Out Now: Short Smut Volume 2!

Tags

bdsm, exhibitionism, femdom, Free erotica, Free smut, historical erotica, historical romance, menage, paranormal erotica, paranormal romance, Voyeurism, werewolf

From Smutwriters.com comes a wide, sexy selection of twelve stories, including BDSM, ménage, and exhibitionism. A kinky couple brings a third into their relationship. A brother seduces death to save his brother. A French maid catches the interest of her lord. Enjoy today’s hottest erotica authors at their hottest with this free anthology. Warning: explicit content.

Features stories from Skye Warren, Aubrey Watt and more!

And best of all, it’s free!

Get it here on Smashwords or All Romance Ebooks.

It’s also available for $0.99 on Amazon.

Excerpt from “The Dreams of Violetta,” the first part of the novella, The Love of Violetta.

My darning was interrupted at seven by the baying of hounds, and the entire household staff rushed into the cold to greet Roland.

I followed the press into the main hall. Roland loomed over his father as they shook hands. One tall, pious, with a tidy powdered wig, bending over the short wicked man with the mess of dark curls. Little doubt the Duc’s wig was abandoned on a bust or resting on a drunken maid’s breast.

They shook hands. Roland kissed the cheek of the housekeeper and clapped the majordome on the back. If my love saw me, he gave no sign. Roland went to wash away the filth of the road, and I crept into the empty salon.

My hand searched for his letter, for his words of love. My breath was loud and jagged in my ears.

“Are you ill, Violetta?”

I opened my eyes, and the Duc was standing there, his dark eyes glittering.

“No, Monsieur. I only wanted to catch my breath after the press.”

The Duc was a virile forty-five, and in a moment he had me trapped against the wall. “Can I help you catch it, little maid?” he said, his face inches from mine.

I turned my head, my hands balled into fists. “Please, Monsieur.”

He rubbed the rough stubble of his cheek on my face. “What do you want?” he said, leaning his body into me.

“Father, I forgot to tell you—”

Tears squeezed from the corners of my eyes. To be found like this by my love, my noble Roland, it was more than I could bear. My cheeks burned.

The Duc released me, like a cat done with the mouse it had been tormenting. “Yes, my son, what did you forget?”

“The merchants…they said…” Roland mumbled.

I rushed from the room, up the stairs, and straight to my bed where I bathed my pillow with my tears. It was a quick cry—there was work to be done. I needed to talk to Roland. If I could explain myself, tell him the Duc had caught me in a room unawares…

It’s too goddamn hot

Tags

heat, hot, it's too goddamn hot, summer, sweat, too goddamn hot, wretched weather

I have to slick my hair back from my face like it’s the freaking 80s to even sit around and type because I HAVE A FAN BLOWING RIGHT IN MY FACE. If I don’t slick it back it just flies everywhere and distracts me. My “Kinda Terrible Techno” station on Pandora (LoA, Benny Benassi, Daft Punk, NIN) is cranked so I can hear it over the box fan that’s three feet from my head and there’s squeaky ass ceiling fan getting in on the ambient noise action.

Needless to say, by 80s I’m referring more to stretch pants (I loved those things) and giant bangs, not the temperature. I would in fact love for it to be in the 80s instead of pumping up into the 90s each day.

As far as the dog goes, there might as well not even be an outside. It’s just too goddamn hot for him to run around. He goes out to pee and comes back in all pink and panting. Two tosses of the ball off the porch at night and he flops down on the tile all broken and shit. At least that’s what my husband and I say after he’s still there huffing away five minutes later.

He’s rubbing his jowls all over the floor, and all those fingery looking bits are out in full force trying to help him cool down. You know the bits I’m talking about–the ones that look like secret sea creatures. My husband and I help him cool down by saying stuff like, “Is it too hot for bull hounds?” and “Are you broken beast?” We’ll also rub a washcloth on his chest. Mainly though we don’t exert him in the day beyond eating and shitting.

