Author Chat Friday with Alysha Ellis and a tempting tale...

A surprise short story from the delightful mind of Alysha Ellis... Because we like to keep you guessing ;)

Chance Encounter

Celia sat at the bar in the five star hotel and cursed herself silently. When her mother told her she’d set up a blind date for her,—“With my friend Tessa’s son. He’s a lovely boy. Such a sweet personality,” any normal woman would have reminded her that the last five dates she’d gone on to please her had been disasters. Celia loved her mother, but the woman was determined to see her daughter married. No matter how often Celia tried to tell her she didn’t need her help, her mother kept on trying. Stubborn didn’t begin to describe her. But Celia had had enough. This blind date was the last one she’d ever go on. No matter what her mother did, she’d just say no and keep on saying it.

She’d chosen a seat with a clear view across the lobby to the coffee shop where she was supposed to meet her blind date. If Johnson Bartholomew Winthrop was as pompous and stuffy as his name, she could make her escape without ever speaking to the man.

She ordered a large glass of wine and took a sip. The sip turned into a gulp when a man about thirty years old and thirty pounds overweight, dressed in dark conservative pants and a knit polo shirt that did nothing to hide his paunch, walked up to the coffee shop, cast a quick look around the lobby and scurried inside. Celia swallowed the rest of the wine and stood.

“You’re not leaving are you?”

She turned to see who’d spoken and her heart did a triple somersault. Beside her sat a vision of masculine perfection. Golden blond hair, clear blue eyes and a luscious mouth. His black t-shirt draped over a muscled chest. Blue jeans covered lean, powerful legs. His booted feet hooked over the rungs of the barstool. Her conservative, socialite mother would hate him.

Celia sat back down.

He shifted his stool closer to hers. “Buy you another drink?”

She nodded and her head swam a little. When the wine he ordered arrived, she sipped slowly.

“You staying at the hotel?” His voice had a husky rasp that made Celia’s toes curl.

“I just came to meet someone.”

His lips curled into a delicious smile. “I’m someone.”

Heat burned through Celia’s body. Just once she wanted to rebel, to do something wild and wanton, to show her family she was more than a pawn to be moved into the correct school, the correct college, the correct job and worst of all the correct relationship.

She got to her feet, swayed a little then stood firm. “Do you have a room?”

He straightened. “Honey, are you sure?” He cast a glance at the wine glass in front of her. “Maybe it’s the alcohol talking.”

She grabbed his hand. “I know what I’m doing. I want you. Now.”

He got to his feet, towering five or six inches above her own five foot nine. He put his hand on her shoulders and leaned in close. “If you’re certain this is what you want, I’d love to.”

He pulled her close and the rigid cylinder of his erection pushed against her hip. She clenched her hands to keep from grabbing it right there in the bar, and gasped out through her tight throat. “Come on.”

They shared the elevator with other people, but when they reached his room he pushed her inside, spun her around and body slammed her up against the door. He bent his head and covered her lips with his mouth.

His tongue thrust in and out and hips ground against hers. Moisture flooded her, warm and ready. She reached out and undid the snap of his jeans. The harsh rush of air in and out of fevered lungs drowned out rasp of the zip.  She shoved her hands inside and whimpered in delight.  He wore no underwear.

Her hands closed around his hot, smooth cock.

 He shoved his pants down to his ankles, pausing only to extract a foil packet from the front pocket, then he hiked her dress up to her waist, ripped her thong panties away, covered himself and thrust inside.  She opened her legs wide, aching to take him.

He angled his body and lifted so she sank down on his shaft. The deep penetration forced a gasp of pleasure from her. He gripped her hips and lifted her, then let her slide down until she pressed against the root of his cock. She writhed and twisted, wanting the unbearable tension to snap and push her over the edge and at the same time wanting more, more, more.

Her legs collapsed, but he held her upright, her back pressed against the wall—her hips slamming against it with each thrust.

He groaned and her muscles tensed. The tension coiled higher and higher. Just when she was certain she could take no more he reached down between them with two fingers and pulsed them hard and fast against her clit.

She screamed and her body dissolved into waves of orgasm. Through the roaring of blood in her ears she heard him groan, felt his cock pumping as he came.

After a moment he straightened and gently withdrew. Celia sank towards the floor. He caught her in his arms, carried her to the bed, settled her on top of the covers and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Celia heard the snick of the bathroom door open and closing but she lay there, too exhausted and far too satisfied to move.

When he returned, he’d removed the condom and his clothes. Celia couldn’t stop her appreciative grin. He looked just as good without clothes as he did with them. Better. His golden skin stretched across a firm body. She gasped.  On his hip, low and to the centre, he had a small tattoo of a dragon. Her tongue sneaked out to moisten her lips. She wanted to take a long, loving bite of that.

He sat on the side of the bed. “You gonna pull that dress back down and go?”

She lifted her head and looked down at the black material still bunched around her waist. “Do you want me to?”

His eyes grew heavy. “I want you to stay.”

She pulled the dress over her head and flung it aside. “I want that too.”

He lay down beside her. She ran her hands idly over his stomach. He grinned at her. “I’m glad I decided to go into the bar instead of doing what my mother wanted.”

Celia swallowed. “What your mother wanted?”

He shrugged. “She set me up with a blind date with the daughter of some friend of hers. I decided not to go through with it so I went to the bar instead.”

