It's not about power; it's about love - #Lesbian #ParanormalRomance #Gloucester

Paranormal is actually one of my favorite sub-genres. For some reason, though, most of my stories that feature magical realms tend toward the darker side. In some books (e.g. Necessary Madness, The Eyes of Bast, and Serpent’s Kiss), my protagonists must battle incredible evil before they get their happy ending. In some books (e.g. Underground, Fourth World), many characters don’t get a traditional happy ending at all.

One major exception is The Witches of Gloucester, a lively, sexy, seriously magical lesbian ménage fantasy.

It’s not about power. It’s about love.

The historic port of Gloucester, Massachusetts has a special charm, due at least in part to its resident witches. For decades, raven-maned Marguerite and red-headed Beryl have lived among its hard-working inhabitants, making magic and mischief. Love and sex fuel their supernatural abilities, but duality limits their power. To reach their full potential, they need a third witch to complete their circle.

Rejected as a nymphomaniac by her puritanical boyfriend, Emmeline escapes to Gloucester to work on her PhD thesis. From the moment she arrives, Marguerite and Beryl sense her erotic vitality and unrecognized paranormal talent. The platinum-haired beauty may well be the enchantress they have been awaiting for so long. Now they need to show Em that her prodigious libido is a gift, not a liability, and to persuade her that her destiny lies in the sea-girt town they guard, and in their arms.

Good Harbor Beach, Gloucester, MA

Photo by Lisabet Sarai

Here’s an excerpt in which Emmeline is introduced to her own powers.

* * *

“More tea, Emmeline?”

Marguerite’s voice roused her from her lascivious memories. Her hostess gestured with the blue-and-white pot. Emmeline stared into her empty cup. She didn’t remember drinking anything beyond the first sip, though the flavor of lapsang souchong lingered on her tongue.

“No – no thank you.”

“More cakes, then. You must. Otherwise we’ll have them left over, and they don’t keep.” Beryl offered a plate still half full of delectable confections.

“Thanks, but I’m stuffed. Really.” Recklessly, Emmeline dared to meet Beryl’s hazel eyes. The half smile on the redhead’s full lips set up a wet tingle in her pussy, but she persevered in her slight rebellion. “Probably you should have invited the rest of the Welcome Brigade.”

“To be honest, we wanted to keep you to ourselves, my dear.” Marguerite rose to push the table away from the divan, clearing an area on the floor. “We had the feeling that you were someone special.”

“But we weren’t quite sure.” Beryl slid off the sofa to sit cross-legged on the carpet. “Why don’t you come down here? Across from me, that’s right. We’re going to play a game.”

“A game? What kind of game?” Memories of high school spin-the-bottle flashed through Emmeline’s mind. I wouldn’t mind kissing Beryl, she mused. Or Marguerite either. She’d never been attracted to women before – at least not consciously – but now the notion seemed the next natural step.

“Cards,” Marguerite answered. She lowered herself to join them on the floor, tucking her legs underneath her, then placed an over-sized deck in the center of the triangle formed by their bodies. An intricate design decorated the back of the cards, full of stars and planets, fanciful animals and twining vines. The illustration, plus the size of the cards, led Emmeline to expect a tarot deck, but when Marguerite turned over the top card, it was an ordinary three of hearts.

“Take a good look at this card, Emmy. Fix it in your mind. Close your eyes and visualize it.”

Card tricks? Spin the bottle sounded like more fun. Brushing the thought away, Emmeline did as Marguerite instructed.

“Can you picture it?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Now open your eyes. I’ve hidden the card somewhere in the deck. I want you to find it.”

“Don’t be silly!”

“I think you can do it, Emmeline.” Beryl fixed her with that penetrating green-gray stare of hers.“Concentrate. Send your mind out seeking that three of hearts. Listen until you hear it call.”

“Please! I don’t have any kind of psychic abilities or anything.” The two women stared at her, focusing on her face. Their scrutiny sent hot blood climbing into her cheeks. “Aside from a couple of strange dreams that seemed to predict the future... Honestly, I can’t.”

“I believe you can,” said Marguerite, her voice rich and sweet as whipped cream. “You can if you try.”

“Do it for me, Emmy.” Beryl leaned forward. Her blouse gaped at the neckline, revealing the symmetric curves of her bare breasts. Emmeline’s own nipples snapped into aching knots.

“But...”

“Emmeline.”

She heard authority in Beryl’s voice, power that had been cloaked until now. It simply wasn’t possible to refuse.

“Okay, okay...” Em shut her eyes once again and summoned the image of the card.

Some force tugged at her hand. At first she tried to ignore it, but as the pull grew stronger, she gave in. With the three of hearts blazing behind her closed lids, she reached for the deck, gripping it with her thumb and forefinger about a third of the way down. She cut the cards, laying the part of the deck she’d removed face up on the floor. When she opened her eyes, a ten of clubs showed on top.

“You see? I told you...”

Marguerite’s voice was almost inaudible “Look at the card on the top of the stack you have left, Emmeline.”

She flipped the card over to reveal the three of hearts.

Fear, excitement and lust washed through her in alternating waves. She pushed the exultation away.

