Thursday, March 7, 2019

The Dragon's Gift FREE READ

The Dragon’s Gift 
by Angora Shade

Copyright 2016 by Angora Shade
Edited by Paige Prince

Genre: Lesbian Paranormal Erotic Fiction

Note: The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author. This work may not be reproduced in whole or in part without explicit permission from the author. If you enjoy this work, please consider supporting other works by Angora Shade.

I hate dragons, but I love Maxine. Not love-love, but love in the way you love the best friend who might have been the love of your life. In my ideal world, we might have, could have, and should have been more. But Maxine, at the age of eighteen, was already busy with half the boys in town. It was obvious to me then she probably wouldn’t ever tip my way. 

Still, after years of friendship, she’s stuck with me through thick and thin, broken hearts, and missed opportunities. It’s fair to say we’ve built the kind of friendship to last no matter what. To me, the definition of real love and friendship are the same: it’s choosing to take on someone else’s shit and living with it, just because. 

And shit is what I have to sit through—another low budget, poorly written tech college theatre production, which will further solidify my undying, never-ending, shatterproof support of my best friend. I deceive myself with my actions, thinking continuously doing such things paints me in a good light. Although I’m pretty sure Maxine is straight, there’s still a little ball of hope trying to unfold inside my heart, encouraging me to be patient, pushing me to wait for the day Maxine might come around. 

Yes, I’m deluded. I can’t help it. Maxine shines the brightest in my world; always has, and undoubtedly always will. 

I shift my weight trying to become more comfortable in my ancient, worn out seat, and I force my eyes wide open, trying not to nod off in the relaxing low light of the room. A muted din of other supportive friends and family plays like white noise to my right and left as they chat about the production and examine the flyer they were given at the door. I glance down at my own and notice each actor’s goofy mug shot is plastered next to a blurb about their studies, past performances, and role in the current production of The Dragon’s Gift. 

I crumple my flyer in my fist without further examination. Fucking dragons. Of all the fantastical creatures out there—vampires, werewolves, zombies, shapeshifters—Maxine has to play a stupid dragon. It’s not even a mainstream fairytale creature anymore. It’s a lead role, which is great for Maxine, but I’ve seen a photo of the costume. It’s terrible. She’ll flow over the stage with a sack of frayed layered fabric trailing behind her like a grotesque rainbowed bridal gown. Atop her shoulders will sit an oversized bobblehead with large painted eyes and feathered eyebrows. And to make it worse, Maxine has told me the production is silent like ancient Asian cinema. The only sound I’ll hear from her will be the jingle she’s told me she’ll make due to the multiple bells attached to her sleeves. What a mess of creativity! All I can visualize happening in this production are overdramatized gestures, a weak interpretation of historical craft, and no one in the audience actually understanding what the hell is going on. 


If only this were a serious show. Surely a more intelligent director would demand proper—if not historically accurate— costumes. 

But this is Maxine’s big day. I’ll have to take it how it is and later lie like a traitor if necessary. 

At least there’s her promise for after the show. She told me there’s a surprise for me, and I have absolutely no idea what it could be. Knowing Maxine, it must be something good, even if it’s just an invitation to join the after show cast party. She knows I live for them; those things are always wild. 

I straighten up in my seat as the house lights flash their cue to the audience. A hush falls over the space, and like forced tunnel vision; the stage becomes the center of my universe. The orchestra begins a somber melody of oriental music while the long red curtains open, and an eerie fog blows in thick swirls, billowing off the edge of the stage and out into the aisles. A blanket of white puffy fabric is draped here and there indicating winter, and pale yellow overhead spotlights illuminate daytime. I exhale loudly and mutter my distaste through my teeth as I think that this set puts “low budget” to shame. 

A woman’s voice fills the theatre singing high and sorrowful through intermittent tears, while half her form is visible from behind a cardboard wall waving her delicate, pink favor. At the same time, the dragon—my Maxine—with her heavy unstable head and distinct jingle of bells, rushes out center stage, arms spread, appearing angered and distraught. 

I want to laugh, but suppress the urge by clearing my throat. Her costume is more awful than I thought. There’s a visible string connecting the dragon’s long tail to Maxine’s wrist, but what’s worse, the luscious curves of my best friend, which I have so often wanted to touch, taste, and explore, are completely consumed by her character. There’s not even a crack of skin visible where her delicately clawed hands and feet meet the rest of her costume as they scuffle in their erratic dance across the floor. Each lunge right and left sends her tail moving like a jump rope and Maxine’s head tipping in the opposite direction from her movement. I want to see a great tangle occur and her head fall from her shoulders. I chastise myself for the thoughts. Comedic accidents would be more entertaining for me to watch, but it would ruin Maxine’s big role. 

Cymbals clang, the dragon jumps with a loud tintinnabulation high into the air, and a handful of soldiers rush in stage right with their swords drawn and their gestures wild. The dragon’s hands clench into fists with anger as the music crescendos and the continued onslaught drives him away. The soldiers follow with pats on the back to one another, and the lights dim. If the story wasn’t so predictable, I’d be more interested. Of course soldiers are going to drive away the big scary dragon from the beautiful maiden! I curl my legs up onto my seat and rest my chin on my knees, hoping the new position will help keep my ass from falling asleep. 

The lights brighten to slower music and the rough cutout of a dark forest. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, but it reminds me of every cliché beast hideaway from childhood stories. I hear a fog machine kick on and soft, thin waves puff over the stage, muting the stale, stationary light around multiple traditional paper lanterns. Defeated and alone, the dragon’s form drags its feet and then collapses in a heap. Its bobblehead shakes like it was flicked by a child’s finger, an emotion I determine as sadness. 

I suddenly find my feet have found their way back to the floor as the beautiful maiden floats across the stage, her pink favor from earlier still clutched in her hand. Her hair is free and falls like black silken threads to her slim waist while her costume hugs tightly to her womanly shape. I don’t recognize her as one of Maxine’s friends, but I find myself suddenly more interested in the production. She’s the physical type I would go for: tall, busty, and glamorous. I make a mental note to ask Maxine about her after the show, fantasizing about a possible new date. 

The maiden spies on the dragon and then comes out of her hiding place. The dragon is startled and takes a defensive stance. I prepare for her bloody murder, but suddenly the dragon rushes to her side and embraces the maiden passionately while the accompanying music becomes soft and sweet. 

I smile when I realize this production is a love story. Maybe I don’t hate dragons so much after all, so long as they’re not the stereotypical demon whose life holds no backstory and whose future is set only to pillage, burn, and roast people alive. That story’s overdone. 

I feel my fascination with the attractive love interest and my best friend escalate as I continue to watch. Maybe Maxine isn’t into girls, but her acting ability has me believing the dragon absolutely is. The woman is scooped up into the dragon’s arms and ravished in the most intense PG sex scene I’ve ever seen. The music becomes intense, and I feel my heart beating with the same rhythm of a timbre drum. I watch their bodies entwine, their gestures fly in quick unison, and at their exquisite moment of climax, cymbals clang forcefully enough to leave a stinging reverberation inside my skull. I can’t turn away. It’s far too beautiful a thing. Sated with pleasure, the stage lights illuminate their satisfied forms in pale orange light like a physical afterglow while they hold and pet one another. 

Wow. I think, Go Maxine! 

The music begins to grow louder and alarm builds in the movements of the maiden and her dragon lover. The hair on my arms spikes and I notice the audience is still and on the edge of their seats, as if about to exhale the breath they’ve been holding in unison. Soldiers enter stage right, their weapons drawn. Lights flicker in angry shades of red as the dragon battles them with fire and fists, but the army’s strength in numbers quickly overpowers him. They surround the dragon in a tight circle, and the maiden screams silently as a soldier runs her dragon through. She collapses in anguish as the accompanying music becomes a dull hum. The lovers reach for one another, but make no contact. Darkness falls across the stage, and the music goes quiet. 

