Superotica Advent Calendar – Day 14

Well, you didn’t really expect me to do 24 days of advent calendar without mentioning the zombies, did you? If you haven’t come across them before – give them a chance – they’re a loveable bunch of critters, really!

However, this is a more serious excerpt than usual, taken from the last story in Zombie Erotoclypse, called Bar the Door.

No matter how many times you dream of the worst possible disaster befalling you, when it actually happens it’s ten thousand times more terrible than anything you could imagine.  Think about that for a moment and then try to imagine the split second that’s so terrifying it goes beyond anything you could have dreamt.

That’s what it was like.  That day.  That moment.

Galen knocked on the door in the secret pattern, I drew back the bolts and first thing I saw was blood.  On his shoulder, all the way down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his shirt with a dark, sticky stain.  I smelt it too, sweet and metallic, somehow animal.

Terror swept through me and I dropped to my knees.  It was the moment I’d been dreading so long and it hit me like a punch in the gut.  I couldn’t breathe and my head started spinning.

I should have slammed the door in his face.  I know that now.  But I knew it then and I didn’t do it.  We’d been living like this for so many months I’d lost count.  And every day, before either one of us went out to scavenge food, we repeated the mantra: if a zombie attacks, don’t come back/bar the door to the biters and the bitten.  Galen was wrong to come home to me once he’d been mauled and I was wrong to let him in.  But I’m glad I did.  Whatever the future holds as a result of our actions that day, I’m glad Galen just didn’t vanish without a trace into the zombie hoards.  Because that’s what would have happened if he hadn’t come back to me.

Galen pushed past me into the apartment.

“Get the fucking door shut,” he said, his voice a dry rasp.

He staggered to the couch while I fought with reality.  It took the sound of a zombie blood howl on the porch to bring me round.  I leapt to my feet and slammed the door, throwing the bolts with practiced speed.   Then I peered out through the metal grid covering the only small window left at the front of the house.  There were three of them, mature and fetid zombies, lumbering across our porch and I immediately heard one of them scraping against the door.  I reached for the rifle.

“Leave them,” said Galen.  “They’ll go away when they realize they can’t get in.  Don’t waste bullets on them. You can’t afford to throw any away now.”

‘Now.’  I knew what he was referring to—and ‘you’. An icy cold hand clasped around my heart.  I went over to where he lay sprawled on the couch.  There was a lump in my throat when I tried to speak.

“What…?”

“…happened?  I got careless, Emma.  I fucking got complacent.”

And then my big, strong, adorable Galen started to cry.  It was something I’d never seen him do and it cut me up.  Even more than seeing the blood on his shoulder that was his death knell.

He wiped his eyes with a bloody hand and sniffed.

“There were six or seven of them.  They came at me out of nowhere.  I got three of the bastards but I wasn’t quick enough and…”  He glanced down at his shoulder.  “It’s not deep.  Just a flesh wound.  But it’s enough.”

I’d never heard that tone of bitterness in Galen’s voice before.  It made me wonder what else there was about him that I’d never know.  The childhood stories he hadn’t got round to telling me yet.  The places he’d been.  The likes and dislikes we hadn’t had time to compare.

“Galen…”

I didn’t know what to say but luckily for me he took control as usual.

“Emma, you’ve got to be strong for me, baby.  I’ve got maybe twenty-four hours left before I turn and I need your help.”

“Anything,” I said, and I meant it.

“I need you to stay safe, so you’ve got to tie me up.  Real secure because when I start to turn, I don’t want to be able to get at you.”

I didn’t want to cry but I couldn’t stop myself.

“Maybe if I clean the wound out…”

“Don’t, baby,” he snapped.  “We both know what this means so, please, just do what I say.”

While he went in the shower, I found two lengths of rope to tie him with.  When he came out there was just a small, jagged gash on his shoulder to show where he’d been bitten.  Just a couple of inches long. If I hadn’t known better, I would never have believed that this could have been enough to transform such a strong, healthy man into a rotting, walking corpse.  The rest of him looked completely normal, the Galen I knew and loved.  Shoulder length black hair dripping water down his strong torso, droplets glistening in the peppery sprinkling of chest hair.  Beautifully sculpted arms and legs, long and lean.  Even his feet looked good and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s rare on a guy.

He smiled at me and I smiled back, even though I could see the sorrow in his gaze.  He would certainly be able to see it in my red rimmed eyes.

“Tie me to the bed, baby.”  It came out as hardly more than a whisper.

“Then what?” I said.

He didn’t need to answer.  Working as quickly and as gently as I could, I secured first his wrists to the headboard and then his ankles to the corner posts.  He was quietly compliant, watching me as I worked, studying my face and my hands as if he wanted to imprint them forever on his memory.   And I studied him, spread-eagled and naked in front of me.  I would need to hold this image in my head far longer than he.

His shoulder was bleeding a little, so I fetched a bandaid from the bathroom cabinet to cover it up.  He winced as I wiped the blood away with a tissue and applied the bandage.

“It hurts?” I asked.

“Like a bitch,” he said, smiling up at me.  “But you know what would dull the pain?”

I grinned.  Even at the worst times, Galen’s mind would wander back to sex and being tied up had always been a big turn on for him.