“It’s just random luck,” she said, wanting but not daring to believe. That force, that attraction – she’d imagined it. She was suggestible – Tim had always said so – and these two women had formidable wills.

“Try again,” Beryl urged.

The two of spades, the Jack of diamonds, the ace of hearts – she found them all, one after the other. The pull of the card she sought grew stronger each time.

“What does it mean?” she asked at last. She sounded small and scared to her own ears.

“Let’s try something else first.” Marguerite drew a card from the deck, gazed at it for a moment, then placed it face down in front of her. “Tell me which card I just picked.”

The answer came to her almost before the tawny beauty had asked her question, with no effort at all. “Four of diamonds.”

“Now me.” Beryl selected not one but three cards, setting them out in a row. “You know what to do, Emmeline.”

The messages weren’t so clear this time. She felt as though several different people were shouting in her head. Images of cards flashed by, too fast and indistinct for her to decipher. “I don’t know,” she whimpered. “I can’t...”

Beryl seized her by the wrist across the gap. Power jolted through her. The pictures snapped into focus. “Nine of spades, six of clubs, Queen of hearts. Oh my God...”

Marguerite gathered Emmeline into her arms as the girl burst into ragged tears.

* * *

The Witches of Gloucester is currently on sale for only $1.50 at Smashwords.

It’s also available as an audio book.

The Sexy Stepbrother and the Perilous Shadow #Paranormal #Audiobook

Is it psychological or paranormal? You be the judge.

My novel IN SHADOW centres around a young woman who really needs to process her emotions. She's buried a lot of really painful stuff so deep down she actively denies its existence. How does her pain manifest itself? In her shadow--a shadow with a mind of its own... one that can detach from her entirely to fuck her up the ass!

Or is it something else entirely? Is it the ghost of someone who hurt her deeply? Is it a force even greater than one individual? How can we ever know for sure?

In Shadow
An Audiobook written and narrated by Giselle Renarde

As far as Clover’s concerned, she’s got two choices: remain an outcast in the small town where she’s lived her whole life, or move clear across the country like her prodigal stepbrother Mason. Clover is forever paying for her father’s sins at home, but the idea of leaving is too daunting to imagine. When Mason comes home for their sister’s wedding, his presence reignites Clover’s past. A dark force follows her everywhere she goes. Even in dreams, there’s no escaping a hungry shadow...

Audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/B07Q6ZWDKR/?source_code=AUDFPWS0223189MWT-BK-ACX0-147968&ref=acx_bty_BK_ACX0_147968_rh_us
Audiobooks: https://www.audiobooks.com/audiobook/in-shadow/376602
Walmart: https://www.walmart.com/ip/In-Shadow-Audiobook/712061465
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/audiobook/in-shadow-3

...and many other audiobook retailers and streaming systems! Check for In Shadow wherever you listen to audiobooks. Check your local library, too!

Mortal Remains - #death #surrender #immortality

By Lisabet Sarai

I went to bed last night wondering what I could write for this cycle’s topic, “Lifting the Veil”. I woke this morning from a vivid, disturbing dream that seemed like the answer to my unspoken question.

In the dream, I was about to be dismembered, literally sawed into pieces. I’d somehow fallen into the clutches of some cabal who quite calmly informed me of their intentions. I had no idea why they wanted to do this, what they hoped to accomplish, or why I had been chosen (though there was some sense that other people had been subjected to the same fate). Immobilized, strapped to a table, I didn’t even try to escape. It’s as though I’d accepted my lack of choice.

Despite this tacit acquiescence, I was terrified. It seemed they planned to hack away at me while I was awake and alert. I pleaded with them to give me some sort of drugs or anesthesia, and they agreed. At first I just felt a bit foggy-headed, all my sensations muffled in cotton wool, but soon I began to sink into unconsciousness. As I slipped away, I imagined what awaited me. Were these the last thoughts I’d ever experience? Was I about to be obliterated, erased? Or was there some spark, some spirit, some essence of my being that would endure after my body was nothing but a pile of bloody meat? I didn’t know the answer. Even if I did, there was nothing at all I could do. I had to let go.

I’m not the type to brood, but when you’re in your sixth decade of life and your partner is in his seventh, it’s hard not to think about death at least occasionally. It could come at any time, for either of us. Am I ready? Is anyone, ever? (Actually, I think some people are. My ninety four year old aunt told me before she died that every morning she woke up thinking, “Well, I guess I’m still alive.) Am I afraid? As in the dream, I am probably more frightened by the possibility of pain than of oblivion.

I do believe (with varying degrees of certainty depending on the day and my mood) that there is a dimension of energy or spirit beyond the material world, that indeed spirit engenders and shapes physical reality. Death might destroy the ego, the self, personality and memories, but our life energy must be recycled. I try to convince myself that death is just another stage of existence, that what awaits on the other side of the veil might well be revelations impossible to grasp when we’re shackled and smothered in our meat selves.

Some days I am more successful in fostering this enlightened view than others.

I really don’t know where my near-nightmare came from. I might have been influenced by this article I read just yesterday:

https://www.fastcompany.com/90243453/meet-the-foot-soldiers-in-the-radical-war-on-aging

In case you’re too busy to follow the link, the topic is RAADFest, the Revolution Against Aging and Death convention, part of a movement to use science to defer or reverse the effects of age. The ultimate mission? Immortality.

