The Ultimate Guide to Sex After 50 by Joan Price

What were you taught about sex?


I wasn’t taught anything about it either.

Sex After 50

The opening words to this book immediately caught my attention. I’m not quite on the 50 something side of the room, but I’m a long way down the hall from barely legal. What was I taught about my sex life as I age? Ha. Ha. About the same amount I was taught about sex at puberty. Let’s just say, good thing there are publishing houses like Cleis Press around. Sex is worth nurturing at any age and this book, filled with clear, understandable information is an excellent read for making sure you enjoy an entire lifetime’s worth of great sex. Joan Price has an attitude that’s equal parts sexy and spicy and I want to be just like her when I come around that corner.

Chapter 3
Getting Your Mojo Back

I used to be eager for sex, easily aroused. My desire dipped after menopause and now barely exists. I can go weeks or more without desiring sex or thinking much about it. The funny thing is, if I get started, I like it, but it’s so hard to get in the mood.

The number one sex problem that I hear from women is the lack of desire for sex. They do still enjoy sex once they get started, they tell me, but they’re seldom in the mood ahead of time. It isn’t just a problem for women—many men also report decreased desire—but for women, it’s the primary complaint. The problem is that if we wait for the mood and don’t make sexual pleasure a priority, we’ll rarely have sex.

There are lots of reasons that you may be feeling decreased desire, but let’s cut to a solution that works first, and figure out the reasons afterward: instead of waiting for the mood, start getting yourself sexually aroused—on your own, with a partner, or with a vibrator. Just do it. The physiological arousal will trigger the emotional desire. That’s the opposite of the way it used to work! When we were younger, our hormone-induced sex drive bombarded our brain and body with desire—especially during our most fertile times. This was simple biology. A glance, a thought, a murmur, a fantasy, or a touch sparked the mood. Once in the mood, we opened ourselves to the pleasures of physiological arousal. We got turned on, our arousal built, and we crashed joyously into orgasm. But now, this all works the other way around. Instead of waiting forever for the mood to strike, we can induce the mood by letting ourselves get physiologically aroused as the first step. Arousal will lead to mood and desire, instead of vice versa. Here are your new mantras:

• Desire follows action.
• Use it, don’t lose it.
• Just do it.

“You may have just saved my marriage,” a woman told me after I gave this suggestion at a presentation. Try it—you may feel the same!


I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to approach our sexuality in this new way: Relax, start getting physically aroused, emotional arousal will happen, and voila, we’ll be in the mood. So the key is to commit to regular sex, partnered or solo. How does this translate to real life? Here are some tips:

• Schedule sex dates with your partner and/or with yourself.
• Create rituals with your partner that signal sex would be welcome.
• Allow plenty of time for warm up.
• Make sex a habit. The more you do it, the more you’ll want to do it.



Sex Information Your Doctor Doesn’t Tell You

In this definitive guide to great senior sex, Joan Price will help you deepen your pleasure for a lifetime. The myth that aging bodies have an expiration date when it comes to sex is just plain wrong. Sex may change with the challenges of aging, but for every problem, there is a solution. The Ultimate Guide to Sex after Fifty offers clear and reliable information, helpful tips and thoughtful interviews that disclose what works for real people—couples, singles and the widowed, across all orientations. Whether you currently have a vibrant sex life or an unfulfilling one that you’d like to improve, this book will be a real resource for you now and through the years ahead.

Everything you need to know about:

•Long-term relationships

•Medical challenges

•Loss of libido

•Dating later in life


•Elusive orgasms


•Sex toys



•Loss of intimacy

•Friends with benefits


Men of the Manor: Erotic Encounters between Upstairs Lords and Downstairs Lads, edited by Rob Rosen

Men of the Manor

Men of the Manor.

Despite the freezing cold outside, or well freezing cold by my native Georgia standards, the pages of this book have left me warm and toasty. In fact, I do believe I feel a fine sheen of sweat forming pretty much all over my body. This book is full of stories, with the playful banter between the privileged and the not (although they all look the same in my mind’s eye when the pants drop) making perfect foreplay for when the scenes get spicy enough to fog the windows on the front row from the action all the way back in the pre World War I England seats. Whew! I think I’ll need a break before I try to read this one again.

While on respite from the heat, I found the editor Rob Rosen. (Easy enough to do. I’m a big fan and stalk him on Facebook.) He was a total sweetheart in answering my favorite round of questions:

1. Where did you find the inspiration for Men of the Manor?

That’s an easy one: Downtown Abbey. The idea is similar, but, unlike the TV show, there’s enough sex in this collection to make the town vicar blush. See, Men of the Manor is an erotic new take on the D.A. theme: the sordid lives of the haves and the have-nots, and what can happen when the two classes find themselves beneath the sheets. The collected stories detail the romance and sex between wealthy aristocrats and hard-working estate staff, all with a pre-World War 1 backdrop, including the fashion and art and the latest inventions of the day. War is years way, the estates are huge and sprawling, the fashionably elite have too much time on their hands, while the toiling underclass are always on the lookout for a means to a brighter future — no matter whose bed they end up in during the night.

2. If you could make out with any pop culture icon, in modern or yesterday, who would it be and where?

My husband won’t like this, so please don’t tell him, but Anderson Cooper is way too dreamy to pass up on. Plus, I’d be one degree of separation away from pretty much every famous living person on the planet. So kissing Anderson would be like kissing everyone! It’s a heady thought.

(Oops! I thought all married people were given that one celebrity “if we ever cross paths” get-out-of-jail-free card, but then again, I’ve never been married. Your secret is safe with me. 😛 )

3. What can you fans expect next from you?

My next anthology, Best Gay Erotica 2015, is due out on 01/13/15. This is the 20th installment of this esteemed and steamy collection. Then my 8th novel, Creature Comfort, will be released on 02/12/15. My 9th novel, Fate, will be out in early 2016. And, yes, I plan that far ahead.

Seducing The Footman
by Brent Archer

John laughed. “Seems an easy one to me then. Tell your father you’re not going to marry her.”

Trenton’s eyes widened. “Telling my father no is like telling King Edward you’d rather not come to Court — it just isn’t done.”

John sat back. “I’ve heard that Scotland is lovely this time of year.”

Trenton arched his eyebrow. “And where did you hear that?”

“A handsome young Scot told me at school. Actually, he taught me many things that year.”

Trenton leaned toward him. “Such as?”

“Such as this.” John reached out his hands to grasp Trenton’s hair and crushed their lips together like a pirate plundering a merchant ship.