“Grant a dying man his final wish, babe.”

I would have laughed if it hadn’t been so painfully true.  But Galen was, as ever, able to compartmentalize his life and now it was sex, not death by zombie bite, on his mind.  His cock twitched as if filled up and the sight of it helped me to change gears as well.  Galen’s cock always made my mouth water and my pussy wet.

I stood at the end of the bed and slowly started stripping off my clothes, rolling my T-shirt up my torso to reveal my flat stomach and the gradual swell of my breasts.

“That’s the way,” said Galen, his voice thick with longing.

I pulled the top up over my head and dropped it to the floor.  Then I lowered my hands to my pants and popped open the fastening.  As they slid down my legs to the ground, I slipped my thumbs into the rim of my panties, running them round the waistband provocatively.

“You want to see more?” I said.

“Is a zombie hungry?” he answered.  Black humor was the only humor at a time like this.

I pulled down my pants and launched myself forward onto the bed between his legs.  He smelt fresh and clean from the shower and he seemed to positively gleam with good health.  I could hardly believe that he must have already started rotting inside, however microscopically.  I slid up his body, sweeping his stomach and chest with my breasts until I was close enough to kiss him on the mouth.

Same old mouth.  Same old taste.  And always the best kisser.  I pushed away the thought that bubbled under the surface.  Zombie mouth.  Zombie biter.  But not yet.  We still had a few more hours of being Emma and Galen.  He responded to my kiss with a less familiar urgency.  His usual languid exploration of my mouth was replaced with a pushing, searching tongue and as I slipped my tongue between his lips, he sucked hard and his back arched up so he could press himself against the length of my body.

I ran my hands up and down his torso, feeling the swell of his erection against me.  God, how I loved this man’s cock.  I reached my hand down to it and he let out an appreciative moan as I enveloped it with my fingers.  It was fully erect, hard as a glass dildo beneath its covering of soft skin.  I ran my index finger up and down the shaft and he bucked underneath me.  Then I stretched down to cup his balls, holding them as gently as bird’s eggs, working them a little against each other while I whispered in his ear.  He turned his head and caught my earlobe with his teeth, nibbling gently until I giggled and pulled away.

I shuffled back down the bed until I was in a position to take his cock in my mouth.  But before I sucked it in, I showered it with a flurry of little kisses, up and down, still holding his balls but now tugging a little.  Galen groaned and his cock grew hot, the head pulsing under the touch of my lips.  I pushed the tip of my tongue out between them and let it make contact with the soft skin at the apex of the head.  I felt the tiny slit and tasted the salty pre-cum that leaked out of it and then I opened my lips and drew him into the warm cavern of my mouth.

Available from:

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Dorian Gray – the Man We Love to Hate?

Dorian Gray… how can we be anything other than fascinated by Oscar Wilde’s seminal cad? And now, more than 120 years after he was first created, Mitzi Szereto has re-imagined his existence if, instead of dying, he’d lived on through the ages.

It’s an irresistible premise, and I can happily report it’s an irresistible book!

In Szereto’s version, Dorian Gray – blessed with eternal life, extraordinary beauty and no moral compass – sets sail on an ocean of desire, decadence and, gradually, depravity. He thinks nothing of the consequences of a single of his actions and cares not one jot for the feelings of those he interacts with. He sleeps with men and women, casting them aside when bored, moving on to the next challenge until enthusiasm palls into ennui. And how can it not, when you have all the time in the world and no conscience?

This, of course, is what explains our enduring fascination with what is, after all, a thoroughly unpleasant character. How would we behave in his extreme set of circumstances. It’s like the age old question, if there was no way your partner would ever find out, would you be unfaithful? Only this time, it’s magnified. If you were completely irresistible to men and women, and immortal, what would you get up to? Well, we all know we wouldn’t be like him, don’t we?

When The Picture of Dorian Gray was first published, Oscar Wilde had to be extremely circumspect about Gray’s activities. In those days, the hints at his sexual behavior alone were enough to get him both censured and censored. But even now that we are liberated from Victorian values and live in an age of comparative sexual liberation, why do we still love disapprove of Gray’s behavior? It’s easy – here is a man bereft of any sense of responsibility – to himself, to his partners or to society as a whole. He breaks hearts and breaks laws as if they were mere trifles. Nothing matters to him and that’s what we can’t stand. We want him to feel emotion, love, regret, remorse – but Szereto has him plowing on through decades of relentless carousing and fornication.

I can only imagine the fun she had in dreaming up this future for him and then writing it. It’s a ride, it’s a blast and I loved every minute of it, even as I disliked the stories central character. From Jazz-Age Paris to opium dens in Morocco, a monastery in Peru to modern-day New Orleans, we stumble in his wake, just willing him to find one ounce of human decency…

And bravo to Ms Szereto for a tale so brilliantly imagined and so eloquently told!

Excerpt:

Dorian Gray awakens as if from the grave. A great weight presses down on him from above, but when he looks up to determine the cause, he realizes it’s his head, which feels so heavy upon the stem of his neck that he expects it to tumble off and land on the crumpled bedding beneath him. Even the air itself is heavy, as if he were trying to breathe through cotton wool.