It’s easy to snicker when you read this article, but who knows? The human life span has more than doubled in a few centuries, and seems to still be on the upswing. Of course immortality has been staple fare in science fiction (not to mention paranormal erotica) for a long time. I recently finished Cory Doctorow’s Walkaway, a scifi novel bursting with provocative ideas, including some notions about immortality. A technology is developed to “scan” a person’s mind, upload and store the entire sum of his or her thoughts, memory and personality, and later reconstitute the “person” as a disembodied intelligence running on a computer. In particular, this technology makes it possible to “reboot” you after you have physically died. The process is far from foolproof, and can be highly disruptive, emotionally, to the person involved. Probably the most traumatic aspect, when your scan is loaded and activated, is dealing with the idea that you’re actually dead.

But what does that mean—“actually dead”—when extinct animals can be cloned from historical DNA? When new organs can be 3D printed (already possible for some sorts of tissues)? When stem cells can be teased into any sort of body part needed? We’re used to thinking about death as a sharp line, “The undiscovered country, from whose bourn, No traveller returns”, but maybe things aren’t that simple. Ghosts. Vampires. Clones. Sentient androids. Energy beings from space. Who knows what the universe holds?

Another strand in this tangle involves the eroticism of death. Most of my stories tend toward the sex-positive and sunny, but when I pen a paranormal tale, I often find myself spinning into darkness. I’m drawn to the experience of surrender. Could there be a more profound surrender than releasing oneself to death?

I have a story releasing on the 17^th that explores this idea, mixing it up with a bit of magic. My protagonist in Underground craves the experience of orgasm as she hovers at the edge of death. She spends long, frustrated years looking for a lover who can satisfy her needs, until she meets the mysterious Z at an exclusive sex club reputedly frequented by beings with occult powers.

He places his silver blade between my breasts, a sweet reminder of the blood he might or might not shed. The chill metal sucks warmth from my skin. His mouth dances over my lips, my straining nipples, my fresh-shaven mound. With every contact he draws the life from me, leaving exquisite languor in its stead. My limbs grow heavy. It becomes impossible to move, even if I wanted to. Meanwhile, profound pleasure circles and settles in my pelvis like a purring cat.

I open myself to him, mind and body both, desire overwhelming any residual instinct toward self-preservation. His luminous body is a magnet, attracting my essence. He drinks deep, taking what he requires.

To give him everything is my only desire. 

~~~~ 

Maybe working with this story kindled the strange dream. On the other hand, I’ve been aware of the emotional link between BDSM and death for years. Here’s something I wrote almost fifteen years ago, which captures this connection better than most of my tales.

Ritual

To GCS

They meet, infrequently, to perform the ritual. She waits for him to arrive, heart slamming against her ribs, stomach twisted with nervousness. When he enters, they embrace, awkwardly. It has been so long. She attempts lightness, a joke, a jibe, pretending that she does not know why she is here. Then he gives the sign - a mere eyebrow, arched in a question - and her protective humor slips from her along with her clothing.

The ritual demands much of them, the steps choreographed, but always with room for improvisation. First he binds her, with rope, or silk, or leather, ceiling-hung with thighs spread, or splayed across the bed, or bent double over a hassock. Sometimes he will position her limbs and bind her to stillness with his command alone.

Then he teases her, dabbles his fingers in her wetness, lovingly mocks her sluttishness. She melts at his slightest touch, sinks liquid and helpless into the ritual spirit, moaning just as he intends. She could drown in his rich voice, nuanced and full of power. He pinches her nipples into aching peaks, captures them in clothespins, or cinches them with rubber bands. All the while he strokes her pussy, calls her his pet, muddles the pains and the pleasures besieging her.

Next, he beats her. Here the ritual has many variants, but all with a single purpose: to invoke the purity of her surrender. She writhes under the lash, twists away from the hairbrush, whimpers as his bare palm reddens her buttocks. She does not wish to resist him; her only thought now is to please. But the pain is difficult to endure. Breathe, he says, soothing, encouraging, even as he scourges her. Open yourself. Yield yourself to me once again.

His voice is the key that unlocks her. Some barrier shatters and she floats free, each stroke of the whip an ecstatic kiss. His mind moves with hers now, sharing her agony and her joy. His breath comes in gasps like hers. His organ is granite. Now, come to me, my love, he whispers, entering her front or rear or spraying her marked thighs with his burning seed. She obeys, sliding into climax as he slides inside her, white hot fringed with red streaks of the pain.

Transcendence. Communion. Completion. They do not speak of it as they dress. There is no need for speech when the ritual is complete.

They meet infrequently. Sitting alone, on the plane or the bus taking her homeward, she savors the gaping, twitching sensations in her rear hole, the sharp echo of her stripes as she shifts in her seat, the slickness, still, in her sex. His voice echos in her mind.

Theirs is an old love. She thinks of him daily, imagines his life, her chest swollen with bittersweet aching. He thinks of her less frequently, but when he does, he gnashes his teeth, driven almost to madness because he cannot possess her. Then he recalls her sweet pliancy, her willing debasement, and his lips curve in a smile as he strums on his cock.

The ritual renews them. When she lies in a dentist's chair, or on the surgeon's table, when she wakes in fear in the night, she remembers him. Breathe. Open. Surrender. She relaxes into the fear, trusting as she trusts him.

She is sure that she will think of him, that way, when she surrenders herself into the arms of death. And then, perhaps, their meetings will be more frequent, and the ritual will be perfected. 

