Skegness, England, 1960: at the threshold of a new era, star singer Rena Lewis and ingenue dancer Kirsten Wilding are preparing, from vastly different standpoints, to participate in a tawdry end-of-pier show. But a most curious incident, a glimpse of something from outside mundane reality, draws these women together in the most fundamental fashion, and also connects them to a vast secret history of monsters unseen, and of passions uncontrolled.
What is the truth behind the 'Skegness Sea Serpent'? And can Rena & Kirsten's newfound relationship survive the attentions of manipulative management and the prurient press?
EXTRACT:
Kirsten put out a hand, sliding it up under Rena’s skirt, along her stockinged thigh, tremblingly probing. She could not help a little gasp at what she found: the gusset of Rena’s knickers soaked; warm, sticky wetness everywhere. Rena sighed, quivering with need, and Kirsten responded, pulling urgently at the knickers, now with both hands. Rena lifted herself slightly, allowing the sodden garment to be pried down to her ankles. The scent of her desire was tangy upon the room’s still air.
“What do you want me to do?” was Kirsten’s urgent whisper.
“I don’t care,” came the panted reply. “Do anything you please: I want you, Kirsten; I want you so badly…”
Somehow they were kissing again, a voluptuous smear of lipstick. Kirsten probed again with her fingers: the naked wet, hot and raw, was thrilling, frightening. Fingertips traced the outline of dilated labia, the enraged bud of the clitoris. Rena moaned softly, her eyes closed, her whole body trembling.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, “Please, oh please, fuck me…”
Suddenly lustful, emboldened, Kirsten yoked her middle and index fingers, driving them slowly but intently between the labia, deep into the pliant, moist flesh. Rena stifled a cry, and her body gave a little kick, a sudden spasm of tension that dissipated in a low, throaty moan. Kirsten thrust again, this time deeper, faster, harder; challenging Rena’s inner elasticity. If a fuck was what she wanted, a fuck was what she would get.
It seemed to Kirsten that what she was doing was not exactly the act of a lover; there seemed something almost cruel in the way her fingers relentlessly impaled, over and over until her wrist ached with the effort. Yet Rena was uncaring, clinging hard to Kirsten’s shoulders, driving her body against each percussive stab, her breath coming in staccato, shortened gasps.
“I’m coming,” she panted in Kirsten’s ear. “Oh God, I’m going to come…”
She smothered her orgasm in Kirsten’s hair, her body wracked with soft tremors that came and receded like an unpredictable tide. In the immediate aftermath she planted sloppy, careless kisses on Kirsten’s neck, shoulder, the upper part of her breast. Delicately, Kirsten withdrew her fingers, which had cramped into a slight upward curve. She regarded them, slick and dripping with feminine efflux, unsure whether she was thrilled or slightly nauseated. She caught sight of Rena looking at her, the green eyes a challenge. She remembered the kiss. She put her fingers in her mouth, tasted Rena’s essence, her come.
At the dawn of the 19th century, the coast of Maine is awash with mysticism and religious fervour. Reverend Joshua Beaton ministers to a scattered parish of islanders and fisherfolk, intermittently assisted by his wife Lydia and daughter Juliet. But when Joshua decides to adopt Dalin - a blonde waif with a dubious reputation - into his vagabond household, things start to become unglued, a process only spurred by a maritime encounter with something monstrous and mysterious...
Can the Reverend protect the mortal souls of his wife and child? Or has he brought a serpent into his own personal garden, there to wreak havoc?
EXTRACT:
Juliet nodded, already licking her lips, letting them part, leaning in. This time it was all so much slower: Dalin’s arms curling about her; the soft press of lips ripe as cherries. This time, when Dalin’s tongue slid into Juliet’s mouth, Juliet’s own was there to meet it, curling and coaxing. Dalin was shocked at the girl’s response - was it innate, or had she learned so quickly? The swirl of tongues seemed to go on inordinately, and when finally they parted, both were giddy.
“Is that what it was like?” Juliet breathed. “With the boy, I mean?”
Dalin shook her head, a golden shimmer. Her cheeks and throat were by now fully flushed.
“Why not?”
“’Cause my boy didn’t have no boobs pushin’ into mine,” Dalin replied. “Your boobs feel real nice, Miss Beaton.”
Juliet would not have believed she could blush any deeper. Her heart was palpitating; she was gushing with girlish excitement.
“They’re not as nice as yours,” she murmured, unavoidably glancing down at the girl’s oscillating bosom. Dalin caught her guilty glance, gave an indulgent, knowing smile. She reached up, and with the same practised precision as Juliet’s mother had sewn, she slipped the bow of her nightdress. Creamy muslin curled from Dalin’s shoulders, revealing the pale immensity of her pendulous breasts, tipped with broad cerise ovals. Juliet, transfixed, let out a gasp.
“Why did you do that?”
“Well, I was just thinkin’ how much nicer it might be if there weren’t nothin' between our boobs when we kissed..."
Her look was direct, challenging: in her eyes, shifting shades of green and brown, an intensity Juliet had never seen. She bit her lip, pretending to consider, but her fingers betrayed her, already fiddling with the fastenings of her nightshirt. Her own teardrop breasts were full yet buoyantly pert; the slightly upturned nipples a pale umber shade. When they came together again the press of soft flesh momentarily overwhelmed all other sensation: a maternal, thrilling merger. Then Dalin's wet lips were on Juliet's mouth, her tongue swirling and invading, and for an instant it seemed that Juliet's heart had all but liquefied. She moaned helplessly, melting sure as the candles that illuminated this surreal tableau.
They separated, and now Dalin's hands were upon Juliet's breasts, her fingertips gently kneading and stroking. Juliet trembled; her stomach fluttered in syncopation with her heart; she was awash with sensations electric and unfamiliar.
