Making up the details about Mary Magdalene and Joanna

I am so enjoying this NaNoWriMo. Nothing like revising history and religion to suit my subversive preferences. Who says Mary Magdalene didn’t teach and preach at Jesus’s side? And what about Joanna, one of “the women” who followed Jesus, but were remembered as official disciples. In non-canonical sources she was said to have “renounced the marriage bed.” We don’t have details about these women, so we have no choice but to make them up.

I apologize to readers who are here for the monsters. There won’t be very much monster sex in this book.

I, too was a teacher. I sat beside Jesus sometimes, others I would go off with the women and share the teachings for women only. When I bled, I would take all the other bleeding women and we would spend a day in a secluded place by a river or stream, where we could bathe freely as we desired. “The body is holy, not just the male body, but the female as well. Without the female body, there would be no male bodies, and our flow connects us to the river of life. This is a gift of the goddess, and whatever separates us from our divinity must be separated from us. If men do not wish us to touch their meat when we bleed, then we may leave the men to feed themselves, and we are relieved of the duty. But never believe that it is because we are unclean. Jesus will tell you that no food is clean or unclean, but I tell you that this is also true of our bodies.”

“Also, if you are feeling the pangs of bleeding, do not think that this is penance asked of us. Jesus is not here to teach us to sacrifice or to suffer, but to relieve our suffering. And if the pleasures of the body bring relief, it is a gift from the goddess for us to gladly partake of. If no man will partake with us, then surely we can find a sister who will.”

Joanna and I both bled with the moon, so we were in the women’s group together, though she did not always pay regard to the dictate of men that we avoid them when we bled, and she would go among them, as close as she would at any other time. She was of slight build, and in a loose shift and a shawl, she might be mistaken for a man. She did not have any fondness for men, and if a man did not wish to assist her with the pangs of bleeding, it was not a loss to her.

“How do you tolerate them?” she asked. 

“I do not find them on the whole less agreeable than women. Each sex has its advantages and disadvantages,” I replied.

“What are the advantages of men?” she asked, incredulous.

“In general? Well, they are not all the same. Some are more kind, some work hard, just like women. I do enjoy … their parts.”

She made a sound of disgust in her throat. “The only man I can tolerate is Jesus. His teachings are admirable, and I believe the world would be far better if more people adopted them. I can be at ease with him and with his followers, which is not the case in the rest of the world, but I would not wish to be exposed to his parts.”

I laughed. “If that is how you feel, then I am sure you do not need to worry about it happening.”

“Indeed,” she said, “and that is what I like about him.”

The Miasm Is Coming!

Here’s a little excerpt from my upcoming pandemic monster erotica story.

After you read it, if you feel like sticking around for a comment, tell me what you think would be good keywords.

The Miasm is coming. Nobody knows where it will come from, or when, but it has already subsumed several Asian countries, and parts of New York and California. It floats on the air like pollen, but much more deadly. Some say they can feel it coming, can sense the subtle shift in the light when it passes over, or they can faintly smell an earthy odor on the breeze. They feel an unexplained achiness in the joints, or a headache, or a fit of languor. Everyone is afraid.

All of Italy is on lockdown. No one is allowed out of their homes, except infrequently, to buy needed supplies.

Some speculate that the Miasm may already be here. Is that the real reason for this subterranean anxiety, the compulsive buying of insignificant items? Perhaps it affects the mind as well as the body, and certain extreme behaviors observed in mass media and among national leadership are actually the result of some unnamed mental disturbance that can’t be comprehended, and is therefore projected outward.

Canada has closed its borders.

Signs of the Miasm:

         Fever, often accompanied by restlessness and free-floating anxiety, as if one has some unknown, insatiable need.

         Racing pulse.

         Weakness, inability to control the body; or, paradoxically, the body moving with great force but equally beyond control of the patient.

