Ghoulish Reads for Halloween!

Hello, my lovelies! For your Halloween pleasure, I thought I'd compile a list of ghoulish work that might hit the spot.

First, here's mine:


The House of Erotica Witching Hour includes my story, "If I Ask," a ghost story set in the Cemetery of Montmartre.


Coming Together: Hungry For Love includes my story "Screen Siren," a zombie romance between a B-movie director and his undead leading lady.


My novel Run For Your Love is the story of a pacifist in the zombie apocalypse and the woman who tests his principles.

And some from my friends:

If you can't get enough of zombies (and they certainly can't get enough of you), check out the Zombie Erotoclypse by Tamsin Flowers.


I didn't forget the vampires. Coming Together: In Vein is a smart, sexy erotic anthology edited by Lisabet Sarai.


Giselle Renarde brings the spooky lesbian hotness with Girls Gone Carnal: Lesbian Vamps, Witches, and Weres.


If you catch this in time, Go Deeper Press has a special Halloween offer—a free copy of Femme Fatale: Erotic Tales of Dangerous Women. If you don't catch it in time, this collection is still well worth buying.

Enjoy, and have a happy Halloween!

Dirty Little Read-through: The Forbidden Wonders of "Oops!" by T.J. Caliber

Here's the fourth story from Dirty Little Numbers, as the Dirty Little Read-through continues.

"...nipples so perfect and pert you just want to give them a kiss and say thank you" -- T.J. Caliber

The language of T.J. Caliber's "Oops!" is so urgent and original that I want to give it a kiss and say thank you. There are so many lines I could have quoted, vivid images of lust and longing.

This story reminded me how wonderful the forbidden can be, and how necessary. It's about looking on Craigslist, finding, wanting, and going after what is found. It's a wild ride, and a brave one, and my heart pounded even though it was short.

I have looked on Craigslist this way, but always chickened out. I remember feeling stifled in my marriage, wanting things that I could barely name, and pointing my browser to Craigslist only to feel overwhelmed by the cornucopia of possibilities. I have never admitted this to anyone before, but I remember what it was like to read through the ads—the wonder I felt, which Caliber captures perfectly, at all these "people who want to fuck right now." I got so aroused by the idea that they might be real—the woman who sounded as if she would allow someone like me to come over just for a few hours, the man who promised he knew how to give a good spanking. These possibly real people affected me so much more than the fantasies I'd been having. I felt a mere breath away from them, and so I closed my browser and fled.

In a post today at Go Deeper Press, Angela wrote, "For me, revealing our darkness is what makes erotica transformative and titillating." She's right, and that darkness is a hell of a scary thrill. I was too afraid to play with strangers years ago, when I hunched over forbidden words on my laptop and struggled to breathe, but Caliber brought the feeling back to me so vividly, along with the exhilarating question, "What if?"

If you'd like to read the story instead of my philosophizing about it, check out the fantastic Go Deeper Press—Dirty Little Numbers and other sex-positive erotic books are on sale there.

Dirty Little Read-Through: The Unapologetic Confession of "Here's My Problem, Dr. Kinsey" by Mia Hopkins

The Dirty Little Read-through goes on—the third story in Dirty Little Numbers comes to us from Mia Hopkins.

"Jim muttered something about eternal damnation, but he did it anyway." — Mia Hopkins

What I like most about this fictional confession is that it's not a confession in the sense of regret. Throughout, the narrator sounds like she knows what she wants and she's not ashamed of anything. Glancing up to the title after reading the story, I get an image of her smirking as she says those words. Maybe the memory of hot sex that she describes in this story has created some problems for her, but I don't think she'd trade it.

I like the idea of a knowing woman who's not out to apologize confessing a dirty secret to Dr. Kinsey who, by the accounts I've read, wasn't out to judge. That's a delightful reversal of the idea of confession.

I go to confession once a year on Good Friday, and I only confess the things I'm truly sorry for. That means I don't often talk about sex, and I also don't stay in the confessional very long. That's not to say that I'm perfect, but I've spent too much of my life apologizing for who I am and everything I do, feel, and think. These days, I try to keep my apologizing to a minimum, and to only do it when it's really necessary.

But church isn't the only place I feel expected to confess. When I got divorced several years ago, I encountered a lot of people who wanted me to analyze for them how my marriage had gone wrong, or why I wasn't willing to work on things any more. It's one thing to learn from mistakes, and another to enact a shame performance, and too many times conversations veered to that latter side of the line.

Erotica has a long tradition of another kind of confession—a sly, sometimes funny revelation of forbidden acts. Books of erotic confessions are sold not to warn people off but to titillate them, and I think this is a needed corrective for the other kind of confession, the one that's all about shame. Hopkins' story is a classic entry in this venerable tradition. The narrator does outrageous things with an ear of corn, cops to a problem that it sounds sort of nice to have, and doesn't say she's sorry for any of it. More power to her!

If you'd like to read the story instead of my philosophizing about it, check out the fantastic Go Deeper Press—Dirty Little Numbers and other sex-positive erotic books are on sale there.

