That Filthy Book

It seemed Lady Luck had joined us for our journey, giving the green light for all our needs to be met only three days after my confession of what I really wanted him to do with that branch.

Jacob’s parents had asked if they could take the girls to a circus on Saturday night. It started at eight, didn’t finish until ten, so they’d suggested it was more sensible that they keep them until Sunday morning, possibly Sunday afternoon if the children fancied having a roast dinner with them at the local pub.

I was not about to turn that opportunity down, especially when Jacob had been hot for the idea of outside sex. In fact, he’d been more than up for it, and the excited glint in his eye when I’d held up the carefully stripped bark had sent a tremble to my very core. Something told me I’d hit another very dark and very sinful nerve of his.

But always one to think of others, Jacob had already promised to help a work colleague move house on the Saturday. I didn’t mind too much because it left me with an empty afternoon to prepare for our evening of fun. I started with a pamper accompanied by a glass of wine, treating myself to a cucumber face mask, sugar body scrub, shave—including my pussy—manicure and pedicure and finally a generous slathering of body butter.

It left me feeling tingly and smooth, as if my body was honed and prepared. The thought of my silky, clean skin and perfectly neat red nails out in the open, amongst dirt and leaves, with the sootiness of bark mould smudged randomly over my body had me panting with excitement. I could just imagine mud squelching around my toes and the creamy skin of my wrists worn red by ropes. And the image of my arse marked raw by the branch, well, that had me feeling like a sacrificial offering.

For I knew that this evening I would be handing myself over to nature, to Jacob, and to my own darkest desires. The bare bones of my soul were about to be revealed. No holds barred, no chance to hide. They were the very skeleton of me that only Jacob would ever set eyes on.

When the dipping sun sent lilac and crimson fingers darting over the horizon I was ready—more than ready. I’d had a light tea and another glass of wine, resisted the temptation to masturbate—just—and saved myself for my husband.

The front door opened with a whoosh, then shut with a resounding slam. I spun from the kitchen window where I’d been staring at the darkening copse.

The copse that was ready and waiting.

Heavy footsteps banged down the hall. Loud and resolute, the sound reverberated around my head.

This was it. There was no turning back.

I didn’t want to. Not for anything.

The door swung open, and there he stood, with his broad shoulders filling the frame and his head bowed slightly. He pulled his brows low and set his jaw. A small muscle flexed and unflexed in his cheek.

“Get down on your knees, bitch.”

I gasped at the completely thrilling sound of his bad man’s voice and folded my legs until my knees landed on the freshly swept lino. He was so feral, so dominant, not Jacob the protector, the carer. No, tonight I had Jacob the master, the taker, the giver of sinful pleasure.

Between one breath and the next he was in front of me, his groin level with my face and his hands on his hips. The scent of man and hard physical work washed over me, as well as perhaps a hint of a greasy spoon cafe where he’d no doubt been treated to pie and chips for the efforts of his day.

“Take out my cock.”

I reached for the buttons on his jeans, surprised to see that my hands trembled. Excitement? Trepidation?

This had not been part of any plan, but I wasn’t complaining. In fact, there wasn’t a plan. All Jacob had asked was that I trust him. He said that he understood what I wanted and would make it all happen for me. Of course, we had a safe word, but I couldn’t imagine I would need it. I trusted Jacob with my life and my pleasure. I always would.

“Hurry up,” he said, tangling his fingers in my neatly brushed, softly conditioned hair. “Take it out and suck it.”

After I freed his cock, his length sprang into my palm, hot and thick, and the purple veins winding up the shaft bulged with his keen arousal.

In a sharp movement, he jerked forward and the tip slid into my salivating mouth. “Wider, whore,” he snarled. “Take me, all of me.”

I stretched my jaw and he sank deep, sliding to the back of my throat in one urgent movement. I gagged but he ignored it; pulled back then rode in again, all the time holding my head in a tight, vice-like grip so I had no choice but to take him, tip to base.

I’d sucked on Jacob’s cock a million times, but never had he taken control like this. He was always respectful and deathly still, allowing me to determine depth and pace. But this was different—this was sinful, depraved Jacob fucking my mouth without a thought for my well-being.

I adored it.

Needing support as my body was jostled by his thrusting hips, I gripped his thighs. Saliva ran down my face and neck onto my red blouse, my nose repeatedly buried in his wiry pubic hair. He steamed on and on, hissing and cursing above me. Breathing was difficult, my mouth was so chock-full of hard, demanding cock. When I did catch a breath the air was heated and smelt of him, musky and raw.

