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.

Mermaid.

***

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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

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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?”

“Ride?”

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.

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Summer of the Centaur, part I

Sylvia had always known there were centaurs. Since she was a girl, she’d seen them occasionally, a flash of white flank between the trees, in the forest behind her grandmother’s farm. Sometimes when she wandered there, following the stream that glinted and gurgled over the rocks and led into the wild mountains, she might hear the distant thud of galloping hooves or a throaty laugh that always seemed to be just behind the next tree. Of course they wouldn’t let her get a good look, but they were unquestionably there.

It wasn’t something anyone talked about, though. If she mentioned anything about centaurs to her mother, she only looked away, with that disapproving grimace that Sylvia always hated to see, would do anything to avoid. When she spoke to her grandmother of those horse-men in the forest, the woman would simply smile a hint of a smile, then turn away and change the subject, leaving Sylvia to try to have a conversation with the steel-gray bun that was ever pinned primly to the back of her grandmother’s head.

Now Gran was gone, and Sylvia was left to manage the house and property alone. Her mother would have nothing to do with the place, but Gran’s will had insisted that the property be kept in the family. There was no one but Sylvia to care for it, so she was spending the summer here before going back to college in another state. She would spend hours struggling to focus on papers covered with legalese words she didn’t understand, or going through rotting boxes of dusty jars or rusty hand tools in the dirt-floored basement. When she could take no more of it, she went to the forest.

In the forest, the air was always fresh and cool. Sylvia breathed deeply of the scent of honeysuckle, feeling the relief of being out-of-doors again. There was a place she liked to sit and listen to the water, on a smooth flat rock that rose a few feet above the soil. The rock was half in and half out of the water, where it pooled below a waterfall about ten feet high. There was no place on earth  where Sylvia could find greater peace and solitude.

But on this day someone was there. He stood in the knee-deep pool, directly under the waterfall, head tilted back to drink deeply. Water ran down his bare shoulders and chest, and splashed off his chestnut back and flanks.

Sylvia froze. She’d never been this close to a centaur, and she didn’t want to startle him. It occurred to her that she’d been just a girl last time she’d seen one, and now that she was more mature, she appreciated his robust torso in a way she hadn’t before. She liked the curve of his deltoids over the shoulder, the contours of the muscles of the abdomen. His arms were bent, hands resting at the place where smooth fur melted into bare skin.

He finished drinking, then stepped backwards a step, and turned toward Sylvia. His eyes widened slightly, and a look came over his face that Sylvia couldn’t read. He reared up, arms stretched out and up, and shook the water from his hair like a dog. Then he turned and loped away.

Sylvia gasped—she must have been holding her breath—and followed, splashing awkwardly across the rocky pool, and into the trees beyond. She thought she saw movement ahead, and stumbled toward it, but couldn’t catch up. Though much bigger, he was more agile and clearly better at making his way through the underbrush than Sylvia on her mere two legs.

She stopped to listen. Was there a rustle off to the left? She turned her head, but saw nothing. Then behind and to the right, a nicker, so close she thought she could touch him. But when she turned, he was already gone, nothing but the bottom of his hoof throwing up dead leaves in her direction. She followed.

But Sylvia’s clumsy flailing through the forest was no match for the centaur’s agility. After a while, sweaty and scratched from ankle to eyebrow, she gave up and went back to the house. She was in a part of the forest she didn’t know, but she knew which direction to go, so it didn’t take long for her to find a familiar path.

***

In deep slumber, she dreamt of the centaur. She was in the forest at night. Faint moonlight filtered through the leaves of the trees, but darkness prevailed. Though she couldn’t quite see him, she knew he was there, watching her. She turned, paused, turned another way, then suddenly she felt a touch on the small of her back. Far from being afraid, she was thrilled, and leaned into the touch. The hand stroked up her spine, over the curve of the shoulder, up the side of her neck, behind the ear, into the hairline. The touch sent tingles through Sylvia’s body, down her arms and back, all the way to that special secret place she had never shared with anyone.

The hand moved down her front, tracing the collarbone, taking the curve of her naked breast, circling the areola with a touch lighter than a night breeze. The nipple contracted at the touch. Shivering with desire, Sylvia could hold herself no longer, and she turned to the beast, but he was gone.

She woke still shivering. She wanted him. Her desire was so intense, she nearly jumped out of bed and ran into the darkness right then. But she was held back by her fear of being lost forever in the forest.

The Prairie Monster Is Real!

Well, not really, but the story about the prairie monster is now available for purchase, which makes it a real (self-)published piece of literature. Here are some places you can buy it, if you wish to. If you prefer another retailer, leave a comment and I’ll get you the link. If you support independent authors by reviewing their work, let me know and I’d love to give you a review copy.