         Mental confusion, as if the normal perception of reality is distorted. Time becomes incomprehensible. Sense of self is impaired. Ability to recognize familiar faces and places may be compromised.

Symptoms become progressively worse, and there is no known treatment. In some cases, restraint is necessary to prevent self-harm.   

Sports events, festivals, church services, and all large gatherings have been cancelled. Schools nationwide have been closed. Restaurants and bars are shuttered in Chicago, Minneapolis, and Kansas City.

Miasmic syndrome ends in complete incapacitation, mania, and wasting away of the body until death. An unknown number of patients recover, however, they may have lasting disabilities in the areas of cognition and ability to exhibit normal emotional reactions, particularly in social situations.

Everyone is advised to stay indoors, alone or in small groups. Doors and windows should be locked, and curtains drawn. Ventilation outlets should be sealed. Drains should be stoppered, toilet lids closed and weighted when not in use. Minimize noise and movement. Try not to breathe.

The Miasm is here.

Christmas Blues With Krampus, Excerpt

Cover of "Christmas Blues With Krampus." Partially-obscured male face smiling mischievously from the darkness.

“Oh, those cookies are as delightful to eat as they are to look at!” Brenda cooed over a cookie she was sampling in the trendy pop-up bakery. It had a little scene painted on it in icing, of a family around a Christmas tree, the smiling children holding yet-to-be-unwrapped gifts. “I’ll take three—no, a dozen. Rhea, can you hold this bag while I get my wallet?”

Rhea tried to smile cheerfully as she took a bulky shopping bag from her friend. “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” was banging out of a speaker on the counter near her head, and she tried to shut out the insipid noise. She glanced at the dark-haired man behind the counter, wondering if he could adjust the sound, but he was occupied with the transaction. So she stood there, looking around the store, trying not to exude impatience. Her friend was the picture of holiday cheer, smiling and jiggling her head to highlight her earrings of sparkly little red and green bells. That racket coming out of the sound system was probably her favorite Christmas song.

That was why Rhea could never bring herself to tell Brenda how downright painful it was for her to participate in these holiday festivities. She knew that depression was common in the Christmas season, but she didn’t think her annual funk was simply biological. It was triggered by elements of Christmas culture, deeply ingrained in everything people did this time of year. When darkness of winter sets in, why not embrace it? Why not pull inward, like the animals do? Why cover every vertical surface with lights, why the forced gaiety and the endless repetition of commercially packaged pop songs with their relentless cheerfulness?

You’d think people had something to hide. Were they afraid of the dark? Or of their own inner darkness?

No, Rhea would never be good at this holiday thing.

But Brenda had insisted on dragging Rhea out shopping with her. She truly only wanted to share her joy with her friend. Perhaps her buoyant spirits would lift Rhea’s too. And Rhea tried to let it happen. Tried to appreciate the sweaters and fine glassware in the department stores, tried to enjoy the bustling city, tried not to think about the orangutans made homeless by the destruction of their jungle for plantations that supplied the palm oil in these lovely, hand-crafted cookies. Normal people didn’t think about those things. Just be like a normal person, she told herself. Be happy.

As they left the store, Brenda tossed a fiver in the bucket outside the shop, and a man in a Santa suit paused in his bell ringing to smile and thank her. Then she grinned and reached into the bakery bag and pulled out one of those shockingly expensive cookies. “And here’s something for you. Merry Christmas.” He grinned back and raised the cookie to her like a glass of champagne.

Turning down the street, Brenda handed Rhea a cookie too. “You need something to cheer you up. You’re supposed to be happy in the holidays.”

“If I could afford stuff like this, I’d be happier,” lied Rhea, taking the cookie.

“Aw, come on, just think of your favorite holiday song.” She really wanted Rhea to be happy.

“‘In the Bleak Midwinter?'”

Brenda laughed. “I love you, you keep me grounded.”

Rhea examined the cookie. It was really quite well done. The fine details of the little picture were stunning, the colors vibrant.

