Charity Sunday: Rosie's Place - #Homelessness #Sanctuary #CharitySunday

Welcome to this month’s Charity Sunday.

I’ve been thrilled at the great response from other bloggers who’ve joined Charity Sunday over the past few months. It’s always enjoyable for me to see what causes my colleagues choose to support. I’ve noticed that many of you donate to local rather than national or international charities. So today, I thought I’d focus my Charity Sunday on a “local” charity, too: Rosie’s Place.

Of course, Rosie’s Place – the first homeless shelter for women in the US, established in downtown Boston in 1974 – is not exactly local to me any more. However, for years, when I lived in Massachusetts, I was an avid supporter. Homelessness is a persistent problem in the United States, despite our affluence, and in some ways it’s harder for women than for men. Women on the street are more likely to be victimized or brutalized. Homeless women often have kids to care for. And even in the twenty first century, it’s still harder for a woman to get a decent-paying job that will make it possible for her to pay for a roof over her head.

Rosie’s Place was born when its founder Kip Tiernan saw poor women disguising themselves as men to get a meal at men-only shelters. Think about that. Think about the danger, and the shame.

Rosie’s provides free meals 365 days a year; a food pantry with non-perishable items and fresh produce; showers, laundry and lockers; overnight beds for up to 21 days; and providers who offer health and wellness care. Rosie’s Place also offers job and life skills training, and connects its guests with legal and financial professionals who can help them navigate the complex maze of government assistance programs.

I could say more – but I urge you to go check out the organization's inspiring website. The bottom line? For every comment I receive on today’s post, I’ll donate two dollars to Rosie’s.

I have the perfect excerpt for you, too, from my lesbian tale The First Stone, first published in Cheyenne Blue’s anthology Forbidden Fruit: Stories of unwise lesbian desire and now available as part of my own short story collection, Burn,Baby. This story takes place in a women’s shelter in Boston, not all that dissimilar to Rosie’s, and explores the unlikely relationship between a recovering drug addict and a nun.

“You're kinda pretty, for a nun.”

The voice was low and throaty, laced with echoes of the ghetto. It dragged me away from the columns of figures marching down the screen in front of me, out of the well-ordered realm of accounting and into the messiness of our inmates' lives. Our guests, I corrected myself. Nobody was forced to stay at Serenity House.

“Um — excuse me? Can I help you?”

My interlocutor grinned at me. Her plump, mauve-painted lips framed teeth that were a shocking white in her ebony face. She shook her head. Cheap, brassy earrings dangled from her fleshy lobes, swinging back and forth over her bare shoulders.

“Just wanted to say hi. Oh, an' to ask if I can stay out past curfew tonight. Heard you were in charge.” She extended a hand tipped with hot pink fingernails. “I'm Magnolia. Me and Moonbeam just got here yesterday.”

November in Boston, two weeks before Thanksgiving, but Magnolia's skin felt August-hot. The woman's breasts almost overflowed the sequined tube top that constrained them. Below, she wore baggy sweatpants with a Celtics logo that didn't hide her more than ample curves. Her feet were crammed into open-toed high heels of scuffed gold-toned plastic. She towered over me. I felt pretty sure that would be true even if I were standing.

“Moonbeam?” Confronted by this apparition, I couldn't seem to manage more than a couple of words.

“My kid.” Magnolia indicated a diminutive toddler with kinky pigtails, sprawled on the floor of the common room, surrounded by alphabet blocks. Hard to believe that delicate child was the offspring of this Amazon.

“Ah — um — well, you're very welcome here, Magnolia. We're glad to have you with us.” I struggled for the warm yet professional manner I'd learned to adopt with our guests. Rising from my chair, I gave her hand a firm squeeze before relinquishing it. My skin tingled in the aftermath. I'd been right; she stood half a head taller than my five feet six inches, and probably weighed nearly twice what I did. “Have a seat, please. I'm Sister Kathleen Patrick, the assistant director. But I guess you know that.”

She settled her bottom into the chair I'd indicated. “Yeah, the other gals told me. Pleased to meet you, Sister.” Her plucked eyebrows knotted into a frown. “That what I should call you? I ain't had much experience with nuns.”

