Beyond Romance

On the Edge

2012-02-10T04:02:00.003-05:00

By Xan West

I’ve been on a motorcycle once in my life.

I was 17, and for a few minutes, I tasted exhilaration riding on the back of this guy’s bike. Then, my best friend got her turn on the back of the bike, and within moments, they got into an accident, and she was seriously injured. I haven’t been on a bike since.

When an editor asked me to write a biker story for a new gay anthology (Biker Boys) three years ago, I wasn’t sure I could do it. I brainstormed, imagining a bootblack greasing well-worn leathers on the deck of the San Francisco Eagle, envisioning a biker cuffed to his motorcycle getting fucked. In the end, I couldn’t deepen those characters and make them real, bring them from jack-off archetype to complex humanity.

I set them aside to go for what I knew. I couldn’t tell a story about bikers that didn’t have something broken in it, that wasn’t touched by trauma. Because my relationship with motorcycles is steeped in it. So I went in another direction. I went into the trauma. This would be the latest (and most intense) in a line of stories about cathartic play (this line includes “Dancing for Daddy”, “My Will”, “My Precious Whore”, and “Facing the Dark”).

I imagined a long time biker Daddy who didn’t ride anymore, but loved bikes so much that he still worked on them. His last ride ended in an accident, which left him newly disabled. He kept his wrecked bike and used it to make something beautiful, reclaimed it for himself. That was how “Ready” started, with this vision of a wrecked bike reshaped into a sling, one he could tie his boy to, force him to lick chrome as he fucked him on it, and unleash his rage and cruelty, transform them into pleasure.

It was important to me that the first character I wrote with an apparent physical disability was a top. The image of a top in BDSM community is non-disabled; tops are imagined to have immense physical and psychological capacity and stamina, with no pain or needs of their own. This image is destructive and dehumanizing, and fucks with tops like me, who are disabled. I can count on one hand the number of kinky stories I have read where any character is disabled, and cannot think of one where a top is disabled. So I wanted to create a top who was disabled, to include him into the story as an intensely erotic figure, create a counter image.

I want the tops in my stories to have their own wounds and fears. This is something I build in again and again (most notably in “First Time Since”, “Nervous Boy” and “Strong”), partly because it is so rare in kinky fiction. I create mirrors of myself as a top—a complex being with vulnerabilities and strengths, with my own pain to work through and manage. I want readers to contend with that kind of complexity, to see what it might be like to connect with tops in that deep way.

So, the story began with a reclaimed bike-sling and a disabled Daddy bike mechanic. He needed a good match, a boy who brought as much need, woundedness, and baggage as he did. I wanted them to transform pain from the past, together—to reach the intensity and pleasure that can come from facing demons together, from ordeal-based cathartic play. I pictured them both as matched adrenaline junkies going for visceral edgy frightening play that would shift how they saw themselves and each other. I imagined that this Daddy and boy wanted to create a space together where they could touch some of their deepest pain, and ride it through, holding each other, becoming closer in the process. I dreamed up the kind of boy that would ache for this Daddy, and what he needed, the kind of pain and fear he would reach for, the kind of surrender that could be a balm for him.

“Ready” involves core elements of my own eroticism, ones that keep popping up in my erotica: Daddies with filthy mouths, bottoms being pushed to name desires and own queerness, fear, tears, knives, belts, begging bottoms, possessive tops. These elements are there because I find them hot, but there is more to it. They are there to keep me present, and anchor me in my body, my desire. I needed that. Because it hurt to write this. My writing experience mirrored the intensity that electrifies the erotic encounter between these characters. When I was in the middle of it, I wrote this in my journal:

“I am getting this sick feeling in my stomach, the one that comes with impending edgeplay that I'm getting a vibe will be really risky. I have a feeling this story will take a lot out of me, and be really hard to write. Each time I try to decide that I'm going to play it safe, I get nudged that it won't write itself that way. I can tell that this is going to be an ordeal, and I just don't know if I am up to it.

It wants to be written, though. I can feel it coursing through me, aching to be put to the page. Will I do it?”

When I write ordeal stories, they often feel like my own ordeal. Part of what fuels my work is breathing through fear and pain of my own. This story is a perfect example of that. I dared myself to do it, pushed myself as hard as the boy in the story was being pushed by his Daddy. And I made it through to the other side.

When I saw the call for Coming Together: In Flux, I knew that this story was a match—it has transformation at its core. I am honored to have it included, and to contribute to a book raising money for the Woodhull Foundation.

Here is a taste of “Ready”, which was printed in Coming Together: In Flux:

Daddy said I was ready for this. I trusted him, and yet…I didn’t feel ready. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel ready. But I showed up anyway, knowing that part of what would get me through it was obedience, choosing to give myself to his will.

Some scenes change you. Sometimes you don’t know they will until they have. Sometimes you can tell beforehand. I knew I would walk out changed that night. If I could just get through it. I could taste self-doubt in the back of my throat as I approached the garage. Could I do this, for real?

I was dressed as he told me to be, in my father’s old clothes, a worn pair of boots that used to be his, which I had painstakingly restored, his old jeans, the belt that he had left hanging on the wall, and his old Harley t-shirt, faded and worn until it was a soft whisper of comfort on my skin. When my father left us, I pulled his belt off the wall, grabbed his old boots that he had left in the back of the closet, and went searching through the laundry for his clothes. I can still hear the sound of his Harley driving away, can still see his long hair streaming behind him. I slept holding his clothes for six months; when I turned 13 I hid them away until I was old enough to wear them.

I wore only my father’s clothes that night, because that was what Daddy asked me to do. I tried to stand tall and stop trembling as I stood in front of him in them. Daddy walked slowly around me, and the sound of his uneven gait on the concrete calmed me in its familiarity. His hand snaked out and unbuckled my belt, whipping it from my jeans, and he wrapped it around my wrists and forearms, securing me. I began to breathe, slow and even, my father’s belt wrapped around me. Daddy knew exactly how to calm me, and how to scare me, he made a delicious dance of it, and that dance was just beginning.

Daddy shoved me onto a chair, and attached the belt to it. There is nothing that feels safer to me than bondage. Even if the rest is scary, if I concentrate on the sensation of being bound, I can make my way through it.

Daddy was looming over me, his large belly brushing against my head. He smelled so good, a musky sweaty scent mixed with oil and metal. That smell alone gets my dick hard, the smell that tells me a man has been working hard on a bike. It was clear he had; he was dirty as only a mechanic can get dirty, and I ached to suck the grease off his thick fingers.

Sometimes I think about Daddy and get so giddy knowing that I get to be his boy, that a scrawny faggot like me is lucky enough to be claimed by this big tough bear of a man. This was one of those times, as he rested a paw on my head and pressed my mouth against his stomach. Daddy was big enough to keep me safe, strong enough to hold all of me, cruel enough to give me exactly what I needed, and scary enough to keep me coming back for more.

At the moment when I relaxed into feeling safe, I heard it. That unmistakable buzzing noise that only clippers produce. I swallowed, lifted my eyes to his, and began begging.

“Please Daddy. No, please don’t do this. I can’t take it Daddy.”

I began to shake my head, frantic, until his grip tightened in my hair. I stared up at him, whimpering softly.

“You have to let go, boy. It’s time. You are carrying so much in your hair, boy. I know it’s hard; you’ve been growing it since your father left. But it’s time to let go of it. Ten years is long enough.”

“I don’t think I can do it, Daddy.”

“You are ready, boy. And I’m right here with you. Daddy’s right here. He’s not going anywhere. You can do this.”

I took a deep breath, staring into his eyes. They were resolute. He was not going to let me get out of this without safewording.

“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.

The buzzing against my head was all I could hear as my hair began to fall. His hand was gripped in my hair tightly, holding me still, the clippers moving firmly across my scalp, as tears rolled down my face. I could feel his dick pressed against my neck, and then he moved around me, resting his knee on my cock as he pressed into me, shaving the front of my head. I sobbed into his belly, gripping him tightly, overwhelmed. It seemed like it was excruciatingly slow, and I closed my eyes tight, willing myself to breathe through it, trembling. Finally it stopped. Daddy ran his hand along my head, and groaned.

“You feel so good, boy.”

He pulled out his dick, and began rubbing it all over my head, growling.

“Damn, boy, you sure do get me hard. Just feeling that stubble against my dick makes me want to shoot.”

Then Daddy rubbed his cock against my cheeks, soaking in my tears.

“That’s my good boy. Get my dick wet with your tears.”

He moved behind me, and forced my head down, covering my mouth and nose with his greasy hand, taking my breath, as he thrust his dick along my head, groaning. My heart started racing. My head was filled with the scent of motor oil. I was trembling, desperate to please Daddy, struggling to breathe. He growled as he came, his cum drooling onto my face, covering my head, and then he released my breath.

“Thank you, Daddy,” escaped my lips within seconds. It felt so right to say it.

There was a click by my ear, and I went still. I knew that noise. It was Daddy’s knife. It touched my lips, and they pursed to kiss the blade. Then I felt cold steel against my throat. My eyes were blurry, my head full of fog, and I was frozen.

“Time to let go, boy.”

Bio and Links:

Xan West is the nom de plume of an NYC based BDSM/sex educator and writer. Xan’s story “First Time Since”, won honorable mention for the 2008 National Leather Association’s John Preston Short Fiction Award. Xan's erotica can be found in Best SM Erotica 2 & 3, Hurts So Good, Love at First Sting, Best Women’s Erotica 2008 & 2009, Best Gay Erotica 2009, Best Lesbian Erotica 2011 & 2012, and Hot Daddies.

Blog: http://tgstonebutch.livejournal.com/

Twitter: http://twitter.com/TGStoneButch

Tumblr: http://tgstonebutch.tumblr.com/

I Like It Like That!

2012-02-09T04:02:00.000-05:00

By Gia Blue

Yeah, baby... Come on, you know you’re shaking it with me, right?

No? *sniffle* Fine.

But, if you’ve read my stuff, I DO like it like that. I like it naughty and taboo and especially...for charity. Yeah, didn’t think I’d say that, did you?

I admit, I love writing sexual scenarios that can make some people cringe and others squirm in their seats. When I first heard about Coming Together, I knew I had to join their ranks. If they’d have me. ;)

Luckily, Alessia Brio saw through my writing mistakes to the genius that is Gia Blue. She also has a wonderful editor, Will Belegon.

And ABOVE all of that, they donate the proceeds from Tabooty works to the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom, an organization that fights for our rights to get freaky in the bedroom and retain our privacy in addition to educating law enforcement officials about the communities they represent.

Plus, Amazon totally kicked incest topics to the curb and this line is a quiet “Pft!” at them.

But the focus is on the charity guys! Go protecting our rights to tie each other up and spank her ‘til her bottom’s red! Or him. Because manlove is totally hot.

*ahem*

But in all seriousness, Coming Together has done amazing work, has attracted fabulous authors and donated thousands of dollars to various charities over the years. From the ACLU to the Woodhull Freedom Foundation, the authors and Coming Together have donated more than just money, they’ve donated their blood, sweat and tears for their various causes. And ink...can’t forget the ink.

So, in hopes that you’ll support *my* cause, here’s a brief excerpt from my short story Tabooty: Bad for Daddy .

**********************

"Come on, Jake. Let me audition at least, and then you can decide. I promise I'm good. Really, really good."

"I can't watch one of my daugh-"

"But I'm not." I cut him off and hop onto the stage. I'm not taking no for an answer. "Turn on the music and you'll see. I swear."

I bust out with my signature "I swear" just for him. I'd "sworn" about everything when I'd lived with him and Betty. Only, Betty never believed me. Jake always did.

He sighs heavy and I've got him. Boo-yeah. He glares at me, but moves to the wall with the sound system controls, flips a switch and a sensuous beat fills the room. It's not what I'd perform to if I was on stage, but strippers are also dancers and I need to learn how to adapt.

I listen for a moment before I move. I've got to mix in stripping off clothes with the pole, a flick and tug of cloth, a seductive smile, sliding the cotton from my shoulders to reveal my tiny bikini top beneath. It barely constrains my breasts, flesh spilling from the sides. I cup my tits for a brief moment and then swing around the metal, show off my assets. On every turn I make eye contact, lick my lips, wink…something to entice him.

I slow and then stop to peel off another layer, tiny skirt disappearing, leaving me in nothing but a thong and the top. Down to the basics, I focus on my dancing, lean against the pole and touch myself, my breasts, between my thighs.

My gaze is still on him, on his cloth encased legs spread wide as he slumps in his chair, on the way his t-shirt clings to his muscled chest and the rapid rise and fall as his rate of breathing increases. Yeah, he's affected.

I spin and my top is next, strings snapping, and my tits are covered by my hands alone. I knead and toy with them, nibble my lower lip and I don't have to fake the pleasure I feel.

God, I've had a crush on Jake for forever. My first tingle of arousal at thirteen was to the thought of him. What I'm feeling now is way beyond a tingle. My pussy aches and tightens, grows heavy and I know I'm soaking the bit of cloth between my thighs. Prepping me for being fucked.

Then again, I've never been fucked, so I'm just guessing. Yeah, virgin, stripper, whore.

I reveal my breasts, watch him lick his lips, and I continue my visual foreplay, dance and gyrate, tempt and tease. The music moves me, tugs and pulls my body this way and that.

I moan, hands wandering over my heated skin, touching those delicate, pleasure-inducing places. I want so damn bad.

I put a hand between my legs, stroke my folds, pretend I'm masturbating…thing is, I really am. I'm really teasing my clit beneath my thong, toying with the nub while I pinch my nipple and bring my arousal higher.

More and more I'm giving myself, lost in the dance and Jake's gaze.

"That's enough."

I open my eyes, surprised, and a little pissed, that my orgasm was snatched from me. Damn it. I pull my hands from their playgrounds and work hard not to glare at him.

"I can't hir—"

"I didn't show you my lap dance." I'm determined. At worst, I don't get hired. But at least I'll get to touch him as an adult, feel him at least once and get him the fuck out of my system.

"Holly…"

"Just one dance, Daddy," I drop my voice to a purr. "And then I'll go."

**********************

Oh, by the way - I'm giving away a $25 gift certificate to All Romance Ebooks to one person who comments. You can buy a lot of dirty books with that amount - and support a lot of good causes! (Don't forget to include your email address in your comment!)

BIO: Gia Blue writes smut because she's been cursed with an unbelievably dirty mind. Every erotic thought has her putting pen to paper and then releasing the stories to all of the naughty people in the world. A self-proclaimed whore, nympho and ex-stripper now that she's traded her pole for a Mac. She's embarked on an important mission to convert everyone who reads her books into jolly, one-handed readers. She'd shake your hand, but it looks like you're busy.

For two FREE short stories, join Gia's mailing list! http://giablue.com/freemailinglist/

Sex, Humor and Oysters

2012-02-08T04:02:00.000-05:00

By Sacchi Green

My story for Coming Together is in Coming Together: At Last, Volume 2, with a multi-racial theme. Amnesty International gets the proceeds from this anthology. “Seafood Cocktail” was written quite a while ago (before my muse turned almost entirely toward the Sapphic side of the Force) and appeared originally in Wet: More Aqua Erotica, edited by Mary Ann Mohanraj.

Writing this particular story was almost as much fun as watching people’s reactions when I’ve read it aloud. Humor and sex may seem to make strange bedfellows, but who doesn’t enjoy a strange bedfellow now and then? I even got an offer from a “book packager” on the basis of this story, but what they wanted me to write was a humorous kinky book (because they’d decided Kinky was in fashion) using their own exact plot and structure and characters and a corporate setting, all of which were so completely stupid and trite and clueless, especially regarding BDSM, that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just as well, since that outfit later got into big legal trouble over plagiarism.

The above-mentioned muse has led me not only into writing erotica, but editing, as well, which is one of the reasons (not good enough, I know) that I haven’t contributed more to these wonderful Coming Together anthologies. Fortunately, many better and more prolific writers than I have managed it, and I hope to do better in the future. This is a great cause, providing great reads, and I’m glad to have even a small part in it.

As an added attraction (I hope) to this blog bash, I’m offering a free book drawing for the winner’s choice of any one of the anthologies I’ve edited for Cleis Press, or the collection of my own work from Lethe Press. Just comment here, and I’ll draw a name from among you at the end of the month. I’ll announce the winner on my Facebook page and my own blog (see my bio below.)

Here’s the list you get to choose from:

Girl Crazy: Coming Out Erotica (Cleis Press)

Lesbian Cowboys: Erotic Adventures (Cleis Press)

Lesbian Lust: Erotic Stories (Cleis Press)

Lesbian Cops: Erotic Investigations (Cleis Press)

Girl Fever: 69 Stories of Sudden Sex for Lesbians (Cleis Press, due out in June.)

A Ride to Remember (Lethe Press) (a collection of my own work)

Now we get to the fun part. Here’s my excerpt from “Seafood Cocktail,” just about the middle half of the story. Max, whose skin, when wet, gleams “like polished rosewood,” and light-skinned Lexie, have been genuinely marooned on an island by a storm while filming the survivor-type “reality” show “Marooned!”

…

I swam out until the water was smooth enough for me to float on my back. Images of last night’s chaotic storm coiled into and out of each other, like oil on the surface of a whirlpool. The one clear memory was a sexual current intensified by fear. Max and I had huddled through the night under our overturned boat, bodies pressed so tightly together that our clothes, saturated with rain and sweat and seawater, were no barrier to the pounding of each other’s heart.

But Max, in spite of the arousal his wet jeans did little to conceal, had done nothing to take it any further,

I had a pretty good idea why. He had witnessed my girlfriend Tonya’s explicitly steamy farewell at the plane and drawn the obvious conclusion. Tonya had known perfectly well that potential sex was written between the lines of the contract, and she’d still pressured me to sign it. If I could get a bit of notoriety, she figured, we’d have a better chance of getting backers for our films.

Last night, though, while the pounding rain made our shelter into an impenetrable cave, Max’s arms around me and mine around him had seemed absolutely right. The lightning flashes outside had built an electric tension deep inside me until I’d been at the point of of jumping him myself—when he’d started snoring.

Men! But he’d saved my life more than once in the last few hours, Maybe even a time or two more than I’d saved his. Instead of interrupting his exhausted sleep, I’d amused myself with working my hand gently, gently between jeans and skin and teasing his heavy balls and straining cock just lightly enough to make him writhe and groan in his dreams until, ultimately, his pants were soaked with something thicker and sweeter than sea water. All without waking up.

Now I drifted onward in the lagoon, savoring a gentler tension. Unless Max had more reason for resistance than figuring me for a hard-core dyke, being marooned was going to get very interesting, very soon. I swung upright, my toes just touching the sandy bottom. I’d floated close to a tiny islet in the center of the lagoon.

A maze of underwater rocks suggested mysterious, lurking creatures, maybe octopi. I could see, too close to pass up, clusters of what I was pretty sure were oysters. I wished I had pockets; my built-in ones winced at the thought of rough oyster shells, but I dived and grasped a large one in each hand.

Back on the beach I loped up the slope to where Max knelt. He was piling palm fronds under a lean-to built with the boat and some pieces of driftwood.

“Hey Max,” I called as I ran. He turned and got the maximum benefit of my jiggling breasts. It wasn’t wasted on him.

“What’s up?” he said, and turned quickly back. I resisted commenting on the obvious.

“I found an oyster bed out there. Might be a little hard to get down without lemon or Tabasco, but better than starving. And better than the rats they’re eating back at the base.” I tossed my prizes onto the sand.

“I guess,” he said, clearly not really focused on eating of that kind.

I pressed my thigh against his shoulder. “I don’t suppose we’ll be here long enough to starve, anyway. But there are things I’d really, really like to fit in while we’re still here. Alone.”

He’d pulled his shorts back on, but not his shirt. I leaned on his broad back and nuzzled his neck. He knelt, unmoving, supporting my weight, until I began chewing lightly on his muscular shoulders. “Did you know that oysters can switch their sex?” I murmured against his rigid jaw.

“Lexie,” he said, his deep voice getting even deeper, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“If you can’t tell, I must not be doing it right.” I brushed my hardening nipples across his back.

“But I thought…”

“I know what you thought. And I know what you’re thinking now. Drives you crazy, doesn’t it, envisioning what women do with each other.” I reached around to flick his nipples. The sprang to attention. An interesting effect on hard muscle instead of soft curves.

“If it didn’t before, it does now,” he muttered. I worked one hand down inside his jeans, over the bunched muscles of his buttocks and then in between. Suddenly he twisted under me and ended up on his back with me astride. “Damn it, Lexie, you’d better be going somewhere with this!”

There’s something about a deep, deep masculine voice. A woman’s voice can stroke like a warm, wet tongue, but Max’s voice set up reverberations that seemed to liquefy my bones.

“Trust me,” I said. “I never met an erogenous zone I couldn’t appreciate.” I rode the huge bulge in his pants, appreciating the hell out of it. “Check me out, if you need proof.” I lifted myself just enough for his hand to test my natural lube. His digital enthusiasm was touching, if a bit clumsy, but I pursued other interests, sliding backward until I had his zipper far enough open to insert two fingers, then slowly, slowly widening the gap until my whole hand curved around his hot, hard cock, still trapped by the pressure of his belt.

His hips rose, his hands scrabbled at the belt buckle, and I caught the tip of his cock in my mouth as it jerked free. I savored it with just enough in-out action to keep him breathing hard without rushing things. Then I hitched my body along until my knees clutched his hips. My own hips moved as my cunt lips slid back and forth over his swollen, eager cock. Too bad, I thought, that our sense of taste is limited to the mouths we eat with. And a taste was all I was going to get.

“Max,” I said, “you wouldn’t happen to know what the Swiss Family Robinson used for condoms, would you?”

“No, damnit,” he said. “They must have cut that part from the movie to get a “G” rating.”

“Don’t worry.” I played him with my hand, stroking from the root of his balls all the way up along his shaft. “Just lie back and let me run this fuck.”

“You’re the boss,” he said, his voice rising into a gasp. I had pressed my knuckle firmly below his scrotum and was working my thumb back toward his asshole.

“I’ll bet you’d like something really kinky,” I teased, “to tell your grandchildren.”

“I’ll bet you have inside information,” he said, not too steadily, “about what Robinson Crusoe used for sex toys!”

“Is that a challenge?” I watched a gleaming pearl of pre-cum form at the slit in his cock. “If so, I accept.” I yanked the belt from his shorts; he lifted his head in alarm. His expression went from apprehension to horrified awe as I leaned over to grab an oyster.

…

[That’s when things really turn kinky. Wouldn’t you like to know more?]

Bio: Sacchi Green is a Lambda award-winning writer and editor of erotica and other stimulating genres, which has led to a thigh-high accumulation of contributor’s copies with quite inspirational covers.

Her home is in western Massachusetts, with an alternate retreat in the mountains of New Hampshire. She does make forays into the real world regularly and widely, but her wildest journeys are taken in her mind, and she loves to share them with her readers.

Sacchi’s stories have appeared in scores of publications, including seven volumes of Best Lesbian Erotica, four of Best Women’s Erotica, three of Best Lesbian Romance, Best Transgender Erotica, Best Fantasy Erotica, and Penthouse. In recent years she’s taken to wielding the editorial whip, editing or co-editing seven lesbian erotica anthologies: Rode Hard, Put Away Wet (Suspect Thoughts Press); Hard Road, Easy Riding (Lethe Press); Lipstick on Her Collar (Pretty Things Press), and Lesbian Cowboys, Girl Crazy, Lesbian Lust, and Lesbian Cops, all from Cleis Press. Three of them have been Lambda Literary Award Finalists, and Lesbian Cowboys, co-edited with Rakelle Valencia, won the Lambda Literary Award for lesbian erotica in 2010. A collection of her own work, A Ride to Remember, came out recently from Lethe Press.

She can be found online at sacchi-green.blogspot.com, FaceBook (Sacchi Green,) Live Journal (http://sacchig.livejournal.com/), and the Lesbian Fiction Forum (http://www.lesbianfiction.org/viewforum.php?f=53).

The More the Merrier

2012-02-07T04:02:00.003-05:00

By Lisabet Sarai

Yes, it's me again, your hostess, with an excerpt particularly appropriate for a "Share the Love" event. The excerpt below comes from my story "Detente", in the volume Coming Together: As One, a ménage-themed collection which benefits ONE, the campaign to end global poverty. This story features a woman who lives with two men, her husband and her master. Although this might seem like the ideal, their jealousy and bickering make her life a hell. She takes off to visit a female friend, but returns to find that the dynamics of the threesome have changed in totally unexpected ways.

In addition to celebrating Coming Together, my post today is also part of Ranae Rose's multi-author Red Hot V-Day Blog Hop, which runs from the 7th to the 14th of this month. Check out the list of participants at her blog. Each of us is giving away a prize, plus Ranae is offering a grand prize $60 gift certificate to one lucky reader.

By commenting here, you're eligible for her grand prize. You may also win my prize for today, a copy of my ménage novella Monsoon Fever. And of course, all your comments today also count towards the Share the Love grand prizes - the $50 gift certificate and the Kindle Fire.

Talk about multi-function!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the excerpt. Note that it includes M/M interaction and some hints of dominance and submission.

*****

In less than thirty seconds, my clothes are in a pile on the floor. I turn my attention back to the center of the room. David's hands rest, motionless, on Eric's buttocks. Eric lays with his cheek against the padded table. They're both watching me, looking nervous but also appreciative. They wonder what I'm going to do next.

I cup my breasts in hands still slick with lotion, then flick both nipples with my thumbs. Lovely darks of pleasure pierce my sex. Eric gives me one of his enigmatic half-smiles. David licks his lips.

I look around, locate a stool, and seat myself on it with my legs spread rudely. I smooth my hands down over my thighs, then up along the inner surfaces, until my thumbs rest near my pubis. David's swollen cock throbs and twitches as he follows my every move. Slowly, I burrow into my thatch and open my cunt lips to their gaze. A drop of liquid flows from the splayed folds and traces a lazy path down my thigh. The air fills with my funky perfume.

Eric squirms a bit on the table. David releases a shaky sigh.

"So, did you miss me?" They both nod, apparently speechless. "It does seem that you've been keeping yourself busy..."

Casually, I slip the two fingers of my right hand into my cunt. My juices overflow onto the wooden seat. I slip a third finger into my cleft. Blood surges in my clit. With the forefinger of my other hand, I begin to draw little circles on the head of that aching button of flesh. Each touch makes me shiver with pleasure.

The uncertainty is gone from my lovers' faces. All that remains is lust. I beckon to David. "Come over here and eat me," I command. He doesn't need a second invitation.

He kneels between my legs and buries his face in my bush. I nearly come the first time he plunges his tongue into me, but I hold myself back. I want to make him work for a while.

David licks and sucks energetically at my flesh, making obscene slurping noises that arouse me even more. I stroke the dark tangle of his hair, murmuring encouragement. Over his head, I catch Eric's eye. I don't see any bitterness or jealousy there. His mouth is half open, as if he's panting.

It's too delicious to resist for long. I close my eyes and surrender to sensation. David tickles, gnaws, probes, swallows me whole. When he takes my clit between his teeth, my whole body begins to shudder. After four days without sex, I come in a thundering flood. The world crumbles around me and is swept away. The aftershocks gradually subside. I open my eyes. David's still between my thighs, his mustache limp and dripping, his cheeks smeared. He looks awfully pleased with himself.

"Was that good, Margot?" he asks.

"What do you think?" I reach down and pinch the taut flesh of his cockhead. He winces in response. "But you're not done yet."

"What is your pleasure, Mistress?" He's jesting, but in fact I know that he'll do as I say.

"It's time for Eric to have some fun," I tell him. "Eric, slide down so that your feet are on the ground. Just your chest and shoulders on the table."

I've never given Eric a direct order before. He looks daggers at me. I realize that I've miscalculated.

"David, make Eric do as I said."

"Boy, move your ass. Feet on the floor, thighs spread." I can hardly believe this is my David speaking. Even more astonishing is the fact that Eric promptly complies. A wave of new lust washes over me at the sight.

From the supplies cabinet, I retrieve a tube of lubricant and a condom. I hand the latter to David. "Put this on." Meanwhile I squeeze a thick rope of lube onto the small of Eric's back.

I want to be the one to smooth it into his crack, but I don't dare. "Grease him up, David. Get him nice and ready."

David is torn. He's afraid, but he wants to do it, too, wants to slide his lubed fingers into Eric's asshole.

"No, please," Eric begs, his voice cracking. "Not that."

The protest, and my silent insistence, help David to make up his mind. "Quiet, boy. You'll take it, and you'll love it. You know you will."

It's true, I understand now. Having David fuck him will be a thrill that Eric will never forget.

I watch, totally aroused, as David smears Eric's sphincter with slippery goo. He probes with one lubed finger, then two. "Relax, Eric," he says. "Don't fight it. You'll enjoy it a lot more if you loosen up."

I realize that this is the first time he has called Eric by name.

I almost come when David first eases his cock into Eric's butthole. I'm totally fascinated, holding my breath, as the pole of rigid flesh disappears inch by inch into the depths of Eric's body. How well I know that awful, glorious sense of invasion! My own muscles spasm in sympathy.