When the lights come back to the stage, it’s clear some time has passed. The white puffy fabric of winter has disappeared, and fresh flowers in multiple vases stand in a row across the front of the stage. The maiden enters stage left, singing a high, happy tune, rubbing and cooing at her swollen belly. Fog billows in a great wisp around her as she faces the audience and smiles. The fog follows her as she exits the stage, lights fade to black, and the curtain closes. 

I’m shocked. I sit with the audience thinking both bravo and what the fuck? The soldiers might have gotten the best of the dragon and “rescued” the maiden fair, but the dragon really got the best of them all. He said to hell with traditional coupling and followed his desires! I find myself feeling thankful for historical theatre and its ability to tell an entertaining story rather than the cliché Disney version. Fucking genius. I think that if more people had grown up with stories like this, society would have fewer issues accepting people for loving however and whomever they choose. 

I laugh at myself. Fuck Prince Charming—or Princess Charming even; give me a passionate reptile! 

House lights come on abruptly and the audience stands as a dozen actors take the stage. Holding their hands in unison, the performers bow to genuine applause. I clap with as much enthusiasm as I can, and give my loudest whistle knowing Maxine will know it’s me. I’m so pleased for her. I just wish I could see her face from behind her costume to determine her own emotions. I grab my jacket as the audience breaks. The actors take their leave, but Maxine makes sure to catch my attention before I follow the throng out the main entrance. She points to a side door near the front of the stage, and I beeline for it, excited to congratulate her on a job well done. 

The side door opens into a sparsely lit beige hallway that smells of stale air and the unmistakable aroma of heavy stage makeup. Door hinges creak loudly up ahead, and I turn to my right in time to see the train of Maxine’s dragon costume slide out of view. I pick up my steps and follow, finding a small, square wooden door resembling a maintenance entrance. 

A crack in the door reveals little of what’s behind it other than darkness. I find myself hesitating and wondering what Maxine is up to. In all the horror movies, this would be the part where the psycho killer lures the stupid slut to her death…but trusting my best friend, I crouch down and push the door open. 

The air is cool and even staler than the hallway, as if no one has been inside for a long time. There are cobwebs hanging from large wooden support beams, and the ceiling almost scrapes the top of my head as I straighten up. As my eyes adjust to the dim light of a single paper lantern in the center of the space, it becomes clear I’m beneath the stage. 

Maxine—still in full dragon costume—shimmies her hips at me and gestures me closer. I laugh at how ridiculous she is, but in this light, I think her costume looks more believable. The darkness pushing against the paper lantern seems to suppress the rough fabric scales I’d seen visible on stage, smoothing them out and giving them an almost fluid, snake-like luster. Even the head of her costume appears more stable, with a grin plastered across its lips I hadn’t seen from my seat. I can even forgive the jingle she makes when she moves; in this space, when she’s not running around with overdramatized gestures, the sound is almost pleasant. 

I scratch the back of my head and chuckle. “You were so great on stage,” I say. “I’ll confess I wasn’t expecting such a good story, but it really sucked me in.” I laugh again as the preposterous thought from earlier pops back into my head. “Your love scene had me wondering what it’d be like to fuck a dragon.” 

Maxine’s hands shimmy down over her chest, pressing firmly against her breasts. Their shape—presumably from the way the light hits it—no longer hides behind the sack I initially thought the costume to be. In fact, her wide hips bow on either side of her body as her hands continue their downward drag, round over right and left, and disappear behind her back where she grasps her ass cheeks. 

Another chuckle escapes my lips; she’s obviously making fun of me. Yes—sexy, sexy dragon. “So why are we under the stage?” 

A queasy sensation begins to rotate in my gut as my laughter resonates off the empty walls and bounces back at me. I’m not a fan of small, dark spaces to begin with, and I hate that I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t help but wonder if this has something to do with the surprise Maxine mentioned for after her show. 

Maxine tilts her head from side to side, but doesn’t speak. I feel almost like she’s studying me. She reaches her hand out to me, extending her delicately clawed fingers and grasping the digits I freely give her. It’s strange to feel the warmth of her skin without discerning the emotions from her face, and stranger still; she’s giving off more heat than usual. Perhaps she’s roasting under her costume. Surely, this stuffy room doesn’t help either. 

I gesture toward the sliver of light from the semi-open maintenance door, swallow hard, and mutter, “Why don’t we get out of here and—” 

A long claw presses against my lips, preventing my words from becoming anything more than unintelligible garble. It’s one of those sensitive places on my body; when touched under the right circumstances by the right person, I spiral into delicious shivers. The sensation penetrates both upper and lower lips like a delicate kiss, courses through my cheeks, and triggers my on button. And Maxine knows this. We’re friends—we talk about everything from our boring breakfast made by Grandma on vacation in the boonies, to the last person either of us fucked. My triggers are no secret. 

I gulp as her claw becomes the flat of her finger, tracing the outline of my mouth and further sending me alight. I want to close my eyes and accept the responses from my body, but my mind tells me I should see who causes them and understand why. But all I see is the dragon and the light of the lantern flickering, appearing and disappearing as the shape of Maxine’s costume continues to sway back and forth, repeatedly blocking it out. 

Why knowingly trigger me? Maxine is never cruel, nor does she make decisions lightly. She’s methodical in all aspects of her life, carefully choosing every move before its execution. I think surprise and want to melt into the floor. There could be no greater gift than finally experiencing the touch from the single most desirable person in my life, and no better place for her first experience with the same sex than the private dark under the stage where Maxine has just fabulously performed. 

A single clawed digit pushes into my mouth, spreading my lips apart and caressing over the flat of my tongue. I create an O shape around it and curl around her finger. The front of my tongue slides smoothly over her pointed tip as she withdraws, and I enjoy the light smacking sound our actions make from my suction once she’s left my mouth. My mind wanders as I imagine gliding in and out of multiple places…extra-long caresses reaching extra, extra deep…If this is really happening, I tell myself I cannot let her down. 

I reach with both my hands to grasp the hand still floating in front of my face. I kiss each knuckle in turn, and then lick the space between her thumb and pointer finger with the tip of my tongue. The texture of the costume is rough in the opposite direction of the layered fabric, and smooth as glass down the other way. I taste something I imagine to be the remnants of the stage makeup she might’ve helped a fellow actor draw on, but it’s the warmth radiating from underneath that lures me further; I want to feel it all over my body. Grasping her hand tightly, I place it over my face, guide it down over my features to my neck, and push into the dip of my shirt collar. I feel the trail linger like a mild burn long after her hand cascades onto my shirt fabric and pauses above my rapidly beating heart. 

My eyes closed sometime during the action, but I open them to confess what I’ve always wanted to say, “I want you.” 

Maxine doesn’t speak a word, but her head tilts from side to side again. I wish she’d say something—anything—to assure me of her intentions. A few touches, some light kisses—they mean less to me without the emotional connection inflicted by words. I’d like to hear her tell me she’s always secretly desired me, been curious. A confession of mutual love would send me over the moon…. But maybe she’s been afraid to explore the same sex. Maybe, up until today, she hasn’t had the courage because she fears rejection or she’s unsure how to go about things. Maybe now, under this stage with me, is the only way she knows how to pursue her desire, and perhaps remaining in costume makes taking the step from “straight” to “explorative” a bit easier. It’s also kinky as fuck, and I can’t help but grin. I know she’s into roleplay—she’s told me before. But I can’t let myself totally lose my head in the excitement. This is my Maxine and I’m here for her, any way she needs, wants… and always. 