Her obvious concern made me chuckle. “'Sister' would be fine. Or you can just call me Kathleen. We don't stand on ceremony here at Serenity House.”

“Not like at Baystate Rehab. You forget to call one of the nurses 'Miz' or 'Mister', you lose privs for twenty-four hours.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brown forehead, which was beaded with sweat. The woman must have a furnace inside.

There was something lush and tropical about Magnolia. Her name fit her. She seemed totally out of place in this shabby office lit by the unrelenting gray of the late autumn sky. I could imagine her wrapped in a rainbow-hued sarong, dancing barefoot on a beach beneath swaying palms. Or swimming naked through the waves under a golden moon...

I hauled my thoughts back to the present. “Is that where you've just come from?” Not all our guests had substance abuse problems, but it was pretty common.

“Escaped is more like it.” She giggled. “This place's like heaven after Bayhab. Six fucking weeks — oh, sorry, Sister — I mean, six long weeks in that hellhole! Away from my baby, too. 'Course, I deserved it. All the junk I pumped into my veins, not thinkin' about who'd care for her if something happened to me. Then the OD — I really fucked up. Oh, I'm sorry, Sister!”

“Never mind. So you've made yourself comfortable, then? You're happy with your room?"

 

Yesterday had been my day off. Rachel must have done the intake. I reminded myself to check Magnolia's file after she'd left the office.

“It's great. I'm sharing with Lou-Ellen and her little boy. He's only a couple months older than Moonbeam. Food's good, too.” She flashed me another grin and glanced down at her generous body. “Not that I need it!”

Her laughter kindled mine. Our eyes met. Hers were espresso-brown, practically black, fringed with mascara-augmented lashes. They snagged me like magnets.

Something jolted through me — a lightning strike, a sudden storm, some personal earthquake. The floor dropped out from under my chair and I found myself suspended in space. My breath caught in my throat and perspiration soaked the armpits of my gray wool sweater. I'd been chilly before — we tried to stretch our donor's generosity as far as possible — but now I burned. I couldn't tear myself away from her gaze, though I knew I'd been staring far too long.

**** 

Magnolia could easily be one of Rosie’s guests.

Please be sure to leave a comment. Every one helps women in need.

And I hope you will visit the other bloggers joining today’s Charity Sunday blog hop. You’ll find links to their posts below.

Thank you!

Free Erotic Horror for #Halloween! #HPLovecraft #Free #Parody

 Image by Waldkunst from Pixabay

Are you a fan of H.P. Lovecraft? Do tentacles make you go all shivery?

If so, grab yourself a copy of my free H.P. Lovecraft parody story, The Shadow over Des Moines.

It’s available at Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo. Totally free!

Blurb

When my health forced me to retire from the stresses of my job as a newspaper reporter, I relocated to a quiet neighborhood in Des Moines. I’d hoped to find peace of mind and relief from the terrifying dreams that plagued me after my dear wife’s death. Instead, I found myself in a waking nightmare.

Embracing the Shadows - #Paranormal #TheDarkSide #Power

What makes paranormal romance so popular? I've been pondering this question for a while. Readers, it seems, are happy to consume as many tales about vampires, shape shifters, ghosts and psychics as we authors can produce. You'd think that they'd get bored, but that doesn't seem to happen. Why not?

I've got a theory. We're all tempted by the dark side.

The realms of paranormal romance are vast, but most books offer characters with dual natures, torn between normal humanity and―otherness. The “other” aspect conveys special powers ― unnatural strength, heightened sensation, hidden knowledge―but always at a price. The characters suffer because of their power. Blood-drinkers and half-beasts are ravaged by conscience because they maim or kill. Immortals bear the weight of lonely, isolated centuries and the pain of watching mortal companions wither and die. My prescient hero Kyle in NecessaryMadness can see the future but the fury of his visions drives him insane. Jorge in Serpent's Kiss is the incarnation of an ancient god but each time he makes love to his human mate he comes close to killing her.

In the paranormal genre, power and darkness go hand in hand. Yet somehow, we are attracted to the darkness. We brush the suffering aside; we want to feel the power. A vampires isn't sexy when he's fighting against his blood craving. Only when he sweeps his victim into his arms and buries his fangs in her flesh does he make us breathless and moist.

