Recommended Reading: Sapphic Smut

If you’re bord with bastard billionaires or just fancy a change from heterosexual romance, check out the new Smutters anthology, full of girls together outrageously (yes, I am old enough to remember Miss Pamela and co). It contains one of my stories, as well.

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Light hearted, sexy Sapphic smut is the theme of this erotic anthology, edited by Lucy Felthouse with assistance from Kev ‘Mitnik’ Blisse.

From coffee shops to exotic Indian adventures to cosy cabins in France, Sapphic Smut has it all. Fun with sugar, naughty spankings, seductions by strangers, seductions by friends, cougars and even a twist on a fairy tale abound in this exciting collection of lesbian stories from erotica’s finest authors.

This delicious girl-on-girl anthology contains stories from Lucy Felthouse, Kay Jaybee, Louisa Bacio, Sallyanne Rogers, Vanessa de Sade, Tabitha Rayne and Elizabeth Coldwell.

Amazon: http://mybook.to/sapphicsmut

Other links: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/sapphic-smut/

Editor’s Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/lucyfelthousewriter

Excerpt:

Alana really couldn’t believe how flat Holland was. She’d been told by many people, but somehow, she still wasn’t expecting a place that made Cambridgeshire look like the Peak District. Her view from the train as she travelled from Schiphol airport to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station was unimpeded. Not so much as a hillock was visible.

And now, here she was, standing outside the station with crowds milling around her. A mixture of tourists, businesspeople and natives. She herself was a combination of two of those groups—she was here on business, but she’d deliberately extended her trip so she could spend a couple of days exploring the city. She had a day either side of her meeting, the boring part a filling to a sightseeing sandwich. Though, despite the boring tag, the meeting definitely wasn’t a bad thing, it was an appointment to cross the ts and dot the is on a very lucrative deal—certainly the trip was worthwhile.

After watching the insanity for another minute or so, she began to head away from the station, wheeling her small case along with her. Already armed with a guidebook and a decent map, she knew where she was going. Her map-reading skills were excellent, and she made the short walk to her hotel in less than twenty minutes. Anywhere else, she’d have gotten a cab, but it appeared they were a rare commodity in this city.

She’d checked in, dumped her bags and freshened up within another ten minutes, and was back on the street.

An online acquaintance had sent her a bunch of information for her trip—about the best museums, interesting things to see that might not be in guidebooks, and details on transport. It appeared that Amsterdam was unlike London, Paris and Rome, in as much as it had trams as its preferred mode of transport, rather than underground trains. Only one Metro line ran through the city, north-to-south. Everywhere else was utterly dependent on trams, bikes and being on foot.

And fuck, there were a lot of bikes. They zipped here, there and everywhere, not always staying where they were supposed to be, it seemed. The slim Dutch people atop the bikes were oblivious, just concentrating on getting where they were going.

Alana searched for the nearest tram stop, and quickly discovered she needed to be on the other side of the road to head in the right direction.

Crossing the road was a chore in itself. A dice with death. She’d thought Rome’s motorists were insane, but at least they were fairly predictable. Here, she was faced with crossing a road that held a cycle path, a tram line and a lane for cars. Shifting down the pavement, she stood at the conveniently placed crossing. It still didn’t make things much easier, but at least she could mingle in with the crowd. Traffic was much more likely to stop if it was going to hit a crowd of people than a single pedestrian. Right?

By some miracle, she reached the opposite pavement unscathed—except for her nerves, which were shot—and approached the tram stop. As if by magic, a tram arrived, and it was the correct number. Things were looking up.

After a few minutes, she realised that public transport in Amsterdam was nowhere near as easy to navigate as in the other major cities she was familiar with. There, their Tube or Metro stations always had plenty of large, unmissable signs telling you where you were. Piccadilly Circus, Anvers, Piramide. Here, it seemed you were left to your own devices. There were announcements on board the tram, but they were in Dutch—a language which she knew very little of—incredibly muffled, and pretty much drowned out by the sound of the tram’s motion and its passengers.

