I finished all the uploading today. "Sandwiched by Stomachs" should go live either tomorrow or Sunday. Here's an excerpt to whet your appetite while you're waiting:
She kissed him and Maynard's mouth filled up with a hot liquid that was thick and sticky like syrup.
Maynard opened his eyes.
It wasn't Aldonza.
It wasn't human.
In form it resembled a human woman. It was featureless. Or rather, there were features—eyes, nose, mouth—but they were the same color as the rest of her skin, as if she'd been freshly popped from a plastic mold. It wasn't flesh-tone pink either, but a paler, clammy shade—like viscera exposed to the light.
That's what she looked like—a girl made from viscera. Whitish-pink fluids oozed up all over her skin. Greater quantities drooled from her full and surprisingly sensual lips.
Shocked, Maynard tried to pull away. The girl hugged him tighter. He heard a low chuckle from the top of the mound.
"It would have been better for you had you not broken my charm, but I can't say I'm disappointed," the woman on top of the mound, who was not a researcher from FOB Lamanche, said.
Maynard looked over at her and wondered how he'd ever mistaken her for human. A set of red horns, curved and pointed like those of a bull, grew out of the side of her head. Her hair was long and red and cascaded over her naked shoulders. It looked wet. Not wet as if it had been freshly washed, but wet as if it wasn't hair at all and instead some kind of mucus or slime. She was naked and her skin was pale white in color and had an unnatural sheen—like worms never exposed to the sun. She had red markings on her midriff and exposed breasts that resembled tribal tattoos. Her boobs were big and round—the kind prized by the scummy magazines and websites that liked to objectify the female form.
That was the weirdest part. Even under all the alien crap she still had the face and figure of a stunningly attractive young woman. Above the waist anyway. Below the waist... did she even have a 'below the waist'? Maynard couldn't see legs. Instead her body broadened out in some kind of glistening trunk that descended into the mound.
Maynard didn't think she had a foot stuck, or even that the mound was a mound. He suspected it was a part of her in same way the shell was part of the tortoise.
"What are you?" Maynard asked.
And if the shell was part of her, did that mean this pink, floppy thing in his arms was as well?
"And what's this?"
Maynard tried to fend off the blob of wet tissue shaped like a woman. It had arms around Maynard like a drunken slut. He couldn't push her—it!—off. His hands kept slipping off its slimy surface.
"I'm Desquerida," the girl—monster!—on top of the mound said. "I suppose you could describe that as my stomach."
Stomach? What the fuck?
Maynard noticed what was happening to his uniform. Holes appeared where the fabric appeared to be rotting away.
"I can extrude my stomach outside my body to catch and digest prey," Desquerida said.
Maynard redoubled his efforts. He couldn't break away. The woman-shaped blob of flesh might have felt light like a balloon, but the surface was rubbery and sprang back from his blows. It was also covered in a layer of slippery slime that prevented Maynard from getting a good grip.
"Oh but that makes it sound so revoltingly crude. This is a plane of pleasure. The consumed must be given pleasure by those that consume them. That is the rule here. If you hadn't broken my charm it would have been in the sweet embrace of one you love."
Maynard kept struggling even as his uniform fell away in tatters.
"Although I'd be lying if I said I didn't prefer it this way," the monster added with a girlish giggle. "It's always so much more enjoyable when the prey is fully aware what's happening to them."
It's icky and vore-y, but there should still be plenty of hot (if weird) monster girl sex for people that are a bit more ambivalent on the vore thing. It's more a full-length version of the H-space Monster Girl Bestiary profiles I've been posting over the last year (and realising that was the angle I should take with it finally allowed me to finish it and get the Sandwiched by series moving again.)
The full version should be available for you to read from all good ebook retailers at the bargain price of $0.99 in the next day or so.
Showing posts with label excerpt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label excerpt. Show all posts
Friday, May 12, 2017
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
More teasers for Sandwiched by Succubi
Here's a little more on the next instalment of Sandwiched by, "Sandwiched by Succubi".
The blurb:
Sandwiched by is a sexy series of monster girl erotic horror shorts from the master of dark erotica, M.E. Hydra. The third in the series, “Sandwiched by Succubi”, sees a man given a night of mind-blowing sex by a pair of succubi.
Julian Cress-Vejce is a man used to getting what he wants. What he wants is a pair of succubi for a night of hot sex. At an exclusive brothel specialising in otherworldly beauties the madam cautions against this. Sex with a succubus is an intense experience and one is more than enough for most men. But Julian Cress-Vejce isn’t most men, and what he wants he gets...
Sandwiched by. One dude, two sexy babes. A perfect fantasy... or maybe not...
The cover:
The blurb:
Sandwiched by is a sexy series of monster girl erotic horror shorts from the master of dark erotica, M.E. Hydra. The third in the series, “Sandwiched by Succubi”, sees a man given a night of mind-blowing sex by a pair of succubi.
Julian Cress-Vejce is a man used to getting what he wants. What he wants is a pair of succubi for a night of hot sex. At an exclusive brothel specialising in otherworldly beauties the madam cautions against this. Sex with a succubus is an intense experience and one is more than enough for most men. But Julian Cress-Vejce isn’t most men, and what he wants he gets...
Sandwiched by. One dude, two sexy babes. A perfect fantasy... or maybe not...
The cover:
And a little excerpt:
The succubi closed the door behind him. Eyes smouldering with desire and lips puffed up in seductive pouts, they surrounded him and helped him remove his expensive Armani suit. They needed no help to remove their own clothing, what little of it there was. The only things they had on were matching sets of skimpy black leather bra and panties. A few deft movements and they weren’t even wearing those.
Julian admired the naked, buxom bodies of the succubi. They admired his naked, muscular form. He itched to give their naked, buxom bodies a closer examination. Unfortunately, as much as he wished he was here solely to satisfy his carnal desires, this was not the case.
“Is that the Mark of Glykon?”
The skin of both succubi was marked. Was it a tattoo or brand? Either way they both bore a strange circular design on their body that looked like a pentagram made out of crucifixes. On the succubus with a ponytail the mark was positioned on her belly, just below her navel. On the other it was located on her left breast, right above her heart. Assuming she had a heart.
They nodded.
Strange glyphs were positioned at each corner of the pentagrams and equally strange writing ran along each line. They looked like the kind of tattoo you might find on your typical deadbeat, Satan-worshipping metal head. Ironically, those marks were the one thing preventing the ‘demons’ from attacking him.
“So, without that you’d both be trying to rip out my heart and entrails right about now,” Julian said.
“Oh no,” the succubus with untied hair said. “We’d never do anything so crass.”
“It would be a waste,” the succubus with the ponytail said.
The succubi closed in enough for the soft flesh of their sizable boobs to press and rub against him. Their hands roamed over his exposed flesh, leaving a pleasant static charge wherever they caressed him. Julian was very hard in a matter of moments.
“We deal only in pleasure,” the first succubus said.
“We’d get you so horny,” the second added.
“Wrap your hard cock in our sinfully soft cunts.”
“And gently suck.”
“And suck.”
“And you’d spend and spend in our luscious cunts.”
“Spend and spend and spend.”
“Until you were all empty.”
“Dried up and empty.” One whispered in his ear. Her lips were close enough to brush against him.
Julian was a little freaked out by how much that turned him on. While screwing hot, gorgeous women was one of life’s finest pleasures, it wasn’t fine enough for him to think his own life was a price worth paying to experience the ultimate of sensual pleasures. Or rather, shouldn’t be. This little exchange had given him a glimpse into how dangerously enticing succubi could be.
The two succubi chuckled at his disquiet. The sound was dark and rich like a delectable dessert you knew was bad for you and yet couldn’t resist taking a second helping.
“Do you fear us?” the succubus with a ponytail asked.
I'm putting the final touches on the ebook. Look out for it on Amazon, smashwords and other places in the next couple of days.
UPDATE: I've just uploaded the files. "Sandwiched by Succubi" will be out on the 13th August!
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
A Succubus for Saint Patrick's Day previews - 1: A Special Tube of Lube
A while back I allowed readers to choose a story from my stockpile to be posted up on the internet. Of the three choices, one - "A Special Tube of Lube" - remained hidden. In a few days time you'll all get a chance to read it as it's included in my forthcoming collection, A Succubus for Saint Patrick's Day. If all goes to plan the book should be available to buy on Friday.
In the meantime here's a sexy excerpt to whet the appetite.
In the meantime here's a sexy excerpt to whet the appetite.
* * * *
Erica and Eunice took off their woollen jumpers and stepped out of their casual jeans. Holy fuck, would you look at those bodies, Larry thought. There was a pair of lingerie models standing in their underwear in his living room. He’d suspected they’d been dressing down to mask their figures, but he hadn’t expected both to be so jaw-droppingly gorgeous. They were all legs and soft, smooth, inviting curves. Had a page from a Victoria’s Secret catalogue come to life in his living room? They wouldn’t have looked out of place there. Hell, they’d have probably shown up most of the other girls. They posed for him, showing off the fantastic curves of their chests and the equally smooth canvasses of their asses. Erica was wearing skimpy pink underwear with lacy trim. Eunice had the same, but in devilish flame red. Both looked hot enough to set the carpet and curtains on fire.
Erica looked at his boxers and motioned for him to take them off. Larry obliged with a smile. He hadn’t been totally sure what their visit would entail—how far they’d go—and he’d been too afraid to ask directly, but this, and the strip of condoms he’d seen in Erica’s bag, made him a lot more confident the service he thought they might be offering was the same service he hoped they were offering.
“You joining in?” he asked. Erica and Eunice had made no move to remove their bras and panties.
“Later,” Erica said.
“It’s better to draw these things out,” Eunice added. Her words felt like a moist tongue slowly running down his shaft. Already erect, Larry’s dick twitched in eager anticipation.
Erica patted the surface of the massage table and Larry climbed up and lay on his front. The surface was surprisingly well-padded and soft. Comfy.
He felt firm hands on the back of his neck. Erica gave the meat of his shoulders some experimental squeezes.
“You’re very tense. Up here is all knotted up,” Erica said.
“Stresses of work,” Larry lied.
Shitty posture while playing too much Call of Duty on his Xbox more like.
“Are you okay with us using massage oil?” Erica asked.
“Sure.”
“Why don’t we use the special cream?” Eunice said.
“What a splendid idea,” Erica said. “As long as that’s fine with you,” she leaned down to whisper in Larry’s ear.
“Fine with me,” Larry said. “What’s so special about it?”
“It has aphrodisiac properties,” Erica whispered close enough for her warm breath to tickle against his earlobe. “Or so they say.”
“We save it for our... special... clients,” Eunice said. Her hand slid down and lingered against his inner thigh.
“So I’m ‘special’ now then,” Larry grinned.
“You’re young and your belly doesn’t hang over the side of the table. Trust me, that’s a vast improvement over our usual clientele,” Erica said.
Larry laughed. “For now,” he said. “I shouldn’t laugh too much. That’ll probably be me in twenty years time.”
Working remotely on software while dressed in only a dressing gown and slippers; Xbox; military shooters; playing military shooters under the guise of working remotely on software while dressed in only a dressing gown and slippers—ah, the perils of modern living.
“So this ‘special’ treatment...” Time to stop pussy-footing about and pop the question. “Just how far does it go?”
Now Erica was close enough for her soft lips to brush against his ear. “As far as you want it.”
That sounded like an affirmative.
He jolted as Eunice tickled the underside of his scrotal sac with a long fingernail.
Felt like an affirmative as well.
Both girls giggled. Through the corner of his eye Larry saw Erica walk away and pull something out of her bag. He heard a rude sound. He assumed Erica was squeezing some kind of thick substance out of a tube, but there must be some air caught inside as it came out with a series of burbling squelches that reminded Larry of the lewd sounds of sex organs coming together in the filthier porn flicks. It was oddly arousing. Naughty cream for a naughty massage, he thought with a smile.
“This might feel a little cool at first,” Erica warned.
A Succubus for Saint Patrick's Day, out Friday 13th March!
Erica looked at his boxers and motioned for him to take them off. Larry obliged with a smile. He hadn’t been totally sure what their visit would entail—how far they’d go—and he’d been too afraid to ask directly, but this, and the strip of condoms he’d seen in Erica’s bag, made him a lot more confident the service he thought they might be offering was the same service he hoped they were offering.
“You joining in?” he asked. Erica and Eunice had made no move to remove their bras and panties.
“Later,” Erica said.
“It’s better to draw these things out,” Eunice added. Her words felt like a moist tongue slowly running down his shaft. Already erect, Larry’s dick twitched in eager anticipation.
Erica patted the surface of the massage table and Larry climbed up and lay on his front. The surface was surprisingly well-padded and soft. Comfy.
He felt firm hands on the back of his neck. Erica gave the meat of his shoulders some experimental squeezes.
“You’re very tense. Up here is all knotted up,” Erica said.
“Stresses of work,” Larry lied.
Shitty posture while playing too much Call of Duty on his Xbox more like.
“Are you okay with us using massage oil?” Erica asked.
“Sure.”
“Why don’t we use the special cream?” Eunice said.
“What a splendid idea,” Erica said. “As long as that’s fine with you,” she leaned down to whisper in Larry’s ear.
“Fine with me,” Larry said. “What’s so special about it?”
“It has aphrodisiac properties,” Erica whispered close enough for her warm breath to tickle against his earlobe. “Or so they say.”
“We save it for our... special... clients,” Eunice said. Her hand slid down and lingered against his inner thigh.
“So I’m ‘special’ now then,” Larry grinned.
“You’re young and your belly doesn’t hang over the side of the table. Trust me, that’s a vast improvement over our usual clientele,” Erica said.
Larry laughed. “For now,” he said. “I shouldn’t laugh too much. That’ll probably be me in twenty years time.”
Working remotely on software while dressed in only a dressing gown and slippers; Xbox; military shooters; playing military shooters under the guise of working remotely on software while dressed in only a dressing gown and slippers—ah, the perils of modern living.
“So this ‘special’ treatment...” Time to stop pussy-footing about and pop the question. “Just how far does it go?”
Now Erica was close enough for her soft lips to brush against his ear. “As far as you want it.”
That sounded like an affirmative.
He jolted as Eunice tickled the underside of his scrotal sac with a long fingernail.
Felt like an affirmative as well.
Both girls giggled. Through the corner of his eye Larry saw Erica walk away and pull something out of her bag. He heard a rude sound. He assumed Erica was squeezing some kind of thick substance out of a tube, but there must be some air caught inside as it came out with a series of burbling squelches that reminded Larry of the lewd sounds of sex organs coming together in the filthier porn flicks. It was oddly arousing. Naughty cream for a naughty massage, he thought with a smile.
“This might feel a little cool at first,” Erica warned.
* * *
A Succubus for Saint Patrick's Day, out Friday 13th March!
Thursday, November 21, 2013
"A Succubus for Remembrance" Excerpts - A Succubus for Remembrance
And we have a release date! A Succubus for Remembrance and other tales of Femme Fatales is finished. I'll be uploading the files tomorrow evening and it should be available from most online bookstores Friday or Saturday. To whet the appetite here's another excerpt, this time from the title story:
Greg Holmes was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because he was standing beneath the cliffs overlooking Kabul.
He knew it was a dream because he was on the other side of the world to Kabul and nothing—not wild horses, not masked men with guns, not even a direct plea from Her Majesty herself—would make him return to this wretched patch of rock, sand and sun. It didn’t matter. A piece of him would always be left here, frozen in time amongst the heat and dust like fossils in the sand.
He was not alone.
A woman stood at the base of the cliff. As with most women from this part of the world she was covered from head to toe in a black burqa. In itself that wasn’t an unusual sight. What was unusual was the level of ornamentation added to her costume. Exotic designs and symbols were stitched onto cloth usually as plain and black as midnight. An exotic golden frill hung from the black scarf wrapped around her forehead. The niqab covering her face was composed of gold and precious stones. This was attire to attract rather than deflect attention.
And her eyes. They simmered with sinful desire.
The sun plunged out of the sky and the cloudless blue of midday turned to the deepest indigo of night in a few blinks of an eye. Time rushed around him as though he was standing in a time-lapsed film. The only fixed points were him and the girl.
She turned and headed towards the entrance to one of the caves that carved deep holes into the rocky cliff face. A warm orange glow emanated from within, promising warmth and shelter from the harsh desert night. The same fires flickered in her eyes as she reached the entrance and glanced over her shoulder back at Greg.
The meaning was clear. He followed her into the cave.
He was naked now. So was the girl. By the soft light of candles he caught glimpses of dusky skin, long lithe limbs, shapely swells of breasts and ass, and then the shadow-painted cleft of the most intimate part of all.
She beckoned him on with an outstretched arm, an exotic wraith painted in swirls of shadow and candlelight.
He stepped towards her, wanting—no, needing!—to put his arms around her and bear her down to the soft earthen floor of the cave. Needing to feel her warmth between his legs. Needing like a parched man needs water in the desert to hear her quiet sighs as they lay entwined together.
She opened her eyes and they flared orange like the fires of burning suns. Like the balls of fire rising up from a city as airplanes rained destruction down on it.
Greg’s desire burned away to fear.
Something terrible with burning eyes awaited him in the darkness of that cave.
