Evie Byrne

Merveilleuse

2009-09-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

Portrait of a young woman by Pierre-Narcisse, baron Guérin (1774 - 1833)

Guérin is not considered an erotic painter. He was a highly respected artist in his time, and most of his paintings were of grand historical subjects. So I was very surprised to see this painting by him at the now sadly retired Jahsonic blog--and also quite taken by it. It's gorgeous, isn't it?

There's a fine line between innocence and eroticism. In this painting, the eroticism rests in the position of her fingers. That's it. If her fingers were closed, it would be a whole different kind of painting. As it is, though, those beautifully painted hands highlight what they are supposed to conceal, and make her breasts fascinating and luscious and tempting.

Who is she? I don't know. But I can guess some things about her.

We're used to seeing women with elaborate hair in old paintings, so if you didn't know better, you might think she's a poor kitchen girl or something like that. But you'd be wrong. She's a trendsetter, a rebel. Knowing that Guérin's is French, and that he painted during the revolutionary period, I'm willing to bet all my donuts that this girl is a Merveilleuse.

During the French revolutionary period, rebellious young people began to wear outrageous clothing that mocked both the excesses of the old regime, and the restrictions of the new ones. The men called themselves Encroyables (The Incredibles) and looked like dandies on acid. The women were the Merveilleuses (the Marvelous Ones). They cropped their hair so they'd look like they were on their way to the guillotine, and wore transparent, Grecian style dresses.

It seems to me a Marveilleuse would love to be painted toplesss, glorying in her brutally cropped hair. Far from being simple, the girl painted above was a rebellious, priviledged wild child who ran in a pack of immodest cropped-haired girls and dangerously frivolous dandy-boys.

So yes, for ever and for always people have wondered "Just what in the hell are those kids wearing???"

Here's a little article on The Incroyables and the Merveilleuses if you want to learn more. And here's another one with pictures.

Win a copy of Damned by Blood

2009-09-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's release day! I'm celebrating the publication of Damned by Blood, the third and final e-book of the Faustin Brothers trilogy, by giving away a free copy.

First, about the book:

Plan A: Marry Her. Plan B: Kill Her.

Mikhail Faustin is the prince of New York. His authority is absolute, his power unquestioned—and his heart is empty. The pain he carries inside leaves him with nothing to offer a mate. When he discovers that Alya Adad is not only his destined bride but also the source of his misery, his fate is sealed. He must either kill or claim the woman he despises most--or die trying.

Alya is the most powerful of her kind born in generations and a prince in her own right. Alya Adad kneels to no one, certainly not to her first lover, Mikhail. She plans to kill him before he captures her, but when she realizes she holds the key to his heart, and all his secret desires, things become a little more complicated.

Alya Adad and Mikhail Faustin are darkest, most reckless characters I’ve ever written. On their twisted, blood-soaked path to love, they break every rule in the book, write a few rules of their own, and break those, too. They surprised me at every turn. I hope you'll enjoy reading this unconventional love story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Read an excerpt right here on my blog, a couple of entries down. Learn more about the whole series over at my website.

Breaking news: The first review is already in! Jane at Dear Author gave it an A-!

How to win a book:

All you have to do is join my email list so I can tell you about future releases. I swear I have no plans to spam you. I'll only send you new book announcements two or three times a year.

Just send me an email with "mailing list" or something similar in the title so I recognize it. You don't have to write anything in the body. I'll draw a name from that pool for a free copy on this Thursday morning (9/24). My email is evbyrne at gmail dot com.

If you are already on my mailing list, or think you might be, send me an email anyway. I'll double check your address against my list and enter you in the drawing.

Please be aware that all of the Faustin books are only available as e-books. Damned by Blood is what they call "category length" -- 148 pages long. However, my publisher will release the 3 books as a print anthology in about ten months.

A little surreptitous frottage

2009-09-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

Illustration by Louis Berthommé-Saint-André (1905-1977) Image source: AMEA

"Still, she didn’t violate the man too much, just indulged in a little surreptitious frottage ."

This is a line from my most recent book, Damned by Blood. It refers to my vampire heroine rubbing herself against her victim's knee while she takes his blood. In that peculiar way that coincidences seemed planned, the same day I wrote that line someone I knew mentioned out of the blue that she'd just learned the word frottage. After doing a very small, very informal survey, I discovered that a lot of people aren't familiar with this term. It happens to be one of my favorite words, so in the spirit of public education, the Erotická Revue brings you:

FROTTAGE

Frottage has two meanings: 1) a Surrealist art technique and 2) a form of non-penetrative sex

Meaning 1:

In an art context, frottage refers to making art by putting paper or canvas on top of a textured surface and rubbing it with pigment to capture an impression of the pattern below. Yes, just like brass rubbing. But it's more arty. The goal of frottage is to capture random, abstract patterns that either stand on their own as art, or can be embellished to make art. The Surrealist Max Ernst is usually credited with developing frottage in the 1920's.

Meaning 2:

Dry humping. That's such an unfortunate term for a very pleasurable practice. For that reason I I prefer frottage. However, I do use "dry humping" in my 2nd vampire book, viz. "Miércoles! I am dry humping Gregor Faustin in the back of a cab." In that case I used it because the character would use that term, not the fancier frottage.

Frottage is a wonderfully adaptable form of perversion. You can indulge in on the dance floor, the back seat of a car, or in a packed concert arena. It can be a form of foreplay, or the main act itself.

The term frotteur is used for someone who rubs up against people non-consensually. This is the DSM IV definition. But frotteur is just French "one who rubs" so I think we should take back the term from the shrinks. Are we not all frotteurs?

Frottage is a staple of lesbian sex, specifically the act of scissoring (more formally known as Tribadism), as illustrated by the lovely young ladies above. The word Tribadism comes from tribas, the Latin term for a woman who wanted to be the active sexual partner (ie top).

One thing I did not know about frottage when I began to write this post is the new-ish slang term, frot. According to Wikipedia, the word was developed out of frottage in the 1990's to describe a specifically male on male form of non-penetrative sex, offered up as a safer alternative to anal sex. The word frot, apparently, only refers to this particular form of man on man behavior.

It seems a wee bit strange to me that they get the corner on this word and specific definition, when what they are doing sounds to me like classic frottage--full on frottage ending in orgasm. Frottage is such a widespread practice, among people of all ages and sexual orientations, that I have trouble seeing why this act must be set apart as frot. But I do understand that this is a specific subculture and there seems to be some politics bound up in the definition, so I'll leave them to it. In time, I expect the the word frot will migrate, and end up being more universally used as a slang for frottage, no matter who's participating.

Please, make yourself comfortable

2009-09-20T16:21:00.000-07:00

I thought it might be fun to have one space where folks can stop by and talk to me about my writing.

So if you have any questions or comments about my stories--the characters, availability, etc., please don't hesitate to ask whatever your heart desires. I'm also happy to talk about art history & erotica, if you have questions that don't fit under an individual post. And heck, I'll answer questions from the lovelorn and the vampire-stalked, too. Just don't ask me what color my panties are, and we'll be cool.

This space will always be accessible from the sidebar--just look for the chaise lounge.

Excerpt Monday

2009-09-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You don’t have to be published to participate–just an writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site or click on the banner above.

***

The following is an excerpt of Damned by Blood, releasing September 22nd from Samhain Publishing. It's the third and final installment in my Faustin Brothers series. In this scene, which takes place about twenty pages into the book, the heroine, Alya Adad prepares to receive a very unexpected visitor to her office--Mikhail Faustin:

Why would Mikhail ever—ever—visit her?

It must have to do with Minnesota. But why a parlay now?

She wasn’t worried about him ambushing her. If his intention were murder, he wouldn’t come to her office under a flag of truce. If Mikhail struck, it would be a complete surprise, scrupulously planned, utterly devastating and yet perfectly legal under vamp law. That was how he’d taken out all his enemies thus far. So she had to assume he had some sort of legitimate business with her.

Security took their sweet time. Wisely. In the meanwhile, she relaxed into the idea of Mikhail being in LA, and even began to like it. It was so damned convenient, almost as though the universe had dropped him in her lap.

It was also a bit sticky, because she’d figured they’d fight over New York, and she’d kill him in battle. That was how she liked to work. It was direct—and fair.

But if he was going to come uninvited into her town and stroll right into her office, she’d be a fool if she didn’t grab this opportunity to take him out quickly and quietly. Then, in the confusion following his death, she’d take New York. It would save lives in the long run.

Mikhail Faustin. She hadn’t seen him since he was younger than Matthew and Maya. She glanced their way, admiring their supple, slender bodies and their flawless skin, her mouth quirking into a smile. She and Mikhail had been very young indeed.

It seemed like there should be a law against killing your first lover, though considering their history, Mikhail probably wouldn’t mind driving a spike through her head. She wondered exactly how much he hated her.

Dominick paced, checking his weapons as he did.

Alya kicked off her heels and put her feet up on the desk, all the while keeping one eye on the front office monitor. “I hope security remembers to use plenty of lube. Did you get some of that knyaz lube I asked you to stock for distinguished visitors?”

Dominick scowled at her. This would be his first face to face with a genuine Faustin, and it had him all riled up.

Maya spoke through a yawn. “Is the Iceman as gorgeous as they say?”

Alya shrugged. Iceman, Ice, Frost—these were all street names for Mikhail. He must have changed a lot over the years, because when he was young, he ran as hot as any man she’d ever met. Even his pale blue eyes burned like the heart of a flame.

Mikhail walked into the front office that moment. The security camera caught him from a high angle, showing her a sleek animal in a severe black suit. Her chair hit the ground with a thump as she leaned close to the monitor.

Rapt, she chewed on the side of her thumb while she watched him speak to her secretary, marking all the ways he’d grown up. He was taller, broader through the shoulders, and the sweet lines of his face had turned austere and sharp as a blade. His straight, platinum hair brushed his collar. That hadn’t changed. She remembered his hair well, how it slid through her hands, heavy and fine.

As she’d heard, he did absolutely nothing to hide his vampirism anymore. Some vamps could pass naturally. Others made adjustments in order to pass. For instance, she wore contacts and sunglasses when she went out, and she did her best to move slowly, like a human. If you knew what to look for, it was easy to spot a vampire in any crowd, but no one would ever mistake Mikhail for human.

The power he held as his family’s leader shimmered around him like a second skin. He made a beautiful prince. Once upon a time she could not resist the draw of that power, but she wouldn’t pay the price for it anymore. Princes demanded absolute submission from those around them, especially their lovers. Now that she was a prince herself, she submitted to no one—not on the street, not in the council chamber and never, ever in the bedroom. She’d done her time on her knees. She had no intention of kneeling ever again.

Tapping Mikhail’s image on the screen with her fingernail, she murmured, “Very pretty. Too bad I’m going to have to kill you.”

He chose that moment to look up, directly into the camera. Straight into her eyes. Alya snatched her hand from the screen.

Her assistant buzzed. “Ms. Adad? Mr. Faustin and Mr. Silver are here.”

Mikhail continued to stare into the camera lens. She could not shake the feeling that he was tracking her with his uncanny eyes. Alya turned off the monitor, annoyed that he could rattle her with a trick like that. She checked her knives and leaned back in her chair. “Send them in.”

When Mikhail walked through the door the curtains stirred and the air temperature dropped. In a glance he took in every detail of the room, just as she would, memorizing the layout, cataloging the feeders, Dominick, and hanging Frank, and tucking that information away for future use.

Alya stood to greet him. She sampled his power, letting it brush over her skin before shaking it off with a shiver, like a cat that’s been stroked backward.

Their eyes locked and held without the camera as intermediary. She’d not been challenged so directly for a long time.

For the briefest moment, she glimpsed him as the angelic boy he’d been, kissing her with a smile. Was that really him? Had that girl been her? Some version of them, maybe. An incarnation on another plane. Butterflies filled her stomach, a visceral memory of how he’d once thrilled her. She hardened herself against the unsettling feeling. Sentimentality was a dangerous luxury.

“Knyaz,” she said, inclining her head without lowering her eyes. She used the title he’d be known by among his own people.

“Knyaginya,” he said, his gaze level, his hands folded in front of him, his expression that of a church saint. His use of the feminine honorific made her smile. It was quite an ugly mouthful. And properly, she should be knyaz too. She was no one’s princess.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Mikhail gestured to his lawyer. Alya had forgotten the man even existed, but he’d been standing there at Mikhail’s left shoulder all along, grey and unobtrusive. He stepped forward with a letter sealed with black wax and dropped it on the table.

“Ms. Adad, I’ve come to testify that this sworn affidavit from Natalia Faustin is certified as genuine prophecy by the Council of Mothers.”

What in the hell did that mean? Now she’d have to call in her lawyers to find out. She didn’t touch the letter.

Mikhail pulled back his coat sleeve, revealing a strange bracelet—no, rather a slender black rope coiling up his arm. She hissed as she recognized the magic crawling over it. How had security let that by?

Shit. Hoping against hope, she pushed her panic button with her toe. Dominick raised a brow at her. She made a subtle “wait” signal with one finger.

“Alya Adad, I declare you mine by right of dream, bound to me by fate and blood—”

And then she understood. He hadn’t come to kill her, he’d come to marry her.

***

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There are bears, and then there are bears

2009-09-13T22:02:00.001-07:00

Illustration by Charles Raymond for a privately printed edition of
Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, 1928

Excerpt Monday

2009-08-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

Charles Monnet( 1732-1808), engraved by d'Ambrun

Source Taschen's Erotica Universalis
(I've blogged about this image already.)

It's already time for another Excerpt Monday, that magical day every month where a bunch of writers share our excerpts. Please check out the link above to learn more, or scroll to the bottom of my excerpt to find a list of links for participating authors.

This month I'm returning to my work in process, Cry Surrender--an erotic medieval tale--picking up almost where I left off last month.

Set up:

Those of you who visited then remember the introduction to this story wherein a a convent girl becomes fascinated with a masked knight who comes to the nunnery to steal a virgin. She volunteers to go with him, and this excerpt picks up a little later. They're on the road away from the nunnery, sharing his horse. The knight is about to be surprised.

***

Only the thin linen of my chemise stood between my skin and his wandering hand. I told myself he only stroked me to comfort me. Or perhaps to know more of the goods he’d just obtained. Soon he’d “use my body for his ease” but as ignorant as I was, I was fairly confident he could not do that whilst riding a horse.

He opened the ribbons at my throat, stretching my chemise wide enough to tug it down my shoulders. I kept my hands fisted in the horse’s mane, more terrified of falling than being fondled. Cold breezes circulated under his cloak and chilled my bare skin.

I hunched forward, trying to avoid his hands, but they closed over my breasts anyway. The serpent skin of his mail chafed my flesh. I bit my lip as he cupped my breasts and tested their weight like fruit. But when his big thumbs began to circle my nipples, heating them with hellfire, I yelped.

“Silence,” he hissed, his hand tightening on my left breast in warning. I knew he must feel my heart thudding beneath his hand. I envisioned how the interlocking circles of his mail would leave round, red bites on my skin. Agnes always said that it took no more than a whisper to mark me. I realized I wanted to be marked by his armor. I wanted to bear the traces of its passage over my body.

He pressed my spine to his chest. No longer hunched, I could protect nothing from him, and I could no longer reach the horse’s mane. Balanced precariously between his thighs, I had no choice but to be still, and trust he’d keep me safe.

His warm, bare fingertips traced the lines of my breast and throat, touching me gently sometimes, and cruelly at others. He was teasing me, I realized, making me expect one thing, and then deliver another. I never expected he’d touch me like this. Anges never touched me with such wicked precision. I closed my eyes, my unease fading under wave after wave of sensation.

For the last twelve-month Agnes and I had been creeping to one another’s cot, or keeping each other warm during night vigil together in the chapel. We were of the age when the devil’s fires burned in us almost continually. Me more so than Agnes, who was naturally good.

Our confessor, Father Marcus explained to us that the desire we felt was sent by Satan to distract us from our holy work. It was he who showed us how to quench those fires in one another, so that we might find wholesome relief, and return to our duties.

Usually Agnes and I would quench the fires by simply tucking our hands beneath one another’s skirts, but I enjoyed those rare, luxurious occasions when I could bare my breasts to Agnes’s clever mouth and hands.

Sometimes Father Marcus allowed us to exorcise our demons during private confession with him. Those were the best times. Agnes and I would strip to the skin. Our confessor watched us comfort one another. Sometimes he offered advice. Other times he’d read scripture aloud, his sonorous voice a steady counterpoint to our panting and soft cries.

Our sessions, he explained, were an expression of lust, and of course lust was a sin. But like a sword, it could be turned to either good or ill. He taught us how to tame lust and make it an instrument for good. We used lust to please the Lord.

He showed us how skilled touching brought the clean Light of God into our bodies. Instead of being tormented by desire, and ending pettish and discontent and open to temptation, he taught us the path to love.

We learned how to invoke the loving light of God. His joy would fill us to the brim, and beyond. It filled us until we screamed His Name in joy. For a few precious, suspended moments, we became one with Him. We knew what it is to be held in his embrace, nameless, perfect and loved.

I did not expect the Angel to know of such things. How could he, when he’d turned his face from the Lord?

He ran his hand up my throat and over my face. I turned my face into his neck, sampled the stinging metal of his collar of mail with my tongue.

I tried to keep my eyes closed and focus on the vision of Christ I carried in my heart. But the Angel’s ministrations did not soothe as Agnes’s had. When he took my nipple between his fingers and tugged outward, I gasped and jerked forward in the saddle. A rush of pleasant heat spread outward from my breasts, flowing deep and settling between my legs, where it waited to blossom.

He rolled and thrummed that same aching nipple until I moaned aloud, caught between pleasure in pain. This time he did not chastise me for it. Instead, he lifted my shift so that he might cup his steely hand over my mound. The lip of the saddle blocked his hand. I wiggled forward, tilting my hips to make way for him. His index finger, so much thicker and stronger than Agnes’s, slid deep into my folds. I knew I was wet. Back and forth it slid, moving easily. Caught in the first stages of rapture, I clutched his knees for I knew not what else to grasp. Thus braced, I bent my knees and opened my legs, inviting his fingers deep inside.

He withdrew his hand as if burnt. “You’re no virgin.”

His voice was quiet, yet implacably cold. I imagined myself in a ditch, my throat cut. “But…but I am, my lord.”

He called for a halt and dismounted, dragging me from the horse and pulling me along off the trail, into the trees. At the bottom of steep slope, he spun me around and slammed my back against a tree trunk.

“You lying bitch. Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat right here. Tell my why I should not burn the Abbey to the ground.”

“My lord, tell me how I’ve displeased you. I swear I’ve never known a man.”

“Are you a liar or a half-wit? You spread your legs and moan as prettily as any practiced whore.”

“I—I was welcoming the Light.”

“You were doing what?”

“You wanted to share the Light with me, did you not? Cleanse me? Why else would you touch me so?”

His hand closed around my throat. “Speak sense!”

“I do not mean to displease you. I did not lie!”

He made a frustrated sound, a low growl and jammed his free hand between my legs, scraping my inner thighs with his gauntlets. “Who else has touched you thus?”

“J-Agnes.”

“Agnes. Another nun? You’re toying with your sisters?” Abruptly, he let go of my throat.

“I’m not a nun, sir. And we’re only doing what we’re told.”

“Pox blasted holy orders. And they’d call me corrupt.” He took hold of my chin. “Who told you to dally with your sisters? Who?”

“Father Marcus.”

“You told me you’d never seen a man.”

“Father Marcus isn’t a man. He’s our confessor.”

The Angel snorted. “And this man-not-man, this eunuch, your holy confessor, taught you the ways of perversion. What else did he teach you?”

“Music, scripture—“

“Did he put his hands on you?” He shouted in my face. The contrast between his voice and his smiling mask terrified me. I cringed, sliding down the tree. “Did he fuck you?”

“Fuck?” I crossed my arms over my head, expecting a blow. “I don’t know that word.”

“Did he mount you? Did he put his cock between your legs?”

I guessed he meant pizzle when he said cock. Men did that when copulating with women. I knew that much. That was what I expected he meant to do with me. “No. Never.”

“Did he put any part of himself between your so-called virgin thighs.”

“Only the flail.”

He laughed like a madman. “Only the flail? Only a damned flail?”

“The soft end was for penance, but the hard end he used to teach us joy.”

“I was raised in the heart of vice, little nun, and yet you manage to shock me.” He turned away.

“I know my faults well enough, my lord. But Father Marcus did not corrupt us, he only showed us how to defeat the devil within.”

Once again he pressed close, crushing me against the tree.

“Tell me…tell me how little nuns defeat the devil.” He palmed my breast. “Tell me what he taught you.”

***

Excerpt Monday Organizers:

Mel/Alexia Reed, Urban Fantasy (R)
and
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)

Joining us this week:

AJ O'Donovan, Poetry (PG13)
Stephanie Draven, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Heather S.Ingemar, Dark Fantasy/Poetry (PG13)
Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)
Cynthia Justlin, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)
Kaige, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG13)
Ansha Kotyk, Middle Grade Adventure (PG13)
AdelleLaudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance (PG 13)
RF Long, YA Paranormal (PG13)
Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG13)
Shawntelle Madison, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Contemporary Erotic Romance (PG 13)
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)
Leigh Royals, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Megan S., Paranormal (PG13)
Dara Sorensen, Historical Paranormal (PG 13)
Bethanne Strasser, Historical Romance (PG13)

Melissa Aires, Futuristic Romance (R)
Melissa Blue, Contemporary Romance (R)
Jax Cassidy, Contemporary (R), Furturistic Sci-Fi (R)
Maya Doyle, Parnormal Romance (R)
Ginny Glass, Paranormal (R)
Amber Green, Romantic Suspense (R)
Cate Hart, Paranormal YA (R), Erotic Romance (R)
Ali Katz, Erotic Paranormal Romance (R)
Aislinn Kerry, Fantasy (R)
Inez Kelly, Fantasy Romance (R)
Cherrie Lynn, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)
Rebecca Savage, Romantic Suspense (R)
Fae Sutherland, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)

Stephanie Adkins, Paranormal Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Ella Drake, Erotic Contemporary (NC17)
Dawn Montgomery, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC17) , Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Kim Knox, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC17)
Emily Ryan-Davis, Historical Western Romance (NC17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic Fantasy Romance (NC 17)
Jeanne St. James, Contemporary Romance (NC 17)

Laid in that white rush

2009-07-28T08:27:00.001-07:00

Leda and the Swan, 16th c. copy of a lost original by Michaelangelo.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still

Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed

By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,

He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

And how can body, laid in that white rush,

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there

The broken wall, the burning roof and tower

And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,

Did she put on his knowledge with his power

Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats, 1928

Show him what a woman is

2009-07-14T19:36:00.000-07:00

Sixth-century Cham sculpture excavated at the site of My Thuat in Vietnam

Photograph: Leonard de Selva/Corbis

Adam and Eve were expelled from the garden over sex. But in the oldest story known to man, sex is the baptism into civilization, and the instrument of civilization is a woman's carnal skill.

