Published: May 5, 2014
Stories and Authors:
Eight mistresses of the erotic bring you eight original, never before published stories to excite and arouse, including USA Today Bestsellers Alessandra Torre and CD Reiss, and NY Times Bestseller K. Bromberg.
These are not your mother's erotic stories.
We're not giggling about foul language over tea, or avoiding smut talk at the Tupperware party.
This book is slick fingers and flesh on your lips. It's twisted bodies late at night when the city sleeps and the moans fall where no one can hear them. This book is pain and pleasure, lust and passion, a body brought to the breaking point. It's drenched in the the musk of sweat, shuddering at the touch of a Master.
It's not your mother's erotica. It's yours.
The first novella in Songs of Perdition.
by CD Reiss
Fiona Drazen, sex addict, submissive slave, celebutante, trapped in a mental ward until Dr. Elliot Chapman can help her remember why she's there. But once she does, she might not want to go home to the Master she tried to kill.
The club is thick with humanity. The dance floor stinks. The voices are like a bag of broken glass. The music is a throbbing heartbeat. And the man is gone.
I put my hands on bare, sweaty skin, pushing through. Amanda finds me, blonde hair stuck to her forehead, lipstick fading, her bodyguard, Joel, two steps behind in dark glasses and firearm. She kisses me on the lips. I push her away.
“You see a guy in a suit? Tall? Hair like this?” I make a motion with my fingers.
She points to the exit with a wink. I smack a kiss on her lips, and continue pushing through.
She calls my name as I walk away, but I pretend I don’t hear her. I have a man to find.
Nothing like coke to make the impossible seem within reach, or to make it within your rights to shove, tread upon, growl and curse to get through a crowd just to get a look at some hot stranger. Nothing like that expansion of the ego to make it okay to push some squealing teeny bopper out of your way when she screams “Fiona Drazen! You’re Fiona Drazen!” in your fucking face as if your name alone is front page fucking news.
Of course, they wait outside in a cluster, pressing against the red velvet ropes. Paparazzi don’t care about the weather, which is rainy and cold for Los Angeles. Lights flash. They call out my name as if I even answer to it any more. Let them get their pictures. I have him in my sights.
He hands the valet a tip and takes the keys to a black Range Rover.
He is a thoroughbred, and there are twenty assholes with cameras between him and me, which is too bad, because I have to have him.
I put my knuckles out to them, both middle fingers extended for all it’s worth. I have rings on top of rings, and I know the lights are going to glint on them like hell in the pictures. I’m going to look like a flashy rich bitch and the coke tells me I don’t give a fucking shit what Daddy thinks.
I turn to the doorman, skinny ex-cop with a pencil moustache. He looks at my chest, then at my face. I know Irv. He’s a hustler. He keeps these assholes off us when we’re around, but he takes cash to let them know when Amanda and I show up.
“Irv! What the fuck?”
“I got it,” he says.
“Outta my way cocksuckers!” I shout, plowing through, with Irv’s help. They back off for him in a way they’d never do for me. I know they’d chew me up, spit me out, and photograph me crawling to the hospital.
I get to the Range Rover and pound on the passenger side window. It’s tinted. The car doesn’t move and the window stays up. Do I have the right one?
They’re behind me, and I’m on the curb, in the drizzle, out of Irv’s field of influence. If he comes to get me, he’s leaving the door, and that’s not cool.
I pound on the window again. Bursts of light flash on it.
I’m about to get mobbed.
“Hey, asshole,” I shout.
The window rolls down so slowly I feel as if I’m in a movie about falling.
And there he is. My heart jumps out of my chest.
“Hi,” I say, sticking me head in. I can feel them behind me. I can hear them calling my name, over and over. “You took something of mine outta the bathroom.”
“Really?” He’s older than I thought, and this makes him more attractive then humanly possible. “What?”
“My heart.” It’s a stupid come on, but I’m a girl. I can get away with it.
“Ah. I thought maybe your shirt buttons.” For the first time, he glances at my chest, and I feel that my breasts are chilled.
My shirt is wide open. Fucking Earl with his octopus hands.
“Don’t make me turn around,” I say. “They already got enough pictures.”
He takes a second to think about it, looking me straight in the face. A little smirk plays on the perfect line of his lips and I think I just might die.
by Shay Savage
An injured Roman Tribunus finds comfort in the touch of the slave commanded to tend to his wounds. As a slave, her value is measured as a couple of coins, but as Tribunus Faustus learns more about her, he begins to understand her true worth.
Still, a man of his station can never acknowledge feelings for a slave, and she is already owned by another man.
Aia squeezed my hand gently before releasing it and moving back to her bench. She reached for a cloth and dipped it in a bowl of water and then ran the cool cloth over my forehead and down the side of my face. She continued, apparently determined to wash whatever remained of the blood of battle away from my flesh.
I closed my eyes and evened out my breaths as her ministrations lulled me. My shoulders still ached from the constant position against the bed, but I tried not to think of the discomfort. When I opened my eyes, I saw Aia looking down my body and couldn’t help but respond with a smile.
“Do you still think of it?”
Aia looked back at me.
“Of what, Faustus?”
“My cock pressed against your belly.”
She looked away, but I could still make out the crimson shade of her cheeks and neck in the glow of the candles on the table. I wanted to reach out and grab her hand again, but she was too far away.
“I’m still in need of distraction,” I reminded her.
“I think you need sleep,” Aia rebutted. Her lips pressed together, and I was sure she wanted to comment further, but chose not to do so. I found my eyes drawn to the front of her dress as she leaned over me, partially exposing one of her breasts.
Despite the discomfort, my cock took notice.
“Distract me,” I commanded again.
“I think you know everything about my life now, Faustus.”
“Then distract me another way,” I suggested. I kept my eyes on her, and when she looked to me, I raised an eyebrow and smiled suggestively.
Aia turned to drop the cloth in the bowl, and I watched her eyes as she looked down my body. From my supine position, the state of my cock was becoming noticeable. Her blush returned, and she looked back to the bowl again. Her hand trembled slightly as she wrung out the cloth and hung it beside the table.
Reaching out, I took her wrist and guided her hand to the hard length of my cock.
“How long will it be,” I asked with lowered voice, “until I can fill you with this?”
The Erotica Consortium was the brain child of CD Reiss. In December 2013 she asked JA Huss to help her pull together the hottest erotica writers to start a private Facebook group that would encourage support in all areas of bookish things. Members of The Erotica Consortium were personally invited by JA and CD and the group is complete with six additional authors: Shay Savage, Andrea Smith, KI Lynn, K Bromberg, Ella James, and Alessandra Torre. BEND is their first anthology together.