Saturday, June 30, 2012

Daughters of Darkness

A wonderful collection that serves also a reminder of just how far mainstream erotica has drifted in the past two decades. First published in 1993, when you would have to search high and wide for the very word “lesbian” in the average bookstore, Daughters of Darkness is an anthology in the traditional sense of the word. The bulk of the ten tales within span over a decade of writing, ranging from magazine stories and novel excerpts dating back to 1981, while the heart of the book is J Sheridan LeFanu’s classic “Carmilla,” first published a century before that.

This is a literary collection, then, not a sexual one. It is your imagination, and your ability to read between the lines that stirs the emotions; qualities that many commentators argue are sadly lacking from the explicit squelch-by-squelch descriptions found in more modern storytelling. And it’s true, there is a beauty to leaving the lovers just as the candles are lit, then rejoining them as the events of the night are consigned to sometimes shameful memory; passion spent can, in good literature, be just as arousing as passion inflamed, after all. 

Read more at Eden Fantasys

Wednesday, June 27, 2012




Ten erotica stories about inappropriate behaviour at work and the colleagues who go all the way on company time. Featuring original erotica from Donna George Storey, Lux Zakari, Amber Leigh and Elizabeth Coldwell.

The workplace is never exclusively a place for hard graft, tedium and ambition. As we spend over half of our adult lives at work, it has long been a pressure cooker of unrequited desire, barely disguised lust, sexual manipulation, and obsessions for colleagues thinly disguised by professionalism, duty and formality. Which is precisely why Mischief commissioned ten erotica short stories to pursue the explicit shenanigans of work mates who just can’t contain themselves.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Why I Love Writing Erotica... Some Writers Speak...

Check out the Mischief blog for the answer to the question you know you've always asked yourself...

Dream Lover

There is one story in this book that will haunt you.

One story that will remain in your mind long after you have forgotten all the others, one that will build and grow in there too, until it becomes a part of your cultural makeup, like a long-ago movie whose plot you've forgotten but whose mood is so close you can kiss it; or a favorite old novel you keep intending to retread, but can never put your hands on when you want it.

For me, it's Kristina Lloyd's "Living Off Lovers," a haunted house with a twist in the architecture, two strangers brought together by something they don't understand, two spirits still seeking a love that they lost eighty, ninety years ago. It's a short tale, and that's a good thing because the best short stories are always the ones that make you want to know more, much more. And the best of the rest of Dream Lover shares that same sensation. Appetizers for a meal that your own imagination will create. 

read more at Eden Fantasys

Friday, June 22, 2012

Girls Girls Girls!



Single-sex liaisons that make straight women curious and drive men wild. Including original fiction from Delilah Devlin, Valerie Grey, Primula Bond, Elizabeth Coldwell and Chrissie Bentley.

Sapphic love has proven to be one of the most enduring forms of erotic pleasure since the first frolicking nymphs were painted upon the side of amphorae. But the secret love of women, without male participation, will never be old hat, because there will always be something deliciously forbidden and titillatingly taboo about the seductions, indiscretions and trysts of one woman with another. And Mischief wouldn’t be a leading publisher of erotica if it didn’t explore, update and let loose these very special feminine lusts of one girl for another.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

It's A Man's World

A fantastic video by Deborah Revy...

