I write for my own pleasure.
Sometimes I write short stories, sometimes epic novels. The genres I write are usually New Adult, Chick Lit, Erotic Romance and SF-fantasy. From time to time, I write little erotic stories and even make recordings of them for people. (Some people love to hear my voice.) I also like writing about my erotic journey on my blog.
Tear Drop vocal story
Cocky Bastard vocal story
Below you’ll find part of a manuscript for a Gothic Erotic Romance I have been working on. Of course, it isn’t at the stage of copy editing, it’s just a humble first draft, but you might find it interesting if you like forbidden supernatural erotica.
A Gothic Erotic Romance (18+)
When she comes for you, your life will never be the same. She is, after all, the Magdalene.
Blessed–or cursed–with an immortal life, Ree Brennan lives only to keep her duty through the Ages. When her long-time guardian assigned to protect her from the unseen world mysteriously dies, another turns up in his stead–a Tuscan priest with a shady past.
Ree soon learns that what really binds the priest to her is not his oath, but something far more powerful. Fulfilling her darkest desires and her deepest need, he awakens her heart and ignites her soul like no other. But the passion between them has a greater purpose, one that will stretch their existence between the realms and into Obscurity.
But alas, their binding provokes an unimaginable force from the dungeons of Hell, an old terror that will stop at nothing to repossess what once was his and usher in the end of the world.
The fresh priest standing in front of me sways his weight forward. “Who are you?” His dark tone nudges off the stone walls of the bell tower. He is quite handsome for a man of the cloth, and unusually robust. A roughness under his placid demeanour darkens his boyish face. He should be nervous, not starved.
Tilting my shoulders, my dress slips down my body perfectly and onto the floor. The priest falters back, parting his lips but no sound escapes his mouth.
On seeing my nakedness, they usually catch a sense of their destruction. Second thoughts abound, but rarely stop them. No matter how many times I reveal myself, I feel that thrill when their eyes fix on me. It’s all in the design, of course. It doesn’t work if I feel nothing.
The smell of lavender carries on the cool midnight breeze. I glance out the arched window to the sleepy Tuscan fields in the distance.
“I must know who you are.” Crude Sicilian inflects break through his Tuscan dialect. I’ve never learnt to speak Italian, but I know it, like every other language throughout the Ages. The Gift of Tongues comes with the job.
I coo to the field flowers rippling in the breeze, “It doesn’t matter who I am.” All this time, it has never really mattered.
“I didn’t know women like you existed. There was always talk. But talk’s talk.” His strange accentuation breaks me out of my momentum. Women like me don’t exist, except one–for more than two thousand years now. I bet my age would blow his mind. “Well, I assure you, I’m standing before you in the flesh,” I whisper.
“Yes, you are… Tempting me,” he grits.
My cheeks pull my lips into a tight smile. I like it when the Elect are not afraid.
We stand in silence. He seems to know he can’t escape. The struggle behind his eyes is all too familiar, and something I hope I never get used to seeing.
Another whisk of cool lavender-soaked air sweeps past my bare skin, conjuring a run of goosebumps across my ribs, and over my tight nipples. My slight shiver pulls the priest off his heels. His long slow strides towards me are a play, a test. He’s presuming I’ll be intimidated but I am not that inexperienced. I look forward to him warming me with his big hands all over my body.
Bracing myself, I’m ready for him to plough through me, but he stops short, and my body is left hanging. He is close, so close he can kiss me if he so desires. His eyes close, head hangs, and he takes a long, deep inhale through his nostrils. He is breathing me in along with the violet-scented midnight.
“Are you tempted?” I ask softly. I want this and he needs to know it.
He shakes his head and looks at me from under his brow. “Every morsel of my being is telling me no… but I don’t want to listen.”
“Then don’t. You can have me, all of me. Right now. My body is ready for you. Made for you. A perfect fit. Take me and ease my craving for you. Show me mercy, priest.”
I shiver as his dry knuckles brush over my stiff nipple. His whole hand cups my full breast, his coarse fingers pinch into my soft flesh.
I reach down, the back of my hand finds his thick cock through his heavy cassock, and I stroke along his length.
Screwing up his nose, hissing in a breath through his teeth, a sting of ecstasy hits him. I see it in his eyes, hear it in his breath.
Oh, I’m going to like this.
The priest falls into my neck. I catch his weight, and a low moan escapes his chest. His hold on me is so tight, so tender, it’s disturbing–more than I can bare. I freeze up. I am not a Madonna. I am not built for compassion. I can’t be–comfort should not be found at my bosom. His grasp has me on the edge of turning back. I can’t do this… I can’t break this man. I don’t want to. But I have to–I was created for the greater good.