See, I'm reading Gilgamesh, the Mitchell translation. It's amazing. At the start, a trapper comes to Gilgamesh, the king, reporting that he's seen a huge, wild man (Enkidu) at the watering hole, one that not only lives in communion with the beasts, but who is also springing his traps and setting animals free. He's terrified of the creature.

This is where it gets really interesting. Instead of sending out a hunting party to kill the creature, as would happen in 99% of stories, Gilgamesh sends one woman after it. Not to kill it, but to transform it. She's a sacred prostitute named Shamhat:

The trapper found Shamhat, Ishtar's priestess,
and they went off into the wilderness.
For three days they walked...
...Early in the morning
on the third day, Enkidu came and knelt down
to drink clear water with the antelope and deer.
They looked in amazement. The man was huge
and beautiful. Deep in Shamat's loins
desire stirred. Her breath quickened
as she stared at this primordial being.
"Look," the trapper said, "there he is.
Now use your love arts. Strip off your robe
and lie here naked, with your legs apart.
Stir up his lust when he approaches,
touch him, excite him, take his breath
with your kisses, show him what a woman is
The animals who knew him in the wilderness
will be bewildered, and will leave him forever."

She stripped off her robe and lay there naked,
with her legs apart, touching herself.
Enkidu saw her and warily approached.
He sniffed the air. He gazed at her body.
He drew close. Shamhat touched him on the thigh,
touched his penis, and put him inside her.
She used her love-arts, she took his breath
with her kisses, held nothing back, and showed him
what a woman is. For seven days
he stayed erect and made love wit her,
until he had had enough. At last
he stood up and walked toward the waterhole
to rejoin his animals. But the gazelles
saw him and scattered, the antelope and deer
bounded away. He tried to catch up,
but his body was exhausted, his life-force was spent,
his knees trembled, he could no longer run
like an animal, as he had before.
He turned back to Shamhat, and as he walked
he knew that his mind had somehow grown larger,
he knew things now that an animal can't know.

Enkidu goes on to become Gilgamesh's best friend, but his extraction from nature is beautiful, erotic and poignant.

Excerpt Monday

2009-07-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

Andromeda Chained to a Rock by Paul Gustave Dore, c. 1869
image courtesy of Wikimedia

Once a month I get together with some other authors and post an excerpt. The organizing body for this grand experiment is Excerpt Monday. Check them out for more info., and check out the links at the bottom if you'd like to excerpt surf.

This month's excerpt is from my WIP, an erotic medieval/fantasy romance. This is how it opens. Please let me know if you like the mood and voice--and most importantly, if you'd keep reading. It's sort of an experiment.

***

Cry Surrender by Evie Byrne

Chapter One

They came at night. The whole of the nunnery emptied out in a panic, the sisters flitting about like ghosts in their bedclothes, their wails echoing through the cloisters. The men’s torches tossed red, fanged shadows across the walls, transforming a place of peace into the halls of hell. Yet they had not touched the holy women--not yet. The Angel’s mercenaries only resembled barbarians. They shouted and shoved, but they did not molest.

I knelt among the sisters and prayed that it would remain so, until I heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Breaking off my prayer, I glanced up and saw a demon in black armor, mounted on a black horse, wearing the crest of the Black Angel.

“Most accursed,” hissed the sister by my side. “He is anathema.”

Hearing that, I should have returned to my prayers with twice the fervor, but I could not take my eyes off him, even if were to be damned for it. Lucas de Gris, Angelus Domitor--the Pope’s Conquering Angel, scourge of the Cathar heretics, fallen from grace, but not from power.

The rumors around him had reached even my cloistered ears. They said he was deformed, a monster as ill-favored as he was ruthless. They said he’d been born in Saracen lands and bore the marks of the ungodly. Some even said that he was a Saracen himself, but none knew for certain, for it was also said no living man had ever seen his face.

Had Lucifer himself strolled into the cloisters, I could not be more amazed. My praying hands fell limp in my lap and I stared at him like a simpleton.

A giant he seemed. His armor gleamed in the torchlight, silver chasing flashed across it like lightening against a black sky. Where he was not covered with plate, he was covered was mail. Where there was not mail, there was leather.

I wondered what it would be like to be clothed in gleaming steel and mounted high on a horse fit for a god. Legend was he’d never been wounded in battle, though some said now that he’d lost the Pope’s blessing, his final wounding would come soon enough.

“Tessa! Thank our Blessed Mother you’re here.” My only friend, Agnes, threw herself into my arms and began to weep.

“Shh, my love.” I rocked Agnes and stroked her hair, but kept my eyes on the Angel. Even the golden relics in the church sanctuary could not compare to its polished, perfect smoothness of his armor, its pristine invulnerability. I longed to run my hands over the smooth, molded planes of his cuirass. Would it be hot or cold to the touch?

“He will kill us all,” Agnes sobbed.

“No, never think it.”

Agnes raised her head. Her pretty grey eyes were red and swollen. “You’re not afraid.”

This did not come as a question, but as a statement--and an accusation. Agnes’s face hardened. She knew me too well. “What are you thinking about?”

Freedom.

The Angel had come for a woman. What else would he want? St. Alban’s had no significant treasure, no relics except for a knuckle bone reputing to have belonged to St. Gerome but may have just as well have belonged to his mother, his butcher or his pet pig. Our Psalter wasn’t even jeweled. No, the Angel had come for me. This was how the devil granted wishes.

Glancing around to make sure no one could hear, Agnes whispered, “You can’t be in your wits. Not with these men. Not with him.”

I could not explain the calm certainty that filled me. It felt like the hand of God, though I knew to think so was blasphemy.

“They’ll do unspeakable things to you.” Agnes' voice cracked with misery. She dug her fingers into the soft flesh of my arms. “They’ll cut your throat and leave your body in a ditch.”

A man standing next to the Angel rapped his pike on the cobblestones and shouted for silence. The weeping and praying ceased and all eyes turned to him. In a rough, country accent the man said, “My lord wishes you to know he wishes none of you harm. Who is the Abbess?”

Our Abbess stepped forward, her back rigid. I had never seen her without her habit. She almost looked human.

The man made a slight bow. “Lady, we will leave peacefully this night, and place this in your hand--” He brought forth a purse which he hefted in his palm. “All we ask in return is one convent-raised virgin to be my lord’s companion.”

The Abbess addressed the Angel directly. “You mistake St. Alban’s for a bawdy house, Sir Lucas. I suggest you take yourself to one directly.”

The Angel did not answer, or respond in any way, though his horse danced restlessly under him. The answer came from his man, and it came fast and stinging as a whip. “If you do not cooperate, my lady, you might mistake St. Alban’s for a charnel house.”

An even deeper hush, if possible, fell over the courtyard. No one dared look right or left. I know they all prayed, Not me, oh please not me, dear Lord. But my wicked heart began to beat double time. All I needed was courage--the same fool courage I’d need to plunge off a cliff.

I did not allow myself to think another moment. I leapt to my feet. “Take me.”

Agnes caught me around the legs, dragged me to the ground and pinned my body with her own. But she couldn't hide me any longer.

From beneath her elbow, I watched the Angel knee his horse toward us. He kept a tight hand on his mount--a horse too massive for close quarters, too spirited to pass willingly through throngs of wailing, pleading women. It tossed its great head and worried the bit, snorted clouds of steam and struck sparks off the stones with its steel shod hooves.

I shivered Under Agnes’s warm weight. I shivered because I knew this moment was true and real, as no moment in my life had been true. I’d met my destiny.

In one quick movement, I rolled out from under Agnes. A hoof the size of a trencher landed just in front of my nose. I looked up.

And up.

Up the legs of the horse, its long shanks wrapped with corded muscle, its fine, quivering skin streaked with sweat. Up to the Black Angel’s foot, encased in a pointed boot, a long silver spur at his ankle. Up his silver worked greaves, each delicate filigree and floret etched painfully clear to my eye. Up his armored flanks, past his powerful arms bent at the reins. Up his breast, formed like a god’s and encased in a molded steel cuirass, and finally to his face.

Lord Be Merciful.

A finely wrought mask served as his visor. It was the face of a summer youth rendered in steel, a visage as beautiful as it was cruel.

I sought his eyes behind that mask, but saw only darkness.

***

Other Excerpt Monday participants, for your clickage:

Our brave organizers:

Mel Berthier, Urban Fantasy (PG 13)
and
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)

Joining us this week:

Kinsey W. Holley, Paranormal (PG)
Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG)
Dara Soren, Paranormal (PG)

Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG13)
Christina DeLorenzo, YA (PG 13)
Nika Dixon, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)
Bryn Donovan, Paranormal Romance (PG13)
Kaige, Historic Romance (PG-13)
Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)
Adelle Laudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance (PG13)
RF Long, Paranormal (PG13)
Rebecca Savage, romantic suspense (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Leigh Royals, Historical Romance (PG 13)

Jax Cassidy, Contemporary Romance (R)
Maya Doyle, Paranormal Romance (R)
Cate Hart, Paranormal (R)
Ali Katz, Historical Erotic Romance (R)
Inez Kelley, Romantic Comedy (R)
Aislinn Kerry, Paranormal Romance (R)
Elise Logan, Fantasy Romance (R)
Cherrie Lynn, Paranormal Romance (R)
Alina Morgan, Urban Fantasy (R)
Vivienne Westlake, Erotic Historical (R)

Stephanie Adkins, Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Evie Byrne, Medieval Paranormal Romance (NC 17)
Kim Knox, Erotic SF Romance (NC17)
Lauren Murphy, Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic Romance (NC 17)

Coming to her again and again

2009-07-12T08:49:00.000-07:00

Fresco from the Casa del Centenario, Pompeii

Poem No. 2
Gaius Valerius Catullus (c. 84-54 B.C.)

Sparrow, my Lesbia's pet that she holds
between her breasts and lets flutter
in her hands and on her head, laughing
as he chirps coming to her again
and again. She teases him with her
fingertips, earning stinging pecks to
her delight. I wish I could dampen my
desire for her by playing with you, little
sparrow. I would dream of her naked smell
through your pecks to quench my miseries.

Translation by Ewan Whyte

An object fit for worship

2009-06-27T10:12:00.001-07:00

I can't tell you how much I love this image. It's not even an image, it's an object. Many of the images I show here exist in abstraction. Remade into pixels, most images float free of both medium and context. This one, however, is firmly grounded on paper, and in time.

It is a well-loved image. It's spent a lot of time in a wallet, and has been passed around among friends. The left corner is worn off because that's the corner he held with his left hand while jerking off with his right hand.

The image itself is gorgeous. I'm no fan of the bj images where the woman looks like a wide mouthed bass latched onto a scud. This is gentle, almost reverent. That gorgeous cock is disembodied--an object for worship. In fact, the whole image is so simple and solemn it reminds me of a religious icon.

As with the last post, this card came from the Erotic Postcards page at AMEA. Please visit them to see similar images, as well as their other erotic collections.

A particularly honest sort of porn

2009-06-20T08:42:00.000-07:00

Porn from the early days of photography (c. 1900) tends to be striking in one of two ways.

It is either wonderfully direct and unpolished:

That is to say, the photographic vocabulary of pornography as we know it has not yet been developed.

Or it is sweetly goofy.

When I see this one, I can't help but hear A Bicycle Built for Two in my head:

All three of these images are from the Erotic Postcards page at AMEA. Please visit them to see similar images, as well as their other erotic collections.

Coco de Mer Redux

2009-06-17T09:45:00.001-07:00

All images in this post from the Coco de Mer photo editorial

I've mentioned this photo editorial before, but that was almost a year ago, and but a brief mention. I thought it deserved a re-visit because the images are so striking.

Coco de Mer is an erotic emporium based in London and Los Angeles, but they have a lovely, non-squidgy website of some of the most gorgeous erotic equipment you're likely to ever see. They also offer classes and diverse free web content--such as these pictures, or their own little arty porn flix. I might blog about these later, but go ahead and check them out.

Excerpt Monday: Moving Violations in a Gondola

2009-06-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Excerpt Monday, a day when a group of writers share excerpts on their websites. Please scroll down for links to other writers. Check them out! You might find a new favorite.

This month I'm sharing an excerpt from Dante's Inferno, a novella-length historical romance that I released with Samhain last year-- my first published work. It's a silly and sexy 18th-century Venetian romp, a game of mistaken identities played out during the confusion of Carnival.

In this scene the hero, a sea captain named Dante, has spent the entire day searching the streets of Venice for a woman he mistook for a whore in a hasty alley-way encounter the night before. He wants her again, and is prepared to go to any lengths to get her.

In the meanwhile, the lady in question, a widow named Serena, has sworn never to be as reckless as she was the previous night. However, she is haunted by the rough pleasures she experienced in that dark alley, and Dante is very persuasive.

The scene begins when he accosts her and her servant on the street:

*

By the time he found her, the blood pounded in his ears. How he could be so obsessed with a woman in a mask, he did not know. He took a broad stance in her path. When she found her way blocked, she jumped backward, skittish, and her companion stepped forward to shield her. Dante held his hands wide to show them he was harmless and bowed. Like them, he wore the bautta that night, for he reasoned she would recognize him better with it than without.

“My lady, I believe I made your acquaintance last night.” He offered her a self-deprecating smile. “All too briefly, I’m afraid. I have hoped for an opportunity to address you again. My name is—”

She slipped in front of her protector and put a hand up to stop his words. “Please, don’t.” She spoke in a husky whisper that sent shivers down his spine.

He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. If her man wanted to fight for her, he was more than ready, and he was bigger. “How else can I come to know you better?” he asked.

She cast a quick glance back at her companion, then edged closer to him. “Signore, please, this is not safe.”

“Is that your man?” he asked in a low voice, keeping hold of her hand. “Would you like to be free of him?”

“That is my servant,” she said.

Better and better. No bloodshed to start. “I could not sleep last night because of you, donna molto bella.”

He laid a long kiss on her knuckles, felt her hand jerk then relax. Encouraged, he slipped his thumb into her palm and caressed it as he spoke. “I fear I may have offended you by taking you for something you are not. I wish to make amends.”

“You’ve not offended me,” she whispered, almost too low to be heard. “I must go now.”

Afraid to lose her again, Dante gambled on frankness. It would either frighten her away or reel her in. Keeping hold of her hand, he stood as close to her as he could without touching her, and spoke into her ear. “Last night you came out seeking pleasure, did you not? You didn’t find as much of it as you could with me, and I regret that. If you would spend tonight with me, I will show you pleasure beyond imagining.”

“You think much of your abilities, sir,” she said, trying to reclaim her hand.

This show of coyness amused him, considering her manners the night before. “I am confident in my talents.”

“Tell me, does one need talent to lie with whores?”

Dante could not repress a smile. He rather liked women with claws. “Whores will teach you many things you cannot learn from ladies.”

She weighed his words, then asked in her sultry whisper, “Do you have the French disease?”

“What?” he exclaimed. Her white mask regarded him impassively in the torchlight. The brim of her hat cast a shadow over her eyes so he could not read their expression. Then her mouth, that damned mouth which drove him to this insanity, curled up at the corners, laughing at him. “I do not!”

She spun around and returned to her servant. They engaged in a conversation of urgent whispers that he could not catch. He rocked on his heels while he waited. She returned in a whirl of robes and asked, “How do I know that you are not lying?”

He drew up to his full, indignant height. “I am a gentleman. I would not lie about such a thing.”

“What if you are not a gentleman at all?”

“You didn’t care so much about that last night!” he snapped. She turned her back on him.

“Wait.” Dante leapt forward to block her path. “I apologize. Please, let me show you what a gentleman I am. I will pleasure you and take none for myself. I will not so much as loosen a button of my own clothing. I swear it. It’s the least I can do after being so selfish last night.”

Another long pause, and then the glorious question, “Where would we go?”

“To a gondola,” he answered, grabbing at the first of many fantasies he had already woven involving her. Back she went to the servant, and this time launched into a full blown argument with him. Most likely he was assigned to watch her movements for her keeper. Dante considered offering him something to smooth their way, but before he could, she ended the argument and returned to stand in front of him.

“I’ll give you half an hour.” He had to lean close to hear her. “I won’t remove my mask and neither will you. The gondola must come back to the same launching point. My servant will wait there to make sure I am returned safely.”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“Done.”

Working hard not to jig, Dante offered her his arm, and the three of them walked with great dignity to the quay at the edge of the piazza. At the water’s edge, he hired a gondola with a cabin. Dante owned a gondola, but like all of his servants, his gondolier was out looking for her. While he assisted his hard won lady into the curtained cabin, her servant spoke with the gondolier and passed him some coin.

As the gondolier poled away from the moorings, Dante paid the man double to ignore whatever her servant had told him. “I don’t care where you go. Just keep your nose to yourself and don’t whistle.”

The only light in the cabin came from a small heating brazier. In that red gloom, he could see her pressed against the seat, tense as a cat. Intense negotiation, he had found, rarely led to romance. Wine often did. He wished he had thought to bring some. “Thank you for joining me,” he began, taking the seat beside her. “What shall I call you?”

“I have no name,” she whispered.

“Why do you speak in whispers? We’re alone.”

“I have no voice.”

“I see.” He rubbed his chin. This night he had made a point of shaving. “Then I will call you Bella, if you do not mind. May I ask who is this man of yours that keeps you so fearful?”

“You don’t want to know. You don’t want to know who I am, lest you recognize me. I don’t want to know who you are and be forced to acknowledge you later. Do you understand?”

“I will respect your wishes.” He understood that there were plenty of powerful men in this city who would not appreciate his tampering with their mistress, but she spoke as if this man was well known and dangerous. Dante wondered who he might be. Already he knew most of the powerful men in the city.
Even with that reassurance, she still pressed herself back in the corner. He wondered what had happened to the wanton adventuress from the night before.

“May I take your hat?” he asked. “Your hood?” As he unfastened the neck of her hood, he felt the fast rise and fall of her breast. “Are you afraid, Bella?”

“No,” she whispered. He did not believe her.

He set the hood aside. With these coverings gone, she became a woman instead of a cipher. A woman with a small, round head balanced on a swan’s neck. A woman with fair hair gathered at her nape, and pointed little ears. In the dim light, he could read her eyes just enough to know how intently she studied him. Their color was difficult to judge. Grey or blue perhaps. Not dark. The mask covered her nose and curved over her cheeks, but unless it hid something unexpected, he suspected she would be beautiful with it off.

Her small white hands fluttered into the air tentatively, as if she were making a decision. Suddenly resolute, she threw aside his hat and pushed off his hood. She stroked either side of his head, then sank her fingers into his hair.

Smiling, he pulled the ribbon at the back of his neck and freed his hair for her, thinking—hoping—that the man who kept her possessed a total of two or three strands combed over his pate.

Her delicate fingers ranged over his mask, his jaw, and then returned to his hair. Islanders who had never seen a European before had touched him in much the same way: innocent, unabashed, curious. She traced his lips with her fingertips. That feather-light touch shot down to his toes. He cupped his hand over hers and kissed her palm.

That familiar, peculiar scent he had noticed the night before was on her hand. It evoked memories of the excitement of leaving port with a clean, newly rigged ship and hold full of stores. A woman’s scent did not usually send his mind in that particular direction. Dante turned her hand over and kissed her knuckles, inhaling deeply. The answer came to him. Linseed oil. Shipboard it was used to waterproof wood and cloth, in mixing varnish and the like, but what would she be doing with it?

He realized that she was staring at him, wondering why he snuffled at her hand. Putting aside the question of linseed oil, he released her hand. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she forgot whatever fears governed her. The night before she had needed no coaxing whatsoever, but this night, for whatever reason, she was different. So he waited her to come to him.

This confused her. He could see it in the tilt of her head. She leaned closer. Her warm breath drifted across his cheek. Inside, he screamed for her touch, but he did not move. Another endless second passed, and then the smile appeared. His heart leapt to see it. She raised one hand to his cheek and kissed him as she had the night before. Once she decided to move forward, there was nothing modest, or even coy, about her kiss. Its honesty took his breath and set him afire.

Her mouth opened to his and he left off thinking altogether. That is, until their masks knocked together. They both had to remember to hold their heads just so or that would happen. It had not bothered him so much in the alley, but now Dante bridled at the awkwardness of it all.

“Surely we can take these things off now, Bella?”

“Already you question my rules?” Her smile curled against his lips.

“You are a cruel woman, cara mia.” To hold her was to want her, but he had given up that claim for this night. This night was about penance. So he prepared to suffer.

Her stays pushed her breasts into perfect half-circles above the neck of her gown. He kissed the crest of each one while he loosened the ties at her back. Bella sat at the edge of the seat, her breath coming in shallow pants. The stays gave and he peeled down the fine linen of her shift to cup his hand over one warm breast. She softened and leaned into his hand, openly sensual. Dante began to suspect she would not be hard to please.

“Your breasts are beautiful, Bella, like white doves.” Pressing her back against the seat, he first stroked her entire breast using only the tips of his fingers, then caressed deeply with his palms. Like her, her breasts were not large, but they were creamy white, high set, virginal. As he teased their tips to hardness, her breath caught over and over. Taking the weight of first one in his hand, then the other, he dipped his head down and laved the nipples, soothing them in turn, then sucking them deep into his mouth. Under his attentions she made a wonderful noise, very like purring. Running his tongue along the underside of her breast, he reveled in the elemental pleasure of her satin skin against his cheek, her salty taste, the purely female scent rising from her bodice.

They had nothing but time, so he decided to draw out every moment. Leaving one hand on her breast, he began to lay slow kisses along her collarbones, dipping his tongue in the hollow between them. He lingered over her pulse. Only a little of her skin was exposed to his attentions. He did not plan to miss an inch of it. With slow deliberation, he kissed his way up the long line of her throat, sucking, nipping until she moaned.

One of her hands flexed in his hair, the other slid down to the back of his neck. Her breathing had slowed. She was right where he wanted her––very pleased, but not too warm. He nuzzled beneath her chin and behind her ear. Under his hands and mouth, he felt her limbs grow soft and loose. He could do anything with her now. Several appealing options occurred to him, none of which were legal that night.

“Bella, sit in my lap,” he whispered, reluctant to disturb her dream. She quirked one corner of her mouth up as if she knew his plans and conspired with him. He could not help but kiss her for it, kiss her rather more than he intended. Then she slipped her sweet tongue into his mouth and he lost track of all his resolutions.

She slid down the seat to lie on her back and pulled him over her decisively. Madonna Santisimma! He felt a lurch, thought it was the gondola at first, then realized it was his heart, his stomach, his cock. Blind, burning, he crushed her against the seat and pillaged her mouth, while she urged him on flagrantly, parting her legs for him, pressing her hips against his. Without any conscious intention, his hands began to bunch her skirts higher and higher and skimmed up her supple, bare thighs. All his blood screamed for possession, honor be damned.