Dirty Little Read-through: "Third-Party Extension" by Jacob Louder

I continue my Dirty Little Read-through with the second story in Dirty Little Numbers, "Third-Party Extension" by Jacob Louder.

“Go on, Scotty,” Erin says. “He’s your present.” -- Jacob Louder

On the surface, this is a hot-as-hell stroke story. Its few hundred words are wall-to-wall sex, and I very nearly chose to quote its opening line up top ("Two cocks in our bedroom and my wife is ecstatic."). Even though I cheated and quoted it just now, I wanted to put that other line first because it's the moment the story took off for me.

In just a few sentences, Louder has established that the wife is ecstatic, but the other cock in the bedroom is a present for the husband, and now we're at the heart of the sex-positivity behind this scorcher.

There are certain fantasies that seem to be both incredibly common and commonly problematic. At the top of my list of examples are threesomes and anal sex (we'll get back to that one). All too commonly, threesomes are portrayed as one person's fantasy. Go to Google and type "how can I convince my girlfriend." The first thing that pops up for me is "to have a 3 way." This leads to a collection of links that I find... problematic. And that's far from the only emotional minefield that threesomes can fall into.

So, hot as threesomes make me (common fantasy, like I said), I'm always a little on edge when I read about them, watching for that tinge of imbalance or uncertainty, that piece of evidence that one or more people are not getting what they need or want out of the experience.

Thankfully, there's none of that here. Louder sells me on how utterly desired this threesome is by all parties. The wife's excitement shines through, as does the husband's aching desire. Even the hired third party gets "the face of a man half his age" at one point (and I love that line also for telling me that the third is sexy as hell and also a bit older). From word one, it's clear that everyone involved is enjoying the hell out of the experience (and enthusiastically consenting to it). All three people are connected and finding pleasure in each other. The wife praises the husband as he sucks the third's cock. The husband fucks his wife and focuses on the feeling of the other man inside her. The third shouts his excitement as he releases cum for the others to play with.

The whole thing glistens with lust, dirty thrills, and genuine, accepting love. That's how to do a threesome, I say.

If you'd like to read the story instead of my philosophizing about it, check out the fantastic Go Deeper Press—Dirty Little Numbers and other sex-positive erotic books are on sale there.

Best Erotic Romance 2014

Just got word from editor Kristina Wright that my story, "Professional, Knowledgeable and Very Thorough" will be included in Best Erotic Romance 2014! I'm totally thrilled—this is a great series, and I'm so pleased to participate in it.

My story is about an auto mechanic and a hot man who questions her about a timing belt—far more respectfully than she's used to being questioned. Here's a snip:

Randal Dean might not be the kind of sexist jerk she’d been expecting, but he was a piece of work in his own right. “With all due respect, Randal, it took me a long time to learn how a car works. I want to answer your questions and make sure you feel comfortable about how you’re spending your money with us, but at a certain point, you do have to trust my professional opinion. I’ve got a lot of other cars to fix. I can’t give you a long lesson right now.” She sighed, summoning a phrase from her customer service training. “What can I do to help resolve this issue?”

“Can I come back later?” he asked, and something about his tone heated Tamara’s cheeks. “When you’re less busy and you can spend a little time?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Her day was booked solid, and this wouldn’t be quick. To accommodate his request, she’d definitely have to stay late. Still, something inside her hesitated to tell him no.

“Five o’clock,” she said. “Lucy will be closing up. The car will be ready by then, and I’ll walk you through everything I did, show you the parts I replaced, the works. We can just hang out in the garage until you’re satisfied.” She stumbled over the last word of her sentence. It conjured an image of a different sort of satisfaction, sweaty and messy and delicious. Tamara envisioned straddling Randal and running a grease-stained finger across his smooth, high cheekbone, leaving a smear behind. She wondered what it would be like to get him dirty.

Hot times ensue, as I'm sure they do in the other stories in this collection. In case you haven't yet found the preorder button, here's the table of contents, which includes many lovely writers whose work I adore:

Foreword by Lauren Dane
Introduction: A Perfect Combination
The Shortest Day by Nikki Magennis
A Competitive Marriage by Victoria Blisse
Professional, Knowledgeable and Very Thorough by Annabeth Leong
Rules by Emerald
More Light by Laila Blake
Stay with Me by Crystal Jordan
A Singer who Doesn’t Sing by Jeanette Grey
Show Me by D.R. Slaten
A Perfect Place by Catherine Paulssen
Something New by Giselle Renarde
Over a Barrel by Tamsin Flowers
Tuscarora by Anja Vikarma
Big Bully by A.M. Hartnett
Going it Alone by Lucy Felthouse
Closing the Deal by Kelly Maher
Whatever it Takes by Kristina Wright

The book is available for pre-order here, and should be out early next year. :)

Dirty Little Read-through: The Sexy Eyelashes of "Under Captain Jack" by Kristina Lloyd

I don't want to stop talking about Dirty Little Numbers yet. So here is my plan: a dirty little read-through, one very short story at a time. If you want to join me, you are certainly welcome. I begin with the first story in the collection, Kristina Lloyd's "Under Captain Jack."