He blinks several times to clear his vision, the effort of moving his eyelids far too strenuous an endeavor to undertake without discomfort; they feel as if cast-iron window weights have been attached to them. The bluish haze that blurs the objects in the lavishly appointed bedroom make him wonder if he has somehow developed shortsightedness. His puffy, burning eyes struggle to focus and make sense of his surroundings. He hears the sound of breaths being drawn in and then released in a steady rhythm that might have been soothing if not for his disorientation. Are they his or someone else’s?

Red velvet draperies cover the tall windows and move sluggishly in the breeze as if they too are affected by the overwhelming sense of heaviness that afflicts him. They remind Dorian of curtains in a theater; he expects them to swing open, revealing players on a stage. Instead they reveal irregular chinks of yellow light that insinuate themselves inside the room, informing him that it’s morning.

The clarity of his vision slowly returns, bringing with it more detail. Embroidered silk cushions lie scattered across the wooden floorboards, as do overturned glasses and random bits of gray ash. The bed upon which he finds himself appears to be a tangled heap of arms and legs, the more slender among them female. They crisscross in a haphazard pattern. Arms as white as the first winter snow. Arms as black as polished ebony. Some look as if they belong to the same body, though Dorian knows this to be physically impossible.

Lying amidst the jumble he detects the gentle curve of a woman’s breast and unless he’s mistaken, the graceless wedge of a man’s foot. That Dorian is inside a bedchamber becomes obvious to him. It might be his, though he can’t be certain.

He seems to recollect a small man with a pencil-thin moustache and a worn yellow tape around his neck measuring the window frames with extravagant meticulousness, then producing several swatches of fabric, one of which was red velvet. The memory’s returning to him in more clarity now. Monsieur Larouche, the curtain maker. His men finished hanging the red velvet draperies a few weeks ago.

As for the hours that have just gone past, they remain a confused jumble of images in Dorian’s mind, though the fragrant after-scents of smoked opium and female pleasure tease at the edges of his memory like a tickling finger, gradually bringing him back to consciousness. Painted scarlet lips pulling on the tip of an opium pipe, then later on the tip of his manhood. Secretive openings being filled by inquisitive fingers, as well as other objects not generally suited for the purpose. Yes, the mislaid hours of the night are finally being located!

At some point Dorian must have lost count of the number of times he spent himself, though he suspects it transpired at least once with each person present in the room and likewise with those who have already departed to seek out the familiarity of their own beds. He squeezes his eyes shut and reopens them, the burning less troublesome now. Despite the tiny veins of red marring the sclera, their blue is as pure as the sky on a perfect spring day. Yet the tableau laid out before him is anything but pure.

Is that a young man lying unconscious on a heap of silk cushions by the window, or a young woman with short-cropped hair? He’ll never grow accustomed to these young ladies who shear off their pretty locks in this masculine manner. He prefers men to look like men and women to look like women; at least then one can always tell who the players are. The figure on the cushions moves ever so perceptibly, yet it is enough. It offers Dorian a pleasing vista of two well-formed hind cheeks that remind him of hot-cross buns. The sight of them makes him hungry, though it isn’t a meal he hungers for. On the contrary, his is a hunger that never ceases—and it cannot be appeased with anything so mundane as food.

 Available from: Amazon and Cleis Press

About Mitzi Szereto

Mitzi Szereto (http://mitziszereto.com) is a bestselling multi-genre author and anthology editor, has her own blog “Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog” (http://mitziszereto.com/blog), and is the creator/presenter of the Web channel “Mitzi TV” (http://mitziszereto.com/tv), which covers “quirky” London. Her books include Thrones of Desire: Erotic Tales of Swords, Mist and Fire; Pride and Prejudice: Hidden Lusts; Normal for Norfolk (The Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles); Red Velvet and Absinthe: Paranormal Erotic Romance; Getting Even: Revenge Stories; and In Sleeping Beauty’s Bed: Erotic Fairy Tales. Her anthology Erotic Travel Tales 2 is the first anthology of erotica to feature a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. She divides her time between the UK and USA.

 

Superotica Advent Calendar – Day 7

My excerpt today is a very generous contribution from the most wonderful writer, Sommer Marsden. This is a super-hot scene from her current title, Restricted Release.

“Were you watching me?” he whispered against my neck, surprising me.

He had me pinned to the side table in his foyer and his hands cupped my ass so that I couldn’t get away. I had no choice. Honesty was the only way to fly.

“Yes. Why? Did you…” Had he seen me masturbating at my window? Dear God, what a nightmare. How shameful and yet under it all was a thrill that radiated through my bones.

“I saw a bit of movement. Streetlights on shadows. Like a person. I’m used to observing shadows and movement and people and…” He pushed my leggings and panties down so they were around my hips but no farther. His hands covered the exposed skin of my lower back, the top of my buttocks. He waited, kissing me like we had all the time in the world.

I could feel his cock, hard and ready but still covered by fabric, pressed to the split of my pussy lips. The air in my lungs felt meager. I slipped my hand between us and found him. I gripped his erection through his gray sweatpants and he groaned.

“You’re so pretty,” I confessed. “In sweatpants and nothing else. And you are gorgeous naked.”

