling stepmother. Will she finally be free from Cora’s grasp? Or will she pay the ultimate price?

Fairy tales like you’ve never seen them before. These wickedly enchanting tales intersect in ways you couldn’t imagine. Enjoy finding out the story behind their Mugshots.

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Excessica

About the Author

Liz DeJesus was born on the tiny island of Puerto Rico. She is a novelist, freelance writer, writing coach and a poet. She has been writing for as long as she was capable of holding a pen. She is the author of The Jackets (Arte Publico Press, March 2011) First Frost (Indie Gypsy, Summer 2015), Glass Frost (Indie Gypsy, Summer 2015), Shattered Frost (Indie Gypsy, Summer 2015), Morgan (Indie Gypsy, July 2014), The Laurel (Indie Gypsy, May 2016), Girl (Unexpected Spark Studios, August 2015) and Mugshots (eXcessica Publishing, August 2016). Her work has also appeared in Night Gypsy: Journey Into Darkness (Indie Gypsy, October 2012), Twice Upon a Time (Bearded Scribe Press, Winter 2015) and Someone Wicked (Smart Rhino Publications, Winter 2013). Her articles have been featured in Southern Writers Magazine.

Liz is currently working on a new novel and a comic book series titled Zombie Ever After (Emerald Star Comics, Fall 2014) and a comic book series titled Decode.

Find out more about Liz DeJesus by visiting her website:

 http://www.lizdejesus.com

My First Amazon Giveaway (#steampunk #bdsm #shifter)

Hey everyone!

I decided to take the plunge and try one of Amazon's giveaways.

You could win one of multiple copies of my wild steampunk / bdsm / shifter / Bollywood / Rubenesque / menage erotic romance Rajasthani Moon.

To enter, just click here. 

(Sorry, but only people with a U.S. address are eligible. Those are Amazon's rules, not mine.)

Here's the blurb, in case you're curious.


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 the rugged, arid land of the Rajputs 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 constraints of her life in England?

Click here to enter!

Lost in the Urabamba (#vacation #travel #peru)

Recently my guest Cara Bristol blogged about vacation disasters. In my comment, I mentioned a trip in which my husband and I were almost swept into a raging river by a landslide. Thought I'd share the full story today.

We went to Peru because, that winter, there was no snow in Austria. That fact scuttled our original vacation plans for a ski holiday. Hustling to find an alternative (I'd already secured time off from my job), we found a relatively cheap package tour to Lima. We'd had positive experiences traveling with this tour company to Jamaica. They provided airfare and lodging at a ridiculously low cost, then made their money on extras. In Jamaica it had been easy to use the hotel as a base for exploring on our own. We found out a bit late that Peru was a different sort of place altogether.

It was the early eighties, and quite frankly, the country was a mess. Vicious bands of Shining Path guerillas made overland transit perilous. Strikes and civil unrest occurred on an almost daily basis. At Lima Airport, we waited three hours for our luggage because the baggage handlers had stopped work. Rolling electricity outages afflicted the city of Lima, many regions of which we were advised to avoid due to the danger of being mugged or worse. Aside from the amazing gold museum, there wasn't much to see in Peruvian capital. In any case, we had loftier goals: Cusco and Machu Picchu.

The only practical way to Cusco was by air, and that turned out to be almost as expensive as our flight from the U.S. Nevertheless, we decided to bite the bullet and bought non-refundable round trip tickets to the old Incan capital nestled in the Andes.

Arriving in Cusco, we were informed that the narrow gauge railroad to Machu Picchu had been out of service for three weeks, due to a combination of rainy season mudslides and another strike. Apparently the strike had been settled, but it still wasn't clear whether the trains were running. We were devastated. Cusco was an astonishing place in its own right, but to come all that way and not get to see the fabled Incan terraces and the Temple of the Sun...!

Two days before we were scheduled to return to Lima, our guide told us we could catch the Machu Picchu train the following morning. We were up at six AM (a real sacrifice for my husband!) and on the train by seven. By ten AM we still hadn't left; there were new landslides blocking the tracks, we learned, that had to be cleared. When the train finally crawled out of the station, we cheered – but prematurely, as we were halted by a slide after an hour. Bulldozers were mustered, mud was cleared, the train proceeded for an hour or two, before our way was blocked once again.

Normally the trip from Cusco to the base of Huayna Picchu (only fifty miles!) takes about four hours. In our case, we didn't arrive until after four in the afternoon. The heart-stopping bus ride up the steep mountain flank, along the Hiram Bingham Highway, required another half hour. And the ruins closed at five thirty.

So we had less than an hour to explore one of the great wonders of the world. It was worth the journey, but way too short. Some members of the tour planned to stay over at the mountain-peak guest house, but our plane back to Lima left the next morning and we were worried about losing our money. In addition, my husband was showing signs of the flu. We climbed back into the bus, trundled down the side of the cliff and onto the train, and – waited.