"He reached for my eyes with both hands and, carefully, gently, peeled away the lashes. The tackiness tugged on my lids, and the intimacy of his action left me softly shocked." - Kristina Lloyd

What I love about this is that it is an incredibly intimate action being described—and one that wouldn't occur to me if I were making a list of intimate actions. In general, we don't touch each other's faces in society unless something very intimate is going on—a lover stroking the soft hair at the temple, a mother wiping her child's mouth, etc.

I have often bewailed the way that many sex scenes are written as if a woman consists of nothing more than lips, nipples, and clit. This could, of course, be done well, but it is frequently done with formulaic detachment, leading me to scan entire pages of writing that I think were supposed to make me melt and squirm.

My favorite thing about Nicole Holofcener's excellent movie Enough Said was its off-kilter sexiness. At one point, the main female character talks about how there's something sexy to her about the warts-hanging-out middle-agedness of her relationship. There's a fantastic scene of the two main characters in bed together studying each other's teeth, which gave me the same shock of intimacy that appears in Lloyd's story.

These days, I am so hungry for the sexiness of the inner elbow, the back of the knee, the point of the chin. Thank you to Kristina Lloyd for these eyelashes. I needed them.

Dirty Little (Sex-Positive) Numbers

"We’ve been taught for so long that writing stories to arouse a reader—or reading stories to get ourselves turned on—is “tasteless” and “immoral.” So, stories that get to the erotic friction faster, or portray hot moments in less than 500 words, are surely the heart of sex-positive art and the politics that go with it." - Lana Fox and Angela Tavares


Just yesterday, I was talking with a friend about the periodic waves of corporate censorship that erotica writers face. My friend commented that comedians facing censorship have the magic word "satire" on their side—-and wondered if erotica writers have any similar get-out-of-jail-free card.

I said we actually have a disadvantage a lot of times. Porn is often used as a foil for art. There may be sex in a story, some writers say, but it's not for titillation. It's literary, better than that.

I have often wondered what's so wrong about making art that is for titillation, or why it seems to be a common belief that sexually explicit art is only okay if it's not titillating. This of course falls down if you read something like Anais Nin's Delta of Venus and Little Birds—-collections of stories that Nin wrote to arouse a paying customer (famously being paid per page for the porn she produced), and discover how arousing and literary they are.

But we don't need to turn to Nin. There are plenty of erotica writers who are unashamedly out to arouse, and are also producing vital, necessary literature. I may be turning up the vibrator in the moment, but I've got something to think about, too. See, for example, my review of Alison Tyler's Dark Secret Love.

I want to make a stronger statement, though. How about the times when I'm just so turned on by the words on the page or screen that I can't help myself? The times when I don't even care about literary merit, I just have to come? I'll never forget the raging arousal I felt after reading Giselle Renarde's Wedding Heat: Two in the Bush. Jaded me, who these days often finds descriptions of explicit sex repetitive, had to close my laptop and run to the bedroom to bring myself off as quickly as possible, noisily, desperately, as if I'd just discovered masturbation. There is art in that, pure art. Not every sex scene does that to me. There is art in finding and portraying the real heat of a moment.

I agree with Lana and Angela that honoring that art is a sex-positive and profoundly radical act. Their quote above is from the introduction to Dirty Little Numbers, the newest release from the fantastic Go Deeper Press. I've got a story in it, and I couldn't be happier to be part of this.

Writing or reading a very short erotic story might be a small act, but it's a profound one. I don't want to ever forget the thrill and fear I felt the first time I found such a story, magnified the first time I wrote one. On each and every occasion, I was (and still am) claiming another part of my sexuality for my own.

That's so important, and you'd damn well better believe that it's art.

Run for Your Love Today!

My newest book came out today, graced by cover art from the incredible Victoria Miller. You can read the basics here (be sure to scroll to the bottom for a buy-one-get-one-free offer!). I'll also be doing a blog tour the week of Halloween, so you can hear all about the subversive ideas I threw in amid the hot sex. :)

Blurb:

Shotguns seem to be everyone's favorite accessory for the zombie apocalypse, but Zach Paul believes he can survive without hurting anyone—not even the zombies. An elite-level runner, he plans to speed away from every danger. Then Zach meets a woman he can't bring himself to leave behind, and staying beside her tests all his principles.

Viola Ortiz fought free of her controlling boyfriend just before the zombies came, but now she believes her macho ex is the only one who can protect her. She sets out to reunite with him, only to encounter Zach instead. The tall, lean runner is everything her ex is not, and Viola is shocked to find he turns her on as no man has before. Viola's ex, however, isn't willing to let go of her, and soon it's clear that other survivors are as dangerous as the zombies.

Zach and Viola can run, but they must find safety before they lose their humanity in the struggle to protect their lives and growing love.

Excerpt:

It may not have been too crazy for me to think I could keep clear of the zombies in the Quarantined Area. On the news everyone kept saying these are "slow zombies." They're dangerous, diseased, and mostly impervious to pain, but not the sort of terrifyingly speedy hunters that have been popular in movies lately. My plan to run in there was risky, but I like to think not completely doomed. I planned around my talents instead of just deciding I'd somehow figure out how to execute a standing long jump of multiple feet once I found myself staring down at concrete two stories below a rooftop. I trusted the only thing I've been able to rely on my whole life—my legs.


