I am delighted to announce that my dark short story collection on voyeurism, Can You See Me?, is now available for pre-order on, not just Amazon, but also on Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Tolino, Indigo, Angus and Robertson and Mondadori Store with 24 Symbols to follow!
You can pre-order Can You See Me?: Darkly erotic tales of voyeurism for 99c (or equivalent) for the next few days, until its official release on 21 October. The price will be going up to its regular $2.99 very soon after that, so grab it quick!
All other stores: https://books2read.com/canyouseeme
I thought I’d treat you to another little snippet from one of the stories. This one is called ‘Scarlet’. If you’ve ever read the Eroticon anthologies, you might have come across it.
The bar is lit only by dim lamps; no one here wants attention from outsiders. To every random and mildly curious roaming set of eyes with a mouth to match, it’s after hours. Nothing to see here.
The tiny light over the door flickers when she enters. The recently mopped stone reflects a pool of shimmering red, like dripping, untouched lifeblood. I trace a line to its cause: A pencil- thin four-inch heel, that widens at the top. Like paint strokes of liquid scarlet, straps encase her ankles and patent leather pours trailing lines of red over her toes. The pale flesh in between appears smooth, velvet, just like I imagine she is inside. What is she? Is she real? My arousal is real; it grows, long and thick, imprisoned inside my black evening attire, as her heels click against the hard floor and she takes her own makeshift stage against a table in the centre of the room.
I hide in the shadows, a glass of Chardonnay within reach. Watching her. As she turns, and her profile catches the sultry light from the bar, I spot a theatre program peeking like the tip of an uncontrollable erection from the pocket of the coat wrapped around her shoulders – but it’s not her coat, is it, this black shroud that threatens to extinguish her in its darkness? It’s a man’s coat, and its owner hovers like a giant raven over her shoulder, biding his time; like every creature of the dark, he holds expectations that pursuing the prey will be worth the effort. And my lips can’t help but turn upward into a pained smile, because I know that the spells she casts weave tight around those who wish to entrap her. Hunter and prey become twisted and perverted; indistinguishable. That’s the truth, isn’t it?
She runs long fingers across the surface of the hurriedly vacated table, scarlet lips smiling up at the flame-coloured spotlight now illuminating her. Always the same stage for her; always anonymity in the same seat for me. My cock digs hard into the bottom of my belly as her lips part, her black silken hair trailing in long twirls down over the coat of this unknown predator. I wait. cutting through the smoke that curls amid after-hours anticipation…
There’s a dirty hush in the air. The coat slinks into the man’s hands as she reveals her body to the light, and to the covert heavy breath from other watchers in the shadows, that oozes from the darkest recesses of the room, cutting through the smoke that curls amid the anticipation. She allows the man to finger a curve down her neck and onto her shoulders as his shirt presses against her hair. Does he realise he’s passed her audition? Does he have a clue that the play is over and she’s not acting now?
My tongue traces an arc in the air, a simulation of her collar bone where his lips warm up her bared flesh. Her head falls back with a lingering moan into his chest; he prepares the full length of her neck with his mouth, too, while his palm rehearses the scene that he wants to enact with her breasts. Has her scarlet dress been moulded, bespoke, around her flesh or was her false, costumed Self poured into it backstage, so that her true one could stand in those heels, under the single red bulb, and let me see who she really is?
She doesn’t know how, night after night, I’ve felt her sadness seeping through the crumbling putty in the window frame as I stood just outside her dressing room, sighs betraying knowledge that the production was poor, the script worse, and the acting equally abysmal. She always acted her part, though – I’ve seen it often enough to know – played her role of virgin maiden to perfection, conforming to historical stereotypes, her milky skin draped in a white gown, the ancient boards trodden by her small bare feet, innocent yet so cold-looking. But I know the real woman behind that façade. And I always know where to find her when the salmon that streaks the evening sky has been devoured by blackness of night.
From underneath the spotlight, her command breaks my reverie:
“Kneel on the table. There.”
My arousal grasps me, hard. I gulp my Chardonnay as her co-star obeys, waiting with expectant eyes as she reaches behind her and plucks loose the halter neck of her dress, rolling the scarlet silken skin down to her waist. Tingles find numerous pathways through my body as I stiffen in my chair.
Her hands cup her breasts, palms squeezing, fingers beckoning him to her. Playing the predator he thinks he is, he bends, tongue toying with the rise and fall of her flesh. Words fall from her lips, dripping honey, to be lapped up by her devoted co-star. I hear those words, and my entire body throbs:
“Take out your cock. Now.”
He unzips his trousers, releasing his hardness to the hot, red light of her stage. I envy him his freedom, my own throbbing agonising, as she licks the length of her hand and slathers him in her saliva, stretching, pulling, bringing him to a shiny slickness. Her hands once more under her breasts, she engulfs his length in the valley between them, thrusting him to a rhythm of her own direction. Every motion of her soft mounds makes me drag hard and long on my cigarette and force smoke through my nostrils. No on cares in these after-hours moments. They’re all doing the same. It’s supposed to calm me. Distract me. Something.
If you’re now intrigued, you can find this and the other eleven stories here:
All other stores: https://books2read.com/canyouseeme
Whether or not you snap up your bargain book,