"D'you want it?" Dalin's whisper was an urgent, sibilant stab. Juliet moaned again, unsure what was being asked of her, aware only that it was somehow deeply sinful; aware that her body yearned with an understanding her mind could not yet accept.
Dalin leaned in close, gently kissing Juliet's shoulder, nuzzling under her chin; trailing a warm, wet tongue in the soft hollow of her throat.
"Say it," Dalin insisted. "Say you want me..."
Only then did Juliet divine the depth of Dalin's need: a sonorous, unsettling echo of her own. Her limp fingers tangled aimlessly in the gilded gossamer of Dalin's hair. It would so easy, she thought, to just let go - surrender to this sweetest sin. Unbidden, the image of her mother's stern, perpetually disapproving face flitted across her mind's eye. She stiffened; her hands suddenly clutched upon Dalin's shoulders, pushing her gently but firmly away.
"I'm sorry," she quavered. "But I can't. I just can't..."
She scrambled up off the bed, a little too hurriedly; buttoned herself up a little too primly. She exited the room with a clumsy care, her departure decisive as the candle blowing out. Alone in the dark, Dalin smiled ruefully to herself.
"I'm thinkin' maybe you can, Miss," she whispered. "An' maybe, just maybe, you will..."
By 1817, as sea-serpent sightings proliferate across New England, authorities both religious and secular are obliged to take notice. Caught up in the furore are four very different women: Hudd Ovett, a fisherman's daughter with a dark secret; Kaden Hauser, a mulatto with an even darker secret; Cally Lomax, a respectable accountant's wife who nonetheless harbours a deep repression; and Delanah Straker, wilful scion of a famed poetess. As their lives criss-cross and intertwine, each is forced to make a decision between truth and fabrication, between freedom and respectability.
What can the venerable Linnaean Society make of the 'New England Serpent'? And can a quartet of desperate women break free of the bonds of family, matrimony and society?
EXTRACT #1:
“Feels good, don’t it?”
Hudd wasn’t altogether sure. The sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, that it was almost unpleasant; and with each touch, each delicate probe of her fingers, it was only exacerbated. It made her feel at once light as air and massively grounded; all but immobilised save for the surging rise of her pelvis. The only thing she clearly appreciated was that, having started, there was no chance, and no desire, that she would stop. Unable to help herself, she closed her eyes and moaned aloud, shuddering uncontrollably as she did so.
“Slow down,” Kaden hissed. “Take it steady: find the right spot an’ just tease yourself...”
It didn't take Hudd long - it was like a little button that flicked and slithered about her fingertip; somehow she had always known it would be there. Touching it seemed to activate something deep within; an inner sluice of energy and flow, at once voluptuously physical and tinged with something of the soul. It built rapidly, eagerly; a silent internal pressure straining implacably for some as-yet unknowable release. Hudd realised she was quivering, all over: she felt a frisson of fear, but there was no question of her stopping now.
"You all wet now?" Kaden asked, her voice breathy, dreamily sensual. She had stopped touching herself, but Hudd barely noticed.
"I - I think so," Hudd panted, amazed and ashamed at the uncontrollable excitement in her own voice.
"Let me see..."
And Kaden reached across, deftly slipping her hand between Hudd's legs; sliding a finger effortlessly down the seam of Hudd's vulva, beneath where her own finger still stroked the tight, shrouded bud of her clitoris. The alien touch, so unexpected yet so welcome, caused the excitement within Hudd to flare in intensity, white hot: she tossed her head and cried out.
"Oh, Jesus...!"
"Oh, yeah - that's good, Honey," Kaden whispered. Her finger glided silkily along the flared inner ridge of Hudd's labia, a touch so light it was all but insubstantial, and yet the sensations she evoked were so strong they were almost torturous. There was something in her voice now that made Hudd feel utterly depraved.
"Kaden," she blurted, a high-pitched, girlish squeak. "Dear God, what're you doin' to me?"
Kaden leaned in close, planting a soft wet kiss on Hudd's cheek. As she did so, she turned her finger decisively in and up - it slid effortlessly into Hudd's vulva, the inner labia parting easily as seawater, softly as feathers. Hudd drew in a long, shuddering breath as her whole being tensed against the intrusion.
"Ain't it obvious, Honey?" Kaden teased, and her voice was sibilant sugar. "I'm fucking you..."
EXTRACT #2:
Cally's thoughts drifted to a picture of Delanah in her bath, Hudd bent solicitously over her, gently sponging. Somehow, the image made her skin start to tingle again: she resisted a sudden temptation to open her eyes and look at Delanah's body.
"Well, something is bringing colour to your cheeks, I am pleased to report," said Delanah. She applied the sponge under Cally's chin, easing it down her throat, over her sternum, into the deep gully between her bosoms. It rounded the outer curve of each succulent breast, then lightly wiped across her broad ochre nipples. The sudden rush of sensation made Cally quiver, a gasp escaping her lips as her breathing abruptly quickened; her breasts seemed somehow to change shape slightly, becoming firmer, uplifted. Her eyes flicked open, unprepared for the proximity of Delanah's pale, perfect flesh: the green gaze regarded her in manner at once adoring and somewhat abstract, as if she were a priceless statue being buffed for display. Cally shifted a little in the water, convinced against all reason it was becoming warmer - or perhaps it was herself being warmed.
"Turn around," said Delanah, her tone clipped and precise, schoolmarm. Cally did as she was bid, a tad disappointed that she was no longer able to see Delanah's body; amazed at a bathtub that, even with two occupants, still permitted such a manoeuvre. The sponge pressed the back of her neck, caressed her shoulder blades, made a lazy, lingering descent of her spine until it gently splashed to the waterline.
