Extract: Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith
I promised another extract from my latest novella, ‘Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith’. And I also promised it would be one that involved a scene based on the pictoral inspiration for the story – and which I affectionately now call ‘the weird bed’!
Briefly, the context for this scene is that the carver of the bed has just left my author proagonist, Andy, to find his way around his hotel room. Without further ado, for your reading pleasure here it is:
Then he’s gone, slinking off against the wall of the narrow little stairwell that separates my room from the rest of the house. I’m left with my suitcase, and my books, and the weird, incredible bed. Touching the polished wood of the posts, I can feel my skin tingle with the thrill, and it leaves my cock snaking around inside my boxer shorts, trying to stand and become a competitor for my attention. If it grows to look anything like the four phalluses that I am going to sleep with, then someone will be very lucky. If only.
I fish around in the suitcase for my book on Walpurgisnacht. I only have thirty pages left. I’ve been wanting to read it during the last few days in October, so I finish on the actual night. Daft little quirk, I know, but it’s the kind of mentality I’ve got. I appreciate the myth, the story, behind the event. I climb inside the embroidered cover, the cool sheets caressing my legs, and the cushions allowing their luscious, soft bodies to press up against my back. I begin reading, and indeed manage about twenty pages, but my gaze is drawn more and more towards the end of the bed, and the lush carvings of something resembling Bacchanalia.
Trying to untangle the body parts is a feat in itself. Each pillar has a woman wrapped entirely around the post. One shows her drinking over a man’s shoulder from a pot, while his cock, carved in gigantic proportions, inserts itself into her. It reminds me of the Ancient relief carvings that I’ve always loved, and that have accompanied me in my endeavours as I’ve sat in the British Museum in silence, trying to resurrect writing that appears long since dead.
The excitement I feel at the prospect of actually sleeping in a bed carved in this manner becomes painfully evident under the bedsheets, my erection growing to its full potential the more I study cocks and cunts carved on every carved, flat surface. I’ve untangled the images at the end of the bed: an orgy of demonic creatures, fangs on show and vile eyes, encircle the Leanan Sidhe. She has a demonic cock in each hand while another one is positioned upside down, fucking her bared breasts, the demon’s mouth buried in the front of her pussy. And, all the time, other demons crowd around a man who lays, cock to the ceiling, as she squats over it, ready for him to say “yes”.
My book on Walpurgisnacht is upturned on the pillow. My hand slips under the sheets and begins to stroke, as I stare at the carving of her. I’ve been waiting for this all evening. Patience finally reaps its rewards, except I’m not usually this patient, and I’m just hoping it’s not over too soon. She’s everywhere—leaning on the pillars around my head, her dress held up to her waist and her legs open and wrapped backward around the giant phallus in a strange way that only her carver could get her to do. Every which way I turn, she stares at me, wide-eyed, hair flowing down onto her shoulder, sometimes tickling her breasts and leaving the nipple so hard that I can’t resist kneeling up and touching one while I stroke myself, slow and easy.
The relief is excellent. Her lips are slightly parted, and I run my fingertips over them, between them. What would it be like to put my tongue in there? My body radiates heat, leaving my palms moistened with sweat. Standing on the bed, both my hands are keen to run over the smooth, perfectly curved, exquisitely formed wood. Every indentation makes my breath heavy, every rise under my fingers keeps my own rise in place. There’s only me here. There’s only ever me, through till morning. Although there’s me and her right now, isn’t there?
So I do it—I place my lips over hers, the heat from my own warming the ones under mine in no time at all, and my tongue works its way as far as it can between them. So beautiful, so compliant. My hand slides onto her breast, my palm cupping the smooth roundness that her creator has left for me to enjoy. Desperate to nip and squeeze that nipple so much, I give in. I take it between my finger and thumb and tantalise it, while my tongue gives her lips a lashing. A lashing? I wonder what it would feel like to spank her firm arse? Does she have one? Her mouth seems to get wider, her nipple responds to my fingers, I’m sure of it. At least in my head.
Over the folds of the dress my hand slides, my fingertip dipping into each smooth crevice as the other wraps itself around the post and traces the curl of her tresses. He’s done an incredible job, the creator. Her hipbone is laid bare to me and I feel my way from here, down to the gentle curve of the top of her thigh. How real does she feel—has he covered every detail—? Bugger me, yeah, he certainly has. Her pussy bared; my finger tentatively exploring the detail; her clit hard and in need. Her folds carved open for me to slide into. My hands so wet now that I envisage the sweat as her juices as I play with her petals. My cock so hard against her, poking out of the fly in my boxers. Why am I still wearing them? I rip them, yanking them down to my ankles, returning to place my lips in her hair. It smells of the muskiness of sex and wood. Sex in the wood—mmm. In the desperate throes of kissing her auburn wood tresses, I feel her mouth against my cheek; I move, and her mouth is against my neck, pressing hard. So hard it’s almost painful. I think, maybe—oh, god, it is. Almost punctured by the strength inside her mouth. Let it penetrate me, I don’t care!
Is the creator really good? Has he given me everything? My finger slides along the exquisite smooth folds to the circle carved into the wood. Only it’s more than that. So much more. Oh fuck…my finger slips inside where it’s not so smooth, but has just a little resistance, like layers of ruffled feathers. As real as he can make it. So much of a turn-on. I can’t resist the need to place my oozing crown at her entrance, but first I have to check—two fingers, three, all the way to the hilt. Wow. Such a deceptive little hole. And all I need to do is push. My hand grips her breast, hard. The wood is biting into my neck. Delicious pain. The ache is too much. A guttural growl rises from deep within and my throbbing cock is going to fuck. It’s going to fuck her. All I need to do is this…
I LOVE this bed – it’s weird, it’s a bit scary, but it’s just so…well, look at it! My Leanan Sidhe finds this bed quite an amazing piece, too – and does some rather incredible things with it!
You can find my ‘weird bed’ novella – and all the sexy antics of Andy and the woman who wants to become his muse – in the brilliant paranormal erotica anthology, Lust in Tooth and Claw. You can follow all the news of the Lust anthology series on Twitter, too, by following @pnrlust, or searching #PNRLust.
Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith is the first novella in my Leanan Sidhe series – seven contemporary books, plus an extra ‘prequel’, all about the creator of the rather exciting (fictional) bed – so watch out for Leanan Sidhe and the Carver, early next year.
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