watch it here

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Stockholm Syndrome

I lay in the dark and listened, uncertain what awoke me.  Nights rarely passed undisturbed any longer - too many hours of the day were spent wondering what the next few hours might bring that I don’t think anybody in the house slept well any longer.  Although Wolf did not seem to be having too much problem.  He lay on the bed beside me as always, over the covers and clutching his gun, but his breathing was low and steady, and I eased myself to the floor as carefully as I could.  It was bad enough knowing your nightwatchman was sleeping.  Even worse to be the one who woke him up.
I crossed the room without turning the light on, pissed in the pot and then moved to the window.  Three weeks.  That’s how long I’d been here; that’s how long it was since I last set foot outside.  And that had been hard at first, so hard.  But the more I learned the more I adapted, and the last news report that I heard on the TV made me so mad that I almost kicked the tube.
“I was not kidnapped,” I swore.  “I’m a guest.”  A guest, true, whose movements were limited, but that was to keep me secure from the world’s prying eyes.  I knew I was here of my own free will, and had permission to leave whenever I chose.  But however many thousands of people who’d seen me on the news or on the front pages, or the reward posters gummed up around town by my parents, they weren’t going to believe that.  Or even understand it.  So I stayed indoors eating Poptarts and cereal, cheap take-out Chinese and runnin’ on Dunkin. 
The street outside was dark, of course, and apart from the occasional headlamp that swept down from the crossroads, deserted.  Across the street, a light went on in an upstairs room and I smiled.  Something must have disturbed their sleep as well.
I listened for voices elsewhere in the house; heard nothing, but of course that meant nothing.  In a house full of trained urban guerillas, most of them with some form of military background or other, I’d hardly expect them to be banging around if they thought there was anything to be at all concerned about.  Another reason why I never strayed from my room, even for the bathroom, once the lights went out at night.  You never knew what might be lying in wait.
I made my back to the bed, feeling my way around the few sticks of furniture, the desk and my own clothes scattered in heaps where I’d dropped them, exhausted, at the end of a long day on the firing range - a basement lined with mattresses and egg cartons, with three crudely caricatured politicians for targets.  I’d been asleep before Wolf even took up his post, and as I settled back into bed alongside him, I realized just how accustomed I had grown to his presence.
He had never touched me.  Not even on the first night when, tearful, bound and sometimes gagged, the rest of the gang had delighted in humiliating and tormenting me, and a physical assault could only have been a brutal thought or two away.  Instead, he lay silently down on the bed alongside me, his body pointedly not touching mine and when, at some point, I shifted and my foot touched his leg, he moved that away as well.
We talked, of course we did.  Alone or with the others, deep into the night.  Revolutionary theory, guerilla tactics.  Our General had drawn up a long list of sympathizers whom he claimed were either on our side, or who he felt could be drawn over to our struggle.  Many were public figures, Hollywood icons and rock’n’roll superstars, and Wolf had been charged with making contact with the latter crew, because a song or two from them would make all the difference to us.  
So we talked about that as well, and those were the conversations I enjoyed, just kicking back in our bedroom at night (how strange to call it “our” room, in a world where all property was strictly communal), like the college-aged kids that we used to be, discussing our favorite records.  Then the lights would go out at 10 on the dot... we used to listen for the sound of the basement door creaking, as the general went down to pull out the fuse... and I would retire to sleep, while Wolf stayed alert for intruders.
Tonight was different.  Tonight, we talked about me.  How the world should be told that I was no longer a victim, how the police should be warned to consider me an enemy.  How my parents should learn that I considered myself orphaned.
The General raised the subject, which surprised me.  I’d known for days how I felt about the cause, and the rest of our cell seemed to accept that.  He remained suspicious, though; he thought I might be playing a trick, and every word out of his mouth from then on had been designed to somehow trip me up.  I guess I’d passed all his tests at last, or maybe this was the final one and he wanted to see just how far the heiress was willing to go before breeding and background jerked her back to her old self.
I answered the unspoken question for him.  “As far as I need to.”
I was lying on my side, facing Wolf.  Despite the darkness, enough glow shone through the window for me to trace his silhouette against the whitewashed walls, and my eyes lay on the bulge on his lap, the pump action shotgun from which he had never been parted, which needed just one flick of the safety catch to send it roaring to lethal life.  The safety catch that he only engaged after i pointed out to him one night that, if he insisted on sleeping throughout his guard duty, he’d better do something to avoid any nocturnal discharging.  I certainly didn’t want to wake up with one leg blown off because he’d been dreaming about twiddling his thumbs, and once he’d accepted that possibly he did drift off once or twice (and that was a battle in itself) he agreed.
I raised a hand slowly and gently touched a fingertip to the barrel.  I had always loved guns, to my mother’s disgust, although my father and brothers were delighted by that. My father taught me to shoot a gun, my brothers taught me to clean one, and even when I was too young or too busy to join them on a hunting trip, they knew I’d be impatiently waiting at home, happy to strip down their weapons and put them back, sparkling new.   Wolf’s barrel felt coarse and gritty.  I doubted whether it had ever seen the business end of a rag full of Froglube.
My finger traced the barrel down to the stock, so long, so smooth, so unbelievably hard.  I danced around the trigger and scraped a nail across the safety.  Then the butt, hard wood but splintered, pocked by poor care, bruised and abraded.  Wolf told me he’d had the weapon for years and it felt like it, but I wondered what he’d been using it for if he’d had it that long.  A weapon like this was scarcely used for hunting, and - present circumstances notwithstanding - wasn’t your average home protection gear either.
The general warned me that Wolf was a bad ‘un, which was why I’d been left in his charge.  How many lives had this weapon taken or altered?  How many skulls had its butt crushed, how many bones had it broken?  I let the backs of my fingers trace back up the stock, then trail the length of the barrel again.  One teased the muzzle, felt the dryness within.  It’ll be a wonder if this thing doesn’t blow itself up, the very next time Wolf goes to fire it, I thought, and I thought of something pops once said as we read about a bank job in the paper one day.  Guns are wasted on the majority of the people who use them.  A gun is a thing of beauty and grace, to be treated as well as a car or a lover.  And like a car or a lover, if you let it decay, then it will pay you back.
I shifted my weight, careful not to disturb the sleeper.  My finger below the barrel, raising it slightly, my head leaning forward, the muzzle to my mouth.  I closed my lip on the cold, acrid metal, sucking gently, eyes closed as my mind raced.  
I tasted old cordite, I tasted iced steel.  I tasted strength, I tasted hunger.  The muzzle was thick and my lips “o”-ed around it, drawing it into my mouth, sucking as my tongue curled and buried itself inside the barrel.
My fingers slipped down and, releasing my prize, the tip of my tongue pursued them, licking down the length,  teasing and dancing, pausing to savor the brute force of the weapon, drinking in its beauty, tracing its smoothness.  
My lips brushed the trigger guard curving beneath them and they moulded themselves to its unyielding contour, and my hand stroked the stock, imagining the hands that had caressed where I now kissed, and my own free hand slipped between my legs, fingers stretching one pantie leg wide to slip inside me, straining for depth, squeezing in a second as I twisted my wrist and my palm pressed my clit.  I sucked as I fucked myself, too cautious to cum but too hungry to stop.
Beside me, Wolf slumbered on, inside me, an image began to form.  An image lit by bright flood lights, an image played out on an unmade bed, an image spooling through the movie camera that I’d seen the General toying with as he talked of our next communique to the outside world.
A communique in which I would star.
A communique in which I would answer all the questions.
A communique in which I would fuck Wolf’s gun.
I wonder whether they’ll show that on the nightly news?

