Wednesday, 31 August 2016

Available Now: One Night in Manchester by Victoria Blisse

City Nights, #25
Victoria Blisse

Length: Novella
Genre: Erotic Romance

Digital Price: $2.99 (99c/99p through Sunday, 4 September)


After a flirty online relationship, Grant meets Jessica in Manchester. He works in TV and he shows Jessica around the set where he's filming. Their relationship quickly escalates and they have sex...on one of the sets! As things develop, so does their love play. In public places! And a little spanking never really hurt anyone. Will Jessica be able to say goodbye to Grant when his work is done?

• • •

It’s today, it’s today, it’s today.

The mantra just swirls around in my mind. It won’t stop. I can’t think of anything else. I started chatting to Grant some months ago. We met online, like so many people do these days. He was a mutual friend of a friend on Facebook. We had an interesting conversation via one of her posts on the joys of American English versus the ‘real’ version. We became friends ourselves and I don’t think a day has passed when we’ve not sent each other a few words since.

Grant lives in New York City and I’m a Manchester girl, so the time difference can be a challenge. He works in television, produces some kind of comedy show, but he won’t give me details. He says he’s worried I won’t like the show and it’ll impact negatively on how I think of him. Like that’s possible. He is often up late and I’m a customer service rep for a twenty-four hour insurance company so I’m usually up early. It’s strange telling someone goodnight at six in the morning, but we’ve made it work.

I never thought we’d actually meet. Daydreamed it of course, but the ocean between us and respective busy lives made me think it would only ever be a fantasy. Then he said he was bringing a programme over the Atlantic for a special edition and would be working at Media City. I couldn’t contain my excitement as it’s only a matter of tram stops away from where I live.

His email said: It’ll just be a long weekend visit. I’m working the Thursday and the Friday, but I’d have the Saturday free if you want to meet up and you know, do stuff.

Do stuff. A variety of erotic images flashed through my mind at those words. That was probably just my fevered imagination, though. We flirt a little bit, and once spent an interesting few hours chatting about personal peccadillos. Turns out we’re into the same kind of thing, but at opposite ends of the paddle, so to speak. Ever since I found out about his dominant tendencies, I’ve dreamed about being submissive for him.

Of course I kept all that to myself and just arranged to meet him at Media City for a day of Mancunian fun. It would be lovely to meet him, to talk to him, to even just hug him. I have to keep my fantasies under control . He’s become a staple in my life. I don’t want to jeopardise a perfectly good friendship by pushing my lust in his face.

It’s today, it’s today, it’s today.

• • •

Victoria Blisse is a mother, wife, Christian, Manchester United Fan, an award winning erotica authoress, and all round Cheeky Wench. She is also the editor of several Bigger Briefs collections, and the co-editor of the fabulous Smut Alfresco, Smut by the Sea (Vol.1), Smut by the Sea (Vol.2), Smut by the Sea (Vol.3), and Smut in the City Anthologies.

She is the mistress of Smut UK putting on Smut Events, Days & Evenings dedicated to erotica, socializing, fun, and prizes. Check out Smut Nights, Smut by the Sea: Scarborough, and Smut Manchester for more info.

Born near Manchester, England, her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories along with her own particular brand of humour and romance that bring laughs and warm fuzzies in equal measure.

Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.

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Wednesday, 24 August 2016

Available Now: The Color of Gothic by Joel Q. Aaron

Joel Q. Aaron

Length: Novel
Genre: Paranormal Western

Price: $4.99 (99c/99p through 28 August)


Convicted murderer, Jonathan Blair, conditionally trades his death sentence for a job as a court-appointed bounty hunter to bring in the members of his former gang—dead or alive. Now, only two weeks remain to find the man who killed his family. If he fails, the gallows await instead of a pardon.

Blair locates the gang member in the Rocky Mountain coal mining town of Gothic, along with a growing number of dead miners with bloodless neck wounds. The fearful townspeople turn to folklore to explain the gruesome slayings. Blair uncovers the truth behind the mysterious deaths. Demons.