All of thirty years, the priest is strong and devout, no blemish on his records, all past deeds cleansed away. But all the Elect must fall, some just need a little more push than others. For the priest to rise to his true greatness, he must overcome sin. One cannot overcome sin without sin being cast upon them.
I am sin.
I was once cast upon every man until my Deadly’s were released free into the world. Seven demons possessed me–I carried them as a warning. But my demons were cast out, and I stood sinless, before Joshua, before the world. Sinless with a sinful purpose–I still had my divine calling to fulfil. My forgiveness became a curse. An oversight, blinded by love. A forbidden love.
The sour reminder twists my heart. Over the millennia I’ve learnt to use my deep aching to suppress my conscience. Well, almost.
Scratching my fingertips through the priest’s dense hair, I murmur into his ear again. “If you want it, take me now, or never drink from this cup.”
He pushes off to meet me eye-to-eye and I see him for the first time, his longing to understand, his curiosity, his energy to push through the thin veil of obscurity. This is why he is chosen–he searches for truth.
After a rolling glance over my bareness, he scratches at his neck and tears away his white collar, attacks his belt, then the buttons on his double breasted. The Sarum falls to his feet. His tattooed sleeves rippling over the contours of his arms pique my interest, but the gothic cross punctured into his chest salts the wounds in my heart.
It’s always a cross.
I set aside the image, distracting my eyes with the priest’s bubbling abs to ready my body for him. A rush of sin tingles between my legs and my wetness surges into a warm dripping flow of approval.
The priest pulls down his boxers and his manhood bobs up and down in that hypnotic way. A drizzle of him flows out of his blowhole and glistens in the moonlight as it rounds into the perfect tear drop. My mouth pools for a taste.
Before I can offer my usual limits–one hole, any hole, “choose wisely”–he rushes at me, taking me up into his arms, and slams me against the cold stone of the window arch. With my body firmly wedged between his hips and the tower rock, he scoops up my legs into his rough hands, spreading me wide around his waist to receive him. The tip of his cock finds the mouth of my sin without any guidance, and I have to wonder how this priest knows what to do so well.
The little sharp corners of the rock graze my back as he slides his shaft all the way, deep inside me. He’s so hot, and warms me through.
He shifts my hips to sink himself further and now I am all too aware that he has done this before.
He watches me as he pulls out so slowly, then charges into me and smiles carnally at my gasp. Hard driving thrusts fuelled with his passionate energy–he’s a raging bull determined to explode. My body jerks up with each plunge, steeped in his lascivious desire. His abs crunching to reach in further, his arms curling, not willing to let me go. The hunger in his eye for me–he’s too beautiful to behold.
Wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling up eases the cuts driving into my back from the rugged wall. My chin hooks over his shoulder–a five pointed star, a mark of family loyalty, is embedded in his skin. The priest is La Stidda mafia–he is out of his province, out of his profession.
A sizzling chill suddenly makes me pay attention to his thick hot cock swirling around deep inside me. Oh, it really shouldn’t be this good. It’s not fair. I hang onto his burly arm tensing to keep me down on him. His sweat at his nape saturates my wrist as I take the pleasure and pain ramming and whirling deeper into me. It’s too amazing, and I search for distraction to get in control of myself again.
The country breeze flows over us, but the priest’s heat consuming me wards away any shiver. A storm is coming, the night sky rumbles, mimicking my quaking. The silvery moon electrifies the green among the violet fields, and lightning strikes up through my frame. I battle with my voice. It wants to cry out into the stormy night but I can’t let it. Not for two thousand years have I succumbed to the pleasure, but the verge is too close.
The rhythm in my reformed mobster becomes constant. I hear the savage thirst in his breath. It won’t be long now. Twisting his hair in my fist, I pull down, making him direct those daunting eyes at me. Beautiful agony and rhapsody stare back, ripe for supplication. Biting my lip, I grasp the first tinge of my climax. Oh no, this is not going to be an orthodox ring in. My whole being clenches onto him, squeezing out every possible sense from his cock. The sublime pleasure shudders through my frame. While I tremble in his hands, the priest pushes up through my tightness, fully evolving my orgasm. The release is too much for my mortal body and a tear escapes me, betraying my strength.
His satisfying sigh catches me before I have time to feel weak. The contentment on the priest’s face, his eyes so reaching, a gentle smirk on his lips… he is thrilled to the core of what he has just done to me. I am dangerously too close to him to keep my distance.