~~~~ 

Despite the terror, my dream held hints of this epiphany. I would like to believe that when the time comes, I will cross the threshold in grace and trust, not in fear.

more books in the bag

by Jean Roberta

Since I get to post on Friday, I have until Monday to add another post(script). I think.
I just thought I would add the list of books I’ve read lately that I promised to review.

Zander Vyne’s Tales of a Vampire Hunter Omnibus Collection (Books 1-3) is a thrill ride in which vampires (infected with vampirism) and hereditary vampire hunters are sexually attracted to each other, but their encounters are likely to be deadly for someone. A Romeo-and-Juliet pair from opposite sides who don’t kill each other have to run from their numerous enemies, so these 3 volumes (Immoral, Depraved, Bespelled), packaged together, are a road-trip saga. I’ll say more when I’ve finished a review.



Wilde Stories 2016, edited by publisher Steve Berman (Lethe Press) is an annual anthology of the year’s best gay-male speculative fiction. Some of these stories are literally haunting, and many deal with the loneliness of sensitive teenage boys on the brink of realizing what it is that makes them unconventional. All these stories were originally published somewhere else, some in Strange Horizons (magazine), which actually pays for reviews of 1-2K. So I wrote a long review of Wilde Stories, mentioning themes and motifs, and sent it to them. I haven’t heard back. Wish me luck.



When Steve Berman sends me a gift package of books for review, it usually includes more than I asked for. Along with Wilde Stories, I got Lily by Michael Thomas Ford (Lethe Press), a charming coming-of-age lesbian fantasy story in which Lily, a girl who can see other people’s deaths when she touches them, is taken away from her enchanted seaside home by her mother after the death of her fisherman father on Lily’s thirteenth birthday – which she foresaw and for which she feels horribly guilty. She doesn’t object when her mother agrees to join a travelling gospel show from Hell because Lily hopes to be cleansed of her “sin.” What she really needs to do is to rescue a more desperate prisoner and bring her home. The debunking of Christian piety and the regular appearances of Baba Yaga, the traditional Russian witch in a house on chicken legs, are delightful. And the illustrations are as good as the narrative.



Mantled in Mist by Rory Ni Coileain (Riverdale Avenue Books) is one of the novels I agreed to judge for Elisa Rolle’s Rainbow Awards. It’s the sixth novel in the “SoulShare” series of m/m erotic romances about glamorous male Fae from “the Realm” who must keep a shapeshifting monster (the Marfach) out of their world while each of the Fae must find his mortal, human soulmate. The sex is sizzling, and the dialogue is both witty and full of Gaelic, which is translated for the non-Irish reader. I was especially amused by the scene in which our hero, Fiachra, is hurled by the pissed-off spirit of an oak tree in Scotland to Central Park in New York, naked and with acorns rolling off him. The plot is both fast-paced and convoluted, but if you read carefully, you can follow it. I assume that anyone who reads this novel for pleasure would probably want to read the previous five volumes first.

Hadrian’s Rage is a novel I should have reviewed months ago, but I couldn’t open the digital versions sent to me by the author, so I ordered a paperback from Amazon. It’s definitely worth the price. This is a sequel to Hadrian’s Lover, a self-published novel by Patricia Marie Budd, a high-school teacher (who was exiled from her home in Fort McMurray, Alberta, when the place was ravaged by fire in summer 2016) about a post-apocalyptic nation, Hadrian (in the former Canada, bordering on Hudson’s Bay), which is protected from the rest of the world by a wall, and where the founders decided that same-sex relationships must be enforced by law to keep the population stable. Their reasoning is sound: since heterosexual males have caused most of the world’s problems, including overpopulation and the rape of the earth, they simply must be stopped, and women must not be allowed to mate with them. Of course, trying to police human sexuality causes problems. I’ll write a review a.s.a.p. My review of Hadrian's Lover is on Goodreads. Both books are constructed as newscasts, reports from judges, military officers, psychologists and other experts, and short third-person summaries. It's a very effective way to build credibility, and luckily, the second novel is much better copy-edited than the first.

Dark Since Forever

by Giselle Renarde

I've spent the past three weeks working on a submission for a dark romance anthology. That's way too long to spend on one relatively short story, but I have a checkered past when it comes to the dark stuff.

See, my writing's been dark since way back. Darkness and despair tend to appeal to readers like me--fans of literary fiction. I want my characters to be miserable.  That's why I've all but given up on writing anything close to romance. That's also why it takes forever when I do try my hand.

It's hit and miss for me, when I send out dark romances for submission. A common reaction I get from editors is along the lines of: "Wow, you went waaaaay darker than I was expecting!"  Sometimes that leads to: "I can't resist! I need to publish this!"  Other times it's: "Ummm nope."

