Tag: Erotic Fiction (page 2 of 4)

Erotic Fiction: Should You Stay Or Should You Go

Oil painting by Serge Marshennikov.

Oil painting by Serge Marshennikov.

She can’t sleep. She isn’t used to having someone else in her bed, but there he is beside her, hand draped over her hip.

The gray area they occupy is not at all safe. She wants to fit her body around him so badly she nearly rolls away, turns her back, curls up into a ball at the edge of her own bed. She stares at the ceiling, paralyzed, afraid his hand will move. She wants him to stay. She wants him to leave. She wishes she knew if he’d meant to fall asleep. He never has before. He always goes. They had agreed he would.

But she loves that he is there, sleeping in her bed…it would all be so much simpler if he hadn’t drifted off in her pretty, white room.

She stares at the ceiling, feeling anxious and sick. She wants one or the other – mean to stay or mean to go. She does not like the question mark hanging over her bed. He could wake up embarrassed. Brittle, bright and false. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant…. Or he could smile and hold her. They could see where this will go.

She doesn’t know how to play this and she can’t sleep, not with his hand burning heavy on her hip. She wants him. She wants to sleep. She wants to be safe. She doesn’t want to play the fool. She doesn’t know which way to go.

The clock on her nightstand sheds a soft red light over her tortoise shell glasses, her journal, and her books, her usual companions in her pretty, wrought iron bed. She listens to his breathing, times hers to his, calms herself, lulls herself, pulls herself back. There is time for her journal and time for her books. This is now. He is here. For now, he is here. Her hand drifts over her stomach, past his hand on her hip, a soft feather-light touch.

Her body is tender and restless, despite having spent the better part of the evening with his head between her legs.  She wants him. She knows that. It’s why she isn’t safe. But her body wants him too, and that’s simple enough. She makes a decision and shifts, gently moving his heavy hand before pulling back the sheets.

He mumbles, annoyed by the chill, but not enough to wake up as she moves down the bed. She doesn’t touch him. She just looks, soaking him in, so out of place among the shams and pillows, the empty mug, the small box of tissues besides her bed. This is her room and her life. He is surrounded by her minutia. That means he is her guest.

She hovers over him, still watching as he dreams, struggling through some imaginary place. Then she moves lower, fingers skimming, barely touching the hair on his chest, his stomach, the tops of his thighs, as she settles between his legs. He shifts, as if he can sense her, and she smiles. His cock begins to stir, though it remains soft for the moment, limp against his leg. She inhales, catching the scent of him combined with a hint of her own. Then, very delicately, she takes it between her lips.

He shifts again, still dreaming, but not so deeply now. Gathering her long hair off to one side, she cradles his cock with her tongue and starts to suck. She feels his fingers in her hair as he hardens, nudging the back of her throat. She moans. He moans. It thrills her. The raw, unguarded sound of him makes her wet.

She stops thinking about the alarm she’d forgotten to set, or how she’ll get her hair washed, or catch the train to work. His hips rise up to meet her. The question mark is gone. He’s balanced right on the edge where she holds him, saying her name in his pleasure-thick voice.

She cups his balls with one hand and slides the other between her legs. She wants to come from sucking him off, but her clit is so hard and slippery that she can’t get the friction she needs as her mouth continues to move, guided by instinct more than art. She becomes her tongue, her skin, her cunt and her mouth, straddling his leg and rubbing herself while she works his cock.

He pushes up to meet her coiled frame, and she moves with him, barely aware. She is bent on the way he fills her mouth, his taste, the hitch of his breath. His balls tighten as she drags her lips over his length, suckling his head, teasing his slit, before sliding her tongue back down. It’s enough. She wants him to come. He groans and jerks as she swallows, sucking hard as she rubs her orgasm out.

Her crisp, fresh covers are everywhere; her soft, scarlet blanket has fallen to the floor, but she’s feels peaceful and good, resting her head on his thigh as he softens in her mouth.

“It’s late,” she murmurs, looking up at his face, which is lit by the numbers on her bedside clock. “Do you want to stay?”

A pause and she feels something in him relax.

“Yeah,” he says. “I would…if you don’t mind.”

She sets the alarm and pulls up the covers.

“No. I’d like you to stay.”

 

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Erotic (??) Fiction: The Lady and the Euphemism

"Dreaming of You" cover art by Max Ginsburg

“Dreaming of You” cover art by Max Ginsburg

A few weeks ago, the brilliant Jane Gilbert at Behind the Chintz Curtain wrote an article about how erotic euphemisms…how shall I put this…work against the sexiness of a story. That post, which I highly recommend, prompted #EuphOff, an impromptu meme and one of the best writerly challenges I’ve ever heard of. The idea is to write a 500 word story using as many horrible euphemisms for sex and anatomy as possible.

Ms. Gilbert, Lunabelle of Ninja Sexology and Curvaceous Dee all posted amazing contributions last week. They are hilarious – you just need to read them for yourself – so, when Ms. Gilbert asked if I’d like to contribute something to #EuphOff I trembled with an acquiescence born from quivering enthusiasm.. in other words, I said, hell yes.

So, in honor of Erotic World Book Day, here’s my contribution – an example of what good erotica isn’t. This little dip into Bulwer-Lytton territory inspired by the historical romances I read as a girl. And to sweeten the deal, Exhibit A was kind enough to read this for you in his lovely British accent. Play the audio file at the end of the story to hear the euphemisms come to vivid, turgid life! 

Finally, if you’d like to read more terribly, terrible erotica, and thus appreciate the good stuff all the more, please click the coffee bean at the bottom to see other contributions.

Happy Erotic World Book Day! 

“The Lady and the Euphemism”

Chrysanthemum trembled beneath Declan’s cobalt gaze, which pierced her like the teeth of a panther in the dark.

“Come here,” he commanded, in a voice ripe with command.

She had no choice but to obey.

Slowly, Chrysanthemum rose, horrified by the sticky, sweet lady-nectar that coated the soft down of her virgin inner thighs. Her nether-lips felt swollen and tender to the point of distraction. She was reminded of the time she had dropped a brick on her toe, and marveled at how much better this aching in the cradle of her maidenhood felt.

“Remove your garments, you loose-moraled strumpet,” Declan growled in tones that would not be ignored.