What I didn't take into account were bullets—as in projectiles whizzing past my ears as I booked it down the sidewalk. Why the hell does everyone think the zombie apocalypse gives them a license to act like Rambo? I'm not just talking about what happened once zombies actually appeared in the middle of our city, eating brains, shambling, and whatever else they do. I'm talking about all the years of excitement about zombies—Facebook quizzes predicting whether your relationship would survive an outbreak, the sudden popularity of YouTube videos about parkour, and a pervasive cultural obsession with shotguns. I think people watched zombie movies and decided it would be great for the rule of law to break down to the point that they'd be allowed to solve problems by shooting first and asking questions later.


It's not the most macho position to take, especially not in the neighborhood where I grew up, but I guess it's clear by now that I'm a pacifist. Some other guy might respond to the looters by taking cover behind an abandoned building and pulling out his own gun to trade shots. That's not my style.


Instead, I shouted, "What the hell?" and tried to run faster.


Two days into societal breakdown, street cleanliness had already suffered. Trash bags, newspapers, and other detritus littered the road, and I swear the pavement had more cracks than usual. It took all my concentration not to slip or break my ankle.

I don't have experience dodging bullets, so I wasn't sure if I'd be harder to hit if I tried to zig-zag or not. Since I didn't know, I ducked my head, picked up the pace, and hoped for the best.


The guy with the gun shouted, "Drop the backpack!" Apparently, he thought bullets made good punctuation.


"There's nothing in it!" I screamed back. Which wasn't strictly true. I didn't have any money or valuables, which I assumed was what they were looking for. On the other hand, the backpack had everything I thought I needed to survive in the Quarantined Area, so I didn't want to give it up.


"Like hell it's empty!" The guy chasing me squeezed off a few more shots.


The fact that he hadn't managed to hit me yet confirmed one of the points I'd like to make about guns, which is related to a couple of the things I've already ranted about. A lot of people think you can just pick up a gun and go to town. That tells me that most people have never actually held a gun, much less fired one.


I've been to the shooting range a number of times with my older brother Dominic, and once, before a birthday party he celebrated one year in Vegas, that included firing machine guns. Before I'm accused of hypocrisy, I'll add that Dominic spent a long time trying to get into the police academy, and I provided moral support while he studied and trained. Anyway, after several good tries, I learned that if you can hold a gun without your hand trembling uncontrollably, you're doing well. And it takes training before most people can manage to hit, say, the broad side of a barn.


The looter chasing me might think he was tough, but he'd obviously never gotten the chance to practice with a gun. I promised myself I'd say a prayer of thanks as soon as I got out of range of him and his burly friends. I almost looked forward to the zombies at that point—at least I'd understand their motives.


Someone cried out behind me, and I risked a glance over my shoulder. One guy lay on the pavement clutching his ankle, probably a victim of one of the cracks I'd noticed earlier. Two of the others seized the excuse to quit running, squatting beside him clutching their sides, gasping, panting, and coughing. I allowed myself a satisfied smile. The guy with the gun hadn't tired yet, but he would, as long as he didn't manage a lucky shot before I finished putting him through his paces.


I lengthened my strides. It felt good to take my body to its limit, to dig as deeply as I could into the inner reserves I'd built up over the years... Right up until I realized I'd forgotten to keep an eye on the littered road.


My foot tangled in a plastic bag, and I went down hard. It was like something out of kindergarten—bloody knees, bloody palms, and pain that brought stinging tears to my eyes. A bullet hit the asphalt a mere foot away from me.


"Let up, man!" I made my voice as threatening as possible, despite my vulnerable position. "I got nothing!"


"Give me the backpack!"


Adrenaline forced me to my feet. I took a deep breath, preparing to push myself back into a run despite the stiffness already settling into my knees.


That wasn't to be, because my fall had allowed the big guy catch up with me. He may not have known how to use his gun, but he sure as hell knew how to use his hands. He demonstrated on my trachea as soon as he got hold of me.


I hate to say it, but I froze. I thought about trying to stomp on his foot or something, but I didn't really expect that to work, and I didn't want to die a traitor to my own pacifist ideals. I helplessly pondered what to do as he squeezed my neck tighter, and I started to feel chilled and light-headed.


That was the first time I saw her, and considering how little oxygen was reaching my brain at that moment, you can probably understand why I thought she was some sort of apparition. She was beautiful. Sexy? Yes. She had the sort of curves that make a man want to spend long afternoons in bed just tracing the shape of them. Lips to match and ringlets of black hair that I immediately wanted to feel across my bare chest. But she was also beautiful in a holy way—some kind of light in the eyes or glow to the skin that reminded me of pictures of La Virgen. She was dressed all in blue too, which contributed to my impression that she wasn't entirely of this world—my mother taught me that blue is Mary's color.


Her small, compact body hurtled into me and my captor with force far beyond what I would have expected from her weight. She screamed that he ought to let me go, and his grip loosened, I think because he was so stunned. Neither of us knew where she had come from or what she had to do with me.


