Monday, October 27, 2014

Halloween Hop: Mumford the Mummy

The music wound down from thudding bass. We pushed together, squeezing out the last two inches of air between our abdomens, our chests, our crotches. Hardness pressed into my thigh, heat. I looked into Mummy's eyes, brushed a stray bandage out of his face and back behind his ear. The grey makeup had faded as the night wore on, revealing streaks of tanned skin. Contacts paled his eyes to blue-white.

His hand slid down my back, under the waistline of my pants, and cupped my ass. "So, now, what are you, again?"

"A ghoul." I bared the dollar-store teeth in a snarl, but just ended up laughing and leaning into Mummy's chest. "I had a good time."

"Me too." I plucked at his bandages to open a space, then slid my hand up underneath, rubbed my thumb in circles around his nipple. "Do you maybe want to unwind?"

"Mummy joke." The corners of his mouth pulled up. "How long where you saving that one?"

I shrugged. "Just came to me."

"That's ghoul." He leaned his head down and wrapped his lips around mine. He gave my ass another squeeze, forcing me harder against him. As the beat picked up, I ground my hips against him, growing harder, tenting out against the torn slacks. I tried not to blush, but I was pretty sure from the heat I was. At least the makeup would hide it. I hoped. But embarrassed or not, I wasn't going to stop or slow down or anything else stupid like that.

I pulled a new slit open in his wrappings and headed down. I kept expecting to hit underwear, but I found bush instead, rough and thick. My fingers brushed taut, hot flesh. Fuck it. I wormed my hand down deeper and wrapped my fingers around the shaft, stroked slowly. The tip was wet with precome. It coated my fingers.

Mummy kissed me again, licked along the roof of my mouth, the edges of my teeth. He pulled away enough to speak and whispered, "My place?"

"How close is it?"

"A couple blocks."

"Perfect." I sighed and pulled my hand out. The strobe lights reflected from the thin veneer of slickness on my fingers. I licked up my finger and swallowed the musty, salty liquid. "I'm Darren."



Don't forget to check out the other blogs on the hop HERE.

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Saturday, October 11, 2014

National Coming Out Day: A Message

I know it's late, darlings, but I won' take much of your time.

See, it's National Coming Out Day, and I wanted to put this out there:

I love you. Even if you think nobody else in this world will love you after you step out of that closet, you're wrong. I can't promise anyone else. I don't have that power. But I can promise you that I'l be waiting for you in the living room with a glass of wine when you step your way out.

Please come out. You'll be happier for it.


Saturday, September 6, 2014

Torquere Twitter Takeover

Hello, darlings!

Today, from 10-12 Pacific time, I'll be commandeering the Torquere Press twitter account @torquere. So, if you have any questions and such for me, feel free to drop on by and give me a shout there. Of course, you can shout at me any time you like on my Twitter, @dehartslist.

Take care,

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: I Am His

I wait in the room, staring at the corner. Beige walls. And I hear his footsteps approach. My breath draws short. Each footfall is an eternity away, the thump echoing from hardwood. I judge his position by the quality of the sound. Softer as he steps onto the throw rug. My body tenses when I feel his heat behind me. A hand, rough with strong, squared fingers, rubs along the nape of my neck. He kisses me between the shoulder blades, trailing down, tracing my spine. He leaves off just before touching my bare ass.

I feel his hand again. He traces the outline of my collar, pressing leather gently into the skin. My mouth quivers. My everything quivers at his touch. I close my eyes, smell his cleanness. I am his, tonight.

His voice is molten, flowing over me, heat to the bone, to the core, to the soul. "Follow me."
I turn my gaze to the floor and stay behind his footsteps, following smooth-shaven calves to the bed. When he sits, I kneel, push my head to the floor.

He touches me again, fingers kneading the soft skin of my ass, working down, pressing into the hole. But not inside. Not yet. I know I haven't earned the right.

"Across my lap."

Without a word, I rise and lay over his knees, let my body go limp. My cock presses against the warmth of his thigh. I'm already partway hard.

He strokes the curve of my hip, then up. I can only wait. Sound will prolong it. Flinching will prolong it. His hand leaves and I can't help but tense. Even knowing the pain it will cause, I can't fight the reaction.

His hand lands on the tender skin, heat, stinging pain. One cheek, then the other. He says nothing, doesn't count, and each strike is harder. When he hits me, my body moves, rubbing my cock against smooth thigh, hardening me.

I keep track in my head. Fifteen strikes to each side, and he keeps his rhythm. I breathe with them, keeping as silent as I can. In when he pulls back, out with each swat of the hand. Soon, I hardly feel a thing, just the impact, his skin to my skin, heat to heat, rough to smooth.

And he stops. He rubs my shoulders, leaving my ass to radiate heat and pain as everything settles. I feel the wetness of precome I left on his leg.

"Sit in the corner." He wraps his fingers into my hair and guides me up. I go. It's on the opposite side of the room. The hard wooden chair. I cringe as I lower myself into it. It hurts to sit, and he knows it. And he knows that I won't move. I am his.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Jack off."