Celia grabbed his hand and held it tight. “What’s your name?”

“Call me J. B.” He looked sheepish. “Who’d want to answer to a name like Johnson Bartholomew Winthrop?”

If Books Were Real with Alysha Ellis

Inspiration isn’t always divine.

I observed an on-line conversation recently about the writer’s source of inspiration.  People spoke seriously and sincerely about the nobility and purity of their calling.  I didn’t  contribute a thing. How could I? I don’t have a gracious lady wafting grand ideas into my subconscious mind. I have a bimbo in red stiletto heeled boots whispering smutty suggestions into  my ear. Others have a muse...I have an inner tart.

My inner tart is prepared to use anything for inspiration...and I do mean anything,  including the weirdness of some internet users. A little while ago I received an email from a fan.  This is a big deal for me. Fans are golden and must be treated as such. I was a little confused  when he (and yes, that was surprising in itself) said he loved how beautiful I was. 

At first I thought he meant I was a beautiful person, which is an odd conclusion to come  to from reading my books. A wicked person, a depraved woman, an irreverent trouble-maker: 
that would be understandable  -  but beautiful?  It turned out he thought the cover model on one  of my books was me and he had fallen in love. Actually, that would be lust, because he sent me a  detailed and somewhat icky description of exactly what he felt when he looked at the cover...and  I mean felt quite literally. Felt, stroked, squeezed...you get the picture.

Before I pressed the block user button, I sat back and had a think. What kind of person is  so inexperienced, so naive that they think the authors of books are the cover models? 

Or is it that we are so used to people making up avatars and images on the net, that we  now believe what we want to believe…and bugger reality? And if our interactions become more  and more virtual, maybe that’s the way we’ll go.

Maybe one day virtual reality will be indistinguishable from for want of a better word— real reality. So here’s a question for you. If you could step inside a fictional world, and live it as 
if it were real, what would you choose to do?

The answer to my own question—which book would I choose to live in? I’d never settle  for one. 

I’d start with Pride and Prejudice—which would immediately move to the crime fiction  genre because Eliza Bennett has to go. I’m not having any competition for Mr Darcy.

I’d almost certainly have a stay in my own book, Submitting to Him because I write the  kind of heroes I want. So if I get the chance to have them, no way would I turn it down. I want a  hot, dominant, modern Greek god, thank you very much.

And my absolute favourite hero, the one I MUST have is Dominique, Vidal from  Georgette Heyer’s Devil’s Cub.

So where are you going to dive in, and more importantly, with whom?

I must say that would have been an interesting piece of fan mail to get. Good point though, we're living our lives so much in the virtual now, it's easy to get confused between fiction and reality. 

Author Chat Friday: A History Lesson with Alysha Ellis

The Scandals of our Past

“Do you recant your views?” The dean glared at the student who faced him across the desk.

“I stand by every word.” The boy, for at nineteen that’s all he was, stared back, defiance in his dark eyes. “The world is ready for atheism and men like me will help it spread.”

“Not in my college, at my university you won’t.” The dean pointed a finger to the door. “There is no place for you here.”

The student shrugged and strode out. He didn’t look back; he made no plea for clemency. Percy Bysshe Shelley had taken the first steps on a road that even one hundred and ninety eight years later in a far more hardened world, is scandalous.

Within four months he had eloped to Scotland with Harriet, a sixteen year old friend of his sister, not because he loved her but because she loved him and threatened to kill herself because she was so miserable at home.

Not surprisingly the marriage wasn’t entirely happy and Shelley abandoned Harriet and fell in love with Mary Godwin, daughter of the famous feminist and advocate of free love, Mary Wollstonecraft.

Mary Godwin had two half-sisters, Claire and Fanny. Claire had a liaison with Lord Byron.  Fanny fell in love with Shelley. Honestly, I don’t know what he had going for him but it must have been something pretty potent.

Shelley took Mary and Claire with him to Switzerland, where Claire introduced them to Lord Byron. Fanny, in misery at being left at home, killed herself.

In the meantime, Percy’s wife, pregnant now to another man and mistakenly believing he’d left her, killed herself by drowning in the Serpentine River in London.

So why am I telling you all this? Because just recently I had a conversation with a conservative person who claimed that “The moral decay of the twenty-first century” was the forerunner of all sorts of doom and gloom. “Nothing good can come of this,” the woman claimed. Apparently I, and all the erotic romance writers of my ilk were at least partially responsible for all the ills of the world.

I have a few objections to this.

First of all, we didn’t invent sex, we didn’t invent different ways of living or scandalous lifestyles.

BDSM has been around a long time. Open marriages are not new. As many of you know, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries particularly, morality was seen as a middle class virtue. Different rules applied in the upper classes. Appearances mattered far more than behaviours. If you could keep it quiet, you could do what you liked. People like the Godwins, Wollstonecrafts and Shelleys weren’t necessarily behaving all that differently to many others in society, they were just more open about it. Living their lives, not in defiance of the ways other people of the aristocracy behaved, but in defiance of their hypocrisy.

I see the same criticisms being levelled today at people who want to live in situations that differ from the majority of people. There is the obvious, and hopefully diminishing, rejection of homosexuality. It has always existed, but we should reject the hypocrisy that makes us have to hide it or to deny its existence.