Unfortunately, the deranged looter's first instinct after letting go of me was to go after her, specifically by hooking a finger through one of the big gold hoop earrings she wore. I stretched my own rules a little and jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow, hoping to distract him enough that my rescuer and I could both escape.


She didn't have the kind of qualms I did. Out of one pocket, she produced a can of pepper spray and proceeded to administer a healthy dose straight into his eyes. I covered my face in time, but he gave a high-pitched scream and clapped his palms to his cheekbones. The gun hit my foot then the pavement. The woman screamed too, and I wondered if he still had her by the earring.


I dropped to the ground and crawled a few feet away, moving through the pain in my knees and palms. A glance at the woman showed she'd gotten herself free of her opponent's grip and had grabbed the upper hand by far. She administered a series of precise and painful-looking strikes to his abdomen.


Any second, more of the looters would join this fight. I didn't feel good about running away when she'd gotten involved in the first place because of me.


Pushing myself to my feet, I went over and grabbed her elbow, wincing when my scrapes contacted her skin. "We have to get out of here," I told her. "Try to keep up."


She rolled her eyes but didn't answer me. I took off running, feeling so much adrenaline by then that the pain in my knees didn't really bother me.


She wasn't next to me.


I whirled without stopping, in time to see her scoop the looter's gun off the sidewalk and toss it into a glittery backpack she carried, slung too low to be entirely practical.


I took my own turn rolling my eyes. Just what I needed. Another Rambo wannabe. "Come on!" I shouted.


I have to admit that despite annoying me by going for the gun, she'd impressed me so far. The next thing she did really caught my attention. She grinned at me, as wicked and gleeful as if we'd gone out racing to settle a bet. Then she covered the distance I'd put between us so fast it took me a moment to realize I was being outpaced.


She shot past me and tossed another smile over her shoulder. "You better hurry," she said, with a Puerto Rican accent and not a trace of effort. "Ahora, chacho. Those guys look mad."

Buy Links:

All Romance

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Breathless Press

Bio:

Annabeth Leong has written romance and erotica of many flavors -- dark, kinky, vanilla, straight, lesbian, bi, and menage. Her titles for Breathless Press include the contemporary werewolf erotic romances Not His Territory and Not the Leader of the Pack, and Run for Your Love, a romance set in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. She lives in Providence, Rhode Island, blogs at annabethleong.blogspot.com, and tweets @AnnabethLeong

Buy One, Get One Free Offer:

Did you miss Annabeth's previous titles with Breathless Press? Not to worry. E-mail proof of purchase of Run for Your Love, such as an Amazon receipt, to annabeth dot leong at gmail dot com and let her know your e-book format of choice. Annabeth will buy a copy of her werewolf novella, Not His Territory, for anyone who sends this information before November 12, 2013.

Be sure to check out the rest of the Dead Man Walking titles that Breathless Press has coming out this month! All month, they're serving up hot zombie novels!

At Romanticon!

I'm currently in Canton, Ohio, attending Romanticon. If you are here, feel free to look for me. I'll be part of a panel tomorrow on sexy bounty hunters, and will otherwise be around and happy to meet people. My first book from Ellora's Cave came out in June, but I've been busy since then...

I also have a lesbian erotic romance slated to come out from EC in June of next year, and I am super excited about that.

You can find all my EC titles here.

Can't Get Enough

That hot picture you see is the cover of Tenille Brown's anthology Can't Get Enough, which will be out July 2014, and will include my story, "Objects of Desire."

This is an anthology written to the theme of "insatiable desire"--I can't begin to imagine how hot it's going to be.

My own story is based on a favorite fantasy of my partner's, though the story is very much about a woman making that fantasy her own because that's how I like to do things. I'll post the table of contents, etc, once I've got them.

Review: Alison Tyler's Dark Secret Love

I wish I'd had Alison Tyler's Dark Secret Love when I was young. This is the sort of fiction that can save a person—wise about the world, unashamed, unafraid of truth, full of voice and strength.

Something like this might have saved me from years of self-imposed sexual denial, the marriage based on pretending not to like the things I like, the visits to the therapist who tried to teach me how to fantasize about something "nice."

Tyler had me from word one of this book—the book starts hard and moves fast. She really captured me, however, when she wrote about the big mistake her main character Samantha makes—"depriving me of any sexual pleasure for three lonely years." That mistake turns out to be getting involved with a man who forces her to be someone she's not, and a lot of Dark Secret Love is about Samantha escaping from that terrible, soul-crushing sort of emotional bondage and finding freedom in the wild, sexy sort of bondage that she craves.

I've read plenty of books about doms and subs, pleasure and pain, but it's so rare and special to find one so raw and powerful. Samantha, the main character, seeks her own pleasure. She's no passive toy. She explores, makes mistakes, gets lucky, and slowly claims her own needs and desires.

I love the way Cleis Press designed the covers for this series, because even the covers of the books say this to me. They're girly and hard-core at the same time. Just looking at the cover of this book (and of the sequel, The Delicious Torment), I can see that what's being written about is a woman's pleasure.

