A dirty word
Who can pick just one?
"What is terrible is not death but the lives people live up until their death. They don't honor their lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are filled with cotton. They swallow god without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they write ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the greatest music of the centuries and they can't hear it! Most people's lives are a simple sham. There's nothing left to die."
-- Charles Bukowski
-- Charles Bukowski
Don't worry everything is going to be AMAZING.
LUCY VAN PELT
Yes. I am a writer, but truthfully? I hate writing author bios. They should all just read "Lucy is very boring and almost never publishes anything."
(ahem) Okay. Ever watch the movie Too Wong Fu Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar? Remember the little old lady dressed as a drag queen? She looked at the cop and said, “Nothing this pretty could be real.” Well, that’s me—I am not real. I'm the hot and naughty erotica writer lurking in the mind of a fantasy author. The catfights over who has control of the keyboard can get pretty violent, but most often the two creative people in my brain play nicely and I have published books under both names. A writer of fiction and a lover of words, I love the way they look and sound, and all the different ways you can put them together to tell people about sex ... I can admit that without being facetious. Anyone who reads or writes may feel the same way because they, too, share that love of literature and the wonderment of a human mind that can interweave thoughts and dreams into new worlds that welcome us with open arms.
I like to think that I am a free-spirited author living in the world of sexual fantasy and intrigue. A confounding mix of innocence and seductress, arousing the mind to hidden pleasures. My characters explore love and lust as they go hand-in-hand through life, unbound by the confines of social acceptance. I always prefer the women in my stories to be strong and adventurous. I might suffer from having an all too vivid, often perverse and twisted imagination, and my love of BDSM and erotic horror reflect this.
My work is mostly dark and includes a lot of red bottom erotika. I have been in BUST magazine's "one hand" reads. Yes *SMILES* that means what you think it does. And between 2008 and 2010, my best friend, David C. Strickler, and I co-wrote the screenplays Waiting Out The Storm, Black Sheep Of The Family, The Copy Machine and Submission, all of which can be found on Kevin Spaceys' Triggerstreet.com and Francis Ford Coppola's Zoetrope.com Just nominated for the prestigious Rhysling award.
I am currently an inhouse writer for PIP publishing http://www.passioninprint.com/ My first dark erotic novel Torera , co-written with Paul R. Sardanas http://www.rpaulsardanas.com/ is now out on Amazon, Kindle and can be ordered in paper back at Barnes And Noble. And while Paul's bio is chock full of awards, charity work and the thousand million-billion stories he's already published, I can't help but feel very dull by comparison.
Now out our short story Under An Elegant Moon published with PIP Publishing . We have just begun our second full length erotica/romance a period piece titled RUBY. I will also be posting reviews, excerpts , links, and general info on my other cont. web link www.lucyvanpelt38.weebly.com as I have time.
Personal bio reads : I live in my head while my body resides in a decaying jungle compound somewhere off of the coast of Florida. I'm either a paleontologist, a cake decorator or a retired professional figure skater living under the Federal Witness Protection Program. When not penning smut for the masses, my hobbies are reading dirty stories, bitching about stuff, finding abstract treasures at flea markets, and serial killing.
(ahem) Okay. Ever watch the movie Too Wong Fu Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar? Remember the little old lady dressed as a drag queen? She looked at the cop and said, “Nothing this pretty could be real.” Well, that’s me—I am not real. I'm the hot and naughty erotica writer lurking in the mind of a fantasy author. The catfights over who has control of the keyboard can get pretty violent, but most often the two creative people in my brain play nicely and I have published books under both names. A writer of fiction and a lover of words, I love the way they look and sound, and all the different ways you can put them together to tell people about sex ... I can admit that without being facetious. Anyone who reads or writes may feel the same way because they, too, share that love of literature and the wonderment of a human mind that can interweave thoughts and dreams into new worlds that welcome us with open arms.
I like to think that I am a free-spirited author living in the world of sexual fantasy and intrigue. A confounding mix of innocence and seductress, arousing the mind to hidden pleasures. My characters explore love and lust as they go hand-in-hand through life, unbound by the confines of social acceptance. I always prefer the women in my stories to be strong and adventurous. I might suffer from having an all too vivid, often perverse and twisted imagination, and my love of BDSM and erotic horror reflect this.
