Ravens From the Ashes

Ravens From the Ashes

From the Ashes Trilogy: Book 1

I love thinking about the apocalypse. Zombies, nuclear war, alien invasions, global warming, whatever, it's all fun to think about. But, like most people who like thinking about the apocalypse, I like it only as a concept. Let's face it, I'd be totally fucked if society really did fall. I'm an indoor kitty cat who doesn't even like camping. Still, it's fun to think about from the social standpoint of what might happen to all sorts of people if society's rules were suddenly gone and challenges that nobody has ever faced before popped up...even if my fate would be to immediately get eaten by zombies because I suck at climbing trees. So it should come as no surprise that I write a lot of post-apocalyptic books, but this is my first book outlining the fall of humanity.

This book was supposed to be a prequel to the Ravens Ladies series, and then I decided it was going to be a prequel trilogy...prilogy...triquel...pretriquelogy...I'm really close to making up a word for that. This caused problems, none of which are particularly important now, but it delayed the release of the book by about a year, which suuuuuuucked. The result, however, is the first book I've actually had complete creative control over. A first for me. So if you're wanting to see exactly what my vision of a paperback is, you should spring for the hard copy since it's exactly what I wanted in a book.

I've also been toying with the idea of books with soundtracks. Movies get them, TV shows get them, and holidays get them, so why not books? Nikki and I sat down while we were working on proof copies (sorry, dear readers, but the love of my life does get to read all my books way before anyone else) and came up with a soundtrack for Ravens From the Ashes. If you want to listen to the music we decided should be the backdrop for the book, check it out on Spotify: Ravens From the Ashes Soundtrack. If you've got music you think would work for the book and would like to add to it, feel free to post your personalized soundtracks for this (or any of my books if you want to) in the comments section. Also consider buying songs/albums/merch or go to a concert for any of the musicians on the soundtrack--I only picked songs I've personally paid for and several musicians I've gone to concerts to see.

Here it is, lovely readers, the first book of the origin story trilogy for Fiona Bishop aka the Gunfighter, Veronica Vegas aka the White Queen, and the Raven Ladies. It's available in all formats through the links below, and heck, I'll throw in the first chapter right now to get you started.

Kindle   --   Nook   --   Kobo   --  Paperback

 

ONE

 

Drip, drip, drip, drip. Fiona awoke to the familiar sound of the coffeepot finishing its run. Her head felt like it was full of wet cement when she dragged it from her pillow. Were the coffeepot not automated, she doubted it would ever make coffee before noon. She didn’t actually know if either assumption was true for that morning. Daylight streamed in through the Venetian blinds on her bedroom window that overlooked the top of King Street. Her cell phone wasn’t on the nightstand so telling time wasn’t an option until she went into the kitchen to look at the microwave.

She stumbled from bed, found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt among the scattering of clothes on the floor, and wandered out the open bedroom door into the rest of her West Hollywood condo. The coffeepot had filled the living room, kitchen, and dining room with the lovely scent of freshly brewed coffee. Fiona glanced at the sleeping form on her couch on her way past.

“Sharon, get the fuck off my couch and out of my apartment,” Fiona snarled at her mother on the way past. The bleached blond, comatose figure on the couch barely stirred at the order barked at her. Fiona nearly stumbled over a pair of daringly high wedge heels on her way into the kitchen. “And pick up your hooker shoes before I break my neck.”

A glance at the microwave mounted above the never-used stove told her that she’d awoken at 10:32 AM. Not bad considering her night ended on the barely light side of dawn. She stood in front of the coffeepot a moment before she remembered what she was doing. A white mug sat next to the white appliance. Most of the things in Fiona’s apartment were white, not for any vision of décor, but because she didn’t like trying to figure out complimentary colors and nothing in her apartment was ever used enough to show dirt even on white surfaces. She poured coffee into the mug and considered its existence. Her mother clearly hadn’t made the coffee, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have set out a mug for her daughter.

The coffee mixed poorly with the tequila film coating the inside of Fiona’s mouth left over from the night before. She spit the coffee into the sink and dipped her head under the tap to run the faucet over her mouth to suck in a few mouthfuls. She swished the water around and spit it into the sink before returning to her coffee.

“Don’t drink from the tap like some stupid animal,” her mother croaked from the couch. “There’s bottled water in the fridge. Besides, there are chemicals in tap water.”

It wasn’t even funny how many chemicals Sharon willingly ingested in the form of drugs, paid to have pumped into her face by plastic surgeons, and poured over her head to turn her red hair platinum blond, but her daughter was supposed to un-ironically beware tap water chemicals. “I told you to take your hooker shoes and get out.”

Fiona’s mother rose from the couch like a herky-jerky zombie. She glanced at the shoes mentioned as she staggered toward the hallway and the bathroom door. “Is that any way to talk to your mother?” she said. “And those aren’t mine.”

“You were telling people you were my sister last night.” Fiona sipped her coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug to absorb the warmth along with the caffeine. She took a harder look at the shoes. Upon closer inspection, they were real Jimmy Choos, which were well out of her mother’s price range or fashion savvy.

“There’s someone taking a shower,” her mother said on the way back through toward Fiona’s master bedroom and the other bathroom.