How many books have you read where the human hero or heroine willingly submits to “the change”, the transformation that will make them “other” as well? How many characters, in contrast, manage to resist the pull of the dark side? Not many. Normal mortal life seems absurd, bland and empty after you've tasted power. This is especially true because sex on the dark side in erotic romance is always more intense, more extreme, transcending the limits that bind ordinary humans.

Even a villain with supernatural powers tempts us. A well-written antagonist should invite enough identification that the reader can understand what moves him to do evil. The best bad guys are ambiguous, able to justify their deeds so well that they draw our sympathy. They dazzle us with their logic and their beauty, until we can't see their wickedness. Lucifer still looks like an angel as he bargains for your soul. Stefan Aries, my villain in Necessary Madness, is handsome and brilliant enough to make Kyle want him, despite his being a murderer.

We're drawn to the dark side, I think, because it's an escape. Sometimes the real world leaves us feeling so powerless―we can't help wanting the ability to take control, to bend the world to our will the way our paranormal characters do. Who wouldn't want to leave the dirty dishes and the unpaid bills behind and slip away into the night, to slink through the shadowy streets scenting for blood or to howl, unfettered, at the moon?

The dark side calls to us in paranormal romance. Every time we open a new book, we flirt with the possibility of ecstatic surrender.

Here’s a bit from one of my darker paranormals, Fire in the Blood. In this MMF erotic romance, neither Maddy nor Troy can resist the vampire hero – despite his own warnings.

His entry was swift and silent. She didn’t even know he was behind her until she noticed his fire-cast shadow on the bed. “You may wear this.” He handed her a brilliant garment of multi-coloured silk. “It belonged to my mistress.” The dressing gown was soft as a cloud, so delicate that Maddy feared it would tear at her slightest touching.

“God, it’s exquisite.” The jewel-toned robe shimmered with a twining pattern of blossoms and peacocks. “But I can’t wear this. I’ll destroy it. It looks like an antique.”

“Put it on.” Power rang in his voice. There was no way she could disobey. She slipped the gown over her shoulders and belted it around her waist. The silk caressed her breasts and belly like secret hands. Her pussy dampened again. “Sit down now, and I will bind your ankle.”

She seated herself on the bed. The giant perched on a wooden stool and drew her foot into his lap. Maddy struggled to hold still. Every time he brushed his fingers over her flesh, electric thrills sizzled up to strike between her legs. She wanted him to push the slithery silk up her thighs, to spread them so wide that it hurt, then dive down to feast on her juicy sex. Surely he must smell her. He must hear her heart, so loud in her own ears that she could no longer hear the crackling fire. However, he appeared to be completely occupied with his nursing duties. He wrapped her foot and ankle in layer after layer of taut muslin, a reasonable substitute for an ace bandage, then secured his efforts with several safety pins.

She couldn’t stand it anymore. She laid her palm on the kinky nap covering his head. He raised his eyes. In their depths, she saw wisdom and pain. “I’m Madeleine,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Etienne.” He settled back on the stool. “Etienne de Rémorcy.”

“I want to thank you, Etienne. For all your help.” Casually, with one hand, she loosened the sash holding the robe closed. She leaned forward, so the silk gapped open and revealed her gleaming white breasts.

“I could hardly do otherwise. My mistress taught me how to be a gentleman. You obviously needed my assistance.” His rich voice sounded strained.

“Oh, I did.” Maddy shifted on the bed. The dressing gown slipped off one shoulder. “I still do.” The peacocks slithered away, exposing her pale thigh and her wound, crusted with dried blood.

Etienne’s eyes glittered. His blunt hands shot out and grabbed her wrists. “Do not play with me, girl.” Lust gushed through Maddy’s body. Etienne’s nostrils twitched. He tightened his grip until she cried out. “Do not tempt me.”

“You’re hurting me,” she whimpered. “Please…” Dimly, she understood that she was not begging to be released.

“Believe me, I will hurt you far more if we continue.” Etienne forced her down on the bed, her captured arms above her, and straddled her with his massive thighs. “Although I was taught to be a gentleman, in truth, I am a savage beast.” The fragile silk tore away from her nakedness.