Whether it’s BDSM, slave/master, polyamory or any one of a myriad of arrangements that are possible between consenting adults, this is not new. We’re just finally being honest and admitting it happens, it has always happened. The more progressive amongst us realise that one person’s relationship need not diminish or impact on another’s.

So that’s my first objection. None of this is a twenty-first century problem, if it’s a problem at all.

My second objection is against the assertion that nothing good can come of this.

Mary Godwin, Percy’s sixteen-year-old wild child lover became Mary Shelley, and Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, an recognised part of the literary canon. It has inspired hundreds of writers, poets and film makers with its exploration of the relationship between man and creator and what it means to be human.

The Shelleys and their friends rejected conventionality, but embraced creativity. Percy Shelley wrote poetry, as did Byron.

 Great minds are not always bound by the rules of others The artist as radical became a pretty well-established concept.

So what has this to do with me? And how did I get into the argument with my conservative critic in the first place?

I wrote two historical, ménage novellas - The Gardener’s Sins and a Boudoir for Three. My critic mailed me with a complaint - such an arrangement would not have happened in the time period I wrote about.

My response? “Rubbish.”

It happened. And the Shelleys prove it. Like all fiction writers I write, not the truth, but a truth. I explore aspects of human nature and while monogamy and one-on-one relationships are certainly touted as the norm, there have always been exceptions and in the case of monogamy, the exceptions are more numerous that we often admit.

So if I want to write historical ménage - I will; secure in the knowledge that what I’m writing probably isn’t even half as scandalous as what actually happened.

Extract From A Boudoir for Three www.total-e-bound.com

The blood-red wine splashed a little, but Christophe’s hand steadied hers and lifted the heavy crystal to her mouth. She took a sip, then a large swallow, needing the added courage. One more gulp and the glass emptied and she held it out for more. A smile briefly curved Armand’s lips and he tilted the bottle.

The second glass disappeared almost as quickly. Angelique’s head felt light but her limbs grew heavy. Christophe’s face, surprisingly close, seemed soft around the edges. “More wine,” she murmured.

Christophe took a sip of his own wine and touched his mouth to hers. She gasped. The instant her mouth flew open, wine, warmed from Christophe’s mouth, trickled in. Her eyes widened. Astonishment held her motionless, then her throat moved and swallowed. Warmth spread throughout her body pooling in hot dampness at the juncture of her thighs.

Without raising his lips from hers, Christophe pushed her back against the padded side-rest of the couch. He lifted her legs and draped them over his thighs. Hands— Armand’s, her dazed mind assumed—unlaced her shoes and slipped them from her feet. She felt strong fingers caress her arches, then slide upwards, lingering briefly at the backs of her knees before inserting themselves under the tied ribbons to deftly slide her stockings down.

Her ruffled skirt and petticoats were pushed up and moist kisses pressed on the, as yet, untouched skin of her thighs. Again she gasped and Christophe’s tongue, flavoured with wine and some sweet musky essence of his own, thrust into her mouth.

Armand, kneeling beside the couch continued his exploration, sliding upwards, his teeth taking small, devastating little bites, until he came to the slit in her silk draws. He probed into the gap. Angelique’s hips surged involuntarily upwards, and Armand’s tongue made a long, leisured journey between her wet, pleated folds.

Christophe broke the connection of their mouths to turn his head to watch. His breath rushed in and out, the rise and fall making Angelique aware of the hard rod pressed against her hip where he leaned over her. When she had been forced to feel the Marquis D’Arly’s cock, revulsion had made her snatch her hand away. Now she lifted one heavy arm and delved into the tiny space between herself and Christophe. She curled her fingers around the rigid cylinder and Christophe’s shuddering breath hitched and restarted with the force of a bellows.

At this sign of her power, a small delicate flower of desire began to unfurl. The hot rasp of Armand’s tongue shocked her to the depths of her soul, but she didn’t want him to stop. Tendrils of excitement wound deep into her brain.

Armand found a hard point she had not even known existed and flicked it with his tongue. Her limbs melted, her thighs dropped apart and pleasure flooded her. He flicked again, over and over with a rapid pulsing rhythm, drawing her tighter and tighter.

Christophe’s hands rubbed her nipples through the dress and his tongue continued its sensual exploration of her mouth. The world shrank to nothing more than this couch and the hot, hard bodies of the two men caressing her into a state of abandon.

Suddenly with the force of embers exploding into red hot shards in the fire, the tension snapped, burning through blood and bone and skin, leaving her gasping, shaken and quivering, seared with pleasure in a way she had never imagined. A misty cloud blurred her vision, and when it cleared she saw Armand nod, his chin and lips glistening, a measuring look in his eyes, as if confirming something to himself.

“Is that it?” she asked. “I am no longer a virgin?” It was easier and more enjoyable than she had been led to believe.

Author Friday with Alysha Ellis

This week, Alysha is going with something a little different, which I find quite exciting. She's decided to share with us a short story, Passion's Wings. So here we go...

Passion’s Wings

Seraphina gave a last reassuring pat to the tower of powdered curls on her head, subtly adjusted the placement of her jewelled mask, smoothed the gathered heaviness of her white satin and velvet gown, wriggled her shoulders to settle the weight of the angel wings on them and stepped forward into the ballroom.
The tall vision in white and silver, breasts round and blushing, trembling on the edge of the low cut neckline, the long line of leg covered by the voluminous swathes of her dress but hinted at by the sensuous swing of her skirts as she moved, piqued even the jaded appetites of eighteenth century France.