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So I had a bang…

People have often been bewildered or snarky about the fact that I like and engage in Morris dancing. I used to say, it involves beer and hitting people with sticks, what’s not to like? When I decided to write a novella about sex and Morris dancing, one of the reasons for doing it was because I knew so many people would go, you can’t possibly, it can’t be done. And I would contemplate Rule 24 (if it exists, there’s porn about it) and say, oh yes I can, and so I did.

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I was out yesterday with all my Morris dancing pals, and had a gratifying chat with someone who had not only heard about the sexy morris dancing book but knew several people who had read it. Shortly after this, I was performing a dance and there was a little mishap with a stick – a four-inch long piece of wood flew abruptly into the back of my head. I finished the dance without swearing, screaming, bleeding or falling over, and once I had had the post-accident pint, fag, five minutes of shivering and blubbing and application of icepack, I began to consider, once again, the potent blend of pleasure/pain that some people love (I’m normally the one dishing it out, of course) and how some types of impact are so much more enjoyable than others.

And then, naturally, I thought: this would be a good scene to write at some point.

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Impertinent Questions: Janine Ashbless

Janine’s currently touring blogs with her utterly awesome new novel Cover Him With Darkness. She stopped by to answer a few of my most Impertinent questions…

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What are the best and worst things about being an erotic writer?

It has to be the best job in the world, doesn’t it? I mean, you sit round thinking of stuff that turns you on, and then you write it all down! You get to play with words and with sex on the page, and you get to make your readers very happy!

The downside is that the pay is terrible.

As a writer of fantasy, do you find people expect you to have a sincere belief in gods, ghosts, demons, werewolves etc?

No, I haven’t come across that. But then I don’t think I make any secret of my real-life skepticism/atheism. Of course it has no bearing whatsoever on whether I can write a good story about those subjects.

Which fictional character do you wish you had created?

God. I’d have done a better job of it. With none of that crap about sex being sinful.

 What was the first book you read that turned you on?

As a teenager, I could get turned on by a single sentence. Practically any mention of sex, in fact. I was massively excited by the flirtation scenes in “Jaws” I remember – the actual sex was a disappointment, but there were many passages devoted to the anticipation and build-up. But I also recall a lone line in a horror novel: “She had spent all night catering to his seemingly inexhaustible sexual appetite,” that seemed the hottest thing EVA at the time.

I’m a lot harder to please nowadays!

 What do you see as the future of erotic fiction?

I see hopeful signs – eroticism has become more mainstream for romance, and there are terrific small presses out there like Sweetmeats. I see scary signs – It seems to me like a certain online trader, having crushed every rival bookstore in the world, may now be trying to drive other publishers out of business and take over All the Things.

But erotic fiction will never die as long as people want to read in one format or another. We aren’t going to stop liking sex anytime!

Which of your own characters would you most like to have a sexual encounter with?

Hmm. I’d run a mile from some of my characters if I met them in real life. Bear in mind that a lot of them are dangerous, or messed-up, or not human at all – or all three at once. Reynauld from “Red Grow the Roses” would be best for a one-night-stand, but that’s like saying your first shot of heroin makes for an enjoyable evening in.

I think, on balance, Severin from The King’s Viper. He’s focused, obsessive, ingenious and has a wickedly horny imagination. And the poor sod could do with a break; it’d be a real sense of achievement to know I’d rocked his world. Satisfaction on every level!

Want to find out more about Cover Him With Darkness? Read on…

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If You Loved an Angel… How Far Would You Fall with Him?

What happens when the daughter of the village priest falls in love with an archangel banished from heaven? Milja’s heart is struck when she catches a glimpse of the preternaturally beautiful prisoner her father keeps captive beneath his church’s altar. Torn between tradition, loyalty and her growing obsession with the fallen angel, will Milja risk losing her family, and her eternal soul, for the love of this divine being? Janine Ashbless will transport you to a world where good and evil battle for true love.

This was it. The moment of choice.