An angel, seemingly more foe than friend, pushes him toward a never ending clash between good and evil. The town’s survival depends on Blair abandoning his chance of a pardon, and putting his trust in his pistols. But the thing that scares Blair the most, he and the demons have clashed before. And they’re eager for his tainted soul.

• • •

Dust and frayed threads were the dominant features of William Johnson’s clothes. Running for your life was a hard ride. Blair studied Johnson’s sunburned face. His eyes held the pain he inflicted on others. Willy wouldn’t want the life of a prisoner. This was going to end with bullets, but would not be a mercy killing.

“Jonathan Blair,” Willy said as he looked at him from across the room. His quiet voice didn’t attract much attention. Blair heard him only because he was watching him. He took several steps toward Johnson. Neither man moved their hands. Two gripping pistols. Two holding glass.

“The lawman,” Willy said with a dry laugh.

Blair scoffed at the sarcastic remark. But the words caught the attention of the people nearby.

Eyes tired, Blair shot quick glances at the men in the saloon who watched him and Willy. They didn’t recognize Blair from the old wanted posters or the stories in the Denver paper. He was far from a lawman. He was part of Willy’s gang.

Now he was trying to escape the hangman. Blair couldn’t turn down the deal—trade his death sentence for a stay of execution. If he brought in his former gang members, the state and the railroad company would let him go free. It was the railroad company’s idea—let him risk his life to arrest the rest of the gang. The company set the rules and time limit. How they got the judge to agree, Blair didn’t know and didn’t ask. He took the chance of freedom.

The men at the nearby tables got up and moved, which brought everyone’s attention to the pair of old friends.

“Trying to save your hide or your soul?” Willy asked.

“My soul’s not worth saving,” Blair said. “But I ain’t ready to die.”

“So, you’re here to kill me instead,” Willy said. “You think I need killing?”

Blair took a step within reach of the chair on his side of the table. “No one needs killing. Death just has a way of finding those who taunt it.”

Willy grinned big. “We’ve done more than taunt death.” He slowly lifted the bottle of whiskey and poured two shots. He cautiously slid one shot glass toward Blair, then raised his own, leaving a third empty glass on the table.

Blair picked up the shot glass with his coarse fingers.

“To old friends,” Willy said.

Blair nodded and lifted the glass to his nose. He inhaled—vanilla, oak and grain filled his senses with pleasure. The aroma tempted him, but he set the full shot glass back on the sweat and whiskey stained table.

Willy frowned. “Too good to drink with me now?”

“It’s not like that.” Blair said. “Haven’t had any since I left… left the gang.”

“You mean since you ran out on us in Mexico.” Willy emptied his glass. “What scared you so bad you took off like a little girl?”

The question struck Blair like a bullet. Willy’s hateful words didn’t burn, but the memory those words evoked—a scar from a forgotten wound.

As kind as Willy had been at times, he was a mean son of a bitch. All of them were. Willy’s brothers were worse. He’d already dealt with Bart. And he wouldn’t have to worry about Cliff until he got out of prison. If he got out, which was unlikely to happen.

But I’m out, aren’t I?

• • •

Joel spent his youth between the Magic Mitten and the Old South, but now resides at 9,000 feet in the Rocky Mountains.

The great lake and sandy shores gave him a love of the beach, but high mountain summits are now his favorite places to watch the world. Cold streams flowing with snow melt and wild trout bring him simple pleasures and long relaxing days in the wild throwing feathers at fish. But it's his love of the South that follows him where ever he travels: sweet tea, y'all, yes ma'am, BBQ, and SEC football. As you might guess, hiking 14ers, fly fishing, and college football are the major distracters to Joel's writing. A Cubs fan from his youth, he's watched games on WGN before there was cable TV.