The flickering shadows cast from the lantern gives the illusion of movement from the eyes of the dragon’s costume. They seem to scan over me, observe my body from top to bottom the way people secretly appraise the object of their desire from across a room. I feel like Maxine is looking at me for the first time—really seeing me. I feel adored and wanted. My heart skips a few beats as insecurity floods my brain—what if I’m not good enough, what if she regrets this later? But as I feel her two hands drag down my arms and hold me securely by my waist, and then turn me so my back is pressed against her front; I don’t care. As a hand gently kneads into my abdomen, and another hand pushes down my chest, invading over the skin inside my shirt—I forget I ever had a question. 

The silky touch of the dragon costume flows over my skin like a cascade of water rather than frayed fabric. It glides over me as both hands pull at my shirt in opposite directions— one exploring the divot of my navel and the other slipping inside my bra. Arousal stirs inside my chest and rushes to my extremities as another on button—my nipple—is gently brushed, then tweaked, flicked, and pulled. I hiss through my teeth as my flesh is slightly elongated, and as the hand on my stomach slides down to the waist of my jeans. 

Popping sounds echo around us as the multiple buttons of my jeans snap as they’re forced open. I feel hot breath on my neck and smell something reminding me of smoke. It makes me wonder if the fog machine’s chemicals imprinted onto the dragon costume or if the last person who wore it had a love affair with cigarettes. Strange…I wish she’d take the head off now and allow me to feel her lips and her tongue upon my skin, but instead, she continues to inch her hand into my pants, pulling the fabric down with her fingers until my jeans fall to the floor around my feet. Her other hand remains firmly attached to my breast. The tail connected to her wrist there drags softly along my torso, and for a brief moment I think it has a life of its own; it seems to rise up and down, curl under where Maxine’s fingers cup me, and caress me with a pressure of a more controlled appendage. 

But it’s just a costume. Imagination runs rampant in the dark. 

My heart beats with pangs I feel echoing in my ears. I think Maxine must feel it too, maybe even hear it as well. I want her hands to keep moving, to keep making me feel this way. Let her remain in costume if she’s more comfortable doing so. I can’t and won’t set rules for her. I remember my first time with another woman: a private place, a willing beauty, and the kind of partner who patiently allowed me a detailed survey of her body. Yes, I want the same for Maxine. Let her feel me—love me—and learn from my reactions what actions of her own are most pleasing. 

She drags both hands down over my navel and presses my back tightly to her again. Her breasts are squished to almost nothing, and I think I feel the poke of both her nipples, even when the logical part of me says it’s not possible; her costume is too thick, and my shirt’s in the way. 

We sway together for a moment as her little bells sing, and I begin to think she’s unsure of what to do next. “I need more,” I whisper, and hope it’s enough to encourage her, yet we only continue to sway. I think it’s only natural. Maybe she’s nervous. 

I reach my arm around behind me and trail the flat of my hand downward against her as smoothly as I can. I cup between her legs once I’ve trailed low enough, and I hear a soft hum come into my ear. Grasping Maxine’s hand still upon my stomach, I guide it down to mimic the position I hold on her, and press her fingers up and down my crotch through my thin cotton panties. The extra curled length of her claws seems to focus pressure more intensely, and I know I’m growing damp. Each slide upon my panties makes them stick a little more securely to my skin. The word sublime comes to mind as we stroke one another. This is my Maxine, and this is what I’ve always wanted. 

The maintenance door creaks and suddenly slams shut. A cool draft accompanies the sound, rushing past my face and blowing my hair toward the back of my head. I feel a deep breath from Maxine at my back, and watch as the shadows from the paper lantern flicker abruptly as the candle inside protests before snuffing out. The darkness around us is complete, save for a sliver of light visible from underneath the door; and all the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stands on end. 

But I’m not afraid. I’m with my best friend. Here in the dark, under the stage—the might have, could have, should have—is finally happening. 

I hear another hum in my ear, but it’s deeper and breathy like muted laughter. I add my own amusement into the dark as I embrace the moment, and push away the frightening thought of the closed door locking us inside. I can think of worse situations than finding myself trapped under a strange with a lover for an undeterminable amount of time…. 

Hands move upward over my arms and press lightly upon my shoulders. Guided down upon the floor, I feel its cool, rough surface contact my knees, and then my hands and rear as I sit down. I can’t help but feel nervous; I’ve dreamed of this happening for so long. I wipe my sweaty palms against my bare thighs and embrace Maxine’s midsection as she lowers me flat against the floor. 

My heart flutters. This is really happening. 

Another hum comes from inside Maxine’s costume. She takes my hands away from her body and lays them under her own. We drag our hands in unison down over my torso and bunch the fabric of my shirt together into fists. In a graceful movement, we’ve shimmied my shirt out from under my back, and discarded it over my head. The air is cool against my bare skin, but the contrast of Maxine’s warm touch flowing over me leaves behind a trail of sweet warmth. 

Maxine’s heavy costume makes a soft thud next to me as she settles at my side, shucking my shoes from my feet and tossing them. My jeans, in a rumple around my ankles, quickly follow, and I reach out to her again with both hands. I grasp nothing but air, but the tinkle of her bells tells me she’s there. 

Mouth; hot and wet. 

The sensation of slick searing tongue upon my torso is exquisite. And the play her hands make over my breasts; divine. Her claws drag over my bra straps and pull one down from my left shoulder with abrupt aggression, exposing my breast with the impatience of a child. Her hot tongue trails upward just as quickly, and I moan into the darkness as I feel my nipple engulfed. I’m glad she’s lost her bobblehead. 

I needed to feel her mouth, needed her to taste me. Yet it’s strange—the texture of her lips is rougher than I imagined they would be, and the muscle behind them is intense. Perhaps it’s only her desire to play rough. I remind myself that Maxine has never been a kitten. 

I’m flooded with lust as Maxine straddles over my upper thighs, her weight a reassuring blanket in the dark. She grasps both my breasts and squeezes, and then drags one clawed hand down over my torso while her tongue licks in a hungry trail down to my navel. Her saliva lingers like sticky paint, evaporating slowly, and I love it. I can feel her impatience; it’s electric in the air, as is my own. I simply can’t remain still. I want to feel her touch everywhere. 

My hands find her one hand lingering under my breast, but she moves further down where I cannot reach her. It’s a deliberate tease; she enjoys topping people. She loves control, and has told me numerous stories of doing similar things to her boyfriends. I don’t mind. It’s me she’s craving now. 

Her hot tongue dips into my navel while both her hands grip my waist. She swirls in and around, and then plants soft kiss after kiss downward until she’s come to the crest of my underwear. Her breath falls warm and heavy here, almost as if she’s pausing to watch what I know she cannot see happening in this dark—the ridiculously slow peel of the cotton. It’s a big step for her, diving right in. It can be a little scary. 

I raise my hips slightly to encourage her to pull my panties down further, and she does. I’m breathing so loudly now, I almost drown out the jingle of her belled sleeves. It’s a strange music, but it’s our music. As Maxine drags the fabric down over my ass and thighs, she comes to rest at a crouch around my bent knees, and I feel her wrap one arm around my left leg while the other falls softly against the top of my pelvis. 

Her touch is excruciatingly warm. I want to both move away and embrace the heat at the same time, but Maxine doesn’t move. We’ve reached a precipice. A decision must be made. She could stop, or she could pleasure me. 

Boiling in my lust, I encourage her. “Love me,” I whisper. “I need to feel you.” 