My work is mostly dark and includes a lot of red bottom erotika. I have been in BUST magazine's "one hand" reads. Yes *SMILES* that means what you think it does. And between 2008 and 2010, my best friend, David C. Strickler, and I co-wrote the screenplays Waiting Out The Storm, Black Sheep Of The Family, The Copy Machine and Submission, all of which can be found on Kevin Spaceys' Triggerstreet.com and Francis Ford Coppola's Zoetrope.com Just nominated for the prestigious Rhysling award.
I am currently an inhouse writer for PIP publishing http://www.passioninprint.com/ My first dark erotic novel Torera , co-written with Paul R. Sardanas http://www.rpaulsardanas.com/ is now out on Amazon, Kindle and can be ordered in paper back at Barnes And Noble. And while Paul's bio is chock full of awards, charity work and the thousand million-billion stories he's already published, I can't help but feel very dull by comparison.
Now out our short story Under An Elegant Moon published with PIP Publishing . We have just begun our second full length erotica/romance a period piece titled RUBY. I will also be posting reviews, excerpts , links, and general info on my other cont. web link www.lucyvanpelt38.weebly.com as I have time.
Personal bio reads : I live in my head while my body resides in a decaying jungle compound somewhere off of the coast of Florida. I'm either a paleontologist, a cake decorator or a retired professional figure skater living under the Federal Witness Protection Program. When not penning smut for the masses, my hobbies are reading dirty stories, bitching about stuff, finding abstract treasures at flea markets, and serial killing.
I just want to get close enough to take off all of your clothes
You can, of course, drop me a line on the last page of this web site on the Touch Me tab.
Also friend or say hi to me at:
FACEBOOK at Lucy Van Pelt36
lucyvanpelt38.weebly.com
or
http://passioninprint.com/
Follow me on tumblr:
http://onedirtyword.tumblr.com/
I am easily satisfied by the very best
I get up every morning determined to both change the world and to have one hell of a good time. Sometimes this makes planning the day difficult. Like most writers I have a lot of issues with procrastination. Luckily, I have two AMAZING men in my life, who both not only write with me, but support and shove me from time to time so I can get my chubby ass back in a chair and get to the dirty deed.
Oh, and sometimes I write, too.
Oh, and sometimes I write, too.
Now in bookstores and online, by Passion in Print Press
TORERA
Excerpt from Torera, by R. Paul Sardanas and Lucy Van Pelt writting asTisha Garcia
Lucretia stood before the bullring stands, sword lowered, its point just above the sand. She shifted her booted feet, then became very still. In the other hand she held the muleta, the red cloth frayed a little on the fringe, the stick holding it bent. She inclined her head, requesting permission from the ring president to perform the kill.
Permission granted with a nod of the man’s head, but with a hint of amusement in the president’s eyes and around his mouth. Indulging the dilettante woman torera—no doubt wondering if she would blanch when it came time to put the sword in.
Just watch me, seńor.
“Viva La Encarnado Beso!” Some fool shouted it from the stands, and though she’d brought that signature on herself, she wished the idiot would shut up.
After the bull is down, shout all you want, fuckers.
Lucretia raised her gaze to sweep the stands, taking in the blur of expressions on the faces of the spectators, ranging from gaiety to frowning disapproval, but most of all excitement. It didn’t matter if the watcher wore colorful and expensive clothes or the plain shirt and trousers of a peasant— a thrill and a madness rested on their features. Other cheers and catcalls rippled through the air, threaded through with music in a background as trumpeters and other players high above the ring added their strains of drama and festivity.
The salutation made and permission gained, Lucretia turned to the bull, which had moved in the brief interval after the placing of the sticks into the center of the ring. A difficult beast, yes, but one which she felt immense gratitude toward, as he had shown courage from the outset, charging into the ring with the power of a conqueror, wanting to fight. Lucretia had dreaded the embarrassment of a bull who would not charge, who only wanted to stand still or to escape. For all the careful breeding and choosing of fighting bulls, you could never be sure how they would react to the ring and the crowds, the attacks of the picadors.