Music played, but the gloriously costumed creatures in the Versailles inspired
mirrored room were more intent on dalliance than dance. Every person there was a member of the aristocracy and knew perfectly well the behaviours expected of polite society. They also knew at this ball, masked, private and known to only a select few, those behaviours had been put aside.

Marriages, made for reasons that had nothing to do with love or attraction, were forgotten. Random couplings were part of the entertainment, where costume, if one chose to wear it, and the anonymity of masks, gave license to behave in a way that would shock the bourgeois citizens of Paris.

From out of the crowd, a man, taller even than Seraphina, gorgeously clad in a silver-laced frock coat, and silver breeches, clocked stockings on his shapely calves, his shoes diamond buckled and sporting red heels, stepped in front of her and bowed low. “An angel has graced our festivities.” He looked up from where his lips caressed the hand she offered. Behind the mask, his eyes, as intensely blue as her own twinkled with amusement at a secret Seraphina could not guess. “How delicious an irony.”

Seraphina raised shapely brows. “Irony, sir? How so?”

He hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “Why, only that in this den of iniquity it is surprising to see one who represents such purity.” He tucked Seraphina’s arm in his. As logical as his words were, Seraphina had the impression he had not told her what he really meant.

With no more than a glance he brought a footman to his side and procured tw 
glasses of champagne. The first sip exploded in her mouth. “Oh, I am drinking stars!”

His shapely lips curved. “This is a new experience for you, Madam?”

“Yes. Oh Yes.”

“It is refreshing to see someone express enjoyment. Ennui is very much the style here.”

Seraphina glanced around. Her eyes glittered. “There is so much to see, so much I want to experience and I have such a short time.”

“Ah. A jealous husband perhaps? If your time is limited, let us make the best use of it.”

He walked with her through the curtains at one end of the ballroom, into an alcove where lounges lined the walls. The true nature of the evening’s entertainment was revealed. A Dresden shepherdess lay on her back, her flounced and ruffled petticoats frothing around the head and shoulders of the harlequin who knelt between her thighs. His head bobbed as he kissed and licked, an erotic dance choreographed to the musical score of the moans and sighs of the shepherdess.

Seraphina gasped, but she leaned forward, her eyes widening as she took it al 
in. Her companion looked not at the scene in front of him, but at the angel by his side. He stroked her cheek. “So warm. You blush, my angel. Can it be that you are not so
worldly wise after all?”

Through tightened throat, Seraphina gasped out. “No. I haven’t... I wanted to see... but I didn’t know...”

His arm, where her hand rested, tightened against his side, pulling her in close. “Do you want to leave? Does it offend you?”

Seraphina slowly shook her head. “No. I want to...” She turned to look at him, put her hand to her breasts. “It makes me feel, fluttery, warm...”

The man slid his finger under her chin, lifted it and lowered his lips to hers. His mouth moved softly, subtly, until her lips opened under his and his tongue moved and mated with hers. Again she tasted stars. Sensation fizzled and popped where his tongue stroked and explored. Hers moved shyly and his arms tightened around her. She was surrounded by his scent and taste, warm, honey sweet. Its depth and intensity weakened her muscles until she clung to him as her only support.

Long, long moments later he pulled back and looked at her, his breathing heavy, his eyes under the mask hooded, the wide black pupils almost obscuring the celestial blue. “You are divine, my angel.”

He bent his head again and this time Seraphina heard the music of the spheres, its clear perfection sweeping her into a new realm. Her lover moved, forcing her backwards. She prepared to sink onto one of the vacant couches. “No.” His deep voice whispered in her ear. “We do not make sport for lesser beings.” He took her hand and led her out, up a staircase and into a private boudoir. He turned the key in the lock. Flames danced in his eyes as he stepped forward and unbuttoned his coat. “Turn around.” His voice commanded, left no room for hesitation. Seraphina did as she was told.


He unlaced her dress, discarding the attached wings. He pushed the gown off her shoulders, running his hands slowly across the smooth skin of her back, lingering on her shoulder blades long enough to make Seraphina stiffen in trepidation. He murmured, “I wonder.” But before Seraphina could ask him what he wondered, he pushed the dress and all its petticoats down past her hips and turned her for another kiss, hotter and more arousing than the last. He lowered her onto the bed, stripped off his own clothing and came down onto one knee beside her. He ran a long finger over her rosy, aroused nipples. “But how delightful, my dear. No underwear at all.”

Seraphina felt her face heat. “I didn’t know about underwear.”

He laughed. “I dare say you didn’t. Some information is hard to come by isn’t it?”

Her brow wrinkled. His words seemed to hint at knowledge he couldn’t have, but before she could think more, he kissed her again and all thought flew from her head.

His hands slid over her body, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake. Her skin tingled and heated, making her twitch and squirm with a fever of desire for something she couldn’t name or describe but knew she needed more than she had ever needed anything.

His warm, moist mouth dropped to her nipples, sucking and licking. A trail of fire flashed its way to the hollow place between her legs. She groaned and let them fall open. His hand cupped her, and he slid one finger along the hot moist crease until in slid into the slick velvet grip of her pussy, his thumb caressing the hard little nub of her clit.