I pushed myself to say the words. I was having an out-of-body experience, I thought. Or more accurately, some strange woman with a big mouth had taken over mine. Most men, most arousal, most attraction scared the shit out of me.

However, fear was not an option. If I wanted him I had to be bold.

“Isn’t it me who should be flattering you, Clara?” He sucked my nipple right through my cornflower-blue shirt. It hung off one shoulder like the tops I’d worn as a teenager. My nipple spiked inside my thin bra and I gasped. He sucked harder.

“I guess.” It was the smartest thing I could think to say, sadly.

“Are we going to do this? I need to know.” He stroked up my flanks and along the knobs of my spine, his mouth constantly moving along my throat and over my face. The softest kisses I could ever remember receiving.

And I realized I felt safe in his hands. It was a very foreign feeling to me. Security was extinct in my world.

“Clara?” He pulled back, dark eyes studying me. Instead of feeling the urge to shrink away I felt the urge to tempt him.

I couldn’t focus on it or it would terrify me.

I nodded. “We’re going to do this. Yes. But I need something from you.” I found my bravery and leaned in to kiss his neck. He smelled like soap and coffee and saltwater.

The smell was intoxicating, like huffing human vapors. I smiled and licked him to see if he tasted the same way he smelled.

“Jesus. What? If you’re going to do that right there you might have to drug me so I don’t come in my pants.”

A bubble of laughter burst out of me and I said, “Well, that’s sort of what I was getting at. I wanted to ask you to go slow.” I pressed my mouth to his ear and then licked him again. I felt his cock jump to press against my palm. He was big and Lord, was he hard.

My body let loose a lubricating rush of moisture. I had not wanted a man like this since before my marriage. I had not wanted a man period for what felt like decades. But my want was back with a vengeance because I wanted this one. For hours and hours, I wanted him. And then I wanted him again.

“I can go slow,” he said and pushed my leggings down farther.

When you come from a background like mine and find yourself nude in front of a new man, you have the urge it to cover up. To shield yourself and your undoubtable ugliness from him. So you won’t offend. I had to force myself to squash that impulse.

“Arms up,” he said.

“You have no curtains. Anywhere,” I murmured even as I obeyed him.

Matt yanked my top off and dropped it. My bra was next to fall victim to his nimble fingers. He latched his hot mouth around my nipple, his hands gripping my hips with a strength that startled me.

“I do right there,” he said against my skin, vaguely nodding toward the front window. And then he sucked again.

Heat spiked in my gut, my womb, my cunt. When he drew on my nipple again there was a slight tickling in my throat and a resounding tug in my pussy. He pushed a finger into me as if he knew how wet I was and I arched up to meet him. He curled his fingers and pushed a bit deeper.

“Congratulations on that curtain,” I said, smiling.

“Thanks.”

I was naked and he was not. It was making me nervous. “You need to take something off or put something back on me,” I said. I rubbed the hard arc of his cock. I could see it clearly pressing against the faded and worn fabric of his sweats.

“Right.” He pushed his pants down. He was bare underneath. When he kicked them off to the side, his cock arched up, pressed to my thigh. “Done.”

“That was easy.”

Matt grunted and kissed me. His mouth tasted like something sweet—soda, wine, tea. I bit his tongue gently and he growled. “Easy if you want me to last.”

“I’m starting to think if we finish fast we can start again.” I curled my fingers around his shaft, sliding my loose fist gently up and down. I refused to examine my boldness. I just went with it. Sex, gorgeous man, a sense of joy in my chest—why question it?

“Good plan.”

Available from:
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Cover Reveal! Cherry Tune-Up by Adriana Kraft

Hi,

Today I’m welcoming Adriana Kraft to Superotica to share her latest cover with us.  Over to you Adriana…

We’re way pumped about the fabulous new cover for our upcoming release, Cherry Tune-Up! The cover features cover model Jimmy Thomas and was designed by Rebecca Poole of Dreams2Media.com.

She’s desperately seeking a sex tutor –

What if he demands total control?

Cherry Tune-Up will be released at Amazon December 10, and is also featured in the upcoming Boxed Set Bring on the Heat, forthcoming on January 6, 2014.  Watch our BLOG for release information!

BLURB

Desperate for a crash course in lovemaking, Bobbi Jo Martin seeks out her childhood best friend. A successful contractor with NASCAR dreams, Jack Day has never forgotten her—but how will he protect his heart?  In a moment of sheer genius he decides to play the role of master…

WARNINGS: Explicit sex: M/F, F/F; Ménage F/F/M; sex toys; anal play; light BDSM

EXCERPT

Bobbi Jo Martin hung back in the shadows under the Highway Thirty-Seven Racetrack stands. Acrid smoke, fumes and dust from a long night of racing swirled in the hazy light but couldn’t entirely block her view of her childhood best friend. There he was, Jack Day, strutting toward a red pickup with a buxom brunette hanging on each arm. She cringed—they must be the spoils that went to the winner of the feature race.

Deflated, Bobbi Jo shuffled toward her rental car. She’d had no contact with Jack for nearly ten years, but she just knew he’d help her with her current problem. When they were kids, he had never, ever let her down.