Yet he couldn’t stop. Trembling legs put one foot in front of the other as he was drawn, inexorably, towards her outstretched arms. Her eyes expanded. Twin suns grew from tiny spheres the size of marbles into burning stars that filled his entire world. They became his world and consumed him. Beneath their scorching glare his body shrivelled to blackened charcoal and blew away like ashes before a bomb blast.
Greg jerked awake with a start.
The fuck?
Greg was not normally a dreamer and never as vivid as that. He stumbled out of bed and walked into the bathroom to splash water onto his face.
He’d heard some vets complain of Post-Traumatic Stress, but he’d barely seen any action in Afghanistan.
Barely had still been too much.
Frowning, he looked down. An erection was tenting the front of his underwear and showed no sign of going down. He supposed part of the dream had been sexual. He took care of it with his hand and returned to bed.
A Succubus for Remembrance and other tales of Femme Fatales, out this weekend!
* * * *
Greg Holmes was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because he was standing beneath the cliffs overlooking Kabul.
He knew it was a dream because he was on the other side of the world to Kabul and nothing—not wild horses, not masked men with guns, not even a direct plea from Her Majesty herself—would make him return to this wretched patch of rock, sand and sun. It didn’t matter. A piece of him would always be left here, frozen in time amongst the heat and dust like fossils in the sand.
He was not alone.
A woman stood at the base of the cliff. As with most women from this part of the world she was covered from head to toe in a black burqa. In itself that wasn’t an unusual sight. What was unusual was the level of ornamentation added to her costume. Exotic designs and symbols were stitched onto cloth usually as plain and black as midnight. An exotic golden frill hung from the black scarf wrapped around her forehead. The niqab covering her face was composed of gold and precious stones. This was attire to attract rather than deflect attention.
And her eyes. They simmered with sinful desire.
The sun plunged out of the sky and the cloudless blue of midday turned to the deepest indigo of night in a few blinks of an eye. Time rushed around him as though he was standing in a time-lapsed film. The only fixed points were him and the girl.
She turned and headed towards the entrance to one of the caves that carved deep holes into the rocky cliff face. A warm orange glow emanated from within, promising warmth and shelter from the harsh desert night. The same fires flickered in her eyes as she reached the entrance and glanced over her shoulder back at Greg.
The meaning was clear. He followed her into the cave.
He was naked now. So was the girl. By the soft light of candles he caught glimpses of dusky skin, long lithe limbs, shapely swells of breasts and ass, and then the shadow-painted cleft of the most intimate part of all.
She beckoned him on with an outstretched arm, an exotic wraith painted in swirls of shadow and candlelight.
He stepped towards her, wanting—no, needing!—to put his arms around her and bear her down to the soft earthen floor of the cave. Needing to feel her warmth between his legs. Needing like a parched man needs water in the desert to hear her quiet sighs as they lay entwined together.
She opened her eyes and they flared orange like the fires of burning suns. Like the balls of fire rising up from a city as airplanes rained destruction down on it.
Greg’s desire burned away to fear.
Something terrible with burning eyes awaited him in the darkness of that cave.
Yet he couldn’t stop. Trembling legs put one foot in front of the other as he was drawn, inexorably, towards her outstretched arms. Her eyes expanded. Twin suns grew from tiny spheres the size of marbles into burning stars that filled his entire world. They became his world and consumed him. Beneath their scorching glare his body shrivelled to blackened charcoal and blew away like ashes before a bomb blast.
Greg jerked awake with a start.
The fuck?
Greg was not normally a dreamer and never as vivid as that. He stumbled out of bed and walked into the bathroom to splash water onto his face.
He’d heard some vets complain of Post-Traumatic Stress, but he’d barely seen any action in Afghanistan.
Barely had still been too much.
Frowning, he looked down. An erection was tenting the front of his underwear and showed no sign of going down. He supposed part of the dream had been sexual. He took care of it with his hand and returned to bed.
* * * *
A Succubus for Remembrance and other tales of Femme Fatales, out this weekend!
Thursday, November 14, 2013
"A Succubus for Remembrance" Excerpts - Ways To Break A Good Man, 3
Still buried in the guts of editing and formatting A Succubus for Remembrance. Watch this space, soon, etc, etc.
In the meantime here's another excerpt from one of the new stories, "Ways To Break A Good Man, 3":
DCI Ben Millard noticed the girl with the flame-red hair as he was walking back to the station after lunch. Or rather, it was her perfume he noticed first—a seductive melange of sensual aromas that surrounded her in a cloud. The perfume tugged at his nostrils as he walked past, teasing him with fragments of half-remembered erotic exploits. The scent seemed familiar although he couldn’t place it. Maybe it was a brand Adrienne used to wear.
Millard pushed thoughts of Adrienne aside. Not today.
Even though he was single now, Millard didn’t usually look at other women. Old habits die hard and all that. This girl was hard to ignore. She stood beneath a streetlamp about fifty feet from the rear entrance to the station. Her appearance was as attention-grabbing as her perfume. Her slim figure was hidden beneath a glossy leather coat that extended down to just above her knees. A pair of long lithe legs emerged from the hem of the coat and terminated in a stylish pair of black shoes. Her hands and wrists were covered in a matching pair of black gloves. Lustrous red hair cascaded down onto her shoulders in waves of shimmering fire. Millard thought she resembled a starlet from an old ‘70s thriller. Unusual to see a young woman embrace the old fashions. Classy. Most girls today were either aggressively dowdy or ineptly raunchy.
“That’s a bit of alright,” DI Martyn Ward said to him as they passed her and entered the station.
“Bit young for me,” Millard said.
“Never stopped Berlusconi,” Ward said with a wink.
Considering he was a detective chief inspector in one of the largest metropolitan boroughs, Millard’s afternoon was remarkably incident free. He debriefed the team on the forensics results from the latest murder case. Case was possibly too strong a word. One young lad, Joe Turner, had stabbed one of his mates in a petty dispute over a girl. They had the motive—as feeble as it was—the murder weapon, and both Turner’s fingerprints on the murder weapon and his DNA at the crime scene. This wasn’t one for the casebook of Sherlock Holmes.
Oh, the young lad would continue to swear black was white even when given irrefutable evidence of his guilt, but it would be enough for a jury. Millard was sympathetic to the plight of disadvantaged youth, but—god help them—they didn’t half make it harder for themselves.
And that was mostly it for the afternoon. Millard took advantage of the brief respite to get stuck into his paperwork backlog. No doubt another alcohol-sodden city-centre weekend would leave him with a full plate of work again when he came back in on Monday.
“Hey boss.” Ward popped his head around the door as the hands of the clock swept around to five-thirty. “Looks like we’re all done here. We’re going to have a poker night over at Chris’s. You in?”
“Yeah, su—”
Millard pulled a face. He looked at the phone sitting on his desk. There was still one item sitting in his in-tray.
“Sorry, Martyn. Still some work I need to get done. Maybe next time.”
“Sure, no problem, boss. Give us a buzz if you change your mind.”
Millard knew Ward was trying to help. They all were after that . . . business with Adrienne. The frustrating thing was this time he would have come along . . .
He looked at the phone again.
. . . if there wasn’t something else he had to do.
Millard carried on with his paperwork for another ten minutes or so and then got up to stretch his legs. He walked over to the window and watched as most of the staff headed out to either their homes or their local watering holes. He was tempted to say sod it and join them.
He noticed the girl with the flame-red hair was still waiting underneath her streetlamp. Her arms were folded and she glanced left and right along the road. She couldn’t be a working girl, could she? She’d have to be a bit daft to set up a pitch here, not fifty yards from the largest police station in the city. Poor lass must be waiting for someone. No doubt they’d be in for an earful when they finally showed up.
This one has links with another story in the collection and features a returning character from the last collection (Freedom).
Coming soon (providing I don't collapse from overwork :) ) . . .
In the meantime here's another excerpt from one of the new stories, "Ways To Break A Good Man, 3":
* * * *
DCI Ben Millard noticed the girl with the flame-red hair as he was walking back to the station after lunch. Or rather, it was her perfume he noticed first—a seductive melange of sensual aromas that surrounded her in a cloud. The perfume tugged at his nostrils as he walked past, teasing him with fragments of half-remembered erotic exploits. The scent seemed familiar although he couldn’t place it. Maybe it was a brand Adrienne used to wear.
Millard pushed thoughts of Adrienne aside. Not today.
Even though he was single now, Millard didn’t usually look at other women. Old habits die hard and all that. This girl was hard to ignore. She stood beneath a streetlamp about fifty feet from the rear entrance to the station. Her appearance was as attention-grabbing as her perfume. Her slim figure was hidden beneath a glossy leather coat that extended down to just above her knees. A pair of long lithe legs emerged from the hem of the coat and terminated in a stylish pair of black shoes. Her hands and wrists were covered in a matching pair of black gloves. Lustrous red hair cascaded down onto her shoulders in waves of shimmering fire. Millard thought she resembled a starlet from an old ‘70s thriller. Unusual to see a young woman embrace the old fashions. Classy. Most girls today were either aggressively dowdy or ineptly raunchy.
“That’s a bit of alright,” DI Martyn Ward said to him as they passed her and entered the station.
“Bit young for me,” Millard said.
“Never stopped Berlusconi,” Ward said with a wink.
Considering he was a detective chief inspector in one of the largest metropolitan boroughs, Millard’s afternoon was remarkably incident free. He debriefed the team on the forensics results from the latest murder case. Case was possibly too strong a word. One young lad, Joe Turner, had stabbed one of his mates in a petty dispute over a girl. They had the motive—as feeble as it was—the murder weapon, and both Turner’s fingerprints on the murder weapon and his DNA at the crime scene. This wasn’t one for the casebook of Sherlock Holmes.
Oh, the young lad would continue to swear black was white even when given irrefutable evidence of his guilt, but it would be enough for a jury. Millard was sympathetic to the plight of disadvantaged youth, but—god help them—they didn’t half make it harder for themselves.
And that was mostly it for the afternoon. Millard took advantage of the brief respite to get stuck into his paperwork backlog. No doubt another alcohol-sodden city-centre weekend would leave him with a full plate of work again when he came back in on Monday.
“Hey boss.” Ward popped his head around the door as the hands of the clock swept around to five-thirty. “Looks like we’re all done here. We’re going to have a poker night over at Chris’s. You in?”
“Yeah, su—”
Millard pulled a face. He looked at the phone sitting on his desk. There was still one item sitting in his in-tray.
“Sorry, Martyn. Still some work I need to get done. Maybe next time.”
“Sure, no problem, boss. Give us a buzz if you change your mind.”
Millard knew Ward was trying to help. They all were after that . . . business with Adrienne. The frustrating thing was this time he would have come along . . .
He looked at the phone again.
. . . if there wasn’t something else he had to do.
Millard carried on with his paperwork for another ten minutes or so and then got up to stretch his legs. He walked over to the window and watched as most of the staff headed out to either their homes or their local watering holes. He was tempted to say sod it and join them.
He noticed the girl with the flame-red hair was still waiting underneath her streetlamp. Her arms were folded and she glanced left and right along the road. She couldn’t be a working girl, could she? She’d have to be a bit daft to set up a pitch here, not fifty yards from the largest police station in the city. Poor lass must be waiting for someone. No doubt they’d be in for an earful when they finally showed up.
* * * *
This one has links with another story in the collection and features a returning character from the last collection (Freedom).
Coming soon (providing I don't collapse from overwork :) ) . . .
Wednesday, November 06, 2013
"A Succubus for Remembrance" Excerpts - Vernon the Volunteer
I was going to post a new excerpt yesterday but had a horror journey back from holiday that culminated in a car that wouldn't start and a flooded kitchen. Fun times.
I still don't have a concrete release date as I'm still waiting on a few things like a cover and some final editing tweaks. Usual #ChaosWriting, in other words. I'll update here as soon as the new book goes live (hopefully sometime next week).
In the meantime here's an excerpt from the third of the hell-space stories in the collection, "Vernon the Volunteer". (It's also a little bit more NSFW than the other excerpts).
“—give a demonstration of the techniques used by H-space indigenous life forms to overwhelm and subdue opponents.”
Vernon didn’t really hear the doctor. He was still staring at the girl who’d joined them up on stage with slack-jawed appreciation. Holy shee-it. Were all the girls of H-space as hot as this? She was fucking smoking. She looked like a lingerie model. That was all she was wearing as well—lingerie.
Well kind of.
Vernon didn’t know what it was. Some kind of inky-black substance covered her boobs and pussy like a cloud. Didn’t bother Vernon that much. Why be bothered about that when a super-hot babe was standing in front of him. Vernon certainly wasn’t. Like he wasn’t bothered by her horns either . . . or those yellow eyes . . .
Vernon frowned. His brow furrowed.
. . . or her wings . . . or her tail . . . or the way she looked like a . . . devil . . .
Then she smiled at him with a face that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine.
No, it was way better than that. Model types were all haughty, stuck-up bitches. He could see she wasn’t like that. She was more like one of those pretty actresses that play the sweet girl next-door, and were just as nice as the characters they portrayed.
Vernon knew a girl just like that back home. What was her name again . . .
Vampyrotiea’s eyes met his. Her smile looked innocent and sweet on the surface, but there was a little curl at the corner that promised naughty pleasures once the lights went out and it was just them, alone.
. . . oh, he couldn’t remember. Didn’t seem important.
“Vampyrotiea is a succubus,” the doctor said to him in a quiet voice.
Vernon’s eyes remained fixed on Vampyrotiea’s. The doctor’s voice was an irritating mosquito whine in his ear he tried to ignore.
“Sexual intercourse with her will kill you.”
“Uh huh,” Vernon said, not caring what the doctor said.
She was gorgeous. Amazingly, beautifully, gorgeously hot. She had the full package—nice rack, peach of an ass, long toned legs. And she was smiling at him.
Him!
“I’m so sorry, son,” the doctor said before walking away.
“Uh huh,” Vernon nodded again.
His hands were pointing forward from his sides. He had the strong urge to reach out and grab her round the waist. No. Mustn’t scare her off. He had to be smooth.
“What’s your name?” the girl asked.
She placed a warm hand against his cheek.
“Vernon,” Vernon replied.
His hand itched at his side. He ached to slide it over the curve of that peachy ass, to feel her smooth skin beneath his fingers.
“I’m Vampyrotiea, Vernon,” Vampyrotiea said.
She caressed his cheek. The strange inky-black substance covering her breasts flowed up her arm like the tendrils of a plant. Didn’t seem important.
“I want you to do something for me, Vernon,” Vampyrotiea said.
He picked up a strange scent. It must be her perfume. Fancy perfume. Expensive perfume. Sexy perfume.
“I want you to pull your pants down. Can you do that for me, Vernon?” she asked in a voice as smooth as the most expensive silk.
For a babe like her, of course he could. Vernon undid his pants and dropped them and his underwear to the floor. His boner popped up like a flagpole.
Vampyrotiea’s eyes lit up. She murmured sexily and her other hand stroked up and down his shaft. It was soft and gentle, just like her smile. Twin tendrils of darkness slithered down her arm and nudged against his exposed boner. Ticklish.
“I want you to fuck me, Vernon,” Vampyrotiea said. “Fuck me hard from behind.”
She turned around and bent over a chair with her legs splayed apart. That peach of a bubble-butt ass was right in his face and waggling invitingly. The oily black cloud swirling between her legs parted like rainclouds before the sun and for a moment Vernon glimpsed . . .
. . . something like a maw. A circular maw like the mouth of a lamprey, but with no teeth. Instead Vernon saw rows and rows of fleshy lips. It gaped open, deep purple in color and lined with pulsing black veins . . .
. . . the folds of her exposed vagina, moist and dewy-dropped with arousal. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. Her luscious lips were bunched up in a sultry pout and need smoldered in her eyes. She was eager for him. Desperate for him.
I don't think this demonstration is going to end well . . .
Apologies for the continuing vagueness over the release date. Keep an eye out here and I'll post as soon as the book hits the (virtual) shelves.
I still don't have a concrete release date as I'm still waiting on a few things like a cover and some final editing tweaks. Usual #ChaosWriting, in other words. I'll update here as soon as the new book goes live (hopefully sometime next week).
In the meantime here's an excerpt from the third of the hell-space stories in the collection, "Vernon the Volunteer". (It's also a little bit more NSFW than the other excerpts).
* * * *
“—give a demonstration of the techniques used by H-space indigenous life forms to overwhelm and subdue opponents.”
Vernon didn’t really hear the doctor. He was still staring at the girl who’d joined them up on stage with slack-jawed appreciation. Holy shee-it. Were all the girls of H-space as hot as this? She was fucking smoking. She looked like a lingerie model. That was all she was wearing as well—lingerie.
Well kind of.
Vernon didn’t know what it was. Some kind of inky-black substance covered her boobs and pussy like a cloud. Didn’t bother Vernon that much. Why be bothered about that when a super-hot babe was standing in front of him. Vernon certainly wasn’t. Like he wasn’t bothered by her horns either . . . or those yellow eyes . . .
Vernon frowned. His brow furrowed.
. . . or her wings . . . or her tail . . . or the way she looked like a . . . devil . . .
Then she smiled at him with a face that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine.
