Friday, 20 April 2018

Spring, with boobs

A month late, Spring has finally arrived here with a brazen heatwave and an embarrassed rush of flowers.

And you know what Spring means to artists? Yes, pretty goddesses with their boobies out! Botticelli's Primavera is the most famous of these depictions, partly because it is layered with slightly obscure allegory:

c. 1470

But Flora the Roman goddess of flowers and springtide pops up (and out) in art throughout the ages. In this one her flesh is literally made out of flowers:

Arcimboldo: Flora Meretrix (c1590)
Her story is the usual Greek offhand misogyny: she starts off as the nymph Chloris ("green") but is transformed into Flora the goddess of spring after being abducted/raped/married by the West Wind.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau: Flora and Zephyrus (1875)
John William Waterhouse: Flora and the Zephyr (1898)
However, she certainly seems to have made the best of the situation:

Triumph Of Flora, by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (1743)

She's long been a popular subject for the classically inclined patron...

Portrait of a Courtesan as Flora by Bartolomeo Veneto, c. 1520
Romaine Brooks: Spring (1912)
George Wilson: The Spring Witch (1880)
Clearly, for artistic types, Spring is definitely when the sap starts rising!

Wednesday, 18 April 2018

Dicewriting: not a review

I'm a roleplaying geek. I like dice. A lot.

I even have a gothic dice-tower to roll them down!

And what's more, I was present at the conception of this book:

Zak Jane Kier

Last year at Smut in the City: Leeds, Zak Jane Keir gave us a writing exercise where we each generated the ideas for a story using random rolls of an ordinary dice/die (a d6, as we like to say in RPG circles). It was an extremely successful workshop, and she was begged by several of us to write a whole book.

And now she has - you can buy it on Amazon!

The premise of Dicewriting for Erotica and Erotic Romance is straightforward; simple story outlines are generated by the dicerolls, but it's entirely up to your fervid imagination as a writer what that story looks like. I'm always going to tend to fantasy/paranormal for example, but you might not want to touch that with a 10-foot pole...

See what I did there?

Your mileage of course may vary, but randomised elements have always been very effective story triggers for me - our writing group, The Deadliners, used them all the time - because I naturally tend to approach plots as jigsaw puzzles, and this is a creative puzzle-solving exercise. So I can guarantee Zak's fab little book is going to get a lot of use!

Now all I want is a hardcore geek version which will allow me to roll my d10s 😉

Monday, 16 April 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I am about to go back into Arabian Nights mode and get my old novel Heart of Flame prepped for re-publishing ... here's a djinni-related excerpt from a short story of mine, Slave of the Lamp:

She summons me forth once more. This time I am indoors, and cannot grow to my full height. I rein myself in before I smash through the carved cedar beams of the roof.

There is a squealing and a shrieking, a flurry of panic at my arrival. I look down and see the room is full of women. It makes me grin to see them shrink away and cover their faces - though several are peeking through the slits of their fingers, and that makes me grin too. I have arrived clothed, because Bilqis commands me thus, but my silken trousers do not fully disguise the extent of my exuberance. They are all young and lovely; their breasts bare and firm, their shapely thighs and rounded bottoms a field of delight that my rampant share urges me to plough. In Solomon's palace, I would assume that this is the apartment of his concubines. Here in Sheba, they must be the queen's handmaidens. It is clear they have not been expecting the arrival of any male, and their consternation is enchanting. I wish to rush in among them like a cockerel among a flock of hens.


I force my attention back to Bilqis, who kneels upon cushions in the middle of this fluttering crowd, with a slender maiden cradled in her arms. 'Mistress?'

She's dressed less formally today. I can see her ebony nipples through the damp and clinging gauze of her robe. I understand that the land of Sheba is considered punishingly hot by humans. 'Djinni,' says she, 'my slave here has been bitten by a viper. Can you heal her?'

The girl in her arms is twisting with pain, her dark skin grey now and glistening with sweat. I can see her injured foot, swollen to twice its natural size, propped upon a cushion.