Chrysanthemum jumped to obey, at once humiliated and intrigued at the thought of her new husband, the mysteriously wealthy duke who had saved her from financial ruin not a fortnight before, seeing her as no man had seen her – without clothing, just as she’d been when her mother had pushed her free from the warm confines of her body and into the cruel, cold world eighteen years before.

Color stained her alabaster cheeks and her lips trembled as she slowly unbuttoned her chemise, exposing the round globes of her generous femininity. The raspberry tips hardened beneath Declan’s avid gaze, perking like two puppies begging for a treat. It was nearly too much, and Chrysanthemum tried to close her shirt, but Declan’s hand shot out with the quickness of a viper.

“No. Leave yourself exposed.”

The rough timbre of his voice caressed her skin like a feather. Without thinking, Chrysanthemum panted as she slipped her skirts off, so that she stood before him in nothing but her undergarments, shamed and without pride.

He touched her then through her silk trousseau, and her body responded of its own accord, arching into the invasion like a port welcoming a ship home.

Licking his lips like a fox, Declan removed the final barrier to her modesty with cold efficiency and resumed touching her honeyed love-passage, a place never before caressed by a man. Chrysanthemum moaned, seeking to kiss him, yet he rebuffed her mouth, choosing instead to suckle at her mounds like a starving baby. All the while, his fingers slid through the petals of her most private rose.

Her pearl of pleasure quivered, straining from her body, and Declan, cognizant of her blossoming pleasure, obliged and pressed her love button with expert assurance.

Chrysanthemum bit her bee-stung lip as a pleasure unlike any she had known wracked her frame, and her inner-passage clutched at his fingers like the suction cups of an octopus.

“Oh, yes! Yes,” she cried as he wrung yet more pleasure from her thrumming, slick orchid of love, stopping only when she swooned in his arms.

“Ah, my sweet,” he murmured into her auburn locks. “This is only the beginning. My turgid, throbbing manhood awaits.”

The End

Narration by Exhibit A:

 

 

EuphOff

Strong Foundations (Guest Post by Exhibit A)

I got a lovely birthday surprise today – a guest post from Exhibit A. He wrote an excellent introduction to this story, which is up right now on his blog. I really encourage you to check it out, as he talks about what went into creating a story out of this particular scenario.  

As for me, my capacity for critical thought is a little challenged right now – “Strong Foundations” is, quite literally, exactly the kind of story that turns me on most. It’s fantastically fucking hot, and  full of the sort of tension and boundary pushing that can only happen when two people trust each other implicitly.  It’s a brilliant story from by a brilliant writer. I hope you enjoy! xx.M

NB: Exhibit A just put up a supplement to the story on his blog. It’s got some additional (hot) background on the writing of it, as well as a very illustrative visual aid. Have a look…

Strong Foundations

by

Exhibit A

“Here – you look stressed.”

I turned away from my laptop just in time to see Ally put a fresh cup of tea down on the kitchen table next to me.

“I can’t fucking concentrate with all that banging going on downstairs. Do they have to be so loud?”

“Honey, they’re ripping out the whole shower unit. I’m not sure what made you think that would be a silent process.”

I glared back at Ally, but only because I knew she was right. Arranging to work from home on the day the builders came had not been one of my smarter moves. My desk sat flush against the bathroom wall, and vibrated each time hammer struck chisel next door; moving upstairs to the kitchen had helped a bit, but in our cosy maisonette apartment there was really no escape from the repetitive thud, and the sound of tiles clattering down onto the floor.

“I know, I should have gone to the office. I’m an idiot.”

Ally pressed her fingers into my shoulders, easing out the tension. I leaned back into her as she bent down and brushed her lips against my ear.

“Mm, you really should have done. I’d have had far more fun with those two if you weren’t here.”

I pulled her round onto my lap and she squealed with laughter.

“Oh really? And what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Well…they’re not exactly painful to look at, are they? And such strong young men. I bet they have plenty of energy. Yum.”

I rolled my eyes. Ally’s nipples were hard against her tank top, inviting attention, but when I moved my hand toward her breasts, she slapped it away.

“Do you think they’d enjoy seeing me like this if I took them tea right now? That one in the khaki overalls, I know he definitely liked what he saw when I went down there earlier. I bet he’d love to know what the thought of his bulge was doing to my nipples.”

Ally squirmed in my lap, and I felt her grind down onto my cock. I willed it to stop twitching, to stay soft and unresponsive, but she knew my body too well; her grin was triumphant and smug as it started to swell beneath her.

“Oh, don’t worry, I know that you would like that. In fact, maybe I should leave you up here with your work and go see how hard their dicks get when I sit on their laps. What do you reckon? It’s not as if these shorts leave much to the imagination.”

I paused, weighing up my response. Ally smirked down at me.

“Maybe you’d prefer to hear them hammering away at my cunt instead of the bathroom wall. Making me scream. Is that it? Would you find it easier to concentrate on your laptop then?”

I could feel the skin at the base of her spine getting warmer with every word. It was one of her favourite games, and she played it with merciless proficiency. If I hadn’t already hated the builders for their intrusion into my working day, the lust that practically dripped from her tongue would have left me wound tight with rage at how wet she was for them; and for how she held that arousal just out of my reach, teasing me with it.

What we both knew all too well was that the anger only turned her on more, so it was no surprise when she swung one leg over me and hopped up onto the table, her feet kicking together as she contemplated her next move. I saw it spread across her face well before it reached her pursed lips, but that did nothing to deaden the impact.

“Ok, get up. We’re going to have a bit of fun here.”

I levered myself out of the chair and shuffled across the wooden floor. She slid into the space I’d vacated and leaned back, arms crossed behind her head. My shoulders tensed at the sight of her body stretched out like that, lithe and feline. In contrast, mine felt clumsy and awkward, weighed down by the dense, thrumming desire that only her piercing gaze could awaken in me.

“Strip for me. Slowly. Jeans first.”

I tugged at my belt, my fingers cold and shaky without the reassuring warmth of her body curled in my lap. Downstairs, the hammering stopped and I tensed, a nervous response I inwardly cursed as she raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Sorry, I just…well, what if one of them comes up?”

“Huh. What indeed?”

“Are you kidding, Ally? They can’t see me like this, ok?”

“Then why are you getting hard? And don’t deny it! I can see you straining against the fly. Are you worried they’ll see you? No, that’s not it: ah, you’re worried they’ll think you’re small!”

“I…”

“Because I saw the way they filled out their overalls. Fuck, there’s no comparison. Those boys are packing, and you…ha! I mean…well, we can’t all be superstars, can we?”