Now he stood there waiting for her, wanting nothing more than to hook her on his horns, toss her, trample her, gore her and destroy her.
Yes, you are a worthy one. I salute you.
Lucretia inclined the sword in that salute, then walked gracefully herself to the center of the ring, showed the muleta, and shouted “Huh! Huh!” to cite him for the final passes. Adrenalin rushed through her as she raised the muleta held in both hands with the sword supporting it. The pase de la muerte, the classic pass of death. For an instant, the crowd, the men in her life, all of that vanished from her thoughts, as the bull thundered to her. The smell of sweat and blood poured over her, along with the intense animal scent of the enraged bull itself. Going high on her toes, she raised the sword and muleta straight up and the bull followed, plunging past her right under her arms. He hooked at her toward the right, just as she had expected. She had placed the sticks perfectly, so that even protruding from the bull’s neck muscles she could evade them with a turn that would have given pride to her old ballet teacher. A roar, the exhale of the frustrated bull mixed with cheers that erupted from the stands, cascaded over her.
Ah! Come at me, toro.
From the band up in the stands came the sound of Dianas, the music played to applaud a good pass. No single words or phrases could be heard among the crowd now—they had merged into a single throbbing cry and shout, like what she supposed the sea must sound like.
The bull turned. She stood waiting in the position of another pass of death, her feet together and unmoving. Some toreros and even seasoned matadors would shuffle their feet in anticipation and uncertainty, but she would not be so weak. Only strength and grace.
The bull came on and she rose up again, but the bull had learned from the first pass, and went higher as he passed her, hooking the bottom edge of the muleta and dragging her in close to his body. Even though his horns had passed her, he thrashed his head right and left, seeking to catch some part of her body on their points. Lucretia pirouetted and actually rolled herself standing along the length of the bull’s form, scraping the sticks and scratching her face. Blood too appeared on her Andalusian jacket—not her blood, but the bull’s. There indeed was a badge of honor. A fighter who walked away at the end of the conflict un-blooded had surely kept a coward’s distance. She stumbled slightly as the bull passed her fully and the dubious support of its body was gone. The slip made her angry at herself, but the crowd sent another cheer to high heaven, and more Dianas showered down from the band.
Now they will see me work!
Shifting the muleta to one hand and the sword to the other, she performed a high pass, the pase por altos, and then in succession did three low naturales, causing the bull to turn and pivot in circle after circle. Lucretia worked close, dangerously close her grandfather would no doubt tell her, but she didn’t care. She had entered what the matador called the State of Grace, where her body seemed to move of its own volition, as if turned on a string held by God himself. The plunging, charging, twisting bulk of the bull passed her in what seemed slow motion. She knew she must not become giddy in the moment, but at the same time the feeling of invulnerability made her laugh and shout again and again, taunting the bull with each miss.
The moment is here. Watch me, God, if you are here, for I will be an instrument of death with honor.
She performed a remate, which turned the bull and fixed him in a dead stop. Without hesitation Lucretia raised the sword and went in right between the horns, aiming the point at the one tiny spot between the bones of the bull’s neck where it could penetrate. A fraction to the right or left, and it would grate on bone as hard and unyielding as concrete. It went in as if passing through butter. For a moment the beast stood stock still, then he tipped, and over he went, crashing into the sand.
The whole stadium stood, sending roars of approval that Lucretia thought would deafen her. The band played Diana after Diana. She wanted to roar right back at them, but grandfather’s favorite word returned, calming her. Dignity. Turning, she bowed, then stood straight and raised her sword to the crowd.
Flowers, among them a multitude of roses, Panama hats, coins, and God only knows what other tokens rained down onto the sand. Lucretia ignored them all, conscious only of the fact that someone pressed one of the bull’s ears into her hand, symbol of a fight well fought. The exhilaration of it all brought wild joy into her—she blew a kiss from her crimson lips to the stands, which made the crowd delirious, shouting “La Encarnado Beso! Viva! Viva!” This time she didn’t mind the nickname. A rose fell right at her feet and she picked it up, raising it as she had raised her sword in salute.
