Extract – The Chocolatier: Daemon of Hearts and Souls (18+)

Just for Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d share with you an extract of my latest novella, The Chocolatier: Daemon of Hearts and Souls, published in the Valentine’s Lust anthology, Lust in Lace, where I am overjoyed to be sharing author space with the lovely Devi Ansevi and my very dear friend, Lurv Spanking.

A brief bit of context to the story: Edward is a chocolate maker, with a house full of ghosts who taunt him about his sex life. All Edward wants is a chocolate goddess of his own, and the mysterious and luscious Lilith has entered his life, visiting him several times in his shop – to the dismay of his would-be girlfriend – and promising to help him. Edward is becoming obsessed by her, and at this point in the story, he has been hoping she would arrive once again at his shop. Poor Edward…

Happy Valentine’s Day, and happy reading!

Ina x


He began to panic, so that, when she finally put him out of his misery and walked through the door, he felt as if his chest would explode, and he prayed that nothing untoward would happen inside his trousers. His own imagination was embarrassing enough. He didn’t need his body joining in to humiliate him more than it already was.

Of course he embarrassed himself. He couldn’t help it. It was the story of his life. The moment Lilith stood facing him across the counter, he blurted out,

“I dreamt of you last night.”

Lilith raised her eyebrows and those green eyes opened so wide he thought he might be sucked inside to drown in a whirlpool of her own special conjuring.

“Did you really? Well…” She pressed herself against the counter top, her fur coat sliding away, revealing the smooth luxury of bared shoulders and delicious cleavage. He swallowed hard, fighting the fantasy of thrusting his long, hard cock up between her breasts, focusing on the sensuous movements of carnelian lips, as she continued. “…I am surprised.” Her hair fell forward, framing her face, and curling across the surface of the counter, where his chocolates were waiting for her.

Her red finger nails lifted his chin to meet her gaze. “Shall I come around to your side, so you can tell me all about it, before we do what I’m here for?”

His face heated; he had to focus very hard on the reason she was there.

“May I have a chocolate, Edward? Will you feed one to me? It’s very arousing for me to know your fingers have touched it before it enters my mouth. Look.”

She slid her palms to cup her breast, so that he could see her nipples standing hard under the satin of her black dress. “Go on, Edward. Touch them. I know you want to. Don’t you?”

His answer came out as a hoarse “Yes.”

Both his thumbs tested the little hard peaks, rolled over them in rhythm with his surging pulse. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Ixcacao swinging on the sign outside, and he screwed up his face to concentrate on her. Lilith’s face dragged him back into the moment as she leaned over the counter, her beautiful rounded breasts barely restrained in the top of her dress, her red lips open in a perfect ‘O’. He fed her a dark, heart-shaped chocolate truffle, with a mint fig leaf on the top.

For a long, silent moment, she savoured the shape of the fig leaf with the tip of her tongue, smiling strangely.

“I can taste your delicious dream. Lift me onto the counter, feed me another. Whisper it in my ear. And tell me how you came. You did come, didn’t you, Edward? I can taste that, too.” Her tongue brushed her bottom lip, and he let out an involuntary little noise.

“I must—must close up the shop first. Let me—let me lock the door.”

He shot from behind the counter, even his bad leg co-operating for once, as the last bells rang out to call him to worship. Wasn’t that exactly what he was about to do? The bell clanked as he secured the door, making sure no-one would disturb them. No wandering lost soul was going to come and get in the way now.

“Maybe you should pull the blind, too… If you feel you want to?”

His entire body burned at her silken words. With quivering fingers, he tugged on the rarely-closed blind, valiantly trying to contain the choking coughs as dust fell. Motes crowded the room, like a deprived man’s fairy dust in the slivers of morning light, scattering silently on the currents of air. For one moment, he thought he saw a movement in the wall next to the window. He held his breath, hoping the ghosts withheld their sarcasm and deliberately misplaced encouragement. Though, as he turned to Lilith, trying to shield his erection from her gaze, he was sure he heard a tinkling laugh above her head. But he might just have been paranoid.

“Lift me up, Edward. And tell me every detail of your delicious-tasting dream.”

The strap of her long, sleeveless dress slipped lower, the bodice drifting down to reveal the milky skin at the top of her breasts. He was transfixed by her beauty; his hands acted without his volition: a tentative finger stroking the top of her arm, dipping between her arm and her body, coursing over the silky curve of her breast to her cleavage; his other hand cupped the base of her neck, sliding over her collar bone to stop on her warm, mounded flesh. She smiled again and slid his hands down over her breasts and into her waist, while he tried to stifle moans of desperate yearning.

“Hold me here.”

He lifted her obediently onto the counter, the movement revealing that her dress was slit at one side all the way to the point where his palm now slipped under the satin and met soft, warm flesh. His cock surged afresh at the realisation that the dress was all that Lilith was wearing.