"More, please," Delanah snapped, and with subtle, sensual instinct Cally hitherto did not suspect she possessed, she knew what was being asked. She put her hands on the sides of the tub, lifting herself enough to fold her legs under her. Now that she was kneeling in the water, the sponge could roam further, around her waist, down to the base of her spine. It was so luxurious, so gentle; it might even have been innocent, had her companion not been another, naked woman.
"Lean forward," said Delanah softly, her voice shifted to a solicitous, seductive tone. For the first time her bare hands touched Cally's shoulders, pushing them. Cally put her hands into the water as props, her face mere inches above the opaque surface, suddenly very aware of her bottom lifting free. The sponge dabbed at her tailbone, provocative droplets running down between her buttocks, into her secret places, now exposed to Delanah's view. She began to tremble - the tingle on her skin had migrated, collected now in one seething spot; an aching, itching sensation that was new, yet somehow not novel. The sponge slowly worked its way down the chasm of her backside, then touched her when none save Jayson had attempted to touch her before.
Cally moaned - she could not help herself. Her trembles became shudders as surging ripples of raw feeling flashed out from that most tender spot, filling her with agonised, unbearable longing. With each brush of the sponge down there - however delicate - her body flexed in abandon, and she gasped and sobbed. She desperately wanted to put a hand over her mouth to staunch these humiliating ejaculations, but knew she would unbalance if she did. She was transfixed, paralysed, consumed by lush physicality; and with nothing more than a skilfully wielded sponge - the absurdity was not lost on her.
"Please," she panted, "Please stop. I cannot bear it - please, I beg you..."
And, to her slight surprise, Delanah did stop. Relief, of a kind, was immediate: the agony, the carnal desperation, evaporated; but in its place returned that nagging, sizzling sensation. Stronger than ever now, like an itch unscratched, a pressure unrelieved. Cally pulled herself up, turning just in time to see Delanah climb out of the bath, a blur of white skin pulling on a sumptuous robe. Cally found herself almost disappointed that her virtue had been so easily defended.
"Well," said Delanah, briskly brushing out her hair, "You have at least had a glimpse of the possibilities."
The ripples from the 'Great New England Sea-Serpent' affair spread across the globe, all the way to remote Glenelg in the Scottish highlands. There, the Reverend James McShane struggles to repair his reputation after being exposed as a witness, draping a veil of silence over himself and his family. But when a salvaged scrap of paper hints at corroboration, it opens a rift between young sisters Jannie & Lyle, plunging them into separate, dark adventures with a mysterious correspondent; and a forgotten yacht named 'Leda'.
Just who is the enigmatic Veronica Mackinnon? And does she hold the key to exposing the truth behind the Leda sea-serpent?
EXTRACT:
After a time - a gentle, trembling interlude - Veronica rose, taking Lile's arm and pulling her unsteadily to her feet. If Lile had imagined her seduction complete, Veronica's still impregnable expression spoke far more of beginnings than endings; and Lile found both her fear and her excitement reigniting under the endless dark sweep of those eyes.
Veronica turned her like a ballet instructor, positioning her before the window, bending her across the desk. Lile felt the pull in her buttocks, the backs of her legs - she felt deliciously vulnerable, like a schoolgirl waiting to be spanked. Below her she could see the turbid Sound, the little boat that must eventually take her back home, back to normality: she wondered if its passengers might look up and see her like this, her hair wild, breasts hanging free. With no preamble Veronica's hand slipped up between her taut thighs, a single finger penetrating her once more. Lile tossed her head and moaned, but in truth there was already an ease, a familiarity about how her body opened. Sweeping Lile's hair from her neck with her free hand, Veronica applied her soft, sumptuous lips to the nape, making Lile shiver. Long, sucking kisses interspersed with feather light dabs of Veronica's tongue slowly made their way down Lile's spine, warm and wet like honeyed raindrops; all the while the finger lingered inside her, slowly thrusting, teasing, making her whole being pulse with wanton pleasure. Veronica planted a heavy, wet kiss at the base of her spine; one on each ripe buttock; two more to the backs of her thighs and knees. Then Veronica plunged her face forward, and her tongue slithered precisely over the exposed puckered eyelet of Lile's anus. Lile gave a little squeak of shock and delight, her whole frame quivering deliciously. As the tip of Veronica's tongue probed and swirled in her secret vulnerability she almost giggled with the sensation - so intense, so naughty, so wonderfully tinged with hints of the utterly forbidden (but then, wasn't everything Veronica had done to her so far forbidden?). There was no denying the effect it was having on her - Lile could feel herself oozing, the complex inner musculature of her vagina contracting against the marauding finger; the liquid fire of climax stoking in her pelvis.
"Veronica," she blurted, bubbly as a student trying to impress, "I'm going to... oh Lord, it's happening again..."
And at that moment there was a great feeling of intrusion - a fingertip, pressed to her moistened backside; filling her, stretching her seemingly beyond reason.
"Veronica!" she ejaculated, momentarily numb with shock, "Dear god, you mustn't - that's so..."
'Disgusting' was the word she might have used, and surely 'twas beyond the pale to have one finger penetrating her vulva, a second invading her rectum. Why, she thought absurdly, it simply wasn't the done thing for a vicar's daughter. Except that it wasn't disgusting at all - this second orifice flexed and opened as eagerly as its neighbour, turning her innards to molten wax. It took but a few twinned thrusts for Lile's excitement to boil out of control: orgasm erupted through her, sudden and shattering, her body juddering with violent release that smashed her down onto the desk's cool, smooth surface. It stole her breath, robbed her of consciousness: for an instant, she had become pure physicality, lust incarnate; flesh bereft of mind.