My main point is, it’s too hot for the bulldog, and it’s too bloody hot for me. I came up here earlier to write and all I could muster was: It’s too hot to think. I went back downstairs.

My husband touched my leg, and I was like, “No,” and then I touched my leg and I was still all, “No.” Like, nothing unnecessary can touch me right now, and all that’s necessary is the couch and my laptop.

I tend to go to bed later than my husband. Normally the dog is sleeping on the bed, but lately he’s been flopped out on the floor. I creep along in the dark, waiting for the motion activated nightlight to come on, which it doesn’t, because there’s 100 lbs. of dog in the way. Eventually I stick a toe in his mouth and then the light comes on because he jerks, and all of a sudden there’s this giant white dog on the floor.

Anyways, I tend to go to bed later than my husband, and when the weather’s like this, I stay up way later than necessary, because I know I’m just going to be tossing and turning forever. I wake up still hot and half-asleep. Nothing much happens in general. It’s really too hot to think.

I know, now you’re wondering why we don’t have AC? It’s not something that’s feasible for this house (uninsulated). Maybe, someday, we’ll get something for the bedroom.

I’m actually kind of missing my job. Science labs are generally on the frigid side of things. Although, I would have to sweat in the heat to get to and from there, because I rode the bus. Even if the buses are air conditioned, there’s the skulking around on hot pavement part.

I can’t even think much beyond disjointed ramblings about the heat. Maybe I should try and write some poetry to capture the disgust I feel at sitting here, doing nothing, and just sweating. A haiku, and for my nature imagery I’ll use stink bugs.

One thing I do know though–I’ll probably want to go see a movie this weekend, just for the AC. You know, go old school. I think Guillermo del Toro, who did Pan’s Labyrinth, has a new movie out and Charlie from Always Sunny is in it. I don’t care if it’s a giant robot movie, del Toro is freaking awesome, and I bet it’s actually worth seeing in a theater.

Harry Potter and the Yes I know I’m behind the times (Part One of Seven)

Tags

behind the times, harry potter, harry potter and the philosopher's stone, Potter Mania, religion and harry potter

Warning: A collection of idle thoughts, not a review.

Since the last movie was released about two years ago, Potter Mania has finally died down. There are a just a few terminal cases malingering. Even my niece has finally given up on asking me if I’d finally picked up the last book (the answer is still no).

The first book was released in 1997, so let’s say it was over ten years of madness.

This is the part where some people would get stuffy, claim to be immune to such things as peer pressure. I’m not one of those people. I’ll have another beer, and occasionally read books I wouldn’t otherwise (why hello there Millennium trilogy) because flipping everyone is bugging me about it.

The first six Harry Potter books fall into that category. It’s not that I didn’t like them, it’s just I probably wouldn’t have picked them up otherwise. What finally changed that “well, this is nice” to “no, just no” was largely the people in the throes of Potter Mania. It wasn’t enough to like the books, you had to love them. Never mind the deus ex machina feel I got from the endings or the fact that the characters had little gray in them, that the writing wasn’t really the type of thing that made me go SPLOOSH! Anything besides ejaculations of adulation got you one of those, “What’s wrong with you,” type of looks.

Now with no one examining me, and I’ll admit, a healthy dose of curiosity about why people love these books so much, I’ve reread the first one, thanks to Amazon Prime lending (because I don’t think I’d pay to read these).

First, I’d like to complain that the e-book is in American English and not English English. “Gray” should be “grey” and “soccer” spelled f-o-o-t-b-a-l-l. I’d been looking forward to the appearance of “boogies” (or however it was spelled, I would know if they’d not changed it) too. Oh well.

I am happy that prior to my rereading of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone I’d also given Dickens another chance. One thing that Rowling did very well pretty much leaped out of the page at me–her archetypes are fabulous. I wish I hadn’t returned the book, otherwise I’d cite some instances here.