Trenton tried to push away, grabbing John’s wrists, but quickly dropped his hands and yielded to the desire the young man awakened in him. His kiss was a flame stoking the fire of his lust.

John broke the kiss, and Trenton locked eyes with the seductive man yet again. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

Trenton could barely manage a whisper. “Yes.”

John stood and held out his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.” John led him into the small entryway and up the stone steps to the second floor. Three bedroom doors greeted them.

Trenton took the lead and pulled John into the first one. He closed the door and turned just in time to receive another scorching kiss. Any thoughts of dominance faded as John pulled at his clothes. Trousers, garters, shirt, stockings, tie. All fell to the floor as he was quickly stripped to his undergarments.

John pushed him onto the bed and stood before him. He turned away and bent over to pick up Trenton’s clothes, pushing out his round ass in his neatly pressed black pants. He looked over his shoulder at Trenton. “Is this to your liking, sir?”

Trenton’s throat went dry, nerves suddenly surfacing as his underling seduced him. He’d never been so aroused in his entire life.

“Yes,” he gasped.

John rose and placed the clothes onto the dresser next to the bed. He faced Trenton and carefully removed and folded his own attire. Each revelation of perfect pale flesh left his master panting, his cock swelling and pushing against his undershorts. The thrill of anticipation threatened to drive him mad as the footman stayed just out of reach on the pretext of being neat.

Finally, the seductive servant stood before the bed naked with his hands on his hips. Trenton drank in his beautiful body. His clean-shaven face was still boyish, framed in curly dark hair. Green eyes stalked him as they looked across a button nose, his pouty lips forming into a grin. His torso was devoid of hair with the exception of two dark wisps around his nipples and a thatch under each arm. A thin line of hair led from his naval to a patch of dense swirling curls framing a thick manhood and heavy balls. His legs were covered in hair, leading down to sturdy feet.

Trenton reclined on the bed and spread his legs. “You’re very much to my liking.”

John padded forward with stealth, like the moves of a lion about to pounce. “Do you know what you want?” His eyes were mesmerizing. Trenton’s gaze locked onto those green eyes.

Yes. In this moment of seduction, clarity dawned bright and blazing. He knew what he wanted. “You.”

“Then you shall have me.” John leapt onto the bed, pinning Trenton’s arms above his head with one hand and tearing at the remaining fabric covering his body with the other. “You’ll get exactly what you want.”

John’s mouth ravaged Trenton’s lips before moving down to his neck. The man beneath gasped, trying to free his hands as his body was lost in a wave of passion. His fingers longed to touch John’s flesh, but were denied, increasing his desire all the more. John continued his journey, exploring every peak and valley of the nobleman’s form. His tongue darted into the thick patch of blond hair under Trenton’s arms, the master thrashing from side to side as class distinction and reason fell away; only blinding lust remained.

Trenton’s cock strained as each lick and nip at his flesh sent fire through his body. As John sucked on a nipple, he gasped. “Good lord, what are you doing to me?”

John released the nub from between his lips. “Pleasuring you like a Scot without the burden of marriage.” He resumed his ravaging.

Nine-to-Five Fantasies: Tales of Sex On The Job, Edited by Alison Tyler

It’s that time of year. Yep, Christmas. Meaning everything is three steps ahead of chaotic and I don’t have time to think and breathe, much less enjoy doing the things I’d rather be doing. So to get my relaxation time in, I have to get my reading done in route to all my other chores rather than snuggled under my comforter where I’d always rather be. Not so easy, when next on my list is Alison Tyler’s Nine-to-Five Fantasies. I read this entire anthology with my legs crossed at the ankles, fighting the urge to squeal with delight in public. The book cover, I hid in the pages of Time Magazine — wonder if I made any of my neighbors wonder what article put that grin on my face. Mark Zuckerberg is hot and all, but damn girl… Really?


I wonder how many people have ever had sex in the office, or at least, on the boss’s time. (I admit I have, but I’ll never tell which job or which boss. — Don’t look at me like that. You wouldn’t either.) Business in these pages was mixed with pleasure and everybody got a taste of play at work, from professors and chauffeurs to my personal favorites, the IT Guy (now that dude or dudette is always hot!) and a retired porn star.

by Sommer Marsden

My mouth went dry when I saw him: tall and broad, dusty jeans and dirty plain white tee. His hard hat was red, not yellow, and the back had a TARDIS sticker on it. A geek construction worker? Was it possible?

I shook off the thought because there was nothing to guarantee that he had put that sticker on the hardhat.

His biceps flexed as he picked up the two orange cones that had resided in the hallway of my apartment building for weeks. Something to do with the stairwell and restructuring. Residents had been instructed to use the elevator or the stairs at the opposite end of the hallway instead.

My eyes fixed on the way his grimy shirt drew taut across his back when he moved, and it took me a minute to realize that he was now staring back. My key was in the door, my hand on the knob, my heart beating faster than it usually did when I took the stairs.

“Hi,” he said.

I blinked and licked my lips. When he half-smiled I realized what I’d just done. My face heated with a blush, but I quickly sucked in a breath to get myself under control.

There was no way in hell this man could see into my head or know that I’d had a fixation on men like him my entire life. I’d never been to bed with a big, brawny construction worker because I’d never had the nerve — gumption my grandmother would have called it — to talk to one. Every time I was close enough to speak to one of these pillars of city life, I suddenly forgot how to talk.

This time was no different, so I nodded.

“Are you okay?”

My mouth felt like I’d swallowed a big spoonful of sand. Another nod from me, and he smiled.

“Okay then.” He winked. It wasn’t even smarmy or icky or anything. It was a wink that said we shared a secret. Or had a joke in common. Or just that he knew he was sort of pushing my buttons and liked it. But not in a cruel way, in an amused way.

He piled one cone on top of the other and hefted them up in one arm. That arm bore a tattoo of a crow caught in midflight.

Think of something clever to say. Ask about the sticker! Ask about the tattoo!

But I simply watched him walk away: nice ass in beat-up jeans with the bottoms of his pants legs sort of scrunched up around chunky, filthy work boots.

My pussy flexed just studying him.

Resigned to the fact that I was going to go into my apartment and get off with my vibrator to images of big, tall and studly going down on me, or even fucking me, I turned the key.

Then he called out, “Um, hello?”


And since I’m now in an Alison Tyler mood, guess what I told Santa to put under my tree this year —

Merry XXXmas


Naughty or Nice

Alchemy XII — New Year’s Eve, by Tasmin Flowers

The girl draped over the spanking bench mewled like a kitten that had lost its mother. Her buttocks glowed with radioactive heat. Between them, soft folds shone with her own pungent dew. Harry Lomax drew a deep breath—the aroma was captivating. Reminding him of long sultry nights followed by intimate dawns.