***

Please visit the Excerpt Monday homepage to learn more about this program, and to see a complete listing of participating authors. I think I have most of this month's links below. The rating refers to entire contents of the website on which the excerpt rests:
Excerpt Monday Hosts:

Mel Berthier, Urban Fantasy (PG 13)
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)

Participants:

Christina DeLorenzo, YA (PG 13)
Bryn Donovan, Paranormal (PG)
MG Braden, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)
Cynthia Justlin, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Kaige, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Adelle Laundan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance (PG 13)
RF Long, Paranormal (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Paranormal (PG 13)
Dara Sorensen, Paranormal (PG)

Grace Draven, Fantasy Romance (R)
Cate Hart, YA- Paranormal (R)
Aithne Jarretta, Paranormal (R)

Kim Knox, Erotic- Sci-fi Suspense (R)
Inez Kelley, Contemporary Romantic Comedy (R)
Aislinn Kerry, Paranormal (R)
Cherrie Lynn, Erotic- Contemporary Romance (R)
Alina Morgan, Urban Fantasy (R)

Stephanie Adkins, Erotic- Supsense (NC 17)
Ella Drake, Sci-Fi Romance (NC 17)
Annie Nicholas, Sci-Fi Romance (NC 17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic – Fantasy (NC 17)

The boy is beautiful

2009-06-10T16:20:00.000-07:00

5th C. Athenian red figure kylix, Metropolitan Museum, New York

Another treasure from the endlessly useful Wikimedia Commons. This is a kylix, which is a broad and shallow wine cup. The picture is actually painted in the bottom of the cup, so you can only see it if you drink all your wine. This image is of an older man soliciting a younger one for sex in exchange for purse of coins. The inscription reads HO PAIS KALOS: "The Boy is Beautiful." Yes, indeed, he is. If you look closely (click to enlarge) you can see that the artist was at pains to depict the well-defined muscles of the younger man's arms and torso.

Summer used to be fun

2009-06-06T09:16:00.001-07:00

A sunshiny summer offering from Paul-Émile Becát (1885-1960), the subject of many fond posts here at the Erotická Revue. Just follow the labels. And as usual, click for a closer look.

Diversion #4: Simply Shameless!

2009-05-29T08:15:00.000-07:00

Diversions is an ongoing series of excerpts from contemporary writers of erotica and erotic romance. I hope that through this series, you might discover a new favorite author. To read other excerpts, just follow the Diversions tag.

Today I am thrilled to have an excerpt from the latest book from the very talented Kate Pearce: Simply Shameless. She was kind enough to pull this excerpt especially for The Erotická Revue, so enjoy! To read Chapter One, click here. Please check out her website for more information about this series, and her other work. (hint: she writes Westerns too!)

An introduction from Kate:

Simply Shameless is the third book in my Regency-set erotic romances from Kensington Aphrodisia. The books are loosely based around the 'House of Pleasure' a private sex club in London, owned by Madame Helene Delornay This scene comes near the beginning of the book when Helene and Philip meet up after an eighteen-year separation. Helene has been forced into a business partnership with Philip and is trying to make him renege on their bargain. She's prepared to do what ever it takes to get rid of him.

***

He paused in the center of the room, hands fisted at his sides.

“This is not what I expected at all.”

“It is not?”

She draped her shawl over a chair and kicked off her high-heeled slippers giving her toes some much-needed relief.

“I imagined it would be more…”

“Crude, tasteless and sinful?”

He frowned. “I was going to say colorful but any of the above words will do quite as well.”

Ah, so despite his raging erection, he was back to being stuffy again. Somehow that made it far easier for Helene to deal with him. She strolled across to him, watched him tense as if for flight.

“Could you undo my gown for me? I can’t reach the ties.” She turned her back on him and stood still. It only took a moment for him to start on the task. His fingers shook like a virgin’s whenever they brushed her revealed flesh. Helene fought a smile. Whatever had happened to him in the past, his sexual future was hers—at least for the next thirty days.

“It is done.”

“Merci.”

She slowly turned to face him, allowed the bodice of her dress to fall to her waist. His heated gaze followed the downward slide of the silk. With a deliberate shimmy, Helene allowed the dress to drop to the thick carpet and stepped out of it. She wasn’t particularly vain but she knew she looked well for her age, her skin firm, her breasts plump and rounded, her derriere tight.

Philip licked his lips as she ran her hands over her corset and sighed. Her breasts were almost fully exposed and lifted by the design of the shift to look as if they were cupped by a man’s hands. The shift beneath her corset was fine lawn and did little to hide her skin or the fair hair at the juncture of her thighs. Blue ribbons held up her stocking just above her knee.

She let out her breath with exaggerated care. “I hate wearing a corset. They are so restrictive.” She plucked at the strings. “Men do not know how lucky they are not having to follow such absurd fashions.”

Without speaking, Philip spun her around and unlaced the corset letting it fall to the ground. Helene stepped out of it, turned away from him and went to her dressing table. She sat down, raised her arms and began to take the pins out of her hair. In recent years, many women had adopted the shorter, more fashionable hairstyles but Helene believed most men preferred a woman to have long hair.

She watched in her mirror as Philip took two halting steps toward her. Even if he didn’t realize it yet, every time he returned to her side was an admission of his sexual interest and of his needs. She picked up her silver-backed hair brush.

“Would you like to brush my hair for me?”

“Why?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Because my maid has left and it is hard to see the tangles at the back when I do it myself.”

He held out his hand and she gave him the brush. She loved having her hair combed. It made her feel like a child again, made her remember her mother in a kinder light than her last memories of their days in the Bastille.

“Mmm…that’s nice.”

Philip still didn’t speak, his gaze directed downward, his hands steady as he parted her hair and carefully brushed from the roots to the ends. She tried to catch his eye in the mirror.

“You are good at this. Did you brush your wife’s hair?”

He went still and the bristles stuck in her hair jerking her head back. Ah, things had definitely been awry between him and his wife.

“No.” He put the brush on her dressing table and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Now enough of this posturing. I want you to suck my cock.”

She met his angry stare in the mirror.

“If you don’t take your hands off me, I will scream.”

“I’m sure your footman’s heard you scream before. I’ll wager he doesn’t burst in here every time you have sex.”

She held his gaze. “Take your hands off me or you will find out whether he knows the difference. Jem is a champion boxer. I can assure you your encounter will not be pleasant.”

“You asked me to accompany you to your suite.”

He released her and stepped back, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Helene swiveled on the low stool to face him.

“That is true, but I didn’t agree to touch you, did I?”

A hint of angry red flushed his cheeks. “You owe me thirty nights of sex.”

Helene allowed her hand to slide from her throat to the swell of her breasts and toyed with the lace ribbon of her shift. His heated gaze followed her fingers.

“Your first day is tomorrow. And night follows day, n’est-ce pas?”

“So why did you ask me in here?”

She opened her eyes wide at him. “I simply asked you to escort me to my suite, did I not?”

A muscle flicked in his cheek and he bowed.

“I can only apologize for my error, madame. You must forgive me. A country bumpkin like myself didn’t realize that when an experienced woman who runs a brothel invites a man into her bedroom and he helps her out of most of her clothes, she is not actually offering to have sex with him.”

She offered him her most enthusiastic smile and clasped her hands to her breasts.

“That’s exactly right, my lord. I’m so glad you see the error of your ways.”

He glared at her and headed for the door. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

He started for the door and she waited until he almost reached it.

“My lord?”

“What is it now?”

He turned reluctantly as she rose to her feet.

“Could you possibly open that drawer beside my bed and take out the things inside?”

He slowly exhaled. “Why can’t you get them yourself?”

“But you are closer, my lord.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You do not need to bring them to me. Just place them on the bed.”

“Oh for God’s sake…”

He yanked open the drawer with such force that the contents ended up on the carpet. Helene kept smiling as he bent to pick them up. Her book of erotic sexual positions had fallen open so he couldn’t fail to see what she read before she went to bed. Her thick pink marble diletto looked awkward in his big hands. She imagined him using it on her, found the idea strangely arousing.

“Just put them on the bed, my lord.” He obeyed her, his face impassive, his hands steady. She blew him an airy kiss. “Good night, and remember I’ll expect to see you at six in the morning. Meet me in the kitchen.”

“Goodnight madame, and good riddance.”

His final words were muttered under his breath as he marched toward the door and slammed it shut behind him. Helene let out her breath. Baiting him was a dangerous game but she needed to test his limits, find his weaknesses and work on them to send him packing. She had learned one thing. His marriage had been difficult. She scolded herself for the small twinge of satisfaction that thought gave her.

With a sigh, she wandered over to her bed and picked up her book to study the complicated sexual position portrayed in the engraving. What a shame it involved two women. Philip would never agree to that. In the past, if his interests hadn’t changed, he’d been more interested in men. Helene closed the book with a snap. That was definitely something to consider in her campaign to oust him from her business.

Tomorrow night would belong to Philip. How would he repay her for her deliberate attempts to rile him? Anticipation rose in her and she smiled. At least she couldn’t complain that she was bored.

Philip escaped down the hallway and then realized he had no idea where to go next. His cock and balls ached so badly he wanted to scream. Damn Helene for playing games with him and damn that ridiculous agreement he’d made. He should’ve just put her flat on her back and fucked her the moment he’d gotten into her room.

“Can I help you, sir?”

He stared into the face of Sean, the Irish footmen he’d met earlier.

“I’m fine thank you, but I’m still a bit uncertain of the layout of the house. How does one get to the peepholes on the second level? Madame was going to show me them but had to retire.”

There was no flicker of surprise in Sean’s gaze or any hint of condemnation.
“That’s easy, sir. Take the back stairs up to the next floor and look for a white door in the middle of the hallway that doesn’t have a number on it. That’s where you enter the passages, sir.”

“Thank you, Sean.”

“You are welcome, sir. Have a good evening.”

Philip found his way up the stairs and emerged into the silent corridor, his heart thumping hard, his cock now painfully engorged. After a quick look around, he opened the unmarked door and slipped inside. Despite his fears, the narrow passageway was well-lit and high enough to let him stand upright. He also noticed that above each peephole was the number of the corresponding room beyond. How efficient, how just like Helene.

He pictured her creamy skin, the moment when he’d revealed her corset and the hard pink tips of her nipples thrusting through the lace. Despite all their years apart he still wanted her. With a stifled groan, he made his way along to the peephole marked number ten. It was open and he leaned forward, trying to adjust to the new view of the room and the two people on the bed.

A naked dark-haired woman was tied to the bed by the wrists and the ankles, with the golden ropes, her legs spread wide. A man dressed in elegant grey evening attire stood over her, his gloved hands busy caressing her flesh as she writhed against the bonds. Philip swallowed hard as the man shifted his position allowing Philip an excellent view of the woman’s sex.

Philip rested his brow against the wall and ripped open his breeches. His shirt and under things were soaked with pre-cum, his balls, high and tight against the base of his swollen shaft. The man in the room also unbuttoned his breeches and knelt between the woman’s legs.

Philip held his breath as the man slid his hands under the woman’s buttocks and began to fuck. Philip worked his own cock into their rhythm, matched the man’s grunts and groans with his own. After about ten hard strokes Philip came. The man on the bed continued to move, lifting the woman into his thrusts, his buttocks tightening and relaxing with each forward motion.

Despite having come, Philip kept his hand wrapped around his cock and continued to watch. Had they heard him vicariously sharing their pleasure? Had the thought that someone watched them excited them? Or perhaps they didn’t care, too engrossed in each other to notice anything other than the delights of the flesh.

The man groaned, went still and collapsed over the bound woman. She kissed the side of his neck and nuzzled his ear as he shuddered and writhed against her. Slowly Philip withdrew his hand from his breeches and took out his handkerchief to wipe the evidence of his lonely passion from his fingers. How pathetic was he? Reduced to watching complete strangers couple to reach sexual completion. No wonder Helene found him so amusing. With her vast sexual experience, his humiliating lack of practice must be all too obvious.

Philip shoved the handkerchief done the front of his breeches and roughly cleaned himself. Despite his efforts, his damp buckskin breeches would cling to his shaft showing exactly how he had enjoyed himself to all the other guests at the pleasure house. Not that he cared what they thought of him. He cared only that he’d allowed Helene to raise his sexual passions to such a height that he had to find release or die.

He re-buttoned his breeches and slowly straightened, couldn’t resist one last glimpse through the peep hole. The man lay tied to the bed now, his cock already erect and the woman straddled his chest. Philip felt an answering twinge in his own shaft and forced himself to step away. Pleasuring himself once showed a severe lack of self-discipline. Twice would make him as depraved as the others who flocked to fuck here.

As he made his way back to the door, he thought about Helene. Wondered if she was reading her salacious book and pleasuring herself with that monstrous dildo. His cock hardened in a single rush. Damnation, he was beginning to feel like his fifteen year old self again, constantly erect, terrified that his parents and schoolmates would notice and laugh at him. Despite the abrupt nature of his dismissal from England that year, he’d been almost relieved when his father had sent him overseas. At least in India, he’d been able to understand and deal with his budding sexuality.

He paused to readjust his damp breeches. He’d wager he was the only man leaving the pleasure house with a still-hard cock. Helene wouldn’t be happy about that at all. He slammed his hand against the panel and pushed the exit door wide, no longer caring if anyone saw him. How dare she be so comfortable with her brazenly sexual nature? Surely she should have some shame or remorse for the path she had chosen?

Philip consoled himself with the thought that his next night would be spent in Helene’s bed. Perhaps it was time to turn the tables on Helene, tie her to the bed and do what he wanted to her. He smiled at the salacious thought as he descended the main staircase and waited for a footman to retrieve his hat and gloves. The ornate clock chimed once and he winced. He only had five hours before Helene expected to see him again and he was already drained. He still had letters to write to explain his continued absence from the estate and his children.

He tipped his hat to the butler and stepped out into the light drizzle. His rented house wasn’t that far from the pleasure house so he decided to walk. Strangely enough, the thought of returning to win a wager against Helene was far more invigorating than delving into the complex administration of his new position. He had a lifetime to acquaint himself with Sudbury Hall and its tenants and only thirty days with Helene to sort out...

He paused at the curb to look both ways and then took a shortcut across the square. What did he need to sort out with Helene? A woman from his past, a woman so far removed from him socially that to be seen in her company would subject him to the kind of gossip and innuendo he’d striven so hard to avoid during his marriage?

Soft rain gusted into his face and he licked his lips. He’d lost himself somewhere. After his care-free existence in India and his weekend with Helene, something had gone terribly wrong. Was he a fool to believe he was redeemable? He jammed his hat down on his head. Thirty days with Helene was the perfect opportunity to find out.

Foot Fetish: Excerpt Mondays

2009-05-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a long time since I've had any naughty pictures up here, but I beg your indulgence a little longer. I'm participating in Excerpt Monday, a special day once a month where authors share their excerpts on the web. This month I'm using it as an excuse to post another excerpt from Bound by Blood.

Scroll down to the bottom of the page for a list of links to more participants. You might find a writer you like!

EXCERPT FROM BOUND BY BLOOD, available now at Samhain.

Set up: Gregor, my grumpy vampire hero, runs over Maddy in the street. She's injured, but refuses to let him take her to the hospital. Instead, she asks him to take him home. Once there, she continues to refuse to let him do anything to assist her. This is what happens when he decides to sneak back and help her anyway.

Aiming for maximum brain soothing, she chose to watch her well-worn DVD of the original Star Trek series, Season One. With her foot up on pillows, the covers up around her chin, and the sonorous tones of Leonard Nimoy in her ears, she was feeling no pain. If only someone would bring her a vodka tonic, she’d be perfect.

It didn’t take long for her to doze off. She fought it, meaning to watch the episode to the end, but her eyes kept closing. Her half-dreams and the Star Trek episode started to meld in strange ways. Dr. McCoy gave her a sympathetic look and one of those cure-all shots to the neck. Her bed was on the transporter platform and she knew she really needed to get off it, but she was too tired to move. Gregor Faustin was on the transporter platform, too, barefoot. He turned off the TV and made a strange gesture with his hand, as if drawing something in the air.

“This is a dream, Madelena.”

“Well, duh.”

He came to sit on the side of her bed, down by her feet, a heavy, brooding presence. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his hands were clasped together. A shock of hair hung over his eyes. “Why aren’t you more angry at me for hitting you?”

Maddy shrugged. “What good would that do? Nothing can change what happened. All I can control is how I feel about it.” She never intended to be the Dalai Lama of Queens, but this was a pragmatic philosophy. If she got upset about every little thing she’d be pushing up daisies.
Faustin shook his head. “That’s very Zen of you, but it’s not enough for me.”

With clinical precision, he lifted the blanket that covered her legs, folding it back to her knee and putting aside the ice bag. His fingers gently traced over the bandage on her scraped-up calf. His touch was so soothing, so inherently pleasurable, that Maddy sank backward, falling deep, deep into her pillows.

His voice came to her through a thickening fog. “I’m going to heal your wounds.”

“Okay.” She watched him under heavy eyelids. How strange that he could be there and not be there at the same time.

Like a big, dark cat he curled himself over her left calf. His back blocked her view, but she felt a sharp sting as he ripped off her bandage, followed by soothing warmth and wetness of his tongue lapping the wound. Verrrrrry unsanitary. Oh, but it was nice.

It felt real.

It had to be a dream. Gregor Faustin would not be licking her wounds otherwise.

She did not remember wondering this aloud, but Faustin stopped his licking.

“Of course it’s a dream. How would I get in here? I locked the door on the way out.”

Maddy relaxed again. “Makes sense.”

His tongue traced its way up her calf, and she knew he was following the line of the big cut. This one he worked on a long time, licking it longways first, probing its edges with an agile tongue, then lashing it crossways with a thousand tiny flicks. The surface of his tongue was scratchy, like a cat’s, and every lick came with a kick of pleasure.

Maddy realized this might be one of those kinds of dreams. Why not? Testing the waters, she said, “If you want to take that tongue of yours northwards, that’s a-okay with me.”

He laughed—sort of. Or maybe he was choking. So it was not one of those dreams.

Changing position so that he lay stretched on his belly, he shifted his attention to her twisted ankle. With cool fingers he probed the swelling, and then lapped the skin of her ankle in an exploratory way, like a lizard testing the air.

“This swelling is fluid gathering around the joint,” he said as he smoothed his hand up her calf, around her knee. Wanting that touch all over her body, she bent her knee, and his hand slid up her thigh. Way, way up.

“Jesus,” she whispered as a flood of erotic images passed through her mind. She and Faustin assuming every position ever invented, then going on to make up some more of their own.

“Maddy!” The sharpness of his voice cut through the fog. She opened her eyes. His cheek rested against her calf. When he saw he had her attention he turned his head and kissed her knee. “Stay with me. Does this leg hurt anywhere else?”

She shook her head no.

Cupping her heel in one palm, he raised her foot and began to cover it with slow kisses. Not just on the swollen ankle, but along the arch of her foot.

“You have stars on your toes…” he murmured, his voice throaty and rich. He referred to her creative pedicure, which she rather liked herself: one yellow cartoon star on each nail.

His tongue swirled around her big toe, and found its way into the space between her toes. She cried out. The sensation was not ticklish, as she’d expect, but deep and warm and unbearably pleasurable. No one had ever kissed her feet before.

His mouth traveled back up her foot to her ankle. There he started to lick in a slow circle around the anklebone, or where the anklebone would be if it were not hidden by the swelling. A deep humming came from him as he did this, and his licks built in intensity, his rough tongue waking her skin, waking her whole body.

Like a white hot arrow, the sensation building in her foot flew upward and pierced her between the legs. She wanted him there, eating her out. She wanted him inside, thrusting.

Suddenly she was open with longing, flooding wet. His fingers danced along the sole of her foot, his tongue flicked and probed, his kisses were deep and sucking.

Forget the damn foot, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t speak—she was coming. Her back arched, her mouth opened, and at the peak something pierced her ankle, giving her release.
Her legs jerked as the convulsion rocked through her, but Faustin held her foot tight. He was sucking on it, and the sucking felt like heaven, felt like nothing in this world.

The orgasm passed into quietness, and his sucking subsided. Then he nuzzled her foot, flicking his tongue here and there. She smiled with contentment…and bit by bit her mind cleared.

This was real.

Maddy straightened her glasses and puzzled at the man lounging at her feet with one hand wrapped possessively around her ankle.

She just had…foot sex?

With Gregor Faustin?

Who ran her over?

“This is not a dream.”

Faustin raised his head and said sternly, “Yes, it is.”

“Bullshit.” A little slither of panic passed through her. “This is too weird to be a dream.”

Scowling, he crawled over her, straddling her hips and planting his hands on either side of her head. His lips were red and swollen, his expression fierce as he stared down at her. “It is what I say it is, Madelena.”

“But—”

“Shh.” He grabbed her jaw and turned her face to one side. His tongue ran up her temple.

Maddy shouted into the pillow, “Stop goddamn licking me!”

Fingers hard, he turned her face back toward him. “Look in my eyes.”
She slapped his hand away. “Why, are you trying to hypnotize me or something?”

His jaw dropped open, in offense, or amazement, she didn’t know. Then he snapped it shut and his eyes narrowed.

“You are the most impossible—” He cut himself off and drew a deep breath. “All I am trying to do is right a wrong.”

“By exercising your foot fetish?”

“You’re the one who came. Who has the fetish?”

A hot blush raced from her cheeks to her hairline as she remembered her cry, her convulsion, her need. She wanted him still, angry as she was. Then she saw what he was doing.

“Oh, that’s right, blame the victim. Nice, Faustin.”

With great satisfaction she saw an answering flush creep over his cheeks. So he did know the meaning of shame.

Unwilling to continue this conversation on her back, she hoisted herself up and ended nose to nose with him. Their eyes locked and held. His eyes were blue, she could see that even in the dimness of her room, but up close they did not look quite…right.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she whispered, her heart beating a mile a minute.

He held her gaze, and the longer he did, the faster she breathed. Then he dropped his lids, his eyelashes black half circles on his cheeks. When he raised them again, a decision had been made.

“You’re dreaming.”

He vanished.

***

The Excerpt Monday website, for more info:

http://excerptmonday.wordpress.com/

The hosts of Excerpt Mondays:

Mel Berthier, Urban Fantasy (PG-13)
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)

This month's participants, organized by rating:

Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)
Melissa Aires, Paranormal Erotic Romance (PG)
Gina Ardito, Historical Paranormal (PG)
Kinsey W. Holley, Paranormal (PG)
Cynthia Justlin, Romantic Suspense (PG)
Jeannie Lin, Historical (PG)
RF Long, Fantasy (PG)

Mel Berthier, Urban Fantasy (PG-13)
Lynne Chandler, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)
Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG-13)
Ansha Kotyk, Middle Grade Adventure (PG 13)
Adelle Laudan, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Historical Paranormal Romance (PG-13)
Alina Morgan, Urban Fantasy (PG 13)

Leah Braemel, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)
Evie Byrne, Paranormal (R)
Jax Cassidy, Erotic Contemporary (R)
Cate Hart, YA (R)
Inez Kelley, Rom Com (R)
Ainslinn Kerry, Paranormal Romance (R)
Elise Logan, Paranormal/contemporary (R)
Suzanne McLeod, Urban Fantasy (R)
Annie Nicholas, Paranormal Romantic Suspense (R)
Vivienne Westlake, Historical Erotica (R)

Ella Drake, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC-17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic Romance/Fantasy (NC-17)
Kate Willoughby, Fantasy/Parnormal Erotic Romance (NC-17)

Contest Winner Announced

2009-05-07T09:49:00.000-07:00

I numbered your emails as they came in and used a random number generator to pick one. The lucky number was six, and it belonged to Linnette. Congrats, Linnette! A copy of Bound by Blood is on the way to her.