AUTHOR BIO

Adriana Kraft is the pen name for a husband/wife team writing Erotic Romance for Two, Three or More. The award-winning pair has published over thirty erotic romance novels and novellas to outstanding reviews. Romantic pairings include straight m/f, lesbian, bisexual, ménage and polyamory.    Website    Facebook    Twitter    Google+    Pinterest

Win a Cherry Tune-up in Adriana’s fabulous Rafflecopter giveaway!

Superotica Advent Calendar – Day 3

Today’s excerpt is from a new menage-themed novel, Her Boss and His Client, that will come out 2014.

Nathan bent closer, so close I could feel his breath on my forehead, my cheek, my chin, my throat.  I gasped but as I moved my head forwards, he inched back, teasing me still, making me wait for what I needed so desperately.

‘Please, let me kiss you.’ 

My voice sounded breathy in my ears but he only answered with another question.

‘Can I blindfold you?’

He didn’t wait for my response.  Like a conjurer he suddenly held a silk scarf in his hands and then placed the soft fabric across my face and tied deftly at the back of my head.  I bridled against it in a moment’s panic and put my hand up to pull it away.  But Nathan caught my wrist.

‘Shhhhh, it’s okay,’ he whispered in my ear.  ‘Nothing bad will happen.  Only good, only things you want.’

His hand stroked my cheek and the panic subsided a little.

‘Why the blindfold?  I want to see you.’

‘But I need you to feel me.  To smell me.  To taste me.  We use our eyes too much, Dana.  Making love needs to draw upon our other senses.’

He trailed his tongue down my neck and across to my clavicle.  My breath hitched and as I drew in air I became aware of his musky, male scent.  I slumped forward against him as my legs turned to water and in one sweeping move he lifted me into his arms.

‘Okay, yes, I surrender,’ I said, letting my head fall against his chest.  ‘Do with me what you will.’

I felt myself being carried upstairs and then along a straight landing or corridor.  A door swung open with a creek and then fell shut behind us and then, although I could feel we were still moving, Nathan’s footsteps made no noise upon the floor.

He put me down gently and I found myself lying on a soft, warm surface, a little firm for a bed.  I felt around with my hands. If it was a bed, it was huge; I couldn’t feel an edge in any direction.  The room was silent.

‘Nathan?’ I said, suddenly nervous again.

‘I’m here,’ he said, and the smile in his voice reassured me.

But then his actions did anything but.  With a sudden flurry of move and a metallic clicking noise, he had cuffed one of my wrists to something secure somewhere above my head.  I thrashed my other arm but he had the advantage of sight and a moment later that wrist was cuffed too.

‘Nathan,’ I said, ‘I don’t like this.  Please let me go.’

‘Dana, you gave yourself to me.’

‘You said you wouldn’t hurt me.’

‘Have I?’

He stroked my forehead and then I felt his lips on my neck again.

‘No,’ I whimpered, fear and desire colliding within me.

Slowly and gently his hand reached underneath me and found its way to the zipper of my dress.  He pulled it down and then equally slowly I felt him peeling my dress away, as if he were unwrapping a present.  He uncuffed each arm in turn to release my arms from the garment, then recuffed them.  I lay still, just slightly raising my hips to allow him to slide the dress down and away; I heard the soft rustle as the slip of fabric landed somewhere down beyond my feet.  At the same time, there was a sharp intake of breath.

‘God, you’re beautiful, Dana.  I pictured you like this in my mind but, Jesus, I didn’t come close.’

I sensed the weight of his body straddling me, even though he hardly touched me.  Then his hands came to rest along my forearms and for the first time I felt his lips on mine.  I lifted my head to receive his kiss and his tongue pushed gently into my mouth, rubbing itself against my tongue, exploring with leisured insistence.  He tasted good, a little sweet with the memory of the alcohol we’d drunk earlier.

My whole body responded, my tongue hungrily invading his mouth as I writhed beneath him.  His hands slid down my arms and softly skimmed the lacy bra against which my breasts now strained.  He hooked a finger into one of the delicate cups and yanked the material down to free its occupant.  As he did the same on the other side, his mouth pulled away from mine and then I felt his tongue, followed swiftly by his teeth, on my nipple.  He pulled and cajoled and nipped, and under his ministrations my hips strained up against his thighs and then pushed down hard against the mattress.  He caught my other nipple with his finger and thumb, making me gasp as he twisted it hard, and the fact that both breasts were still confined by the pushed down bra made it feel even sexier.

But then suddenly he vanished, his mouth and his fingers absent, his weight lifting from the bed.

‘Nathan?’ I said.

Absolute silence.  Absolute darkness.  I was breathing heavily and I needed to be touched.  Deep inside the dull ache of longing had become more akin to a sharp pain.  I strained against the restraints at my wrists.  If Nathan had gone, I needed to be able to touch myself.

‘Behave, my darling, or you’ll have to wait longer.’

He sounded a long way off, on the other side of the room; a very large room.

I tried to stay still, pushing my thighs together in attempt to salve the pain and need between my legs.  But immediately Nathan’s hands were on my ankles and my legs were gently separated.  I felt him slip something round my ankle and then I heard the metallic jangle of a buckle being pulled tight; my leg was immobile.  The same treatment for the other leg and there I was, pinned down and vulnerable, in just my panties and my pushed-aside bra.