She took off her Córdoban hat and sent it spinning up into the crowd, then shook out her braided hair to let golden locks tumble down to her shoulders, which raised the crescendo of the cheers to an even greater fever-pitch. A wild extravagance…buying another hat would cut into what would be meager profits from a woman torera’s pay. But what did she care? Today a woman fought! This day belonged to her!
Watch for Torera by R. Paul Sardanas and Tisha Garcia
from Passion in Print Press
www.passioninprint.com
R. Paul Sardanas and Tisha Garcia authors of "Torera" now out on Amazon, nook, kindle and the PIP website :
Beneath An Elegant Moon
During the reign of the Emperor Nero in the First Century AD, sensual excess became a way of life. On a steamy summer day, a Roman noble rides into the town of Baiae on the Bay of Naples, to arrange a summer holiday for the Emperor. Psyche, a courtesan from Rome's Africa province, meets one of the most fascinating figures of the court of Nero—Gaius Petronius, called Arbiter Elegantiarum, or “arbiter of elegance”—the man who would write the enduring testament to Roman decadence, The Satyricon. Over three days, Psyche and Petronius contrive erotic spectacles that will ultimately be for the Emperor’s pleasure, and after each day the two of them walk and talk together beside the bay, under a warm and elegant moon. Two passionate and subtle minds, they build a friendship layered with more intense desire—but Petronius is forbidden to touch Psyche, who has been selected for the Emperor. So the uninhibited courtesan and master of erotic revels plot for their final spectacle to be one that transcends the flesh, and joins them closer than most lovers could ever dream.
Excerpt from "Beneath an Elegant Moon"
Chapter One
Psyche woke after a restless night of intense summer heat. Unusual for the air to be so relentlessly steaming here in Baiae—after all, it was to the seaside that the aristrocrats of Rome came to escape the furnace-like summers of the city. But the month of Julius had seen baking heat that left the citizens of the bay-town sluggish and weary, and the month of Augustus had come in with no relief. Even business here at the House of Quartilla had been slow, with the courtesans sleeping most of the day away, and the night-revels less rowdy than the norm. Psyche, with her Numidian blood, never thought it got too hot for fucking, but clearly not everyone felt the same.
At least this morning a light sea-breeze stirred the curtains at her window casement. She sat up on her bed and watched the hazy clouds in the pink dawn sky for a while, before sliding to the edge of the pallet and putting her bare feet down on the tiles. A fine coating of sweat sheathed her black skin—she reached for a linen cloth draped over the bedpost and patted her forehead, shoulders and breasts. Psyche never wore clothes to bed, unless a customer specifically requested it. She had serviced only one client last night—an equestrian from Pompeii who liked to stop in and visit the House of Quartilla on his way to business up the coast. A middle-aged man and not too vigorous a lover, he’d been gone in the pre-dawn, wanting to resume his travels before sunrise and hopefully dodge some of the heat. That had left Psyche with a few precious hours to doze alone—always a treat for a popular courtesan.
She yawned and stood up. Today would be a busy day. Special guests from Rome were due, and Quartilla wanted her to venture down into the market early with some of the house slaves to tote back special food, spices, incense and aphrodisiacs the mistress of the brothel had ordered to please the new arrivals. Quartilla was usually stingy with every sesterce, but these guests rated the most lavish treatment. Quartillia had called all the girls into her chambers a few days ago and explained that a small party of Roman soldiers, escorting a high court official, were traveling to Baiae to arrange a very private festival for the Emperor himself, Nero. That Quartilla’s girls’ beauty and charm was known far and wide, and that her house had been picked as a future place for the Emperor to spend a few days relaxing and enjoying the entertainment and company of a special group of courtesans to keep him sexually amused. A small band of his right-hand men would be sent to ahead a few days to make all arrangements. "This," Quartilla had said, while preening in her lavish polished-metal mirror, which leaned against the wall from floor to ceiling, "is a gift from the goddess Fortuna herself. It will put my house of delights on the map. What man would not want a woman who has laid with an emperor?"