“Get fucking ready for it,” he snarled, thrusting to such a depth his balls slapped against my chin. “I’m going to come down your throat. I’m going to fill you up, now…argh…fuck…now.”

He let out a garrotted cry as his cock swelled further, then, in several sweet pulses, copious amounts of fluid gushed over my tongue. I swallowed rapidly, the action tugging the crown of his cock further down my throat.

“Ah, sweet…fucking…Jesus,” he hissed, gripping my hair. “That’s it, keep sucking, swallow me.”

I did as he asked. My body quivered, and I could almost come myself just from the feel and taste of him climaxing so hard and forcefully. Had he lain there all those millions of times I’d sucked him off, restraining himself? Had he wanted to throw me down and fuck my mouth in a hard, abandoned way, but resisted?

I didn’t have time to dwell on this because Jacob pulled out, gripped my upper arms and dragged me into a standing position. Gasping, I stared into his flushed face. His mouth was parted as he drew in big lungfuls of air. His eyes sparkled, the pupils wide and dilated, showing me the dark depths of his most basic needs.

“That’s just the beginning,” he said in a rasping, breathy voice. “To take the edge off what you’ve had me thinking of for three days.” He slanted his mouth down hard over mine, taking possession of my lips and tongue in a furious, ravenous kiss. He pulled away abruptly. “You’re such a tease,” he muttered, “tempting me, turning me on. Well, now you’re going to get it. You’re going to get punished for making a man want you so bad it hurts his soul.”

Many years ago that filthy book imprinted itself in my erotic subconscious. Now it’s reared its head and is about to drag me along for the dirtiest ride of my life.

Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I thought, but it turns out an old, dog-eared book with contents so filthy and so depraved that I’d been forced to hide it after reading, has sank deeper into my erotic subconscious than I’d ever imagined. Luckily though, Jacob is up for exploring the new side of me that has risen to the surface after all these years.

In a whirlwind of wanton adventures that push us to the limits of our sexuality, we begin to re-discover what it once was that had us screaming with pleasure and how to accept that nothing will ever be the same again between us.

Reader Advisory: This book contains bondage, BDSM and an element of dubious consent within a consensually acted out rape scenario.

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Red Grow the Roses by Janine Ashbless

Janine Ashbless

Janine Ashbless is a multi-published author of erotica and erotic romance. Her first collection of erotic fairy, fantasy and paranormal stories, Cruel Enchantment, was published in 2000 by Black Lace. Red Grow the Roses is her sixth novel. Her stories have been published by Spice, Black Lace, Nexus, Xcite, Racy Pages, Cleis, Ellora’s Cave and Samhain, among others. She was Jade Magazine’s Erotic Fiction Writer of the Year 2009. Janine loves goatee beards, ancient ruins, minotaurs, trees, mummies, having her cake and eating it, holidaying in countries with really bad public sewerage, and any movie or TV series featuring men in very few clothes beating hell out of each other. She lives in England.

http://www.janineashbless.com / http://www.janineashbless.blogspot.com

‘I don’t feed from humans,’ Wakefield hissed, trembling.

‘That’s what I heard. I just find it hard to believe.’ Rolling onto her knees, she reached for the discarded rose he’d cut for her. ‘Nasty sharp thorns these things have got,’ she mused, laying the stem across her bare breasts. With a twitch she drew it down, scoring her flesh with half-a-dozen needle-pointed thorns, shuddering as the pain burned through her. Pin-points of blood rose on her pale skin and swelled, a string of rubies decorating the white flesh and the roseate nipples. ‘Ah,’ she groaned.

Robert Wakefield seemed to grow taller; his hard-on bulged. She could taste the coppery tang of her victory.

‘Tell me; have you ever whipped a girl with your roses, Mr Wakefield?’ Lilla began to crawl backwards from him on hands and knees, arse swaying, breasts wobbling. ‘Maybe one of your servants? The parlour maid perhaps? You ever taken a bunch of roses and whipped their tits?’ She put on a country accent for her next words, her voice suddenly breathlessly innocent but at the same time teasing: ‘Oh Mr Wakefield, you wouldn’t be thinking of doing that to a poor innocent girl? I couldn’t bear that sir – it’ll hurt something cruel. You wouldn’t want to ruin a helpless maid, would you, sir? You wouldn’t want that on your conscience?’