I'm never entirely sure which way it'll go.

To prove that I've been into the dark stuff right from the start, I'd like to share with you a dark tale I wrote many years ago. It's one of my most rejected stories of all time.  In fact, it would still be unpublished to this day if I hadn't included it in a paranormal erotica box set I put together myself (aptly named Paranormal Erotica Box Set--real original!):

A Jealous God

by Giselle Renarde

«Dieu aima les oiseaux et inventa les arbres.

L'homme aima les oiseaux et inventa les cages.»

~Jacques Deval

“You are My creation, wicked Eve.”

“Creator made Eve for the pleasure of knowing her and loving her.” She bowed her head as in prayer. Even with the Creator standing right in front of her cage, she cast her gaze downward. It would be presumptuous for a mere mortal to look upon such a luminous being.

“You are mine for the taking, and mine for the keeping,” He instructed. “You are mine to do with as I desire.”

“Eve is His creation,” she repeated, bowing lower, until her forehead met the ground. “He does to her as He pleases.”

She was merely the plaything of her all-powerful and all-knowing Creator. Without any right to self-determination, how could she contemplate the meaning of I? Eve had never heard of identity. She saw the world through the camera lucida of His gaze. With Him as the closest she knew to a mirror, how could she view herself as anything but contemptible?

Her cage was made of chicken wire, but escape never crossed her mind. If she left, where would she go? Better yet, why would she go? Eve sat each day in patient silence, waiting for Him to appear. She did not sleep while He was away, for fear of missing out on the thrill of His arrival.

The chicken wire cut her flesh if she held the same position for too long, so she tried not to move. Her knees were scarred red with pointed ovals like eyes without irises. Eve was blind to life beyond the chicken wire.

All day, she waited to hear His key enter the front lock. The door would open and then squeal shut, but Creator never entered her room right away. Her room was, of course, a faulty descriptor. It was not her room in any sense—it was merely the room which her cage occupied.

When He entered, she cast her eyes suitably downward. Offering neither greeting nor request, she waited for Him to make His demands.

“Foul beast of the earth.” His voice boomed as He caught sight of her piddle in the corner of her cage. “Go on the newspaper. What do you think it’s there for?”

Eve cowered, but made no reply. On days when pain from the chicken wire made her faint, she liked to sit on the newspaper for relief. She couldn’t do that if it was soiled.

“A dog can be housetrained,” He spat. When she made no response, He commanded, “Lie down. Are you no better than a brute? Present yourself to me like a dog.”

Sinking to her hands and knees, Eve backed up against the cage. She raised her posterior high in the air to ensure her two holes would be aligned with the padded opening in the chicken wire. She could never be sure whether He might fuck her pussy or her ass, or her pussy and then her ass. But without any sense of self, Eve had no concept of preference. She existed solely for the enjoyment of her Creator.

When she pressed her chest to the floor, her tender nipples caught the chicken wire at the base of the cage. She began to nudge her forearms underneath her breasts to alleviate the pain, but Creator caught sight and cried, “Stay!”

Eve allowed her face to fall against the floor, and the wire dug into her cheek. Still, she stayed. Though she averted her gaze, she could tell He’d worn his chaps. The scent of leather surmounted even those of urine and sweat.

“Have you any desires, filthy beast?” He bellowed. “Do you wish for me to fuck you?”

“Eve has no thoughts or wishes that are not aligned with Creator’s,” she replied. “Creator will tell Eve what to think and what to wish for.”

“You will think nothing,” He snapped. “You will neither wish, desire, nor long for anything at all. You are merely a vessel to receive the bounty I come to bestow upon the earth.”

“Eve is an empty vessel waiting to be filled with the gifts of the Creator.”

Creator never sank to his knees; He graced the ground with their pressure.

Through the hole in her cage, Creator watched Eve’s purple asshole throb and grasp. He poked it with His thumb, and her assring undulated like a brainless deep-sea organism, drawing in every unsuspecting lurker.

“Your ass is begging for it,” He mocked, pulling out His thumb. “Do you want to feel my cock plunge inside your tight little hole?”

Puzzled, she replied, “Eve seeks only to please her Creator. She has no desires but His desires.”

“A body doesn’t lie. Your asshole is praying to be fucked.”

“Then it would be pleased if Creator fucked it,” she replied, as though her flesh possessed some independent capacity for perceiving pleasure.

“It would,” Creator reasoned, “but there is an important lesson every asshole must learn.”

“Ah, yes?” Eve remained ready to accept any word or action. “What is this lesson every asshole must learn?”

“Most prayers go unanswered,” Creator replied. Reaching through the hole in Eve’s cage, Creator gave her pussy lips three preparatory smacks. “I shall fuck your cunt instead.”

Bracing at the sweet sensation of sharp slaps against her delicate flesh, Eve wove her fingers through the chicken wire at the base of the cage. “Thy Will be done.”

Into the clear juice of Eve’s pink pussy, He pressed a thick middle finger. Her grasping cunt drew Him in as her asshole had done before. Creator forced an index finger inside that moist hole. When she whimpered, lifting her wire-marked face from the floor, he fucked her with three fingers, sticky and wet from the liquid of her arousal.