'Pray to the God of Solomon, mistress,' I suggest sourly. 'Does He not promise to be merciful?'

'I have. And to Shams and Ilmaqah and Athtar, who rule this land. The gods do not answer me. So if it lies within your power, djinni, I command you to heal this maid.'

I briefly consider some way to twist her words, but my heart is not in it. I am too distracted by the perfumed, quivering throng of women. And the girl is pretty, for a human, or will be so when well. I twitch a single finger - mostly to show how easy this is for me - and the poison hisses out of her, issuing as faint green cloud from her open lips. Her leg reverts instantly to healthy flesh.

Everyone in the room utters a wahwahwah of wonder. Except Bilqis, who smiles and nods, and the girl, who sobs and buries her face in her queen's breasts.

'There, there,' says the monarch of all Sheba, both left and right of the Red Sea. 'You are fine. Not need to cry, my sweet one.' And my eyes widen as the maid pulls down the fine gauze of the queen's robe and sucks a big nipple into her mouth.

Bilqis closes her own eyes for a moment in pleasure, then opens them, meeting my gaze with a long, considering look. 'You did well, djinni,' she says. 'It pleases me to reward you.' With a couple of clicks of her fingers she jerks two of the women at the side of the chamber from their knees. 'You two: see to his pleasure.'

I'm taken aback, but far from dismayed. The young women are curvaceous of body and beautiful of face, and they advance toward me with rapidly rising and falling breasts, bright-eyed but gratifyingly nervous.

'It would help, djinni,' says the queen in a dry voice, 'if you were to assume the size of a mortal man.'

I comply, shrinking my towering form down from the ceiling, until I am only the size of a very large man. The two handmaidens kneel before me on the cushioned floor, and reach for my hidden weapon, wetting their lips as they tug at my clothes. They are eager to obey their queen, I note, approving.

'Do not hurt them, djinni,' Bilqis adds as an afterthought.

I bare my sharp teeth in a grin at her. But I clasp my wrists at the small of my back, safely out of the way.

Then the handmaids lay hold of their prize; one cupping my big balls, the other stroking my thick shaft. Both of them vie for the right to suck my glans, and most stimulating it is to watch them fight for the honour; their lips wrestling over the crown of my manhood, their tongues lashing and sliding over the veined pillar of my magnificence. Teasing fingers stroke my balls and the skin behind. I let out a groan of appreciation. These two are not ignorant of the bodies of men, clearly.

And it is so long since I have known carnal pleasure. Years now, trapped in that lamp. My sap rises swiftly. I look up from the two bobbing heads at my crotch, just to distance myself and prolong the delight, but the broader view does not provide distraction. Every woman in that room is watching me, looking at my body and my cock and their two sisters sucking and slurping at it. Their eyes are wide, drinking in the sight. Their full, moist lips are parted. Their soft breasts heave with each breath they take. Some look entranced; some wary; some hungry. Even the queen herself wears a faint smile, though the maid she is suckling at her breasts is kissing with such vigour that Bilqis' expression appears somewhat unfocused.

My bow is at full stretch, straining for release. I can feel my balls tighten, their hot wet burden ready to be spilled. My thighs are so taut they tremble. I look down once more and see my two handmaidens are taking it in turn to run their tongues up the length of my cock, swallow the head, suck it lovingly, and then let it go just in time for the other girl to engulf.

'Yes, oh yes,' I growl, fire swimming in my veins. 'That is right, you Whores of the Earth! This is your place, all of you!'

'Stop,' says Bilqis sharply.

In an instant the two girls draw away, leaving my cock standing bereft and waving wetly. My vision swims. I can feel the flame burning in my blood turn to pain. I can feel my balls clenching. I turn to the queen, with a snarl.

'I give, and I take away,' Bilqis says, brushing the girl from her as she stands. The queen has a wrathful glitter in her eye. 'Get back into your Lamp, djinni.'

I have no choice but to obey.

Buy Underworlds at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play

Wednesday, 11 April 2018

Green Man Date ftw!