I flushed, a deep, angry red that I felt warm my chest and set my stomach on spin cycle. The heat spread lower though, and I gritted my teeth against it, trying to stop my body betraying me, even as I shimmied out of my jeans and presented myself to her.

She looked me up and down with a careful, studied gaze. I felt shy, coltish and awkward; undone by her forensic attention. I trusted Ally to push my buttons in a way that worked within the context of our relationship, but the sudden charge to the atmosphere between us indicated that we were both moving into new territory.

The hair on my legs shivered in the cold of the open, airy kitchen. I lifted my striped, long-sleeved t-shirt up over my stomach, and extended my arms towards the ceiling, stopping only when her voice cut through the silence.

“Did I tell you to take that off? Boxers first. I want to see how much you want this.”

I untangled my arms and let them hang limp by my side. Casting a final anxious glance at the stairs, I slowly peeled the tight boxer-briefs down over my cock, and let them join my jeans in a puddle on the floor.

Ally leaned forward and watched intently, fingers tapping against her thigh as I stood exposed in front of her.

“I really should take them tea, you know. They’re working ever so hard. Put the kettle on.”

My mouth hung open, but no sound came out. We stared at each other like poker players; it only took me a few seconds to realise that Ally wasn’t going to blink first. She held my gaze, then pulled my eyes over to the worktop where the kettle rested. The nod was subtle enough that I almost missed it; firm enough that my feet had already started to move across the floor by the time my brain processed her message.

I flicked the switch and stepped back again, shocked by how eager my body was to submit. Ally laughed, rich and warm, the way she did whenever I was stiff with her friends or slow to warm up on a night out.

“God, I’ve never seen your cheeks that colour. They’re almost as dark as the head of your cock. Speaking of which…”

Ally closed the gap between us with the sort of balletic grace that only further exposed the way she’d reduced me to slow motion, my body stuck in quicksand as hers took flight. She tapped her hand against my chest and held me in place, just far enough away that my cock could only graze the soft cotton of her white top.

“Mm, not quite dear.”

I felt my arse clench in frustration. Biting back every swear word that threatened to pour out of my mouth, I presented myself to her, wondering for the first time just what the two builders might have that I didn’t.

I watched Ally press the pad of her thumb against the tip of my cock, and slide her index finger down the shaft till it nestled snug against my pelvis. She jerked back as I twitched against her, and lifted her measurement in front of my face; I frowned, and wrinkled my nose in disbelief, but she refused to widen the space between her digits.

“Heh. You wish.”

The kettle boiled, but neither of us moved. Slowly, Ally lowered her hand and curled it around my cock, her fingers silken and warm. I longed to feel her mouth as well; she gave head with great enthusiasm, her tongue as skilful at working me into a frenzy as it was at taunting and teasing me. Instead, she caressed the shaft with quick, light touches, just enough to keep me achingly hard, but well short of what she knew I really wanted.

I dreaded the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but Ally showed no sign of putting me out of my misery. She scraped one nail over the head of my cock and pushed the pad of her finger against the slit, almost as if she was telling it to stay quiet.

“You…you clearly want me to make you come. But what you want isn’t really important right now. What I want is for you to be a good boy and make the tea. Think you can manage that?”

She stepped to one side and ushered me to the worktop. I dropped a teabag into each of the mugs laid out on the side, and poured hot water over them. When I wheeled around to fetch the milk out of the fridge, my cock bounced in front of me, and Ally gave it a playful tap as I moved past her.

“You’re not going to make me take these downstairs, are you?”

“And deny myself the chance to have another perv? Not fucking likely. Besides, while I’m sure you’d enjoy walking down there like that, I don’t think they’d be quite as impressed.”

Nodding meekly, I picked up the mugs and tried to hand them to Ally. She put a hand on my arm and steered it back to the worktop.

“Uh uh, don’t be so eager. There’s something else you need to help me with first. Unzip my shorts, please.”

“What? Why?”

“I stood at the end of our bed this morning and put this underwear on especially for you – you didn’t even notice it. Perhaps the two chaps downstairs will be more appreciative.”

I felt the disconnect between my brain and my body growing. The shame I felt at the thought of her parading in front of them only seemed to make my fingers work faster, helping her to push the waistband over her hips, and exposing the sea green lace beneath. They were her favourites, and I stopped to admire the way they clung to her arse, accentuating her curves and leaving just enough to the imagination.

I knelt to untangle the shorts from her feet, and she put her hand on the top of my head, using me to balance at the same time as she held me in place. She ruffled my hair and slid her fingers through it, letting them come to rest on the back of my neck.

“Kiss me. You know where.”

My lips were dry, but I let Ally ease them towards her crotch. I could smell her arousal well before the soft material made contact with my skin, but it still took me by surprise to feel how wet she was. I kissed her cunt through the knickers, and she moaned, a sound that never failed to make my cock tingle in response.

“Can I lick you? God, you smell amazing.”

“No. Not yet. You have to wait. For that. For me. For everything.”

“But I…”

“No, let me finish. You’re going to wait here for me, on your knees. Don’t get up. Don’t cover yourself. Just stay right here, with your dick hard between your legs and think about them looking at me. Think about those fucking delicious bulges in their overalls getting bigger and bigger as they stare at my arse in these tiny knickers. As they imagine groping my tits and filling my wet cunt with their fat cocks. Then maybe – just maybe – you’ll actually notice the next time I make an effort to look nice for you. If there is a next time.”

I sank back as she turned to pick up the two mugs, my arse resting on my heels. The blood rushed to my head and I barely heard her cross the kitchen floor toward the stairs. Her footsteps were light; where the wood creaked under my weight, she seemed to dance over it, and I knew the builders wouldn’t hear her coming. They wouldn’t know she was there till…God, even just thinking about it!

The hammering stopped and I closed my eyes, listening intently. A million thoughts raced through my head. I hated every single one, but each got me harder than the last. Her laughter floated up the stairs, followed by the low murmur of voices. It was maddening to hear them talking, without being able to make out the words.

A second laugh joined hers. Rough and dirty, a bark next to Ally’s musical lilt. Fuck, what did she say? I imagined her telling them what she’d done to me. Holding her thumb and forefinger up for them, even closer together this time to emphasise her point. My cheeks burned, but my cock refused to stop responding to the torment my brain was determined to inflict.

