The theme here is pretty broad. Send us stories that celebrate the season in some way. Scare us while turning us on. Give us period pieces or pieces set in the far future. Make us think of leaves crunching underfoot, the smell of wood smoke carried on chill air, and harvest festivals in preparation for the dead of winter. Do this in a way that celebrates physical pleasure. A happy ending is not necessary though please bear in mind that I will not accept any stories where lovers murder each other in cold blood.
Humorous stories are okay too so long as they fit with the theme. Please send submissions to jwsubs13 gmail.
Please also include a short bio. Deadline is October 1st.
There was no point in trying to take in the scenery from a steam coach. The carriage rattled along in a shroud of smoke at high speed, but very low comfort. Each passenger fought his own private battle with motion sickness. The window seats were given to those who lost. Continue reading New Serial! Which may or may not include cats, Pokemon Go, and comic books…. We will have a limited selection of books to sell, and lots of tea, and some tea snacks, as well. We have a delicious new earworm this month: Ask Diana what her favorite instrument is, and the answer might surprise you.
The one-time muse of music, the once-called Euterpe, who now owns a club named for her and plays at being human. But of all the many instruments she loves the piano most of all. The feel of the keys, the range of harmony, the energy. Diana has enjoyed many identities over the years. Music calls to her, not specific bodies. We are very excited to announce the Circlet Press reissue of this ground-breaking BDSM fairy tale anthology from an all-star lineup of authors. Once upon a time, in a dungeon far, far away, the kinkiest writers in the land were summoned to pervert beloved fairy tales with dominance, submission, bondage, and surrender.
In these stories twisted princesses take control of their submissive princes, witches play with power exchange, and fairies come to visit our dungeons. Erotic retellings of fairy tales for adults have been popular for decades; in Leather Ever After they get decidedly kinky twists. Silk and brocade slid down to a berry-hued puddle on the floor, baring soft curves below a wave of burnished copper tresses. Bennet, less easily swayed, merely frowned.
Continue reading New book! Tales from the Arena: Rakesh is one of the most skilled of the Collared, the men and women who serve in the Arena to fulfill the unique needs of the super-soldiers known as Swords. The Swords were genetically altered to be strong, fast, tough, and deadly. At the Arena, the Collareds accept what the Swords dish out, whether pleasure or pain. Virin, a mid-ranking sword, takes Rakesh as his lover and hopes to rise high enough in rank that they may marry.
But a storm is brewing. Former Collareds are disappearing, victims of a dark conspiracy of renegade soldiers that conspires to utterly control the nation of Tyrese and destroy all who oppose them. And they have their eyes on Rakesh. The last high tide left a meandering line of tiny pink shells, seaweed, and dried foam along the sand. She needs a boat. Tano worked fishing line in his brown hands, his long fingers arcing high over his palm. When we were a couple feet away, Tano set aside the knot he tried to tease out of the line.
Why was it that men always had the thick, long lashes that women wanted? His eyes were like tropical water over a shallow white sand beach. I could see the line of his hipbones above the low waistband of his shorts. A large hook, carved in bleached bone, hung between nipples like melted chocolate kisses. I should have negotiated the price before I saw him. There had to be a premium for all that languid sex.
He caught me looking, so I pulled the brim of my cap low over my eyes. Tano and his brother chatted in Chamorro, the island idiom. Whenever they laughed, as sparkly as sunlight on water, I felt as if it were about me.
I shifted my backpack and dug the toe of my black Vans into the sand. The metal fittings were speckled with rust. The dingy red stripe running along the hull was crusted with salt.
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I glanced up at him again. High cheekbones, thick lips, he was too incredible to look at straight on, like the sun. Sparse hairs on his chin curled wildly, one lighter brown than the others. A flush of heat hit my lips and cheeks, as obvious as a hard-on. I felt the welcome, warm tingle of interest between my legs. The doorman tried to infect our half-hearted haggling over the price of the trip by baiting Tano and then me in turns, but we already reached an understanding between flitting glances.
It took most of an hour to get the boat ready to go. The doorman disappeared when the work started.
Tano told me what to do, sometimes showing me by covering my hands with his dark brown ones. By the time the boat was on the water, we had a casual flirtation going.
No forced chuckles, no posturing. You touch it like a talisman every time you mention your father. I caught myself touching the brim again and gave him an embarrassed grin. He bought this cap for me when I was in seventh grade. We caught a foul ball that day.
I gave him a friendly little nudge with my shoulder as we bent to lift the cooler onto the deck. Tano bumped back, grinning and showing a gap in his front teeth. We set sail as the sun broke above low clouds. Land slipped from sight and I felt as if the world went away.
We slammed up and down waves until he tacked enough to cut through the troughs. I patted my stomach. Sea stomach, I guess. He was in the Navy.
He squinted at the bright light bouncing off the white surfaces of his boat. I sipped from a cold beer. Tano stared at the water. Damn, pissed him off, and I wanted to sweet-talk him into a little bump and grind. He was just my type—a jock. Tano did talk though. His eyes focused past me as if he were remembering a distant, hazy past. I was in love.
There was a man… He consumed my heart and soul. I lived for the sight of him. On the day he moved away, I sailed to the edge of the trench. I hung over the railing, staring into the deep, wondering if I had the balls to jump. Instead, my tears fell. Maybe, they are still falling. Pop told me that you could toss Mount Everest down it and still have a mile of water left. Tano leaned far over the side of the boat. It was body poetry, the arc of his lean brown torso, the grip of his long toes on the railing of the boat, the way his hand slapped against the rising waves.
After he swung back onto the deck, he dragged wet fingers across my lips.
I licked the drops away. It was my turn to stare off at the intensely blue water. I ran my fingertips over the lumpy white A on the front of my cap. Your email address will not be published. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. Sign up to our newsletter!