Entering this contest in no way prevents you for entering the second contest for the necklace. So if you buy Bound by Blood, be sure to enter! Details in the post below.

And finally, thanks to all of you who have joined my mailing list. I really appreciate it, and I look forward to sending you word when book 3, Mikhail's story, comes out

Release Day! Fun and Prizes

2009-05-05T09:11:00.000-07:00

Hey all, Bound by Blood, the second Faustin Brother story, is out today at Samhain!

I'm running two contests to celebrate--one to help you read the book, and a second to reward you for reading.

The first part is a giveaway of this book. (Mind, this is an e-book. no paper will be sent your way.) All you have to do is join my email list so I can tell you when book #3 comes out. I swear I have no plans to spam you. I'll only send you new book announcements two or three times a year.

Just send me an email with "mailing list" or something similar in the title so I recognize it. You don't have to write anything in the body. I'll draw a name from that pool for a free copy on this Thursday morning (5/7). My email is evbyrne at gmail dot com.

The second contest is for people who actually buy the book. For you wonderful people I have a super cute little vampire bite necklace. Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you lots of obscure questions and make you read the book right away.

All you have to do is open your copy of Bound by Blood to Chapter Two and tell me what the last two words of the chapter are--no peeking at what happens before that! Send these two words to evbyrne at gmail dot com and you'll be in the pool for the drawing. Be sure to give me your preferred contact information in that mail.

This is the necklace:

You can take a closer look at it at Etsy: http://www.thelonelyoak.etsy.com/ It's crafted by one of the members of Romance Divas who just opened his own Etsy site.

The deadline for this contest is midnight, Tuesday, May 12th--one week from today. I'll announce the results on the 13th.

Sorry, I've decided to give you all a little more time.

***The new deadline for the necklace contest is 2 weeks from release day, Tuedsay May 18th. I'll draw the prize winning name on Wednesday.***

Note: For both contests, I will hold a second drawing and give away the prize if I can't make contact with the winner within 72 hours, so make sure you give me good contact information!

A Spartan in need of assistance

2009-05-03T00:30:00.000-07:00

The Examination of the Spartan Herald (1896), by the much imitated but never matched Aubrey Beardsley

I've been thinking about priapic romance heroes lately, so this image tickles my fancy. Lysistrata is a play from around 400 BC. written by Aristophanes. If you haven't heard of it, it's a bawdy comedy about an Athenian woman named Lysistrata ("army-disbander") who ends a war between Athens and Sparta by convincing the womenfolk to withhold their sexual favors until peace is declared. Here Beardsley is illustrating the arrival of the Spartan herald, who has arrived to begin negotiations. As you see, he is suffering greatly from Lysistrata's schemes.

Frozen oaths

2009-04-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

"I Do" wedding bands by Sakurako Shimizu

While reading about the Love Design exhibit I posted about last week, I discovered the amazing work of Sakurako Shimizu, a Japanese artist, curator and conceptual jewelry designer based out of Brooklyn. Much of her work revolves around using sound waves as a design element in jewelry. She takes a sound recording and then cuts the sound wave pattern into metal, in essence recording the sound--or making it permanent--or making it visible.

Above are wedding rings engraved from the actual recordings of the bride and groom saying "I do." You can see on the rings how even a such a short, simple phrase takes on an unique wave form reflecting the vocal qualities of the speaker. During the wedding ceremony, we're told the ring represents the oath, but having the actual vow captured in the ring makes that quite concrete, and in an interesting way.

It also makes me realize that we really have become digital creatures. It's fascinating that these highly abstract forms--these jaggedy artifacts of a single moment in time--are recognizable and compelling to us in a way which would be inexplicable to our great-grandparents.

Other pieces she's done include the sound of a bell recorded on a cuff (my favorite) and giggle trapped in a necklace.

Diversions #3: Fortunate Son

2009-04-19T12:26:00.000-07:00

"Diversions" is an ongoing series of excerpts from contemporary writers of erotica and erotic romance. I hope that through this series, you might find a new favorite author. To read other excerpts, just follow the Diversions tag.

Today I have an excerpt from Fortunate Son by Fae Sutherland and Marguerite Labbe, a novella length m/m romance set the Vietnam era.

Set up: On a bus full of hippies heading to Washington DC, under the protective haze of bong smoke and hallucinogens, Ricky and Charlie take a moment for themselves in the very back seat.

Ricky claimed Charlie’s lips again, rocking his hips, one hand firm on Charlie’s narrow waist to hold him steady as he thrust, his movements forced to be shallow and short, but the pleasure was no less intense. Muted and strung tight, the effort to keep quiet and the high running through his body all combined into what was possibly the most stunning sex Ricky had ever had. Of course, every time with Charlie translated into the best time ever. Each upped the last and Ricky wondered if it would ever plateau and stop getting better.

Charlie’s hand laced with Ricky’s on his side, and Ricky squeezed, circling his hips. Charlie gasped and whimpered, the quiet sound shuddering through Ricky. He panted, murmuring against Charlie’s lips. “My gypsy love…” His tongue traced sensually, and he groaned when his lover sucked it into his mouth. The kiss delved hotter than ever into dark, shadowed recesses where the dirtiest things happened. Shadows Ricky only dared to explore with Charlie.

“Mmmm, wanna take off in a boat with you, Ricky. Just us on the ocean, free, no worries.” Charlie sighed as he broke the kiss, thumb stroking the back of Ricky’s hand. “I can write my poems about you, sing you songs. I’ll be all yours.”

“You are all mine.” Ricky kissed Charlie again. It was a nice dream and he thought he might live in it a little while as they made love. It beat reality, where there were drafts to worry about and the weight of knowing his parents had sold some of their land to give him a chance his brother had never had.

Ricky’s heart twisted. He wrapped his arms around Charlie, pressing closer, hiding his face in Charlie’s neck as he thrust harder. Charlie gasped. The musical sound brought him back to the dream and the familiar pain drifted away. Heat, pleasure and Charlie’s writhing, slim body were the only things that existed.

The bus lurched into a pothole, bouncing them, and Charlie moaned loudly, clenching. Ricky loosened one arm to brush Charlie’s hair away and then fisted his hand in it so he could kiss him. That muffled his moans because Charlie was beyond holding back. He got like this when the wild, sensual side of him was unleashed, as if all thoughts of decorum fled. Ricky loved it.

Charlie rocked harder. At one point, he’d reached behind the both of them and now Charlie’s fingers were pressed against Ricky’s ass, holding him still as he worked back and forth on his cock. Ricky couldn’t breathe. Maybe it was the kiss, or the sensations…he didn’t know or care. He just didn’t want it to end.

Oh, but it was going to end, and too soon for Ricky. He groaned, fingers curling tighter on Charlie’s waist, digging into the sleek skin as the pleasure rose.

He moaned, trying to keep quiet, but he was rapidly forgetting why he should. He pulled back slightly and managed to slide his free hand around to close over Charlie’s mouth, shuddering when Charlie drew one of Ricky’s fingers inside and suckled on it.

Ricky’s hips thrust harder, short and deep, grinding against Charlie’s ass. “Charlie…” He gasped, burying his face in Charlie’s neck and latching onto the tender skin, drawing on it, marking him, and Charlie shuddered hard in reaction. Then he tightened, and Ricky was lost, stiffening and bucking his hips hard as he came.

Charlie wasn’t far behind, working his hips back hard, circling them, shaking, and when he came, he bit the pad of Ricky’s finger, stinging it, but not in a bad way. The connection between them was breathtaking, and Ricky quickly withdrew his finger and claimed Charlie’s lips as the last tremors of his orgasm wracked his body.

They were sweaty and sticky, and Ricky didn’t care. He was floating unfettered, with only Charlie for company and it was more than enough. He panted, lips curving in a lazy smile. “Aw, damn, my wicked gypsy love…”

Charlie sagged into the broken upholstery and wrapped the blanket tighter around them. “Wicked? Nah, farm boy, that’s all you. I thought they grew them innocent in Iowa.”

Ricky chuckled and rubbed his mouth against Charlie’s throat. The sex in the air was more potent than the drugs. “I was, then I met you. You taught me all kinds of things besides what was in those books of yours.”

Charlie shook his head, his hair tickling Ricky. “It was already there, just hidden. Maybe I woke it up, but it’s always been there.” He turned his head and brushed a kiss over Ricky’s jaw. “Now you’re teaching me things. Wonderful things.” His voice sounded sleepy and sated, and Ricky knew he’d put that tone there.

“Share ’em with me in the morning.” Ricky nudged those lips apart and kissed him lingeringly. They should move, but it felt so good to be snuggled up against him, still inside his heat. “Got a long day ahead.”

Charlie’s fingers stroked his hair, tender in a way that made Ricky’s throat tighten. “You going to be okay tomorrow?”

Ricky thought of his brother and his heart twisted. The drugs and Charlie’s warmth muted the anger, but it would be there in the morning. It always was. Charlie was the only thing that tempered it. “I’ll be fine. I’ve gotta do this.”

Charlie laid his head back on Ricky’s shoulder. “Me, too. We’ll do it together.”

***

Find out more about the authors and their work at: http://chasethedream.net

Purchase Fortunate Son as an e-book at Amber Quill

Love Design

2009-04-17T07:38:00.000-07:00

Traces of an Imaginary Affair by Björn Franke

I just read a post on the FastCompany blog about a design exhibition in Milan called Love Design devoted to cutting edge sex toys and erotic objects. It looks like the joyful conjunction of high-end lifestyle design with erotica.

Rather than rehash it here, I highly recommend you go check it out at the link above. There's many pictures.

The show features 20 objects from an upcoming book of the same name by Daab Press. Needless to say, I can hardly wait to take a peek at it.

While many of the objects are more straightforward, like a neat little bedside lamp that hides a dildo in its base, some are more like conceptual art. The piece that really caught my imagination is Traces of an Imaginary Affair, represented by the image above. Artist/designer Björn Franke designed a set of nine wicked tools which allow you mark your own body with bite marks and scratches, creating the illusion that you are having an affair with a passionate partner.

Excerpting with the Divas

2009-04-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

I'm a member of Romance Divas, which is one of the most supportive writing communities in all of the wide and copious intertubes. Today at Divas is Excerpt Monday, in which we share excerpts of our work with one another and the world.

And there's more! To spread that love around, we post links to other Diva's excerpts as well. So be sure to scroll to the bottom of the page for a whole big list of high quality excerpage.

My excerpt is from my upcoming release, Bound by Blood. This is Book 2 of my funny-dark-sweet-hot vampire series.

Set up: This is Maddy and Gregor's second meeting. The first time they met, he ran her over with his car. Things got complicated from there. Long story short, she doesn't think she'll ever see him again, but fate intervenes in the form of a taxi cab:

An empty cab appeared in Maddy’s line of vision just as she was about to bite down on a steaming hot frank smothered in relish. “Damn.”

Quickly she wrapped the foil back around it and ran forward with her arm upraised. If she got it she may not be late to her herbalist after all, and that would almost make up for the sin of eating a nitrate-and-preservative-packed hot dog on the way there.

The cab slowed down and pulled over about twenty feet away. She ran for it, juggling her bag and her dinner, dodging bodies. Even a short run was proving too much for her any more. She put one hand to her chest, feeling the disturbing, lurching rhythm of her heart. Nitrates are the least of your problems, Maddy girl.

As distracted as she was, she ran straight into someone—someone trying to steal her cab.

“Oh no, buddy. This one is mine.” He was so close, and so tall, that his chest blocked her whole field of vision. Black tie, black shirt, black suit, black overcoat. Color me morbid.

“Madelena?” the wall gasped.

She craned her neck upward to see Gregor Faustin gaping at her like he’d seen his own death.

“What is your problem?” She meant it all sorts of ways. “Let go of my cab.”

Faustin recovered enough to return to his usual unpleasant self. “It’s not ‘your cab’. I hailed it.”

“You lie like a rug.” Her mind boggled trying to figure out how he could be there. How they could possibly meet again. It had to mean he was stalking her.

“What—you think I’m stalking you?” His incredulous expression, she realized, was less than flattering to her as would-be stalkee. And did he just read her mind?

“You’re right,” she snapped. “Why would you go through the trouble of stalking me when you can just break into my apartment and suck my toes whenever you like?”

Faustin folded his arms and glared at her down his crooked nose. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Nothing was more hateful than a bald-faced lie, with the possible exception of an arrogant bald-faced lie. “Look, I don’t know what you intended that night, but if you meant to do some kind of memory wipe, you failed. At the very least you could have taken away my coat and pants. The damning evidence, you know? Sloppy work, Faustin, very sloppy.”

He arched a brow. “Tell me, did you ever get checked for head injuries, Madelena?”

“Bite me.” She smacked his hand off the door handle and claimed the cab.

As quick as a blink, Faustin jumped in on the other side. “Oh no,” he said, “You’re not stealing my cab.”

Maddy met him halfway across the seat and gave him a hard shove toward the door. “Get bent, Faustin. It’s mine.”

Faustin’s eyes narrowed at her in the most evil way, and she suspected he wanted to kill her. With a growl he forced his way in and closed the door with a decisive slam.

“I do as I please.” His tone was soft and even, but chilly, and she knew what he said was the truth. But it didn’t scare her. Maddy wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid of anything much—except suffering more at the hands of doctors. Twice she’d died on the operating table, and twice she’d seen the tunnel and the light. Death was no bad thing. Her will was written and she didn’t have pets.

Not that she expected this cab ride to go that wrong—though who knew with Faustin?—but it was a perspective thing. Nothing was worth getting worked up about. So all she said to his icy threat was, “Nice grumpy face you got, Faustin.”

As soon as she said that the driver, who seemed pretty pissed off himself by this time, chimed in. “Tell me please if maybe somebody is going somewhere tonight? Or do you use my cab as a social club?”

“Chelsea” said Maddy, while at the same time Faustin said, “Columbus Circle.”

“I’m late,” she hissed at him.

He shot her another black look, and then said to the driver, “Go to Chelsea first.”

Maddy resigned herself to sharing; he was too big to bludgeon. The cab began to roll. Maddy took off her beret and unwound her scarf, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. She admired how well Faustin played the injured party when she was the one who had been run over and sucked on. He was without doubt the reigning Dark Lord of Sulk. What else he was, she was not sure.

With nothing more to fight over, they both sat back against the seat, arms folded, facing forward.

Maddy entertained herself thinking about what she could say that would annoy him most, because no way was he going to enjoy this cab ride in peace. It took her an embarrassingly long time to remember she had the solution in hand.

“Like my lunchbox?” She balanced it on her knees for him to see. Buffy the Vampire Slayer the logo said in bloody red letters. It was the rare one with David Boreanaz on it, her prize of prizes, evidence that she was the reigning queen of eBay.

Faustin turned his head incrementally to glance at it, then resumed staring out the front window. “I don’t know how a guy named Buffy is going to kill a vampire.”

Maddy sighed. “I take it you never watched the show. This is Angel. Angel is a vampire.”

All Faustin did was snort at the idea.

All week she’d played with the possibility that Faustin was an honest to God vampire. It was unlikely, admittedly. Well, actually, it was impossible if she wanted to keep her speculation within the bounds of reality, but when did she ever do that? And besides, the idea was so much more appealing than him being a foot fetishist with a skeleton key.

“You got opinions on vampires, Faustin?” Nettling him so directly made her a little breathless. “Theories, maybe?”

Faustin wheeled in his seat and leaned into her space, his big hand spread on the seat, way too close to her thigh. There were rules about personal space, and he was breaking them all to breathe down her neck. “You seem to have all the theories, Madelena. Why don’t you tell me what they are?”

Goddamn he was a sexy jerk. His voice reminded her of suede. Maddy met his eyes square on. Something dangerous lurked there, and her poor heart fluttered at the sight of it. She shrugged and put aside the lunchbox. “Just making conversation. Excuse me for trying.”

Faustin went back to his corner without a word, and she remembered that her dinner was going cold.

The driver had to have ears like a fox to hear the soft rustle of the foil. Or maybe it was the relish smell. At any rate, he caught on just as she was about to take her long-delayed first bite. “No food in my cab! No garbage in my cab! Thank you!”

“Relax Mr…Mr. Patel,” she said, reading his ID. She gave him her best smile in the rear view. “I promise I won’t leave a trace of evidence.”

To whit, a dangerous blob of ketchup and relish was sliding off the dog. She caught the blob with her tongue, and then sucked the end clean. As she did, she happened to catch Faustin’s expression. His face was shining with naked hunger.

“What the—?” For a second she thought he wanted the dog. Then his mouth was over hers.

“Hey, I was…” Even in protest, her lips moved against his, and he turned that protest into a kiss.

Oh. My. God.

Who in the world kissed like this? His mouth was sweet and hard at the same time, his hands coiling around her, drawing her in, drawing her under. All of the frustrated desire of that strange night came flooding back and she found herself kissing him back, even if she hated him, because…damn.

There was no sparring in the kiss, despite all their bickering. That didn’t feel right. What felt right was softening under him, opening to him. Her lips yielded, her neck wilted, her whole body relaxed in his arms, and strange as it was, she felt safe.

Very yin and yang, she thought. Whatever she had, he could take. Whatever he gave, she wanted, though it made her heart slam as sure as running.

The force of his kiss drove her back against the door, and as his weight bore down on her, she slid lower and lower onto the seat, one hand on the back of his neck, the other just managing to hold her hot dog aloft.

As they neared horizontal, their legs tangled. Like a complete slut, Maddy hooked one leg around his hips and pinned him to her. Now there wasn’t a bit of air between them. She needed the full body contact. She needed to feel his hard-on. And he obliged, grinding slowly in the saddle of her hips as his tongue swept her mouth.

Maddy answered him by circling her own hips, finding her rhythm and holding strong. Slow and steady. Hot as lava. Heat flashed and gathered in her toes, and ran up the insides of her thighs like summer lightning. She held him tighter. Miércoles! I am dry humping Gregor Faustin in the back of a cab.

His mouth left her bruised lips, and fastened ruthlessly on her neck instead, delivering a line of deep, sucking kisses under her jaw. Maddy arched under him, her nipples stiff and sore against his chest. “Jesus!”

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispered against her skin.

Maddy sought and found his mouth. Their tongues twirled hot and desperate, and they moaned in unison. Just like that night he visited her room, she was sopping wet, open and ready. She wanted to take him deep inside and ride him until they both dropped with exhaustion, and she begged for it now, mewling and writhing, far past coherent speech.

“What do you want, Madelena?” he asked. “This?”

His teeth, sharp as razors, scraped her throat.

***

To read the opening chapter, go to Samhain.

***

DIVA-LICIOUS LINKS:

First, Emily Ryan-Davis posted a long excerpt of her erotic/poetic re-writing of the Thumbelina tale, Changing Thumbelina, here at the Erotická Revue just a couple of days ago. Here's a direct link

Butterfly Swords by Jeannie Lynn

Cami’s First Kiss by Bria Quinlan

Excerpt Monday by Mel B (silentdreamer)

A Halloween Novella by Vivienne Westlake

Monday Excerpt by Maureen McCarrie

Monday Excerpt by Crista McHugh

Another Time, Another Place by T. Sue Versteeg

Monday Excerpt by Kinsey Holly

Del Fantasma by Becca Sheridan-Furrow

The Chancellor’s Bride by Kirsten Saell (Rating: NC-17)

Scenting Cinnamon by Ella Drake (Rating: NC-17)

Asking for It by Kate Willoughby (Rating: PG-13)

21st Century Courtesan by Eden Bradley (Rating: PG-13)

A Run for the Money by Gina Ardito

The Scroll Thief by R.F. Long

Resisting Kane by Stephanie Adkins

Inheritance by Lynne Chandler

The Encounter by Rose London (Rating: NC-17)

Dying Embers by B.E. Sanderson

More than Magic by Babette James

Paranormal YA by Amber Gilchrist

Pr0nocrates

2009-04-12T06:09:00.001-07:00

Pornocrates (translating to "Rule of Whores," I believe) is the best known work of Belgian artist Félicien Rops, (1833-1898), a Belgian artist/illustrator closely associated with the Symbolist movement. Click the image for a closer look.

In the loosest terms possible (and that's all I'm good for anymore) the Symbolists were an international consortium of decadent boys obsessed with sex and death. French poet Paul Verlaine is associated with this movement, as is the painter Edvard Munch.

In this image, a lady of the evening walks along top a pediment decorated by symbols of the fine arts--music, sculpture and painting. She is wearing little, but her (very nice) stockings, hat and gloves show her to be a contemporary woman, as opposed to a mythical figure. The fact she's accessorized with fetish objects (shoes, stockings, gloves) as opposed to being pristinely nude lets us know she's whore.

The blindfold might mean she's blinded by her desires, or that desire itself is blind, or, like Justice, she doesn't descriminate--or perhaps something else altogether. She 's led by a pig, the symbol of gluttony, and decadent little angels watch over her.

It's a curious image. As a symbol of the baser desires, she's both ridiculous and a goddess, both mocked and put on a pedestal. And come to think of it, that's the M.O. of these guys regarding women in general. I believe Rops is saying she's his goddess.

Anyway, I've always been fond of this image. I love her proud carriage, the delicate tints, her fantastic shoes and the stars in the sky.

(image source: Wikimedia Commons)

Diversion #2: Changing Thumbelina

2009-04-10T09:27:00.000-07:00

Today we continue our Diversions series of excerpts of contemporary erotica and erotic romance with this poetic & highly intriguing sneak preview from Emily Ryan-Davis.

This book releases from Freya's Bower April 28, 2009.

Scene Set-Up:

Changing Thumbelina is an erotic, updated re-imagining of the classic fairytale. In this scene, Thumbelina finds herself in the company of a foul-mouthed, tattooed piano mover who rouses strong memories of the first male who ever tried to claim her. The changeling Frog is unlike the Toad of older days, however, and while she intends escape as before, first she intends to see to her own satisfaction...

Squeaky-clean and shivering in his enormous shirt, I crept back to watch him sleep. The bulge was gone from his pants. My fingers itched to touch; I clutched them up in my hem and closed my eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked.