On Scotland's other coast, the 'Leda' affair continues to resonate, its echoes ensnaring Kendall Prince - former lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria, fleeing Royal scandal - and Sherrill Munroe, the free-spirited daughter of a local MP. Their initially antagonistic relationship takes a turn when they fleetingly encounter something inexplicable, and leads to them gambling their reputations and very lives upon secrets too devastating to reveal.
Did Kendall truly 'dance' with the Prince of Wales? And can she help Sherrill escape her destiny as a Parliamentary pawn?
EXTRACT:
A fire, banked to last, crackled playfully in Sherrill’s bedroom. They lingered in its glow, not wanting to acknowledge the looming presence of the sumptuous bed: still a little nervous, a little uncertain; dressed in their nightgowns although sleep was nowhere on their agenda. Sherrill had purloined a potent single malt from her father’s cabinet - they each held a glittering glass of seductive amber.
“Courage,” said Sherrill, raising hers. Kendall hesitated a moment before responding.
“Hope,” she added, at last. Glasses clinked; they swallowed in unison, as though it were some suicide pact. Kendall fought the urge to splutter as prickling heat seared the back of her throat, glowing like a hot coal down into the pit of her stomach. Blinking tears from her eyes she waited for the liquor to work its magic.
“Do you know what to do?” she asked. Sherrill shook her head.
“You’re the married woman -surely you’ve more of a clue than I?”
“Not all my experience could prepare me for this,” Kendall protested feebly. Sherrill smiled at her, kindly, and without irony.
“What say we just pick up where we left off, and see what develops?”
A moment’s awkwardness as they came together, dancers mis-remembering their steps. The press of bosom-to-bosom, so unfamiliar and yet so comforting: the slight catch in Kendall’s throat at the contact; the shift in Sherrill’s breathing, the blush creeping across her pale skin. Their eyes met, and then their lips - suddenly the rest was easy. Voluptuous kisses, warm and wet and sweet: Sherrill’s tongue darting and probing, teasing her softness; Kendall closed her eyes, felt a honeyed molten glow suffuse her face, her belly, the apex of her thighs. Unfurling like an orchid she put forth her own tongue, curling it beneath the marbled arch of Sherrill’s upper incisors, sipping the frothing spun-sugar essence beyond. A gentle slip of Sherrill’s hands about her shoulders, and the nightgown shivered to the floor like a dying breath of satin. The girl pulled back, just a fraction, regarding Kendall’s exposed body once more: the appraising gaze of the connoisseur; the naked hunger of the amoreuse; it made her shiver, made her melt.
“Your body…” Sherrill breathed, “I could worship your body.”
Her fingers trembled as they brushed Kendall’s breasts, gentle as whispers, delineating their pliant massiveness. The touch of fingertips upon her ovoid, tumescent nipples had Kendall gasping, softly but uncontrollably: the tiny stabs of flame from her puckering flesh echoed by the furnace that fired beneath her stomach, that turned her to aching, willing quicksilver.
“Do you like that?” Sherrill whispered, and Kendall could only moan her assent - a ragged, animal sound that sent a flush of shame into her throat. Sherrill cupped her breasts, one in each palm, stroking her thumb-tips across the enraged teats - Kendall spun in a silent cyclone of sensation, and all but swooned. Sherrill’s fingers slipped down, over her thickened torso, onto her generous hips, sending sweet shocks of sensuality throughout her being: Kendall felt dizzied, unbalanced, top-heavy and a tad grotesque; until Sherrill’s fingers slipped, with deft suddenness, into the yearning satin cleft between her legs; and all sensation rushed together into one tumultuous surge that had Kendall throwing back her head, the exultant animalistic cry escaping her an ululation of distilled desire, a lyric of lust.
“Heavens, Mrs Prince,” Sherrill gasped, “You really want me, don’t you?”
Kendall nodded foolishly, almost giggling with the riot of sensations, her own need, the brazenness of this ludicrous situation. Her stomach turned over, her knees gave a little; without thinking she lowered herself a fraction, letting herself open: a letter inked in scarlet. Sherrill’s soft, eternally patient fingertips stroked the moistened ridges of her labia, delineating her ardour: curling slightly up and inwards they penetrated her, just a fraction; unleashing a string of medusa pulses and a torrent of wetness so intense it almost felt like evacuation. Kendall moaned unashamedly, reeling - seduced beyond sanity, beyond salvation.
In 1878 the focus shifts dramatically, to the Arabian Sea: Audra & Delwyn Pendleton are honeymooning aboard the liner Poonah, but their newlywed bliss is ruptured by an encounter with eccentric, fierce women's rights campaigner Delia-Jayne Forncett; not to mention something unknown from beneath the sea. Audra soon learns there is both more and less to her marriage than she ever suspected, and the knowledge forces her into desperate, delirious choices.
What is the secret of the Poonah's 'billiards room'? And where does a beautiful belly dancer fit into Miss Forncett's suffragist machinations?
EXTRACT:
“You still seem on edge,” Miss Forncett observed coolly. “Would you like some more brandy?”
Audra shook her head. She felt slightly queasy, and unbearably tired, but her mind was racing.
“If I may be so bold,” Delia-Jayne continued, eyebrows curled in mild provocation, “I know of an almost infallible means of relieving tension, should you permit me to try it. All it would require is for you remove your shoes and stockings.”
Audra did not know quite how to respond to this proposition - it seemed vaguely salacious, in a manner she couldn’t pin down.
“You have already shown me kindness enough,” she responded feebly, suddenly gone quite shy.
“Oh nonsense,” Miss Forncett smiled, standing up and taking the glass from her hand. “It is my sworn duty in life to help women in distress, whatever their station. And you, my dear, are most assuredly distressed, so why not grant me the satisfaction of helping one more, in some small manner?”