No, it was way better than that. Model types were all haughty, stuck-up bitches. He could see she wasn’t like that. She was more like one of those pretty actresses that play the sweet girl next-door, and were just as nice as the characters they portrayed.
Vernon knew a girl just like that back home. What was her name again . . .
Vampyrotiea’s eyes met his. Her smile looked innocent and sweet on the surface, but there was a little curl at the corner that promised naughty pleasures once the lights went out and it was just them, alone.
. . . oh, he couldn’t remember. Didn’t seem important.
“Vampyrotiea is a succubus,” the doctor said to him in a quiet voice.
Vernon’s eyes remained fixed on Vampyrotiea’s. The doctor’s voice was an irritating mosquito whine in his ear he tried to ignore.
“Sexual intercourse with her will kill you.”
“Uh huh,” Vernon said, not caring what the doctor said.
She was gorgeous. Amazingly, beautifully, gorgeously hot. She had the full package—nice rack, peach of an ass, long toned legs. And she was smiling at him.
Him!
“I’m so sorry, son,” the doctor said before walking away.
“Uh huh,” Vernon nodded again.
His hands were pointing forward from his sides. He had the strong urge to reach out and grab her round the waist. No. Mustn’t scare her off. He had to be smooth.
“What’s your name?” the girl asked.
She placed a warm hand against his cheek.
“Vernon,” Vernon replied.
His hand itched at his side. He ached to slide it over the curve of that peachy ass, to feel her smooth skin beneath his fingers.
“I’m Vampyrotiea, Vernon,” Vampyrotiea said.
She caressed his cheek. The strange inky-black substance covering her breasts flowed up her arm like the tendrils of a plant. Didn’t seem important.
“I want you to do something for me, Vernon,” Vampyrotiea said.
He picked up a strange scent. It must be her perfume. Fancy perfume. Expensive perfume. Sexy perfume.
“I want you to pull your pants down. Can you do that for me, Vernon?” she asked in a voice as smooth as the most expensive silk.
For a babe like her, of course he could. Vernon undid his pants and dropped them and his underwear to the floor. His boner popped up like a flagpole.
Vampyrotiea’s eyes lit up. She murmured sexily and her other hand stroked up and down his shaft. It was soft and gentle, just like her smile. Twin tendrils of darkness slithered down her arm and nudged against his exposed boner. Ticklish.
“I want you to fuck me, Vernon,” Vampyrotiea said. “Fuck me hard from behind.”
She turned around and bent over a chair with her legs splayed apart. That peach of a bubble-butt ass was right in his face and waggling invitingly. The oily black cloud swirling between her legs parted like rainclouds before the sun and for a moment Vernon glimpsed . . .
. . . something like a maw. A circular maw like the mouth of a lamprey, but with no teeth. Instead Vernon saw rows and rows of fleshy lips. It gaped open, deep purple in color and lined with pulsing black veins . . .
. . . the folds of her exposed vagina, moist and dewy-dropped with arousal. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. Her luscious lips were bunched up in a sultry pout and need smoldered in her eyes. She was eager for him. Desperate for him.
* * * *
I don't think this demonstration is going to end well . . .
Apologies for the continuing vagueness over the release date. Keep an eye out here and I'll post as soon as the book hits the (virtual) shelves.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
"A Succubus for Remembrance" Excerpts - Slugjob
As promised yesterday, here's another excerpt from one of the brand new stories in my forthcoming collection A Succubus for Remembrance. As it's Halloween, I thought it appropriate to let my sexy (and scary!) little witch, Annette Brite, come out and play.
He saw light flickering in the archway on the other side of the room. Someone was coming down the steps.
Annette Brite. Naked Annette Brite. Naked and gifted with the body of a complete sex goddess Annette Brite. Hutson stared at her wistfully. He’d thought she might be hiding a knockout body beneath that voluminous velvet dress, but the reality beat even his desire-fuelled imaginings. She had gorgeous long legs and a pair of tits a reality TV show sleb-wannabe would sell her mother for. Her skin was a little pale, but it suited her exotic features and was far easier on the eye than the gaudy fake tans favoured by the orange people.
He was less aroused by the occult symbols daubed all over her exposed flesh. The markings were dull red in colour. It could be paint but Hutson didn’t think it was. She was still wearing that necklace of wooden beads. She carried a torch in one hand and a long ebony staff in the other. In the flickering light she looked like an albino aboriginal witchdoctor.
The feral savage look didn’t really suit her, in Hutson’s humble opinion.
What a crying shame. Hottest bod he’d ever seen in the flesh and its owner was a complete fucking nutcase.
God, you’re a dick.
“Hello studmuffin,” she said, giving him a smile.
“Hi,” Hutson waved his hands out of the top of the manacles. “It’s normally the blokes that have to resort to the Rohypnol, you know.”
“It’s crude, I know, but you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to bring men back here.”
“It’s not exactly the Playboy mansion,” Hutson commented.
The pool in the centre burbled again as a couple of bubbles broke the surface. An odd smell came from it. Hard to describe. Not rot, not decay, not chemical, but bad. Nasty.
And that definitely wasn’t a jacuzzi, Hutson thought.
“I don’t suppose I can get that massage now?” Hutson asked. “These manacles are buggers on the wrists and shoulders.”
Brite paused. Her full lips pursed and puzzlement flashed across her eyes.
Good. That’s what he wanted. He wanted her knocked off balance. He wanted her to worry she might not be as fully in control as she thought she was. Plus, it was what all the cool dude heroes did in the face of danger in the big Hollywood movies.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Brite said. “But don’t worry, you’ll find tonight’s activities to be equally as pleasant, I’m sure,” she added, leaving the innuendo hanging in the air.
I Was Forced To Take Part In Satanic Orgy! Says Local Man.
“As long as you have condoms,” Hutson said. “I always practise safe sex on the first date.”
Another puzzled look from Brite.
“You’re being very flippant,” she said. “Do you think this is a dream?”
It took his mind off the fact his insides felt like ice-cold porridge. It was taking nearly all of his willpower to stop himself from shitting streaks of thin diarrhoea across the stone floor. He wondered if the cool dude heroes of Hollywood movies ever had that problem.
“No, I’ve been kidnapped by a crazy bitch who wants to sacrifice me to the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s evil twin. But I don’t let anyone intimidate me. Only my old man gets to do that and he’s been under the ground for over a decade now. Where’s the rest of the Manson family anyway? Shouldn’t your little coven be showing up by now?”
Those were the questions Hutson asked, but what he really wanted to know was: How long have I been out?
Brite smiled. She recited some gibberish words that sounded like no language Hutson had ever heard before and banged the base of her staff on the stone floor. He’d told her he wasn’t scared of her, and he tried to tell himself the same thing, but there was something really wrong here. It was more than her obvious craziness or the weird symbols daubed on both the stone surfaces and her flesh. It was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, like his senses were trying to scream something through a thick glass window and he couldn’t quite hear them. There was something not right about her.
More bubbles welled up to the surface of the pool and popped with oily plops.
And that rancid pool gave him the fucking willies.
“You do realise if you stab me through the heart you’ll suffer three simultaneous heart attacks,” Hutson said, trying to bolster his flippant front.
Puzzlement again, then Brite gave a little giggle of laughter.
“Ah, the Wiccan Rule of Three,” she said.
“I thought you’d be aware of it, being the leader of the local Wicca group and all that,” Hutson said.
“It’s a sweet religion,” Brite said, “but the fate of the sweet is always to be crushed by the cruel. My true religion is older and darker.”
“Older than Christ?”
“Older than man.”
Hutson knew it was nonsense, but felt an icy chill slither through his guts nonetheless. His eyes widened, briefly cracking his shield of flippancy before he wrested back control from his primal fears. Meant nothing. Crazy people always sounded convinced of their crazy beliefs. It’s why they were crazy.
How long had he been out?
She recited another occult verse and punctuated it by banging her staff down on the stone flagstones lining the edge of the pool. More bubbles welled up and blopped at the surface.
Coincidence, or some kind of trick.
“Older than man?” Hutson queried. “Are you seriously trying to tell me Cthulhu himself or one of his mates is going to rise up out of that pool and crush me in his slimy beard tentacles?”
He tried to show his derision through laughter. He couldn’t keep the unease out of his voice and it came out too high-pitched—brittle and panicky rather than smooth and dismissive.
Her naked body. What wasn’t right with what he was seeing?
“That’s all makebelieve,” Brite told him with a smile. “An American writer made it all up and other writers copied him.”
She recited more ominous gibberish and banged her staff on the floor. Hutson couldn’t pick out her words. Even though she’d said them mere moments ago, they slipped straight from his mind. It was as if his ears and brain found them so abhorrent they rejected the sounds and dismissed them from his memory.
Stop it.
More bubbles were streaming up to the surface of the pool and popping with noxious burps.
Burps. That was a word to use. And farts. Children’s words. The mangy pool was plurping and garargalling. Pretend he was Ricky Gervais inventing stupid animals and calling them stupider names. Twist her insanity and see it for the ridiculousness it was.
Hutson couldn’t keep out the atmosphere of dread. It seeped through his skin and crept up his bones. The sludge in the pool sloshed about like something was moving below. Something big. Even though he knew it had to be nonsense, he couldn’t shake the feeling that some vast and indescribably malevolent entity was rising up to the surface. Coming to claim him.
Stop it! Stop scaring yourself.
Brite raised her staff again.
Okay, that was enough. Time to play his hand.
Why the title "Slugjob"? Uh . . . um . . . no particular reason . . .
*reads a little further*
Oh dear fucking god! What the fuck was I on!? Imagination, you're sick! Sick, I tell you!
* * * *
He saw light flickering in the archway on the other side of the room. Someone was coming down the steps.
Annette Brite. Naked Annette Brite. Naked and gifted with the body of a complete sex goddess Annette Brite. Hutson stared at her wistfully. He’d thought she might be hiding a knockout body beneath that voluminous velvet dress, but the reality beat even his desire-fuelled imaginings. She had gorgeous long legs and a pair of tits a reality TV show sleb-wannabe would sell her mother for. Her skin was a little pale, but it suited her exotic features and was far easier on the eye than the gaudy fake tans favoured by the orange people.
He was less aroused by the occult symbols daubed all over her exposed flesh. The markings were dull red in colour. It could be paint but Hutson didn’t think it was. She was still wearing that necklace of wooden beads. She carried a torch in one hand and a long ebony staff in the other. In the flickering light she looked like an albino aboriginal witchdoctor.
The feral savage look didn’t really suit her, in Hutson’s humble opinion.
What a crying shame. Hottest bod he’d ever seen in the flesh and its owner was a complete fucking nutcase.
God, you’re a dick.
“Hello studmuffin,” she said, giving him a smile.
“Hi,” Hutson waved his hands out of the top of the manacles. “It’s normally the blokes that have to resort to the Rohypnol, you know.”
“It’s crude, I know, but you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to bring men back here.”
“It’s not exactly the Playboy mansion,” Hutson commented.
The pool in the centre burbled again as a couple of bubbles broke the surface. An odd smell came from it. Hard to describe. Not rot, not decay, not chemical, but bad. Nasty.
And that definitely wasn’t a jacuzzi, Hutson thought.
“I don’t suppose I can get that massage now?” Hutson asked. “These manacles are buggers on the wrists and shoulders.”
Brite paused. Her full lips pursed and puzzlement flashed across her eyes.
Good. That’s what he wanted. He wanted her knocked off balance. He wanted her to worry she might not be as fully in control as she thought she was. Plus, it was what all the cool dude heroes did in the face of danger in the big Hollywood movies.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Brite said. “But don’t worry, you’ll find tonight’s activities to be equally as pleasant, I’m sure,” she added, leaving the innuendo hanging in the air.
I Was Forced To Take Part In Satanic Orgy! Says Local Man.
“As long as you have condoms,” Hutson said. “I always practise safe sex on the first date.”
Another puzzled look from Brite.
“You’re being very flippant,” she said. “Do you think this is a dream?”
It took his mind off the fact his insides felt like ice-cold porridge. It was taking nearly all of his willpower to stop himself from shitting streaks of thin diarrhoea across the stone floor. He wondered if the cool dude heroes of Hollywood movies ever had that problem.
“No, I’ve been kidnapped by a crazy bitch who wants to sacrifice me to the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s evil twin. But I don’t let anyone intimidate me. Only my old man gets to do that and he’s been under the ground for over a decade now. Where’s the rest of the Manson family anyway? Shouldn’t your little coven be showing up by now?”
Those were the questions Hutson asked, but what he really wanted to know was: How long have I been out?
Brite smiled. She recited some gibberish words that sounded like no language Hutson had ever heard before and banged the base of her staff on the stone floor. He’d told her he wasn’t scared of her, and he tried to tell himself the same thing, but there was something really wrong here. It was more than her obvious craziness or the weird symbols daubed on both the stone surfaces and her flesh. It was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, like his senses were trying to scream something through a thick glass window and he couldn’t quite hear them. There was something not right about her.
More bubbles welled up to the surface of the pool and popped with oily plops.
And that rancid pool gave him the fucking willies.
“You do realise if you stab me through the heart you’ll suffer three simultaneous heart attacks,” Hutson said, trying to bolster his flippant front.
Puzzlement again, then Brite gave a little giggle of laughter.
“Ah, the Wiccan Rule of Three,” she said.
“I thought you’d be aware of it, being the leader of the local Wicca group and all that,” Hutson said.
“It’s a sweet religion,” Brite said, “but the fate of the sweet is always to be crushed by the cruel. My true religion is older and darker.”
“Older than Christ?”
“Older than man.”
Hutson knew it was nonsense, but felt an icy chill slither through his guts nonetheless. His eyes widened, briefly cracking his shield of flippancy before he wrested back control from his primal fears. Meant nothing. Crazy people always sounded convinced of their crazy beliefs. It’s why they were crazy.
How long had he been out?
She recited another occult verse and punctuated it by banging her staff down on the stone flagstones lining the edge of the pool. More bubbles welled up and blopped at the surface.
Coincidence, or some kind of trick.
“Older than man?” Hutson queried. “Are you seriously trying to tell me Cthulhu himself or one of his mates is going to rise up out of that pool and crush me in his slimy beard tentacles?”
He tried to show his derision through laughter. He couldn’t keep the unease out of his voice and it came out too high-pitched—brittle and panicky rather than smooth and dismissive.
Her naked body. What wasn’t right with what he was seeing?
“That’s all makebelieve,” Brite told him with a smile. “An American writer made it all up and other writers copied him.”
She recited more ominous gibberish and banged her staff on the floor. Hutson couldn’t pick out her words. Even though she’d said them mere moments ago, they slipped straight from his mind. It was as if his ears and brain found them so abhorrent they rejected the sounds and dismissed them from his memory.
Stop it.
More bubbles were streaming up to the surface of the pool and popping with noxious burps.
Burps. That was a word to use. And farts. Children’s words. The mangy pool was plurping and garargalling. Pretend he was Ricky Gervais inventing stupid animals and calling them stupider names. Twist her insanity and see it for the ridiculousness it was.
Hutson couldn’t keep out the atmosphere of dread. It seeped through his skin and crept up his bones. The sludge in the pool sloshed about like something was moving below. Something big. Even though he knew it had to be nonsense, he couldn’t shake the feeling that some vast and indescribably malevolent entity was rising up to the surface. Coming to claim him.
Stop it! Stop scaring yourself.
Brite raised her staff again.
Okay, that was enough. Time to play his hand.
* * * *
Why the title "Slugjob"? Uh . . . um . . . no particular reason . . .
*reads a little further*
Oh dear fucking god! What the fuck was I on!? Imagination, you're sick! Sick, I tell you!
Monday, October 28, 2013
"A Succubus for Remembrance" excerpts - Ways to Break a Good Man, #1
Last Halloween I posted a story called "Ways to Break a Good Man, No.2". A few people asked where the hell is "Ways to Break a Good Man, No.1"? In truth there was an original "Ways to Break a Good Man, #1" story involving my succubus-wielding mob boss, Koontz, and a dangerous game for a 'good man' Governor's soul. I liked the idea and it had a really effective horror scene early on, but the story kept petering out in a mess of convoluted dialogue (One character realised they needed to stall for time and I made them so good at it they kept filibustering the story into oblivion). I've finally straightened that story out and it will be present in the forthcoming collection, A Succubus for Remembrance. Here's an excerpt to whet the appetite:
“My people are turning this hotel upside down as we speak,” King said, trying to regain composure, authority. “They will find me. And you.”
“Tut tut, Governor King. You didn’t think Ceptophthorié was the only demon I have working for me . . .” The fat man grinned like a toad before turning away. “Enjoy your time with Ceptophthorié. She’ll give your fall a soft landing.”
He tittered as he left the room.
That left King alone . . . with the demon. He sat up on the bed and his gaze flicked back and forth between her and the lamp sitting on the bedside table. He was ready to pick it up and hurl it at her should she make an aggressive move in his direction.
The girl didn’t move. She sat on her chair and her full lips curled up in amusement.
“You look very tense. Would you like me to give you a massage?” she asked.
“No thanks.” King’s gaze flicked back and forth between her and the lamp. “I’m not going to let you do to me whatever you did to McMillan.”