“Don’t you want me?” Maddy’s eyes swam with tears.

He brought his mouth close to her ear. “You could not possibly understand how much.” His breath was the icy exhalation of a glacier.

She shivered under his weight. His coolness only stoked the fire in her pussy. “Then take me.”

He freed her wrists and sat back on his heels, searching her face. She cupped her ripe breasts and offered them to him. Please, she prayed silently, let him see my need. She opened herself to him, letting those luminous eyes probe her deepest desires.

He licked his full lips, and his white teeth gleamed in the fire light. He reached for his belt. “Let it be as you will, then,” he growled. “I am no longer responsible.”

Sign up for the Charity Sunday Blog Hop!

Image by JamesDeMers from Pixabay

This coming Sunday, the 27^th of October, will be the next Charity Sunday.  

Charity Sunday is a meme designed to give us authors a chance to give back to the world—as well as, hopefully, attract new readers.

How does it work? Each participant selects a favorite charity. Before Charity Sunday, you should prepare a blog post that: 1) talks about the charity and why you support it; 2) provides a link to the charity; 3) includes an excerpt from one of your books; 4) includes the code to show links to other participating blogs.

It’s fun if you can make the excerpt relate somehow to your chosen charity, but this isn’t required.

For every comment left on your post, you commit to giving some amount to the relevant charity. The specific charity and the amount to donate are up to you. The posts stay open all month, to maximize the amount of donations. You can set an upper limit to your donation if you want.

If you’d like to participate in the next Charity Sunday, just sign up using the Linky List below. Please be sure that the link you enter will lead directly to your Charity Sunday post, not just to the home page of your blog. 

For more detailed instructions, go here:
https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2019/08/sign-up-for-charity-sunday.html

You can get my Charity Sunday banner here.

For an example, check out last month's Charity Sunday post: 

https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2019/09/charity-sunday-doctors-without-borders.html

Inexplicable Desire - #Chemistry #Erotica #Connection

Several years ago I reviewed M.Christian’s sci-fi erotica story BionicLover. This tale follows the disturbing and intense relationship between a shy, struggling female artist and a butch woman of the streets who, when the story opens, has a magnificently crafted artificial eye. Thinking about the book after I wrote the review, I realized one reason it moved me so deeply: the author never really explains anything. We see the near-irresistible attraction between Pell (the artist) and Arc (the increasingly bionic butch). We watch as Arc replaces one body part after another with prosthetics, as Pell falls ever more deeply under her spell, as Arc vanishes then returns to the arms of the woman who somehow makes her whole–but though the emotions feel genuine and true, we never know why anyone does anything. Unmediated by reasons, we experience the desire, the longing, the loneliness, directly. The tale remains hauntingly ambiguous as well as overwhelmingly erotic.

In contrast, much of the erotic fiction I read focuses considerable attention on explaining the source of the attraction between the protagonists. Sometimes it’s something as superficial as big breasts or washboard abs. In other cases, the characters clearly complement each other, in terms of personality or history or mutual fantasies or kinks. In all too many stories, the erotic connection is pretty much a foregone conclusion, because the author has made the reasons for that connection painfully obvious.

Desire isn’t necessarily like that, though. Attraction often cannot be explained—except by amorphous concepts like “chemistry”, which is no explanation at all.

I remember one of my lovers, from my sex goddess period, when I blossomed from a self-conscious nerd into a flaming nymphomaniac. I met him at a mutual friend’s wedding, and wanted him from the very first instant. This wasn’t due to his physical appearance. He was cute, but no movie star. It certainly wasn’t because of his personality. He turned out to be arrogant as well as somewhat dishonest. None of that mattered. I wanted him. He wanted me. We had sex within four hours of meeting. Over the next few weeks, we shared some wild times, pushing the envelope (as they say), until I came to the conclusion that I didn’t really like him that much.

Call it chemistry if you like, the inexplicable force binding two souls, two bodies, who by rights shouldn’t be together at all. Whatever it is, it cannot be predicted, or explained.