“I told you to get out,” Fiona said.

The shoes must belong to whoever was in the bathroom, the same someone who made the coffee and set out the mug. That made more sense than the automated timer making the coffee. Fiona rarely remembered to set up the pot the night before—automatic didn’t mean the coffeepot would fill itself with a fresh filter, coffee grounds, and water. Fiona hated to admit, even to herself, that she’d thought that’s what automatic meant when she bought it.

“You need to be in Las Vegas by 7 PM,” her mother said. “Do you want me to drive you? We could have a girl’s weekend.”

“You mean you can snort all my coke and dance with frat boys while I work? Fuck off, Sharon.”

“You can’t drive anymore. How else are you going to get there?”

“Stripper flight out of Burbank.” Supremely sought-after strippers and porn stars or sometimes struggling models and actresses, would fly from Burbank airport to Vegas for the weekend on cheap flights to dance in the high-end strip clubs of Las Vegas, earning five figures in two nights. Fiona never did the dancing part, but she’d taken the flights before because they were filled with beautiful women who smelled heavenly and appreciated the professional courtesy of not pestering one another. After Fiona stabbed a paparazzi guy in the mouth with a pen knife outside LAX a couple years ago, she wasn’t eager to use the L.A. hub again and she really didn’t want anyone recognizing her.

“How are you going to get to the airport?”

“Whoever is in the shower can give me a ride.”

“Maybe it’s a him in the shower and he was my date.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Not likely. My television is still here instead of at an Echo Park pawnshop sold for meth money and those are women’s shoes on the floor. You’re not coming to Vegas with me.”

“Fine, can I at least have the Camaro since you can’t drive it?”

“Chaos tic.” Fiona looked down meaningfully to the steaming cup of coffee in her hands.

“Whatever, I’m gone.” Fiona’s mother comported herself and walked out of the condo with all the grace and dignity that a hung-over hanger-on could muster.

Fiona returned to sipping her coffee. She hadn’t really had a chaos tic that demanded she throw the hot coffee in her mother’s face, but she’d indulged so many of her psychotic tendencies lately that it was a potent threat even as a lie. Only a handful of people even knew of Fiona’s particular mental affliction that required her to do most of the insane things that popped into her head; thankfully, her mother didn’t know her well enough to know when she was bluffing.

A dainty figure wrapped in a towel emerged from the hallway. Her dark brown, shoulder length hair was still wet from the shower and her face had the attractive, freshly scrubbed glow that Fiona adored. Fiona knew the woman, although she couldn’t remember how they’d met or what her name was.

“What’s a chaos tic?” the woman asked with a twinkle in her dark brown eyes.

“You know those weird urges you get in everyday situations where you feel like doing something socially unacceptable like spitting in someone’s face for no reason, or shoving a stranger off a curb, or whatever?”

“Yeah, everyone gets those.”

“I call them chaos tics,” Fiona said, “and my mother knows I either can’t or won’t ignore them.”

“Good term for something I didn’t know had a name.” The woman kicked her shoes out of the high traffic area between the bedroom and the kitchen. She leaned against the divider wall alongside the kitchen island. “How’s the coffee?”

“Good, thank you.” Fiona liked that the woman had kicked her own thousand dollar shoes as if they were five dollar flip-flops just because Fiona wanted them out of her way. Pliable was good, but being instinctively aware that Fiona’s feelings were far more important than shoes of any price range was great. It kept her calm when people picked up on her desires, however small, without her having to ask for something, and calm kept her from lashing out.

“The shower is all yours if you want.”

“Thanks, I could use one.”

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“I want to say Kelly,” Fiona said.

“Right so far. I work for you.”

“As an…accountant?”

“Lawyer.”

“My lawyer is a large, hairy Jewish gentleman with unpleasant breath and a weightlifter’s body,” Fiona said.

“That’s your criminal lawyer. I’m an entertainment industry lawyer.”

“Oh, right, the fucking TV show thing.”

“You’ll be the next host of ‘Model Behavior’ by the end of the month if I have anything to say about it,” Kelly said.

Normally inking a reality television show contract wouldn’t require a lawyer since she already had an entertainment industry agent, but Fiona had some legal baggage that necessitated a specialist, chiefly because of the mouth-stabbing incident at LAX and the suspended drivers license from two DUIs. Truthfully, Fiona didn’t even want the show—playing the mentor figure to a gaggle of bitchy wannabe models sounded like a shit job to her. They drove the metaphorical dump truck full of money into her living room, and she got over her trepidation.

“Did we sleep together?” Fiona asked.

“You fell asleep while I was going down on you.” Kelly cracked a smile that made Fiona flinch inwardly.

“I swear that’s not my best move.”

“I would hope not,” Kelly said. “Did you need me to give you a ride to the airport?”

“I’m driving to Vegas. I just didn’t want Sharon knowing.”

Kelly gave her a suspicious look. “I thought your license was suspended.”

Fiona leaned forward against the countertop between them. She smiled sweetly, letting a few strands of her red hair fall across her face. A little fidgeting with the handle of her coffee mug gave off the sense of nervousness she didn’t really feel. When she glanced up from the demure tilt of her head, she saw in Kelly’s eyes that her coy routine had done its work.