The moment I betray my family, I thought. My father, who has trusted me even after last time. The whole line of my blood. All those people over all the centuries, who have stayed here, slaves to this prisoner, because it was their duty. Because they were keeping the world safe. Because they were obeying the will of God.

I cut through his bonds, one by one. It took a long time. The leather resisted even the titanium-tipped saw-teeth, and I wondered what the hell it was. I thought about Loki’s son, slaughtered by the Æsir so that his body parts might be used as rope—for only a god might bind a god. The thought was foul and I tried to push it aside.

As I cut, his breathing grew louder and louder, sucking great lungfuls of the flat cavern air as if he were building up to a fearful effort.

When I freed his second ankle, he rolled onto one hip. For a moment he lay without moving, groaning a little under his breath.

I touched the back of his hand. “Take your time,” I whispered, wondering if I would have to pull him to his feet. That wouldn’t go well; he was far too heavy for me.

But then, with a heave and a grunt, he sat up, pulled the severed ends of his tethers loose and rubbed at his leg. The skin beneath his bonds was sticky-raw: I saw how he had to pull the leather off to free his wrists and feet. His breath came harsh and shallow, and I think the change in posture was as agonizing as the removal of the binding. When he opened his screwed-up eyes I passed him the water bottle.

He didn’t know how to open it. He had no idea about screw-top caps.

“Here.” Quickly I remedied the situation. The water escaped down his throat and chest as he glugged it back, cutting runnels in the dirt there.

I was wearing a long skirt that day to mollify the old women; I wet the hem while he was getting his breath back and tried to gently clean his face with the cloth.

That was rash. He caught my wrist in one hand; I felt the fingers of his other on my bare calf. Our eyes locked, and I felt time hang, breathless—before he moved to cover my mouth with his, and I tasted blood and stone and darkness in his kiss.

There were no words. There had never been adequate words for his pain and need, or for my hunger. All these years my guilt and my loneliness had pulled me back to this place, and to this moment: this kiss. I grasped his shoulder and felt the play of his muscles as we moved together; beneath my fingertips there was grit stuck to his skin that might have been there for centuries. I yielded to his cold lips and his arms and the press of his torso, repudiating my yesterdays and throwing away all my tomorrows in the rush of this moment, this ache. He had already taken my heart: now he stole my breath and my senses.

The only thing that kept me from rapture was his grip on my wrist, tight and growing tighter. I could feel the bones of my wrist grinding together; in the discomfort I felt a dim echo of his agony—and because of that I welcomed it. But the hurt grew and at last I broke the kiss with a gasp.

I heard him growl.

“Please—not so tight!” I begged.

He looked down at his hand as if he’d never seen it before, and abruptly he released me. I cradled my wrist, rubbing it, and stared up at him through my lashes. I was half-afraid, half-enchanted, and dizzy with uncertainty and arousal.

For a moment he took my face lightly in his hands, thumbs limning the bones of my cheeks. In the half-light I saw the slow shake of his head. “My star of the morning,” he breathed, “come to lead me to the day.”

I didn’t understand.

“Is there a sun shining still?” he whispered. “And snow upon the high peaks?”

I nodded inside the cage of his fingers.

“Is there grass?” he pressed me, brushing my lips with his. His skin was warm now. “Do trees still lift their arms to the sky?”

“Of course.”

With all the muscular uncoiling of a snake he rose up on his knees over me. I saw his skin gleaming with perspiration. Maybe he was no titan, but he was far taller than I was; he loomed like a wave about to fall. For a moment then, I admit, I thought that he was about to seize me and press his naked body down upon me—but instead he put his head back and stretched, flexing each joint, and just by watching I understood the inexpressible pleasure of being able to move and twist and ease every muscle: the visceral joy of freedom.

He laughed disbelievingly, low in his throat. “Show me.”

“Show you?”

“Which way is out?” he asked, reaching to pull me to my feet as he rose up himself. My legs were weak and I tipped against him, dizzy.

Oh God. His naked body, here, now, against mine. I can feel his…

“Okay. I’ll take you.” I was blushing with shame for what had not happened.