Another wonderful literary example of this phenomenon is Willsin Rowe’s searing novella The Last Three Days. If you’ve ever thought lust was trivial compared to love, read this book. Rowe’s protagonists are in some sense addicted to one another. Insatiable need draws them together again and again. The pleasure of their encounters tempers their mutual antipathy. The emotions become so tangled that neither the characters nor the reader can sort them out—but they feel incredibly real.

There’s a clever little acronym frequently cited in author circles: RUE, which stands for Resist the Urge to Explain. Usually, when someone invokes the RUE principle in a critique, she’s commenting on a back story dump or an excess of description that slows down the pace of the narrative. Meditating on these two exemplary stories, I see that the RUE particularly applies to the erotic attraction between one’s characters. The more surprising, unexpected, complex and inexplicable that is, the more compelling the tale.

Desire cannot be summoned at will, nor can it be reasoned away. Desire simply is. And we erotic authors are but its chroniclers.

Extravagantly #erotic - Slaves to Desire by @GilicEli (@SinfulPress) - #99cents

Just 99c/p Throughout October!

 
Slaves to Desire by Eli Gilić is a unique, beautifully written erotic short story collection that deftly weaves fact and fiction. Originally published in Serbian, Sinful Press is over the moon to present the English language version of this amazing collection in both digital and print. To celebrate, we are making the ebook version available for just 99p/99c throughout October.

Blurb

Charles Baudelaire, Rasputin, Anna Karenina, Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet and Ophelia, Fyodor Dostoevsky, George Sand, Frederic Chopin, Vincent Van Gogh, Antonin Artaud, Maria Izquierdo, James Joyce, Federico Garcia Lorka, Salvador Dali.

Can Rasputin find redemption through the sins of others? What awaits Anna Karenina on the other side? Does passion still flow through the veins of the lovers from Verona? Can Hamlet and Ophelia escape their fate? Is Van Gogh’s loneliness a blessing or a curse? And can Dali dispel Lorca’s fear.

Eli Gilić deftly weaves fact and fiction to bring some of the world’s great writers, literary characters, artists and composers to life as they reach the heights of passion and the depths of despair in this mesmerising erotic short story collection.

Sales links:

Amazon: https://smarturl.it/StDKindle

Apple iBooks: https://books.apple.com/book/slaves-to-desire/id1466674642

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Eli_Gili%C4%87_Slaves_to_Desire?id=336cDwAAQBAJ

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/en/ebook/slaves-to-desire

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/slaves-to-desire-eli-gilic/1130547023?ean=9781910908358

Excerpt from ‘Lovers in the Land of Peyote’ (María Izquierdo and Antonin Artaud), Slaves to Desire:

They brought him half-dead on a donkey, took him to his room, laid his feverish body on the bed and left me alone with him. I was terror-stricken as I listened to his frantic screams and incoherent ravings about virgins and donkeys. I wiped his burning forehead for hours and tried to reach him. He writhed, flailed his arms and legs, and I had to avoid blows carefully.

My strength was dissolving when Antonin suddenly stilled. I feared the worst, but he opened his eyes. Delirium had passed. His eyes were bright and curious. Such relief overcame me that I kissed him without thinking. I poured all the love that was burning in my heart into that kiss. I realised what I had done only when he returned my kiss. But there was no reason for anxiety because Antonin was overcome by desire just like me. He kissed me feverishly, as if to compensate for all the months of restraint. A surge of happiness flooded me. I quickly took off my robe and pulled Antonin's pants down his legs.

Antonin just looked at me with mild disbelief. Fearing that he would pull away and say that we shouldn't, I quickly settled above him before he had a chance to object. I had to feel him at least once. I think my heart would have broken if I didn't manoeuvre him into me.

I looked him in the eye as I slowly descended on his hard manhood, choking from inexplicable joy. It seemed like I was becoming whole because he was filling me. I lacked something essential before Antonin entered my life just as my body had missed something vital before I felt him inside me. When I came down completely, I stilled to interpret his look. But I saw nothing except great love and total abandonment. As if to encourage me, Antonin grabbed me by the hips and began lifting and lowering me. I started moving and together we found the rhythm of lovers. Our bodies moved as if of their own will, as if saying something to each other with those feverish movements. Movements as old as the world, yet completely new, full of mysterious meaning known only to us. Faster, feverishly, marvellously coordinated as if our bodies had already done that in another world and time and we were only repeating what was carved in our hearts and bodies.