There is a love story, a very important romance, but it takes its time arriving. I liked that. Every time a new man appeared, I wasn't sure how significant he would be or how long he would stay around, and that reflects life. Tyler knows the reader is expecting the happily ever after, and she makes a tease out of the reveal. It's a fun game.

Samantha's journey is also very hot. It's filled with delicious scenes of spanking, bondage, public display, anal sex, and the testing of limits, and all of them ring with authenticity.

When Tyler writes about her main character being caned, she talks about getting six strokes (more eventually, because the count inevitably starts over, but the amount she and her top are talking about her taking is six). I appreciated this because, for anyone who has any idea of how much caning can hurt, six is the sort of number that ought to be getting talked about. As soon as I read "six," I knew this book was written by someone who knows the deal.

I read it in a delicious buzz of arousal. It's the sort of book that screws up plans—plans of starting work on time, of going to bed, or of going anywhere. But I found that what I appreciated most, even more than the heat of it, was having Tyler's strong voice as a companion. It healed me to read about Samantha admitting what she needed. I have so often wondered why I couldn't just have "normal sex," so I was moved when Samantha also wonders why. I felt her relief every time she found a man who understood those needs in any way. I felt her appreciation for those men and her enjoyment of them.

Samantha's insights often seared me or stunned me. Tyler's prose is clean and clear, presenting her character's revelations as nakedly as the character so often presents herself.

I will admit that I sometimes am bored these days by reading about what I think of as basic BDSM—some handcuffs here, a whipping there. Tyler's writing reminded me that when a person lives it, needs it, and does it with connection, there's nothing boring or basic about any of it. It was refreshing to be turned on as hell over things I sometimes now find run of the mill. It made me wonder how it could ever be boring to me. It made me remember what it was like to want it so badly and be afraid to even whisper about what I wanted.

Late in the book, Samantha says, "Good-girl sex, the type I always imagine other people to be having in their dark bedrooms every night, with minty breath and cooing dove talk, that sort of sex isn't meant for me."

I've had similar thoughts, but I don't think I ever put it so boldly to myself. The most important books I've read are the ones that manage to say what I need to say but can't quite articulate. The author says her piece and somehow in the process also gives me a lost piece of myself.

***

I'm honored to be part of the blog tour for Dark Secret Love. You can see all the stops here. Be sure to check out the tour post, because it includes an exciting giveaway!

This is the official blurb:

Keep Your Safe Word Handy
Dark Secret Love is a modern-day Story of O, a 9 1/2 Weeks-style journey fueled by lust, longing and the search for true love. Inspired by her own BDSM exploits and private diaries, Alison Tyler draws on twenty-five years of penning sultry stories to create a scorchingly hot work of fiction, a memoir-inspired novel with reality at its core. A luscious and literary experience of authenticity, Dark Secret Love is a romance for readers who desire sweetness edged with danger and a kinky fairy tale with a happily-ever-after ending. Take a deep breath and prepare to submit. Alison Tyler will push your boundaries to the limits—and have you begging for more.

And Alison Tyler's bio:

ALISON TYLER is a prolific author of erotic fiction and is the editor of Three-Way, Heat Wave, Best Bondage Erotica, Love at First Sting, and Naughty or Nice. She lives in San Francisco and has a well-traveled website at AlisonTyler.com.

Cleis Press's info page about the book is here.

Halloween is Here!

The House of Erotica Witching Hour just came out, and it's getting me excited about the season!

Here's the blurb:

Inside you will find thirteen spooky erotic stories. From shapeshifters to wild nights with the dead there's a theme to suit everyone.

Stories from Victoria Blisse, Isabel Holley, Nicky Raven, Heather Lin, Vanessa de Sade, Gemma Parkes, Tilly Hunter, Lucy Felthouse, Elizabeth Black, Nephylim, Annabeth Leong and Daddy X.

The specifics of my story, "If I Ask":

Locked by accident overnight in the Cimetière de Montmartre, a man discovers much more than statues and cats. The spirits who linger there would happily feed on the vitality of the living, but, nursing a broken heart, the man will take any companionship he can get. He shares a bottle of wine with the ghost of a mysterious woman, and in the process becomes fascinated by her hunger. The man longs to feel wanted, and even when she warns that she can no longer give pleasure without causing pain, he wants to taste the depth of her need.

And a snip:

The door of a locked mausoleum swung slowly open and a pale woman emerged. Her shoulders shrugged up toward her ears. She wore a flowing dress and walked with an immensely self-conscious gait. "You're a handsome one," she said, and leaned toward me before I thought to defend myself.

Her mouth closed on mine in the most ravenous kiss I have ever received. Soft lips pressed against me, so cold that they seared, and a hard tongue thrust into my mouth. I didn't like the way it felt, but my body didn't seem to care what I thought. In seconds, my balls ached, full and heavy, and I moaned around that tongue as it reached nearly to the back of my throat. My hands came up as if on their own and were met by bony shoulders and fragile cloth.

Then she pushed me onto my back atop the monument and climbed astride my hips, ripping at my clothes with the desperation of the starving. No woman had ever moved this quickly with me, and I was stunned by the speed as much as by the cold sensations.