My pulse leapt, eyes flew open. His gaze fixed on mine once more, but some of the fever-glaze was gone. He was alert and I had no idea how to answer that question. Thumbelina came to my lips but wouldn’t go past. Maia, the name chosen by the prince, had been a gift/insistence, along with pretty butterfly wings. Maia and the wings were no more, however, not since he had finished with me. I’d never named myself. Would he just accept anything I offered?

I ventured, “Tina,” and squirmed as he examined my face and I examined his in return.

He had muddy hazel eyes. Same color as the tattooed frogs, except shiny. I sucked a deep breath, expecting swamp-fragrance on my taste buds, and memory exploded in my mouth. He pushed himself up and lily pads drifted in his pupils.

“How did you get in here?” He wrapped his fingers around my wrist; calluses as rough as walnut bark pinched over my racing pulse.

“I—you brought me.” I pulled; his grip tightened. Panic burned over the flavor of earth and green water, set into my lungs and made it impossible to breathe. I leaned back, dragging on his hold with all my weight. “Let me go!”

He gave way so fast, unexpected, that I fell over my own feet and crashed back into a wall of cold silver buttons. My elbow connected with a knob and drum beats slammed into my ears, buried me under an angry orchestra of biting German snarls. I saw stars as I slid to the floor. By the time they cleared, he straddled and framed me with his arms and his thighs.

“I didn’t bring you here. I didn’t invite you. How did you get in?”

A toad crouched over his lily pad. The old nightmare, kidnapped and helpless, chased Tina into the back of my head. Thumbelina cowered, whispered, “I want to go home.” Only for my ears. Growly du hast hid the verbal weakness from him.

Scowling at the tattooed hulk, I left Thumbelina to cower and focused on forgetting I’d ever been her. My manners had degraded a lot over more than a century of forced isolation and I didn’t even try for polite. “Get off me.”

I pushed my knees up against his torso and pretended to ignore the delicious ripple of his abs, defined and hard on my shins. “You brought me in. Threw me in the kitchen sink. Ever hear of cleaning your dishes after a meal, not days later?”

Confusion drove the lily pads from his pupils. He withdrew, rocking back to balance on his heels. “Why would I put you in the sink?”

I was suddenly on eye level with his nipples. God, what an amazing chest. If he hadn’t been covered in blood, I’d have licked one of the tight, fascinating discs.

“Your name’s Frog?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“Initials. It’s Frank.”

Most unsexy name in the world and I didn’t care. My interest in sex revived itself faster than I could spell the three-letter word; desire pierced deep and long, like the synthesizer violin tone whistling from the nearest speaker.

“Frank. I want to ride you.”

He blinked. “What?”

I planted my foot against the middle of his chest and shoved. He spilled over on his back, his head smacking the dusty hardwood floor with a thud. I rose up over him and straddled his knees. Within seconds, I had his erection in my hands. Drums thundered in my ears and his pulse slammed against the base of my thumb. I wrestled his cock free of its denim confines and positioned him to receive me.

“What the fuck are you doing? Crazy bitch, get off.” He surged up and bucked his hips to throw me, but instead of tossing me off the move jabbed his cock against the soft inside of my thigh.

Oh, I wanted that. A gate deep inside me flung its doors wide and clenched a hard demand for his thick thrust. Driven by the violent need, I held on as he thrashed. He flipped to his side and I grabbed the pockets of his jeans, pulled him with me until he fell over me, heavy and panting and dimming my own ability to breathe. His eyes flashed a wild signal just before his instincts overrode the illusion of normalcy.

“You’re enchanted,” I marveled. “That’s why you have the soap.” His face froze, but the glamour didn’t. Fey magic shimmered and peeled away; a leathery, dirty brown creature hid beneath his bland flesh complexion. His amphibian tattoos writhed between his nipples. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the unnatural game of leap frog.

Changeling. A lust for possession coiled between my thighs. I curled my hands tight and buried the craving, the need to catch him in my fists and stuff him into a jar as if he were a firefly and I a seven-year-old tomboy.

He growled and named me. “Pixie. How did you get in here?”

Trickster. That’s what he called me, when he said that word. Even though he was wrong, his naming made me feel it true. I stretched beneath him. Smiled. “You brought me in. Are you going to put me in a box?”

His eyes gleamed. Probably calculating the possibilities of the role reversal. Pixies were his predators, traditionally, but here he’d landed on top. I regretted the switch, but only briefly. He stirred and his member, still thick and hard, pressed my navel and nudged regret to the wayside. I had to have him. I didn’t have to do the taking.

“What are you going to do?” I whispered, still awaiting a response. My legs spread to accommodate his girth. To issue my fragrant invitation.

“You came from the piano, didn’t you?” He lowered his head and pressed his nose to my throat, opened his mouth over my skin and inhaled. Tasting and scenting me. “You still smell of the old wood.”

Two rings of shivers rippled and spiraled away from the spot his nose touched. They felt distinctly different from cold trembles. These were pure heat, blue like the heart of the flame, and I clutched his hips as I melted into them.

“What if I did?” I whispered. His teeth chased the pulse behind my ear and nipped as it leapt. I shuddered.

“If you were in the piano, it means someone put you there.” His hand fell upon my breast, squeezed and plucked at the tight bud that poked the fabric of his shirt. The shirt I wore. I’d chosen it because it smelled faintly of his cologne—his unique scent, sweat and daffodil soap and the remnants of a hand job he’d given himself sometime recently.

I opened my mouth to voice some flippant reply and instead drew his stronger, undisguised scent over the back of my tongue. I wanted to taste him.

“I gave up blood for you,” he continued.

“When are you going to collect your debt?”

He answered by hooking his hand beneath my knee and pressing down into my body. His mouth was waiting to catch the gasp that praised his decision. The tenderness of his kiss surprised me. The brutality of his penetration didn’t. Frog accepted my groaning appreciation with an unexpected grace that confused my body. I shoved his head away so I could concentrate on the way his cock stretched my long-ignored muscles.

Frog groaned, his lips landing between my breasts since I wouldn’t indulge his tenderness. “You should be locked up,” he muttered against my skin.

His hips belied his objection, drawing back and thrusting forward eagerly. His rhythm was too erratic. Every time the broad head of his cock forged deep, he jerked it back. His piercing taunted me, coming and going. I wanted him positioned just so, focused on the trigger, working me until I fired. I wanted to come, but I had to get him off first so he could focus.

On a mission, I wrapped my legs around his waist, pushing up on his cock, forcing him to ride higher against my clit. He grunted and grabbed my ass, spent himself disappointingly soon. Too soon even for my urgent time table.

My pussy contracted, attempting to draw another thrust from him, but he pushed my hips to the floor and lifted his head from my breast. Accusation roughened his voice. “You made me finish too early.”

“You didn’t have any control.” I closed my eyes, surprised to feel myself arching into his frame, rubbing my nipples against his pecs. His breath warmed my cheek, setting off a craving for tenderness that my logical brain didn’t want. No gentle kisses. No sweet breaths.

“What are you afraid of?”

My face screwed up in a scowl. “That you’ll talk me to sleep before it’s my turn to come.”

*********

• Learn more about this author at http://www.emilyryandavis.com

• For other excerpts, click Diversions in the list of labels on the right, or search Diversions.

Celebrating 190 years of sexy badness

2009-03-31T23:05:00.000-07:00

The fabulous Catherine Deneuve, 80's Style, in The Hunger

I've just learned from Jahsonic that April 1st, 2009 is the 190th anniversary of the first published vampire story in English, The Vampyre by John William Polidori (1795–1821).

You might know the famous tale of how Bryon, Shelley, and Mary Shelley all wrote ghost stories to entertain themselves one dark and rainy night. That's how Frankenstein was born.

But you might not know that on the same night a less famous story was penned by a less famous guest in that very night in that house by Lake Geneva: Polidori's gothic short story about a mysterious creature known as a vampyre.

Back in London it ended up being published in 1819 without his permission and also attributed to Byron--much to both Byron and Polidori's dismay.

Thus began a long and illustrious career for the world's sexiest parasites: from Stoker to Bela Lugosi to Catherine Deneuve to Anne Rice and Brad Pitt to Buffy n' Angel to Sparkly Edward and my very own vamp tales.

Pimp Alert: Coincidentally, I've just received the final edits and the art for book #2 in the Faustin Bros. trilogy, Bound by Blood. It's coming out May 5th! You can always read about my books over at my website.

You can read The Vampyre at Project Guttenberg. It's ...em...well...I know why Byron didn't want credit for it. But it's an interesting document, nonetheless. Here's an exciting bit:

He shut his eyes, hoping that it was but a vision arising from his disturbed imagination; but he again saw the same form, when he unclosed them, stretched by his side. There was no colour upon her cheek, not even upon her lip; yet there was a stillness about her face that seemed almost as attaching as the life that once dwelt there:--- upon her neck and breast was blood, and upon her throat were the marks of teeth having opened the vein:---to this the men pointed, crying, simultaneously struck with horror, " A Vampyre! a Vampyre!"

Girls will be girls

2009-03-25T21:05:00.001-07:00

The image above is by Gerda Wegener (1886-1940), a Danish painter and illustrator who lived in Paris. Her fantastic erotic illustrations look like they come out of the twisted fairy tale book you wish you had up on your shelves--but don't, because the world is not perfect. You can see more of them here.

I love keeping this blog because I'm always stumbling on amazing things. You see, as if this visual extravaganza of her art isn't enough fun, I've discovered that her life story is juicy, juicy, juicy.

Daughter of a rural clergyman, Gerda escaped to art school in Copenhagen and there met her husband, another artist named Einar Wegener. Einer was her favorite model--she'd dress him up as a woman to paint him. Einar eventually came out as a transsexual and was the recipient of the first recorded sexual reassignment surgery ever--in 1930. As a woman his name became Lile Elbe. The king of Denmark nullified their marriage himself.

Wikipedia says that there's a bio pic on these two in the works with Charlize Theron as Gerda and Nicole Kidman as Einer/Lile (!). The movie, in turn, is based on a book called The Danish Girl, by David Ebershoff (2001).

A burning ring of fire

2009-03-20T14:37:00.000-07:00

When I first saw this image I almost fell out of my chair. I don't know much about it. It dates to the Renaissance, maybe around 1588. It's British. The artist is either Nicholas Hilliard, miniaturist to Henry VIII, Elizabeth and James I, or his pupil, Issac Oliver.

I have no idea who the man in the picture is. I found the image randomly on Wikimedia Commons, and their information is minimal. The person who uploaded it took it from the Victoria and Albert Museum print shop website, where you can buy a print of this image. But the image description is decidedly less than useful. It sounds like it was written by an intern who had to make something up in a hurry.

Anyway, so much for provenance and back to why I nearly ended up on the floor. You see, I love portrait miniatures, so I've seen quite a few in my time. Back in the days before photography, paintings and drawings were the only way for people to keep images of their loved ones close at hand.

Miniatures were less expensive than big paintings, accessible to the middle class, so they're a good way to get a look at real people from the past who were not lords and ladies (though lords and ladies had their miniatures painted, too.) Check out this Wikimedia Commons category summary to see lots of portrait miniatures in one place.

Another advantage of a miniature over a painting besides price was that you could not only keep your loved one's image close at hand--you could keep it close to your heart. Miniatures were often carried or worn as jewelry. You'll see them in other paintings hanging around necks, pinned as broaches and incorporated into bracelet cuffs.

It would be quite respectable for you to carry a miniature of your husband, your parents, or your child. If you were engaged, you and your fiance might have miniatures painted of yourselves and exchange them.

But what if you were involved in a secret love affair? What would you do with that miniature? Of course you'd want your lover's picture, but you'd have to wear it tucked under your clothes. Or you might have to keep it in a secret cabinet in your boudoir and only take it out at night to kiss it in secret.

I've seen one miniature which was nothing but a little circle holding a bit of face--one clear blue eye and an arching brow. That was all they dared to carry, but it was enough.

And of course there's the very private miniature by Sarah Goodridge of her own breasts. I've posted about that before. But other than those rare examples, miniatures tend to be very proper, very formal, very...how should I say?...very tight lipped about the people who are in them.

And then there's this guy.

Oh. My. God. What a rock star he is! He's standing in flames!!!!

I've never seen anything like that in a portrait of this period. Portraits where the backgrounds reflect the emotional state (as opposed to the social status) of the sitter really don't appear until the late 1800's. Think about Van Gogh's self-portraits, for instance.

And he's undressed. Yes, he's wearing a shirt, and that's plenty dressed by our contemporary standards, but he should be wearing a damn neck ruff. He should be buttoned up into velvet to his chin. This gentleman is dressed for bed. Ahem. "Bed." It's indecent, I tell you. Shocking.

And note what he's cradling in his hand. Yep, that's a miniature portrait of the lady (or gentleman?) for whom he burns.

This image is meant for his love, and no one but them. It's intensely private. That look in his eye says, "This is all for you. Come and get it."

*retires to fan self*

Cult of the Female Orgasm

2009-03-15T10:06:00.000-07:00

Did anybody read The Pleasure Principle in the New York Times on the 13th?

I don't think I'd like to live in this "intentional community" *cough* sex cult *cough*, but I might consider spending a weekend with them. They've defined the female orgasm as a meditation practice, taking it out of the context of relationship and sexual reciprocity.

(Note: you have to register with the NYT to read some of their articles. If that turns out to be the case with this one, I'll just say it's free and well worth it.)

A core of 38 men and women — their average age the late 20s — live full time in the retreat center, a shabby-chic loft building in the South of Market district. They prepare meals together, practice yoga and mindfulness meditation and lead workshops in communication for outside groups as large as 60.

But the heart of the group’s activity, listed cryptically on its Web site’s calendar as “morning practice,” is closed to all but the residents.

At 7 a.m. each day, as the rest of America is eating Cheerios or trying to face gridlock without hyperventilating, about a dozen women, naked from the waist down, lie with eyes closed in a velvet-curtained room, while clothed men huddle over them, stroking them in a ritual known as orgasmic meditation — “OMing,” for short. The couples, who may or may not be romantically involved, call one another “research partners.”

and

In the One Taste world, a weirdly clinical pact is made between the women and men. There is no eye contact during orgasmic meditation. The idea, similar to Buddhist Tantric sex, is to extend the sensory peak — and publicly share it — before “going over,” as residents, who tend toward group-speak, call climaxing.

Although men are not touched by the women and do not climax, they say they experience a sense of energy and satiation. Both the strokers and strokees insist that all this OMing is really about the “hydration” of the self, the human connection, not sex.

Reese Jones, a venture capitalist-slash-geek-slash Ms. Daedone’s boyfriend, likens orgasmic meditation to massage.

“It’s a procedure to nourish the limbic system, like yoga or Pilates, with no other strings attached,” he said. “When you go to a massage therapist,” he added, “you don’t take the masseuse to dinner afterward.”

The Kingdom of Toys

2009-03-13T22:40:00.000-07:00

Seriously, I'm not in the employ of Coco de Mer, but when I attended the bondage seminar there a few weeks back, I noticed some interesting toys in their display case and have wanted to share them with you ever since.

The first is a called the Remember Me Dildo. This picture isn't great, but it's a ceramic dildo with a silver fitting at the end. The fitting snaps open like a locket. Inside, one half is a mirror and the other side has space for the photo of a loved one:

(This picture, and all toy pictures in this post, are from the Coco de Mer website.)

I don't know how practical this is, but I adore the idea. It reminds me of the old lovers' tradition of carrying a miniature painting as jewelry--something to be taken out and contemplated privately and with great longing. Such as this:

Miniature watercolor of Henry Wriothesley, sometimes thought to have been the dedicatee of Shakespeare's sonnets, 1594. (Fitzwilliam Museum)

(By the by, if lovers' portraits intrigue you, be sure to check out my post on Sarah Goodridge.)

A companion to the Remember Me Dildo is the Hot/Cold Dildo, a cheerfully floral ceramic dildo which is hollow and corked. It's meant to be filled with hot or cold water, just as you please. Doesn't it just beg for a hand knit condom cozy?:

And while you're at it, you might want to pick up the matching butt plug:

And finally, rocketing into the 21st century, I will say I was pretty impressed with the Jimmyjane vibrators. They're small things, about the size of a large pen, but quite powerful--and here's the kicker--this vibrator is silent. And it runs on a single battery. Of course you have to pay for all this wonder. The base model seen below is $125 and they go up from there, because the line comes in a myriad of tricked-out editions, some studded with diamonds, one made of gold.

The advantage of being able to afford the solid gold one would be that you could name your vibrator Goldfinger without even having to place your tongue in your cheek. I, however, would be priced to the simple purple one below--and I think I'd have to name it Willy Wonka:

Bécat. Because.

2009-03-09T00:46:00.001-07:00

How can I explain my love of erotic illustrator Paul-Emile Bécat (1885 - 1960)? In smut terms, he's pure vanilla. In art terms, he's pretty darn middlebrow. But I'd argue neither of these things are bad!

I adore his pastel tinted 18th century world where pretty ladies have unadventurous sex on big soft beds with 18th century gentlemen in white stockings and wigs. The gentlemen are almost never completely undressed, and I really like that.

To see more of these pretties, or to learn more about Bécat, just hit the Bécat label, or enter his name up in the search box up at the top left.

Obtain internet postcards of Bécats like this one at
AMEA/World Museum of Erotic Art

Diversion #1: Honor Within

2009-03-01T21:06:00.000-08:00

An excerpt from Honor Within by Mima.

She loved her little hut. The rain dripped off the thatched roof, pattering into a shallow gully along the outer walls. It was just like all the other neat, plain, mud brick houses except for its minuscule size and the two clusters of knee-high sunflowers growing on either side of the weathered plank door. Golden magelight flickered faintly from the one small window.

Nomi sat in the window, her arm propped on the sill, one hand playing with the roof spill. Her fingers cupped and flicked the draining water. Nude, her loose hair fell in waves over her shoulders and chest. It was silky, and cut the chill from the rainy night. The interior was stark, the most barren home in the village. There was a small table, and a chair against the far wall. Then a bed, tiny and narrow, with the mageheat at its foot. There was a broom in the corner. A few clothes hung on pegs. The plank door had once been stained blue, long ago, and the thin summer blanket on the bed was the same color. And that was all.

Nomi listened to the shushing of rain on the thatch above her. The hut was solid, plain, and practical. It suited her. If only it was by itself, deep in the woods. Today, Drave had announced they were pregnant, him and his new wife. And all eyes had turned on her with glee. She’d tried to hide in the tack room, but everyone seemed to come looking for tools.

“Oh, Nomi, this must be so hard. She’s such a bit of a thing. I’ll bet she has a difficult birth, that one. That’s what he gets for marrying a child.”

“Nomi, don’t worry, some fine young man will still be interested in you. You’re one of the best watermages in the Farm.”

“So, Nomi, are you and Drave still on good terms? I’m not sure, if you haven’t seen him lately, since you live out there all by yourself, that you’ve heard his big news.”

“I can’t imagine him announcing it so grand. Why, you’d think a babe had never been born here before. And it’s been what, a month since they wed? She’s probably a day late with her passing.”

She’d kept her eyes down, her gut churning, her rage building, and refused to speak. By mid-afternoon, she’d known if she didn’t get out of the village that night, she’d run stark raving mad through the main street. And then the skies had opened, as if Skyfather were rebuking her. Challenging her. Cursing her.

Not that she would have found the solace she was used to. She missed Burke. For the first time in her life, Nomi knew what it was to be … lonely. The pine hollow’s scent reminded her of climbing up into the bows with him that windy night, and the waterfall
reminded her of her shrieking laughter as they’d leaped into the pool. Behind the curtain of water, she’d told him how she felt closer to the Sacred Couple there than ever in the Temple, a blasphemy she’d never shared. He’d told her about his own faith, and it had been fascinating to hear such strange ideas.

The meadow now felt exposed to her, and the grasses were drying in the summer heat, coarse and abrasive. The rock scramble overlooking the single road out of the Farm to the Royal City was her new favorite perch. She sat with her back to the road and looked out over the undulating sea of green. Somewhere, Burke was out there. It would do no good to seek him out. He’d be with so many others, his own kind. He might even be with women who craved community things like gossip, recipes, handicrafts, and talking about children. Nomi wanted to be up there now, on the rocky outcrop, nude, arms lifted to the wild storm. She wanted to be there in the dark and the wet, and scream, and scream.

As if Skyfather muttered at her, thunder rumbled sullenly overhead. Watching the water glitter in her low magelight, the damp evening still too warm for mageheat, she danced her fingers through the roof’s spillage. She wanted to be out there, but it wasn’t safe. Even she wasn’t so bold as to stagger around in a black storm. So she sat here brooding, moody and restless. Between one heartbeat and the next, she felt him. Burke was out there. Finally. It had been weeks.

Her fingers never stopped dancing in the falling water, and her gaze never shifted from her short nails, that she could never quite clear of their edge of dirt. Her heart beat like Short Night drums, and her toes wiggled in anticipation. Should she invite him in? Would he run again? Back to his Clan, back to the paid women, back to training how to use water as a weapon? He had no business being her friend. Especially when he disappeared for a month.

Without making a conscious decision, Nomi reached out her hands, cupped them, and gathered the steady rain into the bowl of her flesh. Then she bent her arms, and splashed back on her chest. It ran down her hair, dribbled in chill lines down her belly. Smiling, she leaned out over the wooden sill and did it again. This time, her hair soaked up some of the water, and darkened. A third time, and her hair stuck to the slopes of her breasts. What was she doing?

Nearly panting with excitement, rage, and daring, she stood from her small chair, tossed her damp hair over her shoulders, and splashed the next handful directly onto her bared breasts. Oh! The water stung and slid over her skin. She cradled the shocked globes, lifting their weight in her hands. She pressed them tightly and kneaded herself deeply, letting her head fall to the side. Burke was watching her. She'd have to give him something worth watching.

She stretched forward, feeling her breasts hang and pull on her body, and splashed herself again. Huffing a laugh, she stared down at her nipples, which always seemed to stab up toward her face like flowers to the sun. They were darker than her skin, a light brown. The skin at the tip was pebbled thickly. She never cared for a light touch. She liked to be pressed and pulled and twisted. So she did.

Letting her head roll back so her damp hair brushed her ass, she worked her wet nipples, gathering the pleasure in her swelling breasts, the focus on her body thickening her blood. She slid one hand up her chest, gliding over her throat, up along her face so her hand curled through her hair and behind her head, elbow pointing high, her breast lifting. She sent the other hand down over her stomach, through her soft curls, just nudging into her slit. She gasped at the thicker wetness there, more slippery, hot. A image came to her of what her arched, displayed body must look like as viewed from the woods, with a curtain of water shimmering in front of her, and golden light glowing behind her. Her clit pulsed with need.

She opened her eyes and stared into the dripping bushes, lowering her hand, cupping her breast, squeezing the nipple with her thumb and forefinger, sending her other fingers swirling around her clit. He'd come to her from the Wild, in the night, and no one had ever felt been so right by her side. Over a few handfuls of hours, she'd trusted him, settled with him, and taken more comfort than she'd ever known.