Maxine’s hand on top of my pelvis continues to remain in place, but I feel her hot breath come closer to my exposure. I close my eyes and feel a jolt of surprise rattle through me when her mouth makes contact upon my bare pubic mound, and when I feel the tips of claws trailing down either side of 
my labia. 

I release the breath I’m holding when her mouth trails lower, licking my folds and searing my flesh. It’s almost too warm to endure, and I find that my body fidgets with indecision of whether the heat belongs there. But it’s wonderful and it’s slow. For her first time with a woman, Maxine is really taking her time, as it should be. She presses with the flat of her fingers over my petals, peels a side back, licks with the tip of her tongue, moves to the other side to plant a kiss, and then explores my very center with a depth no one has managed to make before with only the use of their tongue. 

Exquisite. Perhaps Maxine is not the novice I thought she was. She doesn’t fumble, doesn’t make a mess of things. Each touch, tap, and probe is deliberate and makes me verbalize my pleasure aloud. Yes. I am her maiden fair, ravished and consumed. 

My back arches slightly and I feel the arm Maxine has around my upper thigh move underneath my backside. She squeezes me tightly; the points of her claws dig into my flesh with a motion that falls into a strange synchronization with the repeated plunging of her tongue. I push my pelvis slightly up to her, wishing for a deeper reach I know she cannot make, and my body writhes with beautiful frustration. My legs are sweating from the heat around my lower body, my nipples are hard peaks of neglected flesh, but changing her position or touching myself to bring more pleasure would be blasphemous. I want to see what Maxine can do to me. I want to let her have control to make me feel whatever it is she pleases. 

Her mouth moves upward and her free hand on my outer petals comes to my center. Her tail, still attached at her wrist slithers across me with her hand, and I feel her excited probing at my opening. Just as I think I can take no more teasing, I feel her tongue fly upon my clit. I cry out. My heart thunders and I push down around the invading penetration. 

My flesh is pushed and stretched, my muscles hugging and releasing a thick intrusion. My mind wonders how many fingers Maxine is using, but the thought doesn’t remain in my mind for long. I’m too warm, my body writhing, my toes curling. The tightness I always experience at climax is building quickly, lengthening like a rubber band about to snap as her rapid motions push too deep for my usual comfort. Her tongue curls around my hardened bud, and oblivion tumbles all around me. 

I see stars. They’re all about me, flashing this way and that like dust cascading through a stream of light. I could pluck them individually like jewels if I were capable of movement, but I feel perfectly still—without breathing or even the desire to—despite my shaking limbs and my burning lungs. It’s almost as if I’m looking down upon myself. I witness the continued attentions from my lover as she rocks me with pleasure, and it only makes the tightening in my abdomen grow again, sending me a second time into the twinkling night sky. 

And it doesn’t stop. She drains me; my internal muscles pulse around her impaling digits, the pressure of her body around me the only thing capable of taming my spastic motions. 

Oblivion feels like a malleable substance when her attentions come to a halt, and only a satisfied ache remains inside me. Time is meaningless, and I wish to remain in the dark—exploring, existing, loving—until Maxine and I become the subject of fairytales. But no moment is permanent, or no moment would hold meaning. My will to move returns with this knowledge, but I find I’m only able to toss my head from one side to the other. The desire to hold Maxine is great, but she seems as exhausted as I am, and remains where she is between my legs. Her hands have come to rest below my navel, and I feel the press of her costume rough against my thigh. Rapid, hot breath falls against me, and neither of us speak a word. 

A sudden chorus of excited voices from the hallway carries over into our room under the stage. I feel Maxine’s hand startle, and move away with a lurch that sends all her bells into an angry rhythm. I hear her breath suck in harshly as she stands and abruptly stops short. 

“Where’s the cast party at?” I hear a male voice ask. 

Maxine tiptoes closer to the door as the voices grow louder. They seem to have paused directly in front of our only exit. 

“At the Irish Pub just off of campus,” someone answers back. 

“Shit! Can I get a ride with you?” 

Maxine sighs loud enough for me to hear. I can understand her concern; she’s probably not ready to face the world about her blooming sexuality. Discovery here is out of the question. 

My body still feels too ravaged to walk, but I roll onto my side and fumble about the floor for my things. Liquid trails down my thigh, still warm and sticky, and I’m both shocked and amused I could produce such quantity, but then I think I’ve never orgasmed so long or violently before. Perhaps I squirted—must have; I’ve heard that can happen. Who knew it would be the touch of my best friend to bring me to physical places I’d never been before? 

I quickly shimmy back into my pants when I find them in a clump next to a shoe, and then continue in my search for my discarded shirt. I hope Maxine isn’t upset, but there’s no time for me to equally and thoroughly explore her here when she’s supposed to be somewhere else. The fear of discovery seems to have upset her anyway. I’d rather take our time on our own terms in a space where she feels more at ease. 

“You have no idea what this means to me,” I whisper. 

Maxine turns to look at me, the crack of light shifting from underneath the door backlighting her silhouette. Her shape is magnificent, even in costume, but she’s more than physical beauty. She’s graceful and talented, motivated, unstoppable…I wonder what she’s thinking, and I hope she expects a role reversal sometime soon. It’ll be on my mind until it happens. I’m already imagining how she might taste, how she’ll feel under my skin without the hindrance of a costume. Maybe I could wear one for her. I’ve always wanted to show her my Wonder Woman…. 

The conversation outside continues as I search about for my other shoe and throw it on. 

“Yeah, of course you can ride with me….” 

The voices trail down the hall, and I hear Maxine tentatively open the door, flooding the floor around me with light. Strangely, I see a thin blanket of smoke has covered the surface like a morning mist, and I think maybe the person in charge of the of the fog machine during the performance forgot to switch it off, and now it was flooding the stage above us, somehow seeping down through the floor of the tech school’s old stage. 

I frown and turn to Maxine, the light from the hallway a bit too brilliant to withstand. I blink several times before I notice she’s plopped her bobblehead back on. I frown again, wishing I’d have seen her beautiful face after our fabulous lovemaking. 

She gestures to the door. 

A pang of disappointment hits me, but I know she’s right. We can’t enter a room with other people at the same time. I’m probably flushed as hell—not to mention extremely sweaty—and she probably wants to return her costume to the proper place before we all take off. 

“Right,” I mutter. I smooth out my shirt and make sure I’ve secured all the buttons on my jeans. 

I squeeze past Maxine, rounding my left hand over her side and hips as I approach, and then grasp her hand as I move into the hallway. Her digits wrap around mine, her claws pinching together on top of one another. Fog begins to billow out at our feet, and I quickly lean back to kiss her bobblehead where I think her cheek should be. In proper light, up close, I think she’s really quite detailed. There’s even an iridescent sheen to the individual scales as my view of the light shifts. I decide the costume’s fabric isn’t the cheap kind like I initially thought; it’s much too firm, too smooth. I instantly regret my negative thoughts from earlier, and I tell myself I’ll be more optimistic over Maxine’s shows in the future. 

Laughter down the hallway distracts me and I release Maxine’s hand. 

“Just give me a minute,” a voice echoes. 

I can’t see who it is, but I make out their shape drawing closer. I turn back to Maxine who has stepped back into the room under the stage, holding the door open a crack, exposing only the eyes of her costume and a few clawed fingers gripped around the wooden doorframe. 

“Hey!” I hear the echo of quick steps falling against the cold, hard floor, and turn instinctively toward the familiar voice. My heart thunders to a rapid halt as the form moving toward me comes into focus. She slows her pace when a few yards remain between us. “You coming with us?” 