And would Psyche herself be one of those women? She shrugged at the thought. Very likely she would be, as her black skin, piercing jet-colored eyes and luxurious crown of night-dark hair had caused many a Roman cock to rise at the sight of her. But she had not felt caught up in the giggling, breathless excitement that the other girls displayed—the emperor had an unsavory reputation, to say the least. Psyche had felt far more interest upon learning that the representative coming to scout the House of Quartilla for his Imperial master would be none other that Gaius Petronius, the Arbiter Elegantiarum of Nero’s court, who had written a series of clever bawdy tales that the booksellers down in the town called The Satyricon. Psyche herself haunted the bookstalls constantly—she was a voracious reader, a rare attribute for a courtesan. She enjoyed not only scrolls of poetry and comedic stories, but sequestered herself in her room every chance she got to read and muse over Plato, Aristotle, and Homer.
Quartilla actually encouraged this—the mistress of the brothel was, Psyche thought, flighty and lazy, and delighted to have a courtesan of such formidable intelligence in her house. Quartilla often delegated the plans for revels to Psyche, sitting back herself like a smiling overstuffed bird to watch and garner the praise for the clever sexual displays concocted by her “Numidian scholar’s” fertile imagination.
So Psyche’s anticipation for the arrival of the Roman entourage held little excitement about its royal aspects, but much about its literary ones. She felt a secret thrill at the thought of soon meeting Gaius Petronius—and sincerely hoped he wouldn’t prove to be a debauched and vacuous dolt. Surely not. The wielder of such a brilliant stylus would certainly not disappoint her.
She slipped into a light summer stola, pinning it at her shoulder and allowing the fabric to drape down over her ample curves. Just a practical summer dress for this errand—no need to be the alluring courtesan. She strapped on her sandals, and didn’t even bother to comb out her wild hair, taming the flying strands with a shawl. She was off then to gather up a small troop of slaves. While there was pink still in the morning sky, she led them out the main archway of Quartilla’s, heading for the market.
Once there, she dispatched the house-slaves to pick up various items, while she herself focused on some additional shopping. She always liked to squeeze in her own purchases along with Quartilla’s—a sesterce here or there on the house bill would slip by even the sharp-eyed brothel-mistress.
She browsed happily, searching for the fruits from her own land that were sometimes brought in on ships traveling from the coast of Africa, but was settling for olives and sweet breads when she saw them a group of men riding over the hill that banked the entrance to this small bay of Naples.
Citizens in the cobbled streets parted way for the soldier's as they led their horses to water. Many watched, curious to know why the Emperor's guard had traveled so far from Rome to this sleepy burg. The leader of the group paid no attention to the fishermen and their wives that watched from under the arches of nearby buildings. He stood beside his men and surveyed the town. They nodded in response to pointed directions, and leading their horses, made their way toward the villa that Psyche had just left. The curious villagers turned away with knowing glances. It was a given, if they were headed to Quartillas house of courtesans, there could only one thing they were looking for. Early in the morning for it, but Romans were Romans, and no doubt were in the market for pleasure at any hour.
Psyche stepped back into the shadows as they passed. The sweet over powering smell of the wild star jasmine from the merchant’s stall beside her, rich and heady, made her breathe deep for a moment. The soldiers rode as if they and their horses were near exhaustion. It was a long journey to the great city of Rome. Or at least this is what she had heard. She couldn't claim to have ever traveled to the great city herself, but someday she would. She saved a gold aureus here, a copper as there, and one day she would have enough to go there and take in the great city. Drink handfuls of crystal clear water that flowed in fountains from distant mountains where the gods surely bathed. The Romans passed proud and regal, staring straight ahead as if the people and slaves in the streets did not exist, all except the leader. Petronius…it must be!
He was different—she wouldn't be able to pinpoint just how much until later when she looked back on her first impressions. He had the broad handsome face of an Italian, with thick curly black hair and his cheeks covered in the first few days of a beard. His eyes as he passed seemed to meet and take in everything as if he were taking notes. He smiled at children that scurried up to touch his white horse. She watched him he patted the steed, and scratched it behind the ears. There was something about him that she felt drawn to. She had spent time in the company of many distinguished men, but had come away always largely unimpressed. But here under the mid-day sun she followed this man like a dog hungry for a scrap.