Feeling slightly admonished, Audra peeled off her shoes and then, discreetly as possible, gathered up her skirt and petticoat, disconnected her suspenders, and rolled down her stockings. To her flushing discomfiture, Delia-Jayne watched her fixedly throughout the entire process, expression still maddeningly neutral. As her bare feet touched soft carpeting, and her hems slid over her exposed knees, Audra felt strangely vulnerable.
“You have the most beautiful legs,” said her hostess, quite matter-of-factly. “So long and lithe, like a gazelle’s - our dancer friend would be positively envious…”
Audra’s faced burned ever more scarlet at this unexpected, unseemly compliment. Why was it that most every word that fell from this woman’s perfect lips left her mortified? And then Delia-Jayne did something truly shocking: she stepped over and knelt down before Audra, her skirt billowing with the motion and her hair splashing and splaying out on the floor. Gently but firmly she took a hold of one ankle, lifting it. Cradling Audra’s heel with one hand she slowly, delicately, began to stroke the sole with the long fingers of her other.
The effect was so immediate, so overwhelming, that Audra gasped, and a tremor passed through her. The sensation was shocking, literally electric - ’twas as if all feeling had fled her body save for that one overlooked and ill-considered spot.
“Do you like that?” Delia-Jayne was smiling up at her, eyes aglow and expression dreamy.
“I…” Audra could not find words, not immediately. But as the initial shock of touch wore off, as Miss Forncett’s fingertips played over the rippling softness of her sole like another woman’s might the strings of a harp, she realised that her whole being was beginning to resonate with lulling, unadulterated pleasure, throbbing in time to the suddenly furious drum of her heart.
“…Yes,” she breathed at last.
1890: in remote, sleepy Sandy Cape, Queensland, scandal erupts. Implicated are the local schoolmistress, Dedra Powell, her sometime assistant Patty-Jo Leeson, and star pupils the Salford sisters, Celeste and Ella. In her desperation to salvage their reputations, Dedra begins to concoct a bizarre legend: a tale so fantastic it might not only obscure the truth, but take on a truth of its own...
Just what happens after school in Sandy Bay? Could there really be such a creature as 'Chelosauria powelli'?
EXTRACT:
Dedra could feel the colour drain from her face, her pulse a leaden throb behind her eyes. She suddenly craved another drink, but she was afraid to pick up her mug, afraid to even move.
“Are - are you saying…?”
Patty-Jo looked at her then, smiling almost shyly. She nodded.
“Love you, Miss P: always have, always will.”
It’s a joke, thought Dedra. Of course it’s a joke - what else could it be? And that was the final straw, the ultimate insult: fuelled by unrefined fury she vaulted off the bed, striding forward and slapping Patty-Jo hard across the face, the second mug flying in a splatter of gilded droplets.
“How dare you!” she shrieked, tears pricking her eyes. “How dare you insult me like this? You tormented me for ten years, and then you wouldn’t leave, and now you’re here, in my home, and you won’t let me be…”
She might have struck Patty-Jo again, but at that point the girl jumped up, suddenly looming in her tallness. She grabbed Dedra’s hand, holding it fast, her superior strength menacingly obvious. She pulled at Dedra, a painful yank eliciting a gasp and propelling her forward. Before Dedra could quite adjust to what was happening, Patty-Jo’s muscular arms were around her, Patty-Jo’s decidedly feminine lips pressed hard against her own. Panic emptied her mind: she could only mewl, unable to breathe. She struggled frantically, somehow broke free, pulling back a step. She was panting, her heart palpitating, stray strands of hair suddenly fallen across her eyes: she could only stare at Patty-Jo, at the blaze of her look, the alien intensity of her expression.
“I…” she stammered, “I don’t…”
And then Patty-Jo was on her again, coming like the tide - strong hands upon her shoulders, soft yet firm lips upon her mouth; sweet breath stealing her own away. Again her thoughts fled, trying to escape this awful reality - the touch of mouths, the press of bodies. Yet this time she did not struggle, did not fight: something had robbed her of all strength, something she dare not name; dare not even consider. And when the kiss foundered, all that she could do was stand there: a helpless, choking mass, tearful and trembling. With a mighty effort, she lifted her hands, cupping them around Patty-Jo’s face.
“Please,” she whispered, eyes wide and pleading, “Tell me this is not a trick…”
“No trick,” Patty-Jo’s look was almost painful in its earnestness. “I want you, Miss - I’ve always wanted you…”
This time, the kiss was Dedra’s, soft as the first drop of rain, shyly inquiring. Dry lips touching, adhering, sealing; become suddenly warm, suddenly moist, friction yielding to sweet, indefinable smoothness. The soft lap of mouths opening, parting, reconnecting; the touch of tongues: massive, quivering, retiring. Heat was filling Dedra, surging into her cheeks, her throat; her private, shameful places. The trembling consumed her, within and without; her heart was rolling thunder. Yet in the eye of her personal storm she was almost calm.
“We should not do this,” she breathed. “It is forbidden, it is wrong…”
In response Patty-Jo kissed her again, tongue sliding into her open mouth, dizzying in its engorged succulence: filling and invading the pliant cove of her; the slow seeping syrup of saliva dripping in her throat, making her swallow, sealing the bond. Their parting was like surfacing from underwater.
“Please stop,” said Dedra, although her heart no longer seemed to be in it.
“There’s no one else here,” Patty-Jo replied gently, kindly. “Only us. Nobody will ever know…”
“You have a husband…” What was intended as an accusatory rebuke came out more as a gentle reminder.
“He’s on duty through ‘til the middle of tomorrow morning,” Patty-Jo grinned. “Forget him: forget all of them. Tonight, it’s just you an’ me…”
Pablo Beach, Florida, 1891: old friends William Anstel and Edward Carterton reunite for a weekend break, accompanied by their fiancees, Mindy Dart and Nedda Lou Bellini. But what seems an innocent, chaste holiday soon takes a darker turn when all four beach-goers glimpse something from beyond normality, whereupon deep secrets and hidden agendas come tumbling to the fore...