Last year one of the things I did for the first time in my life was Help Make a Porno - and now it's going to be released upon the world!

Green Man Date, an Arthurian tale set on the wooded isle of Avalon, starring Fauni Cate and Charlie Forrest, will debut at the London Porn Film Festival on Thursday 12th, as part of their "Local Heroes" lineup. Tickets are already sold out!

And no, I don't appear in the movie, but you can hear me and Mr Ashbless singing on the soundtrack, and my wood does appear, a lot (along with others' wood, ahem) ... and it looks suitably fabulous and magical. But viewers will just have to imagine the overpowering smell of wild garlic for themselves 😁

Monday, 9 April 2018

Blue Monday: S. Nano guests

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest author is S. Nano with a treat from his new novel La Contessa:

The most decadent city… The most perverted mistress…

Renowned for her beauty and cruelty, La Contessa’s reputation as a dominatrix is well established. And eighteenth century Venice has degenerated into a decadent and lascivious city, the perfect backdrop for her to play-out her debauched games and political ambitions.

She sends her maid, Julia, into the alleyways to search for a young man to act as her slave. Julia finds Roberto prostituting himself in the least salubrious district of Venice. He enters into La Contessa’s service to perform her bizarre and sadistic scenes.

From their first meeting there is a mutual attraction between maid and servant. The young couple engineer a series of sexual encounters, knowing the risks should their mistress discover them. Their situation is complicated when La Contessa rescues Becky and brings her to the palazzo as her submissive girl-slave. The interloper exposes Julia’s jealousies… and the feelings for her mistress.

How long can Roberto and Julia keep their love secret? Will Becky’s presence thwart their relationship? Will La Contessa’s scheming bring her the richest prize in all Venice?

All is resolved before the grand ball and masked, BDSM orgy held by La Contessa in her palazzo as the climax to Venice’s Carnivale.

In this scene from the book La Contessa recreates Italian Commedia Dell’Arte theatre using her servants as ‘human puppets’. The Commedia Dell’Arte was popular in 18th century Venice and typically included masked characters and stock roles such as the lovers (amorosi), the clown (zanni) and the master or old man (vecchi), as seen in this extract. La Contessa adds an erotic and bdsm twist to her version of the theatre! 

From the other side of the curtain I hear La Contessa’s voice, muffled by the barrier of thick velvet.

“Welcome to my theatre. I have laid on a special puppet show for you. This is a tale of two lovers, and the vicissitudes they encounter in pursuit of their love in the face of a cruel guardian.”

There’s polite applause as the curtain rises.

I’ve a moment to take in my surroundings. The theatre is magnificent. Its façade is decorated in rich reds and gilded wood in baroque style. Fixed to the top corners are two solid-gold masks modelled on Greek theatre depicting comedy and tragedy. Smaller golden masks with various dramatic expressions: joy, sorrow, anger, quizzical and confused, cover the columns of the theatre. I take a peek at the audience arraigned in rows on luxurious, velvet-covered seats. At the centre of the front row in pride of place are La Contessa with an expectant and mischievous smile, her breasts bursting out of her dazzling, indigo gown, and her principal guest, the Archbishop, looking thoroughly miserable and uncomfortable.

I feel the tug of the wires pulling me around. It’s a strange sensation, one of being led rather than a complete loss of control. Whilst the wires direct my movement, I have to relax my whole body to allow them to do their work, creating the impression of being manipulated by the puppeteers to the audience. My actions are jerky and quirky as you’d expect with a real puppet.

I find myself facing Becky. My arm is raised and lifts up to touch her cheek. My hands are pushed down to brush against her shiny silk robe. The touch of the sleek silk is exquisite. As my hands are directed to run over her breasts, I finger the hardness of her nipples pulling against the tight material. I hear Becky gasp. Our roles are meant to be played out in silence, but it’s a barely audible expression of her arousal the audience can’t hear. And I’m turned on too. My cock instantly swells until it presses against the sensuous silk. Surely the audience must be able to see my cock tugging at the robe as it becomes erect?

