Friday, 21 October 2016

Lucky for some

It's my 13th Wedding Anniversary this weekend!
(We've actually been a couple since 1988, but it took us a long time to get married because we are really lazy).

The fab fantasy portrait above of Mr Ashbless and me was painted by our very talented friend the Nibjockey - who can also be found fronting for his muse/alter ego the Monkey Ghost over on FB. Thank you Matt!

Now I'm going to be busy for a few days celebrating. Back Monday :-)

Wednesday, 19 October 2016

Dream a little dream

Kacziány Aladár (1887-1978): A Dream

Back in the Olden Days, when I first started writing for Black Lace, they had a set of instructions for novels that specifically told you not to use dream sequences because erotica was already a fantasy, and they didn't want a fantasy-within-a-fantasy.

Naturally I ignored this rule.

In fact, if anyone ever does a college course on The Writings of Janine Ashbless, at some point in the utopian future, there's probably a whole essay in unraveling my use of dreams.

From the get-go I have used dreams in my novels, for many different reasons - as an inciting incident, to establish character, to foreshadow events, to reveal psychological truths, and (within supernatural fiction) as a sort of alternative reality that allows the characters to interact with each other.

In my very first novel, Divine Torment, our warrior-hero General Veraine has a dirty dream about the high priestess after meeting her for the first time (and being intrigued, but not overly so). That dream sparks a sexual obsession that drives the whole book, and then its sequel.

My novel Wildwood opens with a dream-sequence, because the editor asked for prologue which throws the reader into the thick of the action. I gave him a bonkers Arthur-Rackhamesque scene of fairies and woodland sex, during which lovers Avril and Ash are attacked by the malevolent Michael. Then Avril wakes up in Michael's bed - next to him and his fairy lover - and stares out of the window wondering where Ash is. That scene, which is actually a flash-forward to a pivotal episode later in the book, establishes the supernatural/fairy/woodland theme and the bitter love-triangle. All before the first chapter.

In The King's Viper (which is a non-supernatural romance) there is only one brief dream-sequence, but it is the first time that virginal Ella is shown to have some truly wild fantasies about the man she has a secret crush on. This is not just an innocent love!

I've already blogged about how the whole Lovers' Wheel Quartet was inspired by a dream I had years ago. Interspersed with the main narrative and its sexual and supernatural shenanigans, Liz is also carrying on a strange (and seemingly disconnected) affair in her dreams with a mysterious red-headed man who seems to be caught between life and death. In these books the dream-thread is a vital part of the plot and will have far-reaching, tragic consequences.

And in the Book of the Watchers trilogy, Milja has been at the mercy of demon-inspired sex-dreams throughout her life. Later on she finds that her developing powers as a witch allow her to create dreams which she can drag both angels and humans into at her whim - usually for sex with her Fallen Angel lover Azazel, but sometimes for more practical (and occasionally ruthless) purposes.

These dreams are not entirely under her control though. Sometimes they are prescient, offering clues to situations that are yet to arise, or places she has yet to visit. Sometimes she comes back from these "dreams" with mud on her feet. Dreamspace acts as an ambiguous spiritual world with its own rules and masters, and is never quite predictable.

Why am I so interested in dreams? I think it's because its the most powerful way we actually have, in this life, of escaping into fantasy realms just as we imagine doing in fiction. We take it for granted because we all do it all our lives, but when you stop to think about it, dreaming is REALLY REALLY WEIRD. It is conscious existence beyond the material realm, and that is just freaky.

Do I have naughty dreams myself? Of course I do - though not as often as I'd like ;-)

Monday, 17 October 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

During October I've been showcasing bits from my vampire erotica novel Red Grow the Roses. Well today's excerpt is from the short story Amuse-Bouche, which can be read as a standalone but is also a sequel to that novel. It appeared in The Visitor; an anthology of vampire erotica

Rose, a teenaged hitch-hiker, has been picked up by a wealthy couple and taken to a very expensive hotel for the night...

She was combing out her wet hair when Amanda walked in.
'There,' she said, coming up behind Rose in the mirror. 'That colour suits you better than it does me. I just look so washed-out these days.' Without asking permission she adjusted the straps at Rose's shoulders and smoothed the silken slip over her waist and hips.

Rose was both flattered and irritated. She thought she looked better than Amanda too. Of course I do – I'm much younger for a start. 'You and Reynauld,' she said, pouting her lips and looking with satisfaction at her reflection. 'Is he your boyfriend then?'