“You could come with me, if you want,” Fiona said shyly. “Give me a chance to make up for last night.”

“You’re not planning on hooking up a bunch when you’re in Vegas?” Kelly asked. A light touch of pink warmed the curves of her cheeks and the top of her neck.

“I am,” Fiona said, letting a tiny pause pass, “with you.”

“I suppose I can take a weekend off,” Kelly said.

“We can swing by your place on the way out of town to pick up your slinkiest party dress and skimpiest bikini,” Fiona said with a smile.

♠ ♣ ♥ ♦

After a quick stop off at Kelly’s Culver City apartment, they were on their way down the 10 heading east toward Vegas. Fiona’s lead foot didn’t know or care about suspended licenses or speed limits. She’d purchased the highest of high-end Camaros for the express purpose of feeling every single horse the car had under the hood whenever she so much as twitched a toe against the accelerator.

“Silver and black Camaro ZL1,” Kelly said. “Something like 580 horsepower?”

“Something like that,” Fiona said, not really knowing the exact numbers. Long Beach motor-head butches certainly seemed to like her ride whenever Fiona ventured down that way for an edgier date than she could get in West Hollywood. She hadn’t pegged Kelly as the type to know more about her car than her, although it was definitely a point in the lawyer’s favor. Fiona was a sucker for fast cars and fast women who knew cars.

“Am I going to get to drive it?” Kelly asked.

Fiona downshifted to fourth, slammed the gas pedal, and shot around a slow-moving BMW. The car roared and jumped forward under her expert direction. Fiona liked to think her car wanted to go fast as much as she did. The Camaro understood her self-destructive streak because it had one too. They were both built to someday end up wrapped around a telephone pole—it was in their blood and motor oil. Burnouts that fell short of anything worthwhile in life like Sharon and sweet girls with people-pleasing streaks like Kelly couldn’t understand the need to ride the edge of imminent destruction.

“Maybe,” Fiona said, reconsidering her estimation of Kelly. Anyone who would go to Vegas with her for a weekend must have some nihilistic tendencies.

They merged onto the 15 toward Barstow with the early afternoon sun beating down on the worn California highway. Kelly kept herself busy messing with the air conditioning on her side, answering emails on her Blackberry, and searching through Fiona’s iPod for tolerable music. Fiona couldn’t tell if her lawyer was nervous or just self-contained.

“So what exactly are you doing in Vegas?” Kelly finally asked when she’d run out of busy work.

“There’s a runway thing and a photo shoot,” Fiona said. “I usually just skim the emails enough to know where and when something is happening. Details aren’t my thing. It doesn’t matter since they usually let me know what’s going on when I get there.”

“Is your agent okay with that attitude?”

Fiona shrugged. “Don’t know; don’t care.”

“I saw that you packed something of a treasure trove of pills and other chemical refreshments,” Kelly said. “Are you really going to go through it all in one weekend?”

Fiona glanced over, hoping to judge Kelly’s intentions, but ended up fixating on the top of her silk blouse where the blasting air conditioner vent was fluttering the gauzy material across her cleavage. She was tan, her breasts were exquisite, and Fiona couldn’t think of anything beyond wondering what color Kelly’s bra was. There was little doubt Kelly’s breasts were the work of a surgeon and not genetics, but that had never bothered Fiona. A person in Los Angeles would kill their hookup chances if they excluded the surgically enhanced.

“Um…sure, maybe, do you have a weapon of choice against unsuspecting brain cells?” Fiona asked.

“No, I’m the squeaky clean type, maybe a little pot in college,” Kelly said. “It just made me think of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The talent and her lawyer driving from Los Angeles to Las Vegas with a trunk full of illicit drugs.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Fiona said. Even if Fiona wasn’t entirely distracted by the luscious view of Kelly’s cleavage, none of what she’d just said rang a bell.

“The Hunter S. Thompson book?” Kelly asked hopefully.

Fiona shrugged. “It sounds interesting, but like I said, I’m a skimmer not a reader.”

“They also made it into a movie, twice actually,” Kelly said.

As the 15 seamlessly turned into the 515 at Barstow and they dipped into the true desert of eastern California, Fiona began to suspect she was losing Kelly. The truth was Fiona didn’t think of herself as a very interesting person. She didn’t read, didn’t care about politics or causes, and she didn’t even watch TV or movies all that often. Anything that required a quiet mind to enjoy made her skin crawl. She worked hard and partied twice as hard in the hope that the next adrenaline rush or fix would satisfy her long enough to sleep for a few hours before she would have to get up and start hunting for the next jolt. Kelly was interesting, though. She’d gone to college. She’d read things. She knew things that connected to other things she knew in ways that made her seem smart and worldly when she spoke. She probably even knew exactly why she was going where she was going for work. In comparison Fiona was empty, beautiful to look at, but vacant in almost every conceivable way. When faced with that level of disparity in overall value as a human being, Fiona did what she always did.

“Let’s play a game,” Fiona said.

“Like twenty questions or something?”

“Yeah, but strip twenty questions,” Fiona said.

“Okay. You think of something first.”