The puppeteers raise Becky’s hands to make them run against my robe. I hadn’t noticed how erotic the silk was to touch when I put it on as I was focused on getting ready. But now, with the girl’s fingers running across the silken material, the sensation is erotically mind-blowing, especially as her fingers stretch towards my groin and touch my hard cock through the silk. I sense the anticipation in the audience as they watch the display of fondling, and the erotic tension building up between us.

The puppeteers execute a swift manoeuvre so the next thing I’m aware of is my arms being wrapped around Becky, and hers around mine as the wires thrust us together. I feel the pulse of her heart racing with sexual excitement as her breasts press against my chest. Then the wires gradually pull our faces together until our masks touch. Through the holes in the masks our lips brush against each other’s. Her tongue reaches out into my mouth, and we kiss through the masks. On her lips I taste the sweet malvasie wine she drank before the show to calm her nerves. I wonder what Julia is thinking. I haven’t seen her costume yet, but I know she’ll be waiting in the wings watching every moment.

The masks part, and our bodies are twisted around by the stiff cords to face the audience. I watch as the ingenious arrangement of wires allows Becky’s robe to slip from her body into a crumpled heap on the floor. There is a collective gasp from the audience as La Contessa’s slave girl is revealed, standing naked, waves of blonde hair tumbling over her bare shoulders with only the mask of the inamorati to cover her face.

There is a tug on the wires securing my robe and I realise the costume is cleverly designed to split into parts so the puppet wires don’t impede the silk’s stately progress as it slides over my flesh. There’s one anxious moment when the robe snags on my erect cock, and the puppeteer has to jerk a wire so it can slip onto the stage. There’s another gasp as my hard-on is shown to the audience. Through the eye-holes in the mask, I see Lady Rudston swooning into a faint. Now, I’m not one to boast… well no, that’s not true! I know my cock is a great asset, and when it’s fully erect, as now, standing out proud, thick, and hard, I know it’s a magnificent tool. Far from being embarrassed at having my cock exposed to a crowd, I revel in it, and get turned on by it.

So the scene is set. The two inamorati stand naked on the stage. The audience is expectant, waiting to see if their love for each other will be consummated. The wires push Becky onto the floor so she’s on all fours. One jerks her bottom up into the air, her cunt lips hanging there waiting to be penetrated. The puppeteers tug at the wires to pull me onto my knees and pull my arms forward under Becky so I can grasp her tits. My penis hovers tantalisingly over her crack. The puppeteers use the wire secured to my erection to adjust the angle of my cock. It’s a manoeuvre requiring deft skill and precision. If the slant of my cock is only a fraction out, then my penis will miss its target. Vincenzo has trained his performers well. My cock probes the entrance to Becky’s vagina, and at just the right moment I’ve the freedom of movement to push my member inside her. Her cunt tightens around my cock, and then I thrust into her harder, taking her doggy style before the assembled guests. I warm to my task. The movement of the wires guides me, but I can add my own force to it. What the audience see, to their delight, is one puppet fucking another.

As I push myself into Becky, my thoughts turn to Julia. Although she claims she’s not jealous of the girl, it must be hard for her to see her lover fucking another woman in such a public spectacle.
Whilst I pump my cock into Becky trying to hold back from coming inside her, I hear a splutter of laughter. I should explain that the set is designed in the style of an Italianate garden, and at the back of the stage is a row of bushes. As I glance out the corner of one eye, I realise the audience is amused at the antics of Julia. She’s dressed as the zanni, a clown in a harlequin suit of blue, red, and yellow triangles, white stockings, a tall white hat, and a white mask with a shocked expression. I must say she looks great in the part and, I have to hand it to her, whatever her misgivings, she’s entering into it with gusto. She’s hiding behind a bush spying on us, and then every so often, indeed in time with my fucking motions, her head pops out from above the bush. Then she dances behind another bush and sticks her head out from its side each time my cock thrusts into Becky’s cunt. We have to pretend we haven’t seen her and carry on with our lovemaking, regardless of the zanni’s antics at the rear of the stage.