Edward whispered his dream as Lilith’s legs began to encase him and draw him in. The more he related the detail, the more his head spun, floating in some strange fantasy world. Warmth surrounded him, overwhelmed him; drowning in his own dream would be a perfect way to die. Was he dying?

He stopped speaking, needed to find his breath. He felt as if he’d used up every part of himself, and he needed—what did he need? A moment to recover? Oh, he knew that was long gone. As he gulped in air, he realised how, without even being conscious of doing so, his hand had slid over her dress, revealing her to him, and begun cupping and squeezing one naked breast while his other hand entwined in the back of her long, dark hair. Her arms encircled his neck, a long fingernail combing tender caresses through his hair. She kissed his neck. Her kisses drove him crazy, the way she was kissing once, twice, thrice, all the while making tiny circling motions with the tip of her tongue, before trailing it to a new part of his neck where she did it again.

His body tingled, desire snaking through him. He reached back and unlinked her hands from the back of his neck, surprised to find that she let him. But he realised why soon enough.

She laid herself back on the counter, drawing him to press himself right up against her. The satin fell away under her to reveal soft, smooth legs. With a teasing laugh, she rested one over the other, allowing his hands to run their length, yet denying the prize at the summit.

Undeterred, throbbing with an urgent need to taste her, he took her breast between his lips and sucked hard, as her legs wound around the back of his neck. His cock pressed itself against the counter top, desperate to be free of its restraints, as his hand explored the bounty she had to offer, stroking along the slight curve of her belly. Her every moan vibrated against his palm, wound themselves around his head, as she breathed each one close to his ear.

Each sound of pleasure devoured another part of his body, until only one part of him dallied in its wish to be claimed by her. That was pounding in his chest, feeling like it was being ripped this way and that, impeding his hungry, fumbling movements as he sought to slide the dress down further. Her other breast met his lips, while her hair splayed in a stunning dark fan across the counter top.

“Do I taste good, Edward?” Her words smothered him in a fondant layer of her sensuality, moulding around him, making his taste-buds desperate for more. His tongue trailed along her exposed throat, her chin, lips, cheek, savouring the flavour of every desire that had ever dominated his dreams, sleeping or awake.

“Do it. Taste me. It’s what you want. Every one of your desires is inside me. Taste them. You put them there. You fed them to me. You are inside me.”

Her words, and the images they created, were like melted chocolate encasing his body with liquid sex. When he parted her legs, she gasped in arousal, hips thrusting into the air. For the first time he beheld all her hidden treasures. He was shocked to find her completely smooth, every plump, succulent fold laid bare. Her wetness, her sex, weren’t imagined; they were real. With a tender touch he stroked the length of her glistening, swollen pussy, stopping at her entrance to circle it, mesmerised by the building of her orgasm, the sensuous lift of her pelvis up to meet him.

“Do it.”

Her words washed over him, through him, drenching him, drawing his fingers inside her lusciously wet depths.

“Taste my wetness. It’s yours. Just as you are mine.”

He wanted to; everything that throbbed through his body and converged in his solid, dripping cock told him to do it. But, as with everything, a tiny, stubborn portion of his brain reminded him of his other obsession, determined to fuck up this fantasy come true.

Torment wrenched his words forth in a whisper. “My goddess. I shouldn’t—I’ve wanted her forever. What am I doing?” His head hurt, his balls ached, and his cock and heart were in agony. “Why do I want you so?”

His tongue touched the gleaming wetness that coated the top of her thigh. When she moaned, he couldn’t help himself. He lapped at her swollen pinkness like someone starved of nourishment, nipping, tugging, flicking at her clit, which hardened into a little ball between his lips. He paused just to change the angle of his mouth against her, his doubts swallowed by his longings, and she reached down, holding his head still against her flesh as if in fear that he would leave her pussy unsated.

“Fill me with your every desire. You want your goddess to be real, don’t you? Then share every wish, every need with me. Make sure I feel the very depth of them on your tongue. Fill me up.”

His tongue entered her. Soft tissue gripped it, caressed it, drawing him in. He pumped her, a little at first, gradually filling her, his nose nuzzling her pussy lips. As her heavy panting turns to whimpers, his thumb stroked round and round her clit, and she writhed under him, there on his shop counter, where people bought his neat little chocolates for their satisfaction. The thought of fucking where he handed over secret delights daily excited him immensely, and he imagined his customers wanting to taste sex in his shop, wanting to experience the power of desire, of love, and how they might be prepared to do anything to get it.

The images were blurred, but they filled his head as his saliva mixed with her juices and he lapped it all up, trailing his tongue up the whole of her pussy and hearing her utter a guttural groan. He did it again, and she growled.