I do, and the thrill fills me. This is new. I do not question.

I never question him.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: Intermission

It wasn't a movie. It wasn't slow and delicate with soft lighting and a full moon. It was the middle of the day on his lunch break and he slammed his body against me as soon as he stepped over the threshold. "Bed. Naked. Now."

Off I ran, tripping as I ripped out of my pants, left them in the hallway, my shirt on top of the dresser, my boxers flung across the room onto the TV. I fell backwards onto the bed just as he came in. He kneeled and lifted my legs by the knees, exposing my hole to the chill of the air conditioning. He flashed me a simple smile, then his face went down. Hot, humid breath washed over the tender skin. A warm, thick tongue pressed against my entrance, lapped at it, worked the muscles until I relaxed, opened up, let the warm, wet pressure slip inside. I bit down on my knuckle to try and keep from groaning. But it didn't work.

And when I groaned, he pressed even deeper, slicking the hole with spit. And, like always, he pulled away too soon. His tongue flicked against my balls, sending tiny fluttering sensations all the way up to my cockhead. I focused on them. Almost too much. I almost didn't notice his finger against my hole. It was rough, callused from working on cars. I squirmed lower, taking it deeper. I felt each knuckle pop into me, all the way down to base. He moved it inside me, warmth and pressure, massaging an ache I hadn't realized was there until he tried to address it. in and out, curling and twisting through folds of soft, sensitive flesh. There was no longer any point in trying to hold back my groans.

In with a second finger, stretching me open. I knew he didn't have time to go all the way, and I wondered. But this wasn't a book. I didn't spend my time worrying about the eventualities. It was the middle of the day and my man wanted me, and I wanted him to have his way with me. I wanted whatever he had to give me, and every bit of it.

I didn't get it. he slipped his fingers out and climbed on the bed, curled against me. His hard-on pressed the rough fabric of his pants against my bare flesh. He whispered warm words into my ear. "I have to leave. Don't get dressed. I want to think about you waiting while I'm at work."

It was just intermission.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: Memory

The five of us sat around the table, dealing out cards, sipping drinks mixed way too strong. But we were young. Everyone does that when they're young. You wouldn't know it looking at me now, but I was a looker, once. So was he. Long shaggy hair the same brown as burnt cream, full lips, bright, jade colored eyes. He was unshaven that night, the first signs of scruff showing through on a sharp chin and hollow cheekbones. The long hours of the night had left his eyes rimmed red.

He laid his hand out on the table. "Unless you can beat a flush, you're fucked, boys."

I locked gazes with him and spread my cards out in front of me. I had absolutely nothing, but it made him flinch for half a second. When he looked, he grinned at me. "Nothing."

I nodded. "Complete shit."


He was the last to leave. I still remember it sometimes, when I look at the door. Living in the same house, the memories are inescapable. He had a sandwich bag of change that he won from us and a big doofy grin on his face. We'd been there for half an hour, him leaving while all the bugs in the neighborhood came in for the afterparty.

And then he was on me. I can't recall every detail, can't say how he led into it, or if he led into it. But I remembered him against me, his lithe frame and long limbs wrapping around me. Slender fingers worked under my waistband and down around my dick. He stroked up and down. It wasn't some silly romance story. It wasn't how I imagined anything ever happening. It was simply sex, and I fell into it. I clawed into his ass, feeling rough denim over taut muscle. Still he stroked me, up and down, restrained by the tightness of my jeans. I tasted his lips, his tongue, his cheeks. Stubble scratched down my jawline. I smelled the shampoo and the sweat in his hair as we moved. He thrust my back against the wall with a smack, and sill his hand worked.

I pushed him back, hardly able to breathe. I couldn’t come up with anything poetic or lovely or life-changing. "You know where the bedroom is."

"I do unless you moved it."

I nodded and let him lead me backward. I stumbled and ran into my own door, leaned against it and almost fell again when he pushed the door open. We collapsed onto the bed. He undid my jeans and released me. I couldn't help but sigh. I'd wanted it for so long, so many poker games and parties and summer swims, watching him in nothing but trunks or a Speedo or a dripping wet towel barely hanging on around his waist.

But this was better than any of that. Better than I ever could have come up with.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Ananse, Puck, and Coyote: Sexy Tricksters

Darlings, I have an idea. And it's not one that I found in the bottom of a wine bottle, this time. It makes me a little bit nervous as well, darlings, but I'm going to trust it.

I have a thing for tricksters. A big thing. A naughty thing. They're so sexually charged and unpredictable and... well, kind of slutty, to be honest. Maybe not every one of them, but enough to make it a general trait of the archetype. And we all know how much I love a good slut.

My idea? Novellas or novelettes based around tricksters. Ananse, the great spider. Maui, the creator of the Hawaiian Islands. Puck, the fair sprite of A Midsummer Night's Dream. All erotic, of course.