However, the girl on the bench wasn’t really the focus of Harry’s attention. His eyes were scanning the clusters of people who had gathered to watch the spanking scene play out. They showed, as one might expect, a preference for well-worn leather, black kohl, thigh-high boots and fishnets. Some of them he recognized in person, the rest by type. Doms with a surfeit of self-assurance. Subs quivering with excitement. Brats with a challenge in their eye. Fragile-looking femmes who could reduce grown men to tears with the flick of a whip or the curl of their lip. He’d been here before. He’d worn the gear. He’d played all the scenes from the bottom up and the top down.

But tonight he wasn’t wearing his leather. This wasn’t even his club. Master Blasters was the sort of club he’d stopped frequenting years ago. This evening he’d favored a low profile in black jeans with a T-shirt that gave away nothing about him. Acting like a tourist, lurking here for thrills and titillation. But he wasn’t. On this particular evening, Harry had come here to play poacher, looking for fresh-faced, corruptible ingénues upon whom he could work his considerable charms. Searching for someone who might intrigue him.


I’d heard about the little serials called “dime novels” or “penny dreadfuls” in all those high school English classes I found my butt parked in, somewhere between the front row of desks and the back. (The subject intimidated me, so I didn’t want to stand out in the first pew, but it interested me enough to where I didn’t want to sit in the very back row and go to sleep, either.) But in this day and age, I’d be as likely to experience one as I would be standing in line waiting for Charles Dickens autograph.

Then last September, Showtime came out with a new TV series, efficiently called, Penny Dreadful. I was there with remote in hand to see and taste this concept I’d heard about but never actually experienced. Sigh! Lasted about fifteen minutes before I had to change the channel, because in the entertainment world the critics view as filled with sex and violence, I can handle all the sex in the world, but the first sight of blood and guts and anything decapitated — Nuh, uh!

Oh well, guess that’s all she wrote.

But no, someone came out with a serial that speaks my language. An erotic penny dreadful, and seriously people, this one is hot! I’m talking fiery, sultry, torrid, white hot. I finished the last word and wanted to go back and reread, re-experience the whole bit all over again, but I have to catch my breath first. Find someway to unravel my toes.

“You don’t know me,” whispered Harry in her ear. “But you’ll never forget me.”

The girl gasped, trying to look round, but she couldn’t twist her head far enough to see him.


“He’s busy. You’re with me now. Give me your safe word.”


Harry slapped her hard with the palm of his hand across her rump. She let out a little shriek.

“Safe word. Now.”


“Butterfly what?”

“Sir. Butterfly, Sir.”

Harry turned towards the baby Doms, shaking his head.

“Have you ever used it?” he asked the girl.

“No, Sir.”

“You’ll use it tonight,” he said.


The author, Tasmin Flowers, describes her masterpiece like this:

These latter weeks of December are for most people the busiest time of the year…getting ready for Christmas, finishing off everything we mean to achieve before the year’s end, and socializing with old friends and our nearest and dearest. But in that lull between Christmas and the New Year, many of us get a chance to recharge our batteries—and for me, it’s the perfect time to curl up with some delicious new fiction on my Kindle.

This year I have something to offer readers for that snatched moment of relaxation and I’m happy to say, it’s completely free. Alchemy xii – New Year’s Eve is the prologue to my brand new Alchemy xii series – 12 novella length episodes that I’ll be releasing on the first of each month, throughout 2015. Readers will be able to buy them individually month-by-month or subscribe to get all 12 at a 33% discount!

So what’s it all about?

No one could ever accuse Harry Lomax of being a Dom’s Dom. Sometimes he even forgets to make his submissives call him “Sir”. But he’s the charismatic Prince of Kink at Chicago’s most secretive and exclusive sex club, where he runs Alchemy xii, the club’s prestigious year-long training program for would-be subs.

When Harry spots Olivia Roux across a crowded floor, he’s under no illusions as to what she is and what she isn’t. A blond, Amazonian goddess, Olivia’s no ingénue. She’s a woman of the world whom he suspects might have a thing for kink, if only she realized it. One thing is for certain—Olivia is nobody’s bitch.

Harry knows that he wants her. For his Alchemy xii training program, that’s for sure. But for himself? Harry will try anything once—and Olivia’s a woman who’s got his name written all over her!

Harry gives Olivia a diary to record her thoughts and feeling about training at Alchemy. Will she be able to submit to Harry? Will he be able to transform her into the perfect sub?


If you want to try it, and you know you do, start clicking — The first episode is free. Prepare to be addicted. Harry’s the dom I’ll definitely be following all year long.

Penthouse Variations on Oral: Erotic Stories of Going Down

From the amazingly brilliant minds of Penthouse Variations:


At first I thought Penthouse Variations on Oral might be a copy of the magazine I’ve adored for more years than I want to admit to (not revealing my age), but without the hot, glossy pictures. But these stories are like the magazine’s best of the best, so vividly detailed in going down, whether it’s sweet and gentle, or hot and lusty, that even a reader with no imagination, can still find their world rocked with just these words alone. And oral sex — well, there is no more mind blowing aphrodisiac! Sit back and savor this book, maybe allow your thighs to part. Bonus points if you can read allowed while the lover of your choice performs a physical demonstration.

Let me show you… Just a taste now… If you want more, you’ll have to go get your own copy. 🙂

by Alison Tyler

Once he’d set the last lid in place, Zach hefted the box to carry it to Jamie’s ad agency. I held the door open for him, and right as his well-muscled body was lined up with my own, I said, “When you get back, I have another type of split I’d like you to lick.”

I thought he was going to drop the coffee. I could actually see the Rorschach-like splatter on the tiled floor in my mind — regular two sugars blending with decaf with soymilk — but he caught himself and said, “Back in two minutes. Hold that thought.”

I held it. I held it as tightly as I possibly could, with my thighs squeezed together and my pussy positively clenched. Standing nearly frozen behind the counter, I willed myself to still my racing heart. As I exhaled, I looked at myself in the mirror over the fancy bronze coffeemaker. I had my blonde hair up in a French twist, every hair in place. The pink in my cheeks hadn’t come from a cosmetic palette, but from my sexual excitement. Every sensual fantasy I’d ever had about Zach seemed to percolate in my head into one steamy concoction.

I took a deep breath and prayed for a slow day. Maybe we wouldn’t have the normal commuters rush. Maybe we would be left to our own devices.