And that was how I came to release the prisoner of eons. The act itself had been so abrupt—so sudden—that now it felt utterly unreal. Even the throb of my flesh and the quiver in my legs made it seem all a part of my fantasy.

I led him to the tunnel mouth, but he wasn’t content to follow and he pushed ahead, drawing me by the hand. He didn’t spare the icons and the votive offerings a single glance: his attention was fixed upon escape. As the first breath of warmer air came to us he released me and hurried forward, fending off the walls as he stumbled because his legs were still a little uncertain beneath him.

I felt then the clutch of fear. He didn’t look back to see if I was following. He didn’t seem to remember me. All his focus was on what lay before him and, as I hurried to keep up, every straining inch of the distance between us tore at me.

Was he going to abandon me, now that I’d freed him?

The door to the church was standing open. He surged out into the room, searching for an exit. I wondered for a moment whether he would be able to cross holy ground, but he didn’t even seem to notice his surroundings: he had eyes for nothing but the outer door, its ancient planks outlined by the sun. He wrenched it open and the blazing glow of the afternoon poured in upon him, lapping his naked flesh, haloing him in light. A human would have flinched and shielded his eyes: even where I stood, at the back of the chamber, I was half blinded. Tears swelled my eyes and my throat. He only lifted his chin, staring.

Beneath my feet, the ground trembled. It lasted perhaps a second or two—almost as if the Earth itself shivered.

The breath stopped in my breast as I waited for what would happen next—for him to burn to ash perhaps, or for an eagle to swoop down upon him from the heavens. Or for him to unfurl demon wings and vanish with a clap of sulfurous thunder. I didn’t even have his name to call out in my terror.

None of those things happened. It was just an earth tremor, one among many we suffer yearly. A little dust fell from the arched ceiling. My companion didn’t even seem to notice. Instead he looked back into the room, toward me, and stretched out his hand, pleading. I moved to lay my fingers in his and he pulled me against him, holding me tight. I could feel his strong, hard body trembling. Without words we stood holding each other, looking out upon the valley and the village below, with its fields and its brown-and-red tin roofs and the snow-capped peaks of the Durmitor range beyond: the terrifying open vistas of freedom.

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Recommended Reading: 50 Shades… of Green!

Don’t panic! Come back! This is nothing whatsoever to do with reworked crap TwiShite fanfic. Instead, it’s a pretty good anthology of stories on the theme of sex’n’gardening, and I’m very happy to be a stop on this book’s blog tour.

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Over to Sandra Knauf…

How Fifty Shades of Grey Inspired Fifty Shades of Green

 

Let me say right off that I’m an admirer of E. L. James, the author of Fifty Shades of Grey. Any woman who makes it big in publishing, or any artistic endeavor, or any business for that matter, is worthy of admiration just for that. Further, I’ve seen her interviews. She seems cool! She seems fun. I like her. I feel we could hang out together.

But I didn’t “get” her book.

While I’m all about different strokes for different folks, there are some of us who find the whole dark/damaged/domineering prince thing worrisome. I’m one of them. That’s not our fantasy. We don’t want to be a “submissive.” We know our love alone won’t heal the wounded (the wounded have to want to do their own work). And, damn it, we don’t think it’s sexy to be told what underwear to wear. We’re grown women, for goodness sake! Equality—in the board room, in government, and in the bedroom. That’s how we get off.

So that’s why I scratched my head and squirmed in a not-good-way when I read some parts of James’ book. Women like this? I thought. Why?

The idea for Fifty Shades of Green started off as a joke. I wanted to turn the other Fifty Shades on its head, make the female the warped billionairess who was hot to spank, tie up, and control her virginal, less-monied, less-successful-in-every-way boyfriend. Since I’m a gardening freak and an environmentalist, I imagined her as a leader of some industry that was saving the planet—maybe solar power or green housing or electric cars. (She’d drive a Tesla.) She’d have a magnificent garden. A sexy outdoor paradise. It would be full of gorgeous flowers and vines and places to swim naked and secluded spots for BDSM sex . . .