I turn my gaze back to the maintenance door in time to watch two large eyes blink. I take a step back, and brace one outward stretched arm against the far wall. The door opens a fraction, pushing more fog out in a slight gush, and revealing the movement of relaxed lips pushing upward into a satisfied grin. My breath catches in my chest, and the door softly shuts. 

“Where’ve you been? I thought you’d take that side door and meet us in the rehearsal room.” 

I can’t move, can’t breathe. Something cracks loudly, but it’s a sound without physical form. I think perhaps it’s the sound of my stomach dropping out from beneath me, or something akin to reality cracking, where childhood fears are made flesh. 

“You all right? You’re all sweaty and…” She takes my face in her hands and looks me deep in the eyes, but I don’t really see her. My vision has gone fuzzy, and I feel I might collapse. “You’re so pale. Are you feeling alright?” 

I look down at my feet where the last wisp of fog swirls and dissipates, as if it was never there to begin with. 

“If you’re not well, we’ll skip the cast party,” she tells me. “I just need to drop someone off at the bar.” 

Maxine’s hand is sturdy and a normal temperature as she pulls me away from the wall and leads me toward a back door at the far end of the hall. I glance behind us, but there’s nothing there. Opening the exit, she steps through and waits for me to do the same. I cross the threshold and feel my hands shake. They fall instinctively to my belly where an unfamiliar presence dominates. 

“So what did you think of the show?” 

A cold sweat breaks over me as the cool nighttime air hits me and the full moon above shines intense brilliance upon my face. The world sucks me into madness as the door behind us closes, the faint jingle of bells ringing before falling silent when it finally shuts. 


Time passes in a blur of seasonal change around me. I find myself feeling giddy, light as air, and more carefree than I ever have in my whole life. Maybe it’s the way my body and mind are responding—my swelling midsection, my growing breasts, or the fact that I’ve always wanted a family—or maybe it’s how Maxine has become enamored with me. “You have the most beautiful glow,” she often tells me, and “motherhood suits you.” 

I begin to notice that her attentions have become more physical, with her hands exploring my belly, her body more often than not angled and aimed toward me, her usual casual proximity abandoned to the point where our bodies are almost always touching. It’s nice to be near to her and not have to answer questions that everyone else asks. She understands. It doesn’t matter what happened or how, because it’s happened to me. And love, maybe not the love-love you have for a partner, but the love you have for a friend, supports you through thick and thin, good and bad, no matter what, because that’s what true love is. And Maxine is the love of my life. 


Wednesday, February 6, 2019

Jenny's Voice from Pandora Spocks

💋 COMING FEBRUARY 12! 💋 JENNY'S VOICE, Redheads & Ranchers Book 1

A traumatized young woman held hostage for years. The rancher who comes to her rescue. The crime boss who will kill them both if he finds them.

Jenny Stone’s voice was silenced the horrific day ruthless crime boss Victor Sorkin executed her parents in cold blood and took her as his personal good luck charm. Now she’s his ‘pet’, at his mercy when he summons her to warm his bed. Or the beds of his more esteemed business associates.

When she sees her chance to escape, she takes it, hitching a ride with an unsuspecting cowboy, horse trainer Cole Caldwell. Cole’s stunned to find the terrified young redhead hiding in his horse trailer. She’s as skittish as some of the horses he works with, and she doesn’t even speak. But the nurturer in him wants to shelter her, to protect her. He’ll do his best to ignore the attraction he feels, content to help her know she’s safe with him.

When Jenny first escaped, her only thought was to get away. But now she’s worried. She’s put Cole in unspeakable danger. Should she leave before Victor finds them? Could it already be too late?

If you like your romance filled with hot cowboys, suspense, and happily-ever-afters, you’ll love JENNY’S VOICE.

JENNY’S VOICE Official Book Trailer: 

How about a little teaser from JENNY'S VOICE?

As he walked into the house, he was immediately surrounded by the tantalizing aroma of something cooking. He set down the bag and followed Jenny into the kitchen. The first thing he noticed was the table, set for two, a pretty bouquet of field flowers arranged in a Mason jar in the center.

He looked to Jenny, who was carefully watching his reaction. “What’s going on here?” He smiled encouragingly. “And what smells so good?”

Jenny used a folded kitchen towel to remove something from the oven and set it on the stove. Cole peered into the dish, where golden chicken breasts sizzled in a thin sauce.

“That looks amazing, Jenny. What is it?”

Her board was lying facedown on the counter. She picked it up and showed him what she’d already written on the other side. Chicken piccata.

“Chicken piccata? I had all the stuff to make that?”

Jenny nodded proudly.

Cole squinted, looking more closely at the dish. “What are the little burned peas-looking things?”

Jenny rolled her eyes. She jotted on her board. Capers.

“I had capers? Where the hell did I get capers?”

She shrugged and hooked a thumb at one of the upper cupboards.

“Oh, it must have been in that basket one of my clients gave me for Christmas.” Cole shook his head. “All sorts of fancy shit— I mean stuff.” He looked at Jenny. “Sorry about that.”

Jenny grinned, then jotted quickly, You can say shit. I’m a big girl. She laughed lightly.

Cole laughed, too. “Good. Well, shit! Yeah, that feels good.”

Waving with her hand, Jenny gestured toward the table.

“Is dinner ready?” Cole asked, and she nodded.

“Alright, let me go wash up and I’ll be right back.”

Cole headed upstairs. As he washed his hands, he wondered about how Jenny had created such a dish with the simple things he kept at the house. She seemed pleased with herself, too. Quite a difference in her from the first time he’d seen her in the back of the horse trailer.

He sighed to himself. They were making progress, and he found that gratifying. Would it be possible that one day she’d decide to talk to him?

When he returned downstairs, the chicken was arranged on a platter. Jenny had placed a bowl of salad on the table, along with a bowl of rice. She’d poured Dr. Pepper for herself, while at his place she’d set out a bottle of Heineken.

“I know this is the fanciest dinner this table has seen in years,” Cole said, sitting in his chair. “We have a centerpiece and everything. You picked these?”

Pleased, Jenny nodded as she took her seat.

“They’re beautiful. The purple ones match your dress and everything.” He smiled at her. “You look pretty tonight.”

Jenny blushed profusely and looked down at her plate, trying to suppress a smile.

“Let’s dig into this fine dinner, what do you say?”

She nodded, and Cole took the platter, serving her first, then himself. They passed the rice and the salad as well. Cole took a bite of chicken and closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. When he opened his eyes again, she was watching him carefully.

“Oh my God, Jenny, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. How did you know how to make this?”

Jenny’s smile faded a bit and she hesitated. Then she jotted on her board. It’s a long story.

Cole regarded her thoughtfully. “Maybe you can tell me sometime.”

She chewed her lower lip. Maybe.

They ate in awkward silence for a few minutes, and Cole silently cursed himself for stepping into something that made Jenny uncomfortable. Wishing to restore their easy rapport, he cleared his throat.

“I know. You’re an undercover chef.”

She gave him a sideways glance and snorted.

Encouraged, he tried again. “You’re a secret chef, and you’re on a mission to educate dumb cowboys like me in the ways of international cuisine.” He drew out the last two words in an exaggerated drawl.

Jenny giggled, tossing her napkin at him.

Cole grinned good-naturedly. “It really is good, Jenny, no lie. Thank you for making dinner.”

After dinner dishes were cleared, Cole remembered the bag he’d left by the door. “Oh, Jenny, I almost forgot. I have a surprise for you.” He reached out his hand. “Come see.”

Her eyes widened, but she took his hand. He led her to the den and pointed at the couch. “Have a seat and close your eyes.”

She hesitated a moment, then sat down. She glanced up at Cole.