Psyche strolled along behind him at an even gait, away from his peripheral view. She studied him, his strong jaw line and flashing green eyes as he joked with a peddler about the cost of his wares. His voice carried across the courtyard as they left the market and bustling street behind. Psyche watched them as they made their way to the arched gate of the brothel, and there Quartilla herself met them on the stone walkway. She must have had someone watching from one of the high windows, to give her warning. Flowers in her hair and a bright red dress on, Quartilla was at her finest and in her element. Waiting until the men disappeared into the gates Psyche hurried back to the market to collect the slaves and goods. Her heart beat in her chest like a caged finch and she wandered what he would be like.
______________________________________________________________________________________
..."Beneath an Elegant Moon", by R. Paul Sardanas and Tisha Garcia, out now!
Chapter One
Psyche woke after a restless night of intense summer heat. Unusual for the air to be so relentlessly steaming here in Baiae—after all, it was to the seaside that the aristrocrats of Rome came to escape the furnace-like summers of the city. But the month of Julius had seen baking heat that left the citizens of the bay-town sluggish and weary, and the month of Augustus had come in with no relief. Even business here at the House of Quartilla had been slow, with the courtesans sleeping most of the day away, and the night-revels less rowdy than the norm. Psyche, with her Numidian blood, never thought it got too hot for fucking, but clearly not everyone felt the same.
At least this morning a light sea-breeze stirred the curtains at her window casement. She sat up on her bed and watched the hazy clouds in the pink dawn sky for a while, before sliding to the edge of the pallet and putting her bare feet down on the tiles. A fine coating of sweat sheathed her black skin—she reached for a linen cloth draped over the bedpost and patted her forehead, shoulders and breasts. Psyche never wore clothes to bed, unless a customer specifically requested it. She had serviced only one client last night—an equestrian from Pompeii who liked to stop in and visit the House of Quartilla on his way to business up the coast. A middle-aged man and not too vigorous a lover, he’d been gone in the pre-dawn, wanting to resume his travels before sunrise and hopefully dodge some of the heat. That had left Psyche with a few precious hours to doze alone—always a treat for a popular courtesan.
She yawned and stood up. Today would be a busy day. Special guests from Rome were due, and Quartilla wanted her to venture down into the market early with some of the house slaves to tote back special food, spices, incense and aphrodisiacs the mistress of the brothel had ordered to please the new arrivals. Quartilla was usually stingy with every sesterce, but these guests rated the most lavish treatment. Quartillia had called all the girls into her chambers a few days ago and explained that a small party of Roman soldiers, escorting a high court official, were traveling to Baiae to arrange a very private festival for the Emperor himself, Nero. That Quartilla’s girls’ beauty and charm was known far and wide, and that her house had been picked as a future place for the Emperor to spend a few days relaxing and enjoying the entertainment and company of a special group of courtesans to keep him sexually amused. A small band of his right-hand men would be sent to ahead a few days to make all arrangements. "This," Quartilla had said, while preening in her lavish polished-metal mirror, which leaned against the wall from floor to ceiling, "is a gift from the goddess Fortuna herself. It will put my house of delights on the map. What man would not want a woman who has laid with an emperor?"
And would Psyche herself be one of those women? She shrugged at the thought. Very likely she would be, as her black skin, piercing jet-colored eyes and luxurious crown of night-dark hair had caused many a Roman cock to rise at the sight of her. But she had not felt caught up in the giggling, breathless excitement that the other girls displayed—the emperor had an unsavory reputation, to say the least. Psyche had felt far more interest upon learning that the representative coming to scout the House of Quartilla for his Imperial master would be none other that Gaius Petronius, the Arbiter Elegantiarum of Nero’s court, who had written a series of clever bawdy tales that the booksellers down in the town called The Satyricon. Psyche herself haunted the bookstalls constantly—she was a voracious reader, a rare attribute for a courtesan. She enjoyed not only scrolls of poetry and comedic stories, but sequestered herself in her room every chance she got to read and muse over Plato, Aristotle, and Homer.
Quartilla actually encouraged this—the mistress of the brothel was, Psyche thought, flighty and lazy, and delighted to have a courtesan of such formidable intelligence in her house. Quartilla often delegated the plans for revels to Psyche, sitting back herself like a smiling overstuffed bird to watch and garner the praise for the clever sexual displays concocted by her “Numidian scholar’s” fertile imagination.