The locomotive finally inched forward, into the inky darkness. We hadn't eaten. My husband's forehead felt hot enough to fry an egg. Although we were both exhausted, the hard wooden benches on the train were not really conducive to sleeping. I remember that trip as a kind of endless hell – creeping along the tracks that clung to the mountain side, the rain-swelled Urabamba River audible even though it was seventy feet below us. We'd stop for obstacles, wait, move, stop... My husband was hallucinating. I could have believed it was all a dream myself if I hadn't been so physically uncomfortable.

I finally must have drifted off into some kind of slumber, when an awful roar yanked me awake. The train lurched to a stop, throwing us to the sticky floor. It sounded as a building was collapsing around us.

The terrible racket finally stopped. Echoes of the tumult died away. Along with some of the other passengers, I stepped off the train to check out the situation.

A massive wall of steaming mud blocked the tracks, less than ten feet in front of the locomotive. Trees poked out of the muck at weird angles. Boulders twice as large as the stones of the Incan temples lay scattered on the narrow shelf the builders of the railroad had cut into the mountain side. As I stared in disbelief at the debris, a few more clods and pebbles clattered down from the heights on the right. Far below us, at the bottom of the cliff on the left, the rapids of the Urabamba seethed and boiled.

The railroad crew hurried us back into the train. I was in shock. If the slope had given way thirty seconds later, the train would have been buried. We might well have been swept off the track into the river coiling below.

My husband had fallen into an uneasy sleep, moaning and tossing on the unforgiving seats. As for me, I didn't close my eyes. I heard the grunt of the earth moving equipment they somehow managed to convey from further up the route, the shouts of the workmen, the background mutter of the swollen river. I was awake when the train nudged forward, rocking on its earth-dented tracks. I kept watch on my beloved, giving him water, praying his fever would break. I stared out the open window into the black night, not quite sure we'd really survived.

I watched dawn turn the terra-cotta roofs of Cusco from gray to red as we crawled down, back into the valley. We could have died. With a smidge less luck, we might have been lost in the Urabamba.

As the sun rose over the ancient city of the Incas, I found it hard to believe. I still do. Maybe the old gods were protecting us. Or maybe, that time at least, we were just lucky. 

 

Review Thursday: Princess of the Light (#review #compassion #romance @NNP_W_Light)

 

Princess of the Light by N.N. Light

Smashwords, 2014

Imagine you’re a normal young woman, working at a bookstore, hanging out with your friends, and struggling to recover from the tragic death of your dad. Then one day you get a visit from the angel Gabriel. Yes, that Gabriel—the right hand of God. The angel reveals that you are Princess of the Light, gifted with the power to uplift and heal the broken and the hopeless, and to destroy demons. He tells you that you’ve been chosen to save humanity from the forces of evil. Most especially, you’ve been given the task of redeeming one particular homeless man who has sunk deeply into darkness through no fault of his own.

What would you do? Would you think someone had dumped some sort of hallucinogen into your drinking water? Especially when you start having visions? Or would you follow your intuition and have faith in your destiny, no matter how unlikely it seemed? Mary Miller trusts the evidence of her senses and her heart and grows into her role as God’s warrior for good.

I’ve been wanting to read Princess of the Light ever since the author first dropped by my blog to promote it as a new release. Last week, while traveling, I finally got the chance.

This is a bold and engaging book with an important message. Love and compassion can make a real difference. Even when we see ourselves as weak and flawed, we have the power to improve the lives of others. When we share our Light, we brighten the world around us.

Furthermore, it’s not demons or devils that present the greatest challenge to our living compassionately, but our own fears and doubts. When Gabriel tells Mary to keep her heart pure, he’s not talking about the desire she feels for her soul mate Joe, but rather, the negative emotions that assail her: anger, frustration, feelings of inadequacy, exhaustion, and despair. Although Mary and Joe face external battles with Than, Lisbeth and their dark army, the true struggle happens within.

If you’re looking for a realistic paranormal romance, this isn’t the book for you. Princess of the Light is a fable. The book unfolds in the idyllic town of Golden Lake, as Mary gradually comes to understand her role and to take ownership of the power and responsibility she has somehow inherited. I don’t believe we are meant to take the various hellish denizens she encounters all that seriously. They’re merely externalizations of darker forces that twist and corrupt the town’s inhabitants—especially ambition, envy, the desire for wealth and the absence of hope.

Still, when Mary slips into a vision, the author makes you believe it’s all real. And the book doesn’t shy away from tragedy and heartbreak. Everyone’s life includes loss. The challenge is to hold to the truth and let your light shine despite your grief.

I just reread N.N. Light’s original post from 2014, and noticed that she and her husband are both Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans. Even before that, I’d seen some Buffy influence in the final cataclysmic battle where Mary and Joe struggle to defeat the formidable demon Lisbeth and her legions of the damned. Actually, I was a bit disappointed in this scene, which felt like something from a whack-a-mole video game. Mary wields an axe of Light, while Joe has a shining sword, but do they really need these weapons? Shouldn’t pure love be enough to vanquish their adversaries?

In any case, I enjoyed Princess of the Light. Its message isn’t new, but it never hurts to be reminded. We are all conduits for love, which flows through us to bless others.

By the way, N.N. Light is donating a portion of the proceeds from this book to her local food pantry. If you buy the book, you’ll be doing your little bit to bring light to the world.