 'My employer. And yes. We are lovers.'
Ugh. She's got to be at least forty. What does he see in her? And what a snotty way she has of talking, likes she thinks she's the Queen or something. 'Aren't you, like, a bit old for him?'
Amanda didn't answer for a moment and Rose, looking at her narrowed eyes, had time to wonder if maybe she'd been a bit rude, before the other woman said softly, 'He's older than he looks.'
 'What does he do, then?'
Amanda blinked and dropped her gaze. 'He used to work in the City. We're ... currently relocating.'
Banker, said Rose to herself: Boring. 'Are we going to eat, then?'
 'Yes. We're going to eat. Come on through.'
Amanda held the door and Rose preceded her into the bedroom. Half-a-dozen steps in, the girl realised that Reynauld was there, sitting on the bed with his hands at his side, waiting for them. Rose stopped dead, shock rippling across her skin. Against the crimson bedspread he looked as dark as a clot of congealed blood. His black shirt was open down the front so she could see his bare chest, and there was a look of patient anticipation on his face.
As Amanda's hands descended on her shoulders once more, cold and implacable, Rose felt all the air leave her lungs and her brain solidify into a solid useless mass. She couldn’t stop looking at Reynauld's torso. He had black hair etched across his chest and his flat hard stomach – not at all like Kyle, whose lithe body was smooth like polished wood, or like a girl's. There was nothing remotely feminine about this man, and Rose found herself appalled.
'Come here,' he said. His voice was soft and deep, like the voice of darkness itself. But not cool like Amanda's: warm with pleasure instead. His black eyes drank her in, as if he were sucking the light from her. Rose felt the hands at her shoulders push her forward. Her heart was rocketing with dread and with realisation: that this was what it had all been about, that this was what they had been planning since they stopped to give her lift. And though she felt sick with fear and raw with betrayal, at exactly the same time she knew a flush of wet and terrible heat between her legs, as if this was what she had been waiting for too.
'What do you think?' asked Amanda.
Very nice,' he answered. 'Show me her breasts.'
Deftly Amanda swept the thin straps off Rose's shoulders and reached round to heft her breasts from the fallen silk. Rose's nipples swelled to hard puckers of protest under the brush of her chill fingertips, and her thighs squirmed, trying to staunch the moisture welling there.
'Please,' she said breathlessly, lifting her hands. Amanda batted them away and cupped her breasts, pressing into her from behind with her own body. She was surprisingly strong. Rose found herself pushed forward almost into Reynauld's reach.
'Small tits,' said Amanda apologetically.
'Beautiful,' answered Reynauld. Lust was like a thick black tide brimming in his eyes and his voice. Rose could feel it sucking at her, and she knew that if he touched her she'd be pulled under and drowned. 'Rose,' he murmured, 'thank you for this.'
In addressing her, it was as if he gave her permission to emerge from her blank white shock and find words. 'You can't do this,' she said, her voice shaky. Then; 'I've got a boyfriend, you know.'
It was the stupidest of excuses and she saw amusement crease the corners of his eyes. 'Don't worry,' he promised; 'It'll be our little secret.' He didn't bother to hide the mockery as his lip curled and revealed an eye-tooth like a knife-point.
'Oh Christ,' she moaned.
Reynauld lifted a brow as if in mild disapproval of her blasphemy. 'Tell me about Kyle,' he said, his gaze enveloping hers. 'Tell me what you like to do with him.'
She couldn't. As she looked into the black depths of his gaze the warm darkness in him flowed into her, and she couldn't remember Kyle. Not his face or his voice or anything she thought about him. There was only this man, Reynauld.
'Do you enjoy making love together?'
'Yes.' She knew it was true, though she could recall no loving emotion. Just the lust. There was nothing else when she looked into Reynauld's eyes except lust – and surrender. She could feel the hot gather of her juices overflowing their cup and slicking her labia.
'Which position, Rose?'
'All of them.'
'Do you like to suck his cock?'
'What about when he eats you?'
'Yes,' she answered, though she knew she was only gifting him the cruellest of punchlines.
He beckoned her with a crooked finger, and as she stepped unresisting between his knees he laid his hands upon her waist, caressing the smooth lines there. His fingers were cold too, but there was a perfect certainty in them. 'Do you like it,' he murmured, his lips parted hungrily, 'when Kyle sucks your breasts?'
'Yes,' she said, trembling in his grasp. She felt Amanda's hands close around her wrists and draw them back - the grip was not cruel, but it was unbreakable and she knew what it meant. And with her final admission, as if she no longer had any excuse or defence, his mouth closed upon her right nipple.
Teeth punctured skin. The pain was as sharp and exquisite as orgasm and Rose arched, gasping aloud. She felt his hands slide up round her back. Then the searing pain became a pleasure just as keen, just as jagged, racing through her capillaries and flooding her senses. He breast felt as if it were swelling beneath his ravenous kiss, red hot against his cold tongue. He bit her over and over, lightly and almost tenderly, and then he shifted to her other breast and bestowed the same benison, tugging and sucking the swollen point.
Rose sobbed with every tug and every pulse, panting wildly. She looked down at herself. She saw his dark head and his black lashes. She saw his clothes fall away from his shoulders, disintegrating to wisps and then to nothing, as if they were only woven of smoke, so that without the least effort he was suddenly naked. She glimpsed the bright smear of crimson, and then she shut her eyes and took refuge from that sight in the sensations that coursed through her, overwhelming all other instincts - even fear.
'Now,' said Reynauld thickly. He shifted and turned her to face outward, pulling her down into his lap and spreading her legs. She felt his hard chest against her back, the rasp of his legs against her silk-clad thighs, and then the nudge of his erection between them in that soft wet open cleft. With one arm he held her, with the other hand he guided his cock to its target. She thought she was so slick she should have been able to take him easily, but his girth came as a shock and she gasped as it stretched her.
'My Amanda does not yet have her new teeth,' he said, his voice wet, working his way into Rose with consummate, implacable care, his fingers dancing on her clit now. 'So I must bite for her. But you will find her kisses just as sweet as mine.'