My question to you is this: who are your favorite tricksters? Who do you want to see writhing in orgiastic passion. let me know and who knows? They might end up in one of the books. Of course, you'll have to subscribe to stay abreast of it all.


Saturday, August 9, 2014

Fan Fiction: Good or Evil?

Darlings, darlings, darlings! I feel wonderful and reinvigorated. Wine for all! Wine and whiskey and chocolate and men! Well, maybe not men. I've left them all a bit exhausted. But wine and chocolate and whiskey, those I can provide.

If you don't know, I got my start in fan fiction. I know, I know, it's not the most socially acceptable way to go about things… but when have I ever been known to be socially acceptable?

A lot of people take issues with fan fiction, and I can see why. It's not all that marketable, it's not always original, and an awful lot of it ends up in the public eye unpolished. But I don't think at all that these are bad things, to be honest.

Not marketable: let's ignore Fifty Shades. We'll just let that one slide right under the radar. Yes, fan fiction isn't terribly marketable. Obviously, you can sometimes get into shared world or extended universe books, but it's very hard to work with those things.

But does everyone start out writing marketable fiction? Of course not. No one does. Why not fan fiction?

Not original: Let's look at this. Fan. Fiction. It's derivative by nature. That's the nature of the work. Yes, it can be original, in a sense, but there's always a tether to something else. Not to mention that there are only 36 plots in the whole world, no matter the origin of your characters of settings. Deal with it.

Not polished: I have one statement on this. It's the same statement I make on any and all self-published work: a lot of it is unpolished. But a lot of work that is submitted to a 'legitimate house' is also unpolished. We as the reading public simply didn't see it. While I'm a big supporter of editing prior to publication, the fact is that we are, in fact, seeing what would have, before the self-publishing revolution, never made it out. So it's not all that strange, really.

The point is that fan fiction is not inherently evil. Not at all. I might even begin writing it again. Who knows? The idea has been occurring to me lately. If you stick around and subscribe, you may just see something interesting coming out.


Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: Zero G

Music thrummed, echoing off the sleek walls. Bright, multicolored lights flashed to the beat. I hung out at the edge of the cylindrical room, watching as scantily clad men floated by. My fingers wrapped around a cold metal handle, keeping me in place. Everything smelled of sweat.

Zero G wasn't the first orbital night club to be launched, but it was one of the most successful. And, you know, the best gay crowd out of any of them. Every Tuesday and Sunday. Not a big bone to get thrown to us, but I was good with it. At least until we got an actual orbital gay bar.

There. Just above me. An open handhold at the top. I pushed off against the wall, headed through the crowd. The windows were up there. I didn't get to them every night, but I always tried. Tonight, I had one. Just a three by six window. But the stars. They were endless. Millions of them. Stars and planets, brightness and color twinkling out there beyond reach.

"Hey." A voice from behind me, cutting across the music. "They're something, aren't they?" The slightest hint of a lisp. A heat floated up next to me. I saw brown hair and pale skin out of the corner of my eye. I heard him sigh. His breath fogged the porthole. "There could be anything. As weird as it is on Earth, we just couldn't even fathom what's out there. Our little minds would blow up."

I looked over at him. Blue-green eyes, sharp eyebrows, a string of wooden beads with a cross around his neck and strung through a gauged ear piercing. He tongued one of the beads up into his mouth and bit it, flashing bright white teeth.

I shook my head. "Does that line actually work?"

He spat out the bead. "You tell me. Does it?"

"No." I pulled closer. What the hell? It wasn't outer space, but this view was damn nice, itself. "But you don't need to talk." I pressed my lips against his, tasting the remnants of white wine in his mouth. Sweet and cheap. Like a good man.

His hand wrapped around me, squeezed into my butt. His hair fell into my face, tickling, filling my nose with floral shampoo and sweat and cologne.

I released the bar holding me in place and we floated, supported only by each other as we drifted around the club. My pants tightened. I ground against him, felt his hardness against my own. His hand pulled me even closer to him. His heart beat against my bare chest, skin to skin, warm to warm.

He pulled away, but stayed so close I couldn't properly focus. His cross pendant rested against the center of my chest. Each word washed humid breath across my skin. "Do you want to go find some privacy?

"Does that line ever work?"

"You bet your ass."

He won that bet.

Monday, August 4, 2014

News: Street Magic


I have some wonderful news for you all! I have a new novella coming out. It's brand new news. I only just found out this week, and I couldn’t wait any longer to share with you! Street Magic is officially going to be published by Storm Moon Press. Now, I don't have any release date or cover, but it's happening. Huzzah! I drank champagne all day yesterday to celebrate. Well, not necessarily to celebrate, but I certainly did drink champagne. Go out and buy yourself some. You deserve it, because without you, I would be nothing.

If you want to keep getting updates on the status of Street Magic, subscribe. I'll keep you up to date on the process.