We know Dumbledore’s delightfully dotty, the Dursleys are a load of prigs, Hermione (no, spellchecker, I don’t mean “heroin”) is an huge flipping nerd, and Ron the best friend. We know Draco is a rich bitch. She lays it on thick just like Dickens did with his characters, and much like Dickens, she’s good at it too. Of course, for me this strength was also a weakness, because in creating characters who were clearly good, or evil, or annoying, I became bored.

You could even talk about houses in terms of sitcom characters. Let’s go for The Simpsons. Milhouse would be in Hufflepuff, Lisa in Ravenclaw, Bart in Slytherin. I’m not sure to elect as the Gryffindor…maybe Maggie? She did shoot Burns. Possibly the dog, Santa’s Little Helper. Bravery is not a trait you see in sitcoms really.

The writing was better than I remembered, although I wonder if that’s just because this is an earlier novel, which was more tightly edited than the later ones. To me, it seemed as time went on, the book grew fatter and fatter, with more bits of plot and trivia I couldn’t be bothered to keep track of. In fact, were they all not out now, I wouldn’t be attempting a full reread of this series, because I’d never make it. Everything would get muddled, I’d be frustrated, and I’d be lured away by something nice and cynical.

While I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love with Potter (although I don’t mind some slash as light reading now and then) it’s easy to see why people did. For those who grew up with these books, I can see why the infatuation for them is so all-consuming that they might consider purchasing a $275 Slytherin corset.

Me? I want someone to explain why they celebrate Christmas. After all, they don’t even say, “Dear god!” It’s: “Dear Merlin!” One would have thought they’d stick with the original pagan holiday, Beltane, that Christmas replaced. They don’t even strike one as being Easter/Xmas type Christians, but somehow they go all out for Jesus’s birthday.

The only hint I can find is to look at the the pen name: J. K. Rowling. Very coy, it doesn’t reveal her sex, and probably reflects marketing data that boys are less likely to pick up a book written by a woman. Ditto I suspect for keeping this trapping of Christianity. As is, I know some people take issue with the books on religious grounds. I can imagine making them straight up pagans, instead of the garden-variety lapsed Catholics they could be, would have brought even more of this type of attention to the books.

Who knows though? I bet J. K. does…

Out now: The Love of Violetta

Tags

17th century France, duc de lauzun, French, historical romance, Opera, romance, romantica

Violetta loves Roland, and he loves her. Violetta knew their love was foolish when she was fourteen, but over the years she forgot. When Roland tells her they cannot be wed, she’s heartbroken. Desperate, attempts to seduce him, proposing that she become his mistress.

The Duc de Lauzun wasn’t the same after his wife died. He drank. The women of the manor bore babes stamped with his chin. The maids who valued their virtue avoided him, while others sought their sport in the halls. Violetta always shied away from him, though he’s had his eye on her, ever since she changed from a girl to a woman.

Violetta:

For a moment, Roland’s blue eyes met mine, and my heart gave a mournful shudder, like a clock sounding out the witching hour. It did not stop, but for a moment it slowed, as if its cogs were gummed with all our youthful promises and stolen embraces.

The Duc de Lauzun:

“I shouldn’t,” he said and again savored my lips.

“I shouldn’t,” he said as his hands made themselves again familiar with the heft of my curves.

“I shouldn’t,” he said and pressed his hardness against my hip.

Excerpt:

“I don’t want a husband, I want a kiss.” I took his hands, put them at the small of my back, and wrapped mine around his neck.

“Violetta,” he whispered, bending over me.

I closed my eyes, and his lips touched mine and moved, gently, slowly. He reached up to tangle his fingers in my hair. The tip of his tongue traced the seal of my lips, and I opened my mouth to him. He was hot and wet inside me. I pressed my tongue against his, and he purred.

“Will you sit on my lap and kiss me?” he asked.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Call me Antoine,” he said. He raised my hair to my face and inhaled.