The boyfriend would be made to do gardening work in the nude. Weeding for hours on his hands and knees . . . choosing a switch from a favorite flowering shrub for a lashing . . .

Friends thought the idea was hilarious, so I knew I was on to something. But I thought: did I just want to turn the tables? Changing genders would still keep it a pretty one-dimensional, predictable story.

Then I thought, what about a collection of naughty gardening stories? Not just one woman who takes charge of her life and sexuality, but many! It would not be limited to BDSM or even to male/female relationships.

I sent out a call for submissions and the dirty stories poured in. They came from all over the United States and a half-dozen other countries. The most talented writers’ imaginations were revealed in stories of off-the-charts deliciousness. A book was born.

I hope you’ll check out a sample, or, better yet, buy a copy of Fifty Shades of Green for yourself or for all your gardening friends. We think it’s fun, imaginative, and very, very sexy. And it might even inspire you to garden.

—Sandra Knauf

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Excerpt from Fifty Shades of Green, “The Pulse of the Earth”

 

As the publisher, and the one who chose all of the stories in Fifty Shades of Green, I adore them all. However, the story of the priest/healer and the injured trader by Evey Brett, has a very special place in my heart. –SK

Andreas gritted his teeth. Cleaning the burns was painful, and now that his skin was healing the process was agonizing. “I don’t suppose you have more of that tea.”

“It’s too addictive; we can’t use much. I would be a poor healer to fix one problem only to leave another in its place.”

Andreas supposed that was true, but it didn’t make it any more bearable. He bore it as long as he could before begging Brother Jacinto to give him a break. The priest did, but all too soon started again.

By the time it was over, Andreas was breathing hard and covered in sweat. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming and swearing inside a house of worship. Brother Jacinto sliced the pad of a prickly pear cactus and laid the insides against the burns. The juice cooled the worst of the pain.

Brother Jacinto cleaned up his supplies with the same finesse as he doled them out. “Your burns are healing well. The discomfort should ease in another day or two.”

In a way, the good news disappointed him. The faster he recovered, the sooner he would have to leave. His heart ached at the thought of never seeing Brother Jacinto again.

“I expect you’d like a bath.”

His gut tightened at the thought of just how he was going to receive that bath, but he was tired of feeling filthy. “Yes.”

Brother Jacinto pulled back the sheet, dipped the sponge in the water and began. Whether it was because he couldn’t see or because Andreas was attracted to him, the gentle touch roused a response he’d be better off forgetting.

The water was cool as it sluiced over skin sticky and salty from sweat. Andreas fixed his gaze on Brother Jacinto, amazed at the placidity in his face as he worked. Yet, he was disappointed. It wasn’t right to expect anything from a priest he barely knew. Brother Jacinto had probably taken some vow or another to remain chaste. It wasn’t possible to have any sort of relationship, but that didn’t mean Andreas couldn’t fantasize about one.

He had no control over his body’s reaction when Brother Jacinto sponged between his legs. His cock was as stiff as a rod and utterly appreciative as the priest ran the sponge from base to tip and back down, tucking into the crevices around and beneath Andreas’s balls. Andreas closed his eyes, glad Brother Jacinto couldn’t see the heated embarrassment that must be creeping over his face.

The pressure in his lower body built to an unbearable level. Andreas breathed deeply, trying to still the tide of desire flooding him, but failed. Climax struck hard and fast. Spasms clutched his cock as he spilled himself over Brother Jacinto’s hands. Andreas groaned, half out of relief, half in shame from the inability to control himself.

Yet, despite the mess, Brother Jacinto’s face didn’t change. He continued to sponge Andreas clean with no apparent disgust or disapproval, and too soon, Andreas was washed and covered. “Thank you,” Andreas said. It wasn’t enough for everything the priest had done, but it was all he had to offer.

—Evey Brett

 

Blurb and buy links

 

Fifty Shades of Green is a garden of naughty delights!
Within our pages you’ll discover:
– Virile gods and their mortal conquests.
– A community garden’s secret (and very dirty) fertility ritual.
– An Edwardian dominatrix living out her sadistic garden fantasies.
– Student/teacher lessons in horticultural hotness.
– Young lovers seeking the help of green witches.
– A beautiful, blind priest who helps an injured traveler.
. . . and so much more.