I whimpered.  I wanted to feel his touch, firmly, and I shivered in anticipation, not knowing where to expect it.

But Nathan made me wait.  I don’t know how long I lay there captive.  And all I could think about was him.  My mouth watered, my cunt grew wet and warm, me breathing fast and nervous.  My hips started writhing of their own volition and I felt on the verge of tears, ready to cry with frustration if I didn’t feel his hand on me soon.

Momentarily something brushed against my ribs and I yelped, my breath hard and fast as I fought against my restraints.  But then nothing.  Perhaps I had imagined it.

‘Nathan?  Are you here?’

‘I’m here,’ he whispered right in my ear, making me jump.  ‘Are you ready for me?’

‘More than ready.’  I could hardly speak.

He kissed me again, long and hard on the mouth.  And then he let his tongue wander, down the side of my neck, across my shoulders and onto my breasts.  As it brushed my nipple, I let out a low groan; it was as if my skin caught fire under his touch.  A hand slid down my belly and crept inside the top of my panties, making my hips buck and my back arch.  My whole body had become hyper-responsive, making me moan and cry out, so brutal was my need for satisfaction.

As I writhed and wriggled, he quickly ripped away my panties and I thrust my hips forwards to meet his hand.  But they met nothing and once again the room was quiet.

‘Please, Nathan.’  I’d never heard myself beg before.  ‘Please.’

‘What do you want?’

I felt his breath like a soft caress on my inner thigh.

‘I want to come.  I want you to make me come.’

Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Multiple Orgasms

Rachel Kramer Bussel’s The Big Book of Orgasms is phenomenal. Not simply because it’s one of the best ever collections of highly-charged erotic short stories, but also because of the amazing buzz that’s surrounding it, building up in waves just like one of the innumerable orgasms contained between its covers.

Actually, though I say innumerable, that’s not strictly true: I’ve counted them! So, if you haven’t been tempted yet by the hyperbole to sneak a peek inside, let me blast you with the stats:

• The Big Book of Orgasms has 242 pages.
• 69 authors contributed stories.
• 109 orgasms are described in full glory.
• There are 46 heterosexual couplings, five ff encounters, six mm encounters, one three-way and one four-way.
• 11 stories feature female self-love and one story of male masturbation.
• There are approximately eight episodes involving bondage and a spanking story.
• Eight vibrators and three dildos take on starring roles.
• Two stories feature wax play and one includes water sports.
• And I counted three incidents of anal in the book.
• Oral sex? 10 times at least…

Get the picture?

However, if there are any pedants out there who want to check my numbers, please feel free! I’ll be the first to admit that some of these might not be exact. Because even though I’d already read the book from cover to cover, when it came to doing the count, some of the stories so distracted me that I couldn’t remember if I’d written down their vital statistics or not.

And there’s the rub… you’d think that with all that sex, there wouldn’t be room for much else in this book. But despite every story being only a few pages long and crammed with bedroom (kitchen, living room, outdoor, in cars and everywhere else) action , there’s a wealth of fully-formed plots, well-rounded and developed characters, great description and sparkling dialogue.

How the hell does it all fit into 242 pages? Well, it’s kind of snug in there!

So well done, Miss Kramer Bussel and the other 68. This is a truly fabulous book.

Buy The Big Book of Orgasms from:

Amazon

Kindle ebook edition

Bn.com

Nook ebook edition

Powell’s

Books-a-Million

IndieBound (find your nearest local independent bookstore)

iBooks

Google Play

Cleis Press

The Crimson Bond – Vampire Love and Blood Lust!

Hi,

So November has been something of a roller-coaster ride for me – not only did my first novella, The Christmas Tattoo, release at the beginning of the month, not only did I complete 50 thousand words in three weeks for NaNoWriMo, the intensity of which nearly blew my mind BUT NOW, here’s another new release hot on their heels!

If you saw my cover reveal a few weeks back, you’ll now this latest story, The Crimson Bond, is about vampires – a hot vampire love triangle in which no one is spared from a vampire bite or a vampire kiss…

Here’s the blurb:

Willow Jackson develops an unhealthy obsession Etienne Corbeau; little does she realise he’s a suave, sophisticated vampire.  After appearing in her dreams, Willow is astounded to find Etienne in her room for real and even more shocked when, in the throes of a passion she can’t resist, he sinks his teeth into her and drinks her blood. 

But Etienne is greedy and to save Willow’s life, his wife Elouise forces her to drink vampire blood.  From this moment Willow is herself a vampire, forming an unbreakable bond with Elouise which forces her to choose between the beautiful new vampire and her husband of two centuries. 