“Fuck me harder. Use your fingers. Bite my pussy. Show me your desires.”

He was enraptured. He slid two fingers into her, fucking her vigorously with them as his mouth continued to work every other part of her swollen beauty. In his head he saw someone in a mask—he couldn’t tell if it was him, but he thought it might have been—and a woman tied to a chair by her wrists and ankles, her backside in the air, pussy lips puffy with anticipation. Next to her, incredibly tiny lace knickers laid on a little table, the kind he was sure no-one made. Women wouldn’t wear such a thing.

The masked individual picked them up and held them to his face. Edward saw his chest rise as the man inhaled, and opened the woman’s cunt wide with two fingers. Winding the lace on his finger, he pushed it slowly into her up to his palm. He followed it with his cock, easing in and out of her, the lacy knickers disappearing bit by bit, until almost all of it was inside her, all the time thumbing her clit while she moaned at his moves, and at not being able to watch. Her back arched in one long, slow orgasm, as far it could in the position she was tied, as he slowly pulled the knickers back out and wiped them over a mound of chocolate on the table near her that looked like one of Edward’s chocolate truffles, but much bigger, and shaped like a woman’s pussy. She lapped at the truffle, while he sucked at the lacy knickers.

He was drawn out of his fantasy, as Lilith began to buck, rutting against his mouth. He responded to her frenzy, his tongue sliding the full length of her pussy, from her hard nub down to her entrance, and past, to explore her tight little puckered hole.

Her fingers wound in his hair.

“I’m coming. I want to come right in your mouth. Taste me.”

He sucked at her sex, fast, not knowing what might happen, so aroused he thought he might erupt into his clothes when her juices hit his tongue. He’d never experienced anything like this before, and he wished he could have watched as well as felt it. Her legs hooked around his backside, forcing his face into her pussy. Everything whirred in his head—the overwhelming taste of her, mingled with an unmistakable flavour of the darkest chocolate. He wanted to make himself come, there in his shop, a place he had never tainted with a fuck. But now he wanted to smell it everywhere. Over his counter, in the walls, on the shelves.

“What do you love? What can’t you live without, Edward?” Lilith’s voice oozed into his head, smooth, silken, like the embrace of her thighs.

“I love you—the taste of you, that is. That’s what I mean. I mean—oh fuck. You.”

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22 thoughts on “Extract – The Chocolatier: Daemon of Hearts and Souls (18+)

      • Ina Morata says:

        Maybe. Maybe not.

        But on the question of reality in fiction (whatever one deems to be “reality”): I remember once being told that the best fiction often has an element of truth in it. I find that fiction written with a deep essence of truth, regardless of the actual plot line in the story, is a writer at his or her most authentic. It’s not always easy to write this way – in fact, it can make for a very difficult writing experience – but I do like to hold onto that piece of advice, as I value it greatly.


      • Swedish Chef says:

        Writing with a hint of truth always adds depth and authenticity to a writers work, especially in erotic writing, where it is too easy to get lost in the cheesy or contrived pornographic. It does alter the reading experience though, as the reader may start to impose themselves into the characters.


      • Ina Morata says:

        I agree entirely (and, having written both, I can safely say that I prefer the more authentic approach, even if the writing experience becomes utterly draining). I think there’s a place for all forms of erotica, though, but it only remains erotica if the sex is integral to the overall story, and not merely a means to an end.

        With regard to the reader experience, surely that’s what the best kind of writing does – immerse the reader into the character, so that a degree of, or even total empathy can be formed? Otherwise, why bother?


      • Swedish Chef says:

        I agree. Any idiot can write low grade porn. It’s not exactly rocket science. As for the reader experience, that is the sign of a well written piece, but nevertheless not everyone can read a piece where they may uncomfortably identify with one of the characters.


      • Swedish Chef says:

        I find your work frequently resonates. At the risk of sounding like a crazy stalker, I could say there seems to be a lot of me in your characters and stories.


      • Ina Morata says:

        Indeed. Although a muse can be inspirational, I don’t believe a writer’s creativity should be stifled by the muse, neither should the muse be the sole source of that creativity, or the writer’s work will become repetitive and jaded. One only has to look at the Pre-Raphaelites, or Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, or Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre as examples of high creativity but empassioned and (self-)destructive relationships. Huge highs, yet huge lows, too. Some of their best work, for me, was produced through the lows.

        I find that readers presume an awful lot of things about authors, especially erotica authors. I’m pretty sure that crime writers don’t get asked if they murdered someone in order to write a decent murder scene. I’m positive it’s not compulsory to ride horses to write a western. I do think presumptions made of erotica authors are rather ludicrous sometimes. For instance, one doesn’t need to be male or homosexual to write M/M erotica ( neither does the reader need to be).

        Liked by 1 person

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