“That’s not how it works,” Ceptophthorié said. “You have to do me.”
King’s brow furrowed.
“Like McMillan,” Ceptophthorié said. “He shoved his big prick inside me and filled my gorgeous pussy with his cum. Then I made him into my little toy. Those are the rules—the man must instigate sexual intercourse of his own free choice.”
“Then I won’t,” King said.
“No?” Ceptophthorié arched a pencil-thin eyebrow.
“No,” King said, his voice flecked with ice. “I have a wife and daughter I love very much. I’m not interested in a common whore.”
Ceptophthorié smiled at his insult.
“I could make you,” she said. “I could use my magic to pin you to the bed, climb on top, swallow up that gorgeous prick with my luscious pussy and ride you until you melted inside me. Or I could entangle you in a web of seduction so potent the merest pluck of a thread would bring you to me on your knees like a faithful little dog.”
For a moment King felt that oppressive force of her presence wrapped around him like a velvet glove. He feared her words were no idle boasts.
“Do it,” he challenged.
Ceptophthorié smiled. “Where would be the sport in that? There’s no fun in taking a man as if he were a common beast. It’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?” King asked. The more he kept her talking the more time it gave the others to find him.
“I want to play a game,” she said. “Would you like to play a game with me?” she asked with a coquettish expression of wide-eyed innocence.
“What if I say no?” King asked. “What’s to stop me walking out of that door right now?”
Ceptophthorié pushed her lower lip out in a disappointed pout.
“That would upset me. I don’t like it when my games are spoiled. And when I’m upset I take it out on the loved ones of the person who upset me. McMillan is not my only toy. Would you like your wife and daughter brutally gang-raped?”
The furious intensity of King’s glare was broken as he stared into the demon’s burning red eyes and realized she wasn’t bluffing. It felt like ice-cold water poured down his spine.
“Now for the rules of the game.” Ceptophthorié switched back to coquettish playfulness. “It’s a challenge—your resolve versus my erotic temptations. At sunrise I must depart this plane. If you can resist my seductions until then you win and get to keep your soul. I’ll even make it easier. I won’t use my demonic abilities to entrance or otherwise compel you into having sexual intercourse with me. I won’t even touch you . . .”
The corner of her full lips turned up in a suggestive smile.
“. . . unless you ask me to. How does that sound?”
“It sounds very easy. I don’t want to have sex with you.”
“Really?” Ceptophthorié said with a teasing smile. “It seems your body has other ideas.” She glanced at the obvious erection tenting the front of his underwear. “He seems eager to greet me, to feel the warmth of my flesh wrapped around him.”
King reddened and shielded the embarrassing protrusion with his hands. It was an automatic response, that was all.
Ceptophthorié giggled.
“If I decide to play, what guarantee is there that you’ll stick to the rules?” King asked. “If your . . . demonic—”
It still felt wrong to use the word even though he’d accepted the impossibility of what she was.
“—abilities are as powerful as you claim, what’s to stop you using them once it gets close to sunrise and I’m about to win?”
“My word,” Ceptophthorié said.
King snorted. “You’re a demon.”
Ceptophthorié was about to feign an expression of hurt, but laughed instead. “True,” she admitted. “I won’t cheat though. The game has no challenge if I allow myself to break the rules whenever the game doesn’t go my way.”
She fixed her gaze on King, temporarily casting aside her flirtatious mask.
“I want to see you fall. I want you to feel the wind flutter through your hair as you plummet into my abyss and know it was you that jumped. That is true pleasure.”
She closed her eyes, brought her hands up and lewdly squeezed the swollen mounds of her breasts.
“It won’t happen,” King said. “You made a mistake. You showed me McMillan. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to fuck you after I saw what it did to McMillan?”
Ceptophthorié threw back her head and laughed.
“I always show the men the consequences of their own damnation. It makes the game so much more interesting.”
The succubus made no move towards King. He watched her warily. At least it started that way. His gaze dipped downwards and was pulled in by the lush, swollen hemispheres of her breasts. It orbited her fleshy curves, trapped like a ship caught in a black hole, sucked down, tugged into the shadowy cleft of cleavage while he became aware of the steady beat of blood through his temples. Down his gaze fell, sliding down a flat belly to the beginnings of her short skirt. She uncrossed her legs and he glimpsed the gates to her sex—plump, dewy, welcoming. His vision narrowed until it seemed like the shadowy pink cleft between her legs grew to encompass his entire world. It was like he stood on the edge of the hotel roof, staring at something far below, staring then teetering, teetering then falling. He was falling down into a fleshy canyon and the soft pink folds of her sex were opening to accept him, opening to engulf him.
I suspect this game will be a little harder than Governor King first thought. A Succubus for Remembrance, out November.
* * * *
“My people are turning this hotel upside down as we speak,” King said, trying to regain composure, authority. “They will find me. And you.”
“Tut tut, Governor King. You didn’t think Ceptophthorié was the only demon I have working for me . . .” The fat man grinned like a toad before turning away. “Enjoy your time with Ceptophthorié. She’ll give your fall a soft landing.”
He tittered as he left the room.
That left King alone . . . with the demon. He sat up on the bed and his gaze flicked back and forth between her and the lamp sitting on the bedside table. He was ready to pick it up and hurl it at her should she make an aggressive move in his direction.
The girl didn’t move. She sat on her chair and her full lips curled up in amusement.
“You look very tense. Would you like me to give you a massage?” she asked.
“No thanks.” King’s gaze flicked back and forth between her and the lamp. “I’m not going to let you do to me whatever you did to McMillan.”
“That’s not how it works,” Ceptophthorié said. “You have to do me.”
King’s brow furrowed.
“Like McMillan,” Ceptophthorié said. “He shoved his big prick inside me and filled my gorgeous pussy with his cum. Then I made him into my little toy. Those are the rules—the man must instigate sexual intercourse of his own free choice.”
“Then I won’t,” King said.
“No?” Ceptophthorié arched a pencil-thin eyebrow.
“No,” King said, his voice flecked with ice. “I have a wife and daughter I love very much. I’m not interested in a common whore.”
Ceptophthorié smiled at his insult.
“I could make you,” she said. “I could use my magic to pin you to the bed, climb on top, swallow up that gorgeous prick with my luscious pussy and ride you until you melted inside me. Or I could entangle you in a web of seduction so potent the merest pluck of a thread would bring you to me on your knees like a faithful little dog.”
For a moment King felt that oppressive force of her presence wrapped around him like a velvet glove. He feared her words were no idle boasts.
“Do it,” he challenged.
Ceptophthorié smiled. “Where would be the sport in that? There’s no fun in taking a man as if he were a common beast. It’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?” King asked. The more he kept her talking the more time it gave the others to find him.
“I want to play a game,” she said. “Would you like to play a game with me?” she asked with a coquettish expression of wide-eyed innocence.
“What if I say no?” King asked. “What’s to stop me walking out of that door right now?”
Ceptophthorié pushed her lower lip out in a disappointed pout.
“That would upset me. I don’t like it when my games are spoiled. And when I’m upset I take it out on the loved ones of the person who upset me. McMillan is not my only toy. Would you like your wife and daughter brutally gang-raped?”
The furious intensity of King’s glare was broken as he stared into the demon’s burning red eyes and realized she wasn’t bluffing. It felt like ice-cold water poured down his spine.
“Now for the rules of the game.” Ceptophthorié switched back to coquettish playfulness. “It’s a challenge—your resolve versus my erotic temptations. At sunrise I must depart this plane. If you can resist my seductions until then you win and get to keep your soul. I’ll even make it easier. I won’t use my demonic abilities to entrance or otherwise compel you into having sexual intercourse with me. I won’t even touch you . . .”
The corner of her full lips turned up in a suggestive smile.
“. . . unless you ask me to. How does that sound?”
“It sounds very easy. I don’t want to have sex with you.”
“Really?” Ceptophthorié said with a teasing smile. “It seems your body has other ideas.” She glanced at the obvious erection tenting the front of his underwear. “He seems eager to greet me, to feel the warmth of my flesh wrapped around him.”
King reddened and shielded the embarrassing protrusion with his hands. It was an automatic response, that was all.
Ceptophthorié giggled.
“If I decide to play, what guarantee is there that you’ll stick to the rules?” King asked. “If your . . . demonic—”
It still felt wrong to use the word even though he’d accepted the impossibility of what she was.
“—abilities are as powerful as you claim, what’s to stop you using them once it gets close to sunrise and I’m about to win?”
“My word,” Ceptophthorié said.
King snorted. “You’re a demon.”
Ceptophthorié was about to feign an expression of hurt, but laughed instead. “True,” she admitted. “I won’t cheat though. The game has no challenge if I allow myself to break the rules whenever the game doesn’t go my way.”
She fixed her gaze on King, temporarily casting aside her flirtatious mask.
“I want to see you fall. I want you to feel the wind flutter through your hair as you plummet into my abyss and know it was you that jumped. That is true pleasure.”
She closed her eyes, brought her hands up and lewdly squeezed the swollen mounds of her breasts.
“It won’t happen,” King said. “You made a mistake. You showed me McMillan. Do you think I’d be stupid enough to fuck you after I saw what it did to McMillan?”
Ceptophthorié threw back her head and laughed.
“I always show the men the consequences of their own damnation. It makes the game so much more interesting.”
The succubus made no move towards King. He watched her warily. At least it started that way. His gaze dipped downwards and was pulled in by the lush, swollen hemispheres of her breasts. It orbited her fleshy curves, trapped like a ship caught in a black hole, sucked down, tugged into the shadowy cleft of cleavage while he became aware of the steady beat of blood through his temples. Down his gaze fell, sliding down a flat belly to the beginnings of her short skirt. She uncrossed her legs and he glimpsed the gates to her sex—plump, dewy, welcoming. His vision narrowed until it seemed like the shadowy pink cleft between her legs grew to encompass his entire world. It was like he stood on the edge of the hotel roof, staring at something far below, staring then teetering, teetering then falling. He was falling down into a fleshy canyon and the soft pink folds of her sex were opening to accept him, opening to engulf him.
* * * *
I suspect this game will be a little harder than Governor King first thought. A Succubus for Remembrance, out November.
Monday, October 21, 2013
A Succubus for Remembrance Excerpts - Hugh the Hero
The holiday back home with the folks has been unsurprisingly chaotic. I'm still endeavouring to get A Succubus for Remembrance ready for an early November release, although this might slip - I'd rather put out a good book two weeks late than an on-time book filled with embarrassing errors. In the meantime here's an excerpt from one of the new stories, "Hugh the Hero." This is the parallel-quel story to "Trent the Traitor." You'll recognise the opening scene in the excerpt, although this time it's from Hugh's perspective.
They paused outside a large ornate door. Hugh saw a face he recognized walking in the opposite direction with an accompaniment of succubus guards. One of the lower-ranked infantry grunts. He’d seen him a few times in the main mess tent at Helmuth. Weaselly-looking dude.
“Hang in there,” he bellowed. “Don’t let them break you. The marines will come. They’ll bust us all out of this hellhole.”
Hugh truly believed that. He believed in supreme American military might. The unusual H-space physics and unorthodox hindig tactics had caught them off guard, but they would find a way to adapt and then they’d flatten this little shitball just as easily as they’d steamrollered over Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein and all the other fucktards.
“Pray to Jesus!” he shouted. “Keep your faith in...”
Hugh’s words tailed off. Why wasn’t this guy in chains? Why did he look more like a VIP with an escort detail than a prisoner with guards?
An awful thought germinated in Hugh’s mind. The attack on Helmuth had been too easy. Even with their unorthodox tactics the devils should not have been able to penetrate their outer defenses and surprise them like that.
Unless they’d had inside help.
“You sold us out.”
Rage exploded within Hugh. This asshole hadn’t just sold out his side, he’d sold out his country, his species, his world, God. For what, a piece of demonic tail?
“You motherfucker. You sold us out. That’s how they got in so easily. You sold us out for a piece of ass. You traitorous fuck. I’ll tear your fucking lungs out.”
Thoughts of waiting patiently for the right opportunity were incinerated in the incandescent blaze of Hugh’s righteous rage. Right then, at that moment, he cared about nothing other than putting his hands around that fucker’s scrawny throat and squeezing until the asshole’s eyes popped out.
The bubblegum-skinned demon girls giggled and opened the big ornate door.
Hugh tensed his muscular frame to pounce and...
...was suddenly travelling backwards in the opposite direction. He felt a constriction around his waist and looked down to see pink tentacle as thick as his thigh wrapped around his midriff. It was fantastically strong. Hugh was lifted up off the floor and dragged through the open door and down into darkness. One of the succubi gave him a little wave as she closed the heavy door behind him.
Hugh’s struggling form was dumped onto a floor that was underneath an inch of what he initially thought was water. The substance was wet, but as he moved his hands through it he realized it was too viscous to be water. It felt more like warm slime. The floor didn’t feel much like a floor either. It yielded beneath his weight and felt more like a trampoline, or the surface to a waterbed.
Unsteadily he got back to his feet, wobbling on the yielding and slippery floor. Initially the room seemed to be in darkness, but as his eyes accustomed he saw the slime beneath him was mildly phosphorescent. It wasn’t as bright as the corridor outside, but his eyes were able to adjust and see—
Oh Mary-fucking-mother of God.
Most of the hindigs looked like the typical devil girls of computer games. Some were weirder—he’d heard of floating jellyfish girls; strange plant hybrids; girls that were half spider; and he’d glimpsed the giant fog puffers that had overwhelmed FOB Helmuth. The hindig before him was half octopus or squid. From the waist up she had the voluptuous body of a porn queen. There was a regal cast to her face as well. Hugh might have thought it beautiful if it wasn’t for the unnatural bubble-gum hue to her skin, or her yellow eyes. She didn’t have hair either. At first he’d thought it contained within a pink sack hanging behind her head. Then he realized that sack was part of her body. He watched it swell up and down as if it was breathing.
That part, her upper half, Hugh could just about deal with. It was her lower half that nearly tore his mind asunder. His disintegrating sanity tried to tell him it was a ball gown—a giant, elaborate, puffed up ballroom dress, like a princess might wear in a Disney cartoon. One that was so huge she needed to stand on stilts to wear it.
He wasn’t yet insane enough to be fooled. It was a ring of pink tentacles, each as thick as his thigh. They bulged out of her waist and curled down to the ground. Hugh saw it clearly even though he knew it should not be.
“Welcome,” the demon said in a surprisingly melodious voice. “I am Enteroctia.”
And that's a little more of Hugh's eventual fate revealed. For the rest you'll have to wait until the new collection comes out next month.
There is also a line in this story that should hit like a slap in the face. Don't worry, I love you all really... ;)
* * * *
They paused outside a large ornate door. Hugh saw a face he recognized walking in the opposite direction with an accompaniment of succubus guards. One of the lower-ranked infantry grunts. He’d seen him a few times in the main mess tent at Helmuth. Weaselly-looking dude.
“Hang in there,” he bellowed. “Don’t let them break you. The marines will come. They’ll bust us all out of this hellhole.”
Hugh truly believed that. He believed in supreme American military might. The unusual H-space physics and unorthodox hindig tactics had caught them off guard, but they would find a way to adapt and then they’d flatten this little shitball just as easily as they’d steamrollered over Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussein and all the other fucktards.
“Pray to Jesus!” he shouted. “Keep your faith in...”
Hugh’s words tailed off. Why wasn’t this guy in chains? Why did he look more like a VIP with an escort detail than a prisoner with guards?
An awful thought germinated in Hugh’s mind. The attack on Helmuth had been too easy. Even with their unorthodox tactics the devils should not have been able to penetrate their outer defenses and surprise them like that.
Unless they’d had inside help.
“You sold us out.”
Rage exploded within Hugh. This asshole hadn’t just sold out his side, he’d sold out his country, his species, his world, God. For what, a piece of demonic tail?
“You motherfucker. You sold us out. That’s how they got in so easily. You sold us out for a piece of ass. You traitorous fuck. I’ll tear your fucking lungs out.”
Thoughts of waiting patiently for the right opportunity were incinerated in the incandescent blaze of Hugh’s righteous rage. Right then, at that moment, he cared about nothing other than putting his hands around that fucker’s scrawny throat and squeezing until the asshole’s eyes popped out.
The bubblegum-skinned demon girls giggled and opened the big ornate door.
Hugh tensed his muscular frame to pounce and...
...was suddenly travelling backwards in the opposite direction. He felt a constriction around his waist and looked down to see pink tentacle as thick as his thigh wrapped around his midriff. It was fantastically strong. Hugh was lifted up off the floor and dragged through the open door and down into darkness. One of the succubi gave him a little wave as she closed the heavy door behind him.
Hugh’s struggling form was dumped onto a floor that was underneath an inch of what he initially thought was water. The substance was wet, but as he moved his hands through it he realized it was too viscous to be water. It felt more like warm slime. The floor didn’t feel much like a floor either. It yielded beneath his weight and felt more like a trampoline, or the surface to a waterbed.
Unsteadily he got back to his feet, wobbling on the yielding and slippery floor. Initially the room seemed to be in darkness, but as his eyes accustomed he saw the slime beneath him was mildly phosphorescent. It wasn’t as bright as the corridor outside, but his eyes were able to adjust and see—
Oh Mary-fucking-mother of God.