I could not help putting my arms around her, and at this she gave a satisfied little purr and everything changed. What had been pleasure began to sting like the pain of waking limbs. My body became heavier everywhere, and I couldn't feel my heart beating. Breath became impossible to find, and yet she never stopped kissing me, her mouth and lips the only things in the world that I could still feel.

I thought I would die, and I could not think clearly enough to know if I would mind. Before I ended, however, she pulled away, her eyes deep and bright and her pale skin now flushed with my life.

"What was that?" I shivered beneath her, the moldy marble monument cold against my back. Black hair that smelled of lilies tickled the spot beneath my nose.

"A kiss, love."

You can pick up the book here. Also, don't forget about my favorite Halloween book of last year, Coming Together: Hungry for Love. And finally, Run for Your Love, my erotic romance set against the backdrop of the zombie apocalypse, will be out this Friday.

Interview with Lucy Felthouse!

I'm excited to welcome Lucy Felthouse to the blog today! She's on tour for her new book Mean Girls, out as part of Ellora's Cave's Curve Appeal series. She was kind enough to answer a few of my questions about the book.

AL: What got you excited about writing for the Curve Appeal series?

LF: I just really liked the theme. Positive stories about larger women. It’s a simple reality that not everyone is society’s “ideal.” I’m not. But health is much more important than being skinny, in my opinion, and I wanted to write something with that idea in mind.

AL: 

I love that your main character, Adele, is aware that she can be both Rubenesque and healthy. That's still not as commonly known in society as I would like. How did Adele come to that understanding for herself?

LF: The hard way, unfortunately. She’s always been overweight, and when she got to the age where she could no longer pass it off as puppy fat, she became very aware of it, and tried to do something about it. She developed bulimia, which of course had an incredibly adverse effect on her health. This scared her a great deal, and made her realise that being happy and healthy is more important than being skinny. 



AL: Your title, Mean Girls, alludes to a pretty common experience for many women. What's motivating the bullies in your book?

LF: Pure spite and air-headedness. The three spiteful women are classed as society’s ideal, skinny women that can wear all the latest fashions and turn heads everywhere they go. But it doesn’t make them perfect. They’re not even nice people. They just see someone different to them, someone that’s not perfect, and turn into total bitches. It was really nice for me, as the writer, to give the three bitches their comeuppance. 



AL: It sounds like Adele lands herself a mouthwatering man. What are three of Oliver's most attractive qualities?

LF: He’s kind, sensitive and sees Adele as a person, not just a shape.

AL: 

Your other single-author titles for Ellora's Cave so far have been in the EC for Men line. What was different about writing a book aimed at their female readership?

LF: Well, I’ve been writing for women longer than I have for men, and I’m always writing different stories for different publishers, so I didn’t really have to think about it too much. I just wrote what came naturally. 



AL: I feel like I've seen an increase in Rubenesque erotica lately, with lots of submission calls for anthologies, lines such as Curve Appeal, etc. Do you agree with that perception, and do you think there's a reason for the popularity?

LF: I haven’t noticed too many more, so I’ll have to look out for them! I’m glad there are more calls for submissions, though. I really like the thought that more Rubenesque erotica and erotic romance is being written. Not every woman is tiny, so nor should every fictional woman be. I think the increase in popularity is because women want to read about someone like them, someone they can identify with. And for girls that aren’t skinny, myself included, it’s hard to put yourself in the shoes of a size six (UK size) woman as you read and lose yourself in fantasy. More power to BBWs!



AL: Despite the increase in romances featuring curvier women, body acceptance is still unfortunately far from mainstream—it only takes opening a magazine to see that. What's one body acceptance/anti-bullying message you'd like to see getting more play in society at large?

LF: I don’t read magazines for that reason. In terms of a message, and this applies across the board, I wish people would just live and let live. If we were all the same, this would be a very boring world.



AL: When writing about a character who's part of a population that often faces discrimination—a curvy woman, a woman of color, an LGBT person—I often struggle with whether to reflect current societal realities and show that character dealing with bias and bullying or to create a fantasy that shows that character receiving acceptance and dealing with other types of conflicts. What are your thoughts on these two approaches?

LF: I think both ideas can easily work. It all depends on the writer and their vision for the story.

AL: 

Is there anything else you'd like people to know about Mean Girls?

LF: Just that I hope people enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed writing it :)

*****

Excerpt:

As usual, Adele Blackthorne felt the weight of gazes on her as she walked from the changing room to the steps to get into the swimming pool. She was used to it by now, and had learned not to react, to just carry on as though she hadn’t noticed people staring and not-so-subtly pointing at her.

With a polite nod to Oliver, the lifeguard, as she passed him, Adele was grateful for his much more favorable reaction. If he thought she resembled a beached whale, he hid it much better than everyone else did. The warmth in his eyes as he nodded back even looked genuine. But she had no illusions, he probably slagged her off the moment he got into the staffroom, or home, talking about the fat woman who went swimming three times a week without fail. But for now, she’d pretend he didn’t. Pretend he thought she was sexy, and wanted to get lost in her abundant curves. God knows she’d like him to.