Saturday, August 2, 2014

Who's Your Favorite Sherlock? Sherlock's Scandal by Suz deMello

Hello, darlings, and welcome. For once, I'm going to step down and let someone else do the talking. A shocker, I know, darlings, but just grab some wine and have a seat. I promise it will be enjoyable.

Who doesn’t love Sherlock Holmes? Since the publication of the first Holmes story, A Study in Scarlet (1887) the tall, hawk-nosed detective with the caped greatcoat, brilliant mind, and a taste for opera has never lost popularity. Almost as soon as film was invented, Holmes hit the screen (Sherlock Holmes Baffled, 1900) and he’s never left. According to Wikipedia, the Guinness World Records has consistently listed Sherlock Holmes as the "most portrayed movie character" with more than 70 actors playing the part in over 200 films.

When I was young the most famous Holmes was Basil Rathbone, a portrayal I never particularly cared for. He seemed overly arrogant and pompous.  To me, the best Holmes was Jeremy Brett in the beautifully produced and acted Granada Television series (1984-94).

Robert Downey Jr. plays Holmes as scruffy and antisocial, while Benedict Cumberbatch’s modern day Sherlock is edgy, tech-savvy, and self-aware, describing himself as “a high functioning sociopath” (with a touch as Asperger’s I believe).

So Sherlock as a character has shown himself to be mutable; he can change with the times.
Who’s your favorite Sherlock? Why?

In my version, Sherlock has an active sex life, but a bored Sherlock is a dangerous Sherlock. His twin vices of cocaine and sex could prove his undoing, until he meets his match in elusive, enigmatic Irene Adler. Hiding her heart, Irene deserts Sherlock in the midst of their affair. He schemes to win her back, but the lady won’t come easily to hand. Instead, she forces him to compete for honor, glory and  love.

Here’s an excerpt from Sherlock’s Scandal:

We banged against each other hard, wildly, with no rhythm, but frantically, mindless animals seeking completion. My breath came in grunts and pants, and Sherlock’s chest heaved against me as I jerked and bucked. We slid against each other, slippery with sweat before he grabbed my wrists and pinned them high against the headboard. He began to ride me in earnest, with a steadiness that drew me into his rhythm. When we were moving in tandem he released my wrists and dropped his head to kiss my mouth, thrusting his tongue inside when his rod reached deep.

He reached for my legs, drawing them high and setting my ankles on his shoulders before slapping my ass-cheek in cadence with his thrusts. I tore my lips away from his and gasped, “Sherlock!”

He laughed. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No, but—“

“But what?” He pulled out of me and flipped me over onto my belly, spanking me again on my available bum.

“But…” I knew that the English had a predilection for spanking their women. In fact, caning was known as the English vice, but I had never before encountered it, and I was not sure I wanted to.

Like what you read? Get it here:

About me:

Best-selling, award-winning author Suz deMello, a.k.a Sue Swift, has written seventeen romance novels in several subgenres, including erotica, comedy, historical, paranormal, mystery and suspense, plus a number of short stories and non-fiction articles on writing. A freelance editor, she’s held the positions of managing editor and senior editor, working for such firms Total-E-Bound, Liquid Silver Books and Ai Press. She also takes private clients.

Her books have been favorably reviewed in Publishers Weekly, Kirkus and Booklist, won a contest or two, attained the finals of the RITA and hit several bestseller lists.

A former trial attorney, her passion is world travel. She’s left the US over a dozen times, including lengthy stints working overseas. She’s now writing a vampire tale and planning her next trip.

find Suzie’s books here:

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: St. Marian Beach

The sun crept over the horizon, painting vermilion and ochre over the rising and swelling sea. I checked my phone: six AM. St. Marian Beach was just opening. I know it wasn't exactly the same thing as a public place, but baby steps. Even if I was alone, and probably would be for at least half an hour, my heart stamped against my ribcage. I sighed, watching the water. The longer I waited, the more likely someone was to actually wander in and see me.

Without giving myself any more time to change my mind, I dropped my swim trunks down around my ankles. The warm breeze blew across the ocean, sliding between my legs. I nodded to no one and lay down.

Sand wriggled into the cracks and creases of my body. I felt the tiny grains work up into my crack, mingling with nervous sweat. I pressed a finger against my hole. Tiny spasms of discomfort snaked up my spine as I worked deeper into the folds and crevices of heat. The fingers of my other hand curled around my shaft, tightening. I could feel the tiny, thrumming pulse of my cock against my palm.

I twisted my finger inside myself, massaging the tender flesh. So much heat, so much feeling. A moan sneaked past my lips, then another, louder. The sensation built in my gut, electricity and pressure. It crackled across my skin, filling me, stiffening my cock.

I bucked up my hips and my finger pressed against that spot. It lanced up, heat and lightning swirling up, filling my balls with raw power. This moan, I had no hope of stopping. It didn't sneak out. It thrust itself forward. My back drew up off the sand. The breeze may have been warm, but it cooled the sweat along my spine. My calves and thighs shivered, supporting my weight even as my body numbed, as the energy built to a peak. My body, tight, forced it out, white and hot and pungent. It mingled with the smell of the sea, the fish and salt and my own sweat and come. It filled my nose.