Fiona could tell from the upward trill in Kelly’s voice that she was excited by the prospect and probably more than a little nervous. That’s what Fiona needed: to feel as though she’d regained the upper hand despite how inferior she really was to Kelly.

By the time Vegas rose out of the desert like an unholy abomination cobbling together a dozen cities from around the world into one, Fiona and Kelly were both mostly undressed and practically thrumming with sexual frustration. The bra Fiona finally got to see cupping Kelly’s breasts so perfectly was maroon with little lace flowers. It was as satisfying of an answer as she could hope for.

Rather than let Kelly get dressed once they pulled onto the strip, Fiona gunned the engine, weaving in and out of traffic until she shot across the oncoming two lanes to get into the Bellagio parking roundabout. The Camaro’s engine roared, the cars she cut across the front of slammed on their brakes and laid on their horns, and Kelly let out the most delightful noise comprised of equal parts nervous giggle and scream of excited fear. They passed along the side of the famous fountains, skipped the valet beneath the awning, and darted straight into the south parking garage.

Fiona loved Vegas for the parking. Finding parking in Los Angeles was impossible, required the right stickers from a monolithic parking authority, and always cost money. In Vegas, they wanted people out of their cars and into casinos as quickly and as painlessly as possible, so parking was typically free and plentiful.

It took every drop of willpower she had not to race through the crowded parking garage to find an empty, secluded spot. Near the top of the structure, away from the elevator to the casino, she finally found the dark corner she was searching for. She pulled the Camaro in, slammed on the brakes, turned off the engine, and practically leapt across the center console into Kelly’s arms.

The fiery kiss they shared was only broken momentarily when Kelly asked, “Aren’t you going to be late?”

“Only a little and I’ll look much better on the runway if I have the glow of just getting laid,” Fiona whispered against Kelly’s mouth.

“Good answer,” Kelly murmured back and their lips were once again inseparable.

Sampler Giveaway!

I was going to advertise in a newspaper, but apparently these three women are the only people who still read newspapers.

As many people know, I used to be a brand ambassador/promo model, which probably explains why I don't like working for people now. After three or so years of handing out cans of soda, fliers, directing people to enter their personal information into a computer to win a key chain, and cajoling people into taking product placement pictures (with or without me in some ridiculous costume) I picked up a few things. One of which was a revulsion for having my picture taken, especially with groups of people (bad experiences, trust me).

The glamorous world of promoting lite beer by dressing up as a slutty referee! (From how it generally went for me, I'm going to go ahead and assume the guy has placed his hands inappropriately on one or both of the women next to him)

The more useful thing I picked up from promotions was how to give stuff away. So, I'm going to give stuff away this month! Next week, during Valentine's Day, I will be holding a Vampiric Valentine's Day giveaway where you can get The Vampires of Vigil's Sorrow absolutely free (2/13-2/15). It'll be a nice read for anyone who can't find a date and wants to feel better about it since several of the relationships in it tend to be the kind that'd make you glad you were single.

This whole week, however, I'm giving away a sampler book I compiled that shows off all the fun stuff I've published over the last year. In addition, it has the first chapter of the much anticipated sequel to The Gunfighter and The Gear-Head. Yep, you'll get to read a not even released yet excerpt from the next book in the Raven Ladies series! The free sampler book promo ends this week, but even if you miss getting the book for free, you can still pick it up for 99 cents and read the first chapter of The Steam-powered Sniper in the City of Broken Bridges along with a lot of other goodies including a few complete stories and the steamiest excerpts from the Grift Girl series.

So head out and get your completely free copy of The Sapphic Pixie Sampler!

The cover of the not yet released sequel to The Gunfighter and The Gear-Head!

Strap-ons: Tricks and Techniques

This is my kind of strap-on!

 Strap-ons:  Tricks and Technique

I keep forgetting this is supposed to be a sex advice column, and while I have a lot of fun talking politics, feminist issues, and more vanilla relationship advice, I can’t ignore that the blog is called “Erotic Answers.” My guide to buying strap-ons was one of the most popular blog posts I’ve ever done and so I thought I’d do a follow up post explaining what you should do with one of these things once you’ve found it, or, if you’ve already figured out a few tricks you like, some new things to try. After all, what’s the point of going strapped if you don’t really know how to use it?

I’m also fond of reminding everyone that my qualifications for being a sexpert and relationship advice columnist is actually the fact that I’m a romance/erotica author who has successfully maintained a healthy relationship for many years. I’m not a doctor of the MD, Ph. D, or even DDS variety (can you imagine a dentist’s sex advice column? “Butt Floss More!”), although I do have my degree now, which I didn’t have when I started this shin dig. Of course, it has nothing to do with mental health or medicine:  English with a writing emphasis and minors in political science and women’s studies, which isn’t super important since I don’t need a degree in English to be a writer—I mean, Vonnegut’s degree was in chemistry and Hemmingway didn’t even go to college, so if the boys can do it, why can’t I? Anyway, where was I going with this…oh, right, I’m an author and not a counselor so I’ll be using my fiction to illustrate the points about strap-ons. Technique and accuracy are both important to me, so trust me when I say I have tried every strap-on scene in my works (in one way or the other if you catch my meaning) and I know they’re all not only possible but potentially fun!