Buy The Visitor at
Amazon  UK :: Amazon US

Friday, 14 October 2016

Magnificent Seven - the best bits

I am not going to review The Magnificent Seven because it's a crap movie and I can't bear to waste my time enumerating its flaws right from (A) its evisceration of all depth and emotion from the originals, through to (Z) Vincent D'Onofrio's worst acting moment EVER: I've seen better rip-offs of Boromir's death scene on a LARP adventure.

Look, it was fluffy entertainment and looked pretty. And these are the pretty bits I really enjoyed:

You have to admit, actors in westerns are getting better-looking.
Denzil Washington of course, as leader Chisolm:

And Chris Pratt gets an honourable mention in passing:

But a big HEY! to Lee Byung-hun as Billy Rocks, the knifeman:

Oh oh oh

 And in case you wondered what he looked like out of his costume:

Hell, I might even watch G.I. Joe now
But winner of Most Beautiful Man in the Movie is Martin Sensmeier as Red Harvest.

Strike that - he might be the Most Beautiful Man in the World. HAVE YOU SEEN HIM WITH LONG HAIR?

Okay, that's it - I need a little lie-down now!
Then I'm off to play Deadlands.

Wednesday, 12 October 2016

A Sinful Welcome

Josef Arpád Koppay: Another Victory for the Forces of Darkness, 1894

It's official - Here's the Sinful Press post welcoming me to their publishing family! I'm looking forward to a long and fruitful working relationship with them :-)

And by the way, since I'm 13K into Book Three: The Prison of the Angels at this point ... this is what I'm researching:

The Catacombs of Callixtus, Rome

I feel another *ahem* research-trip coming on...

Monday, 10 October 2016

Blue Monday: K D Grace guests

Every Monday I post a hot excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest author is no stranger to this blog: it's K D Grace with an excerpt from her hot new supernatural publication In the Flesh:

(Release blitz hosted by Writer Marketing Services - and there is an associated Rafflecopter Giveaway for you to enter!)

When Susan Innes comes to visit her friend, Annie Rivers, in Chapel House, the deconsecrated church that Annie is renovating into a home, she discovers her outgoing friend changed, reclusive, secretive, and completely enthralled by a mysterious lover, whose presence is always felt, but never seen, a lover whom she claims is god. As her holiday turns into a nightmare, Susan must come to grips with the fact that her friend’s lover is neither imaginary nor is he human, and even worse, he’s turned his wandering eye on Susan, and he won’t be denied his prize. If Susan is to fight an inhuman stalker intent on having her as his own, she’ll need a little inhuman help.