I didn’t think anything could be worse than the laughter – right up until the moment it stopped. The voices fell silent and I strained to hear what was going on. I thought about her fingers skimming the front of their overalls. Reaching inside. Their big hands pulling down her tank top, under her breasts. Cupping them. Pinching and teasing her nipples.

The click of a latch almost brought me to my feet. It could only be our bedroom door! She wouldn’t, would she? I fought to remain calm, my fists balling again and again by my side. One minute passed. Two minutes. Three. I tried to empty my mind, but the images wouldn’t stop scrolling across it. Ally on her knees in front of them. Ally bent over our bed, twisting the sheet between her fingers. Ally’s eyes scrunched shut, her mouth open wide in a soundless scream of ecstasy.

My knees ached. My thighs and back were rigid with tension, but still I didn’t move. Then, like a car radio bursting back into life as it exits a tunnel, the voices picked up again. Hers quickly left the other two behind, getting louder and more distinct as theirs tailed off.

“…oh yes…definitely…ha, the pleasure was all mine…”

Ally’s head came into view first, the rest following swiftly as she hopped up the stairs. I waited, unable to meet her eyes with mine. She walked over to the table and leaned against it, her feet crossed. Without speaking, she peeled off her knickers and spread her legs a shoulder-width apart. Tossing the discarded underwear in front of me, she cleared her throat and spoke, her voice softer than it had been earlier.

“Taste them. Taste how wet I am.”

I reached for the knickers and pressed them against my face, afraid all of a sudden. Afraid that I’d taste not just her arousal but theirs too. Her lips quirked up.

“Don’t worry sailor. There’s only one cock I want inside me right now. I’m so fucking horny, and I need you to take care of that. Think you’re up to the job?”

I scrambled to my feet. I no longer cared who might hear us, or who might see my dick as it pulsed with desire. Ally turned and bent over the table. She was soaking, her thighs sticky and hot, and her cunt wetter than I’d ever felt it before. I thrust inside her, as deep as I could; she shuddered around me, her whole body vibrating against the wooden surface.

“Jesus. I’m not going to last long. Harder – fuck me harder.”

I did as I was told, pouring myself into her with a fury and hunger that shocked me even as I let it flow out of my body. I came in seconds and Ally followed me over the edge, her cunt squeezing me in desperation.

She slumped down underneath me. I rested my forehead between her shoulders, feeling our sweat mix together. Her hand found mine, and she gave it a tired shake. I looked up in time to see her lift the index finger on her other hand. The one holding onto mine disengaged and move back up to the table. With a theatrical flourish, she extended a second index finger, lined the two of them up alongside each other, and slowly moved them apart.

Four inches. Five. Six. Still going. Still…

The smile on her face as she turned to look at my reaction was more wicked than happy.

“What the…”

“I do like men who travel with their own tape measures. Don’t you?”

Erotic Fiction: Resurrection

I wrote this story nearly two years ago and submitted it to Best Men’s Erotica 2014. I was very new to the genre then, and it was only the third piece of erotica that I’d ever had accepted. Though Burning Books Press very sadly closed its doors before the anthology could be published, I’ve got a real soft spot for this piece. I hope you enjoy. xx.M

Resurrection

Laurence Olivier, Vivian Leigh & Leslie Banks in 21 Days Together, dir. by Basil Dean. Image courtesy of The Red List.

Laurence Olivier, Vivian Leigh & Leslie Banks in 21 Days Together, dir. by Basil Dean. Image courtesy of The Red List.

There is a man in a room. He is sitting on a hard-backed wooden chair, one arm held diagonally across his chest. His palm is pressed flat against the opposite shoulder, as if he is trying to keep it in place.

A woman stands behind him. It is her room, her flat, hers and his friend’s…no, not his friend’s. It’s her flat alone. A distant image of shrapnel and a cockpit full of flames tries, briefly, to surface, but it finds no purchase and drifts away. In any event, this room, this flat, is the only place he knew to go.

The woman, his friend’s sweetheart, now his widow, is tall and lean, a bit underfed. She holds a pair of scissors in her hand and is shearing off the man’s dark, lank hair, which has grown to unaccustomed lengths since his capture and release. Just past the collar. This is an estimate, of course. He hadn’t worn a collar in months.

Lift, snip, lift, snip. Her nimble fingers are gentle, as if she is removing layers of harm with every cut, revealing the man’s once untarnished future as she reveals the column of his neck. He is surprised by her gentleness. He’s known her only as his dead friend’s wife; competent, distant, impossible to know. He himself is impossible to know. He understands how one becomes this way, and doesn’t begrudge it in her.

Snip, snip, snip.

She lays the shears on the table in front of him. Its only other contents are a paper-thin towel and the cracked, oval mirror that he’d made himself confront the moment he sat down. A ragged ghost had stared back at him. Dead eyes. Not a man to know. At least now, with his hair cut short again, he looks more like himself. Himself as a corpse. He smiles, a cold stretch of lips over teeth. He’s seen plenty of corpses look worse.

She runs her narrow hands through his new-cut hair, sending stray, brown tufts floating to the ground. He is shocked by how good her fingers feel on his scalp, how unexpectedly erotic. He presses his hand harder into his damaged shoulder, reminding himself of his nearly useless arm and the treatment that had rendered it so. She is his dead friend’s wife. He doesn’t want to intrude. But his skin begins to hum as she moves across the room.

She returns with a mismatched set of shaving things, retrieved from a tiny cupboard above an even smaller sink. The straight razor is old. The soap cracked and dry. She dips the brush into a bowl full of water, before massaging the soap in disciplined circles, coaxing a respectable foam from the long-forgotten cup.

“These were Ben’s,” she murmurs.

He nods. He cannot picture his friend. He’s lost the knack. It’s always shrapnel and fire. He can’t picture what isn’t directly in front of him. He can’t picture much at all. He tries and the failure disturbs him, so he watches her instead. He can only see half of her reflection in the glass. It stops at her collarbones, a few inches above her breasts. She is lean and spare. Almost boyish. The mirror has been leveled to center his image, so that she can see him while she works. Something in his stirs. He wants to see her face.

The thought surprises him. He finds himself imagining her eyes, divining their expression through the angle of her shoulders, the hollow of her throat. She always had serious eyes. Grave. Even on her wedding day, in the courtroom, when he’d stood next to Ben. So serious. Too serious. Not his type. Not then. But now her gravity draws him. He craves those dark, sad eyes. He nearly turns to look – nearly, but does not. She places two fingers on his jaw and steadies his head, as she touches the brush to his cheek.