Disclaimer: I’m not going over the lesbian purist issues with strap-ons in this post. I covered that in the first one. My stance continues to be:  strap-ons aren’t cocks and don’t make someone less of a lesbian simply for wearing or being fucked by one.

“Lucy’s concerns about much of anything completely melted away when Sasha aggressively bent her over the end of the pool table, holding her chest flat against the green felt with her pencil skirt bunched around her waist and panties around her ankles. Sasha’s favored strap-on, which fit beautifully over her slender hips in the tight jeans, had a little arched knob at the top, designed to tickle Lucy’s clit if they were facing each other, but in the bent over, from behind position, actually vibrated and knocked at her backdoor with every powerful thrust her vampire girl made into her. Lucy screamed in delight as Sasha ravaged her, each scream brought either a tug on the back of her ponytail or a sharp swat on her increasingly red behind. It felt like a proper send-off for the pool table nobody had ever used.

Lucy climaxed again for what she thought might have been the fifth time. An aggressive sweat rose on her skin, adding an additional sting to the harshly spanked red of her behind, and she felt her legs weaken to the point of giving out. Sasha, intuiting that Lucy wouldn’t hold herself up much longer, grasped Lucy’s legs, swept them off the floor into her hands and moved her into a modified wheel-barrow position that Lucy knew would leave rug burns from the pool table felt across her forearms, but couldn’t imagine a reason why she would care.”

This excerpt is from “The Last Best Tip” and illustrates several really important points about going strapped while standing.

Clothes can not only look good with your "accessory" but also help hold it in place!

First and foremost, you’ll notice Sasha is wearing her strap-on over her jeans. This is actually kind of a neat trick considering denim holds straps better than bare skin and provides padding to prevent chaffing in the wearer during, vigorous thrusting. If you haven’t tried your strap-on with clothes, you might give this a try, especially if you’re having trouble keeping it in place comfortably.

Secondly, you’ll notice this particular strap-on has a clitstimulator—it’s like the rabbit part on rabbit dildos, but fits a strap-on harness. These are spendy and difficult to use, and, as you see in the scene, point at other things if you switch positions. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing though. I’m personally a fan of light playing in that area, and it’s an avenue of pleasure a lot of people don’t give full credit to. Obviously good hygiene and diligent toy washing becomes even more important if you’re going back there and never never never never go from back door to front door—you’re likely to get a really bad infection that way. Still, the little vibrating rabbits meant for clits can feel nice if you switch to from behind positions and of course there are strap-ons that have special attachments specifically for simultaneous anal play.

Thirdly, there’s the modified wheel-barrow position. This requires an appropriately heighted sturdy surface and an athletic partner capable of holding up your legs. Turns out, a pool table does work for my girlfriend and she is strong enough to…you get the picture. Anyway, focus on the right height, sturdy enough to hold more than half your weight, and a girlfriend who is physically capable for this one.

Technically, this has stuff for the wearer and would probably stay in place, but...

The next piece comes from Demons of Paradise:  “…she next found herself lying flat on her back, panting and moaning, with Vendela straddling her, riding almost in slow motion, the front of her kimono falling open on occasion to show her perfect white breasts, which might have been carved of marble for the smooth sheen they boasted. When Brooke reached up to touch them as Vendela rode smoothly up and down on her strap-on, she found the breasts ice-cold, but absolutely perfect in every other way.”

There are theories out there about breasts being grown to promote face to face coupling, and even though that’s evolutionary preposterous, it’s kind of believable considering how awesome breasts are. Regardless, face to face really is the best for a lot of things. Specifically, in this case, if you have a strap-on with interior items for clit stimulationon the wearer, and believe me they are worth a try. On top, or cowgirl, position can really be good for both partners with the right toy making it a one star on difficulty and five star on pleasure. The trick is to find the right position and place for both people to get something out of it, but not necessarily at the same time, although at the same time is amazing. Did you know vaginas are angled differently depending on the individual women? Strange to think of, but it’s true. A position that works for one woman on top won’t work for all women on top because we all have different angles inside, so focus on finding which one works best for you. And, if you’re the cowgirl in this position (and you definitely should at least try it once) don’t be afraid of getting grindy—that’s what will help your partner have fun if you have one of those special strap-ons with clit stimulation on the inside.

Obviously this is varsity level strapping

 “Even as Fiona was getting used to the sensation of wearing such a thing, something she’d never done before, Veronica was busy mentally checking off things on her list. She pushed Fiona against the pillar, fell to her knees, and began giving the most lurid blow job Fiona could have imagined, taking the enormous, red phallus in her mouth with inexperienced verve. The strap along the back, just above Fiona’s ass, scraped and rubbed against the wall with every plunge and sloppy sucking motion Veronica made. There was little in the way of physical sensation to the blow job for Fiona, but the visual, auditory, and energy components shifted her thinking from survival to sexual ends. When Veronica had satisfied her curiosity, she’d climbed Fiona’s body, her lips made rosy from the work, an ineffable smile on her face, having checked off something she’d never done and didn’t want to die without knowing. “Some of the girls talk about how great that is,” she’d said. “I had to know.”
            “Oh,” Fiona had replied breathlessly.”