“You should pay attention, though,” Brenda added. “That guy in the bakery was checking you out. A smile goes a long way, you know.”

“He was?” It seemed unlikely. Brenda was usually the one who got noticed, of the two of them.

“Oh yeah. I’m surprised you didn’t notice. He looked like just your type.”

“What’s my type?”

“Oh, dark, kind of skinny, unshaven. Intense eyes.”

Rhea chuckled. “That totally sounds like my type. Though I might not call him skinny, so much as . . . lean.”

After a moment, she added, “But maybe he wouldn’t care if I smiled or not. He might like a surly woman like me.”

She took a bite of the cookie. It was perfectly crunchy and melted in her mouth. She looked at it again. “Hey, who’s that looking in the window?” It looked sort of like a face, but gray-blue, peeking through a window behind the Christmas tree.

They stopped walking to examine the cookie. “That’s Krampus,” Brenda said. “Funny, I don’t think he’s on the other cookies I bought.”

“Are those horns sticking out of his head?”

“Yeah, it’s a new thing they’re doing in Germany or someplace, he’s like anti-Santa, he kidnaps the bad children and throws them in a bag and eats them.”

Surely Brenda hadn’t heard the story right. Who would tell such a story at Christmas time? But Rhea did find something somehow satisfying in it. Maybe some people were finally acknowledging the dark side of winter.

She took another bite.


Will Rhea find help with her seasonal depression? Why is that blue dude on her cookie? Was the bakery guy really checking her out? And what about the orangutans? You can buy the whole story on Amazon now. Watch for free days starting next week. Free every day if you have Kindle Unlimited.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

Shapeshifting Reindeer Shaman Santa

It’s too long to be the title of my upcoming Christmas monster erotica story, but you get the point. I’ll tell you here when I arrive at a better title. Till then, enjoy this excerpt.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing? You don’t belong in here,” she said. Of course she didn’t really think that animals could understand human language, but how else should a person talk to an animal? “Outside, that’s where you belong, out in nature,” she said, gesturing toward the door behind the creature. He peered at her with black eyes. How unusual, she thought, for an animal to look a person in the eye. The deer held her gaze. She almost thought he might be trying to tell her something.

His nose twitched. It was black and shiny, moist. He stepped a bit closer. Jane was afraid to move. The animal’s head was close to her face now, sniffing intently. He was examining her, she thought. She wondered if she measured up to the deer’s expectations for a human.

He had white fur at his upper chest, and Jane was strangely reminded of the soft hair on the chest of the man in her dream.

Wind was blowing in through the door. She needed to do something. The deer was already fully in the living room, stamping snow off his legs onto the ratty carpet. Could she call someone, the sheriff, maybe? Her phone was in the kitchen next to the garage door. She edged backwards to the door, then turned around to grab her purse. In three seconds she had the phone in her hand, back in the door between the kitchen and living room. And there was no deer. Where in this little house could such an enormous creature go in three seconds?

Standing where the deer had been was a man.

Meeting the Mermaid, excerpt

eye of fish2Here’s a second excerpt from the mermaid story. I hope to release the full story by the end of the week. 

I sit up and look around. It’s then that I see her: a face, a human face, swaying in the waves and watching me. It must have been she who placed me on this rock, who saved me. Her wet hair is swept off her forehead, her brow bones and chin delicate. Her eyes are very large and round, with black irises so deep you could fall into them, surrounded by a ring of pupil in silvery gray with speckles of pink and teal. Her skin has a faint sheen in the same colors. Though finely proportioned, her head is oddly large.

She’s the most heartbreakingly beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Instantly I’m taken by the most intense desire to be near her, to touch her, to be touched by her in every way. If I were standing, I’d be weak in the knees.