Eric moans softly. David's in to the hilt, his wiry pubic hair brushing against the white flesh of Eric's cheeks, which still show the marks of David's whip.

He keeps his slender body motionless for half a dozen breaths, letting Eric get used to his bulk. Then David begins to pump, slow and gentle at first, but gradually increasing the speed and force of his strokes.

He weighs much less than Eric, but the force of his thrusts shakes Eric's frame. David grunts each time he slams his pelvis forward; Eric groans a fraction of a second later. I can see everything in lewd, outrageous detail: the way that Eric's anus stretches when David pushes in, the way the muscles flutter loosely when he pulls out.

David's cock seems bigger than usual. He's gritting his teeth, trying to keep control as he pounds away at Eric's poor butt. Meanwhile, Eric is arching back as if to impale himself more deeply, offering himself to David. Completely open.

Love and lust are so mingled in me that I can't distinguish them. I crouch down under the table, kneeling between Eric's legs. His cock dances in front of me, vibrating in time to David's strokes. "Master," I murmur. Gently, reverently, I take him into my mouth.

I don't even need to suck. He explodes immediately. His bitter semen floods across my tongue and drips out of my half-open lips. He wails and jerks his hips, spurting fresh gobs of come onto my face and hair. Now David is yelling too, grinding himself into Eric's guts as he finally allows himself to let go.

And me? I'm shaking, laughing, crying. I don't know if I've come, and I don't care. It doesn't matter, at this moment when we're all connected. It doesn't matter at all.

******

Don't forget to include your email address in your comments!

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot.

2012-02-06T04:02:00.002-05:00

By Victoria Blisse

Hello, Lisabet and readers!

It’s a pleasure to be here today to promote my work with Coming Together. I’m really lucky to be able to say that I’ve been involved with all this erotic altruism from the start. In fact my story “Not What You See, What You Feel” is the very first story in the very first Coming Together volume! http://www.eroticanthology.com/v1.htm

I love the idea of authors coming together and using their talents to benefit good causes. We all lead such busy lives and I know that we all have budgets and so it’s hard to contribute to charity as much as we’d like too. However when you pick up a volume of Coming Together Erotica you get a book full of hot treats and you give all that dosh you’ve contributed (minus a little for processing in some cases) to a good cause. I mean, you just can’t lose.

I’m going to focus on my other Coming Together story today. It’s called "Flaming Hot" and appears in the Coming Together: Under Fire anthology as well as being available as an individual title. All profits go to aid the victims of the 2007 Southern California wildfires. It’s a sweet little tease about a lady who has bought some very hot (and expensive) lingerie and is hoping to persuade him it was worth the money spent by seducing him in her prized purchases.

Here’s an excerpt for you!

*****

Now I remember exactly why we don't light this damn thing often. I've got a splinter in my finger, my hair is pulled from its confines in frustration, and there's soot and ash smudged all over my cheeks and arms! But, oh, it is comforting to have a real fire burning in the grate.

"Shit," I hiss, glancing at my watch. I can't waste time admiring the flickering flames that I brought forth any longer, I need to change and get organised. He'll be home from work in just an hour. I quickly strip off my white, soot-marked T-shirt and the plain bra beneath it. I quickly wash off all the muck from my skin and head to the bedroom.

I pick up the red lacy bra and smile. It called to me as I was shopping for an everyday, comfortable kind of bra. I was necessity shopping, and I really didn't have the time or money to entertain frivolity. However, the deep scarlet lace and the vibrant orange and yellow flames embroidered onto it seemed to pull me in. When I saw the cute knickers to match, I was a goner. I tried them on, hoping they'd be uncomfortable, praying they'd be too tight—but no; they fit snugly, and they looked good.

I'm not a loud lingerie buyer, but as I stood behind that thick blue curtain of the dressing room staring into the mirror, I decided I had to have this soft, lacy sexiness. In fact, I wanted to stride into the store proper and show everyone how sexy I looked in it. Thank God, I did resist the temptation.

I wish I'd resisted the temptation to buy them too, because I'm not sure my husband will understand my expensive urge. Hence, the plan.

I wriggle into the red lace panties, the flames licking up the V of my crotch and heating me. Adding the bra that sets my breasts on fire, I notice my hardened nipples as they swish against the luxurious fabric. I spot myself with my favourite perfume and let my hair down from the tight clip I typically use to hold it in place. The curls tumble onto my shoulders and add another swirl of sensuality to my look.

The plan is to surprise Sean when he comes home from work tonight. I plan to lure him into sex in front of the roaring fire, and then I hope he will overlook the expense of the outfit that made his wife so damned horny. I'm sure it'll work, especially as he's been complaining about the lack of sex in recent times. I don't deal well with stress, and it's been a time and a half with the inspectors at work and all the extra paperwork that entails. But, it's all over now, and we passed with flying colours. And now, I have new flame undies that get me hot. Life couldn't get much better.

The clothes inspired the fire idea. The lovely old Victorian fireplace was one of the main reasons we bought this place, but I can count on one hand the number of times we've lit a fire in it. Today, it's all about flames. The flickering heat of the fire will compliment my outfit beautifully.

Another quick check of my watch before I take off the time piece, then I careen downstairs. He's due back any minute. I fill a deep plastic tub with ice and plunge a bottle of something fresh and bubbly into it then carry it carefully into the living room and place it on the coffee table at the end of the sofa.

The soft, furry rug that feels so good beneath my toes feels even better rubbing along my buttocks and thighs. I wiggle around to get comfortable and find myself wiggling more out of sheer arousal. The soft fibres brush gently over my soft, white flesh, and I lie down to feel them stimulating more skin.

The soft tickling on my shoulder blades is heavenly, but I am aware that Sean will walk through the door any minute. So, I need to find a more alluring position. I roll onto my side and look towards the door that leads into the hall way. I prop my head up on one hand, kink my top leg and rest my hand on that thigh. I concentrate on thinking sexy thoughts and hope that my eyes convey my mood.

After a few minutes, I feel my fingers going numb. A few minutes more, and I have pins and needles pricking my wrist and palms. I roll onto my back to shake and wiggle my arm and return the circulation to it.

"Where the hell is he?" I curse, fighting down the urge to strip off and sulk. It's probably just bad traffic. I calm myself with deep breaths, hypnotising myself with the rise and fall of my large breasts.

I forget the need to assume a new sexy pose as the tickling rug reminds me to revel in the sensuality of this moment. I run my hands down my chest and over my lace-covered breasts as I writhe against the soft fur and surprise myself by letting out a loud, low moan.

"Where the fuck is he?" I gasp, running my fingers over my stomach and down to my crotch. "He's missing all the fun." The heat of the fire plays up my legs and suffuses me, pushing lust to every nook and cranny. My fingers travel over the thin lace of my panties, teasing my puffy lips, and I feel the dampness seeping through.

"Fuck," I growl, rubbing my fingers over the damp material once again and tickling my eager clit. All I want to do is slip my hand inside my new knickers and wank. Yeah, I know that's a masculine term, harsh and unyielding, but that is just how I want to masturbate. I want to just fuck myself for the sake of fucking myself, to stimulate my cunt 'til I gush and squeeze and sigh.

And where is my damned husband? He should be home by now. I mean, even allowing for traffic, he should be home by now, here with me, helping me do something with all this pent up horniness. I really mean to pull my fingers away from my crotch. I even move my legs away from the fire intent on rolling to my side to wait like a good little wife, but as I curl my leg 'round, I press my fingers harder against my aching clit, and I find the temptation far too much to resist.

I run my fingers inside the soft rim of lace and, looking over to the door, I slip my fingers in. What could possibly be more alluring than finding your wife naked and writhing on the rug when you come in from work? I am definitely stroking my wet lips and parting them for his benefit.

Now, how can I masturbate and give a come hither look towards the door at the same time? I shift over onto my hip and keep my finger between my cunt lips quite easily. A slight bend of the knee and my free arm stretched long and nestled under my head as a pillow seems to work well for comfort and seduction.

It's not quite the hard, fast wank that I want, but there is a special kind of excitement in the confines of immobility. I can't quite touch myself in the way I want, and although I am feverishly rubbing, I only seem to be heightening my frustration. I'm getting hotter and hornier and more desperate just to roll onto my back and fuck myself, but I continue to tease myself, wanting to wait for him.

"Well, hell. Is it my birthday or something?"

"Sean," I gasp, my eyes fluttering open and my hand attempting to detangle itself from my underwear.

"No, leave it there." He grins, throwing off his jacket and pulling at his tie as he strides towards me. "Keep going. I want to enjoy the show."

*****

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Pick yourself up a copy and feel good for doing your bit for charity.

I want to do my bit so I’m going to give away a copy of Naughty Rendezvous to one lucky commenter today. Here’s what the book’s about.

Joe likes to tease and single mum Leanna loves it too. When they meet up for their first official date, the sparks fly but who's going to crack first? Will Joe's intimate questions and kiss and run tactics bring Leanna to her knees or will Leanna's curves, flashed in moments of exhibition drive Joe to rip off all her clothes and indulge his urges?

How will she react to Joe's domination and will she be turned on by his spankings? She's going to be a naughty girl, so she's bound to find out.

Leave me a comment and you’ll be entered to win, it’s as simple as that.

You can find out more about me and my many books at:

http://victoriablisse.co.uk

http://facebook.com/victoriablisse

http://twitter.com/victoriablisse

Thanks for having me, Lisabet, it’s always a pleasure visiting you.

The Wild Boar in Me

2012-02-05T04:02:00.001-05:00

By Ann Regentin

Q: Why are you interviewing yourself for this blog? Isn't that a little weird?

A: I'm uncomfortable writing this. An interview format makes it easier for some reason, so I hope everyone will indulge me.

Q: Your story in Coming Together: In Flux is called "Meltdown". What inspired you to write this?

A: This story wasn't so much inspired as requested. Nobilis Reed, who edited In Flux, asked me to write something about the transformative nature of chronic illness. I was diagnosed with lupus twenty years ago and have developed other problems along the way, so I have extensive experience with that.

Q: So this should have been easy.

A: It was one of the hardest short pieces I've ever written! I normally write from imagination or from a somewhat distant vantage point. Putting this much of myself on the page was excruciating.

Q: Is this autobiography?

A: Not exactly, but it's not exactly fiction, either. It's somewhere in between.

Q: You compare life after chronic illness to the site of the Chernobyl meltdown. Isn't that a bit too lifeless for sex?

A: The area around Chernobyl is teeming with life. At the time of the disaster, about twenty percent of the area was forested. Now it's up to about eighty, with over two hundred species of animals. There are even birds nesting in the concrete Sarcophagus that encloses the damaged reactor. The Red Forest, which got hit so hard with fallout that it’s one of the most contaminated places in the world, is green again. There’s evidence of genetic abnormalities in both flora and fauna, things like slowed growth or abnormal tail feathers, but overall the area is thriving.

There are still a few people living there. Some are scientists and workers decommissioning the remaining reactors, and others preferred to live with the radiation rather than leave their homes, but the wildlife has pretty much taken over.

Q: And that's how you see yourself? Taken over by wildlife?

A: Yes. Being chronically ill means that I don’t get out much. It cuts me off from human interference, which has left me to develop in idiosyncratic ways. In addition, lupus has directly influenced my sexuality, much as the radiation has influenced the wildlife around the Chernobyl site, so while I've had some freedom, I've also been altered, and some of those alterations have been to parts of myself that were influenced by the other people's expectations.

Q: How did other people's expectations influence your sexuality?

A: People have expectations about how we’re supposed to be sexual, and that’s not necessarily bad. Relationships need ground rules, just like any other human interaction needs ground rules, but I always chafed under them. There was a constant, underlying anxiety that destabilized me, and I can’t afford that when I’m ill. After I was away from those expectations for a while, I found that I preferred to drop them entirely. I didn’t want to reject them or rebel against them, because that just comes with a different set of rules. I wanted them to not exist.

The isolation made it possible for that to happen, and when it did, parts of me that had previously been constrained started taking over. It was out of this radioactive wildlife sanctuary sexuality that my erotica was born. Before that, the kind of exploration I needed to do wasn't possible, and I've since found that relationships are incredibly disruptive.

Q: Why do you think that is?

A: Partly because I'm still radioactive. I'm still disabled. Neither modern nor alternative medicine have a decontamination protocol that works. I have adapted to my condition, but it was a painful process and most people prefer not to have to go through that, even second-hand. I didn't enjoy it myself, so I don't blame them.

The other problem is a hard truth that came out of the aftermath of Chernobyl: the dangers posed to wildlife by radiation are nowhere near as bad over the long term as the dangers of human intervention. Plants and animals can adapt better to high levels of radiation than they can to habitat encroachment, pest elimination and other efforts on the part of humans to manage their environment. For good or ill, I've adapted better to disability than I ever did to the rules governing intimate relationships, regardless of what form those relationships took.

All most people see in the exclusion zone around Chernobyl is the radiation and the effect it had on human lives, and there’s a certain amount of rubbernecking going on, which is different from observation. The nearby town of Pripyat attracts tourists, who come armed with Geiger counters and whatnot, and it attracts graffiti artists, photographers and looters as well. There's a lot of shock, and sadness and anger and horror and perhaps even a sense of superiority, that we never had a meltdown like that, and I see a lot of that with chronic illness, too. People are shocked, sad, angry, horrified and, to put it bluntly, sometimes rather smug, and they rubberneck, too. It's rare that anyone sticks around long enough to realize, as the scientists who study the Red Forest did, that the meltdown's impact on the ecosystem was a net positive.

People describe that area as "post-apocalyptic" because of the decaying remains of a abruptly abandoned lives, but for a wild boar, the area is, if you'll forgive the expression, hogs' heaven. They’ve been hunted nearly to extinction in other, more human-friendly places, and that's the thing. The wild boar in me is very, very happy and doesn't want the humans to move back. It’s fine with the radiation. I don’t think it even notices. The human in me continues to scratch her head over this situation, because while the empty buildings and rusting vehicles are monuments to tragedy, the wild boar has value, too, value that we push aside when we build all of this stuff. It would be great if we were better at negotiating with the wild boar, but whether or not we can do it, we don't do it. Even when we set aside space, we're still doing it on our terms, and it takes something like Chernobyl before the boar gets to make the rules.

It’s been a little disturbing to realize that I adapted better to disability than to the relationships, and that I’m most contentedly sexual when I’m alone, but that’s the wild boar in me.

By the way, I'm giving away a copy of my novel Train Wreck to one person who leaves a comment on this post. Please be sure to include your email address.

***

From "Meltdown"

In Coming Together: In Flux

http://www.eroticanthology.com/influx.htm

But in solitude, I have gone feral, able to give in to every desire, and fiercely defensive of my territory. Female sexuality is a powerful force, one that most cultures put enormous time and effort into controlling, and mine is now unchecked. It can go anywhere it wants, burning through what was supposed to contain it, consuming everything man-made and transforming into something no one has ever seen before, including me.

I have become comfortable with myself in new ways. I know exactly what I need, when I need it, and it is instantly granted. I answer to nothing and no one. If I want fast, I do fast. If I want slow, I can do that, too, building up for so long that orgasm resembles cocaine, then waking up from it to realize that over an hour has passed.

How often? However often I want, and the non-physical nature of arousal has never been more apparent to me. Sometimes I lie in bed imagining things, or reading them until I can no longer stand it, and only then do I resort to touch. Sometimes I start with touch, and let fantasy swirl around for a while until it becomes something coherent. I know exactly where I’m most sensitive, mentally and emotionally as well as physically, exactly how to use that, and have discovered that the end trigger for orgasm can be something as simple as a touch on my belly or thigh. Sometimes I come in my sleep.

Passion has burned through its containment vessel, blowing off the lid, setting fire to the world itself. The new growth of grass, the first spring crocuses, an iridescent beetle on a brick wall are all brighter than before. The first flakes of snow hit my face as delicately as a lover’s touch. Wind caresses my skin and sun warms it until it glows. The sensation of sliding in between cool sheets makes going to bed a delight, and curling up in a pair of flannel pajamas makes anticipating winter a form of foreplay. A morning shower heats me all the way through. A piece of chocolate melts me. A cup of spiced tea warms me. I live in a state of near-constant arousal, not the equivalent of a raging erection, but enough to make every sense just a little sharper and a lot sweeter.

Deep inside the sarcophagus, the corium looks inert, but it is still hot to a geiger counter, so hot and so hard that they had to use an AK-47 to get samples and then send in a remote device to pick them up. It generates dust spontaneously, and new, unnamed compounds are forming in it as it ages. Chernobyl is still active, only now it’s free of its confinements. The human race can encase it or ignore it, but they cannot stop it.

The meltdown at Chernobyl scorched the nearby woodland so badly that it became known as the Red Forest. People estimated that it would be barren for decades, but now it’s green with birch trees. Wild boar have moved in, as have wolves, lynx and hares. Endangered eagles have found a haven there, and it’s one of the few places left in the world where Przewalski’s horse roams free. The survival rate is lower than usual and there are mutations, subtle genetic confusion caused by the radiation, but nothing two-headed. While humanity bleats and wrings its hand, the area around Chernobyl has become a wildlife preserve.

I am not pretending that this upheaval is easy, or comfortable. It is, however, natural. Sickness and radiation were built into this world, death was built into this world, and it shows us the limits of our control. When we find something powerful, our impulse is to harness that power for our own use, and we are arrogant enough to believe we can contain a force of nature. Mistakes and miscalculation are fatal here, but they, like death, are part of the human condition. Eventually, somewhere, a system will fail, and create something more dangerous than what we started with.

***

Bio: Ann Regentin has written everything from reading comprehension test to poetry and music, but seems to have found her real niche somewhere in the gutter. As of now, she's still too happy there to climb out, but if you'd care to join her, you can visit her web site.

Charity Cases

2012-02-04T04:02:00.002-05:00

By Heather Lin

All writers are charity cases, aren’t they? We’re all just sitting at our laptops, waiting for inspiration, sifting through ideas, and typing away, desperately hoping that someone, somewhere will like what we’ve written enough to publish it.

I discovered Coming Together when I was first testing the waters of writing erotic fiction. I had a few stories published, and I knew that The Erotica Readers & Writers Association was a great way to find potential venues for my work. I stumbled across a call for Coming Together: Al Fresco, asking for erotica submissions with an outdoor theme. Any proceeds would benefit Conservation International.

Was there a better idea in the world? Writing sex and saving the environment? I would be like an X-rated Captain Planet! Not to mention the fact that I’d had my first (and only) threesome idea swirling around in my head for a while. I decided to write it out, submit it, and, lo and behold, it was accepted!

I was so excited to have a story of mine accepted into the anthology, and I was even more excited to feel like I was making difference, like I had something to offer society without having a lot of cash to spare.

I went on to be a part of the Coming Together: Against H8 autograph book project, which I was especially proud of (No takebacks, California!), and, later, I had a story accepted into the Coming Together: By Hand anthology, which benefits The Coalition for Positive Sexuality.

Eventually I realized that there were even more perks to being a part of Coming Together. Soon, I began recognizing the names of elite erotica writers, such as Rachel Kramer Bussel, Brenna Lyons, Lisabet Sarai, and, of course, the editor, Alessia Brio. If I’d known these authors before, I may have been too intimidated to even submit, and now I feel incredibly privileged to have my name appear beside theirs.

Even the late L.A. Banks found the time and drive to contribute to Coming Together by lending and introduction to the interracial anthology, Coming Together: At Last, which benefits Amnesty International.

Coming Together is an amazing organization, and I urge everyone to be a part of it, whether it’s by writing for the anthologies or by purchasing one of the steamy, well-written volumes. There is something for everyone’s taste and everyone's choice of charity.

In the hopes of tempting you, I’d like to offer this excerpt of my story “Midnight Ménage à Trois” from Coming Together: Al Fresco.

******

Vanessa liked to take walks at midnight. With two roommates, it was hard for her to get any time to herself. In the woods behind her apartment complex, there was a trail that took her nearly half a mile away from civilization, and she used it to think, enjoy the sounds of nature, and, sometimes, to touch herself. Having two roommates didn’t allow her very much time to herself in that respect, either, and an orgasm was long overdue.

At the end of the trail, there was an old wooden bench in a clearing that was shaded by evergreens, and it was the perfect spot for Vanessa to lie down, slide her fingers into the front of her pants, and wait for pleasure to overtake her. Tonight, however, as she reached the clearing, she realized that she wasn’t the only one who had decided to take a late-night walk. A man and a woman were already there, on the bench that Vanessa had found so much pleasure on, in the act of finding their own. The woman was on her hands and knees, her long blonde hair shining in the moonlight and her lips parted to let passionate moans and groans escape as the man pounded into her from behind. Both were naked, covered in sweat, and completely unaware of Vanessa’s presence.

Vanessa watched them from behind a tree, embarrassed but unable to tear her eyes away. Their animalistic copulation captivated her and whetted her carnal appetite more than she knew was possible. She unconsciously pressed herself against the tree she stood behind, letting the rough bark stimulate her swollen clit through the thin fabric of her shorts. But it wasn’t enough. With flushed cheeks and trembling hands, she undid the button of her shorts and pulled down the zipper so that she could pleasure herself properly.

In the still of the night, the noise of her undressing echoed throughout the small clearing, and both partners stopped to look in her direction. Vanessa wasn’t sure what to do. Her mind was screaming at her to run, but her feet remained where they were. The girl took one look at Vanessa’s heated, disheveled state and, to the younger woman’s surprise, smiled.

******

To read the rest, you know what to do! Stop over at Coming Together’s website, buy the anthology, and save the world!

And to sweeten the deal, I’d like to offer one lucky commenter a copy of my paranormal, erotic romance short story, Strangers, from New Concepts Publishing.

Thanks so much for stopping by, and please support this wonderful organization I’ve been blessed enough to be a part of!

To find out more about me, check out my blog at:

http://heatherlin88.blogspot.com

To find out more about Coming Together, check out their website at:

http://www.eroticanthology.com/

People are Strange When You're a Stranger

2012-02-03T04:02:00.003-05:00

By Remittance Girl

When I was invited to collect my stories into a single-author anthology for Coming Together, the ACLU seemed like the perfect choice as a destination for the proceeds. I feel there are two opposing forces in society today. On one hand, there are very few products or services that don't, either directly or indirectly, use sex as a part of their marketing. We've gone from a society who could not mention sex in polite company to one that is inundated with sexual images, and this has, in my view, served to trivialize the human erotic experience. On the other hand, many publishers have become so scared of the cost of litigation that it is very likely that if Nabokov wrote Lolita today, it would not see the light of publication.

You often hear erotic fiction writers complain of censorship, but in reality there are many, many examples of explicit sex in literary fiction. Martin Amis, Jonathan Franzen, Philip Roth, Michel Houllebecq… it's perfectly okay to write explicitly about sex as long as you don't set out to arouse your reader. Make sex ugly enough, decontextualized enough, emotionless enough and you can be as explicit as you like and will probably be nominated for a Man Booker Prize while you're at it. Conversely, you're perfectly welcome to write as many hot and kinky scenes as your little heart desires, as long as you bed it in a romantic plot. True, you probably won't be recognized as high literature, but your book sales will take the sting away.

Somewhere in between the extremes of dystopian sex nightmares and high romantic adventurism lies the reality of most people's sexual lives. Sometimes ecstatic lust-filled experiences, sometimes nights of sexistential angst, sometimes a bit of both. This is where I write, because this is where I find the greatest opportunity for insight. In the interstices between our aspirations and our fears. I find that nothing magnifies the erotic fertility of that intersection as placing my characters on metaphorical foreign soil. Whether it involves an exotic setting or placing my characters in sexually uncharted territory, I enjoy watching them find their ways around. I hope you do too.

The excerpt I'm offering you today is from the story "Shellshock" which appears in the Coming Together Presents Remittance Girl anthology. Suffering from the culture shock of her new life in Asia, the protagonist trolls the backpacker district of Bangkok in Thailand, seeking the comfort of the familiar. She takes her unsuspecting one-night-stand back to a hotel room haunted by the ghost of a dead American soldier who may or may not be there.

____________________

My meal paid for, I lead him wordlessly by the hand back up Kaosan Road, through the smoke from outdoor grills and throngs of brightly clad tourists. The hotel doorman smiles. The boy at the reception desk doesn't bother to ask for the English boy's passport when I ask for my room key; they don't do that to foreigners. But I wonder if my soldier boy had trouble getting his girl up to the room. Did they ask for her identity card and a 50 Baht tip?

I know that Gary (that's the English boy's name) is more than a little surprised. I kiss him in the elevator to calm him, and my hand snakes down to his crotch. He's surprised but not, it seems, unwilling.

Someone's been in the room. The bedside lamp is on, the bed is turned down. The clothes I so carelessly left on the toilet seat are now sitting neatly piled on the desk. I start pulling off the ones I'm wearing.

"Wow." Gary doesn't succeed very well in his attempt to hide his confusion. "You're not even drunk."

Jesus Christ, I scream in my head, at least my soldier boy didn't have to deal with this. There's something to be said for making sex a financial transaction.

"Just take off your clothes."

And Gary does, because he's a sweet boy and he's obedient and it has probably dawned on him that, if he pisses around, I'm going to put my clothes back on and find someone else. I don't want to talk about his last year at university, or his heartless father who won't wire him a little extra cash. I just nod and rummage through my bag for a condom.

His body is pale and almost hairless and his skin is soft. He's carrying an extra ten pounds and when I push him down onto the bed, I feel it break my fall. The bed squeals in protest at this rough treatment, but it can't fool me. It's had a lot worse than this.

It's been more than a year since I've lain skin-to-skin with anyone. The soldier-boy too, because I can see him now in my head, climbing on top of the sweet Thai thing. Did she giggle the way Gary does?

He's trying to remember all the things he was told about making a woman happy. But he doesn't know me. He doesn't know this woman at all. And, as he fumbles with my nipples, I slide off him just long enough to roll the condom down onto his erect cock.

"Don't you want to fool around a bit first?"

"Not really." I climb astride him, pushing myself down onto his dick.

"Wow." He opens his mouth to say something else, but I stop him.

"I'd really like it, Gary, if you'd just be quiet and fuck me."

In the next bed, my soldier boy is possibly more polite. But perhaps he doesn't have to be. I can see him, between her legs, pushing his cock in and lowering himself on top of her sweet, brown body.

To Gary's credit, he doesn't sulk. He grabs my hips and pumps up into me. All the pretence of social niceties is gone, and I am glad, indescribably glad to be sharing skin with anyone.

It's the truest of all true things that I see in Gary's face as I ride his cock. That beautiful serenity of absolute pleasure that changes only in shades with every thrust. He reaches up and makes handfuls of my breasts, and I let him now, because I know it's out of need and not of duty. Besides, it feels good when he loses himself in sensation and squeezes hard. It keeps me from drifting over to the other bed and into the body of the soldier boy who is pounding himself into the girl like his life depended on it. Perhaps it does.

I can feel my orgasm long before it arrives, a plane in the distance and my body the control tower. The landing lights in my belly light up to guide it in. Gary's cock has grown huge inside me and there's a pleasant dull pain each time he thrusts upwards.

"Fuck—this is too good." he says. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean." There are sirens going off in my head. All my neurons fire at once and I start to come. I hear echoes of my soldier boy; his grunts keep time with his hips. Wordless and animal, the inhuman stuttering of being alive and absolutely human.

Gary gets it. He can feel it around his cock as I orgasm, and he holds my hips still for the last few thrusts it takes him to get to the same place.

I sleep in a stranger's arms. But he's not strange because he's been inside me.

___________

We've all been strangers sometime and we know what it feels like to feel the sand shift beneath your feet. But with that sense of strangeness also comes an interesting liberation: borders evaporate and roles lose their clarity. Have you ever been a stranger in a strange land? Literally or metaphorically?

Come on, tell me your story.

The e-book I am donating to the "Share the Love Blog Bash" is my novella The Waiting Room, published by Republica Press. Leave me comment (don't forget your email address) and you might win.

Bio: Remittance Girl lives and writes in exile in a small Southeast Asian country, where she teaches and grows orchids in a house with a large mango tree and a cat called Seven. She holds a Master of Arts in Writing.

Driven by the conviction that eroticism is an overlooked but essential part of human nature, Remittance Girl believes that examining this important part of our lives is essential to gaining insight into what motivates us, frames our social interactions and forms our interior sense of self. Erotic fantasies, even very dark ones, give us clues with which we can decipher the symbolic language we use to express who we are and how we fit into our society.

Her novellas and short stories have appeared in electronic format on her own website, at www.cleansheets.com and in the Erotica Readers and Writers online gallery. A number of short stories have appeared in print anthologies. Visit her at remittancegirl.com

Giving Back

2012-02-02T04:02:00.003-05:00

By Lisabet Sarai

Gratitude, I've found, begets plenty. Count your blessings and you find that they multiply. And when you keep the good flowing, benefits always return.

I've led a fortunate life in many respects. I want to do what I can to share my bounty. It's more difficult than you'd expect, though. I donate financially to causes I support, but what I can offer is a mere drop in the bucket compared to what's needed. And money is so impersonal.