I stretched up just enough to brush his lips with mine. My nipples grazed his chest, warm and still bare from his own shower. The tingle of flesh against flesh coursed through me. Michael wasn’t in my head, wasn’t in my imagination. I could see firelight dancing over the rise and fall of a masculine landscape. I could smell him, the clean shower scent mingling with the tang of body heat. I could smell the ozone and musk of his arousal, could almost taste the yeasty humid spiking of his desire at the back of my tongue. I nearly wept with the solid muscle and bone feel of him—the bulging of a bicep as he lifted his hand to curl fingers in my wet hair, the tensing of his thighs as he shifted beneath me, the straining against the soft denim of his jeans—the very solid promise that his need was at least as great as my own

His mouth was both hard and soft, yielding to mine, intuiting my every move, tongue and lips, teeth and jaw. Was it because he was an angel, I wondered? My insides knotted at the thought, ice blooming next to fire. Did he also have some way of manipulating my needs, kindling my lust until I felt like I would burn if I didn’t get relief? Did he also have some sinister purpose hidden from me? Had I not looked up at the cold stone of his image just before I was attacked?

As though he read my thoughts, he tightened his fist in my hair and bit my lip, making me shudder with as much pleasure as pain. Then he raked his teeth down over my jaw to kiss and nuzzle my nape. There, against the hammering of my pulse, he whispered, “there’s nothing supernatural happening here, Susan. I’m flesh and bone, just like you."

He trapped my palm low on his belly, and his gaze locked on mine as he guided my hand down inside his waistband, sucking a harsh breath as I wriggled and twisted my fingers until I found him, deliciously commando. He was heavy and warm and smooth against my touch, like steel sheathed in silk

Impatient as I was, I tore open his fly with an awkwardness worthy of a teenager, causing him to flinch and grind and lift his hips toward me, as though that might ease my clumsiness, as though that might end his denim imprisonment more quickly. And when he was free in my hand, he bucked upward, nearly landing me on the floor in his efforts to get his jeans down over his arse and kick them aside. Then, one hand still fisted in my hair as though he feared I might try to stop his mouth from gorging on mine, he tossed the forgotten towel across the room, cupped my buttocks and stood.

I gave a little yelp of surprise and wrapped my arms and legs around his body, now as naked as my own. It was only a couple of steps to the bed, and he lowered me onto it with incredible control, still strategically positioned between my thighs with me grinding and shifting in a battle to get him where I needed him most. But he resisted, holding me completely and totally at his mercy. He nibbled the hollow of my throat as though there was no hurry, as though he could take all of eternity to explore my body, and he absolutely would if he decided to. He cupped and kneaded each of my breasts in turn, stroking and tweaking until my nipples peaked and ached and tingled.

Ignoring my squirming, what little I could manage from beneath him, embraced and held captive as I was, he slid a splayed hand down my belly and in between us, opening me with thick, calloused fingers, finding my need, stoking the flames, teasing me. In desperation, I reached for his erection, but he slapped my hand away and nipped my throat. “Be patient, Susan. I’m not about to mount you like an animal in rut. I understand flesh and blood, the drive of its life force. And,” he dropped a kiss onto my sternum, “I understand the deceit of divinity to which we’re all vulnerable.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care, goddamnit.” My voice was rough and barely audible, my throat was dry and achy as my mouth formed the words, breathing them almost soundlessly into his mouth. “I’ve been waiting, needing, wanting since I got to Chapel House. Please don’t make me wait any longer.”

And just when I was certain I’d go insane if I couldn’t get him inside me, just when I’d all but clawed a raw strip down his back and buttocks in an effort to get him where I needed him, he pulled away, rose up on his knees and looked down at me, breathing like he’d been running hard. “I don’t have to control your mind to pleasure your flesh. Say you want me, Susan, and I’ll know if you’re lying. I won’t take you until it’s me that you want, and not him.”

“Bloody hell,” I gasped, writhing beneath him like a python over a flame. “I want you, Michael, you fucking know that I want you. Please, don’t make me wait.”

And he didn’t.

Buy In the Flesh here:

Amazon UK :: Amazon US :: Amazon AU :: Amazon CA :: Amazon DE
All Romance eBooks
Barnes & Noble
iBooks UK :: iBooks US


Voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes, K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about?

When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked Coast to Coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She also enjoys martial arts, reading, watching the birds and anything that gets her outdoors.