Working her breasts with deeply kneading fingers, she bit her lip. There was no shame in standing so boldly. She had no doubt he'd find pleasure in watching. She hoped he got hard. She hoped he ached. He had all the freedom, while she was trapped here. Let him taste the edge of her frustration, as he'd shared his that night weeks ago.

“You can wait out there in the dark, or you can come in and watch me finish. I started this and I’m going to end it, but then I’d love to talk to you.”

She turned and went to the bed, every step making her breath catch as she felt her lower lips rub, her breasts hang heavily. Lying down on the covers, she spread her legs, drew up her knees, and put both hands to work. Her clit throbbed and pulsed. Cream oozed from her body toward her ass.

“Ohhhhhh…”

It had been too long since she’d done this. Months and months. She’d thought of doing it once, shortly after watching Burke’s silhouette swim with her in the waterfall the first time, but her thoughts had been too much of him, and it had felt wrong. He was her new friend, polite and quiet. She hadn't wanted to masturbate with his image in her mind, creating a fantasy that could never be. Screw that. Tonight she wouldn't imagine him watching her, she would take his gaze and add it to her own heat. Her stomach was taut as she rolled her shoulders up to dig her hands deeper, sending her fingers inside the clutch of her body.

Eventually, she set up a rocking motion, her ass clenched, her breasts lifted and aching between her straining arms. Her feet moved restlessly on the bed as she sought out the sensations she wanted. In a scramble, she came up onto her knees, thighs spread wide. Because her bed was so narrow, she turned sideways on it so her feet wouldn’t fall off the edge. At least, that sounded like a plausible reason for why she turned herself toward the window.

Blearily, her fingers swirling, plucking, delving, curling, she opened her eyes. And saw him standing against the house, one shoulder and half his face faintly visible in the weak magelight. His fingers gripped the windowsill tightly. With a soft cry, she thrust several fingers into her hole, spreading it, making it burn. Her other hand worked her clit in desperation, flattened fingers rubbing hard. Nomi stared at the faint gleam that was Burke’s eye, tucked her hips forward, and her entire core tightened in one long clenching vice.

“Ahhhhhh…” Her body poised in that striving moment. She swayed as the pleasure bit through her. Burke, watching her. Then, “Ahhh.” Her hands fell to brace on her trembling thighs, her head dropping forward, her hair tumbling in a mess over her chest. Gasping for breath, she smelled herself. And her heart kicked at the realization, Burke had just seen it all. Her clit pulsed again at the thought, and she jerked her legs together so she could writhe on them. With a twist, she let herself fall back on the bed, one arm going up overhead, the other on her quivering stomach.

She raised her hand up to her mouth and proceeded to lick her cream off each finger. When she got to the third, she paused, looked over at the window. He hadn’t moved. By the Earthmother, that had been the most beautiful, freeing sexual experience of her life.

“Evening, Burke.” Her voice surprised her. It sounded sexy, almost a low purr. She smiled. “Thanks for sharing that.”

The tremor passed over him. “Evening, Nomi. Thank you.”

She shouldn’t say it, but she couldn’t help it. “Did you like it?”

“You were … a dream.”

***

Honor Within is available at Liquid Silver Books

Diversions is an ongoing series of long, sensual excerpts courtesy of contemporary authors.

The thrill of discovery

2009-03-01T18:34:00.000-08:00

A short announcement to let you all know about a new initiative here at the E.R. In addition to my usual art historical rambling and random net discoveries, I'm also going to start posting erotic scenes written by special celebrity guest authors.

I know for me that it's hard to find an author who writes sex that captures my imagination in just the right way. As with shoes, the fit and style have to be perfect or I'm just not comfortable. And of course the only way to find the perfect fit is to try on a lot of shoes--or authors.

So I hope somewhere along the way here I can help you find a new author you really love. The series will be called "Diversions."

N.B. Not all of the authors featured will define themselves as writers of "erotica"--but if you like the way they write sex, you'll probably love the way they write the rest of their stuff, because it's hard to write good sex.

The first Diversion is coming next!

La Petite Mort

2009-02-26T10:06:00.000-08:00

Beautiful Agony is a commercial venture of the high-tone pornographic sort offering video of men and women climaxing.

It's the climax, the whole climax and nothing but the climax. All of the videos are shot from the shoulders up, faces only. So there's no nudity, no intercourse to be seen (most of the subjects are masturbating, but some have unseen assistants), but it is nonetheless remarkably intimate, even uncomfortable to watch. The soundtracks are rather compelling. They're also loud. Do keep an eye on the volume if you're at work or amongst the kidlets.

Beautiful Agony is a membership site, but there are free samples to be found--look for the red borders. And if you're an exhibitionist, you're most welcome to upload video of yourself to their collection. The DIY instructions are kind of fascinating.

Here's a video teaser from their press kit:

play windows media

play quicktime

beautifulagony.com

Mistress of all she surveys

2009-02-12T22:45:00.001-08:00

Tonight I attended a bondage salon at the erotic emporium, Coco de Mer.

Full disclosure since I'm about to do some pimpage: I've loved Coco de Mer ever since I discovered it and have blogged about it once or twice before. They put me on their press list and invited me to this evening's event gratis. If it had sucked, I wouldn't be writing about it. But it didn't suck.

The instructor, Mistress Absolute, was funny and fantastic. And she taught me how to truss up people exactly like the picture above. Only the picture above doesn't show the cunning crotch knots. All that ropework leads between the legs, and there you can position knots for the clit on ladies and the perineum for gentlemen. The rope can be tightened at will.

Oh yes, I'm full of dangerous knowledge now.

After learning the harness, we moved on to cock tying. Using zucchinis. Gracious. Imagine a big, gorgeous cock wrapped supportively around the base and balls. And imagine a lattice lacing of rope running up its shaft. Now imagine the man who owns this cock, sitting there with his legs spread, wearing nothing but a crooked smile and a bit of rope.

You've missed the bondage class, but Los Angeles area readers have another chance to hang out with Mistress Absolute at the spanking salon this coming Tuesday. The shop is on Melrose, in the Bohdi Tree zone :

Spanking Skills, Levels 1 & 2 with Mistress Absolute
Tuesday, February 17th, 2009

For the rest of you, its fun to visit Coco de Mer, if only just to fantasize. These Paul Seville leather gauntlets are even prettier in real life than they are in the picture. If only I had wads of extra cash laying around. At the store I saw a mask that would match them perfectly. It was worked with holes like these, but also studded with diamantes. I think I'm in love.

(By the way, there are two sites--the link I've been giving is for the US. This one is for the UK. )

All pictures on this post courtesy of the Coco de Mer website

Contest Winners Announced!

2009-02-05T08:27:00.001-08:00

Image based on word use frequency in Called by Blood
Generated by Wordle

I wish I could give a book to everyone who entered. I hate sending anyone home empty handed. So, to make this a little easier, I decided to give away two copies of Called by Blood.

I gave you each a number based on comment order. I had 21 original comments. Then I went to random.org and asked it to give me 2 numbers between 1 and 21. Meanwhile I sent up a prayer to the universe that the results be the best results possible. Whatever that means.

And the winners chosen were...

Karin!

and

Shadowgoddess!

Congratulations you two! It looks like you both have blogger IDs, so I think I should be able to track you down. Email me at evbyrne [at] gmail dotcom if you don't hear from me.

And for the rest of you...well...you'll have another chance to win in just 3 short months when the next book in the series, Bound by Blood comes out.

Also, Samhain Publishing is holding a Valentine's Day scavenger hunt. I don't have all the details yet, but I'm participating and giving away my books as prizes, so keep your eye on this blog and the Samhain website for more information.

Want a free book?

2009-02-03T09:44:00.000-08:00

He's not nearly as sexy as my Alex Faustin!
Image: A still from Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922)

Share your vampire love!

To celebrate my release week, I'm giving away a copy of my e-book, Called by Blood. All you have to do to win is comment on this post. Tell me what your favorite vampire story is, and why that is, insofar as you can say. On Thursday morning (Feb. 4), I'll draw a a random winner from the comments.

Want to know more about Called by Blood? Well, there's an excerpt just below in yesterday's post, and there's more info. and a different excerpt over at my web site.

When you enter, keep in mind this is an electronic book, meant to be read on an e-reader, your fancy phone, or your computer. It's not a paper book. I don't want anyone to be surprised!

Okay, so back to the contest--

I'll get the ball rolling by sharing my own favorite vampire tale: Sunshine by Robin McKinley. It starts slow and ends abruptly, but in between it is absolutely stunning. In the chemistry between the heroine and the vampire, McKinley masterfully controls opposing forces of attraction and repulsion.

For those of you who have read it, I'll say that their first scene together, where they're trapped in the ballroom, was one of the sexiest, creepiest, most scintillating things I've ever read.

I think I need to go and read it again right now. I hear it's been re-released.

I'm...ooh...I'm...ah!...releasing tomorrow!

2009-02-02T15:46:00.000-08:00

I have a new book! Like the last one, it's an e-book from Samhain Publishing .

Called by Blood is an erotic romance, equal parts sexy, dark and funny. It's the first book in a series of three books about three very different vampire brothers. But instead of nattering on about it, I'm just going to post a long excerpt. If you want to know more, follow the link on the right to my website.

If you like it, come back tomorrow. I'm going to be giving away a free copy.

We'll start with page one, chapter one:

Excerpt from Called by Blood by Evie Byrne

Alex stood at the door, his heart pounding. He had no plan for this—he wasn’t a planner at the best of times, and he was in no shape for last-minute stratagems. Even though the temperature hovered in the twenties, he was on fire. As he’d flown across the country, he’d imagined her as a beacon drawing him ever closer. Once he hit the tarmac and took his first breath of thin, bone-dry mountain air, the pull became tangible.

Yet he’d never met her. Three days earlier his mother had pressed a scrap of paper into his hand. On it was a name and a fragment of an address. Information she’d gleaned from a dream. The key to his future.

He stepped back and gave the house a dubious once-over. The sprawling behemoth was worlds different from the row house he’d grown up in, or the loft he lived in now. The faded pine wreath on the door, the basket of pinecones and deer antlers on the stoop struck him as exotically Western. The doormat said, “Bless this Mess.” He stamped the snow off his feet, ran his hand through his hair, muttered “Fuck it,” and rang the bell.

He heard the buzz, and on its heels, a furious yapping. Great, a dog.

“Quiet! No barks! No!”

A woman’s voice, coming from deep inside the house. Was it her? He pricked his ears and caught a scuffling noise. Slippers on tile. She was on the other side of the door. The heat of her body radiated through the wood. He opened both his nostrils and sucked in her scent. She’d been eating popcorn, and some oily vanilla concoction covered her skin—hand lotion, no, bath oil. And beneath that… Damn.

A little dizzy, he leaned his head against the door. His mother wasn’t wrong.

“Who is it?”

The peephole turned dark. Alex straightened up for inspection. It seemed the moment to say something profound, but that didn’t happen. “Hi. My name is Alexander Faustin.”

As she answered, he paid more attention to the intriguing, throaty quality to her voice than what she said. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Please, I have an important message for Helena MacAllister. Am I speaking to her?”

“What kind of message?”

Alex put his eye to the peephole. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her and all her considerable powers of resistance, and was beginning to fear she would never open the damned door. But he checked his impatience and smiled at the little circle of glass, praying he oozed charm. It was hard to play suave when his nerves jumped in anticipation of seeing her. “It’s good news, but it’s awkward talking through the door. Will you come out?”

“Uh, hold on a sec.” He heard her bellow, “Mike! Pause the movie! I’ll be just a minute.”

Alex pretended to cough to hide his grin. There was no one else in the house. His wife-to-be was clever, cautious…

And very cute in her fuzzy pink bathrobe. Her wet dark hair swung in a blunt line at her jaw. Good—he hated fishing hair out of his mouth. On one side it was tucked back, revealing a neat, pointed ear made for nibbling.

A low growl broke his train of thought. She held a dog under her arm, and it was snarling at him like a stuffed toy from hell. He raised his brow at it, and it began another volley of yaps.

She shouted over the noise. “I’m sorry, she’s not usually like this.” Her tone was apologetic, but her eyes were suspicious. She was wise enough to trust her dog.

“It’s okay.” Alex lifted his hand toward the dog’s muzzle.

“Oh, don’t do that!” she cried. “She might bite.”

The dog wouldn’t bite. Instead it sniffed his hand like crazy, having never smelled anything like him before. Alex caught its eyes and demanded submission. It calmed, and she put it down with a shrug.

“So what’s this good news?” Suddenly at ease, she leaned her shoulder against the door frame, her pixie face alight with mischief. The foyer gleamed warm and gold behind her. All he wanted to do was come out of the cold and take her in his arms.

“Don’t tell me I’ve won the lottery?” She leaned over the stoop and looked both directions. “Is Ed McMahon in the bushes?”

Alex swayed on his feet, overwhelmed by her presence. He’d hoped she’d be attractive, but attractive was a weak, sad word. She was…

“Are you okay?”

Intoxicating.

That was it. And still she waited for him to explain himself. Problem was his brain wasn’t wired for talk anymore. All he could manage was her name. The three syllables rolled off his tongue like some old incantation. “Helena.”

In response her pupils dilated, turning her blue eyes black. Her expression questioning. Curious.
Just as curious, he lifted his hand and brushed her cheek with his knuckles, then turned his hand over and cupped the side of her head, burying his fingers in her wet hair. Locking his eyes with hers, he thought on some level she had to understand who he was, what this meant. This was destiny.

Her pink mouth rounded in surprise, as if she’d just remembered something. There wasn’t any fear in her. In fact, under his touch she let out a long exhale, her breath curling white in the air between them. Red velvet desire blanketed his brain. There would be time for explaining later.

“Helena, you are my only.” No time for explaining at all. Not when he was falling into a vortex. He pulled her close, and she was there for him, her lips yielding, her body folding against his with a small moan. Soft, thick chenille bunched under his fingers.

She was the one. Definitely. Nobody else would taste so good. Hungry, he licked butter and popcorn salt from her lips. Blood roared in his ears. He clamped her head between his hands and plunged his tongue into her waiting mouth.

Her sweet scent drifted up from the collar of her robe, so pure he knew she was naked beneath it, there for the taking. Alex’s vision went hazy. When she began to roll her hips against his erection in wicked, inviting circles, he lost all common sense. He wanted to consume, penetrate, possess this woman in every way possible, as soon as possible. Desperate to touch her skin, he yanked her robe open.

Awash in her fragrant heat, he staggered. They fell against the door frame. Still kissing her, he took the weight of her breasts in his hands. They fit his palms perfectly. Beneath his right hand her heart beat like a bird’s wings. Had she known he was coming? Had she bathed to be sure that she would greet him all damp and soft?

Meanwhile, she’d found her way under his coat and was running an exploratory hand down the front of his trousers.

Holy mother. This is out of control.

He broke the kiss. They were within a zipper’s length of public intercourse. Not that he usually had any problem with that. But this was different. Alex took a deep breath and fought to control himself.

Helena wasn’t helping. He caught her hand just before it slipped inside his fly. Indolent, she leaned back, her robe wide open, her lips swollen, her eyes erotically unfocused. By all appearances, she’d been enthralled, but he hadn’t done anything. Maybe they enthralled each other.

Making a lazy “mmm” noise, she rolled her head to one side and offered him her throat. Her perfect, unbroken skin shone pale gold in the porch light. It was an instinctive gesture of submission—and it made him forget all of his good intentions.

Yanking her to his chest he began to explore the length of her carotid artery. Using his teeth and tongue, he teased her with all the skill he could muster, alternating sucking kisses with little bites, going as far as he could without breaking her skin.

Helena purred with pleasure. He lifted her thigh, inviting her to straddle his knee. Peeling back the collar of her robe, he exposed the fluttering pulse above her collarbone. He nuzzled her throat, rubbing his face against her skin, his mouth open to pick up the scent of live blood coursing beneath the surface.

Helena gasped and clasped his head, clenching his hair in her fingers. The scent rising off her turned primal and lush. It made his nostrils flare and his saliva run. She was about to come. Alex couldn’t repress a deep growl.

Dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong. A terrible noise cut through the red haze. The doorbell. It took him a moment to figure out that Helena was leaning against the buzzer. He pulled her upright and the noise stopped. She began to thrash and shout, wild with desire. He could barely contain her in his arms.

“Beloved.” Maybe he said it, maybe he only thought it, but he knew she understood. His mouth stretched open, his teeth raked her flesh.

Helena kneed him viciously, straight up between his legs. The pain dropped him to the ground. She retreated over the threshold. He scrambled after her on all fours. The door cracked against his skull.

“Ow!” He actually saw stars, just like in the cartoons. The dog was barking again.

Alex knelt for some time on the “Bless this Mess” doormat, one hand on his head, the other between his legs, moaning with the pain and thinking this would not happen to his brother Mikhail. Mikhail would have arrived at the door with a plan. And his other brother, Gregor—well, Gregor wouldn’t let himself be beat up by a woman.

But within minutes of meeting his bride-to-be, Alex was on his knees, concussed and bellowing like a sick cow. Bull, rather. Former bull.

“Helena! You don’t understand. I’ve come to marry you!”

“You’d better get out of here. I’ve already called the cops.” Her voice came from above.

Wincing in pain, Alex looked up. She was leaning out an upstairs window, her cell phone cupped to her ear.

“I’m talking to 911. Oh. I’m not supposed to talk to him? Sorry. Well, he’s tall, at least six feet, black hair. Yeah, tall, dark and handsome. I know, it is a shame. He’s wearing an overcoat. I’m not sure how old he is. Maybe thirty? Said his name is Alexander Fast—Fastino?—something like that.”

“Faustin!”

“Yeah, he’s just kneeling on my porch. Making funny noises.”

“Helena, call them off. Let’s talk.”

“Yeah, right, pervert. Like I’d get within ten feet of you without a cattle prod.” She spoke to 911 again. “Yes, he came to the door, said he had a message for me and then attacked me.”

“Attacked you? Oh, come on!”

“I think I hear sirens.”

Alex had already heard them and knew how close they were. Of course, they might have sent a silent cruiser ahead. He considered firing up the rental car, but a pathetic chase through a strange city in a Chevy Cobalt would be the cherry on top of a failure of an evening. And vamps didn’t do well in prison settings.

He’d have to go by his own power. Muttering to himself and all too aware of Helena watching him above, he went to his car and pulled out his rolling bag and laptop. The cops were almost there.

“We will marry, Helena MacAllister,” he said in a parting salvo—a proud moment for his kind, to be sure. “You can count on it!”

Maybe he’d just immolate with the sunrise.

***

This is an e-book, and you can buy it at through Samhain Publishing, or other e-tailers of e-books. The isbn is 978-1-60504-244-2 . It's a quick read, what Samhain calls "category length" -- which means its 174 pages long. The price is $4.50, which you can't beat with a stick.

La Belle Dam Sans Merci

2009-01-27T20:44:00.000-08:00

La Belle Dam Sans Merci, 1926
by Frank Cadogen Cowper (1877-1958) "The last of the Pre-Raphelites"

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats (1820)

"O What can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

"I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever-dew.
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too."

"I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

"I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

"I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

"She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild and manna-dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
'I love thee true.'

"She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.

"And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dream'd—ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill's side.

"I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
They cried, 'La belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

"I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.

"And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing."

A stacked deck

2009-01-25T20:38:00.000-08:00

The High Priestess from The Decameron Tarot by Giacinto Gaudenzi,
published by Lo Scarabeo

Searching for images from The Decameron, I ran across an erotic tarot deck based on those stories .

It seems this deck is not universally loved by tarot critics, but I'm sure Boccaccio himself would be happy to find his stories re-imagined in this way. In the spirit of his earthy stories, this desk shows people of all sizes and ages engaged in the act of love.

I also discovered close cousins to this deck--The Tarot of Casanova and The Erotic Tarot of Manara, as well as a hither-to unknown world of tarot review sites and chat boards. Fascinating!

I dreamed of strange lips

2009-01-18T22:41:00.001-08:00

I dreamed of strange lips yesterday
And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood
Was like a rose's...

--from Swineburne's "Fragoletta"

Hermaproditus was named after his parents, the gods Hermes and Aphrodite. When he was a stunningly beautiful boy of fifteen, he went swimming in a pond in the woods and was accosted by the frisky naiad Salmacis. While he struggled to get away from her, she cried out to the gods that she'd give anything to be one with the beautiful boy, so the ever-cruel gods folded her body into his, making him into an androgynous being, neither man nor woman.

I wonder what Aphrodite and Hermes thought about this. And talk about punishing the victim! Anyway, this is of course where we get the term hermaphrodite. And the depictions of Hermaphroditus during the Greek and Roman eras tends to be stunningly erotic, giving them lots of room to play out their well developed homoerotic tendencies. And this sculpture, known the "Sleeping Hermaphroditus" or the "Borghese Hermaphroditus," is the most magnificent of all of them.

This sculpture is a 2nd century CE Roman reproduction of a 2nd century BC Greek original. However, the puffy couch dates from 1619, and was commissioned by the Cardinal Borghese so that our pretty one would have something nice to lay upon.

These images are of the version that lives in the Louvre, but other copies are to be found in the Uffizi in Florence and in the Vatican Museum. All of these pictures are courtesy of the wonderful Wikimedia commons.

Olympian Lust

2009-01-01T08:40:00.000-08:00

Zeus Seduces Olympias, 1528 by Giulio Romano, one of the erotic frescoes in the Sala di Amore e Psiche of the Palazzo Te in Mantua. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Click for a closer look.

Last week I mentioned the erotic classic, I Modi, which was illustrated the artist above, Giulio Romano, and the illustrations in that book were quite like this--formal scenes of beefy gods copulating. But they are engravings, so I was excited to find this color fresco in much the same style and wanted to share it with you.

What's going on in the picture? Well, pretty much everyone knows that Zeus was a serial sexual harasser and a very poor excuse for a husband. Boys, women, mortals, immortals--he wasn't picky about who he had, or how he took them, and often he was quite ruthless in his methods. But this image is particularly interesting to me, because for once, it's more about the his lover's faithlessness than his.

You see, Olympias was married to the king of Macedonia. When she turned up pregnant after a vacation and the king did the math on his fingers he figured out that the kid couldn't be his. But Olympias said that Zeus himself raped her, so really she couldn't be blamed. That story served the child well--for whoever the father was, the child turned out to be Alexander the Great. So this is both a painting of the conception of Alexander the Great and a grand celebration of a clever woman's lie.

Olympias was an amazing character--it's worth reading her Wikipedia entry. She was said to be a member of the cult of Dionysus, and because of that probably slept with snakes. That explains why Zeus appears above with a snake tail. As in so many of his seductions, he begins as one thing and ends as another. Perhaps he manifested in her bed as a snake and wound his teasing way around her thighs, flicking at her skin with his feathery tongue, until, at last, he revealed himself in his (cough) full splendor.

And what's going on it the background? That's Zeus's eagle blinding the cuckolded king of Macedonia with his lighting bolt.