For a long time now, I've wanted to volunteer my time to some worthy endeavor, but actually, with my work schedule, I don't have a lot of time available. Furthermore, I'd like to use my specialized skills for the benefit of others. Working in a soup kitchen or entertaining orphans doesn't really take advantage of my years of education and experience.

Then I found Coming Together - the perfect way for me to volunteer something uniquely mine and help make the world a better place.

I can't recall how I heard about Alessia's work. I wasn't a part of the organizing group on Literotica. I believe that Coming Together: For the Cure was the first charitable anthology in which I had a story. Several of my close friends and relatives are breast cancer survivors; I was thrilled to have the opportunity to do something that might spare others some of the misery they experienced.

Since then, I've contributed to six more CT anthologies: Under Fire, With Pride, Al Fresco, At Last, As One and By Hand. I also wrote a stand-alone novella, A Breed Apart, for the Tabooty series, a protest against Amazon's de-listing of erotic titles that featured incest or other taboo topics. About half of the stories I've provided to Coming Together are exclusive, tales I wrote specifically for the anthology in question. I figured that if someone likes my writing, he or she should be willing to fork out a few bucks for the chance to read something brand new - especially if it's for a good cause.

Back in 2009, my involvement with Coming Together moved to a new level when Alessia asked me to co-edit Coming Together: For Her, an amazing collection of erotica by Laurence Doyen. I'd previously edited two multi-author anthologies (Sacred Exchange and Cream), not to mention scores of research papers by students and colleagues, so I had the necessary qualifications, and I really enjoyed the process. After release of Laurence's book, Alessia proposed that I take responsibility as editor for a new Coming Together Presents imprint, which would feature full-length collections of erotica from single authors.

After some soul-searching - I didn't want to make a commitment if I couldn't follow through - I agreed. Since then, we've published five Coming Together Presents volumes, by some of my favorite erotica authors: M. Christian, Remittance Girl, C. Sanchez-Garcia, Robert Buckley and Teresa Lamai. You may not be familiar with some of these names, but let me assure you: all of them write stunning, arousing, thought-provoking erotic tales - and each is distinctly different. You will get the chance to hear from all of them this month, during our Share the Love event, so I won't sing their praises any further. Come back later in the month for samples of their eloquence and heat. (Check the sidebar for the Blog Fest schedule.)

I'm proud of the stories I've written for Coming Together. To be honest, though, I'm even prouder of the books I've edited. They benefit causes I wholeheartedly support, but on top of that, they're incredibly good. I'd love to get the New York Times to review them, because these volumes offer more than just sexy stories - they're literary gems.

Anyway, I'll let the other authors speak for themselves. I want to share a bit from one of my own favorite Coming Together stories, Chemistry, which I wrote specifically for Coming Together: With Pride. The story is also available as a stand-alone Hor D'ouvres title, for only 99 cents.

Kit is a workaholic, a brilliant pharmacological chemist who is driven to succeed. She wants a life that is controlled, disciplined, and predictable. When she meets Frank, her hairy ex-hippie neighbor, she's inexplicably and irresistibly attracted to him, though he represents everything that she despises. She tries to fight her own desire, but discovers that sometimes, chemistry trumps rationality.

****

Frank was staring at her again, his eyes twinkling behind his wire-framed glasses. Absently, he scratched his unruly head. She could tell that he hadn't showered.

"I guess, then, that we're neighbors."

"Yes, well, I don't spend much time at home." She licked her lips nervously. "Mostly, I'm at work."

"You work too hard, I think. You need to take time to enjoy life." He rummaged in his pocket and she caught another glimpse of his scrotum and his half-hard cock. Hastily, she turned to examine one of the posters.

"Want to do a number?" He was holding out a fat hand-rolled cigarette. Kit felt a sudden panic.

"No - um - I don't do drugs. I know too much about them."

"Oh?" He lit the joint himself and drew in a lungfull of the fragrant smoke.

"Yes, well, I work for a pharmaceutical company."

"Really. What a coincidence." She didn't understand. But she didn't want to ask questions or prolong the conversation. Really, she didn't want to talk about herself at all. She should be going home.

He took another toke and held it, closing his eyes. His expression was beatific. He reminded her of some hairy elf, or perhaps a giant, grizzled teddy bear. The smell of pot smoke drowned out the incense. Kit felt dizzy.

Frank stubbed out his joint. "Stand up -- what's your name?" His voice was soft, dreamy.

"Kit."

"What's that short for?"

"Katerina."

"Oh, I like that much better. It suits you. I've always thought that ladies should have long, intricate names, names that dance on your tongue. Stand up, Katerina. Please. Let me look at you."

She felt brief indignation. Nobody told her what to do. Yet she obeyed, coming to her feet in front of him, so close, too close, the reach of bare skin between her top and shorts inches from him. She was light-headed, not herself.

"Katerina," he whispered. Then he reached out and grasped her buttocks, pulling her to his face.

His beard was softer than it looked, tickling her. For a moment he simply held her, breathing in, inhaling her as if she were another drug. Suddenly there was shocking wetness. His tongue circled her navel, dipped inside. Her sex clenched in a sudden, delicious spasm. He lapped in widening circles, then traced a wet path up her sternum. When he reached her bra, he deftly peeled back the stretchy material to expose her small breasts. He fastened his mouth on one swollen nipple. Kit moaned, embarrassed by her sudden need.

He sucked at her till the node of flesh was unbearably tender. Just when she couldn't bear any more, he switched to the other breast, strumming the rigid bead at its tip while her clit vibrated in sympathy.

"Oh, please...", she sighed. Her shorts were sticky and uncomfortable. She wanted them off. Frank paused and smiled at her. "Just a moment, Katerina, if you can be patient. I have something for you."

He scurried off to the glass display case, a comic figure, his shorts slipping down his hips to expose his furry butt. Her belly and breasts were soaked with his saliva.

Kit shuddered, desire mixed with revulsion. How could she let this smelly, hairy, untidy, old -- anachronism -- touch her? But God, it felt so good. Her cunt was sopping. Her pussy scent overwhelmed the smell of pot. I should go, she told herself, get out of here while I can. But Frank was back now, pulling her bra over her head, fastening a delicate silver chain around her waist. He eased her shorts over her hips. She kicked off her shoes, and he shimmied the lycra garment down to her ankles and off.

Kit stood before him, naked except for the ornamental chain. The silver strands brushed, ghostly, against her sensitized skin. Frank licked his lips. His eyes burned blue as gas flames; she basked in the heat of his obvious lust.

"Oh, yes," he breathed. "I thought that would suit you. Yes indeed..." His fingertips traced an airy path across her skin, touching but not touching, setting up currents that caressed her throat, her breasts, her belly, the smooth mound between her legs. "I don't know why you do it, though."

"Do what?" Kit almost groaned with frustration, as he appraised rather than caressed her.

"Shave, wax, whatever it is you do to remove your bush. A bare beaver looks so -- unnatural."

Annoyance almost overwhelmed Kit's horniness. "Well, I haven't had any complaints from anyone else. Also, without the hair I'm more sensitive."

His mischievous smile returned. "Oh, is that true? Well, then..." He slipped to his knees and peeled open her lower lips with his thumbs. "I've always enjoyed sensitive women." The tip of his tongue flicked across her swollen clit. Her back arched in reflex, forcing her pussy into his face. The old goat immediately took advantage, fastening his mouth on her sex and sucking like a human hoover. His tongue gathered the juices from her depths, then smeared them over her naked mound.

"Oh, um, ooh..." Kit writhed against him, wordlessly begging him to return his tongue to her throbbing clit. He seemed oblivious, though, focusing instead on her labia and the depths of her pussy. It felt exquisite, intense, but her clit screamed for some of the attention of that wet and agile tongue.

Then he stopped. "What...?" she began. She sucked in a surprised breath as he actually picked her up in his arms.

His curly chest hair tickled her breasts. He smelled a bit funky, sweat rather than soap; hints of pot smoke and incense lingered in his beard. Before she knew it, she was stretched out on her back on the pile of carpets and cushions she had noticed earlier, with the surprisingly strong and flexible old hippie kneeling between her spread thighs.

He rubbed his fingertip against the rigid bead of flesh at her center. She yelped, her pelvis dancing on the velvety surface under her. Apparently pleased with this reaction, he continued to massage her clit with one hand, while the other dabbled in her soaking cunt. One finger, then two, deep into her, but not deep enough. She moaned and twisted as both hands played her, one devoted to her clitoris, the other wandering, stroking, even gently probing her taut rear hole.

Luscious colors swirled across Kit's closed eyelids, whorls and eddies of brilliant blue and emerald green that pulsed in time with the throbbing in her pussy. She breathed in gasps, sucking in smoke and sandalwood. She was melting, liquefying. She was crystallizing into a thing of pure pleasure.

The crystal shattered. Kit wailed, her body going rigid and then limp. Frank continued to stroke her gently, drawing wetness from her depths, trailing it along her inner thighs. For a long time Kit basked in the rosy after-pleasure, perfectly relaxed, forgetting that he was there.

He bent to kiss her. The salty seaweed taste of her own sex shocked her into awareness. "You enjoyed that, didn't you, princess?" he murmured in her ear. "I told you that you shouldn't work so hard."

****

If you enjoyed this excerpt, maybe you'd like to get a copy of the story - or the full anthology - for yourself. You can buy all the Coming Together titles at All Romance Ebooks - who has generously waived their usual cut so that 100% of the selling price goes to the designated charity.

Meanwhile, you can win a copy of my M/F/M ménage novella Truce of Trust, simply by commenting on this post. Be sure to include your email address. I'll draw a name on Saturday February 4th.

And don't forget to comment every day, if you're interested in winning a Kindle Fire. See Alessia's post from yesterday for details!

Doing Good While Being Bad

2012-02-01T04:02:00.000-05:00

By Alessia Brio

I find it rather mind boggling that I've been publishing Coming Together titles for almost six years. That's an Internet eternity! When I launched this labor of love, there was no Kindle, no Nook, no iPad. Smashwords and All Romance eBooks did not exist. The word "app" wasn't in our lexicon.

Publishing Coming Together coincides with my personal publishing odyssey. In fact, the former is directly responsible for the latter. While I have stories or poems in all but the single-author publications, I want to talk a bit today about why this endeavor means so much to me.

This is the inaugural post in a month-long celebration of Coming Together, generously coordinated and hosted by one of its staunchest supporters. For those who are not familiar with Coming Together, a little back story:

In the spring of 2005, a bunch of amateur writers from the Literotica Authors' Hangout forum decided to publish collections of their stories. Rather than mess with splitting proceeds a dozen or so ways, we chose to donate the revenue to charity. In the fall of 2006, Coming Together stretched beyond Literotica with a collection that resulted from an open call and was published by a small press.

It's just grown from there. We're an all volunteer effort. All the book proceeds are donated to charity. I like to think the contributing authors and poets are paid in karma. I've been told some consider it a badge of honor to be a part of the Coming Together family. That's very gratifying to me.

In addition to multi-author anthologies, we now also publish single-author collections and individual titles. We became an official "voluntary nonprofit association" along the way and now publish exclusively under the Coming Together label rather than that of a traditional publisher. Our focus is on ebooks, and we've never required exclusivity.

There have been peaks and slumps, of course. There have been days when I've wondered where I'd be if I'd focused all the time and energy I've poured into Coming Together on my individual success as an author, editor, and graphic artist. On those days, I remind myself that even though I'm not a wealthy or famous person, my life is bountiful. I wouldn't trade that spiritual bounty for any amount of money or fame.

I'm doing things I believe in with every fiber of my being. Not only do I believe in the rightness and the power of charity, I also believe in the rightness and the power of sex. Writing about sex, whether to educate or to arouse, brings it into the light where it belongs. Sex needs to be celebrated for the joyous, life-affirming, rowdy primal romp that it is. It is only when relegated to dark, forbidden places that sex becomes something shameful. Something that others—media, religion, politics, retail—can use to manipulate and control us.

Over the years, I've had the joy of donating thousands of dollars to dozens of charities. It's a serious rush, believe me. I've had the honor and pleasure of working with over 200 authors and poets, some "big names" and some not so well-known (yet), who've donated their words to my passion.

I hope you'll visit Lisabet's blog every day this month to "Share the Love" with some of Coming Together's many contributors. There will be sexy excerpts, prizes, and more each day. To sweeten the deal, I'm adding a Kindle Fire to the end-of-month giveaway. To be entered to win, visit this blog every day throughout the month of February, leave a comment on the day's post, AND share the post via Twitter, Google+ and/or Facebook using the tag #comingtogether. (See those handy little buttons at the bottom of each post? Use them!) A winner will be randomly chosen from those who've jumped through all those hoops.

While you're hoop-jumping, please add/like/friend us on your social networks: @Coming_Together on Twitter, +Coming Together on Google Plus, and erotic.anthology on Facebook. There is also a Coming Together group on Goodreads. I am hopeful that this month-long blog bash will spark activity on each network so that we can do many more kickass giveaways!

The excerpt I'm sharing is from my story "Butterfly." It appears in Coming Together: For the Cure, which benefits Susan G. Komen For the Cure. It is a first person narrative from the perspective of a woman who's undergone a radical mastectomy and is reclaiming her sense of self with an intricate tattoo. Deep stuff, indeed. Sex is powerful that way. Enjoy!

+++

Let me tell you about my last night with tits.

Carl took me to my favorite restaurant—Hibachi—for dinner, then we went back to my place with dessert from The Cheesecake Factory and a handful of DVDs. There were fresh flowers all over my condo when we got there. Wildflowers, just like that first bouquet. We watched "The Princess Bride" and "History of the World, Part I". We fed one another with our fingers, and I punctuated the evening with random fits of sobbing.

He didn't ask me what was wrong or expect me to explain my tears. He just held me and waited it out. When I stopped, he'd pick up where we left off. I told him about the surgery and how I'd opted not to have reconstruction. I told him how I'd never again experience the rush of having my nipples bitten, never again feel my clit throb from a mouth tugging my nipples to hardness.

I apologized for not marrying him, and he cried. We cried. I shouldn't have taken pleasure in that, but I did. It warmed me to know that after all these years, he still considers me his soul mate. His wife is a wonderful woman, and they are a terrific team. I've enjoyed the times they've invited me into their bed. But we both knew—all three of us knew, really—that their passion wasn't anywhere near what Carl and I shared.

The surgery would take everything, including my nipples. I'd been informed that I would only be able to feel pressure through the scars. No other sensation. I told him my plans for tattooing my chest, decorating myself in defiance. He raised an eyebrow but knew better than to question my decision.

Around midnight, Carl took my beer out of my hand, winked at me through his tears, and repeated the first words he ever said to me: "Show me your tits."

I laughed then, a hearty, healthy laugh. But, I also took off my shirt and removed my bra.

Carl adored my tits one last time. Wet with both his saliva and his tears, I savored the rasp of his tongue, and before I'd allowed myself to think, my long lost libido began to awaken. The currents of passion flooded through my veins, pooling in my sex. His teeth scraped and nipped, pulled and pinched.

He squeezed them together in his impatience to move from one nipple to the other, decreasing the distance to require only a slight turn of his head. If he hadn't done so, I would have. I looked down at my lover, noticing for the first time the thinning of his hair. So bittersweet the memories. I wondered where we'd be if I'd trusted him to be my everything; if I'd taken the plunge all those years ago instead of trying to cross all of life's Ts and dot all its Is. I swallowed the bile of regret and turned my attention back to Carl's mouth and the pleasure it was giving me.

In spite of myself, I felt that internal connection between my erogenous zones thrumming with anticipation. I reached for his belt buckle, and he twisted to one side to give me access. He spoke to my breasts, whispered, sang—and my body echoed his song.

When I pushed him off me, he stood and quickly shed his jeans. As I tucked my legs beneath me and knelt on the sofa, Carl whipped his T-shirt over his head and stepped toward me. His cock found its home between my tits, and I enveloped him with my body. Fresh tears dripped from my jaw, following the natural curve into my cleavage as he began to move.

I met his cock with my mouth on the apex of each thrust and grieved its withdrawal on the latter half of the cycle. I tasted salt—mine and his—and felt the prickly sensation of his pubic hair brushing against my nipples. He took me with him when he came—without either of us ever touching my sex.

In the afterglow, in that peaceful bliss where anything is possible, Carl reverently placed his hands on my tits, fingers spread and thumbs atop my sternum. At that moment, I saw the design you've brought to electric life for me, taking my shame and my pain and making it beautiful. At that moment, I saw my butterfly.

+++

BIO & LINKS:

Take one part Appalachian redneck, one part aging wet dream, and one part filthy-minded wordsmith. Mix well and serve with chocolate-covered cherries. There you have the one and only Alessia Brio. Alessia writes all colors and flavors of erotica, from heterosexual to ménage to same sex, and from twisted to humorous to deeply touching. She is also the driving force behind the Coming Together charity erotica series. Her work has earned her critical acclaim in the form of an EPIC eBook Award for Best Erotica (fine flickering hungers), two EPIC eBook Awards for Best Erotic Anthology (Coming Together: Against the Odds & Coming Together: Into the Light), two Next Generation Indie Book Awards for Erotica (Squeeze Play & Coming Together: For the Cure), and a Romantic Times Top Pick (Coming Together: For the Cure) in addition to a plethora of glowing online reviews.

The Internet is both her office and her playground. Her publications can be found via eroticanthology.com and purpleprosaic.com. Socially, you can catch her on Twitter and Facebook.

It's My Birthday - But You Get the Presents!

2012-01-31T04:02:00.002-05:00

Today's my birthday. Of course it's a week day, so I have to work, but that's not going to stop me from celebrating!

And I want you to celebrate with me. So I'm giving away three erotic romance ebooks today, to three people who leave comments. All you have to do is tell me which you would prefer, and why.

Here are your choices:

Monsoon Fever - M/M/F historical ménage
Crossed Hearts - M/M BDSM contemporary
Getaway Girl - M/F light bondage

If you're not familiar enough with the different titles to make a choice, check out the covers, blurbs and excerpts on my website. And don't forget to include your email address in your comment.

Thanks for joining my celebration! And don't forget to come back tomorrow for the first day of the Sharing the Love Blog Bash. You could be the lucky reader who wins a Kindle Fire.

Free Today! Body Electric

2012-01-30T04:02:00.002-05:00

Hey, readers! Just popping in let you know that Body Electric, my collection of erotic short stories, is free today only, January 30th, at Amazon.

If you like variety, this is the collection for you! It includes vampires, alternative history, BDSM, spanking, cross-dressing, M/M/F ménage, M/F/M ménage, M/F/F ménage, F/F, M/M, and of course M/F stories...

Get your copy here. If you don't have a Kindle, you can still read Kindle books - just download the free reader software for your Windows, Mac or Linux PC or your smartphone.

While you're over at the Kindle store, check out my new BDSM story collection, Just a Spanking, too!

A Sweet, Spicy Snog from Refuge

2012-01-29T00:02:00.001-05:00

This week's snog is from my short story Refuge, which is part of the charity anthology Coming Together: At Last. This two-volume set features multi-racial and multi-cultural tales, and all proceeds benefit Amnesty International.

I'm focusing on my altruistic erotica today because starting on February 1st, I'll be hosting a whole month of guests who write for Coming Together. During my Share the Love blog bash, many of the authors (including me, of course) will be offering daily giveaways to people who comment. At the end of February, we'll draw the name of one reader who'll receive a $50 gift certificate from All Romance Ebooks. Meanwhile, we're also giving away a super grand prize - a Kindle Fire - to one lucky and industrious visitor. Drop by on February 1st to read the inaugural post from Alessia Brio, founder of Coming Together, and learn how you can get your hands on the Kindle!

Meanwhile, today, don't forget to visit Victoria Blisse at Snog Central, to read her weekly kiss excerpt. Then follow the links to enjoy lip-smacking delights from lots of other authors!

“Khun Nu. I have come to thank you.” It was dark—aside from the commander’s office, the camp had no electricity—but a full moon showed me me every detail of her beautiful face. My cheeks felt hot. I had stripped to my undershirt, but my uniform pants grew tighter and more uncomfortable than ever. “Without your help, Su would have died.”

“Never mind, it’s nothing. I’m glad I could help. Anyone would have done the same.” Shame washed over me. I remembered my temptation to abandon her, and was suddenly very glad that I had resisted. Helping you is the least I could do, I thought, when I’m part of the machine holding you prisoner here.

“No, that’s not true at all. Believe me. I’ve been here a lot longer than you. Most of the soldiers here have no heart at all. They think we’re sub-human. You risked your own position and safety for us.” She reached out to me. “Come. Let me show you how grateful I am.”

I froze, suddenly understanding what she had in mind. “What? No—no, really, that’s not necessary...”

She arched one delicate eyebrow. “Don’t you want to? Don’t you like me? I had some notion that you found me pretty.”

“I—no, it’s not that, you’re lovely, it’s just—well, I don’t want to take advantage... You’re so young, so sweet...”

A bitter laugh. “Take advantage? You think you’d be the first soldier here that I’ve fucked?” Her crudeness made me cringe, but then her voice grew softer. “Please, Nu. I want to be with you. I want to be close to you. You’re the only man in Thailand who has ever treated me like a human being.”

I knew it wasn’t right. I wanted to resist. But I let her take my hand, let her lead me along narrow, overgrown paths where the moonlight could hardly penetrate the overhanging vegetation. My conscience cried out ‘No’. My mind echoed the warning. I ignored them, choosing instead to listen to my body and my heart.

I watched her body sway in front of me. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. I could see her slender back, with its cloak of gleaming hair. I swallowed hard at the sight of her hips, their swell distorting the patterned fabric of her sarong. I was sweaty and nervous as she led me through the forests near the camp boundaries and up to higher ground. The aching lump in my groin made it difficult to walk.

The path opened into a grassy clearing. Moonlight poured in. To my left rose a steep wall of limestone. The plash of falling water reached my ears. Rivulets emerged from the cliff at several spots and tumbled into a mossy pool at its base, before spilling over and flowing down hill toward the camp. The cool breeze was rich with the scent of growing things, free of the fetid aromas of the caged humanity.

I took a deep breath. Prean stopped by the pool. She turned to me, her arms wide in invitation. I stood rooted in that magical spot, snared by her beauty.

“Nu?” Her voice released me. I gathered her in my arms, burying my face in her fragrant locks. The soft flesh of her breasts pressed against my chest, sending a thrill through my limbs that settled in my groin. Amazed at my daring, I ran my palms over her cloth-wrapped hips, around to her buttocks, and pulled her body tight against mine.

She ground her pelvis against my swollen cock. I moaned, finding her lewdness shocking but irresistible. “Mmm,” she murmured. “I guess that you do like me, after all.” Before I could stop her (and only part of me wanted to), she had slipped her hand between us and unfastened my fly.

My rigid penis sprang into her hand, an arrow to its target. She stroked it delicately, like some fluttering bird that might escape. It swelled at her touch. As it hardened further, she started to squeeze, pumping rhythmically from base to tip as though she was milking a goat. She smeared the sensitive bulb with moisture leaking from the eye, and I nearly lost control. Meanwhile, with her other hand, she grabbed my head and pulled my lips to hers.

Her mouth was open from the first. Her kiss was bold, all tongue and teeth, honest in its need—the hot, hungry kiss of a woman starved for loving. I returned the kiss, as best I could, lost, dizzy with lust. My senses reeled. It was too much. The fever of her mouth, the cool silk of her fingers on my cock. Her scent, grass and smoke, salt and musk. Her taste, lemon and mint. I felt my balls contract and groaned, sure that I was about to embarrass myself by spurting all over her hand.

Prean knew. At the last moment, she released both my cock and my mouth. Her smile was full of mischief and understanding. Stepping away from me, she pulled her tunic over her head. Jet locks tumbled over her bare shoulders. I stared at her breasts, white and plump as little chicks with tips dark as tamarind pods. My palms ached to cup them, to feel them yield under my touch. She loosed the tucks holding the sarong around her hips. The fabric dropped to the ground, revealing her flat belly and winking navel, her pale thighs and shapely calves, and at the center of the universe, the tangled patch of black fur that hid her sex.

My cock twitched, eager for a taste. I was too shy to move.

Her scent was sharper now. She knelt and spread the sarong upon the grass, then lay on her side, watching me. “Please. Take off your clothes, Nu. I want you.”

Happy Birthday, Wolfgang

2012-01-27T04:02:00.006-05:00

Today is the 256^th anniversary of the birth of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, one of my favorite composers. From the flighty nonsense of The Magic Flute to the somber power of the Requiem, Mozart's music never fails to astound and delight me. Every note seems so easy, so perfectly inevitable, and yet there are intricacies of structure that I, as a non-musician, can only appreciate intuitively. I've read that both musicians and singers had a terrible time dealing with the complexity and difficulty of his mature operas. And yet to the listener, the music is immediately accessible.

Of course, everyone acknowledges Mozart's genius - he won great acclaim even during his own lifetime - yet that didn't prevent him from great poverty and hardship. He's a fine example of the fact that artistic brilliance doesn't necessarily translate into financial success. I guess I have no reason to complain.

I find other lessons in his work, too. Mozart wrote to primarily to entertain. At the same time, his operas, his symphonies and his liturgical work, especially, have a depth, a seriousness, that belies the speed and facility with which he composed them. Perhaps my favorite of his operas is Don Giovanni. It's generally categorized as a comic opera, and yet the final scene, when demons appear to drag the philandering adventurer down to Hell, has the intensity and drama of a tragedy.

I'd love to write this way myself, to produce stories that sweep my readers into a world of pleasure and at the same time, say something serious about life, love, faith, and fate.

Of course, I'm not intending to compare my skill with his, even though I began writing almost as early as he began composing. Why not aspire to the highest level of achievement, though? I doubt that anyone will remember me or my birthday, two centuries down the road. But perhaps I should write as though that was a real possibility.

I have many "Mozart memories", but possibly the fondest recollection is the performance of Cosi Fan Tutti my husband and I attended in the magical city of Prague. We'd bought tickets that morning, but almost didn't make it to the theater because somehow we managed to get on the wrong trolley and traveled ten miles into the suburbs, in the opposite direction from town, before we realized our mistake. We squeaked in just minutes before the curtain rose, tired and sweaty and anxious. Mozart carried us away into a different world entirely. The Prague opera house, all curlicues, gilt and red velvet, provided the ideal setting for the composer's tongue-in-cheek tale of female inconstancy. It felt like a dream, to be there in the city that treated the young prodigy far better than his home town of Salzburg, and which still claims him as its own, drinking in some of the glorious music ever created.

To be able touch others with one's art in that way - what a gift! And so, I celebrate the 27th of January, grateful that Wolfgang lived his short thirty five years on earth and humbly hoping to contribute even one thousandth the amount of joy with my own work.

Body of Secrets, Body of Lies

2012-01-25T04:02:00.007-05:00

By Tori St. Claire (Guest Blogger)

[Lisabet asked: How do you do research for a thriller about human trafficking and Russia? Do you have any experience with this?]

*Laugh!* I’ve been asked and asked about research on Stripped. I love how you presented this to me!

Well, you dig and dig and dig on the Internet. Not just the sites that crop up on an initial search, but digging deeper, looking at old CIA news / reports, looking at similar crimes that have taken place. There’s a lot of information available on human trafficking in general, and that’s an easy starting point. Russia is a bit more inherent for me. My mentor is a Russian immigrant, and I heard stories in general, that fed an early fascination with the country. Another very close friend of mine had a passion for anything Russian and I learned by osmosis – when every other sentence relates somehow to the country, stuff sticks in weird places in the head. Third, one of my college best friends was from a Russian village in Alaska, and that just kept the love of the country alive, plus gave me some stuff to work with for Stripped ;)

One of the things though that’s important to understand, I’m from Kansas City, and just before I was born, Kansas City was a mafia playground. In fact, my earliest years came at the culmination of the power here. Chicago saw its days and is fabled for Capone, et all, but those influences stayed strong in Kansas City. It is nothing like it was now, not in any shape or form, but there’s still “families”. Not so much crime as it was, but those who remember. Moscow, in many ways, still shares that influence. Well… let me back up. Moscow exceeds that influence by leaps and bounds. If you need protection, you go to one of the mafias in Moscow. If you need a “solution” you go to one of the mafias. This just made it an easy link… it then became a task of researching the different Moscow and Russian organizations until I found one that had the capability to fit my fictitious needs.

I don’t have any personal experience with human trafficking, but I pay attention to the media. I know that the USA is more commonly a “destination” country, not necessarily a “source” country, which I had to play with a little to make it fit the premise of my story. That’s frankly why I went with the stripper aspect, but… and I certainly don’t want to delve into stereotypes, but bear with me…

Where I live currently, strippers are not the attractive beauties that you might see in a high-end club in Las Vegas. In fact, and I have no idea if this is still true, but the club that is closest to my home was known for, about 10 years ago, the addiction to cocaine many of the women had, and the physical result of this addition was not particularly pleasing to the eye. I don’t frequent strip clubs, and have recently learned that in some portions of the country strip clubs are a “club” that both men and women go to as I might go to a dance club. (Part of this may be related to the fact that Missouri is still part of the Bible Belt.)