Peek inside the garden gate.

(You know you want to.)

A dozen racy tales await.

Fifty Shades of Green is a collection of twelve delicious and erotic short stories with gardening themes. What you’ll find in these pages is hotter than the hottest pepper on the Scoville index of heat! And smart, not smutty. Well . . . maybe a little smutty.

To Buy Fifty Shades of Green (it’s on sale, just for you):

 

Amazon.com UK

Amazon.com US

 

Author Bios and Links

 

Sandra Knauf has been a featured “Colorado Voices” columnist for The Denver Post and her humorous essays have appeared nationally in GreenPrints, an Utne Reader award-nominated garden writing journal. She has also been a guest commentator on KRCC’s (a NPR affiliate station) “Western Skies” radio show. In addition to Fifty Shades of Green, her publishing company has published six volumes of the garden writing journal Greenwoman, a young adult fantasy/sci-fi novel, Zera and the Green Man, and other works.

Sandra Knauf’s Greenwoman Publishing website

Sandra Knauf’s Flora’s Forum blog

Evey Brett, the author of “The Pulse of the Earth,” has numerous sci-fi/fantasy and paranormal romance e-books published with Loose Id, Ellora’s Cave and Carina Press. She also has fantasy and erotica stories forthcoming with Lethe and Cleis Press.

Evey Brett’s website

FREE Sample Stories!

To sample two free stories from Fifty Shades of Green visit our Garden Shorts website.

If you sign up for our newsletter you will be sent “Seed” (our sexy story about a community garden’s secret fertility ritual).

To read “Phallus Impudicus,” (a tale about the horny god Pan’s visit with a lonely gardener) just click on the Fifty Shades SAMPLE! tab

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Spring In My Step is out on Kindle! But that’s not what I’m ranting about today…

Yes, this blog’s supposed to be the one about writing, not the one for various political rantings (that stuff is usually dealt with by my Other Self) but when you get handed something that looks a bit like an open goal, you shoot at it.

In case you haven’t seen it, there’s a picture of David Cameron and a Border Morris side causing a bit of a commotion at the moment. Most of the commotion is down to the fact that the Border side in question paint their faces black, which is perceived by a lot of people as at least insensitive.

As a Morris dancer who has written a novella about sex and Morris dancing I am naturally rubbing my hands in glee at the opportunity to cop a bit of extra promo interested in this.

My personal take on the issue of blackface as part of Morris kit is that it’s frankly naff, these days. So many sides have taken the decision to use facepaint in various colours that bear no resemblance to human skin tones, or to paint themselves with patterns and pictures that often look really nice, without the sky falling in and the ghost of Cecil Sharp arising to spit in their beer, that an insistence on full blackface does look a bit… awkward. I’m well aware that many Border sides explain it as a tradition derived from disguising oneself to avoid punishment, and also aware that many of them sincerely believe this, and if they suspected there were proven racist connotations they would not want to persist in blacking up.

Unfortunately, there is quite a lot of evidence to the effect that Morris blackface does have its roots in negative stereotyping of non-white people.

There are well-researched arguments against continuing the use of black face paint here and here and currently, as was probably bound to happen, a lot of people on either side of the debate are behaving like screaming fuckwits. One lot would have you believe that every Morris dancer in the country is a Farage-worshipping Little Englander bigot prone to muttering that if those non-white types don’t respect our English traditions they can fuck off home; the other side are not only wailing about PCGORNMAD but implying that criticizing Morris blackface is only the first step on the path to banning Morris altogether.

There are, broadly, three types of Morris dancing: Cotswold, Northwest and Border – more, if you include Molly dancing, rapper, longsword and fluffy. Of all these, only Border sides go in for painting their faces at all.  So, #notallMorrisdancers.  To an extent, the current row as it is being played out among actual Morris dancers reminds me of nothing more than the old fetish scene favourite: the rows about whether or not Nazi uniforms are acceptable fetishwear. I’m of the same opinion on both topics, really – do it if you want to but don’t kick up when other people decide that you’re a dick.