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

You can also find Lure of the Prairie Monster for Apple devices, through the bookstore at iTunes.

Lure of the Prairie Monster, Part 2

LureOfThePrairieMonsterCover

We continue our story. For part 1, click here.

Viv and Tess walked along the barbed-wire fence, lighting matches and dropping them. There were more efficient ways of igniting a pasture, but Viv liked playing with matches. Occasionally they’d turn around and watch the line of flames coming to life behind them.

“I can’t stop thinking about that –thing. I hope we see him,” said Tess.

“He better not touch any of our cattle.  I’ll shoot his ass so fast you won’t believe it.”

“Jeb Chase said the bullets bounced right off.”

And then the monster was there. He’d just stepped to the top of the hill ahead, and he towered over the two women, roaring louder than any sound she’d ever heard before. It felt as if the sound went through Tess’s body, catching up every cell in vibrations so powerful she might explode.

“Run to the truck!” yelled Viv, and took off. After a few seconds she looked back and saw she was running alone. “COME ON! RUN!!”

But Tess was paralyzed. She’d never felt so drawn to anyone or anything. She couldn’t move away, didn’t want to. She looked up at him, holding one hand to shade her eyes from the sun. His thick, rough skin had the color of weather-bleached limestone, with sparse, wiry hair sticking out in tawny tufts. And of course, there was that enormous cock, as big as her entire body. Was there a female one of these, somewhere, for him to mate with?

“Get in the truck!” Viv had pulled up on the road on the other side of the fence. “Hurry!”

Tess looked back at the monster. She took a step forward. He tilted his head down, and the massive legs bent into a crouch. She braced against his breath, like a hot wind. She was surprised that it had an earthy, organic aroma, but not unpleasant. He looked at her, with eyes that showed awareness. He was studying her. She stared into his eyes, and knew she was safe. He could swat her like a fly, but he wouldn’t.

“Over here! Get in the truck!” Viv was laying on the horn.

She took another step forward. There was darkness in her peripheral vision, then a firm, warm grip wrapped around her torso. He had fingers somewhat like an ape, but with claws more like a dog. The grip was light enough that she could wriggle out if she chose to. But she didn’t.

The hand raised her dizzyingly high in the air, and brought her against his chest. His skin was rough and hard as the native rock of the hills. She leaned in and felt the warmth, and listened to the deep, slow thud of his heart.

He walked. Tess felt in her bones the rhythm of his heavy footsteps; the long sideways sway, the drop of each gargantuan foot, vibrating the earth with the force of a boulder. After a while she peeked down at the mind-boggling erection, and was startled to notice that she was aroused. Sure, it was nice to look at, but what on earth would she do with a thing that size?

She closed her eyes, relaxing into his hand.

***

When he stopped walking, she looked around. She’d thought she’d known every hill in the county, but she didn’t recognize where they were. The ground was black from burning, and a thick haze of smoke hung in the air. The monster was settling himself down beside a hill, and he gently set Tess on a ledge of rock that jutted out flat, high on the side of the hill. When he lay down beside the ledge, she saw that his craggy skin made it possible for him to blend into the prairie and be invisible, for all his enormity; the blackened earth, however, left him vulnerable. If he’d wanted to eat her or otherwise harm her, he could easily have done so by now, several times over; and so she decided she was safe with him, and lay on the sun-warmed rock beside his face, wondering what would happen next.

He continued to gaze at her. His breath was hot and moist as a sauna, so warm that she was soon soaked in sweat. After a while she decided to take off her clothes. He wasn’t human, after all, so it really wasn’t any different from being naked in front of a dog or cat, was it?

There was a very low, but very loud, rumble. It was so low that she felt it rather than heard it, felt it deep in her body, in her gut, and in her pelvis. It was a pleasant feeling, and she smiled a little as she lay on the warm rock. She closed her eyes, and it wasn’t until she felt his touch that she realized that the rumble was coming from him, from his throat. And the touch –oh, the touch. Who would ever have imagined that the touch of this giant, lumbering, prairie monster could be so delicate? He stroked her with a finger that was stubby and thick as a railroad tie, but with such sweet gentleness that it brought tears to her eyes. Could it be that Tess had never truly known tender caresses, before today? From the top of her head to the sensitive soles of her feet he stroked, and slowly back up the inner side of her leg, out to the hip bone, circling her lower abdomen. Her nipples were shriveled and hard as pebbles before he touched them. Waves of tingles spread throughout her body. When, panting and shivering, she thought she could take no more, he laid a smooth, hard claw firmly against her clitoris. “Oh!” she cried out in surprise and pleasure.

***

What other skills does the Prairie Monster have? The complete story is available at the eretailer of your choice.