Given my foundation in what a strip club was, I wanted a little more class that what surrounds me. So I ported the setting to the place of fantasies – Vegas – where I could pretty much do what I wanted within reason, in my club. I chose strip clubs, as opposed to prostitution, because I wanted to touch on the stereotype that “If someone’s going to go missing and not be missed” it might happen in the world of stripping. Chances are far higher it would happen with prostitution… but that was too stereotypical for me.

To tie it all together, I needed a place where women taken from the US might hold appeal. The vast majority of places that work with human trafficking use the US as a destination therefore they aren’t going to port women in to the country they operate out of. For instance, the Bratva isn’t going to transport an American to Russia, they’ll transport a Russian to America. Other countries where it’s far more prevalent wouldn’t find an American attractive enough to engage in the habit. But Dubai… now that’s a world of riches and readily embraces Western influences. American slaves fit well with a broad perception.

I did have a few resources I polled about possibilities, theoreticals, and concepts. And like Natalya… if I shared those secrets, I’m afraid I’d have to eliminate you ;)

[Lisabet asked: Do you use your own fantasies in your books? Is there something of you in Natalya?]

(I want to answer this question, because I find it entertaining, but it’s not worth a full blog discussion.)

The short answer is no. But it amuses me how often I’m asked this. I’m a single woman, writing erotic romance. I can’t count the number of men who’ve heard that in an introduction, and within the first ten minutes of conversation find a way to work in this question. The vast majority of them also manage to follow up my “No” with a remark along the lines of “If you need inspiration.” I joined a dating service once, and included in my bio that I was a published romance author. (I write under pen names, no harm no foul). One man even introduced himself with “If you need some help, I’m happy to provide inspiration.”

Granted, it took my boss two months to ask, but even he couldn’t resist. Laugh. (To clarify, so he doesn’t sound like a creep, he’s more a friend than employer, and he’s extremely supportive of my writing career.) Interestingly enough, my guy reads everything I write and has never once asked.

Stripped by Tori St. Claire

Blurb

Body of secrets…

As a member of the CIA’s elite, Black Opals, Natalya Trubachev must live a lie, working undercover as the lover of Dmitri, a Russian mob boss. His business is trafficking vulnerable Las Vegas strippers overseas for twisted sex games. Natalya’s business is to blow the ring wide open and bring down Dmitri and his American contacts. But the stakes are raised when she learns that the next target is her own sister Kate, a dancer in the famed club Fantasia. Only now does Natalya realize how personal her mission has become, and how far she’s willing to go to complete it.

Body of lies…

The manager of Fantasia is Brandon Moretti, an undercover detective who keeps a close eye on his girls, and an even closer one on his sinfully sensual hire. For Natalya, working the club could be the break she’s been waiting for. But for Moretti, Natalya is a possible link to a killer. Only he never counted on her being so lethally seductive or so dangerous to get close to. As every forbidden pleasure between them is stripped away, his own secrets threaten their security, but it’s Natalya’s that could destroy them both.

Excerpt

“Tell me what you want, beautiful.” His breath rasped over her cheek. Featherlight kisses accompanied the whisper, trailing across her skin in a taunting path toward her mouth.

Kiss me. She turned her head in search of lips she instinctively knew would be warm, the words on the tip of her tongue. Kiss me until I don’t care whether I live or die.

Honesty. Just once.

He caught her lower lip with his teeth, the nip nowhere near gentle. But the lazy stroke of his tongue soothed the stinging bite. She parted her lips, dipped her tongue out to touch his.

Brandon’s body tightened like a whip. The pressure in her lower back increased as his fingers curled into her skin. Their breaths mingled. The tips of their tongues met in a slow, sensual dance. As another spasm of ecstasy threatened to send her tumbling into his solid chest, she braced her hands on his shoulders.

And then Brandon was gone, the magic of his fingers disappearing as he stepped back and set both hands on her waist. His gaze scorched in to flood her body with tingles. He waited, his question unspoken, but hanging between them.

Tell me what you want.

Clearly he intended to make her admit she wanted to feel him deep inside her. Wanted to experience the slide of his bare skin against hers. And God, how she wanted to kiss him. To taste the desire that burned in his gaze and the indescribable flavor of hot, aroused man.

Confessing might lead her to an early grave, but for once, her conscious would be clear. She swallowed hard and dug deep for the courage that had kept her alive these last three years. His gaze followed the sweep of her tongue as she moistened her lips.

“Kiss me.” Her senses honed in on her whisper, amplifying it and the ragged fall of their mutual breathing. She became aware of every minuscule sound as she waited for Brandon to either dip his head and honor her request, or shove her aside with a wicked sneer.

He took a step closer, bringing their bodies in contact from chest to toes. One arm wrapped around her waist, then slid up her back to offer support between her shoulder blades. The other tangled in her hair, tipping her head back. Putting her where he wanted her—subtle dominance that thrilled her in places she hadn’t known existed.

Her womb clamped hard, sending another rush of moisture through her pussy.

His mouth descended. Warm lips played against hers, drawing her into the spell his body wove. Pulling her in so deep she struggled for air.

The sudden, brassy ring of her cell phone jolted her out of hazy desire. She froze. With Kate and Sergei due to arrive at Fantasia any minute, there could only be one other person calling at this time of day—Dmitri. It would be almost one in the morning in Moscow. The time Dmitri put aside his work and crawled into bed. He’d want to talk before he slept.

“Don’t answer that,” Brandon whispered against her mouth.

Damn if those lips weren’t compelling. She’d had his mouth on her breast, knew the incredible magic his tongue could create there, but had yet to experience the tantalizing slide of his tongue against hers. The need to feel his mouth on hers, to get lost in his potent masculinity pressed her to ignore the ringing tones.

Duty, however, rose up screaming. If she didn’t answer, Dmitri would get suspicious. “I have to.”

Bio: Tori St. Claire grew up writing. Hobby quickly turned into passion, and when she discovered the world of romance as a teen, poems and short stories gave way to full length novels with sexy heroes and heroines waiting to be swept off their feet. She wrote her first romance novel at seventeen.

While that manuscript gathered dust-bunnies beneath the bed, she went on to establish herself as a contemporary, historical, and paranormal author under the pen name, Claire Ashgrove. Her writing, however, skirted a fine line between hot and steamy, and motivated by authors she admired, she pushed her boundaries and made the leap into erotica, using the darker side of human nature and on-the-edge suspense to drive grittier, sexier, stories.

Her erotic romantic suspense novels are searingly sensual experiences that unite passion with true emotion, and the all-consuming tie that binds -- love.

Tori can be found at:

www.toristclaire.com

www.claireashgrove.com

Twitter: @claireashgrove

Lisabet's January Newsletter

2012-01-24T07:53:00.004-05:00

Happy New Year to all my readers! I've got lots of exciting things to share this month, including several chances to win free books and gift certificates.

New and Upcoming Releases

I have two new releases since last month. The first is a collection of my BDSM short stories, entitled Just a Spanking. Is a pure spanking, stripped of any sexual manipulation, enough to make a submissive come? Can a Dom turn a woman into his slave using just his voice? Can a banana split be an instrument of torture? Find out in this lively, arousing collection. The book is available exclusively for Amazon Kindle and can be borrowed for free by Amazon Prime members.

The second is a re-release of Incognito, bundled with Iona Blair's scorching Sins of Susan into a super-sized sexy ebook entitled Taboo. It's also on Kindle Select. You can read an excerpt here.

Both my Books We Love collections Just a Spanking and Body Electric will be free for every one on specific days from now through April. I'll announce the days on my blog and Yahoo list a day or two before. Meanwhile you can get either of these books free from me. All you have to do is review the other on Amazon, then send me the review link.

I heard from Maxim Jakubowski that my story The Antidote will be included in the next Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. And my erotic fairy tale Shorn comes out in May as part of Kristina Wright's collection Lustfully Ever After

Finally, I've signed the contract for Quarantine. The book is scheduled for July. I really don't know how I'm going to wait that long! Meanwhile I've posted a short excerpt to whet your appetite.

Other News

Want to read some sexy excerpts and win lots of prizes? Dumb question, right? February is Coming Together "Share the Love" month here at Beyond Romance.

In case you haven't been paying attention (grin), Coming Together is a publisher of erotic fiction for charity. We've raised thousands of dollars for causes like breast cancer research, AIDS research, conservation and social justice, as well as supporting victims of disasters including Hurricane Katrina and the 2007 California wildfires. During February, I'm turning my blog over to Coming Together authors, who will be sharing the hottest snippets from their charity stories. Most will offer giveaways to people who comment, and at the end of the blog bash, we'll choose a grand prize winner, who will receive a $50 gift certificate to All Romance Ebooks. We're also giving away a Kindle Fire to a reader who comments every day! I hope you'll visit and comment often. We're going to have a great time!

In my free reading section this month, I've added the full length romantic BDSM tale Reunion. The story has been published in several collections, but remains one of my favorites.

Starting in February, at the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, I'll be writing a new column entitled Naught Bits: The Erotogeek's Guide for Technologically Challenged Authors. I'll be trying to provide enough background on computers, software and related topics to help authors cope with the demands of publishing and promotion in the Internet age.

And speaking of ERWA, we've revamped and re-energized the ERWA Blog. Every few days you'll find a new post about writing or life, romance or sex, from our top-notch authors. Check out my post from a few days ago, Intimacy with Strangers. It's not what you expect!

Contests!

Thanks to all of you who entered my "Favorite Cover" contest last month, and congratulations to my randomly chosen winner Tammy R. Her favorite cover was Ruby's Rules. I was interested to see that there was a great deal of variety in people's responses.

For January, I'm doing market research again! I'd like to know how you feel about ebook prices. To enter, send an email to contest [at] LisabetSarai.com with the subject line "Prices Contest". In the body of the email, answer the following questions:

When you shop for ebooks, does the price make much of a difference in your decisions?
If you see a book priced at only 99 cents, does that influence your perception of its quality?
What do you think is a fair price for an ebook novella (20,000 words or 50 pages)?
What do you think is a fair price for an ebook novel (50,000 words or 150 pages, or more)?

If you have other comments about ebook pricing, I'm happy to hear them.

Around the 20th of February, I'll randomly draw a winner from all the entries. He or she can choose to receive either of my two recent romance releases, Hot Spell or Wild About That Thing.

Lisabet's Pick of the Month

My January Pick of the Month is Nicole Morgan's blog. Nicole writes satisfying, sexy erotic romance that will have you clamoring for more. Drop by and say hello - and tell her Lisabet sent you!

A Kinky Snog from Reunion

2012-01-22T05:00:00.000-05:00

Happy Snog Day!

I'm in the process of my monthly website update. I thought I'd post a snog from my BDSM story Reunion, which I'm adding to my free reads page.

Have you visited Snog Central yet today? I'm talking, of course, about Victoria Blisse's site, where you can find one of her delicious kisses as well as links to those from your other favorite authors...

Three years since I last saw him, and now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension winding me tighter with every moment.

It's always like this. My chest aches. It's difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.

I hover between joy and terror. It has been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my bared butt. I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage separating us even as our history and our fantasies draws us together.

Today will be different. I've booked us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the airport for my master.

I don't call him that to his face. He'd mock me, his voice bitter. "If I were your master, I'd simply order to you leave him and come to me, and you would." He doesn't give me that order, although I suspect that he's tempted. He refrains, out of respect for me and my choices, or maybe in fear that his power over me is not as great as he would like to imagine. He spares us both, and I'm grateful, though now, waiting, burning to see him again, I almost wish that he'd put me to that ultimate test and take away the awful yearning that I feel when we're apart.

Every one of my senses is on alert, yet he manages to surprise me. I'm looking toward the gates. He comes from the other direction and calls to me softly. "Sarah."

I start and then laugh nervously. When I stand up, my bag tumbles off my lap to the floor, toys clattering inside. "You're here!" I feel clumsy, silly, stupid, but when he bends to kiss me, everything but the joy disappears. I'm flooded with it, gasping, overwhelmed.

In his limbs I feel his pitiless strength. His lips, though, are gentle, questioning. Am I still his? I melt, open my mouth and my mind to him. Does he sense the answer? Sometimes I am certain that he reads my thoughts. He laughs ironically and calls me suggestible. I don't know what to believe, which suits him perfectly. He wants me a bit off-balance.

I struggle to act normal, as if I were just meeting an old friend. "How was your flight? Did you have trouble with your connections? What about your baggage? Is that the only jacket you have? October here can be kind of chilly..."

"Hush," he says, laying a blunt finger upon my lips. "Don't chatter. Take me to the hotel."

****

You can read the rest of Reunion here. Check out my January news and contests, too!

Is Arrogance Sexy?

2012-01-21T04:02:00.003-05:00

By Nicole Morgan (Guest Blogger)

We’ve all met the type right? Tall, dark and devastatingly handsome. They exude sexiness in everything that they do. Whether it’s their walk, their touch, their voice or heaven help us, their scent. We can’t help but be drawn to these men.

Unfortunately they have a dark side. They are cocky and unbelievably arrogant. They subscribe to the old caveman like stereotypes where they hoist the woman over their shoulder and carry her off to ravish her on a bear skin rug. They’re also the exact type of men who will order our dinner for us with a nod and wink rather than allow us to choose for ourselves. Everything about them is overbearing and drives us mad. Yet their bedroom eyes and seductive ways almost always make us fall for them.

Now before any of you protest too much and insist you could never be so easily swayed by a man with such gall, let me tell you exactly who it is I’m referring to. I’m not talking about our mailman or the guy who smiled at your at the restaurant last night. I’m talking about those Heroes we read out in romance novels. I’m sure we have all read a book at least once which portrayed a man who we would never put up with in real life, yet when he comes to life amidst the pages of a novel we find ourselves weak in the knees and so jealous of his heroine for being the one swept up into his arms.

What I’m wondering is, what is it about cocky arrogance mixed with a deliciously sexy man that we can somehow manage to forgive those faults in him for the benefits he otherwise provides his leading lady? Have any of you read a book and thought, ugh what a jerk! And pages later you found yourself thinking, oh my, he is utterly delightful! LOL

If you’ve been fortunate enough to be transfixed by one of these Heroes who defied all rules of what we normally look for in a man, leave me a comment below and tell me who this hero was, what book he came from and which author brought him to life. Don’t be shy either. Let’s face it, no matter how sweet we are, we all have a bit of a penchant for the bad boy.

~ Nicole J

Beck and Call by Nicole Morgan

Available now from Total-E-Bound!

Blurb

All Jenny wanted was to run her resort hotel without the constant interference from her boss. All Beck wanted, was her.

Jenny Somers is the General Manager at a resort hotel in the beautiful Caribbean. She loves her job, but she hates her boss. Constantly cutting corners to meet budget constraints she finds herself doing handyman work just to keep the hotel running.

Beck is a drifter who comes to Jenny’s rescue during a plumbing emergency at the hotel. He is arrogant, cocky and absolutely everything that Jenny despises in a man of his type.

Together Jenny and Beck find out just how real the term “opposites attract” is, and along the way find something that neither of them were expecting.

Excerpt

He was watching her. She could tell he liked it. She noticed a small bead of sweat on his forehead that she would lick off if he was close enough. He was holding her thighs apart and hadn’t deviated from his rhythm for several minutes when she felt him do just that. His pace slowed and he released one of her thighs from his strong hold. She was disappointed. What he was doing had felt so good. She didn’t want him to stop. Not for a second. He slid his hand up towards hers in what she thought was going to be a playful massage of her breast, but instead he surprised her when he pulled her hand away.

“Beck? What are you doing?”

She asked the question, but if she had waited the answer would have been clear. He took her hand down to where their bodies were connected and placed it on her saturated clit.

“Rub yourself, Jennifer. Touch yourself. Let me watch you.”

His voice. Again, his voice sounded deep and hypnotizing. Was there anything he could ask of her she would not do? Without hesitation she spread her lips further apart with her index and ring finger. Her eyes were locked on his as she flicked her middle finger across her swollen clit.

She gasped. The sensation was more than she’d expected. Something flashed in his eyes and his jaw clenched. She loved knowing she was driving him crazy. Wanting to make him just as hot as he did her, she continued to play with herself as he watched. He was still buried deep inside her and the feel of being so completely filled while touching and teasing her sensitized nub was like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

“Taste yourself, Jennifer.”

Her eyes widened at his demand. Taste myself? She had never done anything like that before. How could she… As quickly as she’d asked the question she realized the choice was no longer hers. Beck pulled her hand away and raised it to her mouth.

“Suck your fingers, sugar. Lick all your juices off for me while I watch.”

Oh my God! She couldn’t possibly. Hesitation washed over her when her scent tickled her nose and her taste hit her tongue. She liked it? She wanted to question how it was possible, but instead found her lips closing over her fingertips. Unconscious moans escaped from her as she did exactly as Beck told her to, licking and sucking on her fingers.

Bio: Nicole Morgan was an avid reader who kept having one recurring problem. Ideas of stories kept popping into her head. Today Nicole is an author of erotic romantic novels, which more often than not have a suspenseful back story. Erotic romance mixed with a good old fashioned who done it. She tries to place strong emphasis on the characters' emotions while also throwing in some spicy and hot love scenes.

Nicole wants her writing to inspire you, the reader, and open your heart to feel the same things the characters are going through.

While still trying to stay true to her style, she is finding her writing is evolving as she takes on new and uncharted territory for her. There are many areas of erotica out there that she hasn’t had a chance to really delve into and is anxiously looking forward to doing just that.

Visit Nicole's blog at http://nicolemorganauthor.blogspot.com.

Life Without Wikipedia

2012-01-19T07:55:00.003-05:00

By now, if you haven't been living under a rock, you know about yesterday's protest against SOPA, the anti-piracy bill currently being considered by the U.S. Wikipedia, YouTube, Reddit, and many other popular sites either shut down or organized protests and teach-ins against the bill. And the U.S. government, incredibly, is taking notice.

This post is not about SOPA. You can find far more authoritative columns than mine about the problems with the proposed legislation, pretty much anywhere right now. No, I'm considering what life would be like Wikipedia were permanently shut down.

It's a scary thought.

When I was growing up, we had a twenty volume set of the Encyclopedia Americana. I spent many happy hours pouring through its pages. By the time I inherited the massive set, though, it was sadly out of date. After all, my parents had bought it the year I was born. (They obviously realized they'd spawned an egghead and bookworm!) I still held on to it for the sake of nostalgia, as well as for the historical articles that (mostly) were still accurate.

When my husband and I sold our house and moved to Asia, the encyclopedia was one of the many possessions we jettisoned. Of course we didn't replace it - we don't have children ourselves, and in any case, there's always the Internet - right?

At one point I swore that I wouldn't get dependent on the 'net. Alas, that's one vow I haven't been able to keep, though perhaps my addiction is less serious than some people. I probably check facts in Wikipedia a couple times a day. It's not at all unusual for my husband and I to raise some point of dispute over dinner, and for one of us to run off to our home office to consult the online authorities. I've been known to get out of bed, just out of curiosity, to refresh my memory about something or to dig just a bit deeper with regard to whatever I'm currently reading.

Meanwhile, Wikipedia is often my starting point for researching my stories. I spent days reading multiple articles about Varanasi, Parvati, and Shiva before writing my succubus story "Naked in Varanasi". I used Wikipedia extensively for research on the Mayans, while working on "Serpent's Kiss". And I'll often flip over to the site to look for photos of historical costumes, or maps of places where my book is set, or a million other little details.

What would I do if the site went dark? Well, obviously there are other sources of information on the Internet, some of them probably more authoritative, but a lot harder to find, I'll bet. Anyway, if Wikipedia were silenced by government legislation, lots of other sites would likely be affected too. Censorship has a way of spreading - like cancer. And the thing about SOPA is that it allows anyone to complain that your site infringes copyrights and force you off the 'net.

Hmm. I have no doubt that many people don't approve of what I write, considering it wicked, perverted, obscene, even criminal. What would it take for them to shut down my website or blog, if SOPA became law?

Not much, I gather. Which is a chilling notion. Without an online presence, an author today might as well not even exist.

Even if Wikipedia's still around, my site may not be.

I guess this post is about SOPA after all.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Kindle

2012-01-18T04:02:00.004-05:00

By Elizabeth Kyne (Guest Blogger)

(Author Elizabeth Kyne embraces the surprising joy of ebooks and ereaders.)

How wonderful it is to hold a book in your hand. The joy of that new, untouched copy with its beautiful artwork and glossy cover. The feel of the crisp pages as you turn to find out the next step of the story, and the smell of the paper straight off the printing press. It is a pleasure which I have enjoyed since small.

Now, into this world of certainty, comes the book’s dreaded rival: the ereader.

This is an item that has no beauty. It is a rectangular grey gadget. It does not entice you in with a beautiful cover, turning the page feels like nothing, and it has no captivating smell (except, perhaps, the whiff of the factory when new). And yet this object dares threaten the supremacy of what has been the basis of the literary world since Gutenberg invented the printing press in the fifteenth century.

I say: let it dare.

This may seem heresy from an author, a reader and someone who studied literature at university, but hear me out.

First of all, the modern world seems to have gone gadget crazy. Almost everyone seems to have a smart phone, a tablet or an mp3 player – many have all three. Can you imagine the humble paperback book existing alongside all these electrical marvels, with their touchscreens and their wifi? Maybe you can, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But the advantage of the Kindle and its ilk, is that it bridges the gap between the old world of the book and the new world of the gadget. People are already listening to music, making phone calls and even shopping on their small mobile devices. How awful it would be if books were shut out of this new world.

And, even better than that, is the versatility of the ebook itself. You don’t actually need to have a specially-made reading device like a Kindle, because you can download whatever ebook you wish to read to your favourite device. People can read on their iphones, their ipads, their androids, their netbooks and even their desktop computers if they want to. Ebooks do not threaten literature, they allow literature to be accessed in more places. It makes books as much available to the teenager on the bus as they are to the retired librarian.

The dedicated reader, however, is more likely to be interested in a gadget especially made for books. As I explained to a friend of mine, who was thinking of buying a Kindle for her mother, they have some advantages over reading an ebook on, say, a phone.

eInk is the biggest advantage of all. It means that the words displayed on the page of an ereader are similar to ink written on a piece of paper, in that they are not back lit like a computer or a smart phone. Many people find reading on a computer screen for extended periods gives them eye strain, whereas the words on the page are much easier on the eye.

This, of course, doesn’t actually make the gadget better than a book. But – hang on – because that’s not the end of the story. One of the great advantages for my friend’s mum was the ability to make the ‘print’ bigger on the Kindle, a godsend for older eyes. Another good thing is the ease of ‘turning the page’ with the press of a single button and the fact that you don’t have to wedge the pages open as you read. Whatever device you choose is also relatively light and small, compared even to the average paperback. It can store hundreds, if not thousands, of volumes inside of it, which means choosing which book to take on holiday with you is no longer the dilemma it was once.

But, as more and more people turn to these devices (and read on their tablets and smart phones), there is no doubt that other aspects of our reading experience will change. Ebooks, it seems, will only hasten the loss of the book shop on our high street, which I agree is a great shame. But we cannot blame the ebook for that. It’s a trend that began with the rise of internet shopping in general which has also hit other retailers from craft shops to sport shops. Before that, there was the foray of books into supermarkets and, before that, chain bookstores competing with the independents.

The biggest change, I think, will be in the way we use sampling to decide which books to buy. In the olden days, you might buy a book based on its back cover blurb, a flick through the pages and possibly a favourable review. This would result in bringing home some fabulous books. It would also (at least in my case), result in bringing home some duff’uns. Those books that you wade through and wonder why you picked it up in the first place. Readers like me would give up after fifty pages; while more assiduous readers would plod on ’till the end in some sort of obligation or belief that the story would eventually pick up.

Sampling has the ability to change all that. Now, if you like the sound of a book, you can download a sample onto your gadget for free. That way, you get to read a nice chunk of it at your leisure and decide if you want to continue. If it’s a duff’un, you can give up without guilt because it hasn’t cost you any money; and if it’s a fabulous find, you can part with your cash knowing that reading the whole book is likely to be worth it. This means, more and more, that books are going to have to grab the reader early on if they are to be successful. Other than authors like Stephen King or PD James who can rely on a loyal following, there will be little room for the slow build. Stories will have to engage the reader from the very start. Not necessarily a bad thing.

Another great think about the new ebook age is that it allows every reader to have an almost infinite bookshelf at their fingertips. It wasn’t so very long ago that if I fancied reading, say, a detective novel, I would either have to hope that I had something on my shelf that fit the bill, or I had to travel half an hour into the nearest town to buy something, only to have squandered the day’s reading time by going to the shops. In recent years, I might have ordered a copy of the book I fancied reading off the internet and, but by the time it arrived in the post, I actually felt like reading a good romance instead. With ebooks, I can go online and pick out almost any book I fancy, download it and read it there and then. How brilliant is that?

That’s not to say it isn’t a scary world out there. Any change is scary, especially as you get older, especially as it impacts on something so valued as reading. But I say, don’t be scared, embrace the new opportunities that the new world brings. Paperback and hardback books still exist, and will continue to do so for a long time, in my opinion. In fact, as an author I am proud to have my books in paperback as well as ebooks. If that is how you prefer to read, you have as much opportunity to do that as you ever had.

The most important thing is, however, the words. One of the greatest things about the rise of the ebook and the ereader is that people are buying into them because they still want to read. Despite the allure of video games, the internet, Skype, texting, Facebook and all the rest, people still want to sit down and enjoy a good book. And if that means downloading it to their Kindle or their ipad, then I say let them do it.

*****

If Wishes Were Husbands by Elizabeth Kyne

Rachel re-invents herself when she moves back to her home town of Aylesbury; with a new job, a new house and a new haircut. But people’s eyes glaze over when she tells them about her life as a forty-something singleton who works in accounts. So why not spice things up a bit? Why not tell her new hairdresser and her new friends about her fantastic husband? Everyone wants to hear about Darren, the man who cooks her amazing meals, cleans the house and takes her to bed for orgasmic sex three times a night! What a shame he doesn't exist…

…Until she comes home one night and finds Darren sitting in her lounge. And everything she said becomes true: from his sensuous food to his skill in bed. So real, that she believes it.

Not as if living with a perfect is man is… well, perfect…

She can’t find anything because every time she puts something down, he tidies it away. Then there’s the shock of the credit card bill from buying all that gourmet food. Not to mention the sex! Three times a night is great at first, but sometimes all she wants at the end of the day is a sandwich and some sleep.

Then Rachel decides that Darren has to go - and that’s when her troubles really begin.

Elizabeth Kyne takes the absurdities of the modern woman's quest for love and turns them into an enjoyable romp. She finds the comic in everyday situations, from buying a dress to experimenting with hair dye at home. While, underneath, she comments on the pressure to find the perfect husband and how that quest is doomed for us all.

PAPERBACK:

EBOOK

*****

Bio: Elizabeth Kyne trained to be a radio journalist and spent her early working years reading news bulletins and writing for magazines. Later, after learning the meaning of “mortgage” and “gas bill”, she decided to do the sensible thing and drop the freelance lifestyle to get a proper job. The job, however, all went horribly wrong and she returned to her first love of writing, and worked on several novels before finding success with If Wishes Were Husbands.

Website: http://www.elizabethkyne.co.uk

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.kyne1

Body and Mind

2012-01-17T05:42:00.005-05:00

I realized recently that I'm one of those people who live more in the mind than in the body.

That's neither good nor bad. It's just who I am. When I was a kid, I spent most of my leisure time reading - exploring new worlds in my imagination. As a teenager, I concocted lavish scenarios involving my latest crush and wrote poetry dripping with adolescent desire. In college and grad school, I had lovers - maybe more than many women - but looking back, it's not the physical pleasure I recall. No, it's the emotional and intellectual connections I shared with those special men that fills me with nostalgia and gratitude.

I was always drawn to men with a rich fantasy life. My grad school lover once "picked me up" in a bar, pretending on the spur of the moment that we'd never met. I immediately fell in with the role. That was one of the most intensely erotic experiences of our three year relationship.

And of course I've written many times about my history with the man who initiated me into Dominance and submission. He poured his kinky fantasies into my mind for months before we actually got together.

Those days with him marked me forever. They're directly responsible for my erotic writing. Yet I don't remember much of the physical pleasure - or the pain, for that matter - at all. It's the mental part that got me hot then, and still does. It felt as though we were reading each other's minds, and that total communication completely blew out my sexual circuits.

Did I orgasm when we were together? Honestly, I don't know. I do remember, even then, not caring. (He probably did care; that is the sort of guy he is.) For me, the connection was the point, not the climax. He could fuck me forever, as far as I was concerned, or do anything else he wanted. Pleasing him pleased me. It was, strange as this might seem to more physically inclined individuals, enough.

I still live in my mind, sexually in and in other ways, too. Someone could fondle my breasts or manipulate my clit with no effects whatever, if I weren't in a sexy frame of mind. I can't come, even with a vibrator, without an erotic fantasy to push me over the edge.

My writing shows this, I suspect. I spend far less time than some authors on the physical details of an encounter. My prose is (sadly perhaps) less focused on the senses than that of some of my colleagues. Try as I might to do things differently, my heroes and heroines have some tendency to be like me in this regard. The situation, the setting, the emotions - the sense of transgression or liberation - the feeling of communion with one's lover - these are what arouse my characters.