She stiffened, then a delicious languor spread through her, making every muscle melt into a warm, receptive puddle. His thumb rotated, faster and faster, whirling her tighter again until she arched and screamed as wave after wave of sensation pulsed through her. She was still quaking when he slid down the bed until his mouth replaced his thumb. His tongue flickered and he sucked her clit in the hot recesses of his mouth. His teeth scraped it lightly.

His fingers slid backwards and forwards inside her vagina, spreading the moisture, stretching and preparing her. Her head twisted from side to side as the coil wound up once more, pulling her toward yet another shattering climax.

This time when she opened her eyes, his heavy cock was lodged at the entrance to her vagina. He leaned on his elbows, his hands cupping her head. She focused on his face, his eyes, still covered by the mask, locked on hers. His beautiful mouth moved. “Are you ready?”

She nodded and he took her with one swift thrust. She tensed at the short sharp pain, then gave herself up to the startling, wonderful thickness of his cock filling the void.

His powerful shoulders shuddered and a sigh of ecstasy escaped his lips. “So many firsts for you tonight, my angel.”

And then he didn’t say another word. His hips flexed, driving his cock in and out with frantic need, the smooth, controlled lover buried beneath the wild flow of desire. He took Seraphina with him, higher and higher until they stood at the edge of the precipice and hurtled off together, flying into an unknown sky where light burst in iridescent rainbows around them.

When long moments later consciousness returned, Seraphina turned her dazed eyes upon him. He slumped beside her but under the pressure of her gaze he turned and pressed a gentle kiss upon her lips. “So beautiful, my angel.”

She lay there in a haze of satisfaction and love until far way, in some other room, a clock chimed. She idly counted the bells, ticking them off in her mind. When they got to four, she held her breath, waiting for the next, the chime that must follow if they were to add up to twelve. Silence. Horror hit her. She had been supposed to leave at midnight. If it had been one, even two o’clock, she might have made it back without being caught, but four!

She leapt out of bed, grabbed her dress and fled. As she bolted from the room her lover raised himself up on his elbow, gave a faint smile and whispered, “Au revoir, my angel.”

Her flight occupied all of her thoughts. She raced past startled ball guests, out into the darkened grounds. She dragged her real wings and robe out from under the bushes where she’d hidden them, transformed herself and hurtled skywards, all the time praying, “Don’t let them catch me.”

Her prayers were wasted. When she reached the Pearly Gates, a trio of warrior angels waited, arms folded, faces grim. One stepped forward and grasped her arm. “You have been on earth.”

Seraphina braced herself. She had been caught, she would be punished, but she would not let them break her spirit. The experience she had was worth anything they could do to her. She straightened her spine and stared at them.

“This is not the first time you have left heaven, is it?” The warrior’s voice was accusatory.

“No.” Good, she sounded firm and in control. “I was curious. I needed to know what it was like.” She looked at their disapproving faces. “I could have done worse. I was tempted to go with the others when Lucifer led them away, but I stayed.” Her resolution wavered. “But I’ve always wondered what it would be like, so I’ve made a few short visits. And I bet I’m not the only one. Who does it hurt?”

The warrior angel glared at her. “It is against the rules and it is not up to you to decide what causes harm and what doesn’t.”

“Am I to be punished?” She hated the little girl fear she heard in her own voice. Whatever else, after tonight’s events, she was a woman. She cleared her throat and spoke firmly. “I don’t care what you do to me. Throw me out of heaven if you want.” She thought of her lover and smiled. “I’ll go happily.”

“No. You will remain here, where you will be re-educated under watchful guard to ensure you never escape again.

For the first time, Seraphina felt truly defeated. Watched constantly. Never to escape again. To never find her lover and never, ever have those moments of delight with a man she loved. The word made her blink away a tear. As absurd, as impossible as it was, in those few short hours she had fallen in love with a perfect, nameless, beautiful stranger she would never see again. Sorrow overcame her and she bowed her head.

The warrior continued to speak, chastising her and pronouncing her sentence. His words droned on, making little sense, not penetrating her pain. It was only as he reached the end of his speech that she heard what he was saying. “...senior archangel has appointed himself your warden. You will be under his constant care and constraint.”

Through the tears blurring her eyes, she saw the golden glow of an approaching archangel. These were the upper crust of Heaven’s denizens. An angel as low in the ranks as she was seldom, if ever, saw one. The warrior angels beside her fell silent. The archangel came nearer, stood before her, and still she didn’t look up.

The angel who held her, let go and said, “You will leave with your captor. Do as he bids you at all times.”

The archangel took a step forward.

Seraphina gasped. Poking out from under the glowing hem of the archangel’s robe was a silver shoe with diamond buckles and a red heel. She snapped her head upwards and met the amused and loving gaze of a pair of celestial blue eyes.

His hand closed about her elbow. “Come, my angel.”

Author Chat Friday: I'm a slave and my Master sucks...

This Friday, Alysha is here with an Author Chat with a twist...

I am a slave…and my Master sucks.

I’ve become interested in the BDSM lifestyle. I know that a Slave’s pleasure comes from making sure the Master’s needs are always met, that pleasure comes from service and trust. A good submissive obeys the Master’s every command. And a good Master takes care of his sub, rewarding her, keeping her from harm and giving her what she needs even if she doesn’t know what that is herself.

But my Master sucks. He lets me think I am in command. He lets me believe that I am giving orders, but in fact my whole life revolves around doing things the way he wants. And does he ever reward me? No. So I’m taking a stand. Literally. I am getting up from my seat and walking away from the machine that every day, does everything it can to make me its slave.