La Contessa loves it. She’s laughing, as are her guests, except for the Archbishop who sits there po-faced. At one point Julia does cartwheels to the front of the stage jumps up, points at us feigning shock, and then runs out to stage left. We continue our fucking throughout her performance. Becky rolls her backside into me and, as my cock pushes into her, she emits quiet grunts. We aren’t meant to climax, but it’s obvious we are both turned on. It’s an effort for me to hold back from ejaculating, and poor Becky is straining her whole body to prevent herself from collapsing into orgasm.

Relief comes with appearance of Lucio dressed as the vecchi, the girl’s cruel guardian. He’s dressed in tunic, stockings, tri-cornered cap, and mask, all in black. Vincenzo has gone to town with the mask. It’s black with a bulbous nose and decorated with lines and huge warts. He’s made to look incredibly ugly. I should add that he’s carrying a fearsome whip with leather thongs in his hand. Julia, who has gone to her master to report what she’s seen in the garden, is bouncing up and down excitably pointing at us whilst we carry on screwing.

Lucio marches forward, grabs my ponytail, pulls me out of Becky and throws me to the ground. Becky’s juices on my cock glisten in the glow of the candles used to light the stage. The vecchi places a few carefully aimed strokes with the whip across my backside. They sting. Old Lucio, who out of the staff, has never particularly taken to me, uses his mistress’s puppet show as an opportunity to vent his hostility with a severe whipping. My arse is smarting, and I can feel the welts swelling up out of my flesh.

Buy La Contessa at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes and Noble

S. Nano is a writer of erotic stories with dark and exotic content in fantasy or historical settings drawing on the themes of female domination, BDSM and fetish but often with a seam of quirky humour running through them.

‘La Contessa’ is his third full length novel. ‘Adventures in Fetishland’, a BDSM/fetish re-invention of the classic Alice stories was published by Xcite Books and ‘Mistress of the Air’, a comic, Steampunk, erotic adventure was also published by eXcessica. His novellas and short stories have been published by Xcite Books, House of Erotica, Forbidden Fiction, Coming Together and Greenwoman Publishing.

He is a regular participant in reading slams at ‘Smut by the Sea’ and similar events in the UK, contributing a workshop ‘Kinking Up the Past’, on getting inspiration for erotic stories in historical settings.

Author website
Author Facebook page

Saturday, 7 April 2018

The oldest vulva in all the land

Last weekend, on a gloomy Easter Sunday, we visited Cresswell Crags, which is a very weird rift valley on the border between Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. The cliff walls on both sides are riddled with caves that have been used by humans since the Ice Age, when this marked the northernmost habitable point for stone-age nomadic hunters. They've found the remains of hyenas, woolly rhinos, bison and others.

In 2003 they discovered prehistoric cave-art here - the only authenticated cave-art in Britain, and the most northerly in Europe. It's around 13,000 years old!

It's also incredibly difficult to spot. Here's what the bison carving is supposed to look like - and my movie of the guide outlining it with a laser point:

Here's an antlered deer, much overlaid by other graffiti:

from the Stone Circles Website

Can you spot it? The red laser dot is on the eye:

The most obvious piece is an ibis bird (carved from memory - they didn't come this far north even in summer)


And, to my infinite delight, this triangle below is coyly described as a "womb" symbol - it's the OLDEST DEPICTION OF FEMALE GENITALIA IN THE COUNTRY 💖💖💖

"One for the wank-bank"

Wednesday, 4 April 2018

Princess power

Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale: The Ugly Princess (1902)
Princesses: Why do they have to be beautiful?

Do they have to be anything but beautiful?

Why do we tell stories about them at all? In an egalitarian era, what exactly is our interest in the well-born and talentless? And why do we insist on filling childrens' heads in particular with these lazy, outdated, regressive tropes?

Can you tell I'm in a combatative mood? 😛

The subject is on my mind because Charlotte Bond, horror and fantasy writer, has been asking various authors about their princess-related thoughts for her blog. Here are my answers to her questions...