Most of the hindigs looked like the typical devil girls of computer games. Some were weirder—he’d heard of floating jellyfish girls; strange plant hybrids; girls that were half spider; and he’d glimpsed the giant fog puffers that had overwhelmed FOB Helmuth. The hindig before him was half octopus or squid. From the waist up she had the voluptuous body of a porn queen. There was a regal cast to her face as well. Hugh might have thought it beautiful if it wasn’t for the unnatural bubble-gum hue to her skin, or her yellow eyes. She didn’t have hair either. At first he’d thought it contained within a pink sack hanging behind her head. Then he realized that sack was part of her body. He watched it swell up and down as if it was breathing.
That part, her upper half, Hugh could just about deal with. It was her lower half that nearly tore his mind asunder. His disintegrating sanity tried to tell him it was a ball gown—a giant, elaborate, puffed up ballroom dress, like a princess might wear in a Disney cartoon. One that was so huge she needed to stand on stilts to wear it.
He wasn’t yet insane enough to be fooled. It was a ring of pink tentacles, each as thick as his thigh. They bulged out of her waist and curled down to the ground. Hugh saw it clearly even though he knew it should not be.
“Welcome,” the demon said in a surprisingly melodious voice. “I am Enteroctia.”
* * * *
And that's a little more of Hugh's eventual fate revealed. For the rest you'll have to wait until the new collection comes out next month.
There is also a line in this story that should hit like a slap in the face. Don't worry, I love you all really... ;)
Thursday, August 30, 2012
A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt 6
There are six brand new stories in my new collection, A Succubus for Freedom. I've already run excerpts of five of them. Here's an excerpt from the sixth. It's the twisted homage to Robert E. Howard I talked about back here. This time it's "Barbarian vs. Succubus".
Even exaggerated with wine-soaked bravado, none of the tales of the Seraglio of Neeb matched up to the reality. It truly was a temple to the worship of sensual pleasures. The rooms beyond were more sumptuous than even the King’s own chambers. Nanok saw pools of crystal-clear water with fragrant flower petals sprinkled on the surface. Mountains of soft silk cushions were piled upon lush, exotic furs. And the girls . . .
Nanok had never before seen such a collection of comely beauties. If willing wenches were as plentiful as apples on the ground then these maidens must be the sweetest, most succulent fruits of the Gods’ own orchard. Nanok saw sapphire-eyed willowy blondes from Fe’berg; flame-haired temptresses from wild Zeminolia; olive-skinned beauties from the islands of Oran; a dark-skinned Buronthian with her black hair twined together in long braids; girls from every corner of the map he’d travelled to and some from regions he’d only heard of in campfire tales. Their supple bodies were naked save for swathes of fine silk around their shapely hips. All were adorned with delicate golden chains and glittering precious stones. A king’s treasure in metal, stone and flesh, was Nanok’s thought.
This temple even had its own idol. At the far end of the long room, with its legs astride a walkway between two pools, stood an enormous statue of the same horned devil woman Nanok had seen on both the chains of office and capstone above the entrance. Clouds of incense wafted around the statue’s legs.
All civilised men made a worship of hedonism and pleasure, in Nanok’s opinion. At least in Neeb they were honest about it.
The girls remained queerly composed. Nanok would have expected some to flee screaming at the arrival of ten bloodstained and battle-weary men, and wouldn’t have begrudged them. He’d sacked his fair share of cities. He knew full well men with their blood up from battle, even the most noble, often committed terrible atrocities in the moments following a city’s fall. These girls seemed so unafraid Nanok wondered if they might be ensorcelled or lost in dreams of the lotus. The same enchantment seemed to have spread to Nanok’s men. Rather than charging in like lusty sailors finding port after a long voyage, they were stricken with a kind of awe. They entered quietly and respectfully, more like men on their way to worship at a temple than men looking to spend coin and seed at a bordello.
Two veiled maidens—one dusky, the other as pale as a snowfield—approached Nanok and bowed.
“Esqeta told us King Lyoncar is dead and we are to serve you as we served him,” the dusky maiden said.
“We are yours as we were his,” the pale-skinned girl said.
“What is your wish, King Nanok?” the dusky-skinned girl asked.
Nanok smiled. “I have some battle-weary dogs in need of the light touch of a woman’s hand to pick up their flesh and spirits.”
As with the veiled Esqeta, if the women balked at the presence of the sweaty, bloodstained soldiers, they hid it well. They seemed well-versed in that peculiar civilised art of quelling the fires of the heart that Nanok so often found infuriating when dealing with the sophisticated elites. The slippery sons of snakes never let on what they were really thinking. By Dhom, the battle had been hard enough as it was. He was in no mood for thawing the loins of frosty dancing wenches.
He didn’t have to worry. The two veiled maidens led him to a soft pile of silk cushions. Both ran soft hands over the iron-hard muscles of his biceps and thighs while cooing like lovebirds. Nanok grinned. As usual, the daughters of civilisation were only too eager to let in the wolf prowling outside their gates.
Nanok lay back on soft cushions. It was a welcome change from cold earth and hard pallets. Around him the atmosphere grew more raucous as his men stripped off their armour and cavorted with the harem girls. Music—an exotic caterwauling of unearthly pipes, cat-screech strings and beating drums—played in the background. Plentiful food and fine wines were brought in—a coronation feast befitting a new king. And by Dhom, why shouldn’t he enjoy it. He’d earned it through blood and steel, as was the right of all men.
“Ha ha,” Vroo guffawed. “These wenches have been starved of real men for too long. The sagging sceptre of a fat old king is no substitute for the sword of a virile fighting man.” He took a bite out of a large leg of ham and rubbed his face between the breasts of the voluptuous maiden lying next to him.
Over on a plush divan Dranitreb was attempting to woo his maiden like a yellow-bellied Kosskootan—a kiss to her hand, a kiss to her wrist, a kiss to her arm, a kiss to—
“You’re supposed to make love to her, lad, not send her to sleep,” Nanok called out. “Forgive the pup,” he said to Dranitreb’s partner. “He became a man only today.”
Dranitreb blushed. Understanding flashed in the girl’s eye. With one quick motion she had Dranitreb on his back and was astride him. Nanok smiled. The Zeminolians were renowned horse riders. The young pup was likely to find himself broken in like a stallion if he didn’t watch himself.
The corded steel of Nanok’s neck and shoulders softened as he relaxed on the cushions. The battle was won; time to enjoy the spoils. The pale-skinned maiden brought a platter of sweet grapes and fed them to him while her companion caressed his muscles with first her hands and then her lips.
Scented smoke was filling the room like a fog. He watched it spill out of the nipples and sex of the giant idol and roll across the floor like mists across the northern lakes of Abyleen. Nanok snorted, trying to clear his nostrils of the cloying perfume. The scent was pleasant, but too thick. It overpowered his senses and left him feeling diminished in the way a blindfold over his eyes would take away his sight.
A fiery ache blossomed in his body and surged down to his loins. Sensing his arousal, the dusky maiden took off his loincloth and Nanok’s cock rose with the mists. The air must be drugged. Nanok had heard of such things. Plenty of peddlers in the flesh pits of Po-Teat promised all kinds of unguents, potions and scents to help a man’s rod stay straight and true. Undoubtedly King Lyoncar had required a little something of that magic to help him fully appreciate his treasures. Nanok thought it feeble. If a man had a willing wench beside him, he needed no help.
A gong sounded. The music paused.
“Lady Esqeta will now dance for your pleasure,” the dusky-skinned maiden whispered in his ear, close enough for him to feel the soft pressure of her full lips.
Nanok’s interest pricked up. He was curious to see what the mistress of the seraglio was hiding beneath her robes. A great cloud of smoke billowed from between the legs of the giant idol. Like the breath of a dragon, Nanok thought with a small sliver of disquiet. Two slender girls—golden-skinned beauties from far-off Kallahia, waved fans as they fluttered before the cloud like exotic butterflies. The smoke faded and revealed Lady Esqeta.
This was the last story to finish for the collection. Originally it was a simple prospect - take musclebound-but-dim stereotypical barbarian and have a succubus turn the tables on them. Then I reread all of Howard's stories and remembered his Conan, the archetypal and Ur-barbarian, is far more clever and cunning than the fantasy stereotypes that followed.
There's a little black joke at Howard's expense buried in the story. It wasn't deliberate, just a combination of words that could be taken to mean something else. I only noticed it was there when I was editing. I thought about editing it out, but that would mean acknowledging I have something other than a lump of black coal for a heart, which patently isn't true. Apologies anyway, Mr Howard, you stupid daft bugger for killing yourself so young. His genius is available to read here, and well worth checking out to see how good the early pulp masters were.
My humble effort, A Succubus for Freedom, is available now as an ebook from here, here, here, and even B&N here, although no one seems to go there anymore.
For the people waiting for a print version, I do have the full coverflat artwork now and I'm just waiting for the print manuscript to go through. I'll post here with details as soon as the print version of the book is available to buy. Sorry for the delay on that.
I'm not sure which fantasy stereotype is up next for "vs. Succubus". I have Rogue and Samurai (with a guest appearance from another of my characters) pencilled in. Any others you'd like to see?
* * * *
Even exaggerated with wine-soaked bravado, none of the tales of the Seraglio of Neeb matched up to the reality. It truly was a temple to the worship of sensual pleasures. The rooms beyond were more sumptuous than even the King’s own chambers. Nanok saw pools of crystal-clear water with fragrant flower petals sprinkled on the surface. Mountains of soft silk cushions were piled upon lush, exotic furs. And the girls . . .
Nanok had never before seen such a collection of comely beauties. If willing wenches were as plentiful as apples on the ground then these maidens must be the sweetest, most succulent fruits of the Gods’ own orchard. Nanok saw sapphire-eyed willowy blondes from Fe’berg; flame-haired temptresses from wild Zeminolia; olive-skinned beauties from the islands of Oran; a dark-skinned Buronthian with her black hair twined together in long braids; girls from every corner of the map he’d travelled to and some from regions he’d only heard of in campfire tales. Their supple bodies were naked save for swathes of fine silk around their shapely hips. All were adorned with delicate golden chains and glittering precious stones. A king’s treasure in metal, stone and flesh, was Nanok’s thought.
This temple even had its own idol. At the far end of the long room, with its legs astride a walkway between two pools, stood an enormous statue of the same horned devil woman Nanok had seen on both the chains of office and capstone above the entrance. Clouds of incense wafted around the statue’s legs.
All civilised men made a worship of hedonism and pleasure, in Nanok’s opinion. At least in Neeb they were honest about it.
The girls remained queerly composed. Nanok would have expected some to flee screaming at the arrival of ten bloodstained and battle-weary men, and wouldn’t have begrudged them. He’d sacked his fair share of cities. He knew full well men with their blood up from battle, even the most noble, often committed terrible atrocities in the moments following a city’s fall. These girls seemed so unafraid Nanok wondered if they might be ensorcelled or lost in dreams of the lotus. The same enchantment seemed to have spread to Nanok’s men. Rather than charging in like lusty sailors finding port after a long voyage, they were stricken with a kind of awe. They entered quietly and respectfully, more like men on their way to worship at a temple than men looking to spend coin and seed at a bordello.
Two veiled maidens—one dusky, the other as pale as a snowfield—approached Nanok and bowed.
“Esqeta told us King Lyoncar is dead and we are to serve you as we served him,” the dusky maiden said.
“We are yours as we were his,” the pale-skinned girl said.
“What is your wish, King Nanok?” the dusky-skinned girl asked.
Nanok smiled. “I have some battle-weary dogs in need of the light touch of a woman’s hand to pick up their flesh and spirits.”
As with the veiled Esqeta, if the women balked at the presence of the sweaty, bloodstained soldiers, they hid it well. They seemed well-versed in that peculiar civilised art of quelling the fires of the heart that Nanok so often found infuriating when dealing with the sophisticated elites. The slippery sons of snakes never let on what they were really thinking. By Dhom, the battle had been hard enough as it was. He was in no mood for thawing the loins of frosty dancing wenches.
He didn’t have to worry. The two veiled maidens led him to a soft pile of silk cushions. Both ran soft hands over the iron-hard muscles of his biceps and thighs while cooing like lovebirds. Nanok grinned. As usual, the daughters of civilisation were only too eager to let in the wolf prowling outside their gates.
Nanok lay back on soft cushions. It was a welcome change from cold earth and hard pallets. Around him the atmosphere grew more raucous as his men stripped off their armour and cavorted with the harem girls. Music—an exotic caterwauling of unearthly pipes, cat-screech strings and beating drums—played in the background. Plentiful food and fine wines were brought in—a coronation feast befitting a new king. And by Dhom, why shouldn’t he enjoy it. He’d earned it through blood and steel, as was the right of all men.
“Ha ha,” Vroo guffawed. “These wenches have been starved of real men for too long. The sagging sceptre of a fat old king is no substitute for the sword of a virile fighting man.” He took a bite out of a large leg of ham and rubbed his face between the breasts of the voluptuous maiden lying next to him.
Over on a plush divan Dranitreb was attempting to woo his maiden like a yellow-bellied Kosskootan—a kiss to her hand, a kiss to her wrist, a kiss to her arm, a kiss to—
“You’re supposed to make love to her, lad, not send her to sleep,” Nanok called out. “Forgive the pup,” he said to Dranitreb’s partner. “He became a man only today.”
Dranitreb blushed. Understanding flashed in the girl’s eye. With one quick motion she had Dranitreb on his back and was astride him. Nanok smiled. The Zeminolians were renowned horse riders. The young pup was likely to find himself broken in like a stallion if he didn’t watch himself.
The corded steel of Nanok’s neck and shoulders softened as he relaxed on the cushions. The battle was won; time to enjoy the spoils. The pale-skinned maiden brought a platter of sweet grapes and fed them to him while her companion caressed his muscles with first her hands and then her lips.
Scented smoke was filling the room like a fog. He watched it spill out of the nipples and sex of the giant idol and roll across the floor like mists across the northern lakes of Abyleen. Nanok snorted, trying to clear his nostrils of the cloying perfume. The scent was pleasant, but too thick. It overpowered his senses and left him feeling diminished in the way a blindfold over his eyes would take away his sight.
A fiery ache blossomed in his body and surged down to his loins. Sensing his arousal, the dusky maiden took off his loincloth and Nanok’s cock rose with the mists. The air must be drugged. Nanok had heard of such things. Plenty of peddlers in the flesh pits of Po-Teat promised all kinds of unguents, potions and scents to help a man’s rod stay straight and true. Undoubtedly King Lyoncar had required a little something of that magic to help him fully appreciate his treasures. Nanok thought it feeble. If a man had a willing wench beside him, he needed no help.
A gong sounded. The music paused.
“Lady Esqeta will now dance for your pleasure,” the dusky-skinned maiden whispered in his ear, close enough for him to feel the soft pressure of her full lips.
Nanok’s interest pricked up. He was curious to see what the mistress of the seraglio was hiding beneath her robes. A great cloud of smoke billowed from between the legs of the giant idol. Like the breath of a dragon, Nanok thought with a small sliver of disquiet. Two slender girls—golden-skinned beauties from far-off Kallahia, waved fans as they fluttered before the cloud like exotic butterflies. The smoke faded and revealed Lady Esqeta.
* * * *
This was the last story to finish for the collection. Originally it was a simple prospect - take musclebound-but-dim stereotypical barbarian and have a succubus turn the tables on them. Then I reread all of Howard's stories and remembered his Conan, the archetypal and Ur-barbarian, is far more clever and cunning than the fantasy stereotypes that followed.
There's a little black joke at Howard's expense buried in the story. It wasn't deliberate, just a combination of words that could be taken to mean something else. I only noticed it was there when I was editing. I thought about editing it out, but that would mean acknowledging I have something other than a lump of black coal for a heart, which patently isn't true. Apologies anyway, Mr Howard, you stupid daft bugger for killing yourself so young. His genius is available to read here, and well worth checking out to see how good the early pulp masters were.
My humble effort, A Succubus for Freedom, is available now as an ebook from here, here, here, and even B&N here, although no one seems to go there anymore.
For the people waiting for a print version, I do have the full coverflat artwork now and I'm just waiting for the print manuscript to go through. I'll post here with details as soon as the print version of the book is available to buy. Sorry for the delay on that.
I'm not sure which fantasy stereotype is up next for "vs. Succubus". I have Rogue and Samurai (with a guest appearance from another of my characters) pencilled in. Any others you'd like to see?
Sunday, August 12, 2012
A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt 5
Continuing the excerpts from A Succubus for Freedom, here's a tasty chunk from the other new Hell-space story, "Onychophoral Dreams (The Soul Worm II)":
It was quiet. I didn’t notice it until it was almost right on top of me and by then I was too surprised to react. She—
That’s the weird part. It’s so easy to focus on the human-like parts and forget their other . . . bits. I know I should think of it as an it, but it’s always a she.
She was right in front of me, not more than a couple of paces and as naked as the day she was born. Cute as well. She had a smile like the girls you always wanted to talk to at school, but never had the courage to ask. Those naked titties of hers were something to behold. Big, round, firm, and with the sweetest pink nipples you ever saw right in the middle of them. Pink like her hair, if it was hair.