My tag line is "Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac". Actually, for me, it may be the only aphrodisiac.

Sunday Snog: Exposure

2012-01-15T07:26:00.002-05:00

Greetings! My Sunday Snog today comes from my erotic thriller Exposure. Here's the blurb:

Stella is just minding her own business and having a bit of fun, working as an exotic dancer at the Peacock Lounge. Through no fault of her own, she witnesses a double murder and gets pulled into a shady dance of deceit with political bigwigs, mob bosses, dirty cops and scheming widows. Now she's everyone's target; her only chance is to sift through the lies and expose the truth.

When you're done here, click on over to Victoria's for more snogging fun. Not only does she do the most luscious kisses around, you can follow the links on her site to more sexy snogs by her author friends!

Jimmy stops talking suddenly and stares at me. "You're a thousand miles away, Stella! You haven't heard a word that I've said." He shrugs. "Guess I should have known that you wouldn't be interested in an ordinary guy like me."

Guilt hits me in the gut. "No, Jimmy, that's not it. I just have a lot on my mind right now." Should I tell him about Layla? That I had a brief but torrid affair with Haji's other waitress? That she disappeared one day without a word of goodbye? He strikes me as incredibly straight; I don't want to frighten him away. "I haven't been sleeping well since – the other night. I find myself distracted by all sorts of disturbing thoughts."

He nods, instantly sympathetic. "Of course, I understand. I shouldn't take it personally."

I reach for his hand and squeeze it tightly. "No, definitely not. I really enjoy your company. Really. I'm incredibly glad that you got me out of the house tonight. Otherwise, I think I might have gone crazy."

He's wearing some kind of cologne. I can smell it from here, something fresh and nautical. He rubs his thumb gently over mine. It is a gesture of affection. Maybe an invitation. His skin is warm and dry. I'm the one sweating with nervousness.

Jimmy signals for the check. Suddenly he's confident and in control. He gives me one of his crooked smiles. "Feel like a walk? It's still early, and it's a lovely night. We could go up to Schenley Park."

I mentally check the status of my ankle. The throbbing is hardly noticeable. "I'm supposed to stay off my feet," I reply, smiling into his eyes, "but it's very tempting."

"We won't go far. And if your ankle begins to bother you, we'll turn back."

We leave the car at the edge of the park and stroll along the paths to the crest of the hill. We seem to have the place to ourselves. New leaves whisper on the oak branches that arch over our heads. The spring air is like wine. It seems totally natural that we should be holding hands. I feel my heart quicken as we emerge from the trees and see the lights of the city spread out before us.

This place is breathtaking. The broad lawn slopes downward nearly half a mile. When I was a child, I rode my sled down this incline, screaming with excitement as we gathered speed. Past the grove at the foot, we see the lights of Oakland, violet and orange, and further to the west, nestled between the rivers, the glittering towers of downtown.

The night is moonless, so clear that even with the urban brilliance below, the stars are visible. There is some kind of perfection here. I breathe deeply and feel the knot of tension in my chest soften. Peace, for the first time in two days.

We don't speak. Jimmy leads me to a bench where we can fully appreciate the view. His arm is around my shoulder, his fingers warm on my bare arm. I welcome his touch. For a moment, I just let go, close my eyes and lean my head against his chest. His after-shave mingles with his natural odor, a luscious masculine scent that I find amazingly comforting. Yes. This is what I need.

I am not surprised to find his lips on mine, firm but undemanding. Again, this feels natural and right. I sink into his kiss, opening myself to his tentative tongue, tasting the beer he had with dinner. "Stella," he murmurs, his hands wandering over my body.

My nipples spring to attention as he brushes them with his fingers. My sex swells and dampens when he lays his palm across the curve of my belly. He has not stopped kissing me. Our tongues dance like familiar partners. With each twirl, I grow more aroused.

I realize that he is unfastening my dress, one slow button at a time. Part of me wants him to rip it off, to take me without any warm-up, but I also appreciate his measured, gradual approach. He's afraid I'll stop him, I realize. Suddenly I feel that I must reassure him.

"Just a moment, Jimmy," I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. I stand and face him, continuing the work he began on my buttons. One hand unfastens them from neckline to waist, the other from waist to hem. He's transfixed, watching me. I see the fabric between his legs stir as he grows more excited.

My timing, as always, is perfect. The delay at each button is painful and yet he savors the wait, the building suspense. I don't try to get into Jimmy's head. I merely watch him as he watches me. His excitement feeds mine, and mine his, in a hot loop spiraling tighter with each breath.

I shrug my dress onto the grass. "Take out your cock, Jimmy," I murmur. "I want to see you. Touch yourself for me."

Jimmy needs no second invitation. In a flash his fly is open and his erection is swaying in the night air. The taut skin on the shaft shines pale in the dim light. The knob is much darker. Without taking his eyes from mine, he cups the bulb in one hand, rubbing the swollen flesh against his palm. With the other hand, he grips himself near the root and begins a slow stroking.

"That's lovely, Jimmy." Exposed by the half-bra, my nipples throb each time he squeezes himself. I roll them between thumb and forefinger, wishing I could take them in my mouth.

There's no point in removing the brassiere; he can see all my charms, and the black lace contrasts nicely with my dusky skin. But the thong is definitely in the way. I can feel myself blooming, unfolding in anticipation of having that hardness inside me. I suddenly lose patience with my gradual progress. Without ceremony, I push the panties down to my ankles and step out of them.

In twinkling city-light, I think, I must look like a goddess: breasts like globes, thighs like columns of marble flanking the dark entrance to the mystic grotto. Jimmy is hugely erect now, but he almost looks frightened, confronted as he is by the awesome mystery of womanness. I feel a surge of affection that nicely seasons my lust.

"It's OK, Jimmy," I whisper in his ear as I roll a condom over his hardness and sink my pussy down onto his cock. That is the last thing that either of us says for some time.

Welcome to River City

2012-01-14T04:02:00.005-05:00

By E. Ayers (Guest Blogger)

Ready for a change of pace? Want to move to a mid-sized city in the eastern United States? It's a nice place to live, work, play, and fall in love. It's also fictional.

When I first started writing I was told to anchor the story. If I chose a real place, I had to be careful where everyone went, where they ate, and that happened to them. I didn't want to be accused of portraying a place in a bad light. Every city has its good points and its bad ones. Yet, I wanted that special energy that is in every city. I also wanted to be able to fire the city manager.

Ever notice when approaching a city and the tops of the skyscrapers come into view how our skin prickles with excitement? I'm not sure why that happens but it does. I wanted that pace, that flow, and that vibe of a bustling city. There also something else about a city - a plethora of people!

Cities are melting pots. I like that diversity. A city also provides a mixture of people who come in different sizes, shapes, and colors. There are those who are newcomers and those who grew up together. There's lots to do and places to visit. Staying home on Friday night being bored is a preference because a city provides plenty of other options.

I don't think heroines need to wear a size two, have blue eyes, and blonde hair. Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. When does an ordinary man become handsome and sexy? When the right woman falls in love with him. And what is ordinary? What is normal?

Very slowly, River City was born. It sprouted a university and a major hospital, a historical area, congestion, expressways, bypasses, interstates, railroads, a water supply, businesses, shopping areas, markets, parks, a museum, an orchestra, an airport, and the suburbs. It's still growing! I built a city and in it are young people building careers and trying to make their world a better place.

Most series must be read in order and it's difficult to jump into the middle of one. I didn't want that. Some of my character do show up in other books mainly because people who are active in their community tend to know the other people who are also active. Some are friends and some are acquaintances. The glue is the city.

I have only three requirements for my River City characters: they must be young, they must be actively doing something to make the place better by either financially contributing, volunteering, or their job has a direct impact on the community, and most importantly, they must be good people. They have juice, they are ones who get things done and make things happen.

I strive for realism in what I write. I allow the characters to dictate what they want. Everyone is different. I write about falling in love. Making it last usually isn't easy. When two people have careers, and most young people have careers, it's difficult to find time for another person. People shouldn't have to give up something for love. A couple should enhance each others lives and make it fuller. It's about complimenting and balancing each other. Team work. They both must respect each other and themselves.

That doesn't mean there aren't sacrifices. What are you willing to do for the person you love? There's also an issue of trust. Communication is a huge element in any relationship. Sometimes you have to agree to disagree, and sometimes it takes a little extra work to see the other side of the issue. Falling in lust is easy, but falling in love is very special.

In my writer's mind, a city becomes fertile ground with an infinite number of characters who need me as a matchmaker. I built a city, with a proud history, it isn't perfect, but I hope you'll enjoy your stay.

Thanks, Lisabet, for having me as your guest. I'm going to give away copies of my River City books to your commenters. They need to leave a comment on your blog and email me with their River City book choice to be entered into the drawing.

e.ayers[at]ayersbooks.com

Wanting

If you ask businessman Mac McGuire, he'll tell you this is his story. He fell head over heels in love with Amanda Conner, an unfettered beauty with a turbulent past. Wanting her is one thing, winning her trust is another. From the violence of River City’s housing projects, to the glamorous digs of the downtown, and out to the lake district, this is one time that his money isn't working in his favor.

A New Beginning

When Dallas Nixon's parents throw her out, she seeks a safe haven. She arrives on the doorstep of the one person she always trusted, except Patrick Makowllen isn't looking to adopt a foul-mouthed waif with blue hair and yellow contacts. He reluctantly shelters her. The last thing he wants is someone sharing his life - he's a meat and potatoes guy, and she's a vegetarian. Against his own better judgment, he opens his heart and kisses his well-ordered, mundane life goodbye.

A Challenge

Tate Zaro has a black belt in TaeKwonDo, a career, and doesn't yearn for a man in her life. So why does she take a lousy paying job with a boss she dislikes, to be with a guy who spends his Saturdays coaching soccer? Life does not always give you what you want. Sometimes you get more than you ever expected.

The next River City book should be available Spring 2012.

Here's a snippet from Wanting.

Silence filled the air again. He took a sip of his coffee and then looked at Amanda. She was wearing the same knit top she had worn on their first date and he suspected it was either the best thing she owned or the only thing she owned.

His mind raced. He wanted to talk to her about her past. The only way he'd know for certain was to ask, yet molestation wasn't something normally discussed, nor was it considered polite conversation. His brain was telling him to deal with it, as if she were a client who needed to be told unwelcome news.

''Amanda, at some point in your life something has happened to you. There's something very wrong, and I'm fairly certain I know what it is, but we can't discuss it until I know specifically, so you need to start talking.'' He knew what he said was lame, but he was trying to open the door for her to tell him rather than accusing her of being a victim.

''I have no idea what you're implying.''

''Yes, you do.''

''No, there's nothing. I'm going to bed now.'' She started to stand, but he was on his feet in a flash.

''No, Amanda, you're going to sit here and talk. Whatever has happened to you is affecting us, and I want to know what it is. So have a seat and get it out.''

She got that icy hard glare on her face, and her pale blue eyes had turned to a cold gray. ''I don't know what you are insinuating.''

''I had one class in psychology in college and to me it was a bunch of mumbo-jumbo.'' He took a breath, ''If you want to discuss stocks, options, markets, mortgages, and commodities - then you'd be on my playing field, but not psychology. I do know if you keep things inside and allow them to fester, they only get worse.'' He watched her body stiffen. ''Sometimes you have to drag up the past, take a good hard look at it, and then move on. Something happened to you, something that's now having an impact on our relationship. We need to talk about it, but we can't discuss it until you tell me what it is.''

She sat quietly and stared into her lap. The ticking of the clock on the table seemed twice as loud.

''Take my hand and tell me what happened. What has made you so scared to be near me, so fearful? You know deep down inside of you that I will never do anything to you, yet you are still frightened.''

She ignored his hand, but he could see the tears welling in her eyes. He found a box of tissues, and laid it upon her lap.

She composed herself and said, ''I can't talk about it. I don't remember.''

''How old were you?'' he asked, in a quiet voice.

''I don't know, maybe six or seven the first time.'' She wrung her hands as she spoke. Her shoulders hunched and slowly she drew herself into a ball and wrapped her arms around her legs.

''Who was it?''

She closed her eyes. Her brow furrowed, then her expression changed to a grimace. ''I don't remember. I really don't remember. I just remember all the pain.''

He shook his head.

She sobbed and blurted out bits and pieces of the story.

He remained silent and listened. Occasionally, he reached over and touched her shoulder or her knee. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and tell her that no one was ever going to harm her again. The more she rambled, the more the story's fragments came together. Her eyes were now wide open but unseeing. The realization that her mother wasn't just hooking, she was also selling her young daughter to the highest bidder, wrapped around his stomach. Half of what Amanda said didn't even make sense. It was a child's perception of a hideous crime against her.

At one point she quit talking, uncurled from her knot, put her head back, and closed her eyes again. Her face was now red and puffy from crying, and although it was not hot in the condo, her hair was damp around her face from sweating. He retrieved a washcloth from the little bathroom, wet it, and brought it to her. Sitting on the arm of the sofa, he wiped her face and watched her breathe.

He wanted to kiss her lips, but he knew he'd better not do anything she could misconstrue as taking advantage of her. Instead, he sat quietly beside her. After a few minutes, he stood and walked to the kitchen. Wringing the washcloth under cold water, he brought it back, folded it, and placed it on her forehead. He wanted to ask her if she was okay, but that would have been stupid because she wasn't, so he stayed near her until she was ready to talk again. There was no sound other than her breathing and the rhythmic tick of the clock.

He reached over and was taking the washcloth from her face when she opened her eyes, looked up at him, and said, ''No man will ever have me again, never. I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't.''

He leaned down and kissed her damp forehead. ''No, Amanda, you're not a little girl anymore. You are a grown woman. The difference is now you can control your life and your body.''

He touched her hot, rosy-red cheek with his thumb. ''You have the right to make your own decisions. Giving yourself and your body to another person is not a light decision. It should only be done if you truly love the other person and there's a commitment between you. I have fallen madly in love with you, and I think you know that. But I will never take from you what you are not willing or ready to give.''

She closed her eyes again, and took a deep breath. He went to the kitchen and brought back the freshly dampened cloth. He picked up their cups of cold coffee, and refilled them with a fresh supply then sat on the arm of the sofa and gently touched her face. ''Sit up and drink some coffee. Do you want to talk some more?''

''I feel horrible.'' She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. ''You must hate me.''

''Never. No. You were the victim of a crime.'' He tucked her wayward lock of hair behind her ear. ''You are not responsible for what happened to you. The crime that was committed against you was hidden, and your wounds healed, but it left mental scars.'' Her gaze locked with his, staring deep into the very fiber of his being. ''Drink your coffee.''

''But you have to understand that I could never allow another man near me. I can't go through that ever again.''

A Snippet from My New Release

2012-01-12T23:49:00.005-05:00

Greetings! I'm trying to get the word out about my new BDSM short story collection, Just A Spanking, which is now available on Amazon Select. That means that if you're an Amazon Prime member, you can borrow the book for free. It also means that I'll be having more free promo days for everyone in the future. I'll try to give you more advance warning next time!

So some readers have asked me whether there's a lot of pain in this book. It is, after all, BDSM. Well, pain in not the main point. The core of BDSM is what's called "power exchange". The submissive willingly surrenders her will and her body to the care of the dominant. The dominant has a responsibility to take care of the submissive, both physically and psychologically. BDSM is not about abuse - quite the opposite. In fact, it's about being cherished (as a submissive) and worshipped (as a dominant). It's about trust.

Here's a quick snippet from the title story, "Just a Spanking". I hope you like it.

***

We manage to meet at least one weekend a month, despite the distance and the demands of our regular lives. Sometimes I fly up to visit him. Sometimes he comes down to see me. Either way, as soon as we are together, we're swept into some alternate existence where every sensation is magnified and every emotion has the weight of revelation. The so-called real world simply evaporates. For me, for those two magic days, his voice, his fingers, his cock are the only realities. Plus the implements of pain and pleasure that he uses so imaginatively as an extension of his will.

He meets me at the airport with a kiss tender enough to reassure me that I'm more than just his slut. His lips wake every inch of my flesh. By the time he releases me, I'm flushed and tingling all over. After that initial embrace, however, he doesn't touch me at all.

He leads me to the parked car. I remember him taking me once in a sweltering parking lot, his fingers crammed into my cunt while he whispered all the indignities he planned to inflict on my poor body. As I fluttered helpless around his hand, I knew that he could ask anything of me and I'd obey. Now he is asking something new, a kind of restraint that I find more difficult than any bondage.

I am dressed as he requires, short skirt with no panties, silk blouse with no bra, and my favorite lace-up boots. I fidget on the seat as he drives up 101. The plastic is sticky against my bare skin and getting stickier by the minute. He stubbornly keeps his eyes on the road.

I part my thighs. The car fills with the ripe scent of my pussy. His nostrils twitch but otherwise he ignores me. My nipples feel as huge and hungry as they do when he winds them with rubber bands. I try to keep still. Each whisper of silk across my breasts makes my cunt clench and weep.

He opens the car door—a gentleman Dom—and helps me out. The brief contact of palm on palm makes me shudder with want. I follow him up the stairs to his apartment, watching his strong buttocks shift in his trousers as he climbs. I think about how they tense and relax when he fucks me. I'm panting by the time we reach the third floor, but not from exertion.

The door swings open. He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. Normally he'd have me pressed against the wall, knee in my crotch and hands under my blouse, before the lock clicked shut. Today he simply stands beside me, a half-smile on his full lips, as I survey the familiar room.

He has already set things up. In the dining area, the table has been pushed out of the way. Two of the chairs face us, side by side, flanked by the ottoman that normally sits in front of the armchair. That armchair is the usual location for his spankings, but I can see that tonight will be different. He's trying to minimize my contact with his body. Clever man.

“Strip,” he orders, as he has so many times before. My heart somersaults in my chest, as it always does. He seats himself in the middle chair to watch me remove the few clothes I'm wearing.

I can feel the weight of his eyes, tracing my curves, lingering on my swelling breasts. I move as slowly and sensuously as I can, working to arouse him, to undermine his resolution not to touch me. His pants are loose. I can't really tell whether his cock is hard, but his lips are parted and there's a flush on his cheeks.

“Behave yourself, Becca,” he warns. “No teasing, or you'll get the cane after I'm finished with your spanking. In fact, you're guaranteed the cane if you're not naked in ten seconds.” His threat has the desired effect. I tear off my blouse and a button goes flying into the corner. I don't care. I stand naked before him, awaiting his instructions.

He makes me wait. Heat shimmers through me . Blood pounds in my ears. I study my toes and listen to my breath. Fear and excitement co-mingle, until I can't tell one from the other. My bratty determination to make him touch me fades away, although my clit still throbs and my juices trickle down my thighs. All I want is to please him. I'll wait forever if that is what it takes. Indeed, a part of me would rather wait than know what comes next.

****

By the way, my offer from Tuesday is still open. If you review Just a Spanking on Amazon, I'll send you a copy of my other e-collection of short stories, Body Electric. Just send me the link!

Envy

2012-01-11T04:02:00.004-05:00

By Marie Sexton (Guest Blogger)

Envy. We’ve all felt it from time to time. It’s not pretty, but it’s part of the human condition. We work so hard to achieve something, only to look around and see that others are somehow ahead of us, or getting greater rewards for their efforts. Well, folks, I’m here today to make a huge confession. I’m envious of my good friend Heidi Cullinan, and of our fellow authors Christopher Koehler and KA Mitchell.

Why do I envy them? Well, you probably think I’m going to say it’s because of their fantastic writing skills, or their sales, or their fabulous reviews. I could envy them all for those things too, but no. What I really envy is…

Their phones.

That’s right. I admit it: I have smartphone envy. Show of hands, who has a smartphone? I envy you all. I envy you your instant access and your fun little apps. So, you may ask, if I want one so much, why don’t I have a smartphone?

Because I’m cheap.

It’s not the price of the phones themselves that bother me. It’s the price of the plans. I don’t actually use my phone for calling. (Does anybody?) I use my cell phone for what God intended: texting. And for checking my email. Even though I don’t make calls, I have this dire need to be CONNECTED at all times. I use it to chat with Heidi and Ethan Stone and my friend Wendy, and even my husband when he’s at work. But I can’t stand the fact that I have to start with a base package of $40 per month for calling alone, when I don’t EVER call. All I want is data.

Like I said. I’m cheap.

I do have a cell phone. It’s actually a pseudo-smartphone. I call it the Ghetto Phone. It has a little slide-out keyboard like a real smartphone. It’s a no-contract, pay-as-you-go plan. I have 300 minutes of talk time (which I barely use at all). The cool thing? I have unlimited messaging and data, and I only pay $25 per month! What a rockin’ deal, right?

Wrong.

Because you see, it really is a Ghetto Phone. It’s a poor-man’s smartphone. It has a browser, but it can’t seem to load the most basic pages. I can check email, but only one account at a time. There are no fun apps to download. I can’t ask it where the nearest Starbucks is. I can’t use it to find my way home. I can take pictures, but the resolution is terrible, and I can’t instantly upload them to anyplace in the world. I also own an iPod Touch -- one of the old ones without a camera -- so if I happen to end up somewhere with WiFi, I can pretend I have a real smartphone. On my trips with Heidi, I shamelessly beg her to use her smartphone hotspot to hook me up. “I need my fix!” I tell her.

Most of the time, I get by. I can check my email, although it’s cumbersome. I can chat with online friends, but only if cell reception is good. At Mile High Stadium, where I spend many Sundays from August through January watching the Broncos play, the reception is awful. I sit there with my Ghetto Phone in one hand, searching for a signal, iPod in the other, searching for an unsecured hotspot I can jump on.

It’s pathetic, I know. Someday, I’ll find a way to justify spending more on my monthly cell phone bill. Someday, I’ll be one of the cool kids, with games on my phone, and cool little apps that can land the space shuttle or tell me the secret of life. Of course by that time, smartphones will probably be a thing of the past, as irrelevant as a Sony Walkman. Until that time, I’ll continue using my ghetto phone. Pity me, my friends. It is a terrible burden to bear.

*****

Just released by Silver Publishing!

Blurb

Captain Tristan Kelley enjoys the luxuries of Regency service, as well as the pleasure of his prince's bed. It's an easy life, if not a happy one. When the prince decides to take a trip through the perilous Blind Space, Tristan must go with him, but somebody in the prince's guard is a traitor.

Blind and held prisoner, Tristan finds himself at the mercy of Valero, a pirate who bears no love for the Regency. Valero is determined to seduce Tristan, and Tristan fears his resolve won't last. His duty is clear, but so is his desire. As the days tick by without word from the Regency, Tristan begins to question his loyalty to his prince, the Regency he's sworn to, and the man who holds him captive.

Tristan begins to realize that being a prisoner may actually set him free.

Bio: Marie Sexton writes male/male romance. She lives in Colorado. She’s a fan of just about anything that involves muscular young men piling on top of each other. In particular, she loves the Denver Broncos and enjoys going to the games with her husband, even if her Ghetto Phone doesn’t get reception there. Marie has one daughter, two cats, and one dog, all of whom seem bent on destroying what remains of her sanity. She loves them anyway.

Me, out and about:

My website/blog: www.MarieSexton.net

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MarieSexton.author

Twitter: http://twitter.com/MarieSexton

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3292500.Marie_Sexton

Goodreads group: http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/48765.The_Heidi_and_Marie_Show

And be sure to join me for Coffee and Porn in the Morning: http://cupoporn.wordpress.com.

Today only! My new BDSM release is FREE on Amazon!

2012-01-10T00:12:00.004-05:00

My new release Just a Spanking is free today on Amazon! Download your Kindle version here:

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

Here's the blurb:

Just a Spanking collects eight of Lisabet Sarai's hottest BDSM stories, including three previously unpublished tales. From the light-hearted fantasy “Ruler” to the raw intensity of “Limbo”, these stories explore the many variations of power exchange, demonstrating how whips, canes, candles, ropes, or handcuffs, as well as the classic palm on a bare bottom, can open doors to the ultimate erotic experience.

Is a pure spanking, stripped of any sexual manipulation, enough to make a submissive come? Can a Dom turn a woman into his slave using just his voice? Can a banana split be an instrument of torture? Find out in this lively, arousing collection.

=============================

Don't have a Kindle? You can read Kindle books on your PC, Mac or smartphone by installing the Kindle reader software. For more info, just go here: http://bookswelove.net/

PLUS - I will give anyone who reviews Just a Spanking on Amazon a copy of my previous short story collection from BWL Spice, Body Electric. Just send me the link to your review!

What are you waiting for? The clock is ticking!

Sunday Snog: Limbo

2012-01-08T02:58:00.003-05:00

Greetings! This week, I'm sharing a snippet from the story "Limbo", one of eight in my new BDSM collection Just a Spanking, which will be released exclusively on Amazon (and free to Amazon Prime readers) in a few days. If you like the cover - well, I think you'll love the stories themselves!

Don't forget to visit Victoria Blisse, the grande madame of snogs, and read her very naughty excerpt. Then you can hop on from there to savor lots more sexy kisses from other authors.

By the way, the kiss in this excerpt is pretty brief - that doesn't limit the intensity, though.

"Hey, birthday boy, how about some candles?" You're suddenly on your back and I'm straddling you, fishing multicolored candles out of thin air and igniting them with a breath from pursed lips. I hold each one briefly over your body, dripping the wax onto your skin and watching you squirm. You are cheering up already. I use the wax to stick each candle onto your skin, until your chest and belly are a glittering array of flickering flames.

I raise myself up and graze my pubic hair across your swollen cock-head. You struggle unsuccessfully to remain still. Droplets of searing paraffin rain down on your flesh. "Make a wish," I whisper. Then I sink down onto your hardness, burying you deep inside me.

I feel the flames licking at my thighs. Your cock is a candle, lighting me from within. We are melting into one, connected at last, finally fucking, finally making love. Our bodies flow, merging, mingling. We become indistinct, clouds of light, arrows of fire, flesh evaporating in the brilliance of our joining.

I feel a pull, a heaviness. My body is calling me back. There's time for one kiss, one whisper. "I'm yours. Always."

I open my eyes to a raging headache. The glare of the processing chamber is agony, though it's no brighter than our incandescent coupling. Side effects. I don't mind. It was worth it. I am secretly thrilled, full of wonder at the success of our encounter.

When I try to sit up, I discover that my whole body aches. I can't help smiling to myself, remembering other assignations with you. The technician rummages in the closet for my clothing. I surreptitiously check my buttocks. No stripes. Ah well, what did I expect?

The mistress of the place bows to me as I leave. Her eyes glitter. She senses that I will be back.

I'll email this narrative to you tomorrow, as you requested. You will want to compare notes. You'll probably tell me that I imagined it all. Or perhaps not. In any case, I know what's real. I've just tasted reality. On your lips. Again.

In a Lesbian World

2012-01-07T04:02:00.001-05:00

By Widdershins (Guest Blogger)

My Nom de Voyage is Widdershins - I’m a lesbian who writes Science Fiction/Fantasy for lesbians, with lesbian characters. This is important, for a whole bunch of reasons.

The most important being:

VISIBILITY!

Hah! I bet you thought I was going to say, “because I have to write.” That’s almost as important, but no, visibility is at the top of my list.

When I was growing up in the Age of Dinosaurs, before social media; hell, even before personal computers, I had no role models. Not in books, movies, television, visual arts, and certainly not within my family. (well, at least, no positive ones)

It didn’t help that my family lived in a tin shack at the end of a bulldozed track through the Australian bush, with a creek as our only source of running water.

We had lots of books though. An old set of Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopedias, whose pages smelled of old dust and forgotten mysteries. A shelf of Readers Digests that I read from cover to cover, but mostly for the funny one-liners at the end of the articles. (I wonder why they stopped doing that?)

For the two years I attended high school (a tough decision to drop out - earn enough money to eat, or go to school? – not so tough after all!) I spent most of my time in the library, occasionally studying but invariably reading; Heinlein, Asimov, Clarke, boy’s own stories from the ‘Golden Age of SF’. I was hooked. SF was my way out of an existence that lacked a soul.

I have always been a lesbian, although I didn’t have the language to understand what that really meant until I was somewhere between the end of my teens and the beginning of my twenties. I always knew I was different, I always feared I was the only one, and I always sensed that was not a good thing.

I survived. By silencing myself. For years.

Then, I heard ... things …, mysterious things, and tantalizing.

… Words …

Words like ‘dyke’, Sappho, ‘lesbian’, Radycliff Hall. Martina Navratilova. Visibility. Tanya Huff, Joanna Russ, Gay Pride, James Tiptree Jr. Katherine V. Forrest, butch and femme.

I also heard words like, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, epidemic, pandemic, plague, safe sex, dental dams, at-risk behaviours. (The world seemed a rather bleak place during those years.)

Rosie O’Donnell. Ellen DeGeneres, Queer Nation, Melissa Etheridge, Kelly McGillis, D.A.D.T& D.O.M.A. Meredith Baxter, Chely Wright

These are all words that contain an unknowable wealth of information in them. All words that speak directly to me. Words that have Power in them. Power to change a life, perhaps even to save one.