Inhumanly swift, he lunged and grabbed the front of her bodice and yanked her up to slam her against one of the wrought-iron pillars. Eagerly Lilla extended her hands over her head, thrusting her breasts out so that he might feed. But he didn’t, not right away. He looked down at her with a face hollow with hunger, and then he took hold of her long drawers at the waist and snapped the drawstring with one tug of his wrists. He tore the damp, clinging cotton from her thighs to bare her sex, and then he tied her wrists with the twisted strips and secured her to a ornamental bracket high on the pillar, hauling her up onto her toes. She said nothing, words robbed from her by anticipation, lips parted about her shallow breaths.

His face mask-like, his eyes burning, he plunged his cold fingers between her thighs and up inside her, breaching the gates of her sex to take the measure of her heat, the slick of juices, the yielding sucking flex of her tight hole. Lilla writhed on his hand, twisting helplessly with each thrust of his wrist, and he watched her breasts jiggle and bounce, their pink points dewed in red. His teeth were so extended now that his upper lip did not hide them.

‘Oh please,’ she gasped. ‘Please – bite me!’

“Maybe you’ll be lucky. Maybe he’s not human. He’ll take you in his arms and you’ll feel his strength – a strength that makes it impossible to fight him. But you’ve already lost the will to resist, that moment he looked into your eyes and showed you all his hunger and his promise. You knew then. You knew that this is what you are for – what we are all for – with our warm beating hearts and our aching sexual needs.

We are for them.”

There are six vampires in the city. Ageless, terrifyingly beautiful and always hungry – not just for blood but for the other pleasures the human body offers. Sadistic chanteuse Estelle; feckless Ben; Roisin, the mirror-ghost; Wakefield, haunted by his own damnation; Naylor, the most feral of them all.

And Reynauld is the Good Shepherd, the one who holds them all in check. But his grip on his own humanity is fading, and when Wakefield accidentally kills a woman and Naylor gets the blame, a power-struggle erupts between the city’s immortal undead.

Red Grow the Roses tells of bloodlust and sexual desire; for vampires the two are indistinguishable. These transgressive, startling stories draw the reader down the darkest and most seductive paths of pleasure – to where the monsters are waiting.

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The Progeny by Ashlynne Laynne

At its core, The Progeny is simply a story about a man and woman who fall in love, and the fact that he’s a half-blood (half-human, half vampire) and she’s a Wiccan human are secondary factors. It started as research about the Salem witch trials, some rough sketches of a special family heirloom that my guys would wear and two names—Ascher and Shauna. In the beginning, of the book, Ascher is grumpy. Frankly, who could blame him? He’s engaged to seal to Ursula—a cold and careless vampire who wants nothing more than to get her hands on a bloodstone— and he feels conflicted about his existence.

All of that changes when he meets Shawnette McCutchin. She’s beautiful, intriguing and possesses some of the most potent blood that he’s ever smelled. A war immediately begins inside Ascher. He craves Shauna’s blood just as much as he craves her body and the closer they get, the harder it is for him to control his urges. After Ascher calls off the sealing to Ursula, the trouble begins. His family’s peaceful period ends when Ursula’s army attacks the Rousseaus. Kidnapping, some steamy love scenes between our hero and heroine and Wiccan rage complete the plot.

His body disappeared, reappearing closer to her, his arms wrenching her into him. She fought against his embrace, sorrow’s river streaming down her face.

“This isn’t your fault, Shauna.”

Her body tensed against his warm touch. “I just want to be numb. Feel nothing for a little while.” she whispered. “Know what I mean?”

“That isn’t you. You face things head on. You’re so strong.”

“I don’t feel very strong.” Her eyes shifted. “Look at this. You’ve fixed this room to suit me. But this isn’t my home. I don’t have one. My parents hate me so much that my sister has to lie to see me. I can’t go to my apartment because it’s not safe. Gypsy’s dead. Katy might be dead. I don’t belong here. I don’t know where I belong anymore.” She sobbed, her fists pounding into his chest.

“You’re hurting. That’s the thing about having a heart. It breaks and yearns for things.”

His eyes caught hers, love pouring from them, stunning her with their sincerity. “What does your heart yearn for, Ascher?”

He didn’t answer her.

He only held her tighter, his hands gripping her with the need to protect her from harm. She brought the warrior out of him, that fierceness he’d witnessed in his brothers but never thought he’d possess. His hold now mimicked his desire to shield her, shelter her, but mostly the overwhelming need to possess her, completely. “You’ve never been more wrong, about anything, in your life,” he murmured, his eyes sweeping hers. “This is exactly where you belong. With me, my brothers, people who care about you. I can’t tell you I know how it will all turn out, but I will tell you this. I’ll be there for you as little or as much as you need me to be. And if you want to talk about Katy, or anything else, all you have to do is talk. I’m always listening.”