It was true, she was a big girl and she was most definitely aware of it. Ever since she’d gotten to the age where her excess weight could no longer be called puppy fat, she’d tried to do something about it. Every diet under the sun, ridiculous amounts of exercise… nothing worked. Adele had grown so depressed in her teens that she’d become bulimic. Naturally, she’d lost some weight that way, but she’d also made herself so ill that she’d had to be hospitalized. It had terrified the life out of her, and ever since, she’d resolved that she’d much rather be healthy than skinny.

Which was why she visited her local leisure center three times a week. She used the gym and sauna, and went swimming. And every single time she went, she’d catch someone gawping at her. But because of the years she’d spent—especially at school—being called all the names under the sun, she’d developed an incredibly thick skin. She was happy and healthy—so healthy in fact that she could probably beat all of those skinny bitches at a swimming race. Of course she never offered, never called anyone out on their rudeness and ignorance, but it made her feel better to know that she was fitter and much more polite than them.

Slipping into the fast lane, she settled her goggles carefully into position—she hated getting water in her eyes—then lifted her legs to rest the bottoms of her feet against the end of the pool. Looking at the clock on the wall that counted seconds, she waited until the hand reached the top, then pushed off from the side and launched herself into the lane. It was quiet, so she had this section of the pool to herself. Her arms cut through the water, her legs flapped wildly and she did ten laps without losing any speed. Emerging from the water, she checked the clock again and was pleased to note she’d beaten her previous time.

She was just about to start another ten laps, when she heard voices from the other side of the pool. Voices that clearly forgot how well they carried on water. It was as though they were right next to her.

“God, I’m surprised all the water doesn’t jump out of the pool when she gets in. And the way she swims—she’ll cause a tidal wave one of these days.”

The spiteful words were followed by a trio of sniggers, and Adele gritted her teeth. Part of her wished that she could create a bloody tidal wave, so it would sweep those bitches under water and drown them. The other part of her tsked at the thought. Ideas like that made her just as bad as them, just as unpleasant, just as cowardly.

Because they were cowardly—the way they spoke about her behind her back proved that. If they ever passed her somewhere in the leisure center or its car park, they never said anything, not one word. They’d just scurry away as fast as they could, then titter when they thought she was out of earshot. She hoped that just one time, someone would say something to her face, so she could retaliate, speak up for herself. There was no way she’d start anything—she didn’t want to add confrontational to the list of faults that the mean girls had obviously compiled about her.

Sucking in a deep breath, Adele launched into another ten laps, allowing the chilly water and the exertion of powering through it to burn away her irritation. Because that’s all it was—irritation. She wasn’t angry. Anger was too powerful an emotion, and one that was totally wasted on those ignorant women. She almost felt sorry for them, actually. If they had nothing better to do than to stare at her and slag her off all the time, then they clearly had very dull lives.

The thought cheered her considerably and when she completed her twentieth lap, she lay her forearms on the edge of the pool and hoiked herself up. Her back was pressed against the side, and from here she had a perfect view of the rest of the pool. Tugging her goggles down so they hung around her neck, she had a damn good look at everyone else. The small children and their guardians in the kids’ pool right at the other end of the enormous hall, the old people who swum so slowly as they chatted that she was surprised they stayed afloat, the relentless movement of the man in the medium-speed lane and, of course, the mean girls who were in the same sort of position she was, but at the side of the pool rather than the end. The side which faced the lifeguard station.

Adele narrowed her eyes and watched them—the two waif-like blondes and a brunette—as they chatted and giggled, and it seemed for a change, not about her. They’d clearly changed the subject since their previous spouting of vitriol. Their focus was very firmly on Oliver as he sat on his lofty perch, surveying the pools before him, ready to jump in should anyone get into trouble. She often toyed with the idea of faking a problem, just to get him into the pool and his strong arms around her. However, she knew that although he’d undoubtedly do his duty and help her, he’d never believe such a strong swimmer would need his assistance. Then he’d lose all respect for her, and probably stop hiding his disdain for her so effectively. And the polite nods and smiles she got from him were the only thing—aside from the center’s top-notch facilities—that made the place bearable. She was sure that if the three witches—a nickname she’d secretly come up with for the women—had their way, there would be a sign on the main doors to the building saying ‘No Fat People Allowed.’

*****

Blurb:

Adele Blackthorne is a big girl, a curvy chick. She knows it, and she’s been picked on all her life because of it. But she’s gotten to the stage where she doesn’t care. She may be Rubenesque, but she’s healthy, too. Much healthier than the mean girls at the leisure center that point and stare and say spiteful things about her. Adele rises above it all, and simply enjoys her secretive glances at the center’s hunky lifeguard, Oliver.

As the bullying of Adele becomes worse, Oliver finds it increasingly difficult not to intervene. He doesn’t want to get into trouble with work, but equally he can’t stand to see Adele treated in such a horrible way. Especially since he doesn’t agree that she’s fat and unattractive. He thinks she’s a seriously sexy woman, and would like to get to know her better. Much better.

Buy the book here!

*****

Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over seventy publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include Best Bondage Erotica 2012, 2013 and 2014 and Best Women's Erotica 2013. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies. She owns Erotica For All, and is book editor for Cliterati. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9