Blue Moon House in paperback #erotica #bdsm #vampire

Want to have Blue Moon House on your physical bookshelf? You can get all four in paperback with the spanky new matching covers. I hope you'll check them out.

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Tantalizing Tuesday - Pandora

Special treat today, I wrote a teaser from somewhere in the future of Pandora's story. I haven't quite puzzled out which fairy tale princess their daughter is, but you can bet she's one you know and love. Don't forget to show your love to the other teasers and hit the blog for links to their stories.

Russel shivered in his fur-lined cloak. “Can’t you do something about this?” he asked his wife.
“About winter?” she asked. “Of course I can’t. Weather magic is far beyond my skill and even then, it wouldn’t change the season.”

Russel grumbled and stalked off ahead of Pandora.
She clicked her tongue as he passed and shook her head.
“What?” he asked in a growl. The cold made his nose drip and his fingers ache. He hated winter with a passion and now he was forced out into it by their daughter and her grandmother. He would kill Helen when he saw her next.
Pandora reached out and pulled the hood of his cloak up. She ran her hands along the fur while whispering. “Better?” she asked.
He regretted his hostility. The hood felt like it had been sitting in front of a fire for the last hour instead of catching snow. “Yes, thank you.”
Pandora’s hand went to her throat. “Thanks? For me? Are you feverish perhaps? Maybe you need more than a heat spell.”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Not a verbal one.
He plucked a late bloom, shining with ice crystals, and handed it to her.

Vampire Friday - Blue Moon House

Hello! This is my first Vampire Friday, and I'm going back to my first erotic novella. Blue Moon House was spurred by my Twilight Fanfiction habit, however, I wanted more classic vampires for my own writing. These drink human blood and intoxicate their prey, but they also adhere to the principles of BDSM to keep their prey safe while they feed. Be sure to visit the other Vampire Friday participants: Linda Hamonou. If you're ready, enter Blue Moon House:

Pressing Julia’s face to the bed, Sophia’s hand came down hard, making Julia wince at the stinging. Then there was burning as Sophia’s teeth broke the skin of Julia’s left buttock. Another spank and another bite.
“Tell me you are prepared,” Sophia demanded.
“I-I am,” Julia stammered. Harry had instructed her to take extra iron and over-hydrate in anticipation of being fed upon this weekend. She expected Sophia wouldn’t be the only one to bite her. All these bites were quick though, small blood loss. Julia was sure the purpose was to put Sophia’s saliva into the wounds. It had an aphrodisiac effect, making Julia start to sway her hips as she became hotter and wetter. Sophia indulged her, fingers stirring her pussy only to stop and spank her again for several minutes, long enough for the edge of pleasure to recede into pain. Then Sophia would bite again and start fondling.
The spanking was followed by a more thorough fucking, and then by a flogging. Most recently Sophia had used a wand, vibrating Julia to orgasm. Julia was covered in sweat, shuddering. Her legs collapsed, and Sophia’s hands alone kept her from falling down. She replaced the wand with a new toy, a rabbit, held inside her by a harness. Sophia turned on the settings and held Julia’s legs as the toy began to rotate and vibrate.  When Julia clenched and the toy jarred, slowing its turning, Sophia’s eyebrows raised. However, as soon as Julia relaxed at all the straps pulled it back in. Julia bit her tongue, pulled against the ropes on her arms, screamed freely, but the toy didn’t budge, didn’t cease. After a while, Sophia turned up the setting.
Sophia’s blue eyes filled Julia’s swimming vision. Her last command had been to look at her. Her throat was hoarse from screaming in pleasure, in pain; her chest was heaving with the effort of her vaginal contractions, pulling her diaphragm, her thighs; all of her was consumed by the continued climax. Julia whimpered, licking her lips, her mouth dry.
“There you are,” Sophia murmured and the grinding suddenly stopped. Julia fell, sliding to the floor around Sophia’s legs. The vampire picked Julia up easily and laid her on the bed Julia had been leaning against. “You are beautiful, Julia. Remember, you don’t have to join us to continue to come here. This is not an ultimatum, only a choice.” Julia sighed as Sophia slipped an ice chip between her lips. Holding it in her teeth, Julia let the liquid run over her tongue and down her throat while Sophia wiped her down with a wet cloth.