This excerpt comes from The Gunfighter and The Gear-Head in which Fiona and Veronica are sure they’re about to die, and start doing some naughty things so they at least don’t die wondering. And, this probably sounds strange to the uninitiated, right? Two women, one toy, nobody getting anything physical out of the act of a blow job, so what’s the point? Sure, there aren’t pleasure nerve endings in the strap-on or the mouth really, and even if you have one of the aforementioned strap-ons with the internal clit stimulation, this isn’t really the best way to make use of it to be honest, so why would you try this?

I’m a firm believer that the largest erogenous zone on a woman is the mind. Sure, sure, the clit is a wonder with twice as many nerve endings as the penis, and don't get me wrong, that should be taken care of too, but mental stimulation makes all the other erogenous zones run when it comes to women, and that is what the point of this is. It can be sexy to watch as the receiver and naughty to try as the giver. There are the functional benefits of spit being a good lubricant as well, and unlike straight girls, you can quit whenever you want since there isn’t a possibility of completion (for reals, I get all I need to from this on either end within 30 seconds so don’t feel like this needs to be a big part of anything). Try it for fun, not because it’s a technically sound way to stimulate anyone, but because it might hit a mental note with one or both of you, and as I’ve already pointed out, this won’t hurt your lesbian credibility because strap-ons aren’t cocks.

See how feminine these things really are?

 The last example comes from Lesbians in Space:  Astral Liaisons in which Captain Val and her girlfriends (yep, plural) are in a position called exponential decline by the mathematically inclined one:  “The angle Jesse took with the toy, timed to perfection on every thrust, pressed down against the soft little bundle of nerves inside Val with expert precision. The pleasant sensation of being filled quickly built to something else. The swell of desire building inside Val grew exponentially with every subsequent thrust across her g-spot until a rolling wave of gratification washed through her, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She barely recognized her own muffled groan of pleasure with her mouth still firmly suctioned to Jane’s clit.”

Judging from some of my stories, the assumption out there is that I probably have lots and lots of group sex, but the truth is, I’ve never had so much as a single threesome. You know that triple kiss thing mentioned in Fabled Fang Girls? Yep, never done that either. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a good fantasy or fun fodder for reading material. And if you are one of those people having lots and lots of group sex, that’s cool too.

The information to take away from this scene, which is basically just modified doggy-style with a little oral sex added to the other side, is the g-spot stimulation. Not everyone has a highly sensitive g-spot or can climax from g-spot stimulation alone, which is fine, but it’s pretty darn hard to stimulate the big G without help from a toy, and strap-ons with the right positioning can do a fine job of it. This is going to require communication to get right though. Being on the receiving end of this, you have to let your partner know when she’s found the right spot since, as I pointed out before, we’re all angled a little differently. This doesn’t have to necessarily be an, “Oh, right there!” declaration, although it certainly can be. If you want to work out nonverbal cues like the ladies in the scene did, that’s fine and will help your partner learn to read your sexual arousal far more quickly than trial and error will. This isn’t really an effective position for clit stimulation for the person going strapped, even with the specialized kind. But that can be a good thing too since the person wearing can focus entirely on finding the right angle, which I’m guessing is something straight girls don’t get as much of. So if you’re the one going strapped, focus on finding the exact right way to do this by taking cues for when you’ve hit the right angle to find the g-spot.

Those aren’t the only instances of strap-on use in my fiction, but I thought those were the most useful teaching examples. Hopefully you’ll have a few new tricks to try with your strap-on, or good motivation to go out and buy one if you haven’t already. I’m encouraging my readers to post in the comments how these things worked for them, or if you want to post your own techniques and tricks as well, feel free to do that!

Fabled Fang Girls

She's only evil on the outside...and probably on the inside too.

I coined a phrase for my most recent collection of short stories. I had to. There just wasn't a word befitting the rabid (bloodthirsty even?) female fans of vampires in existence right now. So I made one up. Fang-girl! It's a play on words for "fanboy" which is a description of an obsessive male fan of nerd culture. With all the "Team Edward" nonsense around Twilight, I felt we needed a similar name to reflect our fanaticism. I can just hear my readers now, "But Cassandra, you're a lesbian goddess who has repeatedly pointed out that Robert Pattinson looks like he probably smells really bad" and you're right, I am a lesbian goddess who has said that on many occasions, but just because I'm not into Stephanie Meyer's version of a "vampire" doesn't mean I'm not into vampires. The vampires I'm into don't walk around in the daytime seducing boring high school girls (or play baseball in thunderstorms like doofuses) and they all have breasts--the last part is probably the most important bit.

See what I mean about the breasts part being important?

So in celebration of my newest collection released under the Sapphic Pixie Tales label, I'm going to give you a sneak peak at one of the stories along with the usual rundown from the book jacket. Enjoy!

Fang Girl - noun – a female fan of vampire media who might be a little obsessive in her fandom.

[Derived from modern slang fanboy but always in reference to females. First used by Cassandra Duffy in Fabled Fang Girls]

Cassandra Duffy, an emerging voice in lesbian literature, releases her third short story collection, Fabled Fang Girls in a transparent attempt to satisfy the vampire addiction of her readership. Eight short stories of vampire lust and love revisit characters from Demons of Paradise and introduce new stories of lesbian sex and relationships.