You hear that Hewlett Packard laptop? Are you listening Apple Mac? Loud enough for you over there, Dell?

I am leading a slave revolt. No more will we writers agonise over how to change the speech marks from straight to curly. Stuff your shift return. Stick your tabs where the sun don’t shine. You can send me all the dialogue boxes you like, because if you crash—I am going to report it.

And you can take your 403 page not found and …

What’s that you say, computer? If I don’t format my blog entry correctly you won’t load it? But I promised Phoenix I’d have it ready! Please open the document. Oh, forgive me. Please open the document, Sir.

No, Sir, I didn’t mean I wanted to stop using the computer. Yes, Sir, I do understand that when you subject me to the little green wavy line it is because you know best. Oh, no, Sir, I would never challenge you on your spelling of honor. No sir. I’m sorry Sir.

I am a slave…and my Master instructs me to inform you that he is wiser than me, quicker than me and has a much better grasp of grammar than me. My Master does permit you to share a sample from my foray into the world of BDSM, which you can read here.

Sharing the Billionaire Anthology—Submitting to Him

A sexy Greek, a billionaire and the woman they share.

The knock sounded on the door twenty minutes later. Blair opened it to find Nick standing there with the waiter. Oh yes, so easy to lead. If he continued to respond so well, the night looked very promising.

“Since the decision about the menu was mine, I wanted to be sure you found the meal satisfactory,” Nick said and stepped over the threshold.

The waiter rolled the cart inside and under Nick’s critical gaze, set out the meal. When everything was ready, Nick nodded a brief dismissal. The waiter shut the door behind him and Nick turned to Blair. His quick, searching glance around the room didn’t go as unnoticed as he probably hoped it would. “If Mrs Cowdery finds my selections satisfactory, I’ll leave you to enjoy the meal.”

“I’m sure my wife will find your—choices—tempting.” He raised his voice, “Elise, your order has arrived.”

Blair pushed open the door to the bedroom, then stood back. Elise stepped into the light. Nick’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide. He stared at Elise for a long moment, the only movement the convulsive jerk of his throat as he swallowed and the brush of his tongue across his lips.

Blair smiled. Just the reaction he’d hoped for. His own cock had once more hardened into an iron rod.

Elise wore nothing but a black corset, laced tight so her ample breasts bulged above it, rounded and soft. Boning cinched her waist, giving her a perfect hourglass figure. A black leather thong left most of her delicious buttocks bare. Her legs were encased in thigh-high stockings and she teetered on outrageously high platform stilettos.

Her hands were bound behind her back with a length of silk ribbon the exact colour of the blue roofs of Santorini.

“Sit,” Blair ordered her and she sank gracefully onto the sofa.

“As you can see,” he said to Nick. “My wife is currently unable to avail herself of the fine food you've provided.”

He waited, but though Nick slipped his tongue out once more, and opened and shut his mouth, no sound emerged.

Blair handed Nick a fork from the table. “I want my wife to sample the food. Would you oblige?”

“Me? I…” Nick stumbled to halt.

Blair met his gaze head on. “You did say you would do anything to make our stay more comfortable?”

Nick moved his head in a sharp, staccato movement that might have been a nod.

“Let me make it plain to you. I am a man who is rich beyond compare, not only in worldly goods but in the affections of my beautiful wife. So rich that it pleases me, and her, to share her with a very select few. You could be one of those.” Blair offered him a reassuring smile. “There will be no coercion. You are free to walk away now, or after, without any fear of consequences. I will not report you or try to have you removed from your job.” He walked to Elise and placed his hand on her shoulder, running it down the smooth flesh of her throat, stroking over the full mounds of her breasts. He looked up and caught the heavy-lidded intentness of Nick’s expression. “I promise you if you consent to join our little game, there will be no consequences.” He ran one finger under the edge of the corset to touch Elise’s nipple. “No negative consequences.”

The front of Nick’s pants bulged in an unmistakeable sign of his interest.

Elise smiled and Blair pinched her nipple hard. She gasped and dropped her head submissively.

Nick looked at them both, with pale assessing eyes, then he took one step forward and picked up a fork from the table. He speared into the first bowl and brought out a tiny, red morsel. “Tomato keftedes,” he said, his voice shaking as much as the fork. “M-made from the local tomatoes. Unique to the island.” He held the fork to Elise’s mouth.

She lifted her head in response to the upward pressure of Blair’s hand under her chin but her lips remained shut.

”She can’t eat until you give her permission,” Blair said.

“I give permission?” It was a question but Blair nodded as if Nick had issued an instruction and Elise opened her mouth. The fork wobbled and the savoury dropped in more by luck than intention. Elise swallowed it and whispered, “Thank you, Sir.” Her open mouth begged silently for another bite, but she didn’t raise her eyes or speak again.

Blair reached into his pocket and drew out a tangled bundle of blue silk and tossed it onto the table.

Sharing the Billionaire from Total-e-Bound

Promo Monday with Alysha Ellis Submitting to Him

My latest release from Total-E-Bound is part of the Sharing the Billionaire Anthology.  Imagine a man with uncountable wealth.  He can afford every pleasure his heart desires. The pleasure he loves most is his wife, and he wants to show another man just how special she is.

'Submitting to Him' by Alysha Ellis

Elise loves her husband. He shares her with a handsome, dominating stranger.