Flasher Fiction Friday - If Only

Warmth filled her cheeks and she smiled brightly. She continued to lean on her cane, but stood a little straighter admiring the man approaching, his jaw, his nose, those bright blue eyes. If only he weren’t so loyal to his dead wife, she would wrap her arms around him and take him into her heart and bed.

He hunched, straightening to see the figure ahead, her round hips, her high cheekbones. God, he loved her. If only her dead husband weren’t his best friend, he would kneel…well, not that, worship her and make her his wife and lover.

If only.

Check out all the other interpretations of this picture by visiting the blog.

Thursday Taster: Pandora 6

Another Thursday, another taste of sleeping beauty. She's been spelled asleep, queue the Prince. The whole story is available on WattPad and there are more fantastic tastes available on the blog.

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Russel was his father's favourite son. Second in line, he wouldn't likely take the throne, but he had the guile, the drive to usurp his brother. If he ever wanted to reign, Marcus wouldn't stand a chance. He rode back from his hunt, the pelt of the wolf that had terrorized a village strapped behind him. There was a more precious pelt underneath. He'd found a golden fox while he hunted and bagged that as well. It was safely hidden until he could take it to the furrier and be handsomely paid.

The shoes of his horse clicked on cobblestones and he watched for animals and children darting around him. The shoes were perfect for dirt and mud, giving his mount purchase, but it was easy to slide on these smooth stones. Several women stared at him, their eyes following his progress. He smirked, knowing what they were thinking. Perhaps he'd come down from the palace, visit the tavern, take one of the ladies home.
The daughter of the town elder had been happy for his company, even smeared with the blood of the wolf. She'd washed him, bandaged the small wound on his leg, and settled him in her own bed. Her father had argued, but the girl was old enough to make her own mind, old enough to enjoy the hero come home.
She had been fun for a night. Many women had shared his bed and left happily. Few had tried to push for advantage, trying to gain his attentions for a second night. The few who had were quickly set to right. He was the prince, not their lover. He would not be at a woman's beck and call.
Giving his reins to a stable boy, he released the pelts and carried them in on his shoulder, dried brown blood smudging his cloak. “Russel,” his father greeted him. “You've returned already? And with the culprit in hand. Well done, son.” The king clapped him on the back, and led him to the thrones where the wolf pelt might sit for the night, telling all of his heroic act.
“Yes, and with more for the bargain,” he said, smiling. He flipped the wolf over to reveal the fox.
“Golden fox,” his father murmured, running his hand through the soft, fine, shimmering fur. “I have always wanted one of these.”
“I'll trade it for the birthright,” Russel answered, smirking.
His father punched him in the arm, hard. He wavered, but didn't budge. “You know I can't trade for that. You know what you must do to get it.”
“Should I trade his pelt as well?” he asked, joking. He wasn't about to kill his brother.
“Crass,” his father said, laughing. “Such black humour. Go, take your prize with you. Then return, we have a guest tonight.”

Mid Week Tease - The Mark by Arla Dahl @ArlaDahlAuthor

Be this a witch? 

History is revamped in this erotic tale of choice removed as the duty to submit wars with the desire to resist. Abigail Prescott seeks to prove she is not a witch marked by Satan. She willingly submits to her governor’s thorough examination but it is said the witch cannot feel, that Satan will mark her in some secret spot upon her body. A spot deadened to pain … and to pleasure. And though she submits, she is ill-prepared for her governor’s shameful grueling probe, as it permits him to see and test her every inch and every hollow…

This week I am featuring a tease from Arla Dahl, and boy does it have punch. 

He watched her closely as she cried, naked and folded on the floor. Each ragged breath jostled her breasts, the same as when they had been struck by the crop. Her responses had baited him, challenged him to strike harder, and with each flick of his wrist, she had cried out, moaned, filled the space between them with the scent of her arousal. A scent that hovered still.

Engorged past pain, he took an awkward step toward her, then stopped and cursed need for its persistence. He dared not move as a torturous, cock-twitching wave of pleasure and pain all but emptied him. He breathed through it, fought for at least one mere scrap of control.

He turned away from the sight of her, forced himself to focus on the tasks ahead. He set a kettle of water to heat on the hearth. Without a glance her way, he strode to the table and moved the candles he had set there to a ledge on the wall above it. Better to prepare the table now, while she did not watch, than to have her grow fearful and resistant as understanding dawned.

He took a handful of leather strips from a pile on the ledge and chose four according to length. He looped each through iron rings mounted at the table’s four corners, then, with eyes closed, sat back against the table’s wide edge and breathed fully.