Margaery was hot though

Monday, 2 April 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

This week - for reasons to be revealed later - I have princesses on my mind, so today's snippet is from the short story Captive Audience, which appeared in my first collection, Cruel Enchantment. Princess Flower of Jade has made her magical golems seize and bind Petrus, a handsome thief who unwisely broke into her bedroom. By the third day she is close to breaking him...

She grabbed his head and tilted his face up to look at her, stilling him. "Petrus," she murmured. "Do you love me, my slave?"

Eyes hooding, he pulled away from her -- though his cock stood like an obelisk; a monument to the tyranny of his lust.

She sloughed the silken robe and stood naked in front of him. "You're the first man to see me, Petrus," she told him. "Can you believe that? The first man I have ever touched. The first ever allowed to touch me."

He laughed in disbelief, so she stooped to bite his lips softly. They tasted of honey. He writhed under her, hot and afraid.

"I'm telling the truth." She posed for him, running her hands up her honey-smeared body and lifting her breasts in crushing, clawing fingers. "I am an imperial princess. I have never seen a man's body. Never had a hard, salty prick pushed between my legs. I am protected. Cosseted. Indulged. But nothing relieves my curiosity. I have made do for years with tickling and dreams and frigging. Even Animus -- " she jerked her head derisively at the caryatid "-- cannot do for me what the filthiest street-sweeper can do for the lowest slut in the bakery. He was cast to look like he has a member, but it is a fake, a blob of metal; it cannot rise to the occasion. Do you know how I feel, Petrus? I am burning with inquiry. I want to find out what a man can do. I am sick of ignorance. If I am to be Empress, then I have to know everything. And you are my instrument, Petrus." She giggled, her breasts quivering.

"I will fuck you till you scream, bitch," he promised.

"No." Jade froze, her hand in her midnight hair now, her flushed breasts titled high, her sapphire eyes aglow. "You will not fuck me, you filthy gutter-crawling thief. You common little piece of shit. You will not fuck me. You will beg me to fuck you."

And Petrus could not reply.

Jade grew straight and proud and cool once more. "Let mi show you, Petrus, how I pleasure myself. Would you like to see that? Because I can keep you chained forever, unable to touch yourself. I can make you watch me grind myself into exhaustion, if I like. Would you like to see me play with myself?"

He said nothing , but his eyes burned and his cock surged like a chained dog.

"I like to use a candle." She surveyed the  ranks of fragrant incandescent columns that filled every ledge and surface in the room. "At first it had to be a narrow, smooth taper. But now I like something a little more substantial. Like this."

She chose a waxen pillar and carried it over, still burning, to Petrus. The candle was as thick as his turgid cock and had been moulded with a pattern of flowers, such as would enhance a lady's bedchamber. Since it had only recently been lit, the head was still domed and convex, the wick rising from a little pool of molten wax.

"Would you like to watch me use this?" Jade breathed. "You must be brave." And she tilted the candle over his chest. Hot wax dribbled down on to his nipples, causing him to flinch and shudder -- but he refused to cry out. Jade purred with pleasure and brushed the congealed dribbles from his reddened skin. Then she snuffed out the flame by pressing the wick to the sweat-sheened skin over his navel.

Still he only flinched.

"Now," she whispered, smoothing the wick down into the soft wax. She rubbed the lumpy shaft against Petrus's own teasingly, but not for long. Just enough for him to feel its rigidity.

There was a single piece of furniture in the the chamber; a carved rosewood bench. She went over to it now and perched on the edge, her thighs spread so that Petrus could get a clear view. Gazing  directly at him, she rubbed the still-warm tip of the candle against her plump pink sex lips, using the unyielding object to probe between them and open herself up. The candle sank rapidly into the hot depths that awaited it. She began to draw it in and out, rubbing the thick ridges of the decorative moulding against her inner folds. The pleasure of the physical sensation was indescribably enhanced, for her, by the sight of Petrus with his whole agonised attention fixed on the inches of thick wax disappearing into, and then reappearing from, her stretched sex. She let herself whimper with excitement. She could see the sweat gleaming all over him, and his cock jerking with frustration. With her free hand she groped at her own right breast, but she could not divide her attention for long. As the stabs of pleasure grew ever more demanding within her, she raised one foot onto the bench and lay back, both hands reach down between her legs to grip the base of the shaft and pump it harder and deeeper into her hot, wet hole. Petrus made a strangled, inarticulate noise.