I didn’t move. Ever since Beth . . . since Beth . . .
. . .
It’s been a while since I’ve seen a girl’s titties in the flesh. The other guys’ll go to their strip clubs, maybe get more if it’s offered, but not me. That ain’t me. Now there was this gorgeous naked girl standing right in front of me and I was so shocked I didn’t have the first idea what to do.
Except she wasn’t a girl. You only had to look down to past her waist to see that. Where a normal girl would have a cute little ass and maybe long sexy legs if you’re lucky, this girl had . . .
It’s hard to describe. Hey, you know what a velvet worm is? Proper name is peripati or puripatus or something like that.
Nephew of mine likes keeping weird little bugs for pets and that was one of them. They call it a worm, but it walks. Has these stumpy little legs—not like a millipede, more like a caterpillar.
Anyway, that’s what the girl’s lower body looked like—long, worm-like and dark pink in colour, but with rows of stumpy little triangular legs running down each side. She’d reared up so it looked like she was standing upright like a normal girl, but with that long, moist-looking worm body below the waist and fleshy little pyramid legs waving around in front of her. Even if you couldn’t see that lower peripati-whatever body, you’d still know she wasn’t a human girl. She had antennae. They grew out of her temples like the eyestalks of a slug. There was a second, bigger pair, growing out of her hips on either side of her pussy.
Ah, her pussy. It’s going to sound weird, like I’m the biggest goddamn pervert in the world, but I swear to you it was the sweetest damn little cunny you’re ever likely to see. So clean-shaven, as if it had been plucked, and with all her intimate folds tucked up so nice and tidy within her.
I know how I sound—a fucking deviant lusting after freaky demon poonang—but there was something about her exposed vagina. It drew the gaze, grabbed the eye and held it there like it had been harpooned. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m a good man, a god-fearing man. Heck, there hasn’t been anyone since Beth. Yet I was staring and gawping like I was back at puberty with my first porn mag beneath trembling fingers.
And while I was standing there and gawping like a deer in headlights those weird stalks sticking out of where her hips should be opened out into fleshy tubes and sprayed gunk all over me.
The gunk left her tubes as a jet of liquid, but it was already solidifying by the time it reached me—setting like glue or maybe some kind of stretchy rubber. The first sticky line hitting me in the chest knocked me out of my trance. I tried to struggle free, but it was already too late. She stood there and squirted more sticky threads over me until I was totally gunked up.
At that point I noticed the sticky gunk was eating right through my clothes like acid and I really started panicking. I thought for sure I was going to be melted in freaky alien slime. I thrashed around like a berserker.
Not that it did me any good. The thick threads stretched, but they were strong like thick rubber and stickier than glue. The girl thought it was funny. She stood there with her arms under those perfect pink titties and her shoulders moving up and down like she was giggling.
I was a crazed animal at this point. I was dreading the moment when the slime finished eating through my uniform and started to cut into my flesh.
It didn’t happen. As corrosive as the gunk seemed to be to clothes—and hair—I didn’t feel any pain or loss of sensation when it reached my skin. It felt warm, sticky and kind of pervy. Yeah, a weird description, I know, but that’s how it was. The stuff covered me and I felt all dirty and excited at the same time, like I was about to have illicit sex with that girl at school everyone warns you to steer clear of.
I kept pulling at the sticky, stretchy filaments, but my motions were slower now, like a punch drunk boxer on the ropes in the tenth round. I was stuck fast and knew it.
“Have you quite finished?”
Yeah, she spoke perfect English. It was a shock to me too. I stopped struggling and stared at her like I was an inbred redneck.
Her voice was high and sweet, kind of like a young woman being all teasy and girlish. She had that kind of face as well, if you ignored her weird antennae things.
“You won’t break loose, no matter how hard you struggle,” she said.
She was right. I was all trussed up in her sticky white ropes. What unnerved me was part of me seemed perfectly happy with this.
“What do you want?” I asked.
She didn’t miss a beat. She reached down and hooked a finger right up between the folds of her pussy. I swear that sweet little face went and gave me a smile dirtier than the filthiest jezebel.
Out now on Amazon, B & N, Smashwords and other ebook websites.
* * * *
It was quiet. I didn’t notice it until it was almost right on top of me and by then I was too surprised to react. She—
That’s the weird part. It’s so easy to focus on the human-like parts and forget their other . . . bits. I know I should think of it as an it, but it’s always a she.
She was right in front of me, not more than a couple of paces and as naked as the day she was born. Cute as well. She had a smile like the girls you always wanted to talk to at school, but never had the courage to ask. Those naked titties of hers were something to behold. Big, round, firm, and with the sweetest pink nipples you ever saw right in the middle of them. Pink like her hair, if it was hair.
I didn’t move. Ever since Beth . . . since Beth . . .
. . .
It’s been a while since I’ve seen a girl’s titties in the flesh. The other guys’ll go to their strip clubs, maybe get more if it’s offered, but not me. That ain’t me. Now there was this gorgeous naked girl standing right in front of me and I was so shocked I didn’t have the first idea what to do.
Except she wasn’t a girl. You only had to look down to past her waist to see that. Where a normal girl would have a cute little ass and maybe long sexy legs if you’re lucky, this girl had . . .
It’s hard to describe. Hey, you know what a velvet worm is? Proper name is peripati or puripatus or something like that.
Nephew of mine likes keeping weird little bugs for pets and that was one of them. They call it a worm, but it walks. Has these stumpy little legs—not like a millipede, more like a caterpillar.
Anyway, that’s what the girl’s lower body looked like—long, worm-like and dark pink in colour, but with rows of stumpy little triangular legs running down each side. She’d reared up so it looked like she was standing upright like a normal girl, but with that long, moist-looking worm body below the waist and fleshy little pyramid legs waving around in front of her. Even if you couldn’t see that lower peripati-whatever body, you’d still know she wasn’t a human girl. She had antennae. They grew out of her temples like the eyestalks of a slug. There was a second, bigger pair, growing out of her hips on either side of her pussy.
Ah, her pussy. It’s going to sound weird, like I’m the biggest goddamn pervert in the world, but I swear to you it was the sweetest damn little cunny you’re ever likely to see. So clean-shaven, as if it had been plucked, and with all her intimate folds tucked up so nice and tidy within her.
I know how I sound—a fucking deviant lusting after freaky demon poonang—but there was something about her exposed vagina. It drew the gaze, grabbed the eye and held it there like it had been harpooned. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m a good man, a god-fearing man. Heck, there hasn’t been anyone since Beth. Yet I was staring and gawping like I was back at puberty with my first porn mag beneath trembling fingers.
And while I was standing there and gawping like a deer in headlights those weird stalks sticking out of where her hips should be opened out into fleshy tubes and sprayed gunk all over me.
The gunk left her tubes as a jet of liquid, but it was already solidifying by the time it reached me—setting like glue or maybe some kind of stretchy rubber. The first sticky line hitting me in the chest knocked me out of my trance. I tried to struggle free, but it was already too late. She stood there and squirted more sticky threads over me until I was totally gunked up.
At that point I noticed the sticky gunk was eating right through my clothes like acid and I really started panicking. I thought for sure I was going to be melted in freaky alien slime. I thrashed around like a berserker.
Not that it did me any good. The thick threads stretched, but they were strong like thick rubber and stickier than glue. The girl thought it was funny. She stood there with her arms under those perfect pink titties and her shoulders moving up and down like she was giggling.
I was a crazed animal at this point. I was dreading the moment when the slime finished eating through my uniform and started to cut into my flesh.
It didn’t happen. As corrosive as the gunk seemed to be to clothes—and hair—I didn’t feel any pain or loss of sensation when it reached my skin. It felt warm, sticky and kind of pervy. Yeah, a weird description, I know, but that’s how it was. The stuff covered me and I felt all dirty and excited at the same time, like I was about to have illicit sex with that girl at school everyone warns you to steer clear of.
I kept pulling at the sticky, stretchy filaments, but my motions were slower now, like a punch drunk boxer on the ropes in the tenth round. I was stuck fast and knew it.
“Have you quite finished?”
Yeah, she spoke perfect English. It was a shock to me too. I stopped struggling and stared at her like I was an inbred redneck.
Her voice was high and sweet, kind of like a young woman being all teasy and girlish. She had that kind of face as well, if you ignored her weird antennae things.
“You won’t break loose, no matter how hard you struggle,” she said.
She was right. I was all trussed up in her sticky white ropes. What unnerved me was part of me seemed perfectly happy with this.
“What do you want?” I asked.
She didn’t miss a beat. She reached down and hooked a finger right up between the folds of her pussy. I swear that sweet little face went and gave me a smile dirtier than the filthiest jezebel.
* * * *
Out now on Amazon, B & N, Smashwords and other ebook websites.
Friday, August 10, 2012
A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt 4
A Succubus for Freedom is already out as you might have seen. I don't have exact details on when the print version will appear - hoping to have more information on that soon. In the meantime here's another excerpt from one of the new stories, "Come on the Candle". (Sorry about the repetition for the people who've already picked up a copy - I'll make it up with a new Jackson in HRPG World mini-serial starting here after I'm done with the ASfF promotion season.)
* * * *
“She looks like a devil,” Vince said.
The candle looked like the kind of prop you’d expect to see in an old Hammer film about Satan worshippers.
“That’s because she is,” Annette said. “She is Arpella, spirit of lust and temptation. The ritual is a rite of cleansing. By spraying his seed onto the candle, a man is—in essence—telling her: ‘Take this. It has no hold on me.’ It’s a way of demonstrating he has transcended the pleasures and desires of the flesh.”
“Arpella?” Vince queried. “Not Lilith?”
The sculpture looked like a Lilith, or one of those succubus demons from a computer fantasy role-playing game.
Annette laughed. “That’s a Christian invention,” she said. “They took their stories from the Romans and modified them, just as the Romans took theirs from the Greeks, and the Greeks took theirs from sources long forgotten in the dust of history.”
Vince looked at the candle. “This ritual. All I have to do is light the candle and masturbate over it?”
As genuine as Annette sounded, he couldn’t quite shake the fear the attractive shopkeeper was having a joke at his expense.
“That’s right,” she said.
“Sorry. I’m picturing this in my head and it looks . . . well . . . a little ridiculous to be honest.”
“Smell the wax,” Annette said.
Vince put the sculpture to his nose and took a cautious sniff. Oh. That smelt kind of nice. Exotic. Like perfume or incense, but with a hint of something else. His previous mental image of him jerking away in front of the candle was swished off screen and replaced by a picture of a dusky desert maiden belly-dancing in a cloud of scented smoke.
“That’s the real magic,” Annette explained. “The wax is impregnated with a special blend of aromatic compounds and essential oils. As the wax melts they’re released into the air and inhaled by the user.”
“Oh. It’s a kind of aromatherapy,” Vince said, understanding.
“Yes,” Annette said. “The smoke will help you relax and achieve the perfect state of mind for flushing all the tensions from your body.”
That was good to hear. Vince was a little apprehensive about the ‘flushing’ part.
“Actually,” Annette lowered her voice, “one of those compounds is quite a potent aphrodisiac. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the force and strength of your release.”
The shop owner might have the voice of a prim and proper schoolmarm, but right there and then she gave him a look as filthy as any of the nymphs from the naughty films Carolyn had forbade Vince from seeing.
* * * *
It's Annette Brite up to more mischief. This one is best described as like "Bubble Bath", but with smoke. I haven't forgotten about that foam succubus minion either. I'll be catching up with her in the next collection.
And yeah, I know, Vince is a bit of a strawman. . .
* * * *
“She looks like a devil,” Vince said.
The candle looked like the kind of prop you’d expect to see in an old Hammer film about Satan worshippers.
“That’s because she is,” Annette said. “She is Arpella, spirit of lust and temptation. The ritual is a rite of cleansing. By spraying his seed onto the candle, a man is—in essence—telling her: ‘Take this. It has no hold on me.’ It’s a way of demonstrating he has transcended the pleasures and desires of the flesh.”
“Arpella?” Vince queried. “Not Lilith?”
The sculpture looked like a Lilith, or one of those succubus demons from a computer fantasy role-playing game.
Annette laughed. “That’s a Christian invention,” she said. “They took their stories from the Romans and modified them, just as the Romans took theirs from the Greeks, and the Greeks took theirs from sources long forgotten in the dust of history.”
Vince looked at the candle. “This ritual. All I have to do is light the candle and masturbate over it?”
As genuine as Annette sounded, he couldn’t quite shake the fear the attractive shopkeeper was having a joke at his expense.
“That’s right,” she said.
“Sorry. I’m picturing this in my head and it looks . . . well . . . a little ridiculous to be honest.”
“Smell the wax,” Annette said.
Vince put the sculpture to his nose and took a cautious sniff. Oh. That smelt kind of nice. Exotic. Like perfume or incense, but with a hint of something else. His previous mental image of him jerking away in front of the candle was swished off screen and replaced by a picture of a dusky desert maiden belly-dancing in a cloud of scented smoke.
“That’s the real magic,” Annette explained. “The wax is impregnated with a special blend of aromatic compounds and essential oils. As the wax melts they’re released into the air and inhaled by the user.”
“Oh. It’s a kind of aromatherapy,” Vince said, understanding.
“Yes,” Annette said. “The smoke will help you relax and achieve the perfect state of mind for flushing all the tensions from your body.”
That was good to hear. Vince was a little apprehensive about the ‘flushing’ part.
“Actually,” Annette lowered her voice, “one of those compounds is quite a potent aphrodisiac. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the force and strength of your release.”
The shop owner might have the voice of a prim and proper schoolmarm, but right there and then she gave him a look as filthy as any of the nymphs from the naughty films Carolyn had forbade Vince from seeing.
* * * *
It's Annette Brite up to more mischief. This one is best described as like "Bubble Bath", but with smoke. I haven't forgotten about that foam succubus minion either. I'll be catching up with her in the next collection.
And yeah, I know, Vince is a bit of a strawman. . .
Thursday, August 02, 2012
A Succubus for Freedom: Out this Friday!
Yep, that's right. A slot opened up and so it will be out August 3rd after all. It means I'll have to compress my book plugging, but hey, who wants to read book plugs when you could be reading the actual book.
Here's an extract from the title story, "A Succubus for Freedom", to celebrate:
Andy thought the girl from his dream was just that—a dream. Then he saw her in the flesh a few nights later while they were playing a gig at The Wyld Hart.
The Wyld Hart was an odd sort of pub. It was too far off the beaten track to be absorbed into the bland franchise chain conglomerates and it didn’t have the history and character to be one of those defiant locals’ haunts. It wasn’t really the town’s rock pub either—that was The Drunken Choir out on Newcastle Street, where the bikers hung out—but it had been colonized by the metal and emo kids from the town’s schools and college. They had nowhere else to go, so they fetched up at The Wyld Hart because it had a jukebox that wasn’t full of R’n’B and Landfill Indie.
The landlord didn’t mind. The kids brought custom and even if they were ‘funny looking’, they were a lot less bother than their peers, who normally required scraping off the vomit-sodden streets every Saturday night.
Scott Battersby was normally around anyway, and no one messed with Scott Battersby.
Most people assumed Scott was the landlord even though this wasn’t the case. He did rent rooms up on the first floor and spent most of his time either behind the bar or manning the door, but he didn’t own the pub. Scott looked intimidating—bald and squat like someone had taken a seven-foot person and squashed them down to six—but he was a decent enough bloke in Andy’s opinion. Unless he was in a mosh pit. Then you stayed the fuck out of his way. Andy and the band had gone with him to a Megadeth gig. Scott had been quiet for most of the night, and then “Hangar 18” came on and a neat hole formed in the crowd around him as Scott started moshing. Scott was old school.
Scott read the board they’d chalked the band’s name on as they were setting up their gear.
“Perverts In Satan’s Service?” he said, doubtfully.
“Our new band name,” Stidolph said. “Cool, isn’t it.”
“You do know what it spells out?” Scott said.
Both Andy and Chris gave him the dejected ‘yeah, we know’ look.
Chuckling, Scott shook his head and walked away to tend the bar.
Confusion fluttered across Stidolph’s face. “What’s the problem? Is there something wrong with the band name?”
Andy put a hand on his face.
Stidolph wasn’t exactly the brightest spark, but he was still a decent frontman. The gig kicked off and straightaway he was snarling out lyrics and prowling the front of their makeshift stage as if possessed by the spirit of Ozzy himself. Of course, it would have looked more impressive had he been, you know, taller than five-foot-four.
They were halfway through a cover of Dimmu Borgir’s “Succubus in Rapture” when Andy saw the girl from his dream amongst the collection of onlookers that might loosely be termed the crowd. It was impossible to miss her. She wore a lurid red corset that accentuated her cleavage, an indecently short miniskirt and kinky red fishnet tights. Goth-wear with the kinkiness dialled up to eleven. Andy was so surprised to see her he fucked up and missed a few beats. It didn’t matter as Chris did the same. The only one who didn’t fuck up was Daniel, and that was because he was staring at the floor.