Slowly, finally in full control, he looked at her and saw only an accused. “Abigail.”

With a gasp, she scrambled to her feet. Sniffed back tears and awkwardly tried to block her breasts and her sex from view with her arms, her hands.

He waited for her to settle and when she did not, he folded his arms across his chest and tipped his head in challenge. “Only those with the mark hide what they have.”

It seemed a struggle for her to lower her arms and clasp her hands behind her. Finally she did. A brief moment later, she drew a long breath and lifted her chin.

Though tempted to commend her composure, he refrained. “Take the crop from the mantel and bring it here.”

She inched toward the mantel and grabbed the crop. His gaze scanned her lovely body as she moved toward him, her breasts and hips swaying with each step. Her hand trembled as she held the crop out to him. When he was through with this examination, he would lay her beneath him and make her whole body tremble. He would forget the women who waited, the townsfolk and all, and see that her every inch was covered in his scent, his seed, for surely a joining with her would wring him dry.

He set his hands in his lap lest she see her effect on him, then inclined his head toward a spot on the table. “Lay it there.”

Her hair brushed his shoulder as she set the crop beside him. A slight curl lingered there as she turned and lifted her gaze to his. He fondled the strand, marveled at its silken texture then arranged it in front of her shoulder just so, grazing his fingertips down to the end where it reached her breast. His gaze traveled the path of his fingertips – over the tops of each breast and down the valley between them.

Her nipples hardened as his gaze and fingertips touched on them. He pressed a thumb to one, casually rubbed it until it hardened further, watching her eyes the whole time. They fluttered closed in immediate response.

He dropped his hand from her and her eyes slowly opened, then widened as if surprised by her own responses. His smile formed on its own. He tamped it down, pleased at her desire to obey, warmed by her inability to do so.

“Go to the chest,” he said, and pointed to it. “You will see two amber vials. Bring them here.”

When she turned, he received his first rearview of her. He weighed the sight, imagined the soft white flesh of her rump filling his hands, though not quite spilling from them the way her breasts had. He would mold them, knead them, test them for sensitivity. He would spread them wide and examine the tight bud hidden between them.

Both loving and hating her effect on him, he grasped his arousal through his breeches, squeezing tight as if to deflate it merely by strength of hand.

She knelt daintily and leaned into the chest, offering a new view of herself with splendid abandon. He squeezed himself harder. Breathed deeply until the pain subsided and only a sweet throbbing ache remained.

He palmed the crop, then laid it in his lap when she turned back to him.

“Set them here,” he said pointing to where the crop had just been. “Then lean forward. Flatten yourself to the wood and grasp the far end of the table. Widen your stance, Abigail. And do not let go.”

Arla Dahl is a lover and avid reader of all things sexy and suspenseful. In her Immoral Virtue Trilogy, the horrors of the 17th Century witch trials are exposed, examined and reversed. Deeply moved by the viciousness of times, Arla created stories that twist an already twisted history, and turned the very thing which labeled the accused susceptible to the temptations of evil into the one thing that would set them free. Lust. Follow Arla on Facebook, Twitter and Google+, and read further tales of the witch trials on her blog, Notes from Arla.

THE MARK (Immoral Virtue, #1) and THE ACCUSED (Immoral Virtue, #2) are available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords and Kobo.

Tantalizing Tuesday - A new sound

“Get back here, cunt.”
“You stay away from me you son of a bitch.”
“I’ll go where I fucking want, whore, and you will do what I tell you.”
“Go to bed, you alcoholic asshole.”
Jean put her head on her knees and tried to block out the shouts, thumps and screams. She couldn’t. She’d never been able. No matter how loud she played her music, how much she covered her ears, she could still hear them fighting. At least it was a familiar sound. Once, one of her mother’s friends had gotten caught in the middle. That had been worse.
“Jeannie? Come here, Jeannie.”
Jean slid down from her bed and scooched her way to the wall with the mirror. It amazed her that her father hadn’t come and broken it. Maybe it was because she kept it here, on the floor behind her bed and not on the wall.
“It’s going to be okay, Jeannie. Just like it always is.”
It wasn’t okay, and would never be okay, but it ended. They would exhaust one another, or one would knock the other unconscious and there would be quiet.
Her reflection hugged her.
Bang! New sounds were never good.

Make sure you take a moment and visit our blog. Read all the fantastic teasers, none more than 200 words.