So Psyche’s anticipation for the arrival of the Roman entourage held little excitement about its royal aspects, but much about its literary ones. She felt a secret thrill at the thought of soon meeting Gaius Petronius—and sincerely hoped he wouldn’t prove to be a debauched and vacuous dolt. Surely not. The wielder of such a brilliant stylus would certainly not disappoint her.
She slipped into a light summer stola, pinning it at her shoulder and allowing the fabric to drape down over her ample curves. Just a practical summer dress for this errand—no need to be the alluring courtesan. She strapped on her sandals, and didn’t even bother to comb out her wild hair, taming the flying strands with a shawl. She was off then to gather up a small troop of slaves. While there was pink still in the morning sky, she led them out the main archway of Quartilla’s, heading for the market.
Once there, she dispatched the house-slaves to pick up various items, while she herself focused on some additional shopping. She always liked to squeeze in her own purchases along with Quartilla’s—a sesterce here or there on the house bill would slip by even the sharp-eyed brothel-mistress.
She browsed happily, searching for the fruits from her own land that were sometimes brought in on ships traveling from the coast of Africa, but was settling for olives and sweet breads when she saw them a group of men riding over the hill that banked the entrance to this small bay of Naples.
Citizens in the cobbled streets parted way for the soldier's as they led their horses to water. Many watched, curious to know why the Emperor's guard had traveled so far from Rome to this sleepy burg. The leader of the group paid no attention to the fishermen and their wives that watched from under the arches of nearby buildings. He stood beside his men and surveyed the town. They nodded in response to pointed directions, and leading their horses, made their way toward the villa that Psyche had just left. The curious villagers turned away with knowing glances. It was a given, if they were headed to Quartillas house of courtesans, there could only one thing they were looking for. Early in the morning for it, but Romans were Romans, and no doubt were in the market for pleasure at any hour.
Psyche stepped back into the shadows as they passed. The sweet over powering smell of the wild star jasmine from the merchant’s stall beside her, rich and heady, made her breathe deep for a moment. The soldiers rode as if they and their horses were near exhaustion. It was a long journey to the great city of Rome. Or at least this is what she had heard. She couldn't claim to have ever traveled to the great city herself, but someday she would. She saved a gold aureus here, a copper as there, and one day she would have enough to go there and take in the great city. Drink handfuls of crystal clear water that flowed in fountains from distant mountains where the gods surely bathed. The Romans passed proud and regal, staring straight ahead as if the people and slaves in the streets did not exist, all except the leader. Petronius…it must be!
He was different—she wouldn't be able to pinpoint just how much until later when she looked back on her first impressions. He had the broad handsome face of an Italian, with thick curly black hair and his cheeks covered in the first few days of a beard. His eyes as he passed seemed to meet and take in everything as if he were taking notes. He smiled at children that scurried up to touch his white horse. She watched him he patted the steed, and scratched it behind the ears. There was something about him that she felt drawn to. She had spent time in the company of many distinguished men, but had come away always largely unimpressed. But here under the mid-day sun she followed this man like a dog hungry for a scrap.
Psyche strolled along behind him at an even gait, away from his peripheral view. She studied him, his strong jaw line and flashing green eyes as he joked with a peddler about the cost of his wares. His voice carried across the courtyard as they left the market and bustling street behind. Psyche watched them as they made their way to the arched gate of the brothel, and there Quartilla herself met them on the stone walkway. She must have had someone watching from one of the high windows, to give her warning. Flowers in her hair and a bright red dress on, Quartilla was at her finest and in her element. Waiting until the men disappeared into the gates Psyche hurried back to the market to collect the slaves and goods. Her heart beat in her chest like a caged finch and she wandered what he would be like.
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..."Beneath an Elegant Moon", by R. Paul Sardanas and Tisha Garcia, out now!
It's not difficult to tell you're selective, that's okay, we are, too.
Busily working on the last chapters for my new and very first endeavor at writing an equally hot, sexy and ass-kicking M/M erotic paranormal romance. It will be a collaboration with a C. Riley, who is as straight as an arrow, but once presented the idea that he wanted to grow as a author by experimenting with every genre. Who knew that he would be able to write such hawt gay erotica??