K D Grace
Brit  Babes  

Saturday, 8 October 2016

Publication and new title news: In Bonds of the Earth

Wladyslaw Theodore Benda (1873-1948): Woman and Angel

WONDERFUL news - I've now signed the contract for the second novel in my Book of the Watchers series!

In Bonds of the Earth

(yes, new title! forget that old Valleys one!) will be published by Sinful Press in e-format and paperback. I am over the moon!

Sinful Press (how apt is that name, heh?) is a newcomer on the erotica scene, but is already the home of Sonni de Soto's Show Me, Sir, which I rate highly, and specialises in offbeat, well-written erotic fiction that is something more than just the genre norm.

Well, if you've read Cover Him with Darkness you'll know it is NOT just an erotic romp - it's a religious conspiracy thriller driven by a passionate and very unwise love affair. So I hope Sinful's going to be the perfect home for the rest of the series :-)

Oh -  you're wondering where the new title comes from, it's a quote from the Book of Enoch:
"And from henceforth you shall not ascend into heaven unto all eternity, and in bonds of the earth the decree has gone forth, to bind you for all the days of the world"

Wednesday, 5 October 2016

Orphan books

Some good news and some bad...

The good news is this LOVELY, fun review of Summer Seduction over at Samantha MacLeod's blog. She totally gets the C.S Lewis angle I started from!

Liz doesn’t exactly find a magical passage to Narnia waiting for her in Enniswitrin House… but what she does find might be even better.
The magical world Ashbless creates in Summer Seduction is fascinating and believable, in the way that dark, old fairy tales and myths are believable. And this is some seriously fabulous erotica; these are the most exciting and imaginative sex scenes I’ve read.
Thank you Samantha!

The bad news is that publisher Ellora's Cave is officially closing down. Which means that Summer Seduction and its sequel Falling Deep are going to be removed from sale at the end of the year. As is my very first dark romance The King's Viper (available in paperback btw, so grab it before it goes up to insane out-of-print prices), and gangbang romp In Appreciation of Their Cox

I guess I'll look into self-publishing them, since all rights are going to be reverted. And I do intend to finish the Lovers' Wheel quartet! But it will take a while to get everything back up on Amazon...

Monday, 3 October 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

I'm continuing with the scareotica from my vampire novel Red Grow the Roses in the run-up to Hallowe'en. This excerpt is from story #4: Seven for the Seven Stars in the Sky - in which Jaqueline watches her cage-fighter husband willingly take take a beating from vampire Estelle.

'You sure, hero?’

‘Yes,’ he said through set teeth.

She backhanded him on the other cheek: this one drew blood, because she was wearing heavy silver rings. ‘Really sure?’
The breath hitched in his throat, but his cock didn’t falter. ‘Yes.’
The Boss laughed, low and delicious. Then, stepping back, she untied the suede belt from about her hips, looped it round her hand and swished it through the air. Leon clenched his jaw. The lash whipped out and snapped at him, right across both nipples, with a crack like something breaking. His head jerked, but he didn’t utter a sound.

‘Good,’ said she, lifting the belt again.

She whipped him on the chest and the back and the thighs. She whipped his clenched ass cheeks. She whipped each of his outstretched arms as if trying to pull him down from an invisible cross. She shortened the strap and beat him on the face. She snapped the very tip of the leather across his penis. She was fast and accurate and incredibly strong: she beat him over and over and didn’t tire, didn’t get sloppy, didn’t miss. Not once. Leon began to groan with every strike and roll his eyes, but he didn’t protest or lower his arms or flinch. His erection sagged – but only to half-mast. Sweat rolled down his body in rivulets, but she didn’t even start to perspire. And Jacqueline’s world turned upside down and inside out as she watched, appalled. She didn’t recognise this Leon. Her husband was a man who took shit from no one: she didn’t understand why he was kneeling there and soaking up the pain and the humiliation like that. What sort of man was he?

Then she looked round the other faces at the wire and knew they were all that sort of man. They were watching in avid wide-eyed silence, quivering at every blow, every one of them wanting to be up on that stage. Imagining themselves in his place. There was a strange charisma to his suffering: a nobility even. And the women – did they see themselves in the role of the Boss, or were they picturing themselves being punished? She couldn’t tell. She just knew that they were pressed to the mesh, mesmerised by the spectacle of her husband’s pain. One woman had pulled down the top of her designer gown and thrust her small breasts into the diamond gaps between the wires and was plucking at her big dark nipples. Jacqueline’s own body felt like it didn’t belong to her, awash with sensation that made no sense, off-balance and trembling, her sex swollen like rising dough despite herself.