“Your cunt now implores my compassion. I hear her fluid prayer.” Creator growled, His voice thick with displeasure. Frowning at the sight of her pussy juice on His fingers, He cried, “Wicked Eve, has your cunt learned nothing from her neighbour?”

An obedient student of her Lord and Master, Eve replied, “Most prayers go unanswered.”

“Correct,” He exclaimed, beaming with a bizarre form of pride. “Your asshole prayed to be fucked, and that prayer went unanswered. Now your cunt prays for my cock, and neither shall her desires be met.”

“Almighty Creator,” Eve entreated, her voice soft as linen. “How might Creator’s humble servant give herself to Him?”

“Make no mistake: you do not give to me; I do not receive from you. The Creator takes, and his servant is taken from. Now get on your knees, sinful creature.”

Eve followed His simple command, rising to kneel. She placed herself before Him, her lips level with the higher of the two padded apertures in her cage. Never meeting His all-knowing gaze, she opened her mouth and extended her tongue to receive the blessing of His cock. She closed her eyes. The scent of leather grew pervasive as His smooth head brushed salty fluid down her tongue.

“You see, my sinful child…” He gasped as He swept the seam of His tip into the pool of precum. “No spiritual plea goes unheard…”

“God hears all prayers,” she echoed. With a cock against her tongue, the words were mumbled.

“Precisely,” He exclaimed, almost a cheer. “All of humanity’s bitching and moaning irritates the hell out of me. Sometimes it puts me in such a mood that I give those importunate whiners exactly the opposite of what they want.”

All she could do to set His mind at ease was wrap her lips around His cock. He released an animal moan as the silken walls of her mouth closed around Him.

Grasping the grotty lumber at the top of Eve’s chicken wire home, He plunged His cock deep in her throat. She resisted the physiological urge to sputter and choke. After a few thrusts, she would grow accustomed to the pounding.

There was no expectation that Eve should ever thrust, suck, grind, or provide any indication of enjoyment during a sexual act. Her duty, as she was so often reminded, was simply to be and be taken.

“Then there’s you, Eve…” Creator grasped her erect nipples through the gaps in the chicken wire. “Always praying for me to join you here in this slum. When I arrive, your anus calls to be filled and your cunt implores that I pump it full of cum. Do you know why I chose to fuck your mouth instead?”

Eve began to nod, but realized Creator anticipated a negative response. Instead, she shook her head no.

“Your mouth was the only part of your body that wasn’t asking to be stuffed with cock. I did it with the deliberate intent to displease you.”

She pulled away to reply, “No action of Creator’s ever displeases Eve.”

Even the most thoroughly reflected responses were seen as smart-ass comebacks. Eve’s Lord and Master held tight to her nipples with the tips of His fingernails. He twisted them away from each other until she winced, then thrust his cock down her throat. It had no choice but to be receptive. He pulled on her tender nipples to bring her closer. To encourage motion, He allowed Eve to fall back a bit. He plunged again down her throat, tugging her tits through the chicken wire. There were no friendly apertures for winter-white breasts; the antagonistic wires left red marks on her skin.

“It is not merely to prevent your enjoyment that I fuck the lips of your mouth. Wicked, wicked Eve,” He scathed, jerking her tits tight against the wire. “I do it that you may not create life inside of you. It was I who created you. It was I who caused all things to be.”

“Creator brings forth all life,” Eve replied, her words once again garbled by His cock.

“You are but an empty vessel. I hold the power to generate life within you.” He grasped her tits through the chicken wire. “It’s a gift I deny.”

He fucked her face with a kind of brutal frenzy only He could succeed in. Piercing her hard nipples with His fingernails, He pulled her tits while He rammed his cock down her throat. Tears welled in the corners of her closed eyes, wetting her lashes before trickling down her cheeks.

She accepted the collision of cock and mouth with a virgin’s tender grace. As He tugged on her tits, her body hurled itself at Him like a doll, halted only by chicken wire. The scent of leather overwhelmed her senses, until she could feel nothing but the flavour of His coverings. Its aroma surpassed even the taste of cum as it hurled past her lips, barely settling on her tongue before coursing down her throat.

Clutching her nipples with all His force, Creator cried, “Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord!”

Gasping for air, she choked on His cum. The cock still lodged in her throat hindered her cries of devotion. When He pulled out of her mouth and released her stinging breasts, she fell back on her ass, whimpering, “Praise Him according to His excellent greatness.”

“What was that?” He mocked, turning to depart. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

Cackling like the devil, He closed the door behind Him, leaving Eve alone in the chicken wire fortress. “Praise Him according to His excellent greatness,” she whispered when he had gone.

Her fate was to live out her days in captivity, waiting for the Creator to appear unto her. She might love Him, if she only knew how.

He was in the next room now, cracking open a bottle. Eve wondered if He could hear her voice over the blaring television. “Praise Him in His mighty expanse.”

Her cage had no lock, but Eve knew nothing of freedom.