Pursing her lips, she complied, knee bobbing anxiously. Cole retrieved the bag and placed it on Jenny’s lap. “Okay, now you can open them.”

With a glance at Cole, Jenny peered into the bag. Brow knit in a frown, she withdrew a large brown cardboard box and set the bag on the floor. Eyeing him again, she lifted the lid and gasped.

Cole couldn’t stop the smile as Jenny picked up first one boot, then the other, eyes wide. Reverently, she ran her fingers across the purple embroidery.

“I figured, if you’re going to be working in the barn, you’re going to need some good boots. I saw these at the saddle shop and I knew they were supposed to be yours.”

She looked up at him as a smile spread across her face. Standing, she let the box fall to the floor as she came to him, a boot in either hand, and wrapped him in a hug.

“Do you like them?” Cole laughed.

Jenny stepped back and nodded vigorously. Then she pointed up the stairs.

“You want to try them on?”

She nodded again. Gathering up the box, the lid, and the bag, she hurried upstairs. From where he stood, Cole heard her moving around, drawers opening, the creak of her bed. Then came the clomp of boots on the hardwood floor as she came back downstairs, her face beaming.

She crossed to him, then back to the bottom of the stairs like a fashion model on a catwalk, rocking the new boots with her dress.

Cole couldn’t stop his grin. “How do they feel? Do they fit?”

Jenny nodded happily.

“Okay, then. Wanna go help me out in the barn?”

She nodded again, taking his arm as they headed out the door and across the yard. Every few steps, she looked down at the boots. Cole couldn’t remember ever feeling so pleased with himself.

The horses were waiting near the gate as they approached. Cole opened it, and he and Jenny watched them make a beeline for the barn. He looked at her. “You do the feed and I’ll do the hay?” he asked.

She nodded, heading for the buckets and feed cans at the end of the barn. As Cole lugged a bale of hay into the first stall, he started singing a cowboy song about not being buried on the lone prairie. When Jenny smirked at him, he winked and continued with more gusto.

By the time the horses were in their stalls with buckets of feed and fresh hay, Cole had started the song over, and Jenny was grinning broadly and shaking her head.

“What? Does my singing suck?” he asked.

She shook her head. No, it’s very brave, she jotted on her board.

“Brave?” he laughed. “That’s what they tell people who can’t sing.”

He took Jenny’s hand and twirled her around as he sang, pulling her to himself and launching into an impromptu waltz down the center of the barn.

Cole relished her giggles as he spun them both around, drawing out the final note. Breathless, they stopped, Jenny smiling up at him, her emerald eyes wide. Cole’s gaze drifted to her lips, pillowy and soft, no trace of the trauma that had once been there. He felt an almost irresistible pull, as though a magnet drew his lips to hers, but he blinked hard and spun her one last time before letting go. “Who knew those were dancing boots?” he joked softly. When he looked back at her, he saw a glint of sadness in her eyes. She’d felt the same pull he had. But he knew he couldn’t take advantage of her. That wasn’t who Cole Caldwell was.

JENNY’S VOICE is Book 1 in the Redheads & Ranchers Series. Sexy redheads and the ranchers they can’t resist. One-click your copy today!

JENNY'S VOICE is available everywhere for pre-order, but for a limited time, it's just 99¢ exclusively at Amazon.

Author Bio: Pandora Spocks is a sassy ginger and hopeless romantic, living her happily ever after in South Florida. She enjoys reading and writing literary erotic romance. She is the author of the three-novel epic romance Rannigan’s Redemption, modern-day adult fairy tale Chasing Ordinary, and a naughty little romantic novella, Just One Night. Her Dream Dominant Collection is a series of light BDSM stand-alone novels featuring sexy Alpha males and the strong red-haired submissives who can’t resist them. The collection currently includes four novels: Luke & Bella, Lost & Bound, For Sparrow, and Warrior Mine. Jenny’s Voice is the first book in the new Redheads & Ranchers series, a collection of stand-alone contemporary erotic romance novels featuring sexy ranchers and the redheads who ride into their lives and turn everything upside down. Since they’re all stand-alone, you will be able to read them in any order. Pandora is busy on her laptop, working on the next book in the series, Hunter’s Pride

Connect with Pandora

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Monday, December 17, 2018

The Girl in the Taxicab

Coming to you from Bold Strokes Books January 2019: Escape to Pleasure

Find this book HERE January 1st, 2019, and January 15th from all other major venders

Here’s a NSFW sneak-peek into my story (unedited):

“What are you doing?” Kiyoko breathed.

Mae starred with a take-charge determination into Kiyoko’s eyes. “Making up for the trouble.”

They fell upon the lone bed in the corner of the cramped room, dust rising into the air in a poofy cloud as the springs under them squeaked in protest. Mae gripped her fists into Kiyoko’s short hair, and felt the pull of arms wrapped like ropes around her back. A full body flush erupted over her skin, her lungs heaving with excitement, her body alight like a firecracker. She swooned when Kiyoko found her neck and licked her jaw to ear, and all control was lost in her fumbling of Kiyoko’s belt and the buttons of her fly.

They rolled to the side and fell hard to the floor, Kiyoko’s voice ringing like childish laughter. She pulled Mae to her feet and grabbed the hem of her shirt, yanking it up and over her head in a well-practiced movement. “I like a woman who surprises me,” she whispered. She ran her finger between Mae’s shoulder and bra, pulling the strap down over her shoulder. “I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

Kiyoko pushed Mae against the wall, pressing her back into the drape-covered, cold pane of a window. She leaned in for a kiss, but dodged Mae’s lips, diving instead for her neck again, nipping her nape with controlled pressure of her teeth. Goosebumps rose over Mae’s body from the intimate action, her thirst for more intensifying as she felt the clasp of her belt
loosen and her slacks slump in a bunch to the floor.

Kiyoko dipped her head and took one of Mae’s nipples, still in her bra, between her teeth, before sucking it into her mouth. She let go the moment she felt Mae’s sharp intake of breath; crouching down, her hands began trailing behind the same line she began to draw with her tongue all the way to Mae’s navel. Kiyoko swirled about the divot with her tongue while her hands peeled the thin layer of Mae’s panties away from her skin.

Mae reached for Kiyoko’s hair. It slid like silk through her fingers, Kiyoko’s breath scorching the thin layer of her panties. The fabric folded and breath trailed lower still, Mae’s legs loosening, the gap of her knees widening, the soft push of humid mouth falling upon her sex with eager appetite. 

Mae swooned. Kiyoko’s tongue tapped her stiff nub as her hands rounded over her backside. A single digit slid past her dampening center and explored the pathway to her rear, meandering in a slow caress until brushing the pucker of Mae’s anus. She moaned and threw her back tighter against the window, rattling with resistance.

Saturday, December 8, 2018

Sacrifices & Impact of Writing Erotica

What goes on inside the head of a writer? The answer is simple: lots of things. Some of us hear the voices of our characters, some of us worry about deadlines, and sometimes we freak out when our personal and writing lives don't mesh. But let's go deeper. What does writing really do to our lives and relationships, especially with erotic writers. The negative stigma surrounding sex in modern culture can have an enormous impact, but sometimes, the positive outweighs the negative.

Here are what multiple erotica and romance writers had to say:

Has writing erotica made positive or negative changes to your personal life? 