I sighed as I lowered back into the sand. It conformed to my limp weight, hugging me. On the ocean, vermilion had faded to rose pink, ochre to peach. I wiped my hands off on the sand, then sat up.

Someone else was there. Long body, short black hair, white Speedo. My body turned frigid, save for the wash of heat in my cheeks. I looked away, but couldn't resist glancing back.

He nodded and winked, then pulled his swimsuit down, flashing a half-hard cock and a neat triangle of curly bush. He cocked his head over his shoulder toward the canvas dressing rooms. "Need to change?" he shouted.

I nodded and stood up, covering myself with my wadded up swim trunks. What did I have to hide? It wouldn't stay secret for long.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Writing News

It's been a while darlings, I know. My last publication… well, we won't talk about how long ago it was. I've left you in the lurch, but I'm fixing that. Here's how, darlings.

My newest novella, Street Magic, was sent off to Storm Moon Press, and they're currently looking at the full. I should hear back from them on that any day now, so here's hoping. It's my first real foray into the world of contemporary fantasy, so we'll see how well that works out for everyone.

I also have a few short stories submitted about this great thing we call the Internet. My first, and probably last, vampire story, See, is under consideration for the Darkly Erotic anthology from Elektrik Milkbath Press. I know, I shouldn't discount vampires outright. But I can't help it. They've never been my favorites.

The Birth of Samuel Angel, weird western erotica, is being looked at for Like a Haunted Trail through Circlet Press. They're one of my favorite houses, and this is one of my favorite shorts I've written. I had a lot of fun mucking about with the old west. Just like Bonanza… but with more sex. In fact, I liked playing in the setting so much, I jumped into it again for Cleis Press' Cowboy Up anthology. Blink is one of my lighter stories, but I quite enjoy it.

Now, of course, none of these are sure things. But I wanted to keep everyone updated. I am still working, and I am still here, frantically typing away. All for your benefit. Why? Because I love you.

If you want to stay up to date on the sheer enormity of my love for you, you can always subscribe up at the top.


Saturday, July 26, 2014

The Shocking Truth About my Bookshelf

Darlings, it's time I come clean. You see, I've been lying to you, just a little bit. Not outright, of course, and certainly not about anything all that important, but it's a lie nonetheless. Or at least a misleading lack of information.

I don't read erotica.

Well, I don't read a lot of erotica. It's not, in any way, my most-read genre. And I feel like that's the impression myself, as well as other erotica/erotic romance authors, put out front. But I'm here to put things straight: I don't read all that much erotica.

That's not to say I never touch the stuff. My erotica reading habits are mainly focused on anthologies (Shane Allison is far and away my favorite anthologist in the genre) and the few authors I've really fallen in love with (Rob Rosen, Katey Hawthorne, Cecilia Tan, and a handful of others). But even the authors and such I love, I don't spend a lot of time with.

Well, sit down and pick your jaw up off the floor, darlings. I still read books. Currently, I'm reading 'The Cities of Coin and Spice' by Catherynne M. Valente, who is one of my solid favorites for short fantasy. I devour Poe and Shakespeare. YA, like Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, The Looking Glass Wars. Classics like Alice's Adventures in Wonderland or The Odyssey. Chick lit giants like The Devil Wears Prada and The First Wives' Club.

So, perhaps the truth isn't that I don't read erotica, after all. Perhaps it's just that erotica takes up an equal place in my heart and on my shelf as everything else, not a greater spot, as I may have led you all to believe. Well, you can still drink of my wine and be merry with that thought.


Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: His

"Babe, I'm home." I dropped the grocery bags and closed the door. I'd gone all the way into town just to pick up some chocolate for him, and here he was, ignoring me. I raised my voice. "Come on, Ricky." He thought it was funny, I bet. Probably hiding under the bed or some shit. "I'm tired and I'm not in the mood."

"Well I am." The sound came from down the hall. As I got closer, I heard gentle music in the background. Something strummed… a harp? Why the hell was he playing harp music?

"Babe?" I opened the door into the master bedroom. It was dark except for a sliver of light from under the bathroom door. "What are you doing?"

"Come find out."

He either wanted sex or he wanted me to think he wanted sex, but he was actually going to jump out when I opened the door and try to give me a heart attack. But I had to find out. Couldn't just leave him back there, wearing whatever demon mask he'd pulled out of the closet this time.

I turned the knob and pushed the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

This was definitely sex. He was in the tub with two glasses of red wine and some strategically placed bubbles. Those slipped off as soon as he stood. He dripped a trail across the floor and set the wine down on the counter. His fingers, pruny and damp, glided through my hair, then knotted into it. He stood on his tiptoes and pressed our lips together. I could taste the wine on his tongue, still, currant and cherry and dirt.