At last, when the scarlet welts on Leon’s torso had melded into one burning glow, the Boss halted. She took his jaw in her hand and lifted his face, then stooped to as if to kiss him – but she wasn’t kissing his lips and his cheeks and his forehead: she was licking him, mouth wide, sucking the salt of his pain and the ooze of the little cuts left by the fight and her own hand, mumbling greedily at every gash and bruise. The whole crowd groaned low at that.

‘Can you take more?’ she growled, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were flashing now, her voice suddenly laced with an accent that sounded French. Jacqueline had always thought dominatrices were supposed to be ice-queens: not this one. She was far more fire than ice.

‘Yes,’ he rasped.

She picked him up. Jacqueline’s eyes widened, but she had ceased to balk at anything now; the line between possible and impossible had dissolved in Leon’s sweat. The Boss hefted him to his feet one-handed, gripping him under the jaw, and flung him down on his back on the bench where she’d sat before. Then she straddled his belly – her incredible legs taut now and bare to the thigh - and raked her nails down his chest, hard enough to bring blood welling up in breadcrumbs trails. She bent to lick her way up each red path from belly to heart, while the audience murmured. Then she opened her mouth wide and sank her teeth into his chest, framing his left nipple. Leon arched and jerked his legs: his cock rose from where it bounced on his thigh and stuck straight up, jabbing the woman in the rump. She lifted her head, eyes feral, and lips now much more red than black. Her own arousal was more subtle than his but equally shameless. Adjusting the fall of white satin at her groin, she pulled his cock to the hidden cleft of her sex and sat back hard, engulfing him.   

Jacqueline took a broken breath. She felt with all the envy of memory that cock filling her own hole.

‘Give me your hurt, hero,’ the Boss crooned, sinking her nails into his skin and making him spasm. ‘That’s right: give it up. Give it up to me.’ She started to rising and fall on his cock, slamming her hips down, and as she rode him – as she fucked him, because there was no doubt about who was active and who was recipient here - she dug the nails of one hand into his flesh and struck him with the other, aiming at his face. The heave of her hard round ass over his thighs was dazzling. Little barks of pain escaped Leon’s chest with every blow, a mindless animal noise, but he didn’t struggle. And she didn’t take long: her orgasm was on her swiftly, making her shudder and hiss and lose all rhythm and finally arch her back and nearly fall forward over him.

There’s no difference in their reactions, thought Jacqueline. If you’re watching, not feeling it, pain looks just like pleasure. You can’t tell them apart.

Friday, 30 September 2016

Herding angels

Viktor Mikhaylovich Vasnetsov, Angel with a Lamp, c. 1885-1896
This is a roundup of what's been going on with The Book of the Watchers trilogy, for those of you who have not been following my Facebook mutterings like they are Holy Writ.

Book 2 (previously known as The Valleys of the Earth) is finished (it came to 86.5K words), edited, and sitting on the desk of a publisher who has expressed keen interest. I'm not going to say anything more until such point as we have signed a contract, but fingers crossed!

At 2a.m. the night before I sent it off, I decided to change the titles of both Book 2 and Book 3. I'm waiting for feedback from the publisher on the first of those.

Book 3 is now definitely going to be called The Prison of the Angels instead of the possibly-misleading The Treasuries of the Stars. All titles are quotes from psychedelic best-seller The Book of Enoch.

I have started writing Book 3!  Yes, I was planning to take some time off and do something fun like my tax-return, but the angsty sex-scenes for Book 3 are making such a commotion inside my skull that the only way to save my sanity is to get them out on paper.

Today this was part of my research:

I'm sure you'll agree it has potential for a smoking-hot sex scene... lol

Wednesday, 28 September 2016

Terry the Tentacle's report from FantasyCon by the Sea

 Hello, my name is Terry the Tentacle!

Am I not gloriously squamous and rugose?

I like to hang out with Janine Ashbless for fun, good times and strangling people :-)

This weekend just past we went to Scarborough, to FantasyCon by the Sea 2016. Scarborough is just my sort of place: full of the decaying remnants of ancient civilisations, and the smell of fish.

I didn't like the locals though... This guy looked hungry.