My thighs twist as he wrings them in his hands. The rhythm through his hips find speed again. He won’t take his eyes off mine. The priest is coming to his end.
He moves, keeping our gaze the centrepiece of his kindling. Taking hold of my waist, hands squeezing, he finally lifts his eyes off me and bucks up his hips, arching his back, throwing a growl into the roof of the tower. Beastly, and beautiful to watch. The big brass bell lightly vibrates, and I catch myself giggling at the delight to my ears.
While on his high, I snatch hard the scruff at his neck and make him look at me. Leeching onto his eyes, I draw in his full attention. His soul catches its reflection in the darkness of my pupils. I am a window to Heaven, a vessel for Divine will. I make wayward men fall to their knees and look up. I don’t know what they see through me, I cannot know, but whatever it is, it catches their humanity.
The priest’s brow crumbles and meekness fills his body, but his eyes keep fixed on mine. The vision has caught him up.
What wondrous things he must be seeing.
He gently slips to the dusty floorboards, lowering me to my feet, pulling out of me. I won’t lift my gaze off him, but I penetrate harder into his soul.
For me, on the other side of the vision, a cold spire pierces through the spinal cord in the back of my neck, chilling and weakening. A sickly haze like heatstroke on a frosty day. I hold my thoughts, switching them off while the Divine power works through me. When I was younger my mind would interfere, muddling the revelation coming through. But now I am well practiced at keeping my mind clear of any distractions–over ten thousand, if counting–though, this priest is requiring a little effort from me to keep my thoughts under control. He has affected me more than I’d like… I’m wondering about him. I am human after all.
It is taking longer than usual–the Light passing through me is consuming my strength, but the priest hasn’t succumbed to its power. Most would become a pool of grovelling jelly by now. He holds himself up by his own might. I’ve never seen that before. There is always a first, isn’t there?
Then suddenly, I’m drawn into the warmth of his eyes and the world within him opens up to me. I see the magnitude, the brightness of his celestial body. It’s beyond my understanding, but I see it, experience it with my own body. I fall into the deepest awe…
The urge for me to blink is too strong to resist. I press my lashes down, soothing my eyes from the late night air. The power in me withdraws, the vision-chills pull away from my spine.
It is done, and I’m left with a sense that I’ve just forgotten a most important thing.
I gather my clothes and shoes into my arms. It’s a long drive back to Florence, and I must be on a plane for New York in the morning.
It should be easy to walk away from the priest, leaving him to recover on the floor, but I turn back to look at him one last time. I can’t help the smile escaping my lips evoked by the soothing pleasure still lingering in my frame. No man has been able to give me such a high in a very long time.
I almost miss him already.
But as I look upon him, the way his naked body is slumped, sucking in the air, I see there is something more to him. It could be his tattoos that have caught my eye, the way they shape around the contours of his back–I’ve always liked a painted man… But no, it’s something else. And it will plague me until I figure out what it is.
I indulge in one last contented sigh, and I am gone.
Heading down the stairs, I keep to the walls, around and around. Before entering the church hall, I step back under the staircase, out of the light. The priest’s silky cum married to my wetness spills out onto my thigh. The thought of him still between my legs elicits an irreverent flutter through my center. By the pad of my pointer, I stop our lust running away from me down my leg.
I just need one taste of him.
I slip my finger in my mouth and suck off our sex. It is too good. The smell of us on my finger is fresh, and not enough, but I shake it off. I’m just torturing myself. Pushing my desire back into its little box, I pull my bra out from the clothes bundled in my arm.
I dress into my peasant smock. It’s my favourite. I like the lace embroidery and the cotton. Simple. Feminine. But somehow I never get to wear it for that long.
Walking through to the Baroque-eccentric nave, I reach the middle of the church aisle and turn back to the altar.
I can never ignore him, though I did try for a century or two.
Behind the brass and pillars, the prayer candles are still alight. A figure, nailed and bleeding, looks down upon me. Chest sunken, cheeks draw, sides open. It kills me every time to see him like that. If only the world knew that this was not how it was supposed to be.
I am haunted by the irony of it all.
I’m no less but doomed to walk this life knowing I wasn’t strong enough… knowing I failed him.
I allow my feet to turn and travel me down the aisle again.
“Wait!” The raspy holler sends chills through me. Thrown off, and a little put out, I face the priest. How could he have the strength to make it down the stairs so soon?
Clutching onto the stone column, he pants for his breath to catch up. His will is strong, the poor thing. It never does them any good when they want answers.