What is Edward's plan for the weekend, and does he dare reveal it to William? Just what goes on inside the 'bathing machine'?
EXTRACT:
Decisive now, assertive, even a tad aggressive, Mindy guided Nedda down onto one slim bed. As she did so, she assaulted the final layers of skirt and petticoat and drawers. Nedda’s nudity seemed to be exposed too fast - no time to savour all of the stunning, secret delights in the urgent rush of blood and sensuality. The exquisite slimness of her arms and legs; the flat, pale china plain of her stomach, its dainty navel like a jewel inlaid; the sweet cinch of her waist; the sweeping arcs of her hips - all were bypassed in the overriding fascination of that lush black delta she had only heretofore known through touch. Already it glistened with incipient moisture; a hint of fragrant vermilion showing amid the ebon curls like a flash of fire in dry brush. With urgent gestures Nedda bid Mindy undress - the task was accomplished with almost preternatural speed, as if clothing was an irrelevance to them now, a needless, useless barrier to the fusion of flesh; easily discarded.
And so, at last, to the bed: Nedda lay back, her hair spilled in dark billowed curls across the pillow, her body rippling and palpitating in ashen anticipation. Mindy lay herself down atop her, both consciously and unconsciously aping what William had done, for ‘twas the only frame of reference she possessed. But this was all so different, so thrilling: the softness of their bodies coalescing as they kissed; the yielding press of breasts, bellies and thighs; the scintillating crackle of pubic regions brushing, wetness seeking wetness just as mouth sought mouth. Spurred by instincts she never dreamed were within her she oscillated, moving upon Nedda in a manner at once like and unlike William’s frantic flexion; while Nedda, no shrinking violet, no passive receptacle, wrapped her legs about Mindy’s waist and writhed up against her in beautiful, unbearable friction; sweetly oiled by sweat and the scented spray of femininity unleashed. All too soon - or so it seemed - Mindy could feel the uncontrollable trembling consume her: she looked down into the inky depths of Nedda’s eyes and knew she was again seduced, thrice ruined, utterly fulfilled.
“Nedda…” she panted, in helpless release, “Oh, Nedda…”
And Nedda pushed hard up against her, one last titanic effort to crest the wave.
“Yeah,” she moaned in turn, “Oh, yeah… now, Mindy, now… let it go…”
Like pealing bells they cried in counterpoint, the bed shuddering at the fury of their conjoined apogee; a sudden rainstorm slowly subsiding to a horizon of tangled limbs and sticky, salted skin; of panted breaths and resonating tremors of crystallised delight.
In 1911 the quiet tourist trap of Saint-Quay-Portrieux, France, counts among its residents fishmonger Sabelle Lors Bourgier and her younger sister, Deronique. To their family, and the wider world, Deronique is an unfortunate genetic aberration, mentally enfeebled - but Sabelle knows better. Her efforts to prove the point lead her to encounters with mysterious visitors: one human, one decidedly not; and send her down a dark path where she and her sister's very lives may be forfeit.
Just who is the enigmatic Monsieur Heuvel? And does he hold the key to the sisters' chance at future happiness?
Sabelle’s hand trembled slightly as she pushed open the attic room door. Deronique was sat on their bed, head in her hands: when she looked up her eyes were red and rheumy; dark pits of despair. Upon seeing her sister she gave a sob, leapt up, and threw herself into Sabelle’s arms, there to weep anew.
“They said you’re marrying Gaston,” she whimpered. “They said they’re sending me away. I couldn’t bear to be parted from you, Sabelle - please, tell me it’s not true…”
“I promise you, Littlest One,” Sabelle mewled, her own tears now flowing free, “I will never marry Gaston. And if they send you away, they’ll have to send me, too - where you go, I go.”
They huddled into each other, clinging and crying; wet cheek upon wet cheek. Gingerly, Deronique’s lips sought out Sabelle’s own: they kissed chastely, sisterly, for comfort. But all too soon those lips began to blossom and part, tongues slithering together to tangle and writhe; the salt of tears evaporated in the sudden, thudding heat of blood. As Deronique’s hands began to wander, to clutch and pick at her clothing, Sabelle stiffened in her embrace.
“Deronique,” she hissed, “We can’t. Not now - someone might come…”
“Let them,” came the soft, bald reply. And with a gentle but decisive tug Deronique pulled her sister towards the bed, even as she was unfastening Sabelle’s dress so that it tumbled from her shoulders, her bust, her waist; falling to the floor like so much bubbling sea foam. And Sabelle could not deny her sister - could never deny her - kissing her fiercely, tearing the simple smock away from her flawless body; pressing her down amid the blankets; feeling her long-delayed passion reignite as a licking flame between her legs; a phoenix reborn and unrestrained. Divesting herself of her underwear, Sabelle slid onto the bed, atop her sibling, pressing and rubbing as her hungry lips and tongue once more met Deronique’s.