The shaving soap smells clean and good, so good after weeks in the filthy, dark hole. He inhales once, and then again, thanking a deity he no longer believes in for razors and soap and women who wield them well. She leans past him as she sets the cup aside, giving him the barest hint of her scent. Flowers… lilies? Her breast brushes against his good shoulder as she draws back. It is small and firm, the nipple taut beneath her blouse. His body responds, automatic and intense, a reaction he hasn’t had since his capture.

During his imprisonment, sex had ceased to exist, replaced by more immediate concerns. In the beginning, he had maintained a heroic defiance. Gradually, defiance had given way to the animal will to survive. Finally, all that had been left was the hope to die well. Sex served no purpose in a truncated life, so his body had shut the whole operation down. And so it had remained – until the moment her blouse brushed his naked shoulder, shocking his system to life.

He wants to see her face.

She pauses, holding the blade lightly in her hand. His face is done, and done well, but his neck remains and for the first time since undertaking the task, he can feel her hesitate. He sees her breath hitch in the mirror, a tiny catch. Then she comes around the chair and kneels between his legs. She is tucked in close, so close that her scent surrounds him, dizzying and female, clean. He cannot look at her, for all that he’d wished to moments before.

Disgusted by this weakness, this shyness, he makes himself meet her gaze. She smiles, and it transforms her. He remembers that smile now. It is lovely. She is lovely – as lovely as war is not. He thinks of college and baseball. He thinks of Ben. He shifts, slightly, in his chair.

“Sorry,” she says. “Necks make me nervous. One doesn’t want to slip.”

She guides his head back and to the side, exposing the angle of his throat. Adjusting her hold on the razor, she proceeds with great care, scraping the bristles and lather away, as his pulse begins to pound. He is sure that she can see it. Anyone could. Her breath flutters over his raw, exposed skin, but he remains as still as he can. His eyes grow distant, to compensate. She murmurs softly as she turns his head, but he cannot hear her through the pounding in his ears.

The razor is cold against his feverish skin. One pass. Two. Three. Done. She retrieves the towel without getting up, twisting her hips and leaning in so her trim, narrow waist is pressed, briefly, against his thigh. She takes the towel and pats his skin, clearing off the lather with a quiet, fractured air.

She lingers on his neck, his jaw, his throat. She flushes a delicate pink, and her breath catches, he could swear. He presses his palm hard into his shoulder, to keep from reaching out. Then she looks away, and he is glad he didn’t move. Perhaps he’d been wrong. He’s been wrong before. She stands and retrieves the mirror.

“Done. What do you think?”

She holds up the mirror so he can look at himself more closely. She’s done a good job. No longer a prisoner of war, but a groomed and respectable man. Familiar. Normal, if one avoids looking at his eyes, or his shoulder, or his near-to-useless arm. He clears his throat and nods, unused to talking and unable to find the words.

Outside the window, behind the curtains, sirens begin to scream. He flinches. Appallingly, he flinches. She puts the mirror back and kneels in front of him again. In his mind, he sees a pilot, outlined in smoke. He sees the letter his friend had written to her, the letter he’d had to send. Her hands, the hands that had opened the letter, drift up his torso now, as if to check his shoulder. It is scarred, deeply scarred, by a wound and its careless repair. The flat of his palm is still pressed against the ugly mess, though a part of him wants her to see it. She has, he knows, suffered damage of her own.

Her fingers drift over his wrist as she places his hand on his leg. He allows the manipulation, torn between the instinct to disconnect and the mounting need to feel her living warmth. She drifts closer, watching his eyes, gauging him, giving him time to withdraw. He knows he should, but he can’t. She smells like spring, like life, green and sweet, but her face is a woman’s face. They are not so young anymore. She is no longer his best friend’s girl. She is a woman of her own. And her waist is pressed against the rim of his chair – an inch from his hips and the erection that announces his return to the land of the living.

Her hands skim down to his scarred, naked ribs. She leans in and inhales his scent, her lips a whisper from his. His mouth goes dry and he angles his head, bringing his face close to hers. He can sees the world in her eyes. He sees the shadow of himself, and he knows he is going to kiss her. But she tilts her head and moves lower, past his mouth, until she finds his pulse.

She pauses there, at the hollow of his throat, and he savors the humid tension that thickens the air between them. Then she licks his thudding pulse, running her hot, nimble tongue over his receptive, newly shaved skin. Decency, pain, and memory are crushed. This room is all there is, this room and this woman and the simple need to fuck her.

He gathers her up with his good arm and roughly pulls her close, dragging her up off the floor. Her mouth crashes into his as they rock, precarious, in the chair. Then they are on the ground, their hands frantic, clutching and pulling, until her blouse rips and her buttons scatter. Tiny pearls on the floor.

They are too desperate to enjoy. He falls onto his back, pulling her with him so he can feel her without thinking about his arm. She understands and straddles him, pressing close before moving her hips against his hard, insistent cock. He arches his hips, changing their angle, while his good hand slides up her skirt and pulls her underthings aside in rough, inelegant jerks. When her sex is bare against his palm, she reaches down between them to unbuckle his belt. Her fingers shake. She is coming undone. She is pulling him apart with her need.

He feels the pulse of her, the wet, gorgeous heat of her as he moves his hand so she can rub herself against his naked cock. And then he is in her, thrusting and stroking as she clamps her legs around his waist, pulling him deep, deeper than he would have thought possible, if he’d been able to think at all. He rolls her onto his back, his arm and its limits forgotten. She is strong and full beneath him, and he is blind, lost in her scent, her throaty cries, her slick female heat.

She arches against him, scratching his back and clutching at his shoulders with her strong, desperate hands. Pain lances through him, but he doesn’t care. He loves it, embraces it, bares his teeth and tears into it as it shears through a wall of numbness and despair. He braces himself with his good arm as she buries her face in his neck, murmuring his name. Not his rank. Not his alias. Not God or the devil or angels or saints. Just his name. Then she comes, violently, shuddering in his arms.

He savors it and savors her, feels himself reborn in her clutching, perfect warmth. A second orgasm catches her, close on the heels of the first. It is more than he can bear. After months of stress and pain, he follows her, carried along by the joy of this woman, the only person left who knew him before.