FantasyCon was hosted in an eldritch pile built by hands perhaps not fully human:

Janine was there under her SUPER SECRET NAME because she was launching her new collection of horror stories. Here she is with other minor contributor Adrian Tchaikovsky, and me (obviously I'm the most important one):

I understand that the most important part of any book launch is the free wine. In fact if you can go to enough book launches in an afternoon, you can end up quite sloshed! Or so I'm told...

Here I am strangling Peter Coleborn, publisher at The Alchemy Press:

And here I am strangling Simon Bestwick, author of Hell's Ditch:

Ah, good times :-)

This is famous horror author Adam Nevill, talking about his years at Nexus / Black Lace when he was Janine's editor, the lucky lucky man.

85 books a year, 60-hour working weeks, no budget

I didn't get to strangle him :-(

This is Janine standing with a bunch of other writers, in fact between this year's ARTHUR C CLARKE AWARD WINNER and this year's COSTA BOOK OF THE YEAR PRIZE WINNER. She is feeling a teeny tiny bit inadequate. And short.

Adrian Tchaikovsky, Janine, Francis Hardinge, Charlotte Bond, Andrew Knighton

I did offer to strangle them ALL but she said No. I don't know why ... she's a bit weird like that.

I had a great weekend, but it's nice to get home and unwind :-)

Monday, 26 September 2016

Blue Monday: Jay Willowbay guests

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest, Jay Willowbay, brings us something new for this blogspot - an entire short story: Massaging the Mistress.

I walk in to find you naked, lying on your front. Needless to say, I’m naked too, as I have always been in your presence since you claimed me. I harden instantly, and enjoy an all too brief moment of drinking in your beautiful body, memorising every curve before you issue your command.

“I need to relax,” you say, “relax me, slave.”

Distracted by the exquisite vision before me, it takes me a little while to realise that you want, no, demand a massage. You don’t like to be kept waiting, and tut at me. It shakes me from my dreamlike reverie, and I fear that you will remember this mistake and punish me for it. Not the spanking or pegging ‘punishments’ that you know I crave, but the far worse censure of denial, or exclusion, or being ignored. But I push that thought out of my head: right now I have a chance to touch you, to feel you, and I hope, impress you enough not to banish me.

I place my hands on the small of your back, and gasp my appreciation at the divine softness of your skin. I start to knead my palms into your yielding flesh there, but my eyes are fixed just below, on the luscious curves and contours of your bare ass. I see movement there, twerking – for me! – and lose myself in that hypnotic rhythm before resuming the task in hand. Even I couldn’t miss that hint. 

So I cup that ripe, juicy peach, one smooth, soft cheek in each grateful hand, and resume that kneading motion. I push the cheeks together and pull them apart, all the while working in each finger, and probing with my thumbs. I see the bottle of baby oil you’ve laid out alongside you; it’s new and completely full, so I don’t need to be sparing with it.

I raise it high to tip it over above you, so the oil cascades down and splashes on your bare exposed backside, and from the way you writhe and moan under the stream, it’s clearly a pleasurable sensation. I rub it in, working it with my fingers, while the thumbs one by one, accidentally on purpose, just push a little teasing way into your asshole. You moan again, and this time gasp my name. Not my title, not ‘slave’, but my actual name. My cock, already achingly hard, bobs wildly in appreciation, and my helmet pulsates wishfully.

I reluctantly move my oily hands from your butt, but I have a plan in mind. I drizzle a long, thick line from your butt crack all the way up to the back of your neck, and then slowly follow it up with my hands, rubbing the oil around, into your skin, relaxing the muscles.

By the time I reach your shoulders I am leaning over you at such an angle that my chest has picked up a slick sheen of the oil, the wisps of hair flattened down to glide smoothly over your back. Down below, my cock is also glistening with oil, and perhaps a little pre-cum where it’s been rubbing teasingly over your butt cheeks. Oh god, I can’t take it anymore, I need you so fucking much!

I’m taking such a risk that I’m trembling with fear as much as desire, but I’m too lost in you to stop myself. I hold the throbbing head of my cock against your hole and push; gently, but enough to make my intentions perfectly clear. I expect a furious reaction, but instead you moan lightly and push back against me and I am in.

It feels like I am home, that I’ve finally found the place I truly belong. I start to push, so very gently, tentatively. “Don’t fucking tease me, slave,” you say, “And don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Responding to your words, I push again, working up a good rhythm; harder, faster, thrusting from my hips and muscular thighs and reaching deep inside you.

“Ohhhh, fuck, that’s good,” you purr, “But don’t you dare cum until I have!”

