by Jude Mason
Terror and erotica, the two can definitely go hand in hand. A perfect topic for this time of the year, don't you think?
You may remember me telling you about my Roses. Roses Have Thorns and in this book, they do. Think of a young woman. She's out on her own, unable to find a decent job and thus turns to a life of prostitution. Sure, she's heard the stories about girls being mugged, raped, or worse, but it can't happen to her, right? Or can it?
A storm drenches the city, the johns aren't out, it's too miserable for them. Yet Rose is on her stroll. The rent has to be paid, food bought, she needs the money to survive.
A car approaches and a flash of warning makes her stop, but only for a second. It's cold, she's freezing. The car promises a warm haven if only for an hour or two.
Can you feel your heart racing for my Rose?
Can you imagine the fear she must feel every time she approaches a stranger in a dark car?
Here's a snippet of what happens to my lovely, sexy Rose:
A few short hours later, Rose was no more. In her place was a mindless, mutilated wretch. Naked, almost dead, she crawled. Not feeling the torrential rain or the cold wind, she inched forward. Blood ran in tiny rivulets from the many cuts decorating her too-white flesh and was washed away by the downpour. More trickled from her lacerated sex, and poured from her torn rectum. Several teeth were loose, one in the front gone, lost during her futile attempt to break free. Tears streamed from her eyes, both blackened and swollen almost shut.
Finally, her strength failed. She collapsed. Laying unconscious next to the dumpster, her body gave up. When her spirit fled, something entered and took control of the horrendously abused shell that had been Rose.
No one saw the convulsions that tore at the broken, skeletal frame. No one saw her shudder and rise to a sitting position. And, no one heard the mewling whimpers that spewed like demon-honey from her throat as the pain blossomed and grew, then inexplicably faded. Her eyes, somehow wide and staring, shone much too brightly in the gaunt pale face. And when she smiled, it was as if her face had split. A jagged snagle-toothed grimace, while she maniacally stared at nothing. There was no joy there, just a terrible quest for vengeance.
---
Do you still feel sorry for her? Or perhaps the man who did this to her is the one who should fear.
Then there are the ghosts who bring nothing but pleasure. Ghost of a Chance was one such story. A little shiver at the right moment, a mouth...or what felt like one. There goes that racing heart again...
"Open your legs again. Let me suck you," a deep, masculine voice whispered from inside his mind—from between his legs. Where?
He eased his knees apart, pushing his toes against the bundled sheets, spreading his legs comfortably wide. Cool bedding against his inner thighs sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. He pushed his hands down his thighs, around to the inside then back up, hands again going to his sac.
"Yeah," he murmured, more asleep than awake. His balls shifted, and he moaned. Felt good. Sleep reached for him, drawing him into its quiet embrace.
A mouth, that man's he was sure, engulfed the head of his cock. He didn't have to move, he knew it, trusted his knowing. Simply laid back and enjoyed the wet suckling of his glans and the tongue delving into the oozing slit. His ass cheeks clenched. Butt cheek rubbed against butt cheek. Anus itched. He wanted—something.
The face was there, the dark eyes peering up at him. Amused, teasing.
His cock pulsed, the head battering at the back of his throat, that man's throat. Swallowed, squeezed, released, deliciously squeezed again on its way into his gullet.
Firmly, his balls caressed, pulled on, milked by the expert touch of another man. Only another man could know how to pull only so far, until a bare hint of pain itched at his inner thighs.
A finger slipped back between is ass cheeks, searching, delving, for the dark, moist hole nestled between his glutes. He knew it. Knew it as surely as he knew he was about to fill that mouth with a load of cum. Touched, pressed against, the relaxed ring accepting, welcoming the digit slowly eased inside.
Groaning, he flexed his butt, his excitement growing yet still he slumbered. A dream, he knew it had to be a dream, and even thinking it made him doubt. The groan came from some distance, couldn't be from him.
"Yes, you like this. You always liked it up the ass," the smooth masculine voice crept into his sub-conscious, pushing his excitement up a notch.
He wanted to shift, to push his hips up, to bury the deliciously wicked digit deeper into his hungry ass. Sweat trickled down his ribs. He felt that, or dreamed it.
"My sweet Daniel, let me fuck you the way we both love it," the voice droned.
Robert knew it was wrong, somehow, but he didn't want it to end. It'd been so long since he'd had anyone, and the sensation was driving him insane. He gripped the sheets, then fought to relax his hands. Who was Daniel?