Many things influenced his imagination as a kid...X-Men comic books, The Twilight Zone, Star Wars, E.T., Kolchak: The Night Stalker, Stephen King, and art by Brian Froud.

Joel has degrees in journalism and management from the University of Arkansas. Woo Pig Sooie!

He spent most of the last 20-plus years in some form of communications/public relations or journalism which provided a writing outlet. But it was two other authors who continued to ask, "What are you reading" and "What are you writing" that sparked his muse to write creatively—a talent his wife says she knew I had from the beginning. One of her first gifts to Joel was a writing journal. Now, several years later, he has a few completed manuscripts.

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Wednesday, 17 August 2016

Available Now: Fires of Hell by Maureen L. Mills

The Alchemystic
Maureen L. Mills

Length: Novel
Genre: Steampunk

Digital Price: $3.99 (99c/99p through 21 August)


When her captain is murdered and her airship suffers a series of sabotages, airship engineer and rogue pyromancer, Amelia Everley, must put aside her dislike of her new employer, Josiah, and help him save her airship and crew.

But is the destruction aimed at their mysterious government passenger, or is the captain’s killer now after Josiah?

All Amelia knows is, if Josiah can’t learn to respect her skills, she may have to resign herself to working for his rival, Edmund Fairlane.

If, that is, she can bring herself, her crew, and her ship home in one piece.

• • •

I swayed in the mouth of a filthy alley not far from the Galata Bridge in the Fatih district of Constantinople, staring down at the man who’d served as my surrogate father for as long as I could remember. The toes of my boots nudged the dark puddle spreading around his head. The slit in his throat gaped black in the moonlit night, a macabre echo of his slack mouth.

No. I must be mistaken. Captain Rollins had remained at the airfield. This couldn’t be him.

But it was.

Bile rose in my throat.

“Melly, lass! What’re you looking at? We have to get back to the ship!” Obadiah’s slurred voice barely registered through the pounding echoes in my head. He staggered from the next alley over, where I’d left him pissing against the wall.

“Obadiah,” I said, sounding hollow even to my own ears. “It’s Captain Rollins. I think… I think he’s…”

“What, drunk? Not he, lass. Captain Rollins knows his limits.” Obadiah peered blearily over my shoulder at the captain’s still form.

“Not drunk.” My head reeled. Too much fermented raki. Too much shock. “He’s dead.”

I sank to my knees, feeling the hot blood seeping through the wool of my uniform’s trousers. My hand shook as I reached for the slash on Captain Rollins’ throat. I needed to stop the flow.

But the captain wasn’t bleeding anymore; not really. No more than a sluggish trickle oozed from the gaping wound, soaking into his normally pristine collar. His eyes stared sightlessly up into the clear night, as if, at the last, he longed for one more glimpse of the sky that had been his home for so many years.

He still felt warm, whether because he hadn’t been dead long or from the stifling, near blood-temperature air, I couldn’t tell.

Obadiah put a hand on the mud-brick alley wall to steady himself and rubbed at his chest, a habit he’d acquired in the last few months. With a name like Obadiah Butterfield, one might expect a round, jolly old man, but he carried corded muscle under his baggy uniform trousers and coat, and could be considered jolly only well after he’d passed three sheets to the wind on his way to unconsciousness.

He’d been nearly in such a state tonight, but now any chance of jollity had fled.

Obadiah stared at the captain’s mortal remains and cursed, using at least five languages and great creativity. I hardly heard him.

I looked over my shoulder at the street. Deserted at this late hour, but for Obadiah and me. If anyone had seen who had done this, they were gone. Impossible to find in Constantinople’s maze of streets.

Obadiah scrubbed a gnarled hand over his age-spotted face. “I always thought I’d go first. That’s how it shoulda been, him being younger and all. He was a good man, our captain. Who would have done this?”

“Captain Rollins was as fine a man as any I’ve ever known. I have no notion who could possibly have hated him at all, let alone enough to slash—” My voice gave out, and I shook my head without looking at Obadiah, unwilling to reveal the moisture filling my eyes. Doughty airmen didn’t cry. I hadn’t when I’d left Maman to join the Mercury’s crew at twelve years of age. I wouldn’t now, ten years later.