There was an urgency to this, a desperation: Sabelle’s pent-up passion from this morning blended with the very real threat to their love, their life together. Sabelle, in that moment, did not know what to do, how to save them: she knew only of making love to her sister. Slipping down, she first kissed, then licked, then suckled upon Deronique’s nipples, feeling the girl rise against her, moaning softly, eyelids a-flutter with the wash of urgent pleasure. Sabelle kissed on, across the pale steppe - untouched by the burnishing sun - of Deronique’s midriff, the ovoid oasis of her navel: her intention was obvious, and Deronique’s thighs were already parted in anticipation. A tang of sea-spray caught Sabelle’s nostrils as she gazed upon the fuchsia fissure of her sibling’s sex, glistening from amid its luxuriant garland of deep umber curls: alluring, inviting, yet withal intimidating. Sabelle drew breath, closed her eyes, dipped her head: her lips met glutinous wetness, splashing onto her tongue; a surge of flavour, elusive ambrosia, so like yet so unlike her own taste. Tentatively she began to lick, teasing apart Deronique’s labia with the tip of her tongue; curling back and up to gently flick the taut clitoris. Deronique’s body rose in supplication, pressing against her; threatening to smother her in its adoration. She licked on, her mouth full of heady, sickly nectar: swallowing the fountainhead of her sister’s lust made manifest. She sensed Deronique’s final trembling; heard the smothered cries of her struggle between the need for discretion and the greater need for release - a struggle with but one winner. Deronique twisted suddenly, her body lifting and winding tight as a watch spring, pressing herself hard against her lover.
“Sabelle,” she cried, “Save me. Save me, Sabelle…”
And she flexed and pulsed, and Sabelle felt the flow of her, filling her mouth, spilling across her cheeks, splashing over her nose and chin. In the aftermath they were both panting hard, breathless: pulling herself up, Sabelle pressed her mouth to Deronique’s, imparting the fruits of her apotheosis; sharing the sticky, spicy delight. Sabelle had done it, at last - she had pleasured her sister with her mouth; repaid her debt of desire. For a moment she knew nothing but pride and tenderness, but as she settled in Deronique’s warm, endlessly loving embrace she began to feel a new sensation - hope.
“I will save you,” she whispered, into her sister’s damp, glowing locks.
But just then, she still didn’t know how.
In 1912, near to the eastern England resort of Lowestoft, there stands an expensive clifftop residence belonging to the famed novelist, MacNaish. He, however, is not in residence this fateful summer, being on a working retreat in Norfolk: instead, the house is in the dubious care of his young daughters, Jada and Patrina. What they see from their high eyrie, and what they subsequently uncover within the house, changes their lives in dramatic, fundamental, and irrevocable fashion.
What dark secrets lie in MacNaish's hidden manuscripts? And how will his offspring cope with glimpses of the forbidden and the unknown?
EXTRACT:
Jada stopped reading. She was trembling, and she could feel droplets of perspiration slowly inching their way across her brow. Patrina’s eyes were closed, her breathing shallow - whether she was asleep or not, Jada didn’t much care. She got up, placed the manuscript on a dresser, and silently slipped from the room.
Safe at her own dresser, she contemplated herself in the mirror: the haunted eyes; the flushed, serious face; the near-voluptuous figure defined and constrained by the clinging corset. Again she wondered, would Aled - would any man - desire her? Would he do such awful things with her? Would she want him to? Almost unbidden, her fingers crept to the stays of her corset, slowly releasing them, one by one. She exposed first one snowy, curvaceous breast, then the other. Her pulse hammered in her temple, her wrists, her stomach as she gently ran her fingertips over her distended, roseate nipples; the sudden ripple of sensation making her shudder and gasp. Slowly she unfastened all the stays, until the corset fell away like some discarded carapace, and she saw herself naked - save for her stockings - as if for the first time: the ripe hang of her breasts; the strong projection of her ribs; the slight swell of her tummy; the dense delta of sandy curls wedged between long, powerful thighs. Her mouth was dry; something else was wet Her fingers drifted to her belly, paused there a moment, then slowly began to descend…
Behind her, the door opened. Jada froze, but did not turn. In reflection she watched as Patrina padded into the room, the papers clutched beneath one arm. Without words, with nary a glance in her sister’s direction Patrina placed the manuscript at the foot of the bed then straightened, drawing her slip up and over her head. Jada had a fleeting vision of pale, slender loveliness before Patrina pulled back the covers and deftly slipped into her sister’s bed, tucking herself in to lie expectant, as she had before. Jada turned from the mirror, crossed to the bed, sat down upon its edge. With a deep, unconscious sigh she peeled the stockings from her legs, shivering slightly as she did so. Almost idly she picked through the papers at her side, before picking up a sheet, and resuming her reading.
Herm, Channel Islands, 1923: beautiful, vivacious Lindsey Rae Vought is betrothed to a French nobleman; in order to fully prepare her for her nuptials, she is sent to the sleepy island of Herm for instruction by governess Honorine Alsace, taking along her best friend from school, Vida Laurimer. But when all three of them spot something most curious in the shallows surrounding their island retreat, it causes secret loves & desires to come rushing to the surface.
Can Honorine persuade Vida to confess her true feelings? And if she does, what becomes of Lindsey's wedding plans?
EXTRACT:
“There are no guarantees,” said Honorine gently. “Mam’selle Lindsey might shrink from your affection as she shrank from our friendly monstre. But at least you would know your love was unrequited - with Chantal, I never got the chance to find out: uncertainty will break your heart more surely than the truth.”
Vida merely stared, her lower lip trembling. She could feel an enormous pressure in her breast, as if something huge was uncoiling inside - a monster, perhaps?
“If,” she said, uncertainly, “If it did happen - what could we do?”
Honorine brought her face close, her look at once serious and indulgent.