The intruding finger probed a little deeper, finding the nut-sized prostate gland all too eager and ready to be stimulated. His cock throbbed, wetness touched his stomach.
He pulled his legs up, his knees towards his chest. Asleep, he had to be asleep.
Filled, his ass stretched, the opening pressed against, the membrane taut as something wet and slick and beautifully hard slid inside him. Again, the head of his cock engulfed in smoothness, pulsed.
Close, he was so damn close, his blood raced. His fingers and toes clenched. He wanted to scream. He ached to thrust. He trembled with the desire to grab and hold, and touch, and he knew he was alone.
Do you think fear, terror can add to the excitement? I'd love to know!
Showing posts with label Ghost of a Chance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ghost of a Chance. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Ghosts and Ghouls and Sexy Spirits...OH MY!
by Jude Mason
I've written several stories about ghosts and adore them. Mine aren't always the spooks who simply appear, scare the living bejeebers out of you then fade into the ether. I like em when they stick around and do some real haunting. Even better, when they have a mystery to solve, help you solve it then hang around to enjoy their after life.
Let me start with a story my father shared with me years ago. When he was very young, he had a favorite Aunt who thought the world of him. They'd visit often and spend hours talking about things little boys talk about with Auntie's. He loved her immensely. When he was about 7-8, I'm not sure exactly, his Auntie died. Being as he was a youngster, no one wanted to tell him. He went to bed that night and slept soundly, until his Auntie appeared at the foot of his bed. From what he told me, they sat talking for a little while then she told him she wouldn't be able to see him again for a very long time. Course, being the young boy he was, it upset him. But, she explained she'd gone away and he'd see her again when it was the right time. That apparently soothed him and he went back to sleep.
The next day, he told him mom he'd seen his Auntie. She finally told him his dear Auntie had passed on, but he refused to believe her. He'd spoken to her, sat and talked for ages he said. I don't think he ever stopped believing he'd seen her.
A little spooky, but in a very good way.
Now my ghosties. No, I've never personally seen or talked to a ghost. But, I do love to think about them. The first book I wrote about a ghost was called, Roses Have Thorns. Here's a little blurb for you:
What happens when a whore hooks up with the wrong john? What happens when he murders her? You'd think she'd die; there'd be an investigation that went nowhere and that'd be the end of it, right?
Wrong!
Rose did all these things…both of them. The first Rose died and swore vengeance, somehow. When the second Rose died, something horrible, something supernatural happens and Rose comes back. Months pass, while she heals the body, transforming it into and searches for him. When she does, she takes her vengeance, and it's not sweet. Not sweet at all.
You see, there were two Roses, both killed by the same man. The ghost of #1 takes over the body of #2 when she dies. A shivery prospect for the bad dude in this one. Poetic justice can be a bitch sometimes...LOL I'm thinking Rose would be more along the lines of ghoul, but as I tend to just write these things and let someone else worry about that part, I'm not really sure.
On to the next of my ghosties. This would be Scropio Tattoo, one of my all time faves. And heres the blurb for it:
A tattoo is one of the most personal art forms that can adorn the flesh of a human. What happens when women are kidnapped and tattooed? What happens when those women die? And, what happens when the tattooist isn't alive? Jonathan Rorke searches for the answer these questions and others when his psychic talents lead him to the latest victim. Jessica Crane, latest victim, and the only one who's still alive. Why? Together, Jonathan and Jess have to find out who and why she's being tattooed, before her tattoo is finished and she becomes casualty number three.
In this book, the ghost doesn't realize he's dead, kind of. And he also doesn't realize his lady is dead, kind of. Without saying too much, I'll just tell you, he doesn't leave when he could.
Now that Jenna and I are writing together, we've found that ghosts are a topic we both seem to like writing about. Ethan's Choice, from the Kindred Spirits, our ongoing series of ghostly tales, will be at least four books long. Each will target at least one ghostly problem and we'll hopefully solve them as we go along. Whether the ghosts all leave is a different matter. Angry Annie's problem is solved, but she seems to like it at the Inn. I'm hoping she shows up a lot in future books.
I think ghosts are an entity we as authors can use in an enormous number of ways. The rules don't 'have' to apply. Some people say you can't touch a ghost, but in Scorpio Tattoo, the ghost is touched a number of times, by more then one flesh and blood character. No one complained. Ghosts live as long as you like, can pop in and out of the story, enter places and know things no one else can. I'd say they're a great way to solve mysteries. LOL
Oh, and then there was Ghost of a Chance. I had to wind this up by posting a snippet from that one.