“Come away, lass. Naught we can do now, but call the watch.” Obadiah grasped my shoulder, his voice gruff.

I shrugged him off. “You go. I’ll stay with him.”

A small scuffle rose from the depths of the alley beyond me, as of an empty basket tipping over and rolling. Obadiah froze.

“Who’s there?” I called in Turkish, my voice harsh.

• • •

Maureen Mills lives in Draper, Utah, and is the happily married mother of five grown children, all of whom are proud geeks, like their mom and dad. When she’s not playing with her imaginary friends, she enjoys knitting, reading, and sewing cosplay outfits for her kids, who look a lot better in them than she does. Along with her husband, she is in the process of creating a steampunk truck camper from scratch. She also enjoys teaching beginning fiction writing for the local school district’s continuing education program.

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Wednesday, 3 August 2016

Available Now: Sister Agatha: The World's Oldest Serial Killer by Domhnall O'Donoghue

Domhnall O'Donoghue

Length: Novel
Genre: Comedic Thriller

Price: $3.99 (99c/99p through 7 August)


Sister Agatha is a colossal 118 years of age, whose vim and vigour would put the most robust athletes to shame. During a routine check-up, however, her doctor claims she has just a week to live, news that proves to be quite inconvenient, seeing as the beloved sister has one ambition in life: to be the oldest person in the world. At last count, she was the fifth.

However, never one to admit defeat, Sister Agatha concocts a bold Plan B. Dusting off her passport, she decides to leave Irish shores for the first time in her very long life, and using the few days remaining, plans to travel across three continents and meet the only four people whose birthday cakes boast more candles than hers.

And then, one by one, she intends on killing them.

• • •

Sister Agatha had been wearing tinted glasses for many years, a snappy and stylish accessory that added a splash of definition to her soft, bulbous face. She wasn’t sensitive to the sun, however; in fact, the nun had always enjoyed lolling about in the convent’s ample grounds on a summer’s day.

No, the real reason this much-loved figure armed herself with such distinctive and flattering eyewear was less to do with her eagerness to be on trend, but more on account of their ability to give people the impression that she was listening to them when, in reality, she was like Rip Van Winkle and catching forty winks. Having graced God’s earth for one hundred and eighteen years, she had, understandably, long since tired of having to give counsel to people’s many pickles and predicaments.
In terms of subject matter, not only had this reluctant sounding board been privy to the humdrum, she had also been exposed to the hardcore. Indeed, had she been a lady of letters, Sister Agatha could have furnished an entire library with scandalous novels bursting with content that would put a blush on the cheeks of even the most progressive free-thinkers.

“If I reported to the world the many anecdotes that I’ve gathered over the years, amorous men and women would be so inspired by this roguery that we wouldn’t see them for dust again!” she firmly decided many years previously, thereby putting paid to any inclinations of becoming the next best-selling, saucy scribe.

Certainly, she was aware that some might argue it was in her professional remit to provide a sympathetic ear to those in need, and while she was in agreement, some days the old doll had neither the interest nor the energy.

Such as this morning.

As she sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s surgery, located on Navan’s busy Abbey Road, Sister Agatha thanked the good Lord above that she had come equipped with her invaluable glasses; after all, nothing encouraged sleep like a conversation about someone’s furry friend.

Doreen Cooney, the town bore, had made a beeline for Sister Agatha when she spotted her on arrival. Despite the fact that she had claimed to be in the throes of a brutal battle with tonsillitis, the gabby school principal appeared to be in full voice as she waxed lyrical about her new adorable cat, Lolita, and the crazy escapades they got up to together. (It was no wonder Mr Cooney had recently accepted a job on the oil rigs off the coast of Scotland; the constant sound of drilling was sure to be an excellent tonic to his wife’s relentless chatter.)