When he pulled back, our gazes met. He nodded. I nodded. He pulled down on my hair, bringing me to my knees. I stroked his half-hard cock with a single finger. Water dripped from the sheath of foreskin onto the tile floor. When I took him into my mouth, he still tasted slightly of soap. Soap and clean flesh, and his bush smelled of fake flowers, the dollar store shampoo we always bought.

I bobbed up and down on him, the tip jabbing the back of my throat as he grew to his full length. I licked across the head, just peeking out. His grip in my hair tightened. I unbuttoned my shirt with one hand. The other danced across his balls, tiny touches, barely present. I was his. He knew it. I knew it. The thought of what might happen had me pressing against my jeans, my cock stiffening, waiting for him.

He tugged my head back and looked down at me. "Still have the day off tomorrow?"

I nodded. His dick bobbed in front of me, beckoning.

"Good. You won't sleep tonight.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Porn vs. Erotica: What's the Difference?

"… erotica is simply high class pornography… designed for a better class of consumer. As with the call girl and the streetwalker… both perform the same sexual service."
-Andrea Dworkin

All right, that's not a terribly clear answer, is it darlings? Let's try again. I think I have one that might help get my point across a little better:

"What turns me on is erotic. What turns you on is pornographic."
-Ellen Willis

In short, and in my words: there isn't a difference. It's all the same thing, just like Botox is still Botox, even though now it's being marketed as a cure for chronic migraines. We can call it one thing or another, but it's still botulism and it still makes you look like somebody pulled your skin back and stapled it together.

The same thing with porn/erotica… although hopefully with fewer staplers. Unless you're into that. They are both designed for arousal, and they can both stop there or keep growing and expanding into actual story and characterization and all the other wonderful words we use to describe good literature and film.

Rather than differentiating between porn and erotica, let's just embrace them all. Free love, darlings, free love. They're not even different ends of the same spectrum. They're just different approaches to the same issue, just like A Wizard of Earthsea and Harry Potter are both different approaches to 'young person learning magic.' It comes down to the individual piece of art rather than some arbitrary labels.

Remember that, darlings: free love. It's free to love me, too. But, if you can't make it over today, you could always subscribe.


Saturday, July 19, 2014

Reading Porn in 2014

Darlings, let's go back, all the way back to the sixties. Porn and erotica were very, very different than they are now. Everything was plastic wrapped magazines and the occasional brown or black wrapped book. You didn't read it in public, and you certainly never admitted it. To anyone.

Jump forward a little bit and we hit the eighties. Now, pretty much everyone knows that you can go out and buy nudie mags. That doesn't really make it an acceptable practice, and it's still not something you bring up in polite company. Maybe with your significant other. Maybe.

And then we take another jump, all the way up into the 2000's. Now, we have the Internet, and it's fairly prevalent. Which means what, exactly? A steady stream of porn flowing into American homes 24/7, 365. And 366 on leap year. Along with them, in those next ten years or so, we see a growing return to literary smut. Sites like Literotica and Stickypen get much more popular. But why is that?

It got easy. And I would say that today, it's even easier. A lot easier. Now we have eReaders. Now we have smartphones. Now we have erotic audio books. We have big erotica/erotic romance hits like 50 Shades (My or anyone's personal feelings aside, 50 Shades was a big boon to the genre, as far as public acceptance is concerned.).

And yes, now we have much more public acceptance. Smut isn't just something that you read out in the garage, or share with your teenage cronies after you snuck it out of someone older's hiding place you're not supposed to know about. It's once more returning to a form of art. We can have books that are not only hot and steamy, but also well-written and moving. And we can carry it around in our pockets and purses. We can carry thousands of those books in our pockets and purses at a time, if we so choose. It may not all be masterfully crafted, but now it can be. Now, people are beginning to expect that porn, at least literary porn, will have some sort of quality to it. And I love it.

What do you think, darlings? Is the ease and availability involved in porn/erotica/erotic romance/smut/etc. a good thing? Is it a bad thing? What about the amount of care being put into the work: does it matter, or is the point just to get people off, well-made or otherwise? Chime in and, if you want to hear more, think about hitting that little subscribe button up at the top.


Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: A Pound of Tea

I saw him again. It was the third time he'd come into the store in just as many days to buy a pound of tea. I don't know of anyone, even the most avid tea drinker, who goes through a pound of tea in a day. He came for another reason. Me. It had to be me. The way he smiles and winks at me when I ring him up. It isn't about tea.

I let hot water pound away the day's worries and stresses. When I close my eyes, he fills my mind. Dimples set deep into his cheeks. A mop of coffee brown hair, the ends curling into a mess. A mole just to the right of a perfectly black eye. Khaki cargo shorts that ride the curves and dips of his hips. The flash of bare skin I got today when he bent over to pick up that old lady's purse. My hand trails down my body, into soaking wet bush and deeper, clutching at my hard-on.

Him bent over. His pants slipping down. My hand slapping against a pale brown cheek. He whimpers at the strike and winks over his shoulder.