Hugs
I've written several stories about ghosts and adore them. Mine aren't always the spooks who simply appear, scare the living bejeebers out of you then fade into the ether. I like em when they stick around and do some real haunting. Even better, when they have a mystery to solve, help you solve it then hang around to enjoy their after life.
Let me start with a story my father shared with me years ago. When he was very young, he had a favorite Aunt who thought the world of him. They'd visit often and spend hours talking about things little boys talk about with Auntie's. He loved her immensely. When he was about 7-8, I'm not sure exactly, his Auntie died. Being as he was a youngster, no one wanted to tell him. He went to bed that night and slept soundly, until his Auntie appeared at the foot of his bed. From what he told me, they sat talking for a little while then she told him she wouldn't be able to see him again for a very long time. Course, being the young boy he was, it upset him. But, she explained she'd gone away and he'd see her again when it was the right time. That apparently soothed him and he went back to sleep.
The next day, he told him mom he'd seen his Auntie. She finally told him his dear Auntie had passed on, but he refused to believe her. He'd spoken to her, sat and talked for ages he said. I don't think he ever stopped believing he'd seen her.
A little spooky, but in a very good way.
Now my ghosties. No, I've never personally seen or talked to a ghost. But, I do love to think about them. The first book I wrote about a ghost was called, Roses Have Thorns. Here's a little blurb for you:
What happens when a whore hooks up with the wrong john? What happens when he murders her? You'd think she'd die; there'd be an investigation that went nowhere and that'd be the end of it, right?
Wrong!
Rose did all these things…both of them. The first Rose died and swore vengeance, somehow. When the second Rose died, something horrible, something supernatural happens and Rose comes back. Months pass, while she heals the body, transforming it into and searches for him. When she does, she takes her vengeance, and it's not sweet. Not sweet at all.
You see, there were two Roses, both killed by the same man. The ghost of #1 takes over the body of #2 when she dies. A shivery prospect for the bad dude in this one. Poetic justice can be a bitch sometimes...LOL I'm thinking Rose would be more along the lines of ghoul, but as I tend to just write these things and let someone else worry about that part, I'm not really sure.
On to the next of my ghosties. This would be Scropio Tattoo, one of my all time faves. And heres the blurb for it:
A tattoo is one of the most personal art forms that can adorn the flesh of a human. What happens when women are kidnapped and tattooed? What happens when those women die? And, what happens when the tattooist isn't alive? Jonathan Rorke searches for the answer these questions and others when his psychic talents lead him to the latest victim. Jessica Crane, latest victim, and the only one who's still alive. Why? Together, Jonathan and Jess have to find out who and why she's being tattooed, before her tattoo is finished and she becomes casualty number three.
In this book, the ghost doesn't realize he's dead, kind of. And he also doesn't realize his lady is dead, kind of. Without saying too much, I'll just tell you, he doesn't leave when he could.
Now that Jenna and I are writing together, we've found that ghosts are a topic we both seem to like writing about. Ethan's Choice, from the Kindred Spirits, our ongoing series of ghostly tales, will be at least four books long. Each will target at least one ghostly problem and we'll hopefully solve them as we go along. Whether the ghosts all leave is a different matter. Angry Annie's problem is solved, but she seems to like it at the Inn. I'm hoping she shows up a lot in future books.
I think ghosts are an entity we as authors can use in an enormous number of ways. The rules don't 'have' to apply. Some people say you can't touch a ghost, but in Scorpio Tattoo, the ghost is touched a number of times, by more then one flesh and blood character. No one complained. Ghosts live as long as you like, can pop in and out of the story, enter places and know things no one else can. I'd say they're a great way to solve mysteries. LOL
Oh, and then there was Ghost of a Chance. I had to wind this up by posting a snippet from that one.
| | |
ISBN: 978-1-906811-06-8
m/m, paranormal
Publisher: Total E-Bound
Publisher URL: http://www.total-e-bound.com/
Buy Now
Ghost of a Chance
Made #2 at Total E-Bound's Fictionwise Page
From
Chapter One
Silken softness wrapped around his cock, sucking gently, exquisitely.
Robert shifted. Rolling onto his back, he stretched his legs out, barely conscious of being in bed, not really awake.
Wet suction pulled at his shaft. A tongue slid over the crown of his cock, the tip delving into the slit. His thighs eased open.
Yes, a dream. That’s what it is. A wet dream, a fantasy—a disembodied mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, all there just for his pleasure.