If I had known about these words and these names, if they had been around when I was growing up, perhaps my silence would not have lingered as long as it did.

When it came time for me to call myself a writer, I knew I needed to add my name to that list of words, so that someone like me wouldn’t have to silence her Self in order to survive.

Now I am a lesbian ‘author’ and as of last year, a ‘published lesbian author’, and it’s time to pay it forward.

You can find me here most days:

http://widdershinsfirst.com

Mortal Instinct is available as an eBook from my publisher here:

http://www.eternalpress.biz/book.php?isbn=9781615724574

…and in paperback and eBook from Amazon, here:

http://www.amazon.com/Mortal-Instinct-Widdershins/dp/1615724583

Bio: I was born in England, grew up in Australia, moved to Canada in 2004 and married the love of my life. I’m a writer and shaman, a bicyclist and a feminist. I’ve been an architect, a seamstress, an athlete and a field hand.

Writing is my passion and my profession, novels specifically, short stories occasionally, and always with lesbian characters.

****

Mortal Instinct: Where magic, mysticism, and technology exist side-by-side.

Mortal Instinct is set on Argol, a planet of the Gallery - a vast other-worldly web of corridors spun from the body of an Immortal Being. These glittering corridors link the worlds of the Mortal Realm. Anyone brave enough to step through a Portal can journey through them from world to world.

Something is happening to the Gallery, something ... mortal.

In a world where fiery earthpower rises from the heart of the land at the behest of a Sacred Circle, three friends find themselves responsible for a mystical Sphere that has the power to destroy or save the Gallery, and even the Mortal Realm itself. Immortal beings interfere, lovers and ex-lovers intrude, egos and politics get in the way. In spite of all these distractions, they must achieve their destiny before the Sphere awakens and decides its own fate.

****

Excerpt

A Portal glowed fiercely, then shattered. Wind rushed through the broken Hall.

Chalone’s face turned white. She barged through the fleeing crowd to Liesha’s side. “The corridors are being ripped apart!” she shouted above the roar of rushing air and an alarm that no one had thought to shut off.

“I can see that,” Liesha said too loudly as the sound eased, and picked up the headset the gale had swept from her head. She’d had no time to reintegrate her implants and used it to communicate with the ECHO network. “I am going to stop this.”

The alarm finally fell silent. “You can’t stop it,” Chalone said.

“What do you mean?” Liesha suddenly grabbed her arms hard enough to cause bruises. Chalone winced and she released her grip. “Sorry,” she apologized. “Tell me.”

“Mor brought us back in time to the moment just after we left,” Chalone explained.

Liesha looked blank for a moment and then she turned as pale as Chalone. “We are witnessing the beginning of the maelstrom in the Hub!” She looked aghast at the dying Hall.

“Not all of it. Our Portals aren’t enough to create that monstrosity, but if this is happening throughout the Gallery…?” Chalone swallowed hard.

Liesha focused inward, listening to a strident voice issuing from her headset. “I still have to stop it here,” she said with jagged determination.

“You have that kind of power? Why didn’t you use it when we were trapped in the Hub?” Chalone accused.

“I was not able to. It requires many ECHOs, and our communications do not work in the Gallery.”

Vian finished giving orders for crowd control, organized the evacuation of the nearby houses, and initiated the clause in the council charter that gave her immediate and total control of all the resources she ever needed or wanted. She interrupted Chalone and Liesha.

“Hurry,” she said to Liesha. “If you can’t hold at least one of the Portals, then we’re marooned here forever. Everything we’ve all worked for will be lost.”

“I am aware of that fact,” Liesha snapped back at her.

Chalone looked from one to the other. “You both knew this would happen.”

REVIEW - Finger's Breadth by M.Christian

2012-01-06T03:50:00.002-05:00

Finger's Breadth by M. Christian

Zumaya Publications LLC, 2011

Most men are within a finger's breadth of being mad. - Diogenes

A lunatic is loose in San Francisco, seducing gay men, drugging them, then slicing off the tip of one of their fingers at the first joint. At first, terror grips the city. Bars and clubs catering to the gay community close; no one dares venture out at night, for fear of encountering the Cutter. A chance hook-up with an attractive stranger could make you the next victim.

As time goes on, though, and more men join the ranks of those with nine-and-half-fingers, the mood shifts. Fear morphs into a sort of desperate heat. New venues open, more vibrant and raw than ever. Men with all their fingers intact become objects of suspicion – perhaps they are the one responsible for the plague of mutilation. The gay community develops new rituals to deal with the horror. But who is the Cutter, and why does he pursue his macabre crusade?

In Finger's Breadth, M. Christian has created a creepy and compelling narrative that, like so much of his work, defies categorization. The book offers elements of horror, erotica, science fiction and social commentary. Christian's San Francisco is recognizable but weirdly skewed from the real city. Its dark streets are haunted by free-lance cops and merciless predators, newly-outed kids fresh from the boonies and jaded veterans of a thousand blow jobs.

There's no single hero. The novel proceeds as a series of vignettes, views of the world through the eyes of various men affected by the explosion of violence. Snippets from newspapers and radio programs move the plot forward. Each character holds a piece of the truth without necessarily being aware of that fact. By the end, the reader has a pretty clear idea of what's going on, but Christian never actually comes right out and explains.

M. Christian understands the dynamics of fear as well as the fascination of extremes. He transcribes chilling Internet chat sessions, between a man who might or might not be the Cutter, and a man who longs to be.

TRANCHERMAN191: I'll only ask one more time. Why do you hope it's me?

CONRADICAL02: i don't know!

TRANCHERMAN191: You do know. You just won't say it.

CONRADICAL02: i want more. i want something different. Is that why you do it?

TRANCHERMAN191: Answer my question or stop bothering me.

CONRADICAL02: i want something different. i want 2 do what you do.

TRANCHERMAN191: Because?

CONRADICAL02: i want it to mean something. Sex, i mean. Or something like that. It doesnt do anything. Its fun. But it doesnt last. It's what everyone else does. Its not special. i like it, but i mean, its like what everyone else does. Is that what you mean?

TRANCHERMAN191: Go on.

CONRADICAL02: i dont know. Fuck. Its not enough. ive done it all kinds of ways but its not...it doesn't stay. Thats not right. Fuck, i dont know. i want to feel more. i want to be more. i dont want just tricks. i want risky. i want to do more than fuck and suck. i want to feel real big real powerful. Nasty. i want to be different like you.

TRANCHERMAN191: You don't know anything about me.

Finger's Breadth is simultaneously terrifying and arousing. M. Christian has tapped into the subterranean founts of desire, where the primal urges - lust, anger, fear, hunger - flow together. At the same time, the book dwells on more existential issue - the need for meaning and recognition, the urge to belong to a tribe. Like his previous work, the controversial novel Me 2, this book considers how far one might go today in order to fit in.

If you're looking for an easy, sunny, sexy book with a happy ending, don't pick up Finger's Breadth. If, on the other hand, you want a scary but enlightening ride through the twisted labyrinth of the human psyche, I highly recommend this book.

Hello, 2012! Goodbye, Dead Zones!

2012-01-04T04:02:00.001-05:00

By Nichelle Gregory (Guest Blogger)

Happy New Year!!

I’m welcoming in 2012 with open arms! This is my first guest blog in the New Year and I’d like to thank Lisabet for having me on Beyond Romance today! I’ve finally packed away the last of my holiday decorations. Hooray! Don’t get me wrong, I love decorating for the holidays, but by the time New Year’s Eve rolls around, I’m ready to take down the tree, pack everything up and focus on the year ahead. I think refocusing personal and professional goals is a good idea any time, but especially now.

If you’re like me, nothing magical happened to you once the clock struck midnight and officially ushered in 2012. It’s up to each of us to make the magic happen! For me, it’s more about finding ways to renew my spirit.

I think the smallest changes can have a big impact on our psyche. When you’re feeling good it’s reflected in how you treat others and in everything you do. As a writer, being in a good mental space is critical. If I’m not feeling well, for whatever reason, I don’t feel like writing. When I’m not writing, I tend to feel even worse which perpetuates the problem.

Well, it’s a new year and I’m excited about upcoming writing projects! I’ve got lots of story ideas I’d love to see come to fruition this year, but inevitably I know I’ll hit what I like to call my "dead zone" (insert horrific scream here).

Yup, talk about frustrating...wanting to write, but lacking the creative energy to do so. Can you relate to this? I’m determined this year to work through these annoying dead zones and I thought I’d share a few ideas on how.

Idea #1- Take the day off...creatively speaking. I like to challenge myself to write something every day, but sometimes it’s more painful to stare at a blank screen or to keep erasing whatever you’ve managed to type. If you’re having one of those days, shut down the computer, put down your pencil and find something else to do. Don’t feel bad about it either. Being creative can’t be forced.

Idea #2- Reorganize Your Writing World. That could include clearing out your inbox, plugging in those blogging dates on your calendar or picking up the space where you write. Getting organized usually helps me get re-energized to work!

Idea #3- Read A Book! Reading is always a welcomed escape from the voices in my head. Plus, you can learn something as a writer from everything book you pick up. A good book can inspire me!

Idea #4- Re-read Your Own Book! Usually a couple of months after I’ve had a work published, I’ll go back and read it. It’s great to read through and enjoy the scenes you worked so hard on. Best of all, I usually get that “I can’t believe I wrote this,” but in a good way feeling that inspires me to get back to writing.

Idea #5- Spruce Up Your Cyber-world! When I’m not in the zone creatively, I’ll work on updating my blog or website. There’s usually always something you can do to make your cyber-homes look better.

Idea #6- Stimulate The Senses! Now you can take this idea in a lot of different areas, but I’m just going to talk about one: sight. That’s right, get visual baby! I like to peruse stock images for story ideas or possible future book covers. I can’t count how many times a beautiful picture has inspired an idea for a story or helped me work out a scene I’m trying to finish within a book.

There you have it, six ideas I intend to try this year whenever I’m in a creative slump. I’m going to turn those dead zones into a productive time no matter what for my writing career and I want to encourage you to do the same!

Here’s to 2012!

May the New Year bring us all lots of creative energy, love, laughter, peace and joy!

~Nichelle

* * * *

There exists within our world a brotherhood of Djinns…genies bound by magic, bound by honour to fulfil the desires of their masters.

Enter their realm with caution!

Danger lurks between dimensions, fiery passions ignite without control and wishes are granted for those brave enough to ask…

Blurb for As You Desire

Two scarred hearts learn to beat again with the healing power of love and all its magic...

Accused of being a traitor to the Djinn Brotherhood, Lona realizes trying to love the wrong man has cost her everything...maybe even her freedom. Alone and pregnant, she's beginning to believe the terrible pain she's experiencing is punishment for all her wrong choices as she tries to pick up the pieces of her life.

When Rafi finds Lona suffering in agony, he makes a hasty decision and takes her home. Ignoring the mutual attraction between them, he agrees when asked to keep Lona in his charge until Rue is tracked down and the High Council can be certain of her innocence.

Rafi knows she's not guilty. He's lived with a lifetime of heartache to recognize something other than guilt is causing Lona's pain. He'll do anything to help her heal and find some peace. Their journey together might also lead to his own salvation...

Excerpt

Rafi refused to think about the repercussions of his actions as he bent his head and kissed Lona. Her lips were softer and sweeter than he had imagined and he had to remind himself to go slow. The growing desire to touch her had been driving him crazy all week. His cock hardened in an instant as she surrendered to his kiss, welcoming his tongue with her own as he tasted her for the first time.

She wrapped her arms around his neck as he placed his hands on her waist. He wanted to crush her body against his, but…

But then she’d feel your raging hard-on.

Right. She’d agreed to a kiss—only a kiss. He groaned as she pulled away. One kiss wasn’t nearly enough.

Damn!

He wanted her so badly. Spending so much time with her had wreaked havoc on the walls he kept in place specifically to avoid the longing and the feelings he was experiencing right now. She pulled every protective instinct out of him. Her sweet spirit made him want to shield her from all the pain in her life, and even though he knew he couldn’t, he wanted to try.

Rafi looked down at Lona, wondering if she had any idea how the shade of pink of her swimsuit set off her lovely eyes. The sound of the water lapping around them seemed loud as he waited for her to make the next move…or to say something.

“You wanted to kiss me?”

Her husky question made his cock tighten almost painfully in the snug swimming shorts.

“For days.”

No need to tell her what else he’d dreamt about doing to her.

“Kiss me again.”

Her voice was a soft whisper filled with need and Rafi obliged her, taking her lips in a hungry kiss. She melted in his arms and he struggled to hold her at arm’s length as she continued to press her body closer to his. There was no way she wouldn’t feel his dick hard and ready against her stomach.

Lona froze, wrenching her lips from his.

“You’re so hard.”

Her breath fanned his cheek as she played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Lona…”

She pulled back to stare at him. “You want me?”

Rafi looked down at her in surprise. “How could I not?”

The doubt in her eyes made him want to show her just how much he wanted her.

Lona averted her gaze as she shook her head. “I’m a wreck.”

“Not to me.”

Rafi squeezed her waist as she turned her face back to his. He was captivated by the way the waning sunlight danced over the honey highlights in her hair.

“I’m homeless.”

“Mi casa es su casa.”

Rafi grinned as Lona smiled, tension fading from her face for a moment.

“I’m pregnant with another man—a crazy man’s child.”

“I know.” He touched her cheek. “That doesn’t change my wanting you.”

As You Desire, the second book in my Djinn Brotherhood series, will be available January 16th with Total E-Bound!

Now take a minute and watch the premiere book trailer of As You Desire!

Bio: Nichelle Gregory has been in love with books and writing since middle school. A lover of the arts, she enjoys anything that embraces the creative nature within us all. Bringing believable characters to life that thrill and excite her readers is a challenge that continues to push Nichelle. She loves creating stories involving super sexy alpha heroes with divine heroines in magical, exotic, and fantastic scenarios. So, gone on . . . Indulge your senses with one of her simply sexy stories!

Visit her website www.simplysexystories.com and blog http://www.simplysexystories.blogspot.com.

Happy New Year to all my readers!

2012-01-03T07:05:00.001-05:00

Sunday Snog: Incognito

2012-01-01T05:07:00.006-05:00

Happy 2012!

My snog today is from Incognito, just re-released under the Amazon Select program as part of the volume Taboo. If you're an Amazon Prime, member, you can read it for free! Just visit Amazon for more information.

And if you haven't been there already, hop over to Victoria's Snog page, where she's kicking off a new year of snogging in inimitable Blisse style!

****

Miranda retrieved the open bottle of Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator and poured two glasses. Handing him one, she sat down next to him with her own goblet, on the opposite side from Heathcliff’s tawny body. “To London,” she said, raising her glass.

“To London, and other adventures.”

They took a few silent sips. What now? thought Miranda. She tingled all over from nervousness, but for once there was no knot of fear in her belly. Mark was looking at her, searching her face as if trying to read her thoughts. The silence lengthened. Ever so slowly, as if he were afraid that she might flee, he reached for her hand. His skin was warm and dry. She suddenly remembered the way he had stroked her palm, the first time they met. The recollection gave her a little thrill.

She wondered at her own shyness. Given her recent escapades, she could hardly be called sexually inexperienced, yet she felt as much like a virgin now as she had with Geoff.

He was still staring at her, their hands clasped. He must be waiting for me to make the first move, she thought.

“Mark…”

“Miranda…”

They collapsed in laughter as they spoke simultaneously. Somehow, the shared humour erased the tension. Miranda turned toward him and kissed him.

His response was immediate and electrifying. His arms circled her, pulling her close to his chest, while he returned her kiss with a ferocity that was astounding. It was a probing, aggressive, challenging kiss, a kiss that sought out her secrets. His tongue danced in her mouth, boldly exploring. Her sex rippled in response. It was almost as if his tongue was dancing down there, darting in and out of her swollen lower lips.

Miranda moaned and rubbed her breasts against his torso. Her nipples were hard and round as hazelnuts. She was hungry for him, dying to have him touch her.

As if in response to her thought, he slid one hand under her shirt and brushed a fingertip across her tit. That simple touch made her writhe; when he rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, she felt as though she was only a few breaths away from climax. He was still kissing her, more voluptuously than before, tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue, nibbling and caressing.

Hazy with lust, Miranda realised that she had never been this aroused. Not with Geoff. Not with Big Daddy. Everything Mark did felt good. He smelled good, tasted good. She wanted him to surround her and penetrate her. She wanted their bodies to melt together into one.

Lazily, his hand left her breast and meandered across her belly. He unbuttoned her waistband and pulled down the zipper on her skirt. She ground her pelvis against him, silently begging him to finger her, fill her, fuck her. He took his time, though, building the tension to fever pitch.

Finally, his fingers reached her pubic curls. But just before he touched her, a sudden jolt of static electricity leaped from his hand to her damp flesh. The shock made her stiffen involuntarily.

Mark immediately retracted his hand. His mouth slipped away from hers.

“No, don’t stop,” she said. “I’m okay. Really.”

Mark searched her face. He looked worried. “Sorry,” he said. “I got kind of carried away.”

“No, it’s fine, I liked it. I want you to get carried away."

First Moon

2011-12-31T04:56:00.004-05:00

Here's a free New Year's shifter story - to get you in the right mood for the holiday!

I'm good at being human. No one ever guesses the truth.

I hold down a responsible, well-paying job as HR Director for an up-and-coming biotech company. The ability to smell emotion and read non-verbal cues gives me an advantage when working with tense or angry employees. I have a handful of women friends, including Lyssa, the hostess for tonight's festivities. I join them for coffee or shopping or movies, just like an ordinary person. We complain and gossip. We talk about men. Yes, I've even had lovers, occasionally, though I have to admit they always leave me feeling unsatisfied – not necessarily physically, but in some deeper sense. Lyssa and Janine tease me, telling me I'm too much of a perfectionist, that I should compromise, that these days nobody expects to meet her soulmate. I laugh along with them, pretending to agree.

People like me, are drawn to me in fact. I'm no anti-social loner, despite the reputation of my kind. And yet, there's always a wall, keeping me separate. Tonight especially, as the clock counts down to midnight and my friends get progressively more tipsy, I'm aware of the distance between me and my fellow celebrants. It's as if I'm looking through one way glass. I sense their joys, their fears, their rising excitement, the surges in hormones triggered by the closeness of the opposite sex. New Year's Eve, a night to be a bit reckless, to take chances one can blame in the morning on too much wine. No one really sees or understands me, though. My weariness from the effort of maintaining my mask. My longing for freedom. My unending, unalterable loneliness.

Almost everyone is dancing. The loud rock music stirs my body but hurts my ears. Lyssa's condo suddenly feels stuffy and overly warm. Twenty five or thirty humans give off significant heat. I'm sweating in my velvet top.

I slip out onto the tiny deck, closing the glass doors behind me, and the noise mutes, though drum beats still vibrate the planks under my heels. Gazing across the Cambridgeport rooftops to the river, I fill my lungs with frigid December air. The cold, still night is as delicious as Lyssa's champagne.

It snowed earlier, so every surface is frosted in white, but now the sky is clear as crystal, black as my ebony hair. The moon climbs above the chimneys and my breath catches in my chest. It's barely half-full, no real challenge to my self-control, but still, the beast in my stirs and stretches. Moonlight glitters on the icy Charles. I crave the sensation of that stark, pale light on my nakedness.

“Oh, sorry! Hello!” A pleasant-voiced, even-featured man appears beside me. “It's just too loud in there, isn't it? Do you mind some company?”

“No, not at all,” I'm forced to reply, though I'd really rather savor the night alone.

“I'm Brett,” he adds, then wraps his arms over his nicely muscled chest. “Jeez, it's cold out here! Aren't you freezing?”

“Not at all.” I let the awkward pause lengthen, refusing to pick up the conversational ball and tell him my name as he expects. I stare at the moon, so bright it practically burns. “I love winter nights.”

I smell Brett's arousal, sense his frustration and confusion. “It's nearly midnight,” he says finally. “Want to come in?”

I can practically read his mind: his lips on mine as the year turns, his big hands molding my hips and pulling me close. I'm tempted for an instant, but I know how it will end - like every other encounter, flat and empty.

“In a minute. You go ahead.” He sighs, turns, leaves me to my solitary vigil.

“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” My friends' voices are a million miles away. The moon whispers to me. Why resist your nature? Why surround yourself with strangers when what you want is the earth under your feet and the night wind in your hair?

New Year's Eve, a night to be reckless. I make my way through the crowd of laughing, kissing humans, to offer Lyssa my thanks and regrets. Nobody really notices me leaving.

My coat swung over my shoulder, I head for the river, high heels loud on the empty pavement. The deserted Esplanade gleams in the moonlight, embroidered with the intricate shadows of the bare-limbed oaks and maples.

I manage to hold off the change until I'm under the trees. The brief, familiar disorientation ripples through me, then the flavors of the night deluge my senses. The faint rustle of a few crisp leaves clinging to the branches above me. The pulsing blood-smell of a rabbit crouched under a footbridge. Tar and car exhaust, blackberries and rust, the damp, ripe scent of the ground, still unfrozen under the thin carpet of snow.

Stretching out my paws, I work the stiffness out of my spine. The moon beams down on me. My snow-dusted jet fur sparkles.

I have just enough human left in me to suppress my howl. Instead, I run.

It's effortless. I race through the shadows along the river bank, eating up the ground. The power surging through me has me drunk as any liquor. Sights, sounds, scents flash by, each one acute and distinct despite its brevity. The world does not blur as I run; it sharpens.

I head upstream, out of the city, the river winding westward into the wealthy suburbs, conservation land on either side. The trees crowd thicker here, but they don't slow me down. Sure-footed and strong, I streak between them, bounding over fallen trunks and ice-crusted tributaries that block my path. Now I let the joy rise in my throat and ring out over the countryside. My howl echoes through the blessed night. The moon approves.

The chill winter air slices into my chest. I'm miles from home, but I don't want to stop, not yet. This is too perfect, a glorious relief from the endless, everyday effort of fitting in. I don't really think about my human life, though. I don't think about anything. I merely sense and feel.

Finally, I slow to a trot, my heart pounding against my ribs. I'm exhausted, close to spent, yet excitement still sings through my body. Squatting, I loose a stream of urine to mark my passing. My nostrils twitch at the ripe warmth of my own scent. I spring to the top of snow-draped boulder, sink down onto my haunches and survey my surroundings. Gradually my pulse drops and my breathing returns to normal. A deep sense of peace steals over me.

“Grrr!” The growl drags me out of my trance of weariness. I start and emit an answering growl. A flood of maleness assaults my nose and my nether parts swell in automatic response.

He steps out of the shadows, all bristling red-gold fur and blazing yellow eyes. He's easily twice my size. When he bares his teeth, they're ivory-hued daggers that could crush me in a single vicious bite. He doesn't attack, however. Of course, I have the advantage, perched on the rock above him.

I'm terrified, but thrilled, too. I know what he wants. I want it as well. But there's a fine line between lust and violence when you're a wolf. I've just enough human left in me for fear to hold me back.

He paces back and forth below, his eyes riveted to mine. Finally, he sits, patient as a pet hound, waiting for me. Then I give in to the beast, leaping down to land in front of him.

His voice, half wail, half growl, welcomes me. He circles my crouching form, snapping playfully at my ear when I allow him to get close, raking his claws across my flank. I know this dance; it's in my blood, though I've never mated with another wolf. My body knows how to bend, how to arch, how to open as he drives into me from behind.

Our coupling is over in minutes, but feels endless. Pleasure pure and sharp as moonlight pours through me as he launches his seed into my depths. His teeth close on my shoulder. The pain simply amplifies the intensity.

When we're done, I'm shaking. The moon won't be full for two weeks and my wolf-self is fading. The male trots off into a copse of beech, obviously expecting me to follow. I limp after him, cold seeping through my paw pads and up into my aching shoulders.

Thankfully, it's not far. He leads me to a snug-looking cabin dug into a hill, half-buried in the underbrush. A few yards before we reach it, the change seizes me. My limbs liquefy and rearrange themselves. In an instant, I'm sprawled in the snow, dizzy, naked and shivering. I can't move.

The male wolf nudges me with his snout. I force myself to crawl toward the wooden structure, noting how awkward four legs can be. The door's unlocked. Inside, embers glow gold and scarlet on the fieldstone hearth.

I collapse on the cot in one corner, lulled by delicious warmth, unable to stay awake for an instant longer. The wolf crouches by the bed, as if to guard my sleep.

Buttery sunlight wakes me, streaming in the small window above the bed. The fire has died. The room is cold, but there's smooth heat against my naked back.

I turn to find him curled around me – tall, well-muscled, his bronzed skin dusted with red-gold down that matches the curls on his head. I breathe in his scent, ripe male musk spiked with a sharp evergreen edge. He's sleeping, but he wakes as I gaze on his beauty and pulls my body to his. “Happy New Year,” he murmurs, nuzzling my ear and sliding his hardness into my soaked cleft.

Joy surges through me, almost drowning my lust. Almost, but not quite. As a man, he's nearly as fierce a lover as when he was wolf. I let myself go, let him see the animal that that is my true self. I know he won't be disgusted or afraid. And I'm quite certain that afterward, I won't feel empty.

Resolutions

2011-12-29T04:59:00.004-05:00

It's only a few days until 2012 arrives, but I've been so busy with work I've hardly had the chance to think about the question. I have today "off", though, and so I'm trying to catch up - no, I'm trying to catch my breath, actually, to slow down a bit and consider what lies ahead.

Usually I don't make New Year's resolutions. I feel that I'd like to this year, though, because I'm not 100% pleased with the way I handled 2011. 'Way too much stress. Too much guilt, too, about the things I thought I should be doing. I've made my poor husband miserable complaining about how much promotion I have to do, but when he very rationally suggests that maybe I should cut back, I start to make excuses about how I can't...

I'm starting 2012 with the premise that if I'm not enjoying some aspect of my life, there's something wrong. That's an area I should look at, and change if I can. When my writing and the associated marketing become a chore, that's a danger signal.

So here are my promises to myself for the coming year.

I resolve to worry less. I know that worrying is not the same as planning. It depletes my energy and makes it even harder for me to get things accomplished. Very few things are the life and death issues they might seem to me. I want to meet my commitments, but honestly, the world won't stop if I fail to blog or don't send out my newsletter on time.
I resolve to complain less. Sharing my problems and asking for help is one thing - that's a practical step toward improving a situation. But just whinging about how busy or stressed or miserable I am accomplishes nothing. It just shows a lack of consideration for the person I'm forcing to listen.
I resolve to be grateful for my gifts. It's so easy to compare myself with someone else and feel inadequate. I need to remember that the ability to imagine stories, write them down and get them published is a tremendous blessing. It doesn't matter how many books I've written. Every one is an accomplishment.
I resolve to take more time off for fun. Too often during 2011, I put off recreation or relaxation until I'd polished off my to-do list. Frequently that meant I'd never get to have fun at all. In 2012 I'm going to ignore the inner voice calling me lazy. We all need a balance between work and play.

Notice that all of my resolutions are relative. I'm sure that in 2012 I'll still complain, still feel inadequate, still work too hard. If I can do less of these things than I did during the past year, though, I'll be satisfied.

After all, we're all works in progress.

Who is Grey's Lady?

2011-12-28T04:02:00.001-05:00

By Natasha Blackthorne (Guest Blogger)

Grey’s Lady is the story of a wealthy New York merchant price, Grey Sexton, who falls for a poor but beautiful seductress, Beth McConnell. Yet, for all their social and economic differences, at their most basic level, Beth and Grey are very similar. This story explores how these similarities threaten to tear them apart before love can overcome the fear of being vulnerable.

Both Beth and Grey suffered isolation and emotional neglect in childhood. Grey grew up as a privileged only son, heir to Sexton Shipping, one of the fledgling nation’s largest mercantile fleets. Grey’s father was a stern businessman who did not understand his daydreaming son and held him at a distance. A child in this position might take solace in a closer relationship with his mother. However, Grey’s mother was chronically ill and unable to bear his childish energy. She kept to her chambers and died while he was still quite young. Later at age nineteen, Grey engaged in an emotionally scarring experience with a slightly older woman, something that is not covered in Grey’s Lady. All of these back story issues and more are explored in more depth in the sequel, White Lace and Promises.

In contrast, the focus of Grey’s Lady is on the immediate interaction between two wounded and self-protective people who feel an overpowering attraction to each other but who do not want to admit it to themselves or the other.

I will let my character, Beth, tell her story in her own words:

****

Why should men always have the power of choice when it comes to love? Is it right that we women have no choice but to sit and wait for a man decide to honor us with his declarations–usually uttered in the form of a demand? And all we as women may do is say “yes” or “no” and hope we have made a wise choice. The man still has the power to break his promises and it will be our good name and heart that bears the damage.

My mother fell into an adulterous affair with an unknown man and as a result I was created. Her husband put her out of their house. I would have been borne in the almshouse if not for the kindness of her employer. After my mother’s death, I would have gone to the foundling home without my kindly benefactress. My unknown father also had his power of choice, the choice to abandon me. How fair is it that men have all the power of choice?