Maybes are worth about as much as a decaf soy latte in my world. When Zach returned, I had a line of impatient customers that ran from the counter to the door, everyone craving their caffeine fix before a long day at work. Zach and I danced through our usual banter without a word about what I’d said until we’d served the last harried commuter. Only then did he sidle up to me, cradle my waist in his big hands and croon, “So, about this split?”

I grinned at him and took one of his hands in mine. Behind the counter, I slid his fingertips beneath the waistband of my short, checkered skirt and into my silky yellow panties. The expression on his face let me know when he felt the wetness meet him, envelop him, suck him in. After a few seconds, he withdrew his hand and slowly, oh so slowly, licked his fingers clean.

“How long have you wanted me to taste you?” His voice was hoarse. He looked as light-headed as I felt.

“Since that first latte.”

“Excuse me?”

“Since the first day we were at work together. You made yourself a foamy latte, and you licked the rim of the cup before taking a sip. All I could think about was you licking my pussy in exactly the same way, with the same look of pleasure in your eyes. I’d never been jealous of a seventy-percent-recycled paper cup before.”

“For two months you’ve wanted me to do this?” He slid his fingers back into my panties and used two of them to fuck me. I held onto the counter with both hands and stared straight forward. If a customer walked in, we’d probably be able to save face, although Zach might’ve had to work the cash register with sticky, pussy-scented fingers. But no customers interrupted us. Zach overlapped his two probing fingers and began to work me faster and harder, easily managing to locate my G-spot. I’d never been so masterfully touched. My whole body felt electrified.

To my dismay, he pulled away before I could come, and this time, he spread my shiny gloss on my own lips. I was breathing hard. I stared into his eyes. He brought me to him, and with sweet finesse, he licked my lips clean. Then he kissed me. Really kissed me. Our tongues met, and I could taste my own honeyed flavor.

“How much do you want me between your legs?” he whispered when we parted.

“Desperately,” I told him.

“Let’s see how desperately,” he said, and he went to his knees on the black spongy mat behind the counter and buried his head under my skirt. Okay, so now we were really walking the edge of decorum. I was still facing the door, ready to greet any customers with might enter the shop. Zach had pulled my panties roughly to the side and was spearing my pussy with the tip of his tongue. He seemed to know instinctively how to touch me. At first, he tapped his tongue right on my clit. Then he started making circles all around. I recalled the way he created designs in the fancy coffees we served: leaves, stars and hearts. I believed he was tracing those same types of patterns with his tongue, as if I were a confection worth devouring.

What would happen if someone entered the store? I could take an order, and Zach would be hidden. But I wouldn’t be able to move very easily to make the coffee. Not with Zach sealed to my pussy like that. The image made me giddy.

Hot Highlanders and Wild Warriors: Erotic Romance for Women, Edited by Delilah Devlin

I read and finished Hot Highlanders and Wild Warriors way faster than I wanted to. It left me both satisfied and hungry for more and has earned a one way pass to my keeper shelf. I loved every story, every culture portrayed, the incredibly hot sex scenes, and how powerfully vivid and well researched each story appeared on the page. Rich in the historical tidbits I wish I’d been taught in school, written like the forbidden romance novels I used to read under my high school desk. It’s emotional candy to keep a reader warm now that the weather is getting cold.

Hot Highlanders

by Renee Luke

“If you have not a word to say, you have no business here.” She lifted her cane and pointed it to her left, aiming it toward the garden gate. “Go!”

“I will not.”

His voice was low. Rough. Determined. And there was something in his tone that teased her senses like a pastry long since tasted teased her palate. Had she heard his voice before or was it panic playing tricks with her memories? She wasn’t sure, but he had spoken only three words. However, Lena knew to her core she was in trouble. Fear took hold again, edging away the bits of annoyance as she rifled her memories, trying to summon one that matched his voice.

She remained steady, facing forward to where the man stood, fighting the gnawing trepidation and the need to call out for the few remaining of her father’s men. They’d not get to her in time, she knew, if this man, the invader, sought to do her harm. She’d be dead by his hand before help would arrive.

“If you shall not leave, state your purpose here. My father cannot be disturbed at the moment.” Lena squeezed her lids closed, feeling the burn of tears. Tears she could not allow to fall. She pushed down the tightness in her throat. This man was different, his presence in her garden more of an incursion than any before. Her voice broke as she opened her eyes. “Milord, there is naught for you here.”

“Your father is dead. And, you…”

The leaves rattled, and the earth trembled beneath her feet.

“You are mine.”

In a heartbeat he was upon her. Overpowering in presence as the air was crushed between them. She fought the need to step back, to gain distance from this intruder. But it was too late. He was large, she could tell by how his shoulders blocked the warmth of the sun, replaced instead by his heat and the heady scene of man: leather, lye, sweat and sunshine. And again, of exotic sandalwood.

Strong fingers embraced her wrist. She startled at his touch, sucking in a gasp between her lips. His touch was warm, calloused, but so unexpectedly gentle she didn’t pull away. For a moment fear was overrun by the enthralling heat of him. The intoxicating male scent. She stood allowing him to touch her skin. Almost enjoying the way it made heat spread through her.


He cleared his throat, stepping closer, and her hand brushed against the material of his tunic. He was firm beneath, flesh forged of steel. Heat increased as it flowed through her.

His breath danced below her ear. “Milady, I shall not force myself upon you, but know this; you are already mine for the taking.”

Reality crushed her, and trepidation followed fear down her spine. She twisted her hand attempting to free herself from his hold and yet hesitated to sever the contact. His grasp was unbreakable. “My father will not stand…”

“Lena, your father is dead,” he said, his voice soft and firm, “and had he not been, he’d still not halt my claim of you.” He released his hold on her.

She could hear the sound of worn leather as he fumbled with his belt. And then he was touching her again, taking her hand in his. With her palm up, he first ran the rough pad of his thumb across her flesh, causing her to quiver, then replaced his thumb with a scroll of parchment.

Lena turned her face to the sky while she steadied her breathing. Attempted to slow her fitful pulse. Her stomach churned with fear and something unfamiliar that pooled dew upon her tender lips and caused her inner thighs to go slick.

The parchment meant something. Biting down on her tongue, she remained silent, already resigned. Closing her eyes, she lowered her face. “You have no claim on my holdings,” she said, her voice less firm than it had been before. “No claim to me.”

He chuckled. “You are wrong, milady, but you needn’t believe my words.” He curled the hand which held hers, forcing her fingers to tighten around the scroll. “You may read the truth in your father’s words.”