The girl watched them all the way through the set. She leant against a pillar in the centre of the room and looked so hot Andy wouldn’t have been surprised had the old oak timber caught fire. Both Stidolph and Chris were convinced they were the ones she had eyes for and showed off accordingly. Andy was a little unnerved. She looked exactly like the girl he’d dreamt about a couple of nights ago.
She wasn’t the only unexpected onlooker. As Andy was packing away his kit at the end of the gig he noticed Richard speaking with Scott over by the bar. No, more than speaking, laughing and joking as if the two men were old friends. Whatever could a boring fart like Richard have in common with an old-school thrash-head like Scott?
He didn’t get a chance to ponder it further. The hot girl, her eyes smouldering, was walking towards them. Both Stidolph and Chris stepped up to introduce themselves. She walked straight past them without a sideways glance. Her burning eyes were on him. They had been all night.
“Um . . . hi . . .” he started.
The girl shushed him with a finger on his lips. Her other hand grabbed a twist of the T-shirt covering his chest and formed a fist. Both Stidolph and Chris gaped at him in surprise as the girl shoved him in the direction of the toilets.
Yes, for the first time in rock history, the hot chick ignored the singer and lead guitarist and went straight for the drummer.
Hey, someone found the succubus tablet . . .
It'll end in tears. (But there'll be some hot sex along the way).
Here's the nice coming soon link on eXcessica's site. It'll also be out on Amazon, B & N, Smashwords and the other usual places. I'll put the links up on Friday. There will be a print version, but it will probably be a week or so later. Given that I've never managed to successfully synch an ebook release with a print release in my entire (short) writing history, this will not exactly come as a surprise.
A Succubus for Freedom and other tales of Obscene Orgies, out Friday!
Here's an extract from the title story, "A Succubus for Freedom", to celebrate:
* * * *
Andy thought the girl from his dream was just that—a dream. Then he saw her in the flesh a few nights later while they were playing a gig at The Wyld Hart.
The Wyld Hart was an odd sort of pub. It was too far off the beaten track to be absorbed into the bland franchise chain conglomerates and it didn’t have the history and character to be one of those defiant locals’ haunts. It wasn’t really the town’s rock pub either—that was The Drunken Choir out on Newcastle Street, where the bikers hung out—but it had been colonized by the metal and emo kids from the town’s schools and college. They had nowhere else to go, so they fetched up at The Wyld Hart because it had a jukebox that wasn’t full of R’n’B and Landfill Indie.
The landlord didn’t mind. The kids brought custom and even if they were ‘funny looking’, they were a lot less bother than their peers, who normally required scraping off the vomit-sodden streets every Saturday night.
Scott Battersby was normally around anyway, and no one messed with Scott Battersby.
Most people assumed Scott was the landlord even though this wasn’t the case. He did rent rooms up on the first floor and spent most of his time either behind the bar or manning the door, but he didn’t own the pub. Scott looked intimidating—bald and squat like someone had taken a seven-foot person and squashed them down to six—but he was a decent enough bloke in Andy’s opinion. Unless he was in a mosh pit. Then you stayed the fuck out of his way. Andy and the band had gone with him to a Megadeth gig. Scott had been quiet for most of the night, and then “Hangar 18” came on and a neat hole formed in the crowd around him as Scott started moshing. Scott was old school.
Scott read the board they’d chalked the band’s name on as they were setting up their gear.
“Perverts In Satan’s Service?” he said, doubtfully.
“Our new band name,” Stidolph said. “Cool, isn’t it.”
“You do know what it spells out?” Scott said.
Both Andy and Chris gave him the dejected ‘yeah, we know’ look.
Chuckling, Scott shook his head and walked away to tend the bar.
Confusion fluttered across Stidolph’s face. “What’s the problem? Is there something wrong with the band name?”
Andy put a hand on his face.
Stidolph wasn’t exactly the brightest spark, but he was still a decent frontman. The gig kicked off and straightaway he was snarling out lyrics and prowling the front of their makeshift stage as if possessed by the spirit of Ozzy himself. Of course, it would have looked more impressive had he been, you know, taller than five-foot-four.
They were halfway through a cover of Dimmu Borgir’s “Succubus in Rapture” when Andy saw the girl from his dream amongst the collection of onlookers that might loosely be termed the crowd. It was impossible to miss her. She wore a lurid red corset that accentuated her cleavage, an indecently short miniskirt and kinky red fishnet tights. Goth-wear with the kinkiness dialled up to eleven. Andy was so surprised to see her he fucked up and missed a few beats. It didn’t matter as Chris did the same. The only one who didn’t fuck up was Daniel, and that was because he was staring at the floor.
The girl watched them all the way through the set. She leant against a pillar in the centre of the room and looked so hot Andy wouldn’t have been surprised had the old oak timber caught fire. Both Stidolph and Chris were convinced they were the ones she had eyes for and showed off accordingly. Andy was a little unnerved. She looked exactly like the girl he’d dreamt about a couple of nights ago.
She wasn’t the only unexpected onlooker. As Andy was packing away his kit at the end of the gig he noticed Richard speaking with Scott over by the bar. No, more than speaking, laughing and joking as if the two men were old friends. Whatever could a boring fart like Richard have in common with an old-school thrash-head like Scott?
He didn’t get a chance to ponder it further. The hot girl, her eyes smouldering, was walking towards them. Both Stidolph and Chris stepped up to introduce themselves. She walked straight past them without a sideways glance. Her burning eyes were on him. They had been all night.
“Um . . . hi . . .” he started.
The girl shushed him with a finger on his lips. Her other hand grabbed a twist of the T-shirt covering his chest and formed a fist. Both Stidolph and Chris gaped at him in surprise as the girl shoved him in the direction of the toilets.
Yes, for the first time in rock history, the hot chick ignored the singer and lead guitarist and went straight for the drummer.
* * * *
Hey, someone found the succubus tablet . . .
It'll end in tears. (But there'll be some hot sex along the way).
Here's the nice coming soon link on eXcessica's site. It'll also be out on Amazon, B & N, Smashwords and the other usual places. I'll put the links up on Friday. There will be a print version, but it will probably be a week or so later. Given that I've never managed to successfully synch an ebook release with a print release in my entire (short) writing history, this will not exactly come as a surprise.
A Succubus for Freedom and other tales of Obscene Orgies, out Friday!
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
A Succubus for Freedom: Excerpt 2
Okay, so the 3rd was a smidgeon optimistic. The 17th is looking more likely now. Sorry about that.
By way of an apology here's another excerpt. This is from "Riding the Medusa", one of two previously unseen H-space stories in the collection.
When Gossow had first heard about Riding the Medusa he’d thought the guys were yanking his chain.
“So you let her wrap her tentacles around you and reel you right up . . . and then you fuck her . . . ?”
Gossow might look like a hick and speak like a hick, but that didn’t mean he had nothing but straw between his ears. He recognised a game of wind-up-the-new-guy when he saw it.
Of course this was early on, before he’d heard all the other rumours. Turned out H-space was a really fucked-up place, with the emphasis on fuck. The eggheads had managed to open up a doorway to super-porno-rapo world.
Erlandsson’s theory was they hadn’t left Earth at all. He reckoned their brains had been fried by some kind of failed military experiment. Here was some kind of hallucination or dream; they were really drooling vegetables back on Earth.
He could be a morose little fucker sometimes.
Gossow had stabbed him in the thigh with his knife. Not hard, just a little prick. See. No dream.
“Yeah. You let one catch you and pull you right up to her. You don’t have to do anything. Just lie back and she’ll do the rest.”
Gossow wasn’t convinced.
“It’s a jellyfish. Won’t it be cold and squishy?”
“No man. It’s fucking awesome. It’s like fucking an ass and pussy and getting a blowjob all at the same time.”
And that was how Gossow came to be standing on a rock at dawn, as naked as the day he was born, stubby erection between his legs, with the great black expanse of Lake Latex stretching out before him. He trembled with excitement as he saw a jellyfish girl glide down out of the roiling clouds towards him.
Come and get me, babe.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Erlandsson hissed from his hiding place in the rocks.
Gossow motioned for him to be quiet.
Erlandsson was there as his wingman. A man going off to Ride the Medusa needed to have a good wingman, if he wanted to live. As good as sex with a jellyfish girl was supposed to be, it would kill a man if it went on for too long.
Initially Gossow was sceptical on that point. He didn’t know much biology, had spent those lessons drawing smiley-faced sperm in the textbooks, but he was fairly sure it was physically impossible for a man to come himself to death.
That was until he was part of the team that had found Private Wiberg.
They reckoned Private Wiberg had gotten a little too excited after hearing the stories and gone off to try Riding the Medusa without first finding a wingman. Private Wiberg had been eighteen. The body they’d found looked like it belonged to an eighty-year-old.
Riding the Medusa needed a wingman. Their job was to wait until the man had had his fun and then put a bullet through the balloon-like bell. Then pfft, the man would float gently back to earth as the balloon deflated. Technically the men had strict orders to avoid the jellyfish girls, but as the girls’ bodies always evaporated to nothingness after hitting the ground, no one would ever find out. As long as a man brought along a wingman, Riding the Medusa was easily the best recreational activity to be found at FOB Rigg.
You just know it's all going to go horribly wrong . . . ;)
I'm still waiting on eXcessica for an ISBN number. I'll post the coming soon link as soon as it's ready and hopefully A Succubus for Freedom will hit the amazon store and everywhere else on the 17th August.
By way of an apology here's another excerpt. This is from "Riding the Medusa", one of two previously unseen H-space stories in the collection.
* * * *
When Gossow had first heard about Riding the Medusa he’d thought the guys were yanking his chain.
“So you let her wrap her tentacles around you and reel you right up . . . and then you fuck her . . . ?”
Gossow might look like a hick and speak like a hick, but that didn’t mean he had nothing but straw between his ears. He recognised a game of wind-up-the-new-guy when he saw it.
Of course this was early on, before he’d heard all the other rumours. Turned out H-space was a really fucked-up place, with the emphasis on fuck. The eggheads had managed to open up a doorway to super-porno-rapo world.
Erlandsson’s theory was they hadn’t left Earth at all. He reckoned their brains had been fried by some kind of failed military experiment. Here was some kind of hallucination or dream; they were really drooling vegetables back on Earth.
He could be a morose little fucker sometimes.
Gossow had stabbed him in the thigh with his knife. Not hard, just a little prick. See. No dream.
“Yeah. You let one catch you and pull you right up to her. You don’t have to do anything. Just lie back and she’ll do the rest.”
Gossow wasn’t convinced.
“It’s a jellyfish. Won’t it be cold and squishy?”
“No man. It’s fucking awesome. It’s like fucking an ass and pussy and getting a blowjob all at the same time.”
* * * *
And that was how Gossow came to be standing on a rock at dawn, as naked as the day he was born, stubby erection between his legs, with the great black expanse of Lake Latex stretching out before him. He trembled with excitement as he saw a jellyfish girl glide down out of the roiling clouds towards him.
Come and get me, babe.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Erlandsson hissed from his hiding place in the rocks.
Gossow motioned for him to be quiet.
Erlandsson was there as his wingman. A man going off to Ride the Medusa needed to have a good wingman, if he wanted to live. As good as sex with a jellyfish girl was supposed to be, it would kill a man if it went on for too long.
Initially Gossow was sceptical on that point. He didn’t know much biology, had spent those lessons drawing smiley-faced sperm in the textbooks, but he was fairly sure it was physically impossible for a man to come himself to death.
That was until he was part of the team that had found Private Wiberg.
They reckoned Private Wiberg had gotten a little too excited after hearing the stories and gone off to try Riding the Medusa without first finding a wingman. Private Wiberg had been eighteen. The body they’d found looked like it belonged to an eighty-year-old.
Riding the Medusa needed a wingman. Their job was to wait until the man had had his fun and then put a bullet through the balloon-like bell. Then pfft, the man would float gently back to earth as the balloon deflated. Technically the men had strict orders to avoid the jellyfish girls, but as the girls’ bodies always evaporated to nothingness after hitting the ground, no one would ever find out. As long as a man brought along a wingman, Riding the Medusa was easily the best recreational activity to be found at FOB Rigg.
* * * *
You just know it's all going to go horribly wrong . . . ;)
I'm still waiting on eXcessica for an ISBN number. I'll post the coming soon link as soon as it's ready and hopefully A Succubus for Freedom will hit the amazon store and everywhere else on the 17th August.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
Succubus Summoning 101: Excerpt
Succubus Summoning 101 is coming out this Friday. While I can't really hype it up to the same degree as A Succubus for Halloween, I couldn't pass the opportunity to post a little excerpt. Take flight with Rosa...
(warning: things get a little hot and steamy from here. If you're easily offended, or not 18, and got here by accident, now would be a safe time to leave :) )
Don't warn them, it takes away the surprise.
Phil dashed for the door.
Five succubi in heat. There was no way he’d survive that. He had to get out of the castle and take his chances in the forest.
He got halfway across the courtyard before Rosa swooped down out of the sky and gathered him up in her embrace.
“Fleeing prey, my favourite,” Rosa laughed as she carried him up into the lurid pink sky.
Phil struggled, but Rosa wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him. She crushed her soft lips against his and kissed him until the fight left his body. His body went limp in her embrace.
“We’ve never fucked while flying, have we fledgling?” Rosa laughed as her broad wings held them motionless in the sky. “This is going to be fun.”
Phil’s thoughts were clouded and his limbs felt weak. Rosa’s hot kiss had drained all the resistance from him. Her powerful thighs wrapped around his waist and he shivered in pleasurable surprise as his erection slid into her moist vagina.
Hot.
Hot and tight.
Rosa’s body boiled with lust. Her heat enfolded his body and overwhelmed his senses. Still flapping her wings to keep them airborne, she thrust her hips against him. Her lust was contagious. Phil pushed back against her, feeling his cock slide against the hot walls of her pussy.
Rosa laughed with wild abandon and swooped around the black stone minarets of the castle. The horizon and the sky became one dizzying blur to Phil as he span in Rosa’s embrace. Faster and faster she flew, until Phil felt the wind streaming through his hair and down the naked skin of his back. Higher she took them, until the castle became toy-sized beneath them. They were suspended in the sky, their bodies slamming together in passion.
She planted another fiery kiss on Phil’s lips as their bodies slowly turned and ascent changed into a steep dive. Rosa cried with passion as the wind whistled past them. Phil’s heart thudded in his throat as they hurtled downwards. He saw the dark stone walls of the castle rushing up to meet them.
Did Rosa know? Did she care? Her wings were folded back against her body as they continued their steep dive.
The black walls and spiky towers filled Phil’s vision now, and still Rosa showed no signs of slowing down. Too fast. She wasn’t going to be able to pull up in time. They were going to be dashed against the walls. They were going to die.
They were going to…
They didn’t hit.
Phil opened his eyes and almost wished he hadn’t as narrow stone walls whizzed by in a blur. They were plunging through some kind of chimney system inside the castle. Rosa navigated the turns and sudden forks with a speed that left Phil breathless. Mere inches separated his naked flesh from the hard stone as it zipped past.
They fell deeper through the castle until the walls opened out into a cavernous pentagonal room. Phil saw a floor covered in blood-red sheets and scattered with pastel cushions rushing up to meet them before his view changed with a lurch. Rosa had flipped him mid-air and he was now looking up at a ceiling covered in swathes of plush velvet and embedded with large mirrors.
Their descent abruptly slowed as Rosa opened her great red wings above him. Not enough, Phil thought. They were still falling too quickly. He was still going to hit the ground har—
They hit the floor with a soft whumpf. Sheets and pillows were thrown up in the air by the impact. The floor gave beneath him and he realised he’d landed on a gigantic bed, luxuriously soft and very deep. He sank into the surface with Rosa’s hot body riding on top of him, the impact driving his cock deeper into her tight pussy.
Their downward momentum was halted and then reversed as the bed sprang back. Phil was bounced upwards and into Rosa’s embrace. Her pussy squeezed around his cock and Phil groaned as he exploded within her, the head of his cock wedged deep into her hot flesh. At the same time Rosa’s vagina shuddered and shivered around his member as she too was claimed by a violent orgasm.
She rode him as the bed swayed and undulated beneath them, her hot pussy fluttering around his cock. Phil bucked and thrashed in helpless pleasure as she stretched out his orgasm until the ecstasy became almost unbearable. His balls convulsed as her dripping vagina hungrily sucked the seed from his body.
Phil thought he might expire from the pleasure, but gradually the wild pitching motions of the bed died down and his orgasm slowly petered out with it. He gasped great lungfuls of air as his jangling body recovered from the release.
“Whew, that was good,” Rosa said. Beads of sweat spilled from her forehead and formed on her full breasts.
Once Phil got his breath back, he took a look around at his surroundings. He was in a large pentagonal room with stone walls. The entire floor seemed to be taken up with this gigantic bed. Soft cushions and pillows were piled high all around him.
“Well done, Rosa. I see you’ve captured our little plaything.”
Succubus Summoning 101. Out (finally!) as a novel this Friday.
As for the long-awaited Succubus Summoning 201, coming soon... ;)
(warning: things get a little hot and steamy from here. If you're easily offended, or not 18, and got here by accident, now would be a safe time to leave :) )
Don't warn them, it takes away the surprise.
* * * *
Phil dashed for the door.