Sunday, June 17, 2012

I Wish That Had Been You

“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”  I clicked the little X in the corner of the screen, hurriedly brought up a favorite bookmark... oops, not that one.  Click to another page and trying to look as though I was thoroughly engrossed in... whatever celebrity nonsense this is.  And all the time my mind was whirling.  I don’t think I’d ever seen such a beautiful….
My boyfriend Mark walked into the room, a beer in one hand and a curious grin on his face.  “You sounded like you’d seen a ghost.”
I lied as quickly as I could.  “No, I think the cat startled me.”  On the other side of the room, Tiger lay asleep, but one eye opened as he heard his name, and he fixed me with a baleful glare.  “That’s right, blame me for everything.”  Then he went back to his slumbers, Mark went back to the television and, as I heard him settle into his chair, I reopened the e-mail that had caused me to gasp.
Because I did gasp, louder than I realized, and certainly louder than I hoped.  I mean, if Mark had heard me above whatever he was watching, and he’s not the world’s quietest TV viewer, then it was probably more of a squeak than a gasp.  Or even a scream.  A scream at the thought of what that cock could do to me.  Or I could do to it.
I’ll back up for a moment.  Ever since I started writing stories on this site, fans (and now, sometimes, friends) have sent me photographs, sometimes their face, sometimes their body, and sometimes – and don’t think I can’t tell the difference between a genuine photo and a movie set –  scenes from their favourite porn movies or clips.  I love them, it’s one of the perks of the job, and they’ve probably ignited more fantasies (and one or two stories) than anything else I can think of.
But this one… well, for a start it was tasteful.  I love a good cumshot as much as anyone, and there is nothing so wonderful as opening an e-mail and seeing a cock shooting boldly, or a pussy dripping cum, staring back at you first thing in the morning.
But there’s also something exciting about not knowing exactly what you’re looking at, just a bulge in a pair of boxers and it could be absolutely anything… a cock, you hope; a vegetable, you suspect; a third arm, you fear.
This was definitely the first one.  For a start, it wasn’t exaggerated.  For seconds, it was in the right place.  And for thirds – shit, a girl knows these things, and looking at the photo, I knew something else.  I wanted it.
I reread the two sentences that accompanied the picture.  The writer liked my stories, and this is what they did to him.  I hit reply, barely trusting my fingers to type the words.
Keep it light, I counselled myself.  Keep it light.  “Nice bulge.”
Two minutes later, my e-mail pinged.
“Would you like to see more?”
Hit reply.  “Yes please.”
And back it came immediately.  The same body, the same briefs.  But this time a thumb was tugging down the waistband… not much – I’d have had them down a lot faster.  But just enough for a meaty helmet to protrude, thick above the fabric while the shaft still lay hidden under his clothes.
Reply.  “Tease.  Is that all?”
Reply.  “You want more?” and without waiting for an answer, there it was.  Same body, same briefs, only now his prick was standing straight, still shrouded at the root by those cursed underpants, but reaching out and at me now, so hard that I could almost feel its heat, and so proud that, when I blew the picture up to screen size, I’d swear its one eye winked at me.  As if to say…
“Suck me.”  In bed that night, Mark had been ready to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t rest and nor would my hands.  I was sex-toying with his balls for what felt like ages before he finally spoke, running my bullet over the taut skin and tonguing his nipple for even longer before he sighed out his demand.  So I did what he asked, and I enjoyed every minute; crouching and plunging him into my mouth, feeling his movements growing faster as I sought out his rhythm and rode with him. In and out he flowed as I placed both hands on his hips, allowed him to sink as deep as he could into my throat, and taking him in my hand only when I needed to catch a breath.
I held the tip of his cock to my open lips, cradled it on my tongue, jerking his shaft with one fist, while the other reached for his chest, tweaked his nipples.  I lapped at his leaking hole, and his hand fell onto the top of my head, holding it still for a moment, before pushing back into me, harder than ever, so that I never lost the tantalizing taste of his knob-end for a moment.  