She shrugged free of his hold, then spun away so her back absorbed his heat. Could it be…? She dropped her cane and touched both hands to the scroll, finding the wax seal with her fingertips. Could it be? Memories came rushing upon her all at once. “Seth…” she whispered, carefully tracing her father’s signet ring that had so long ago been pressed into wax.

“Tis I, milady.”

Cover Him With Darkness: A Romance, by Janine Ashbless

This is probably one of the longest blogs I’ve ever posted. But after reading Cover Him With Darkness, there’s so much I want to say and so much left unsaid because my mind is blown and I can’t find the words. The pages I just finished are that awesome. I LOVED this book! It had no clichéd good, oops-it-was-an-accident/misunderstanding fallen angel who fell in love with an earthly good girl and had to choose if he wanted to go back to heaven or find “heaven on earth.” Ashbless’s originality is such a relief from the same old Barbie-Ken fallen angel cutouts. Cover Him With Darkness is very dark and incredibly sexy. It’s thought-provoking with characters that are both good and bad, living in that spooky unknown shade of gray where both humanity and what lurks in the dark really call home. And you’ll never guess the ending.

This is the perfect book for early sunsets and cold nights buried under a thick, warm comforter. The next part of the trilogy can’t come out fast enough.


Her bio reads:

Janine Ashbless is a writer of fantasy erotica and steamy romantic adventure – and that’s “fantasy” in the sense of swords ‘n’ sandals, contemporary paranormal, fairytale, and stories based on mythology and folklore. She likes to write about magic and mystery, dangerous power dynamics, borderline terror, and the not-quite-human.

Janine has been seeing her books in print ever since 2000, and her novels and single-author collections now run into double figures. She’s also had numerous short stories published by Black Lace, Nexus, Cleis Press, Ravenous Romance, Harlequin Spice, Storm Moon, Xcite, Mischief Books, and Ellora’s Cave among others. She is co-editor of the nerd erotica anthology Geek Love.

Her work has been described as: “hardcore and literate” (Madeline Moore) and “vivid and tempestuous and dangerous, and bursting with sacrifice, death and love.” (Portia Da Costa)

But you know I’m too nosey not to try to get a personal interview — the secrets from the artist herself….

1) I love your unique take on the fallen angel tale and read the short story that inspired Cover Him with Darkness in 2011’s Red Velvet and Absinthe anthology. It was Wow! even in condensed form. What inspired the original short story?

That’s really kind of you to say, Martha!

The call went out for “gothic” tales. Most of my stories start with a visual image. This one started with the idea of a man chained up in a stone cell, being looked at by a young woman who felt desperately upset by the sight. I started by wondering who he was and what he’d been imprisoned for, and then I somehow transferred those questions to the girl’s head – and suddenly I had the idea of an immortal who’d been bound in darkness for so many centuries that even his jailors didn’t know what his crime was. The rest was back-engineering from existing mythology.

And then Cleis contacted me and asked What Happened Next…

2. You are one of the pioneering authors in the new Tempted Romance line. How does that feel?

It’s a massive honour, and a responsibility too. Cleis have invested a lot in this imprint and this book. I hope it pays off for them – not least because I then get to write the sequels to Cover Him with Darkness.

3. I ask this of every author I interview because the answer always fascinates. If you could make out with any pop culture icon, who would it be and where?

Mystique, from the X-Men movies. Think of the possibilities!

4. What can your fans expect next from you?

I’m hoping to write the next in the CHWD trilogy soon – it’s to be called The Valleys of the Earth. I’m also currently writing a quartet for Ellora’s Cave called Lovers’ Wheel, which is contemporary magical erotica. AND I’ve got a brand new collection of short stores, Fierce Enchantments, out now in e-format – the paperback will be published by the end of 2014. Everything happens at once!

Cover Him


“Are you scared of me, Milja?” he asked softly.

I didn’t answer. Under those silver eyes I was like a deer transfixed by truck headlamps.

“Why are you scared?” He reached out and touched my cheek, and I flinched.

“What do you want?”

“Huh. Isn’t that obvious?” His caress was gentle; incongruously so, after the uninhibited roughness of his attentions on the mountainside.

“No!” I said, as his fingertips grazed my throat and breastbone and then circled my nipple. He was so close that I could smell his skin—earth and sweat no longer, but a peppery warmth that was far from unpleasant. “Go away! Please!”

For a moment he looked taken aback. Then he shook his head. “Are you trying to tease? Your desire is like a beacon on a hilltop, Milja. I can see you burning.”

Maybe he could. What did I know of his perceptions? I tried to shrink from his grasp but he cupped my breast, hefting its softness. “I don’t want you!” I cried.

He laughed. “Don’t lie to me.” His hand seemed to kindle a fire in my flesh. He stooped and brushed his lips across my averted cheek, his breath warm. I shuddered from head to toe.

“I’m not lying,” I said desperately: “you’re not listening. Please.”

“I can hear your pulse,” he growled, his teeth tickling my ear. “I can smell your need.”

Desire ran through me like melted wax, pouring through my breasts and belly and pooling in my swollen sex. It took my breath away, and my dignity, and my caution.

“You piece of shit!” I sobbed.

Well, that worked. I guess not many girls had ever spoken to him like that. He stepped back—and as all the lights in the room shrank to tiny glows, the darkness grew and thickened, crowding in around him. His white sweater seemed to glow with phosphorescence. There was no amusement in his face anymore, just red pinpoints where his pupils should be.

“All right,” he said softly. “I’m listening now.”

I wet my dry lips. “You left me on the mountain. You fucked me and you left me on the mountain in the night. I could have broken a leg. I could have died out there. I had to crawl home in the dark. You fucked me and you dumped me and you’re a goddamn demon—” I broke off suddenly in panic, covering my face with my hands.

He looked away. I heard the fierce intake of his breath and then a long exhalation before he could bring himself to answer. Slowly the room lights reasserted themselves. “It was not done well,” he growled. “I…I was overwhelmed. My mind was full of old thoughts awoken.” He straightened his shoulders. “I will apologize. You will forgive me.”

If he’d been human I would have laughed. Hysterically. “Forgive you?”

I repeated, in a whisper.

“Yes.” He put his open palm between my breasts to feel my pounding heart. “I forget sometimes how fragile you are.”



He meant it. He really meant it.

“You’re a rebel angel. Like in the Book of Enoch. Like in the Bible. It’s real, isn’t it? All of it?” My face was doing strange things, muscles twisting all awry. “Heaven and Hell and the Garden of Eden and Noah’s Ark and Jonah’s whale and all that? It’s all real? The Last Judgment? Eternal damnation? All of it?”