My thumb glides across the tip of my dick, sending a spasm up into my guts. Water pouring off my body against the porcelain becomes white noise.

His fingers curl into fists around the support beams of our shelves. I slip my dick between two cheeks, feeling the warm sweat coating my shaft. I find the hole and slide in. Tight. Hot. He groans, his back tightening.

I feel it deep down in my balls, rising, threatening.

Each time I pound against him, skin slaps against skin. Bags of tea, dried herbs, and flowers fall to the floor around our feet, perfuming the shop as the heat of sunlight cascades around them. I breathe it in, relishing the way it mixes with the animal musk dripping from our bodies. The rattling of nearly bare metal shelves plays counterpoint to the percussion of body against body, the tenor of his heaving groans, the steady bass of heartbeat in my ears.

I breathe in the steam of my shower. It's tinged with sex. My legs numb, the sensation flooding upward. I can't feel my knees. Next my thighs. I struggle for breath.

My back arches. I thrust into him again, a final, resounding crash as my hips slam against the soft cushion of tender skin. Heat floods up from my twitching balls and out into him. A link.

I collapse against the wall of the shower. Flowing water rinses the remnants of white from my dick and hand. I bring a single lingering thread of it to my lips and suck it from my thumb.


He comes in again. My dick twitches to life. I smile at him and pretend not to know that he's here for me.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Truth in Aesthetics

Darlings, Darlings, happy end of the weekend! I hope yours was as fabulous as mine. Many shots of vodka were taken, and a few of them may or may not have started by licking sugar off a set of chiseled abs.

I plead the fifth on that one, darlings.

But all of that got me thinking about beauty and attraction. People familiar with my work will probably be able to tell you that I don't always hold true to traditional Western aesthetics. In fact, I'd say about half the time, I skew off from that. Why? I like those kinds of things. I don't have any issue with my romantic interest being pudgy in the middle. My main characters are allowed to have hooked noses and beady eyes. I don't believe in perfection, and when I see Photoshopped 'perfect' beauty displayed on the Internet, I don't like it. Not nearly as much as I like seeing the sexy model with a gap between his two front teeth.

What are your thoughts on the matter? Yes, it's good, or no, being unrealistic is perfectly all right in these fantasies? I want to know, darlings. And, if you do like this sort of thing, perhaps consider subscribing. I'll give you a glass of wine if you do.


Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Zen of Gay Erotica

Darlings, I think it's time for a little change of pace. Normally, I'd invite you in for a glass of wine, some chocolate, and a lay or three. That's just what a good, respectable woman of my age and experience does, after all. But today, I want something different. I want to give you something different. I want to have a relaxing day. So yes, grab the bottle of wine from under the couch. But this time, let's sip it.

I want to be zen.

So much attention is given to the sweat-drenched, rippling muscles we've all come to expect on romance covers and the lingering touch of lips on blazing hot skin. But there's so much more to it, more that I think needs to be discussed.

What makes M/M erotica and erotic romance work for me is the seduction itself. Watching his hair fall. Noticing the color of his eyes, the number of piercings in his ears, the missing stud on his belt. It's in the focus, the sheer meditation of watching and knowing someone so intimately. That, above all else, makes or breaks a story for me. That is the essential zen of gay erotica. The play. The chase. While it's not unique to the M/M world, I feel that M/M readers are less likely to notice it than M/F or F/F readers. Which is a shame. The writing and development can be just as good, no matter the groupings involved.

So today, or tomorrow, or the next time you squirrel away a little time to read some M/M couplings (or triplings, or quadruplings, or what have you), promise me this: promise me that you'll take some time to find the real, loving interplay between characters. Just do that for little old me.

You could also subscribe, if you'd like. That would make me doubly happy.

Until next time, my darlings,


Tuesday, February 25, 2014

What's Coming?

Besides me, darlings, besides me.

I finally recovered from Valentine's Day, and I'm back again. And writing again. Writing a lot, now that my sister and her four children are finally in their own house. You'd be surprised just how much packing six other people into your house can impact productivity. But I'm afraid it did, and for that, I apologize.

In better news, I'm currently working on a weird western erotica story. Somewhere in the American Southwest, an angel sent by God to slay the Devil falls for a young Turkish fortune teller. Much hot boffing abounds, as well.

And I have something in the works for those under appreciated gay/bisexual fathers out there. I myself am just as guilty as anyone of doing it, but, for the most part, the men that get the spotlight are single, normally in their early twenties, hard-bodied, with nothing to tie them down. And, as fucking sexy as that might be, it's not all there is. Gay dads have sex too. Not daddies, but dads. People with small children in their care. I've been meaning to write something like this for some time, but I'm finally getting around to it. And I'm quite excited. Quite excited, my lovelies. I would give you more, but I really don't have anything much beyond that.