Conjuring Demons

By Lisabet Sarai

First came the flames. Then, the screams. Each cry was distinct to Kyle’s ears—the men’s hoarse yells, the women’s shrieks, the inarticulate wails from the infants. He couldn’t see them, not yet. Sooty smoke billowed up, hiding the plummeting bodies, making his eyes sting. Orange tongues of fire pierced the black cloud. The cries grew louder as the heat intensified.

He took a big swig of cheap vodka. The bottle was already half empty. His head spun and he knew he couldn’t stand, but the awful screams still rang in his mind.

Please, he thought. No more. I can’t take any more. Let me pass out soon. He drank again, his gut churning as the raw liquid splashed into his empty stomach.

He tried to focus on the present—the rough stone pressing against his back, the chill wind biting through his ragged jacket, the faint smell of urine that filled the passageway under the highway. Useless. The sensations of the real world seemed thin and frail, powerless to overcome the horrible scenes in his head.

Every time, it got worse. It took more alcohol to remove him to that state of blissful oblivion. I’m adapting, just like any drunk. Before long, I’ll need a whole bottle to drown out the visions. Eventually, it will kill me. The thought was a relief.

The spells came more frequently these days, and not just during his waking hours. Nightmares stalked him, full of bloody flesh and torn limbs, searing fire or icy floods. He’d claw his way back to consciousness, howling like an animal, trying to escape. He’d been kicked out of every shelter in the city. He upset the other residents too much.

He could always go back to the hospital. Thorazine didn’t completely smother the visions, but it deadened the emotional impact. He could sit for hours, watching disasters play themselves out on the screen of his mind, and not care.

It worked for a while, but then he always ended up signing himself out again. As painful as consciousness was, it was better than the half-life of being drugged. At least, that was what he told himself, on the good days when his curse was in remission. The staff looked relieved when he left. Even the professionals had trouble dealing with his ‘hallucinations’.

“Hey, gimme a drink, will ya?” A voice cut through the screams echoing in his head. The grizzled man lying next to him on the sidewalk smelt like long-unwashed socks. “Come on, please? Us bums got to stick together.”

Kyle handed him the bottle. His hand shook. “Sure, help yourself.”

The old timer took a deep swallow, then grinned at him. “Thanks, kid.”

The flames flared up, hiding the man’s pock-marked face and gap-toothed smile. A woman’s cry rang out, full of terror. “No, please, no more…” Kyle muttered, closing his eyes. The hungry fire continued to dance behind his eyelids, mocking his attempt at escape. He groped for the bottle. 

 

Aside from the ravening monster I felt inside me when I was anorexic, which I’ve talked about in another post, I’m pretty fortunate. I don’t seem to have any personal demons, at least nothing beyond the normal fears that come with being human. That’s not necessarily true of my characters, though, as illustrated by the excerpt above from my M/M erotic romance Necessary Madness.

In Kyle’s case, his “demon” is an uncontrolled ability to see the future. His raw visions show him only disasters, terrible happenings he cannot prevent. The effects of his paranormal talent are scarcely distinguishable from schizophrenia. He has become a miserable outcast, cynical and suspicious. Even love, the solution to all dilemmas in romance, can hardly save him.

Sometimes my demons are actual supernatural beings. And they can be overwhelmingly seductive. Here, for instance, is a snippet from my story “Fourth World”, recently published in the collection of the same title.

I turn to see Jeremy’s hand wandering up her silk-clad thigh. I’m surprised by his daring. Back at school he was always the shy one in our crowd. I was the one who took the initiative.

His eyes are closed, his lips parted. His trousers rise up from his groin in an imposing peak. Mai cups his bulk and squeezes. Jeremy groans. His hand slips under her skirt.

Jealousy sizzles through me. A red mist clouds my vision. “Never mind,” says Mai, her hand on my thigh, her lips fastening on mine.

Her kiss claims me. I try to take control, to thrust my tongue between her ripe lips, but she playfully forces me back, then plunders my mouth with her own. She tastes sweet but strange, the fruity remnants of her wine not quite hiding a metallic element. My cock surges, painful and eager, trapped in my tight briefs.

Blinded by the fall of her hair around my face, I grope for her breast. Her flesh is firm and elastic under my fingers. Her nipple juts through flimsy barrier of her dress. I circle it with my thumb and she moans into my mouth. I pinch the delightful nub and she bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood. I want to protest, to push her away, but she’s far stronger than I expect. Her kiss becomes more heated, more desperate. My pierced lip throbs. Something’s not right, I think, but then her hand settles on my cock and all thought vanishes.

Her fingers skitter across the distorted fabric of my trousers, testing my hardness. She settles her palm over my swollen bulk, squeezing in time with her sucking kisses. I feel the tightening heaviness that tells me I’m going to come. I take a deep breath, trying to gain some control. Her scent floods my nostrils. The need for release overwhelms me. The first spurt of come pulses halfway up my shaft, but then she removes her hand. The urge subsides, becomes just bearable. Her lips graze my earlobe. “Not yet, darling. Save that for me.”

****

Yes, as you might have guessed, Mai is a vampire—but as Harry and Jeremy discover, she’s the type who likes to play with her food.

The most intriguing demons, though, are the ones inextricably embedded in my characters’ natures. In “Fire”, my protagonist has a fire fetish which compels him to commit arson.