The suction eased, the lips barely skimming over his shaft—up and down, up and down. His hips twitched, his buttocks clenched, his thighs tightened. He splayed his knees wider. A tongue moved wetly up his shaft again. The sensation faded.
Excitement waned. He fell into deeper sleep.
A face appeared—dark hair tousled, thick brows with one arched more then the other, sideburns longer than fashionable. The nose had a bump in the middle. Eyes—brown, wide open, framed with beautifully long lashes—watched him. Lips—thick, moist, kissable—opened.
Robert’s hips moved, churned his ass into the bed. Soft sheets brushed against his shaft and its head wept and stuck to the material.
He reached for himself. A squeeze, a tug. He sighed and his slumber again deepened.
The beautiful, handsome face vanished, but the mouth remained. Lips, tongue, brushed the thick dome of his cock.
His balls shifted, moving up closer to his body. He clenched his ass. In sync, his hips rose, pushing his cock shaft further in.
Taking his hand off his cock, he reached lower and cupped the soft, nearly hairless sac below. Holding it, he pulled down on the two walnut-sized orbs.
He relaxed, his sleep deepened again. Time passed.
“You like that, don’t you, my love?” a soft masculine voice whispered huskily.
“Yes,” he hissed. Or I thought I did. Am I speaking? Am I dreaming? Does it matter?
The slickness of a mouth returned, nipping at the flesh along the length of his cock.
His shaft thickened instantly, if it ever actually had deflated at all. He was hard. He wanted to fuck.
He dreamed. The face was back. Thick lashes rose, revealing lust-filled, dark eyes looking up at him. The nose, a little too sharp at the tip, brushed his pubes as the mouth descended, taking him in to the hilt. Grunting, he basked in the feel of that lovely, soft, wet mouth engulfing his cock. The head touched, rubbed against the back of a throat.
“Yes,” he hissed again. Or is it the first time?
He shuddered, reached for the face, connected with…nothing, air, sheets. His fingers slipped over the cool silk fabric, gripped, clenched and held tight while his cock was lavished with gulping pleasure.
A chin nudged his ball sac, pushing the magic orbs to and fro. He arched his back, his fingers and toes curled tight, he was aching for release—half-asleep, half-awake, breathless with lust.
The face vanished. The mouth abandoned him.
Robert sat up. One of his hands rested on the bed behind him, supporting him, the other moved to his stomach. His cock pulsed against his palm. Glancing around, he peered into the corners, along the walls, the window shades drawn tight. He was alone.
He was fucking hard, needed to come. He was exhausted.
Peering at the clock on the bedside table, he saw the arms pointing at the three and the ten. It wasn’t ten fifteen.
Sagging, he fell back on the pillow. Too old for a wet dream, he told himself. Too tired to finish. Still he reached down and cupped himself, sighing. His thoughts wandered to the dream of the face, the mouth, those deep brown, smouldering eyes.
He sighed with pleasure.
Weird dreams. Fuck me dreams. Where’d they come from? His thoughts faded into nothing.
“Open your legs. Let me suck you,” the deep, masculine voice whispered.
He eased his knees apart, pushing his toes against the bundled sheets, spreading his legs comfortably wide. A shiver of pleasure raced up his spine. He slid his hands down to his sac.
“Yeah,” he murmured, more asleep than awake. His balls shifted.
A mouth engulfed the head of his cock. He didn’t have to move, he knew it, trusted his knowing. He simply lay there and enjoyed the wet suckling of his glans and the silken tongue delving into the oozing slit. His ass cheeks clenched. His anus itched. He wanted…something.
The face was there, the dark eyes peering up at him. Amused, teasing.
His cock pulsed, the head battering at the back of a throat, that man’s throat, swallowed, squeezed, released, deliciously held again on its way into his gullet.
A finger slipped back between his ass cheeks, searching, delving for the dark, moist hole nestled between his glutes. The digit slowly eased inside.
Groaning, he flexed his butt, his excitement growing, yet still he half-slumbered. A dream, it has to be a dream.
“Yes, you like this. You always liked it up the ass.” The smooth, masculine voice crept into his sub-conscious, pushing his excitement up a notch.
He wanted to shift, to push his hips up, to bury the deliciously wicked digit deeper into his hungry ass. Sweat trickled down his ribs. He felt that, or dreamed it.
“My sweet Daniel, let me fuck you the way we both love it,” the voice droned.
Who is Daniel?
* * *
Hugs
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