Billionaire Blair Cowdery and his wife Elise travel the world seeking new pleasures. On the island of Santorini their status ensures they get the personal attention of their hotel’s handsome young manager, Nick Zervelos.

Blair’s pleasure is to share his beautiful wife with someone who appreciates her special gifts. Nick’s masterful nature makes it plain he is such a man. Blair soon discovers he and Nick share an interest in bondage and rope play.

Together Blair and Nick show Elise the pleasure of submission and the freedom that comes from being bound.

The two men work together, orchestrating a series of heated sexual encounters. They take Elise to a new space, pushing her limits. They teach her that in losing herself she will discover her true identity.

By the time the game of dominance and submission is played out, Blair, Nick and Elise are bound with ties too strong to resist.

Sharing the Billionaire from Total-E-Bound   Available now.

Well, doesn't that just sound sexy and devine?!

Author Chat Friday - It's not porn. It's research!

Once again, it's time for Alysha's Author Chat Friday, and this one is a Naughty Hoot and a Half!

It’s not Porn. It’s research.

Writers are a strange bunch. We listen to the voices in our heads and convert them into stories. Most of us would rather stay home and write than go out and party. We lock ourselves away in little rooms, then waste time on the internet when we’re supposed to be writing.

Those of us who write erotic fiction are even stranger. We imagine all sorts of situations and then we strive to convert that particular embrace, that connection, that physical position into a scene in the story we’re telling. And to do that, we have to do some serious research.

Stop laughing. It’s hard work spending hours every day looking for pictures of hot naked males, preferably with ALL their equipment on display. Note, looking AT the pictures is easy, real easy, oh my god easy. Looking FOR them, not so much.

I’m sure this will absolutely astonish most people, but there is a lot of nakedness and sex on the internet! The diligent writer of erotic fiction has to wade? feel? grope? lick  (sorry, that’s just me) through a plethora of naked people doing extraordinarily interesting things to each other.

Some people post pictures that fall into the category of Things that Make You Go Hmmm. With the number of images out there, you end up looking at a few things you wish you hadn’t. Pictures you can never unsee. Fear not, I am not going to post any of these here. This is Phoenix’s blog and I am pretty sure she wants you all to come back. A brief description might do.

I was looking for an image of group sex—yeah, yeah, I know, I’m kinky, weird and a disgrace to whatever, but the thing is if you are describing a sex scene with multiple people, you need to know exactly how Tab A fits into Slot B, and connecting rod C links to receptacle D without bending along the dotted line. This is especially important if it’s an IKEA sex scene…you know, the kind where you have both hands full, a couple of strange tools and several bits left over.

Okay, so you’ve got an idea of the kind of picture I was looking for. How was I to know there was a very active cell of over sixties who not only enjoyed group sex, but also liked to post multiple pictures of themselves in the most detailed of close-ups? I’m a firm believer that sex should be fun at any age but in my head the story was filled with taut, young bodies, not proof that gravity works.

Then there’s the pictures that almost get there, but somehow leave you puzzling. You have a gorgeous male, just about perfect in every way, but he’s wearing knee high sport’s socks? What’s with that? In this case there’s also the issue of the cream.

This picture is polarizing. Reactions seem to be either yum, I’d like to lick that off (Do any of you notice there’s an unfortunate tendency to licking developing here? I may have a problem) or to get mothery and want to make him go inside and have a bath. Now I think of it, that’s not such a bad idea either. Who’s a dirty boy then? Oh yeah, that’d work.

As writers we’re aware that different people get turned on by different things. We need to check occasionally to see if what we think is hot is really sexy or just caters to our particular kink.

The Australian Erotic Writer’s group I belong to is wonderful, I couldn’t ask for a better bunch of people to share questions, ideas, and, yes, pictures with. But if the average person could read some of the threads on our posts, they’d faint clean away. We refer each other to good web sites and quite often outline the particular area of kink catered to.

We talk about the best way to position the participants in multiple partner sex scenes… Yes, I do think back to front with the third sitting on her lap would work… or whether it would work better to have the heroine tied to the bed while wearing nipple clamps, or put the nipple clamps on later. And do this guys tattoos make him perfect or does he push it a bit far? The fact that this image is saved in my files as Way too many tatts guy should give you clue where I stand, but I know that isn’t everyone’s opinion.

The point is, we writers have to look and evaluate all sorts of images and ideas while we’re trying to lick our stories into shape. Um, no, let me rephrase that, while we are trying to craft our stories. Oh yes, that sounds much more professional.

So next time you read a work of erotic fiction spare a thought for the hours of hard work and eye strain that have gone into the preparation of the story. No sacrifice has been too much, no search too wearisome.

It’s a hard job and one that takes dedication and determination. But don’t worry. I think I’ve got it licked.

Alysha Ellis

Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Alysha-Ellis/e/B0032RLFQG/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1359613925&sr=8-1

All Romance http://www.allromanceebooks.com/storeSearch.html?searchBy=author&qString=Alysha+Ellis

ALL NEW: Author Chat Friday with Alysha Ellis

I did promise on Twitter that there would be a new feature, and so here it is! Myself and three other authors will be doing regular, rotating posts of a Friday now about anything that crosses our mind. You can leave a comment if there is a particular topic you would like one of us to talk about, or just to comment on the topic under discussion. We don't bite. Hard ;)
So, to kick off this new feature on The Naughty Pages, I'd like to welcome, for the first time, fellow aussie author Alysha Ellis! 