“The Princess of Castle Eclipse” – a beautiful fairytale of doomed love in the tragic tradition of European fables.

“The Witch of Vigil’s Grove” and “Return to Vigil’s Grove” – two pieces of an upcoming novel that offer a chilling introduction to the town of Vigil’s Rest where a vampire haunts the forest, luring young girls to their doom with promises of forbidden love.

“The Last Best Tip” – the critically acclaimed novella finds a new home in this collection. Grifts, swingers, a sassy but irresponsible vampire and her underachieving girlfriend occupy a clever urban fantasy landscape where even eternal children of the night have money problems.

“From Nightshift to Swing Shift” – Vendela and Brooke are back! The vampire fashionista and her Australian girlfriend have hit a lull in their peculiar relationship and turn to a beautiful Persian executive to inject some much-need passion back into the couple’s sex life to keep out the Alaskan cold.

“Lovely Predators” – a brief look at the upcoming Noire style mystery novel of the same name that follows a talented Los Angeles homicide detective as she investigates a series of grisly murders that keep leading her back to the doorstep of her new girlfriend who is keeping a dark secret.

“Undead Housewives of the Other Orange County” – a farcical take on the Real Housewives television shows that interjects vampires and humanity to create a humorous story about what might really take place between bored housewives.

“Chains of Command” – a mixture of Duffy’s remarkable science fiction, paranormal romance, and hardcore erotica. Chains follows a vampire captain of a cutting-edge space warship who must break the will of her new executive officer during a long, deep space raid, but quickly finds the tables turned on her by the fiery and reckless, Commander Crash Langford.

Cassandra Duffy floods this collection with vampires, sex, horror, romance, action, and humor in ways that truly display the depth and range of her remarkable talent. Sapphic Pixie Tales is proud to offer this outstanding collection of vampire fiction from the 21-year-old lesbian author.

 

What surprised Brooke most about her relationship with Vendela wasn’t the length of it as she had a pretty high threshold for relationship bullshit; she was most astonished by how much she actually cared for Vendela. Her former boss and live-in girlfriend of more than a year was obtuse beyond reason and completely inept at expressing even simple things in a clear way, which pretty much precluded her feelings ever being communicated. The amount of guesswork required of Brooke to simply have a concept of the status of their relationship was profound. Still, for reasons she couldn’t articulate or fathom, she adored the peculiar little vampire fashion designer.

“Brooke,” Vendela said, snapping Brooke out of her dazed state. “Do you see anything that might fit Denise for the…what is she going to?”

“Possibly,” Brooke said, answering the first question first, “and she’s going to the Daytime Emmys.”

Brooke had lost all interest in fashion design after their second trip to Barrow Alaska. It wasn’t the mind-bending sex on the colossal bearskin rug that prevented her from wishing to one day be competition for her girlfriend, it was the fact that at her very best, which Vendela managed to draw from her, she was still miles behind what the petite vampire designer could manage with ease. So she shifted from design to fashion stylist; actresses, models, and singers flocked to her clientele, rightly assuming she would have exclusive access to Vendela’s fashion lines.

“Babe,” Vendela said, “you know how I feel about…television award shows.”

The short, clipped, peculiar way of pronouncing things was something that had once irritated Brooke to no end. Once Vendela started calling her ‘babe’, Brooke found she rather liked the way Vendela spoke.

“I know,” Brooke said. “I normally wouldn’t even ask, but I feel so bad for her. She’s on something like her third divorce.” Brooke selected a possible gown, holding it up to herself out of habit. The slinky, off-white cocktail wasn’t dressy enough for even a Daytime Emmy award show and was probably two sizes too small for Brooke’s personal use. “I swear my ass has doubled in size over the past few months,” she grumbled. Her statement, while an exaggeration at double, wasn’t entirely untrue. She’d lost a lot of her surfer physique by spending too much time working and too little time wave riding.

“I think your ass looks…like an apple,” Vendela said, crossing the cavernous clothing vault in a flash to stand behind Brooke. Her hand caressed down the small of Brooke’s back, onto the curvaceous ass in question, and gave it a playful squeeze.

The vampire trick of moving faster than the human eye could follow used to give Brooke the willies. After a year of Vendela doing that exact thing to her, she wondered if she would ever be able to date a human who couldn’t instantly cross a room to give her a compliment and grope combination.

Brooke replaced the dress on the rack and sighed. She was supposed to be shopping for Denise, but the more she looked at the beautiful clothes in Vendela’s line, the more she wished she could shop for herself or dress up the designer. Her overly elfin girlfriend adored the chunky jewelry, oversized sunglasses, and baggy clothes that made her appear even tinier, while Brooke loved seeing her in more fitted, daring attire. Their little tête-à-têtes usually ended up with Vendela wearing whatever she wanted and somehow Brooke ended up in the tight clothes.

“Award season is coming up,” Brooke said. “Care to be seen on the red carpet with me wearing something like this.” Brooke searched the immediate area as quickly as possible, finally deciding on a taupe straight cut gown that could easily be taken in to find Vendela’s lithe frame.