As Willow learns to tame her bloodlust and vampire sex carries her to new heights of physical pleasure, Elouise is snatched away from her.  The battle lines are drawn: now she and Etienne will fight for possession of the woman they both love…

And now here’s a little taster from the opening chapter – just enough to make your mouth water…

Even with the shutters thrown wide, there wasn’t enough of a breeze to dry the sweat off Willow Jackson’s skin as she lay writhing, naked and alone, on the huge double bed. But it wasn’t the heat keeping her awake. After all, she’d lived in Santa Fe for most of her nineteen years and it was still only spring. The mercury would rise far higher over the summer months.
It was an unhealthy obsession that was keeping Willow awake. An imaginary scenario played over and over in her mind. The heroine? Herself, naturally. The hero? Her creative writing tutor Etienne Corbeau, and it didn’t play out in the stuffy lecture hall where she spent Tuesday and Thursday mornings hanging on his every word. No, in her imagination they were in the woods. She would be standing with her back against the rough bark of a pine tree, feeling the scratch of it through the fine chiffon of her dress.   He would be walking toward her, tall and so sure of himself, pulling off his tie and discarding his shirt as he got closer. Revealing a sinewy, brown torso, lightly peppered with black hairs, making the breath catch in her throat, and lighting a fire between her legs. As he approached, his eyes would rake up and down her body. She would watch his chest heaving as his breath became ragged. Seconds later, they would come together in an urgent embrace.
But then, just as their mouths were about to fuse in a blistering kiss, just as she was about to surrender to his caress, the image would dissolve. Damn it. Always the same. She would be back in her bed, the sheets twisted around her legs and a sheen of sweat between her breasts. Frustrated and wanting him more than ever. She kicked the covers away and let a hand stray softly and slowly down her stomach toward the dull throbbing between her clammy thighs. But it was him she needed, not her own fingers.
She sat up sharply and dropped her head to her hands, elbows resting on bent up knees. Why was she torturing herself like this? She could never have him. He had to be at least ten years older than she was. She doubted whether he would give her a second glance if she was the sole women left on the planet. And he had a wife. Willow had seen them together more than once. The woman was stunningly beautiful and perfectly groomed, with expensive clothes that fit like a glove and never a hair out of place. So it was no surprise to see, in his wife’s presence, the suave and elegant Monsieur Corbeau had eyes for no one else. Another surge of longing swept over Willow as she remembered watching them getting into their car together at the end of school. A ravishing couple, evidently in love. Willow had noticed Etienne’s hand slide down the curve of his wife’s shapely rear as she’d climbed into the dark red Porsche, looking up at him with parted lips and an adoring glance.
Willow’s legs slackened and fell wide apart. She leaned back against the headboard and pressed her right palm hard against her downy mound of Venus. A sharp little moan escaped her mouth and she bit hard on her lower lip, hoping her roommate, Jordy, sleeping in the next room, hadn’t heard. In a moment her hand was slick with sweat and juice, her engorged clit pressing up hard against the base of her fingers. A tendril of toffee-colored hair fell across her face as she arched back in pleasure and her blue eyes closed as another image Etienne Corbeau flooded her mind. And her senses. If she couldn’t have him in real life, she would at least have him in her imagination.
This time the picture show didn’t stop and as she teased and twisted her nipples with one hand and explored the dark recess between her legs with the other. It was as if they were at last together.
“You want me, don’t you?” he whispered in her ear. She could virtually feel his hot breath on her neck.
She nodded, unable to speak, and in her mind she felt his body pressing tightly against hers.
“Then tell me,” he said. His voice sounded real in her ears.
“I want you,” she gasped. “I need you.”
“Use my name.”
She opened her eyes to be sure, but she was definitely alone in the room.
“Etienne, please come to me.” She was practically moaning for him.
The heat rose through her pussy as she ground her hips against the soft bed and she gently caught her aching clit between her finger and thumb. Sticky with her own musky juices, she softly rubbed it. She stopped momentarily to lick her fingers for a taste of herself, but then had to work harder and faster as the need inside her grew more urgent. Approaching the point of no return, she flung herself forward on the bed so she was lying on her stomach, her legs braced hard against the headboard. She pushed her hips upwards, peachy behind in the air, and thrust her fingers deep into her trembling vagina, still working her clit with the ball of her thumb. Finally, the longed-for release sent her body into an explosive spasm. The image of her would-be lover was driven from her mind as the primal sensation surged through her—and even as she muffled her cry in the crumpled sheets, the knowledge that Jordy would most certainly have heard it brought her back down to earth with a bump.
Still lying on her front, she slumped down, panting, and waited for the sensations coursing through her to subside. At least now she would sleep well, even if she was in for a ribbing in the morning. She pulled her fingers out of her vagina and rolled onto her back, sleepy and contented. Of course it would have been better with a real flesh-and-blood man. A man called Etienne Corbeau.

Available from Secret Cravings, Amazon US and Amazon UK.

A Slow Striptease… The Finale!

We’re here at last. We’ve reached the end of my Cleis cover reveal-athon. And like all good strippers, now’s the time I disappear behind a screen. Or in this case, a windbreak! Isn’t this the most fantastic cover – what a bundle of fun! Can’t Get Enough, edited by the inimitable Tenille Brown, will be out… Well, I’ll let you know as soon as I know. In the meantime, enjoy the beach!

So there you have it. Four amazing covers for four extraordinary anthologies, which I couldn’t be more proud to have stories in.

Something tells me 2014’s going to be a very busy year on Superotica!