Oh, you ask what about the gentlemen? Ha! The gentlemen. They are the very worst.

A gentleman once declared passionate love for me. He said this so ardently, his beautiful brown eyes shone with sincerity. I was young. I was naïve. I believed him. I trusted him and gave my heart wholly into his keeping. And as went my heart, eventually so went my virtue.

Do you what happened next? Surely, I don’t have to tell you. You know how these maudlin stories go. He married someone else. A lady. Someone of his own class. His took his power of choice. He became a respectable family man and I was left being a soiled dove. I had a good cry over it. I may have drank a little too much at his wedding celebration. What a pitiful little fool I was. But I did not wallow in my self-pity for long. So men have needs and desires? Well, I also have needs. I also have desires. Why should men have all the power of choice? Why should they have all the enjoyment in life?

I take my own power of choice now. I chose whom, when and for how long and I select only the most handsome, wealthy, and powerful of gentlemen.

Yes, I know you are asking do I not fear discovery? This is a worry and I take it seriously.

Truly I do. I live with my half-brother and his family now. He is very protective and very touchy about matters of honor. Our mother was not faithful to his father. Now he takes such matters so seriously. Too seriously. If he had his way, I would stay home all the time, working in the backroom of his cobbler shop with one eye on the children. But honestly, though I love my nieces and my half-siblings, life there is dreary. It’s all work, work and more work. Everything is shabby, everything seems to stay gritty and grimy no matter how hard I work to keep things clean. There are always more shoes to repair. I swear my eyes shall go crossed trying to sew by candlelight night after night. I never get enough sleep or time to myself. If I couldn’t go out and seek my adventures, I should go mad. I have my mother’s wild blood in me and my desires can run so high I fear they shall consume me.

I could marry a nice man and he would carry me away from all of this. I would have my own cozy home and hearth. My benefactress has introduced me to a nice young minister and to a nice young but struggling legal clerk and a nice young medical student who trembled all over and went pale when I said good morning to him. I have no interest in nice young men. It’s the wealthy, powerful, arrogant gentlemen who fascinate me. I know they will never desire me for a wife but they shall burn for me. They shall remember me.

How do I protect myself from discovery? I limit my liaisons to one single meeting. I never meet with my gentlemen again, no matter how desperately they implore me. And they do implore me. Though I am poor, the child of adultery by an unknown man and powerless in my society, I have something gentlemen desire. I have beauty, and thanks to my mother’s wild blood, I understand their hot lusts better than the women of their class. I do gain a measure of satisfaction out of leaving them burning for more. Burning for me. No gentleman shall ever forget the one afternoon he spent with me.

Today is a special day for me. Mr. Asahel de Grijs, otherwise known as Grey to his friends, is coming to my favorite bookseller to give a lecture on privateering. He is a New York man, the owner of Sexton Shipping which has a fleet of over forty sea going vessels. He is rumored to be the wealthiest gentleman in America. I know this is not true. I know exactly who is the wealthiest man in America. But Mr. Sexton is among the top three wealthiest men in our nation. He is also politically connected and quite powerful. He would be the brightest feather in my cap. I think I shall wear my shabbiest dress because it is always more thrilling when these gentlemen cannot resist the tattered, poor little bastard girl. They are slaves to their own greed for beauty.

I don’t really deride gentlemen for their focus on beauty. I appreciate a handsome face and well-made masculine form. Well, if Mr. Sexton’s physicality matches his other attributes, then I shall be entertaining a gentleman today. In private. In his carriage. But only for today. Afterwards, he shall burn for me. He will never forget me.

****

The entire first chapter of Grey’s Lady is available here (for 18+ ONLY).

To Purchase White Lace and Promises: http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=1476

Watch the trailer for Grey's Lady,

Who is Natasha?

Emotional. Evocative. Erotic. Historical Romance from the Georgian and Regency Eras, set in both England and America. Whether they are bold or shy, my heroines' strong desires and deep emotions drive the plot—and drive their heroes to the point of no return.

I have always been a daydreamer who told myself stories of love and romance set in other times and places for my own pleasure. Eventually my story worlds became so real, they demanded to be brought out of my imagination and onto the page. It gives me great joy to finally share them with you. I hope you enjoy my story world.

I am married to my own hero and we share our life with a very quirky calico cat. I have a BA in History and I love to read, both romance and scholarly history and I listen to a variety of music from classical to reggae. But mostly I am hard at work researching and writing my next story.

"Taboo" on Kindle Select

2011-12-26T08:00:00.007-05:00

Exciting news! Total-E-Bound has re-released Incognito along with Iona Blair's The Sins of Susan in a new double-sized ebook entitled Taboo. The book is available now as part of the new Kindle Select program. This means that Amazon Prime members can borrow the book for free!

Haven't read Incognito? Here's the blurb:

Shy and serious by day - insatiable by night.

Betrayed and abandoned by her first lover, shy and studious Miranda Cahill freezes in response to any sexual attention from someone she knows and likes.

During the day, she works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, though, she finds herself drawn into increasingly extreme sexual encounters with strangers. Her anonymous secret life begins to take over when she discovers that the masked seducer she meets in a sex club and the charismatic young professor courting her are the same man.

For a steamy excerpt, just click here.

Want your own copy? Go to Amazon and fill up your Kindle with erotic romance that will have you moaning for more!

Creating Traditions

2011-12-24T04:02:00.004-05:00

By E. Ayers (Guest Blogger)

Thanks, Lisabet, for having me here on Christmas Eve. I thought I'd share a wee bit of my Christmas and how it got started. I've also got a little Christmas gift for all your readers tucked at the bottom of this post. Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates and Peace to everyone else.

What is traditional in one house may not be traditional in another. And how do these traditions get going? Some people put a Christmas tree up on Thanksgiving Day. Others wait until Santa brings the tree on Christmas Eve. Most of us fall someplace in the middle. But what happens when two very diverse people from different backgrounds marry and the family traditions are far from the same? It's time to decide what is important and create your own.

My husband grew up in a small city with a big French Canadian family of aunts, uncles, and cousins living nearby. Everyone went to the grandparents' house, and food was abundant. To him, Christmas Eve was everything. They all went to Midnight Mass, then returned to the grandparents' house for "breakfast" at one o'clock in the morning. Somehow, Santa came to the grandparents' house while they were at Mass and filled their stockings with treats and inexpensive toys. After "breakfast" they were allowed to open their gifts from their grandparents, aunts, uncles etc. At dawn, they returned home. There they had gifts from his parents to open. It was a non-stop party. That afternoon, they went back for Christmas dinner at his grandparents' house. The women cooked, the men did their thing, and twenty cousins played.

As a married couple, we didn't live anywhere near that family, and his grandparents were no longer living when we married, but he loved that big family atmosphere and the foods. Hmm, I had my work cut out for me learning to make a few of those traditional dishes. I also knew, I didn't want our children to stay up all night. To me, part of Christmas Eve was going to bed and listening for Santa to arrive and the long wait for the sound of hooves on the roof. Also there was no Midnight Mass to attend.

My mom always made a big meal on Christmas Eve. Her feeling was we'd just had that turkey dinner the month before so why do it again? She did a ham and then fixed things like macaroni salad to go with it. Her emphasis was on the desserts, rolls, and other baked items. She didn't want to spend Christmas in the kitchen and miss being with her children and grandchildren. I liked her logic.

But the one tradition in my family that I hated was the one that made us wait until we had eaten a good breakfast before we could open our presents. That one was tossed away. The other thing I didn't like was that Christmas didn't last very long. The tree went up a few days before Christmas and vanished Christmas night. By nightfall on the twenty-sixth, all traces of Christmas were gone.

So in the end, when we sorted out what was important to us, including the foods that we loved, we came up with our own. The first weekend in December, we decorated for Christmas. My husband's job was to help get the tree up and do the lights. When our children were little, our Christmas tree was inside the playpen. The kids could see but not get to anything, and packages were safe from little fingers.

Christmas Eve dinner was ham and a few added items from my husband's family. As darkness descended, we did everything by candlelight except for the lights on the tree and the candles in the windows. Christmas music played in the background. I allowed the children to open a specific Christmas Eve present before they went to bed and bedtime was at a normal hour or slightly later. Then it was our time to be together. It was a beautiful way to end a hectic day. We'd curl up together on the sofa and … well, it was romantic.

Since we had no fireplace to hang stockings, our girls hung them on their doorknobs of their bedrooms. The deal was that they could grab them and climb into our bed to open whatever was in their stocking. This worked perfectly as it contained them. They didn't wake each other! It also gave us time to open our eyes and fix a pot of coffee before they ran into the living room. I'd also put the tourtiere (French Canadian pork pie) in the oven to warm because it wouldn't be Christmas morning without tourtiere for breakfast. Then we'd turn the kids loose to see what else Santa had brought. When the flurry of gifts was over, we'd have breakfast. Then it was a lazy sort of day.

Between New Years and Christmas we'd take the tree down and return the house to normal. It would be almost another year before we'd do it all again. Today, the idea of family together at Christmas Eve still holds. My girls visit with their other family on Christmas, but Christmas Eve is still ours, and so is the ham and the tourtiere. Except, I no longer make it, my granddaughters are learning to make it. Their grandfather would have been so proud of them.

Tourtiere Recipe

1 pound of ground pork (I ask the butcher to grind very lean pork for me. It costs a few cents more, but it's worth it.)

2 medium boiled and peeled potatoes (Cut up fine. You want some texture but no large chunks.)

One fat slice of mild onion (or cheat with powdered onion and skip sautéing in butter.)

1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon of cloves

a dash of salt and little butter

pork gravy (you can cheat and use packaged gravy)

Cut up the onion into very fine pieces and sauté in butter. Add ground pork and stir until cooked. Turn stove off. Drain any excess fat. Stir in seasonings. Gently add the potatoes. You will need about a cup of gravy. I save my unsalted potato water and mix that with the gravy packet. Add that gravy to the meat and potatoes mixture and lightly stir.

Pie Crust

(I swear they are so easy to make and taste delicious. You'll never use store bought again.)

2 cups of all purpose flour

1 teaspoon of salt

2/3 cup + 2 Tablespoons of shortening

4-5 Tablespoons of cold water

A pie plate (8-9 inches)

Measure flour and salt into a bowl. Cut in shortening. Take two knives and cut until shortening seems to vanish into the flour and it all becomes grainy. Sprinkle in water, mixing until the dough begins to form a ball and pulls from the sides of the bowl. Gather into a ball with your hands and cut the ball in half. Cover the one unused half with a damp paper towel.

Don't worry about having a dough board, etc. Make certain your countertop is extra clean. Sprinkle it with flour. Be generous. If you don't have a rolling pin substitute with something that will roll such as a smooth glass jar. Sprinkle a little flour on the ball and don't be afraid to sprinkle more flour as you go. Roll the half ball into something about the size of your hand. Pick it up, flip it over, and roll it using pie slice strokes to create a round shape. (Think of a clock and roll from the center to the 12, then from the center to the 2, from the center to the 4, etc.) The flattened dough needs to be about two inches larger than the rim of the pie plate. Don't worry about ragged edges.

When I taught my children I often used waxed paper under the pie crust as they rolled. I'd let them roll it out part of the way on the counter, and then when I flipped it over, I put it on waxed paper that had been floured. The waxed paper tends to slip around so I'd glue it down with a smear of dough on the countertop. I'd let them mark the circle with a pen ahead of time so they knew how far the dough had to stretch. Then it's easy to pick the crust up, waxed paper and all, and flip it over into the pie plate. Gently peel the waxed paper off and push the crust into place. Fix cracks, etc, with a wet finger as you push the dough back together. Trim the crust slightly beyond the edge of the plate.

Fill pie with meat filling. Do not exceed the height of the pie plate. And don't try to pack it tight. (Any excess filling can be heated in the microwave and eaten on toast. Or if you have enough you can make another pie or freeze it.)

Make a top crust by rolling out the other half of the dough. Lay it gently on the pie. With luck this one will look much better. (The bottom crust was practice, right?)

If you have clean pastry shears you can cut the dough, if not use a sharp knife and remove all but an extra inch. Tuck that top layer under the bottom layer on the rim and flute it with your fingers. Or cut both crusts to the edge of the pie plate and run a damped finger between the two so that they stick together. Use the handle to a spoon and press them together or use the tines of a fork. You can make pretty fluted patterns doing it.

Cover the edges of the plate with a foil sleeve to protect the edges from getting too brown. Just wrap two inch wide pieces of alumium foil around the edge This pie needs to be vented so that the steam escapes. The quick way is to put two or three 1 inch (2-3 cm) knife slices in the center. Bake the pie at 425 degrees Fahrenheit until it begins to brown.

I remove the pie and refrigerate. Then I reheat it without the foil on the edges. And I serve with more gravy. (Thank goodness for packets of gravy! I've also seen his family eat it with ketchup on it.)

I decorate the crust and this has become a tradition. It doesn't take much skill and it's fun! It only takes a sharp knife and toothpicks. I promise it was more difficult for me to draw them with a mouse than it is to do it with a knife. Using a cookie cutter is a great way of marking the design, but don't cut all the way through the unbaked crust. Just mark it and then using the tip of the knife or a toothpick to pierce the crust in that design. Over the years trees have become elaborate things with presents under them and Christmas balls hang from pine branches. Some years the pie crusts haven't looked that great especially when my girls were learning. And lately, it's been the same with the grandchildren making them, but they taste wonderful.

This is a great multi-purpose piecrust.

*************************************************

A Snowy Christmas in Wyoming

A Native American cowboy and a national TV news anchorwoman have nothing in common except for their pasts. Is love preordained? An old diary from when Jessie and Clare Coleman settled on the land in the 1840's provides a history of their life. But tucked between the pages is an unrequited love between Clare Coleman and a tall Native American. Does love and land come full circle? In this season of giving, will fate reach through time to give a gift of love?

Andy Coyote settled into the job as foreman on the Coleman ranch. He's got custody of his thirteen month old daughter and the situation is perfect for both of them until Caroline Coleman returns home for Christmas and one of the worst blizzards in years hits the area. He's forced to accept Caroline's help to move a herd of cattle and mixed in it are several head from another ranch in the community. Cattle rustling still happens.

Caroline Coleman has her dream job as a Washington, D.C., news anchor for a national broadcast, but home is in Wyoming on her family's ranch. She has everything that money can buy, but the things that she really wants can't be purchased. Raised with solid, hard working, family values, she knows her life in the spotlight isn't real. She wants a man who appreciates the ranch, loves her for who she is and not what she is, and she wants a family of her own. And she doesn't like the idea of Andy Coyote taking advantage of her grandmother.

*************************************************

My holiday gift to all of you.

Go to http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/106948

Put it in your shopping cart.

Use coupon code: DL56J

UPDATE the cart and watch the price fall to zero.

This coupon is good until the end of December 2011.

Enjoy!

I love hearing from my readers. e.ayers [at] ayersbooks.com

I wish you all a wonderful holiday. If you have a moment to post a comment, I'd love to hear how you celebrate this season.

Living Without Winter

2011-12-22T09:07:00.003-05:00

It's the season for snow. Every place I turn, I see gorgeous photos of evergreens wreathed in white, or delicate flakes drifting past the candles on the window sill, or kids bundled up, three or four to a sled. I have to admit, I feel a bit left out.

For the past eight years, I've resided in a tropical country where we have three seasons: the hot season, the rainy (and hot) season, and the laughably-titled "cool" season, when the temperature occasionally dips into the seventies. Thus, I've been deprived of winter for the better half of a decade. Before the move, though, I lived in rural New England for more than twenty years, so I have plenty of experience with all the joys the season brings: blizzards, ice-storms, and that nightmarish anomaly that seems to be a Massachusetts specialty, freezing rain. I remember winter only too well: power outages, snow tires, storm windows, shoveling, hauling firewood, pulling all the winter clothes out of the attic, making sure your anti-freeze is full... After spending two years in balmy California then returning to my native clime, I came to realize that winter in a place with serious weather is an incredible amount of work.

I usually go back to the U.S. once a year to visit family, but in the spring (during the excruciatingly hot season in my adopted country). Winter is a vivid but increasingly distant memory. I do find myself romanticizing a bit. I imagine the crisp, hushed beauty of a frigid night, when the stars glitter like faraway diamonds in the velvet sky. I remember the excitement of waking up to find the trees cloaked in a soft white blanket, the river frozen, the footprints of a rabbit the only sign of life in the snow-smothered world. I find myself missing the camaraderie of working with my husband to clear a path up our long driveway to the street - conveniently forgetting aching backs and frost-bitten extremities. Memories of childhood delights return to entice me: racing down a snowy hill on my Radio Flyer, digging snow houses out of the piles left by the plows, sitting on the wooden bench next to the flooded and frozen tennis court to don my cherished white figure skates. The scent of wood smoke hanging in the air - Campbell's tomato soup topped with Cheerios and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch after stripping off my soaked snowsuit - real cocoa topped with marshmallows to warm my numb fingers... I could go on and on. Yes, I do miss winter, no matter how hard I try to focus on the dangers and inconveniences it brought.

One of the side benefits of being a writer, though, is that we can use fiction to recreate what we've lost. I definitely do that when it comes to the erotic aspects of my work. The faraway sexual adventures of my youth provide seeds for many of my stories. I write partially to recapture the thrill of those heady days when I was exploring the joys and perils of passion.

In a similar vein, I can relive the experiences of true winter by incorporating the season into my fictional worlds. My holiday tale Almost Home takes place during a New England blizzard, which traps the two heroes and the heroine in a eighteenth century farmhouse (modeled after the home of one of my former neighbors). My M/M novel Necessary Madness is also a winter's tale. In one of my favorite scenes, the protagonists, driving home in a storm, stop at a closed, snow-clogged highway rest area because - well, they can't wait any longer.

When I wrote that scene, I was there. All the sensory details were clear. I could feel the sickening swerve of the out-of-control vehicle plowing through six inches of snow, hear the pines groaning in the wind and the muted splat of snow blown onto the windshield. I shivered in the bitter chill of the unheated building, the scent of disinfectant rising in my nostrils, goosebumps prickling my bared flesh. While the focus is on the sexual tension building between the characters, winter is in there in the background, a contrast to the heat of my characters' desperate coupling.

Unlike some people who move to the tropics, I didn't leave my former home to escape from winter. Life is easier now, I'll admit, but I sometimes hunger for a taste of the cold, dark, snowy season and the complex emotions it evokes - fear, frustration, comfort, awe, hope. When the temperature drops below zero, you truly appreciate warmth. When the sun sets at four in the afternoon, you kindle a fire on the hearth to remind yourself light will return. Living without winter, I write to keep those feelings alive.

Mystery Writing: The Inside Story

2011-12-21T04:02:00.004-05:00

By Tom Mach (Guest Blogger)

If a mystery is any work of fiction where some sort of crime has been committed, then I can say I’ve written several mysteries. In my novel All Parts Together, Lincoln is assassinated and although there is no mystery as to why today, there was mystery surrounding that assassination back then. Until then, no one had ever killed a President so folks in 1865 wanted to know why and my book goes into the mind of John Wilkes Booth--how he planned it and why he did it. In my short story “The Crossword Puzzle Murders,” published in a collection entitled Stories to Enjoy, a female detective tries to solve a string of murders of professional women and she finally uncovers the clue that tells her who the murderer is--but is it too late?

But switching from a short story to a detective mystery novel like An Innocent Murdered is a giant leap. Let me tell you how and why I did it. Back in 1990 I met a detective who helped me understand how a detective thinks and operates. From that, I had a more realistic “day-in-the-life-of” vision of a real detective I could use in my novel. The problem was I didn’t much care for the detective I created back then. He was a hard-nosed SOB who was great at playing “good guy’ vs. “bad guy” roles in interrogating persons of interest, and he solved cases. But to me that character was nothing more than a robot who did his job and had only one goal in life--to solve cases. Well, I put that novel aside and went on to other things. But two years ago, I went back to the novel I had written and decided that two-thirds of the novel had to be rewritten, some of the characters removed, new ones added, and a complete makeover done on Detective Matt Gunnison.

Before I continue discussing how and why I had to change him, I want to say that I was interested in writing a murder mystery concerning a priest who was innocent of any wrongdoing even though the media assumed he was already guilty--and as a result, the priest was murdered. The big question is: now that the dead priest was found to be innocent after all, how does that affect the murderer--or does it? In An Innocent Murdered I made sure that the prime suspect, Jacinta Perez, appears to be as guilty as possible. She has the priest’s blood on her boots from where they had walked on the carpet where he was stabbed; a witness claims he saw her enter the rectory; she made a threatening phone call to the priest before he was killed; the DNA on a cigarette stub found on the carpet matched her; and she had a strong motive to kill him. This was an open-and-shut case, apparently. I enjoyed writing this book because I was curious as to where this case would lead me. (Yes, I did have some clues as to where this story was going, but the characters surprised me going in new directions as I wrote the book.)

Matt Gunnison is the detective assigned to solve this case, but I had to change his persona from the one I had 21 years ago. I learned a lot about developing characters during that span of time. Matt now came alive to me as a man in his late forties who was a good detective, but he was also a man who was struggling with a horrible past (his high school sweetheart was murdered by thugs) and a messy divorce, yet he manages to show compassion without sacrificing his ability to get to the truth. I could see in my mind’s eye not only what he looked like, but how he behaved under stressful conditions, his attitude toward his coworkers and friends, his easygoing nature that hid his unpleasant past, and--most of all--his thoughts. He reluctantly accepts the fact that his intimate friend, Heather Williams, has a lesbian relationship with a woman named Cassie. But he is devastated when he learns that Heather “used” him by going to bed with him with the hope of getting pregnant so she could share the infant with Cassie.

I had to carefully plant clues as to who really murdered the priest without making it too obvious. I also had to plant a couple of women in my novel as red herrings that would make the reader believe that Jacinta didn’t commit the crime but that one of these other women did. This was a real challenge because there had to be a convincing motivation as well as circumstantial evidence for either of them to have committed the murder. (In fact, one of these women had the murder weapon!)

Many detective mysteries I see today are plot driven, which is a shame because I really want to know more about the character. Matter of fact, in An Innocent Murdered, I did not start the novel with the murder of the priest. Instead I spent a few short chapters showing the reader who the priest was, how he behaved, how he thought. There would be no question in the reader’s mind that the priest was a good man and innocent of the charge of molesting a young girl. Had I not done so, the reader couldn’t have cared less about this murder, but I wanted the reader to cry over his murder. I had several female characters in this novel, which made me work harder to be sure these women came off as being credible. Too often, a male author thinks all he has to do is throw in some descriptive information about the woman (hair color, eye color, height, manner of dress, etc.). But a woman cannot be created as a believable person unless she really behaves and thinks like a woman. I spend a lot time trying to live in a woman’s body and soul, realizing that men and women placed in the identical situation do not necessarily behave the same way.

Weaving romance into a detective novel is a challenge. An author needs to stay focused on the case but he also needs to realize that the male detective has feelings and passions and is not a detective 24/7. There are two women that Matt cares deeply about--Heather Johnson, an African-American psychologist (who loves the company of men but is a lesbian friend of another woman), and Susan Stratford, a former nun who indirectly helps Matt solve the murder case but who has a problem she feels only Matt will understand.

To make Matt more human, I gave him a sense of humor. When Susan visits him in his hotel room, they play gin and Matt cracks a joke. “I’ve had a pretty dull life in Little Rock as a kid. I remember having a crush on a girl when I was in the eighth grade….Yeah, I offered to buy her an ice cream cone but she wanted a triple decker. I got so nervous two of those decks went splat on the floor of the ice cream store.” Matt is casual with both Susan and Heather. When Susan sees his penis (never having seen one in her life) she tells him it’s quite small. Rather than take offense, he explains that Henry (the name he gives his organ) shrinks when he takes a bath. Then he tells her: “Henry, please meet Susan. Susan, meet Henry.” When he showers with Heather, he questions whether her lesbian partner Cassie is jealous. Heather acknowledges that she might be. “Well,” Matt says, “maybe she’d like to join us sometime.”

But I also let the reader know Matt is tenacious when it comes to dealing with suspects. When Jacinta insists that someone else must have killed the priest, Matt doesn’t buy her story, especially after evidence proves she made a threatening phone call to the priest the evening he was killed. “You were coming over to the rectory to do the same thing, weren’t you?” he asks her. Jacinta denies it, claiming she didn’t have a weapon with her. He comes back with another retort: “What about that Halloween mask I found in your house? It had a blood stain on it. We checked it out. The blood was Father Jim’s. How do you explain that?”

For me, writing a mystery novel is much more than finding a dead body and assigning a detective to solve the case. We need to make the detective and the people with whom he comes in contact three-dimensionally real. We need to give the detective warts and problems and heart and make him human. We want the reader to be puzzled as to who really did the murder, and we want the reader, at the end of the story, to breathe a sigh of relief and say “Aha, I see why so-and-so did it. It all makes sense to me.” Most of all, I want the reader to keep turning those pages. I think that’s what An Innocent Murdered does.

Blurb

Father O'Fallon has been murdered, and police officer Jacinta Perez is arrested and charged. Detective Matt Gunnison, however, is not convinced and with the help of Susan, an ex-nun, he discovers a fascinating link between the priest's death and the death of a child 25 years ago. Will Matt be able to solve both murders?

Watch the video!

You can purchase An Innocent Murdered from:

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/an-innocent-murdered-tom-mach/1104728218

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/An-Innocent-Murdered-ebook/dp/B005DN1O3Q

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/74459

Bio: Tom Mach wrote two successful historical novels, Sissy! and All Parts Together, both of which have won rave reviews and were listed among the 150 best Kansas books in 2011.Sissy! won the J. Donald Coffin Memorial Book Award while All Parts Together was a viable entrant for the 2007 Pulitzer Prize Award. He also wrote a collection of short stories entitled Stories To Enjoy which received positive reviews. Tom’s other novels include: An Innocent Murdered, Advent, and Homer the Roamer.

His poetry collection, The Uni Verse, won the Nelson Poetry Book Award. In addition to several awards for his poetry, Writer’s Digest awarded him ninth place in a field of 3,000 entrants. His website is: www.TomMach.com He also has a popular blog for writers of both prose and verse at http://tommach.tumblr.com

From Lisabet: Tom is giving away a $50 Amazon gift card to be given to the commenter that he feels leaves the best comment. During his blog tour. You can find a list of all his stops at: http://goddessfishpromotions.blogspot.com/2011/10/virtual-book-tour-innocent-murdered.html. Don't forget to leave your email when you comment!

New Contracts, Free Reading, and a Super Easy Contest!

2011-12-19T06:40:00.004-05:00

Greetings of the season! Thank you for taking the time out from your holiday schedule to check up on my news. I'll keep it short because I know you have LOTS to do. But don't miss my easy, fun cover contest!

New and Upcoming Releases

My biggest news this month is that Total-E-Bound has accepted my M/M science fiction book, Quarantine. I don't have a release date or cover yet, but believe me, when I do, you'll be the first to know! But I can share the blurb...

Love is contagious.

Dylan Moore will do anything for freedom. Seven years ago, a gay plague spread to heterosexuals, killing millions and sparking brutal anti-gay riots. The Guardians rounded up men who tested positive for the homogene and imprisoned them in remote quarantine centers like desolate Camp Malheur. Since then, Dylan has hacked the camp's security systems and hoarded spare bits of electronics, seeking some way to escape. He has concluded the human guards are the only weakness in the facility's defenses.

Camp guard Rafe Cowell is H-negative. He figures the lust he feels watching prisoner 3218 masturbate on the surveillance cameras must be due to his loneliness and isolation. When he finally meets the young queer, he discovers that Dylan is brilliant, brave, sexy as hell – and claims to be in love with Rafe. Despite his qualms, Rafe finds he can't resist the other man's charm. By the time Dylan asks for his help in escaping, Rafe cares too much for Dylan to refuse.

Dylan's plan goes awry and Rafe comes to his rescue. Soon they're both fugitives, fleeing from militant survivalists, murderous androids, homophobic ideologues and a powerful man who wants Dylan as his sexual toy. Hiding in the Plague-ravaged city of Sanfran, Dylan and Rafe learn there's far more than their own safety at stake. Can they help prevent the deaths of millions more people? And can Rafe trust the love of a man who deliberately seduced him in order to escape from quarantine?

I'm really excited about this book - and not just because it has taken so long for me to finish. It's full of action, adventure and emotion, not to mention a good deal of steamy sex. Now the real question is, how am I going to wait until it comes out?

Coming Together Presents: Teresa Lamai - edited by yours truly - is now available. All proceeds from this fantastic erotica anthology benefit Amnesty International. The stories in the collection all revolve in some way around the theme of dance, and many have BDSM flavor. Sound interesting? You can get your own copy here!

Other News

In my free reading section this month, I've added a new chapter of my feline shifter erotic romance, Cat Toy. Check it out!

If you're looking for free holiday reading, you'll find several appropriate stories, including Easy, Snowbound and my BDSM ménage, Silver Bells. Want something longer? My novel Necessary Madness and my novellas Almost Home and Tomorrow's Gifts all have seasonal themes.