“Writing erotica has been a definite positive, mostly because of the people I've met as a result of writing what I do. I'm having lunch with other erotic/erotica authors this week.” –Nia Farrell 

“Both, actually, but I'll save the negative for the next question. :) On the positive side, the practice of writing - of engaging beta readers, of talking to reviewers, and hearing from readers - along with being part of a community, has made me a better writer and a happier, more confident one. I don't feel so alone anymore. There really is somebody on the other side of that keyboard.”—Sally Bend 

“I began writing erotica for my wife. We’d been married 30 years at the time and I wrote for no other reason than to turn her on. She loved the first story and offered a scenario that still fuels our books. These fantasies have only enhanced our own sex lives so that would be a big positive change. For the other side of the coin, see question 2.” –JF Silver 

“I'm not sure it has made a difference among my friends. I have several who have worked for companies that either import Japanese hentai doujins or work in the translation of Japanese eroge (erotic games) for the English market. Among my family, I don't tell. several close people to me wouldn't be happy.”—Reed James 

“Both. Sometimes when I write a really good scene or finish a book, things heat up around the bedroom. But if I’m on a deadline or have writer’s block, I don’t even want to TALK to anyone. I can be a bit of a grump, lol”—Paige Prince 

“Writing has made lots of positives in my personal life, especially in a town I live in where people do nothing more but drink and gamble their money. I work for a casino, and I’ve dealt with the worst of the worst. When I come home and write, it’s like a solace from all the grinds I have to deal with in real life.” –Ray Sostre

"I would say a little bit of both. I think on the plus side I'm a happier person, being able to express the minds and ideas of my characters without restraint. I love connecting with others who enjoy the same topics. But I also feel restricted about who I can talk to about my writing based on the negative stigmas surrounding the erotica genre. I've definitely gone to social media to find an outlet for discussion versus seeking out those in my immediate vicinity."--Angora Shade 

How has writing erotica affected your relationships with family and friends? 

“It hasn't really had an effect other than that I have to watch what we discuss when young ears are around.” –Nia Farrell 

“The discovery that I was writing erotica caused some significant tension with my spouse, partly because I had kept it a secret, and partly because of what I was writing. We had to have that long conversation about fact, fantasy, and fiction, and how writing erotica about a sex act or partner doesn't mean you *really* want to do that with them any more than writing horror about a serial killer means you *really* want to murder people and eat their eyes.” –Sally Bend 

“The reason our once private series of stories are now published was my wife’s desire to help some friends with their sex lives. A lunch with women she hadn’t seen in decades led to a discussion where she discovered that many were no longer sexually active. Quickly learning that communication was the main issue, she encouraged me to emphasize that as we went forward with publishing the series. For some of those friends and many others we’ve met through our books, we’re grateful for every comment thanking us for helping them. 

Family, however, is another story altogether. We’re proud of our books and did several very public interviews including a piece in Wisconsin’s largest newspaper. One of our adult children decided we were just too embarrassing for her family to deal with and have banned us from any contact with them. Other, more conservative relatives have also distanced themselves from us and invitations to family events have slowed as well. We realized that living to please others is far less important than our own happiness and if people have a problem with what we do then THEY have the problem. We would be complete hypocrites if we didn’t use the lessons in our books for ourselves. Life really is too short.” –JF Silver 

“It's made me have to lie to several people on where my income comes from. I've settled on "ghost writing" and say it's an NDA that I can't tell what I am writing.”—Reed James 

“My mom is a bit old school, so she blushes heavily and tends to not really mention the kind of books I write. My brothers and sister all think it’s insanely cool and tell everyone they meet. –Paige Prince 

“In one aspect, yes. Yet, I’ve been open to my woman on what I write, and who I write for. I write erotic romance, and the audience I work with is dominated by women. My fans are primarily women who love to read it, and I interact with them. But as far as family or friends, I have no effect from them.”—Ray Sostre 

"I'm very careful whom I speak to about my erotica and romance writing. I sometimes will admit to acquaintances that I write stories, but I don't go into any detail. I live in a close community with traditional values, and I would hate for a negative mark to be placed on my family based on the genre I enjoy writing most. My closest friends are supportive, my significant other is as well, but only a handful of my actual family has any clue I've published explicit sexual literature. That's the kind of thing you get cut out of the family for where I'm from--that and tattoos. I often feel very closeted and unable to be completely open with those I love for fear of rejection."--Angora Shade

Do you have your own personal hard limits on what you will or will not write for subject matter? 

“I don't do incest or bestiality. Any character who has suffered childhood sexual abuse is written as an adult survivor (I do not make them live through it). I have lesbian friends but I'll probably never write FF or FFM because that's not my thing. I want cock. The bigger, the better and the more, the merrier in my books.”—Nia Farrell 

“I prefer to write about LGBTQIA characters and themes, along with BDSM or power-exchange fetishes, because that's both what I know and what I'm comfortable with. I'm not really interested in writing a heterosexual vanilla relationship. I am fascinated by themes of dubious consent, of characters being 'forced' to test their limits and 'encouraged' to cross lines of gender or sexuality, but it's a fine line . . . there has to be an element of mutual pleasure there.” –Sally Bend 

“My stories are fantasies with mature characters who have a lot of experience. There are few scenarios we haven’t covered but I would never use an underage character or delve into bestiality of any kind. Incest and certain bodily functions would probably be axed, too. Our latest actually takes them into a supernatural realm and may even include extraterrestrials! So, there’s not a whole lot I won’t write about.” –JF Silver 

“Yes, I do have hard limits. I do some commission writings for fans and I told one flat-out know. This person's idea made me physically nauseated.” –Reed James 

“Yes, I do. I won’t write anything underage, rape or molestation, or anything about causing an animal harm.”—Paige Prince 

“I will write anything, regarding to whatever kink, but I’m not into dubious content. I don’t believe in using derogatory words to any female character, nor any male character, including race, sexuality, and so forth. I want to create an open world of erotic fiction, a place to escape to, not to express hate and ignorance. I want to pull readers into a story where they feel aroused; not turned off by derogatory comments.”—Ray Sostre 

"I won't write about anything that personally turns me off. If I can't feel sexy about a topic, I don't feel that an attempt would translate well into my writing. I also won't write about underage encounters for the sake of underage encounters, or anything demeaning to a culture, race, sexuality, etc."--Angora Shade

What’s the largest sacrifice you’ve had to make as a writer? 

“Personal time. There is none when a schedule is as demanding as mine (I'm on track to have 21 releases this year, getting ready to load #18 now, and two more are done). I rarely get to read for personal pleasure and limit television to maybe two hours a week. I watch Outlander and Vikings and very little else. I love to sew and make jewelry, but all my projects are in boxes, waiting.” –Nia Farrell 

“Time, plain and simple. I used to have an agreement with my family that I get one uninterrupted night off a week to write, without guilt or distraction, but then our youngest came along and suddenly time is just a little more precious. I try to multitask, to write when I can, but I know there are nights where I've ignored people or been short-tempered because THE WORDS MUST COME and the muse won't let go.” –Sally Bend 

“As a writer, I think the largest sacrifice most of us make is our time. It sometimes seems like writing is the easy part. Promoting and the time spent on social media were completely new concepts to me when I started. I didn’t even use Facebook or Twitter until J.F. Silver came to be about five years ago. Now, I have so many friends and would be nowhere as an author without it. But, I spend so much time there!” –JF Silver 

“I'm not sure I had to make any sacrifices. I mean, I guess I sacrificed pursuing other life options for this one, but it's freed me up from having to work for others.” –Reed James 

“Time with my family. My sanity. (I’m kidding... Pretty sure that has never been a thing.) it’s difficult for me to balance my focus evenly. So, when I was working full time I wasn’t writing. Now that I’m writing (sort of) full time, I’m not really working much. That’s also because of my health, but that’s another tale for another day. I tend to forgot to eat or that my family also needs to eat actual food beyond sandwiches or Ramen while I’m working on a manuscript.”—Paige Prince 

“In the early days, it was to stay up and write. Sometimes, not spend time with my woman and watch TV with her. Thank god for DVRs, because I would hate to miss out on my favorite prime time shows. There had been other sacrifices, but not being able to spend time with my woman has been number one.”—Ray Sostre 

"Time is the largest factor. If I'm trying to write, that means my attention isn't on my family. It's a double edged sword really. Do what I love doing, or spend time with those I love the most. The balance is maintained only when everyone around is happy doing whatever it is they love doing. That's when I write."-- Angora Shade

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve done in the name of “research”? 