Then she came, her voice drowning out his.

Buy Cruel Enchantment at:
Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Google Play
Apple iTunes
Audible audiobook
iTunes audiobook

Friday, 30 March 2018

Haunted land

This week I discovered this place, ten minutes from my house.

It's a huge community woodland. The paths go on and on for miles of fabulous walking...

The thing is, this is post-industrial landscape. This entire site used to be a colliery and those hills were its slag-heaps. Like so many of the pits in this country it was, despite huge opposition, mothballed. I'm old enough to remember the year-long Miners' Strike in 1984-5, with the incredible deprivation it caused and the pitched battles between police and protesters. The strikers were eventually starved back to work, the coal industry was privatised and one by one the pits were closed - this one in 1994. It must have torn the heart out of the community.

I think the place is beautiful, but I imagine many local people have very different feelings.

There's a brilliant article here about the long (and currently resurgent) British tradition of ghost stories rooted in the specific eerieness of the countryside: so-called Folk Horror. And it persuasively ascribes this feeling of unease to landscapes of social conflict, class oppression, and capitalist exploitation.

If that's true, then this park must be haunted as fuck.

No wonder there's a sign at the gate telling you:

Monday, 26 March 2018

Blue Monday: Kryssie Fortune guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest author is Kryssie Fortune, with an excerpt from her dark Regency BDSM romance, Wickedly Used:

Though she is due to inherit one of the largest fortunes in England, the fact that she cannot touch the money until she marries or turns thirty has kept Elizabeth completely at the mercy of her cruel uncle, and for years she has been treated as if she were a servant. Her encounter with Lord Rothbury is by far the most exciting thing that has ever happened to her, but while he shows great concern for her safety, he refuses to believe that she is anything more than a serving girl.

Despite having made it clear that he doesn’t consider a match between them to be possible, when Elizabeth disobeys him Rothbury proves more than ready to strip her bare, punish her harshly, and then enjoy her beautiful body in the most shameful of ways. But can she dare to hope that he will one day make her his wife, or is she destined to spend her life being wickedly used?

He dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “You have this naïve idea that no one will hurt you. This far in the forest, I could take you so hard you screamed. None of the washerwomen by the river would be any the wiser. What if I’d been like those soldiers who kidnapped you?”

Her smile was temptation and sin. “You’re nothing like them. But so hard I screamed? Do it. Let’s have one last hurrah before we part.”

His shaft jerked in her hands. His smile widened into a grin, and he rolled away from her. Taking her hands, he pulled her upright and moved her to a waist-high boulder at the edge of the clearing. “Rest your elbows on there.”

Her puzzled look enchanted him as much as her innocence. He loved the way she only turned wicked and wanton around him. Slowly, she bent at the waist and did as he bid. Standing behind her, he bunched her gown around her waist. Looking at her—head down, bare bottom protruding—made him groan. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

She whimpered when he reached around her and pinched her nipples. Her rounded behind tempted and tormented him. He stroked his hand over it before giving it a light smack. “Don’t run from me. Ever.”

She stared at him over her shoulder. “I knew what would happen if I stayed.”

His grin turned mischievous. “It’s going to happen anyway. You’re irresistible. Damn it, woman, you drive me crazy, but what the hell were you doing, running into a forest? After the way those troopers manhandled you, you should know better.”

The atmosphere sizzled with their combined need. She gave him a saucy look that set his libido roaring. He wanted her, but he needed to teach her to take care of herself first. Beth took too many risks and put herself in danger. If anything happened to her, it would kill him. He pulled the belt from his trousers. “You need to learn some sense.”