Tamsin

xxx

A Slow Striptease… Part 3

Bit by bit, layer by layer, I’m showing you all I’ve got.  This amazing Alison Tyler anthology, Twisted – Bondage with an Edge, will be coming out early next year – and already it’s got me in a spin!

Oh! Have I shown you this already? Well, I think it’s worth a second view, don’t you?

Tamsin

xxx

New Realease: The Christmas Tattoo

Hi,

You know how, every year, Christmas somehow sneaks up on you before you’re ready for it? Well, it’s done it again! No, don’t worry it isn’t here yet – but I feel like it’s arrived because I’ve just discovered that my spicy seasonal erotic romance, The Christmas Tattoo, is now available on the Xcite Books website! With a cover that’s a sparkly delight!

So, what’s it about? When sexy red-head Bradie Clements comes home from Washington to nurse a broken heart and build bridges with her estranged father, she’s certainly not on the lookout for romance.  After catching her boyfriend Kris in bed with her best friend and boss, all she wants to do is run and hide.  But a chance encounter with local tattoo artist Colton Bassett leads to an unexpected appointment with his needle.  Even though it’s cold outside, the temperature rises to boiling point as the two discover an irresistible attraction.  But then Kris arrives on the scene to claim her back in time for his family Christmas and Bradie starts to remember what she saw in him.  Tormented by jealousy and suspicion over Colton’s pregnant business partner, Bradie starts to wonder if her new romance is over before it’s begun…

And as an early Christmas present to you, here’s a little excerpt:

The Christmas Tattoo

Bradie followed him through to a small studio.  The walls in here had the same patchwork of designs and there were two work stations, one with a black reclining barber chair and the other, a sort of articulated massage bench which could be arranged into a range of positions.   A work station along one wall carried the tattoo artists’ equipment: a huge selection of ink bottles and a number of scary devices that looked for all the world like medieval torture instruments.

Bradie considered them and swallowed hard.

“Take a seat,” said Colt, going over to the bench and picking up a particularly vicious-looking instrument.

Bradie backed up and found the back of her thighs pressing against the arm of the barber chair.

“Sit.  I can’t do you standing up.”

Bradie stumbled back into the seat, her breathing suddenly faster and the sound of her heartbeat drumming in her ears.

“But… I haven’t told you…”

Colt advanced on her and pressed a button on the device.  A sudden whirring noise whined out of it.

“Wait…”

Colt towered over her now.  He turned the gadget off. 

“You don’t remember me, do you, Bradie Clements?”

Bradie sat bolt upright.

“From?”

Colt rolled his eyes.

“School.  Only four years in the same homeroom, Bradie.  We even went on a date once.  But the less said about it the better.”

Bradie closed her eyes and delved back in time.  The height… the dark eyes… a date to the movies.

“Colton Bassett?  But you had black hair at school.   And you were skinny.”

“Okay, enough,” said Colt, running a hand through his blonde hair.  “It figures, I’ve changed.  But you haven’t.  Still the long red hair.”

“So why didn’t you say anything on the train?” said Bradie.

Colt put down the tattoo gun and perched on the edge of the massage table.

“I saw you and I remembered the date.  I didn’t want to remind you of it.”

Bradie could see why.  It had ended in disaster.  She had been an innocent co-ed and Colt had tried to feel her up in the back row.  She’d panicked and run out of the theatre and then spent the rest of the school year regretting it.  The blood rose to her cheeks again.  Shit, why did he keep having this effect on her.

“And now?” she said.

“Probably better to get it out in the open if you’re gonna be in town for a bit.  Look, I’m sorry for the way I behaved back then.”

“No, I am.  I always wished I’d stayed in there.”

WTF?  She had some sort of runaway mouth on her this morning.  She bit her lip.

“That came out wrong.”

“I’ll change the subject,” said Colt.  “So what sort of tatt do you want?”

Bradie thought for  a moment and then shrugged.

“A Santa sleigh?”

Colt laughed.

“Or perhaps a candy cane?” he said.  “They’re always popular.  But seriously?”

“I had a bad year, so something that means a new beginning maybe.  Perhaps a few words or a quote.”

“Where would you have it?”

“Not on my arm or leg.  Somewhere more private.  My hip, maybe?”

The room seemed suddenly smaller, hotter.  Colt stood up.

“Show me.”

With shaking fingers Bradie popped the top button of her jeans and tugged the zip halfway undone.  Then she pushed the waist band down a way to expose the jut of her hip bone.

“Here,” she said.  It came out a whisper.

Colt came closer.  He ran his thumb over the place she indicated, brushing the top of her black lace panties.  His warm skin hummed against hers but his touch sent a red hot jolt of current up through her.  Her breath caught in her throat as she was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to stroke his skin in return.

“It’ll hurt, across the bone there.”

He moved his thumb a little closer to her navel, pushing the black lace and denim down a fraction further.

“Whereas here would be less painful.”

Bradie’s eyes met his.  Colton Bassett.  Her teenage crush.  And now with his hands back where they’d been once before.  Their eyes locked and his face came closer.  Bradie took a deep breath as a surge of adrenalin, lust and anticipation flooded through her.  Was this about to happen?

Available at Amazon.com, Amazon UK and Xcite Books