“I could teach you, if you wish,” she whispered. “After all, that is what I am here to do…”
Vida’s nod was almost imperceptible, certainly enough that it could perhaps be plausibly denied. Nonetheless, Honorine put her hands to the sides of Vida’s face, leaned forward, and kissed her. The kiss was soft, dry; held just long enough for their lips to adhere slightly, to produce a faint, percussive knell as they parted. Vida’s lips seemed to tingle and blossom in the aftermath; her eyes shimmered dreamily. Honorine kissed her again, and behind the tenderness of her lips there was force and hunger: a sense of longing and passion and ineffable sadness all somehow conveyed in this simple press of lips. Honorine shaped her mouth, obliging Vida to follow suit, the girl tensing then softening as the friction between them gave way suddenly to warm silkiness. Vida held her breath, dizzied, as her lips were eased apart, the tip of Honorine’s tongue dabbing gently between them, delineating their shape, dabbing lightly against the smooth marble edifice of her teeth. And as it slipped into her mouth, a sudden, mobile succulence, Vida felt the colour rising fast in her cheeks, her pulse suddenly racing. She pulled back, literally breathless.
“Do you dislike it?” Honorine asked, her expression maddeningly neutral, poised betwixt intense emotion and professorial formality.
“I…” Vida had no idea what to say - she felt ever so slightly unreal. “I’m not sure…”
Honorine’s hands slipped down to the base of Vida’s throat, itself vividly flushed. Before the girl could quite comprehend it, the bow of her nightdress had been briskly slipped. She flinched, just a little, as the garment was opened, exposing the tender, hanging-pear ripeness of her breasts. With immense delicacy Honorine ran her fingertips over their yieldingly tensile surface: Vida shivered, her dark hair faintly roiling, and gasped as sensation flared across her bosom, her nipples suddenly filled with throbbing warmth; becoming incongruously heavy and turgid under feather light caress. And then Honorine’s mouth was upon her own once more: open, wet-lipped, her tongue a surging wash of sweetness blown in on a storm of jasmine breath. Vida’s own tongue retreated, quivering, then uncurled to greet the intruder, to wrap it in sticky threads of syrupy saliva; to greedily possess it and swallow it down. Their tongues danced like a play of fountains, fluidly intermingling: Vida struggled to breathe evenly as her heart tried to thunder its way out of her chest. She felt clammy, feverish - she had no idea what she was doing, but did not want to stop.
Honorine’s hands were upon her breasts again, this time firmer and more intent: fingers cupping and moulding her plump pliability, thumb-tips stroking the stiff penumbras of her nipples, making them ache savagely, sweetly. Vida mewled faintly, deep in the back of her throat: she was losing hold of herself; it seemed there were fires being set throughout her body, glowing in unnameable places; threatening to burn out of control. When this latest, epic kiss sundered, it felt like emerging from under a blanket, from underwater: she guzzled sweet air helplessly. Honorine’s hands were still moulded around her breasts, cupping their feminine mass.
“Are you frightened?” Honorine hissed. Vida could not speak - she shook her head, just enough.
“Do you still want to learn?”
Vida swallowed hard, against a throat suddenly gone dry. She tried to make her trembling lips form a smile.
“Yes,” she managed to croak. “Teach me everything…”
Suffolk, England, 1931: the surreal seaside resort of Thorpeness is in mourning, following the death of its creator. With singularly bad timing, plutocrat Sir Frederick Sorn chooses to bring his new wife Lilah there for a delayed honeymoon, bringing maidservants Leanne Mitchell and Nelly Thompson along for good measure. But all too soon it becomes clear that Sorn has more than nuptials on his mind; and when the three women of his household have a strange encounter at the beach, it sets the stage for domestic drama, the likes of which the region has never seen...
Why does Frederick Sorn abandon Thorpeness almost as soon as he arrives? And to whom will Leanne & Nelly ultimately prove most loyal - Master, Mistress, or each other?
EXTRACT:
It took a moment for the housekeeper to realise she had finally been dismissed, and somewhat curtly at that - she was at once mightily relieved and mildly affronted. She rose on stiffening knees, replaced the pumice, nodded and slipped directly across the landing to the room she shared with Nelly. Sitting on the bed she was at a loss, unable to disentangle her feelings and the images seared into her consciousness - the black shock of Lilah’s pudenda; the buoyancy of Lilah’s breasts; the softness of Lilah’s sole cradled in her fingers. Her heart and pulse still raced; she felt clammy and uncomfortable. She listened to the sudden, waterfall whoosh of her mistress finally leaving the bath, the faint whisper of that towel enwrapping bare flesh. Soft footfalls crossed to master bedroom: a door creaked shut. Leanne knew anguish as she pictured Lilah towelling herself down; knew greater anguish as she imagined herself participating in the operation. There was a long, near silent pause - Leanne visualised a dozen outfits into which Lilah might now be pouring herself - each one a source of frustration and allure. To picture the Mistress applying her makeup was almost painful. Then at long last the door opened and closed again decisively - there was a clatter of heels upon the stairs; the front door slammed shut.
Leanne was still sat there when Nelly breezed into the room with freshly-aired towels.
“Oh, Miss Mitchell, I didn’t realise you were still up here.”
Setting down the linen she paused expectantly, awaiting some instruction, but none was forthcoming. Instead Leanne rose, crossed to the door, and closed it. Turning back to the maid she simply stood, silent and staring. A slow, knowing smile crept across Nelly’s face - she set down the linen, removed her cap, and with artless insouciance began to undress.
Beyond shock now, Leanne was merely numbed by this banal spectacle. The new body being unveiled before her eyes was superficially similar to Lilah’s, but there were crucial differences - above all it was significantly curvier, less delicate, albeit with its own kind of heavily athletic grace. Nelly was unquestionably a ripe young woman - no wonder men prowled around her like ravenous dogs. But even now, Leanne could not deduce what she made of such a creature.
Nelly was not shy about displaying her charms. Divesting herself of the last of her underwear she shuffled backwards on top the bed. Laying back, she slid one forearm beneath her bosom, elevating and projecting her full round breasts; she opened her legs wide and slipped her other hand between them, indulging in a shimmering moment of private pleasure before fixing Leanne with a sultry, provocative look.
“D’you like what you see, Miss Mitchell?”