I try to reply that I promise I won’t, but all that comes out is a frantic, garbled gasp. I so desperately want to cum, and you know it so well. You must want an excuse to punish me, because you start to work and twerk at me, your ass gripping and releasing, teasing me in a way that takes me right to the edge in seconds. And then you tell me how much I love this, and how badly I ache and yearn to shoot my load. I already know this, but you telling me so brings it even closer.

This is the sweetest, most exquisite, most agonising torture I have ever known. But I push back harder and faster, racing to the line and trying so hard to take you with me. And I know I’ve found somewhere in you that really works, because your tormenting words have given way to a succession of short, fast panting, and I know you’re close.

But oh fuck, so am I. Every fibre of my being wants to propel my seed into you, to give myself to you even more completely than I already have. But I fight it, oh so hard, for now at least. Every muscle in my body is tensed, teeth grinding, eyes bulging. A shudder sets in and wracks through my whole body, and you feel it too. Only knowing how close you are gives me the determination not to give into the feeling just yet.

I push and push, on and on. I close my eyes and see swirls and colours in my mind, and your moans and gasps of pleasure are the sweetest music I have ever heard. “Ohh,” you murmur, “Oh fuck I’m gonna cum!”

Your volume increases, I luxuriate in in it. “Oh yeah, slave! Oh shit … oh … oh fuck, so close! Oh! Yes! Now, slave! Cum for me, cum, cum!”

You don’t need to tell me three times. I give into that carnal need, that ultimate desire, with a release I feel throughout my entire body. All that I am is here to pump into you, reaching so deep within to fill you up as we both soar on the ecstatic wave of mutual orgasm, and ride the ripples of continuing after-pleasure, before we both sink back, sated and soaked, into your luxurious feather bed.

I lay a gentle kiss on your neck. “Thank you Mistress – are you relaxed enough now?”

Jay Willowbay is an erotic author and occasional poet, writing mostly, but not entirely, in female domination /
male submission. 

His debut novella Shagnasty is due for release this autumn, he is a newly appointed resident reviewer for BDSM Book Reviews  and he blogs too infrequently at

Jay on Facebook 

Thursday, 22 September 2016

Book launch this weekend!

cover art by Christopher Shy

From the wastes of the sea to the shadows of our own cities, we are not alone. But what happens where the human world touches the domain of races ancient and alien? Museum curators, surveyors, police officers, archaeologists, mathematicians; from derelict buildings to country houses to the London Underground, another world is just a breath away, around the corner, watching and waiting for you to step into its power. The Private Life of Elder Things is a collection of new Lovecraftian fiction about confronting, discovering and living alongside the creatures of the Mythos.

Well, I don't usually bang on much on this blog about my Secret Other Life as a horror writer, but this is an exception. At noon on Saturday, at Fantasycon UK in Scarborough, we are launching a collaborative anthology from The Alchemy Press which features Lovecraftian Mythos tales by myself, Arthur C Clarke Award-winning SF/F author Adrian Tchaikovsky, and veteran Pelgrane Press gaming-writer Adam Gauntlett.
Not a sanity point left between us
For those of you coming to Scarborough, Adrian and I will be there signing copies and looking into the void of madness that awaits all who delve too deeply into the occult mysteries. I'll be the one without the beard, and Adam will be the one still at home in Bermuda drinking rum swizzles.

Scarborough, not Bermuda

I have three chunky stories in the collection :

The Play's the Thing - a period King in Yellow creeper about a huge house that doesn't obey the laws of physics, and the agent sent to track down its missing rooms before reality collapses entirely.

Devo Nodenti -  a Dreamlands story about an aged ex-archeologist with a guilty secret and a very uncanny housepet.

Special Needs Child - which is about an adopted ghoul child, and just happens to contain the most morally repugnant sex scene I have ever written. Which is going some, I'm sure you'll agree!

I'm really proud of this collection, which the Rising Shadow reviewer says:

 "…belongs to the bookshelf of everyone who is fascinated by Lovecraftian weird fiction. It’s one of the best weird fiction collections of the year and deserves to be read by ardent and enthusiastic fans of the genre. Weird fiction doesn’t get more entertaining than this, so please invest a bit of time into reading this marvellous collection. Highly recommended!"

So come and see us! There will be WINE! (And I'll answer to "Janine" too.)

You can already buy The Private Life of Elder Things at:
Amazon UK - Kindle and paperback
Amazon US - Kindle and paperback