Her smile faded when she realized his intention. He placed one hand on the small of her back when she tried to stand. “Move and I’ll double your punishment.”

He brought his belt down hard, hitting the rock beside her face. She flinched and closed her eyes. He pulled back and she heard the belt swish through the air. The leather landed on her bare butt with a crack.

She yelped and shot upright. Her hands rubbed her bottom. “Ouch. That hurt.”

He pushed her back down and admired the wide red stripe that decorated her bottom. “It was meant to. Move your hands. I don’t want to break your fingers. No more putting yourself at risk. Understand?”

She ran the back of one hand over her eyes and blinked hard. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

He stroked his hand over her behind then reached around her and pinched her clit. “I’m going to make your behind so tender that you’ll remember for days.”

She sniffed, folded her hands on the rock, and rested her head on them. “How many strokes?”

The rounded globes of her bottom temped and bewitched him. The way she accepted his dominance and discipline thrilled him. After he’d finished reminding her to take care of herself, he’d fulfill her sensual needs. She shuddered and gave a needy moan when he ran his hand down her cleft. “Nine more.”

She trembled at his touch. “I’ll need something to bite on.”

He found a stick as thick as his wrist and wrapped his handkerchief around it. A moment later he slid it between her lips and bound it in place. Stepping back, he brought the belt down on her already sore behind. She screamed behind her makeshift gag.

His next stroke hit lower, turning the tops of her thighs red. Again, she screamed. He waited for her to catch her breath then struck her again. The belt landed higher this time, slapping against the top of her butt cheeks. He worked his way down her bottom. The belt struck in a different place each time and turned her behind as red as a guardsman’s jacket. Each time it whipped at her flesh, she yelped, but her makeshift gag muffled the sound. When he stared at her feminine folds, they dripped with cum.

Once he reached the tops of her thighs, he worked his way back up her bottom. Each stinging bite of his belt against her already sore flesh hurt more. Tears poured down her cheeks. One final slap of leather against her red flesh, and he was done. “Punishment over, but put yourself at risk again and I promise you won’t be able to sit down for at least a fortnight.”

She nodded and relaxed against the rock. Since she made no attempt to remove the gag, he left it in place and dropped his trousers around his ankles. Shuffling closer, he pressed his thighs against the back of her legs. He leaned over her, surrounding her torso with his as he kissed the back of her neck. She sighed and pushed her bottom into his crotch. With a delighted chuckle, he thrust balls-deep inside her.

Around them, birds chorused the dawn and small animals rustled through the trees. Rothbury moved in an animalistic rhythm, his bare thighs slapping against hers. One final push and she came with a muffled scream. Her juices spilled over his cock and onto her thighs. Some smeared the rock she leaned against. She shuddered and cried out as she orgasmed. Again, the gag swallowed the sound.

Once he’d milked every drop of cum from her, he pulled out. Sperm arced from his cock, spraying the ground with streams of milky liquid. Panting hard, he pulled up his trousers and released the makeshift gag. Her eyes were heavy-lidded when he gathered her in his arms. He kissed her as if there was no tomorrow.

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Kryssie Fortune reads everything and anything, from literary fiction to sizzling romance. Her earliest memory is going to the library with her mother. She can’t have been more than two at the time. Reading, especially when a book’s hot and explicit, is more than a guilty pleasure. It’s an obsession. 

Kryssie loves to visit historic sites, from Hadrian’s wall to Regency Bath. The first book she fell in love with was Georgette Heyer’s The Unkown Ajax. After that, she devoured every regency book she could. After a while, they went out of fashion, but part of Kryssie’s psyche lives in in in Regency London. She longs to dance quadrilles and flirt behind fans. Of course, Kryssie’s heroines do far more than flirt. 

Kryssie lives in Bridlington on the Yorkshire coast –about thirty miles from Whitby, where Bram Stoker wrote Dracula. She enjoys gardening, travel, and socializing with her author friends. You’d be surprised how many erotic romance authors live in the North of England.

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