When it is over, they lie on their backs on the floor, panting, unable to move. He feels shattered and restored. A cage inside him has broken – if not the last, then the first. She watches him, hair tumbled, lips swollen, eyes dark and serious. Grave. With an effort, he moves his ruined arm and touches her pale face, and through the numbness in his fingers, he can feel her dampened skin. She smiles her lovely smile and gets up off the floor.

She takes off her slip as she looks at him, rosy and full, not too skinny after all. Kneeling, he rests his head on the edge of her hip and inhales their mingled scents. Then he stands, and she strips him, revealing him in his entirety, scarred but whole. He kisses her, slowly this time, pressing his hips to her hips, his chest to her breast. Then they cross the room to her tiny bed, while sirens wail in the dark of the world.

Traveling Books & Coming Together: Among the Stars

Among-the-StarsWhen you get right down to it, I’m kind of a geek. The Use of Weapons by Iain M. Banks is one of my favorite books and I fell permanently in love with Han Solo the second he shot Greedo (first, goddamnit). Sci-fi is a cozy place for me, which is why I was so happy to be included in Among the Stars, an anthology of erotic science fiction for Coming Together, and edited by the most excellent Lynn Townsend.

The other reason I’m so glad to have a story in there is because the proceeds from this anthology go to charity, as is the case with all titles published by Coming Together; in the case of Among the Stars, it’s the International Still’s Disease Foundation, an organization aimed at benefiting those who suffer from the debilitating effects of Still’s Disease.

Putting all of that together, I knew that I wanted to submit something to this anthology, but I didn’t know what. And then I very randomly came up with a first line:

“The last thing Lieutenant Jack Bolton expected when he took the job was that he’d end up a sex slave on a distant planet.”

Sex slave + distant planet = something I could work with.

The first line changed as the story developed, due mostly to Lt. Jack, who ended up being the answer to the age-old question of what would happen if Jason Stackhouse and Mal Reynolds had a love child raised by Han Solo, (see? There’s Han again). Far from what I’d originally intended, “The Power of Positive Thinking” was irreverent and slightly ridiculous, complete with sentient manacles, a disembodied Master and a hard-on that grows to truly troublesome proportions

Thankfully, Lynn Townsend has a great sense of humor and was kind enough to include it in the anthology along with a collection of fantastically sexy, probing (ha!) and /or hilarious stories that show how flexible sci-fi and erotica can be. Two great tastes that go great together, and all for a good cause.

Which brings me to the point of this post.

IMG_6806_monkeyTwo writers whom I’m lucky enough to call friends – Jade A. Waters and Rose Caraway – also have stories in this anthology, so when Rose suggested we team up to help promote the book and raise funds, I was completely on board.

Because all of the proceeds from Among the Stars go to charity, we want as many people as possible to pick this book up, so Rose suggested that we surprise Lynn Townsend with a signed traveling edition to drum up some visibility. This little book has made it’s way all over Northern California, getting signed and having its picture taken with each of us, (there’s mine! –>), before being sent to Ms. Townsend for the final leg of its journey.

So, if you like science fiction, sentient manacles, nictitating membranes and subjective sexualities, OR if you just like sexy stories and want to get off while giving money to a good cause, please pick up a copy of Coming Together: Among the Stars. There’s something in it for everyone…unless you prefer the Star Wars DVD release to the original, unaltered trilogy, in which case I just don’t know what to tell you.

Buy the Book!

Amazon

Amazon, UK

Barnes & Noble

Smashwords

Best Women’s Erotica 2015

BWE 15 There are certain brass rings that I wanted to grab when I started writing erotica. Getting a story in the Best Women’s Erotica series was, for the longest time, the biggest of those brass rings. I feel very fortunate to say that I was able to cross this goal off my list when my story, “Star Fucker,” was accepted into Best Women’s Erotica, 2015 – the last of the series that will be edited by Violet Blue.

Far more than the title though, I feel extremely lucky to have my work included in an anthology with stories by so many authors whom I both respect and admire, including Tamsin Flowers, Valerie Alexander, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Lana Fox and J.T. Louder. To see the full table of contents, pop on over to Tamsin’s blog – she has one up, in addition to an excerpt from her contribution, an f/f take on Cyrano de Bergerac called “Roxanne”.

In the meantime, I want to share a short excerpt from “Star Fucker”. It’s a lot lighter than most of the stories I’ve written recently, but damn was it fun to write, and not just because it’s about a writer, a famous actor and a mirrored elevator. It also features a character that has become one of my all time favorites – see if you can guess which it is. Hope you enjoy! xx.M

Excerpt from “Star Fucker”

“Star fucker.”

I barely look up. “Star fucker” is one of Jane’s favorite insults. It’s gotten a lot of play recently—almost as much as “useless douche.” But “star fucker” is special. If “useless douche” were a pair of granny heels, “star fucker” would be stilettos. Jane’s virtuosic scorn twists and hardens the r’s so that it sounds more like Strrrr Fuckrrrr by the time it leaves her mouth.

“Strrrrr Fuckrrrr.”

She says it again. For emphasis. Jane is good at scorn. She always has been. I think she’d shrivel up without it. She’s an agent, after all—balls and scorn have fueled her career. But then, of course, you know that. Jane is your agent. And the girl, the Strrrrr Fuckrrrr, who has been judged not once, but twice with enough scorn to kill a Borgia, is hanging off your arm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, shoving her drink at me. “Viv, I’ll be right back.”

I nod, and take a sip. I’m not really paying attention. This party isn’t how I’d have chosen to spend my last evening in town, but unless you’re into celebrities, Hollywood isn’t paradise to begin with. I’m mostly immune to celebrities. Mostly. There is one exception. But then, you know that too.

I scan the busy bar, looking for Jane. She might be 5’1, but her presence is huge. It’s only a second before I see her, bearing down on a man whose back is to the room. Her shoulders are set like a boxer’s. Our grandma would be proud. Meanwhile, her target is disentangling himself from a slinky, little blonde. The Strrr Fuckrrrr, I presume.

The blonde pouts in the parody of a come-on—hips cocked, breasts pert, no underwire needed. The man regretfully shakes his head just as Jane the Mighty arrives. Apparently delighted, the man swings her up like a rag doll until she whacks him on the arm. The blonde slinks away as he laughs and puts her down. And that’s when I see his face—your face—clearly for the first time.

Michael Spencer.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I nearly drop Jane’s drink. You are the exception to my celebrity thing. I am not immune to you.