“I had to research a punishment scene where the heroine hated pickles and the smell of vinegar. In the scene, her Dominant has her suck on a large dill pickle with a vinegar-soaked square of gauze draped over the end of her nose. I learned first-hand that a cotton ball under the nose wasn't enough. I had to cover my nose to get the full effect. Nasty, nasty stuff.” –Nia Farrell 

“Okay, this is going to sound icky and gross, but the difference between castration, an orchidectomy, and a penectomy. What impact do they have on a person's overall health? What does each do to your hormone balance? How do the change your sex life? How has the definition of an eunuch changed over time, and how do it differ by geography?” –Sally Bend 

“Our stories are multiple partner fantasies. A threesome leads to exploration with another couple and things heat up from there. This was just a fantasy until a few years ago when we decided to try it in real life. All in name of research, of course. After 41 years of marriage, we have no trust or jealousy issues. We just love sex. We also hate the term, “swingers” but that’s the most commonly understood definition of people who enjoy others. After a few fun encounters, we set up an evening with a couple we met online. They invited us to spend the evening, we had a nice dinner, drinks, etc. One thing led to another and we enjoyed each other in more intimate ways. Afterwards, while relaxing in front of a cozy fire, we were horrified to discover that the male half of the couple was a hateful, bigoted racist. I mean, really fucking nasty. My wife is the most open minded, liberal person you could ever meet and she really took one for the team that night. It was very weird.” –JF Silver 

“I think researching about ballerina dance techniques and names and those minute for an erotic story about ballerinas doing naughty dances (with futas, of course, to make it hotter). I've researched into mythology, into biology (I've tried to find out the average number of vaginal contractions a woman has in a minute while orgasming), what the medical term for spontaneous lactation (galactorrhea), how the mind works in regards to arousal and decision making, how to swear in different languages, weapons, I recently did crystals.”—Reed James 

“I’ve had to spend hours Googling the right kind of tree to have been in existence hundreds of thousands of years ago, an herb that would harm a vampire that wasn’t garlic or vervain, and sent porn links to my editor so she could see that a certain sexual position is actually possible.”—Paige Prince 

“Actually, it’s human sexuality. I realized that there are a number of people in this world who have a deep, dirty erotic secret they wouldn’t share with their partner(s), and their sexual confessions have been listed in my stories. When I first started writing erotic romance in 2010, I was writing the romance part, but as I evolved in the next four years to the present I learned that there are a lot of people who want to read stories that are very sexually explicit to what caters to their fantasies. Along the way, I learned that while there are many people who physically attracted to people of the opposite sex there are people who are also flexible with their sexuality. I learned that there are women who would love to have a threesome with other women; bisexual fantasies between both sexes; men and who want to have sex with a transgendered person; men that are into being dominated by a woman, and women vice-versa; even cyber and phone sex with a stranger is one of their fantasies. 

While group sex is their major kink, I learned along the way through interacting with them that they want to read stories that make them wish they were the character(s), living out the fantasies like never before. It’s why I write them. While many of us couldn’t express those fantasies freely, I write for those who want to read it, and by listening to what their sexual fantasies are it’s opened my mind to write it. 

The best research ever.”—Ray Sostre 

"I've done some pretty weird things in the name of research in order to better understand certain kinks. I peed naked in the garden during a rainstorm trying to understand the allure many people have for wetting themselves. I also had my partner pee on me trying to understand the attraction of a golden shower. I learned I love being naked outside in the rain, but personally, although I think I understand the sensation of pee a little better, it's not for me."--Angora Shade

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Monday, November 12, 2018

November Update

Exciting things are happening in the world of Angora Shade!

Have you heard about my latest release? Here's what people are saying about it!

About "Refined Tastes": Mankind has fallen and nature has reclaimed the world. For a lone vampire, life is mundane and meaningless without the people who were once plentiful. During a chance encounter with the last remaining band of humans, she must decide between her desire for blood or the preservation of the species she dearly loves.

Genre: Lesbian, Paranormal, Horror, Erotic Fiction

Contains adult situations. Recommended for ages 18+

"Erotic, romantic, and tragic. These are the threads that bind together the world Angora Shade has created in Refined Tastes. Following nuclear apocalypse, a lonesome vampire -- the last of her kind -- wanders the wasteland. The atmosphere is dim and oppressive. When she finally comes across a wandering group of humans, the story really hits its stride. Somewhere between anthropological wonder and romantic longing, she follows these people. When she crosses paths with one of the women, her desires get the better of her. The love affair that follows is touching and beautiful in its own strange way. This is definitely a worthwhile read for anyone. No matter what your tastes are, you should read this story." --Review by Mitch Workman

"If there's one thing this story excels at, it's creating atmosphere, but with such parsimony when it comes to use of words. It reads like a poem, where every word, phrase, and paragraph has its function, all rushing towards that inevitable "huh" moment that ends the story, but is only the beginning of an endless cycle." --Review by Lusty Soul


Yours truly has had an action packed new story accepted into the upcoming Bold Strokes Books Anthology: "Escape to Pleasure", a Lesbian Travel Erotica! Look for this fab book from your favorite venders January 15th, 2019, or directly from BSB January 1st! 

My Story: "The Girl in the Taxicab" explores the vacation of Mae, a college nursing student, visiting Japan to prove to herself and others that she does indeed possess the guts and independence to travel the world alone. Satisfied with herself upon her journey's end, Mae steps into a taxicab to head to the airport--the wrong taxicab. Car chases, gun fights, safe houses, spies, drug dealers, and a heart-throbbing lesbian encounter await you in this tale of self discovery, passion, and romance. 


Have you heard about Chemical [se]X?  Volume one was released by Oleander Plume (together with a plethora of uber-talented, smutty authors), creating a delicious, chocolate-themed anthology. 

"Using a top-secret ingredient, two lonely scientists create the most powerful aphrodisiac chocolates the world has ever seen."

I've read this book. It's awesome sauce, well-written, and dripping with all the chocolate goodness you can imagine. I give it 5 out of 5 stars, which I rarely do. No joke, it's that friggin good!

Check it out HERE .

AND I'M FREAKING OUT! Volume 2 is set to release February 2019, the ranks of authors including the Sisters in Smut, a few hand-picked extras, and ME! It's too early to reveal what my story is about, but stay tuned!


It's too early to announce, but I can tell you I've hit a bucket list goal! I'm going to be published next year with a big name (no I can't tell you who) for a respected, well-read anthology series (can't tell you which one), and I'm very proud of myself! Details will follow at a later date.

I'm also busy writing for other submission calls. I'm tits deep in the apocalypse where humans are infrequent and the undead the bane of existence. It's really fun. My protagonist is more than a little nutty, horny, and desperate. It makes for an entertaining combination. Never a dull moment. I hope to know what'll happen to this story early next year.

But before the year is out...

Get ready to celebrate! There's always a big party with the Wicked Pens! The entire month of December the Wicked Pens will host Walking in a Wicked Wonderland. Each day a new author will take over the Wicked Pens Facebook book for author news, games, and giveaways! Never a dull moment with this group people! Check in regularly, and be sure to stop in December 19th to hear from yours truly.

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