Falling back to take another step towards the double doors, I’m ready to leave him unsatisfied.
“Wait!” He reaches out as if it would stop me by some measly power.
It does the trick. I’m not a Clement, but his naïvety charms me. “You will recover shortly, priest. A good night’s sleep will have you right as rain.”
“Who are you?” He swallows a gulp. “But more importantly, what are you?”
I huff. Sometimes it’s hard for me to even fathom what I am. “Can’t your revelation just be enough? Do you really want to spoil it by being another Socrates?” The reference will likely be wasted on him, but I use it anyway, to remind myself that no good comes from asking too many questions.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
It must be the musky scent of candle wax burning the dust on the floor keeping me, as I don’t walk away. I should. There’s no reason not to, but there’s something in the priest’s face. I don’t like his high cheek bones, or his strong brow, his thick un-lying lips, or the way he looks at me with deep royal eyes. “Not every question needs to be answered,” I slightly nark. “You should know that better than most, priest.” The New Yorker is coming out–rudely blunt and aggressive–it’s the one stereotype that suits me. “There is no point in giving you answers to questions that will be forgotten by the time the cock crows. Save your energy. You have more important things to think about. More important things to do.”
Finally he takes his eyes off me, lowering them to the stone floor, but only for a second. “What did you do to me?” He fires out the accusation.
“I did nothing I wasn’t commanded to do.”
“Are you a messenger?”
“No, not really.”
His choice of word tickles my sides. “It does have a ring to it, but no.”
“A demon from the bowels of hell?”
I curtly laugh at his seriousness and his gall. He doesn’t seem to take it too well.
“In the name of Christ, woman, tell me what you are!” The trembling in his cry wakens me to torment. His insolence will not easily be forgiven.
I pause to bite my anger in, and to get my tone just right. My eyelids naturally lower, locking in my sudden disrepute. “Do not speak to me like I am a waif. You know nothing of the powers of the upper kingdom, yet you think you can call upon them at will to command me? What vain imaginations. Think before your selfish purposes taint your Priesthood.
I am Anathema no more. I am The Magdalene, and you have been chosen to fulfil a great purpose–though I am beginning to doubt your measure.”
“You are Saint Mary of Magdalene..?” The gasp on his breath becomes all too real.
I am raw, and standing in his gaze, trapped in the moment. It has been a long time since I have revealed my true self. “Mary, yes. Saint? Well, that can be argued…” I catch a vague falter in the priest’s stance. “What? What are you doing?”
His legs crumble beneath him and he lands on his knees, his naked form filling with innocent adoration; his face, contrition. “The Apostle to the Apostles,” he whispers to the Heavens. “How can this be?”
“Well, it’s kind of a long story…” I joke to myself so I don’t have to cringe with embarrassment.
“May God have mercy on me. I have defiled the Penitent Woman.” The priest draws a cross over his frame.
Oh, please. When they get like this there is no chance in bringing them to their senses. Religion serves many purposes, it gives words to the unexplainable, but it is also mortally fucked up.
Rolling my eyes, I huff, “Get some sleep, priest. You will need your strength.” I don’t know why am I waisting time with this fool. My job is done, I deserve rest. To return back to my apartment, and my cat, and order Chinese takeout from Wing Wa House down the road. I have no more time for this priest.
“I will not rest, when I must see you safely to New York city.”
Controlled horror… I’m sure I kept my head clear of myself–my thoughts, my life–during his vision. How did New York get mixed up in his mind? My lust must have intersected the Light. Damn it. “Don’t worry, priest, you’ll forget me in a day or two,” I tell him, to convince myself, but it doesn’t work. Even though the priest’s body is recovering from his state of transfiguration, his eyes are all too lucid for my liking. Well, I’ll just have to help him forget all about me.
Backtracking down the aisle towards the altar, I pass the priest. At the base of the chancel, I pick up a heavy candlestick from the floor. The weight is good. I throw the candle back to the tiles–it is not needed.
Gripping around the coils of the brass, I lug the candle stick over my shoulder. The priest has the right mind to stumble back onto his ass when I approach him. This will stop him making any trouble or blabbing about me to anyone else. He’ll wake up in morning thinking it was all just a bad dream.
Positioning myself for optimal impact, the priest’s eyes widen. He knows exactly what’s coming for him. “Wait. Wait a minute.” He holds up his magical hand at me.
I stop, but only to humour him. “You say that a lot–‘wait’. There’s no point in waiting if you don’t know what you’re waiting for, is there? Hm?”
I swing a cracking blow to the back of his head. Like a giant, he falls to the floor, and blacks out.