Love in the Renaissance

2008-12-23T10:03:00.000-08:00

Titian (b. Pieve di Cadore, ca. 1488–d. Venice, 1576) Venus Blindfolding Cupid, ca. 1565, Borghese Gallery, Rome, currently on display at the Met.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York has a show on now through February 16th called Art and Love in Renaissance Italy. It's the kind of museum show I love best, chocked full of gorgeous Renaissance portraits, yummy cultural objects like platform shoes and cradles, and, naturelement, pornography. Not a ton of it--this is the Met, after all--but real treasures for the smut connoisseur, including precious fragments of that lost wellspring of modern Western pornography, I Modi (The Ways, also known as The Sixteen Positions or Arentino's Postures), a collaboration between Renaissance satirist Pietro Arentino and the artist Giulio Romano. To see such things for me would be like viewing fragments of the True Cross. Unfortunately the Met isn't sharing any images of those on their exhibit site, but you can see some later copies on good old Wikipedia at the I Modi link above.

The Met's online offering of exhibition images is full of beauty, but includes only 2 erotic pieces for me to share with you, both interesting choices: a figurine of copulating satyrs, and a rather discreet drawing of Apollo fondling one of his fair youths, maybe the lovely Hyacinth, who's appeared on this blog before, flying high with Eros.

Attributed to Desiderío da Firenze, Satyr and Satyress, after 1524 (?), Musée National de la Renaissance, Château d'Écouen, currently on display at the Met.

Giulio Pippi, called Giulio Romano (b. ca. 1499–d.1546), Apollo and Cyparissus or Apollo and Hyacinth, 1520s, Nationalmuseum, Stockholm, currently on display at the Met.

And one last note--the Met is kindly offering a series of lectures on this exhibit via YouTube for those of us who can't make it to New York. I doubt that these lectures will be chock full of smut, but I'm going to go take a look soon as I'm done trussing up Rudolph.

Driving Pleasures

2008-12-10T21:53:00.001-08:00

Thomas Rowlandson (1756-1827)
Rural Felicity or Love in a Chaise, c. 1800

Thus down in the waggon this damsel I laid
But sill I kept driving for driving's my trade
As her bubbies went up her plump buttocks went down
And the wheels seemed to stand and the waggon go around

-- Lyrics from a street song popular around the same time this print came out

Should you wish to own a nice copy of this print, or other works by Rowlandson, you can buy it off the British Museum's online shop. Believe it or not.

Credit to the wonderful book City of Laughter by Vic Gatrell for the poem.

Thanksgiving

2008-11-27T13:00:00.000-08:00

Image by Franz von Bayros (1866-1924)

Image source: Wikimedia Commons

In an ideal world, my Thanksgiving feast would looks something like the above. Perhaps with the addition of a sleek young man bearing wine. Make that two men. One will be beautifully naked and the other dressed as Casanova. And let's put a hookah pipe in the mix. What the hell. And a big dildo studded with pearls. And a good deal of chocolate.

But until that day comes, I'll just have to content myself with extra servings of pie.

Down, Kitty!

2008-11-14T23:30:00.000-08:00

Jade intaglio ring of uncertain origin available at Ebay

While nothing can quite compare to Eros and Hyacinth, I thought I'd show you this odd little trinket. It's a seal made of jasper, mounted in a ring. I found it on Ebay so lord only knows where it's from or how old it is. The sellers say the seal is possibly ancient, while the setting dates perhaps from the 30's. It's certainly from some ghastly era. There be Dragons! It's provenance might just be John Shaft's boudoir. But the seal itself is interesting.

It's two men. Extensive squinting tells me the one on the right is bearded. There is often one bearded man and one clean-shaven boy in homoerotic images from the ancient world. In those pairs the older man is often shown chucking the younger man's chin --which I believe symbolizes a proposition--or the older man is fondling is shown fondling his genitals--which is just how the Greeks said "hi."

Just kidding!!! It's an erotic caress, of course, and that's what's going on here.

What's very strange about this image is that critter on the far right who's trying to get in on the action. It's a lion, I believe. And it may just be bouncing up and down innocently, or it may be mounting the man on the right. Truly curious.

Because I've been spending so much time in the world of e-publishing, I'm thinking m/m plus impertinent cat shifter = one seriously wild menage a trois. (Note to self: start writing!)

But commercial notions aside, I honestly don't know what's going on there, and that's why this image is so interesting. Rather than being a real animal, the lion most likely represents something or someone. It may even be an attribute of the man it stands behind. And, yes, that certainly narrows it down. If you want a real art historian you'll have to go poke around a college library until you dig one up.

The seal itself is not necessary ancient. There's always a market for reproductions, and if it's not contemporary, there was a serious market for all things Greek and Roman-ish in the late 18th century. Click here to see my entry on a seal from that era.

Remember the Stanhope Cane?

2008-11-14T23:03:00.000-08:00

I received a nice note today from the current proprietor of Hamphauer Canes. You might remember the gorgeous cane with the peek-a-boo girl in the handle that showed you back in July. The post was What's a Stanhope? and to answer my own question, a Stanhope is a microphotograph. Read the post if you want to know more about Stanhopes or see his comment.

I didn't talk about Hamphauer Canes in that post, just linked to them, because I was focusing on Stanhopes. But they keep a lovely website full of pretty, pretty canes. And lest you think you want nothing to do with a cane, may I remind you that a true libertine could find countless uses for a well crafted cane or walking stick.

He promises to let us know if any other erotic canes come his way, which is very exciting, and describes some of the erotic canes he's scene, including a particularly ambitious species of walking stick which features a tiny mechanical couple hidden beneath an ivory flip top lid. Those canes go for 15 to 30k at auction.

Take me higher

2008-11-05T23:05:00.000-08:00

Detail of a Greek kilyx, c. 490 b.c., signed by an artist named Douris

From the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

This very pretty image depicts two young men engaging in frontal sex, i.e. making love between the thighs. The World History of Male Love, where I first found this image, tells us thigh love was a more common form of physical expression than anal penetration among men in this period because "it did not "feminize" the boy and was seen as more restrained and not abusive."

Like most museums, the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston makes no mention this of juicy stuff. However they do say that the cup likely depicts the god of the west wind, Zephyr, making love to the legendarily beautiful Hyacinth--the guy the flower is named after. Or it might depict Eros, who was also wingéd, making love to an unknown but lucky fellow.

If you're not familiar with Greek art, I'll just mention that a lot of their surviving art is on pottery. This painting is on a kilyx, which is a wide, shallow cup with two handles meant for drinking wine. The bowl on this one is about 8" across. The flat bottom of a kilyx makes for a handy place to put a picture. The image would slowly appear to you as you drank your wine. Typically kilyx paintings were of playful or sensual subjects, since no one wanted to get to the bottom of their wine cup and find a ghastly beheading or whatnot waiting for them.

Below is a full picture of the this kilyx from the top. You'll see the image is meant to be appreciated from any angle, but the folks at the museum suggest that the correct orientation of this scene might be of them hovering with Zephyr on top, holding Hyacinth up. In other words, imagine this rotated 90 degrees clockwise.

Spewing Effluent

2008-11-03T23:40:00.000-08:00

Victorian erotica, c. 1850, artist unknown

Image source: AMEA postcards

It seems to me that the waterfall is the third party in this assignation, that it's the subject of this couple's conversation. This unknown artist is consistently and delightfully wacky. And his colors are nice. See another of his pieces here.

Perhaps it's just late, but if I take my mind out of the gutter, where it's busy toying with dialog for this pair, i.e. "Like this roaring cataract, I will bathe you in the sweet effluent from my prick, Millicent," etc., etc. –– IF I take my mind out of the gutter and look at this from a greater distance, it almost looks like a ritual play, some kind of fertility ceremony.

Their gestures are dramatic and stylized and their genitalia is formally arranged too, almost like a lingum and yoni. Combine all this with the fact that they're enacting their strange little play in front of a waterfall -- a pounding waterfall filling a deep, steaming gorge. Well, I'm sleepy and don't really know where I'm going with this. Suffice it to say it's interesting.

Treats for Tricks

2008-10-31T12:48:00.001-07:00

If you're looking for a mask to wear in the bedroom, you might be intrigued with the masks offered by Coco de Mer.

Foxy, foxy, foxy

2008-10-31T11:52:00.000-07:00

An illustration by Wilhem von Kaubach, c. 1846 (?)

While searching the internets for erotic morsels for you, I take many a stray turn. This one made me laugh. See, the image above was tagged as erotic. Maybe it's just me and my bourgeois vanilla tastes, but I'd classify the practice of encouraging an enraged cat to maul your privates while a child with a small, cruel pitchfork stabs at your thighs as a very specialized form of kink.

But yes, the potential for pussy jokes is immense.

And there's some serious bosom heaving going on, too.

This is actually an illustration from a book of stories about the fabulous trickster, Reynard the Fox. See him peeking in the window at the top right? No doubt he's behind this mischief.

This illustration is from an Ebay auction, and was attributed to "Kaulbach" and dated to 1846. Folks who tear up old books to sell the prints at a higher profit margin aren't always the best sources of scholarly information. I'm assuming they mean Wilhelm von Kaulbach.

I found a pretty little 1845 edition of a Reynard the Fox illustrated by Wilhelm von Kaulbach --you can see it here via Google Books. The illustrations in the 1845 edition look similar, but are vignetted--so if this is indeed a Kaulbach, it's from a different version.

An orchid by any other name is...unmentionable

2008-10-27T21:42:00.000-07:00

An orchid pendant currently on offer at Ebay.

I rarely see erotic jewelry I would be willing to wear. This little bone pendant dating to the about 1900 is an exceptional exception. It's only 19.99 GBP right now, but it has a week to go before the auction is over. Follow the link for more pics and info.

Sincere apologies to my loyal readers for my recent long absence. (In my tiredness, I typed "low leaders" instead of "loyal readers." What kind of election period Freudian slip was that? Or do I mean, as the country song says, that "I have friends in low places"?) This last month I suffered a week of internet outage, followed by a hard disk failure and a resultant decline into the most shocking state of primitive living. It was like Y2K was supposed to be. Without the comforts of YouTube and my usual blog rounds, I found myself bereft and drifting, reading by fitfully by candlelight and talking to the livestock.

Oh, and there was a vacation tucked in there somewhere, too--a welcome break from entertaining myself with hand shadows on the wall at night. I'm glad to be back.

The Fantastic Bondage of Franz von Bayros

2008-09-23T16:29:00.001-07:00

Franz Von Bayros, Paroxysme-érotique, from the portfolio titled "Tales of the Dressing Room" Image source Wikimedia Commons. Click image for a closer look.

(This is one the most amazing images I've ever seen. Especially of a woman in this period. She's totally actualized. She has super powers. And the composition is gorgeous.)

Franz Von Bayros, Jupiter and Europa, from the portfolio titled "Tales of the Dressing Room" Image source Wikimedia Commons. Click image for a closer look.

(The best Jupiter and Europa. Ever.)

Franz Von Bayros, Tantalus from the portfolio titled "Tales of the Dressing Room" Image source Wikimedia Commons. Click image for a closer look.

(Tantalus' punishment, now proverbial for temptation without satisfaction ("tantalizing"), was to stand in a pool of water beneath a fruit tree with low branches. Whenever he reached for the fruit, the branches raised his intended meal from his grasp. Whenever he bent down to get a drink, the water receded before he could get any. -- From the Wikpedia entry on Tantalus.)

***

I would like to introduce you to Decadent illustrator Franz von Bayros (b. Zagreb 1866––d. Vienna, 1924). His work may remind you of Aubrey Beardsley. He is of the same generation, and I've heard him classed as a "follower" of Beardsley, but Beardsley died in 1898 the tragic age of twenty-five, so he could have followed him for long. They share that fin de siecle love of the lush swirling line and an appreciation of the sharp discipline of black and white. Beardsley's imagination was prodigious. Von Bayros's was filthy.

Von Bayros's erotic world is mainly populated mainly by wicked, self-indulgent women and naughty, naughty school girls. Men are few and far between in his images. I wish his kink leaned a little more toward mine, because his drawing is magical, and no matter how obscene the subject, he never makes me feel squidgy. In the end I think it's simply the case that there is no room for strutting masculinity in the rococo world he's created. But there is plenty of room for animals, and that's another delight about his work--the curious pugs, cheeky monkeys and not-so-innocent fawns. All these creatures end up full actors in the spectacle, sometimes becoming more compelling than the people.

In my beloved Erotica Universalis Gilles Nèret says that Von Bayros was "obliged to move from one European capital to another as each outrageous new work was banned by the authorities." Even today, in our more liberal climate, his use of very young subjects would get him into trouble.

It's worth remembering as you look at the images above that in his time masturbation was a taboo subject, an act considered immoral as well as physically and psychologically dangerous.

So there's this girl...

2008-09-18T08:05:00.000-07:00

She's a turtle. Um, okay.

And when you take off her shell, you'll see she's wearing...

Crotchless pantaloons.

(And look at her little black boots sticking out the back!)

It's a porcelain German knickknack dating from around 1900. Available now on Ebay.

It reminds me of a Christian discipline website I once stumbled upon. It seems to have vanished. If anyone recognizes this, please tell me where it is now. It was an odd combination of an erotic diary and a shop. She sold plain and open-back pantaloons very much like the ones Turtle Girl is wearing. Supplementing this web store were diary entries about how she tried so hard to be a good, useful, respectful wife, yet over and over she'd stumble on her path, and then her loving husband would have to put her over his knee.

I've never read anything hotter. The image of this woman wearing her crotchless pantaloons under her Little House on the Prairie dresses, trembling with desire as she brings dinner to the table late, or "forgets" to iron her husband's shirts, or mouths off to his mother. Her heart slamming in her chest when he goes to the drawer to fetch the paddle. The delicious yielding when he crooks his finger at her and says, Come here.

Oh, to be a believer!

Explaining things to myself via Erotica. Or, Evie entertains her readers with free smut

2008-09-11T22:42:00.000-07:00

A few months ago in my post, Reading Between the Lines, I wrote about the image above, not knowing what it was illustrating, but extrapolating at length about what I thought was going on.

I guessed the woman was hiding her lover beneath the barrel while being inconvenienced by the other gentleman. In fact, that's her husband under the barrel. She's cuckolding him.

The tale illustrated here is sometimes called The Tale of the Tub, and it's from Boccaccio's Decameron. If you want to read it yourself, it's the second tale told on the seventh day. Go here and skip to p. 119.

In retrospect, my misinterpretation makes me laugh, because I really should have known better than to cast the woman in a sympathetic light. That kind of thinking is purely modern.

This is the Tale of the Tub in summary:

An honest mason returns from work early, interrupting his wife's tryst with another man. The clever wife manages to intercept her husband at the door and berates him for slacking off at work, which gives her lover time to collect himself.

The poor husband says that he would be working, but he's just sold this big barrel or tub of theirs that's been cluttering up their yard for 5 gigliats. Isn't that great news? The wife, thinking fast, says, "Funny you should say that, because I've got a man here right now looking at the tub and he says he'll pay 7 gigliats for it."

The mason goes to meet his wife's lover, who plays along and pretends to be very interested in the tub. The wife looks into the tub and says, "Look how crusty it is! Honey, you should scrape it out for the gentleman before he takes it home."

So the husband puts down his mason tools and crawls under the tub to scrape inside clean, and while he's busy, she and her lover take the opportunity to finish what her husband had interrupted. Right on top of the tub.

And even better, I understand that "scraping the tub" was a sexual euphemism in Boccaccio's day. The capper to the story is that at the end, when the husband crawls out of the tub, the wife says to her lover, "Take this light, good man, and tell me if the tub has been scraped to your liking."

Cheeky, eh?

But the whole set up sounds like slapstick. Wouldn't the husband hear the ruckus? Or get knocked on the head by the rocking tub?

Intrigued by how this assignation might have worked, I've written my own account of it.

And so behold, an erotic mini-interlude for your reading pleasure:

***

Her husband's voice echoed from inside the tub. "Hold it steady, Peronella."

Peronella leaned over and braced the tub with both arms. It began to lurch with each blow of his hammer and chisel. Giannello stood a respectable distance away, apparently committed to this abrupt transition from lover to tub buyer.

Will you come back tomorrow? She hoped he could read her thoughts. I wish you could come back tonight.

Perhaps he could read her thoughts, because his face turned lean and wolfish. If he wore that look when he crept into her bedroom it meant he'd come burning and full of obscene notions. It meant that by the end of the morning, they both be as wrung out and limp as dishrags.

To see that expression on his face with her husband nearby was terrifying. His dark gaze flicked down to her breasts. NShe was leaning over the tub and her stays, thanks to him, were loose. She raised her chin and wiggled her shoulders until the pink rims of her nipples peeked out at him.

Gianello drew aside his coat and ran his hand over his breeches, pulling them tight so she could see the outline of his erection beneath. Eyelids heavy, he stroked himself.

Certain they'd have hours to spend, they'd been slow that morning, licking and sucking one another into a near frenzy. Giannello loved to make her beg, and then to make her scream.

She'd been begging when she heard the telltale squeak of the front gate. It was a miracle she'd heard it at all, but a guilty conscience has its own defenses.

Just before the gate squeaked, he'd been showing her his beautiful cock. The one she couldn't refuse, though they'd both be damned for it. When erect, Giannello's cock was as white and hard as carerra marble, blue veined and capped with scarlet.

Peronella could taste its musky salt on her lips. She knew how it stretched her and filled her. Aching, she squeezed her thighs together.

Her husband said, "Pass me that rasp."

Gianello slid it under the barrel, and then came to stand behind her. He circled her waist with his hands, drew them out over the flare of her hips and then inward to squeeze her bottom.

You tease, she thought, you wicked tease, but she tipped her rear end up, inviting more caresses. Beneath her belly, her husband began to use the rasp, sending deep vibrations through the wood. Giannello snaked his hand beneath her skirts and she widened her stance so he could feel that she was wet and hot as the mouth of hell. Even with her husband beneath her, because no matter where they were, or what they did, she was ready to take Giannello. It was that simple.

"It really isn't necessary to give it to me perfectly clean," Giannello said to her husband, his voice telltale tight.

He slid two fingers into her, and she clutched the sides of the barrel convulsively. What was he doing?

"I may as well finish it up while I'm down here," her husband said.

"They do say any job worth doing is worth doing right." Giannello threw her skirts up around her ears, bearing her naked arse to the cool air.

Dear Lord, he couldn't be serious.

But he'd bared himself too, and was stroking that hot, rosy-headed prick of his over the mouth of her cunny, making himself slick. How like him not to plunge straight it. How like him to give her a moment to protest. A moment to contemplate how wicked and stupid they were about to be. A moment to realize that she wouldn't, couldn't say no to him. She'd fuck him on the gallows. The realization sent a deep shudder of pleasure running down her back.

Seeing it, Giannello grasped her hips and drove inside.

It was all she could do not to scream. Instead, she braced herself, absorbing the force of the thrust so the barrel did not rock.

With a second, twisting thrust he pushed straight up to her womb. Stifling a moan, Peronella sank her teeth into the barrel's rim. Giannello was silent, too. She couldn't even hear him breathe. All she knew was that his hands kept her tight against him, preventing her from rocking as he ground against her as slow and steady as a mill wheel.

We are wicked. We are twisted and damned. She'd do penance the next day. Giannello would too. She imagined herself kneeling before her confessor, contrite as any wife ever was. But then her confessor became Giannello. Hungry, she lifted up his cassock and slid her penitent mouth over his fat, sweet cock.

The fantasy broke when her husband began to employ his rasp beneath her belly, the strokes fast and steady. Raspa, raspa, raspa. The barrel vibrated against her hips, her mound, her breasts. Gianello picked up on this rhythm and began to fuck her in time with her husband's scraping. Raspa raspa raspa.

Good. God. Sweet and slick, they were all moving as one. Him. Her. The barrel. Even her husband's hand. He worked that magic spot under her hips as if on purpose, pleasuring her from below as Gianello took her from above.

Don't stop, don't stop. She'd never known such ecstasy. Sweet Jesus let me finish!

Her husband stopped scraping abruptly. Gianello didn't stop grinding, but he listened. She knew he did. They both strained their ears. She knew they should pull apart, save themselves. Instead, in that silence, in that dangerous place, he gave her bottom a bruising pinch. One, and then another, and she started to come.

A hollow clatter sounded from inside as her husband dropped a tool. She heard him curse, and then, bang! He'd taken up the hammer and chisel again. Bang! The barrel heaved, and Peronella along with it. Unable to scream, she stiffened, her joints locked with tension. Her mouth opened in silent agony. Instead of exploding outward, her climax folded inward on itself, over and over again, a fierce, crushing vice of pleasure.

Gianello buried his hot face in the crook of her neck, stifling a groan. He bucked once, jarring the rhythm of her husband's scraping, then went as still as death while she milked every drop of jism from him. In a near faint, she dropped her forehead to the rough wood of the barrel.

"That's just about got it," her husband said.

Gianello withdrew and circled back into her field of vision, walking none too steadily and fumbling with his breeches. He propped himself against the wall, his head back, his chest heaving. She tilted the barrel up so her husband could crawl out.

fin.

The Original Coco de Mer

2008-09-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

Last week I posted about the erotic emporium, Coco de Mer. Now I'm posting about it's namesake. How have I lived so long without knowing about the coco de mer?

The coco de mer (Lodoicea maldivica), is a rare palm endemic to only two islands in the Seychelles. The mature seed is the largest in the world (weighing 15-30 kg), and the most suggestive:

this image and the next courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The sight of a floating coco de mer seed, bobbing on the waves like the well-rounded posterior of mermaid, used to drive sailors mad.

And while not as famous, the male parts of the plant are a wee bit suggestive too:

Looking at this, I think they should all be spangled with flowers. At least for special occasions.

Want to learn more?

http://epod.usra.edu/archive/epodviewer.php3?oid=308352

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coco_de_mer

(Sorry about the lack of live links on this post, but Blogger is being difficult tonight. Bad Blogger.)

A Winner Announced

2008-09-02T07:51:00.000-07:00

Thanks to all of you, Emma, Kate, Savanna, Sela, Sylvie, Valerie, Minx, Nadia, Chi and Charlotte, for commenting.

And my sincere thanks to those of you who are regular visitors to the Erotická Revue. You know who you are! I appreciate your visits and comments so much, and am glad to have you here with my on my release day.

The drawing was conducted in the following highly scientific manner: I put your names on identical squares of card. The squares of card went into a fez. I don't know why the fez, exactly, except it added a festive je ne sais qua to the proceedings. Mr. Evie was enlisted to draw a name.

If you did not win, do not fall into tears of hopeless despair. I have more books to give away--I just have to figure out how I want to do that, so keep an ear out.

And now, to the point. The winner is...

*
*
*

Sylvie Fox!!!!!

One of my fellow Los Angeles Romance Authors! Congratulations!