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Review au revoir?

Is it actually worth chasing reviews? I have been a bit twitchy on the subject for quite a while now (and not just because I rarely get any, negative or positive). I know from years of reading stuff by and about writers that a bad review can spoil your whole week.

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I do like, on occasion, to seek out reviews of a book I’ve been enjoying, just to see what other people think of it, but that’s quite often a shortcut to drowning in a sea of total guff. Now we have the interweb and anyone can be a critic, a reasonably high-selling book can get over 100 reviews, 90% or which will be something like ‘It’s OK, I quite liked the ending’ and nothing more.

At the more niche or independent end of the market, though, so many reviews seem to be either by well meaning friends, authorial sock-puppets or out-and-out paid-for that it feels impossible to assess from them whether the book’s any good – or whether the author is just a nice sociable soul whose feelings no one wants to hurt.

Reviews on blogs are perhaps the way forward – at least one gets the impression that the person hosting and posting on a dedicated erotic fiction site as least has some idea of what makes good/.bad bedtime reading, but even then, the same old problem of how to attract attention in an overcrowded market needs  to be overcome.

I don’t know if there are any answers. And I don’t know whether or not adding a book reviews section to the Dirty Sexy Words site is a solution, either. But watch this space.

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Teaser Time: Ex Retreat

It’s not out yet but just to get your anticipatory juices flowing, here’s the cover and info on Elise Hepner’s latest…

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Warning: This book contains a geeky, secretly insecure but overly cocky handy-man with a penchant for pleasing, a dominatrix in training who’s on the rebound, and enough smut to strip a couple layers off your soul. Plus there’s mac n’ cheese with a smattering of self-actualization for good measure.

After Chloe Barrons’ fiancé cheats on her via webcam, she begrudgingly accepts her Type-A mother’s offer of a spur of the moment luxury spa weekend. But things don’t play out quite from point A to point B when she arrives drunk and disoriented on the front porch of a deserted North Carolina beach house. From the very start she’s caught off guard by Noah Knightly, a sinfully sexy, self-proclaimed commitment-phobe who’s a handyman for his sister’s relationship rehabilitation center—a rehab where Chloe is the sole guest during off-season.

But faced with temptation, to stay guarded she’ll have to call the shots.

Noah Knightly shouldn’t have taken Chloe’s reservation. But in need of a second pair of hands to fix up the beach house, he throws all his sister’s rules out the window. Soon he worries that maybe he’s bitten off more than he can chew: each day Chloe cracks more of his cocky façade bringing down his guards to reveal a stuttering geek who has a hidden will to please her in any way possible.

With no way to ignore her pain, Noah sets himself up as a guinea pig to prove to Chloe that not all men are created equal—in or out of the bedroom. As Chloe comes into her own through every sexual session, Noah needs to decide if he’s man enough to accept the one thing he never thought he wanted—love.

Bio: Elise Hepner lives with two spastic cats and a very supportive, slightly crazy husband. There is never a dull moment in the house, unless the caffeine runs out, which it never does. She’s a multi-published erotica author with Cleis Press, Ellora’s Cave, Xcite, and Secret Cravings Publishing.

She’s driven by her tea addiction and a tiny stuffed turtle her husband picked up from Disney World that sits on her desk and “supervises” her work.

When not writing (which is rare), she’s watching countless hours of reality television, playing the Sims or shopping online. Plus there’s that odd obsession with the color purple. Everything is purple. Visit Elise at her website http://www.elisehepner.com to keep up with her naughty ramblings, random tidbits and future work.

I have a newsletter where you can sign up for sneak peeks, contests, giveaways, new release news and other fun things: http://eepurl.com/pW8Sj

Website: http://www.elisehepner.com

Twitter: @EHepner

Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/elisehepner

Blogger: http://celise91writer.blogspot.com/

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