I've added a new article to the "For Authors" section of my site. Mistress of Time talks about how to keep track of the timelines in your books and avoid making embarrassing errors. I discuss a variety of specific timeline-related problems as well as techniques that can help.

I've been giving away lots of books this past month, on various blogs. Want to be notified when I have a give-away? If you join my Yahoo group, Lisabet's List, you'll get all my announcements, including news on blog posts and prizes from my guests at Beyond Romance. If you only want to get mail when you can win something or when I have a release, send me a note asking to be added to my private, limited email list.

Contests!

Only one person entered my "Everybody Wins" contest. Thank you, Jacki! Okay, I know you're busy... but I'll admit I was disappointed.

Anyway, my contest this month is super-easy. I've added a cover gallery to my website, with images of all my current stand-alone book covers. All you have to do for the December contest is check out the gallery and decide which cover you like the most.

Then send an email to contest [at] LisabetSarai.com with the subject line "Cover Contest", telling me which cover is your favorite. The prize is your choice of a mousepad, mug or journal featuring your chosen cover, from the Total-E-Bound booty box, if you choose one of my TEB covers. Otherwise, I'll give you a US$ 15 Amazon gift certificate.

By the way, if you click on a cover, it will take you to the buy page for the book! (No pressure or anything...!)

Lisabet's Pick of the Month

My December Pick of the Month is Ginger Simpson's new "Cowboy Kisses" blog. You've got to check it out, if only to enjoy the handsome young man tipping his hat in the banner! The general focus of the blog is on western and historical stories, but you know Ginger - on any particular day, you never know what you'll find! I dropped in this afternoon to find my good friend Keta Diablo sharing an excerpt from her historical/paranormal book, Dark of the Moon. Believe me, Ginger knows how to keep things interesting!

Sunday Snog: Cat Toy

2011-12-18T06:26:00.002-05:00

I just posted my newsletter and website update, including a new chapter of my feline shifter serial, Cat Toy. It just happens to include a pretty intense kiss, perfect for a Sunday snog.

If you haven't been there already, head over to read Victoria's snowy snog. Blissemas is winding down, but she still has lots of prizes to give away! You'll find links to other authors' sexy snogs, too.

****

"You're blocking the door, Shaina. You'll have to move if you want me to go."

Wordless, lost in the storm of emotion swirling through me, I stepped aside. He flipped open the deadbolt.

"Goodbye, beautiful one."

"No..."

I didn't intend to speak. The one word plea emerged without any conscious decision. I reached for him, to hold him back. Some part of me knew that I shouldn't, couldn't allow him to leave.

Electricity shot through my arm, sizzled down my spine and ignited in my sex. I gasped.

"You feel it too, don't you?" With one finger, he tipped my face toward his. His eyes were emeralds set in ebony. They were so familiar...I knew this stranger, recognized him at some fundamental level below rational thought.

Heat hummed through me, rippling out from that tiny spot on my chin where our skin met. I was acutely aware of my bare flesh under the thin cotton, my nipples gathered into tight, throbbing knots, my thighs damp with fluid leaking from my cleft.

I held his gaze, allowing him to see the raw need he inspired. I was totally naked, open, silently inviting him to take me.

He bent to me. His breath warmed my cheek as I held my own in anticipation. Then his lips met mine and reality exploded into a riot of lush sensation. Colors flared around us, scarlet, vermillion, grass-green, velvety jet. A thousand scents teased my nostrils – the sweetness of fallen blossoms and ripe earth, summer-baked hay and rust-tinged water running over smooth stone. Sparks danced across my skin and burrowed beneath, racing through my blood to swell and soak me.

Just the chaste press of his closed lips had this effect. When he opened to slide his tongue into my mouth, a dizzy fever swept over me. I grabbed him, wrapping my arms around his back, plastering my body against his, mashing my hungry breasts against his solid chest. I wanted total contact. The parts of me that weren't touching him felt lost, abandoned. A rigid bulk prodded my belly. I squirmed against him, thrilled by the promise of that hardness.

His tongue flicked across mine, rougher than I'd expected. He devoured me as though he was starved, gnawing on my lips then plunging deep inside. I felt every move in my pussy, as if that agile tongue rasped over my pulsing clit instead of my palate. My nipples were so tight they hurt. I ground my pubis against him, already trembling on the edge of orgasm.

I wanted - oh, how I wanted him! - his mouth on my breasts, his tongue circling my clit, his cock driving into my liquefying depths! At the same time, I didn't want the kiss to end. He tasted of the chardonnay, sweet and spicy. He made me drunk. The world whirled around me as he sucked my tongue into his mouth then bit down until a hint of copper mingled with the wine.

"Oh..." I moaned into his mouth, only half in protest. His hands pushed the kimono out of the way and wandered over my body, leaving trails of fire. I was ready to burn.

I Love Shifters

2011-12-17T04:02:00.003-05:00

By Raine Delight (Guest Blogger)

I love shifter books. The raw, primal feeling these guys and gals have amid the pages really has me glued to the book, flipping the pages so fast it looks like I am a NASCAR race. My favorite shifter book has to be by Deborah Cooke. Her Dragonfire novels are one spellbinding story from start to finish. When I sit down with one of her books, I am blown away by the way she created this world and populated with shape-shifting dragons.

Now who doesn’t like a good dragon story? I love them. In my Devon Falls book, Fiery Magic, I got the idea to make one of the characters a dragon and the heroine called him “pretty”. Now tell me, are dragons “Pretty”? To me they are wild, primal and pure fun as in the case of Smokey from Yasmine Galenorn’s Otherworld series. Each author makes the shifter, be it dragon, wolves, tigers or, heck, even ferrets, their own and they each incorporate something that will have the reader clamoring for more.

In Fiery Magic (Devon Falls 3) & Haunting Magic (Devon Falls 4), we met the Dracon twins; one is a dragon shifter, the other a wolf shifter; one family-many generations- who are shifters of some kind. I made my shifters a bit different, where each person in this large family, is something different. They didn’t get bitten by the animal; case in point a werewolf, but were born as a shifter of some kind. It is the magic in their blood that defines what they become. Eventually we will meet a cousin of Rod and Damien Dracon- a woman who, in this large family of shifters, has no shifter powers what so ever. What do you do if you have no powers but what god/goddess gave you? That is the question I will ask her and her hero………eventually. ;^)

My next Devon Falls book introduces a new character in Michael Barnes, who is a rare white tiger shifter who is all alone with no pride. He roams from place to place and is friends with Damien Dracon, who tries to get him to Devon Falls to no avail in years before. He was an interesting character to write about. Here you have a lonely, quiet man who has no place to call “Home”. He longs for mate, hearth and kits of his own but knows that with no pride; he is limited in his choices…….or so he thinks. We meet the woman who will knock him flat on his back and show him that home is where the heart is in Moonlight & Magic, out December 21st with Secret Cravings Publishing.

Shifters are a world where readers and authors can explore with pure enjoyment. I love reading them and hope to eventually expand on shifters as an author to include Kitsunes and others that fire the imagination. In the meantime, I am going to sit with my dragons and explore their world because Ms. Cooke and Ms.Galenorn are calling me from the bookcases. So what are your favorite shifters to enjoy? Any author you love that write about shifters?

CONTEST: One winner will win one of my five books-PDF only. All you need to do is comment on my post today and be entered to win. Make sure you leave your email address so I can contact you if you win.

BIO: Raine Delight loves to be pampered by her harem of men that exist solely for her pleasure. Wait…..that was in a movie she saw. Hey, she can dream. Raine loves to fight with her muse, attack her manuscripts and find a way to silence the many voices in her head. Inspiration hits at odd times and for Raine, a blank word document page gives her many possibilities on story ideas. Living with her two kids, a significant other who supports her every move in writing and doesn’t seem to mind she gets up at 2 am to type away on the computer. With a love for Johnny Depp, movies and 80’s hair bands, Raine finds a way to bring all her chaotic thoughts into a story that tells her readers about love and romance.

Website: http://authorrainedelight.com

Raine’s Blog: http://authorrainedelight.wordpress.com

Author/Reader Loop: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Author_Raine_Delight

Email me: rainedelight [at] yahoo.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorRaine-Delight

Secret Cravings Publishing: www.secretcravingspublishing.com

Haunting Magic book Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8G5qDzyllY

Sneak Peek into Moonlight & Magic, Devon Falls 5 *This is a brand new story in the Devon Falls Series* Paranormal/Contemporary, Tiger Shifter Erotic Romance

Buy at www.secretcravingspublishing.com

Can a tiger shifter convince one stubborn woman that she is his for all time and show her that falling in love is just as sinful as a chocolate kiss?

Michael Barnes is a rare white were-tiger and is tired of roaming around the world alone. Meeting his destined mate was unexpected as well. Dixie Sinclair is fun, sexy, and everything he feels he doesn’t deserve. The past has a way of coloring a person’s life and it’s up to Michael to show Dixie that he is the one to hold her heart.

PG13 Excerpt:

Scene set up: Dixie is miffed her friends got Michael to walk her home and is confused by her reaction to him. Here is where he kisses her for the first time…

As her street loomed ahead of them, she stopped at the beginning of it and stuck her hand out. “Thanks for the escort, but since I’m almost home and nothing jumped out in front of me, I think I can handle getting to my house just fine.”

“Nope. I am to escort you to the house, not the street, Dixie,” the maddening man said as he looked at her with a smile on those luscious lips. Gritting her teeth, she tried to keep her frustration out of her face, but damn it all, she was old enough to walk home. It wasn’t like there was a crime wave in Devon Falls. Far from it.

Miffed, she stomped forward and tried not to hit the lug behind her. Of all the men in the world, I had to have one with a streak of chivalry in him she thought as her house finally came in view.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned and ran smack dab into the broad, hard chest…the chest her hands wanted to caress and explore among other parts of his body. A slight “oomph” came out of mouth as she looked up and felt herself drown under his gaze. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. She saw his face lean down and her one thought before those luscious lips settled on hers was Man, am I in trouble now.

****

Michael leaned forward. When he finally touched those kissable lips, he felt the spark that hit him the first time he touched her turn into an inferno. Pulling her close, he felt her body mold itself around him, fitting against his, and it was pure perfection. He couldn’t get enough of her. Kissing her was like diving into fire. She was a drug he craved, and he was determined to have it.

Feeling her kiss him back had him aching in more ways than one. Sliding his tongue along her lips had her gasping. Taking advantage of that, he slipped it in and began to duel with hers. The deep kisses made him want more, but before he took her against the trees, he gathered his last shred of control. With a last, deep kiss, he took a calming breath and leaned his head against hers, his breath choppy and his jeans a tad bit too tight at the moment.

Whoo Hoo!!

2011-12-15T23:04:00.003-05:00

Just a quick post to let you know that Total-E-Bound has accepted my new M/M sci fi romance Quarantine! I don't usually broadcast this kind of news until the contract has actually been signed, but I just have to share this. Anyone who follows my blog knows how long I've been working on this book (more than a year!) and how much trouble it gave me!

The book is a full length novel, nearly 70,000 words (a "super-novel" in TEB's terminology). It's chock full of drama, adventure, some politics and yes, plenty of love and sex... ;^). Here's the blurb:

Love is contagious.

Dylan Moore will do anything for freedom. Seven years ago, a gay plague spread to heterosexuals, killing millions and sparking brutal anti-gay riots. The Guardians rounded up men who tested positive for the homogene and imprisoned them in remote quarantine centers like desolate Camp Malheur. Since then, Dylan has hacked the camp's security systems and hoarded spare bits of electronics, seeking some way to escape. He has concluded the human guards are the only weakness in the facility's defenses.

Camp guard Rafe Cowell is H-negative. He figures the lust he feels watching prisoner 3218 masturbate on the surveillance cameras must be due to his loneliness and isolation. When he finally meets the young queer, he discovers that Dylan is brilliant, brave, sexy as hell – and claims to be in love with Rafe. Despite his qualms, Rafe finds he can't resist the other man's charm. By the time Dylan asks for his help in escaping, Rafe cares too much for Dylan to refuse.

Dylan's plan goes awry and Rafe comes to his rescue. Soon they're both fugitives, fleeing from militant survivalists, murderous androids, homophobic ideologues and a powerful man who wants Dylan as his sexual toy. Hiding in the Plague-ravaged city of Sanfran, Dylan and Rafe learn there's far more than their own safety at stake. Can they help prevent the deaths of millions more people? And can Rafe trust the love of a man who deliberately seduced him in order to escape from quarantine?

****

I'll let you all know (of course!) as soon as I have a release date.

While I have your attention...I'll be guest blogging on Saturday the 17th at Megan Slayer's blog (http://theauthormeganslayer.blogspot.com/), giving away a copy of Hot Spell. Saturday's also my day at Hitting the Hot Spot, and I guarantee you'll enjoy my holiday post.

Stay tuned!

A Writer's Stress at the Holidays

2011-12-14T04:02:00.002-05:00

By Sapphire Phelan (Guest Blogger)

Writers live with stress much of the time. Whether due to a deadline or writer’s block to even a storyline suddenly going a new directions (characters can do that to you), a writer really goes into stress overdrive when the holidays show up.

Just after Halloween is come and gone, NaNo is here and writers sign up to write 50,000 words in thirty days. This could be their next novel or maybe even their first one that will sell to an agent or a publisher. But what the writer forgets when he/she starts this is the holidays are beginning—with Thanksgiving. The day after that is the first day of holiday shopping. It’s not too bad for one who is single, but those writers with families, pressure is on.

Some writers just take a holiday from writing until after the New Year. After all, January is nothing a month of freezing cold temperatures and depression. Writing would take the author aways from all that. While others set up time here and there to write. It’s for those writers who want to persevere that maybe the following tips will be most useful to take away the tension.

Take a walk. When everything gets to you, take a walk on a nearby walking path or the neighborhood. Get back to nature or view the Christmas lights on neighbors’ homes - the beauty will take your breath away.

Lock yourself in the bathroom, fill the tub full of your favorite bubble bath, place a lighted candle on the sink counter nearby, and open up a bottle of your favorite wine (hey, there’s chocolate wine now!), pour it in a glass, and take a soak.. Maybe even play your favorite music or even Christmas music. Or just do it in silence. There’s nothing like a good soak to drain away tense muscles and jumpiness.

Yoga and exercise. I have never done yoga, but I heard from others it is very helpful in tension relief and even losing weight. As for exercise, there is nothing better for getting the kinks out - besides losing weight. Plus if you start the day off with a half hour of exercise, it helps the brain matter too. Which helps the writer in story writing.

Take the time to just sit and do nothing. Go read a book or watch a favorite DVD. Sometimes, we all need to relax to put the anxiety off. When’s the last time you just start and stared at the ocean, or stood and watched a squirrel doing its things from your front door or window? Puts perspective on life, doesn’t it?

Massage. Though most times one has to go somewhere and pay for a massage, maybe you may have a friend or relative who can massage the tension from your muscles.

Stretching. I say this is good to do a few times during the day, starting when you wake up. Stretching puts years on your life. We don’t stretch enough. It makes the muscles happy with us.

Self-hypnosis. You can hypnotized yourself to lose weight, cut down on smoking and yes, ridding stress from your life.

Meditation. Just take time to sit or lay, and set your mind off somewhere else.

Breathing. Breathing exercises are always a big help. They provide convenient and simple stress relief in that they can be used anytime, anywhere, and they work quickly.

Enjoying a good game with a group of friends, or playing something relaxing online can take your mind off of your stressors, and can lead to a more relaxed state. Games are stress relievers that work well because people enjoy them enough to use them regularly.

Sex. Yes, this can be one of the biggest stress relievers around. It incorporates several other stress relief ingredients--breathing, touch, social connection, and a few others--and brings a rush of endorphins and other beneficial chemicals with orgasm.

Laughter. Just laugh out loud with a big belly laugh, or watch a funny movie or read some jokes.

Listen to music. Take the time to sit and play some of your favorite type of music. Not heavy metal or rap, but maybe something soft and relaxing.

Aromatherapy. This has proven benefits for stress relief--it can help you to become energized, more relaxed, or more present. Get some great smelling candles that are for this and set them up around your work space.

Eat a balanced meal, less caffeine, and drink in moderation.

These are just some of the tips to help you, the writer, to take the holidays and your writing deadlines in stride. Remember, view the holidays as a time of joy and balance both them and your writing, and you the writer will be a happy person.

~ Sapphire Phelan

Dark heroes and heroines with bite...sink your teeth into a romance by Sapphire Phelan today.

Blurb for A Familiar Tangle With Hell:

Tina and Charun thought it was all over and that their life would be normal—well, as normal as it could be for an immortal Witch and her demon Familiar. Except there was another prophesy, one that laid claim that if Lucifer snatches Tina and mates with her before the last chime before midnight of the new year and gets her pregnant with his son, that the real Armageddon would begin, spelling the end of life as they knew it.

When Tina is stolen away, Charun, along with Jacokb the archangel, must race against time into the bowels of Hell to rescue her. But with demons, Lucifer, and a cute demon bunny with fangs out of a Monty Python nightmare, out to stop them and Heaven not lending a hand, will Tina become the mother of the Antichrist and the start of a new Hell on Earth?

The Prologue of A Familiar Tangle With Hell:

Some days, it just didn’t pay to rebel against your father. Most especially if your father was God Himself. War was hell, especially when the rebels’ own survival mattered in winning. A terrible pit of darkness made by God to be their prison loomed at their feet. And it looked like the rebels were losing.

Glancing over his shoulder as he fought, Charun saw swirling masses of various shades of darkness. When the hem of his glowing robe flipped over the edge, some of that darkness reached up with grasping fingers to take hold, no doubt trying to pull him in. When he stepped forward, the stuff cried out, upset that it didn’t get to embrace him into its fold.

Charun should have listened to that inner psychic voice that told him not to listen to Lucifer, but oh no, he told it to shut up and just blindly followed where angels should always fear to tread. He was a stupid brat who didn’t know what was good for him.

Barreling through a plethora of angelic hosts that fell aside like pins on a bowling alley struck by a ball, Charun winged his way to Lucifer’s side, sword in hand. His leader in the revolt against Heaven was battling their brother, the archangel Michael. Charun landed beside him and immediately slipped in his own sword.

It didn’t faze Michael in the least. He hadn’t slowed down once, not even with all the wounds Lucifer had given him.

Michael said, “Give up, brother. You know you will lose.”

Lucifer bit back, “God made those disgusting hairless apes and called them beautiful—more beautiful than us. It is time we archangels took over. He is going senile. You know that, Michael, so why do you follow him blindly. Join us, brother, embrace the freedom.”

Michael turned to Charun. “Charun, why are you with him? You’ve always been one of the good ones.”

Charun retorted, “I am sick to death of being good. What did it get me? Nothing! I been to the mortal realm and seen how the mortals get to eat and fornicate. And yet, God says, do not lie with the mortal women. It is forbidden. We must follow His rules and have no free will. Yet, his hairless apes have free will.”

Sadness glinted in Michael’s eyes. “God has reasons for the rules.”

Charun spit, the glowing stuff landing by Michael. “Well, Lucifer said to try it and see what would happen. So I lay with this one virginal daughter of Man and except for her enjoying it, nothing happened. No crash of thunder or Heaven-sent spankings. Just the most wonderful feeling came over me as I spilt my seed into her.”

Michael said no more but fought harder. Soon he drove back not only Lucifer, but Charun, too. Both found themselves with the other rebellious angels at the edge of some gigantic chasm that suddenly appeared. Fighting to keep their balance, both of them watched as Michael stepped back and the other rebels, forced by the other angels, fell into the pit with high pitched screams. Charun took care not to fall as he turned around, but his sword slipped from his grasp and it spun down in slow motion into the pit.

A great booming voice thundered, “For transgressions against me, the Fallen shall be cast into the pit of despair and anguish. This pit will be henceforth known as Hell, and my son, Lucifer, will be its self-crowned prince. There will be no pity and no chances, to ever leave this place or for redemption. Only if I deemed so, can anyone leave its embrace. You all chose your Hell, now burn in it!”

Charun stared down into the swirling masses and, for the first time, wondered if he hadn’t been a teeny bit hasty in listening to Lucifer. Once shoved down into that place, that meant that he could never return to Heaven’s graces. Never see the visage of God, his Father. Never know peace and tranquility. Never know…

“Charun, you are sentenced to live your eternity in the Pit of Hell as a demon.”

Charun fell.

Buy A Familiar Tangle With Hell

About Sapphire Phelan:

Sapphire Phelan writes erotic and sweet paranormal/fantasy/science fiction romance along with erotic horror stories and urban fantasy. Her erotic urban fantasy, Being Familiar With a Witch (The Witch and the Demon Familiar series) is a Prism 2010 Awards winner and a Epic Awards 2010 finalist.

She also has done acting on stage and in films. And is a Master Costumer, costuming since 1972. For more on her, check out her website at http://www.SapphirePhelan.com

She admits she can always be found at her desk and on her computer, writing. And yes, the house, husband, and even the cats sometimes suffer for it!

Sunday Snog: Truce of Trust

2011-12-11T08:58:00.005-05:00

My snog this week is from my BDSM ménage, Truce of Trust.

Don't forget to visit the original home of the Sunday Snog. Victoria's snog this week is part of Blissemas. Every comment you leave enters you to win a Kindle or lots of other great prizes. And there's a Blissemas bonus waiting for you there, too!

Some women might think Leah's existence heavenly. She shares her home with two sexy men who both adore her. Ten years married to lusty, artistic Daniel, she still enjoys the discipline and release offered by Greg. But her lovers' jealousy and possessiveness have made Leah's life a hell. Unable to bear the continuous conflict, she flees to an idyllic seaside resort to ponder her future. Gradually she realises that she cannot live without either of her lovers. If the two men can't settle their differences, though, then how can she bear to live with them?

Her overnight bag was still packed from her business trip. She pulled out the dirty things and threw in some clean underwear, jeans and jerseys. She was debating whether to bring a dress when her door opened. Stubbornly, she continued her packing.

Greg towered behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. “Where are you going, little one?”

“Away. Away from the two of you and your constant bickering.”

“He started it, after all, with his claims about things being unfair.” He bent to kiss her. She turned her head away, unwilling to be mastered, but he grasped her chin and pulled her mouth to his.

Leah didn’t want to surrender, but she couldn’t help it. She was dizzy with instantly kindled lust. He nipped at her lips, probed her with his tongue. He drank her in, consumed her. Between her thighs everything melted. The room began to smell funky, as though he already had her naked and open before him.

Without taking his mouth from her, he grabbed her nipple and twisted it, hard. Her body arched against his, the familiar pain quickly transformed to shimmering pleasure. He broke the kiss and looked down at her, shaking and helpless with desire.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You’ll always be mine. You just keep him around because you’re afraid to give yourself completely to me. Afraid of going too far. You don’t trust your own desires.”

Leah had a vision of Daniel, his wine glass filled to the brim with vodka, filling page after page with angry, aching prose. There was a wrenching pain in her chest. They’ve grabbed my heart and they are rending it into bloody pieces.

This pain had no sweet after-echoes. She tore herself from Greg’s grasp.

“You’re wrong.” Her throat tightened into a sob. “I love him. It’s different from the way we are, but it’s just as real.”

“If we were together, by ourselves, you’d forget him.”

“No!” His arrogance, sometimes so exciting, was nothing but frustrating to her now. “You don’t understand. He’s a part of me, just as you are.”

He reached for her again. “I’d make you forget him, Leah. I’d beat him out of you.” His voice was gentle, contrasting with the violence of his words. Underneath his bravado, she could feel his need.

Breaking the Romance Rules - With a Christmas Twist!

2011-12-10T04:02:00.003-05:00

By Bianca Sommerland (Guest Blogger)

Just for the fun of it, I’m going to take three romance rules and find a Christmasy way to break them without slipping out of the genre. Readers, let me know if I succeed.

1. The hero and the heroine must meet very close to the beginning of the book and feel an instant attraction.

Really? Let’s see . . .

Sue climbed onto the bus and shook the snow from her flaxen hair, wrinkling her frozen nose as she plunked her change into the tariff box. The bus heaters blasted warm air from all sides, stirring the scent of melting muck and salt as she quickly made her way to her usual seat, right across from the middle door.

Someone had written a note right on the light blue vinyl padded seat.

‘Mark Twain, Cinnamon rolls, and cerulean. Things we have in common. Meet me if you’d like to see if there’s more. 57483’.

Meet . . . but who had left this? And when? Well, the ‘when’ was easy. Today. She would have noticed this on her seat yesterday.

And who . . . she finished work hours before the rush and the bus was usually pretty empty. A few faces had become familiar. Like the two old women getting on in front of the Salvation Army where they volunteered. A few students.

There’s that guy.

She snorted. Right, like he’d notice her. He only rode the bus once a week and he looked like he could either be a model or a god. After he’d almost caught her staring, she’d avoided so much as glancing his way when he sat in the back of the bus. He was way out of her league.

If this is from him, he obviously doesn’t agree.

Maybe, but it was Christmas Eve. She couldn’t very well ditch the office party to meet a stranger, even if the stranger knew her favourite author, coffee flavour, and color. Even if he’d written the address of her favourite cafe, which was actually along the way.

She watched the stop approach. Stood. Took a deep breath . . .

And then sat back down. Sue Booth didn’t do impulsive.

2. The woman’s POV is the priority. (This one kinda surprised me, but if you look up romance rules, you’ll find it all over the place—apparently women don’t really care what the man is thinking).

“Hohoho!” Brian reclined in the big Santa throne and rubbed his chin under the thick white fake beard. He couldn’t believe he’d volunteered to be the mall Santa. Forcing a smile, he picked up the pee-scented toddler and perched the kid on his knee. “So what do you want for Christmas, little man?”

The kid rambled on and on, and Brian did his best to pay attention, but his gaze wondered to his helper, so fucking cute in her elf outfit. She’d complained that it made her look fat. He had no idea why. Those green tights hugging all her curves looked just right.

Okay, maybe he did know why he’d volunteered. He couldn’t give up the chance to enjoy seeing her like this tonight. And he had a few ideas for what they could do in this chair when the kiddies went home.

3. I only have eyes for you.

This is my favourite one to break. According to the rules, the hero and the heroine should never, ever want anyone else ever again. Because that’s romantic *eye roll*

“This gift is kinda for both of us.” Her husband, Paul, gestured to the great big rectangular box obscuring the tree. “It’s something we’ve been talking about and I thought—“

“You didn’t.” Astrid stared at the box, covered with silver wrapping paper which had naughty naked angels all over it. She took another sip of spiked eggnog and then licked her bottom lip. Her pulse sped up. “Are you sure.”

Paul inched closer to her to whisper in her ear. “Open it, love.”

She tore the paper and tugged at the flaps of the box. They were taped a little too well.

“Damn it!” She laughed and glanced at Paul. “Bring me the scissors.”

The box burst open. Chris, one of their best friends, stumbled out, one hand over his very erect dick. “No scissors. I’ve got it.”

And now that I’ve teased you with these little rule breaking snippets how about an excerpt from a full book that shrugs off most conventional expectations for erotic romance.

Blurb:

Stolen from a bright life full of colors, happiness and youth, Nicole Reed is dragged into a pit of pain and depravity where all she can hope for is a quick end. But her captors don't want to kill her. They want to use her to teach a little boy whom they plan to mold in their image.

She must free him before that happens. Only, she can't stand against those who hold him, not alone. Her only hope is Vince, one of her tormentors, who may still show a glimmer of humanity.

Or maybe that's just a trick of the light.

Vince and Nicole share a cup of coffee:

Small creases formed on his forehead and around his dark eyes. "Why are you 'fucked up'?"

Seriously? This guy was too much. "I don't know—captivity does that to me."

"You've been treated well."

My brow shot up. "Have I? Well, I guess I'm being over sensitive. I kinda take basic liberties for granted. What can you do?"

He stood and set down his cup. "I don't appreciate sarcasm."

I took another sip and smiled. Guess he wasn't as infallible as he pretended to be. "Well, I don't appreciate being kidnapped and raped. But we don't always get what we want."

"No, I suppose we don't." He traced the open collar of his black silk shirt, revealing just the top of a very hard, very well defined chest. Muscles curved in smooth slopes jumped as though my gaze was a physical touch. He chuckled and I looked up to see him watching me. "You want to hate me."

"I do hate you." I shrugged at his doubtful expression. "You're just easy on the eyes. Which I'm sure you know."

"Really." Without a twitch of warning, he closed the distance between us and took my cup. "Shall I prove you wrong?"

I skirted away from him, ducking and skidding from the bed. I might have been prepared to let him do what he would last night, but this morning I couldn't. I wouldn't. Not without a fight.

"Relax. I won't hurt you." He placed the mug on the table and then strode across the room. I swung at him and he caught my wrists. "Don't force me to tie you up."

"Don't don't don't." I whimpered as he wrapped his arms around me. Tears streaked my cheeks, gathered on my lips, hot and salty. I flattened my hands on his chest and dug my nails into his skin. "Vince . . . ."

"Shh." He pressed his lips to the top of my head and then bent down to whisper against my lips. "I want to show you something."

For more excerpts and fun stuff, visit www.im-no-angel.com.