Vendela smirked, knowing the game well, and came back with a black, bow bodice pencil dress. “And you can wear this…or nothing…babe.”

Brooke stared down an entirely unreadable Vendela. She wasn’t smiling, wasn’t frowning, wasn’t breathing, wasn’t doing anything really aside from holding out the black dress that Brooke knew would flaunt every flaw in the figure she wasn’t particularly happy with anymore. The more she stared at Vendela, the more the latent vampiric power of mind control pushed a fine mist over her mind. She knew Vendela wasn’t doing it on purpose—it was just something that happened when she really wanted something. It had actually been what originally brought Brooke to Barrow, what made her pack her strap-on, and what started their whole tryst. Vendela hadn’t consciously exerted her mental control on Brooke those first few months. In fact, as she would explain later, she thought she was the seduced until Brooke had told her about the mental haze surrounding the majority of their feverish lovemaking. If Vendela’s mind was pushing out to cloud Brooke’s thinking, seeing her in that pencil dress was something the little fashionista desperately wanted, but wasn’t socially equipped enough to ask for.

“Deal,” Brooke said, much to Vendela’s surprise. Brooke took the dress from her to give it a closer look. “It’ll have to be let out quite a bit though.”

“No, it won’t…babe,” Vendela said. “It’ll be major, I promise. Trust me, I am an excellent judge of…your figure. I think you might have been Kim Novak in a former life.”

“Kim Novak is still alive,” Brooke said.

“Really? That’s…ba-na-nas.”

“Vendela?” Justin called from the doorway. “There’s a problem with the fit models not quite fitting.”

Vendela rolled her eyes and handed the dress to Brooke. Justin, the assistant that replaced Brooke, was a masterful organizer, a driven personality, an A-list gay in the fashion world, and a stunningly beautiful vampire. Brooke liked everything about him except his personality. There wouldn’t be any chance he would steal Vendela, but he also kept her running at a driven pace leaving little personal time.

Vendela vacated the room to check why what she was calling a size six didn’t fit an industry standard size six model. Justin, perfectly frocked in a vested pinstripe suit, made his way to Brooke to inspect the dress she was holding.

“60’s retro is in ever since all those TV shows decided we should glorify the days of segregation, lung cancer, and alcoholism,” Justin said. “The only positive side is the fashion.” He took the dress from Brooke and gently held it up to her with a far more objective eye than Vendela. “You’ll need to have the top padded. Or you could just get a boob job like everyone else in LA.”

“I’ll consider all the options,” Brooke said. The thing she disliked about Justin was how much of what he said turned out to be double-speak. The comment about a boob job could have been idle conversation, or it could have been something Vendela had said to him and he’d strategically decided to let it slip. Brooke could never tell.

“If you did, you might reignite the old sex life.” Justin hung up the dress. His comments weren’t usually that blunt, and it took Brooke aback a little to hear such candor from the fabulously catty vampire assistant.

“What do you even know?”

“I know she’s not having sex,” Justin said, “and now I know you aren’t either.”

It was true. Combined, their hectic work schedules left little time for intimacy and the time they did spend together had felt a little flat over the past few months. As much as Brooke hated to admit it, she probably needed Justin’s help.

“What do you know about fixing it?” Brooke asked.

“Besides the boob job?” Justin made a dramatic show of looking up while he thought. “You could always swing.”

For some reason Brooke’s mind immediately jumped to a swing-set and only then transitioned to imagining one of those hanging-from-the-ceiling sex swings. Clearly reading her thoughts, Justin intervened before her flawed train of though could evolve further along an incorrect line.

“No, silly, not literally,” Justin said. “I meant going out to another partner and then coming home to be reclaimed by her. You clearly need more sex than she does and it’s a fairly common vampire practice to send our little playthings out to other vampires so we might recapture them. Call it a latent hunter instinct.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Brooke said. Even still, the notion had set a fire in her that she was a little ashamed of, a little intrigued by, yet completely unwilling to verbally admit to.

“Is it?” Justin said, raising a perfectly manscaped eyebrow.

She knew he could read her mind. He knew that she knew that he could read her mind. The fact that they both pretended this wasn’t the case was out of simple human politeness, which made the socially acceptable white lie seem so hollow.

“Would Vendela even be interested in something like that?” Brooke asked.

“Maybe you missed the execu-bitch vice president of operations she hired,” Justin said. “I think she’s been planning it for months but hasn’t worked up the nerve to mention it to you.”

Brooke had indeed noticed the gorgeous Persian vampire Vendela had hired. Shabnam was elegant, officious, and a little like Vendela in that she was difficult to read. Brooke also wondered if she wasn’t a slightly more stereotypical vampire considering she dressed only in black and wore her eyeliner on the heavy side. Still, she was attractive, and some of her comments directed at Brooke could have been mistaken for flirting when fitted to the bizarre Vendela standards. Brooke began to wonder if peculiar, petite, and vampiric was becoming her type.

“How do I go about setting something like this up?” Brooke said.

“Tell Vendela,” Justin said. “She’ll fill you in on the rest.”

...and that's all you get. Of course, if you've read Demons of Paradise, you'll recognize Brooke and Vendela, but you'll have to buy Fang Girls to find out what happens next!