I could hear myself moaning as he plunged, little cries of shock and pleasure that accompanied every thrust.  I wanted his seed sliding down my throat, and I wanted it now.  I squeezed his balls, slipped a finger up his ass, and the first twitch and spurt of the meat in my mouth sent a telegraph ringing all the way down my spine, to explode in a flood of sensations in my pussy.
I swallowed hard, but his cum was still spraying, in my mouth and onto my cheeks and chin; my face was plastered in it and, as he slapped his cock against my hungry tongue, more leaked out, to coat my teeth, my gums, my tonsils.  And when it was over and I raised myself up, I wished for a moment that I hadn’t turned the light on.  Because it wasn’t Mark’s cock that slid in and out of my mouth, or his cum that filled me with such delicious familiarity.  And it wasn’t Mark’s face that I wanted to see, smiling contentedly on the pillow.  It was the stranger who e-mailed me, who sent me those pictures, and who didn’t stop after the first few.
The next one arrived, and there were no briefs at all, just a length of hot flesh that called out for me to touch it… so I did, tracing a finger across the image and imagining how wonderful it would feel to do that for real.  In the next, he had his hand around it, a big strong hand that gripped it tight, and still left so much more on display.  And in the next – at first, I thought that his bands must be shaking, the picture was not clear at all.  
But then I noticed the little arrow beneath it, the universal symbol for “press to play the video”… so I pressed, and it played, four glorious minutes of my mystery lover jerking himself off onto a photograph – of me.  He’d downloaded and printed my picture from this website, and now he was beating his meat to my beat.  I watched, fascinated, as the tempo increased; gasped (but this time, silently) as I saw the pre-cum drip from the tip.  
How I longed to lean forward and stretch out my tongue, through the glass of my laptop screen, through however many miles of cyberspace there might be in between us, and to lick that liquid off his cock, feel it dancing tart upon my tongue before my mouth swept open and down his shaft, drawing him deeper than I’d ever sucked before, while my hand lay on his as he pumped at his flesh… and when he came….
When he came, it was amazing.  When he came, it was beautiful.  When he came, I came, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out as wave after wave of exquisite joy swept over me, and I fought to keep my eyes open and focussed, so I could watch his cum flying out towards the camera, and then splashing down onto my photographed face.  It was in my eyes, and I blinked.  It was on my cheek, and I reached my tongue out towards it.  It was on my lips, and I licked them.  And it was in my mouth and I was swallowing hard as it flew down my throat, hard but gracefully, gratefully too.  Fill me, choke me, drown me in your cum and, though the movie stopped there, it played on in my mind, his cock slowly softening as I wrapped my mouth around it, sucking the last precious drops from deep inside, and wondering when we could do it again.
“Jesus, that was amazing.”  Mark sat up, his hands in my hair as I suckled at his softness, my tongue tracing highways across his balls and cock.  
“It was,” I agreed; then, once he was asleep, I crept back into the living room, signed on and hit “reply.”  I’d just made a little movie of my own, you see, and I wanted my new friend to see it while the cum was still hot.  I attached the clip to my e-mail, then typed a few lines.
“I just wish that it had been you.” 

Then I went back to... well, let's just say "a favorite bookmark" and placed a very special order....


This posting was sponsored byEdenFantasys.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long Legged Beasties...

...and things that go "uh uh uh YES" in the night

Halloween isn't so far away that it's too early to start loading up the bookshelves, and of course it is never too late to have the pants scared off you. Especially if who (or what) ever is doing the scaring knows what to do once they're off. So welcome to Red Velvet and Absinthe, a collection of sexy supernatural stories that really is as good as its title suggests.

Strange thing about the supernatural. The number of people who claim not to believe in it has absolutely nothing to do with the number who want to (poll your friends if you don't believe me), which means you can enter this book with a head full of humbugs, and remain Ebeneezer Scrooge like through every manifestation you meet. But sooner or later, you'll come across one, which - well, it might not be as grisly as the ghost of Jacob Marley, but it will make a promise anyway, and you'll be hooked. And the earlier in the collection that happens, the longer you'll have to enjoy the sensations. 

Read more at Eden Fantasys