Come on down and get your free copy of Dante's Inferno!

Sylvie, I'll contact you via the LARA link.

Evie Writes! A Giveway and an Excerpt

2008-08-28T21:14:00.000-07:00

The Giveaway:

My first novella, Dante's Inferno, will release as an ebook at Samhain this coming Tuesday, September 2nd. To celebrate I'm posting a long excerpt here. A different excerpt can be found at my website.

If you like the excerpt and would like a chance to win a free electronic copy of the whole novella (in your choice of formats) just post a comment here. Any kind of comment. One comment per customer. I'll put the names in a hat and draw one at random the morning of September 2nd, soon as I wake up--around 8AM Pacific Time. You can post until then. I'll announce the winner as soon as I draw.

About the Story:

Dante's Inferno is an erotic historical romance set during Carnival in decadent, seductive, 18th century Venice. A not-so-proper widow and a roguish sea captain indulge in an anonymous affair. Each mistakes the other for something they are not, and they end up on a collision course with a truth which will shock them both.

Dante's Inferno had the honor of being awarded second prize in the historical category of Passionate Ink's Stroke of Midnight contest last year.

The excerpt:

After a brief alleyway tryst, Dante becomes obsessed with his mysterious partner. The night after their meeting he searches the city for her. Serena is intrigued by her rough lover, but not sure she can afford the risk of seeing him again.This is what happens when he finds her. One note--the question of the "French Disease" (syphilis) seems to come rather abruptly here, but in fact Serena was talking about it with her maid in the previous scene, so it's on her mind.

*****

By the time he found her, the blood pounded in his ears. How he could be so obsessed with a woman in a mask, he did not know. He took a broad stance in her path. When she found her way blocked, she jumped backward, skittish, and her companion stepped forward to shield her. Dante held his hands wide to show them he was harmless and bowed. Like them, he wore the bautta that night, for he reasoned she would recognize him better with it than without.

“My lady, I believe I made your acquaintance last night.” He offered her a self-deprecating smile. “All too briefly, I’m afraid. I have hoped for an opportunity to address you again. My name is—”

She slipped in front of her protector and put a hand up to stop his words. “Please, don’t.” She spoke in a husky whisper that sent shivers down his spine.

He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. If her man wanted to fight for her, he was more than ready, and he was bigger. “How else can I come to know you better?” he asked.

She cast a quick glance back at her companion, then edged closer to him. “Signore, please, this is not safe.”

“Is that your man?” he asked in a low voice, keeping hold of her hand. “Would you like to be free of him?”

“That is my servant,” she said.

Better and better. No bloodshed to start. “I could not sleep last night because of you, donna molto bella.” He laid a long kiss on her knuckles, felt her hand jerk then relax. Encouraged, he slipped his thumb into her palm and caressed it as he spoke. “I fear I may have offended you by taking you for something you are not. I wish to make amends.”

“You’ve not offended me,” she whispered, almost too low to be heard. “I must go now.”

Afraid to lose her again, Dante gambled on frankness. It would either frighten her away or reel her in. Keeping hold of her hand, he stood as close to her as he could without touching her, and spoke into her ear. “Last night you came out seeking pleasure, did you not? You didn’t find as much of it as you could with me, and I regret that. If you would spend tonight with me, I will show you pleasure beyond imagining.”

“You think much of your abilities, sir,” she said, trying to reclaim her hand.

This show of coyness amused him, considering her manners the night before. “I am confident in my talents.”

“Tell me, does one need talent to lie with whores?”

Dante could not repress a smile. He rather liked women with claws. “Whores will teach you many things you cannot learn from ladies.”

She weighed his words, then asked in her sultry whisper, “Do you have the French disease?”

“What?” he exclaimed. Her white mask regarded him impassively in the torchlight. The brim of her hat cast a shadow over her eyes so he could not read their expression. Then her mouth, that damned mouth which drove him to this insanity, curled up at the corners, laughing at him. “I do not!”

She spun around and returned to her servant. They engaged in a conversation of urgent whispers that he could not catch. He rocked on his heels while he waited. She returned in a whirl of robes and asked, “How do I know that you are not lying?”

He drew up to his full, indignant height. “I am a gentleman. I would not lie about such a thing.”

“What if you are not a gentleman at all?”

“You didn’t care so much about that last night!” he snapped. She turned her back on him.
“Wait.” Dante leapt forward to block her path. “I apologize. Please, let me show you what a gentleman I am. I will pleasure you and take none for myself. I will not so much as loosen a button of my own clothing. I swear it. It’s the least I can do after being so selfish last night.”

Another long pause, and then the glorious question, “Where would we go?”

“To a gondola,” he answered, grabbing at the first of many fantasies he had already woven involving her. Back she went to the servant, and this time launched into a full blown argument with him. Most likely he was assigned to watch her movements for her keeper. Dante considered offering him something to smooth their way, but before he could, she ended the argument and returned to stand in front of him.

“I’ll give you half an hour.” He had to lean close to hear her. “I won’t remove my mask and neither will you. The gondola must come back to the same launching point. My servant will wait there to make sure I am returned safely.”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“Done.”

Working hard not to jig, Dante offered her his arm, and the three of them walked with great dignity to the quay at the edge of the piazza. At the water’s edge, he hired a gondola with a cabin. Dante owned a gondola, but like all of his servants, his gondolier was out looking for her. While he assisted his hard won lady into the curtained cabin, her servant spoke with the gondolier and passed him some coin.

As the gondolier poled away from the moorings, Dante paid the man double to ignore whatever her servant had told him. “I don’t care where you go. Just keep your nose to yourself and don’t whistle.”

The only light in the cabin came from a small heating brazier. In that red gloom, he could see her pressed against the seat, tense as a cat. Intense negotiation, he had found, rarely led to romance. Wine often did. He wished he had thought to bring some. “Thank you for joining me,” he began, taking the seat beside her. “What shall I call you?”

“I have no name,” she whispered.

“Why do you speak in whispers? We’re alone.”

“I have no voice.”

“I see.” He rubbed his chin. This night he had made a point of shaving. “Then I will call you Bella, if you do not mind. May I ask who is this man of yours that keeps you so fearful?”

“You don’t want to know. You don’t want to know who I am, lest you recognize me. I don’t want to know who you are and be forced to acknowledge you later. Do you understand?”

“I will respect your wishes.” He understood that there were plenty of powerful men in this city who would not appreciate his tampering with their mistress, but she spoke as if this man was well known and dangerous. Dante wondered who he might be. Already he knew most of the powerful men in the city.

Even with that reassurance, she still pressed herself back in the corner. He wondered what had happened to the wanton adventuress from the night before.

“May I take your hat?” he asked. “Your hood?” As he unfastened the neck of her hood, he felt the fast rise and fall of her breast. “Are you afraid, Bella?”

“No,” she whispered. He did not believe her.

He set the hood aside. With these coverings gone, she became a woman instead of a cipher. A woman with a small, round head balanced on a swan’s neck. A woman with fair hair gathered at her nape, and pointed little ears. In the dim light, he could read her eyes just enough to know how intently she studied him. Their color was difficult to judge. Grey or blue perhaps. Not dark. The mask covered her nose and curved over her cheeks, but unless it hid something unexpected, he suspected she would be beautiful with it off.

Her small white hands fluttered into the air tentatively, as if she were making a decision. Suddenly resolute, she threw aside his hat and pushed off his hood. She stroked either side of his head, then sank her fingers into his hair.

Smiling, he pulled the ribbon at the back of his neck and freed his hair for her, thinking—hoping—that the man who kept her possessed a total of two or three strands combed over his pate.

Her delicate fingers ranged over his mask, his jaw, and then returned to his hair. Islanders who had never seen a European before had touched him in much the same way: innocent, unabashed, curious. She traced his lips with her fingertips. That feather-light touch shot down to his toes. He cupped his hand over hers and kissed her palm.

That familiar, peculiar scent he had noticed the night before was on her hand. It evoked memories of the excitement of leaving port with a clean, newly rigged ship and hold full of stores. A woman’s scent did not usually send his mind in that particular direction. Dante turned her hand over and kissed her knuckles, inhaling deeply. The answer came to him. Linseed oil. Shipboard it was used to waterproof wood and cloth, in mixing varnish and the like, but what would she be doing with it?

He realized that she was staring at him, wondering why he snuffled at her hand. Putting aside the question of linseed oil, he released her hand. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she forgot whatever fears governed her. The night before she had needed no coaxing whatsoever, but this night, for whatever reason, she was different. So he waited her to come to him.

This confused her. He could see it in the tilt of her head. She leaned closer. Her warm breath drifted across his cheek. Inside, he screamed for her touch, but he did not move. Another endless second passed, and then the smile appeared. His heart leapt to see it. She raised one hand to his cheek and kissed him as she had the night before. Once she decided to move forward, there was nothing modest, or even coy, about her kiss. Its honesty took his breath and set him afire.

Her mouth opened to his and he left off thinking altogether. That is, until their masks knocked together. They both had to remember to hold their heads just so or that would happen. It had not bothered him so much in the alley, but now Dante bridled at the awkwardness of it all.

“Surely we can take these things off now, Bella?”

“Already you question my rules?” Her smile curled against his lips.

“You are a cruel woman, cara mia.” To hold her was to want her, but he had given up that claim for this night. This night was about penance. So he prepared to suffer.

Her stays pushed her breasts into perfect half-circles above the neck of her gown. He kissed the crest of each one while he loosened the ties at her back. Bella sat at the edge of the seat, her breath coming in shallow pants. The stays gave and he peeled down the fine linen of her shift to cup his hand over one warm breast. She softened and leaned into his hand, openly sensual. Dante began to suspect she would not be hard to please.

“Your breasts are beautiful, Bella, like white doves.” Pressing her back against the seat, he first stroked her entire breast using only the tips of his fingers, then caressed deeply with his palms. Like her, her breasts were not large, but they were creamy white, high set, virginal.

As he teased their tips to hardness, her breath caught over and over. Taking the weight of first one in his hand, then the other, he dipped his head down and laved the nipples, soothing them in turn, then sucking them deep into his mouth. Under his attentions she made a wonderful noise, very like purring. Running his tongue along the underside of her breast, he reveled in the elemental pleasure of her satin skin against his cheek, her salty taste, the purely female scent rising from her bodice.

They had nothing but time, so he decided to draw out every moment. Leaving one hand on her breast, he began to lay slow kisses along her collarbones, dipping his tongue in the hollow between them. He lingered over her pulse. Only a little of her skin was exposed to his attentions. He did not plan to miss an inch of it. With slow deliberation, he kissed his way up the long line of her throat, sucking, nipping until she moaned.

One of her hands flexed in his hair, the other slid down to the back of his neck. Her breathing had slowed. She was right where he wanted her––very pleased, but not too warm. He nuzzled beneath her chin and behind her ear. Under his hands and mouth, he felt her limbs grow soft and loose. He could do anything with her now. Several appealing options occurred to him, none of which were legal that night.

“Bella, sit in my lap,” he whispered, reluctant to disturb her dream. She quirked one corner of her mouth up as if she knew his plans and conspired with him. He could not help but kiss her for it, kiss her rather more than he intended. Then she slipped her sweet tongue into his mouth and he lost track of all his resolutions.

She slid down the seat to lie on her back and pulled him over her decisively. Madonna Santisimma! He felt a lurch, thought it was the gondola at first, then realized it was his heart, his stomach, his cock. Blind, burning, he crushed her against the seat and pillaged her mouth, while she urged him on flagrantly, parting her legs for him, pressing her hips against his. Without any conscious intention, his hands began to bunch her skirts higher and higher and skimmed up her supple, bare thighs. All his blood screamed for possession, honor be damned.

*****

Christmas isn't so far away, after all

2008-08-27T11:31:00.000-07:00

This image was taken from their current photo editorial.
Follow this link to see more.
(All images used with permission)

I'm in shopping mode, and swooning over my latest discovery: an erotic emporium called Coco de Mer. They carry everything from accessories to toys to jewelry to lingerie to antique volumes of erotica. Yes, it's expensive, but what a rare treat it is to feel luxuriously seduced instead of squidgy while perusing erotic gear.

It makes me want, want, want.

And when my house boy saw the offerings, he started to quiver. Which really, he doesn't do very often. These he particularly liked:

It's an interesting company, with many tentacles and offerings. They also seem to be good corporate citizens. They have two shops in London and one in Los Angeles. But I won't say any more, lest I fall even deeper into shameless pimping. Contrary to appearances, they're not paying me. However, I could easily be bought with one of their masks, or perhaps the silver cat claw ring...

Visonary Architecture

2008-08-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

Jean-Jacques Lequeu (1757 – 1826) was a French draftsman and visionary architect. His unpublished Architecture Civile, now kept in France's National Library, is a collection of fantastically beautiful drawings of buildings which were never built, interspersed with the occasional erotic image. You can see more at Gallica, wherefrom I lifted these two pictures.

Only an architect could render such a substantial, highly... architectural phallus. My vocabulary fails me. It's a groin building. A flesh monument. When anyone tells you thrusting, jutting architecture is not phallic, please refer them to this image. That said, it is a very handsome member, no? Click to...enlarge.

Thank you again to Jahsonic for the inspiration. "Man's most honest organ" indeed! I'd seen Lequeu's "clean" work before, but never this amazing phallus, and had to share it with you all.

A Matter of Convenience

2008-07-27T23:14:00.000-07:00

I'm off to San Francisco tomorrow to attend the big annual romance writer's convention. The image I'm leaving you with for the next week or so is not just porn, it's bathroom porn! Yes, we're reaching new lows here at the Erotická Revue. I'm probably going to scare off new readers, but I just gotta post this, because you never, ever get to see what bathrooms used to look like.

Lithograph by Achille Devéria, c. 1840, image source Wikimedia Commons

Here I believe we have a couple of impatient newlyweds. Lord, at least I hope he's her groom! Of course, she may not even be a bride. That looks like a wedding dress to me, but Victoriana experts are welcome to chime in here with opinions. If it's not, then they might just be in the bathroom at a ball. I have no documentation on this, so choose the scenario that makes you happiest.

The artist is Achille Devéria (1800-1857), a French painter, portraitist and lithographer who was known for his illustrations, both straight and erotic. I've noticed in his erotic work he sometimes gets all hung up on depicting details in the background, and gives relatively short shrift to the people in the scene. In this case, I'm delighted at this wealth of bathroom information.

The box with the round lid on it is a close stool. There may just be a basic chamber pot under the hole or there might be a larger vessel that collects more waste. If so, after each use the bathroom visitor would sprinkle something odor killing, like ash, earth or lime, over the pot. That vase on the shelf might be for that purpose.

You also see a freestanding chamberpot in the foreground. I'm suspecting that one is for the convenience of gentlemen. There's also that intriguing brush, and those strips of cloth? paper? on the wall. I suspect that's some form of toilet paper. And finally, note the construction of the door: it's split in two, like a stable door. Why is that?

I'll leave you with one more Devéria with a bathroom theme. Here a desperate housewife sneaks a quickie with a blissed out lad while pretending to make use of the chamberpot. Listening to other people pee was much more part of the soundtrack of life back then than it is now. If you've ever read My Secret Life, you'll know what I mean.

Lithograph by Achille Devéria, c. 1840, image source Wikimedia Commons

I can't resist throwing in one last very silly Devéria for the road. What did I tell you about Monsieur D. and the background detail? Is this picture about that clock or the couple? And if that couple doesn't work for Cirque de Soleil, someone's about to get hurt.

Lithograph by Achille Devéria, c. 1840, image source Wikimedia Commons

What's a Stanhope?

2008-07-22T18:49:00.000-07:00

An antique cane with a risqué Stanhope in the handle, for sale at Hamphauer Canes

Back in the early days of photography, folks figured out that just as you can enlarge a negative, you can reduce it, too. You can reduce a photographic negative down to the size of a pinhead and then view it through an inexpensive lens.

Those of you who date from the good ol' analog days might remember those little key chain-sized slide viewers. Stanhopes are sort of like those, but so much cooler, because they are teeny tiny and can be embedded in almost any object. Frankly, I have no idea why microphotography ever went out of style.

From the outside, a Stanhope looks like nothing more than a sunken glass rivet. You'd never guess what it is. But if you hold one up to the light, the image appears in perfect detail.

In their heyday, Stanhopes were much used in the tourist trade. Imagine a photo of Niagara falls embedded in the handle of a fan, or an image from a World's Fair in letter opener, or a picture of Christ in a rosary. You might also find them in rings, button hooks, pens, pipes, knife handles, seals, pincushions, needle cases, canes––you get the idea.

Now, if one puts their dirty mind to it, one might realize in short order that Stanhopes, being portable and yet nigh invisible, might be the perfect vehicle for salacious images. And indeed they were. There used to be a whole species of what I'll call micropornography hidden in masculine accouterments like canes and pocket knives. Next time you're in an antique store, keep a sharp eye out and you might spot one.

The problem is that Stanhope images themselves are pretty hard to photograph, and erotic ones hard to find to begin with, but I did search out this lovely Victorian cane for you above. And below you can just make out the charming lady that lives in the handle. Click to biggify--it might help a little.

Close up of a risqué Stanhope in a cane for sale at Hamphauer Canes

If you want to learn more about Stanhopes, here's some sources:

Stanhopes Info is selling a book, but has the basic facts and some pictures.

And I found these guys at Stanhope Microworks actually make new Stanhopes , should you get the urge to give them a commission. The also sell antique Stanhopes.

And this little essay gives a readable overview and history from a collector's POV

Getting off in the Louvre

2008-07-16T14:44:00.000-07:00

Psyche revived by the kiss of Love, 1793 by Antonio Canova

Louvre Museum, Paris. Image source: Wikipedia Commons

Oxford Art Online tells me that this statue of Cupid and Psyche, "deeply shocked Wordsworth but sexually excited Flaubert." Which just goes to show that it's not the art itself, but rather the experience of the viewer that is the final arbiter of meaning.

***

I've come back to post this nice alternate view of a copy in the sumptuous Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia.

Photographer, Yair Haklai (CC)

What Would Casanova Do? (WWCD)

2008-07-14T17:40:00.000-07:00

One of the large and looming things on my to-do list is summiting that mountain which is Giacamo Casanova's multi-volume memoir. So when I ran across a mention of a his commemorative fountain pen, I had to investigate.

Turns out it's a very expensive, limited-edition fountain pen being auctioned right now. It's called, somewhat leadenly "The Erotic Art Pen"

The image you see above is the back of the certificate of authenticity, which happens to be the best picture of what is engraved on the pen's barrel. It's a Gatsby-esque erotic scene, which is nice, but a little puzzling since it's not specific to the C man himself.

I'm guessing that given the option to adopt a fountain pen for writing, Casanova probably would have opted to keep using quills, because he could write a letter to a potential lover with one end, then flip it over and go to the couch to molest his current lover with the opposite end.

Sprawled on silk sheets

2008-07-01T09:50:00.000-07:00

Marie-Louise O'Murphy (1737-1818), mistress to Louis XV of France,
by François Boucher (1703–1770) circa 1752
Image source: Wikipedia Commons

The Jahsonic blog, which I learned about a few days ago, is earning its place on my bookmark bar. His "Icons of Erotic Art" series continues, with recent exciting stops at Miraculous Lactation, the voluptuous Death of Cleopatra and, most recently, talking about one of my favorite paintings by François Boucher: the saucy portrait of Marie-Louise O'Murphy, the very young mistress of king Louis XV. Jahsonic tells some of her back story, including an eyewitness account from Casanova.

I decided to double blog this, because a Jahsonic commenter pointed out Wikipedia's collection of variants on this painting, and that caught my interest. I also thought that this painting--which truly is an icon of erotic art, so popular and well-known that I suspect bad copies of it hung above the bar in a many an old west saloon––could withstand my attentions as well as Jahsonic's.

Much art tagged as "erotic" is basically cheesecake. As a straight woman, it takes an extra-special piece of cheesecake to earn the title of erotic from me. This is one that works very well in that regard, and I have to confess this is so because when I look at this I can imagine exactly what it would feel like to assume that position. It's fascinating how that pose renders the body open and vulnerable, yet at the same is a strong posture, because it is such a brazen invitation. The tension between those two poles creates an electrical current.

Boucher painted variants on this painting again and again, so I'd like to think he must have been interested in that tension––or maybe Louis just wanted lots of copies. Many people don't realize that paintings often exist in multiples. A wealthy patron might ask an artist to make copies of a successful commission. Or an artist might like a subject so much that he can't quite leave it alone and plays with variations on his own time.

Once you have the tricky parts down, such as finding a composition that works, and as in this case, you've nailed a nice portrait drawing for reference, it is not so hard to turn out multiples, and you can have lots of fun pushing them one way or the other in terms of color and light. It's a little like the way an artist will write a song, and then reinterpret it each time they perform it.

So here's the painting from the top of the page again, just so you don't have to scroll. It's tones are warm, a rich palette of sepias and ochers that set off her skin like a pearl:

Then he paints it again, (to tell the truth I have no idea which one he painted first, but just bear with me) brightening the palette with pink, blue and yellow, and working with a lighter, dryer brush. It looks very much like a pastel painting, which were popular then. The colors in the first remind me of the afternoon. while this one looks as if the morning light is streaming through the window. Same subject, totally different mood:

Marie-Louise O'Murphy (1737-1818), mistress to Louis XV of France,
by François Boucher (1703–1770) circa 1752
Image source: Wikipedia Commons

And this one is the darkest of all, but I'm suspecting the truest in terms of representing her actual coloring. The bright pink drapery has been toned down to a sensual rose, the picture cropped and much of the detail eliminated, making the image more truly a portrait, and less obviously an icon of desire.

Marie-Louise O'Murphy (1737-1818), mistress to Louis XV of France,
by François Boucher (1703–1770) circa 1752
Image source: Wikipedia Commons

And finally, here is a painting from perhaps ten years earlier, making it the godmother of Madmoiselle O'Murphy. It is titled Odalisque, which means that it is not a portrait, but rather a type of sensual painting. An odalisque is a nude with oriental stylings, a subject born out of 18th/19th c. European fascination with the Near East. (seraglios! eunuchs! concubines! bath houses!)

Her pose is even more provocative than that in the later paintings, and I particularly approve of the way her chemise has been shoved up around her waist, baring her spectacularly tempting bottom. M. O'Murphy didn't wear a stitch, which gave her a certain aura of innocence. There's nothing innocent about this one.

Odalisque by François Boucher, c.1740
Image source: Wikipedia Commons

A visit to the floating world

2008-06-29T10:00:00.000-07:00

Shunga by Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1797-1861), c. 1835

In this beautiful woodblock print by one of the great masters of Ukiyo-e, a couple dally in elegant, artistic surroundings. Outside, the sky is perfect blue and the cherry trees are in full blossom. One of them was practicing origami before they became distracted. And in the act itself we see a rare illustration of the delicate negotiations of love making: the half whispers, subtle gestures and accommodations that allow two people to become one.

Click the image to see more detail.