Azazel opened his mouth as if to reply, and then hesitated. Something shifted in his quicksilver eyes. “So you believe everything you read, then?” he asked.

“I believe…in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth,” I started, the words of the Creed rising to my lips with easy familiarity even though I hadn’t given my actual faith much thought in years; “and of all things, visible and invisible—”

“Shh.” Azazel put a finger on my mouth to still it, shaking his head gently. “Don’t be like that. I’m not going to hurt you. You believe in angels and demons, don’t you?”

“I do now!”

“And what is it that you think we do?”

“Drag me to Hell?”

He shook his head, the merest twitch. The little smile was back, battered and a bit uncertain now, but back. “Not right now. I’ve no interest in your”—he laughed under his breath—“immortal soul.”

“Then what?”

“This.” He caught my chin and bent to kiss me—not the full-blooded kiss of a movie hero, but a soft, slow brush of his lips across mine. It was like being touched by a burning ember: it set me on fire. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. “This,” he repeated, his hands moving over my breasts, circling my waist. “This,” he whispered, cupping the curve of my ass and pushing his long fingers down into places of shivering, shameful delight.

I couldn’t help it—I quivered against him and let slip a moan, half fear and half something else altogether. And yet somehow I managed to writhe out of his kiss. He looked into my eyes from inches away.

“You said you were fallen,” I whispered.

A tilt of his eyes acknowledged that, even as his hands slid over my hips. “We did not fall: we leaped.”

“Has God forgiven you?”

He curled his lip. “That seems most unlikely.”

“So you’re damned.” It was taking all my strength not to yield to the ache and the need in my own flesh.

Azazel breathed out a humorless laugh. “Oh yes.”

“In league with Satan.”

That seemed to rankle. “Leave him out of it. I am one of the Egrigoroi.” The word sounded Greek, but the press of his body was a sharp reminder that theology wasn’t his only concern, and that another matter was growing more urgent.

“You’re pure evil.”

“So you say.” He was working my blouse open now.

I pushed his face away. “Please. I can’t do this. I can’t do this with you.”

“It’s what you’ve wanted all your life.” Azazel sounded breathless. I couldn’t contradict his words, not directly. They were all true.

“It’s wrong.”

“It’s what you ache for.”

“It’s against the will of God!”

“Fuck Him!” Azazel snarled, catching my hair and pulling my head back so sharply that I saw stars. “Five thousand years of torture—do you think I’ll crawl back to the foot of the Throne now?”

Tears sprang up in my eyes, a physical reaction to the hair-pulling as much as anything. “But He’s my God,” I cried.

He had me pinned. His face loomed over mine. There was mutinous rage in it, but he kept his voice low. “No, He’s not,” he whispered. “You belong to me now.”

Darker Edge of Desire: Gothic Tales of Romance, Edited by Mitzi Szereto

Darker Edge of Desire

I’m one of those writers who thinks you can’t mix erotica and horror. Both are sensual genres that play with the mind and creep into the reader’s “real world,” but they inspire two different urges. One wants you to slide out from under your comforter and read with one hand and the other wants you to crawl under that same comforter and three of its blanket cousins to hide until daylight. But Darker Edge of Desire is the exception to my rule.

Reading this book is like knocking boots with all the things that go bump in the night — vampires and werewolves, witches and demons, ghosts of lover’s past and even a tormented Poe. The stories making the delicious spirits under the bed and hiding behind curtains buzzy vibrator worthy phenomenon. I’m talking seriously old school gothic, but new and refreshing and original as well.

Yes, I tracked down the dark, naughty editor and got an interview —

1. Your anthology is one of the first books in the new Tempted Romance line. How does that feel?

It’s always exciting to have a book being published as part of the launch of a new publishing imprint. It’s a major event, because readers and industry professionals will be watching closely, which also puts the spotlight on my book perhaps even more so than under normal circumstances. I’m pleased to be a part of this exciting new direction from a publisher I’ve worked steadily with over the years.

2. I ask this of every author I interview because the answer always fascinates me. If you could make out with one pop culture icon, who would it be and where?

Not sure he’s technically a pop culture icon, but I find Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode quite fanciable – that voice is enough just by itself! There’s something incredibly sexy about him; it’s still there even now despite the years and all the problems he’s battled. As for where, far away from the madding crowd, perhaps in a cottage on a cliff overlooking a stormy sea. I’d take that over the Ritz Carlton any day.

3. What can your fans expect next from you?

Always expect the unexpected! I’ve got a zombies anthology coming out in 2015 called “Love, Lust and Zombies” as well as the second installment of my quirky crime/cosy mystery series “The Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles” co-written with my sidekick celebrity bear, Teddy Tedaloo. Two very different projects, but both great fun!

Lightning in a Bottle
by Kim Knox

My guardian had always thought me ignorant of the goings-on in his house.

A vapid girl, alone in the world, who never noticed the dark-robed men arriving in the dead of night. Or one who never wondered at the hints of sage and frankincense that drifted through the passages of his London town house in the early mornings. I knew, had known for quite some years that Henry Bellasis, Viscount Fauconberg was a warlock. And that he now planned to draw me into his world by offering my virginity to a stranger.

I wrapped my fingers around the great brass key, the pitted metal warming against my skin as I stood in the shadowed passage that led to the cellar door. The place where my guardian had bound his great secret.

Rumors from the footmen over the past week had run that Henry kept a dragon in the arched rooms that also housed his collection of metal automata. A great beast that steamed and groaned and licked fire into cook’s little parlor when the wind blew north.

The maids shared darker stories as they made the beds or took a pan and brush to the ashes in the hearths. The dragon bound in the cellar did more than steam and groan. One maid had blushed scarlet and admitted in a rushed whisper that her dreams were full of a great, dark beast. A wicked beast…with a wicked mouth.

Not that I believed their tales. My guardian set himself as a collector, an inventor, or that was the face he liked to present to the Fellows of the Royal Society. Those in his inner circle knew better. I knew better. There was no dragon in the cellar. There was something…darker.

I rubbed the key’s bit, the sharp edge pressing into my thumb and digging a swift pain. I’d witnessed the rite that brought the creature into our world and now I stood with my heart almost in my throat, working to find the courage to push the key into the lock and turn it.


Submission: Erotica For Women, Edited by Alex Algren

I started reading this e-book anthology because it had two of my favorite erotic authors in its pages — Rachel Kramer Bussel and Alison Tyler. What started as a quick bedtime reading of two stories turned into a late night consumption of every last page.