Our eyes meet. I’m captivated. I’m not wondering how she got out here in the ocean, or where I am for that matter, I just want to fall into those lovely alien eyes, to drink them like a rare liqueur distilled by monks in a remote castle on a crag overlooking the sea. Those eyes could cure me of every malady, could bolster me to superhuman strength. I don’t even realize that I’m in the water now, moving toward her as fast as I can without losing contact with those luscious eyes.

And then she smiles, just a little one, lips curling up slightly at the ends. Luscious lips I want to touch, to taste, to be one with. Is that possible? I don’t care. But she’s not to be caught, and she suddenly dips down below the surface, and in her place the tail comes up, that same unfamiliar fish I saw earlier. It breaches and before I can react, arms encircle me from behind, pinning my own arms to my sides. And my legs are held too, wrapped around by something big and thick. I look down and between the glints of sun reflecting on the surface, I can see scales. It’s that tail. Somehow the tail and the arms work as one.



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Taste the Watery World

It’s been half a year since NaNoWriMo, and it’s past time to get back to my romance novel. So I’ve reread it this past week, and I have some ideas for what I want to do next. But I was talking to a friend recently and she wanted to know if all my erotica is hetero. I told her I’d had an idea for a F/F mermaid story, and she loved that, so I promised her I’d dedicate it to her when I write it.

Whenever I think I’m going to take a break from monster erotica, I get an idea for another story.

Maybe I can work on both at the same time . . .

Well, here’s a beginning. It’s not done yet but it’s a taste of the watery world of my upcoming story, which doesn’t even have a name yet.

Falling into the water like a cool embrace, like coming back into the womb. The womb of the earth. It’s where I always come when the sharpness of sound through air becomes unbearable, when taking air into my lungs feels like a violation. When my tender feet are no match for the ubiquitous, unyielding concrete of the city. I need to be in the water.

I sail my little boat far enough from the shore that I won’t be bothered by any unwanted company, and drop an anchor. I drop my clothes on the deck and slip, quiet as an eel, into the ocean. The waves rise and fall relentlessly, and I let myself be a plaything of the water. A school of little fishes rives around me, some brushing my skin as they pass. The fish aren’t afraid of me.

Then I see her. But at the moment I don’t know she’s a her. I don’t know anything, just that there’s a glimmer of light reflected off pearlescent scales, a tail tip disappearing into the water. I duck down to see below the surface, but she’s too fast for my eyes, just a shadow shifting among the waves by the time I’m able to focus. It’s not any kind of fish I’ve ever seen.

Dragon of the Sheela Na Gig: excerpt


Sheela Na Gig in Fethard, Ireland. Photo Mike Searle via Wikimedia Commons

What is the meaning of these carvings set into masonry from the European middle ages? They’re often placed on churches, though the blatant exhibition of genitals certainly isn’t typical of medieval attitudes about the body, particularly the female body. Often the stonework is much older than the walls they are set into, as if they came from another structure altogether.

No one really knows why they’re there. So much of history has been lost, and only snippets of rumors hint at what may have been. One source suggests there may have been a kind of village healer, an old woman, whose methods included the display of her vulva. (I’d link it but I can’t find it now!)

I was captivated by Sheela Na Gigs long before I was an erotica writer. But since there is so little we know, our best source is our imagination, and that’s what I specialize in. In this story, the Sheela is a healer, and there’s also a dragon, because it wouldn’t be monster erotica without a monster, now, would it?

He picked wildflowers as he made his way up the forested mountain path, adding them to the ones he’d gathered in the meadow. It was said that the Sheela liked flowers. It was also said that he should follow the signs, not written in words, but carvings, set atop stone arches that stood over the path at infrequent intervals. The vulgar symbol was unmistakable: A cackling hag, naked and splaying her privates for the world to see. Though he was supposed to look up at the display as he passed under each arch, he found it difficult. The priests in the new church said that modesty was the hallmark of pious femininity; but when some of the elders of the village refused to enter a church without a Sheela Na Gig, the Father had relented and said that one could be set into the masonry, to serve as a reminder of the result of living a life of carnal sin. One would age into sagging flesh; once-youthful breasts would dangle; one would forget to comb her hair and behave decorously.