Best Women’s Erotica, 2015 is available HERE in trade paper and ebook formats.

Pillow Talk Secrets: Happy New Year

PIllow Talk Logo - girl with black hair on pillow making red pouted kissy faceTamsin Flowers, Jade A. Waters and I are ringing in the New Year with the latest Pillow Talk Secrets session. This time, Tamsin took advantage of the reflective nature of the holiday to  ask Jade and I for our thoughts on 2014 and our hopes for the new year. Of course, we turned the tables on her and made her share too!

Below, you’ll find an excerpt from the conversation. Just click the link that follows to read the whole thing on the Pillow Talk blog. We’d love to hear your reflections on the year that’s passed, and goals for 2015, so please feel free to leave a note in the comments. We love it when you do. And now, without further ado, I give you the first Pillow Talk Secrets session of 2015! 

PILLOW TALK SECRETS

Tamsin: Hello ladies. How are you both doing today?

Malin: So good! How are you Tamsin? Jade?

Jade: Great! So nice to be here with you both.

2015T: It certainly is good to meet for the first time in 2015 – Happy New Year to you both and to all our readers!

J: Yes, Happy New Year! *Blows party whistles* *Throws confetti*

M: I love the New Year – it always feels good to start fresh. *removes confetti from hair* 😉

T: It is great to have a fresh start. Now, let’s get going on today’s business – our look back over 2014 and our look forward over 2015. I’ve got a few questions to put to you two – starting with what was the most surprising thing writing erotica taught you about yourselves last year?

M: Oh boy.. Well, I think the  biggest thing it taught me was that I’m far more comfortable with myself sexually now than I’ve ever been. I don’t seem to have the hang-ups that plagued me as a younger, non-erotica writing woman.

J: It certainly does have that effect, doesn’t it? Something about writing erotic things adds to one’s erotic nature, I think.

T: I agree. And on a similar note, the more erotica I write the more comfortable I am with the fact that I’m an erotica writer. At first I didn’t want anyone to know – but now I take the opportunity to tell more people and most of them receive it very well.

J: I just love that feeling! I find the reception being positive is true, too.

M: Yes! It’s kind of funny to realize how much apprehension you can have about writing erotica when you first start playing with it. It’s nice to let that go as you develop as a writer.

J: I wrote about that acceptance of myself as an erotica writer back at the end of 2013 – and this year, having been one with it and really truly loving it, I would say the most surprising thing I learned is what a damn work horse I can be. I mean, I know I go at it sometimes, but I’ve had to pull back from working myself to exhaustion a few times. That was a shocker. I’m sure you both can relate to that, too.

T: Absolutely – that was one of my answers – I’ve surprised myself with my sheer doggedness when it comes to getting stuff done!

M: I never would have called myself a workaholic until this past year, but I’ve been surprised, like both of you, by how much it’s actually true. I guess loving your work brings that out!

J: Yes. But one of the things that’s helped is that you both have been around to “talk me down” when I’m taxing myself. I think that’s one of the greatest things we’ve done for one another (besides all the “talking up,” of course).

M: Yeah – that support really has been critical. It’s easy to push too hard, or get too low. Having two partners/friends who can offer that bit of perspective is just invaluable.

T: It is a wonderful thing, and I wouldn’t be without you two! Now, what’s the most interesting or surprising thing you’ve learned about the industry over the course of 2014?

M: For me it was a fairly general realization. I was surprised by how unstable the market has gotten recently, and yet, within that, how many other options writers have. That and how unfailingly supportive other writers are.

T: That was totally going to be my answer – just how fantastic the erotica community is. We might supposedly be competing against each other but every writer I come across is generous with their support.

J: Yes. It’s a tight-knit group – probably the most lovable and delightful group of all the writer groups I’ve worked with. Considering how much flak the genre can get, it’s wonderful to have that support.

T: If we don’t help each other, who will?

J: Right!

T: Now, turning to what we’ve all been writing, tell me each of you, what was your hottest sex scene of the year?

J: I don’t know if I can pick one! One? Hmm…Malin, what’s yours?

M: Hey! Look at you tossing me the ball!

J: It’s a damn hot potato!

M: Well, okay…. Let me see. I’m not sure if it’s my hottest, but one of my favorites is in a story coming out in Best Women’s Erotica 2015. The story is called “Star F*cker” and the heroine has sex with a hot actor in an elevator. I really, seriously loved writing that scene.

J: Oh my god, I love “Star F*cker.” I’ve read this one, people – you’re going to die it’s so good.

T: It was definitely super hot! Let’s just have a couple of sentences to give our readers a little taste…

Click HERE to read the rest of the conversation… And Happy New Year!! xx.M

 

Review: Untouched by Annabeth Leong

Untouched Untouched by Annabeth Leong. Sweetmeats Press. (September 2014.) Available in print and ebook through Amazon and Amazon UK.

Annabeth Leong is, quite frankly, prolific. Her erotica swings from the filthy to the sublime, while her scope and vision encompass many erotic genres, from genderqueer to contemporary erotic romance. As a reader, I have learned from experience that if I pick up a story by Annabeth Leong, it is going to be good, and Untouched, her recent release for Sweetmeat’s Press, is no exception.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I started Untouched. The novel’s premise introduced me to a condition that I knew very little about – the fear of being touched. Leong’s heroine, Celia, cannot bear to be physically touched, and yet she longs for emotional and sexual connection, so much so that she pursues asexual romantic relationships while engaging in a fraught voyeuristic arrangement with a man she knows only as Marco Polo.

Celia’s main source of sexual satisfaction is to be watched while she pleasures herself with any number of different toys. When she meets Eli Vargas, she feels an immediate attraction. He is someone with whom she shares a powerful connection – a voyeuristic lover and an potential intellectual and emotional companion. But what happens, eventually, when Eli needs to touch her? It is this question that drives Celia’s exploration of herself and her sexuality, which unfolds over the course of the novel.

Celia is an intensely sympathetic protagonist. Her loneliness and physical isolation are palpable as she engages in raunchy, unsuccessful attempts to find connection. The sex in Untouched is relentless, but it is relentless to a point. We open with Celia fucking herself while Eli watches and then move through a powerful series of scenarios, some involving Celia masturbating alone, some in which other people, including her boss, Eli and, in one tense scene, her conservative Christian ex, watch. There is a striving quality to many of these interactions, a frustrated sort of reaching, followed by a small narrative climax, which is immediately followed by a move to the next scene. This structure uncannily mirrors Celia’s search for a more substantial sexual connection. For much of the novel, she is chasing an elusive satisfaction. She can orgasm, but she isn’t sated. She is so profoundly lonely and desperate for the thing which she can tolerate least, that you can practically feel her frustration in the ink on the page. It’s an impossible situation that she finds herself in, and it’s that tension that kept me reading late into the night.