This book didn’t just bag up a handful of great sex scenes (although the scenes are beyond hot). It tested the boundaries of its heroines, whether that meant being dared to be tied up in Truss Issues by Lux Zakari, or overcoming a fear of blindfolds in Alison Tyler’s The Art of Darkness. I even felt my, the reader’s, boundaries tested in I Breathe Your Name by Tess Danesi. Asphyxia is not anything I’d normal be interested in reading and would normally flip to the next story without giving it the first chance. But the introduction to this kink was done slowly and written so artistically, I both read and enjoyed it, even though I still feel uncomfortable admitting I enjoyed it.


The Weight
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

I settle into my favorite position: naked, facedown on the bed, arm by my sides, legs slightly spread. I’m not moving, but inside I’m twitching with excitement. I wait, like this, for Damian. He’s in the kitchen but he knows I’m in our bed, eager, hungry. He knows he is the only one who can give me what I need. Now he does, anyway. I’m pretty sure when we first got together all those years ago, he thought it was just my kink or fetish: get on top of me, hold me down, provide that rote set of actions that get me off.

I didn’t know how to tell him for a long time it wasn’t that at all; it was him. He was my fetish, he was my everything, which made it easy to give so much of myself right back to him. It didn’t even feel like a choice. Better for him to think I was just a kinky girl, rather than kinky for him. He already held so much power over me after that first time, another bit of it might set me permanently in the cage he’d placed me in, the one whose invisible bars I met everywhere I turned, with every thought that passed through my mind. He’d invaded me inside and out, to the point where he didn’t need to do or say anything to keep me in place. He had me, every inch of me. I was only twenty-two, but I knew exactly what I wanted and, once he sank his claws into me, what I needed.

“No,” I told him, looking up at him and blushing as I felt the tears rushing to give me away. “Just you. All of you.” He’d looked at me for a long time. I could sense the smile along his lips even though he didn’t dare show it to me. He likes to look stern even though I can read him just as well as he can read me and I know that while it’s not an act, there is a heart as tender as mine beating beneath the layers of menace he slips into when we are together. He manages to make the transitions seamless, though, so I never know which Damian I will get, how rough he will be, how deliciously far he will push me.

That first night was a lot like tonight, but no matter how many times I prepare myself for Damian, I’m never truly prepared. I couldn’t be, even if I could peer into the future with some kind of kinky crystal ball. Some things you have to live through moment by agonizing, dazzling moment. He steamrolls over my anticipation, crushing it like he crushes me, until I am a blank slate. Oh, he likes my dirty mind well enough, the fantasies I cook up and spin for him, but he wants me to know they’ll never come true, not exactly, not the way I conceive of them, anyway. His fantasies will, and do, and he will make them mine whether I like it or not, even though I always wind up liking it, even when I’m literally kicking and screaming.

Sometimes my fantasies morph into his, or maybe it’s that they merge. Maybe it’s that what I think I want is never actually what I really do, or that when the fantasy comes alive, like now, it’s more intense, more scary and far more arousing than I ever could have predicted. Damian takes away my predictability the same way he takes away my mobility, my breath, my agency; they’re there, and in a flash, they’re gone. I could protest, but he knows me too well for that. I like offering those elemental facets of my being to him, only him. I like the way he looks when he knows I’ve stripped away even the flimsiest of barriers between us. Too many of my exes thought stripping was about the skin, about getting naked, and that was all it took to see all of me, to capture me. How little did they know. I’m the queen of the invisible cover-up, but Damian can induce fear and lust and a scarily possessive passion all with a look, even with my clothes on. So now, when I’m bare in every sense of the word, is when the real magic happens, when I truly come alive, and so does he. I can almost see the power shift animate him, light him up like a rocket about to shoot into space, only it’s my space he’s about to barrel through; the spaces inside me, the ones I’m not even aware I’m clinging to, he’s about to invade.

There’s nothing showy about this. If you were watching us, you’d see a large white man lying on top of a smaller white woman, if you could see her at all save for her brown hair splayed across the sheets. There are no pillows beneath me; he is pillow enough for both of us, even above me, his heavy softness cushioning, momentarily, what he is about to do. I’m aware we could be on the floor, we could even be on the sidewalk; he could get me to do that, I’m pretty sure, my cheek pressed to the filthy concrete, drool leaking out of my mouth. So any lack of amenities simply makes me more conscious of what I do have in this moment: him, his body, every last ounce. I don’t know how many there are, ounces or pounds, but I know there are a lot. I know he can easily scoop me up into his arms. I know the guards size him up when we get on a plane. I know he is not just big, but huge, so when he is on top of me, I am small, able to be crushed, flattened, compressed.

It feels like the air whooshes out of my lungs; I’d take a polygraph and tell you it makes a noise, like when you deflate a balloon, though the rational side of me knows it’s a silent motion. It seems to go so fast, even though I know it’s actually escaping me in tiny increments as he settles on top of me, as the full weight of him starts to crush me. I am calm as I savor both the last breaths I have, and their extinguishment. I wish sometimes I were smaller, and he were bigger, that his very presence could smother me entirely, but we manage to come very close, his arms atop mine, his heft making me feel petite, worthy of what he is giving me, whether I truly am or not.

He seems to get heavier as the seconds pass, and it doesn’t take very many of them before my lungs are trying to find purchase, a way out, even as my nipples, smashed into the mattress as they are, tingle with the thrill of the fine edge of sanity we are dancing upon. We are both well aware of that fine line; we are tweaking it, plucking it like a guitar string, watching it teeter back and forth. Wondering where we will land excites us. I can hear it, feel it, when he pushes my arms down tight to my sides and wraps his hands over my head. Damian loves to cover my face with his giant palm, to hold it right over my lips, to cover my eyes, to literally manhandle me. He manages to somehow bear down even more and the panic starts to rise in me until he lets up for a moment.

I don’t gulp in greedy, deep breaths of air; that would be too obvious. I take the smallest breaths I can, savoring them, making do with what I can get, while I can. He raises up just enough to turn me over, settling down again with his knee planted firmly against my pussy, so firmly it hurts a little. He’s not trying to make me wet, or make me like it. I know that much by now. He’s trying to simply tell me that even his knee owns me, that even his knee can make me do anything he demands.