She knelt and held out her open hand to offer the gift: the yellow stone. She saw a flicker of interest in the eye, more twitching of the nostrils. She bowed her head. For a long moment there was no reaction; she began to wonder whether the stone was adequate. Perhaps it wasn’t big enough, perhaps the dragon (whom she thought of as he, though she’d never had any indication of gender from this beast) wanted something other than brimstone. Perhaps she wasn’t worthy. But she waited, until a long tongue flicked out, faster than she could track with her eyes, and wrapped around the stone. Then back into the slit of a mouth, taking the stone in. She heard the crunching of giant teeth crushing stone. She saw a ripple run down the length of the neck, until it met the torso. She saw the red glow in the belly flare brighter, and smelled the beast’s sulfurous breath. The hot wind blew her hair from her face.

The dragon lifted his great head and roared. She felt the mountain shake around her. Most people would have been terrified; but the old woman reveled in the dragon’s great power. It was power which she served; and which served her. She felt the vibration of the roar move through her body, awakening her senses, sending electricity from the top of her head, down through the neck, along the spine to the tailbone; and further down, to that deepest part of her. She breathed deeply of the hot, smoky air, raised her arms above her head, and keened in response. The two voices rose and blended into a duet. Woman and dragon swayed in rhythm to each other’s music.


I hope to release the full story at amazon by the end of this week.

Update: Here’s the link to buy it now at Amazon!


Bigfoot Bangs the Militia, excerpt

It must be getting pretty boring for the militia at that wildlife refuge. But Bigfoot can spice things up. Here’s a sample of my story in progress. Our narrator is a woman, who has followed her husband to the refuge, to care for him during the occupation. Bigfoot is a gentle creature, but she has made it known to him that she likes to be manhandled, and we’ll find out if he obliges her . . .

He let go of one of my arms and grabbed me by the hair. Next thing I knew I was laying on a big tree, one of those ones that kinda half fall, but are still rooted. It was as wide as my shoulders, but swayed just a bit with my weight. Then he ripped my flannel shirt open, buttons flying into the snow. That’d be something to explain to the guys back at headquarters, but I didn’t ruminate on it, because then Bigfoot was on me, laying over my torso, his weight pressing me into the rough bark behind my back. He yanked my bra up over my tits and laid a hand over one, giving a friendly squeeze to the plump flesh, then grabbing the scrunched-up nipple between a finger and a thumb and holding on tight.

He still had me by the hair with his other hand, and he pulled my head back, angling me so my eyes were looking right into his. It was a beautiful moment, our eyes gazing into one another’s, across the divide of civilized and free, of hairy and smooth. His coat with its aroma of woodsmoke, musk, and dry leaves, my smooth skin with the rosy fragrance of my homemade goat milk soap. Could we cross this divide, to unite our breeds in wild ecstasy? You betcha!

Summer of the Centaur, part III

A pristine forest, a young woman, an attractive centaur . . . part I, part II.

Their eyes met. Sylvia resisted the urge to scan his body and look at . . . all his parts. But his eyes were beautiful, sort of a mashup of green and brown, and his gaze held hers so intensely that she realized she couldn’t have looked away anyway. She thought she ought to say something, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

“Do you like what you see?”

Yes, she did, very much, but it would probably be unseemly to be overly enthusiastic. He face flushed. “I—yes.” Now, that sounded ridiculous, but better just to leave it there than make it worse by saying more.

He snickered. Or was it a nicker? “I’d show you more, but it’s all here,” he said, spreading his arms to show off those beautiful deltoids. The pectorals were pretty nice, too, enough but not too much. “While humans, on the other hand, insist upon covering themselves, as if there might be something shameful in a body, or some reason to hide. He leaned forward slightly and peered at her, as if to look into her brain, her soul. “Do you have something to hide?”