Five succubi in heat. There was no way he’d survive that. He had to get out of the castle and take his chances in the forest.
He got halfway across the courtyard before Rosa swooped down out of the sky and gathered him up in her embrace.
“Fleeing prey, my favourite,” Rosa laughed as she carried him up into the lurid pink sky.
Phil struggled, but Rosa wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him. She crushed her soft lips against his and kissed him until the fight left his body. His body went limp in her embrace.
“We’ve never fucked while flying, have we fledgling?” Rosa laughed as her broad wings held them motionless in the sky. “This is going to be fun.”
Phil’s thoughts were clouded and his limbs felt weak. Rosa’s hot kiss had drained all the resistance from him. Her powerful thighs wrapped around his waist and he shivered in pleasurable surprise as his erection slid into her moist vagina.
Hot.
Hot and tight.
Rosa’s body boiled with lust. Her heat enfolded his body and overwhelmed his senses. Still flapping her wings to keep them airborne, she thrust her hips against him. Her lust was contagious. Phil pushed back against her, feeling his cock slide against the hot walls of her pussy.
Rosa laughed with wild abandon and swooped around the black stone minarets of the castle. The horizon and the sky became one dizzying blur to Phil as he span in Rosa’s embrace. Faster and faster she flew, until Phil felt the wind streaming through his hair and down the naked skin of his back. Higher she took them, until the castle became toy-sized beneath them. They were suspended in the sky, their bodies slamming together in passion.
She planted another fiery kiss on Phil’s lips as their bodies slowly turned and ascent changed into a steep dive. Rosa cried with passion as the wind whistled past them. Phil’s heart thudded in his throat as they hurtled downwards. He saw the dark stone walls of the castle rushing up to meet them.
Did Rosa know? Did she care? Her wings were folded back against her body as they continued their steep dive.
The black walls and spiky towers filled Phil’s vision now, and still Rosa showed no signs of slowing down. Too fast. She wasn’t going to be able to pull up in time. They were going to be dashed against the walls. They were going to die.
They were going to…
They didn’t hit.
Phil opened his eyes and almost wished he hadn’t as narrow stone walls whizzed by in a blur. They were plunging through some kind of chimney system inside the castle. Rosa navigated the turns and sudden forks with a speed that left Phil breathless. Mere inches separated his naked flesh from the hard stone as it zipped past.
They fell deeper through the castle until the walls opened out into a cavernous pentagonal room. Phil saw a floor covered in blood-red sheets and scattered with pastel cushions rushing up to meet them before his view changed with a lurch. Rosa had flipped him mid-air and he was now looking up at a ceiling covered in swathes of plush velvet and embedded with large mirrors.
Their descent abruptly slowed as Rosa opened her great red wings above him. Not enough, Phil thought. They were still falling too quickly. He was still going to hit the ground har—
They hit the floor with a soft whumpf. Sheets and pillows were thrown up in the air by the impact. The floor gave beneath him and he realised he’d landed on a gigantic bed, luxuriously soft and very deep. He sank into the surface with Rosa’s hot body riding on top of him, the impact driving his cock deeper into her tight pussy.
Their downward momentum was halted and then reversed as the bed sprang back. Phil was bounced upwards and into Rosa’s embrace. Her pussy squeezed around his cock and Phil groaned as he exploded within her, the head of his cock wedged deep into her hot flesh. At the same time Rosa’s vagina shuddered and shivered around his member as she too was claimed by a violent orgasm.
She rode him as the bed swayed and undulated beneath them, her hot pussy fluttering around his cock. Phil bucked and thrashed in helpless pleasure as she stretched out his orgasm until the ecstasy became almost unbearable. His balls convulsed as her dripping vagina hungrily sucked the seed from his body.
Phil thought he might expire from the pleasure, but gradually the wild pitching motions of the bed died down and his orgasm slowly petered out with it. He gasped great lungfuls of air as his jangling body recovered from the release.
“Whew, that was good,” Rosa said. Beads of sweat spilled from her forehead and formed on her full breasts.
Once Phil got his breath back, he took a look around at his surroundings. He was in a large pentagonal room with stone walls. The entire floor seemed to be taken up with this gigantic bed. Soft cushions and pillows were piled high all around him.
“Well done, Rosa. I see you’ve captured our little plaything.”
* * * *
Succubus Summoning 101. Out (finally!) as a novel this Friday.
As for the long-awaited Succubus Summoning 201, coming soon... ;)
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
A Succubus for Halloween: Excerpt IV
Continuing with the excerpts, here's the lovely Nicole being very naughty (naughty as in if you're not 18, scram!) in "A Halloween Party with a Succubus."
They stood outside on a wide balcony overlooking the park behind the house. It was quiet out here. Everyone else was back inside in the light and the noise of the party. Robert took a sip of beer and leant on the balustrade. He stared down at the trees below.
“Is everything okay?” Nicole asked. She put an arm around him.
“It was a mistake bringing you here,” Robert said.
“Oh,” Nicole said. She sounded hurt. “Did I do something wrong.”
“No, not you,” Robert said quickly, alarmed he might have hurt her feelings. “Them.” He nodded towards the light and noise of the party.
He paused.
“No. Me. What was I trying to prove? All I’ve done is expose you to their sniggers and snide remarks. I can hear them. They never did learn to talk quietly. Some of the things they’re saying about you...” Robert shook his head. “It’s not right, whatever your job and background are.”
Nicole looked back at the bright lights of the house. A muted babble of conversation and loud braying laughter could be heard on the other side of the windows.
“They’re not very nice people, are they,” she commented.
Robert paused. He hadn’t wanted to admit it himself.
“No, they’re not,” he said. “Aldrich was that kind of school. I was hoping the years might have changed them, but no, Aldrich is that kind of school.”
He plonked his half-drunk bottle of beer on the stone balustrade.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We don’t have to stay around here and listen to them snigger behind our backs. There’s a pub not far from Josef Schwarz with much better company.”
Nicole’s hand was in his. He turned to walk away, but Nicole didn’t follow. Instead she pulled him back with startling force.
Robert barely had a chance to register his surprise before her arms enfolded him in an embrace and her soft lips pressed against his. Her lips were moist and lusciously soft. A warm buzz flowed through Robert as she pressed them against his. She wrapped her arms around him and pushed her body up against him. A jolt ran through Robert’s body as she wriggled against his crotch.
She broke off the kiss and Robert blinked as he looked at her smiling face. That had been unexpected.
Still smiling, Nicole backed away and twisted from side to side, dancing to a rhythm only she could hear as she crouched down lower and lower. Robert shivered as she pressed a palm against his groin and rubbed. Robert’s member, already slightly engorged, swelled up to full hardness.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Nicole gave him a whimsical smile before grasping the zipper of his fly and pulling it down.
“Something fun,” she said.
She reached into his trousers.
“But they’ll see,” Robert hissed.
The drapes were all pulled back. There was only glass separating them from the party guests.
“I want them to see,” Nicole said. Her smile matched the horns on her head.
“Why?” Robert asked. He trembled as she extricated his throbbing erection and brought it out into the cool October air. “Isn’t this confirming—”
Robert was cut off mid-sentence—mid-thought even—as Nicole kissed the tip of his cock with her soft lips and then sucked, taking in his full length right down to his balls. He leant back against the stone balustrade and closed his eyes as Nicole crouched in front of him and bobbed her head up and down on his erection.
Not long now...
* * * *
They stood outside on a wide balcony overlooking the park behind the house. It was quiet out here. Everyone else was back inside in the light and the noise of the party. Robert took a sip of beer and leant on the balustrade. He stared down at the trees below.
“Is everything okay?” Nicole asked. She put an arm around him.
“It was a mistake bringing you here,” Robert said.
“Oh,” Nicole said. She sounded hurt. “Did I do something wrong.”
“No, not you,” Robert said quickly, alarmed he might have hurt her feelings. “Them.” He nodded towards the light and noise of the party.
He paused.
“No. Me. What was I trying to prove? All I’ve done is expose you to their sniggers and snide remarks. I can hear them. They never did learn to talk quietly. Some of the things they’re saying about you...” Robert shook his head. “It’s not right, whatever your job and background are.”
Nicole looked back at the bright lights of the house. A muted babble of conversation and loud braying laughter could be heard on the other side of the windows.
“They’re not very nice people, are they,” she commented.
Robert paused. He hadn’t wanted to admit it himself.
“No, they’re not,” he said. “Aldrich was that kind of school. I was hoping the years might have changed them, but no, Aldrich is that kind of school.”
He plonked his half-drunk bottle of beer on the stone balustrade.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We don’t have to stay around here and listen to them snigger behind our backs. There’s a pub not far from Josef Schwarz with much better company.”
Nicole’s hand was in his. He turned to walk away, but Nicole didn’t follow. Instead she pulled him back with startling force.
Robert barely had a chance to register his surprise before her arms enfolded him in an embrace and her soft lips pressed against his. Her lips were moist and lusciously soft. A warm buzz flowed through Robert as she pressed them against his. She wrapped her arms around him and pushed her body up against him. A jolt ran through Robert’s body as she wriggled against his crotch.
She broke off the kiss and Robert blinked as he looked at her smiling face. That had been unexpected.
Still smiling, Nicole backed away and twisted from side to side, dancing to a rhythm only she could hear as she crouched down lower and lower. Robert shivered as she pressed a palm against his groin and rubbed. Robert’s member, already slightly engorged, swelled up to full hardness.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Nicole gave him a whimsical smile before grasping the zipper of his fly and pulling it down.
“Something fun,” she said.
She reached into his trousers.
“But they’ll see,” Robert hissed.
The drapes were all pulled back. There was only glass separating them from the party guests.
“I want them to see,” Nicole said. Her smile matched the horns on her head.
“Why?” Robert asked. He trembled as she extricated his throbbing erection and brought it out into the cool October air. “Isn’t this confirming—”
Robert was cut off mid-sentence—mid-thought even—as Nicole kissed the tip of his cock with her soft lips and then sucked, taking in his full length right down to his balls. He leant back against the stone balustrade and closed his eyes as Nicole crouched in front of him and bobbed her head up and down on his erection.
* * * *
Not long now...
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
A Succubus for Halloween: Excerpt III
Ever had the feeling you started something a little earlier than it needed to be? :)
Never mind. Here's an excerpt from one of the new stories in A Succubus for Halloween. The sultry witch, Annette Brite, is up to more mischief in "Serving the Earth Mother":
Aaron felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as he heard the clipped, perfect enunciation of the new voice. His yell for help had caught the attention of someone.
“It’s difficult to judge the amount of force required to knock somebody out, and it would have spoiled everything had I swung too hard and caved your skull in.”
Brite stood in the entrance to the stone cell. Her pale face looked white and insubstantial in the dim candlelight. She wore the same voluminous black dress as before, with a necklace of large wooden beads around her slender, elegant neck.
“What do you want with us?” Aaron asked.
“You’re a witch,” Andrea said. “You follow the Earth Mother, you know the Rule of Three. How can you do this?”
Brite chuckled.
“It’s a curiosity how language changes down the centuries,” she said. “Words that mean one thing can come to mean another. The same word can take on many different meanings. Many different meanings can even come together under the same word.
“What you call witch is a practitioner of Wicca. The word also has an older, darker meaning, a label given to those that seek knowledge and power through blacker arts. The old fairy tales were not so far from the truth.
“I am not a practitioner of Wicca.”
Brite took off her necklace and slipped out of her voluminous black dress. She was wearing nothing underneath and—like her face—the rest of her body was pale and flawless. She had a fantastic figure—soft and curvaceous around the breasts and hips, but lean around the waist and legs. In other circumstances Aaron might have thought her very sexy. Currently, sex was far from his mind.
“What do you want with us?” he asked.
Brite busied herself in the corner of the room. She painted a complex circle on the floor with a substance that was black and sticky like tar.
“The entities I call upon are more demanding and have darker appetites than your Earth Mother, I’m afraid,” she said. “And they are far less forgiving if their conditions are not met.”
She finished her design and stood up, examining each line and symbol carefully for possible errors.
“It won’t work,” Aaron said. He tried to ignore his fear and the chains around his wrists. He needed his voice to sound calm, a rational knife to cut through the woman’s obvious insanity. “It doesn’t matter how you sacrifice us. They won’t answer. They don’t exist. It’s all nonsense.”
It might be nonsense, but it wouldn’t make Andrea and him any less dead after she’d sacrificed them to her mythical deities.
Brite paused and her supple red lips curled up in an amused smile.
“I love this era,” she said, “so sure in your truth of the world even though you’re as innocent as newborn babes.”
She opened a black canvas bag and pulled out a roll of ancient parchment. She unrolled it and Aaron had the uncomfortable feeling he was looking at a tanned square of human skin.
The shopkeeper’s voice rose as she recited words in a language Aaron had never heard before. It sounded dry and long dead, like dust blowing through long abandoned temples. The words echoed and reverberated off the cold stone walls and sent shivers rattling up Aaron’s spine. The words sounded completely alien, as if the vowel and consonant sounds were not designed for human tongues.
Mumbo jumbo, he thought, products of her madness. They didn’t mean anything.
Brite finished reciting the words from the scroll. There was an expectant hush, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
“See, I told you nothing would—” Aaron started.
He didn’t finish.
The black candles standing around the circle Brite had drawn on the floor started to fizz and crackle. Thick plumes of brown smoke welled up from the candles like exhaust fumes from Hades. Rather than disperse through the room, the smoke coagulated into a thick brown cloud. A vile stench assaulted their nostrils, like a mixture of meat gone bad and stale flatulence.
Parlour tricks, Aaron thought. Nothing but—
The smoke slowly dissipated, revealing...
That reveal will have to wait until Oct 21. ;)
Never mind. Here's an excerpt from one of the new stories in A Succubus for Halloween. The sultry witch, Annette Brite, is up to more mischief in "Serving the Earth Mother":
* * * *
Aaron felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as he heard the clipped, perfect enunciation of the new voice. His yell for help had caught the attention of someone.
“It’s difficult to judge the amount of force required to knock somebody out, and it would have spoiled everything had I swung too hard and caved your skull in.”
Brite stood in the entrance to the stone cell. Her pale face looked white and insubstantial in the dim candlelight. She wore the same voluminous black dress as before, with a necklace of large wooden beads around her slender, elegant neck.
“What do you want with us?” Aaron asked.
“You’re a witch,” Andrea said. “You follow the Earth Mother, you know the Rule of Three. How can you do this?”
Brite chuckled.
“It’s a curiosity how language changes down the centuries,” she said. “Words that mean one thing can come to mean another. The same word can take on many different meanings. Many different meanings can even come together under the same word.
“What you call witch is a practitioner of Wicca. The word also has an older, darker meaning, a label given to those that seek knowledge and power through blacker arts. The old fairy tales were not so far from the truth.
“I am not a practitioner of Wicca.”
Brite took off her necklace and slipped out of her voluminous black dress. She was wearing nothing underneath and—like her face—the rest of her body was pale and flawless. She had a fantastic figure—soft and curvaceous around the breasts and hips, but lean around the waist and legs. In other circumstances Aaron might have thought her very sexy. Currently, sex was far from his mind.
“What do you want with us?” he asked.
Brite busied herself in the corner of the room. She painted a complex circle on the floor with a substance that was black and sticky like tar.
“The entities I call upon are more demanding and have darker appetites than your Earth Mother, I’m afraid,” she said. “And they are far less forgiving if their conditions are not met.”
She finished her design and stood up, examining each line and symbol carefully for possible errors.
“It won’t work,” Aaron said. He tried to ignore his fear and the chains around his wrists. He needed his voice to sound calm, a rational knife to cut through the woman’s obvious insanity. “It doesn’t matter how you sacrifice us. They won’t answer. They don’t exist. It’s all nonsense.”
It might be nonsense, but it wouldn’t make Andrea and him any less dead after she’d sacrificed them to her mythical deities.
Brite paused and her supple red lips curled up in an amused smile.
“I love this era,” she said, “so sure in your truth of the world even though you’re as innocent as newborn babes.”
She opened a black canvas bag and pulled out a roll of ancient parchment. She unrolled it and Aaron had the uncomfortable feeling he was looking at a tanned square of human skin.
The shopkeeper’s voice rose as she recited words in a language Aaron had never heard before. It sounded dry and long dead, like dust blowing through long abandoned temples. The words echoed and reverberated off the cold stone walls and sent shivers rattling up Aaron’s spine. The words sounded completely alien, as if the vowel and consonant sounds were not designed for human tongues.
Mumbo jumbo, he thought, products of her madness. They didn’t mean anything.
Brite finished reciting the words from the scroll. There was an expectant hush, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
“See, I told you nothing would—” Aaron started.
He didn’t finish.
The black candles standing around the circle Brite had drawn on the floor started to fizz and crackle. Thick plumes of brown smoke welled up from the candles like exhaust fumes from Hades. Rather than disperse through the room, the smoke coagulated into a thick brown cloud. A vile stench assaulted their nostrils, like a mixture of meat gone bad and stale flatulence.
Parlour tricks, Aaron thought. Nothing but—
The smoke slowly dissipated, revealing...
* * * *
That reveal will have to wait until Oct 21. ;)
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