“Antoine, you have some curious habits,” I said.

With a growl, he pulled me against him, and I squealed. He sat on the bed, and holding me in his arms, he joined his mouth to mine again.

When he opened his lips for me, I traced his teeth, his tongue. I pulled his bottom lip, then his top, into my mouth. He was hot and hard beneath me, and he moaned as I stroked the fine fabric of his clothes. It was like being consumed by a strange fire, my body pressed against him, my nipples hard in my chemise as if I were cold. He combed his fingers through my hair, his nails tracing over my scalp, and I clung to him. Something firm poked my hip, and he shuddered each time my weight settled against it.

We kissed until my lips were swollen and my head dizzy. I pressed my thighs together and squirmed in his embrace. Each of his breaths moved through me and pooled between my legs. His grip tightened on me, one hand lost in my hair, the other hard on my waist.

The Duc—Antoine—pulled away from me, his chest heaving. “If I wish to leave you with your innocence, I must go, dear. Needless to say, I shall tell my son you will be staying here, with me.”

I smiled, touching his wonderful mouth, and he kissed my fingers.

“Do you want to stay here and be with me?” he asked, my fingers still in his mouth.

“Yes.” I pressed my lips to his brow.

Amazon/Smashwords

Coming Soon…

Tags

17th century France, Opera, period romance, romance, slutty dukes

I love reading about 17th century France and opera, and from these two loves, a novella, The Love of Violetta, was born. It’s about a maid and a slutty duke, and the whole pile of nonsense that gets in the way of their relationship. After all, you can’t have a romantic novel without nonsense!

Meet the lovers…

Violetta:

For a moment, Roland’s blue eyes met mine, and my heart gave a mournful shudder, like a clock sounding out the witching hour. It did not stop, but for a moment it slowed, as if its cogs were gummed with all our youthful promises and stolen embraces.

The Duc de Lauzun:

“I shouldn’t,” he said and again savored my lips.

“I shouldn’t,” he said as his hands made themselves again familiar with the heft of my curves.

“I shouldn’t,” he said and pressed his hardness against my hip.

Excerpt:

“I don’t want a husband, I want a kiss.” I took his hands, put them at the small of my back, and wrapped mine around his neck.

“Violetta,” he whispered, bending over me.

I closed my eyes, and his lips touched mine and moved, gently, slowly. He reached up to tangle his fingers in my hair. The tip of his tongue traced the seal of my lips, and I opened my mouth to him. He was hot and wet inside me. I pressed my tongue against his, and he purred.

“Will you sit on my lap and kiss me?” he asked.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Call me Antoine,” he said. He raised my hair to my face and inhaled.

“Antoine, you have some curious habits,” I said.

With a growl, he pulled me against him, and I squealed. He sat on the bed, and holding me in his arms, he joined his mouth to mine again.

When he opened his lips for me, I traced his teeth, his tongue. I pulled his bottom lip, then his top, into my mouth. He was hot and hard beneath me, and he moaned as I stroked the fine fabric of his clothes. It was like being consumed by a strange fire, my body pressed against him, my nipples hard in my chemise as if I were cold. He combed his fingers through my hair, his nails tracing over my scalp, and I clung to him. Something firm poked my hip, and he shuddered each time my weight settled against it.

We kissed until my lips were swollen and my head dizzy. I pressed my thighs together and squirmed in his embrace. Each of his breaths moved through me and pooled between my legs. His grip tightened on me, one hand lost in my hair, the other hard on my waist.

The Duc—Antoine—pulled away from me, his chest heaving. “If I wish to leave you with your innocence, I must go, dear. Needless to say, I shall tell my son you will be staying here, with me.”

I smiled, touching his wonderful mouth, and he kissed my fingers.

“Do you want to stay here and be with me?” he asked, my fingers still in his mouth.

“Yes.” I pressed my lips to his brow.