Possessive arms pulled her to him, his lips aching, hungering for the touch of hers. This was what his heart yearned for. His eyes scorched her, smoldering their intentions into her. Her eyes froze, pupils fixed on his pale glare. He guided her back towards the bed, her feet stepping with his, their hearts beating eerily in sync.

She fell back against the bed, his arms directing her to the center. She continued staring, her gaze unmoving, her lips an equal participant in the passion playing out between them. Ten seconds was all he needed to undress them, leaving their bodies heated and grinding against one another.

The crimson blazed in his eyesight. He wanted her. He was ready to cement their love, to make her his.

Trepidation was a thing of the past. She knew what he was and, somehow, still wanted him. His head dropped into the pillow, concealing his blood red gaze.

A rough voice— one he’d never heard or even imagined could come from his lips—said, “I know you say this is what you want, but are you sure? I want you to be so sure about this. Once I’ve made love to you, I can’t take it back. I want you. I swear to you there is nothing else I want more. I don’t want you, if you’ll regret this tomorrow. I couldn’t live with myself if you ever regretted this.”

“I’ll never want anyone more. The sky could crash down around me and I wouldn’t care as long as your arms were the last things I felt before I died. I’m not disillusioned about what I’m doing and I can deal with the consequences of my actions. I want you, more than I want to live or breathe.”

He grazed her neck with his tongue, picking up traces of her delectable essence. His lips deluged her soft skin with careful kisses, his finger exploring her with a gentle urgency.

Her opening was tight and only allowed the tip of his finger to enter.

She moaned, her neck craning back, exposing the constant thump of her carotid.

The craving sparked in him, his fangs paining beneath his gums. He wanted another taste of her. No. You can’t bite her again. Get control of yourself.

“Do it,” she moaned.

“What?”

“If it pleases you then do it.” She brought her neck back to his mouth. “Bite me, Ascher. I want you to.”

“No.”

Her hands smoothed along his stomach, his chest… stopping before they reached his shaft. She was unsure. After his curt reaction to her exploring his body, the night before the blow up, he didn’t blame her. Now, he wanted her to touch him, feel him and discover every part of his anxious body.

His hand grabbed hers, placing it on his steel stiff shaft. Her soft hand felt good, too good, as it stroked, played with and explored every inch of him.

The fire in his throat blazed, causing his thirst and desire to ignite. He wouldn’t be able to keep control much longer.

Her lips found his neck, sucking, licking, kissing, while her hands stroked him with a steady, unchallenged rhythm. Her mouth and hands mocked his control, making him vulnerable, his body feverish with yearning.

“Do it,” she whispered, again. “I want you to.”

“Shauna,” he groaned, his face pressing in the pillow. “I shouldn’t…”

“Don’t hold back. You won’t hurt me. Bite me. Come on, Ascher. Do it.”

Insane amounts of pleasure coursed his body, bringing countless sensations—the fire… the thirst… the yearning to be inside her.

Another flick of her tongue across his neck, in just the right spot, was all it took. Fangs sprang from his gums, their intentions obvious. Orgasm bubbled up then poured from him, bringing release and taking his control.

It was too much pleasure for his body to hold. He finally experienced the implausible feeling of an orgasm given to him by the woman he loved.

It was a first for him.

His mouth found her neck, searching for the spot, the precise place that the flow was heaviest. He found it and sank his fangs into her. A deep and satisfied moan escaped her lips as her eyes rolled in her head.

His finger continued to manipulate her. The warm, delicious blood, flooding his mouth, quenched his thirst but fueled his hunger for her body. He was drowning, deluged by pleasure, his arms filling with her exquisite figure.

The Progeny
“No fate other than the one I choose.”

The timeless creed, and tattoo, bore by the Rousseau’s— a vampire clan with the purest bloodline of any vampire family. Out of this clandestine group came one who was different, yet the same: Ascher – a half-bloodling— half- human, half vampire.

Ascher questions the purpose for his existence and which world he truly belongs to: the human world or the vampire world. Two months from sealing to Ursula— a prearranged union to a woman he abhors — he’s at his wit’s end. He knows if he calls off the sealing, the Romanian clan will strike with deadly force, but he cannot see eternity with a cold empty shell of a woman like Ursula.

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