The Sexy Librarian’s Big Book of Erotica

Rose Caraway2

I’m always on the lookout for new erotic anthologies to obsess over even though it won’t be long before I have to find the funds to rent a second apartment. There’s almost no room left in my cute, bohemian studio unit to hold both me and my library. Maybe if I drag my bed out and throw a few pillows and a comforter over some artfully arranged stacks…

But anyway, this week I found The Sexy Librarian’s Big Book of Erotica, Edited by Rose Caraway. Who knew the little card catalog index cards could be so incredibly sexy? I can’t say enough how much I truly enjoyed reading every page. There were so many different, thrilling stories — think The Arabian Nights mixed with Disneyland. This book is the sexiest library you’ve ever been in with thought and vocabulary increasing tales that ignite your imagination.

Rose Caraway

When I was offered the chance to interview Rose Caraway and get a taste of what makes her artistic endeavors so hot, do you think I turned it down? Of course not!

1. What’s your favorite book? What’s the sexiest you’ve ever read?
My favorite book of all-time is Stephen King’s “Carrie”. I have read my paperback copy so many times, it is nearly falling apart. Carrie White and I go way back. I love the way S.K. wrote her. And, to be honest, I love the movie adaptation as much as the book.

This may not be the normal or average response, but the sexiest book I’ve ever read is “Dracula”. That story turns my brain on in every way. I simply has everything in it for me. It’s the true ‘ultimate adventure’. With tension building at every corner.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I love asking erotic artists this question because the answer is never boring. This one was even more unique than all the others.

2. If you could make out with any pop culture icon, who would it be and where?

I would love to go to Castle Dracula, with Frank Langella’s dracula—so that he and I could… you know. Frank Langella’s Dracula will forever be the sexiest Dracula… ever. I fell in love with him at a very young age in the 80’s and have been faithful ever since. I will be Dracula’s Lucy (or should I say Mina?) anytime.

3. What can we expect next from you?

Currently I am interviewing contributing authors for my latest anthology over at The Sexy Librarian’s Blog-cast and also traveling up and down and across the US for The Sexy Librarian’s Big Book of Erotica book tour. Here is the schedule of stops if anyone would like to attend a live reading:

9/15: Book Tour with Rachel Kramer Bussel & Rose Caraway at: The Booksmith: 1644 Haight Street, San Francisco, CA at 7:30pm

9/19: “The Sexy Librarian’s Big Book of Erotica” book signing in Richmond, Virginia at: The Fountain Bookstore, 1312 E Cary St, Richmond, Virginia 23219 at: 12:30pm. (With Lynn Townsend and Kristina Wright)

9/24: Book Tour at: Books, Inc. 2275 Market Street, San Francisco (Castro District), CA at: 7:30pm (With Eva Gantz and Malin James)

9/25: Book Tour at: Good Vibes 3219 Lakeshore Ave, Oakland, CA 94610 at: 6:30pm to 8:30pm (With Sinclair Sexsmith and Jade A. Waters)

A ton of brilliant, sexy stuff is also coming up Audiobook-wise! I have “The Sexy Librarian’s Big Book of Erotica”, Rachel Kramer Bussel’s “The Big Book of Submission”, DL King’s “The Big Book of Domination” and “Slave Girls”, and Shanna Germain’s “As Kinky as You Wanna Be”. Also, very soon I will be debuting my very first self-published audiobook only anthology, “Rose Caraway’s Dirty 30” which I am very excited about.

As always, I am putting out free erotica stories on my The Kiss Me Quick’s podcast. I have a terrific line-up there! Donna George Storey, Tamsin Flowers, Raziel Moore, Lynn Townsend… and many, many more fabulous stories to soon be narrated and fully produced—Stupid Fish style!

I am trying to wrap up my Erotic Horror novel WOLF. This book is my baby. This one is special. I am breaking rules and putting together one hell of a story that I know people are going to enjoy. You just really can’t go wrong with werewolves, serial-killers, true love and transcendent courage.

Rose Caraway3

The Perfect Massage
by Olivia Archer

“I was not scheduled to work today,” he explains, “but informed the club that I would come in for your appointment. I hope Lance was able to get you started sufficiently.”

Lance has moved to the side of the massage table, but his hands continue to rub my lower back. I can hear Armand moving around, out of my sight line, then he applies pressure to the balls of my feet. Being touched by both of them makes my libido rev up even more.

“He’s been great,” I respond, “This is amazing.”

This?” repeats Armand. “You wish for Lance to remain?”

I laugh, embarrassed yet serious. “Two men rubbing me? Who could say no?”

So, instead of leaving, Lance begins to massage me intensely, moving lower on my back than Armand has before. The shet had been pushed down and draped across my butt. Now Lance moves the sheet down farther, beginning to deeply knead my glutes. Most masseurs shy away from this area, but it contains powerful muscle groups and mine could use some release.

Meanwhile, Armand spreads massage oil on the backs of my legs and begins rubbing the muscles down there. He asks, “May I remove the sheet?”

“Yes,” is the only word I can summon in this state of bliss.

The sheet is gone as both men attentively massage my body, their hands getting closer together until I can no longer distinguish Lance’s from Armand’s. My body is supple from their touch and alive with desire.

Hands slip between my thighs. Their steady rhythm causes my breath to quicken in anticipation. Time becomes fluid as I am lost in pleasure.

Normally the sheet is pulled up to my shoulders, then I discreetly roll onto my back for the final part of my massage. I feel hesitation from them. Someone starts the music again.

Armand asks me, “Would you like to continue?”


He instructs, “Lance, the mask.” Lance’s hands carefully gather my shoulder-length brown locks as he slips the silky mask on, and helps me roll onto my back.

I wonder how my body must look, bared on the table before them, but don’t have much time to think about it because they both begin rubbing me again. I am so turned on, I fight the urge to spread my legs wide open to Armand, who is still at my feet.

Lance begins kneading a path across my shoulders, but soon is circling my breasts with his gentle hands, teasing each nipple with his slick fingers.

Armand asks from below, “Ms. Rollins, may I?”

May he what? I wonder, as I answer, “Yes!”

Hands are between my legs again, this time parting them as far as possible on the narrow table. My open pussy is fully on display to Armand. Deft fingers disappear into the folds of my labia, to probe my wet heat, revealing the strength of my desire.

Lance kisses my forehead, then my lips. His fingertips continue their amazing patterns on my breasts. My nipples are throbbing in sync with my crotch.

I hear rustling at the foot of the table, then Armand removes his hands. Lance stops kissing me, and I listen to the sounds of clothing beign shed. My heart is thundering. I think that I must be as loud as my panting breath.

The table shifts as a man climbs onto it, near my ankles. His bare skin brushes mine as he nestles between my legs. Again Armand asks, “May I?”