Antonin was moaning uncontrollably while rapidly raising his pelvis to meet my frenzied descents. Strangled sounds were escaping my throat, my insides were tightening from pleasure. The pressure was becoming unbearable, almost agonising. And then a miraculous burst, spasms that brought immense delight. The relief was so strong that I collapsed on him. Antonin hugged me tightly and jerked a few more times before freezing and crying out.

I sat up and showered his face with kisses, crying and laughing at the same time, mad from the rush of giddy joy.

About the Author

Eli Gilić is a writer and translator from Serbia who has spent much of her career translating best-selling novels for the Serbian market. She has also penned an erotic cookbook called Eat, Tease and Please.

Eli lives near a forest in Serbia with her three four-legged friends, and she spends her free time growing organic food, climbing mountains and jumping from waterfalls.

Slaves to Desire is her first short story collection, and it was originally published by Laguna, the biggest publisher in Serbia, before being translated into English for Sinful Press.

Sale blitz organised by Writer Marketing Services.

Things that Go Bump - #paranormal #horror #Halloween

Image by socialneuron from Pixabay

 

The costume worked its magic. I was astonished at how regal I looked, and how desirable. The bodice pinched my waist to tiny dimensions, and forced my breasts upwards. The square-cut neckline drew attention to my swelling flesh, barely hiding my nipples. In fact, they were not hidden at all. Though I'd lined the top with muslin as the pattern specified, the tight nubs were clearly visible through several layers of fabric.

I cradled my breasts and used my thumbs to trace circles around those sensitive buds. With each cycle, the spring of tension in my cunt wound tighter. A light flick of my thumbnail sent electricity down my spine and triggered spasms of pleasure. I worried briefly that the juices trickling out of my cunt would spoil the satin. But after all, what did it matter? There was no one to see me tonight, no one to please but myself.

"You certainly do look sexy. Like something right out of de Sade."

"What? Who...?" I whirled around in confusion, my heart slamming against my ribs. The voice had been close, right next to my ear. Yet the room was empty, unchanged. The same rippling walls, the same thread-bare carpet, the same rusty stains on the ceiling. The rumpled bed where I'd had my tantrum. The almost-empty glass on the dresser.

Ah, the liquor. I must be more drunk than I thought. I turned back to the mirror, searching my face for signs of intoxication, and yelped as something, someone, pinched my nipples.

"Hey! That hurts." Indignation overwhelmed fear.

"It does, at first. But afterward, it changes, doesn't it? Afterward, it feels quite delicious." I stared at my image, mouth hanging stupidly open, as invisible hands caressed my tits. Strong hands, gentle hands, hands that seemed to know exactly how to make me shiver with delight. "That's what most people don't understand about pain. It's the gateway to the most exquisite pleasure."

The voice was a melodious baritone, rich, deep, hypnotic. "You fear the pain, but that's foolish. You must surrender to the pain. Let it move through you. Let it wash away your doubts and your inhibitions. Let it open you to ecstasy."

Firm, unseen lips nibbled at my neck. A warm, wet tongue traced the curve from below my ear to my exposed shoulder, then down to the hollow at my throat. With each touch, extravagant new species of pleasure bloomed in my sex. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, savoring the delicate caresses and the amazing sensations that they triggered in my cunt.

Then suddenly, something sharp pierced the rounded flesh of my shoulder. I screamed, surprise heightening the agony that gripped me, and tore myself away from the grasp of the unseen intruder.

My reflection made me gasp in horror and wonder. Droplets of blood oozed from several wounds on my shoulder, wounds arranged in the distinctive semi-circular shape of a bite.

I felt an arm around my waist, pulling me backwards against the unmistakable bulk of a male body. I struggled against his seemingly supernatural strength.

"Let me go!" There were fingers at my back, unlacing and loosening the bodice, working their way into my top.

"Is that really what you want?" A hand snaked into the opening I had left in the voluminous skirts -- a slight modification I had made to the pattern. After all, what was the point of wearing a sexy costume if it made you inaccessible?