If you want something to keep you satisfied until these are available to read, Storm Moon Press just released an anthology about love. Actual love, not just sex. Love with sex. The Sweethearts and Seduction anthology (featuring a story from yours truly) is six stories. No longer than a novella. Just click the picture above and you'll be whisked off to the buy page. It's only 3.99, too. A marvelous value, if you ask me.

Now, I must get back to work while I still have daylight... and coffee, of course. Yes, coffee. A lady never drinks wine before 11 AM, darlings.


Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Wild Ride: Release the Manticores!

Across the red sand deserts they leap. Venomous tails, goring horns, razor-edged claws. The great beasts of legends.


Available now from Torquere Press: Wild Ride by... me. (Click the picture to be taken to the buy page).

Larik rides for the Zathinian cavalry, and he's happy to lead his men against the Kipzian threat. But during a fateful battle, he's lost, trapped with his enemy and forced to stay with the Kipzian man in their city, sealed from the rest of the world.

With a sickening truth staring at him, Larik doesn't know what to think. He focuses on the one thing he can: Gidid, the man who saved him. Because faced with a new reality, his feelings are the one thing he has some control over. But even that could be torn away by the conflict, leaving him alone.

And possibly dead.

Larik spun around and cracked the reins, ramming Tufex's horns into… nothing. Every attack he launched missed. The Kipzians didn't even try to attack him, that he'd noticed. They only ran, engaged no one. Taking out the limbs first.

General Zart's division filled the gaps in Larik's, thickening the wall against the Kipzians. They still managed to break through, sliding below attacks and jumping above, two rivers of bright red converging on a single point. Tufex stung out repeatedly, but every strike missed by less than an inch. These men rode closer to death than any enemy Larik had gone against, even closer than he would have ridden to the sting of a manticore.

The Kipzians avoided them all, but never struck. Not really. They scratched with horns and whipped out, striking with the sides of their tails, but did nothing to kill. Larik didn't understand until they'd pushed through half of the army. They'd opened a path to Bincha.. Why, he couldn't say, but they did. Amid the red of the Kipzians, his mount looked solid, steely gray. The long-haired rider Larik had locked eyes with rushed straight for Bincha, his mount throwing waves of sand back with every strike of paw to ground.

A sudden movement pulled Larik's attention away. On the smaller hill, the mage corps dropped their invisibility. He saw them raise something, some sort of gray stone, and start maneuvering it, but he didn't risk a real look. Instead, he forced Tufex forward, rushing in to help Bincha even though he knew he wouldn't arrive in time. Damn fool.

The rider he'd seen before locked his manticore's horns with Bincha's, lodged them together in an unbreakable hold. The two beasts warred, both pulling back, but the Kipzian won out. His manticore stood a bit shorter than Bincha's, but he swung and tossed his beast's head, keeping Bincha off balance. They inched ever-closer to the mouth of the tunnel.

"Move!" Larik hit Tufex's sides, harder than he needed to, probably. The roar, like the trumpets of the Gods, forced all the other manticores away, clearing a straight shot. He pushed as much speed as he could from Tufex. Wind slapped against his face.

General Zart chased after him, screaming, "Stop, Lieutenant! That's an order!"

"That's one of my men!" Horns first, he crashed into the two locked manticores, breaking the hold. The three of them tumbled into the cave. Larik wheeled around. "Bincha, go back!" He led Tufex lower to the ground, tightened his fingers over the reins. Bincha darted away, leaving Larik to face off with the Kipzian. The spines on Larik's boots brushed through Tufex's fur, ready to launch the beast into an attack.

Something up at the mage corps' hill caught his eye. Up there, a pillar of gray stone shined, casting multicolored rays of light from the top. Six of the mages moved the pillar, pointing the top straight at the cave. The rest of them stood behind it, the same light that came from the pillar emanating from their bodies, joinining it in one massive aura.

"Lieutenant Larik, get out of there now!" Zart waved a red flag at him. "They're going to blow the cave! It's the last one!"

The skin on the back of Larik's neck tightened. The hair on his arms prickled. "The last what?"

Zart spat out an obscenity. "Just get out of there!"

Get out. Larik rushed closer to the exit, but the Kipzian nobleman blocked his way, the body of his manticore a wall of red. Tufex rammed his horns forward, but the Kipzian jumped, lashing out with his manticore's tail. The side hit Tufex and knocked them both back.

Larik pushed Tufex forward again and shouted, "Stall them!" over his shoulder. The end of his sentence cut off in a rumble, and not one from a manticore. The cave shook. "Damn it!" The hardest kick he'd ever given Tufex. They rammed into the Kipzian's flank, but red sandstone already showered down. "Damn the Gods!" The rest of the cavalry disappeared as rock piled into the mouth of the cave. General Zart's words echoed in his mind. It's the last one!

He never got his question answered: what was this the last of?

Sunday, January 12, 2014



Sometime last year, I gave you a bit of a teaser. Well, the manticores will be released on Wednesday, and I want you to be there to see it. But, for now, you can see the cover, at least.

A tale of war and love, of sun and sand, of love and sex. It does a heart good.