These days, I can't even strike a match without getting hard.

It was better than I could have imagined. Pure joy. After years of borrowing other people's fires, I had my own. There were no sirens, no spectators, no official types keeping an awkward eye on me. Just me and the night and the dancing, piercing flames. I lay down in the scrubby grass with my fly wide open and watched greedily as the blaze devoured the feast I had laid before it.

By the time the building had become a charred pile of debris, I was gorged and sated. I called in sick that morning.

After that, second-hand conflagrations couldn't satisfy me. I have to have my own. I try to space them out, keep at least six to eight weeks between them. It's tough, but I don't want anyone to get suspicious.

The first few weeks after a session, I have plenty of memories to keep me going. I can close my eyes and recall every detail, the intricate shapes of the flames, the taste of smoke in my lungs, the searing, intimate caress of the heat on my privates.

I remember the sequence in which the barn or the shed or the deserted fishing cabin collapsed. Sometimes the whole structure explodes, or caves in on itself. Other times, one wall will totter and fall gently, leaving the others standing as though buoyed up by the hot gases, until at last they simply melt away, crumbling to glowing ash. It is always fascinating, thrilling, enough to push me over the edge.

Sometimes, I imagine that I'm inside, during those final moments when the fire declares victory. I lie on the my back, feeling the sparks rain down on my naked flesh, struggling to breathe as the fire sucks up all the oxygen. I know that it sounds a bit twisted, but I come the hardest when I think about the fire consuming me, taking me into itself.

Anyway, after a while, the memories aren't enough. I start to dream of fire. I wake up soaked with sweat, with a hard-on that I can work for hours without finding any real relief. I begin to get irritable, less polite, less persuasive. My work begins to suffer.

That's when I know it's time. It takes me a few days to prepare, and then finally, I have what I need.

****

This tale, which appeared in my first short story collection, is now out of print. I should probably republish it.

Sexual desire can be a personal demon, perhaps the hardest of all to fight. Here’s a bit from my tentacle erotica tale, “Fleshpot”, originally published in Coming Together: Arm in Arm in Arm.

Cass was right. It's a disease. She was right to cut the ties, when she found me in the garden shed with sweet Susan the baby sitter, in flagrante. I offer no excuse.

It doesn't feel like a disease, though, when I'm in the throes, my senses drenched in the seashore scent of my latest conquest. It feels like I'm on the edge of a revelation, like this is the fuck I've been seeking all my life, the one that will make everything clear, new, beautiful and real. When I burrow into that mysterious place between her thighs, I'm not just looking for pleasure. I'm seeking some kind of truth, or at least that's how it seems, like this is the time that I'll break through that barrier. I catch tantalizing glimpses of brilliance, just out of reach, shining like the grail in some celibate knight's vision. That's me, on a quest for the ultimate knowledge. Except of course, I'm not celibate.

When the papers came from her lawyer, my transgressions sucked dry by legal language ("extramarital liaisons"), my kids stolen by some judge's whim, I took off. My business— electronics OEM—can always provide an excuse for a trip to Asia. My meetings in Bangkok consumed a day and a half. Since then I've been here in this sleazy coastal resort town two hours from the capital.

I've done it all, in the past two weeks, tried everything. The lithe Thai beauties who twine like snakes around the poles in all the bars and clubs along the walking street. The buxom, pushy Russian girls, with their milky complexions and succulent nipples, ripe to the point of bursting, eager to empty both my cock and my wallet. The lady boys, as slender and graceful as their sisters, even more feminine, in fact, the prick erupting from their hairless, perfumed loins as much a shock to them as to me. I've sampled the exotica on sale here, the dwarfs and the cripples, the grossly obese young woman who nearly smothered me in her lush, unutterably soft flesh. I've been whipped and returned the favor. So far I've managed to resist the fifteen year old boys, but just last night a youth of terrifying beauty who claimed to be nineteen drained me in the men's room of one of the a-go-go places. An acrid mixture of urine and camphor stung my nostrils as I pumped my cum into his agile mouth. And in that transcendent instant, as always, I felt myself on the verge of understanding.

At the moment, I'm taking a break from throbbing music and naked skin of the indoor clubs. I perch on a bar stool at the edge of the pavement, watching the parade of tourists and touts ambling by.

I'm tired. The twins I fucked earlier, in a red-lit, window-less room above one of the bars, exhausted me with their convincing enthusiasm for my body. Nee and Nu were indistinguishable, two toffee-skinned tarts who claimed to be eighteen but might have been anywhere from fourteen to thirty. One sat on my face, the other on my cock. Nee (or was it Nu?) made short work of my hard-on. I exploded into the condom with just a few minutes of massage by her muscular pussy. Nu, though (or maybe Nee?), humored me, letting me lick her bare twat and breathe her low-tide scent for as long as I wanted—until I hardened again, earning laughter and admiration from my two playmates.

"La Luxure dans l'art roman" by Bougnat87 -

Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Commons

Maybe the medieval Christians were right. Lust is a demon, one that can consume you body and soul. In the case of my nameless protagonist in “Fleshpot”, he pays off his demon with his life—but willingly.

When does desire become demonic? A fruitful question indeed, for those of us who write erotica.