Cool fingertips wandered up the inside of my thigh, smearing the damp of my secretions into my bare skin. My clit ached in anticipation. A fresh flow of lubrication made my thighs damper still. "I think that you actually want something else." He found his way into my folds and began massaging the swollen bud at my center.

I moaned and arched backward, my body taking over while my mind whirled in confusion and disbelief.

"Who -- what -- are you?" He slid two fingers deep into my sopping cunt, making me writhe.

"Does it matter?" Now his thumb beat rapidly against my clit, while his fingers stroked my depths. His other hand pumped my tit in the same rhythm. I felt the first shimmers of orgasm, far away like heat lightning on the prairie horizon.

"I am who I am, and I know what you want. What you need." He captured one swollen nipple and squeezed, waking echoes of his previous assault. I yelped and twisted, trying to get away but succeeding only in impaling myself more completely on the hand in my cunt. "Let yourself go, Rebecca," he murmured close to my ear. Lost in a fog of arousal and terror, I hardly wondered that he should know my name.

From Rendezvous

I've written my share of paranormal stories: ghosts, vampires, shape shifters. My creatures are rarely very frightening, though. You'd think that being accosted by an invisible presence in a seedy motel room in the middle of nowhere would be scary as hell, but my character Rebecca is a lot like me—she is more fascinated by the supernatural then terrified. Not to mention aroused.

Magic, even black magic, doesn't scare me. I grew up believing in powers beyond the material world and in some sense I still do. Discovering that the dead walk the earth or that eternal blood drinkers actually exist would give me a thrill. Okay, I'll admit that I've never actually met a ghost or a vampire. My real world reaction might be different than my hypothetical, literary response. I wouldn't bet on that, however. My sense of wonder might well overcome my natural fear.

The things that scare me are far more mundane. Domestic violence. Terrorism. Cancer. Our world is rife with horrors. There's no need to look to the next.

Even when I create a cruel, amoral monster, there's excitement mixed in with the fright. Here's a brief passage from “Fourth World”, my vampire tale that is part of my dark paranormal anthology of the same title.

Mai lays a finger on his lips. “Don’t come yet, little boy. I want you to last a long, long time.” Her finger meanders down over his chin, tracing the line of his throat, down between his erect nipples. As it travels, she increases the pressure. I can see the indentation of her sharp fingernail. By the time she reaches his solar plexus, a red trail follows the finger’s progress. Very slowly, she slices through the skin of his belly, centimeter by centimeter, watching his face. He seems to be in ecstasy.

Blood wells up from the cut. She gathers some with her fingers, licks it off, her eyes closed as if she’s savoring the taste. “Lovely,” she murmurs. “Truly delicious.”

She rocks back and forth on his cock, wringing choked groans from Jeremy’s throat. “Magnificent,” she sighs. Her dagger-like nails open a wound across his right breast. This one is deeper, and bleeds more. Mai bends to lap hungrily at the red fountain. At the same time she pumps him with her pussy, writhing on top of him.

The more blood she drinks, the more excited she becomes. Her nails flash across Jeremy’s torso, carving bloody furrows into his fair skin. Her mouth sucks the ruddy fluid that trickles from a gash near his collarbone. She licks up the gore that pools in his navel. All the while she is bouncing on his obviously still hard cock, moaning and twisting, grinding her pelvis against him.

Then she stops suddenly, breathing hard, her alabaster breasts damp with sweat. “But I should save something for poor Harry, shouldn’t I? You can come, though, little one.” She arches back, and Jeremy yells, again and again. She is milking him, pulling the come from his body. At the same time, she slashes her lethal nails across his throat.

She rises from his twitching body, bends and laps at his bleeding throat. He is still alive. The wound is not that deep. His penis jerks and shudders as she drinks, still hard. Still aroused by her irresistible allure.

“That’s enough for you, for now. I don’t want to use you up all at once.” She turns to me, her black eyes gleaming. “Now, Harry, what about you?” She kneels between my spread thighs. “Are you ready for some fun?”

I should scream. I should fight her. I should too frightened to be aroused. My cock should be limp with terror like the rest of me.

I’m hard as granite.

* * *

Scary? Just enough to turn me on. That's why I love Halloween—a celebration of the dark side where fear acts as an aphrodisiac.