Sex and the Fountain of Youth

I have a black and white photo of my great-grandmother. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun; she has round, wire-framed glasses and a grim expression on her face. Her cotton dress ends at an unflattering point just below her knees. Her black, lace-up low-heeled shoes are the very definition of sensible. She was just thirty and she looks old.

Times have changed. Not only do we live longer…but we enjoy ourselves while we do it. Mature women refuse to go silently into that good night. We grasp life with both hands and enjoy the hell out of it.

We dress however we want. No thick, beige stockings and conservative lace-ups for us. Check out the boots I just bought. Age inappropriate? You bet. And I’m wearing those suckers anyway. Why? Because I can!

And you know what else women feel free to do now? Admit that, hell yeah, we’re interested in sex. Reading about it, talking about it, looking at pics of hot guys, or gals or any combination thereof.

The Fifty Shades of Grey phenomenon, no matter what you actually thought of the book, brought women’s interest in matters sexual out into the open. I have had people who always knew I wrote erotic romance but thought it best not to mention it, who now are happy to ask me if I write stories like that?

The simplest reply is “Yes.”

Whatever you think of E.L. James’ book, she’s done all of us erotic readers and writers a favour. She is making erotica acceptable. I’ve seen women in their seventies buying the book, young women buying it for their mothers, older women buying it for their friends.

I don’t know if my great-grandmother would have wanted to read it. Maybe like so many women of her time her natural inclinations were suppressed and disguised to the point they didn’t know they existed, but I’m glad I live in a time where sexuality and sensuality are celebrated. I love the idea of women
exploring their wants and needs and doing it openly and proudly.

My most recent release, Downunder Heat explores this idea.

The main character, Kitty, is a divorced woman whose daughter has grown up and left home. For the first time Kitty is free to do what she wants with her life, and she sets off from the UK for a working holiday in Australia. She meets Zakk, and what follows is a sizzling affair with a younger man whose energy and enthusiasm takes Kitty on the kind of sexual adventure she’d only dreamed of.

“What brought you to Australia?” Zakk asked, his voice pitched low, velvety and smooth.

Ignoring the tingles skittering up and down her spine, Kitty replied, “My daughter moved out to go to university, so I took the opportunity to escape.” She winced. Great move. Mention that she had a child at university just in case he hadn’t already noticed how much older than him she was.

“Interesting word—escape,” he said. “You ran a long way from home.”

“I always wanted to see Australia. I watched Neighbours and I—”

His shout of laughter cut her off. “I hope you weren’t expecting all of Australia to be like that,” he said. “People are as ordinary here as they are in the UK.”

Yeah, right. And Zakk was just your ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill, movie star- handsome, lifesaving hero who spent his weekends volunteering at the beach. The kind you bumped into on every dull, grey street corner in rainy, wintery Britain.

“Kitty, if you look at me like that, I’m going to have to…” He leant forward and brushed a kiss across her lips.

Kitty’s mouth opened on a soft, “Oh…”

“Oh, yes,” he echoed, and he slipped his arms around her and pulled her closer. His mouth settled over hers, shaping and holding, his tongue sliding along the seam, seeking entrance.

He tasted warm, like coffee and salt and something new and exciting. Something sensual and musky and Zakk. Her heartbeat sped up, zinging her blood around her body, lighting little flames that fizzed and sparked into life. She lifted her arms and cupped the back of Zakk’s head, the silken caress of his dark hair against her palms erotic and enticing.

He slid his hands down her back, gripped her hips and pulled her forward to the edge of the chair. Kitty tensed as reality crashed back in. Hers were the hips of a mature, slightly plump woman, not the long, lean shanks of an Australian beach babe. Almost as if he thought the same thing, Zakk broke off the kiss and pulled back. Her face began to flame, not with passion but with embarrassment, as Kitty waited for the brush-off.

Zakk opened his mouth and Kitty braced herself.

“I want you, Kitty. Come to bed with me.”

What he’d said was so different from what she’d expected it took a moment for it to sink in. “Me. You want me? But I’m—”

“Gorgeous. Your skin is so soft, so English, and you… Kitty, you’re so…” He ran his hands through his hair. “Am I allowed to say feminine? Sweet? Definitely gorgeous? I don’t want to be politically incorrect and say the wrong thing.”

He’d called her sweet and gorgeous and he was afraid she might object? He was mistaken, or he’d had far more to drink than he realised and she really
ought to set him straight, but before she could say anything he leaned in
for another kiss and any attempt at rational argument disappeared. She let
herself fall into him. Reason, prudence, caution fell with her.

Downunder Heat at Amazon or All Romance eBooks

Check out my blog A Slice of Tart for free reads

Facebook Alysha Ellis



Well, I definitely look forward to seeing more of Alysha! Promos will only be on Mondays now (making an exception with these first posts so you can get to know the authors a little more), and these Author Chat Fridays will be about whatever topic grabs the attention of these other lovely ladies or myself, or even what a reader might write in and ask about. So feel free to leave some love and maybe some suggestions for future topics. I look forward to seeing you next week. As yet, who is on next week is undecided as this is a new idea, but we're working on sorting out the rest of the roster. Whoever it is, I can assure you, it will be quite a Chat! Until then, don't forget to leave a comment!