Is Untouched raunchy? Yes. Hot? Yes. Unrelentingly, chock full of sex? Yes. But it is also an astute, precise and fantastically sensitive portrayal of a woman’s struggle with herself. I felt inherently protective of Celia’s boundaries. It was not always an emotionally easy read. And yet, Annabeth Leong maintained perfect control over the material, and proved, yet again, that erotica can do more than just turn you on. This is my favorite kind of erotica, and Ms. Leong does it especially well.

To learn more about Annabeth Leong, visit her site annabetherotica.com

And to read another excellent and informative review, examining the stone sexuality in Untouched, I highly recommend Xan West’s excellent essay, “A Stone Response to Annabeth Leong’s Untouched,” which you can read here.

Read to Me…

Woman ReadingI love being read to. I always have. When the weather turns cold, I love it even more. There’s something wonderful about being tucked in bed listening to the rain patter against the windows while your partner reads to you. Doesn’t matter what from, (though, of course, erotica is an excellent choice for such occasions). But really, it could be anything…except maybe a biology textbook.

My love of being read to segues naturally into a love of reading to other people. I’m just as happy being the one with the book in my hand as I am listening to the words drop into the chilly room.

I wrote both of these stories for contests run by Exhibit A, and both were inspired by photographs taken by the absolutely lovely Happy Come Lucky. They’re also both quite short. I’m not going to lie – that’s the main reason I chose to record those two in particular. My vocal cords aren’t up to professional scratch, so short and sweet seemed the way to go the first time out.

If you want to read along with either “The Second Letter” or “Drive”, you can find them in the drop down menu under Erotica. I’ll also embed the recording for each story on its respective page. In the meantime, get a cup of tea, or whatever suits your mood, curl up and relax. I want to read to you.. xx.M

THE SECOND LETTER

DRIVE

 

Pillow Talk Secrets: Tell Me Who You Love

PIllow Talk Logo - girl with black hair on pillow making red pouted kissy faceHello all! Welcome to the newest session of Pillow Talk Secrets! I’m Malin, your hostess for this round. Today my lovely colleagues, Jade and Tamsin, and I, are going to talk about influences – namely the books and authors that have most influenced our work. There’s erotica in there, of course, but other genres too, so please read on to find out who has gotten under our skins and into our heads. Fair warning though – when the three of us start talking about books, gushing and wells of enthusiasm are inevitable, so be prepared. And on that note, here we go! xx.M

Pillow Talk Secrets

Malin: Hello ladies! How are you doing today?

Jade: Hi you! Just lovely. How about the two of you?

Tamsin: Hello lovelies, I’m just fine thank you!

M: Excellent! We’ve all been so busy, I’m glad we’re getting to chat today. I’ve been looking forward to this topic since we decided on it a few weeks ago. We’re talking about our writerly, and readerly, influences. Shall we jump right in?

J: I love this topic. Let’s dive in!

T: Ah – I have to say, I’ve not been so sure…you both know but the readers might not, that I actually wrote my first published erotic story before I’d really even read any! So, I can’t claim to be well read and I think I’m playing catch up with you two!

J: To be honest, I hadn’t read all that much erotica before I started, either. In fact, I wrote my first piece when I was like 16. I’d only read a handful of stories by then.

M: Same here. While I read erotica, my real influences fall outside of the genre… So, in that case, if we’re all influenced by work outside the genre, let’s start with non-erotic fiction. Without thinking too hard, which books or authors come to mind?

Prayer for Owen MeaneyT: I just have one go-to writer – John Irving. Well, obviously there are others, which I’ll come on to but for me, he’s a genius. The characters he creates literally stay with you for years, and they’re all totally individual and intriguing. And he’s one of the very few writers that can have you crying with laughter on one page and then sobbing your heart out on the next. His talent is extraordinary and he has a lot in common with another of my favorites, Charles Dickens. They both write long, involved, complicated stories which you can really sink your teeth into.

M: Ahhhh! John Irving is wonderful. Which of his titles is your favorite?

T: The first Irving I read, and still one of my favorites was A Son of the Circus. And then of course, Owen Meany – the nativity scene is my favorite all time scene in any book.

J: So, nobody smack me, but I never read John Irving. Or much Dickens, for that matter, so I’m impressed.

T: Oh, missy, get to the library now!!!

M: I’m sorry – my geek is getting activated. I’m going all single-minded! Tamsin, for Dickens, if you could only pick one Dickens ever to have read, which would it be?

T: Dickens? Bleak House. Oh, and Great Expectations!

M: I love Bleak House! I’m going to admit something here – Bleak House is actually one of the books I had in mind when I started conceiving of The Briary, (my WIP). That and a couple of Wilkie Collins novels and Dracula. Always Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

dracula-coverJ: Yes to Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Wow, I loved that one. I read it in high school and couldn’t put it down.

T: God yes! And, of course, as a woman who’s written two vampire novels, Stoker is an inspiration. And Collins too!

M: Oh, I love Wilkie Collins! The Woman in White is still a big favorite! Jade what about you? What’s stayed with you?

J: See, I was all caught up in Margaret Atwood and a few too many rounds of Jane Eyre, (I read that about 12 times by age 10). Plus, I tended to read a lot of more contemporary authors – Anne Rice was one, but more Carol Goodman (LOVE that woman), and Anne Bishop on the spec fic side. Oh and V.C. Andrews. But weren’t we all influenced by V.C. Andrews?

T: No, – I read V.C. Andrews but I didn’t really care for her.

M: I read a couple of V.C. Andrews novels – Flowers in the Attic because EVERYONE read Flowers in the Attic, but I wasn’t a huge overall fan either, though I did like the gothic luridness of the books I did read. Going back to Atwood, what was it about her work that stayed with you?

 

I’m going to stop before we get too deep into it. We get into the good stuff with Anne Rice, Shanna Germain, Angela Carter, Sacher-Masoch and more. Click HERE to read the rest of the conversation. 

And if you haven’t signed up for our newsletter you can take a peek at the last one or sign up here!

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