“Oh no, I don’t!” It was true, she really didn’t. She wasn’t interesting enough to have anything to hide. “I come here sometimes. I just . . . like this rock.”

There was a flicker of interest in his eyes. “It’s a fine rock. Suitable for a number of purposes.”

Sylvia was having a chance to have a conversation with a centaur, and she was really botching it. She wanted to say something witty or clever, but her mind was blank. She felt dizzy. If she hadn’t been lying on her back already, she might fall over.

He sniffed, his nose twitching slightly, and a hint of a smile crossed his face. He reached a hand down to help her to her feet. “Come up then, miss nothing-to-hide, and let’s see what you’ve got.”

Dazed, Sylvia took his hand and let him pull her to her feet, leaning heavily on his hand. He was strong.

“All right then, take them off.”

“Pardon?” Did he really mean—

“The clothes. Surely you don’t expect to keep yourself covered, while I stand before you honestly bare, do you?”

When she hesitated, he snorted, “Humans. Always have to be taught everything, like children.” He turned, as if to leave.

“Wait! I’ll take my clothes off.” She slipped her knit sundress over her head, then pushed the panties to the ground, slipping them off her ankles along with her sandals. That was all she was wearing, hadn’t been planning on getting naked with anyone today.

He turned back and looked over his shoulder, giving Sylvia an appraising eye. She felt her nipples responding to the cool mist. And maybe his gaze, as well. “Hm. Maybe this one has some potential after all. Well, will you take a ride, then?”


With a small sigh, he leaned toward her, grabbing her around the waist. In one motion he hoisted her up and onto his back, his sleek chestnut withers between her legs.

“Hold on,” he said, as he took her arms and wrapped them around his torso. Then he loped off into the forest.


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Summer of the Centaur, part II

You can read the beginning of the story here.

It was a few days before she returned to the forest. She tried to bury herself in work, deciphering old tax forms and bank statements. But her mind refused to focus on the papers, and at night came the dreams of that supple torso, the light touch, the nicker in her ear. Finally she walked away from the pile of papers on the kitchen table, and out of the house, leaving the door open behind her.

There was a light mist in the forest, which intensified the colors. Sylvia had a feeling of being submerged in green as she walked the familiar path to her rock. She didn’t know what she expected; it seemed unlikely the centaur would be there again, just when she happened to come. But something unfamiliar was stirring in Sylvia, driving her, and she didn’t know what else to do.

She wanted to see that man. That creature. She wanted to touch him. Smell him. She wanted —she didn’t know what she wanted. What she wanted was something she’d never had.

Sylvia had played with boys a bit, kissed maybe, or explored each others’ bodies with their hands, but no boy she’d ever met seemed worthy of the most precious gift of her whole self, her whole body. They all seemed so sophomoric, so clean-cut, with their soft skin and neatly groomed hair. Shouldn’t a man be more . . . wild, maybe, less tame. No, she didn’t know what she wanted, but could it be that a centaur —with his powerful flanks, unruly hair down to the shoulders, a man so fully one with his animal nature that he was half animal —was exactly that?

There was enough sun coming through the mist and leaves to warm the big rock, so she lay on it, belly down, looking over the edge into the water at her dancing reflection. She dropped little pebbles and twigs into the pool, watching how they shattered her face into chaotic bits of light. After a while she knew that nothing was going to happen here, and just when she had decided that this pebble would be the last, and then she would get up and go back to the house, she watched her reflection resolve back to her face, with another face behind it.

Sylvia rolled slowly onto her back. He had somehow managed silently to place a hoof on the rock beside her, and now he was directly above her, so she was looking up at his abdomen and chest. His hands were on his hips again, and he smiled, a proud, confident smile.

Does a centaur flirt? Subscribe for notification of the next installment, to find out how this romance progresses.