“Sister, I could honestly spend the whole day long just squeezing and tickling and kissing the little cutey pie!” Doreen readily confessed. “You should hear the adorable sounds Lolita makes when she’s indigestion!”

Luckily, within seconds of the new arrival launching into her diatribe about her darling playmate, Sister Agatha had hightailed it to the land of nod and, thanks to her extremely helpful spectacles, nobody knew any better. And that is where she remained until the rugged Doctor McManus emerged from his surgery some ten minutes later.

“My appointment book tells me that it’s time to give my star patient her monthly once-over,” he heartily announced from his door, resisting the urge to give the proud and self-sufficient, super-centenarian a helping hand, as he had been previously instructed.

On the subject of time, Sister Agatha had noted that the handsome, unmarried doctor was unusually behind schedule today. When she had first arrived half an hour earlier, he had promised that he would be as quick as a wink. Either he was exaggerating or was, like the late Sister Veronica, held to ransom by Bell's palsy and having difficulties closing his peepers because thirty minutes certainly didn’t constitute a wink, in her eyes. She contemplated bringing this to his attention in case he was blind to the situation but then dismissed the idea straight away, seeing as a doctor of all people should be aware of such symptoms.

Besides, she wasn’t there to worry about the lovely Doctor McManus’ health; she had kept her appointment today so that her own hardy form could be scrutinised and given the proverbial two thumbs up. And so, with impressive agility, Sister Agatha shook off her slumber and got to her feet. She bade Mrs Cooney goodbye (while secretly thanking her for the rather pleasant catnap) and walked in the direction of the surgery.

“And, I was just about to show you some of our homemade videos,” Doreen lamented. “I suppose I could just wait until you’re finished?”

Sister Agatha’s reply to this horrid suggestion was a blunt shutting of the surgery door behind her.

Every first Wednesday of the month, the formidable nun rocked up to the Abbey Road premises for a straightforward, on-the-off-chance examination. Each and every time, Doctor McManus would probe her from head to toe then praise her extraordinary robustness to the high heavens—a place the one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old had no interest in frequenting anytime in the near future.

Sister Agatha felt confident today would be no different.

• • •

Hailing from Navan in the royal county of Meath, Domhnall is a graduate of the Bachelor in Acting Studies Programme, Trinity College Dublin, later completing a Master's in Screenwriting at Dún Laoghaire IADT. He now works as an actor and a journalist, dividing his time between Galway, where he films TG4’s flagship series, Ros na Rún, and Venice, where he and his Italian lover continuously promise their well-worn livers that they will refrain from quaffing so much Prosecco. (Unfortunately, it seems some vows, just like nearby Rome, were not built in a day.)

Wine-drinking aside, for more than four years, Domhnall has also enjoyed the responsibility of being Assistant Editor at Irish Tatler Man, a title that won Consumer Magazine of the Year '15/16. Thanks to this role, he interviewed a host of high-profile names, such as Tommy Hilfiger, Chris Pine, Kevin Spacey, David Gandy and Jacques Villeneuve. As a screenwriter, Domhnall co-wrote the short film, A Clown’s Requiem, which was the recipient of funding from the Irish Film Board and premièred at the Galway Film Fleadh. With Co-operation Ireland, a peace-building charity, Domhnall works as an arts mentor. As a result of this work, he met Queen Elizabeth and President Higgins in Belfast in 2012.

When writing his debut novel, Sister Agatha: The World’s Oldest Serial Killer — a comedy thriller that follows a 118-year-old nun who will go to any length in her quest to become the globe’s most senior citizen — Domhnall, the actor, called upon his natural curiosity of the human spirit to create larger-than-life characters, while Domhnall, the journalist, drew upon his extensive experience as a travel writer to provide inspiration for the story’s numerous settings. And as for his fascination with religious orders and the Catholic Church? Being an enthusiastic altar boy for most of his childhood might be the best explanation for that.

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